Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine N 1-11+-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Well, here is issue number one of FSFnet, and I hope you all enjoy it. Since the first mailing, I have had a great deal of positive response, and about half a dozen submissions. In this issue you will find a scattering of reviews, an amusing story I whipped off, and something I'd like to continue in future issues, a featured author. I would like to thank those who have contributed, and Lord Hagen for designing the header. A reminder to those who did not respond to the first mailing: this is the last issue you will receive unless I hear from you that you wish to remain on the mailing list. Also, people whose ids have changed over the semester break, please notify me. A reminder, FSFnet will come out as often as I have enough material for it. This means I need submissions and ideas and feedback to make this zine what it ought to be. Please try to submit something, and try to spread the word about FSFnet to people you think might be interested. Anyone interested in a game of Diplomacy over Bitnet, please contact me. I will be running a game which will begin rather soon. Maps and rules will be sent out. Well, enough of the editorial, on to the real stuff. Read on! + Orny + <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Have you ever heard of the micro-games Wizard and Melee? If so, then you may know about the way they do ready-made modules. I am working on a labyrinth for FSFnet, but am limited by disk space at the present time. I have requested additional space, and if I get it, I will be able to send the dungeon by electronic mail. It would be geared to people making choices, but not to dice rolls. In any case, as soon as it is finished, I will be willing to send it to anyone who sends me a self-addressed, stamped envelope. Lord Hagen Silverskull (VM00D4 @ WVNVM) DUNE (This review is directed at people who have read and liked the book) The movie Dune opened last Friday and I saw it over the weekend, I never believed that Frank Herbert's novel could be faithfully reproduced in a two hour movie, and I was glad to see I was right about something this year. There were some minor flaws in the movie such as the 'Weirding devices' that House Atreides had developed that were used as the secret weapon by the Atreides instead of the Fremen, in the book Duke Leto is planning even before leaveing Caladan to use the Fremen against the Imperial Sardaukar. When they decided to make the movie they could have decided to be true to the book or to really cut the book to make the screenplay work but they tried to do both and the result is a mediocre movie from a great book that would have made an excellent mini- series. The most drastic change from the book was they didn't take the time and give us the history of the feud between the Atreides and the Harkonnens, but they still had to get the audience to hate them so they made the Baron into a diseased sadist, instead of just leaving him as a mean, ruthless, power hungry, aristocrat. For all the Police fans out there Sting played Feyd-Rautha almost exactly as i pictured him in the book however he should have had more dialogue with his uncle the Baron. Mike Foley (ACPS1060 @ RYERSON) Ornathor's Saga Once upon a time there lived an errant knight, and his daring life of gallantry and chivalry had won him a considerable reputation among those realms he had journeyed in. He was tall and dark, with deep, piercing eyes, keen as the sword which hung on his baldric. His armor and weapons were all of silver, and his huge stallion was a tarnished grey. On his shield was his coat: suspended in a black night sky, a constellation of five stars in a rough diamond shape. It was the most prominent group of stars in the sky - the Southern Cross. The name of the realm was Bukharim; it was a pleasing and comfortable kingdom of green, rolling hills and cool evergreen forests. The silver knight was on an errand to Kulac, the central keep and city of Bukharim. The world was strangely quiet as he approached the city on the plains. As he passed the iron gates, he saw a guard poised to strike a wench with the back of his mailed fist. The knight yelled out, a strange sound in the quiet of the city; neither figure moved. He examined them, and saw that they stood as still as if time itself had stopped for them. He led his horse along the street, and he saw many frozen figures. A guillotine hung impossibly, having travelled halfway down its lethal course. An irate- looking peasant woman held a young urchin by the hair. A man and a woman were climbing the stairs to the second story of a brothel. Three veterans toasted one another. Perhaps they were recently reunited, and surprised to see one another still alive. Perhaps on the morning they were to be off to the next battle. None could ever read their faces. He came to the keep, and entered. The great reception hall was a scene from some warped painter's fantasies; the lord of Bukharim pointed an accusing finger at a figure who seemingly was no longer there. On a stone platform lay a woman, the most beautiful woman the knight had ever seen. She was, without doubt, the lord's daughter, no less than a princess. As the knight approached his vision, he heard a sound... this woman was not captured in timelessness, but merely sleeping. He could not help but feast upon the sight of her, her beautiful golden hair, her fair skin, her perfect lips. His body longed to hold her and his mind reeled with the desire to kiss her. He fell to his knees, knowing that a single kiss could restore normality to this ghost realm, that he would marry the princess, and, in time, become lord of Bukharim. He recalled the guard, poised to strike the wench, the guillotine about to fall, the woman berating the urchin, the man and the whore, the battle-weary veterans. He silently cried as he lay down beside the princess and was overcome by sleep, never to be seen again beyond the dream-gates of Ilek-vad, upon which he had stumbled in conscious dream. Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE) Brisingamen, by Diana Paxson This book came out recently in a mass-market paperback. The cover says: "The magic is back. But can California handle it?". The heroine, Karen Ingold, is a grad student in comparative literature. The book begins with her lover of two years, Roger, leaving to go back to his wife, and telling her in the morning as he leaves, claiming he didn't want to spoil their last night together. Karen goes in to her job in the comp lit office. A package arrives from Sweden for her boss, Walter. It proves to contain a wedding chest and pieces of a necklace, which we know (from a prologue) goes back to the old Norse religion and had to be hidden away from the Christians. The book depicts Karen's gradually learning to deal with the fact that the necklace does have power, enabling her to invoke the Goddess Freyja (whether she wants to or not), while putting her personal life and career back together. The people in it are real, as is the magic. There are references to the Neopagan community, in particular a (presumably invented) group that works in the Norse tradition, and Paxson seems to be deriving her theories of magic from that source as much as from the old myths. She is conscious of how much we don't know about Norse religion, and uses that instead of trying to hide it. Vicki (ROSVICL @ YALEVMX) Featured Author: M.A.R. BARKER Muhammad Abd-al-Rahman Barker, creator of the world of Tekumel and author of the Man of Gold, is currently a full professor in the Department of South and Southwestern Asian Studies at the University of Minnesota Minneapolis/St. Paul. He is best known for his work with Tekumel, particularly the roleplaying game the Empire of the Petal Throne. Recently revived interest in the wonder of Tekumel has spurred a new roleplaying game, Swords and Glory, and the full-length novel the Man of Gold, with more novels to follow. Tekumel first was introduced to the general public in the form of the Empire of the Petal Throne roleplaying game, published by TSR in 1974. It was expensive for it's time, and was considered the 'Cadillac' of RPGs during its time. It was heavily influenced by the developing Dungeons and Dragons RPG. Today EPT is a collectors item. Swords and Glory/EPT is a brand new roleplaying game, also by Barker, also set in Tekumel, an alien world of magic and wonder. Published by Gamescience, the S&G/EPT will contain three volumes, each costing about $25; the first two volumes are already in print and available. Tekumel Games, Inc. (1278 Selby Ave, St. Paul, MN 55104) also publishes several Tekumel- related products, including an official ongoing history of the world. However, the great amount of attention the games have received obscures the real reason for Tekumel's existance. Says Barker: 'The idea of Tekumel came first, plus a desire to write fistion about it. EPT was secondary.' The Man of Gold, published by DAW, is an excellent look into the violent nature of life in Tekumel's fantastically alien environment, and an excellent book. It is the tale of a young man who suddenly finds himself confronted with being the focus of the attention of the powers of the Tsolyani Empire. The book is very interesting and well-written and enjoyable, although the conclusion is very weak and leaves one wondering exactly what has gone on. Barker is continuing his writing. A second Tekumel novel, Flamesong, is already in DAW's hands, and a further work has been begun. An excellent interview with Barker, discussing the games, his books, and himself can be found in the Space Gamer number 71. Tekumel is a place that once visited, cannot be forgotten. It's compelling alienness intrigues and captivates us, and I am looking forward to the publication of further Tekumel-related novels. Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Editorial Propaganda... in the Air! 1984-Orwellian Reflections A poem by T.P. Milley Letters by Victor and Guy... Featured Author: Larry Niven Orny's still at it! Close Encounter... Story by Alex Williams <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> EDITORIAL Well, folks, hello, and welcome to issue two of FSFnet! Just two or three little things to mention for now... First of all, FSFnet NEEDS SUBMISSIONS!!! This zine can only survive if YOU contribute. I have had a number of people say that they were interested in contributing, but very few have come through. I realize it is difficult and time-consuming, but I am sure you all would like to continue receiving FSFnet. Well, I need your help. I can't do it all myself, although sometimes I have to try... I would also like to welcome all our new members. The mailing list is currently running about 70 to 75. Please continue to spread the word, and get more people to subscribe! At least it's no strain on the wallet! For those people who are interested in a game of Diplomacy over the Net, I have already begun game 1, and, if sufficient people are interested, I will run a second game. Contact me if you are interested. Well, enough of the propaganda. I hope you enjoy this issue, although it is perhaps not as good as the last (since I have had only one submission since issue 1 came out). Next issue will feature my discussion of the works of the fantasy author Tanith Lee, and whatever else anyone sends me. Please submit articles! Until soon... -Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> ''1984--ORWELLIAN REFLECTIONS'' I 'THE CHILL' The Naive worry that the world will end in Fire, a nuclear holocaust. --How lost we are! I do not worry, because I already know that it will end in Ice. Many times I've felt death's unmistakeable chill glissando up my spine. --How fortunate are we to be the children of a new era! The Electronic Age, conceived through the toil of unremembered men; who sacrificed their lives for us for this. This! (let us end this talk of discontent; there is no time for emotion, We must hurry on!) II 'The Church' We are at war again. "With whom?" you ask. "The Communists, of course." he replies. But where are they, these "Communists?" So, "They live in Russia." you say. I think not. Have you ever seen one? "No." you say. Then how do you know that they are worse: more evil, than you or I? Think there. There, they are at war with "the Americans." Think that they have ever seen one? Again, I think not. We have as little to fear them for as they have for fearing us. So, why do we fear them? Are they not men? You say we fear them because they will take the land we love by force, with all their missiles, planes and bombs. Open your eyes. They won't take this land by force, for they have taken it already. Who are "they" anyway? Look in the mirror, comrade. They are we. Let's change the flag tomorrow. I think red with a golden reaper would look sharp. III 'The Craftsman' (How wonderful it must have been, to live in the age of patient craftsmen. Men took pride in the work of their hands, and women, wanting their place, stood close behind their men.) How sluggish they make me feel as they rush by. I am a craftsman born late-- they leave me behind in a cloud of hydrocarbon. -T. P. Milley <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CP QUERY MAIL ALL Orny, Was quite pleased to receive first edition of FSFNET today. I enjoyed the stories, and am interested in seeing how this piece of electronic imagination fares. I hope with this, you will start a "Readers' Responses" section. First a commendation: I am most impressed with the level of literacy in FSFNET. Having been a bitnet user for some time, I have seen some of the worst molestations committed on the English language by computer users. I am relieved to see that there is someone out there who CAN spell. Next, please tell us what format you would like items submitted in. Allow me to suggest that you extend you line length a bit to, say 65 or 70 characters to conserve file and spool area. I am looking forward to reading and contributing to future issues. On the whole, I'd say it's a brilliant idea! -Victor Orny, got V1N1 of FSFnet. Thanks. I like the idea. send more. How about a play-by-net Traveller game? If asked nicely, I could find the time to referee it (sometime during the weekends). If any Inspirations hit me, I'll send them to you. PS - here's an illustration for you next issue. _______(*)_______ ----------------------- | POLICE | | ----------------- | Who is the Doctor ? | |+--+--+|+--+--+| | | || | ||| | || | | || | ||| | || | | |+--+--+|+--+--+| | | || | ||| | || | | || | ||| | || | | |+--+--+|+--+--+| | o (_ | || | ||| | || | \ / \_ | || | ||| | || | \ ___________/ ___) | |+--+--+|+--+--+| | / / | ----------------- | | +---+ | --------------------- | +---+ | ----------------------- /______________\ PPS - a LOC (what's a zine without LOC's?) on Mike Foley's Dune review: I only have 2 comments to add to Mike's excellent review of Dune: 1) While the movie is a reasonably good adaptation of the book, it really falls apart in a couple of places. One is when Paul and Jessica first meet the Fremen. The scene in the cave bears no resemblance to what happened in the book. 2) Probably due to the restricted time available in a screenplay, a major amount of the intrigue so central to the book was lost. Although the first half of the movie is provide this feeling of "plots within plots within plots", I felt that it failed. Due to the small amount of time available, not enough background could be presented for a viewer who hadn't read the book, and by taking time to present background, even more of the intrigue is lost for the person who has read the book. Unfortunately, the movie found that unhappy medium where the beginner is lost, and the omissions become obvious to the knowledgeable viewer. Other than those two gripes, I think that the film was enjoyable, and a good (but not perfect) adaptation of the book. -Guy Garnett (GG822C @ GWUVM) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Featured Author: LARRY NIVEN Most famous for his Known Space series, Larry Niven is a classical science fiction author who sometimes dabbles in the arena of fantasy fiction. Some of his best works are from his earlier Known Space volumes, which include Neutron Star, Protector, the Long ARM of Gil Hamilton, and many more, culminating in perhaps his best known works, Ringworld, and the Ringworld Engineers. These books began as unrelated science fiction stories, but later came to represent different tales within the same sphere of space. Ringworld is a major work of science fiction, and represents Niven's break from traditional science fiction to modern writing. The Ringworld Engineers attempts to solve a number of questions left unresolved in the first book. These are all excellent science fiction works, and well worth the effort to read. Niven has also written some books which are not directly connected with Known Space. In conjunction with Jerry Pournelle, Niven has written Lucifer's Hammer, a tale set in the near future, and the Mote in Gods Eye, which I consider his best work to date. It is a fascinating tale of man's first contact with aliens, and is an engrossing and captivating work. Niven has also written works of pure fantasy, namely his 'Magic' series, which, as examples of fantasy literature, are neither outstanding nor unworthy. His most recent work, the Integral Trees, has just come out in paperback, as has another new book, Limits. Also of interest to Niven fans might be the Ringworld roleplaying game, which was released recently by the Chaosium game company. As a sourcebook for the Ringworld, it is excellent, although it requires a very strong gamemaster, since the rules are a little sketchy. The Ringworld Companion, a supplement to this game, has also been put on the market. -Orny (NMCS025 @ MAINE) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Close Encounter "I think we should be heading back to the station now," grumbled Seargent White,"it's getting mighty cold now." He slapped his ungloved hands against his chest, trying vainly to keep them warm in this sub zero night. His exhaled breath turned into a thick white cloud and drifted away, as if to underline his statement. "Yea. It's almost eleven now, anyway.", replied Officer Bennet. He opened the door to the squad car and climbed into the drivers seat. The other door opened as John White climbed in beside him. With a reluctant grumble the engine turned over and the old car started to move down the dark road. After driving past several miles of uneventful pine forest, John White cried "Stop! Stop the car!". With squeal of rubber against tar the car slowed to a halt. "What the hell is that up there, by the side of the road?" asked John. Peering through the gloom Sam saw what appeared to be a man, on the tall side standing by the side of the road about twenty yards along the road staring at the woods in back of him. The strangest thing it was he seemed to be naked. "Either that guy is drunk, crazy, or an eskimo!" said Sam. "All the same, we should bring him in to the station, at least to get him warm." "You stay here in the car, and I'll go get him." "Maybe we should both get him, he could get rowdy." said John "Come on." The doors to the squad car creaked open, as Sam and John stepped out of the car. The walked slowly toward the figure in the road. When they were eight feet away from the man, they stopped. The shadowy figure turned and silently faced them. "Easy now, we don't want to panic him." whispered Sam. John slowly took the flashlight from his belt and shone it at the figure. The bright circle of light landed on the figures neck and face, revealing a human head. Around the neck was a small black box, with two small lights on it, silently winking. "Greetings. I am Varrk, emissary from the planet Davron, of the star Sirus 5" said the figure in slow measured tones. "He's fucking dunk!" hissed Sam "I have been sent here to establish peaceful relations between our two cultures." said Varrk. "Yea. You just come with us, we have a nice warm cell for you to get all sobered up. Now come along." said Sam "No I must let the mother ship know of my contact." replied Varrk "We'll let you do that later. Now come with us." "No, I must message my mother ship." "You'll not do that 'till tomorrow" said Sam. Then he and John grabbed each of Varrk's arms and tried to drag him towards the waiting squad car. With a surprising display of strength, Varrk throws both John and Sam into the dirt along the side of the road. He then swiftly walks toward the dark reaches of the forest. "Wing him in the leg, Sam!! He'll get away!" yelled John With a quick explosion of fire Sam's gun spits a bullet strait towards Varrk's right leg. There is no reaction and Varrk disappears into the woods. "You idiot! You missed him, at point blank, and he got away!" screamed John. "I could've sworn I hit him. I could've sworn I hit him in the leg" Sam quietly said. "We might as well go back to the car and report him, somebody's bound to find him sooner or later." said John. They both got up off of the cold ground and headed back toward the squad car. About halfway there, John stopped. "What was that?" asked John "What was what?" said Sam "That sound, a low humming." "Probably a bullfrog, lets get back to the car, it's damn cold out here" "No, it isn't a frog, its getting louder. Do you hear it now?" asked John. Before Sam could reply a light bathed the top of the pine trees to there north, and as slowly as a balloon, a long silver cylinder rose above the tree tops. It hovered there for a moment and streaked into the sky to the north with a loud whining. Within several seconds a warm blew past John and Sam, standing stunned at the side of the road. "What in God's good name was that?" whispered Sam. "I have no idea, but maybe Varrk was telling the truth." -Alex Williams <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Editorial Orny Flyby Fiction by Jim Owens Featured Author: TANITH LEE Orny The Narret Chronicles Fiction by Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Editorial Well, folks, welcome to issue three of FSFnet! After last issue's slump, we have got some real treats for you with some excellent fiction. I must thank Jim Owens (J1O @ PSUVM) for most of this issue - his loyalty and productiveness... well... if only all readers were so avid and so talented... I must again remind you that FSFnet is a fanzine, and that I must have submissions for it to continue. I know that many of you have commented about sending things in, but haven't found the time. Please do... FSFnet needs your support to continue. Also, it has come to my attention that many people are having problems reading FSFnet onto their disks. VAX users want DISK DUMP CLASS N, IBM users want SENDFILE, and so forth. I would like to hear from people as to which format they consider most desirable. And thank you for putting up with any inconvenience due to this problem, past or future. One more thing before I send you off into space... Issue four will be a special tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, famous author of horror, particularly the Cthulhu mythos. If you have anything that might be acceptable, please send it in! As always, letters are welcome, as is almost anything I can get my hands on! But I grow long-winded, and I would not presume to detract from the two wonderful pieces of fiction in this issue, so READ ON! Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> FLYBY The asteroid flashed past, turning slowly. He could feel the power in the twin-spool behind him. He knew, however, that there were more powerful engines in the warship behind him. "Easy run." Elein had said as she pulled him to the booth. "Just lure the ships out to the Belt and they pay our way back!" The Paixites needed ships, he knew. But they needed the men even more. The Paixites were not wimps. They held more power than the rest of space combined. They just weren't takers. They were more likely to give you a planet than to try to take yours. They had a fantastic, outgoing way about them, an attitude unmatched for niceness. Without that, mankind would have been in trouble. Some, however, saw niceness as weakness. Ever since they had appeared in human space they had been the target of many a siege, and were under one now by a group whose sole interest in life was the acqusition of other people's goods. The pay was good, however, and the the assignment easy. Besides, he had wanted to fly the VAS Butterfly for many months now. Ever since it came out all he had heard was how fast and maneuverable it was. And here was the chance. So he signed up, took off within the hour, and now here they were. "Greg, you got ..." The transmission was cut off as he reacted, swinging around and heading for a nearby point of light he knew to be a large asteroid. As he did, he caught sight of the capture ship swinging around in a larger arc in an attempt to keep up with him. The men flying it had one concern: the electronics in the tail of his little ship. If they could get his ship in range of their tractor field... Even as he watched, he saw one of the large vessels slide up behind Elein's ship. Even as he yelled for her to evade, she hit her emergency boosters. They pushed her forward - just far enough for the nose of the Butterfly to escape. But the rest of the ship was still in the capture jaws, which slammed shut, neatly severing the cockpit from the rest of the craft. The life compartment, with Elein in it, drifted off to one side, like the head of a fish out of a shark's mouth. He had little time to reflect on how long Elein could survive on the little bit of emergency air provided in the cockpit, because even as he dove around the asteroid it's surface came alive with sparks and flashes of light. It only took a moment to realize that he was being fired upon. Apparently the pirates had caught all of the other nine craft, and had decided that this last one wasn't worth the effort, and that now all they had to do was eliminate it. He felt like screaming. Instead he hit the emergency thrusters and rounded the asteroid marginally ahead of the pursuit. He flashed past a pinnacle, and then straightened out his flight, hoping to loose his followers. Then, to his surprise, he saw, just ahead, th Paixian transport ship, it's landing bay wide open, it's landing field activated and waiting. All he had to do was reach it, as fast as possible, and he was safe. No weapon could reach him, they would cancel his immense velocity, they would protect him. A little further... 500 meters out the plasma bolt from the pirate ship caught him in the engine. It vaporized it's way through the composite hull, and slammed into the ship's skeleton. Even as it ignited the fuel, the shock wave reached the cockpit and split the canopy. Milliseconds before the heat from the exploding engines could reach him, Greg was blasted out into vacuum by the exploding ejection seat bolts. "Greg..." He opened his eyes. The light was bright. Heaven? "Greg..." He turned his head. If this was heaven they sure had modern landing bays. He was hanging upside down in what could only be a Paixian landing field, staring at a pair of feet that could only belong to one person. "Elein, why aren't I dead?" "You blew it right in front of the landing field. You passed out on the last 100 meters through the void before you hit the field." Greg rolled to his feet. Standing behind Elein at a respectable distance was the Paixian who had hired them. "Congratulations Greg. You survived the longest. In fact, you are the first person in history ever to bring any part of his ship to the delivery point." Greg followed the pointed finger. There lay the assembled wreckage of his ship. "Am I to take it you can salvage that?" "No, of course not. Why would we want to? It's you we really wanted after all, someone who would fulfill his contract without turning back, regardless of what gauntlet they had to run." "And I did it, eh?" There was little left of the ship but shards. "Yes. After all, it's the attitude we want, not merely the product." Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Featured Author: TANITH LEE Tanith Lee is one of the prolific female FSF authors of this age. The London librarian's books are in the vanguard of todays literature. Although she has a devoted following of readers, her books are not the kind often found on neighborhood bookstore shelves. Her style is very unique and mature, and, if I may venture a subjective opinion, among the best writings I have ever read. Lee deals effectively with fantasy, love, horror, ethics, and mystery as well as any author. Her twisting the expected and the traditional can be seen in many of her works. Her Flat Earth series, including "Death's Master," "Delusion's Master," "Night's Master,"and, soon to be released, "Delirium's Mistress" are excellent works of wonder and mystery. Her Birthgrave series, "the Birthgrave," "Vazkor, Son of Vazkor," and "Quest for the White Witch" are masterworks of science fiction, combining sexual sophistication, literary maturity, and unique insights into morality. "Sung in Shadow" retells a famous Shakespearean tale, with Lee's typically atypical twists of plot, as "Red as Blood" retells many well-known childrens yarns. But these works are not for the young at all! Perhaps Lee's master work, "Cyrion," is an enthralling, captivating work, following episodes in the life of a wandering legend. Her tales are never entirely what is expected, and they provide fresh, mature, perceptive insights into the realm of wonder. Although most of Lee's works are published by David Wollheim's DAW Books, Lee has also written two books for the new Tempo MagicQuest series, "the Dragon Hoard" and "East of Midnight." The former is a wondrous tale of fantasy, more simplistic than her other works. The latter is typical Lee, full of unexpected twists and deep thought. The future seems to hold many new developments for Tanith Lee. Scheduled for publication by DAW are: "Delirium's Mistress" and "the Gods are Thirsty," and recently published are "East of Midnight" and "the Gorgon." For those who are interested, there is an excellent interview with the author in Heavy Metal magazine (Nov 84-v8n8). Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> "THE NARRET CHRONICLES" BOOK THE LAST It was a night just like any other night on Amrif, nothing at all out of the ordinary. The sky was dark white, and the stars were all glimmering bright black. High pressure systems over this solitary ocean were the norm for this desert world. Since the desert wasn't conducive to normal life forms, the people of this third planet in the Narret System lived in giant floating cities, and satellite suburbias connected by an intricate system of channelways. Samo Ht was skimming along in his Hydrocar, thinking about the lecture he was going to give to his class, when Cyri, a familiar cons tellation caught his eye. "Oh Cyri, when woulds't thou lower thy head. When woulds't thou drop thy weary DASER, and end thy warring ways." He quoted the famous line from Steadywound the ancient poet. Whatever did Bill Steadywound see in a constellation as old as Cyri? He asked himself True, there was something romantic about the old asterism, but the legend about how Cyri had cut down 400 desert creatures with a single charge fro m his Dark Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation gun gave him shudders. "How disgustingly advanced" Samo thought to himself. "Oh, well, that's what the future's about, as for now: Backward and downward." Samo Ht glanced out the window of his Hydrocar again. This time something else caught his eye. "Ah ha, the Dusty Lane!" Samo exclaimed "My, it's exceptionally clear tonight. Humh, I guess I'll have to close the observatory before class tonight..." "...so class we have an entire system here: the nucleons, which consist of the neuterons and the negatrons and orbiting shells of particles called positrons. Remember that the atom in its resting state is always balanced in charge, and the total number of positrons always equals the number of negatrons. Any questions? Yes, Lexia?" "Dr. Ht, what happens to the atom if it gets excited? Will the positrons go flying off and leave the atom negatively charged?" "That's exactly right Lexia. The resulting charged atom is called an ion. You'll learn more about ions in the next lower course." Just then the green light on the Vidcom came on. "Well class it looks like your luck ran out again. Class dismissed." Samo knew that when the green light came on, it could mean only one of two things, and both of them spelled trouble. The light meant that there was an incoming wave transmission, and the transmissions always came from one of two sources. Either it was some stupid-ass general, a clerk who messed up and shattered an important document, (since this was a desert world, all records were kept on diamond etched glass plates) usually some of his inreproducible research, or it was a lower ranking private ordering him on an important mission. Fortunately the former didn't happen too often, and something told him that this time it would definitely be the latter. It was only a matter of millicentons before his suspicions were confirmed, and the image of the planet's commanding officer, Private Stark, formed from a solitary centered dot, to a horizontal line, to a circle, and finally a tubular hologram on the Vidcom. Samo saluted. "No time for formalities, Sgt. Ht." the commander bluntly began. "There's an inter-planetary crisis, involving all nine planets of The Narret System. It deals with Trivia-Antitrivia reactions,and we need you to be one of our foremost experts on the subject. There's an emergency conference being held on the Planet Sunaru in one On. We're calling in our lowest minds on this one. Your orders are to report to the Central Sea on Sunaru in exactly 95 centons. Any questions?" "Yes, does this at all concern our counter-planet sir?" "Unfortunately, yes it does. They're playing God again. And you know as well as I do what that could mean. If that's all, you better get going' you now have 94.5 centons." "Yes, that's all. Thank you sir." "Thank ME? Bad luck to YOU, Sergeant. Stark out." "Well, no time to close the observatory now. Got to get going." Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> From WHITEJL%DUVM.BITNET@PUCC.PRINCETON.EDU Thu May 13 14:59:59 1993 Received: from pucc.Princeton.EDU by eff.org with SMTP id AA10483 (5.65c/IDA-1.4.4/pen-ident for Message-Id: <199305131859.AA10483@eff.org> Received: from PUCC.PRINCETON.EDU by pucc.Princeton.EDU (IBM VM SMTP V2R2) with BSMTP id 6317; Thu, 13 May 93 14:58:47 EDT Received: from DUVM.OCS.DREXEL.EDU (NJE origin MAILER@DUVM) by PUCC.PRINCETON.EDU (LMail V1.1d/1.7f) with BSMTP id 0160; Thu, 13 May 1993 14:58:47 -0400 Received: from DUVM (WHITEJL) by DUVM.OCS.DREXEL.EDU (Mailer R2.08 ptf039) with BSMTP id 7028; Thu, 13 May 93 14:59:38 EDT Date: Thu, 13 May 93 14:59:32 EDT From: SilentElf Subject: FSFNet Vol01N3 To: RITA@EFF.ORG Status: OR +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Editorial Orny Flyby Fiction by Jim Owens Featured Author: TANITH LEE Orny The Narret Chronicles Fiction by Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Editorial Well, folks, welcome to issue three of FSFnet! After last issue's slump, we have got some real treats for you with some excellent fiction. I must thank Jim Owens (J1O @ PSUVM) for most of this issue - his loyalty and productiveness... well... if only all readers were so avid and so talented... I must again remind you that FSFnet is a fanzine, and that I must have submissions for it to continue. I know that many of you have commented about sending things in, but haven't found the time. Please do... FSFnet needs your support to continue. Also, it has come to my attention that many people are having problems reading FSFnet onto their disks. VAX users want DISK DUMP CLASS N, IBM users want SENDFILE, and so forth. I would like to hear from people as to which format they consider most desirable. And thank you for putting up with any inconvenience due to this problem, past or future. One more thing before I send you off into space... Issue four will be a special tribute to H.P. Lovecraft, famous author of horror, particularly the Cthulhu mythos. If you have anything that might be acceptable, please send it in! As always, letters are welcome, as is almost anything I can get my hands on! But I grow long-winded, and I would not presume to detract from the two wonderful pieces of fiction in this issue, so READ ON! Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> FLYBY The asteroid flashed past, turning slowly. He could feel the power in the twin-spool behind him. He knew, however, that there were more powerful engines in the warship behind him. "Easy run." Elein had said as she pulled him to the booth. "Just lure the ships out to the Belt and they pay our way back!" The Paixites needed ships, he knew. But they needed the men even more. The Paixites were not wimps. They held more power than the rest of space combined. They just weren't takers. They were more likely to give you a planet than to try to take yours. They had a fantastic, outgoing way about them, an attitude unmatched for niceness. Without that, mankind would have been in trouble. Some, however, saw niceness as weakness. Ever since they had appeared in human space they had been the target of many a siege, and were under one now by a group whose sole interest in life was the acqusition of other people's goods. The pay was good, however, and the the assignment easy. Besides, he had wanted to fly the VAS Butterfly for many months now. Ever since it came out all he had heard was how fast and maneuverable it was. And here was the chance. So he signed up, took off within the hour, and now here they were. "Greg, you got ..." The transmission was cut off as he reacted, swinging around and heading for a nearby point of light he knew to be a large asteroid. As he did, he caught sight of the capture ship swinging around in a larger arc in an attempt to keep up with him. The men flying it had one concern: the electronics in the tail of his little ship. If they could get his ship in range of their tractor field... Even as he watched, he saw one of the large vessels slide up behind Elein's ship. Even as he yelled for her to evade, she hit her emergency boosters. They pushed her forward - just far enough for the nose of the Butterfly to escape. But the rest of the ship was still in the capture jaws, which slammed shut, neatly severing the cockpit from the rest of the craft. The life compartment, with Elein in it, drifted off to one side, like the head of a fish out of a shark's mouth. He had little time to reflect on how long Elein could survive on the little bit of emergency air provided in the cockpit, because even as he dove around the asteroid it's surface came alive with sparks and flashes of light. It only took a moment to realize that he was being fired upon. Apparently the pirates had caught all of the other nine craft, and had decided that this last one wasn't worth the effort, and that now all they had to do was eliminate it. He felt like screaming. Instead he hit the emergency thrusters and rounded the asteroid marginally ahead of the pursuit. He flashed past a pinnacle, and then straightened out his flight, hoping to loose his followers. Then, to his surprise, he saw, just ahead, th Paixian transport ship, it's landing bay wide open, it's landing field activated and waiting. All he had to do was reach it, as fast as possible, and he was safe. No weapon could reach him, they would cancel his immense velocity, they would protect him. A little further... 500 meters out the plasma bolt from the pirate ship caught him in the engine. It vaporized it's way through the composite hull, and slammed into the ship's skeleton. Even as it ignited the fuel, the shock wave reached the cockpit and split the canopy. Milliseconds before the heat from the exploding engines could reach him, Greg was blasted out into vacuum by the exploding ejection seat bolts. "Greg..." He opened his eyes. The light was bright. Heaven? "Greg..." He turned his head. If this was heaven they sure had modern landing bays. He was hanging upside down in what could only be a Paixian landing field, staring at a pair of feet that could only belong to one person. "Elein, why aren't I dead?" "You blew it right in front of the landing field. You passed out on the last 100 meters through the void before you hit the field." Greg rolled to his feet. Standing behind Elein at a respectable distance was the Paixian who had hired them. "Congratulations Greg. You survived the longest. In fact, you are the first person in history ever to bring any part of his ship to the delivery point." Greg followed the pointed finger. There lay the assembled wreckage of his ship. "Am I to take it you can salvage that?" "No, of course not. Why would we want to? It's you we really wanted after all, someone who would fulfill his contract without turning back, regardless of what gauntlet they had to run." "And I did it, eh?" There was little left of the ship but shards. "Yes. After all, it's the attitude we want, not merely the product." Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Featured Author: TANITH LEE Tanith Lee is one of the prolific female FSF authors of this age. The London librarian's books are in the vanguard of todays literature. Although she has a devoted following of readers, her books are not the kind often found on neighborhood bookstore shelves. Her style is very unique and mature, and, if I may venture a subjective opinion, among the best writings I have ever read. Lee deals effectively with fantasy, love, horror, ethics, and mystery as well as any author. Her twisting the expected and the traditional can be seen in many of her works. Her Flat Earth series, including "Death's Master," "Delusion's Master," "Night's Master,"and, soon to be released, "Delirium's Mistress" are excellent works of wonder and mystery. Her Birthgrave series, "the Birthgrave," "Vazkor, Son of Vazkor," and "Quest for the White Witch" are masterworks of science fiction, combining sexual sophistication, literary maturity, and unique insights into morality. "Sung in Shadow" retells a famous Shakespearean tale, with Lee's typically atypical twists of plot, as "Red as Blood" retells many well-known childrens yarns. But these works are not for the young at all! Perhaps Lee's master work, "Cyrion," is an enthralling, captivating work, following episodes in the life of a wandering legend. Her tales are never entirely what is expected, and they provide fresh, mature, perceptive insights into the realm of wonder. Although most of Lee's works are published by David Wollheim's DAW Books, Lee has also written two books for the new Tempo MagicQuest series, "the Dragon Hoard" and "East of Midnight." The former is a wondrous tale of fantasy, more simplistic than her other works. The latter is typical Lee, full of unexpected twists and deep thought. The future seems to hold many new developments for Tanith Lee. Scheduled for publication by DAW are: "Delirium's Mistress" and "the Gods are Thirsty," and recently published are "East of Midnight" and "the Gorgon." For those who are interested, there is an excellent interview with the author in Heavy Metal magazine (Nov 84-v8n8). Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> "THE NARRET CHRONICLES" BOOK THE LAST It was a night just like any other night on Amrif, nothing at all out of the ordinary. The sky was dark white, and the stars were all glimmering bright black. High pressure systems over this solitary ocean were the norm for this desert world. Since the desert wasn't conducive to normal life forms, the people of this third planet in the Narret System lived in giant floating cities, and satellite suburbias connected by an intricate system of channelways. Samo Ht was skimming along in his Hydrocar, thinking about the lecture he was going to give to his class, when Cyri, a familiar cons tellation caught his eye. "Oh Cyri, when woulds't thou lower thy head. When woulds't thou drop thy weary DASER, and end thy warring ways." He quoted the famous line from Steadywound the ancient poet. Whatever did Bill Steadywound see in a constellation as old as Cyri? He asked himself True, there was something romantic about the old asterism, but the legend about how Cyri had cut down 400 desert creatures with a single charge fro m his Dark Amplification by Stimulated Emission of Radiation gun gave him shudders. "How disgustingly advanced" Samo thought to himself. "Oh, well, that's what the future's about, as for now: Backward and downward." Samo Ht glanced out the window of his Hydrocar again. This time something else caught his eye. "Ah ha, the Dusty Lane!" Samo exclaimed "My, it's exceptionally clear tonight. Humh, I guess I'll have to close the observatory before class tonight..." "...so class we have an entire system here: the nucleons, which consist of the neuterons and the negatrons and orbiting shells of particles called positrons. Remember that the atom in its resting state is always balanced in charge, and the total number of positrons always equals the number of negatrons. Any questions? Yes, Lexia?" "Dr. Ht, what happens to the atom if it gets excited? Will the positrons go flying off and leave the atom negatively charged?" "That's exactly right Lexia. The resulting charged atom is called an ion. You'll learn more about ions in the next lower course." Just then the green light on the Vidcom came on. "Well class it looks like your luck ran out again. Class dismissed." Samo knew that when the green light came on, it could mean only one of two things, and both of them spelled trouble. The light meant that there was an incoming wave transmission, and the transmissions always came from one of two sources. Either it was some stupid-ass general, a clerk who messed up and shattered an important document, (since this was a desert world, all records were kept on diamond etched glass plates) usually some of his inreproducible research, or it was a lower ranking private ordering him on an important mission. Fortunately the former didn't happen too often, and something told him that this time it would definitely be the latter. It was only a matter of millicentons before his suspicions were confirmed, and the image of the planet's commanding officer, Private Stark, formed from a solitary centered dot, to a horizontal line, to a circle, and finally a tubular hologram on the Vidcom. Samo saluted. "No time for formalities, Sgt. Ht." the commander bluntly began. "There's an inter-planetary crisis, involving all nine planets of The Narret System. It deals with Trivia-Antitrivia reactions,and we need you to be one of our foremost experts on the subject. There's an emergency conference being held on the Planet Sunaru in one On. We're calling in our lowest minds on this one. Your orders are to report to the Central Sea on Sunaru in exactly 95 centons. Any questions?" "Yes, does this at all concern our counter-planet sir?" "Unfortunately, yes it does. They're playing God again. And you know as well as I do what that could mean. If that's all, you better get going' you now have 94.5 centons." "Yes, that's all. Thank you sir." "Thank ME? Bad luck to YOU, Sergeant. Stark out." "Well, no time to close the observatory now. Got to get going." Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER FOUR | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb (NMCS025@MAINE) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Editorinomican Mad Orny al-Hazred Featured Author: H.P. LOVECRAFT Orny Call of Cthulhu Game Review Mike H. The Book HPL The Cthulhu Mythos Merlin <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Editorial Greetings, and welcome to the Howard Phillips Lovecraft special issue of FSFnet. I must apologize for the lateness of this issue, but, as many of you know already, I am in the middle of spending three weeks in wonderful (?) New York City. I hope that you will find the issue worth the wait. Future issues should be forthcoming within a few weeks, depending on how things go here. Submissions and other response can be sent to my Maine account, and will receive proper attention, usually within one to five days. If you have something that you would like to bring to my attention, I will be using TIGQC489 @ CUNYVM during my stay in NYC, which should last until the 20th of March. I would like to thank the contributors for their help, and I would like to apologize to Eric (@ UCONN) for having to ask him to withdraw a fine submission, due to length. Merlin's overview of the Mythos is an excellent article, and Mike's CoC game review is lucid. I hope that Lovecraft fans enjoy this issue, although there is not enough room to do his work justice, and I hope that those of you who have not been introduced to HPL find this issue enjoyable and interesting. Issue five should be following this issue rather rapidly, and will definitely appear in your reader queues before the end of the month. It will contain sequels to stories that appeared in issue three, and, of course, another featured author... I really ought to start thinking about who... Well, you know how it is. Enjoy, and spread the word! Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Featured Author: HOWARD PHILLIPS LOVECRAFT H.P. Lovecraft has become one of the most well-known of the early writers in the pulp science fiction/horror field. His life was very controversial, and there has been passionate debate over how much of Lovecraft's work was influenced by his early experiences. However, his writings remain popular works of horror, and HPL has had many followers and imitators. Lovecraft was born and lived all his life in Providence, Rhode Island. His father was placed in a mental home when HPL was three, and died of paresis when Howard was 8. His mother, from all accounts, was psychoneurotic, eventually being institutionalized as well. HPL was brought up in a very Victorian household, and therefore his emotions and imagination were suppressed. He was taught to read early, and his childhood was filled with writing experiments. However, Howard was a sickly child, and was not exposed to the world outside his home. He was made very aware of his own shortcomings, with possible psychological implications. HPL carried on a number of active correspondances with younger authors once he had broken into the pulp market, and many people feel that if he had spent less time on his letters he might have been more productive; however, for Lovecraft, these epistles were necessary to help him cope with his incredibly low self-image, to help him deal with his loneliness, and to gather news and ideas from the vast world outside his experience. Lovecraft's style was heavily influenced by Poe, Arthur Machen, and Lord Dunsany, although HPL also filtered his ideas through his life- experience. For example, Lovecraft used very little dialogue, for he did not have a great deal of experience in conversation. Most of his tales are located in New England, a fact which adds believability to his tales, but also becomes redundant. HPL distinctly avoided sex in his stories, and any women who appear are as nonfeminine as his mother. One of Lovecraft's favorite writing mechanisms is the use of an ancient, forbidden tome, usually the Necronomicon, a book originally of his invention, though several hoaxes have been perpetrated. This may have been borrowed from Poe's "ancient sources" or Robert W. Chambers' "King in Yellow", but no fantastic book has ever been portrayed as effectively as Lovecraft's. More recent authors have copied the tactic with marginal success: Robert E. Howard's "Unaussprechlichen Kulten" and Robert Bloch's "De Vermis Mysteriis" being examples. Lovecraft's works are many and varied, beginning with his earlier tales, to be found in Del Rey's recent reprints "The Tomb" and "The Doom that Came to Sarnath" and culminating in his popular Cthulhu Mythos cycle. Most of his work is in the form of short stories, although he also wrote poetry which is generally considered marginal. In his own eyes, his best work was the story "Colour out of Space", followed by "The Music of Eric Zann". I tend to agree with Lovecraft on this, but would also suggest "The Tomb", "The Doom that Came to Sarnath", "The Call of Cthulhu", and the Charles Dexter Ward novella. The Del Rey reprints are all excellent collections, and many other works are available, if, like some of HPL's characters, one enjoys delving for arcane and wond'rous tomes of ancient lore. H.P. Lovecraft is a classic horror author and a must for horror fans; however, it must be remembered that he wrote his works for pulp magazines who were not interested in master works of style. He wrote to earn his living, which was, at best, meagre, and his unique psychology and situation left many gaps in his writing style. However, he was also a master at certain techniques that budding authors should note, and that horror fans would appreciate. Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Call of Cthulhu GAME REVIEW Fans of H.P Lovecraft's infamous 'Cthulhu mythos' stories and general horror buffs now have a role playing game designed just for them: Chaosium's fantasy role playing game 'Call of Cthulhu'. If you are bored by standard role playing games, tired of the old 'kill monster, take its treasure, go on to next monster...' limbo inherent in many fantasy games, or if you just want to try something different, Call of Cthulhu may be worth looking into. Based entirely on the world of H.P. Lovecraft, where mankind is beset by immortal elder gods of mindshattering power and insane human sorcerers bent on the enslavement of humanity, this game offers adventurers a different approach to gaming; Horror based role playing. In this world, players fight sorcerers and evil humans, lose sanity, and run from monsters a lot. The enjoyment of it is derived not from successfully killing the enemy, but from successfully running away before it eats your face off. Combat plays a small part in this game, which instead centers around detective work coupled with a general atmosphere of Gothic horror and impending doom. The gaming system is remarkably simple, and anyone familiar with Chaosium's gaming system will find Call to be similar to other Chaosium games, such as Elfquest, Stormbringer, and Elric. Hit points are computed in a simple (some might say primitive) way by averaging size and con. Sanity is a statistic unique to this game, and is used more often than hit points, with a character being shocked into madness by 'unspeakably blasphemous horrors', as H.P.L. might have put it. The overall game system is more logic oriented than most others, with a list of abilities and areas of knowledge somewhat similar to Top Secret, only more diverse and lengthy. Combat is simple, with parries, critical hits, and a percentage chance to hit any given target. (Those who value greater realism in a gaming system may wish to use a system of 'difficulty factors' like that used in the James Bond role playing game. Assigning a constant chance to hit any target at any range with a given weapon is not exactly realistic.) However, a clever gamemaster can make up for any deficiencies in the game system and find a right blend of realism and simplicity. Modules for Call are not easy to find, being less numerous than those of many other games. Most modules published by Chaosium are in the form of long campaigns, with six or more modules usually linked by a central theme, and flowing nicely from one to the other. These modules cost approximately ten dollars, and are well worth it since they provide many hours of game time. The modules state that they will last for sixty hours, but a gamemaster well versed in Lovecraft's literature can stretch it out to at least a hundred hours. That comes to a dime an hour, a much better deal than most other games can offer. Some titles to look for are: Shadows of Yog Sothoth, Masks of Nyarlathotep, The Asylum, The Fungi from Yuggoth, Death in Dunwich and others. The game itself may prove difficult to find; almost as difficult as locating books by H.P.L. The easiest way to get a copy of the game if no local store has it is to order it direct from Chaosium; there are advertisements in Dragon magazine with the address. Modules will probably be similar to track down, but an order form is enclosed with the game, so that is no big problem. (Note: try to get the second edition of the game. The first is flawed in several ways, which are corrected in the second edition. Corrections for the first edition were published as part some modules, including 'Shadows of Yog Sothoth'.) Mike H. <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> THE BOOK My memories are very confused. There is even much doubt as to where they begin; for at times I feel appalling vistas of years stretching behind me, while at other times it seems as if the present moment were an isolated point in a grey, formless infinity. I am not even certain how I am communicating this message. While I know I am speaking, I have a vague impression that some strange and perhaps terrible mediation will be needed to bear what I say to the points where I wish to be heard. My identity, too, is bewilderingly cloudy. I seem to have suffered a great shock - perhaps from some utterly monstrous outgrowth of my cycles of unique, incredible experience. These cycles of experience, of course, all stem from that worm- riddled book. I remember when I found it - in a dimly lighted place near the black, oily river where the mists always swirl. That place was very old, and the ceiling-high shelves full of rotting volumes reached back endlessly through windowless inner rooms and alcoves. There were, besides, great formless heaps of books on the floor and in crude bins; and it was in one of these heaps that I found the thing. I never learned its title, for the early pages were missing; but it fell open toward the end and gave me a glimpse of something which sent my senses reeling. There was a formula - a sort of list of things to say and do - which I recognized as something black and forbidden; something which I had read of before in furtive paragraphs of mixed abhorrence and fascination penned by those strange ancient delvers into the universe's guarded secrets whose decaying texts I loved to absorb. It was a key - a guide - to certain gateways and transitions of which mystics have dreamed and whispered since the race was young, and which lead to freedoms and discoveries beyond the three dimensions and realms of life and matter that we know. Not for centuries had any man recalled its vital substance or known where to find it, but this book was very old indeed. No printing-press, but the hand of some half-crazed monk, had traced these ominous Latin phrases in unicals of awesome antiquity. I remember how the old man leered and tittered, and made a curious sign with his hand when I bore it away. He had refused to take pay for it, and only long afterward did I guess why. As I hurried home through those narrow, winding, mist-cloaked waterfront streets I had a frightful impression of being stealthily followed by softly padding feet. The centuried, tottering houses on both sides seemed alive with a fresh and morbid malignity - as if some hitherto closed channel of evil understanding had abruptly been opened. I felt that those walls and overhanging gables of mildewed brick and fungoid plaster and timber - with eye-like, diamond-paned windows that leered - could hardly desist from advancing and crushing me... yet I had read only the least fragment of that blasphemous rune before closing the book and bringing it away. I remember how I read the book at last - white-faced, and locked in the attic room that I had long devoted to strange searchings. The great house was very still, for I had not gone up till after midnight. I think I had a family then - though the details are very uncertain - and I know there were many servants. Just what the year was, I cannot say; for since then I have known many ages and dimensions, and have had all my notions of time dissolved and refashioned. It was by the light of candles that I read - I recall the relentless dripping of the wax - and there were chimes that came every now and then from distant belfries. I seemed to keep track of those chimes with a peculiar intentness, as if I feared to hear some very remote, intruding note among them. Then came the first scratching and fumbling at the dormer window that looked out high above the other roofs of the city. It came as I droned aloud the ninth verse of that primal lay, and I knew amidst my shudders what it meant. For he who passes the gateways always wins a shadow, and never again can he be alone. I had evoked - and the book was indeed all I had suspected. That night I passed the gateway to a vortex of twisted time and vision, and when morning found me in the attic room I saw in the walls and shelves fittings that which I had never seen before. Nor could I ever see the world as I had known it. Mixed with the present scene was always a little of the past and a little of the future, and every once-familiar object loomed alien in the new perspective brought by my widened sight. From then on I walked in a fantastic dream of unknown and half-known shapes; and with each new gateway crossed, the less plainly could I recognize the things of the narrow sphere to which I had so long been bound. What I saw about me, none else saw; and I grew doubly silent and aloof lest I be thought mad. Dogs had a fear of me, for they felt the outside shadow which never left my side. But still I read more - in hidden, forgotten books and scrolls to which my new vision led me - and pushed through fresh gateways of space and being and life-patterns toward the core of the unknown cosmos. I remember the night I made the five concentric circles of fire on the floor, and stood in the innermost one chanting that monstrous litany the messenger from Tartary had brought. The walls melted away, and I was swept by a black wind through gulfs of fathomless grey with the needle-like pinnacle of unknown mountains miles below me. After a while there was utter blackness, and then the light of myriad stars forming strange, alien constellations. Finally I saw a green-litten plain far below me, and discerned on it the twisted towers of a city built in no fashion I had ever known or read of or dreamed of. As I floated closer to that city I saw a great square building of stone in an open space, and felt a hideous fear clutching at me. I screamed and struggled, and after a blankness was again in my attic room sprawled flat over the five concentric circles on the floor. In that night's wandering there was no more of strangeness than in many a former night's wandering; but there was more of terror because I knew I was closer to those outside gulfs and worlds than I had ever been before. Thereafter I was more cautious with my incantations, for I had no wish to be cut off from my body and from the earth in unknown abysses whence I could never return... Howard Phillips Lovecraft <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> THE CTHULHU MYTHOS The Cthulhu mythos developed from Howard Phillips Lovecraft's experimentation in the media of modern horror in the magazine Weird Tales in the 1920's and 30's. The Mythos embodies a pantheon of evil beings from other space-time continua, many of whom possess divine powers. A fictitious history of the interactions of these beings and their alien worshipers on this world and other distant planets comprises the core of the Lovecraft mythology. The underlying theme of these stories lies in the attempts of these beings to achieve physical manifestation on Earth and the methods that foolish mortals utilize in this goal. Because the idea of a common mythos of places, races, and deities appears only gradually in HPL's work, no real attempt was made to make the cycle logically coherent until 1926 with the publication of "The Call of Cthulhu". Further, HPL encouraged other authors, particularly Clark Ashton Smith, Robert Bloch, August Derleth, Robert E. Howard, and Frank Belknap Long, to enlarge upon the Mythos in their own fiction. Following HPL's death in 1937 a host of other writers have made notable contributions to the Cthulhu cycle. Thus, stories throughout the mythos are often contradictory or overlapping, making a glossary of the elements of the cycle difficult. For reasons of simplicity and space, only those places, races, and deities which were mentioned in at least two of HPL's own stories are included. DEITIES: The Elder Gods - Elsewhere referred to as the "Great Ones" and the "Other Gods". They are a group of semi-benevolent deities which struggle against the "Old Ones". HPL left this group greatly undeveloped and unexplored with the exception of the deity Nodens, "Lord of the Abyss", who aids the protagonist of "The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath". The Old Ones - The group of evil deities whose intrigues are the subject of most of the cycle's stories. These deities often have both incorporal and corporal forms. The primary goal of these beings was to extend their influence into the modern world. All of the following gods are considered "Old Ones": Yog-Sothoth - The "All-in-One and the One-in-All of limitless being and self - the last, utter sweep which has no confines and which outreaches fancy and mathematics alike", Yog-Sothoth resembles an evil Brahma, the Hindu god of the unification of all existence. He co-rules the pantheon of Old Ones with Azathoth. In spite of his seemingly indescribable form, we are told in "The Dunwich Horror" that he resembles "an octopus, centipede, spider kind o' thing" which is capable of physical manifestation on earth. Azathoth - "The blind idiot god who sprawls at the center of ultimate chaos", "circled by his flopping horde of mindless amorphous dancers, and lulled by the thin monotonous piping of a demonic flute held in nameless paws." He, "the Lord of all Things", and his antithesis Yog- Sothoth the "One-in-All", comprise a dialectical universe. Though he never visits our dimension, he is seen by many astral voyagers in the Mythos. Other Gods - Often confused with the Elder Ones because of their name, these are the direct servants of Azathoth: the dancers and players. They often visit the highest peaks of the world as in "The Other Gods". Shub-Niggurath - "The Goat with a Thousand Young". Direct servant to both Yog-Sothoth and Azathoth, he is the Pan-like fertility god. Nyarlathotep - "Soul and messenger" of the Other Gods, Nyarlathotep is represented in two forms: As "crawling Chaos" and as "The Black Man". In the later form he is instrumental in organizing the ceremonies of witchcraft which allow the aliens to visit this dimension. Cthulhu - A semi-divine being who is referred to as a priest of the gods. He leads an aquatic race called the Deep Ones who descended to earth from the stars. He has been imprisoned in R'lyeh by the Elder Gods. RACES: The Deep Ones - A species of aquatic humanoids which inhabit the deep ocean trenches of the earth. Most attend their god Cthulhu who is imprisoned on the island of R'lyeh, though some have chosen to settle near coastal fishing villages as demonstrated in "The Shadow Over Innsmouth". They seem to be governed by Dagon who is the immediate subordinate of Cthulhu. The Old Ones of Leng - Ancient race of aliens who inhabited magnificent cities near the southern pole. They made a treaty with the Deep Ones to insure that each remains in their respective realms. They are said to tentacled, barrel-shaped beings with starfish-like heads and membranous wings. The Shoggoths - A race of giant, amorphous creatures developed by the Old Ones of Leng to be used as manual laborers. They eventually rebelled and destroyed their masters' civilization. Mi-Go - A race of crab-like beings which were identified with the Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas by HPL. PLACES: R'lyeh - The sunken island of Cthulhu which periodically rises from the depths at different points in the oceans of the world. It is the city of the Deep Ones and prison of their god. The Plateau of Leng - The home of the Old Ones located in Antartica. "At the Mountain of Madness" gives the best description of this place. Kadath - The home of the Elder Gods which lies in the "frozen waste" beyond Leng. It is the goal of all who seek truth and enlightenment. Arkham, Massachusetts - A fictitious town which was the setting of many of HPL's stories. It is patterned after Salem and is the site of the Miskatonic University, whose library contains one of the forbidden copies of Abdul Alhazred's Necronomicon. Innsmouth, Massachusetts - Another fictitious village created by HPL. This town is located near the site of an off-shore settlement of Deep Ones, with whom the town has forbidden commerce. The town is modeled after Newburyport, Massachusetts. Per Adonai Eloim, Adenali Jehova, Adonai Sabaoth Metraton.... Joseph (Merlin) Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER FIVE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Editorial Orny Narret Chronicles 10 Mari A. Paulson Featured Author: JAMES KAHN Orny Backing Jim Owens FSFnet Survey For you to send to me... <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Editorial Well, here at last is issue 5 of FSFnet. As the summer approaches, a number of userids will be changing, and many numbers which are sent FSFnet will be eliminated. I would ask people who will not be around to remember to cancel their subscription by sending me a mail file or message. FSFnet will continue to be printed throughout the summer, and I would like those people who will be staying throughout the summer to spread the word to others who might be interested in the zine, as many of our subscribers and contributors will be leaving for summer break. Both subscriptions and submissions have slowed to a trickle. I must remind you that FSFnet is more your venture than mine, and that it must receive submissions to continue to work. Please spread the word and encourage others to join the membership list, and try to get something written. I know that many of you are writers of quality... The CSNEWS server at MAINE now supports a bulletin board service which many users might be interested in investigating. For general information on CSNEWS send it a message HELP. For info on the bulletin board service, say SENDME CSBB HELPNET. Files you might wish to request can be requested by sending SENDME COMICS CSNOTICE, SENDME STARTREK CSNOTICE, and/or SENDME SCIFI CSNOTICE. Maine users, of course, can get these files by sharing CSNEWS' 192 disk. Well, enjoy, and spread the word. And remember, contributions are needed! Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Narret Chronicles Book The Tenth "With all undue disrespect to His Recruitship, what in the heavens are we all doing here?" "Yes, Yes, what ARE we all doing here?" "Rudemen, rudemen please, come to chaos will you." The voice of the commander of the Narret System's Interplanetary Society boomed over the loudspeakers. "You've all been called here out of an emergency situation which has occured on our counter-planet in the Terran System. But after I get to that, it is unimportant that you remain ignorant of the other Scientists here. Most of them you already won't know, as their infamity follows them . Some of them may be familiar, so allow me to introduce them to you now. To my far right is Cpl. Dr. Zark, an ignorant on counter-universal structure and geography; to my right Cpl. Stado, an ignorant on daytime observation of white-holes; to my far left Sgt. Dr. Guilp, an ignorant on the construction of darktron-wave warp engines and their incorporation into spacecraft; and finally my left hand man on matters of this kind, Sgt. Dr. Samo Ht, the system's foremost ignorant on Trivia-Antitrivia reactions. Sergeant Dr. Ht comes to us from the Institute for Regressive Presearch on Amrif." "Fine, now that we're all ignorant of one another, lets get up to the matter at hand." Said Dr. Zark, wishing to get the blue tape over with. "Alright, rudemen, may I detract your attention to the Vidscreen you see before you. What you are seeing is the product of a bottom secret trans- counter-universal communications presearch project that NSIS has been working on for the last several Losar Cycles. The images which you see are computational composite images of the most probable counter-universal sources for white-body radiation in our universe. Note specifically the chronograph in the lower left corner of the Vidscreen. The sources change from one low energy body to another, and the fluctuation between bodies has an upper limit of no longer than one On. Now note the following: For the last ten Ons, the source has remained constant. An image of it should come up right about..." "Oh no." blurted Zark "Just beautiful!" exclaimed Ht "Sorry rudemen, but the image has been confirmed and I assure you there has been no mistake. The white-body radiation increase in our universe over the last ten Ons has been caused by none other than the build-up and launch readying of enough nuclear weapons on Planet Earth to blow the whole Terran System to the sixth physical dimension." "(Screens down) That's why you men are here. Clearly something must be done to make them realize that if they succeed in blowing themselves off the dimension scan, they will also be blowing us off it with them. Somehow, someway, before this conference is adjourned we must devise a method for letting the Earthlings know that they are not alone." "Yes but how?" Queried Guilp "The humans can't receive darktron wave communications any more than we can receive their photon laser communications." "Yes, and if they could, it would take trillions of Losar Cycles just to get there," added Stado. "Actually, it would take quintillions, 4.57289 quintillions to be a little less exact." said Samo. "I was afraid it would come to this, but then again, it always does." "What in the heavens are you talking about Ht?" asked Zark. "You sound as if you've been there before." "Commander with your permission I would like to raise the security clearance of this meeting to the bottom-most level." "What is he talking about Commander Valtrep? I thought that an Omega Class security clearance WAS the bottom-most class." said Stado. "It is, for Sunaru. But not for NSIS. There are several lower classes in NSIS." The commander explained. "In anticipation of your request, I took the liberty of having that level security check done, merely a formality, of course, and you all passed. Here are your Class Omega-Alpha:Alpha-Omega security passes. Dr. Ht would you please be mean enough to explain the future of these security level passes?" "Sure," said Ht. "This is not the first time the Humans have tried to do away with themselves..." Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Featured Author: JAMES KAHN James Kahn is neither prolific nor well-known in the vast fantasy market. He has written a mystery novel named "Diagnosis: Murder", and has contributed to other works as well. His works of fantasy are limited to a series known as the "New World Trilogy". The first volume is entitled "World Enough, and Time" and is a unique and provocative work set in a more-than-half mythical future California. It is an excellent tale, and Kahn has succeeded in bringing a refreshing newness to old mythical creatures and the typical post- cataclysm Earth stories. The second book of the trilogy, "Time's Dark Laughter", is a much more mature book, with more ominous plots and more involved implications. However, the main characters remain the same, and their honesty and goodness do not change. In "World Enough", the characters are interested only in saving themselves, while in "Laughter" they are forced into action to stop a threat to the entire area. The third book, to the best of my knowledge, has not been released as yet, but, believe me, I'm looking! Kahn's style is very good. The books are excellent for readers who enjoy light (but far from mindless or dull) reading. The books are exceptional in style, as the author brings a new richness to old beasts and situations. Kahn is an excellent fantasist, and these books are well worth the effort to find. Which brings up a point. They may very well prove hard to find. Published by Del Rey in 1980 and 1982, respectively, there are few copies left on bookstore shelves, and Kahn's relative anonymity has hampered volume sales. The books are, nonetheless, excellent works, and are well worth the effort to find. Perhaps when the third volume is issued there will be a renewed interest, and old volumes will again be stocked. Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Backing Greg looked out on the massed faces. The road was rough, and the sheet metal cart he was in bounced and boomed over the potholes. He was often thrown against the sides of the cart, scraping his hands. He would have sat down, but then he wouldn't have been able to avoid the occasional thrown rock. The scene looked so much like the old movies he had seen of the French Revolution that had he not been the one in the tumbrel, he would have laughed. He felt little anxiety over his impending execution. He had been expecting it for some time. In fact, it was almost a relief, after the days of running and hiding, constantly fearing that someone would turn him in. He felt more sorrow for his young companions in the cart. They stood back to back, their arms tied together. They were close friends in life, and their captors had decided that they would be close friends in death. One of them turned to him. "You'd think they were angry with us or something." He had to raise his voice to be heard over the angry sound of the mob. "Yeah, like we'd been trying to change their whole way of life or something." Greg's reply rang true. Even as he said it, Greg thought back to that day when he had first set eyes on this planet. "What!?" He couldn't believe his ears. "I'm going to tell them what!?" "You must tell them that they had better straighten up their act, because the new world order is coming, and it won't tolerate the way they are presently living." "You can't be serious. What is this new world order business? And who's going to be running it?" "We are." Greg couldn't believe his ears. He had been sent to the planet by the Paixians, a group that had suddenly appeared on the galactic scene only five years previously, with technology and power that put everything else in space to shame. Yet they had consistently used their power only to help other planets, to build the new, to repair the old, to help where help was needed. True, they weren't a real major force in the economic market, nor did they enter into any alliances, but they were always on the minds of the major policy makers, as an unknown and possibly influential factor. But in no way did they fit the description of empire builders. Yet, here was one of them,telling him in all seriousness that he had to tell the people of this planet,of all planets, that they were about to become someone else's subjects. That was sheer suicide, by any standards. He was at the time standing on Arelite, the home planet of the Arelites, known galaxy wide for their short tempers and hard hitting shock troops. No people had a greater planetary pride.They had, before the arrival of the Paixians, totally sterilized half of the populated bodies in their system in a war that lasted three days and which had started when their ambassador had been insulted at a state dinner held on their sister planet, Buccus. And he had to tell them... "Right." He had been told to recruit 5,000 Arelites to help with his announcement plans. He was not given ambassadorial status. In fact, the Arelites didn't even know he was on the planet. Fortunately. "But don't worry. You have our full backing." Elein, his traveling mate, stood beside the Paixian. "You'll love it Greg. You always liked public speaking." He hated public speaking. He had been given money, and the names and locations of the major broadcasting facilities, so that was no problem. Recruiting Arelites to, effectively, betray their own planet, was something entirely different, or so he thought. To his surprise, for about 2 weeks solid, every person he talked to, or so it seemed, was discontented, upset with the government, anxious for a better life, or somehow mentally prepared for the concept of a new management, so to speak. They were quickly added to the ranks of his small but growing cadre, and in turn started feeling out prospective members. At first he wondered at the surprising amount of turncoats, but soon realized that it was no coincidence that they had happened to be in the area the same time he was. It seemed that the Paixians were using every means at their well stocked disposal to throw him the best possible combination of recruits. They came from every walk of life, and yet they seemed to fit together like a glove. With the gentle philosophy of the Paixians flowing through the group at the instruction of Greg, they soon had enough people to cover all the bases, the contacts to get into the studios, the men to create the tapes of the broadcasted message, the managers to combine all the efforts. With great anticipation, they set a date, and spun the tapes. The result was spectacular, but predictable. Most of the group had gone underground the week before the broadcast, but Greg and a few hand selected aids stayed behind, so that had the reaction been more favorable there would have been someone readily available to lead the throngs. The throngs came all right, carrying nooses. The only reason Greg et al had not died outright was that the secret police were faster than the raging lynch mobs. A sudden stop brought Greg back to the here and now. He looked around and saw that they were stopped in front of a large white marble building. He and the two others were herded inside, where they were whisked five stories up to where a wide balcony opened out. There the government had, just for them, erected a large steel guillotine, complete with basket. As he stepped into view, the crowd below started a chant. As they were pulling the blade up, he was able to hear the words floating up from the assembled masses. "Kill them! Kill them!" How original. There was no ceremony. He was roughly forced onto the steel table. He saw out of the corner of his eye a gaudily clad general raise his arm. The chanting ceased. The general paused dramatically,and dropped his arm. He heard the sliding of the blade, then there was a blow like a sledgehammer, and everything went blinding white. And stayed that way. He felt no pain. He did, after a moment, get annoyed with the strain of holding his head up. Then he realized that he should no longer have to hold his head up, much less be able to. He realized that his hands were now free. He cautiously raised his body, and found that he was no longer locked in by steel. The light dimmed, and became normal. He opened his eyes, and looked around. "Good job, Greg." "I think I've asked this before. Elein, Why aren't I dead?" Behind Elein stood the Paixian who brought him to Arelite. "What were you worrying about? I told you you had our backing." Greg looked back. The crowd below was running, in every direction but towards the building. The guillotine still stood, from the table top down. Where the blade guides had been there were now two, shining square patches, sliced off flush, polished to a mirror surface. "I blew the rest of it into orbit. That's the flash you saw." The Paixian was grinning widely. "I enjoy grandstanding. Don't get to do it very often. The guys in upstairs said it was one of the greatest starting guns they ever saw." "Actually you blew it further out than just orbit. You might have actually given it escape velocity." Greg looked around. He saw his two companions, grinning and rubbing their bruised wrists. He saw Elein, listening with an amused expression. He saw the Paixian. But none of them had spoken. "Who said that?" "That's Michael. You'll be meeting him soon, after we finish mopping up." "Mopping up?" "Yes. You can relax. The invasion's over. We won. Of course." Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> FSFNET SURVEY Fill in and return Rate authors: (6=best,1=worst,0=haven't read) ( ) Anderson ( ) Clarke ( ) Lee ( ) Niven ( ) Anthony ( ) Donaldson ( ) Lem ( ) Norton ( ) Aspirin ( ) Eddings ( ) Lewis ( ) Pournelle ( ) Bradbury ( ) Heinlein ( ) Lovecraft ( ) Saberhagen ( ) Bradley ( ) Herbert ( ) McCaffrey ( ) Tolkien ( ) Cherryh ( ) LeGuin ( ) Moorcock ( ) Zelazny Are there any other authors you feel are particularly noteworthy? Rate the FSFnet zines (6=best,1=worst,0=did not read) ( ) Vol 1 No 1: Dune, 'Ornathor's Saga', Brisingamen, MAR Barker ( ) Vol 1 No 2: 1984 poem, Larry Niven, 'Close Encounter' ( ) Vol 1 No 3: 'Flyby', Tanith Lee, 'Narret Chronicles' ( ) Vol 1 No 4: Lovecraft, Cthulhu game, 'the Book', Cthulhu Mythos ( ) Vol 1 No 5: Rate the importance of the following in FSFnet. (6=most,1=least) ( ) Roleplaying Games News and Reviews ( ) Science Fiction News and Reviews ( ) Fantasy News and Reviews ( ) Letters of Comment ( ) Original Science Fiction ( ) Fantasy Fiction Is there anything you feel FSFnet has been weak on or needs more of? Have you submitted any articles to FSFnet? (Y/N) ( ) +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER SIX | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Editorial Orny Narret Chronicles 9 Mari A. Paulson Featured Author: DAVID EDDINGS Orny Review: the Black Company Trilogy Merlin SciFi Story Alex Williams Paranoia RPG Review Orny Return of Jedi Commentary Merlin <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Editorial Hello, all! Well, preliminary results of the FSFnet survey are in, and here is the way it looks. Favorite authors are Larry Niven and Tolkien, least favorite being C.S. Lewis and Bradbury. Favorite issue was number four, the Lovecraftian issue. Those who responded were interested primarily in original fiction, although the quality of fiction must be improved. The letter column still remains a divided issue. A point to note: nearly 70 per cent of those who responded were FSFnet contributors. If you wish to take part in the survey, it was tagged at the end of issue 5. Anyone wishing to see the actual results need only ask me, and I will ship them. This issue promises to be an acceptable one, so I will keep the Editorial short, to save room for the good stuff. A reminder: we need submissions, especially short quality fiction. Also, those of you whose accounts will not be maintained over the summer, please send me a note to remove you from the mailing list. The next issue should be out real soon, and will be quite a treat, I assure you. All you people who asked for better fiction, watch closely... Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Narret Chronicles Book the Ninth "Unwelcome Samo!" Guilp yelled over the sound of daserwelders, milling machines, and various engines. "Let's step out of my office." "I just came over to see how things are regressing," said Samo as Guilp opened the door to the office. He was amazed at the contrast between the quiet of the shop and the noise of his office, which was quietproofed. "Things are going quite horribly, and we're way behind schedule. I'm braved you won't be able to leave at 6 p.m. yesteron as you requested. Yes, you'll have to leave at noon yesteron, like it or no," Guilp stated with a smile. "Horrible, simply horrible," Samo replied. "And I was brave you'd only be half-started by now. And here you tell me you'll be completely started by noon yesteron. Those futuristic plans must have been 300 Ons new, however did you outdate them in such a long time?" queried Samo. "That's a little public knowledge I've been working on for a few Ons now. Here have a look," Guilp said as he flipped a switch on his desk. Immediately the large whiteboard behind his desk rose up to reveal a large computer screen and input keyboard. "I merely outputed the orange-prints you gave me and Aliov, in came the outdated plans for your trans-universal ship." "I'm brave I quite understand you completely," stated Samo. "It's quite allwrong, please worry," said Guilp. "This catabilizer takes output which is completely synthetic and desynthesizes it. Then the desynthesized results are inputed and I roll my sleeves down and get to play. Now does that make less sense?" "Much less, thank you." said Samo. "And this system belongs to NSIS I assume?" "Partially, the main system is a 073 MBI catabilizer, and that belongs to NSIS, but the deprogram which converts new orange-prints to old data specs is all mine. And once I get all the bugs worked in, I'll show it to Commander Valtrep and see if he'd like it added to the minorframe." "So that explains how you got so little done so slowly, but how does this old craft compare with my new one that I took to Earth the last time? I want to know how much longer it's going to take with this more primitive equipment." "Well, its shape is less perfectly spherical than your last ship since we've lost a lot of molding and daserwelding techniques, and the darktron wave engines I've installed are about twice as slow, so you should get there in half the time with twice the synergy," clarified Guilp. "Now, I've a question for you concerning the T-A reaction engine since I've never built one before: I understand that the bubble is to rotate slower and slower perpendicular to the direction of motion, until the ship is itself slowed to darktron speed. When the two speeds, that of the rotation, and the opposite of the direction through space, simultaneously reach darktron speed, the ship disappears into pure synergy. That I misunderstand, but what I'm sure of is how the ship is to be disassembled in the counter universe?" "Well," said Samo, "what happens is this: when the ship leaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaves this universe as pure synergy, it becomes total Anti-trivia in the counter-universe. Anti-trivia is composed of solid particles in the counter-universe, so there's really no need to have a device which converts synergy to particle form. Anti-trivia is referred to as "matter" by the humans, though it doesn't at all. Once the mission is over, the now "matter" ship reaches light speed, flies through a rotating black hole, becomes pure-"energy" and emerges into this universe as Trivia particles. Now is that more nebulous?" "Perfectly. You've lost me completely." Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Featured Author: DAVID EDDINGS Few authors have achieved a master work with their first published work of fantasy, but David Eddings' five-book Belgeriad has proven itself a classic. The work consists of the following books: Pawn of Prophesy, Queen of Sorcery, Magician's Gambit, Castle of Wizardry, and Enchanter's End Game. Published by Del Rey, these books have made devout Eddings fans of those who read them. Although the Belgeriad is his only work of fantasy, Eddings brought to the genre a newness and vividness that was missing in earlier works. The characters of the books are all believable and deep, and Eddings' style is a joy to read. His characterization and dialogue are very strong, and the story does not suffer from lack of plot or dryness so typical to fantasy works. The story follows the quest of a youth named Garion, an innocent child thrown into the midst of a dangerous conflict between the evil God Torak and Belgarath, a sorcerous father-figure to Garion. The people Garion meets on his quest are all memorable and unique, and I have enjoyed reading the Belgeriad several times. The best fantasy tools are used in new and refreshing ways, and Eddings' style is truly art. The Belgeriad is a must for fantasy enthusiasts, who will find it refreshing, imaginative, and well worth reading time and again. Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Review: The Black Company Trilogy Glen Cook has recently published a fascinating swords and sorcery trilogy consisting of The_Black_Company, The_Shadows_Linger, and The_ White_Rose, available in paperback from Tor Books. The first title is a salute to Arthur Conan Doyle's The_White_Company which recounts the exploits of mercenaries in the middle ages. Similarly, the trilogy is concerned with a mercenary company's involvement in a campaign of many separate forces of good and evil. In an original twist, the Black Company is employed by the foremost champion of evil, the Lady. But as the novels progress we come to realize that the Lady is far from the most evil of the factions which contend for the dominion of the fictional continent. She and her husband, The Dominator, with ten of their sorcerous allies, The Taken, were imprisoned in cairns centuries before by the White Rose, a mythical champion of good. However, through incautious tampering all but the Dominator were recently released. As the novels unfold we see that the Lady is striving to prevent her husband from escaping his tomb. Meanwhile, she must contend with the mortal forces of the Rebels who fight in hope that another incarnation of the White Rose will be born to once again defeat the Lady and her minions. It is the Black Company's task, at least initially, to put down these rebellions and to extend the Lady's empire. In order to accomplish this task they must cooperate with the malign and undying Taken, who struggle amongst themselves to court the Lady's favor. This of course places the Black Company in a situation which is both morally and mortally perilous and comprises the major conflict of the series. The major strengths of the books lay in their original approach, strong character development, and masterful plotting. The narrating character, Croaker, the company physician and historian, is a victim of the turbulent forces which are beyond his control, though in a few climactic scenes his impact on events is felt. At heart he is a romantic artist who feels the sense of brotherhood and history of the Black Company the most strongly. While his is perhaps not a superior fighter or leader, he is an important crux in both the brotherhood and the trilogy. Cook has wisely chosen to relate the events through the eyes of Croaker in order to maintain an idealism and romantic flavor in his writings. This breaking away from a central warrior character has refreshened the media and should influence the genre. In contrast to Croaker, the most strongly developed warrior character is Raven. Raven is cast in the character of a misguided Aragorn. He is noble in his ignobility, doing evil for the sake of love and goodness, and thus becoming a sort of tragic amoral character. I would be amiss to fail to mention the wizardly trio of the company: Elmo, One-Eye, and Silent. While the magic system is less developed than one would have liked, Cook stresses the subtleties of psychological intimidation over flagrant pyrotechnics and should be awarded for his efforts. In spite of Gary E. Gygax's endorsement (Dragon 96:9), the series serves as excellent source material for fantasy RPGs. Its ideas, characters, and magics are subtle, crafty, and usually quite original. Hence, it strengths are the weaknesses of many RPG campaigns. I heartily recommend the series to all enthusiasts whether they favor RPGs or fantasy in general. Joseph (Merlin) Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> SciFi Story A hush fell over the huge vaulted hall as High Speaker Vallj held his left hand up. "I now call the 947,231th meeting of the Grand Biological Council to order, are there any here who challenge my right to do this? Fine. Now the first order of business is the Sirius-8 project. Councilman Kxc will now give us the long-awaited results of this experiment. Councilman Kxc?" "Thank you. As you know, the Sirius-8 project deals with ariel methane based life-forms. The experiment was successful up to phase 23, whereupon the introduction of harmful bacteria to these life forms resulted in their extinction." A mumble of dismay circulated around the hall. A lone figure stood up from his seat. "I am Councilman Winj, your Honor," said the lone figure. "Yes, Councilman , what is your question?" rumbled High Speaker Vallj "It concerns the Sirius-8 experiment. Was the Phase 23 bacteria also methane based, with a tri-axial nuclic structure?" "Yes, it was. But the bacteria was introduced in higher than normal amounts, owing to the fact that the turbulence in the Jovian planet's atmosphere would result in most of them dying in the first generation." explained Councilman Kxc. "Oh yes..." mumbled Winj, as he sat back down. "To continue ",said Kxc," the data received was more than adequate. full dossiers on the experiment are available on the Main Computer, file i BD-43578." Kxc seated himself. "Thank you Councilman Kxc. Now to our main business. Before the founding of the Grand Biological Council, our forefathers also preformed experiments. These experiments are the basis of our techniques today. Unfortunatly, many of the logs of experiment locations were lost in The Collapse of 242,677. One such experiment was Carbon-based life around a G class star." Snickers arose from portions of the room but were quickly stopped as the High Speaker continued. "Such life is indeed possible in the very narrow band called the F-zone. This experiment has been running, uncontrolled for roughly 4.6 billion years." Gasps were heard , but died quickly. "Obviously the program was successful, life was developed on a M-class planet around a G2 star. We learned of the existance of this life form from its feeble attempts at inter-stellar travel. Yes, the experiment has developed a rudimentary intellect. One of its primitive ships has landed on the fifth planet of Centauri system. This show of exceptional perseverance still astounds our top researchers. Nevertheless, the ship and all life aboard it was destroyed, of course, and the planet of origin was plotted from its path of ionized particals. The matter has been refered to us. Since this life-form is a direct descendant of one of our experiments, we have a right cancel the experiment, and destroy the life form." "All in favor of canceling this experiment? All against? Motion passed. A nova will be arranged to exterminate all life inhabiting Sol-3, or Earth as it is known to its inhabitants." "In other business..." Alex Williams <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> PARANOIA Game Review The Computer is your friend! Rooting out traitors will make you happy. The Computer tells you so. Of course the Computer is right. Being a Troubleshooter is fun. Troubleshooters get shot at, stabbed, incinerated, stapled, mangled, poisoned, blown to bits, and occasionally accidentally executed. This is so much fun that many Troubleshooters go crazy. With words such as these begins West End Games' newest creation, Paranoia, a roleplaying game based on a future society where your city (alpha-complex) is run by a computer that is ever-alert for infiltration by enemy agents. Having a mutant power is treasonous. All Troubleshooters have mutant powers that they must hide. Being a member of a secret society is treasonous. All Troubleshooters are members, and must hide this fact. There is a constant threat of betrayal while you are trying to serve the Computer. Stay alert! Trust no one! Keep your laser handy! The game itself is very enjoyable, in a 'darkly humorous' manner. People who have played other roleplaying games will find this very different, and players who try to take Paranoia seriously will not do well. Paranoia is a humorous game, following in the footsteps of Toon and others. Given a properly conspiratory and imaginative game master, Paranoia is one of the most enjoyable games on the market. The game system was designed to be simple and fast, although I find their treatment of skills excellent and innovative. Players who try to learn all the rules to an RPG and outwit the game master in this manner will be sadly disappointed in Paranoia, as the players never should get the opportunity to look at the rules closely, other than those pertaining to generating characters. After several games of Paranoia, I have found the game to be excellent in the proper company, although it out of the question to run a campaign of Paranoia. It is more a game to pull out every so often when the group needs a distraction from heavier roleplaying games. The rule books are excellently written and very humorous. I would highly suggest this game to other gamers. The life of a Troubleshooter is (no matter how brief) very enjoyable. Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Return of the Jedi Comment Well, I had this thought for a long time about an alternate ending to the Return of the Jedi which I think is superior. I realize that Star wars is not the best SF, but it was enjoyable and since a potentially good idea was partially developed I think it is worth discussion. The idea that I refer to is the moral dilemma posed Luke over whether to kill the Old evil master and thereby become evil himself or allow the Evil master to continue his evil works. Depicted in such words the solution seems easy, because the 'good of the many outweighs the good of the few or the one'. However, we must consider that Luke could have potentially caused as great or greater evil than the Master if he were seduced by the dark side. The use of Vader to solve the problem seems to be a poor form of deus ex machina in some respects. Yes, it does solve the problem but only by avoiding it. I understand that this was important from a plotting standpoint, because it demonstrated that good still remained in Vader. But I think that Vader's character was mishandled in the last two movies. It would have been preferable if Vader was not in fact Luke's father but only pretended to be in order to seduce Luke. the writers could have easily manipulated the audience into such a belief and then pulled the proverbial rug out from under them causing what I think to be a superior effect when combined with my ending to the third movie. Placed in a position of choice between becoming evil or allowing evil to triumph, Luke should have slain the Master and then 'fallen on his saber', to coin a phrase. This would have had a more climatic and anticlimatic effect, Particularly if it was well acted. I realize that this plot is hopelessly Byronic in some respects. Good triumphs but only at the expense of Luke's life. Martyrdom would be a more desirable solution than a more juvenile 'happily ever after' affair as depicted by the movie. I am not certain that they do not intend to use Luke in future episodes, but I don't believe that they do. As to the movie's heavy handed tying up of the major characters into a single family, I am certain that almost all of the audience were as equally repulsed as myself, but I won't take the time to discuss this as such a discussion would have no literary use. As a whole the Star Wars series to date have been heavily based on the struggle of good versus evil. Predictably, the writers have chosen to make good triumphant. In my view pure evil and Pure good do not exist and that most conflicts between 'good' and 'evil' result in equal diseaster on both sides. Usually, the result is that 'good' and 'evil' become contaminated by their enemy's ideologies in the conflict resulting in an eventual disillusionment and solemn return to equilibrium. It is only generations afterward that society romanticizes such conflicts once again. Recent American wars and 'police actions' tend to support this theory. Joseph (Merlin) Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER SEVEN | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Editorial Orny Narret Chronicles 8 Mari A. Paulson Dream Weaver - Part One (of 2) Michael Murphy <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Editorial Well, I must keep this introduction short. Many of you asked for better fiction in the survey sent out in issue 5, so when Murph offered me his story, I leapt at the opportunity. Unfortunately, it is a little long for FSFnet, and will span two issues. Having been pleased with it myself, I am sure you will enjoy it. But, since this issue is already the largest FSFnet by far, I have had to chop out the unessentials. So let me end this editorial and let you move along... Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Narret Chronicles Book the Eighth There wasn't much ceremony. Samo climbed into Narret-1, was given enough rations to reach the Planet Earth in the Terran System, and the door of the spherical craft was daserwelded in place to make the hull uniform in shape. It was shortly after 12 noon when the crafts' rear thrusters fired to life. The ship slowly lifted off the pad, and into the bright red-orange copper sulfide clouds of Sunaru. Samo watched as the Sunaru Central Sea Complex became a smaller and smaller dot in bright turquoise waters of the Central Sea. He piloted the craft through the Trixi Division and tested her out. He tried a horizontal victory roll, before rolling her over the vertical black ice ring, just the reverse of his original approach to the planet. Samo sat back in his chair. The craft responded well enough. Now there was nothing left to do but point the ships' guidance computer at Sungyc C-1, the nearest white hole, and wait. "...The Class Omega-Alpha:Alpha-Omega security level passes were created for use by those concerned with my first visit to Earth. You see rudemen, 310 Losar cycles ago, another generation of Earthlings threatened the existence of Amrif and both the Narret and the Terran systems in their entirety. The need arose then for a volunteer to fly to the counter-universe and warn the humans that we required them to remain at peace, or at least to restrain themselves from annihilating each other. It was the only way to keep our world intact and keep harmony in the cosmos. So you see rudemen, I'm actually more than 300 Losar cycles new. Chronologically, that is. Biologically, I'm only 42 Losar cycles new. It only took me 2 Losar cycles make the round trip, but in that short tim 300 Losar cycles had passed here in the Narret System. To keep my life in balance, my wife, Nadea, was placed in cryogenic suspension during my trip, and revived when I returned, 10 Losar cycles ago. Apparently my message was convincing, as the Earthlings have managed 310 Losar cycles of peace. Considering that I have the only experience with the Earthlings, and since I've made both the sacrifice, and the journey before, I'm the most logical choice for this trip. I believe that's why Commander Valtrep called me here from Amrif. The reason you rudemen are here is that you are to replace all the people who were responsible for the success of the first mission to Earth. Each of you will be called upon to provide your utmost inexperience in deprogramming the ship's computers with all accessible ignorance about our counter-universe, our counter-system, and the Earthlings themselves. Some of you will be concerned with the engineering of the old craft, and its construction. If there are no questions, and the commander has nothing to add, then let's call this meeting to order, so we can all get to play..." Samo recalled the events that led to this voyage to Earth. << on>>> The sound of the ships' guidance computer shocked Samo out of his daydream. He reached down and switched the Autofire to the on position. "Time for final radio contact," Samo said aloud to himself. "Narret-1 to NSIS-1, come in NSIS-1." "Narret-1 this is NSIS-1." "NSIS-1, Ht here. Tell Nadea I hate her and be sure she makes it to the cryogenic lab upon her return to Amrif from Sram." "Narret-1, Valtrep here, will do, bad luck Samo, and may DOG be with you." "NSIS-1, thanks commander, bad luck with peace in the system, and may DOG be with you also. Ht out." "Yeah, way out!" Samo thought to himself. "Well here goes nothing." He switched the audio countdown timer on. << "YEEEEEEEE HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" Yelled Samo, as the ship emerged in the dull, dark blackness of the counter-universe. His yell was one of delight. Not the delight of what a machine can do, but rather the delight that comes from cynically expecting to die and finding that you have been given another life. Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Dream Weaver Copyright (c) 1984 Michael A. Murphy All I want to do is sleep Where dreams like this are hidden deep. Peace of mind is found in sleep. Peace of mind is found in sleep. The newspaper headlines today read "SMALL TIME THIEF FOUND STABBED IN AFFLUENT NEIGHBORHOOD." "This machine will be the key to your recovery," said Doctor James. "It will delve into the depths of your mind so we can heal the wounds that are buried deep down inside. The process will take over two months to complete. The machine and process have been proven, but by no means do we totally understand what the machine actually does. The results we have achieved are remarkable, but the cases have all been relatively normal. Thus the going is slow. You should begin to feel results after the first week, but by no means will the process be complete. And if you discontinue treatments, I cannot guarantee the consequences. "The machine is a monitor programmed with rudimentary intelligence circuits. It is the only one of its kind. There have been attempts at duplication and all attempts have failed. Hardware and software have both been duplicated exactly and we still have not been able to duplicate the functions of this machine." Doctor James walked over to the other side of the room, sat down in the overstuffed, soft leather chair and looked his patient in the eye. "Do you understand the risks involved, Mr. Sharmuth? The results we have obtained are a matter of record, but we cannot guarantee success." "Doctor James!" Mr. Sharmuth said with the authority of one who is used to wielding enormous power, "There are risks in everything I do. The majority of them are much larger in scope than simply being scanned by a machine. I am well aware of the risks, however minimal. Any risk is worth finding out why I'm blacking out. I have absolutely no idea what happens when I black out. Sometimes I'm in the same place when I come to, sometimes I'm not. I'd also like to know what happens while I am asleep." "Ok, Mr. Sharmuth. We will start treatment next Monday. You will come in on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for an hour each day. What is the most convenient hour for you?" "Three o'clock will be fine with me." "Ok. I'll see you on Monday at 3pm then." A beautiful young woman wheeled herself into Doctor James' office. Her long, shapely legs were bare to the knee. Her right calf was of perfect proportion. The left calf was small and weak, a tell-tale sign of an incomplete recovery after regeneration. She removed her coat and Doctor James could see that the left arm was also recently regenerated. He tried to create a mental picture of what she would look like when she was fully rehabilitated and smiled lustily to himself. "How recent is your regeneration, Miss Anderson?" "Maryann, please. I have been out of the regen tank for four weeks and three days." "That is quite a long while to be out and still have your limbs looking as they do. You look as if you just left the tank a day or two ago. Who is your therapist?" "My physical therapist sent me to you. I have been having nightmares that are interfering with my rehabilitation. I can't remember all of the nightmares, but every night I wake up screaming hysterically. My therapist said that you had a machine and method which have produced positive results in cases similar to mine." "The machine has been very effective in other related cases. I must make you aware that there are risks though. The machine is not guaranteed. There is a lot we don't know about it yet. "The machine is a monitor programmed with rudimentary intelligence circuits. It is the only one of its kind. There have been attempts at duplication and all attempts have failed. Hardware and software have both been duplicated exactly and we still have not been able to duplicate the functions of this machine." "I understand the risks, Doctor James. I am willing to take those risks to retain my sanity. And I'd also like to have the use of my arm and my leg back. I've been going through pure hell and I want to find out why. I want to know what is causing my nightmares!" "The treatment will take a while. I want you to continue with your physical therapist. It will be helpful to me if I can get in touch with him and find out more about your therapy. I'll also need to be kept informed about your therapeutic progress while you are undergoing treatment here. Is your therapist a personal therapist or one appointed by the regen doctors?" "He was appointed by the doctors at the regeneration clinic. I cannot afford a personal therapist. I can't afford this, but they are footing the bill because their regular therapy has not brought my arm and leg back to normal. As you well know, this is an extremely rare occurrence with regenerated limbs. The procedure has been refined and is almost foolproof. I am an exception that they cannot fathom. All tests show that I should be progressing normally. There is nothing to indicate that I should not heal normally. It is, quite frankly, driving me up a wall." "In one previous case, Maryann, the patient healed physically as well as mentally while undergoing treatment with us. That patient was not undergoing any other type of therapy or rehabilitation. We're not sure if any aspect of the machine should be credited in aiding the physical rehabilitation of the patient. That is another unknown we are faced with. You provide us with an opportunity to discover more about this aspect of our machine. I will schedule you for three treatments a week. Each session will last one hour. What is a good time for you?" "My best time would be early afternoon. How about one o'clock?" "I'll schedule you for one o'clock on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Please do not miss an appointment, Maryann. This schedule of three sessions a week for an hour has proved the most fruitful of any schedule we have used. Our optimum results have come using this schedule. I can make no guesses as to the effects of missing a session. One last question, Maryann. What is the name of your therapist?" "His name is Doctor John Martin. Thank you, doctor. I'll see you Monday at one o'clock." Doctor James watched her leave the office. He truly hoped the machine would be beneficial for her. She was too young and beautiful to remain in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. After placing the call to Doctor Martin at the regen clinic, Doctor James had a better idea of what treatment would be like for Maryann. He figured it would be a long process. She had been in a horrible accident involving several ground vehicles. No one else had survived the accident. She had been thrown clear upon impact. She was lucky that she was thrown out of the area of the explosion. Her left arm and leg had been severely injured in the accident. Doctors could not save any part of either arm or leg. Each limb had to be completely regenerated. Regeneration of part of a limb was a relatively simple process. Regenerating an entire arm or leg became much more complicated. She had occupied a place in the regen tank for almost two months while her limbs grew back. Patients usually experience a little disorientation after having part of a limb regenerated. The loss of a couple of days in one's life is not a big trauma. Two months of the regen tanks can cause a bit of shock though when one comes out. Normal rehabilitation of a regenerated limb takes only a week or two. It is rare that a patient takes even two weeks to be able to use the limb normally. Granted it takes a little longer for the limb to function at 100 per cent. After a week, it is usually back to 80 or 90 per cent. Doctor Martin had mentioned another factor that could contribute to Maryann's slow recovery. Both her parents and her brother had been killed in the accident. Floating... in a sea of liquid, but not water. It is thicker than water. It's not touching me, but I can feel it. The thin membrane covering me is not enough to keep the feeling away. The feeling makes my skin crawl. The liquid is like a gel, but not as thick. I am able to breathe, but how? I'm totally encircled by the liquid/gel. Suffocation is not a pleasant way to go... But I can breathe! The membrane I am encased in must be providing oxygen. It is the only possible way. Wait. I can see something out in the gel. A shape. Did it move? Or am I seeing things? This gel is not exactly translucent, so I can't be sure. It is so difficult to see anything out there. Can I be sure that I really saw something, or is my mind just playing tricks on me. There's something else! I really see something now. It's getting closer. It's long, perhaps metallic. Closer now. It's a knife, no, a needle. Closer... Maryann screamed. Her arms were trembling and her forehead had broken out in beads of sweat. Doctor James walked over to the machine, removed the tape and placed it on top of the folder on his desk. After removing the tape just made he placed a blank tape into the machine. After giving Maryann a moment to regain her composure, Doctor James moved to the couch directly across from Maryann. "Do you remember anything about what you just dreamt, Maryann?" "No, nothing at all. I'm not sure if I want to remember it. I feel the same way as when I wake up in the middle of the night - terrified." "I will study the tape of today's session later tonight, Maryann. We can discuss it when you come in on Wednesday. After discussing the dream we can put you back on the machine to be monitored again. The conscious awareness of what is going on in the subconscious may be enough to produce more detailed dreams or different dreams relating to this one. And each dream we can monitor can only aid in your recovery." "Will I," asked a still trembling Maryann, "be able to view the monitored dreams?" "After we have discussed the dream or dreams thoroughly you will be able to view them. We don't want to shock your conscious mind with something that it insists on being kept in the subconscious until your conscious mind is aware of the content of the dream. Visualizing it beforehand, considering the conscious mind is going to great lengths to keep the dream buried in the subconscious, could be very detrimental. "I'll see you on Wednesday, Maryann." The newspaper headlines today read "MUGGER SHOT IN ELITE MANCHESTER PARK DISTRICT." Hatred. Loathing. Abhorrence. Resentment. Revulsion. Humans. They do not deserve to exist. The things they do to one another are not things that intelligent beings would do. They kill and maim in total disregard of everything. They do not deserve to exist. They have devised thousands of ways to kill others. They do this before they try even one way to exist peacefully. They do not deserve to exist. Hatred. Loathing. Abhorrence. Resentment. Revulsion. Humans. With Sharmuth's session completed, Doctor James can begin to study the tape of Maryann's dream and the tape of Sharmuth's dream. He picks up the two tapes and reads the markings on each. He decides on Sharmuth's tape first. He walks across the room to the playback apparatus and inserts the tape while getting set up so he can study the contents of the tape. The sun is reflecting lazily off the lakes. Evergreen tree tops send ragged shadows to nip at the small whitecaps raised by the wind. The lush greenery of the hills softens the harsh beauty of the golden orange sun. Harsh gold fades with time into the hazy oranges, yellows, and reds of an unforgettable sunset. Soon the sky is dark and the day grows cool. Vision is augmented by the illuminating whiteness of the full moon. Moonlight reflects lazily off the calm waters. The ragged tree top shadows have been worn to a rounded smoothness. Sharmuth's tape continued like that. Nothing but images of lush, peaceful, sleepy land. The entire tape contained only that continuous dream. No people, no animals, no living creatures. Only plants, trees, fields, hills, valleys... All of them suggesting peace. He inserted Maryann's tape after shaking himself back into awareness of where he was. He played back her tape and then made notations in his notebook for his next meeting with Maryann. His notations concerning Sharmuth contained one word. Peace. He could not possibly forget the feeling which that dream had inspired. It is Wednesday. Maryann has just arrived for her afternoon appointment. "Good afternoon, Maryann." welcomed Doctor James. For, indeed it was a good afternoon as afternoons go. It was warm and sunny with only a stray cloud or two in the sky. "Good afternoon, Doctor." answered Maryann. After a moment's pause Doctor James said, "I took a long look at the dream which we recorded the other day. Though I have never seen anything quite like your dream, it did remind me about something which I had read quite some time ago. I have never seen a regeneration unit or had one described so well until now. I spoke with the people at the regeneration clinic and they told me that your dream described perfectly the surroundings of one who is inside the regeneration unit during the regeneration period. Does this knowledge bring anything to your conscious mind?" A hesitant "No, not really." escaped Maryann's lips. "Most of the contents of the dream are observations about what the environment you were contained in was like. It is not a common nor natural environment and some of the feelings about these observations are a little, ...um, fearful because the entire situation is so foreign to you. Throughout the whole dream, there is really nothing to be fearful of. Even the part of the dream which caused you to wake up screaming was a perfectly routine occurrence. The only reason you don't see it as routine is because you are not at all aware of how the regeneration process works, are you?" "No, Doctor, I am not at all familiar with it. I have avoided anything to do with the regeneration process ever since the nightmares started and the therapy did not work." "Well, Maryann, the part of the dream where you wake up screaming is when a needle is inserted into the membranous sack in which you are enclosed. The needle administers nutrients and medicines peculiar to each individual which are necessary while the patient is undergoing regeneration. "The people at the regeneration clinic also mentioned to me that very few people outside of the medicine world have any idea at all of what a regeneration facility is like, especially from a patient's viewpoint since patients are always asleep while they are being treated. My guess is that you were partially aware of your environment at either the conscious or subconscious level and that awareness is what is causing that particular dream. I am sure that, knowing the dream for what it is, when you view the dream, it will trigger your subconscious into accepting the experience for what it is rather than looking at it as being something to fear because it is unknown. Do you feel you are ready to view the tape of the dream?" "Yes, Doctor, I think so. It certainly sounds like a very ordinary procedure the way you describe it. I feel so silly about being terrified of something so ordinary." "There's no need for you to feel that way. You were scared of it because it was an unknown. Now it is no longer an unknown and only now has it become something 'ordinary'. Until just this moment it was not something 'ordinary' to you." Doctor James rises from his chair and motions for Maryann to join him. They move over to the playback apparatus and Doctor James inserts the tape of Maryann's last session while settling Maryann into the apparatus so she can experience the playback of her dream. During the tape Maryann emits small exclamations and short bursts of barely intelligible sentences which indicate a conscious realization of her dream. Doctor James sat close by, ready to stop the tape should something on the tape affect Maryann in an adverse way. "Wow! That is really something, Doctor." "I was hoping that viewing the dream would affect you this way, Maryann. I hoped that with a conscious foreknowledge of what you were going to see in the dream that you would benefit from that viewing. Since I have had no case quite like yours, I could not be totally certain." "I remember that whole experience now, Doctor." Maryann almost breathed her sentences rather than speaking them now. "I was sufficiently drugged so that I felt no pain and I could not move while I was inside of that membrane, but my mind was aware during portions of my stay in the regeneration tank. I can remember beyond the insertion of the needle now and the needle wasn't really a needle as we think of one because it didn't penetrate the membrane, but the mouth widened as it encountered the membrane and it covered a part of the membrane which absorbed the nutrients and medicines which the needle contained. I feel awfully silly about being so terrified of THAT!" "Don't feel silly. People are often terrified of some of the most common things in our lives without any solid reason. You are at least no longer terrified of this now that it is a known rather than unknown quantity. Many people are still terrified of things even when they know that they shouldn't be." "Well, Doctor, I'm glad they sent me to you. We're making progress already." "Yes, my dear, we are. We will have to continue to make progress on Friday though. We have run a little over for this afternoon. Try to write down any dreams you may have between now and Friday. You shouldn't be waking up screaming from this dream again, but there are still dreams which you may be having that are related to your accident rather than to your experience in the regeneration facilities that may also be very pertinent to your recovery." "I shall try, Doctor. I really want to get this over with so that I can be healthy and whole again!" "We will get you there, Maryann. As soon as possible. Don't expect too much too soon though. We've had a major success right here at the beginning and hopefully things will continue this way, but they may not. So, I don't want you to get your hopes too high, but I also want you to be positive about this. Ok?" "Yes, Doctor. I understand," Maryann demurred. The newspaper headlines today read "BEGGAR FOUND STRANGLED." Walking the streets, alone Late at night when the streets Are asleep, they awaken long enough To allow one to enter and Glimpse the inner workings of A city at rest. Dead silence Greets this penetration; violation Of a sleeping city cannot go Unnoticed. Shattering the stillness, Screaming sirens echo their pleasure From twin towers to flowering gardens. Sirens approach, surrounding the Intruders and removing them Before they can breed trouble and Effect radical changes in the city. Silent screams awaken the city. Silent screams fall on deaf ears. Silent screams distinguish realities. Silent screams typify dreams. I cannot let myself get caught. There is too much at stake. These insane, unjust humans have no right to exist. I must stop them. If I do not, the world will become an unimaginable place to live. And there is only one way possible to keep that from occurring! The buzzer of the intercom sounded. Doctor James pressed the talk button and said, "Yes, Jan?" "Mr. Sharmuth is here," answered Jan. "Thank you. Send him in." "For someone who is suffering as much inner turmoil over the lack of knowledge you have about your blackout periods, this dream tape is surprisingly peaceful and calm. The dream contains only images of peaceful, natural scenes. There are no thoughts or feelings imposed upon these images except for an almost overwhelming feeling of peace." "Doctor, I have never been a very peaceful man. I need controversy and competition. They are as much a part of me as my heart and head. I would go crazy in a place such as you have just described." "Let's give you a look at the tape. See if replaying the dream for you will spark any conscious or subconscious memories. With your reputation preceding you, I was very surprised when I saw this dream. It does not fit your image at all. "Come sit over here." Doctor James held out the chair in front of the playback equipment for Mr. Sharmuth. Doctor James started the tape after getting Sharmuth set. He sat close by while the tape replayed the dream. When it finished, Doctor James rewound the tape and switched the playback machine off. "What an eerie feeling, Doctor. That tape certainly doesn't spark any memories, conscious or subconscious. But it does give me an awfully eerie feeling. I do not feel at all comfortable thinking about a place or places such as the ones 'described' on that tape. I am just not that type of man. "I had another blackout last night, Doctor. I really would like to find out why these blackouts keep occurring. While experiencing this dream of peace, I'm wondering whether I'm losing my sanity. I can feel my grasp on reality beginning to slide." "You have no recollection of anything during your blackout periods?" "None." "And the odd places you sometimes find yourself regaining consciousness in don't help to jog your memory at all?" "No, I can recall absolutely nothing when I regain consciousness. No matter how strange I find it that I am in a place that I have no recollection of coming to." "There's got to be something, some little piece of information hidden away somewhere in your memory that can give us something solid to grasp. If we just had one small clue to give us a start. "Shall we give the dream monitor another shot?" "You're the doctor..." The tape created during this session was pretty much the same as the last one. It contained similar images of the countryside and nature's beauty. And that overwhelming feeling of peace... Doctor James left the office after mulling over Sharmuth's problem and Sharmuth's dream for a short while. "Perhaps if I sleep on it," he thought, "something will come to me." Off to the left were blurred colors of green, brown, and grey. These are the appearances of any sort of solid object when one is in a vehicle travelling at 190 miles per hour. Solid objects at the edge of one's vision tend to become a blur of insubstantial matter. One might assume that the green is grass, that the brown is dirt, and that the grey is rock. All solid, tangible, everyday items. Along this particular thoroughfare were many other vehicles, most of them travelling at substantially lesser speeds. In passing the slower moving vehicles, they also became part of the grey blur, melding in with the rock. The sky ahead was beginning to dim. The greens, browns, and greys now melded into just one dark color. Out of the darkness rose a shape. Before it could be seen clearly there was a thump. Actually, it was more like the sound of an explosion. Everything became red... Maryann awoke screaming again. Her heart was beating in her throat and her whole body was shaking again. She was left gasping for breath. Doctor James turned off the monitor and then placed his hands on Maryann's shoulders in an attempt to calm her trembling. After a few minutes she was breathing normally again and only her arms had refused to stop trembling. "Do you remember anything this time, Maryann?" "All I remember is a lot of red." "Well, I think that is progress in itself. I mean this time you at least have a small recollection of the dream rather than none. Does the color red remind you of anything? How do you feel about the color red? Why would you remember only the color red after waking up screaming?" "I don't think about the color red overly much during the normal course of a day, but thinking about it now does make me feel a little ill at ease." "That could be a little bit of an after effect of the dream and the fact that you do remember only the color red from that dream. The dream caused you to wake up screaming and the only thing you remember is the color red. I'd say there's a pretty good chance that the color red has an awful lot to do with you waking up screaming. You're also still trembling a bit. The after effects of the dream have not totally subsided." "You have a very good point, Doctor. Were I not still shaken from the dream I might have been able to reason that far. I do tend to be a little light headed after a I wake up screaming." "Well, Maryann. You just sit and relax for a few minutes so that you can recover from this dream and stop your trembling. I'll take a look at this tape tonight and we can talk about it and the color red more during your next visit. "Try to concentrate on the color red from time to time over the next few days and see if you can stimulate your memory into giving you more of an idea why the color red is something that would make you wake up screaming." "I will try, Doctor." Michael Murphy (To Be Concluded in next FSFNET issue) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ONE NUMBER EIGHT | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Editorial Orny Narret Chronicles 7 Mari A. Paulson Dream Weaver - Conclusion Michael Murphy <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Editorial Hello, again! Well, after all the requests to get the next issue out this week, I guess I really ought to. This will be the last issue of Volume 1; Volume 2 will begin June 1. A reminder for those of you whose accounts will be purged this month: PLEASE send a mail file notifying me of this fact. And good luck on your finals, everybody!!! ;^) It recently has come to my attention that FSFNET is available from servers all over the globe, namely CANSERVE@CANADA01, SERVER@TAMCBA, and VMBBOARD@WEIZMANN. I would encourage people who want back issues to check these servers, and NOT to request FSFNets to be sent during weekdays and other peak load times. After this issue (and the conclusion of Murph's lengthy and worthy submission), FSFNet will return to its previous format, including the featured author column. Narret will also continue to it's illogical beginning. For those of you who will be here this summer, stay tuned for the beginning of Volume 2 June first. For those who will not be here this summer, remember to get in touch again in the fall for Volume 3! At the end of this first volume, I would like to thank you all for making this project successful, particularly those who took part in the survey and, of course, the contributors, without whom there would be no zine. Thank you all, and onward into the future! Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Narret Chronicles Book the Seventh Samo strained for a second, regaining his composure and letting his eyes adjust to the cold, bright blackness of the counter-universe. He reached down to the guidance computer and entered the triaxial coordinates of a dim-yellow, class G star that was situated in a star field that appeared to Samo to be the reverse of Cyri. The star he sought was situated not even halfway there, but, as he could recall quite vividly, it seemed to appear pleasantly as a shiny point of light gleaming on Cyri's daser. Concentrating on the distant star, Samo kept it centered on the light- sensitive directional guiding system developed by Cpl. Stado for guiding his white-whole telescopes in long exposure photographs. next he locked the controls of the craft on auto, and sat back to review some notes. "Catabilizer--deload Bio-effect future tape. File off and derun to finish." "<< "<< Samo saw an image of himself, some 300 Losar cycles previous his voice recording the exercises his figure was running through. At the time of his first voyage, he was younger and more ambitious, and he regarded his youthful figure with benign indignation. Still, the record he had created of his atomic transformations during his last journey did have scientific value, and although they were slightly immature, or so it seemed to Samo, he was glad he had recorded them for posterity. It was helpful for him to recall how he felt, becoming physical for the first time. It gave him something to compare his present sensations to. "Anti-trivia is so much more restricting than trivia." Samo had said to himself, well actually to the ships analog computer during the first voyage. He was glad it all felt the same the second time around. "Catabilizer start future Bio-effect tape." He had seen enough. Enough at least to know that he was feeling normal. Normal for a Narretan suddenly placed in the counter-universe, that is. "Catabilizer deload Future analog tape file and derun from ending with last approach to planet Earth." "<< "<< Samo saw the dim reflection of starlight from a small, cold, planet with a smaller, solitary satellite. He adjusted his orbit for a flyby. "Cozy", Samo said to himself as he skirted by Pluto's cratered, gasless surface. "So much for their ninth planet...on to the eighth," he said as he re-adjusted the orbit for Neptune. "Might as well check out what I've got to work with in raw materials..." "Ah this is more like it!" He said as he entered the green atmosphere and flew under the ring, perpendicular to the planet's horizontal axis. "Sulphuric acid, Carbon dioxide, methane, hydrogen, and traces of oxygen." He said into the microphone of his analog computer. As he flew by Uranus, he became disappointed at the state of human technological advancement. "The humans have not established a base on the seventh planet of this solar system yet." He recorded. At Saturn, he could not stop himself from making a few measurements of the ring and studying its chemical composition and the elements in the atmosphere. He wanted to compare the sizes of the counter planets with the sizes of the home planets to see if there was a measurable difference between anti-trivial and trivial mass. Samo was monitoring the pre-nuclear signals from Earth as he flew from planet to planet, and the signals seemed to be decreasing, so he adjusted his course for Jupiter and began contemplating his coming encounter with the humans. How primitive were they? How could he best communicate with the masses? Most importantly how could he explain who he was without being taken for a mad man... He decided he'd have to give it his best shot with a few special effects when he got there. Jupiter. Samo flew inside the ring and ran a spectral analysis on its composition. He entered the data into the analog computer for conversion to darktron spectral analysis, and flew into the cloud bands. He took her down beneath the cloud layer and was again disappointed that the humans had not even progressed as far as the fifth planet. "Fifth planet uninhabited," Samo recorded, "entering asteroid belt." As Samo skirted Mars he was again unsurprised by the lack of habitation. "These humans are non-colonial and primitive, at a level approximately equal to Amrif's pre-sramian period." "Approaching Earth orbit at an inclination of 45 degrees to the planet's equator. Receiving two strong signals from different continental masses. Both northern hemisphere, opposite sides of the planet." He recorded. "Time to let them know I'm here..." Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Dream Weaver Copyright (c) 1984 Michael A. Murphy (Conclusion of story begun in Vol1N07) Sharmuth's afternoon session went like the others had. No real progress was made. After studying the tape of today's dream, Doctor James felt like they were going nowhere fast. It was quite a different feeling from the elation he felt about Maryann's rapid progress. The difference in rates of progress had him a little confused. Normally, he would have been able to retain a professional attitude if he had had just one of the two cases at any given time. Rapid rates of progress are not unusual. Neither are cases that have no progress. The fact he had one of each at the same time was what perplexed Doctor James. It just did not seem right that he could have such amazing success with one patient and have absolute zero success with another. "You're looking much better today, Maryann." "Thank you, Doctor. I really feel quite a bit better. My therapist ran some tests this morning and he said that there had been an improvement in the muscle tissue of my arm. He was rather excited about it after all these weeks of absolutely no change. I am quite thrilled about it myself! I now have a positive reinforcement so that I can keep hoping that I will once again be able to use every part of my body. I haven't ever given up hope, but there were times when all the tests and efforts of others and myself seemed so futile. I think that, more than any other reason, is why I look better today. I just feel so much better on the inside that I can't contain it all and it is spreading to my outside." "I'm certainly glad that you are feeling so much better about everything, Maryann. I don't want to bring you down, but I do hope that you can continue to feel this way even if we don't make any more progress over the next week or even the next month. Progress can sustain a positive attitude with ease. It's keeping your positive attitude when things are not going your way that is the biggest step towards progress." "I don't think I can ever feel badly about my situation again, Doctor. I have been through the futility of feeling sorry for myself and now I can accept myself the way I am if I do not respond any further to treatment. I've been happy before and I have been sad. I have never been anywhere near as happy as I was when my therapist told me that there had been an improvement, however small it might have been. Even if I never have another change in condition I still know that hope is not futile and that improvement is possible because it happened once. Until now, no one thought that I had any real hope of ever regaining use of my limbs because I had not responded at all over the course of a month where full rehabilitation takes less than half that time. Now I have a solid basis for the hope that was only in my mind before. Now I know that that hope is not a futile hope. Since my condition did improve once, I know that it can happen again. I am betting that it will continue to improve. If it doesn't, well, I still have hope." "That's one heck of an attitude. I wish I could get all of my patients to think that way. Too many people these days are trying to get everything in large chunks. They want immediate and large scale results in everything they do. They won't settle for consistent progress or improvement. They want everything now. If they don't get it, they put the blame on someone else and try something else. The people in this world would do well to lose something that they take for granted and be told that they could never have it back. And slowly, very slowly, they would regain the use of that thing. Then they might come to appreciate some of the things we all take for granted. "Let's get back to the case at hand, my dear. We have progress to make with you." "I'm all for progress, Doctor." "Were you able to remember anything else by concentrating on the color red over the past few days?" "No, not really. I did dream about the color red one night though. I haven't woken up at night because of a dream since last week. I think being aware of the other dream and that the color red plays an important part in the last dream kept me from becoming terrified at night recently. I do remember other colors from when I was dreaming about the color red. They were all blurs though and I don't know what they were other than blurs of color. They all just kind of blended together. They were all earth colors. Grey, brown, green. I get a very ominous feeling when I think of those colors and red still makes me feel uneasy." "After viewing your dream it is quite easy to see why the color red would make you wake up screaming and also cause you to feel a little uneasy. "Tell me... Do you remember anything at all about the accident that put you in the situation that you're in now? Do you remember where it occurred? Or who was in the vehicle with you? Or where you were going at the time it occurred? Anything?" "Nothing. I know that my family was killed only because I was told after I had been conscious for a few days and had asked about them. I don't remember anything about what we did that day or why I was with them that day. I know, again because I was told, where the accident occurred. "The toughest thing to deal with was the fact that my parents and brother had been killed and I didn't even remember being with them prior to the accident. I can understand my not being able to remember anything about the accident, but why has my mind blocked out the events leading up to the accident? Why?" "I think it is time for you to view your last dream. I was going to wait for a couple of sessions so we could discuss your accident thoroughly enough so that you wouldn't be taken totally by surprise by the dream. I think you know enough via hearsay, you're also beginning to remember fringes of the circumstances surrounding the accident, to view the dream and have it help us rather than set us back. "So let's get over to the machinery and give it a go." "Lead the way, Doctor." As the tape ended Maryann sighed lightly and slumped wearily in her chair. "I am beginning to remember even more now, Doctor." "Good. You didn't display any violent reaction to what was on the tape. That is good. I had feared that you might, upon 'seeing' the accident for the first time," actually the second, he thought, "have an adverse reaction to it. I'm glad to see that my fears were unfounded." "I remember the accident now. I still don't remember where we had been or where we were going, but I do remember the part of our trip just prior to the accident. I also remember the accident itself and being thrown just a bit to the side of where my parents and brother were thrown. We were all wearing harnesses, but I guess the force of the impact just severed the harnesses and threw us all out. The only reason I am alive now is because I was thrown a few feet in another direction than the rest of my family. The red in my dream that kept waking me up is the red of the blood. My blood and the blood of my family. This was a very short memory, the color red. I guess I passed out very shortly after noticing all the blood. That is all I remember until the dreams of the regen tanks. "You're amazing, Doctor. You done in a very short time what no one else believed could be done. I think we've discovered the major reasons why I keep waking up and I also think that now I will begin to improve physically even more rapidly. It's so wonderful to have a memory again. Even if the memories that have been uncovered are not exactly pleasant, it is still nice to have them and know about them rather than be scared silly by them in ignorance. I would like to figure out what we were doing all together and why we were in such a hurry on the day of the accident." "We'll continue to work on that, Maryann. I do want to keep an eye on you for a while even though you feel so positive about your recovery now. We want to keep things under control and I'd like to see you recover all of your memory that was lost because of the accident." "Yes, Doctor. I'll see you in a couple of days. Maybe by then I'll be walking again!" Maryann exulted. The newspaper headlines today read "FIRST CLUE IN MANCHESTER MURDERS UNEARTHED." The article went on to say that another murder had been committed. All the murders had occurred within a half mile radius. Though the area has been heavily patrolled of late, another dead body appeared nonetheless. But this time a man was seen moving away from the spot where the murder occurred. "Doctor, I am becoming a nervous wreck. I have had two more blackouts since the other day and who knows what I've done while I've been asleep. I can't continue like this. I've got to get to the bottom of this before I go absolutely crazy and do something foolish." "Mr. Sharmuth, you have to admit that it is very difficult to make progress with something when you have no point at which to begin. We have no clues to aid us in beginning to find out why you are blacking out. We know that it is not a physical problem. All of the tests by the physicians have come up negative. That leaves us with the assumption that if it is not a physical problem that is causing you to black out, then it must be a mental one. Until we find that one little clue to use as a springboard, we will not be making rapid progress. Believe me, I'd like to see progress just as much as you would. But we must keep searching your mind to find that one little clue, that one minor inconsistency. It could be anything. We just have to be very alert and careful so that we don't overlook anything. In so doing there is virtually no way we can move rapidly. Should we move rapidly, we stand a very good chance of overlooking that which we are looking for, whatever it may be." "I understand, Doctor, but I still don't have to like it and I still want quick results. I'm used to getting things done quickly and it is extremely difficult to be patient through all of this." "Let us go over and give the dream monitor another try. This time I want you to concentrate on blacking out for a few minutes before you go to sleep." "Ok. I'll give it a try," Sharmuth sighed heavily. Doctor James pulled the tape out of the monitor after Sharmuth had woken up. He set the tape on his desk, walked back over to the monitor, and helped Sharmuth out of the equipment. "Do you recall anything about this dream? Did concentrating on blacking out do anything - make you feel anything different - remember anything at all?" "Still nothing, Doctor. I don't understand it at all." "Try to concentrate on your blackouts over the next couple of days. Try and stimulate the subconscious so that some of it's thoughts and memories might become conscious. I'll take a look at this tape in a while. Let's hope there is something different on it. Something that can give us a direction to aim in, a starting point." "Ok, Doctor. I'll see you in a couple of days." Sharmuth's recently made tape was very much the same as the other two. There was nothing on the tape that could be used as a starting point to delve further for clues. "It's time to adopt Maryann's positive attitude and not feel that everything we're doing is totally futile," James thought. Time seemed to jump ahead for Doctor James. There had been no progress at all in Sharmuth's case. It was becoming increasingly bewildering. Maryann had continued to improve steadily, but not as rapidly as at first. This was to be expected. The rapid pace of the beginning of her treatment was just too much to expect it to continue. With her case doing so well, he had more time to spend on Sharmuth's case. Sharmuth's case was one instance where a positive outlook had not helped. So far. There had to be something. It was only a matter of time before he stumbled upon it by just moving about blindly. Doctor James arrived in is office earlier than usual one morning. He had a full calendar of appointments in the afternoon but had nothing in the morning. He had planned to look over the last few tapes of Sharmuth's dreams. He had hoped to find something, anything, that might help. In the course of walking across the room to where he stored his tapes, he noticed that the monitor had been left on and a tape was just coming to an end. The record switch was on. James checked over his tapes quickly and determined that this tape was a new tape and not one of the ones he had used just recently. He watched as the tape got closer to the end. The record switch finally shut off and the tape was forwarded to the end and then the monitor shut off. James took the tape out and went over to his playback equipment. He wanted to find out what could possibly be on this tape. How did it get into the monitor and how did the monitor get started up? What was it recording, if anything? How could anything be recorded when there was no one connected to the input gear? He loaded the tape and began to view it. I am being followed. Why am I being followed? I'll have to do something about this. I haven't done anything and he certainly doesn't look at all like a cop. I'm almost home. I don't want him to follow me home. Who knows what he may do. He's probably one of those types who doesn't deserve to live anyway. The world will be much better off without him roaming the streets. There are too many of those about these days. How can they be so cruel and inhumane? They don't deserve to live. This one will not continue to live. I rounded a corner and waited. I looked quickly to make sure that there was no one else around. Even in this city, it can be rather quiet in the early morning hours. There was no one about. He rounded the corner and hurried his pace because he'd lost sight of me. I came from behind him and stabbed him. He died immediately. He didn't even have a chance to emit a sound from the pain. I cleaned the knife off on his clothes and then walked down the street as if nothing had happened. Another dead body in this city will not make any difference at all. There was a quick image of beautiful, peaceful countryside and then a raucous, rowdy scene began. It was a bar. A couple of fights had broken out and the bouncers were in the process of breaking the fight (and a lot of the furniture) up. bodies were being tossed out into the street left and right. Finally, I became one of those bodies. I gracefully picked myself up, shouted obscenities at the bouncers, and started walking away. I didn't think of where I was going until I got a few blocks away. I made a turn and headed for home. After a few more blocks I saw a shadowy figure emerge from a doorway and step into my path. He had a weapon and demanded my wallet. Not being one who is into death, especially my own, I slowly reached for my wallet. A sharp sound came from close by and distracted my mugger for a second. I hit his hand and knocked the gun loose. I was closer to it and made a grab for it. I was quicker than he and now had the gun. This world has no use for this mugger anymore. He is another one of the sort that does not deserve to live. Now he didn't. There were people within hearing range, but not within sight. I quickly removed myself from the scene and then joined the small mob as they approached the dead mugger. It was very easy to do in the confusion. The police arrived after a short wait, asked some questions, and then sent us all home. There were no eye witnesses. Everyone heard the shot. Everything and everyone had disappeared by the time anyone arrived on the scene. I still don't know what happened to the gun. The world is better off now. One more person, who didn't deserve to live anyway, was gone. How can they exist this way. The more I see, the more I confirm the fact they do not deserve to live. Peace. That overwhelming feeling again. Even in minute quantities it was overwhelming. What am I doing in this part of town? The types of people that frequent this part of town are the sort that I would never consort with. So why am I here? I do look rather out of place. In this den of poverty and uncleanliness, I have no business. Certainly no legitimate business. Why am I here? These people don't deserve to live this way. Most of them don't even deserve to live. A man approaches. He is a little drawn and thin, but definitely able- bodied. One can see the strength that could be his through the holes in the rags that the denizens of this demesne call clothes. As he gets even closer the stench becomes rather evident. "Can you spare a dollar, mister?" No dollar. I did talk him into coming home with me to see what life could be like. I was planning on berating him for not doing an honest days work when it was quite obvious that he was a very able-bodied man even in his emaciated condition. All he needed was the will to do a little hard work. Physical labor. Why hadn't he been working? He had obviously been in dire straits for some time, as his condition was not good at all. He certainly could have found work if he'd been willing to go looking. We were almost to my place when I decided that I did not want anyone coming home with me who could not perform an honest day's work when he was certainly more than capable. People like that do not deserve to live. And I wouldn't call what he was doing back in that rat infested hole living. The world is better off without him. He is certainly much better off. I don't know how I managed, but when I realized where I was, he was on the ground, dead. I must've strangled him for I had no weapon. Had he not been so weakened from his style of life, I could never have done him in with my bare hands. As he was though, there was no challenge. He wasn't even strong enough to struggle much. But I did catch him a little off guard too. He didn't deserve to live. How can people exist that way? I turned, there was someone coming this way about 4 blocks away. I turned a corner and disappeared. No one followed. If that person kept walking, he surely would find the body. No matter. He could not possibly have seen me well from that distance. Once again, that overwhelming feeling of peace. This time it lasted for several minutes. There were more images of beautiful, lazy countryside. The soft green and golden yellow suggested a lingering and lasting peace. The most striking thing about the whole image was that there was no life. No animal life. No human life. Doctor James sat in the chair for some time thinking about what he had just viewed. His respect for his dream monitor rose immensely. He thought he had figured out what was happening. The sequences he had just viewed were happenings that went on during Sharmuth's blackout periods. The machine did pick them up, but for some reason did not record them during the sessions with Sharmuth. The person who had done all the killing was Sharmuth. There was no doubt about that. Sharmuth did seem to be the ruthless type, but he did not seem to be the killer type. And why this sudden hatred for the human species. The man thrived on controversy and competition. He needed people so that he would be able to enjoy himself. Why would the machine select just one person to screen out everything that went on in the subconscious mind? I get the distinct feeling that this tape had two separate personalities involved in its making. One was bent on killing and destruction, the other wanted only peace. Total peace. Then it hit him. Total peace. To achieve total peace on this world one would just about have to start from scratch. All life would have to be eradicated. Total peace. Overwhelming peace. Doctor James decided that he had to inform the authorities of what he knew. He would tell them who the murderer was and then he would have to dismantle his machine. That was the worst part of it. The machine had done so much good for so many people. This one case would ruin that record for good. What would life have been like for Maryann without the machine? She's now fully recovered and such a beautiful young woman now that all her parts are proportional again! It is a shame. The authorities would never believe his story though. How could they? The population of the world is being exterminated one by one to achieve total peace? What, this is being done by one man? A 'machine'!? Well, he knew the response he was going to get. But he'd made up his mind. Doctor James picked up the phone and dialed the authorities... Doctor James sat bolt upright in bed, his heart beating rapidly and sweat running down his face. He stared about his dark bedroom for a while before he was able to fall back asleep. Michael Murphy <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TWO NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Editorial Orny Narret Chronicles 6 Mari A. Paulson Featured Author: ROBERT ANTON WILSON Orny The Thrust Jim Owens Game Review: TWILIGHT:2000 Guy Garnett Island Murph <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Editorial Greetings, all! Well, first let me apologize for the lateness of this issue, but things have been going on mighty fast. Two-two will be out sooner, I promise! Well, this summer has a wonderful lineup of fantasy and science fiction films, and I heartily suggest that you keep your eyes open for them. Also, Terry Brooks' new Shannara book is out, as is a new book by Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle about an alein invasion of Earth, called "Footfall". FSFnet is in need of some submissions (as always), and this is the first issue of volume two, which will last through the summer, and then volume three will begin in the fall. Now that summer is here, most people have gone home, and FSFnet needs both contributors and members! Be sure and recruit people who are into fantasy and SF for the zine, so we can continue to send it out. And if anyone has any neeto ideas about a special issue, by all means, speak to me! For those of you at VAX/VMS and MVS nodes, FSFnet is being sent out in a new manner which can send the file by CMS DISK DUMP or SENDFILE. I have taken the liberty of using sendfile for those nodes for which DISK DUMP is awkward; however, if you have trouble reading FSFnet in, just drop me a line, and I'll work on it. Aiming to please, you know... Well, have a great summer, all! And send in those reviews and so forth, and spread the word! Now on to the REAL stuff... Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Narret Chronicles Book the Sixth Samo flew over the nighttime skies of North America, his mind reeling. "The largest urban centers will have the highest photon emissions." Samo said to himself. "Shock waves travel through this mainly nitrogen medium at lets see, exactly, yes, that should do it. Now all I've got to do is fly over a large metropolitan area such as that one on the east coast, veer upward at an angle of, yes and return from over the ocean at half that velocity. There. That should do quite nicely," Samo continued as he set the controls on a course for New York City. Samo broke the sound barrier as he flew over Kennedy International Airport, sending a sonic boom crashing through the city. "Did you see what I think I saw, Albright?" "I was just going to ask you the same question. I've never seen anything like that radar pattern in my twenty-three years in this tower!" "It looked rather like a ball, or a bubble. Say, do you think it could have been a weather balloon?" "No way. I've seen balloons before, and they're much smaller, besides that thing, whatever it was, had to be doing at least Mach 3, and SR-71's only reach Mach 2.2 at top cruising speeds! I'm calling Dover Control." "Hello, Operator? Please connect me with Dover Air Force Base's Control Tower, 301-716-2000, Person-to-person with Maj. Jeffries" "Maj. Jeffries, here." "Hi Bill, it's Jim Albright at JFK. Listen, we just got a bogie on two screens, simultaneously that had a pattern similar to a weather balloon only larger and it was doing about Mach 4. Are you boys testing a new toy, or is this thing a possible threat?" "Well Jim, I'll level with you. We've been monitoring it on the national scopes, and we don't know what it is either. It came out of nowhere, suddenly appeared over Chicago 15 minutes ago, Made a beeline for New York, headed out over the Atlantic, and now it's starting back for the midwest. As to Soviet threats, we've received no messages by diplomatic courier, and intelligence has made no reports about any new aircraft. The 71's we keep on 24 hour standby are being fueled, and we've got two of our best pilots suiting up for an intercept." "I hate to think of the possibilities if it is Soviet. A bird like that could bomb any American city and escape completely unscathed before we could even fire an anti-aircraft missile." "We know, and the President is being notified. Say Jim I'll need to ask a favor of you." "Anything--name it." "Make sure this stays under wraps for now. Inform your staff--anyone who saw that thing, not to talk about it, the last thing this country needs right now is a panic created by the press." "Sure, you got it, we didn't see anything." "Great, thanks. I've got to go now, but I'll let you know what develops..." "...Ah, NORAD, Seeker-1 here, this is Colonel Roberts, neither Captain Phillips nor I have seen the bogie. What is it's present position? Over." "Seeker-1, NORAD here, bogie heading 270 at 25,000 ft. slowed to Mach 2. Fly on heading 285 at 25,000 full-open to intercept in 2.45 minutes. Over." "NORAD, Seeker-1, proceeding 285 at Mach 2.2 . Roberts out ." "What do you think we'll find sir?" Phillips asked. "Your guess is as good as mine captain. But since you asked my opinion, I think that ever since the top brass closed the Bluebook Project a lot of weird things have happened." "What kind of things sir?" "Well it just seems to me that since the books have been closed on extra- terrestrial visitation research the number of bogie sightings hasn't really dropped. Now if most of the reported cases were hoaxes as the project's final report states, then why do people continue to report sightings with the same continuity as before. Even when they don't have the chance of our investigating their story to back them up. I don't know captain, I just don't know." "You're right sir that doesn't make sense. Now this...could the soviets-" "I know what you're thinking and the answer is doubtful. They couldn't even get to the test level without our intelligence finding out. Besides, at the briefing we were told the craft created a sonic boom at Mach 3 and the russians don't have the metallurgical technology to create an alloy malleable enough and heat resistant enough to prevent heat fatigue of the metal due to air friction. " "In other words your saying this bogie really could be extra-" "I'm saying no such thing, Captain. I'm merely pointing out the possibility that there is more out there than we are capable of understanding. and that's all. I make no allusions as to what those possibilities are. Listen Dave, I've given more than half my life to this Air Force, and there are a few things I've learned. One of them is that if you come across something you can't explain, and you're enjoying your career you don't ask questions. Most likely there's someone who doesn't want you to know something, and if you don't get curious, you'll be fine. I've lost more pilots for "Disturbances of an emotional nature," than anything else. Is any of this registering, captain? "Uh, yes sir, sort of." "'Uh, yes sir sort of.' What kind of cocka-maime answer is that son? Give me a big 'Yes Sir!' or 'No Sir!'" "Sir would you please look out your starboard window. It's the bogie, three o'clock low!" Mari A. Paulson Ed. Note: This work is a piece of fiction. All characters, places, and events portrayed in this work are fictitious. Any similarity with actual people, places, or events, are disclaimed by the author and this publication. "The Narret Chronicles" are copyrighted (C) 1985 by Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Featured Author: ROBERT ANTON WILSON Robert Anton Wilson is a very interesting author. His works deal almost entirely with the Illuminati and other mystic horrors of the modern world. Wilson's life has been filled with strange probings into all forms of the occult, and he was a close friend with the late Professor Timothy Leary, a well-known occultist. Wilson's works began with the "Illuminatus!" series, originally written by Wilson and Robert Shea as a parody of modern mysticism, the Illuminati, and the U.S. government. "The Eye in the Pyramid", "The Golden Apple", and "Leviathan" were originally meant to be farcical, written in a style similar to that infamous style of James Joyce. The "Illuminatus!" series was reprinted recently by Dell. The better-known "Schrodinger's Cat" trilogy (the two other volumes being titled "The Trick Top Hat" and "The Homing Pigeons") is a master work of confusion and fear, and is perhaps Wilson's best work. "The Masks of the Illuminati" is a single volume work, describing the encounters one Sir John Babcock has with Albert Einstein and James Joyce, and the trick Aleister Crowley plays upon them all. "The Cosmic Trigger" is Wilson's attempt to explain the events of his life that have convinced him that there is something other than that which we know, and is very interesting and persuasive. All the previous are available from Pocket Books. Also available in hardcover only is "And the Earth Will Shake", a full-length novel by Wilson. Wilson's unique style cannot be adequately put into words. His writing often tries to shock the reader, sometimes becomes philosophical, and sometimes becomes disjointed, but his tales of the Illuminati are so absolutely bizarre, and yet, somehow, plausible, that his books often leave the modern reader horrified. Lovecraft and Chambers wrote of books that would drive one insane to read. Wilson has created the horror that these authors have written about. I once lent a copy of "Masks of the Illuminati" to a friend. She reported to me that when she finished it one evening, she pulled the sheets over her head and hoped she'd wake up sane in the morning. Wilson's writing is truly unique. Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Thrust The forest stretched out as far as the eye could see, tall green pines and spruce trees. But here there were no trees, only charred stumps. A long wound had been made by the ship as it crashed. Now it lay, buried in dirt, inert. Yet it was not a wreck. A repair ship stood beside it. The repair robots had done a good job. The ship now had wings to replace those destroyed in the brief but violent landing. Those new wings flexed as repulsor fields lifted the ship into the air. "Take care. Remember, wait until you get to op temperature before going to full thrust. I'll take care of those bogeys." "Roger, Gabriel. Have fun." The ship's main engine came to life gently pushing the ship up into the afternoon sky. One hundred miles away two interceptors rammed through the atmosphere. The pilots watched in anger as the first ship slid across their radar scopes. Then the repair ship rose up to replace it, and the pilots gleefully armed their nuclear missiles when they saw that it was hovering. Greg, alias Gabriel, watched his own detector scope in quiet joy. On one side of the scope the blip representing the survey ship built up velocity. On the other side the interceptors closed rapidly. The survey ship was not going to be able to outrun the attacking craft before they could launch their missiles. Greg didn't worry for the survey ship, though. He touched a few controls, and the repair ship started to slide through the air at a right angle to the path of the other ships. The pilots of the interceptors considered. If they continued their pursuit of the far craft, they might still catch it. On the other hand, the closer craft was almost in range. They decided to take the closer, more sure victory. At a distance of twelve miles, the interceptors fired their missiles. They banked hard, and put as much distance as they could between themselves and the target as they could. In the repair ship, Greg smiled as the scope reported that the survey ship had reached operational temperature and had gone to full thrust. With it safely out of the way, Greg could now leave. He reached out and touched a button, just as the missiles fired their warheads. Twenty miles away, the interceptor pilots' stomaches clenched in thrilled excitement as they watched the blast through their flash goggles. Had they been one hundred miles further away, they might have seen something even more spectacular. In the instant before the nuclear explosion, a seemingly pencil- thin line of violet flame drew itself five hundred miles straight up. It then curved, as Greg punched in the command to go home. Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Game Review: TWILIGHT:2000 "Division commander to all units: Good Luck, You're on your own." So ends the player's introduction to "Escape form Kalisz", the starter scenario included in GDW's new Role-playing Game, Twilight:2000. Twilight:2000 is set in Europe in the year 2000, after a five year long world war. World-wide casualties are over 50%, and rising. The governments of most major countries (the US included) have been eliminated or fragmented. Wide-spread convertional warfare and liberal use of both tactical and strategic nuclear weapons has destroyed most communication and trade routes. The Black Death (Bubonic Plague) has run rampant, and lingers in some areas. Most major cities are radioactive ruins. The players are (or were) soldiers in the US Army, part of the last NATO drive into Poland. The primary objective of a Twilight:2000 player is to stay alive. If that gets boring, he can also try to strike a blow for freedom, democracy, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff (the de facto government of the United States). Twilight:2000 consists of 2 rulebooks, one for the players, which describes how to generate a character and conduct simple combat. The Play Manual (as GDW calls it) has plenty of illustrations and examples. The Referee's Manual covers many of the same topics as the Play Manual, but in greater depth. It also includes sections on experience, disease, and the campaign background. With the manuals are a set of tables, again divided into separate player's and referee's charts. In the way of campaign support, GDW has included a detailed price list and equipment descriptions separately from the rulebooks. There is an introductory adventure, "Escape form Kalisz", to start the campaign, and a map of Poland. Twilight:2000's strong points include: Randomly rolled attributes, but the player can select a character's skills. Character generation, while not extremely fast, is straightforward. The combat system is detailed, and covers all of the weapons in the game well. On the other hand, Twilight:2000 is plagued by typos. Most of them are easy to figure out (like switching from B for Back in the chartbook to R for Rear in the manual) but can be confusing when they are first encountered. Compounding this is the extensive use of abbreviations (all skill names are abbreviated to 3 letters), again easy to figure out, but confusing untill you are used to the system. The only serious problem with the design is the heavy use of charts. The referee really needs a copy of the Player's Manual, the Referee's Manual, and the Referee's Charts open in front of him at all times. The combat system is completely table-driven, which means that in combat the referee has to organize his time, or forever flip through the chartbook. All in all, Twilight:2000 may be the best new RPG released in the last year, my complaints above notwithstanding. (I have many more gripes about every other RPG I can think of) Twilight:2000 is complete all by itself, and well worth the $17 price tag. Guy 'WildStar' Garnett <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> 4/1/85 Island An island unto myself. Where I can sit and watch. I can look around and see all the beautiful things. The simple and the complex, the large and The small, the conspicuous and the not-so-conspicuous. I am in awe of it all, of them. And they, of me. For I am here to care for And protect them, to keep the balance. I am here to prevent what happened the last Time this project was attempted. Responsibility to One's position was not my predecessor's strong suit. It is so beautiful here. How could he have left His garden unattended for so long? It was so Unmanageable by the time he got back to it that it Had to be razed and left barren for a mere eternity. Well, it is beautiful now. And my task is to keep It this way, maintain the balance. Not necessarily An easy task, but an enjoyable one. Yes..., maintaining The beauty while balancing the evolution will not be Easy, but it will have its rewards. My garden will become Something infinitely more special than it is already. The sun is setting now for the sixth time. I shall rest tomorrow. Michael Murphy <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TWO NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny Man's Best Friends Alex Williams All's Well that Ends. Well... Cliff Thayer Review: THE COLOUR OF MAGIC Orny Alas, Babble On Jim Owens Selection Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, greetings, all! Another issue of FSFnet has come, and I'm sure you'll find this one rather refreshing. Due to circumstances beyond our control, there is neither a featured author or a Narret Chronicles in this issue, although both will continue in issue 2-3, with Narret 5 and a column on Christopher Stasheff, author of 'The Warlock in Spite of Himself', 'The Warlock Unlocked', 'King Kobald Revived', and 'Escape Velocity'. But this issue contains some excellent works of fiction, including a wonderful poem by Jim Owens (a poem I sympathize with), and my own newest imaginings in 'Selection'. If anyone who receives this is still having problems with the sending format, please let me know. I'd also like to welcome those few people who have been added to the mailing list since May, and hope that they will continue to spread the word to interested parties. Well, enough of the propaganda... on with the show! Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Man's Best Friends "You know John, the Telrani are man's best friends. And there is nothing you can say that will change my view of them." John Stevenson picked up his beer and resumed drinking it. He stared blankly at the ring of moisture it left on the bar. "I know that they have given us some good things...", he started. "Some good things?!? What about the De-armatron? That's more than good, John. That's the end of war. Flick the mother on and Zap! No weapons, even nukes, work! And what about Super-Wheat? The solution for world hunger. Grows anywhere. And the cures for all the diseases man has ever known. I just don't understand you, John." "I know what they've done, Dan. I just have a bad feeling about them. It's just too good. One day a hundred flying saucers come out of the sky, some aliens get out that look like Bigfoot, they say they are from Rigel and are here to help us, and Wham! all the world's problems are solved. I just have a funny feeling about it." Dan took a pull at his drink, set it down and continued. "And now they are offering trips to their home planet. What a deal!" So what if when we get back everyone who knows will be dead or at least a hundred years old, we're not married, so what do we care?" "Yea, but..." "No buts about it. I'm going. In fact I'm going in just a month. And get this, so are you!" John, who was drinking, suddenly sputtered and splashed beer all over the bar. "What?!?",he yelled,"How come you didn't ask me? How can we pay for it? I don't want to leave Earth forever!" "It isn't forever, only for 8 months, our time. It's free, and I didn't ask you because I know you'd say no. Anyway we're going, so it's settled." "No it isn't, but I have to go home, so we'll talk about it tomorrow." "See ya, John." "Later." "Hi Dan! Whatcha lookin so pale for? Are you sick? Hey bartender, get this man a drink!" "Dan, last night I decided that I might as well go to Rigel with you. Hey, I mean my 'funny feeling' is unfounded, and there's no reason why we shouldn't. Right, Dan?" Dan sat down, and stared straight ahead. "John, you know how I taught myself the Telranian language and alphabet, even though it's forbidden. Well I finally got a chance to use it. I found a Telrani handbook yesterday for sale at a bookstore, and I bought it." "But possesion of any Telrani text is illegal!" "I know that, but I bought it anyway, just to see if I could read it. And I could." "Well, what was the book about?" "The title was 'How to Serve Man', which they have been doing, right? The De-armatron, Super-wheat, free interstellar trips, stuff like that." "Yea, so what's wrong?" "Well, I read the first chapter, and I thought I must have read it wrong, so I read it again, and I found out I didn't." "And?" "It isn't a handbook on how to help us, Dear God John, it was a cook- book!!" Alex Williams <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> All's Well That Ends. Well,... The hall was dark, but the thief carried a torch, and could see rather well. He needed to see, but he also knew where to look, and so his job was made a little easier. He moved his hand across the wall. It slid quietly, and then fell into a recess. He edged his hand up and down what appeared to be a slot cut from the floor to the ceiling. Near the bottom he found it; a break in the slot, where the wall seemed uncut. He held the torch low. On the wall beside the break there was what seemed to be a rectangular metal inlay. The thief knew better. He set the torch into a wall bracket, and licked the palm of his hand well. He then placed his hand, palm first, against the metal. He then pulled his hand away suddenly. The inlay moved out just enough for him to get a grip on it. He slid it out, revealing it to be a square steel peg. He took it and ran it inside the top of the lower half of the slot. It caught, and he deftly slid it up and out of sight. It just as easily slid out of the hole when he pulled his hand away, however. He set it down, and took off his pack. Taking the tent out of it, he once more inserted the peg. He then tossed the tent onto the floor a short distance ahead. The floor sank perceptibly. The break in the slot also moved, trying to slide into the wall. The peg caught it, and it stopped. The thief crossed the drop-away floor, leaving behind his tent to hold the peg in place, for his escape. He had already crossed three such floors, evaded two patrols, crossed two revines, traversed endless dark halls, and even outwitted a maze. If his source was correct, he was now home free. His target was a small ceremonial table. It was gold, with gems set in each corner. Legend had it that it had never been touched since it had been set in its place eons ago. No one had even approached it, only gazed on it from a distance. Now he wanted to take it. He walked down the hall. His source had been a priest once, and had studied this temple. He knew how the traps worked, and what the walls and floors would look like when a trap was built in. The thief now recognized such a pattern in the walls. A low ceiling, with square pillar lining the walls. That meant that the roof would drop on him if he put weight on the center of the floor without putting weight first on sides near the walls. He accordingly edged along the wall, and was soon past. That was the last trap. He turned the corner, and there was the altar room. Rich furnishings lined the wall, but he had eyes only for the gold table on the far wall. He walked fearlessly forward. Nothing impeded him as he went to claim his prize. He lifted it off its stand, although not without some effort, as it was very heavy. He turned, and staggered down the steps. He reached the floor, took two steps, and, without warning, the floor collapsed under the unaccustomed weight. The thief fell down to the next floor, which happened to be the dining hall for all the novices. He escaped with his life, but, alas, without his prize, as the one thing he had not planned on was running with such a great weight. Cliff Thayer <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Review: THE COLOUR OF MAGIC Terry Pratchett is a British author of several SF short stories and a novel entitled 'Strata', available in a Signet edition. 'The Colour of Magic', printed in England in 1983, has recently been released in an american paperback edition by Signet, and has been a main selection of the Science Fiction Book Club. The book recounts the adventures shared by "Twoflower, a naive insurance salesman turned tourist" and his reluctant native guide, an inept wizard named Rincewind. The first of four short stories in the book tell of Twoflower's arrival in the corrupt city of Ankh-Morpork. After meeting Rincewind, Twoflower's adventures in the city, reminiscent of Aspirin's Sanctuary, culminate in the destruction of the city. The second book describes their awakening of an ancient horror in an abandoned temple. The third is an account of how Twoflower finally gets his wish to see a dragon, and the final story sends the two reluctant adventurers over the edge of the Discworld into space. Pratchett's style is very readable, and spotted with just the right touch of humor. At times 'The Colour of Magic' reminds one of Anthony's Xanth or Adams' Hitchhiker series, yet it always retains a new and unique frame of fantasy. An excellent book for those who are intrigued by the unusual, and the interaction of modern ideas and medieval technology. This book is thoroughly enjoyable light fantasy reading, and quite amusing as well. Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Alas, Babble On. Here I sit, with page all plain, With nary an image in my brain. Not spaceship fast or slaughter gory, to be embellished into a story. So contrary to my charitable wish, I'll have no story in your next ish. And why is my mind all turned to rock? I'll tell you. I've got writer's block. Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Selection The air was stale, and he felt very little. His plastic environment suit made a crumpling noise as he turned to face her. "Lisa?" "Yes, Lloyd?" "What happened to us? I mean, we can't touch any more..." He left the sentence hanging, contemplating. Lisa knew what he wanted to say, and she shamefully looked at the floor a moment before answering. "I'm sorry, Lloyd. I know. But if we were to remove these suits, you know what would happen..." "Yes, the germs in the air would kill us, since our bodies have no natural defenses. So we have to live all our lives in these shells, in our own self- contained environment, but why? When did it all start?" Lisa was a mother, explaining a difficult and harsh reality to a child. "Well, it all started a long, long time ago, when mankind was first developing intelligence, and made houses to keep him safe and warm, so that he didn't have to face the elements. But it really got worse in the last hundred years, when we concentrated on welfare programs, health care, and started taking care of the physically or mentally deficient. We cheated natural selection. Because the weaker members of our society were protected, they survived, and because they survived, they bred. The weaker genes were not weeded out due to natural selection, and gradually the entire human species became weaker, until we became wholly dependant on our man-made artifices to cheat natural selection." Lloyd also looked thoughtfully downward. "And then there was the Great Plague? Is that why we have to wear these suits?" Lisa's eyes burned with tears. "Yes, love. The Great Plague came upon us not long ago. A sudden outbreak of disease became a worldwide horror, because our scientists couldn't find a cure for it fast enough. The disease spread quickly, and millions upon millions died, because they had no natural defenses left, and we couldn't even find the cause of the disease. Now we must remain isolated from the natural environment, or else we will die like they did." Lloyd mustered the courage to look into Lisa's deep brown eyes. "But it's unbearable! Is this what mankind has come to? What can we do about it?" Lisa broke the contact by averting her eyes. "Nothing, Lloyd, except live." Lloyd looked about him, through the clear plastic suit, at the antiseptic white walls, and the sterile linoleum floor. "If you can call this life." Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny Review: CATS HAVE NO LORD Rich Jervis Narret Chronicles: 5 Mari Paulsen Featured Author: CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF Orny Review: Chris Condon <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Hello, and welcome back! School is back in session, and here is the first issue of the year. Unfortunately, due to a lack of submissions, the summer volume only consisted of two issues, but I am hoping that with the return to school there will be a corresponding increase in submissions. Remember, this is your zine, and I can't do it alone. An entire zine by me would be boring, anyways, so for all of you who have thought about submitting anything, please do! Well, hopefully next issue will be out soon, depending on the number of submissions. I hope that this issue is not too slow, since it is composed almost entirely of reviews. Of course, Mari Paulsen's Narret Chronicles continues, and the featured author column this issue concentrates on Christopher Stasheff's Gramayre books. Well, I bid you welcome to volume three, and remind you that FSFnet cannot continue without reader submissions, and also that there are a number of new BITNET users who no doubt enjoy BITNET use but have yet to hear of FSFnet. Please try to spread the word to anyone you think might be interested. PS: Well, thanks to the link between YALEVM and MAINE, this issue is yet another week late. Sorry about that. Also, look for a continuing fantasy work called "The Aquisition" beginning next issue and the continuing Narret science fiction series. Watch this space! Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Review: CATS HAVE NO LORD "...Dogs serve Ralkan the wolf king, horses answer to an aging mare named Flowers, and ants obey Her Peerless and Exalted Majesty; Bzxxyl the 1842th, mistress of the Universe and Eater of Treats. Yet cats have no lord... Hawks serve Deathswoop the Daring, but all birds honor the Phoenix. Sharks only share with the Hungry One, while all fish swim at Tam tuna's request. Cobras turn at the command of the Hood of All-Potent Poison... Now, all snakes revere Nosey Groundsnake. And so on. Some wise folk claim that ther are creatures smaller that the eye can see. If so, they're ruled by a Supreme Atomie, for so the God ordered all things when She shaped the level of existence...." "What has this matter of Cat Lords, or the lack thereof, to do with us?" "My Order will pay each you each three thousand royals to climb World's Peak, discover where the Wisest one lives there and ask her for the answer to that riddle..." This is the reason of CATS HAVE NO LORD, if not it's rhyme. And it's by no means all there is to this smooth flowing novel by Will Shetterly. The main characters, the acrobat/thief, the half-elven swordsman, the merry cleric, and the most astute barbarian i've ever read, must find the Cat Lord while being manipulated, helped and hindered by forces arcane and mundane. Gamers and fans of Robert Aspirin's Thieves' World will find a familiar feel to the novel, with the added plus of being one complete novel by one author rather than a compendium of short stories. This is not to say that 'straight' fantasy fans will be left out of the action. Outside of beginning in an awkward way - the middle of a telepathic discussion between a woman and her rather adroit horse - the world is full fledged and easy to get into. Tensions between cities, lords and races (not to mention the various Lords themselves) give an overtone that there is more at stake than academic curiosity. It is almost a must that more will be heard from this magical world. CATS HAVE NO LORD by Will Shetterly, Ace Fantasy, New York, 5-85. Quoted in part as a review and not intended to violate any copyrights pending. -Richard Jervis <78KCK @ IRISHMVS> <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> THE NARRET CHRONICLES BOOK THE FIFTH "Well, it bears no Soviet markings at any rate, sir." "Or any marking's of any kind for that matter, Captain Phillips." "Well sir, what should we do now?" "You try to establish radio contact with the bogie while I contact NORAD." "They ought to be about ready to communicate by now," thought Samo. I had best stop down the counter-universal communications descanner and encrypter. "Seeker-1 to NORAD, come in NORAD, over." "NORAD to Seeker-1, we read colonel, over." "NORAD, we have established visual contact with the bogie, have found neither hostile nor friendly markings of any kind. Trying to establish radio contact at this time. Awaiting further instructions, over." "Seeker-1, proceed with communications interface and report any necessary changes in flight pattern, over." "NORAD, we copy, Seeker-1 out." "Any luck captain?" "None, sir. There's no response on the standard frequencies at all." "That's not surprising, let's face it - that's not exactly your standard craft were up against. Try the international hailing frequency." "All right sir... Seeker-2 to unmarked craft, Seeker-2 to unmarked craft, please respond." "Well," said Samo, "what do you know... they communicate. It took them so long to find the right frequency I was beginning to have doubts." "Unmarked craft to Seeker-2 - responding..." Samo said into the communications device." "Unmarked craft you have violated the airspace of the United States of America. Please identify yourself or we will be forced to shoot you down." "Friendly people." Samo said to himself. "I am Sgt. Dr. Samo Ht. I come on a mission of trans-universal importance. I am here to prevent a possible global war. Mine is a mission of peace, over." "Well, Dr. Ht, this is Colonel William Roberts, US Air Force. I don't know who you are, or where you come from but if yours is a mission of peace as you claim, then I must ask you to cooperate. At this time you are approaching the western boundary of our airspace. I must ask you to turn your ship around and continue in this formation due east until we receive clearances for landing. Will you cooperate?" "Yes of course, I'll cooperate. Tell your superiors what I have told you, I come in peace, and tell them also that I must speak to the leaders of the two belligerent nations before an international forum." "Seeker-1 to NORAD come in NORAD, over." "NORAD to Seeker-1 we read, over." "NORAD, we have established radio contact. The pilot of the craft is cooperating and states he is on a mission of peace. He also requests to address the President of the United States and the Premier of the Soviet Union before the assembled ambassadors of the United Nations. Over." "Seeker-1 the President is in his Oval Office, at this hour, and is being briefed on your situation. Proceed on a course for Dover Air Force Base, bearing 120 at 25,000 ft. We will notify the President of the pilot's requests and relay further orders as they we receive them, over." "NORAD, proceeding 120 degrees at 25,000 feet, Seeker-1 out..." "...Dover Control to Seeker-1, come in Seeker-1, over." "Dover Control this is Seeker-1, over." "Seeker-1, you are no longer under NORAD command. Permission for landing is granted. Proceed to dock alien craft in hanger-81, and place your Blackbirds in hanger 71 Alpha." -Mari A. Paulsen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Featured Author: CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF Born in New York state in 1944, Christopher Stasheff grew up immersed in the developing years of both television, radio, and science fiction literature. Stasheff maintains that de Camp and Pratt's "Inconpleat Enchanter" is the single largest influence on his style, followed by Lester del Rey's "Day of the Giants" and "The Sky is Falling". After writing two unpublished novels, Stasheff began writing a text for a contest sponsored by the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. Although the manuscript was never completed until 8 months after the contest deadline, Stasheff sent the book to Ace, who published it as "The Warlock In Spite of Himself". He has also published three other books: "King Kobald" (and "King Kobald Revived"), "The Warlock Unlocked", and "Escape Velocity". There is some question as to the chronological order in which these novels fit together. For simplicity, they will be discussed in order of publication, rather than chronological order. "The Warlock In Spite of Himself" is the story of Rod Gallowglass, an interstellar explorer, and his adventure in trying to establish democracy on a long-lost planet of medievals (founded by members of the Society for Creative Anachronism, no less). Rod discovers an interstellar conspiracy across time trying to oppose him, and he and his robot-brained horse, Fess (who is subject to seizures due to an engineering problem), have their hands full trying to stymie their foes, occasionally using superior technology, which earns Rod an unwanted reputation as a warlock. An exceptional book. "King Kobald" was published in 1970, although before the recent Ace reprint of the series, Stasheff rewrote the book, and retitled it "King Kobald Revived". This book takes place approximately two years after the previous book, and describes a further threat from the forces opposing Rod's effort to steer the planet, Gramayre, back to democracy. His role as Royal Warlock is influential in defending Gramayre from an invasion of Neanderthals with strange telepathic powers. An excellent book, with plenty of excitement and wonderfully developed characters. The new version is much improved over the original, due to the rewrite, but it does not contradict the other books in the series. "The Warlock Unlocked" is begun following two characters, Rod, of course, begins the novel some 6 years after "King Kobald", and Father Al Uwell, a priest of the Order of St. Cathode, an engineering saint. Uwell is being sent to Gramayre by the church to monitor Rod, since he has become so involved in the fight for democracy. meanwhile, Rod and his Gramayre family (wife and four children) are transported to another world, and must discover the way back to Gramayre before the forces against him overthrow all his works. He meets up with Father Al, who has been tracking him, and together the group has a number of very unique adventures. A very fast-paced book, indeed. "Escape Velocity" is the only book of the series that does not concentrate on the events on Gramayre, and is more science fiction than fantasy. In this book, which takes place long before the establishment of Gramayre, Dar Mandra and company must reach Terra before a coup planned by the LORDS overthrows the democratic Interstellar Dominion Electorate. Unfortunately, someone in the upper echelons has it out for Dar, and spreads the rumor that Dar and his group are horrible telepaths, out to pry into every citizen's secret thoughts and desires. In the following panic, Dar manages to reach Terra. This book is perhaps the most interesting of the series, as the characters are all fantastic and yet somehow believable. Though the action is interesting and riveting, the end of the book comes too fast, and seems less well-written than the beginning of the book. In this book, the founding of Gramayre (which later is lost during a "twilight" of democracy and then later found by Rod Gallowglass) is described. In all the books, Stasheff's style is very enjoyable and readable. his characters are all excellently depicted, and there is no lack of plot movement. His Gramayre books are an excellent fantasy work, and "Escape Velocity" is a very good piece of science fiction. His style is easily adaptable to either genre, since it does not concentrate so much on the environment, but on the human characters and their relations with other humans. Altogether an excellent study in characterization, and also an excellent read! -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Review: THE SAGA OF PLIOCENE EXILE by Julian May A four book series: The Many-Colored Land The Golden Torc The Nonborn King The Adversary All kidding aside, this set of books is some of the best SF I have ever read. It is chock full of truly interesting characters, plot twists, insight, high tech and (yes!) even some action. There are several plots running at once. MAIN CHARACTERS actually DIE! The GOOD GUYS (if you can tell who they are) DON'T always win! It is a delight to read and so sprawling in it's plot that it is difficult to describe. Without giving too much away, this is how the story works: Sometime in the not-too-distant future humanity is part of a Galactic Milieu of minds. There are many metapsychics that are part of this "cosmic unity". The psychic powers (such as coercion, psychokinesis, etc.) are supposed to be genetic traits. Those people with latent abilities have no way to make themselves operant metapsychics. Enter the time-gate: A scientist puts together a one way time-gate which runs six-million years into the past. Notice: ONE WAY. Anything that enters the time gate from the pliocene takes on the burden of six million years of aging. Until his death he keeps the gate running as a curiosity. Upon his death his wife supports herself by sending PEOPLE on a one way trip into the past. Many of those disgruntled latent metapychics take that ticket to get way from it all. This time gate tripping goes on for many years. We then meet a group of time travelers and follow them on their journey into the past. Instead of a "Riverworld" type of society they find a Europe inhabited by an alien race! These Tanu use torcs to make themselves and latent humans operant metapychics as well as enslave those that are not latents. Can humanity be freed from the slavery of the torcs? Do they want to be? Is the time gate really one-way? That little synopsis covers the first fifty pages of the first book without giving away the juicy details. Those of you that have already read the book know that I haven't even gotten to the really good stuff. This is too good to spoil. It's in paperback so it won't bust your wallet to read it. Trust me. Read it during the summer when you have time to get really involved in it. -Chris Condon <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny The Acquisition, Part One Roman Olynyk 2100 and Counting Orny Narret Chronicles 4 Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, here we are! Sorry about the delay in getting issue 3-2 out, but I had to be sure the Narret Chronicles continued, and I'm sure you'll be pleased with this copy. We start off with the first part of a four part fantasy story by Roman Olynyk which I'm sure will captivate you. The next article is a short story idea I came up with which is interesting, although the copy in this issue is only a rough draft. The idea is: What if an alien came to a post-holocaust Earth and tried to figure out what went on, and came to the conclusion that automobiles were the dominant life form? Finally, we close with chapter four of the Narret Chronicles, which is drawing towards an enthralling climax! I'm sure you will enjoy this issue and the ones that will follow. In news, the seventh Thieve's World book has been released by Ace, and is titled "the Dead of Winter". This seems to be an improvement over the previous books, and will be reviewed in issue 3-3 of FSFnet. If you are looking for it, note that the old cover art by Walter Velez has been replaced by Gary Roddell. There is also a new Tekumel novel out by M.A.R. Barker and DAW, called "Flamesong". An earlier FSFnet had Mr. Barker as a featured author and reviewed the first Tekumel book, "the Man of Gold". Finally, Houghton Mifflin and Christopher Tolkien have combined once again to bring us a new work, called "the Lays of Beleriand". The book (available only in hardcover) contains several partial poems, but concentrates on the two major stories of the Silmarillion, the former being the Tale of Turin Turambar, and the latter being, of course, Beren and Luthien. The two are written as "the Lay of the Children of Hurin" and "the Lay of Leithian". There has also been renewed interest in a BITNET Diplomacy game. The game, marketed by the now defunct Avalon Hill Game Company, is a classic board wargame. Anyone interested in getting a game together (using standard postal Diplomacy rules) please get in contact with me. Well, enough is enough! Read on and enjoy! -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> THE ACQUISITION Part One: The Tavern Far to the east, in a land more cold than warm, was nestled the small village of Gorod. The village was situated on the plains, and it was surrounded by distant mountains topped with dense forests of hardwood trees. The people of Gorod were peasant folk. Stocky and fair-haired, they farmed the rich fields and plied their simple trades. Seldom, if ever, did anyone chance to venture from the village. More seldom, still, did they ever return. In the middle of Gorod stood a tavern of rough-hewn wood. The tavern was called the Antlers, for that was what hung over the doorway. The antlers were sun-bleached, bony white and porous, marking their age in seasons. Fare at the Antlers was meager. The only beverage served was mead. The mead was stout, however, and it was the best in the village. In the evening, as the sun went down, villagers would cease their labors and stop by for a brew and a meal before subsequently dropping off to a restful sleep. This pastime usually was limited to the younger folk who still had energy left after a day's work. Today, however, was different. The tavern bustled with farmers anxious to hear the latest reports. A monstrous sow, which only a few remaining elders remembered, had returned. The return of Kathryn was news indeed! Kathryn was far from being an ordinary sow. Some believed her to be a demon wrought by the curse of Baba Yaga. Others thought she was the reincarnation of Baba Yaga, the evil sorceress who had died more than a century ago. Still recalled in tales around the hearth, the tale of Baba Yaga was now considered as more of a children's story. This day, even men of stout heart shivered at the mention of Kathryn. From whence Kathryn returned, no one knew. When her foul temper suited her, she would leave the dark forest and raze the fields, burn the summer crops with her breath and ravage all in her path. The countryside was blighted. "Yeauh, I saw her!" said the Miller. "She was big as a bull, she was. Her mouth was full of big awful teeth." The Miller grimaced to illustrate the remark with his own jagged dental work. "Who's going to drive her away?" asked the farmer who first saw her. "I saw her too," added another farmer. "She spit out a fiery froth and set my rye ablaze. My crop is lost. What am I going to do?" "Someone should go after her and kill her," suggested another farmer. Nobody looked the farmer in the eye. Nobody even wanted to hint that he might wish to undertake such a task, for it seemed true; Baba Yaga had returned in some other form. "Who's going to drive her away?" Asked the same worried farmer as he wrung his hands. "Anyone who is fool enough to follow her back into the forest will never return," commented another. The door to the tavern opened and a wobbly-legged figure wended its way around the oaken benches to find a seat near the kegs. "Yeauh, that's a fact," sneered the Miller as he eyed Banewood staggering through the door. "Maybe our Shaman can fix her one of his spells. Kathryn'd get so dizzy that she might burn herself into a hole!" Everyone laughed at the Miller's remark and at their stumbling Shaman, who had been attempting to induce a vision by smoking some hebona. Banewood still reeled and talked to the air as he tried to pour himself a draught. Everyone laughed again, forgetting Kathryn for the moment. The apprentice Shaman sat with his mead and weathered the jeers brought on by the Miller. Banewood wondered why he came to the Antlers rather than stay at home to sleep off the effects of the powerful smoke that he had used for divination. He found a quiet seat far from the burly Miller and sipped from his flagon of mead. His head cleared slowly. Banewood recalled his latest trance, a flying vision through the forest to what appeared to be a dilapidated hovel. From the darkened door peered two crimson eyes - eyes that haunted Banewood for the remainder of his trance. Kathryn could hardly be forgotten. She was black and as large as the largest bull, just as the Miller had described. From her mouth, which bristled with large and irregular teeth, she could spew a cloud of caustic vapor that ignited objects it came in contact with. The fact that Kathryn's eyes were red brought on the notion that she was really Baba Yaga. When she had lived, Baba Yaga was known for her blazing red eyes which defied description. They shone of their own light - a bright, bloody red glow. Tales of her sorcery were numerous. She was known to fly and to take on animal forms. In any form she took, she worked solely for evil. Never actually seeking mastery over men, she controlled them only long enough to bring them to ruin. As an outcast throughout her life, Baba Yaga came to hate humans or any reminder that life was good. To the inhabitants of Gorod, Baba Yaga seemed to live far beyond her years. As time progressed, she made fewer appearances, but her evil work continued through lesser genii who were under her mastery. Eventually there came rumors of her death. Her demise was never confirmed, for no one had ever approached her dwelling within the dark forest. Whenever a marauding beast met its end, it was with the anticipation that it might have been Baba Yaga in one of her forms. Deathly visages, the skins of wolves and bears and a large stuffed owl adorned the tavern wall, silent reminders that the black forest was never far away. When the wide doors opened again, they offered Sod the plowman to the gossiping crowd. Sod was dressed in the brown, earth-crusted clothes of a farmer. He was richly tanned and had the muscular heaviness as befited his trade. Within his brow, his eyes were deep and clear. They sparkled with a life seen in few other faces of the village. This time, worry lines corded across the plowman's brow. Sod went to Banewood and sat before the smiling Shaman. In his hands, Sod carried a burlap bundle, which he placed carefully on the table before Banewood. A crowd gathered as Banewood unwrapped it. Silently and soberly, Banewood lifted the cloth and revealed a sword. Before the wide eyes of the gathered crowd lay a sword of unsurpassed beauty. It was about two cubits long, but it had the grace and balance of a finely wrought instrument. The sword had the gloss and weight of a material more like porcelain than metal; it rang clearly when struck. Unadorned, the hilt was of a hard, white material which shone immaculately. The edge was keen. Sod looked as amazed and perplexed as Banewood. The strong but unassuming plowman gazed steadily at the sword. The two, sword and person, appeared almost as if they were measuring one another. "The sword looked just like this when my plow turned it up." Said the plowman, breaking the silence which had accumulated. At once, theories were offered as to the possible origin of the sword. "It looks like it was made by magic," Said a farmer. "It was probably made by Pollocks," snarled the Miller, who washed his remark with a gulp of mead. The Miller, who seemed spiteful of everything, resented his life and occupation, and he thought that everyone should share his bitterness. To the Miller, such crude remarks were an anodyne for the harsh realities of life. "The sword is crafted as if it is beyond age," Banewood countered. He shot a reproachful look at the Miller. "Yet it looks as if it might have just been forged." It could have been made by the Ludki, he thought silently to himself. The Ludki were a legendary race of little people fabled for their craftsmanship with metals. They were reputed to be peace-loving, Banewood said "For those who believe that the present holds the greatest marvels, I say: Look again and consider this ancient treasure! There is some timeless magic within it." The Shaman felt more power emanating from the strange weapon than he stated openly. His knowledge of lore extended far beyond the simple life of Gorod, yet he was at a loss to determine the history of the sword. It could have been crafted by the Ludki but... his knowledge was incomplete. Banewood was a loner. He was twice orphaned: once by his parents who perished in a blaze, and once by the Shaman who'd adopted him, only to die himself several years later. The Shaman had only just begun the long task of training his apprentice. When the Shaman died, Banewood was left with only his master's books and the roughest of outlines to follow in his quest for the greater knowledge. Because Banewood continued on the road to knowledge with no guide, a task never attempted before, he would often err. The apprentice would sometimes find himself wandering alone in a stuporous haze brought on by smoking some of the strange concoctions left by the Shaman. Once, the Shaman lived, Banewood had a guide to help him through these tortuous visions which helped to give a Shaman his knowledge and opened the secret doors of power to him. Now alone, Banewood faltered like a man blind. His acquisition of power was slow and unsure. Banewood noticed how well the sword fit the hand of the plowman. When Sod hefted it, the sword moved easily, as if it were pliant with the wishes of its wielder. When the crowd at the Antlers had all viewed the sword, the conversation turned to the possible use of the sword against Kathryn. They talked of what damage such a sword could do to its victim. Each offered his opinion of a sufficiently brave fellow, one other than himself. A challenge to one's manhood was quickly answered by bluster and puffery but not by a volunteer. "Yeauh, maybe our Shaman could fix up one of his..." "Shut up!" Came the unexpected response from the usually demure Banewood. The Miller sat transfixed, his hand at his throat, unable to utter a sound. There was silence. "What did you do to him!" Yelled one of the Miller's companions as he started to lunge for Banewood. At that instant, the room resounded with a loud bang and the splintering of wood. One of the large oaken tables lay on the ground, cloven in two. The lunging man stopped in his tracks and stared in disbelief. Sod, still holding the sword, blushed. His only response to the crowd of farmers was a firm, "I'll do it." Comraderie again filled the air. Fresh kegs were tapped and toasts were offered to Sod. Men normally distant to Sod hugged him to show their admiration for him, to bask in reflected glory and to wish the best of luck to the doomed fellow. "Yes, with such a weapon, one could take on Baba Yaga herself!" said a distant relative to Sod who wondered of his own claim to the doomed man's land and oxen. Sod left the celebration early. He needed to sleep and to ponder the consequences of his decision. "What had happened?" he asked himself. He had been fondling the hilt of the sword when the near fight had broken out. He had been weighing a decision to seek the monstrous sow and had made his resolution as the Miller made his last remark. Sod had only thought of stopping the incipient brawl by slapping his weapon down on the table. It was a common method of gaining attention. Now he found himself alone on a vain quest. Sod the plowman lived alone in his hut of modest means. The modesty was of twofold nature: Sod spent his long days in the fields and his nights resting from the day's labors, and Sod's livelihood as a plowman brought him only a meager subsistence. Sod enjoyed his occupation, for he knew he must make the best of his situation; chances were that it would be for life. The physical exertion of guiding a plow did not demand a similar mental exertion. Therefore, Sod spent his working time dreaming of other lives and other worlds - noble dreams in the mind of a simple man. In Sod's fantasy, he would roam the kingdom as a knight errant, working deeds for glory and profit, for surely people paid well for such special services. These were mere dreams, however, and Sod realized that he possessed neither the ability nor the courage to live the life of a hero. And now what was he to do? He was commited to a suicidal quest on the basis of momentary courage. What could he say? He found a strange and unique weapon and that weapon offered itself as a chance, a fleeting opportunity that must be seized and used at the instant it was offered. Sod was unaccustomed to making such hasty decisions, but equally, he was unaccustomed to receiving opportunities. Sod the plowman dropped off to sleep, still clutching his new sword. In the early morning Sod awoke to the usual sound of birds chirping outside his dwelling. He had already packed the meager belongings he wished to take on his journey. Crafting a makeshift strap, Sod girded the newfound sword to his side and stepped outside to begin his journey. He almost stumbled across a reclining figure. "Banewood! What are you doing here?" "Waiting for you. I'm going with you," Banewood said as he limberly rose without the aid of his hands. A satchel lay at his side and a quiver full of arrows hung across his back. The old Shaman's longbow was gripped by Banewood's left hand. "Don't you realize that this is going to be a dangerous trip? Few venture into the forest to return again." "Yes, I realize the consequences. I have a knowledge of the trees, and besides, two can travel safer than one." Banewood didn't mention that he'd already decided to attempt the quest himself. Sod slapped his new comrade on the back and silently thanked his luck that he would have a companion on such a fateful journey. Together, they marched down the dusty path that led away from Gorod and across the fields. On their walk they passed by stooped women already gathering herbs from their gardens. A few men were working in the fields. The men stopped momentarily to wave to the departing travelers. The night's comraderie was worn and forgotten. If they had talked about this journey and their reasons for going, Banewood and Sod would each have realized their similarity. Banewood's quest for knowledge was proceeding slowly, much too slowly. Still, Banewood felt that he knew as much as any man in Gorod about the ways of their world. Banewood knew that something had to be done about Kathryn. If Gorod didn't offer a means to the solution, then maybe the answer lay elsewhere. Sod, on the other hand, was not on a quest for any knowledge - he was instead trapped in the occupation of the plowman. His work had dignity, though, and Sod felt good about it. The sword changed Sod's outlook, though. He felt that fate was offering him some sort of opportunity - that given the means to accomplish something, he must seize the opportunity and act upon it. Somehow, it seemed that the sword was capable of slaying Kathryn, and all it took was the resolve to accomplish it. -Roman Olynyk <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> 2100 AND COUNTING The Ivory is in orbit around a planet named Foren-4. Once this planet was home to an indigenous sentient species, but they are now extinct. Had the invention of FTL drive come a mere few decades earlier, I would be supervising the first contact between sentient life forms. Maybe we could have helped them avoid their extinction somehow. But now I am in charge of a group of archaeologists and anthropologists, sifting through the dust that has gathered about the bones of this once-great civilization. Physically, the natives of this planet seem to have been mechanical in nature. They were quadrupedal, and made primarily of rare metals, which would indicate a synthetic nature. It is too early to venture a hypothesis as to the origin of this species, but I would guess that they were created by an elder race as robotic servants who, for some reason, outlived their creators. From my several expeditions to the surface, I have come to several preliminary conclusions which shall be discussed in the following report. At a site the team visited in a place called "Detroyt-Michigan" we found evidence supporting the hypothesis that the robots are constructed by other nonsentient species of robots. There is no evidence of an organized religion, and there are several reports of large communal graves, called, in the vernacular, "junkyards". There is very little evidence of a political system or hierarchy, though evidence points to a system of self-government and equality. Whether this leans towards anarchy or democracy is unknown at this point, although further research is at this moment being conducted. There is, however, a vast number of observable social phenomena. The entire globe is crisscrossed with broad avenues for travelling with laws to govern them. I found an example of the organization of these ways at a junction of two streets, where there were lights which flashed "DON'T WALK" when it was unlawful or dangerous to continue, and "WALK" when it was safe. This observation led me to the conclusion that there was a global organization of the race. The roads often pass by majestic views and natural phenomena, indicating that there was a distinct respect for the natural environment from which the race developed. At one site I came across a large area where individuals could gather for social interaction and entertainment. These areas, called "Drive-Ins" have been found in several locations on Foren-4. At other sites have been discovered large tracks where the robots could run around and keep themselves healthy. The names "Daytona" and "Indy" have been preserved as names of favorite tracks. This indicates that the robots were concerned with their well-being and perhaps enjoyed sports. It seems that the race had also developed a sense of beauty, for at several sites have been found structures where what were considered the most physically attractive members of the species were displayed behind large glass windows. These "showrooms" were often placed close to the walkways, so that individuals could walk by and admire the beauty of the species. Very little has been determined about the language of the natives, though two important facts have been interpreted. Firstly, the language was written, as the walkways that cross the globe often were decorated with large signs bearing messages that we have yet to interpret. Also interesting is that the robots communicated in very high frequencies, in the range of radio waves. Unfortunately, very little has been determined concerning the family structure of the natives, though there is a little to go on. At most sites, the individuals lived in small buildings called "garages" in nuclear family groups of usually no more than three individuals. At this point, I feel that the civilization at Soren deserves much more study, as we have, in this mission, only been able to grasp the most obvious facts about the race which once inhabited this planet. I would hope that this expedition will be extended for an indefinite period to gather more accurate and in-depth information. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> NARRET CHRONICLES Book the Fourth Samo landed Narret-1 as they requested, in hanger-81, which was not surprisingly full of anxiously awaiting scientists, and waited for further instructions. The scientists, mainly aerospace engineers, with a few astronomers thrown in for good measure, gathered around the ship, some of them speculating how the ship was propelled, others eagerly awaiting an explanation from Samo. close!! Well, I guess I shouldn't expect much from them, being as belligerent as they are. Still, you'd think they would have at least begun to think in binary instead of that awkward decimal system of theirs. I'll have to suggest it to them before I leave." thought Samo. Time to make an entrance, Samo thought as he changed the polarity setting on his daser-dewelder. Using this as a laser cutting torch, he opened the door to the craft. A flood of dazzling brightness the likes of which no one had ever seen rushed into the hanger, momentarily blinding everyone in the room. "I'm sorry about that." Samo said as he stepped down from the spherical craft, "It's one of the affects of trans-universal travel, when a body full of darktron radiation undergoes a matter-anti-matter reaction, then that radiation gets converted to light, provided it isn't turned to pure energy and is vaporized during the light-warp of course." "It's effect should last only a few minutes, but you those of you looking at the door as I opened it may be seeing spots for a short while. It is generally considered about the same as looking directly at your sun for a moment with the unaided eye." "In the meantime, I'm sure you must have some questions. I shall entertain a few of them now if you like. However any questions pertaining to why I am here must and shall be floored before an international forum." "I'm sorry gentlemen, but Dr. Ht wont be able to answer your questions just yet," interrupted Colonel Roberts as he entered the hangar. "He has to go through the post-flight debriefing procedure that is undergone by all intercepted aircraft, being an alien makes no exception." What am I saying? Of course it makes an exception, he thought to himself. This is crazy!! "Dr. Ht will be available to answer all your questions after he answers the Air Force's questions, and he addresses the United Nations. Arrangements are being made at this hour for a special, secret meeting of the United Nations, in response to your request. Now Dr Ht. if you'll come with us we'll go to the debriefing room." "I'm sure you realize how very irregular this situation is, we're doing the best we can to have this meeting organized, but not all of the countries are as eager to respond as you may have thought." "Oh, don't worry about the others, I have the feeling they will be coming," said Samo. "We have several questions for you and, given the circumstances, I hope you can see why we feel we need to ask them. This shouldn't take very long, please bear with us," said Colonel Roberts. "First of all," began Captain Phillips, "Will you state for the record once again where it is you come from and why you're here?" "I come from the Planet Sunaru in the Narret System, by a technology much more advanced than your own. The Narret System is a stellar counter-part to your own solar system, within the counter-universe. My home planet is the Planet Amrif Arret. It corresponds directly to this planet, Earth. I am here because we believe you humans have pushed the threat of global nuclear war to the brink of a disaster of cosmological proportions. What your people have failed to realize is that there is an entirely contrary universe out there, ours, which is the exact complement to your own universe. And, quite simply, those things which you choose to destroy here will also cause their complement in the counter-universe to be destroyed. My people will not sit back and watch our complement world destroy us, our peace, our prosperity, all that which we value highly. Thus it was decided that I should be sent to give a warning to the human race, and do whatever I deemed necessary to preserve peace here." "Secondly, what is it you want from the United States, officially?" "On my journey here, which takes light some 16 of your years within this universe alone (for us it is faster) I studied the history of your world and found no concepts of virtue and moral wealth greater than those noble statements recorded in your Declaration of Independance, and your Constitution. I therefore sought to begin seeking peace amongst those who value it most greatly. It was simply logical, I assure you. I thought, and still think your people will be most receptive to me, and to my necessary appeal for peace." "Very well, you've made your intent very clear Dr. Ht. We are prepared to let you have the forum you requested, this very afternoon. Until then though our scientists would like to give you a complete physical to determine if you're undergoing any serious side-effects from--" "At the risk of sounding a bit facetious, I hardly think any of your physicians could be called competent in examining me. Primarily since they don't know what my 'norm' is. Honestly, how can they expect to determine whether or not I'm undergoing any side-effects? Obviously then, what they really want is to stick me full of needles and try to make some heads or tails out of my AND molecular structure. So, why didn't you just ask that in the first place? I can provide them with all the necessary data from my ship's bio-log computer, and a small blood sample to verify the truth of my data. Isn't that what they really want?" "Yes, I would imagine that would suffice. Any knowledge you can give us about your people would be of great use and be much appreciated." "Good, then no needles will be necessary. If there's one thing I can't stand its a bunch of curious physicians sticking needles in every appendage of my body. I hate needles..." -Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny The Acquisition, Part Two Roman Olynyk Review: THE DEAD OF WINTER - TW7 Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, folks, again I find myself apologizing for the lateness of this issue. Unfortuantely I have been busy with my new job. For those of you who are not already aware, I now have a new id, LISCOMB at MAINE, as well as NMCS025. Should NMCS025 be unavailable, I may be reached at LISCOMB, but for the time being FSFnet will continue to be sent from NMCS025. Other news is that the most recent issue of FSFnet can be found on CSNEWS at MAINE's ComDisk and can be requested using TELL CSNEWS AT MAINE SENDME FSFNET VOLxNxx FROM COMDISK. Also in the works is a new project for all people interested in writing amateur fantasy fiction. A group of FSFnet contributors and myself have begun a writers' workshop very similar in structure to the Thieves' World project undertaken by Robert Aspirin. Several authors have begun developing characters and stories, all based in an area known as Dargon. FSFnet VOL4N01 should contain the first written results of this project, and will be in your reader in mid-January. If any of you budding authors are interested in joining the effort, send me a mail file and I'll be glad to fill you in. Unfortunately, there is no Narret Chronicle in this issue due to the fact that I cannot get in touch with the author. Hopefully we will get Narret back before volume 4 starts. Finally, I'd like to remind you all that it's the holiday season, and everyone's got a new book out. New McCaffrey, Anthony, Tolkien, Adams, Daley, Asimov, Stasheff, and anyone else you can think of. No time to review them all right now. Next issue the Acquisition will continue, and I'll review M.A.R. Barker's new Tekumel book, Flamesong, and, if I get it read, Norman Spinrad's Star Spangled Future. Until then! -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> THE ACQUISITION Part Two: The Forest Beyond the short expanse of cultivated fields, the two travelers soon crossed the boundary of scrub that marked the edge of the forest. At first, the woods were characterized by light beeches, birches and poplars. The leaves of the poplars were waxy and rustled crisply in the soft breeze. Banewood recalled his early childhood when he would venture into the light woods in search of edible mushrooms, a favored delicacy of the local people. With his sharp and experienced vision he could still pick out his favorites protruding through the fallen leaves. It was here, while gathering mushrooms that Banewood heard many of the childhood tales and legends passed to him by his parents: tales of the Ludki, those mischievous little people who lived deep within the forest and tales of Lessy, the Silvan Lord, who made strange animal sounds and led lost children astray. Banewood remembered how his father would then make animal sounds and frighten him for the rest of the day. Stories of Baba Yaga, embellished over the years, would cause tears of fright to well up into young Banewood's eyes. Now, years older, Banewood still felt the burning in his face as he realized that Baba Yaga might be real and that he might meet face to face with the blistering eyes of Kathryn. As the two journeyed onward, the character of the forest changed. Dark oaks and towering elms now lined their path. The leaves of years lay upon the ground, crackling with every step. Animal sounds diminished. Banewood and Sod picked their way uphill, climbing an overgrown path which led to an uncertain fate. Throughout the day, Banewood and Sod walked the leagues of dark forest, constantly catching cobwebs in the face and beleaguered by blood-thirsty deer flies scenting their first human. At the top of the rise, the two travelers paused to rest. Sod sat still in the hope of delivering a killing blow to the ravenous deer fly which had doggedly followed him during most of the climb. "I think we should make our first camp here," said Banewood. "We're on the nearest hilltop and we'll have ample warning of anything approaching." "Gotcha!" Sod finally killed the deer fly which had settle in his hair for a fateful supper. Sod picked the scrawny insect from his hair. "If we build a smoldering fire we might be able to spend a night without these cursed flies." Sod gathered some dead twigs that still hung on the tree. After arranging them carefully, he reached into his bag and brought out his flint and steel. Within minutes a small fire was being tended. Banewood walked the perimeter of their encampment and stopped occasionally to pick at some plants growing scattered on the ground. He returned and gave them to Sod. "Here, use these on the fire. They'll keep away the flies better than the smoke." "Thank you," said Sod. He threw them on the small fire and whiffed the fragrant aroma created by the consumed leaves. "How did you learn so much about herbs?" asked Sod, who already knew the answer. He was fighting his nervousness with small talk. "Most of what I know comes from the Shaman," said Banewood obligingly. "Now I have to learn from his books, but the details are really meager. Most of the Shaman's knowledge was in his vast memory. He said that certain books did exist. The Shaman said the books were dangerous because they could fall into the wrong hands." Banewood and Sod ate a meal of wafer bread and dried meat and then slept lightly upon cushions of leaves and boughs laid upon the ground. Shallow holes were dug out to provide recesses for their hips. Smoldering coals kept away the night flies, but they didn't ward off Banewood's evil dreams; the crimson eyes still haunted him. Dawn came with the cry of a horned owl. The dying coals were fed a breakfast of fresh tinder. Hard-boiled eggs and a little herb tea saw the worried travelers on their way. Revitalized by the rest, Banewood and Sod trekked down the slope, meandering ever deeper into the dark forest. Soon Banewood's sharp eye caught the first impression of the large cloven hoofs that were to show them the way. The tracks were too large to belong to anything else except Kathryn. Broken branches and an uprooted tree lent credence to the supposition. To Sod's relief, the tracks were fairly old. Sod fretted about his decision to hunt the sow. The mysterious sword whose hilt he often fondled didn't seem like a weapon that could stop a charging sow. Funny how he thought that if he set his mind to killing Kathryn, he would find a way. Could they do it by craft and artifice? Maybe by setting up a dead fall or some other booby trap? Funnier still was the feeling that it was the sword which seemed to whisper that, given the resolve, Sod would be able to meet the challenge. Banewood and Sod journeyed down the slope, up the next hill and down another slope. Leagues passed beneath their feet. They skipped lunch and walked under the power of their stored energy. They continued on slight paths which joined and separated through the forest. Occasionally, Sod would stop to mark a tree at eye level, entertaining the hope that they would somehow return by this route. Banewood now walked with his bow in hand, ever keeping a watchful eye on the path behind them. The Shaman's longbow proved its value later in the day when Banewood knocked down a squirrel with a special blunt-tipped arrow. They carried the black squirrel with them after quickly field dressing it. The little tree rat, as Banewood called it, had set up a frightful chattering before it met its final doom. Sod and Banewood both agreed that it would be a good idea to cover some more distance before feasting on the tree rat. There was no telling what attention was called by the noisy animal and, besides, they didn't want to prepare the tree rat until they were ready to make camp. The two journeymen walked with greater care after killing the squirrel. Banewood regretted his slaying of the little tree rat. He now had the uneasy feeling that the forest knew of their presence, that they were somehow being watched. Sod sensed Banewood's distress or maybe he, too, felt the paranoia. He tightened his grip on the sword. Banewood now walked with an arrow nocked. His fingers whitened from their tight grip. Every minute sound that the two seekers made was amplified by the forest. Once, when Banewood turned quickly around, he thought he noticed a pair of amber eyes watching them, but they disappeared quickly and he was no longer sure. Tension increased with every step. Both travelers began to perspire. Suddenly, the explosion of a dry twig snapping sent Banewood and Sod into a back-to-back position, their weapons drawn and poised. An electric tension pulsed within them, begging to surge, asking for release. But nothing happened. No other sound was heard throughout the forest. After excruciating minutes of silence, Banewood and Sod voted to resume their walk. Several more hours of travel brought them to a small stream in the forest. The water looked wholesome, affording the two an opportunity to refill their flasks and to bathe. This looked like the ideal place to pitch camp and prepare a welcome supper. Banewood's tree rat no longer looked as appetizing; however, it was the best food that they had. Throughout the meal and respite they remained watchful, for the penetrating silence of the forest remained. Evening had settled rapidly. Sod and Banewood ate near their fire, slowly finishing their meal and conversing. The fire cast a bright glow around the immediate circumference, but outside, the darkness was forbidding. Sod thought again about his quest. "If I hadn't found this sword, I probably would never have attempted such a foolish venture," Sod thought to himself. "This fine looking weapon is of too fine a quality for a man like me. I wonder if I shouldn't give it to someone worthy of possessing such a weapon." Aloud, Sod said "We've been in this forest for two days. It doesn't appear to hold the danger I had anticipated." "The danger lies in our laxness if we trust in our safety," replied Banewood, parrying Sod's wishful thought. "Tonight I am sleeping with my bow in hand." Speaking the unspoken, Sod said "Then you also feel like we've been watched?" "Ya," replied Banewood. "I thought I saw it once, a pair of eyes. I've learned to trust my intuition." Tensing and grabbing for his sword, Sod said "Your intuition was right! Look! Out there, see those eyes? I don't think they're friendly." Sod pointed in the direction of the creek. They both stood up and moved around the fire, placing it between themselves and the presence. The same amber eyes Banewood had thought he'd seen earlier were slowly reeling toward them. When their distance from the eyes was cut in half, Sod threw an armful of dry tinder upon the fire and threw extra light out into the night. "It's a wolf." Whispered Banewood. "It's too big." Answered Sod, who was beginning to quake in his boots. His sweaty fingers grasped the sword tighter. "How am I going to kill the wolf if it attacks?" he thought, questioning his ability to wield the sword. A deep, gutteral growl emanated from the large slavering beast. It crept forward with its belly low to the ground, ready to leap at the instant. Sod raised his sword slightly and then cried out. "Oh no!" In the same instant that the fell beast launched itself toward them, Sod's sword slipped out of his hand and dropped to the ground at a distance. The lunging hulk darkened his view. Sod heard a snapping chord like the sound of his heart breaking. The wind rushed past his left ear. In a massive thud, a large wolf, larger than any Sod had ever seen or heard of before, fell at his side. Its eyes were wide open and its lips were curled in a hideous grimace. A feathered shaft protruded from its throat. Banewood's hand rested on Sod's shoulder. "Are you okay?" he asked. "You killed him. I thought I was going to die and, just as suddenly, this wolf is dead instead. You've saved my life. How can I repay you?" "Don't worry; it all comes out in the wash. But what happened at the last second? Why did you drop your sword?" "I don't know... I guess my mind went blank. The sword seemed to slip from my hands," said Sod. "I've never seen such a fine shot. I think the wolf was dead before it hit the ground!" "I've tipped some of my arrows with the juice of the aconitum; it is a deadly poison." "With such a weapon as yours, you could single-handedly slay Kathryn!" "It won't work. I've already tried," answered Banewood. Sod was taken aback by this. "There's certainly more to this Shaman than meets the eye," he thought. Aloud, "When did you try that?" "On the last night that Kathryn attacked I hid myself and loosed my best arrow against her. It shattered as if it had hit a rock." Sod was incredulous. "How are we ever going to stop her if she is as you say?" "I don't know. We'll think of something." "Ya," Sod said without sincerity. The wolf was enormous, but Banewood and Sod, after endeavoring for the better part of an hour, managed to drag the beast away from the camp. The two found no difficulty in dropping off to sleep, for though the forest was still dangerous, it now possessed one less threat. Dawn came without a sound. Banewood and Sod got up and fed the fire and went to the creek for water. On the way, they looked for the wolf, but it was gone! They searched around the area in the hope that they were disoriented last night when they dragged the wolf out. It was gone. Now a very real fear possessed them; it may have been Baba Yaga. How else can a dead animal disappear? Sod's empty stomach felt like it held a rock. Suddenly, through the trees, they heard a musical voice. Banewood and Sod quickly reached for their weapons. Through the tall trees they could see an approaching figure. It was gaily dressed and wore a tall, pointed hat with a feather in its band. It sang: "Hey ho, hey ho, the wolk's a dead you know. for if it ain't a dead then I'm a not alive and I know I'd better go!" The two stood with their mouths open. Marching straight up to them was a short person, a very little person, with large round eyes and a pudgy little nose. "Hello, hello, my name is Stickleburr unless I'm not, of course." Sod and Banewood found themselves face to face with one of the Ludki. The childhood descriptions were indeed accurate. He looked so odd! "I want to thank you for killing the great wolk because he's no longer alive. He has been plaguing my people for years, but not for years to come. Anyway, they're not really my people, they are their own people, but I guess you wouldn't call us people, would you?" Banewood spoke: "I...I thought that the wolf, I mean wolk, wasn't dead, that maybe it was really Baba Yaga." Stickleburr jumped. "Oh, no! I mean yes, it was really a wolk. It's certainly dead now, isn't it? You two are heroes, unless of course you don't think so. So that's the wolksmert, isn't it?" Said Stickleburr pointing to Sod's strange sword. "Wolksmert?" Replied Sod. "Oh, yes. Certainly." He laughed at the irony, because "wolksmert" meant "wolfslayer" in the eastern tongue. "Yes, most certainly," laughed Stickleburr. "You two can come with me unless you can't. We want to thank you properly, and it's not proper to thank you here." Banewood and Sod agreed to follow the Ludki back to his home. They quickly broke camp and gathered their belongings. They whispered and laughed among themselves, marvelling at the strange speech pattern of Stickleburr: Ludki always followed the assertion of a positive statement with it's negative. It was a most curious pattern of speech, but it wasn't curious at all to the Ludki. Within a half-hour, the three came in sight of the Ludki village. It was set in a small dale cleared of trees. Little houses in the shape of bee hives lay haphazard about the village. Wisps of smoke curled out of their tops. The Ludki were fond of smithing, as was evident from the many miniature iron furnaces that sent their black smoke up over the rooftops. The Ludki village had evidently been in this location for some time because much of the area was cleared of the hardwood trees essential for the making of charcoal needed to smelt the iron. The little people walked about in gaily colored clothes. The Ludki men wore high pointed hats dressed up with bright feathers. They were a happy folk. The air was full of whistling and the songs of their merriment. When Stickleburr and the two travelers approached, the village folk poured out to meet the heros. Stickleburr began introducing his family and the more prominent of the Ludki to the strangers. The names came rapidly: Milfoil, Hyssop, Lavender, Mullien, Five Fingers, Violet, and, well, you get the idea; they were all names of plants that the Ludki were fond of. At the bark of orders from Stickleburr, the Ludki busied themselves with preparations for a great feast. The men set up tables and stools, built fires and brought out kegs of mead. The Ludki women quickly filled their ovens with various breads and foods until the heavenly aroma replaced the acrid smell of smelting iron. The Ludki loved feasting and merriment, and this occasion, as any other, was an excellent opportunity to lay aside their work. The fearful wolk which had terrorized the Ludki for so many years was dead, slain at the hands of the tall folk and wolksmert. Among the Ludki, wolksmert was the center of much attention. Their large eyes beamed with admiration and the little hands eagerly, but reverently, touched the fine metal. From the Ludki, Banewood could learn nothing about the sword, but by their evident joy at seeing it and the two travelers, the Ludki seemed strangely elated. Even while the preparations were still underway, the eager little Ludki began to celebrate with joyous abandon. Musicians began their tunes and the mead was passed around. And such mead! Banewood and Sod both drank and agreed that it was the best they had ever tasted. How the Ludki could consume so much of it without the obvious signs of inebriation, they couldn't guess. During the feast, Stickleburr talked with the two strangers and learned the reason for their sojourn into the deep forest. At the news, Stickleburr balked but then regained his composure. "Oh yes, we had most certainly believed that Baba Yaga had died, for we had not seen her alive. And Kathryn, oh yes, we had heard whisperings of her rampages, else we were deaf. Kathryn is Baba Yaga? We most certainly hope she isn't!" "Yes, most certainly," agreed Banewood. Sod, careful not to spill a drop of the mead he was drinking, looked at Stickleburr and asked, "Do you know of the way to the hut of Baba Yaga?" Stickleburr replied "No, no...well yes, sort of. I know the way but I don't know how to get there. It's a long way off, although not that far to someone as long-legged as you, though for yourselves, I'm sure you're not all that long-legged." Stickleburr was beginning to show some signs of inebriation. Banewood and Sod sat back to enjoy the feast. They watched the antics of the Ludki as they danced their high-kicking dances and swung their arms in the air. With a shout, the dancers punctuated the songs with a "hey!" At length, even the subdued travelers were on their feet and kicking. The Ludki laughed and clapped to urge on the long-legged dancers. Sod twirled like a top and bobbed like a cork. At a feverish pace, he was caught-up in the festive mood. Moments before he could dance no more, the song stopped with a rousing "hey!" Stickleburr was much impressed with the two travelers. After slapping both of them on the shoulders, the squat little fellow mounted a stump and cleared his throat. "Ahem!" The crowd became silent. "I'd like to express the thanks of all Ludki for what you two have done. We couldn't have done it ourselves." Stickleburr brought out a long object and handed it to Sod. "This is for the wolksmert unless it's for something else. Sod looked at the fine-crafted sheath given to him by the Ludki. The sword slid silently into it's scabbard. Sod expressed his thanks with a smile and a nod. "And these," continued Stickleburr, "are for the Banewood and they're not for anyone else." Banewood received a quiver full of fine, Ludki-crafted arrows with razor-sharp metal heads. The shafts were straighter than any Banewood had ever seen. With great bombast, the swaying Stickleburr went on to offer the friendship of the Ludki to Banewood and Sod. Much to his surprise, Sod immediately took him up on his offer for assistance. This was a surprise, because the Ludki had very traditional views of hospitality. After favors, guests did not customarily ask for more. But Sod did. He wanted to know the way to Baba Yaga's hut. The Ludki blanched at such a request. Oh horrors! But it was only a request for directions; the Ludki need not accompany the travelers. Anyway, thanks to the mead, Stickleburr was in a jovial mood. He went so far as to offer guidance to the outside of their realm. -Roman Olynyk <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Review: THE DEAD OF WINTER Thieves' World Book Seven Robert Lynn Aspirin's Thieves' World series continues in this new paperback from Ace, and it is, in my opinion, quite a step up. The most recent TW books have been, to me, a letdown. They were bogged down with the heavy-handed politics of Sanctuary and were not interesting to read. Book 7 starts slowly, but soon improves vastly into what I believe to be the best TW book written to date. The Veiled Lady, by Andrew Offut, is a very warm and amusing tale of Ahdio, the keeper of Sly's Place in Downwind. When the Spirit Moves You, by Aspirin, is also one of the best tales TW has put out, and nowehere near as heavy-handed as previous efforts. The Color of Magic by Diana Paxson returns us to the household of Lalo the Limner and Gilla, who is taken captive by a Roxane who is determined to sink Santuary in a storm of epic porportions. For me, however, the most wonderful story was by Diane Duane, called Down by the Riverside. It is an account of the death of Harran and what happens when the twin goddesses Sivieni and the once-mute Mriga find out. They and their dog, Tyr, elicit the aid of Ischade in a wonderfully-depicted descent to Hell and back, and is filled with surprises. Buy the book if just for this story! This book is a must for TW fans, and a wonderful breath of fresh air after the dry politics of the previous books. You may be surprised to find that cover art is being done by Gary Ruddell, so the book looks a little different, but you should have no trouble finding it. Unless, of course, the bookstore runs out before you get your copy! -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER FOUR | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny Narret Chronicles, Book 3 Mari A. Paulsen The Acquisition, Part 3 Roman Olynyk <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, I had this issue all set to go out before Christmas, and then Yale went down for vacation. Sigh. Well, I guess late is better than never. In this issue we continue with both the Acquisition and the Narret Chronicles, thanks to Mari's staying up until 3am to type it in. I hope you enjoy them. There will be one more issue in Volume 3, which will follow on the heels of this issue, before we start Volume 4 and the Dargon writing project. By the way, I've rewritten the FSFnet sending program again. Anyone who wants to change the program I use to send their issues please mail me. You may choose from: DISK DUMP (class N), PUNCH (noheader class m), and SENDFILE (netdata). If anyone is really into CARD DUMP, I'll even use that! For those of you who haven't heard, and didn't notice, FSFnet is being sent out from a new id - CSDAVE at MAINE. Due to the work I do on CSNEWS, NMCS025 has been changed to CSDAVE. FSFnets will continue coming out, but from CSDAVE. NMCS025 is no longer in the CP directory, so please forward any mail or messages to either CSDAVE or LISCOMB at MAINE. Finally, just when you thought it was safe to write a Thieves' World review, TW 8 has just been released. More details (and a review) as soon as possible! -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Narret Chronicles Book the Third "Dr. Ht this is Dr. Terrence Seni of the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology at Sir Walter Reed Medical Center, and Dr. Adam Tristy of the American College of Surgeons. They will be examining you, with your permission of course." "Surely." said Samo "Dr Seni is the nation's foremost pathologist, and Dr. Tristy is one our most prominent bio-physicists." "Really, well this is quite a reception... Pleased to meet both of you gentlemen. You can examine me if you wish, but I'd rather provide you with the data myself. You see, I have all the pertinent information on our physiology stored on tape in my craft. Allow me a moment will you and I'll be back with the data you wish for in several of your languages. "Here you are, 'Yarg's Complete Physiology of the Narretan' a Narret classic physiology text. The best ever produced! That should answer all your questions concerning our physiology, but I'll bet you still want to know about my AND molecular structure. That I'll leave up to you." "Could we take a small blood sample to help us study the makeup of your circulatory, respiratory, lymphatic, and immune systems? Such a sample would provide us with the AND molecular structure data we also desire." asked Dr. Seni. "Sure." said Samo "I'd be glad to help in any way I can. I'm a scientist myself. I was only kidding when I said I hate needles. I was just trying to get a laugh." "Make a fist," said Seni as he searched Samo's arm's densly packed molecules for a vein. "This may pinch a little." "No sweat," said Samo. "What you gentlemen will really be interested in though, is the fact that in the counter-universe, we are not solid creatures at all, as you know it." "Really?" queried Tristy as he took notes. "Yes, really." said Samo. "At home, on Amrif Arret, we are by our own nature of a gaseous form. As your molecular forces are attractive here, ours are repulsive, thus, we are all perfectly non-solid, as opposed to your solidity." "How extraordinarily fascinating!" exclaimed Tristy. "In fact all our worlds, stars, everything is unbound but space, which is the solid through which we all pass. That is why I can get here so much faster in our system of time, our entire concept of time is based on density of our solid space, rather than the vacuousness of yours. It is far easier, I assure you, for a plasma to pass through a solid than a solid to pass through a vacuum." "Ahh, I got all but that last bit then I lost you, could you clarify the part about easier..." started Dr. Tristy. "Surely," Samo interrupted "You see, when we pass through the solid form of our space, we use the actual binding forces of the particles in motion of the spatial-solid in order to propel ourselves. Thus we can utilize the very nature of our 'space' itself, as a means, or force of propulsion. Do you understand that better, doctor?" "Much better, thank you. I must say this is all quite astounding.." "Not at all, simply the state of nature doctor. Which reminds me, I wish to make a statement on the wisdom of our physicians in the Narret System. If you would be so kind as to record it doctor, I'm sure all of humanity will find it of great use." "Surely, any advice you can give would be held in highest regard by our scientific communities." said Dr. Tristy "It came to pass, through the thousands of Losar Cycles (what you call years) of our existence, that our physicians began to use the fundamental laws of nature in their favor. Rather than fight the immune system for example, they found ways of strengthening it, bolstering its abilities. Cancer, as another example was found to contain cells of a much stronger variety than those said to be normal. What our physicians did was to retrain the immune system to work on the AND structure within the Cancerous cells, so that the dominant Cancer cells were effectively "programmed" to conduct the function of the tissue it replaced. And this new, Cancerous super-cell was stronger and better than the original cell it replaced, because it lives longer and is less suceptable to other diseases. Therefore your physicians should also learn to work with and not against nature." "Thats absolutely astounding. You've just helped us realize how far we've set back Cancer research in the last 50 years. We've been trying to eradicate it for so long we completely overlooked the possibility of trying to turn it into something useful. Incredible!" "I see you're rather enthused at the prospect." said Samo. "Enthused? I'm simply overjoyed at the possibility that there's a cure for our worst killer. Cancer claims millions of lives here each year." "Yes, I know..." stated Samo. "Dr Ht. you have no idea how much just that little information you just shared with us means, how many millions of peoples lives this few minutes you've shared with us will save. Mankind shall be forever in your debt." "Oh, I think I do." said Samo "Remember, peace and understanding throughout these universes is what I came here for. And sharing a little scientific knowledge in the process is the least I can do. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I see the colonel at the door. I have another speech to give, and I hope if everything goes well, you gentlemen may get a little more time to work on your medical problems." -Mari A. Paulson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Acquisition The Hut In the morning, bright and early, Banewood and Sod were woken by the sound of little marching feet. A troop of gaily dressed Ludki in tall, feathered hats approached them. "Hey Hyssop! Hey Burdock!" shouted Stickleburr as he clapped his hands. Immediately, two little people ran forward. Stickleburr addressed Banewood and Sod. "Good morning, unless it's already mid-day. My two sons and myself will accompany you to the borders of our realm unless you don't wish to be accompanied. First, though, you must have breakfast." Stickleburr clapped his hands again and several Ludki approached with steaming plates of food. The travelers ate with relish, though there wasn't any. From a nearby keg they filled their flasks with a light mead and they were ready to depart. Banewood and Sod followed the Ludki as they marched off, their pace marked by the rhythm of the Ludki's singing. Hyssop and Burdock marched ahead while Stickleburr walked and chatted with Banewood and Sod. He told them about the paths ahead and how they must not stray, lest they tread paths unknown. He told them to be on their guard for the Silvan Lord, for these were his woods. The Silvan Lord, or Lessy as he was better known, would lead them astray with his lies. Lessy was a liar at heart and he delighted in deluding the hopelessly lost. He would draw them to one point and then to another, then to another and yet another. However, there was one way of outsmarting the Lessy. It was a method known only to the Ludki, and it was Stickleburr's parting gift to the travelers. "Lessy is a liar," said Stickleburr, "for he can't tell the truth. To get to the truth, if it's lies you don't want, you must wear your clothes inside-out or outside-in if they're already inside-out. Your shoes you must wear on the opposite feet unless, of course, your feet are already opposite. Then you just wear your feet opposite." Banewood and Sod laughed aloud at Stickleburr's foolish words. "It is worthy of a children's rhyme even though it doesn't rhyme," Banewood said. They all laughed again at the strange paradox of Ludki speech. After their having walked away the longest part of the day, and after their having heard innumerable anecdotes from Stickleburr, the two travelers parted company with the Ludki. Banewood and Sod marched on at a much faster pace, since they needn't keep time with the short-legged Ludki. Once again, the brightness of sunlight and companionship dimmed as the travelers departed the realm of civilization. The dark forest seemed darker without the chatter of the little people. A dark, sinuous path pointed out by Stickleburr led in the direction of the setting sun. The roots of gnarled oaks lay twisted across the path, occasionally catching the carefully placed feet of the plowman. Spider webs built across the gaps of branches often ended up in the faces of Banewood and Sod, tickling their noses and generally making their way unpleasant. Pale mushrooms of the deadly varieties could sometimes be seen lining the edge of the path. Strange animal sounds echoed through the trees. After hours of walking, the travelers still had not found a resting place suitable for a night's encampment. Though the sun was possibly an hour away from setting, the way had become dark and difficult to navigate because of the forest canopy. At length, Banewood and Sod stopped to decide which way the path was supposed to lead. The forest seemed more alive at this dusky hour than it had earlier in the day. Birds chirped and strange animals chattered beyond the distant trees. "I don't know," said Sod, "maybe we should stop right here and wait until morning. I just can't be sure of keeping on the right path if we go on." "Oh, don't worry, I'll show you the way to go from here," a strange voice answered. Banewood and Sod quickly drew their weapons and stood ready. Wolksmert glowed reddish from the light of the evening sun. Before them stood an eerie sight. A greenish man, or something resembling a man, though much taller, stood a dozen paces before them. His eyes had an orange, malevolent glow. They appeared cat-like. Banewood feared the worst, for to his inexperienced knowledge, the eyes reminded him of Baba Yaga's. The apparition was dressed in what appeared to be leaves. A bird nest was perched upon the shoulder. Sod felt the hilt of his sword slide through the sweaty grip of his fingers. His hand clenched Wolksmert tighter. He wondered about what action he should take. Quickly, he decided that it would be safest to let the creature make the first move. The green figure stood before them and made a chirping sound like a bird. He clapped his hands and then smiled. It was a friendly, disarming smile. "Take the path straight ahead until you come to a fork," said the strange apparition. "Then, bear left until you come to a large boulder and proceed to your right until you come to an old tree. >From the tree, go left until you meet the next tree, then take a sharp right to the first stream. You can't miss it." "Uh, excuse us for a moment, if you please, sir." Banewood tugged at Sod's shoulder and pulled him away. "Oh yes, most certainly, yes, yes." The green man laughed, clapped his hands and chattered like a tree rat. "What's the matter? Who's that? What are we doing?" Sod's questions came quickly and nervously. "Shhhh!" hissed Banewood as he led Sod out of sight of the green man. When they were safely out of sight, Banewood said, "That must be Lessy, the Silvan Lord. Stickleburr warned us of him. Remember, he'll lie to get us lost. Let's hurry and turn our clothes inside out." As quickly as they could, Banewood and Sod pulled their clothes off and reversed them. They turned the insides outside and helped each other button-up from the back. They did the same with their britches. Then, they pulled off their boots and placed them opposite: left boot on right foot and right boot on left foot. When they had finished, they smiled sheepishly and stepped back out into the open. Lessy was patiently waiting, whistling to himself and smiling. When the Silvan Lord saw how Banewood and Sod appeared, his orange eyes opened wide and bulged. He stood stiff with his fingers out-stretched. "Eeaarrgh! Owwww!" Screamed Lessy. He jumped around and emitted more strange sounds. Sod stood nonplussed, unable to move during the exhibition. Banewood took the initiative and said aloud: "Tell us, Silvan Lord, which is the way to the hut of Baba Yaga." "Eeaarrgh! Owwww! I'll talk, I'll tell you the truth, I promise! I'll tell you anything, but pulleese! Straighten-out your clothes!" Banewood and Sod felt sorry for the Silvan Lord. Evidently, the truth was so foreign to Lessy that it caused him great discomfort. When Banewood and Sod had put their clothes back on outside-outside, they returned to Lessy. The Silvan Lord was now docile, almost subdued; he was saddened by his loss of victims to his trickery. "Yes, most certainly," said Lessy, "I will show you the way to Baba Yaga's hut. Yes, then you'll wish you were lost! Follow me." Banewood and Sod walked behind Lessy as he led them through the dark forest night. Since they had first met the Silvan Lord, the sun had set, changing the long shadows to a solid smear of blackness. The two travelers were both stabbed by the sharp pang of doubt as to whether Lessy could be held to his word. Whatever the status of Lessy's honor, Banewood and Sod realized that they were both in the hands of the Lord of the Forest. Lessy strode before them, mumbling to himself and emitting more strange sounds. More than once, Banewood and Sod had tripped on tree roots and stumbled to the ground. Low branches snapped back by Lessy often caught Sod in the face and chest, leaving him sore and scored. The long hours of night were unbearably drawn out in this manner. When the slender rays of first morning light pierced through the trees, the three travelers found themselves on the edge of the forest. Sod felt a heaviness in his stomach when the first realization of their plight hit him: How were they to return? Neither of them had thought of marking their way. Lessy turned to face the exhausted travelers. The faint light barely illuminated his gnarled and worn face. Banewood and Sod could only concentrate on the eyes-- those strange cat-like slits surrounded by an orange glow. "Here is where I'll leave you," said Lessy. "The rest of the way is before you. You'll probably reach the hut by mid-day." Lessy chuckled as he pointed to the path before them. As quickly as when they had found him, the Silvan Lord disappeared into the green growth of the forest. The path lay before them. Banewood and Sod stood on the edge of the dark forest and before a vast expanse of scrub. Sod preferred the darkness of the forest to what he now saw: a thin path leading through a tangle of long-thorned trees which were so closely interwoven that they seemed inpenetrable. "Why don't you try Wolksmert on those branches," offered Banewood. Sod drew his sword and swung lightly against the tangle that lay before him. Sod was glad for the chance to draw his sword and test its edge. The massive, thorny growth fell to their feet. "Only Kathryn could walk a path like this," commented Sod as he continued to slice his way through. "These branches are so sharp and tightly interwoven that only the sow could manage to walk through unscathed." The plowman and the Shaman, however, could not pass through unharmed. Even though the path was partially cleared by Sod's sword, some branches remained to tear at their clothing and puncture their skin. Punished and brutalized by the last leg of their journey, Banewood and Sod proceeded slowly, their hearts heavy with fear and anticipation. By noon, they had passed through the forest of thorns and had entered into a wide perimeter of tall grasses and occasional trees. Banewood sniffed the air and winced. "Look," he said, pointing to a large copse of assorted and vile smelling weeds. "This must have once been Baba Yaga's herb garden." The expanse of foul-smelling weeds grew unbounded. They had probably been untended for many decades, but they still held firm against the encroaching forest and field. One fell weed pitted itself against the other for dominance of space. It was an evil looking tangle. Banewood hoped he could return by this path and gather some of the herbs. A few were familiar to him; they were shaman's herbs. Some plants had divinatory purposes, some had medicinal uses. Other plants were total strangers to Banewood's herbal. These were the most curious to the novice. Reluctantly, the two pressed on. Because of the tall grass, Banewood and Sod didn't see the hut until they were almost in front of it. The hut of Baba Yaga loomed dark before them. Centuries old, the hut was partially collapsed at one end; it appeared like an apparition, grayish and fragile. The grass about the hut was trampled-- signs of a current inhabitant. Banewood was shaken by the sight; it was an eerie recollection of his divinatory dreams, minus the malevolent red eyes. Sod sensed the nervousness of his companion and gripped Wolksmert tightly. He glanced over his shoulder and searched around them. The scene was quiet. Not even a bird song could be heard. Sod turned and shook his companion's hand. It was a farewell to their past and an initiation to whatever would befall them in the moments ahead. Banewood and Sod resolutely approached the hut. It looked weak, but it stood in evidence of craftsmanship from a forgotten century. Patches of straw, now grayish, were still attached to the roof. A few strange weeds had taken residence on the roof in order to catch extra light. On the roof's peak perched a dark bird. It was a raven. It waddled about and croaked a few times, picked at the wood and then silently winged out of sight. Sod held out Wolksmert and walked toward the dimly lit entrance of the ramshackle hut. Fat spiders retreated to the shadows with the approach of the plowman. Sod's heart quickened and his whole body started to tremble slightly. He placed his feet carefully to avoid making any sounds. With Banewood close behind, Sod craned his neck through the doorway. It took an agonizing instant for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dim light. Was there something inside? Had it heard them coming? Where is it? Nothing stirred within. Lying among the cloven tracks and defacation, however, was a flattened pile of leaves-- Kathryn's bed. The stench from inside made Sod gag. Confirming their worst fears, it seemed that Kathryn, the monstrous sow which had rampaged through Gorod, was now living in the hut of Baba Yaga. Signs of the monstrous sow were everywhere. Most of the hut's interior was badly battered and decayed. Scattered debris on the ground may have once stood for a chair. Few furnishings remained distinguishable. In the far corner, though, near the bed of leaves, stood a dark and mouldering chest. The brass straps and brads had long since turned green and disintegrated from the moisture. Banewood saw the chest and could not restrain his curiosity. He entered the hut and opened the chest. Most of the wood was badly decayed, and it fell apart when it was disturbed. Inside the chest, however, the contents were fairly well preserved. Banewood unwrapped a book-sized, oilskin-covered bundle which was on top of other items. It was a book. "I don't believe this," whispered Banewood in awe. "Don't believe what," said Sod, not believing that Banewood dared to utter a sound in the lair of Kathryn. "It looks like Baba Yaga's book of spells. I can't make out some of the writing; it's an old script. This is one of the books my old master told me about. It contains the ancient secrets of sorcery. This is an unbelievable discovery." "Well, pack up your discovery and let's get out of here. This place makes me nervous," said Sod. His hands began to sweat and he could feel the weight of his sword sliding through. Banewood hastily rewrapped the package and stuffed it into his own sack. On an impulse, he picked up another small bundle, which upon inspection, contained what looked like a Shaman's smoke mixture. Banewood lashed the sack to his belt and the two retreated back into the daylight. When Banewood and Sod stepped outside, they saw that the scraggly raven had returned. Seeing the plowman and his companion, it cried out in a raucous frenzy. Through the cacophony, Sod and Banewood heard another sound: a terrifying squealing and trampling sound. Towering above the distant grass was a massive black shape. Thin, gray hair lay matted on its back and around it's notched ears. It was a wonder that such a large beast could have existed unnoticed for so many years, but it is true: The forest hides many secrets. Clouds and fumes emanated from around the creature's snout. It reared its head up and Banewood and Sod could see a pair of blazing red eyes. "It's Kathryn," thought Sod. "It's Baba Yaga," thought Banewood. "We're in trouble," said the two aloud. Sod was possessed by a grave doubt as to his future being. This whole scene was a nightmare and he wished he could wake up. What finally woke Sod up was the one thing which he had most feared. Like a fish, Wolksmert's handle slid through the gripped fingers of the plowman and fell to the ground. When Sod reached to pick it back up, it immediately slid out of his grasp. Kathryn was charging and spewing her fiery froth. Banewood loosed a Ludki arrow at the charging Kathryn, but it glanced off of the sow's forehead. Sod was distraught, to say the least. His sword would not remain in his hand. Banewood, seeing Sod's plight, ran forward and shouted at the charging Kathryn. A spray of singeing fire told Banewood that he succeeded in getting her attention. He ran around the hut in an attempt to lead Kathryn away from Sod, who was still pathetically trying to grip his sword. A bit of Kathryn's breath caught the corner of Baba Yaga's hut and ignited the tinder-dry structure. Evidently, however, Kathryn's fiery froth had a limit, for it quickly decreased in range and intensity to the point of being a caustic dribble. Banewood took advantage of this and became bolder in his taunts. He loosed a few Ludki arrows at the enraged sow in order to further torment her. It worked. Banewood saw a nearby tree that he thought could hold his weight. He ran to it and limberly pulled himself up the trunk. He had previously discarded his backpack and other paraphernalia, but he neglected to untie the tiny old bag which held the ancient smoking mixture. It ripped open as Banewood shinned up the trunk, spilling its contents around the base of the tree. Kathryn was not an ignorant sow. She saw this grand opportunity to harvest the tree's single fruit: Banewood. She ran headlong into the sturdy trunk of the tree and splintered part of the trunk. She tore at the ground around the tree with her hooves and layed her forehead against the trunk in an attempt to batter it down. Kathryn kicked up a cloud of the ancient herbal mixture torn from Banewood's belt. Her two wide nostrils inhaled part of the cloud and Kathryn no longer felt any pain. Hitting the tree with her head was easy; in fact, it was fun. Sod saw the impending danger that Banewood was in. It was Sod's fault, he thought, that Banewood even came on this journey. He couldn't let him die. Sod had decided to go into this quest, and by his life, he would take it to its completion. He picked up a rock and threw it squarely at Kathryn's rear. Kathryn turned about and faced Sod. He taunted her with insults to her genealogy. Sod hardly noticed that he now gripped Wolksmert firmly in both hands. He spaced his legs, hurled another insult and waited. The smoking mixture continued to work on Kathryn's brain. It had a strange, numbing sensation. Colors burst before her crimson eyes. Directly in front of her stood a tattered and sweaty plowman-- easy prey and a quick lunch. Suddenly, though, she was faced by two plowman-- no problem-- then a third. Three Sod's stood before the eyes of an enraged and disoriented sow. Baba Yaga's mixture, whatever it was, buzzed around in Kathryn's head like a swarm of happy bees. Kathryn decided that the plowman on the left, Sod number three, was the real one. It didn't really matter; she could always come back and finish off the other two. She charged with full fury. Distance between the two retreated with the sound of thundering cloven hooves. Sod number two, the one in the middle, didn't quite understand why Kathryn was veering so much to his right. No matter-- Wolksmert, guided by the plowman's strong arm, swung with the ease of a baton but crashed with the weight of a boulder. Blood poured from Kathryn's head. Blood ran to the ground in red rivers and stained the dusty feet of the plowman. Blood dripped from the shining blade of Wolksmert. Kathryn was dead. It was several minutes before either Sod or Banewood moved or said anything. Sod stood alone with his sword dripping blood to the ground. Banewood shouted from the tree. "You killed her. I can't believe that it happened so quickly." "Quickly?" Sod thought hours passed during Kathryn's charge. "I owe you my life," said Banewood. "How can I ever repay you?" "Don't worry," said Sod, who smiled for the first time. "It all comes out in the wash." Without having to discuss their next step. The two quietly and deliberately set about gathering dried brush and grass for a fire. It took nearly an hour to amass the giant pyre, but it was finally built and easily set aflame from the embers of Baba Yaga's smoldering hut. The evening light was brightened by the burning pile of brush. A night bird sang vespers, and the wind whispered softly over the plains, gently fanning the blaze. -Roman Olynyk <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME THREE NUMBER FIVE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny The Acquisition, Conclusion Roman Olynyk Review: Soul of the City - TW8 Orny Narret Chronicles, Book 2 Mari A. Paulsen Narret Chronicles, Book 1 Mari A. Paulsen Date: 012086 Dist: 091 <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, folks here it is, the end of volume 3! In this issue conclude both Mari Paulsen's Narret Chronicles and Roman Olynyk's Acquisition serials. Sandwiched in between is a short review of another new Thieves' World book, "Soul of the City". In the next issue, Volume 1, issue 1, the first of the Dargon writing project stories will appear, and I'll go into that in more detail in the editorial-cum-prologue in that issue. I would encourage readers to send in their comments on either Narret or the Acquisition, and they will be considered to printing in issue 4-1. By the way, Mari is considering writing a sequel series for Narret, and Roman is incorporating Banewood and Sod into the Dargon writing project, so you can expect more from them, as well as the other authors involved with Dargon. And, of course, I'll plod on with news, reviews, and featured authors as time and submissions permit. Thanks for reading, and thanks for sharing. I hope you all enjoy the zine and the upcoming fruit of the writing project as much as I have enjoyed writing for it. Catch you later... -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Acquisition Part Four: Conclusion Banewood and Sod remained awake most of the long night and occasionally fed more wood to the pyre. Only when they were sure that nothing remained of Kathryn's carcass did they rest for the waning hours before dawn. For breakfast, they ate a hasty meal of dried meat and bread, and then they departed in the same direction from which they arrived. Banewood managed to gather some of the strange simples and root stocks from the ancient herb garden he had passed on the way in. The path through the tangled thorn brush was certainly no easier than it was on the way in. Nature did not go out of her way to extend its thanks for a job well done. When they passed out of the thorn thicket and reached the forest, the two men found the same path they had traveled with the Silvan Lord. Surprisingly, the path was actually straighter than they thought when they travelled it a couple of nights earlier. Lessy, no doubt disheartened, was not to be found on their return trip, but Banewood and Sod were not dismayed, for now the dark forest seemed more alive than before. Previously somber birds were now joyfully singing, and occasional butterflies could be seen flitting among the treetops. On their way back home, Banewood and Sod found more to talk about. Banewood was excited about the book of ancient secrets he had found in the hut of Baba Yaga. He felt that this book could unlock the doors blocking his quest for knowledge of the Shaman's arts. Already, Banewood was practicing strange, new spells that he had translated from the book. His prowess was increasing steadily. Sod spoke of his dream to break away from his life as a plowman. He wished to sever his roots to the soil and become a journeyman, a knight errant of this kingdom upon the plains. He found that he now had the confidence to realize his dream. When Banewood and Sod arrived once again at the Ludki village, they were greeted by the entire population of little people. The smiles were upon the round faces and bright and exotic feathers dressed the tall caps worn by all. It was a state reception for the two heroes. Banewood and Sod walked waist-deep through the cheering crowd and stopped directly in front of Stickleburr. "Hey Sod, hey Banewood! It seems that you've killed Kathryn, for she can no longer be alive. The forest and plains are free again, though they've hardly known any freedom. Congratulations, yes, most certainly!" Spoke Stickleburr from atop his royal stump. The little people all cheered and waved their hats. All around the Ludki village stood cloth-covered tables layed out with fragrant foods -- all of the delicacies that could be concocted. Kegs of mead were everywhere in anticipation of a great feast in honor of the slayers of the monster Kathryn. "You've done an Immeasurable Service to all of The Ludki by Your Slaying of the Great Wolk and Kathryn," said Stickleburr in his finest rhetoric, adding: "Since your Service is Most Certainly not Measurable to even a single Ludki, and Since It wasn't actually Your Slaying of the Great Wolk and Kathryn because the Wolk wasn't all that Great and Kathryn wasn't at all Kathryn." Sod found it difficult, to say the least, to follow the circuitous speech of Stickleburr, but he did manage to glean the meaning: Kathryn was not really Kathryn. Did they kill the wrong monster? Worse yet, was there actually another monster like Kathryn? Stickleburr said: "I know what you're thinking, Sod, even if you don't. There is no other monster, for there was only one; Kathryn was really Baba Yaga because she was nothing else." Once again all of the Ludki cheered loudly. The feast was on and the music was struck. Flagons were filled with bubbly mead poured from the aged kegs. This was the best of brews, for this was to be the best of celebrations-- Kathryn was dead and Baba Yaga was no more. Without prompting, the two heroes joined in the merriment. Food and drink were both brought to the guests of honor. The large, round eyes of the Ludki bulged in disbelief at the sight of Banewood and Sod drinking their mead. Surely, the two strangers must have hollow legs to hold so much drink. Banewood and Sod could very well have had hollow legs, for they drank considerable amounts of mead even for men. They had had a long and difficult ordeal, and this was a welcome relief from the events of the past several weeks. And most certainly, this mead was the best they had ever tasted! While Banewood and Sod were enjoying themselves and filling their bellies, the Ludki danced furiously, spinning and hopping and clapping their little hands. The musicians were adept with their instruments-- strange varieties of many-stringed wonders. Suddenly, from some occult cue, the music and dancing and laughter all stopped. A lone minstrel approached Banewood and Sod, bowed, and began to pick his instrument. After several introductory bars, he sang a song whose chorus was joined in by all: "Tell a tale of Kathryn, a tough old sow with tougher skin. She razed the fields with flame and fire now where did she go? Hey! Chorus: "They ground her up for sausage links. They boiled her down for candle sticks. They tanned her hide and sewed some shoes so now she's hit the road. Hey! Tell a tale of Shaman folk who packs himself an awful smoke. He smoked a bit with Kathryn now where did she go? Hey! Tell a tale of a man named Sod who found himself a sharp old sword. He smote a bit on Kathryn now where did she go? Hey!" Banewood and Sod were both deeply touched by this tribute. In their dim age of little writing, great deeds were memorialized in an oral tradition. The song of their deeds could very well outlive any scrap of paper or even any memory of just who Sod and Banewood actually were. Stickleburr once again mounted his royal stump. The thin-haired and pot-bellied leader of the Ludki swayed slightly, for it was apparent that he'd been sampling his share of the mead. He rubbed his bulbous little nose to see if it was still there and then spoke to the gathering in long-drawn syllables. "My fellow Ludki. We are gathered here, for we aren't elsewhere, to Honor these Two Humans whom we don't wish to do dishonor for their Deeds. Hic. Since it wouldn't be Right to take them away, I'll present these Medallions to Sod and Banewood for their uncowardly Courage in defeating Kathryn-Who- Couldn't-Be-Defeated. These Medallions make known that which is not unknown: Sod and Banewood are forever Friends of the Ludki, for we cannot be your enemies even for a short while." Stickleburr paused to hang the medallions around their necks. He hiccuped and continued: "I must tell you, for it wouldn't do to tell another, that both of you will find Greatness, unless Greatness cannot be found but rather achieved. Hic! Sod, it is not a coincidence, though You may think it is, that You found Wolksmert. Wolksmert found You. Wolksmert, the wolf-slayer, was crafted many hundreds of years ago by the Ludki, for it could have been crafted by none other. It seeks the hand which can guide it, unless that hand can't be found, then it will evade the unsure hand, though an unsure hand is more likely itself to evade the sword! Hic! Sod, wield Your Sword wisely, for to do otherwise would be foolish. Hic! Hic! "Banewood, you shall be a Powerful and a Good Sorcerer, though You may not think You are either. In Your lifetime You will undo much of the evil that has already been done by the Evil Sorceress, for You can't undo that which hasn't already been done. Hic!" Stickleburr was quite obviously reeling now and finding it difficult to keep his balance. He continued to feel for his nose, but he couldn't find it for the numbness. "So let Me say, unless you say I can't say it, that You Two have found Greatness that you never lost because you sought to acquire it. Hic! It was there-- it wasn't anywhere else. Hic! I... I... I must stop now, for I think I've had too much to drink, though if I start on it, hic, I'd say it wasn't the drink that I drunk-- the drink's not drunk, rather, I drank the drink, unless I drunk it. It was already drunk, but now I'm the one who's drunk-- Hic!" With that, Stickleburr spun off his stump, much to the relief of the other Ludki, who had become almost as confused as Banewood and Sod. While Stickleburr lay passed-out with a smile upon his numb lips, the other Ludki-- those who weren't also passed-out-- endeavored to follow their leader. Banewood and Sod joined in the twirling, leg-kicking dance of the Ludki and shouted "Hey!" The dancing, music and magic lasted long into the night, and remained in the memories of the two humans long after many things had passed. A warbler's song awoke Sod from his slumber. Rosy morning rays penetrated the covering of trees and illuminated the Ludki village with radiance. All around the beehive ovens and little houses and strewn-about kegs lay the supine bodies of Ludki, some still wearing their pointed hats and bright feathers. Sod's pre-breakfast mind pondered over the many events that had recently come to pass. He'd seen so many things that he'd never thought he'd see-- the Ludki and the Silvan Lord and parts of the great countryside surrounding Gorod. Things he'd wished he'd never seen-- the Great Wolk, Kathryn and Baba Yaga's hut. Stories from his childhood had come to life, and all he had to do was to brave seldom-travelled paths. How many more wonders lay waiting to be seen? He didn't know, but now he would endeavor to find them, for his curiosity had finally been aroused. After they had both broken fast, the two journeymen washed away the grime of the last few days and bid farewell to their friends, the Ludki. Banewood and Sod promised to respect the privacy of the little people; they would not divulge the existence and location of the Ludki, who wished to maintain their distance from the human race. As Stickleburr explained, once upon a time, many thousands of years ago, the Ludki lived near humans. It was Ludki adroitness with smithing that led humans to request from them weapons of iron -- weapons the Ludki had no wish to forge. The few weapons they did make, the Ludki imbued with a magic that would not allow their use without purpose or good intent. Wolksmert was one such weapon which had survived that golden age of metal working. By the time Banewood and Sod reached the center of Gorod, they had acquired a persistent throng of followers eager to hear news of their adventures. Most expressed murmured amazement that Banewood and Sod returned alive, uninjured and not white with fright. If anything, they even looked healthier than when they had originally undertaken their quest. Banewood's Ludki-crafted arrows were hidden away and both of their medallions lay hidden beneath their tunics. Banewood and Sod only offered unembellished details of Kathryn's final moments. They didn't mention Baba Yaga's hut or even the great wolk. There was considerable rejoicing among the populace at the news of Kathryn's death. Regardless of how little the two travelers told, they were highly regarded by the folks of Gorod. They were heroes. Inside the Antlers, Sod and even Banewood were offered seats of honor and given drinks of crude tavern mead. As the days went by, Banewood and Sod would often meet there to discuss their plans for travel. This time they were going across the plain in search of distant cities. Tales were told of men in the far away cities who rode upon the backs of four-legged beasts, and Banewood and Sod both agreed that they would like to explore more of their world. It was now late autumn, and what little harvest there was that was spared by Kathryn's harsh breath was stored away. The daily work routine was slowing in pace. The time was ripe for travel. A few large bottle flies were marauding about within the Antlers, enjoying the late warmth and making a general nuisance of themselves with the few customers. One daring fly kept alighting near Sod, trying to divert the normally stolid plowman. The air intermittently cracked with the resounding whack of Sod's large hand upon the table. He couldn't kill the pesky fly. "Yeauh, Sod," yelled the Miller from across the tiny room. "Why don't you let Banewood give the fly some of his smoke. The little critter'd get so dizzy it would burn itself into a hole! Harr! Harr!" Banewood cast a glance at the bottle fly buzzing around their heads and sent it to the great beyond with a tiny, explosive pop. The Miller, who saw this, inhaled part of his mead and coughed. Banewood and Sod laughed. -Roman Olynyk <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> REVIEW: The Soul of the City Thieves' World Book 8 When I first saw the new Thieves' World book on the shelf, I thought to myself: Oh, boy, another TW book to drudge through and review for FSFNet. Well, the seventh book (which also came out only recently), "The Dead of Winter" was good, so I jumped in, even though it takes too much time to read and go to school. Folks, if you haven't read "the Dead of Winter" and the most recent book, "Soul of the City", you're in for a TREAT! After Aspirin's third or fourth book, I had lost interest, due to a stagnation in the characters and events in Sanctuary. As if reading my mind, these most recent books each seem to focus on one aspect of the authors' writing styles that had been lacking. "The Dead of Winter" contains superb characterization, and each character portrayed leaves a lasting image on the reader. The book reads like several short stories about Sanctuary's inhabitants. The new book, "Soul of the City" is it. For all you people who knew that it would eventually come down to war in the streets, here it is: the resolution of all the conflicts of Ischade and Roxanne, and everyone who's anyone is town, including the new Rankan emperor. In contrast to the style that "the Dead of Winter" was written in, this book flows and has excellent continuity. It is an action-packed novel, not a collection of short stories, and despite my schoolwork, I had a very difficult time putting the book down. This book, written entirely by Lynn Abbey, C.J. Cherryh, and Janet Morris, is supposedly the lead-in to a forthcoming book by Abbey entitled "Beyond Sanctuary". I encourage any Thieves' World fans out there,as well as fans who have become disenchanted with the series, to pick up books 7 and 8. Each is in a different style, but both are well worth the time. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Narret Chronicles Book the Second "The forum you requested is waiting Dr. Ht" said Colonel Roberts as they escorted Samo to a waiting helicopter. "Both the president and the premier are anxious to meet with you." "They should be, I've come a long way to meet them." Samo replied rather smugly. "Ladies and gentlemen," Samo began, "I have been sent here by a very costly effort on behalf of my people. By the words "my people" I do not mean the people of my country, or even the people of my planet, Amrif Arret. By those words I mean the people whose lives you will destroy, those people whose advanced knowledge and advanced technologies may never be shared with any of you in this room, or with any human. "Why? Not because there are no longer any humans to understand us. Why? Not because we are unable to communicate with you, or to bridge the gap of space between us. But simply because you would rather collect a set of nuclear playtoys for winning childish squabbles over masses of dirt to put your under-populated, over-fed, fat human bodies on. And go about praising your documents of law, your 'Declarations of Independence' your 'Constitution' and its 'Bill of Rights' with their claims of perfect unions, the establishment of justice, and most of all the self-evidence of all men being created equal. Those were noble thoughts. Thoughts, far more they were than words, they were the Ideals upon which this great country was founded. These thoughts, these ideals of peace, equality, and justice came from men far nobler than those before me. "Surely you may grow impatient with my gruffness, please hear me out I implore you for your own sakes and the sakes of my people, hear me out. "I cannot understand how two adults can even think to begin compiling the weapons you have compiled while there are thousands, no, millions of your brethren dying throughout your world. How much can these rights mean to you? How much does the equality of creation mean, when you will tomorrow blow each other off of your precious land masses and ruin your world for those who had nothing but hope anyway, all for naught. "All because you worried that you may not be free tomorrow to have all your own little worries and troubles taken care of, that tomorrow you may not be as comfortable as today. Soon, very soon, if you continue this deadly and insane weapons compilation, there may not be that tomorrow you're so desperately worried about today. "If you were to continue, and had a last and final war, you gentlemen should be congratulated. For you gentlemen would be responsible for the ultimate extermination of entire solar systems in not one, but two universes at the same time. "You see, what you've failed to realize is that if you blow your planet to the fifth physical dimension, you'll be blowing my people up with you. And not only will the destruction of good old Terra Firma have an effect on the Solar System, but it will have an equally disastrous effect on the Losar System. Our entire planet will merely "go out of existence" as you know it. In addition, my people will have no say whatsoever in that event. Is that within your concept of fairness equality, and justice? If so then how about within your forefathers? "Furthermore, who knows what may be said will happen at the unbalancing of energies within this universe itself. How many other life-forms' chances of survival will you destroy, in that solitary instant of selfishness? "I came here hoping to find some reasonable men. Men of a knowledge of peace, and instead I found the ignorance that breeds belligerence. I did find hope though, and that hope lies where I knew it would, in the men of science. The hope lies in those who were bright enough to create weapons of war, and it rests in those men with talents to make the weapons of mankind's enemy, disease. Your physicians are those within whom your hope lies now. "Before I came here, I met with two of your physicians to better the knowledge of mankind in defeat of Cancer. You will find, if you take the time to decrease your stockpile of weaponry, that if you give your doctors the insurance that their efforts will not be in vain and the assurance that there will be a world full of people to help tomorrow, they may just be able to find a cure. The hope of peace, and of life itself lies in your hands. Why don't you give it back to the men who deserve it most. The men in both your countries who have been fighting for years for the same thing, the prolonging not the extinguishing of life--your physicians." -Mari A. Paulsen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Narret Chronicles Book the First Samo stood there in silence as his last words echoed throughout the auditorium. Then suddenly his ears were filled by the tremendous sound of applause by third world countries while both the president's, and the premier's eyes welled with tears as they looked at each other realizing how right he was... "<< "Catabilizer--Load Future Analog tape running from last approach to Terran planet number three." Samo replied to his onboard computer. "Well, so it was..." Samo said to himself, wondering if he was going to be as successful on this trip to Earth. He sat there wondering, in the quiet of his spacecraft, rather dazed by the immensity of it all, as a great light appeared in the heavens in front of him. And at once he new he was late. Ignorance had won, and greed had gone too far. -Mari A. Paulsen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny Welcome to Dargon! Orny Simon's Song Orny Rendezvous Joseph Curwen Exile Eric Date: 020786 Dist: 112 <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, folks, here it is: the First Anniversary Issue of FSFNet, and the first issue containing stories of the Dargon writing project. I must say, this is an impressive issue, and I hope you all enjoy it as much as I have enjoyed putting it together. The Dargon project is a group of FSFNet contributors who have gotten together to write about a single location, much like Aspirin's Thieves' World project. And, as you can see, the results are phenomenal! Any people who are interested in joining the project and feel they will be productive, feel free to mail me. I'd also like to welcome the new readers who responded to the notice I sent out. I'm not sure whether to apologize or not for the extreme length of this issue, but I'm sure you won't mind once you start reading... But, for now, I suggest you sit back and enjoy some of the best amateur writing you will find on BITNET. Thank you all for your support. Blessed be. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Welcome to Dargon! Dargon is a small, out of the way fiefdom of the Kingdom of Baranur, situated in the extreme northwest corner of the kingdom. It is separated from the rest of the kingdom by a vast wood and a minor range of hills, and is ruled by the young Lord Clifton Dargon. Dargon Keep, where the wealthy merchants and courtesans live, lies on a hill overlooking the town and port of Dargon, which lie at the mouth of the River Coldwell. The port is Dargon's only link to the more populated south, and the town is an active and busy place. In the fields of Dargon can be found many small farming peasant villages, that pay tithes to the Keep. Quaint and pittoresque, these villages lie on the very borders of civilization, and can be hotbeds of superstition as well as gateways to adventure. Come follow, whether your pleasure be politics and court intrigue, the devilish workings of a medieval port-town, or the horror and adventure of the hinterlands. Come follow the tales of wonder and woe that unfold before you, in Dargon. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Simon's Song Dale ran breathlessly down the Street of Travellers towards the docks. His father had told him to read two whole lessons; being the son of a scribe wasn't the most exciting life in the world. His father, a well-known teacher and scribe named Cavendish, made his living by hiring out to teach youngsters how to read and write. He had left the fourteen year-old in the family library while he went to Dargon Keep to instruct some poor aristocrat's son. Dale knew his father had meant well, but there were other things to do all afternoon than read some old dry book. Besides, he'd be back in time to read most of his assignment, anyways. He turned the corner by Sandmond's, nearly capsizing an emerging sailor (listing five degrees to port), and scanned the dockside for the familiar red and white canopy. Finding it, he plunged back into the crowd and made for a warehouse at the far end of the quays. He pushed through the mob of sailors, soldiers, and merchants, finally coming within sight of his destination, a squeaky old cart, overloaded with three steaming kettles, attended by a tall, smiling man and his little monkey. A sign on the cart read 'Salamagundi Stew' in large letters. The youth slowed and yelled across the crowd, "Hey, Simon!" The tall man saw Dale and waved him over. "Hey, Dale! What you doing out so early? Did you Papa give you too much to read, eh?" The tall sailor smiled broadly and batted the young man on the shoulder. "Yeah," sighed the lad. "How's Skeebo?" he asked, bringing a sweetmeat forth from his cloak to offer the monk. "Oh, he's fine. Business is good, and look at the port! It's so busy!" He spread his arms to take in all the port area. Dale looked up after giving Skeebo his treat and surveyed the port. The crowds were thicker than ever, and there were several tall ships and galleys tied up along the docks. He knew the Angelique at the far end, and Captain Smith's Victory Chimes beside it. Right in front of the warehouse was a galley that Dale had never seen before, with a great deal of bustle on deck and a number of strange papery ornaments hanging in the rigging. "What ship is that? Is it from the south?" "Ah..." began Simon, a glint in his brown eyes. "I checked 'er out before. She's called the Singing Mermaid, and she's been on a long, long voyage. She left Baranur, down south... must've been nearly two years ago. Headed west, of all places!" Simon was aglow with the rapture of a bard revealing a tale. "They say this is their first landfall since they left a place called Bichu, across the western ocean. They say they've got some sort of western noble who paid them well to bring him here. Wonder what would make a man pay such a high price to leave his home, eh, lad?" While Dale listened, he dipped himself a bowl of 'regular', as Simon called the first of the three varieties of stew he sold. Dale had often listened to Simon's tale of how he had learned the recipe for Salamagundi Stew while he was serving as a cook on a galley many years ago. The stew itself was a sort of fish chowder, heavily seasoned, and the 'regular' was fairly good. Dale had never tried either of the other stews - Simon had always steered him away from them with a laugh. The young man looked up and contemplated the Singing Mermaid. There were a number of large crates sitting on deck, and many strangely-colored paper ornaments hanging from the yardarm. The captain came from below deck and stood talking with a strangely-dressed man who could not have been any taller than Dale himself. He nudged Simon and nodded towards the ship. Simon's eyes widened. "Yep. Must be that westerner... Let's go get a good look, eh, lad?" With that Simon slowly hauled his cart closer to the pier where the Singing Mermaid was tied up. Dale watched the foreigner order another man to gather some chests and boxes and make his way down the gangplank, the poor servant, overburdened with the foreigner's gear, close behind. The stranger was a young man, though perhaps five or more years older than Dale, but no more than an inch or two taller than the scribe's son. His clothing was strangely decorated in blue and white shapes that Dale had to think twice about to understand, and his robe hung about his body very oddly. Dale could see that he had a slight limp, and carried a very strange and wicked-looking sword in, of all things, a wooden sheath! Dale saw the stranger stop for a moment and look around, a dark expression on his face, and turn towards Simon. The youth hurried to catch up. Simon set his cart down and waited for the stranger to approach, carefully inspecting and gently stirring each of the three chowders he had made that morning. He had been lucky to get some spices from the Singing Mermaid's haul earlier in the day, and he was confident it was an excellent batch. The foreigner walked directly to him and slowly, haltingly said, "Excuse, prease... You offer to sell food?" Simon nodded and replied "Yes - stew! Three kinds: regular, sweet, and sun-sweet. It's very good," he added, lifting the cover from one of the pots to let the foreigner know just what he was about to purchase. Simon certainly knew enough not to upset travelling nobility. "Ah, very good. I would like the sun-sweet prease..." Simon nodded and carefully suppressed a chuckle. Sun-sweet was the spiciest of the brews, and he knew of only two people who had ever been able to finish a whole bowl: himself and Guiseppi, the old sailor-cook who had taught Simon how to cook, when he was younger than Dale. He smiled to the stern-faced stranger, dipped a steaming bowl of regular, and offered it to the stranger. No sense making a scene, Simon thought. He had travelled enough in the west to realize that he might have just saved his own life! The man took the broth with a short bow, if no smile, and reached within his silken clothing, producing two short sticks with which he began to eat the chunks of fish from the broth. Simon was about to congratulate himself on his tact when he saw Skeebo grab a spoon from the cart and thrust it at the stranger, who slowly lifted his eyes towards the monk, to Dale, and finally to Simon. Simon felt his stomach knot in worry. Suddenly, the strangely-clad foreigner broke out into the oddest laughter Dale had ever witnessed. The stranger took the spoon and gave the monk a small coin in return. He finished the chunks of fish and began noisily sipping the broth with the spoon. Simon knew that the man had probably never used a spoon before setting foot on the Singing Mermaid, though how anyone could go through life without using a spoon was quite beyond him. Skeebo went back to Simon, looking sheepish as any monkey could. The sailor took the coin from the monk, and an odd look came over his face. The westerner had paid in gold! It was a strange looking coin, but it was probably worth more than Simon had made all year. He was obviously a noble, but he didn't seem quite that rich... The stranger had finished his bowl, and seeing Simon's puzzlement in his face, he asked "The coin... is it not enough?" Simon, more confused than ever, could not speak for a moment. "It is more than too much!" he suddenly stammered, too astounded to even care that he could live off that small coin for nearly a year. He held the coin out to give it back to the foreigner, who closed the sailor's hand upon it. "I am Ittosai Michiya," he began. "I have left my home in dishonor, and am far from where I would be. I have not been happy in many months. Take the coin - is a smile not worth so much stone?" With that, he bowed low and, with a gesture for his baggage, left Simon and Dale both rather puzzled. Simon soon was busy with customers again, and Dale wandered off to look at the ships, including the Singing Mermaid. Simon had given up. The port was just too busy, and he couldn't keep up with the customers. His mind kept dwelling on the strange foreigner, and he found himself looking at the small golden coin, somtimes touching it like a worry stone. It was an interesting coin; on one side, an etching of a strangely shaped building surrounded by an even odder-looking garden, on the other side were strange letters that looked like chicken-scratchings. Perhaps he would get it changed and pay rent. Perhaps he would buy Dale something useful and give it to him during the upcoming festival. Then again, maybe he'd just tuck it away in case he might ever need it; it was a very attractive coin... Simon's twenty-fifth contemplation of the strange coin was interrupted by a familiar cry. "Hey, Simon!" "Hey, Dale!" After going off to look at the ships, the youth had wandered up along the coastline. Dale came over to Simon's cart and chittered at Skeebo as only a child would. "Guess what, Simon?" "There's a world outside Dargon?" Simon smiled. "No, silly," responded Dale, "I've found something while I was walking up the coast." "The ocean?" Simon asked, still sarcastically smirking. In answer, Dale brought forth a small bundle from his tunic. He had wrapped something in a wool cloth, and he unwrapped it very carefully to reveal what looked like a carving that had been covered with sand and seaweed. "What is it?" Simon was curious. Dale carefully picked the seaweed away and, with a handful of water from a nearby rain barrel, washed off the stone carefully. What was revealed was a small sculpture of Dargon Keep, crudely done, but made in ivory, the unmistakeable three towers rising above a walled section of town. Simon's eyes widened, then seemed very far. Then he came back, smiled at Dale, and said, "What a find, lad! I'd hang onto that, if I were you." "Yeah. I'm going to keep it in my room. I think it's really neat!" "It sure enough is that, lad. Now you run home and do your reading. We've had plenty of adventure for this day, eh?" "Yeah!" Dale said as he carefully wrapped the miniature keep in the cloth. "Well, see you tomorrow, Simon!" He turned and jogged away, innocent of the expression on his older friend's visage. Simon Salamagundi felt old, perhaps for the first time in his young life. Seventeen years earlier, he remembered, his mother had apprenticed him to a sculptor, thinking Simon had artistic hands. His father, Seth Salamagundi, had been a sailor, and Simon's blood came from his father's line. One afternoon, he had sat by the ocean, trying desperately to live up to others expectations of him, carving a small ivory model of Dargon Keep. It had looked so horrible that he hurled it as far into the sea as he could throw it. He ran home, wrote a note for his mother, and hired himself out to ship's cook on the Lilith. That was the end of his landboundedness, the last he saw of his mother, and the end of his childhood. Over the years, the memory of that piece of ivory had meant many things to Simon. When he was young, he had hated it, for it was a symbol of his mother's attempts to keep him home, and his failure to live up to the expectations of others. During his many years at sea, he had both loved it as a symbol of his freedom and success and hated it still for the failure associated with it. Now he could only look back at the wealth of emotion attached to the object and feel all that he had gone through once more, and cry. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Rendezvous The aging alchemist Gilman awaited an appointment with a customer, but that did not make the mysterious, nocturnal visitor any more welcome. His silver however was, and Gilman knew well enough not to inquire too deeply into its source. It rankled him that respectable patrons were so rare these days with the rise of the mystic cult Masgrah, which seemed to be developing into a full blown hanse. The members, which included most of the aristocracy of the city of Magnus, were forbidden to deal with outsiders except as absolutely necessary. Gilman refused to give into these ecomonmic coercions but unless he did something soon his business would fail. His eminent customer's medicinal orders were some of the few means of support he could find in his toubled situation, tough the covertness often bothered Gilman. Gilman had wondered about the man since he had first entered his laboratory almost a year past. At first appearance the youth seemed to be among the riffraff commonly encountered in the poorer sections of any city the size of Magnus. He appeared unwashed, unkept, and half-starved; his clothing little more than rags. His face seemed a battlefield of pox scars. But the feature which repulsed Gilman most was the constant twitches and jerks which wracked the youth's frame. Still, he possessed two qualities which did not align with this image: money and a classical education. Gilman often worried about the source of funds which allowed him to acquire such rare ingredients at what Gilman well knew to be inflated costs. He had been similarly astounded to glimpse the youth's knowledge in classical science and literature in their discussions. So great was his education that Gilman often wondered why his own services were required by the youth at all. But then the youth's unsteadiness and nervous aggitation would be a major hindrance in the laboratory. The youth's background was one mystery into which this well-meaning investigator would not pry as he feared the prospect of losing such a monetary find. A gentle but unrhythmic rapping roused Gilman from his thoughts. Approaching the barred door, Gilman called for his visitor's identity. The sole answer "Atros" was sufficient passage into the alchemist's combined laboratory and home. The youth appeared if anything to be more nervous than normal. "You have completed the Nepenthe of the Mahedeos?" Atros asked. His articulation was so flawless that once again it startled Gilman. "I await only the second half of the payment," Gilman answered noticing the strange expression in the youth's eyes. "It is by far the strongest nepenthe that I have ever compounded. Its potency will surely overcome the tolerance which you seem to be developing. I promise that your sleep will be both deep and undisturbed by dreams if you imbibe in this 'Little Death'." Gilman chuckled lamely, growing uncomfortable. "I'm afraid that I don't have the money yet, but surely some arrangement could be worked out," Atros said with a rehearsed tone. "That is not according to our agreement nor my policy. Full payment on reception of the vial." Gilman had already promised the youth's coins to a creditor by the following day. "Allow me to take it and I will have your money within three days," Atros offered weakly. "No, I cannot accept credit. I cannot...." Gilman's mind filled with his eminent monetary troubles. "There is no other alternative?" Atros asked faintly. "No." Gilman responded hardly rising from his worries. The youth seemed to be taken by a particularly violent jerk of his right arm which flew toward the old man. In a near blinding flash of motion, Atros wedged a knife in the old man's chest. Gilman stared in astonishment, gurgled once, and died. Already beginning to mentally curse his impulse, Atros removed the knife and cleaned the blade. Not for the first time had he tragically let his instinct rather than his mind control his actions. "Fool! Coward! Where will I ever find another supplier!" Atros shouted at himself. After a moment, "He was just a harmless old man..." he mumbled leaning over the body, accepting yet one more burden of guilt. He began to search the building knowing that Gilman's apprentices would discover the crime at sunrise. He easily located both the vial of nepenthe and Gilman's alchemical notes and texts. With greater effort he found the old man's disappointingly small cache of coins. Careful so as not to be seen he slipped from the building and returned to the hovel in which he was currently residing. Once there he began to consider his situation. Surely, Gilman's apprentices knew of his nocturnal visits. He would never escape the headman's block if he remained in Magnus. He resolved to leave as quickly as he could pack his meager possessions, which were mostly comprised of rare and coveted books on a wide range of subjects. He was reluctant to leave any of his prizes but he realized that they would only slow him down in his flight. Quickly, he made his selections and headed for the north gate. He had heard of a distant port near Dargon where a man might lie low for a few months. He hoped that such a place could cater to his needs, but he realized that skilled alchemists were quite rare, especially ones who would accept a client as unaristocratic as he himself appeared. He tried to convince himself that his change of residence would be an oppurtuntity to begin anew, but he had drifted too much not to know that you always take yourself along with you. Within a few minutes he slipped past the guards at the northern gate and was leagues distant from the city by sunrise. A few hours after sundown of the following day, Atros sat near a small campfire in a secluded grove far to the north. Though he was very weary he had taken a great deal of time preparing as good a meal as possible under the circumstances. Of course, he had only attempted to delay the inevitable. Finally, he lay close to the small fire huddled in rags and slept for the first time in many days. Well aware of the finite supply of the nepenthe, he had chose not to partake of the drug hoping that the weariness of his body would prevent dreaming. He had been wrong. Atros didn't know when he first became aware. The environment about him had come into being quite gradually. Perhaps it was the heat of the forge itself which had roused him. Atros knew almost instantly that this was a dream, at least it was what other people in the waking world called a dream, though Atros was no longer so certain of the distinction. He also quickly realized that this was one of those few dreams wherein he was present as only a discorporate observer. This frightened him since such dreams, with their innate feeling of helplessness, were often the worst. His point of perception was suspended about three feet above a curiously crafted forge or oven. It was a hollow stone cube with two opposing sides open. Within the cube a bank of red coals were fanned by a strange wind which passed through the cube's open faces. The forge itself seemed to be composed of a gritty, brown rock which was encrusted in soot. Atros first perceived a disturbance in this scene with the sounds of the approach of several person who were beyound his field of vision, which seemed to be fixed downward. Shortly, he periferally sensed a dark, muscular figure who examined the coal bed, grunted, and placed a long, somewhat squared bar of black metal into the forge. The metal quickly grew red with firery intensity. After a time, the man, whom Atros took to be the smith, removed the brand, placed it atop the forge and set to striking it with a blunt, iron mallet. Each blow seemed vaguely unsettling and disturbing to the point that Atros mentally winced in anticipation of each strike. During this time another figure beyound Atros' sight began speaking to a third. He seemed concerned that the metal was too imperfect to temper it so harshly, but the third voice reassured him that the alloy was finer than before crafted and that none other could fill their purpose. This seemed to mollify the second voice to some extent but his voice retained a tinge of nervous anxiety. After what seemed to have been an eternity of excruciating blows to Atros, he gained awareness enough to look upon the product of these labors. He was astonished to discover a fantastically beautiful, silver brand of glossy smooth finish extending from a fine point down a double edged shaft to a thin tang bolt. Atros' mind was awed by this creation while the smith wiped his sweaty grip and brow on a soot-smeared rag. A barely perceived motion suggested that one of the as yet unseen figures had given the smith an ornately carved dark walnut box, which the smith fumbled open. Inside lay a fine silver chisel and a heavy mallet made entirely from a single casting of bone white metal. Here again, the voice of the second figure gave caution. He was unsure whether the forthcoming action was totally justified when the dangers were fully considered, but the third reassured the smith and set him about his task. Carefully, the smith took the hammer and chisel in hand positioning the chisel's tip on a point just below the sword's point. He raised his right arm and with a mighty blow came down with his full force which sent fine crack through the forge. Simultaneously, Atros elsewhere perceived the astonished stares of grocers, merchants, and midwives to a single clang from their chapel's bell tower, which for centuries had been used to signal a call to arms. This dual point of awareness was only momentarily disorientating to Atros as he had experienced the like before in other dreams. Returning to the forge, the bewildered Atros saw engraved on the blade the entire word "Cogne", but the smith was not yet finished. Once again, his hammer rose and fell but with an even greater force which further enlarged the forge's flaw. Once again, the high noted report of the barrel-shaped warning bell drew attention of distant farmers, herders, and millers. The blade now bore the highly stylized word "Tu" at its mid-section. The smith, exhaustion seeping from his pores, stretched his frame over the hot forge to impart the last engraved word to the haft. For the third and final time he drew his hammer high with incredible slowness and delivered it with the unmatchable strength that arose from the last of his reserves. As the block split, his blow caused the sword to leap outward lodging the sword's point deep within his abdomen. Exhausted by his efforts the smith calmly accepted death. Simultaneously, the bells of the church tower broke out in a furious and undying clangor demanding action from all the denzines of the manor. Struggling to keep out the clamor, Atros concentrated on the still visible haft of the sword which rose from the crumpled form of the smith. The word "Ipsem" was firmly engraved, but Atros also noticed that a fine crack ran from this engraving to the tang bolt, where its prescence might cause the handle to snap in its wielder's grip at some future date. Still, the clangor of the bells continued as Atros drifted apart from this vision. After some moments, Atros rolled over in his sleep somewhat roused by the bell. "Who was that? Dear." He called to the supine form laying beside him in bed. "Wrong number... Go back to sleep," a rich feminine voice replied. Atros drifted into sleep once more. Atros awoke with a startled cry jumping to his feet and throwing some of the begraggled bedding into the smoldering coals of the nearby campfire. He was sweating profusely though the night air was quite cold. Quickly, he rescued what scraps he could from the flames and croached back near the fire. He struggled to force the unpleasant recollections of his dreams from his mind. Aided by that natural psychological force which seperates our dream lives from our wakeful lives by forgetfullness, he managed after an hour to recall only that his dreams had been most unpleasant. No longer willing to take such chances, Atros quaffed a rather large dose of nepenthe and gradually returned to unconsciousness. His final thoughts lingered on the translated phrase which occupied his mind long after his dream had been forgotten. Still, he recognized that he had considered the phrase vitally important only moments ago. To the occasionally cynical mind of Atros, "Know you yourself" now seemed just a sample of that profound sounding drivel which streetcorner philosophers fostered on the unwary. It could not be worth troubling one's sleep over so, he let this too pass from his mind. Gilman's word, after all, had been good. Atros experienced the sleep of the dead for the next nine hours. A few minutes after Atros had administered himself with the drug and safely passed the arms of Morpheus without mishap, a black cloaked figure arose from the brush at the edge of the fire light, floated smoothly across the glen floor, and stood motionless above Atros' helpless form. It stood thus until nearly daybreak then glided into the nearby depths of the wood to wait yet again. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Exile Michiya awoke to the cries of sea gulls in the early morning hours of his last day at sea. He carefully groomed himself and donned a pair of stark white trousers. On top of this he wore a blue and white patterned shirt. About his waist he wrapped a pale blue sash pinned together with a tiny ivory figurine of a Kitsune. Through the sash he thrust the swords given to him by his father. As he reached the door of his small cabin he stopped and looked back at the black lacquer case next to his bed. He turned around and knelt in front it with his hand on the latch. After a moment he lifted the top and reached under the clothes to remove the two ancient swords given to him by his uncle Sasaki as he left home. He looked longingly at them and eventually told himself 'Michiya, you are a long way from home and the time has come for you to accept the changes in your life! Put away your boyhood swords and bear these ancient blades with the honor you deserve.' It was the first time he had borne the two beautiful swords since receiving them as he left home. After a short prayer to the Storm God Susano-wo for continued good sailing, he went out on deck. For a long moment he stood watching the sunrise until the mate called out to him, 'Good morning Ittosai-san.' 'Hai,' he whispered, 'totemo ii desu ne!' Turning to the mate he called 'Good morning Stiben-san, when will we be arriving in Darugon?' Checking the sun and the colour of the water, he replied 'Just before lunch if the wind holds up. Why don't we go below and get something to eat with the night crew before they eat their foolish heads off and leave nothing for us?' Taking Steven's suggestion to catch an early breakfast with the crew he was treated to a meal of lightly fried fish and potatoes. Potatoes were one few thing he had found to his liking since leaving his homeland so he ate with great enjoyment. Listening to the sailors talk of their expected docking later that day he realized how much he missed his homeland. Weary of hearing their foreign tongue that he had been forced to learn out of necessity, he drifted off into a reminiscence of his final good bye to his uncle. The bitter winter winds had swept the dock clean of snow that cold night in Yoshida. The cold irritated the freshly bandaged wound in his leg as he stood there waiting for his uncle. He considered returning to Osaka and facing his enemies rather than leave the country. His uncle insisted that this was the only proper course of action available to him, but leaving hurt his pride. Just as he decided that was exactly what he would do, he saw his uncle approach carrying a bundle under his arm. Kneeling before his uncle he said 'Uncle-san, my apologies but my sense of honor demands I return to Osaka and face the Itokawa clan.' His uncle, Ittosai Sasaki, replied 'You will do no such thing! The Itokawa clan is acting dishonorably in their attacks against you. They send many of their Samurai after you, a lone ji-zamurai, just because they cannot accept that one of their children could possibly be defeated by you. Once they capture you and find out who you are, they will declare an illegal blood feud on our small clan. I will not allow the Ittosai clan to be destroyed to salve their hurt pride. You have acted honorably all along, it is no dishonor for you to leave now and save your family. Go now, and may Susano-wo bless your travels.' 'But uncle-san!' he replied 'I do not feel so very honorable at the moment. Why are they so respected, if they act so dishonorably?' Sasaki thought a while before answering, 'They are very powerful, and they aided the new Shogunate on its rise to power. With such credentials many things are overlooked.' At this point he began unwrapping the bundle at his side. Inside was a beautiful old Dai-sho. Holding it out to Michiya he said 'I want you to take this and bear it with the same honor your great grandfather did after the son of heaven, Emperor Go-Shirakawa, gave it to him with his blessing.' With trembling hands, Michiya accepted the ancient blades, but said 'Uncle-san, I cannot accept this gift! They belong in our family shrine!' 'Do not argue with an old man on a cold night! Take them now and board the ship.' With that his uncle turned around and stalked off into the night. Rising stiffly to his feet, Michiya turned and boarded the foreign trade ship, The Singing Mermaid. His reverie was broken then by the yells of the crew as they prepared to enter the port. He went up on deck and headed forward to get out of the crew's way and get a good look at his new home. It wasn't as colorful as his home back in Bichu province nor as spotlessly clean, but it could have been worse. Some of the ports that they had stopped in to restock their food supplies had been smelly cesspools. As they docked, the Captain approached, and said 'Michiya-san, the crew has unshipped your crates and is ready to unload them. As you are new to Dargon, I have taken the liberty of ordering them to carry your belongings to a respectable inn called "The Inn of the Hungry Shark". Thomas the bartender is a friend of mine, tell him I sent you and he will make sure that you are treated with respect.' 'Thank you Captain Markus-san' Michiya replied with a bow 'I was wondering where I would stay until I became understanding of this place. I have enjoyed the trip and the company of you and your crew. I would also like to thank you for teaching me your language.' 'No thanks are necessary' said the Captain. 'It has been a pleasure to have you on board these last few months. In fact it is I who should be thanking you for your assistance in dealing with those pirates last month. I usually am able to go for years with no such encounters, and every time I have had an encounter I've been lucky to drive them off. Now I think it'll be quite a while till I have to worry again.' Looking rather embarrassed Michiya said 'It was nothing, please stop, such flattery to my head will travel. I not so special am...' At this point Michiya broke off in confusion and further embarrassment over his poor English. Saying good bye to the Captain, Michiya went ashore. It finally sunk home to him that he was in a foreign land. Nowhere that he looked, did he see any of his people. At this point he noticed a brightly colored wagon with an umbrella. The owner was a merchant and was selling some stew. Going over to the wagon he got some "Sun Sweet" stew which was quite good. Instinctively he had brought out a pair of hashi to eat with, but this seemed to offend the owner's pet monkey. The little creature grabbed a spoon and thrust it at him. Not wishing to offend to little monkey any further, he accepted the spoon. Handing over a gold koku to the little monkey he quietly complemented it. 'Anata wa kawakute chisaii saru imasu ne!' His comment seemed to puzzle the monkey who was obviously pretending that he didn't understand. Taking his leave of the soup vendor, he thought to himself that the merchants over here were definately an improvement over the ones' back in Nihon. Back home they grubbed for anything they could get and had no self respect at all. The crew members carrying his supplies brought him to a reasonably clean and tidy inn. Here he was introduced to Thomas the bartender. After finding out who had sent him, Thomas set him up in a small but nice room on the second floor. After a short rest, Michiya went back down stairs and asked Thomas to explain the Dargon monetary system to him. Thomas sighed and began to explain the long sad story as he saw it. 'At first there were only two coinage systems in use. One was the Shapkan system which had only two types of coins in modern usage. The two coins were of copper and silver. The other system was the Baranur system which had three basic coins. These coins were gold marks, silver rounds, and copper bits. The copper coin is of the same value as the Shapkan copper, but the silver coins were of different worth. Recently though, the Rand system has been introduced by our Lord Clifton Dargon to "simplify matters". It is a sort of average between the two systems and also has three basic coins like the Baranur system. Once again the copper coins are of common value with all the others, but the silver coins are of yet a third new value and the gold coin is of a different value than the Baranur gold mark.' Michiya stood there taking this in thinking to himself that 'This is madness! How could any one want more than one money system? One money system alone is bad enough, but three will surely cause greed and hatred.' Michiya thanked Thomas for his help and went out for some sight seeing. During his wanderings he passed by a farmers market where he bought some cucumbers. Back home they were considered a delicacy and he hadn't had any for a long time so he was quite happy when he returned to The Inn of the Hungry Shark for dinner. Michiya spent the next few days in somewhat the same manner, though he was constantly on the look out for something he could do to support himself in an honorable fashion. He realized that he could not live forever on the cash that he brought with him and was quite concerned with his future. One night as he was taking his evening walk after dinner Michiya wandered into one of the seedier sections of town. Having been warned by Thomas that thieves and cutthroats were known to attack people from time to time in the area, he was on his guard. Shortly after passing a dark and smelly alley way he heard a sudden stealthy sound behind him. Without pausing to look, Michiya spun about while dropping to his left knee and drawing his katana. Just as he dropped he heard the sound of a thrown dagger pass right over his head. Silently muttering a brief thanks to Hachiman, he rose to meet the rush of the attacking thief. The thief didn't look too happy about the turn of events, but had already committed himself to the attack with his charge. Michiya turned a parry of the thief's first swing into a wheel stroke, expecting the fellow to jump back and avoid the swing. Instead his attacker tried to parry but was hopelessly out of position. The swing cut through the thief's left arm and made a shallow cut in the side of his chest. Dropping the sword with a scream the thief grabbed at the stump of his left arm and stared at it in disbelief. Michiya was also shocked. He had been told that the local thieves were reasonably skilled in weapons and had assumed that they would all know the only possible response to such a basic attack. He hadn't wanted to kill or even seriously maim the man, only wound him slightly to drive him off. The thief fell to his knees and begged 'Please don't kill me! Here, I'll give you everything I have!' Michiya noted that the man was going to pass out from blood loss any minute now, so told him 'Keep your money and your life. I had only intended to try to scare you off and am now ashamed at myself for my failure. Take this as a token of my sorrow over what has happened here tonight.' With that statement Michiya tossed the man a small gold koku and turned away. The thief stared numbly at the small gold coin still disbelieving what was happening. Shakily he reached out, picked up the coin, slipped it into his belt pouch and staggered of into the night clutching at his arm. As Michiya stood there wondering what to do, he heard the sound of many running footsteps approaching. Thinking that more assailants were on the way he began to step into darkness when he realized that it was the city guard. Shaking off the blood from his sword, Michiya sheathed it and stood there calmly in the middle of the street. Six men in uniform came running down the road. Three of them immediately surrounded him and two of the others spread out and started searching the area. The last man, who seemed to be in charge came over to Michiya and asked 'Who are you sir and what went on here?' 'Ittosai Michiya I am' he replied 'I was just by a thief attacked.' At this point one of the searchers came running up with the arm and sword of the thief who had attacked him. He approached the officer and pointing in the direction of the fight said 'Sir! We found these over there by that alley.' Unshuttering his lantern, the officer inspected the sword. With a start of surprise, the officer exclaimed 'This is Captain Koren's sword. It was stolen from him a week ago!' With this he turned to Michiya and said 'Sir, I apologize for the rude manner with which I initially treated you. In this neighborhood we have to assume the worst about anyone we don't know. I am Kalen Darklen and am pleased to meet you.' Michiya noted that the soldiers relaxed as he replied with a bow 'I am honored to meet you Kalen-san. Unduly impolite for the situation, you and your men I did not find'. They chatted pleasantly for a while and eventually Michiya was invited back to the barracks near the Keep to return Captain Koren's sword. Michiya was initially hesitant to go there and embarrass the man in such a fashion. After all losing a sword was a horribly embarrassing thing. Kalen reassured him that it wasn't quite that bad of an embarrassment here in the west. Eventually Michiya returned to The Inn of The Hungry Shark with an escort this time, went to bed, and dreamt of home. -Eric Holmquist <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny Deep Trouble Jim Owens The Essence of Ur-Baal Roman Olynyk Date: 030286 Dist: 121 <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, folks, here's the second batch of Dargon stories. The response to the first ish was, as we downeasterners say, "wicked massive". In fact, when I told one reader that my head was swelling and that I'd start charging for FSFnet, he came back saying that he'd pay for it! Well, for now we'll just keep cranking out the stuff for free, but I won't refuse contributions... I'd like to thank Chris Condon for keeping FSFnet in BITLIST, and all the new readers who responded to BITLIST or the note I sent out last month. Readership is better than ever, but we all know there are more people out there who would be interested in this sort of fanzine, so spread the word, send issues around, and coerce people if necessary to make them sign up! The more the merrier, right? Finally, for all you back-issue freaks, FSFNET INDEX, a list of back issues and their contents is available from mine truly. Feel free to ask for it, and any back issues, but remember that such requests often go several weeks before being fulfilled, since issues before 4-1 are kept on magnetic tape in my living room. Well, that's all the news from the north, on to the two newest Dargon stories... -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Deep Trouble The day was sunlit, although there were still clouds in the sky, and rain still came down occasionally. The wind was no longer cold, as it had been, though, so Levy and Mattan Barel shed their cloaks as they passed through the great wooden gates of Dargon. All around them men carried heavy crates and barrels of food and goods, setting up their booths for the Festival. Levy and Mattan made their way through the streets to the home of Cavendish the Scribe. Levy had spent a few years with Cavendish learning several scholarly languages, and every year, when the Festival came, Levy made it a point to spend a few days in Dargon with his teacher and friend. When they arrived, Cavendish's son Dale made their horses comfortable while Cavendish personally saw to the comforts of his guests. After several hours of "catching up" on old times and equally generous amounts of food and good beer, the household settled down for the night. Levy was jolted out of a sound rest by the sound of loud knocking on the outside doors. As he rolled over, he heard Cavendish making his way to the door, unbolting it and greeting his early morning guests. "We would speak with Levy Barel. We know he is lodging here." The voice was not harsh, but there was no mistaking the authority behind it. By the time Cavendish reached the door to Levy's room, both Levy and Mattan were in their trousers. Levy saw the apprehension in Cavendish's eyes as he stepped into the room. "There are some men here to see you. Lord's Guards." Levy stepped into his boots and walked out into the main room, followed by Mattan. As he did he breathed a quick prayer. Standing in the doorway were three large men, all wearing swords at their sides, undrawn. Levy approached them. "How can I help you?" Levy's tone was carefully chosen, not arrogant, but not fearful either. "Lord Dargon wishes to see you. Immediately." Although there was no threat in the man's voice, it was obvious that he would not leave without Levy. While taking in the situation, Levy noticed his brother's face. It had a curious expression on it, as if he were sizing up the opposition, a look Levy knew well. The three guards, on the other hand, anxiously watched Levy and Mattan. Levy turned to his brother. "I'll go with them. It's all right." Levy knew that Mattan could and would stop these men from taking him against his will. It was always best to play things easy, though. Levy grabbed his cloak and stepped outside to where the men waited with four horses. The group rode silently through the sleeping city to the central keep. There they dismounted, and entered. Please let me see the outside of this castle again, Levy breathed, uncertain. Once inside, the guard Levy had spoken with turned to the other guards. "You may return to your posts." As the two guards saluted, and turned to leave, the third guard turned towards Levy. "Follow me. My Lord awaits." They made their way into the center of the keep, which was larger than any Levy had been in, and up to the top level. Levy was surprised to note that every one they met saluted deferentially to his guide, no matter how high their rank. Soon, they came to a short hallway, in the center of which was a door with guards on both sides. When they reached the door, the two guards blocked their entry until the guide surrendered his sword. Once inside Levy immediately recognized Lord Dargon, a young man, straight and honest-looking. The Lord looked up almost as soon as they stepped in. "Bartol. You found him. Well done." "Thank you, My Lord." "Bartol is my bard. He sings for me when I hold public court. What most people don't know is that he is also second in command of my personal bodyguard, and one of my most valuable spies." "Concerned citizens, Sire." The reply was accompanied with a grin. "Forgive me. Concerned citizens. I would make him ruler of a third of my lands if it weren't for the fact that then he would be of no use to me anymore." Levy infered from their talk that this was to be an informal audience. Therefore, he got to the point as soon as possible. "How can I be of assistance to you, Lord Dargon?" "Allow me to explain; it is a short tale. I must, as all lords in this country must, pay tithes to Baranur. Unlike most lords, I have always paid them promptly, and without grudging. This year, however, a problem has arisen. My financial adviser died this spring of old age and left his eldest son, whom he had been training, in his position. One of the first things his son did was to, how did he say it, invest the tithe money overseas. It really was a good idea. For every piece of gold I sent over, two have come back. Further, because of their increased trade with us, several of our long time enemies would not dare invade us, for fear of loosing a good customer.The only problem arose when the tithe collector from Baranur came. The ship carrying the tithe was late, so we had to put him off for two weeks. He was not happy. When the ship finally did arrive, it arrived during a storm, and sank just outside of the harbor. The tithe collector grew suspicious, and returned to Baranur despite anything I could do. Now, we don't have enough gold in Dargon to pay the tithe, and Baranur has sent me this." Lord Dargon handed Levy a scroll, which he opened. Out of it rolled a dead scorpion. With shaking hands Levy read the scroll. "Be it known! The hand of Baranur is long and heavy! Tithes must be paid in full by the full moon, or the next messenger will not be a dead one!" Levy looked up at Lord Dargon. "The moon is full tonight." "Yes, but the letter did not arrive until yesterday. Baranur is impatient, but not unrealistic. It would take two days for the money just to reach Baranur. No, we have until the next full moon to pay the tithe." "I see. Just what part do I play in this little game, Lord Dargon?" "I am trying to raise the money by other means. There is little hope of doing it, but perhaps we could buy some time with a partial payment. What I want you to do is raise that ship. I know of the legends concerning the first Barel, how he saved this land by his engineering skills. I also know that you follow in his footsteps. Now I am hiring you to help me. Raise that ship. and you will walk away with a tithe of it's holdings." Levy paused. "And if I don't?" Lord Dargon looked Levy straight in the eye. "I will not threaten a guest to my city, nor will I threaten someone I wish to hire. But I will not take no for an answer. And if you don't raise the ship in time, you and your brother will be here in the city when Baranur comes to claim it's due." Dawn found Mattan Barel and Cavendish asleep in chairs, with half empty cups of strong herb tea in front of them. They had been waiting a long time for Levy to come back. They awoke and sprang to their feet when Levy opened the door and stepped in. "What happened? Where have you been? What did they want?" Mattan was relieved to see his older brother in one piece, but now his curiosity was aroused. "It seems I'm not going to get to see much of the Festival after all. Lord Dargon has a minor engineering miracle he wants me to perform for him." Cavendish and Mattan sat back down as Levy removed his cloak and took a free chair. Cavendish leaned forward with a knowing look on his face. "Was it about the ship that sank?" "I'm not allowed to tell any more than what I have, but I will say he's willing to pay me very well. You might say, a lord's ransom. And he won't take no for an answer." Levy sat back, grinning at the expression on Cavendish's face. "I would ask you not let anyone know of this. Not even your family. Mattan, I may need your help later. For now, though, you can have your fun at the Festival. And don't worry about saving enough money for the trip home. We won't be needing to worry about that." One way or another, Levy added, as a silent afterthought. After breakfast, Levy rode across the city to the docks. Once there he rode up to the largest ship he could find. Naturally, it was one of the Lord's own. It was a trading vessel, the Heavenly Walls. Levy tied up his horse, and strode on board. He found the captain, one John Largo, directing the loading of the first part of his cargo. Levy approached him. "I really hate to say this, but I'm afraid you're going to have to unload that cargo." Largo, and everyone else who heard, froze. They all turned to look at Levy. There was a long pause. Largo looked around at all his men, then back to Levy. "And why would that be? Who are you to be telling me these things?" Levy pulled his hand from where he had been concealing it in his cloak. He held it up, palm in. "Who am I? I'm the man who wears this ring." Captain Largo looked at the ring. His eyes sprang wide open, and he immediately doffed his hat and dropped to one knee. "Please! Pardon me! I had no idea!" He turned to the crew. "He wears Lord Dargon's ring!" The entire crew immediately dropped what they were doing and presented a hasty salute. Levy had not asked for the ring, but now he was glad it had been given. He realized now that it would make things much easier, for while he wore it, he had, for many if not all intents and purposes, as much authority as Lord Dargon himself. "Rise. Lord Dargon has asked that I use this vessel. He thought it to be the best one for my needs, and my needs are going to be great. Can you fulfil them, captain?" Levy knew that no man in the captain's position could allow his competency to be so questioned. "Name it, and we will have it done yesterday!" The crew gave a shout, and when Levy smiled and motioned for the captain to lead the way to the cabin, they broke into cheering. A week later Levy stood on the deck of the ship, frowning at the grey waves. Voices behind him drew his attention. He turned and walked across the deck to where three seamen were pulling a drag rope on deck One of the men stopped, and leaned over the side. A moment later he straightened up, pulling a diver on deck. Levy approached the diver. "What can you see down there?" "Nothing. The ship is down there, but we can't get close enough to see it. It's too deep, and the water's too cold, and there are too many sharks." "What about that sack I gave you? The one with the shark poison in it." The man gave a wry smile. "A shark made a pass at me, and I dropped it. The shark doubled back, and ate it." Levy vented a sigh, and turned back to the cabin, He stepped inside, grateful to be in out of the cold wind. The cabin was surprisingly warm, heated by a large cooking stove. The cabin was the living quarters for the whole crew. Two men were presently playing dice in the far corner. One had had his leg broken when a drag line had snapped and thrown him against some tackle. The other was a diver who had been mauled by a shark. The rest of the crew was on deck, busily trying either to put off marker buoys to mark the wreck, or helping the divers in their attempts to reach the wreck. So far the only success had been the initial find of the ship, and even that had taken three days. The grab lines had not been able to haul anything up. No divers had been able to reach the wreck, and at least one other diver had been injured by the sharks, although not severely. The captain had asked to be allowed to take the injured men back to shore, and Levy had agreed. He was secretly glad, as he needed time to plan his next move. He had hoped that the divers he had found at the Festival would help, but they were foiled by the deep, the dark, the cold, and the sharks. He had spent much time petitioning his God for another idea, but none had come yet. Three days later Levy was back at the wreck, only this time with two ships. The first was the Heavenly Walls. The other was a trader, the Green Squid. It's captain was a man called Itoh Carran Tchock. They were the largest ships available, and they had on deck the largest winches Levy could find, ones like those used to raise the drawbridge leading into Dargon Keep. At the moment the two ships were about two hundred feet apart with a thick hawser slung between them. At an order from Levy, the line was played out, until Levy figured that enough had been let out that it was now resting on the bottom. Levy then motioned to Capt. Largo. He bellowed an order to his men, and the ship started moving. He then motioned to Capt. Tchock on the other ship, and it moved forward as well. As the ships moved through the water, the hawser followed. Occasionally it would grow taut, only to slacken as the obstacle was overcome. Then, after about half a minute, it grew taut and did not relax. Both ships stopped. Levy then turned to Capt. Largo. "Launch the boat!" Five men lowered the ship's boat into the water and climbed into it. Another hawser was passed to them, and they started for the Green Squid. When they reached it, the line was passed up to it's crew, who made it fast to the winch on board. The boat crew then rowed back towards their ship. They stopped half way, and fished the hawser out of the water. Then, as Levy watched, more line was let out. The boat rowed forward, pulling the hawser out, until the weight of the extended line was ready to swamp the little boat. Then the crew dropped the line, which disappeared underwater. Capt. Largo turned to Levy, but Levy just stood there, watching. After a long moment, Levy turned to Largo. "It should be down there by now. Make it fast, and start pulling it in." The crew scrambled to fulfil the command. The line was attached to the winch as the first was, and then teams started laboriously turning the spool. Onboard the other ship the crew did the same. The two ships drifted together. As soon as a line could be tossed across, the two ships were drawn together. Wooden beams were placed across the gap between the ships, and lashed to the two decks, binding the two ships together solidly. Levy's plan was easy to understand. It had come to him as he stood on the pier and watched the waves pushing anchor lines around. He didn't know if it was divinely inspired, but it was better than no idea. The first hawser had been dragged along the bottom until it had caught on the bow of the sunken ship. A second had then been sunk around the stern of the wreck. The ships had then been lashed together, so that they could try to winch the wreck to the surface without worrying about capsizing. All through the day the crews turned the big spools. Inch by inch the wet rope wound around the drums. Levy did not plan to totally raise the ship, only get it high enough so that it could be hauled to shallow water. As the sun drew towards the horizon, the wind picked up. With it came rougher seas. Levy told the captain to start to make for shore. The men who were not cranking the winches raised the sails. They had gotten them half up when the two ships lurched. The beams between the two ships snapped, and both ships rose suddenly higher in the water. Levy fell to the deck, as did just about everyone. He got up and ran to the winch. He didn't even need to ask what had happened. Both cables were limp. Levy had been there for only a moment when both ships shuddered again. This time the ships rolled away from each other. One man fell overboard. The air was filled with horrible thumps as each ship was struck several times. When things quieted down, both crews ran to the side of the ship, and were astonished to see the man who had fallen over standing, apparently on top of the water. It didn't take long for Levy to realize that the sunken ship had surfaced, and was now floating on it's own. It wasn't for a few minutes that Levy realized that the ship was now in two pieces, the stern and the bow. After that it was only a moment before the real impact of what had happened hit him. The reason the wreck hadn't floated before was that it was weighted down with it's golden cargo. If it floated now, it was only because the gold had all poured out when the ship had broken in half. Levy stood in an open field. Three weeks ago the Festival had started in Dargon, and three days ago the sunken ship had broken in half as Levy and the crew of the Heavenly Walls had tried to raise it. Since then an effort had been made to dredge the gold off the sea floor, but to no avail. The bottom was rough and craggy, unlike the smooth floor of the harbor. Attempts to dive down to the gold had almost gotten a diver eaten. Levy looked around him. The sun was hot, a welcome change to the cool sea air. Levy had decided to take a break and practice the archery his young twin brother had taught him. He had set up a target in the center of the grassy field, and had walked back to where his bow lay. Now he bent and picked it up, along with an arrow. He had only brought three, as Mattan had wanted to go hunting. As Levy stood there he thought. Where in the world am I going to come up with a way to raise that ship? In this field? He laughed quietly at that thought. I'll never be able to find the solution to this problem. It'll take a miracle. And that wouldn't be a bad idea, he concluded, aiming that last thought skyward. He raised the bow and shot. The arrow struck the target at the base. He drew and fired again. This time he hit to one side. Once more he shot. The arrow struck the very top of the target and glanced off in high, arching flight. Levy groaned. His aim this morning certainly wasn't inspired. He dropped the bow and jogged out to where he thought the arrow had landed. Past the target he found a small stream, and a tiny pool, and his arrow, sticking out of the water in the center of the pool. Levy squatted on the edge of the pool, staring at the brightly colored bolt as it pointed upward, unwilling to muddy the water by wading in to retrieve the shaft. As he sat there a movement caught his attention. A spider scurried along the edge of the pool. It reached a fallen branch that extended out into the pool, and turned out along it. Be careful, little spider, or you'll get wet, Levy thought. To his surprise, the spider turned down a side branch, and crawled right under the water. Levy leaned closer. He had heard of spiders that lived underwater, but he had never seen one. He watched as the small creature clung to the twig, a bubble of air cloaking its abdomen in silver. As he watched the spider, another movement caught his eye. A fish, rather large for such a small pool, swam by. The spider paused, and as it did the fish saw it. With a movement of it's tail, the fish darted after the spider. Before the fish could reach it, however, the spider squeezed between two twigs. The fish bumped it's snout against the twigs, unable to reach the tasty morsel behind them. It hung there for a moment, then swam off, puzzled. Fooled him, you did, Levy thought, safe in your little wooden cage. Then Levy stiffened. Cage! Three days later Levy was once again on the deck of the Heavenly Walls, looking at the red marker buoys bobbing in the water. This time he had brought something else along. It had once hung from a gibbet, holding a criminal's body. Now it hung from a derrick, ready to be swung over the side of the ship. It was a large iron cage, just big enough for a man to stand in. A large, clear glass jar, which Levy had managed to talk the local glass blower into making, was wedged into the top. While the crew watched, Levy climbed in and shut the door. He had decided that he wasn't going to risk someone else's life on one of his ideas unless he was willing to risk his own life first. He motioned for Captain Largo to come near. "When I want up, I'll pull the rope. I'm no diver, and there isn't going to much air in this thing." Captain Largo nodded, and steadied the cage as his men swung the derrick around. Levy hung there a moment, then the cage dropped into the water. The shock of the water was muted by the woolen clothing Levy wore, but it was still great. He was overjoyed to see how well he could see through the glass. The sea around him was easily visible. He sank down quickly, the men above allowing the winch to run almost free. Soon the second part of Levy's idea was tested. A large shape swam up. Levy didn't see it until it circled around the cage. Immediately Levy tensed, and immediately the great fish sensed his nervousness. The shark turned toward Levy, and with a audible snap of it's tail it slammed into the cage. Levy and the cage swung like a pendulum, but the cage held firm. Just as the fish had done, the shark hung there for a moment, then swam off in search of softer game. Levy watched it for a moment, and then he was at the bottom. He scraped along a rock wall for a few seconds, and then thudded into a surprisingly flat bottom. The dark was too thick to see through now, so Levy opened a pouch at his side, and pulled out a small glass jar. Inside was some foxfire he had gathered before setting out. It glowed greenly in the gloom. By it's light Levy could see a metallic glint from the seabed. Reaching through the bars of the cage, Levy grabbed something hard and heavy. It was a gold coin. Joy flooded Levy's mind. He silently shouted praise, his mind singing. He was so happy at his success that he stared at the coin until his lungs started burning, and he realized that the air in the jar was going bad. He reached up, and yanked the cord. Later that day Levy stood at the bow of the Heavenly Walls. Down below divers were scooping gold from the ocean mud. Levy's mind was not there though. He looked out across the waves. He was thinking of what had happened down at the bottom of the sea. Just as the men above started pulling him up, Levy slipped his jar of foxfire back in it's pouch. But the sea around him stayed lit. He looked up, and almost stopped breathing, for staring right at him were two large, glowing eyes. As the cage rose, the eyes disappeared in the gloom. For all of his life, Levy had always wondered at the marvels of this great planet, this marvelous creation. Yet he now realized that he had only seen a tiny part. There were other lands, other worlds within the world. He knew now that he would not have seen anything if he did not take the time, and look deeper. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Essence of Ur-Baal Banewood smelled incense when he entered Aardvard Factotum's home. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he noticed conspicuous details of wealth: polished wooden furniture from Magnus; a paved floor topped with woven grass mats; and thick tapestries, imported from distant Baranur, adorned the walls. The richness of the furnishings attested to Factotum's success as a local healer and surgeon -- a barber, in local parlance. The peasants, those who could afford his services, paid dearly with their cattle, which augmented what was already one of the largest herds in the realm. Those who were rich, however, had rich diseases, and they paid in gold for their treatment, preferably Baranur gold marks. Many of them. But Banewood wasn't looking for healing. And though he could probably use a different type of barber, he hadn't come for a surgical consultation. He was looking for magic and for anyone willing to trade magic spells and potions. When he had first arrived at Dargon, Banewood milled about the docks and warehouses, casting about for information among the sailors, longshoremen and merchants. It didn't take long. Beneath a red and white canopy, a soup vendor called Simon had volunteered the name of Aardvard Factotum, the physician, in barter for some exotic seasonings brought by Banewood. This was not an age of specialization -- a physician, especially one trained by an elder, also dabbled in sorcery. The apprentice shaman, ever on the search for new spells and new knowledge, eagerly sought the physician's house and gave his credentials to a haughty secretary. After about ten minutes -- Aardvard didn't wish to appear eager -- the secretary returned and ushered Banewood into Factotum's richly appointed office. "Hansen, go take a walk and leave us alone," said Aardvard to his secretary. Hansen demurred at the order to leave his employer, but he left obediently. "Who's your instructor?" asked Aardvard. From behind thick lids, his reddened eyes peered at the dusty Shaman. He drew a heavy puff from a pipe. The pipe, made of whale ivory scrimshaw, was very rare. "Ostap of Gorod," responded Banewood. "Never heard of him," said the physician. He stifled a yawn. "I presume you came here with something on your mind." Banewood shifted his weight; he'd been on his feet all day. "Yes. I'm a stranger to the kingdom of Baranur, having journeyed through the forest from the east. "More to this bumpkin than meets the eye," mused Aardvard to himself. The eastern forests seldom admitted strangers. Ones who passed that way may, indeed, have something to offer. "Go on..." Banewood told Aardvard little of his adventure at the hut of Baba Yaga or of his meeting with the little people who lived in the dark forest which surrounded Gorod, his home. Nor did he mention Baba Yaga's book of spells. Baba Yaga was an evil sorceress who died centuries ago in the dark forest. Last summer, Banewood and his companion, Sod the plowman, journeyed through the dark forest to slay Kathryn, a monstrous sow believed by many to be the reincarnation of Baba Yaga. Banewood found Baba Yaga's book of spells within the ruins of her moldering hut. Books of any sort were rare commodities in this dim age, and a book of sorcery was beyond price -- more than one's life, at least. Banewood concentrated instead on his quest for the greater knowledge, his euphemism for the shaman's art. Factotum was amused. Never before had someone sought him out to exchange spells and potions. "Let's play with this one a bit," Factotum thought to himself. "Well, shaman, show me what you can do, and I'll see what I may have to offer you... But I'm sorry, I'm forgetting my manners, aren't I? Please sit and ease your feet." Banewood nodded in thanks. Picking a stool, he sat down and did little to suppress a weary sigh. He reached into his sack and produced a wooden rod. He waved the rod over a small table in front of him, muttered a few words and caused the table to rise about a foot into the air. It floated about for a moment and then abruptly settled back to earth. Aardvard shrugged. "I'm afraid the table is the only thing to get a rise from that old trick," he said with smugness. Thinking to impress Banewood, he reached for a nearby urn and showed the shaman that it was empty. Aardvard covered the urn with a fine cloth which he pulled from a pocket in his robe. He produced his own wooden rod and waved it over the container. With slight flourish, he produced a little white squat-hen, your typical rabbit. He offered the squat-hen to Banewood. "Something for your dinner, perhaps?" Banewood smirked. "Is that all you can do? Squat-hen tricks?" He reached again into his bag and this time pulled out one of his favorites; it was a narrow vial filled with a dark green liquid. He sipped once from the vial and placed it back in his pouch. Banewood closed his eyes as if resting and appeared to go to sleep. "Now what?" wondered the physician. Several minutes went by. However, just as the physician was thinking of offering Banewood a cup of tea or some other stimulant, a raven flew up to the open window and perched on the sill. It looked sideways at Aardvard, which is the way birds often look when gazing directly at you, and croaked "Aar-vard! Aar-vard!" "Is that all you can do? Bird imitations?" scoffed Aardvard Factotum. But the physician had never seen this bit of sorcery before. "Hmm... What else can you do with that potion?" He asked. Once again, Banewood closed his eyes and appeared to sleep. After about a minute, Banewood stirred; he opened his eyes and beamed a knowing smile at Aardvard. "You have twelve hundred gold marks hidden behind your hearth. Don't you trust the banks in Baranur?" Banewood asked. Factotum controlled an urge to jump out of his chair and throttle Banewood. "You can do that with your potion?" he asked. "What is it?" Banewood replied "It's the Essence of Ur-Baal. It sets the mind free of the body." "Oh! I've got to try this essence. Let me try it, please?" begged Factotum, going down a bit in Banewood's estimation. "No, I don't think so," replied Banewood. "It's kind of dangerous if you don't know what you're doing; you can easily get lost and not find your way back to your body." "I've never been lost a day in my life," retorted Aardvard. "You mean you've used the essence of Ur-Baal before?" "Yeah, sure. A long time ago." Aardvard lied. "Well, in that case..." Banewood looked pensive, Aardvard looked eager. "Okay." Banewood relented. He trickled a few drops of the essence of Ur-Baal into a waiting glass. "But be careful and don't stray too far," he warned. "Don't worry, mother, this will be easy," said Aardvard Factotum as he snarfed down a small mouthful of the dark green liquid. Aardvard Factotum closed his eyes. He didn't feel any different for about thirty seconds. Suddenly, he felt strange, like he was having a giddy dream. The muscles in his neck felt extremely loose, and then it felt as if the base of his skull was opening up. His thoughts poured out -- literally. "Boy, this is neat," he thought. In his mind, he went to the kitchen and looked for his gold behind a loose cobble stone near the hearth... "Yes, it's still there, all of it." And while his body remained indoors, his mind perceived the sky. He was moving... at least it felt like he was. He took in the panorama of a dimming twilight sky -- it was particularly beautiful -- and then perceived the smoke of a distant cooking fire. Following the source of smoke, his mind flew down the chimney and entered the living quarters of one of his tenant farmers. A farmer and his stoutish wife were eating and talking about the day's events. How odd! Aardvard didn't hear them, but he FELT what they were saying. They were talking about the stranger who had come to visit the physician, speculating as to what kind of chicanery might be afoot. "My secretary, Hansen, cannot resist passing on the latest gossip," thought Aardvard. "So Hansen becomes a rumormonger when he takes his little walks!" He passed through a small open window and again flew over the countryside with increasing exhilaration. Aardvard's disembodied mind experienced elation as the sensations bombarded him through numerous channels. Aardvard understood so many things. He sensed the heartbeat of a barn swallow in flight, he felt an oak tree breathe, and he felt the vastness of the earth and the sky surrounding it. His mind flew upward and toward the Street of Travellers which ran through the business district of Dargon, then over the wall of Dargon Keep. The castle of Dargon Keep served as home to Lord Clifton Dargon, for whose family the city below is named. Within the keep also lived the lesser nobility and other courtiers. Aardvard Factotum's mind now ran up and down the halls of Dargon Keep. He entered the chamber of Griswald Brutsam, a physician-sorcerer in the employ of Lord Dargon. Most potentates kept court physician-sorcerers to ward off bad food and bad spells. Clifton Dargon was no fool and, hence, no exception. And Griswald was one of the best. Someone else was in the room with Griswald. Normally, Aardvard wouldn't have known who this man was, but his instinct said that it was Lek Pyle, a leading shipping merchant from Baranur. Neither Griswald nor Lek took notice of Factotum's entrance, though Griswald did shift his eyes about as if he was about to impart something important to the other visitor. Anything that Griswald had to say, particularly to one of Baranur's leading merchants, was worth listening in on. Aardvard decided to eavesdrop. Griswald talked about Captain Markus and the return to port of the Singing Mermaid. The Mermaid had gone further east than any Baranur ship -- and it had managed to return. "I know Lord Dargon's will in the matter of sending an army against the island of Bichu," said Griswald. "He wouldn't risk it, and I'm afraid he's also morally opposed to it. He figures that as long as those people are already willing to trade with us, there's no sense in fighting them. And I'm not sure I see the sense either." "It doesn't matter what Griswald thinks of this matter," said Lek. What's important is that Baranur has the exclusive right to govern trade with Bichu." "I still don't like it," rejoined Griswald, "but it looks like I don't have any choice. Loyalty to Lord Dargon isn't worth my life." Lek smiled a crooked grin, stood up and headed for the door. "Still," continued Griswald, tugging absently at his ear and rising from his seat, "I'm not sure of the best way to get Lord Dargon out of the picture." If the disembodied mind that was Factotum's could have choked at this moment, it would have. "By the great gods!" thought Factotum. "They're talking of assassination! I've got to go warn somebody..." While Factotum watched mutely -- at least mutely as far as Lek and Griswald were concerned -- both men quietly walked out of the room and headed down the hall toward the stairs. But when Aardvard Factotum tried to follow, he couldn't move. He felt like a man trying to escape a nightmare beast; if he'd had knees, they'd have turned to rubber right now. No, actually, the feeling was more like standing in muck up to your chin, and knowing that it was going to get higher. Aardvard felt the same sort of panic that men felt when they were about to die, that is, his mind seized up and refused to work. It was a sinking feeling. -Roman (Mr. Fish) Olynyk <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny The Awakening Orny Spirit of the Wood Rich Jervis Dreamer's Holiday Joseph Curwen Dawn Watch Jim Owens Date: 042086 Dist: 143 <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Greetings, all. Well, there is so much to write of here, yet so little space. Enclosed you will find 4 new Dargon stories (the last of which takes place well before the current ones). I must apologize for the delay, but I think you will find it worth the wait. Also, there will be another issue out before the end of the semester, if I have my way, although who knows? I might mention that if you look at the distribution, we are growing at a phenomenal pace, and I'd like to again thank all the new readers for their interest. As for new books, look for Janet Morris. She's released two new books that are the first Thieves' World novels, titled "Beyond Sanctuary" and "Beyond the Veil" (the latter available only in hardcover as far as I know). Also, new Robert Anton Wilson, Piers Anthony, Anne McCaffrey, and a reprint of an old Tanith Lee book. Two more items. For those of you who will be around this summer, a user at Cornell is planning on running a play by mail Diplomacy game over BITNET. For more details send a mail file to UXHJ at CORNELLA. Finally, for those of you with accounts that will expire soon, please let me know so that I can delete you from the distribution list. This will help save me from having to sit up all night watching sent file messages, as well as the annoyance of filling up your node's spool space. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Awakening The morning sun was boldly creeping towards the edge of Hartley's sleeping mat when he woke. Sitting up, he shed the single wool blanket he had been given by one of the peasant women from the nearby village of Greenmont. He had left the shutters and door of his modest dwelling open, and the smell of the surrounding pine woods and the warm sun permeated the room. Shrugging on a light brown tunic, Hartley leaned out the window and took a deep breath. This was one of those special May mornings Hartley had been taught were called Truespring, when spring finally came in a burst of warmth and lush greenness. The sky was clear and deep azure, and the leaves on the old Maple out back were calm, signifying that the rest of the day would not see any spring showers. A nuthatch hung upside down on a Cedar, nibbling at the piece of suet Hartley had hung only yesterday afternoon. Truespring had come at last, and Hartley's soul was healed, after the long days of winter. He could feel the raw, rejuvenating power of Nature, and he rejoiced in it. After several very long moments of private reverie, Hartley left his small cottage with a pewter basin. He walked barefoot down a well-known path, carpeted with a dun-colored mat of last years fallen pine needles, eventually coming upon a small woods stream. The druid climbed upon a stone that jutted into the stream. After a moment of excited consideration, Hartley tossed the basin towards the path and stripped off his tunic. The water would be very cold, but after the winter, Hartley couldn't wait until he could swim a little and wash all over. After steeling his nerves in the sunlight, he leapt into the spring runoff. He thrashed around in the water for a bit, getting clean, and hopped right back up onto the rocks. He shouldn't stay in too long, after all. He laid down on the sun-warmed boulder for a time, drying off and listening to the babble of the rushing water and the voices of the woods. After several minutes, he donned his robe and filled the basin, bringing it back to the hut with him. Walking around to the front of the cabin, Hartley came upon his garden. Here grew all varieties of flowers and herbs, and, soon, vegetables. He sprinkled water from the basin around. Most of his flowers were up, and the Lilacs were blossoming in white and lavender. His patch of Lilly-in-the-Valley were also blossoming fragrantly. There was a great deal of work in his garden, but Hartley knew that it was well worth the effort. It was still a little early to plant many vegetables, although he ought to head into town and buy some pea and corn seeds. If he was lucky he could get two groups of peas before fall, so he planned to get them in the ground as soon as possible. As for corn, that took all summer to grow, and should be planted as soon as possible. He bent down and picked a single Lilly-of-the-Valley stem and smelled its sweet bell-like blossoms. Placing the basin down, he walked to the far side of the garden, where he had built his altar to the twin gods. The altar was nothing more than a small gathering of stones, but it meant more to Hartley than any other place he knew. The snow had melted from it, revealing the remains of prior offerings: a few golden leaves, a pine tassel, and so forth. He knelt before the altar, placing the Lilly blossom atop it. For several minutes he sat in silent meditation, worshipping the works of the two gods, the strong-willed man called Nature and the softness of Mitra, goddess of Love. Hartley had been taught early the worship of Nature, and knew little of Mitra save that she was the all-mother, and Nature's twin companion. After this ritual was complete, he quietly returned to his home and prepared for a trip into town. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Spirit of the Wood The acrid smell of the 'smokers' stung loric's eyes and he rolled onto his side to cover his head with his lightly tanned arm. This position was soon ruined also, as an errant beam of early morning sunlight stole under the shade on the window and hit him in the corner of his left eye. Soon the battle of boy versus nature was over and Loric groaned as he gave up and sat up. He watched the dancing motes of dust pirouette in and out of the beam of golden light for a few moments and then moved to the window through which it came. Loric never ceased to be moved by the sight of his village in the Trees. The web-like network of vines that linked his home to the surrounding trees, the home of his uncle down that one, that of his sister Silsia at the base of the other (she was an unmarried female and was considered somewhat a rouge by the other villagers, except Loric who worshipped the ground she walked on even if it was in fact ground and not the vines he had been born to. There was a natural depression of the land between here and the village of Greensward, with the lake shimmering in the exact center like a jewel of surpassing beauty, in fact the only gem Loric had ever seen was the blue polished stone that his uncle wore in his headband, as a sign that the Spirit of the Wood had chosen him to lead. He was a demanding taskmaster and not taken to change but fair to all, and his leadership had gotten the people through several hard winters when the ice-ladened vines had snapped and fallen upon the 'Downlanders' below. The mention of the Spirit of the Wood reminded Loric of his morning prayer. His was a simple one and not really a rhyme to be proud of but his Grandfather had assured him that as time went on he would achieve better rapport with the spirit and the Hearth-song would reveal itself more clearly. Making a simple hand gesture of acknowledgement to the rising sun, he sang to the Spirit of the Wood: "Spirit of the Wood, Spirit of the Wood, I'd come be with you, If I could." This done Loric took a step outside to see where his Grandfather was this morning. Loric's father Dernhelm had been one of the 'Downlanders that has perished in the winter and since that time Loric had lived with his Grandfather, whom everyone in the village called Oldsir. Loric's awe for his older sister was only over-shadowed by that for his Grandfather, who though blind for nearly all of Loric's two years and twelve still negotiated the vines connecting the upward village with the ease some never developed. Several of the younger men who were jealous of his seat on the arboreal council urged him to join his wife and family on the ground but he always said "If I go below again it'll be on my head!" "That's a strong oath for a young man to take," commented a voice from above him. "Shall I swear witness to it, Loric?" "Oldsir I was talking to myself, and besides, I have yet to take the Shreaving, and I can swear no oaths before then." "It is only three more nights till the Moon shows itself full upon the land, I think perhaps you are ready to try." Loric was surprised, it had been only a cycle earlier that he had begged Oldsir to allow him to accompany the young men to the ground where the Rite of Shreaving began. He looked closely at his grandfather, somehow sensing the weariness and pain that sometimes took his Grandfather and shook him for nights in a row. Oldsir turned tired, sightless eyes upon Loric and in a flash of inspiration Loric saw what it was that his Grandfather was fatigued from. His eyes bore the tale-tell spider-tracing of a Vision. The Spirit of the Wood had spoken to Oldsir, or perhaps through him during the night. No one alive in his village had ever had two visions from the Spirit. This meant that something of extreme import to the village was about to occur. Oldsir's eyes showed Loric something else equally disturbing. They revealed to Loric that his Grandfather was dying. The days between that moment and the day of Sheaving were filled with a combination of early congratulations from the villagers, getting his garb fitted for him by his sister, and quiet reflective evenings as his Grandfather taught him the oral histories, and shared with him the knowledge of dreams and visions that The Spirit gave him. Loric feared that Oldsir would not live through the days of Shreaving to see if he became a man. But his Grandfather seemed at peace and showed no outward sign that his time of death had been revealed to him. He seemed to convey a quiet dignity that Loric tried in vain to accept. He felt like shouting and fighting but there was nothing but shadows for him to vent his anger on. "Why?" He said finally, unable to keep his fear to himself, "It's not fair!" "Is it fair that you were born to my son and not to another, that the rain falls on the Windbourne mountains and leaves the Plains of Woe a place where only djervishes can walk?" -Rich Jervis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Dreamer's Holiday The Grand Hall of the Keep of Dargon rivaled the local shrines and temples in augustness of stature, especially on this night, the eve of the opening of the Spice Market at the Dargon festival. The ivory white hall's sumptuous furnishings had been commissioned by the somewhat frivolous and eccentric grandfather of the the current Duke. The high flanking windows were decorated with rose red and aquamarine tinted glass arranged in somewhat bizarre geometric patterns. Paintings of obscure artists dotted the alabaster white walls. Short flights of burnished wooden staircases were the only entrance onto the central dance floor on which was centered a great ebony clock marking the hours in hollow base tones. This was the forth night since the beginning of the fairs that the hall was filled by a voluptuous company. But this night was special, second only to the opening of the fairs themselves in its festivities. While small clusters of nobles and merchants mingled on the edges of the hall discussing the fairs, elegant couples danced gracefully to the controlled harmonies of the performing orchestra. One such couple was Kite and Pecora. Youthful, aristocratic, handsome, recently engaged, and remarkable pleasant, they were favored and envied by all. "Your friend Raffen doesn't seem to be having a good time this evening," Pecora observed indicating a lone man standing in one of the darker corners of the ivory white hall. A nearby coal brazier sent ruddy red light onto the man's extremely white face causing an astonishing macabre effect of which Raffen was apparently unaware. "He doesn't fit in here for all his efforts. He was invited as entertainment only. The court wanted to hear of his travels in the south," Kite responded somewhat worried. "Other wealthy merchants are here," Pecora suggested. "Yes, but Raffen isn't wealthy. He holds several commenda." Noticing her look of noncomprehension Kite added "Agreements with southern merchants to act as their agent in the fairs. But he lacks any real property of his own. The payment for his services is relatively small. A brillant man but still a commoner." Kite's voice was wistful. He often regretted the social conditions of his society. "He realizes why he was invited. Perhaps he resents it," he added somewhat gravely. "He's been alone most of the evening. Perhaps his novelity has worn off," Pecora observed. "I don't know about that. I overheard Sir Ponte and Duralt's younger brother discussing adopting the custom of wearing facial talc which Raffen picked up while in the south. I suspect that they want to share in Raffen's attention." "Those two would try to capitalize on anything to get the ladies' attention. But Raffen's not exactly a lady's man... Too introverted. I don't think that he wears the talc to attract women, though it does cover his rough complexion well," Pecora said. "It wasn't so long ago that Sir Ponte had designs on you," Kite chided playfully. "I knew that there was some reason for our engagement. I just hope getting rid of Ponte is worth the price," Pecora responded with equal playfulness and kissed Kite. "It's Raffen's brooding that chases everyone off," Kite added after a moment. "He always has something on his mind, though he never admits what it is." "Yes, he always appears so contemplative...depressed. He doesn't dance and often seems so distant." "Yes, but conversations with him are never dull. Maybe we should go over," Kite suggested. "I'd rather have you to myself.... There's Pravo. Why don't you introduce them. He's also something of a misfit." "Good idea. Be back in a moment." Kite smiled as he crossed the dance floor. As Kite and Pravo approached, Raffen stood admiring an arresting oil painting detailing an immense cavern wherein cowled riders fly gray, corpse-like humanoids with large membranous wings from galleries and high ledges over a darkened, sluggish river flowing over uncountable cataracts into a distant chasm. "Raffen, have you met Pravo, one of Dargon's most distinguished scholars?" Kite asked. The gentleman looked distinctly uncomfortable. "No, I'm sure that I would recall such a pleasurable experience." Raffen replied driely. "I'm sure that you will find that you have much in common. But I'm afraid that I will have to leave you to yourselves. If you will excuse me, duty calls," The departing Kite explained gesturing toward Pecora who seemed to be signalling him. "I've been looking forward to meeting you, Raffen, since hearing of your travels to the far south," Pravo said with a bit of hesitation. "Yes, it seems my adventures have sparked great interest in this court," Raffen said with artificial warmness tainted with agitation. "But my interests are different than most, I'll warrant," Pravo said looking about court, perhaps checking for eavesdroppers. "I am less concerned with brillant scenes and deeds of daring than with the cultures and religions which you encountered." "That is well because my meager collection of brave and daring deeds are to the point of exhaustion." Both laughed. Raffen began to develop an interest in the man. "You see, I am something of a scholar, perhaps you've encountered my works, 'Legends and Myths of Thasodonia' or 'Northern Nights'?" "You wrote 'Legends and Myths' !?!" Raffen said with some excitement. "I've read the work and liked it a great deal." "You needn't flatter me, I have no great influence here," Pravo said looking somewhat uncomfortable. "No, I'm serious. Your rendition of the Tchai myth was the most complete that I've yet encountered." "Oh! Then you really have some interest in my field," Pravo said looking pleased. "Perhaps you can be of some help." "Hopefully, how might I help you?" Raffen offered with a slightly sarcastic flourish. "I'm compiling a collection of creation myths. Perhaps you could contribute something from the South," Pravo asked hopefully. "Oh...... I'm sorry but my business there was remarkably consuming. I had little time to really observe the people." "Unfortunate." Pravo appeared disappointed. "I was hoping to uncover something unknown in this area," Pravo said turning away, showing obvious signs of intent to depart. "No wait. Let me think.. I do remember one rather unusual tidbit. Have you ever heard the word 'Squarg'?" Raffen asked with a smile. "'Squarg'?.... No, not that I recall," Pravo replied somewhat confused, trying to determine if Raffen was joking. "It doesn't seem to fit into the linguistics of any language with which I am familiar. What does it mean?" "As all really good words, it stands for a concept which is difficult to express otherwise. Perhaps because it is not of truely human origin," Raffen added solemnly. "A nonhuman word? No wonder I did not recognize it. Interesting... Please attempt to define it as best you can," Pravo requested somewhat reassured but still confused. "The best method of defining it lies in the creation myth in which it originated." "Oh then, by all means tell it as best you can," Pravo asked seeming very attentive. "As the myth goes, the word was coined by the first sentient creature," Raffen began then stopped. "Oh, I see. Go on." "Soon after it was created, the sentience was guided by the All Creator to a point from which it could view the entirety of reality so that for the first time the Creator could share his handiwork with another capable of appreciating it." There was a moments hesitation in Raffen's speech followed by an encouraging gesture from Pravo. "The astonished creature looked upon the vastness of time, space, void, living, and nonliving. In response, the creature uttered what was probably the first word, though it is almost certain that this creature possessed no vocal abilities as we know them. And this first word, this first independent thought, was 'Squarg', or so that is the sound which man has given that word. It stands for many things. It symbolizes all the wonder and rapture inherent in a glimpse of the entirety of reality, but at one and the same time, it relates a certain feeling of pride and contempt, hubris against the Creator. As if one were to say 'Is this the best that you could do?' and 'Beware God, I am Man. These realms are mine to do with as I please and I will do better.' There are other nuances of course but these are even more difficult to define. All in all not a very complex creation myth. I hope you will forgive its brevity and lack of plot," Raffen finished. "No. No. It is fascinating and original. Unlike any that I've heard before. A major contribution for my book. How did you come by it? Some nonhuman work?" Pravo asked in apparent euphoria. "Perhaps. I first read it in a book called The King in Yellow though I've seen it elsewhere since," Raffen replied. "The King in Yellow!?...hmph.. Yes, I've heard of the book, though I've never seen a copy. I'd almost attributed its existence as a myth itself what with the remarkable rumors that surround it." Raffen nodded. "It is said that few survive a perusal with their sanity fully intact. It has been said to have been the doom of many great minds." "Yes, that is true," Raffen affirmed, lost in thought. "It was written by an artist, I believe," Pravo offered. "Yes... It has been and will be written by many artists individually," Raffen replied, his voice trailing off in volume. "Pardon, I didn't quite hear that. It's becoming dreadfully noisy in here. Perhaps we could step outside." Pravo pointed toward the balcony. "It is little better out there. But yes, let's." Both exited to the dark balacony which overlooked a street crowded with celebrating townspeople. "About the origin of the book," Pravo began. "It was written by an artist/poet who was attempting to define and codify a system of creative motifs and symbols which are common to all cultures. Metaphors and images which transcend all cultures and all peoples. It is these primal truths which are said to drive men mad," Raffen said in a serious tone. "You seem quite sound and you've read the book." Pravo attempted weak humor. "I sometimes wonder..." Stunned into silence for a moment, Pravo said finally "I am quite anxious to read the book myself, perhaps you have it at hand?" "No. My copy is in a safe place very far away. Very far..." Again Raffen trailed off. "That is unfortunate. Still, I will do my best to locate a copy here in Dargon." Pravo seemed somewhat irritated and unsettled by Raffen's tone. "Any intellect with the ability and the desire to read the book will eventually locate it," Raffen offered somewhat mysteriously. The scholar chuckled weakly. "Then I have some hope... I think..." Very unsettled, Pravo looked deeply at Raffen who stared off across the festivities below. A rather plain looking, middle-aged matron stepped out onto the balcony and expressed her desire to dance with Pravo before the musicians departed. Pravo could hardly refuse. "I hope that we will get a chance to speak again," Pravo said as they drifted apart, possibly relieved by the interruption. "I am certain that we will," Raffen replied, uncertain whether he was heard over the buzz of the company. Seeing that the ball was nearly at an end, Raffen decided to make his excuses and depart. Atros felt no guilt for assuming Raffen Yeggent's identity even though it had required slaying Raffen. The two had met along the road to Dargon and had remained traveling companions for several days. Atros had been wary of this relationship from the start, particularly since he wanted to severe his ties with the city of Magnus. It might prove difficult later if a witness existed who could attest to the specifics of his journey. But the somewhat lonely Raffen had forced himself on Atros and Atros hadn't pressed the issue. Raffen had been a talkative sort describing in detail his background, recent travels, business matters, and future plans. Atros did his best to remain noncommital to Raffen's occasionally probing questions but it grew to be strenuously difficult at times. Still, Atros felt so refreshed and contented by virtue on the continued use of the nepenthe that he had almost enjoyed the verbal fencing at times. Atros had sensed almost immediately that Raffen wasn't what one might call a highly scrupulous individual. Raffen's main pursuit in life it seemed lay in acquiring wealth. His scruples, if they existed at all, didn't seem to interfere. Hence, Atros wasn't particularly surprised by the interest Raffen had shown in his collection of rare books. This wariness had cost Raffen his life and saved Atros his own. Raffen had sought to slay Atros in his sleep but hadn't anticipated a prepared defense. Atros had made quick work of him, only later realizing the opportunity which Raffen had afforded him. Raffen had mentioned that he had never visited Dargon previously nor was anyone there capable of recognizing him. Atros immediately saw the potential profits in assuming Raffen's business dealings at the fair but hadn't anticipated being propelled into courtly life. Had Atros known of the notoriety involved, he might have chosen to act otherwise. Atros knew that he could not maintain the disguise for long. The continued use of the drug, and the peaceful sleep it offered, had allowed him to lead an almost normal existence. His distinctive nervous twitching had ceased, but only for so long as his supply remained. Thus, he had let it be known that he would depart after the fairs though he anticipated settling in Dargon for some time. The facial talc was a convenient affectation to help reduce the possibility of being recognized latter. But still, he feared discovery because he knew he possessed many unconscious mannerisms which were difficult to conceal without concerted effort. He tried to make the best of the situation and enjoy a holiday at court, a priviledge seldom enjoyed by many. The street festival was still in full force when Atros left Dargon Keep on his way to the bordering house in which he was residing. He wound his way through the narrow, winding streets filled with indentured servant and aristocrat alike. Each receiving shares of revelry according to their temperment rather than their social standing. Here at least was a Dionysian revelry which contrasted sharply against the austere courtly celebration. Celebrants in grotesque animal masks and other more bizarre customing danced in wild revelry to the tune of frenzied music and racous laughter. Body paints and large, fluttering banners lent colouring to the normally drab streets and alley ways. Prostitutes, both amateur and professional, fronged and cajoled the crowd. Cheap alcohol was the prevalent intoxicant though Atros observed other more questionable substances being huckstered in the darker corners of the street. Anything and everything could be had in abundance. It seemed that a delicious romp was being had by all. Atros did not view the excessive crowding and noise as an annoyance. He enjoyed becoming one with the organism of the crowd; to allow himself to become lost in the fusion of opposing emotional forces of the gathering. For a time he could let the mood of the crowd become all, loosing his own worries, fears, and regrets. As any such gathering, with its loud noises, bright sights, and wild dancing, its surface was coloured by great gaiety and joy. These were things to be cherished and saved, hoarded for harder times: the soft glow of happy faces, the energy of youth, and the vitality of age. But Atros' strong empathic ability soon penetrated this surface. Beneath lay darker forces: tensions, deep emotional needs, and emptiness. These people had come to escape some emptiness which they could not fill in their day to day lives. They came to forget the mundane realities of their world for a time and indulge in their fantasies. But by doing so they brought these emptinesses with them. Atros sensed that few, if any, were really happy or content with their lives. All sought release from their confinements, to become more than themselves if just for a short interval. And to some measure they were successful. They achieved through strong drink, orgasmic dancing, casual flirtations, or narcotics what could not be won in mediocrity. Atros did not judge them for this; he knew himself to have much worse faults and difficulties. But he could not avoid feeling a certain unescapible sadness. This fused with the gaiety to create an overwhelming bitter-sweet atmosphere for Atros. Atros was so involved with the mood of the crowd that he didn't notice the prescence of his old acquaintance the alchemist until he was quite near. "Gilman! Alive!" Atros' shout was drowned out in the hubbub. He quickly darted into a nearby entry way which he found to be occupied by a young couple who obviously resented the intrusion. In the safety of the darkness Atros began to mutter to himself, causing some concern in the two youths who soon left Atros to himself. "Gilman alive....impossible....I don't make mistakes like that. He was certainly dead. The wound was fatal....No man lives after loosing that much blood." Atros glanced out the archway to see Gilman walking rapidly away apparently scanning the crowd. Atros' hope that he had mistaken a similar man for Gilman quickly faded. It was the same bedraggled gray hair peppered with black; the same loping gate as well. Atros was certain that he'd seen Gilman wearing that course woolen frock before as well. Even the momentary glimpse of the man's shoes confirmed that Gilman was alive and in Dargon. Atros could think of only one explanation for the normally sedentary Gilman to come to Dargon. He must know or suspect that Atros was here. His prescence in the crowd was now easily explainable. How better to find a man in Dargon than to attend a festival with the better part of the city's visitors and population in attendance? But had Gilman seen him? As Atros wiped his sweaty brow and his fingers came away covered with white talc, he realized that Gilman could not have recognized him. His fearful reaction had been foolish. Once more Atros glanced out but could not locate Gilman in the crowd. Atros mentally whipped himself for not following Gilman immediately as he strode out into the street to begin the search. If Gilman were truely searching for him, why had he come alone? He must realize how outmatched he was. Atros would have anticipated two or three armed bodyguards accompanying Gilman at the very least. Nor had Atros believed that Gilman would go to such lengths to seek him out personally. Gilman just wasn't the vengeful type or so Atros had believed. But Gilman was alone, which obviously meant something, though Atros didn't know what that was. It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps following Gilman hadn't been a wise idea. Perhaps Gilman had set himself up as bait to draw Atros into some sort of trap or ambush. Since it was unlikely that he could find him in any event, Atros gave up the search. Atros walked home using an indirect route and checking often for followers, but there were none. As he walked he considered Gilman's survival. Perhaps the apprentices had arrived much earlier than Atros had expected and somehow rescued the old man. This seemed unlikely though Atros spent a few moments worrying that he had been seen. Not that that really mattered now that the victim was alive. Besides, even if Gilman had received some sort of aid in time, he didn't seem to be suffering from his wound. He appeared as whole and sound as any time Atros had seen him in the past. If anything he seemed more healthy. Atros considered further. He had read of alchemical preparations said to restore health to the nearly dead or to quicken the dead, but he had thought these well beyound the abilities of Gilman. Gilman might have obtained something of this sort during his career and his apprentices might have administered it to him. Atros had one further worry. It was said that one who imbibed a special preparation of the Philospher's Stone, the secret ingredient and goal of the highest forms of alchemy, would enjoy a greatly extended life and would be very resistant to death by mishap. If Gilman had done this, not only had he thereby survived Atros' previous attempt on his life, but he would also survive any getsequent. Invulnerable enemies came near to heading Atros' list of undesirable possessions. One thing was for certain, all was not well. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Dawn Watch The stream was peaceful, the approaching dawn dimly lighting it. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, and frogs peeped quietly in the marshes nearby. Eli Barel was asleep in his house nearby. He slept the deep sleep of a man who had worked hard, and would soon work hard again. He and his eldest son had worked until evening to put a roof on Widow Rachel's house, and with the light they would start to cut her some wood to last her through the winter. Had he been awake he might have heard the sound of the frogs, but certainly not the sound of the stream, shielded as it was by the fifty foot drop over the limestone cliff. The peace of the stream was rudely broken by the rough sounds of hooves. There was a stirring of the underbrush, and a horseman and mount stepped out of the tall grass on the far side of the stream. As he crossed the water, muddying it, he looked up at the face of the cliff. A band of twenty or so men, all roughly clad and unshaven, followed him across. At least three bore the angry marks of a skull branded on their foreheads, the marks of condemned men. Most carried swords at their sides, and some had bows slung over their shoulders. All had a predatory air to them. As soon as he was in the shadow of the cliff, the leader turned to face the others, his arm raised for silence. "At the top this cliff is the first of many houses. In those houses are groveling vapor-worshippers! There is no one to protect them, and they will not fight! Take any booty you want, but don't burn anything. Kill everyone! We will leave no survivors!" He punctuated the last with a dark scowl. "What of the women? We were promised women!" A deep muttering rose from the assembled men. A lecherous grin broke across the leader's face. "I didn't say how you had to kill them. It's been a long time since I've had an infidel's wife!" Mocking laughter was his only reply. Suddenly one of the raiders in the back gave a shout, and pointed up. The leader swiveled in his seat. He looked to the top of the cliff. There stood a man, holding a staff. He was clothed all in white, and his face was set with an angry look. He glared at the cutthroats below with an air of authority that gave even the leader pause. The murders only paused a moment, though. Those of the raiders who had bows grabbed them, but before any could raise them the figure leaned forward, and struck the end of the rod on the ground, a foot or so short of the cliff edge. The moment it struck the ground shook. All but two of the raider's horses fell to the ground. At the same moment, a huge slab of limestone calved off the face of the cliff. It crumbled as it fell, causing an avalanche. For a few long moments, rock and dust poured from the face of the cliff. Then the stream was at peace once more. Where horses had stood only moments before, there now stood a pile of rubble. Eli Barel awoke. His bed still shook slightly. A tremor? Eli pondered the thought. They were not common, but he had experienced them before. Nothing more followed, so he relaxed. Slept in today, he thought. The sun is almost up. He arose, leaving his wife to groan to herself. He dressed, and walked out of the house and down the path as he had for over sixty years. He followed the path as it lead toward the stream. Then, noticing something different, he left it as it turned down into the woods, and rather walked up the slope toward the cliff. He walked up to the edge, and looked over at the pile of rock. A rockslide, he thought. Levy might like to see this. He was about to turn to walk back down when the early morning light caught a reflection. Getting down on his knees, he examined a dark vein of rock as it ran almost from the cliff edge halfway down the cliff. As he knelt there his eyes widened. He reached forth his hand, and with a small effort, wrenched a chunk of rock loose. He held it up to the light. Even in the morning's dimness, he could see the metal running through the granite. "Gold. Gold! GOLD! Everybody! We've got gold on our land!" Getting to his feet, Eli ran back to the house. For the last time that day, peace once more fell on the stream. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FOUR NUMBER FOUR | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny Ur-Baal Magic Roman Olynyk Calls of Courtesy Joseph Curwen The Hands of a Healer Orny Date: 052886 Dist: 148 <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, everyone, here is the last spring issue. Summer is quickly approaching even our northern clime, and school is something best left forgotten until September. The summer volume (five) will continue to be produced, and we will try to keep the Dargon project going, despite the loss (for the summer) of some of our best authors. Some of the issues will be Dargon issues, while some will contain more traditional items. One note of special interest is that there will be a special gaming issue this summer. I'd like to solicit articles from gamers out there, particularly ones who have dabbled in designing their own games. The issue will concentrate on giving exposure to games BITNETters have designed and the hows and whys of roleplaying game design. If anyone is interested in contributing, ship me a note as soon as possible. The volume past has been a great success, and I'd like to thank both the readers and the authors who have made the Dargon Project possible. One of the major purposes I have intended for FSFnet has been to get amateur fantasy and science fiction authors together to compare styles, to begin friendships and correspondances, and to expose them to a truely diverse readership to give them an idea of what the public desires in fantasy fiction. The Dargon Project has not only been a boon for readership, but it has brought amateur authors together in a productive setting. Perhaps I'm going overboard to think that FSFnet is one of the most productive non-computer oriented BITNET organizations. Thank you, one and all, for your interest as readers, and a very very special thank you to the authors for joining together to bring this about. Well, before I can think of something else silly to say, I'd best introduce this issue, the last of volume four. You will find in here three related stories, and the resolution of some question marks. We'll be looking for you with 5-1 real soon. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ur-Baal Magic A Ticklish Situation Aardvard Factotum's disembodied mind was trapped, unable to return to its rightful place. In the midst of his panic, however, Aardvard suddenly felt something wrenching at his spirit, pulling him home. No longer confined by the four walls of Griswald Brutsam's room, his mind once again flew over the battlement of Dargon Keep, across the countryside and back toward his home on the outskirts of the city. He was drawn by an unknown force. Aardvard opened his eyes and chuckled. Nothing was funny about his situation, however. Aardvard's mind, after all, had been through a good deal of excitement. Through the use of Banewood's essence of Ur-Baal, it had left his body and travelled to Dargon Keep, where it became trapped in the private chambers of Griswald Brutsam, physician to Lord Clifton. Still, Aardvard couldn't stop laughing. And when he looked down the length of his body, he saw the reason -- Banewood, the Shaman, stood at his bare feet, tickling them with a goose feather. "Laughter -- one of the best ways to reunite a body with one's wayward mind," sniggered Banewood. "I warned you about going too far, didn't I?" he chided. "Never mind," said Factotum as he jumped to his feet. He quickly sat back down again, putting his hands to his head. Aardvard gently rubbed his temples. His head throbbed from the aftereffects of the essence of Ur-Baal, the potion that had put him through this adventure. "Something terrible is going to happen if we can't stop it." "What do you mean?" asked Banewood. "Griswald Brutsam, the personal physician to Lord Clifton, is plotting to assassinate him." Aardvard told the Shaman about the conversation between Griswald Brutsam and Lek Pyle, their conspiracy to assassinate Lord Clifton. "The Lord of Dargon Keep is standing in the way of Baranur's plans to control all trade with the distant island of Bichu." "I have an idea," said Banewood, "Listen..." Banewood whispered his plan to Aardvard. Factotum's face became a study in moods, changing from puzzlement to astonishment, and then to amusement. At first, Aardvard stared at Banewood with disbelief. Then he slapped his friend on the back and doubled over in laughter. "You crazy Shaman! I think it just might work," exclaimed Aardvard. Stupefaction In the morning, Aardvard pulled some of his gold from its secret hiding place, and together, he and Banewood put on their cloaks and left for the herb seller's home. By noon, Banewood and Aardvard found themselves outside of the old herb seller's hut. The doorway was dark, and it appeared as if nobody was home. Soon, however, they heard the sound of humming. An old woman's head peered through the doorway, a kerchief covered most of her gray head. It was the kind that most peasant women wore. "Come in, come in. Always open for business," the old woman said. Banewood and Aardvard followed the old woman inside. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dark, they could see her wares: dried herbs, stalks and roots hung from the walls and rafters. "She keeps it dark, because the light diminishes the potency of the herbs." Banewood whispered to Aardvard. "Quite so, quite so," cackled the old crone, her hearing obviously much sharper than one would have guessed. "What can a simple herb gatherer do for you?" "Let's see..." said Banewood. "First I need some Dragonswort root." The old woman pulled a piece of root from a large pile and placed it before the shaman. "Done." "Next, I'd like a stinkwort, the whole plant." "Heh? What's that?" Asked the old woman. Banewood began to described a stinkwort plant to the crone: "A large, whitish root; round yellow-green stalk; about five feet high; large, white funnel-shaped flowers; prickly fruit..." "Oh," she interrupted, "you mean a nightshade." Gingerly, the old woman used two fingers to pull a nightshade plant down from the rafters. She set it before them. "A Galangal root," added Banewood. "What's a nice boy like you need an aphrodisiac for?" The old woman smiled a toothless grin -- she bagged her second husband with a Galangal root. "It's for a friend." Banewood lied. "And a henbane plant, too. There's one over there." He pointed to a particularly green weed near the corner. "That's my last one," said the old woman. "I'm not sure if I can let it go this late in the season." Banewood looked at Aardvard Factotum, who reached into his cloak and produced a little bag full of gold Baranur marks. He spilled them into a little pile on the table. The gold glimmered in the dark. The old woman gulped. Regaining her control, however, she hedged: "I couldn't ask less than four marks for the plant. I have a starving daughter to feed." "Four marks!" protested the physician. "It's not even worth one!" "Three marks" said the old woman, her lips drawn in a straight line. "Food is very expensive, in case you haven't noticed." "Two," said Factotum. "Take it or leave it." "All right," said the old lady. "I'll keep the plant." Factotum pulled at Banewood's robe. "Come on, let's get out of here. I know of another place where we can get this stuff." "Okay, okay." Said the old woman. "So my daughter goes without dessert tonight. Three marks." "Two marks," the physician corrected her. "Yes, I'm sorry. You're right -- two marks." "One more thing," added Banewood. "Do you have many mushrooms?" "I have a few," the old woman lied. She was the biggest supplier of mushrooms in the district. "I'm not sure if this one grows around here," said Banewood. He described a mushroom to the woman: "Red cap covered with white warts, grows under pines and birch..." "Fly agaric!" snorted the old woman. "Soaked in milk, we use it to stupefy flies." "That's the one. How fresh are they?" The old woman reached under her table and pulled out a box full of the little, red beauties. "Just picked 'em yesterday -- how many would you like?" "Several will do," he said. "I wish to stupefy some flies, too." Aardvard paid the old woman more money than he would have wished to. They left with their purchases. Walking away from the hut, Aardvard counted his remaining gold. "I'm surprised that the old woman's teeth are gone." He said. "I thought sharks grew their teeth back!" Aardvard's eye caught sight of a buxom young girl in her late teens. She was bearing a bundle of herbs toward the old woman's hut. He elbowed Banewood, who was also staring at the same delicious sight. Banewood laughed. "Poor girl... no doubt she'll go to bed without dessert again." -Roman Olynyk <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Calls of Courtesy Normally Atros arose slowly from his nepenthe drugged sleep but adrenaline remarkably quickened the process this day. It's not everyday that one finds a corpse practically draped over your bed. I wasn't that corpses weren't familiar to Atros, but Atros didn't appreciate them popping up in his sleep. He quickly rolled out into prone position dirk in hand, but no opponent presented himself. He was quite alone in his rented room with everything exactly as he had left it the night before, with the exception of the dead man of course. It was Thad, a man Atros had known for many years though he wasn't particularly proud of the relationship. Thad had been a graduate of a slum in some city, which Thad had declined to mention. He'd learned at an early age that violence was a saleable commodity and had marketed his natural talent for it quite successfully. He'd gone from bully to strong arm to assassin all the while becoming increasingly belligerent and decreasingly likable. What with Thad's wandering from one city to the next, it was eventual that he and Atros would cross paths. At first Atros had nearly fell in with him as a kindred spirit, a fellow survivor who often traveled in the same circles. But the relationship had cooled after Atros had seen some of the results of Thad's recent labors. Atros didn't disapprove of assassins but unlike Thad's employers Atros felt that Thad let his brutality get in the way of his work. Thad's calling card had become the gruesome state in which he left his victims, and sometimes their families. But Thad had been successful as a hired killer. He could virtually guarantee results and had never been caught in the act by anyone, until perhaps last night. Nor had Thad ever betrayed the identity of his employers. It was sure that many, both the guilty and the innocent, would rest easier once they heard of Thad's demise. Not that Atros would allow that to happen for sometime. He began to attend to the body while the early morning streets were still sparsely populated. Fortunately, whomever had slain Thad was much easier to clean up after than Thad himself. The most puzzling part of the whole matter was how a man as large as Thad could have his neck snapped without any signs of a struggle. Later that day, Atros stood just outside the entryway to his boarding house. He yawned and had to shuffle his position several times while leaning against the cobble stone wall to prevent from drifting off. For someone accustom to going without sleep for days on end, this was a bit disconcerting. Atros wondered if perhaps the drugs he utilized were too strong even a man of his own will power. He had noticed that it was becoming progressingly more difficult to remain alert, a difficulty that he could hardly afford in his position. He was just resolving to start weaning himself off the nepenthe when the person he had been awaiting rounded a distant corner. He watched her as she approached apparently unaware of his presence. She wore a coarse bit of grayish linen, that doubled as both chemise and tunic, under a ratted surcoat probably fringed with fur at one time. She was short and somewhat dark in complexion especially on her hands which were small but rough. Her light brown, and lately unwashed, hair was cut short with straight banes lying across half her forehead. All in all, she was rather plain looking, almost masculine at first sight. "Atros...." finally recognizing him in spite of his new wardrobe, Darla called out as she rushed forward to greet him. "Call me Raffen!" Atros cut her off, his voice a harsh whisper. "Though that may shortly change as well." With a piercing look, Atros cut short the conversation until they were safely in his room. "How many names may one man have!?!" Darla seemed confused, unsettled, and somewhat hurt. "As many as it takes to keep him safe. You've brought the books," Atros said businesslike. "Yes, I have them here in Dargon. They are quite safe." Darla assured him. "Good. I am very grateful. I've missed them," Atros said. Darla winced though Atros didn't notice. "Bringing them wasn't difficult. You've done much for me in the past." "You can consider that debt settled." Atros said in monotone. "I don't think so. I owe you my life." Darla said testing Atros. "If that's the way you want it, perhaps you'll be able to pay in kind," Atros lilted a bit. "You're in some sort of trouble?" Darla asked sounding concerned. "There has been an attempt on my life. I anticipate more." Atros said perhaps a bit teasingly. "Who?" Darla asked. "Do you remember a particularly brutal overgrown street waif named Thad?" "I could never understand why you would associate with him." Darla pronounced almost interrupting his question. "He was dangerous but had his uses." "Was?... You killed him?" Darla asked tentatively. "No, he died in the attempt but not by my hand." "Whose then?" Darla said a bit exasperated that she had to do so much coaxing to get simple answers. "I know little more about it than you." Perhaps sensing Darla's impatience, Atros quickly explained the events of the morning. "You were lucky." Darla seemed somewhat relieved. "It seems too unlikely to be unintentional... Thad dying while I was totally helpless." Atros gazed off as though he were only thinking aloud. "Thad had many enemies. Perhaps one caught up with him." Darla's suggestion drew Atros' attention for a moment. "You don't think that Thad was incredibly careful while on a job? It would have been very difficult to surprise him. And who could have broken his neck with apparent ease? Also, why let me live? Why not take the opportunity to rob me, or Thad for that matter? Why leave everything so sloppy? I could have been set up in such a way that I would be certain to take the blame. As it was, it was easy for me to straighten everything up." It was Atros who was becoming impatient now. "Perhaps they feared waking you." Darla suggested hopefully. "Possibly.. But it just seems so unlikely..." Seeing nothing further to be gained here, Atros said, "Our first concern, I suppose, should be why Thad tried to kill me in the first place." "You're certain that he was hired?" Darla asked. "We didn't exactly part on amiable terms but Thad would never have tried it without payment. And there was a good deal of money in his pouch." "So you expect whoever hired him to try again?" In spite of Atros' opinion, Darla could be insightful. "Yes, though they will delay a few days at least, waiting for word from that or for me to get less wary." "Any suspicions as to who put up the money?" Darla asked plainly. "Probably Gilman. He's here in town and I think he's looking for me." Atros suggested offhandly. "Oh yes! I've traveled all this way and forgotten to tell you. I checked into things while I was in Magnus picking up your books. They aren't looking for you. No report of any crime. And Gilman, apparently unharmed, put his business in the hands of his employees and left Magnus shortly after you did." "I suspected something like that. Still can't understand how Gilman survived. He was assuredly dead." "That's what I thought you meant in your letter but I decided that I misunderstood." "I've got to teach you to read and write. I don't like having others read my messages." Atros seemed annoyed. "But you worded the letter so cleverly that no one could understand it but me. Besides the friend I got to read it to me is trustworthy." Darla tried to reassure him. "Yes but my 'clever wording' does add some confusion and I couldn't relay many details." Atros said, still being difficult. "Enough details. I understood enough to come here and to bring your books." Darla was becoming a bit annoyed herself. "Yes you did and again I thank you. But I have another favor to ask." Atros thought it best to settle things. "Name it." Darla said straightforwardly. "The drugs that I am using cause me to sleep very deeply. Possibly Thad knew this and decided to strike at night. If Thad knew, then his employers probably know. I need a bodyguard I can trust at night." "No problem. I really need a place to stay anyway. I'm low on funds and know few people in Dargon." Perhaps Darla hid a smile. "That's fine. We'll live off Thad's ill-gotten gains though we may have to lie low so as not to attract attention. No more nights at court." Atros said trailing off, as was often his habit. "Nights at court!?! You've been to court!?! During the festival?" Darla appeared surprised and jealous. "Yes, but I didn't really enjoy it. Besides the wardrobe is too expensive and uncomfortable. Have to see a friend and return some borrowed clothing. And tell him that I must leave Dargon." "You are planning to stay, aren't you?" Darla was concerned. "Yes, there is something here for me." Darla gave him a quizzical expression. "Just a notion," Atros said dismissing it. "I have a few errands to attend to. Why don't you get all of your things and get settled. I'll return with something expensive for dinner in a couple of hours. Oh, perhaps you best not get too settled. We'll have to find some other place to stay tomorrow. I'd have done so today, but I was waiting for your arrival. We'd best be very careful tonight." Both Atros and Darla departed for the respective errands. When more than a couple of hours had passed and Atros hadn't returned, Darla became concerned. But not knowing the city well nor anything about Atros' plans for the afternoon, she delayed for some time before deciding to go searching for him. It was well that she did, because Atros returned as she was heading for the door. She didn't mention his lateness nor did Atros volunteer much information, but true to his word Atros did provide the most delicious meal that Darla had eaten in sometime. After the late repast, Atros gathered a few of the books that Darla had retrieved and began jotting notes in one of his journals. When Darla asked him of this, he replied only that he was pursuing an idea. He advised her to sleep so that she might be rested for her vigil, but Darla was content to watch him and listen to the soft, irregular scratching noises of the long quill pen. After some time of this she drifted off. Some hours later Darla awoke to find Atros still at his labors. He seemed to be quite weary though happy, saying that he thought he was onto some new discovery though he left its nature a mystery. Darla was only able to convince Atros that he needed sleep by suggesting that he might think clearer after a few hours rest. Atros acquiesced begrudgingly and took a dose of the nepenthe to settle to sleep for the remainder of the night. Truthfully, Darla only understood a small fraction of what she encountered in Atros' books. Many were in languages or codes unknown to her. Most were replete with obscure references and complicated arguments which would take a lifetime of study to understand. Even in those that were not, Darla's reading skills often fell far short of complete understanding. Sometime ago she had gone through many of these books before uncovering Atros' dream journal. In it he kept all from his dreams which he did not wish to forget. Even though these were his good memories, Darla quickly grew to understand why Atros fought so hard to escape his nocturnal visions. Often times his hand was shaky and his thoughts overcome by emotion as he struggled to quickly record what were sometimes an entire lifetime in his dream before the memories passed away from him. Darla often wondered if destroying this journal was not the best thing she could do for Atros. It occurred to her that the good memories, which are recalled a thousand times with infinite sadness and longing, might be much more tortuous than the bad memories, which one can learn to forget or avoid. But it wasn't hers to judge and she feared Atros' anger. After reading this journal that first time nearly a year ago, Darla began to understand why Atros kept everyone at a safe distance. The book recounted lifetimes which Atros had experienced in dreaming. Oftentimes he had no recollection of any life beyond the dream. As far as that individual was concerned the dream was his complete universe. These dreams were often the most painful for Atros, because for a time he could experience peace. But the collected recollections of dozens of lifetimes weighed heavy on Atros soul and no one could remove that weight. Darla turned to the finger smudged pages of one dream entry near the beginning of the journal and began to read this tragedy once more. There were other dreams, other lives, much like this, but this was the most tragic because in it Atros had been the most happy. In this dream, Atros bore a name and spoke a language which were unpronounceable to Darla. He was a tall, kind man who enjoyed life's simplicities in an age where others took them for granted. In time he found love. A beautiful young author, she was called Narya. After a lengthy and romantic courtship, they married. They settled in a small cottage in a secluded valley filled with wildlife, prefering their own company to that of anyone about them. The house contained hundreds of fantastic devices which made life easier or provided entertainment for the couple. They lived quietly and happily together and wrote many successful books. In time they had two children: a daughter and a son. One day just as his son was first learning to walk unsupported, Atros awoke and was permanently torn from the happiness that he had found in a single night's dream. Never able to return to that happy life, Atros thereafter bore its memories as a curse. His anger grew but he could find no one to blame. In his daily studies he sought to forever escape the dreaming which had become so painful to him, regardless of the content of the dreams. Atros had also developed a lingering doubt that this life too might only be a dream, from which he might be snatched at any moment. Thus, he forbore pleasure and love so that he might not regret their loss when he awoke. His fear of this life being a dream had slowly pervaded all his waking thoughts and actions until he had succeeded in fashioning an existence in which there was little cherishable. Darla understood this, at least in part. It made little difference to her whether his dreams were somehow real, because Atros believed them to be real, which was far more important to her than any philosophical consideration. She had tried to help Atros. Slowly, carefully she had pierced his barriers and had succeeded in gaining some of his trust and friendship. But her hold to this position was tenuous. She realized that Atros often used little barbs in order to drive her from him, not because he disliked her but because he cared for her too much. She also sensed the contempt which Atros expressed in subtle ways for nearly everyone about him at one time or another, but she knew that it was only his way of coping with the pain at times. Perhaps he envied others who could lead an untroubled life. Darla wondered how he managed as well as he did despite all the frustration and anger within him. As she left off reading that passage, almost of their own volition, her hands turned to the dedication, which Atros had at sometime scribbled on the inside of the front cover. She stared at what he had written there until the moistening of her eyes made it impossible to continue. He had written: I've loved many and burried a few, But in all my search found nary a clue. The secret of life it seems Lies forgotten in my dreams Forever separating one from two. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Hands of a Healer Griswald Brutsam, physician and mystic healer to Lord Clifton Dargon, gently closed the door to his chambers and made his way from the keep. He had served the Lord of Dargon for many years. Having dedicated his life to the mystic pursuits of healing, his skills were very much in demand. Still, he had maintained a modest life, secreting himself with his studies within the keep and seeing to the health of his liege. And now he was a party to a plot to assassinate Lord Dargon. He pulled his cloak close about himself and made his way towards the port, the seedier section of town. The evening was cold but clear, and the stars shone bright above the dark shadows of the port. Brutsam occasionally came across citizens, stragglers from the festival, still revelling nearly a week after the festival had ended. After a short time, he came to one of the few lit buildings in this section of town. He pulled the cowl above him and stepped into the Inn of the Hungry Shark. The entry corridor led on the right to the bar and common room, and on the left to a stairway to the rooms above. Griswald dreaded being recognized by the people in the common room, but they seemed to be completely involved in what amounted to a contest to see you could bellow the most obnoxious saying the loudest. It was unlikely that anyone saw him as he turned towards the stairs, save perhaps the innkeep. Brutsam climbed the stairs slowly and quietly. He halted in the corridor at the top, pausing. After a moment, he stepped towards one of many closed doors in the hall. He knocked. And again. And waited. The door was opened by Lek Pyle, the man who had recruited Griswald into this insane plot. Pyle quickly brought Griswald within the room and closed the door behind him. "What's the problem?" The aging physician shrugged off his cloak and stood before the warmth of the hearth a moment before replying. "Nothing's happened. The assassin you hired is missing." "Thad? He wouldn't run out on a job. He's a scoundrel, though." "What are we going to do? Do you think he was caught? I'm sure if he did then he'll have told all about your plot..." "No, not Thad. His reputation has it that he's one of the best in his business, though his methods aren't the most subtle." Griswald was visibly agitated, not able to sit. "Well, where is he? Would he try to get more money by selling us out?" Pyle, seeing the fear in Brutsam's eyes, sneered. "He might have, but might just as easily simply skipped town. Still, that's not Thad's style. He's a scum, but he's a brute - he enjoys the jobs people give him, the more violent the better. He's not likely to get caught or to just leave the job, even when he is paid in advance." "You seem sure of that, but then where is he, and what are we going to do?" "We must proceed with our scheme. It matters little whether Thad was found out or not." The merchant from Baranur gazed into the fire thoughtfully. "We will simply have to proceed with another scheme..." -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FIVE NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny Complete Game Design Orny Origin of a "PBM" Game Stephen Tihor Nuclear Autumn Joseph Curwen ELFQUEST Supplement Review Richard Jervis A National Gaming Organization Mike Barbre Date: 072086 Dist: 157 <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, hello, and welcome to the roleplaying game and other assorted miscellany issue of FSFnet! Included in this issue you will find some interesting gaming-related articles, including an article by a gentleman who has designed a rather extensive PBM game. There are also a few odd tidbits, including an extra story by Joseph Curwen. Issue VOL5N02 will be out very soon after you receive this issue, and will return to the Dargon project with some more excellent fantasy fiction by BITNET authors. I'd also like to mention that we might be losing some of our Dargon authors, and would like to encourage readers who dabble in writing to try their hand at writing a Dargon story. It is, after all, a writing project for the authors, and an excellent writing exercise. As for news, there is some. New books are appearing left and right, as well as reprints, so I would suggest that people check several bookstores for their favorite authors, and perhaps some new ones. Also, I highly recommend the Bowie/Henson movie "Labyrinth". Although the plot is a little bit contrived, the remainder of the film is well worth the admission price. Bowie was highly bearable in his role as Goblin King, and Henson created some effects that really shake you up. I would go see the movie twice or three times simply to appreciate the action. Excellent film. But on to the meat of the matter, an issue dedicated to the fine art of roleplaying gaming. Enjoy, and we'll see you in Dargon in a couple weeks! -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Complete Game Design There are four aspects of every roleplaying game that must be properly coordinated and supervised by the gamemaster to result in a successful game or campaign. In this short article I shall attempt to share some of what I have learned in my gamemastering experiences. The first and most basic step in any game is choosing what game rules system to use. There are virtually countless rules systems available commercially, and most gamemasters feel that they are sufficient for their purposes. Some gamemasters decide that the rules are acceptable with minor modifications. A few gamemasters eventually undertake to create their own rule systems. All gamemasters, however must choose between these options, and I have developed some criteria by which gamemasters may choose the systems they use. Firstly, the gamemaster should know what he wants from the system, weighing elements he desires to incorporate and elements he wishes to avoid. Special attention should be given to the tradeoff between realism and playability. Finally, the best way to understand the shortcomings and strengths of a game is to playtest it. Playtesting is one of the strongest tools of the game designer, and is the proving grounds for the system. Overall, an intelligent choice of game systems, be they commercially available or self-designed, is a critical point in game design. The second aspect of a game which must be addressed is the game locality and environment. THis includes the layout of the land, geographical features, maps, towns, NPCs, and so forth. The best policy to create an environment is to start small. Often gamemasters start out by drawing entire continents, and run into trouble when play concentrates on a smaller scale. Detailed maps are excellent tools, and accomplish the dual purposes of arousing player interest and avoiding the creation of generic "areas" that lack in detail. Thirdly is scenario design; the adventure. When designing an adventure, keep the players interest in mind. Bring the party together in a logical and believable manner. As soon as is convenient, grab their interest by giving them a major event to think over. For example, they find out that several people have disappeared from their town. This will give the players something to think about and a purpose to unite them. As the major plot builds up, throw in minor subplots (ie they find out that the trusted sheriff is a werewolf), leading up to the climax of the major plot. For each adventure, there is a time to think and a time to act, and your players should not be confused as to which is which. A balance of "think'n'sweat" and "hack'n'slash" will keep everyone happy. During each session your players should feel a sense of achievement or gain, as well as some doubt at the mess they've gotten themselves into. The purpose of the game is to make your players feel some of the emotions of their characters, and to suspend their disbelief just enough. A well designed scenario is a major factor in this. The final point is not an aspect of the game, but of the gamemaster. As gamemaster, you must carefully implement the game system, the environment, and the scenario to have a successful game. Your performance in actually running the game can make a badly-designed game exciting, or a well-designed game a flop. THe first thing to remember is to know the game system. Having to constantly page through rules detracts from the players enjoyment of the game, and is rather unprofessional. Keeping things moving is very important. Waiting for the players to stumble upon a key clue is futile and aggravating for the players. It is also important to not be predictable in what you do. Players who know what you will do are bored players. Finally, make the players play the roles of their characters. That's what roleplaying is all about. A careful management of the game system, the campaign, the scenario, and your gamemastering style will result in successful all-around game design. Each aspect has its pitfalls, which must be learned to be avoided. I hope that sharing my gamemastering experiences are of use to you in yours. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Origin of a "PBM" game I have been involved in fantasy gaming and, to a lesser extent, wargaming since the late 60s when I started dropping by the old SPI offices in New York for their Friday night playtest sessions. A number of my friends also playtested for SPI and some of them, such as Greg Costikyan, went on to become professional game designers. It is only natural to want to design one's own game after seeing so much happen in this environment, but I always found the heavily competitive style and the WW II orientation of traditional wargaming uncomfortable. With the arrival of D&D in late 1974 I found a medium in which I was comfortable working, and have been involved in running various rolegames ever since. Edi Birsan, another NY area gamer with a more wargaming bias, changed his campaign from face to face to a fantasy wargame/miniatures campaign (reversing the evolutionary path of D&D) which many NY area players found interesting. Unfortunately it had a strong flavor of gamesmaster intervention which was generally felt to be a "bad thing." Most of my effort (and that of our group) went into evolving our local rules systems first from D&D and the later our own design in a project for SPI, part of which was eventually degenerated into their RPG, Dragonquest. The idea of a "play by mail" style game in a fantasy envrionment continued to intrigue me. Last summer a couple of my friends who were playing in a number of commercial PBM games suggested that it would be interesting to do our own game. The idea immediately appealed to me but I felt that it had to be designed for computer moderation from the begining. After a couple of brainstorming sessions we agreed on a number of game principles: Each player would BE a single character in the world Every character or unit could only control up to FIVE other characters, units, or provinces, but those characters or units could control up to FIVE other characters, or units, or provinces, etc No control would be perfect and permanent but we are playing a fantasy game, not Computer Illuminati, so it would not be easy to seize control of a fifth of player's entire hierarchy of control While a unit remained loyal then command and control would be perfect (telepathy is a wonderful spell) Each character would have skills which could be improved over time and new skills could be learned The game would be set in an Earth-like world where the technology was that of the middle ages, magic worked, and intelligent species other than humanity existed. The basic turn would be one month A person, unit, stack of units, or province could execute one order per month A lone rider on horse back could cover four provinces in one month if not attacked The game would be entirely computer moderatable with no human intervention in the adjudication of individual orders needed (i.e. no special orders; if it's worth doing it's worth making a part of the program) There is limited information about the world, the actions of other players, and the exact values of the various skills More information could be discovered in the course of play The multi-player diplomatic aspects and limited information would provide the major initial challenges A player need not fight for "world domination" to enjoy playing; movement and combat should be credible for both armies and small parties of adventurers The wargaming aspects would be done first since they would draw more people into the game New rules modules and thus activities and playing styles will be added transparently New players can join at any time People and places are basically the same things and many of the same options apply to both, thus you can control a city directly and it in turn may have mercenary units working for it. It turned out that I was the only one of the designers in a position to code extensively so I ended up writing the entire 12k lines of C. I chose "portably written" C rather than LISP as the implementation language to insure that the game would be very portable, there would be adequate fast implementations available for the top of the line microcomputers on which the game would eventually have to live if it worked well enough to move it beyond a hobby project. My general goal would be for it to expand to the point that it can be run be a NY area game company as a "for-profit" project and I can stop having to run the turns myself and concentrate on development. This winter I felt the program was solid enough that I started collecting local playtesters. The first six turns were run weekly but as people gradually came to want longer turn deadlines we moved to biweekly turns. Then people wanted more actions so I moved the basic action from units of a month with four weekly movement/combat phases to units of a week, with some actions taking more than one unit. The underlying implementation of time was designed to to handle very small quantums of action since I felt uncomfortable with large turns containing many smaller phases and more comfortable with actions taking place in continuous time. Breaking the monolithic month required only changing a couple of constants. With the move to a longer turnaround it became possible to have players not within shouting distance and I solicited some additional playtesters using the Usenet newsgroup net.games.frp. We currently have 21 active playerships and perhaps 14 semi-active ones. Many of the more active players are network players since they have faster communications than even some of the "face-to-face" players do. It has been interesting watching the flow of message from player to player as initally everyone took advantage of the anonymity of messages sent though the gamesmaster and the newsletter rather than simply exchanging phone numbers and addresses. In the last few turns the communications rate has climbed steadily as one player seized the capitol and others began aligning themselves against his position. As I send this off the Game is turning the year counter over. People are now writing orders for the first "lune" of the second year of play. One effect of the continuing nature of the playtest is that players continue to join the game as time goes on. To adjust for the inital position effect the starting resources a player was given increased steadily over the first seven turns to compensate for not being able to submit moves for the earlier turns. Some players are also being placed on a second land mass to separate them from then rather messy war starting on the mainland until they get their sea legs, as it were. (Most players take a couple of turns to get the feel for how things are done.) Lately my efforts have been divided fairly evenly between expanding the world by adding additional places and NPCs; adding documentation such as lore sheets on provinces, players, and skills; and, expanding the basic game options by adding additional uses for skills, enhancing the underlying economic model and sections of the game that are only now being used (the first player ship on the high seas prompted me to finish the "Storms at Sea module", and add new major modules. The current big project is the Heroic Adventures, random encounter sequences which present options for actions and support for attacking Dragons with one Hero rather than one Legion. We lost a few players when the spring term ended at several schools. It is time to add a some additional players with stable network access. If anyone wants to contact me I can be reached at: UUCPnet: {ihnp4,seismo,...}!cmcl2!tihor ARPAnet: TIHOR@NYU-ACF1 or TIHOR@NYU BITnet: TIHOR@NYUACF Copies of the setup package are available on request but are fairly lengthy to send over UUCP links. They can be picked up via anonymous FTP from NYU.ARPA (or NYU.EDU) as ~ftp/pub/tihor/rules. The current newsletter is .../tihor/newsletter and is included with setups. The costs for network turns are negligable so there is no charge for people getting their turns in person or by e-mail but it is recommended that most network players send me a couple of SASEs for hand written responses if they include an ad in the T'NYC Times (the newsletter) which solicit responses since some players will be giving me handwritten replies. -Stephen Tihor <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Nuclear Autumn In the last days of a decadent race, the eternal children sought what tawdry pleasures they could, well knowing but never realizing that their time was nearly at an end. These were the Glorious Days, filled with all the myth and wonder of Man's devising. And myth and wonder there were. So much so that a man might live out his entire life, which could no longer be adequately measured in years, without perceiving even the slightest hint of the cold realities which had faced their historical predecessors. No pleasure palace of Kubla Khan could compare with the vast panorama of delusion in which Man had enfolded himself. In truth, the commonalities of such an existence would have caused even the most tainted of Sultanates to blush. But of course, the act of blushing itself had grown to be only the vaguest of myths, half-heartedly sought by countless numbers of pleasure seekers who were incapable of conceiving of any emotion leading to its expression. Life had reached the bounds of Man's finite imagination, but still the populace desired more. It was inevitable. The sensual pleasures had been exploited to their fullest. The intellectual pleasures had long since been abandoned as requiring such great an effort for such small returns. Looking back across those final years, one recognizes the odious progression of those dissatisfied with the ability to define one's own existence with such precision. One sees a steady growth in the numbers of those who desired hardships and death, and those who wished to savor the things that the society constructed by their forefathers had forbidden them. Perhaps it all arose naturally from the destructive instinct in Man, which while carefully channeled by society into acceptable forms could only achieve the palest of expressions. Society had done its best to compromise with this force, providing more and more outlets of outre expression which would have shocked any sane individual of another age. But the attractions of the forbidden were felt in much greater proportions by those unused to any form of self-discipline. There could be no compromise. Small sects of discontents arose and grew in number until they encompassed the greater part of the entire population. They were dissatisfied with mechanized life and sought refuge in artificial wildernesses, harkening back onto the mythical days of their ancestors when Man vied directly with Nature in continuous combat. But it was not enough, as as they knew that they were in an instant's communication with great mechanized forces capable of easily overcoming any task, there could be no full appreciation of the struggle to survive. As long as any man had access to such devices, their day to day victories in the "Wilderness" shown shallow. And so after a long period of fruitless pursuit, an unspoken resolution formed in the minds of each and every man. Man must be freed from his devices, freed to struggle once more in a world where the combat was meaningful, a world with obstacles worthy of challenging Man once again. But turning off the machines would not be enough, not so long as they could be reactivated. To free Man would require that society and its machines were totally and irrevocably destroyed. This presented Man's first real challenge in centuries for the devices of Man's society had been constructed to withstand any mishap unscathed. They could not be averted from their continuous and ever present functioning. Man puzzled long over this dilemma without solution, until one day a very unfashionable elder, who had chosen to seek pleasure in the lost knowledge of Man's history, struck upon a forgotten record. It seemed that in the days long before civilization, Man had done violence unto himself in massive numbers. The very concept was at once unbelievable and exciting to these souls trapped into passivity by their societial machine. But even more than this, it presented hope. In some forgotten era of the race, Man had constructed engines capable of destruction well beyond even their own comprehension. Man's fear had caused these engines to go unused and unremembered but not untended. As was the practice of all the Great Builders, these engines of violence were perpetually maintenanced by machines which would last until Armageddon. Here at last was a solution. There was no discussion. They were driven by their desperation, knowing there was nothing to lose. Resolutely, the masses uncovered the engines of destruction and set them about their inevitable course. They awaited hopeful of their outcome, hopeful of escape. And Man looked upon a new day....a new beginning. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> ELFQUEST the Roleplaying Game (tm) Companion I and The Sea Elves Review This was intended to be a short review of the new gaming aids for Elfquest players by Chaosium, but in discussion with others I found that the one thing all of us seem to miss was an extended table of Contents or an index of sorts. Personally I lean too heavily on such things when learning a new game, from lack of familiarity or laziness or just for some semblance of speed when trying to involve others in my scenario. When the Companion came out in August I had hoped for a compendium of sorts, or perhaps a gamemasters guide to tables and a quick reference outline for character generation. While it was full of information both expected and desired, there was no index. So I made my own. At the end of this article I'll list the list of "Poor Richard's Index". This is by no means exhaustive or complete, as I was only attempting to narrow down the areas of info. A complete listing would include the Two manuals, the Companion, the Sea Elves, references to the Quest , the Fanclub, and anything else one might find useful. That is a tall order when the original idea was to shorten reference time, not expand it. Podium aside, I'll get onto the review at hand. Firstly the Elfquest Companion opens with some updates to the game made necessary by issues 19 and 20 of Elfquest in an errata section. For example, the modification of the rule about shaping dead wood made necessary by Redlance's actions, and information about the gas bombs used by Ol' Maggotty. Also, the stats for 17 more characters from the quest are included, but 'Rotsap and splinters in me hand! No new soul-names!' The section on Finding an Elfname is useful... my basic rule is if you don' t pick one, One will be given.... "Help with Elf design" is interesting, I nicknamed it "How to draw elves the Pini way." It gives some filling out for NPC's as well as being a good guide-line for undecided characters. "Wolf Ecology" is a comparative study of the wolves on "The World of Two-moons" and those of Terrestrial ilk. I think this should be "must" reading for players and Gamemasters alike to help with role-playing and to help dispel some misconceptions about wolves. The Wolfhaven Holt, a divergent branch of wolfriders, gives some good ideas for Holt development in your game. A pseudo-history is included, and the module; "The Dying River" is meant to be played by a branch of Wolfhaven elves. (This doesn't preclude others, it's merely a suggestion.) The Second Module, "Fire Flight" is for several Plains elves. "The Sea Elves" is a complete culture supplement for Elfquest based on the concept that some High ones fled from the humans only to run into the ocean. They colonized several islands with the help of dolphin like creatures known as wave-dancers. The supplement is divided into sections on history, the islands and the creatures who inhabit them. We are given five new powers and three excellent modules. "Stormcoming Hunt" is a race against time and tide, "Littlesmoke Island" provides a backdrop for exploration of heretofore undiscovered islands, and "Assault of Smalltower Island" presents a different view of elves, in the role of pirates! I'll not say a lot more about the modules so as not to spoil the surprises, except that they look real nice and that there's more to them than their names imply. The Elfquest Companion I and The Sea Elves are available from Chaosium, INC. Box 6302-eqc, Albany CA 94706-0302 for about $6.00. -Richard Jervis POOR RICHARD'S ELF INDEX FOR Elfquest (tm) (Sections are caps, tables are marked with a dash, and Characters are in quotes. Numbers suffixed with an 's' represent selections in The Sea Elves.) A- Age 18 -Age Factor Table 21 Animal Bonding 42 Animal Lore 21,51 Antidotes 8 Anti-Healing 39 Armour 62 Astral Projection 42 ATTACKING 49 Automatic Success 24 B- -Beginning skills table 2s Birth Rate 9 Blue Mountain Folk 10,66-67 Bond Animals 24 Bone-shaping 8s C- Characteristics 19 " Increasing 29 "Clearbrook" 20 Climb 21,34 COMBAT 45-63 -Combat Jargon Table 46-47 - " Modifiers Table 57 " results 54-55 Communication 21,34,4s Covered Targets 56 CREATING AN ELF 16 Critical Attacks 49 " Parry 51 " Success 25 Climb 21,31 D- DAMAGE 30-32 " Bonus 20 Darkness 56 Derived Characteristics 20 Desert Elves 12,69 Dexterity 47 Dodge 21,34,52 E- -Earthquake Severity table 7s -Encounter table 17s ELFQUEST EXPRESSIONS 73 Elf Lore 21,34 Experience Bonus 20 F- Finding 44 Firestarting 40 Fish-finding 8s Fishing and Hunting 4-5s Fist and Kick 58 Fleshshaping 41 Fumble 25 -Fumble Tables 52 G- Game day 32 GAME SYSTEM 24 Gobacks 10,67-69 Grappling 59 Great Waves 7s - " " table " H- Healing 32,41 " Lore 21,34 -Height and Weight Table 19 High Ground 56 High Ones 12 Hit Points 20 Hit Point Location 30 Homing Instinct 8s Humans 13,71 Human Lore 21,35 I- THE ISLANDS 6-7s Island flora and fauna 6s Impale 50,52 J- Jump 21,35 K- "Kahvi" 67 L- LANGUAGES 13 " Lore 21,35 "Leetah" 66 Levitation 41 M- MAGIC 21-23,38,5s " Feeling 44 " points 20 " powers 38,8-9s " use 48 Manipulation 21,36 Melee Activities 48-49 " Round 33-46 " Skills 49 Weapons 57-58 Mind snare 45 " Stun 44 Mineral Lore 21,36 -Missed Throw Table 38 Missiles 59-60 -Missile Weapons Table 60 Mounted Combat 55 Movement 20,47-48 -Movement Rate Table 33 N- Name 16 Natural Weapons 58 Nets 60-62 O- "Olbar" 70 OTHER TRIBES 64-72 P- Parry 51 " an impale 51 passageways 56 perception 21,36 -Perception Modifiers 37 -Pirate Statistics table 18s Plains Elves 12,70 Plant Lore 21,37 " Shaping 41 Power Gain Roll 29 Preparing a weapon 48 Preservers 13,72 Previous Experience 21-22 R- "Rayek" 64 Recognition 9,19 Recognized Lifemate 18 "Redlance" 18 Research 30 -Resistance Table 26 Ride 21,37 Ride Skill Limit 51 Rockshaping 42 S- "Savah" 64 SEA & ISLAND CREATURES 9-16s -Sea Elf Characteristics and skills 2s Sea Elves 12,68-69,2-5s Seismic Activity 6-7s Sending 23,45 Shape Changing 42 Shield 45,51,63 Simple Success 24 SKILLS 34 -Skills Table 21 -Skills Results Table 25 Skill Training 27 Skill vs Skill 24-25 Social Structure 4s Special Attack 50 - " Attributes Table 23 " Environments 55 " Success 25 Stealth 21,37 -Stealth Terrain Modifiers 37 Stormseeing 8-9s Strike Rank 20,47 - " " Table 47 - " " Modifiers Table 20 Sunfolk 10,65-66 Surprise 48 Swim 21,37 Synopsis 13-16 T- Telepathic Powers 42 -Terrain Effects Table 33 Time and Movement 32 Throw 21,38 Trolls 71-72 Troll Lore 38 Turns 33 Two Attacks 51 U- Unfavorable Environments 56 Underwater 56 V- -Volcanic Eruption table 7s W- Water Control 9s Wavedancers 4s Weapons 5s Weapon Description 62-63 " Length 47 " Use 57 Weather 6s "Winnowill" 67 Wolfriders 10,24 CHARACTER GENERATION SEQUENCE Age: 2d10 x 2d6 Recognition: age/10 on 1d100 Recognized mate alive? POW x 5 on 1d100 Roll Basic stats: page 19 Dmg Bonus: If STR + SIZ >= 25.... Experience Bonus: INT/2 Hit Points: (CON + SIZ)/2 Magic Points: POW Strike Rank Mod: Table on Page 20 Special Attributes: Max of 2 rolls on table (23) Previous Exp Tot Basic Stats X # on Age factor chart (page 21.)*Basic Stats can be increased (except INT or SIZ) Initial Skills: Table on 21 Talent Roll: 1D100 Weapon use: Table on 58 <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Launching a National University Gaming Organization My name is Mike Barbre and I am the Vice President of the University Gamers Unlimited at the University of Missouri in St. Louis. I am sending you all this note in the hope that you will feel as I do. It is time to begin a national organization for gaming among the universities of the world. This can help each of us in many ways. I will list some of the benefits below; A list of people who share your gaming interests. When budgeting time arrives at the universities, belonging to a national organization is a big plus. I will work to get each member a standing discount at the various companies who make our favorite games. (idea) a newsletter put out annually. (idea) a newsletter of the highest quality containing just advertising from our favorite companies (I like looking at ads) and anything else we can think of. Ok, your saying what will it cost? Answer: nothing more than your groups address. If I get enough of a response I will make up a form letter along with a signup sheet to be copied and provided to each member of your groups. Each member (hope) would fill out and return the signup sheet. By doing so I will add the names to a universal gaming database. Using the miracle of SAS I will then make a 'phone book' and send it to everyone. Generally this would be a forum of gamers, with the benefits of a university. If you are interested at all please send me a note, and if possible provide the address (on campus) of your favorite gaming organization. I thank you for your time and hope to hear from you soon. Mike Barbre University Gamers Unlimited 250 University Center, UMSL 8001 Natural Bridge Road St. Louis, MO. 63121 <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FIVE NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny Spirit of the Wood: 2 Rich Jervis The Glory of Adventuring Ovis Respect thy Elders: 1 Orny Ceda the Executioner: 1 Joel Slatis Date: 080486 Dist: 159 <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, I told you that 5-2 would be right on the heels of 5-1! Had it not been for the fact that our 3705 burned in flames, this file might have actually made it on time! As for 5-3, Jeanne Dixon has said that it will be out the second weekend in August, so watch your reader queues! Actually, to tell you the truth, we've managed to lure three unknowing and unsuspecting amateur authors into the Dargon Project, and they're cooking up stories faster than I can print them! 5-3 is actually all set to go out, save that I have to finidh writing *my* story for that issue! And it promises to be an excellent issue, with stories from myself and each of the three new authors. But I'll let you wait for that. This issue contains the beginnings of two serials, one a Dargon story (my own, in three parts), the other an unrelated piece by Joel Slatis, one of the three new authors. Stuffed in around the edges are a short story by Ovis, another new author, and part two of Rich Jervis' "Spirit of the Wood". Two other points and then on to the issue. Firstly, due to extremely poor timing, the day I sent out FSFNET 5-1, the userid of one of the contributors changed. If you are interested in contacting the person who was advertising the national gaming organization, the userid is now C4898002@UMSLVMA, rather than S4898002. Or was it the other way round? Finally, I'd like to welcome the new members, and remind everyone once more to keep spreading the word about FSFnet. It is, as I've been saying all along, your zine, not mine. Enjoy! -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Spirit of the Wood: Chapter Two Loric had no chance to reply to Oldsir's query because their dialog was interrupted a the high whistling call from below them. Oldsir looked down and said to himself "So soon..." "Loric the call has been given. You must go below and stand on the ground with your friends. I wish you luck." Loric looked at his grandfather and then closed the distance between them. He hugged the old man fiercely and said "If it means your time of death has come closer, I won't go! " "Here now, is that the voice of a Tolorion I hear? Are you so strong that you can wrestle with time itself? My time has come, but so has yours But do not let the fate of an old man deter you from doing your best! I will be watching you as all of your tribe will, to see that honor is maintained and that the Spirit of the Wood is not broken. Now go, son of my son. And may the dew never settle on your brow!" With that blessing Oldsir turned and leaped off the porch of his house and deftly caught a vine some yards below. Before Loric could call out to him he was lost from sight. "Thank you Oldsir," He said softly, "Goodbye,Grandfather." He barely heard the second sounding of the call and threw himself off the platform with a vengeance. He went downward recklessly, allowing the bare minimum margin for safety. He hit the ground hard and lightly bruised, but in one piece. Without a glance at the gathered downlander's he strode to the center of the circle where they had gathered and stood with head held high and body erect. Determined that his Grandfather's last wish would be granted. Loric tried to stay aloof from the others, hoping to keep his anger fired, but the excited conversation around him kept intruding on his thoughts. "Going for it again, eh Hiram? Maybe you'll get to the top of the Home-tree this time." "Go jump Jakul,I made the Tree-climbing test, it was the Net-walking that did me in last time." "You were lucky then, if you'd made that they would have thrown you into the Pit. My brother Yione was there for three days before they dragged him out. He still won't talk about that one but I think they used snakes on him, he never did like them." "Snakes I don't mind, but there's worse. They say there's always one test you can't pass. And then there's always the Shreaving. Hey there's Loric. Loric! What's in the pit eh? Snakes or spiders or just a few wild dogs to gnaw your bones! Hah-hah!" Loric looked at his friends and smiled thinly. "Whatever it is, it couldn't be as mean as you two! I still remember the time you two put that bee-comb in my sister's bed and the ant's all but carried her off! I couldn't catch you then, but maybe after today, you'll not be so fast? I think a tree-crab could walk away with what's left of you after the test and no one would notice." "Jakul we made a mistake even speaking to this one, he's obviously the first test; to see how long we'll stand here before stringing him up by his toes!" Hiram made a feint towards Loric which he dodged and then grabbed His friends arm and pressed his thumb into the wrist. The scene was on the verge of becoming a tussle when the third sounding of the Call was made and the late arrivals noisily joined the trio in the council circle. Under his breath Hiram asked, "What's up your tree Loric, you used to take that guff and pass it out fresh?" Loric looked side-ways at his friend. "Sorry, Hiram. It's just that my grandfather has had his second vision." Hiram stepped back and then asked "Did he tell you what it was?" "No, only that his time had come...and mine too! Shhh! Dernhelm is looking at you--turn around!" Loric spun his friend around to face his uncle. He waited for the silence to spread to all present, even the young children were silent. Somehow feeling the intensity of the moment. "Know you children of the Village in the Trees, what is the benefit of the Arborskill?" Loric and the others replied as one; "Yes, my chief. my eyes and the eyes of my tribe, my hands and the hands of my tribe, my heart and the heart, ears, and tongue of my tribe will become keener, and I will know the joy of life from the Spirit of the Wood. I will adapt,and my tribe will live. I will take the offerings of the Wood, and make new and better things things for the living. The Arborskill honors and protects, and the seasons change." "What do you need to achieve the Arborskill?" "My Kesh-blade, my chief." "Only this?" "My wits , my chief." "This is all?" "And my song , My chief,and my hands." "Do you have these four things?" "I have them, my chief, My wits are as keen as my blase and my hands are as strong as my song. My song is strong, my chief!" "Then show your tribe what you know. What is the first craft of the Arborskill?" "The first craft of the Arborskill is the Lashing." At this loric looked about him. In the circle were poles he was to use as a rope walk, but there was no grass gathered to plait into a lashing. Realizing that the cane fields were a long-run away and the reed marshes even further than that, several of the boys waved to their families and sprinted off into the woods. Loric started out muttering under his breath. He has went only a short distance when he stopped. This can't be right! he thought. It will take most of the day just to gather the grass and return with it, and there's more tests after this one! Loric looked back at the circle of logs where the tribe sat silently. There were more logs than usual around the fire pit, leaving several unoccupied or with only one person to a log. The new logs were still dark with bark and the scent came to Loric as he walked back into the circle. The acrid smell of Liamas trees greeted him. Of Course! Adaption! Loric had been taught how to plait grass and vines but there was a no reason he couldn't do the same with the fibrous bark of the Liamas tree. He ran across the clearing to where his sister sat with several of the other young women. "Loric I see no grass for you to weave, perhaps you intend to weave the air into a rope?" Loric was stung by his sister's words but caught the twinkle in her eye that meant to Loric that he must be close to an answer. Formally he stood before his sister and said: "I ask that you give up your seat my sister, so that your brother may become a man." Silsia gave up a cheer. "Ai-ya! Ai-Ya! Little Loric would be a man and make his sister stand!" She laughed and stood by her friends. "Come sisters, we must move for near-man Loric who already knows how to act like a man!" Loric drew his knife from it's sheaf and started cutting the bark from the log in long strips. -Rich Jervis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Glory of Adventuring "So this is how it will all end," thought Glanaril as he sank slowly to a sitting position against the cold, black cave wall. "We were all so tough, so grown up and ready to make names for ourselves, so wrong..." Glanaril knew he didn't have long, the hideous beast's claws were so covered with filth that the poison on them could kill an ogre. Unfortunately he had taken more than a scrape in the fight with it. It had come upon them only minutes ago, a time when they had been the most famous adventurers in the world (or would be soon, after they managed to kill Lothgar the Black and rescue all those lonely, misguided gold rilks). The horrible guardian beast had not sneaked up on them, no, it had come straight at them, slowly, allowing them plenty of time to ready spells and form an attack plan. They had smelled it coming long before they met it. Oh, but once they met it )) it became a living death machine. Granted the beast was very large, but one beast against a party of well equipped adventurers, ha ha )) no problem. Glanaril smiled grimly as he remembered his thoughts as he handled his trusty spear. It wouldn't be long now, the pain was growing, working its way up from the horrible gash he has received in his side. His armor was like butter before the thing's claws. Glanaril glanced about him at the remains of his party. Katrina, a pretty spellcaster, lay in a heap against the far wall. She had been concentrating on a spell and had not avoided the beast's backswipe with its great foreleg and she'd been tossed against the jagged stone wall as easily as a man swats a fly. Carly, a hobbit thief, was now unrecognizable as such. He had tried to maneuver to a position behind the thing so that he might hamstring it. Just as he'd raised his dagger to do so, the beast had taken a step back and placed its great hind leg right on top of him. So much for crippling it. Harth died trying to help Katrina. He had seen Katrina go down and rushed to help her, thinking that the three fighters could keep the beast at bay while he cast a spell of healing. He was wrong. Harth turned his back on the beast and bent over Katrina to begin his work and so did not see the great claw coming which ripped down his back and pulled him back into the jaws of its owner. The other two fighters, Jaron and Jakon, were thrown into one another with force enough to kill them both, the reason they were unable to keep Harth safe. And Glanaril had seen them all die as he stood there, too stunned to believe that all his friends had died in less than two minutes. Then the thing had turned to him and lunged directly towards him. Glanaril set his spear against the wall to protect him. But he had missed. The spear had scored a hit in the right shoulder of the creature, not enough to cause it to blink. It came on, pushing the spear into its shoulder, and took a swipe at him. It did not miss. He was already against the wall and had no place to go, he took the full force of the claw and went sprawling sideways, knowing that this was it. He awoke shortly thereafter. Looking around told him that the beast had gone. His spear lay in the middle of the cave, broken in two. "So much for fame and glory," he thought, "our whole party killed by a common black bear, and not even close to Lothgar's stronghold, not even close..." And the darkness closed in. -Ovis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Respect thy Elders: Chapter One Kite bounded up the granite stairs to the portals of Winthrop Keep. Winthrop was a small holding, perhaps a dozen leagues southwest of Dargon. Recently, Kite, an aspiring young lord of the house of Talador, a wealthy duchy south of Winthrop, was engaged to Pecora, the only child of the ruler of Winthrop. But this sunny morning, Kite had received a message from Mistress Izetta, Pecora's woman-in-waiting and nursemaid of many years, asking him to come at once to Winthrop Keep. It seemed that Pecora had fallen ill, but the note had revealed little more. Kite walked quickly through the halls he knew so well. He had often visited Pecora during their courtship, and had cherished each moment within these walls. Yet he strode to Pecora's room quickly, and without any emotion more evident than concern. At last he came to the door to her chambers, and rapped anxiously. After a moment, an older woman quietly opened the door and bade Kite enter. He entered into a spacious and well-decorated lounge area. He hardly noticed as the woman guided him to a seat. "What is wrong, Mistress Izetta?" "Pecora is ill. Last night she went weak and pale as a ghost. She is not well, milord. Come speak to her." With that, she led him to the bedchamber, where Pecora lay. She did not see Kite until he had knelt beside her. She tried to speak, but could not, but Kite could see her words in her questioning eyes. "I am here, love. It will be all right. I promise." He kissed her forehead, and she closed her eyes. He stood, and the two silently returned to the entry. After a few moments, Izetta spoke. "Milord, I have done what I can for her, but I have seen this disease before, many years ago, when we lived in the south. It was my mother." Kite knew by the servant's downcast eyes that her mother had not survived. "Is there anything you can do?" he asked, futilely, seeing the weariness in her eyes. "I have done all I can. Yet there may be something you can do, if you have a strong heart. I remember when my mother was dying, my father saying that an Elder would possess the knowledge to help her. He sent friends to seek an Elder named Isentraum, but none believed him, and he would not leave my mother. Do you know of the Elders?" "I have heard the tales, but I thought the Elders were all dead. The legends say they lived hundreds of years ago!" The woman smiled. "And so they did, and still do, for the Elders know far more than any nursemaids or even great lords. If you can find an Elder, he will know how to save Pecora, for I know not." "Yet where shall I look? The Elders all are said to have lived far from other people, or in secret places." "If you ride southwest, you will pass many villages, and after several days come upon a great lake. This is where my father sent men to search for the Elder Isentraum. Look there, and godspeed." After a moment of hesitation, Kite stood. The anxiety he had fought to contain finally had an outlet, and there was hope that Pecora would be healed. He would search for the Elder. Kite wrapped his cloak tightly around him, but the rain soaked through, chilling him as his horse slowly plodded up the slope of the valley where Winthrop was nestled. To keep his cheer up, he talked to Dagley, his horse. "Well, Dag, this is it. The quest has begun. But it isn't much of a quest, eh? Here we are, trudging out of town in the rain. This isn't one of those quests the minstrels will sing about, that's a certainty; the hero, plodding along on his soggy mount, watches his sword rust in the scabbard because all the monsters are inside where it is dry and won't come out to fight!" The horse turned his head, looking at Kite, who tried to fathom what the horse might say if he could speak. Eventually they reached the ridge above the valley, and Kite turned to view the town below. After a few silent moments he turned the horse and headed off towards the west, silent and contemplative. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ceda the Executioner: Chapter One A tall lonely figure dressed in black strode confidently through the Desert of the Hidden Army (or Grobsts D'arbos Desert as some prefer to call it.) It had been called that ever since the High King of Grandydyr rode through leading a vast army to battle some 10,000 years earlier. Grobst D'arbo was high king of the biggest country of his time. He controlled a massive army of strong men who were all battle trained, well equipped and fearless. They were crossing the waste in the area that Ceda now rode when, as the tale goes, one of the routine scouts rode up ahead of the troops as usual, to survey the surrounding area for scouts of the opposing forces. That night, after a thorough search of the area, the scout returned and to his horror found the entire army of 500,000 men dead and the king lying at the head of the troops, still alive. The scout jumped from his horse and ran to the fallen king who told him a message. The message, however, has long since been forgotten (for about 1000 years) but it is said that the message is of grave importance to the entire world in the years to come. The kings head fell back into the hands of the shocked scout who lay the king down gently on the ground. Then the scout stood up to look upon his fallen majesty who, by some unknown force, now lay dead at his feet. Then a peculiar thing happened: the kings body seemed to melt and change. The horrified scout watched as the body of the king altered into that of a tree. The scout could hardly believe what had happened and he stood gazing upon the tree until he fainted from the sun. Some time after that, the opposing army drew near and the scout was found lying in the shade of the tree. The army of Grandydyr was no where to be seen and they were never heard from again. The scout , before his execution at the hands of his captors, told them what had taken place, then he died by decapitation, but the story lived on. And to this day, people who wish to travel are warned of the Desert of the Hidden Army, for it is foretold that one day, a certain weary traveler will find it. This, however, was just a child's fairy tale and thought to be mendacious, for almost none of the numerous people that cross though the gigantic wasteland ever come across the tree of Grobst D'arbo and no one really ever believed the story that they told... if they lived to tell it. It was this tree that Ceda was now approaching and he looked at the surrounding desert for any possible source of water, but as far as the eye could see, and even beyond that, there was nothing but the golden sand upon which he now strode. The area around the tree was littered with dead bodies. Most of them were now nothing more than bleached bones, but one or two were still clad, dead only for about 3 months, all from deep wounds. Ceda looked at them in disgust but then forgot about them as he contemplated the tree, having previously thought that it was but a tale of children. The story echoed in his head for sometime as he made his way through the sand. The only thing besides him and his wingless dragon mount, Melgon, was the single tree; not even insects lived in the Desert of the Hidden Army and only seldomly did birds venture in to feast on a dead animal. The tree itself was not particularly tall and didn't look very healthy for that matter. It was about the height of Ceda and only some of the leaves that now grew on it were green. The roots stuck out of the ground in an odd fashion and seemed to be warped in some peculiar way that Ceda did not notice. He stopped to look at it as they passed and Melgon swung his head around to see why they had stopped. Unable to look at the tree because of the heavy armor that reached from the dragons head to the base of it tail, it shifted its body around and slowly glanced up at the phenomenon. Ceda, amused by this sorcerers work, knowing a little sorcery himself, he advanced on the tree until the reins of his mount pulled tightly at his hand. "Come on, Melgon, this thing won't harm you, fear not." He tugged again at the reins, but this time harder and in turn, the dragon strengthened his foothold. Obvious that the dragon would go no further in the direction of the tree, he dropped the reins and continued towards it alone. Even as he approached, the tree sensed that Ceda had no good intentions and began to shake as if it was warning him to come no closer. It was almost as if a wind were blowing the tree but Ceda could feel nothing of this wind and neither could his wingless dragon mount, Melgon. The closer that Ceda drew, the stronger the wind blew. Melgon began to back away as the wind grew even stronger. "Stay, Melgon," came Ceda's voice fiercely as he turned at the dragon. The only answer that he received was a low growl as the dragon halted. He reached the tree and the wind grew greater, and all of a sudden, the gusts focussed of Ceda pushing him back by surprise. His long black hair flew back to reveal a handsome face with piercing black eyes, a short, straight nose, tight thin lips and a firm chin. The gusts of wind knocked Ceda off balance and he was momentarily pushed back before he again struggled to get to the tree. Finally after five long hard steps, he had reached it again and he lifted his hand to touch one of it's leaves, his long black cape waving wildly under the force of the wind. The wind grew stronger as he grasp a leaf of the growth. Then he pulled at it with all his might and it came off into his hand. Then the wind stopped. Ceda threw himself against the trunk of the tree. Then a noise which startled Ceda for a moment swam through the hot desert air but he relaxed as he recognized the low pitched moaning as a dragon laugh. He glanced menacingly at Melgon who was still laughing and a smile crossed his lips. He picked himself up and walked back to his dragon mount. "There, you see? It's nothing more than a little magic, that is all. Methinks the old kings' wizardry must be weakening over the years... or perhaps the old king was not as strong as I had expected." He opened his hand and examined the leaf. It seemed to crumble in his hand and turned to dust. A worried expression crossed Ceda's face as the wind started again and blew the dust up into his eyes momentarily blinding him. Then, simultaneously, four figures appeared around the warrior as if they had come from the very sand itself. Their swords drawn, their expressions covered by the shadows of the hoods which hung loosely about their heads. Only two gleaming balls of fire were visible beneath the hoods. They wore robes down to their feet and wore gauntlets to shield their hands. "Who are you to question the power of Grobst D'arbo, High king of Grandydyr?" the voice came from within Ceda's head. Ceda's hand raced for the hilt of his sword, the wind still blowing at him from all directions. He raised it to strike at the nearest of the advancing force and swung. The wind changed course and blew the sword harmlessly down missing his opponent. The attacker swung at Ceda's head and seeing the on coming strike, the warrior raised his sword to parry and again the wind changed course. The blade was almost blown out of his grasp, but he held on with all his strength to defend against the assault. Ceda, seeing that the fight would lead to nothing but certain death, jumped to his mount and fought against the wind to ride out beyond the reach of the kings sorcerous winds and warriors. They had gone fifty dragons lengths when the wind ceased and they could ride unhampered. After a short period Ceda looked back to see if the tree was still in sight and if the four demons had yet returned to the underworld. The worried expression returned to his face as he saw the four riding devil spawn steeds with crimson colored fire coming from their nostrils with every breath. The horses were catching up to him and he cursed himself for tempting the dead kings spirit. Ceda bent down low on his mount and spurred it on faster realizing the full extent of the danger. If he were killed by the demons sent after him, his soul would be damned to serve the dead king in a state of half death and half life for all eternity. He reached down into the saddle where his spell book was and pulled at it. It came out and almost as quickly fell from his hand to the ground. "Slow, Melgon. I must retrieve the book if we are to survive." The dragon growled in disapproval as he slowed and turned to the book, but Ceda was already upon it looking for the spell in which he needed to escape his pursuers. He marvelled at the tenacity of the oncoming demons as he invoked the rune he had found that would aid him in escaping danger: "When at a time that I may fall Bring forth the winds, L'amron To aid my call... Naar akbles gah dee Hegwray sde urngen tse dooh, L'amron Faeer sforen cha haben..." First in his language and then in the language of the Wind God. Black smoke rose into the shallow desert air and seemed to clump together as if something had sucked it all into a great hovering mass. Ceda glanced back at the on coming attackers as the smoke filled the sky. Then a large figure of black smoke loomed over him with a face far darker than those that dwell in the most dreadful of the caves of Arnmere. "Why have you summoned me from my most restful sleep, mortal?" The black smoke undulating as he talked. "I have summoned you to aid me in my foray with these demons, Lord," he replied as he cast another glance at the oncoming attackers. "I am, as they are, under the rule of the Lord Ileiruon and cannot aid thee without incurring his wrath upon myself as a result, mortal. Fare thee well." The wind sent the smoke swirling in all directions and at once the Wind Lord was gone. Ceda drew his sword and stood waiting the few remaining seconds for the demons as his mount retreated a safe distance to survey the battle. As the riders approached, the steeds upon which they rode began to waver and finally disappeared as they reached their quarry. The demons dropped to the ground from where they had sat on their hellborn mounts and at once set upon Ceda. This time, their was no devil wind to hinder him as he fought the attackers and with ease he defended himself. Ceda parried one of the swings made by the attacker and disarmed him as a result. Then with lightning quickness he lifted his sword up to unveil the face of one of his opponents and in doing so revealed a fleshless being. All that remained in place of a head was a skull with two crimson balls of light for eyes. All the clothes worn by the attackers at once withered to dust as Ceda was left fighting the living dead. Four odd looking skeletons were before him and were advancing on their prey, the foremost wearing upon his bleached skull a richly designed crown inlaid with rare Malthoogian gems. This one was at least twice the size of the other three. Ceda attacked the crowned figure and as he struck under the same defenses of it's sword, the bones came apart and fell to the sand in pieces. The warrior formed a wry smile and turned to face the three remaining opponents. But, even as he turned, the fourth quickly, magically reassembled itself and resumed the battle. Ceda looked on in utter horror as his hosts reassembled itself after every blow, realizing that if he didn't think of a way to defeat his foe, it would defeat him. Then the solution to beating the wizardry came to him. He turned sharply avoiding the trust of one of the smaller demons and swung at it before it regained its balance, Ceda hit it hard knocking it into a pile of bones. Then with lightning speed, he grabbed at the odd skull dropped it into his pouch. Then it's bones seemed to dry up and wither into nothingness as Ceda fought on. The other two fell easily to Ceda's blade and he deposited the other two skulls into his pouch. Now all that was left was the largest of the demons; The fire glowed in its eyes like two red stars. "Now, you die!" It hissed and swung down at Ceda's head. Ceda parried the thrust and swung under the skeletons sword. It blocked and jabbed for Ceda's head and he had to jump back to avoid being pierced through his neck. Then he lounged at the skeleton tearing its bony arm off and its sword with it. Then the skeleton was easily defeated by Ceda's blade. He swung so that the side of the blade hit turning the massive demon to a pile of milk white bone. As he reached to get the the crown, the demon had time to reform and before he knew it, it was already on its feet and advancing on him. "The crown," it said, its eyes gleaming brightly. "Give it to me." Ceda swung at the skeleton again and hit it, then hit the skull. And the skeleton crumbled. Then the voice returned to his mind and said: "Beware not to let the skulls lose, for my demons will get you," and the voice laughed. Then it was gone from his head. Ceda remembered the warning and he looked into the pouch. The eyes of the demons had lost their fire, as if they had died. Ceda knew of the danger that would be released if they ever broke free and decided to keep them in case he found use for them. Then he turned his attention to the crown. It would be worth a lot of gold in any of a dozen cities . He rubbed it a little, polishing it, and added it to his pouch on the saddle. Then he had a long drink before he continued on his way thought the desert. A dark figure approached the westward gate of the city of Pheeng'Am. He did not ride the strange wingless dragon mount that walked next to him. He looked odd as he approached the gate, for dragons were very rare and those that were wingless were legendary at best. When they arrived at the gate, one of the city guards, a Giant from Weuyrt, the land of forests, (where the caves of Arnmere lie: the home of the feared orcs and hobgoblins) approached them. "What business have you in the city of Pheeng'Am?" his burly voice made all in the area turn to give ear to the conversation. "I am Ceda of No-Al Ben (a small country north of Grobst's desert from which Ceda had come,)" he said proudly before continuing. "I wish to enter the city for I have traveled the desert and am in need of food and shelter before I can continue on. Can you perhaps tell me where the nearest inn is?" Ceda tried to look innocent, he knew that the guards seldom admit those who look like they were there for foul purposes, as was the nature of Ceda. "What is your purpose for traveling this land?" he persisted. "I seek am as a hired sword where I might find work." The talk was beginning to annoy him, but he knew that there was nothing that he could do if he wanted to enter the city unharmed. "You?!? A hired sword? What's the world coming to?" The giant mocked him, but he knew the giant was testing his ability to withhold his temper, so he ignored this. The other guards laughed. "Be the world as it may, I wish to enter the city." Ceda re-stated this with a slight tone of anger in it. The giant thought about this for a minute and then said: "Very well now, you may pass, but be weary of the laws of the city lest I have to find and slay you myself. Go now." Relieved, Ceda continued past the giant and into the city. Pheeng'Am was one of the biggest cities in the land of Ruirse which bordered the Desert of Grobst. Its large populace was due largely to the fact that it bordered the desert. All people traveling through usually went there before continuing on there way. The Desert separated the two largest countries from one another and south of that were the Sarshirian mountains which was virtually impossible to get through safely because they were inhabited by evilly aligned creatures. Ceda, now in the city, headed for the nearest tavern to get a drink. He disliked talking with people which is what he would have to do in the tavern, but he had to meet someone there. Once in the tavern, Ceda got himself a skin of Ruirsian wine and sat down at one of the empty tables in the back so that his face fell into the shadow of the walls. Many people were in the tavern, some drunk, some just walking about but Ceda looked for just one of them: an elf by the name of Rincraw that was to pay him for the service of assassinating Berk, the mighty king of the people of Caffthorn. Then he saw him sitting at the bar with a wooden cup of wine in his hand talking to another elf. Ceda got up, walked over to him and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. The elf turned quickly and his hand flew to his sword, but he relaxed when he saw who it was. "Greetings, Ceda, we have been expecting you, and a job well done to you! I believe we owe you this," he handed the warrior a sack full of gold coins and offered Ceda a drink of his wine. "No thanks," he took the sack and made his way to the door. Feeling the crown in his pouch as he added the sack of gold, he thought a minute about how to get the most money for it and returned to the elf. "Have you ever seen Grobst's tree while in the desert?" he asked the elf slowly thinking about what he was going to say to him. "No, but I've heard rumors, I don't even know if it still lives or even stands for that matter. Why, have you news of it?" "I have. I also thought of it as but a tale until 4 days ago when I accidentally came upon it. All around it was littered with men's bones and mayhap a fresh body or two that the birds have not gotten to yet. The strange thing was that it blew at me with the force of the strongest of winds when I approached. Then I was set upon by minions of hell and the leader wore this:" he withdrew the crown which reflected the light of the candles with an eery red glow. "I had to slay them to live but they fought with the technique of that found only in the king of Grandydyr's greatest ancient heros". The elf looked at his companion who was also confused. "And you say that the leader bore this crown?" he looked at the it. "We shall give word of this to our king and I shall inform you of his bidding." He glanced at his companion, Quendell. "We ride for the port of Dhernis tomorrow, and then on to the Learis Islands. In the meanwhile, make merry and enjoy the wine." He laughed and took a sip. Ceda finished his wine and left the tavern. He felt good from the wine and decided that he would walk around for a while before going back to the tavern to rent a room, so he untied his dragon mount and with him, set off through the city. While passing through one of the many alleys of the city, four large men approached Ceda, who was, at this time, quite intoxicated. The larger of the men coming foreword. "Give us your gold and we won't kill you," his voice was cold. He withdrew a large knife from his side and showed Ceda the blade. Ceda knew he could do nothing in his drunken state and turned to his dragon mount who was now ready to attack. "Down," he whispered into the dragons ear. "I have a much better way." "Hurry or I'll kill you and find it myself," warned the man. "Here it is," Ceda replied pulling out of his pouch the largest of the strange looking skulls and dropping it to the ground. The skull at once grew to it's full size and looked at Ceda. "Give me the crown!" It hissed. "They have it," Ceda pointed at the advancing men as the skeleton turned to face them, its fiery eyes dimly lighting the alley. As the demon advanced on its new target, Ceda led the dragon away and resumed his walk through the city. "It won't find us now unless it stops to ask for directions," Ceda laughed. The sound of men screaming came from the passage where he had just been and he chuckled again. As Ceda walked through the large area in the center of the city square, he notice a small bench carved from rock put there for festivals that sometimes took place in the city on the kings birthday or on certain holidays. He decided to sit there for a while and relax for he was tired and the effects of the wine were wearing off. He put his hands down on his knees and in turn, his head down on his hands and gradually fell into a mild slumber. "Greetings, Ceda," was the voice that next roused him. He looked up at the source to discover a tall woman with long blond hair tied in the back. She wore common garb and had no weapon "You know me?" he looked up questioningly at her, his head hurt and his voice was weak. "I know of you, I have wanted to meet you for a long time." She sat with him now and he could smell the perfume which she wore. It smelled good and he took a long breath. "Mayhap we could go someplace more private than this. She looked at him and smiled displaying a number of black and green rotting teeth. "So be it." He stood up, the pain in his head was beginning to fade now as they made their way back to the tavern and got themselves a room. They were now in the room and she looked at him for a moment without saying anything, then she started to undress. Ceda now understood what she had meant and also took off his clothes. They both looked at one another. She had a magnificently built body with perfect legs and large breasts. She took the binding off her hair and it rolled down to meet her shoulders. She was beautiful. Ceda moved closer to her. He could feel her hot breath against his chest and he grabbed her and set her gently on the bed on her back. His hand now gently caressed her large breasts and she gave a soft moan of approval. Then he reached over and blew out the candle at the side of the bed. The next morning the sun came in through the cracks in the stone wall and woke Ceda. He looked around but the woman was not in the room. He got dressed and went down stairs to the tavern where the bar keeper was polishing the crystal cups that he used for the nobility of the city. "Greetings, sir," he said with a jolly look on his face. "Greetings to you to," Ceda replied. "Have you seen the woman that I came in with last night?" "Can't say that I have, but if I see her, I'll let you know." The bar keeper smiled. "Thanks," he said as he left the bar for his room. Ceda entered his room and gathered his things into a pile. He opened his pouch and noticed that the crown was not there. He looked on the cold stone floor to make sure he had not lost it and then got all his things and left the inn. He walked around The city asking people if they had seen her and he cursed himself for not asking her for here name. No one in the city seemed to know where she had gone, but the giants at the city gate knew who she was and they new her name also (for a small bag of gold that Ceda had given them.) The giants said that she had left for the city of Caahah and that it had only been a few hours before. They also said that the needed to hire swords, for there was a demon lose in the city that was killing both man and beast shouting about a crown of some sort. Ceda turned this job down. He raced back to Melgon who stood ready for him. He put his sword in its place on right of the saddle of the dragon mount and then rode out of the city away from it and the desert in search of the woman called Viamea and the valuable crown she had stolen. On the side of the city that did not border the desert, the wilderness was relaxing as Ceda the Warrior rode by. He planned to catch Viamea before she reached the city lest he have to explain why he was chasing her to the city guards. He was passing a stream now and slowed his dragon mount to refill his skin pouch with water; aside from this, his ride was uneventful. The next day he had reached the city and still he saw no sign of the woman. He decided to go into the city and look for her in any case, reasoning that she may have had a faster horse than he thought. When he got into the city, he went to a tavern, rented a room and waited for nightfall. That night Ceda went through all the taverns until at last he saw her sitting in a corner talking with another man. Ceda made his way through the people and grabbed her by the arm. "Come, demonwoman, I want a word with you." His voice drowned out by the other people in the bar so that only she and her companion could hear. "She's with me," the man across the table stood up to face Ceda. He was tall but stood an inch under Ceda's height and not as bulky. "Not any more," he pulled at her harder this time wrenching her from her seat. "No!" she yelled and a few people turned to stare. The man now reached for his sword and swung at Ceda grazing his left forearm. Ceda threw her at the floor and grabbed at his sword to parry the next attack by the man. Then he jabbed. The sword slid in between two of the mans ribs and he lumped to the floor. By this time there was a crowd in the tavern watching and Ceda wiped his sword on the mans garments and replaced at his side. Then he faced the woman who now sat crying against a wall. He grabbed her hair and dragged her outside and back to the room he had previously rented. "Now, where is the crown that you took from my pouch! I want it." He looked into her face and saw that she was now crying even more than before. "I don't know where it is now, I was paid to take it by two elves. Please don't kill me, I didn't know it meant that much to you," she put her head into her hands and cried again. "Where are they now?" he asked. She did not answer so he grabbed her hair and pulled it up until he could see her face. "Where are they now?" he said again. "They rode out of the city gate to the North East towards the Port of Dhernis. Please don't kill me." she replaced her hands over her face. Ceda got up and closed the door putting the bar in place. he walked back to the woman and took her by the hair. She looked up into his eyes and he smiled at her. "Are you sure?" His voice was now calm. "Yes." "Good," he smiled. Two hours later, a tall man dressed in black opened the door to his room in one of the more popular inns and departed for the port of Dhernis. In the room in several pieces lay the body of a woman. -Joel Slatis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME FIVE NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny *Kittara Comes to Town Ovis Ceda the Executioner: 2 Joel Slatis *Respect thy Elders: 2 Orny *A New Life John White Date: 082486 Dist: 155 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the huge, wide, vast, double-sized issue of FSFnet! This is a very special issue, as we have some very special Dargon stories - the first stories from three new authors. The first tale introduces us to Kittara, and the events that surround her arrival in Dargon. The second story is part 2 of Joel Slatis' Ceda story (which is, for now, unrelated to the Dargon project). The third yarn is part two of my own tale about Kite and Pecora, and their time of trial. And the issue ends with a king-sized epic by John White, introducing us to Je'en, a very captivating and deep character who also has been seen hanging around Dargon Port. I will cut this short, due to the size of this issue, and simply state the things I always seem to be saying in these editorials: welcome to the new members; spread the word to your friends about FSFnet; if you want to write, mail me; and, finally, enjoy! -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Kittara Comes to Town Her name was Kittara Ponterisso, but most folks that knew her usually called her Crossbow Kitty. She was an expert shot with any kind of crossbow, because she had to be. Her skill with the crossbow put food on the table and kept a roof over her head. Kittara's skill was such that it was easy for her to find work as a bodyguard or a hunter. Kittara came to Dargon with a purpose. She had been paid to put her skills to use against a wealthy merchant, a merchant who had enemies in this world, a merchant who called himself Yan the Yellow (most people called him Yan the Yellowbellied). Yan had a son, but he didn't know it. It was this son who had hired Kittara to find Yan and use her skills to bring about "...a more equal distribution of wealth," Yan's son had said. Well, that was fine with her as long as she was paid. What she knew of her employer was next to nothing, simply the fact that he was the unknown son of this merchant, and that he wanted his father's wealth which, according to law, he would receive as inheritance should his father meet an untimely death. A crossbow bolt was considered an untimely death. Kittara was used to larger cities, but didn't mind Dargon for its size. Dargon was a suitable place to work although it mean more effort on her part to blend in with the residents. In a town of this size strangers were often noticed, she would have to take up residence for a while at least, probably after she had earned her payment. Yes, that would do. She would pretend that she was the widowed wife of a royal soldier. Her husband had taught her to handle a crossbow when they had lived on the frontier, a skill which was necessary there to protect oneself from bandits and other nasties. She would be looking for a place to settle down where life was not so dangerous. The journey here from the capital had been uneventful. Kittara was looking forward to the excitement which her mission would bring. How many times had she gone on similar assignments? Many indeed, but each still had its own feeling of thrill, each could be her last. She thought about what she must accomplish. She must locate this merchant and then watch him, learn his ways. A man could not protect his life all of the time, thus he must be vulnerable to death sooner or later. Although a crossbow quarrel in the throat did not look natural, there were other ways of disguising a person's cause of demise. Yan was a merchant with ships, his house was on a cliff facing the sea. A plan was rapidly becoming clear. Get the merchant to stand on the edge of the cliff while his ships sailed out, then put a bolt in his back and he would topple into the sea where his body could be found (or what remained of it after the sharks had finished feasting) and turned into the proper authorities. Yan's son could be informed of the death and he could show up with proof that Yan was his father and that he was entitled to the proper inheritance. Kittara rode into town on her faithful Randy, a horse which had served her for the last three years. Randy was a retired light cavalry horse, retired because he had been stolen by her from a scout who had tried to have his way with her. She didn't care that the scout had been a royal messenger. He wasn't the first soldier to receive a present from the delivery end of Old Henry, her crossbow. A few eyes turned in Kittara's direction, but they did not stare. There were more important and exciting things to see and do on this last day of the festival than watch some dull woman on a plodding horse. Kittara did look rather dull, she was not prepared for the festivities and was tired from her journey. Randy was also tired and plodded along in hopes that his master would provide him with a nice bed and food. Kittara scanned the festive crowd and the buildings along the street looking for a place to stay for the night. Perhaps she could get a few hours of sleep and then join the fun; it had been such a long time since she had enjoyed herself. Presently her glance presented her with a choice: The Hungry Shark Inn or the Inn of the Panther. Since the Inn of the Panther was a bit closer she headed for it, praying that it still had a room. Kittara slid from her saddle, tied Randy to the hitchin' rack, and entered the brightly lit common room of the Inn. The room was crowded with people of all ages who were busy celebrating the last day of their festival. Kittara went over to the bar and asked for a room. She was given the last room in the inn, she was told, and should be thankful that she had found one. It cost her a more than triple what she would normally have considered fair but it was not a bad room. It was a small private room at the end of the short hallway on the third floor of the building, roughly furnished, but suitable for her present needs. She left the room, locking it behind her, and went to retrieve her saddlebags and care for Randy. Kittara took Randy to the Inn's small stable, settled him down for the night, and headed back for a few hours of sleep. Kittara awoke several hours later with the pain of hunger in her gut. She rose, donned some fresh clothes and headed down to see if there was anything left to eat. The festivities were still going on, but at a more subdued level as those too drunk to make merry had passed out, and those who were still merry were busy drinking. She got a plate of food from the bar and headed for a side table where she might be alone; Kittara would not be comfortable until she had gotten to know some of the townsfolk, a problem she would begin work on tomorrow after a good night's sleep. Kittara finished her dinner and sat back against the cushioned wall)bench and watched the people of Dargon. There were all types: poor, rich, merchants, craftsmen, apprentices, masters, warriors, clerics, thieves, old, young, and in)between. As she took a sip of her wine she noticed the inn's namesake. Above the fireplace was a mounted stuffed head of a huge panther. The beast's eyes stared out over the festive crowd as if they were hungry and resentful, resentful of being stuck on a wall instead of out in the wilds where they belonged. Kittara shivered, the head gave her a strange feeling. She would have to hear the story of the panther, as there surely must be one connected with so large a beast. Kittara was not aware of the man until he was standing behind the chair opposite her bench. He was a short man, dressed in strange blue and white patterned clothing. He had short black hair and carried a beautiful pair of swords which were of the kind easterners often fought with. She had heard stories of weapons such as these, stories which described them as being so sharp that they would slice a fresh leaf, floating on a slow moving stream current with only the slightest touch. She did not feel at all comfortable without Old Henry. Her boot knife would never do to defend herself should she need to. The man smiled and said, "Hellro, may I be pleased to join you?" Kittara nodded, thinking that the strange)looking foreigner might also be new to town. The man turned towards the door and held up a hand to attract the serving wench in order that he might order a drink when suddenly the huge chandelier that had been hanging over the common room came crashing down. The chandelier was a great wheel holding many candles ) it smashed into the middle of the room crushing several people, destroying tables and benches, and causing alcohol to burst into flame. People panicked and ran hither and thither shouting, trying to help, or trying to pilfer what they could. The little man leaped to his feet without a glance a Kittara and rushed headlong into the chaos. Kittara grabbed a forgotten cloak and started beating at some of the flames which were coming her way. She thanked her god that she had not been any closer to the center of the room. It took several hours for order to be restored to the Inn of the Panther. Luckily the fire had only caused minor damage and the town guard had arrived quickly so that the pilfering losses were also slight. Jann, the Innkeeper, had come rushing in from the festival to see what the problem was in his inn. Jann had noticed Kittara beating the flames and, upon discovering that she was staying in the inn, had offered her free room and board for as long as she needed it in thanks for her efforts. The incident would cost the inn some business, but the innkeeper was thankful that no one had been killed in the incident and promised one and all that he would be open again the following night. Kittara thanked Jann for his offer and climbed the stairs to her room. Sleep was not long in coming this night and Kittara faded off into a dreamless slumber. She wondered who had melted the chain that the chandelier had hung from. -Ovis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ceda the Executioner: Chapter Two Three weeks later Ceda arrived in Dhernis. The city was built after the fall of the Grandydyrian empire (which was soon after the strange disappearance of their army in the desert.) Grandydyr had at one point ruled the world except for the small islands that lay between the two worldly continents of Cergaan to the South and Beehnerne to the North. The Island were not populated largely because of the frequent volcanic eruptions and earth quakes which devastated the small them until about the time of the that the empire was defeated and fell. Until that time, the elves had been living on the Southern continent of Cergaan (This was not the continent that the desert lay and Ceda now rode). When the Islands had at last become safe to live on 10,000 years ago, the elves had moved most of the population there because it was more secluded and easier to defend. They left some elves on the continent to maintain a stronghold and since then, It has grown into a large City populated and run by the elves. The rest of the continent has been long since forgotten. To this day, no one but the elves have ever seen the insides of the City of Elves (as it is called). Dhernis was also populated mostly by elves. They were mostly in business for themselves as sailors to and from the Islands of Learis, but some chose to be mercenaries or just to leave and find work in other cities throughout the continent. The city was very busy and there would be almost no chance of finding Rincraw in the city if he was by chance still there, so he didn't bother to get a room. That evening Ceda found a sailor who would permit him to sail back to the Islands with him and also bring Melgon along for a small price and they left the following morning. Ceda had slept on the ship that night and he felt very refreshed when he finally awoke the next morning. They were now sailing through the open seas towards the Learis Islands where the elves dwell and the crown was being kept. The crown would be in the palace and Ceda thought all day about how he would gain entry to it without anyone knowing. This however was not Ceda's chief concern for he was an assassin and had to get into more heavily guarded places than this before. The thing that most worried him was the problem of getting the crown and escaping the islands before it was discovered missing. Dusk came and Ceda went to sleep for the morrow would bring the Learis Islands and he must rest. When Ceda woke the next morning, The Islands tall volcanoes outlines were already visible from the ship. They were so tall that the tips of them were hidden amongst the clouds. That night they would dock and the adventure would begin. The night came quickly and Ceda told the captain to pull into the harbor of the largest of the 8 isles called Perstanie where the palace was and dock. The ship glided through the water and at last Ceda was on land again. Ceda gave the captain of the ship a small amount of gold and told him to wait all night if need be for him to return. The captain nodded and Ceda left the ship for the palace where the crown was almost certain to be. The streets were now empty as the night was about half over, only now and again would the city guards pass by and until they were gone, Melgon and Ceda hid in the shadows. The palace now stood before them, its large gate made from some magical material that lighted the entire area around it. Ceda had been in the castle many times before because of some of the business that he had done with the King of the elves. He stood some distance away from the gate and watched the guards walk up and down the area. Then he turned walked the other direction away from the gate around the castle to where it was darker and there were less guards. He counted the guards and watched as they walked by a final time before he hoisted himself onto Melgon's back and climbed up the back of its neck while it picked itself up on its hind legs. Ceda stood on his dragon mounts long snout and looked down; it was about 12 feet to the ground and another 2 feet from Ceda's head to the top of the wall. He jumped up and grasp the top of the wall pulling himself up. Then he sat for a moment checking that the guards had not heard him and then continued on to the wall and down the stairs to the palace grounds. He was in. Then Ceda made his way to Rincraw's room knocking out the guard that stood outside and entered. He went slowly over to the bed and sat down next to it. He couldn't see and would have to hope that he could feel where the elf's mouth was before it had time to scream. Ceda didn't even want to think about what would happen if he was not sleeping alone, but knew that if he didn't get Rincraw, he would never find the crown. His thoughts were beginning to annoy him, so he put them out of his mind. Then he sprang up onto the bed. Ceda felt one figure under his body and he grabbed for its mouth. He got it before it had time to scream. "Good," he said to himself and checked for another person in the bed. There was no one. By this time the person was squirming and trying to scream but could not. "Now Rincraw, I get a chance to repay you for your treachery!" He tightened his grip on the neck of the elf, but something bothered him. The elf's skin was soft and smooth, not like that of a male, but of a-- "By all the lords of Tavaar!" He exclaimed. "You are a woman!" His voice just loud enough to here. She tried to speak but could not because of Ceda's hand. "I'll let you speak, but if you yell for help, I'll not die alone." He tried to see into here eyes but could not. He felt her nod and he withdrew his hand from her mouth. "I am Miratia, Rincraw's wife," she said, trying to see his face. "Where is he, I have a score to settle with him." "I know not, for I also seek vengeance upon him." Ceda looked harder to see her face but could not. Without light to see her eyes, he could not be sure if she was telling the truth. "Then we have a common goal," he said. "Where is he?" "Neither do I know that, he never returned from Pheeng'Am." "He didn't return?" Ceda grew angered. "Then the wench lied!" "What?" "Nothing." Ceda thought about how he would get out now and finally said to the elf: "Miratia of Perstanie, do you wish to accompany me to the great city of Pheeng'Am to find your husband and take your vengeance upon him?" "I do." "Then come now in haste, but quietly," he cautioned. They got up and left the room. The guard was still where he left him and all was good. Then Miratia screamed and ran towards one of the buildings. Ceda started for the wall but the guards were already upon him before he could get there, so he drew his sword and tried to fight though them, but Miratia was calling for more guards. "Tavaar!" he mumbled and lowered his weapon. Then he was led off and put in a small damp cell in a cave under the castle. Morning came and Ceda was awakened by two burly looking elves and led back up to the court of the palace in chains. The king of the elves sat in the back of the room on a raised platform, all around the room at regular intervals were armored men and the rest of the room was filled with nobles and subjects that were just standing talking with one another while some elven women danced in the center. Now the room was quite. Everyone looked at Ceda except for the women who kept dancing as if nothing was happening. The king looked over to the women and clapped his hands and at once they left the room. Then Ceda was led into the room to where the dancers had been. Still no one spoke but everyone's attention was focused on the king. "Greetings Ceda of No-Al Ben, what brings you to my kingdom again?" Everyone laughed except Ceda who was not at all pleased with the current turn of events. The king got up and stepped down to where Ceda stood, his richly colored robe dragged along the smooth stone floor. "Why I have not had you executed yet I do not know. Is there anything you wish, now that you stand before me?" "My argument is not with you King Rackins, but with your servant Rincraw, who stole Grobst D'arbo's crown from me." Ceda said this loudly so that all the room heard quite clearly. The king glanced at one of the other elves who shook his head at the King. "And, Ceda of No-Al Ben, where did you get such a crown?" The king mocked. Ceda told the room his story and at once all the people were talking about at and arguing whether he spoke the truth. The king walked to the other elf and spoke with him for a moment quietly, then he returned. "Can you prove this?" The king asked as the room again quieted. "I can not...," he started but remembered the skulls. "I can prove what you ask," he said. "But I must get to my dragon mount for what I need." The king looked at one of the guards at the door and he nodded. "What is it you require, Ceda of No-Al Ben? We've already found him." "There is a pouch on the side of the saddle, in it are three skulls, bring one here." A messenger soon returned with one of the strange looking skulls and gave it to Ceda. "Now look, King of the Elves," he placed the skull in the kings hand and looked up. The king examined the skull and looked at Ceda, Then he laughed. "You play games with me, Ceda of No-Al Ben," he said as he through the skull to the floor. "No!" Ceda tried to catch it but the chains held him back and before anyone knew what had happened, the skeleton stood before them with his sword in his hand. Two of the Guards leapt forward and one fell dead from the skeletons sword. The other swung and hit the skeleton in the backbone tearing it apart. They all stood and watched thinking the trouble was over as it came apart into separate bone except for Ceda who kicked the skull. "Get the skull," he shouted and the skull flew towards the already reforming bones only to be caught by the king. Ceda relaxed. The king looked at Ceda and then back at the weird looking skull which he now held. The sword and boned were now nothing more than dust on the floor and the room at one became calm. The guard that had been killed was taken away and they resumed talk. "It is a dangerous toy that you keep, Ceda, but one that saved your life." The king told the guards to take his chains off. Then they went to the king private chamber with the third elf and talked. The third elf's names was Merth; he was a wizard and was one of the closest friends of the king. His worldly experience was far greater than some of the best warriors in the known world, and this also added to his usefulness to the king. This for the most part was why the elf was with them while they talked. "Well Mirth," the king paused. "What do you think?" The elf's voice was a high pitched wine at best, "This could prove to be ample cause for Rincraw and Quendell to betray us if my suspicions are correct. Ceda looked curiously at Merth. "What suspicions?" "I cannot say now, but if I'm to be sure, I must talk with Sarve, the son of Tain, cousin to Tavaar the Great Overlord. "You cannot speak of the gods themselves?" Asked the king. "Is the matter that urgent?" "the Great Army? Is that your thought?" Ceda interrupted "Possibly, but it is of great importance that I Make haste to my chamber. I will journey from there to their realm, for I have felt that there was a break in the natural order of things." The little elf got up and bowed low to the king. Then he left. The king, still totally oblivious as to what had just happened, looked at Ceda who's face was enigmatic. "What was that about?" "The Great Army may yet have it's day," Ceda said. "However I do not yet understand how or why. This is the information that Merth seeks from the gods." "Then what can we do?" "Wait." Five days later, the meek elf opened the door from his chamber and emerged. He was paler than usual and he look perhaps 10 years older. He went down the stairs of the tower in which his room was and into the main room of the castle where the king and Ceda sat and talked as a few Elven women danced for the subjects that were also in the room. The king and Ceda both got up as he came in. "Sit my faithful servant, for I have troubling news for you." The kings voice was firm, "And you are in need of rest." "I also carry news, news from the gods. They are displeased for the King of grandydyr and his army may rise again." "The Hidden Army may yet walk the earth again?" The Kings voice changed to worry. "Aye, my king." "but why are the Gods not happy for this? How is it possible that after all these years the, the Gods do not rejoice?" Ceda was now very confused. "Sit," said the little elf, Merth. "For this will take some time to Explain." The king nodded at a guard by the door to the room and clapped his hands four times. "Be gone, everyone until later." "Good," said Merth as they finally sat alone, now I can tell you of what has happened." And the elf began. "10,000 years ago, the army of Grobst D'arbo, King of Grandydyr, left Grandydyr on a mission. This mission was to destroy all evil that dwelt in the world, from the most southern tip of Cergaan to the most northern tip of the country of Weuyrt on the northern continent, or more correctly, any and all beings that were swore alliance to the evil lords of Endillion. "The army was the biggest one ever assembled in history and could have easily completed its task except that the lords of Endillion called on the Over Lord, Tavaar, to stop them, and they were granted permission to destroy the army. The Lords of Endillion sent the Army to Limbo and transformed Grobst D'arbo into a Tree that would forever live in the desert wasteland. "Tavaar was enraged by this punishment, he thought it unfitting and deemed that one day, Grobst would again walk the earth, and it is very possible that the day has come. "Grobst may even now be free of his hell tree and be summoning his army from limbo where they otherwise would live forever." Ceda looked confused. "But if the army is to destroy all evil, why were the gods not pleased?" "They could not say, but they gave me a riddle from the Over Lord, Tavaar. He toys with them and will not let them tell me openly. "The riddle?" Ceda asked. "It goes like this:" "Black and White forever fight, And Green is in in between. But when blue comes in, Then all is left astray. And so will come the night. White will cover Black will fight Blue will help And so will come the night. Ileiruon will come on Deadly Mount, Blue and grey will join, Sarve will not sit and wait, And so will come the night. When at last night falls, Things will be as they were. On the last night, All things, know thee well. And then will come the time Of the blue and the grey. And then and only then will there be day. Mayhap." "But Sarve did leave me with a word of warning: If night will live, only black will there be, as is in every night; white, blue, grey and all other colors will go unnoticed." Merth looked at Ceda. "I can not understand it, but it is bad." "Mayhap I can stop Rincraw before he uses the crown?" asked Ceda. "Mayhap, but I do not yet even understand why." "And the riddle, must it go like this, or can we decipher it?" "Sarve said that the Green Monks that may be of help in that matter," Merth said. "And he told me how to reach them." (The dwelling place of the Green monks has always been a secret known only to the gods. The Green Monks are all knowing. Not even Tavaar possesses the knowledge they have. It is for this reason that Tavaar hates them and it is the same reason that he does not destroy them. He's afraid of their power because he knows not its capability.) "You know of the place of the Green Monks?" The king was amazed. "I do, but It is only for Ceda to travel there." "Where are they?" "The..." Merth paused. "They dwell in a land only reached by passing through the Caves of Arnmere." "And you want me to go there?" Ceda laughed. "I would sooner go to the Sharshirian mountain alone!" He laughed again. "You jest!" Merths expression didn't change. "You surely jest..." Ceda repeated. Merths expression still didn't change. "You surely jest.... ?" "You must go, Ceda." "Now you speak the truth, I must go; But not to Arnmere. I will seek Rincraw." Ceda got up and left the room. The king looked at Merth. "What will happen?" "The answer lies in Weuyrt, where the caves lay." Two days later, Ceda the Executioner set sail for the city of Pheeng'Am in search of the elf, Rincraw and his partner, Quendell. -Joel Slatis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Respect thy Elders: Chapter Two Kite slowed his horse as he came upon the peasant village. After several long days and nights of riding, he was weighted down with weariness and worry. His trip had begun over a week ago, when his fiancee, Pecora Winthrop, had fallen ill. Following the advice of her nurse, mistress Izetta, Kite had ridden west, in search of an Elder named Isentraum. The journey had not been easy, for it had rained nearly every afternoon, and Kite's mind was heavy with worry for his fiancee. Stopping at the crest of a hill, Kite regarded the small hamlet below. There was no one about in the darkness, but the lights of several wooden buildings shone warmly, and one large building bore a weathered sign that was undoubtedly the crest of an inn, though Kite could not make out the caricature from where his horse stood. Kite rode slowly into the village and tied up his horse, peeking into the inn through a dirty, thick-glassed window. After a moment, he stepped inside into a low, smoky room filled with peasants. A great fireplace fogged the room with wood smoke, and several customers turned to view the newcomer, then returned to their draughts. Kite strode purposefully to the bar and requested a pint of stout. "Right away, milord," responded the barkeep, who, true to his word, promptly brought Kite a stein, filled to the brim. Kite placed a Scrod on the counter, which the barkeep quickly snatched away. "Will there be anything else, milord?" "Ah, yes, a room for the night... and... uh..." "Yes, milord?" prompted the barkeep. Kite pondered. He was in the area where mistress Izetta had said to search for the Elder, but he had no idea where to begin to look. Might as well ask someone, and who would be more likely to know than a barkeep? "Can you tell me anything about a man named Isentraum?" At the barkeep's reaction, Kite knew he had not asked the right thing. "Well, milord, not... no, I'm afraid I can't. Ah, excuse me, sir, let me see to your room..." The barkeep bustled off. It was obvious that Kite had agitated the man. He turned his back to the bar and looked around the room, but he found many nearby patrons had their eyes on him. He made bold to face the group as a whole, but suddenly a small, wiry man stepped up to him from behind. "Now, sir," he began softly, as he turned Kite back to the bar. "You mustn't go stomping about and hollering about old superstitions in a town such as this. People don't take kindly to it. Now sit down and drink your stout." After a moment, Kite complied, and soon afterwards the barkeep returned with a set of keys to Kite's room. The thin stranger leaned over to Kite and whispered, "Now shall we go discuss this as it should be, behind a locked door?" Kite, still rather bewildered, agreed and led the man to his room. Having recovered his composure, Kite began to question the man. "Now who are you, and why have you taken me aside like this?" "My name," began the stranger, "is Palawan. I overheard your question of the barkeeper, and wished to avoid any violence that might have come from it. The people of this town are a very suspicious and superstitious lot. Now," began Palawan, as he settled in a chair, "why do you wish to find an Elder?" "That is for me alone to know." "Ah. Well, then, I fear it is for me alone to know where to find the one called Isentraum." He made to get up, knowing how Kite's would respond. "Very well," Kite began. "I am betrothed to a lady of the House of Winthrop. She has fallen ill, and I have been told that this Elder may be able to help her." "Do you love this girl?" What kind of question was that? "Of course I do... very much." "Aah. Then perhaps I can help you. I will guide you to where this Isentraum lives, and I will present you to him. What follows is up to him." The path Palawan had chosen led across the north face of a small mountain, and Kite found the going very difficult, but he persevered. He wondered about the small, wiry Palawan. He was obviously not one of the peasants of the village, but he seemed so weak that he would not be able to make a fighter or messenger. The previous evening they had talked while sitting by the fire. Palawan seemed interested in every detail about Kite and Pecora, and how Kite thought the Elder might be able to help him. Kite had also listened as Palawan had told him of his late wife; it seemed to Kite that Palawan was a very lonely man. That afternoon, as they approached the crest of the mountain, Palawan spoke with Kite. "The Elder lives just over this outcropping of loose stone. It is very dangerous, so be careful." The two began to climb the loose rock, but Palawan seemed to make much better speed than Kite. Then Kite saw Palawan slide on a loose rock, and come tumbling down the slope. Kite knew that the old man would tumble to his death if he wasn't stopped. Kite danced toward Palawan as he rolled, and tried to anchor himself. He caught Palawan's arms and held fast. The old man looked at him with deep bronze-green eyes and smiled, apparently unhurt, save for minor scrapes and bruises, and a small wound on his right elbow. They finished the ascent a little more slowly, and came upon a small hut. The two approached the hut, and found a figure bent in a garden. Kite scuffed his feet to make sure the man knew someone was there, then he stopped. The man slowly stood, tentatively holding his lower back, and turned. The man who faced him stood somewhat less than Kite's height, and lank. His coarse black hair framed a long face with deep, bronze-green eyes. Palawan walked over to the Elder, and for a moment seemed to occupy the same space, before melding entirely into the form of the Elder. "Marquis Kite of the House of Talador, I am Isentraum. I know the hows and whys of your coming, and I have seen the worthiness of your soul. Know that am both able and willing to aid your fiancee, and the price I request is small. There is a rare herb, known as Elmin. You must bring me as much as you can. You may find it at the home of a druid named Hartley, who lives outside the village of Greenmont, two days north of here. Give him my regards. When you return, I will see to your favor. Go now." With that, the old man returned to his garden, but Kite couldn't help but notice the wound on his right arm as he walked off in search of Hartley the druid of Greenmont. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A New Life What does a Bard do when she can no longer sing? Two years. Two years was a long time, but not long enough. Never wouldn't be long enough. Two years since the incident... It was really her fault. No matter how much she wanted to blame someone else, the primary fault lay totally with Je'lanthra'en. If only she hadn't been so proud, so sure her status would provide as much protection as a full phalanx of Baranur's army. Bards were very respected, but, in the black of night, where no one else could see, even a Bard could be attacked. Je'en had been in Magnus for an annual meeting of the College of Bards. She had stayed out late one night, and, in deciding to take the fastest way to her lodgings, had set her horse onto one of the three "tunnels" that led thru the Fifth Quarter - the sometimes called Thieves' Quarter: really the slums of the city. The "tunnels" - the only properly-wide, glow-globe lighted, patrolled (if irregularly) streets in that Quarter, the light creating a 'tunnel' of safety thru the darkness and danger of that Quarter - were the safest way thru the Fifth Quarter during the day. But, midway between the dark of the night and the first light of day, nowhere within the boundaries of the Fifth Quarter was safe. Je'en felt, however, that her green cloak and hood, the silver-embossed leather harp case on her back, and the harp on yellow on green of her horse's trappings would ward off any evil-doers: not only was a Bard the most respected non-Royalty possible, but there were rumors (not unfounded) that some Bards could do magic! Je'en couldn't, but no one else could know that. She felt herself so safe, that she didn't even make sure her sword was limber in its sheath, and ready to draw - in fact Leaf-killer was peace-bonded into its sheath because the Inn she had been at had required that precaution. Totally unconcerned with the shadows beyond the meager illumination on the "tunnel" she had chosen, Je'en was caught off guard by a shape that hurtled out of the darkness and knocked her from her horse. She hit the ground hard, but managed (by luck) to land on her attacker, so she was able to recover quicker than he. She was on her feet, cloak back, and Leaf-killer out and ready, by the time the man in tattered clothing (but a nice and shiny sword) was able to face her. Unfortunately, he had some friends with him - five to be exact. Self-protection was a skill all had to learn in this semi-civilized world, and Je'en could protect herself, but not as well as some (due mostly to the demands of her profession - she spent more time perforce at singing and harping than at sword-drill), and not well at all against six determined vagabonds, attracted by her rich trappings, and emboldened by their numbers. She put up a good fight - she actually incapacitated two of them, killing at least one - but they knew what they were doing. She felt an iron point score her cheek perilously near her right eye, and she was temporarily blinded by frighteningly profuse blood. Then, another sword scored on her leg, slicing into her thigh and buckling it. And, almost simultaneously, another edge caught her under her right bracer, cutting deeply into her right wrist, causing her to drop Leaf-killer as she sank to the ground. Helplessly unarmed, and weak from pain and blood-loss, Je'en watched as her horse was looted of the few resaleable goods she had. Irritated by the meager haul, the leader of the ruffians turned on Je'en, and noticed her fine green cloak and the harp. She was relieved of those, and the few items of personal jewelry she wore (including the pendant of her Rank in the College), and it was harder for her to see her harp, Soft-Winds, in the hands of the thieves than the thought of her battle-loss was. Until the attention of the leader was turned on her person. "Pretty," said the leader. "A little more money from the slavers, to make up for the trouble we've had wit' you." His leer was pure evil. "She'll take too much time, be too much trouble, Skar!" said one of the survivors. "I know someone'll give us 5 Crowns for this 'ere neck-chain - 'e needs it for a job 'e's got: 'personatin' a Singer, it is. Five Crowns's more'n we'd get fer her and all the rest o' her stuff, plus she killed Han, and probably Charet, too. Let's kill 'er, Skar! Real slow like, too." Skar was a man of action, but he knew his men well enough to listen to them. Five Crowns was more than the skinny girl would fetch, and the fact that she was a Bard, a Singer in the slang, could complicate matters. So, he decided. He drew his knife, and knelt next to the ever weakening Je'en. Then, casually, he placed the knife to her throat, and slashed quickly and cleanly. The new pain pushed Je'en over the edge. As blackness closed over her mind, she felt herself being dragged into the shadows at the edge of the "tunnel", heard some rude comments about what they were going to do to her before she cooled down too much, and then there was an odd honking noise just before the blackness claimed her. The 'honking' had been the Quarter's Early Warning System. It signaled a patrol, and said it was close. Skar was forced to leave Je'en behind, but he was long gone, with all the loot, by the time the patrol found the wounded Bard. The City Patrol, while in existence to keep order, also did its best to help people in need, when such aid wasn't directly dangerous. So, when Je'en's body was found, a stretcher was fashioned, and four of the patrol escorted her to the nearest Healer. Magnus, like most cities of the Realm, licensed its healers, insuring a minimum level of competency in the healing craft. But, some Healers bearing the gold-covered, city-seal-embossed, iechyd leaf (a simple pain-alleviating remedy when boiled in water) in their front windows were little more than potion-mixers, having no magickal knowledge whatsoever. Of course, the Court had claim to the best of the healers, but the other Healers thruout the city had no rating other than the gold leaf of minimum ability. Advertising by word of mouth generally led people to the best Healers, but the Patrol didn't have time for such shopping around. The moved rapidly thru the well lighted streets of the merchant quarter looking for the nearest gold leaf they could find. Of course, had they known she was a Bard, they would have made best speed to the Castle - a Bard was 'royalty', and would be treated as such. The healer living in the house they found was irritated at being awakened in the middle of the night, but when he saw Je'en, he shut up (after a short utterance in plea of aid) and went to work. The healer, unfortunately, was a potion-mixer. He knew three chants of healing: two to ease minor back-pain, and one to stop bleeding in the head area - i.e. only one of particular use. But he did know his herbs and potions, and he used his knowledge swiftly and surely to save Je'en's life. But, he just didn't know enough of the craft to return her to her former full health. When her life was no longer in danger, she was taken to a recovery-house. All but the most wealthy of healers operated from their homes, which usually didn't have enough room to house patients who required extended care. So, there were the Recovery-houses, large dormitory-style hostels where patients could receive the care necessary to help them to recover. She wasn't there long. Only four days, during which time she was unconscious, her body healing itself as best as it could with the help of various potions prescribed by her Healer. When she woke up, finding herself within the easily recognizable curtained-walled bed of a recovery-house, she called out - painfully and not very loudly - for an orderly. When one came, she said, "Rydw i Canur." The words were barely recognizable, and they hurt her throat like swallowing fire, but the peculiar resonance inherent in the almost-magical phrase conveyed their meaning, and the orderly went hurrying after someone in charge. Shortly thereafter, she was transferred to the Castle, and the care of the Royal Healer, Master Enowan. He immediatly set about implementing further healing using the more powerful magicks at his command, but he was too late to be must help. Once the body accepts a pattern of health, it takes massive magic to change that pattern. Most normal healing serves to help the body restore its normal pattern. But in the case of traumatic injury, special healing is necessary to force the body to survive, and thereby create a new life-pattern. Such had been done to Je'en, and not even the skills of Master Enowan could reverse the process now - it had been too long, and Je'en's life pattern had accepted tha injury to her throat and wrist as natural. Enowan was able to eradicate the scar on her leg, but he could only smoothe out the scar on her face, make it a little less ragged, and heal it as far as it would go. The damage to her throat - her windpipe, and therefore her voice - was irreparable, as was the damage to her wrist. When she awoke from the healing sleep that master Enowan had placed her in, she found herself in a private recovery room within the Castle, with an apprentice healer attending her. As soon as she was fully awake, the apprentice raced off to get Master Enowan. While she was alone, Je'en tried out her voice and then her hand. Her throat still burned a little, feeling a bit like an incipient cold just lingering at the back of her throat and tickling her with an unreachable itch. But, when she coughed to relieve the itch, it set her whole throat to such aching that she strove to ignore the minor discomfort to avoid the major pain. When she looked at her hand, the only evidence of injury was a small diamond of scar tissue at the center of both sides of her wrist. But, when she tried to flex her fingers, she found that she had almost no fine control over them - she could bend them all together, but not one at a time. And, when she reached for the pitcher at her bedside to pour herself a cup of water, once she was able to grasp the handle, she found that she couldn't lift it. There was absolutely no strength in her hand at all. Totally dispirited, she sank back on her pillows to await the Master healer, already afraid of what he would say. Master Enowan arrived, smiling the false-and-not-very-reassuring smile of a healer, and took her pulse at her throat and left wrist. Then, after lifting her eyelids to look at her eyes, he crossed his palms an inch above her chest, and closed his eyes. His hands began to glow, and Je'en knew that he was examining her deeply, the way only the best calibre of Healers could. When his hands stopped glowing, Je'en said, "So, how am I, Master Enowan?" The healer opened his eyes, and said, "Alive, and as well as can be expected." "But, what about my...my voice, and my hand? Will they heal?" "I'm afraid not, Je'en. The scar on your voice box will never be gone, tho it will stop hurting shortly. And your hand will never be as dextrous as it once was, tho it, too, will recover some. I...I'm sorry, Je'en, but there wasn't anything more we could do. We tried..." Je'en's eyes closed on her tears. She knew, somewhere deep down, that she would never sing again. When she was pronounced fit, she would go to the local College, and get tested, but she was sure she would fail. And, when you've been one thing all your life, how do you change? Two weeks later, the verdict was in. She could no longer sing, and her voice was deemed unsalvageable. She could no longer play, and her hand was also deemed unsalvageable. The Masters of the College ruled that she could remain a Bard if she so chose - but she did not. She stood in the anteroom waiting for the Hall of Ceremonies to be prepared. The Ceremony of Leaving was seldom performed, and there were special preparations to be made. She wore her finest tunic and breeches, and a new green cloak, and Rank pendant. The sword at her side wasn't Leaf-killer, and the harp on her back wasn't Soft-Winds, but she would never see those artifacts again anyway. These replacements had been given to her out of the stores of the College, tho she would only be keeping the sword after today. It was a fine weapon, well crafted without being showy, and she was glad to have it (but it couldn't replace Leaf-killer, that had been in the family since her father's father's father's mother's time). She was in all ways prepared for the ceremony - her lines were memorized with a Bard's meticulous skill, and she had steeled herself not to get emotional (at least not under the eyes of the whole College). Finally, two journeymen bards opened the great doors of the Hall, and beckoned her to enter. She did so, and began walking down the aisle formed by the huge, floor-to-ceiling Screens of Privacy - intricately carven wooden screens that narrowed the vast hall to a small lane that led from the doors to the Dias at the far end. Behind the Screens, the whole College-in-attendance was gathered, silent and mourning for the loss of a sister. As Je'en walked the aisle, she looked up at the huge escutcheon that hung behind the Dais. The blazon ran thru her mind - Vert, a bend or, over all, a bard Harp, proper: the green background for the World that was the Bard's home, the gold diagonal stripe for the allegeance the College paid to the kingdom of Baranur, and the Harp that signified their profession. She would miss being under the protection of that proud coat-of-arms. She reached the steps to the Dais, and mounted the leftward ones as was proper (normally, the rightward steps accessed the dais, but she was leaving, so it was reversed for her). The two journeymen waited at the steps until she was on the Dais, then they turned, and walked back down the aisle and out, closing the doors behind them. Je'en was alone on the Dais save for the Master of the College in Magnus, Master Heagn. The somewhat old man still had a fine voice for all his years, and his hands were as sure as a new journeyman's on his harp. He looked fondly on Je'en, and sadly, too. Tho Leavings weren't totally unheard of, usually the Leaver was one who had made a bad choice early in life, and found the College not quite right for them, or something came up that changed their lives in a happy way, and led them away from the College. The tragic nature of Je'en's Leaving was accentuated by the fact that, in Heagn's estimation, she had had the potential to one day become the Master of the College. When the doors were closed, the Ceremony began. Je'en advanced to the podium standing between herself and Master Heagn. On the podium was the Crystal of Oathes, an Artifact as old as Bards themselves, on which all promises within and to the College were made. Je'en placed her hands on the conic, multi-faceted, clear Crystal, and said, "Rydw i Canur," which meant 'I am a Bard' in the ancient language of the first Bards ever. As the words' resonance filled the chamber, she could feel the vibration travel down her arms and into the Crystal, which, after a moment began to glow softly, infusing her hands and arms with a pearly opalescence, and soothing the ache that still lingered in her throat when she spoke. Master Heagn then said, "Je'lanthra'en, Journeyman of the Eighth Stave, you and I have met here to dissolve your allegiance to the College of Bards. Is it your intention to continue with this course?" Swallowing from more than the discomfort of her throat, Je'en said, "Yes, Master Heagn." "Then let it be known that Je'lanthra'en is leaving of her own accord, and her own choice. Should circumstances change, or any aid ever be needed, the doors of this College, and all other Colleges united in the fellowship of all that is Bardic, shall not close their doors unto you, and readmittance will never be barred from you. "Now, return unto me the symbols of your former calling." Je'en took her hands away from the Crystal, but they continued to glow. She swiftly slipped off the harp's strap, and handed it to Master Heagn. If it had been hers, as had Soft-Winds, she would have been able to reclaim it from him after the ceremony, but she would leave this one with the College. She next unfastened her cloak, and handed it also to the Master Bard. And, lastly, she took off the chain that bore her Rank. That Master Heagn also took, and Je'en returned her hands to the Crystal. "Now, say the words that will release you from your vows and set you free of us and our ways," said Master Heagn. Je'en hesitated, swallowed again, and finally said, "Didw i ddim Canur." meaning 'I am not a Bard.' And the glow of the Crystal faded, finally going out. She felt a slight push against her hands as the Crystal emphasized her apartness now, and she lifted them from its surface. Oddly, she didn't feel any different - but maybe that was because she had long since accepted the fact that she was leaving, and this was just the confirmation of that fact. Master Heagn offered her his hand before bidding her farewell, and as she descended the rightward stairs, those behind the Screens began a minor key chant of parting that did more to bring on her tears than the actual ceremony had. She was now, finally, on her own, no longer a Bard, and no longer protected like one, either. What was she to do? Revenge was the first thing she thought of. Those six thieves had ruined her entire life. Two had already paid for it, but there were four more to catch, and torture, and eventually kill. But, Je'en wasn't vengeful. Another might have taken out at least a little frustration on that first healer who hadn't known enough to save her life as it had been before the accident. But she knew that it wasn't his fault, and she sent him a gold arm-band she had been given once for stopping a revolt in one of the western duchies by satirizing the upstart so well, and so scathingly, that his followers all left him, laughing. The arm-band was enough payment for a years worth of bone-setting, and ache-curing, and ague-warding for a wealthy family, and the healer immediatly moved into a better neighborhood (one not so close to the Fifth Quarter) after thanking her for such a generous gift. So, since revenge, as such, was really out of the question, she decided to join the city guard, and help protect others from what had happened to her. But there was one problem. She wasn't a very skilled fighter, and what she knew applied to right-handed techniques, which she could no longer use, of course. She had heard about a training school outside a little village to the northwest run by a retired adventurer who had quite a name as both an adventurer and as a teacher. It was said that those who survived his school were the best swordsmen around. His fee was high enough that he wasn't inundated by students, and his policy of a one week trial period to determine trainabilty, after which one could be rejected without a refund, kept the idle rich from cluttering up his practice yard. Je'en had a lot of money - she had kept most of it at the College in Magnus, and of course it had all been returned to her when she left. So, hoping she had the talent to go with her money and drive, she packed up and headed north-west. Besides, she thought, even if I'm not accepted, I'll be two-thirds the way to Dargon, where my brother Kroan, lives. I could always just keep on, and pay him a visit - haven't seen him in years. The School of Lord Sir Morion was quite impressive. It was set ten miles from the village of Tench, in the forest that covered most of the area. It looked like a citadel from the outside - massively walled, with great square towers at each of the five corners, and a huge ironwood drawbridge to span the fifty-foot deep, twenty-foot wide chasm that surrounded it. The drawbridge was down, and the portcullis up when Je'en arrived in the afternoon. The forest was cleared for a mile on all sides of the citadel, and the clearing was filled with activity - several neatly-planted fields were being tended to; one of three oval tracks was being used to race horses, and another hosted a foot race. Elsewhere, there were roped-off squares wherein two, and sometimes more, people fenced with wooden swords, and all manner of other weapons. From the number of people around that she could see, Je'en hoped that Sir Morion's school wasn't filled. She stopped by one of the roped enclosures, and watched the two people fencing within. They seemed very good as judged by her knowledge: they at least put on a good show. Finally, one of them, in all-black armor with a very stylised gryphon painted on the breastplate and wicked-looking silver trim around the eyeslits of his helm, executed a slashing backhand that caught his opponent in the side. Action stopped, and then the one in tattered blue slumped across the other's sword as if slain. He layed on the ground for a minute, then rolled over and sat up, took the hand offered him, and got helped to his feet. Both men removed their helms and began discussing the finer points of the battle. Je'en caught the attention of one of the similarly armored young men around the ring, and asked, "Where can I find Sir Morion, please?" "O, din tye know? Tha' one, in ta black. Tha's t'Lord o' tis place, miss. An' t'oter one, tha's Ironfist. Goin to graduate soon, 'e is. Real soon. Gonna miss 'im, too. Come on, lemme int'r'duce you to 'em both. Foller me, now, quick. Tey get away and a' talking, tey won't be back 'fore supper." Je'en followed the rather jovial, if hard to understand, fellow over to where the two combatants were talking away while two younger men removed their armor. Je'en's guide stepped right up to them, and said, "Hey, 'Fist, Bull, great match, eh? I bet you'll beat the Bull before ya leave, 'Fist - i know ya can do it! Yer gettin' beter every day! O, hey guys, this here little lady was askin' after ya, Bull. I'll leave ya to 'er: almost my turn in the ring. Bye, now." "Take care, Kyle," said the man who was still wearing black even tho his armor was all in a neat little pile at his feet. "And watch March's third-return: remember the counter I showed you." He turned to Je'en and said, "Hello. My name is Morion, but most of my students call me Bull. How do you do." Je'en shook his hand, and gazed at the man. He was tall, and full-bodied, with broad shoulders, and a thick chest, arms and legs. His hair was raven-black, his face handsomely aristocratic, and he had the oddest eyes she had ever seen - they were ice-grey, so light that there seemed to be something wrong with them. She said, "I'm fine, Sir." Her throat had ceased hurting by now, but her voice was still a bit gravelly, and she still swallowed a lot. "I was wondering whether you have room for one more student in your school, Sir. I...I have had to leave by previous profession, and I thought perhaps I could be a guardsman, or a mercenary, or something, now. Morion looked at Je'en carefully. She was rather tall for a girl, and she was in rather better condition than average. She obviously wasn't some maid, or tavern-girl, out to make something of herself. And then there was that terrible scar across her face. She had a history, and a reason to come here. "You know the rules?" "One week trial, fee in advance and non-refundable." "Yes. Well, if you have the money to spend, I'll take you in. Either Ironfist here, or myself will work with you each day, and you will know whether we will let you stay seven days from now. I'll show you to your temporary quarters - if you'll follow me?" The next week wasn't what she had been hoping for. She had practiced while traveling from Magnus, trying to get used to using her left hand to fence with, but it hadn't been easy. And, she appeared truly clumsy when she was sparring, especially since either Ironfist or Morion was usually her partner. She refused to explain anything about herself to them, tho, at least before she was accepted, and so they let her try to fight with what was obviously her off hand. But, she did her best at everything she was told to do, and that included some of the other work around the school, as well as running, jumping, climbing, and horse-back riding (which she was rather good at, even left handed). By the end of her trial period, she was sure she would be heading on to Dargon the next day, minus about half of her accumulated wealth. She hoped there were plenty of jobs for an unskilled wench in Dargon - she didn't want to live on her savings, and they wouldn't last all that long, anyway. Still, she was out in her practice armor and wooden sword, a wooden shield strapped to her arm in such a way that her wrist didn't come into play when moving it, and faced off against Sir Morion (she couldn't bring herself to call the man Bull - it just didn't fit him, tho she was sure that he had a good reason for keeping such a nickname). She had learned a few things in her week, and she wasn't quite so clumsy anymore. She had a good stance, and a good grip on the sword, as well as one good power-shot that was, unfortunately, all too easily blocked. They sparred, her sword-and-shield against Morion's single-sword (at which he was a master). She held her own, tho Morion was keeping his attacks down to a good novice level. She kept her eyes on his sword, and not on the distraction of his helm and its decoration, and she moved her whole body in response to his movements - the "rooted" technique was for superior strength or skill, and speed was one of her advantages. By the end of the match, she was sweating (tho Morion was as dry as an old bone) but feeling very good about herself, and how she had done. She removed her helm, and, more slowly, the rest of her armor (she didn't rate personal squires). As she did, she saw Morion, out of his armor, Ironfist, and the ten other farthest along students come her way. 'This is it - time to get told to leave' she thought, and her good feelings vanished like smoke in a good wind. Morion stopped before her, and the others gathered around her. He said, "Je'lanthra'en, you have been here your seven days. What do you think of your performance in that time?" Je'en said, "Sir, I really cannot answer that. Firstly, I am rather too prejudiced to judge my own fitness, and secondly, I am no judge of skill in any case. I...I think that I tried hard, but...was probably not good enough to be taught here." Morion wore a thoughtful expression thruout Je'en's little speech, and he said when she was finished, "Well, judge or not, some of what you said is true. You did try hard. And, we are judges, and we all think that you may someday make a very fine fighter, and an even better one if you train here, with us." Je'en's elation was echoed in Morion's twinkling eyes as she jumped up and down, and flung her arms around him. After being hugged for a long time, he disentangled himself from her, and said, "Put those things back on - you're doing first and second drill for at least two hours: we've got to strengthen up that left arm of yours. Go, get busy, you're my pupil now, and I don't like slackards!" There was no sting in his voice, tho, and neither of their smiles lessened a bit as he helped her back into her armor. The first thing she did, once she was accepted, was have a suit of practice armor made for her. She did that for two reasons - first, the loaner set she had been using, while adequate protection, didn't fit very well, and looked really silly; and second, she had an obstacle to overcome aside from her awkwardness: one of pity. All during her trial week, only Ironfist and Morion had treated her as an equal, testing her fairly and objectively. The other students, after seeing the scar on her face, and the way clumsy way she used her left hand, began to feel sorry for her, and treated her very gently, like china. So she decided to build for herself an image that would make the others forget about her disabilities. Thus: her new armor, flashy-green, ornamented, daunting in aspect, and another addition - a silver half-face mask to match the one on her helm, and which she never removed except to sleep (and only when alone). It didn't take long for the students to replace the 'poor thing' image she had with that of the formidable 'Green Blade' (as she came to be known, which was sometimes shortened to 'Greeny'). And so the months passed, almost unnoticed. She was finding that learning to fight was hard, but also exciting. And, once she got used to using her left hand (which did take a while), she was good at it. She became Morion's star pupil, and the darling of the school. There were few women in training there, but that didn't affect her status - rather she attracted a following of the same type as Ironfist had: people who were inspired by her ability, and wished her well for it. There was more to do than fight, too. There was the other training; physical fitness, riding, and such, skills to compliment that of the sword (or other chosen weapon). There were the chores - tending the garden that helped feed the school, keeping the citadel clean and in good repair, keeping the practice armor and weapons in good repair, too. And, aside from work, there was fun, too. She learned some games, and listened to stories that the others told (tho she steadfastly refused to tell any of her own). She learned that the citadel was the ancestral home of Lord Morion, and that its name was Pentamorlo. Many were the tales of that House, and, tho she burned to tell some that only she seemed to know, she kept to her resolve not to, fearing to venture anywhere near the realm of Barddom. Of all the people - teachers, students, and servants - at Morion's school, she told only three her full story. Two were Morion, and Ironfist, and she told them for their kindness to her, and so that they would know her well enough to trust her, and maybe to like her. Both were sympathetic to her pain and sorrow, without being pitying. The third was a young man named Timirin, who was usually called Oak. He had been Ironfist's student, and was near 'Fist's equal when she arrived. Came the time for Ironfist to graduate, Oak sort of took his place. He took over teaching Je'en, going at her own pace, but never going easy. In time, they grew close, as she never had to anyone as a Bard, who usually felt too far removed from other people, and too busy to cultivate a relationship with fellow Bards. But, she was free of that, and Timirin was handsome, intelligent, and an excellent swordsman. It was easy to fall in love with him, if love it was. And, one night when they were alone in one of the towers, and he began to get a little over eager, she told him her story. If that had been meant to scare him off; it failed. They became faster friends, then lovers. But, they were not in love. Eventually, it was time for Oak to leave, and there wasn't enough between them to persuade Je'en to go away with him. He had helped her immensely, tho, giving her confidence in herself as her skill grew, and she thanked him for that, and then said farewell. She was a very fast learner. By the end of her first year, her reflexes had been retrained, and her left hand was now as capable as had been her right. She had all the basic moves of sword-and-shield and single-sword combat drilled into her until they were second nature. And she had begun to learn special defenses and attacks - those things that lifted an ordinary fighter into the realm of the special. She learned the 'rooted' technique, wherein one planted oneself in one spot, and tried to draw strength from the earth itself to protect and to attack. She also learned the 'lightning' technique, where one stayed in one place as little as possible. That was a variation of what she had originally learned, but there were subtleties that turned mere swiftness of foot into deadly force. And there were other techniques, some named for a phenomenon of nature that they resembled, some named for the person who invented it, or made it famous. Some were strictly for defense, some only for attack, some for certain special conditions, some to be used at all times, even with other styles and techniques. She also learned to use several other weapons well, tho not expertly - mace, staff, polearm: she was limited in the use of two handed weapons, of course, and a second hand weapon as well, which was why she concentrated on the simple sword, and shield. Eventually, the shield had to go, because of the time it took to put it on properly with her bad hand, so she became even more expert in single sword. By the time she ws ready to graduate, she could hold her own in single combat, even against Morion's famed double-sworded 'Windmill', and in a melee, alone against up to three, and more if she had someone or something to protect her back. All in all, in just under two years, she had become a most accomplished Swordswoman, and when she graduated form Morion's school, she went with all honors, and the well wishing of all in Pentamorlo. Before she left, she discussed her plans with Morion. She told him that she intended to return to Magnus, and join the city guard. Morion said, "That is a noble idea, but perhaps not a good one. You have spent months here creating for yourself a new life, and have been very successful, too. Magnus can only hold bad memories." "What else is there, then?" she asked. "Well, for starters, you could stay here and teach." Je'en smiled, and shook her head. "Okay, okay. I know it gets a little dull around here, and you want to do something with your youth. Why don't you go visit your brother in Dargon? That is a good city for adventure - you could join its guard, or hire out with a caravan, or on an exploring ship. There's plenty to do in a frontier city like Dargon. And, if you find nothing, well, you'll have had a nice visit with family, and you can move on, even back to Magnus. But give something different a try, first. It'll be good for you." And, Je'en took his advice. When the ceremony of her graduation was over, she mounted her packed and ready horse, and rode away from Pentamorlo to the northwest, and Dargon. -John White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny For the Pot Jim Owens *Spirit of the Wood: 3 Rich Jervis Father's Fugue Jim Owens *Respect thy Elders: 3 Orny Date: 100686 Dist: 166 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Greetings, and welcome to the first issue of volume 6 of FSFnet! I am your host, Mr. Pourke, and he is Fattoo... Ah, yeah. Sorry about that. You know, school and all. The first (serious) order of business is to welcome the new subscribers. Keep spreading the word! Secondly, I'm once again attempting to organize BITNET Diplomacy games, and anyone interested should get in touch with me before yesterday. Thirdly, I'd like to make a comment about another fanzine. GateWays is an Arpa fanzine, and is available by sending mail to CHUQ%PLAID@SUN.ARPA. Finally, I'd must say that since school is back, so are several of our best authors, and I'm *sure* (right guys?) they will be more productive than ever. Well, I must keep this short. Thanks to everyone for being so patient. On to the good stuff... -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> For The Pot Wolf climbed slowly up the hill. The hill was gentle, but Wolf had been walking all day, and while he wasn't tired, he wasn't exactly fresh either. As he walked he thought of the village he had just come from, and the destruction his quarry had caused back there. It had attacked several people's herds, killing or wounding over one hundred animals in the tight flocks. Before that it had performed similar deeds in several villages in a roughly straight line extending for many miles. The toll in dead animals was high. He felt no anger at that, only empathy for the owners at having lost so much. He did not blame his prey; it was its nature to kill. Nonetheless, it was a danger, and had to be destroyed. He topped the gentle rise, and looked out at the plain that spread for hundreds of miles behind him. He then looked across the top of the hill. An old road ran across the top of the hill in a shallow depression. Tall grass blurred its outline. He remembered coming this way once before, in his travels, and he came this way in hopes of catching up with his target. It had not been traveling in this direction when it had left the village, but its path would cross the road after several miles, if it traveled straight, and when it did it would follow the road to him. To be sure, however, he carefully examined the road. The tracks would be faint, but he was good at tracking; he would find them, if they were there. He hoped he wouldn't find any. He groaned when, after a few minutes, he found traces in the earth; it had beaten him to t he hill. He followed the tracks, trying to figure out where it would have gone after it left the hill. He tried to think like his prey. The hill was part of an outcropping that rose up out of the plain to form a ridge running several miles to the right as he looked along the tracks. The hill was a reentrant, near one end. The old road ran down the other side of the hill, and skirted around the near end of the ridge a few miles distant. His prey would follow the road around the ridge. If he could get over the ridge, he could wait on the road ahead of his quarry, and set an ambush for it. Wolf's thoughts drifted as he jogged across the saddle toward the ridge. He thought how nice it would be to be home, watching his corn grow, watching his flocks grow, watching his children grow. How he missed his wife! Wolf often wondered if he shouldn't have learned a different way to put meat on the table. He hardly ever got to see his family. He had spent the last half of his life living out of a backpack. He ran as he thought, hardly heeding where he was going. He had no need to fear. There were few large animals in the area. He was hunting the only thing that would hurt him. Soon he was scrambling down a small rockslide to where the old road was visible beneath years of dead grass. He made a quick survey: no tracks. He was finally ahead of it. He glanced in the direction it would be coming from. The ridge had another reentrant here, and the road curved out of sight a few hundred yards away. He quickly set his trap, and hid in the grass to wait for his prey. As he lay, he counted. He had made five kills in the past year. Hunters were not plentiful in these peaceful years after the last blowup, and nobody wanted their son to be a hunter. The random killers were few and far between anymore, and the occupation of hunter was a dangerous one. Often a hunter would get called off to a far village, never to return. Another factor was that no one really wanted a neighbor who's occupation was such a violent one. It was a bad influence for the children. The job needed to be done, however, and the bounty was always enough to pay for the things the house needed, and perhaps a few things the wife wanted, but didn't really need. Soon he would have to think about getting Greta, his eldest daughter, a few baubles to teach her the appreciation of feminine values. Luxury items were expensive in the village he lived in. Fortunately, as the prey became scarcer, the reward became higher. He planned to make a good deal selling this catch, if he got it. A faint sound brought him out of his musings. He had planted the trap at the very end of the reentrant, just on his side. He was as far from it as the trip cord would allow. The sound grew louder. It deepened, and then he saw his prey come around the bend. Grey plates glinted dully, while tank treads spun almost silently, barely marking the ground. The noise he had heard was coming from the ancient drive unit. Blue smoke, almost invisible, blew fast out an exhaust port. The flat turret pointed straight ahead, its recently fired gun showing considerable rust. Several scanning devices protruded from the remote's surface. One was smashed, possibly by an ill-fated hunter who hadn't aimed carefully enough. Wolfgang wasn't taking any chances. It rolled in front of the concealed weapons, and he squeezed hard on the firing device. Piezoelectric crystals sent a burst of voltage down the line, and two flashes of flame answered. Two rockets leaped the short distance from the roadside to the side of where they seemed to disintegrate into handfuls of dust, which blew away in a sudden wind. Actually they had fired armor piercing warheads through the plate. Wolf pulled the wire out of the trigger and shoved in a backup, but there was no need. The tank rolled a short distance, and then the engine stopped, dead. Wolf waited, but the tank remained motionless. He got up, dusted himself off, and walked over to the carcass. He opened the access hatch, and examined the damage. His timing had been perfect. The missiles had destroyed the main controller, while basically leaving the rest of the device intact, ripe for salvage by a parts-hungry world. He closed the hatch, laser-sealed it, and burned his brand into the side of the tank, in plain view. He then turned and started the long but pleasant walk back to his family. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Spirit of the Wood: Chapter Three Loric thought it was strange to return to the empty hut that up until this morning he shared with his grandfather. He looked at the lifeless structure and felt the shadows of despair creep upon his heart. There was no real use in becoming a man, he thought bitterly, for even if he could do everything that the elders wanted of him, it still wouldn't bring back Oldsir! "I passed the ropemaking and firestarting tests today," he thought to himself, "even made my own evening meal from a rock snake that I found under one of the logs. But what good is it? I began this day a boy with a family; I end it a near-man with little family, and in three day's time, even my sister won't acknowledge me as kin." Loric decided that being a man was lonely work. He entered the hut, and for a moment he started, thinking he saw Oldsir's shadow on the wall where the cooking fire always cast it this time of day. He could hear the floor creak as his grandfather rocked back on his heels, satisfied that the coals were banked just right. He would turn like a sighted man, and give Loric a wink and toss his head toward the table and say something like "Shuck-ears and crabs, burnt the way you like 'em." Then he would join Loric and talk into the night until Loric's head started to droop, then he would stretch mightily and admonish Loric for keeping an old man up so long. After that Loric could hear him moving about stepping out now and then for a sniff of air. Loric realized he had never seen his grandfather asleep at any point in his life, and with a pang, he realized he never would. "Oldsir, I always liked your shuck-ears, nobody could burn them like you!" With a sob and tear-filled eyes, Loric ran to his hammock and fell weeping into it. The next day, Loric was put into the Pit. He was given the rope he had made the day before and made to watch as a fist-sized rock was dropped in. It fell and made a splat at the bottom. "Aiee," thought Loric, "there's no snakes in there, it full of the Domai, the cave fungus that eats you alive!" He started to back up and found he was surrounded by villagers. The other end of his rope was tied to a rock and then Dernhelm motioned him forward. He leaned outward and looked down into the darkness. The dark gave no secrets away, and he wondered if he shouldn't refuse this test. It would mean going back in defeat and trying again when he felt he could pass, but what was the point in that? He would just return to this spot and he knew he couldn't go on then, either. No, it would be better to face this now with the teachings of his grandfather fresh in his memory. He shook with the thought of what awaited him below, but he straddled the rope and walked himself down into the darkness. He was very cautious, feeling and looking below him and then up at the expressionless faces above him. He had gotten about halfway to the end of his rope when he felt something below him. It was a sudden shock to him when he felt his rope being cut from above. He let go of the rope and balled himself for the impact into the fungus, but came up short and found that the bottom was only a foot more below him. The bottom made of clay and there was a bit of water seeping into the corner. The rock Loric had seen thrown in had hit this and made him think he was going to be eaten alive! He laughed a bit at his fear and sat down on the floor to think his way out of the hole. He tested the walls to see if he could carve foot-holds in it but the soft clay walls gave no support. He found he could put his toes in a hold, and they would slide right out. There was no way he was going to trust his neck to that! He examined his rope as best he could from the pit floor; the other end was still tied to the rock, but it had been cut half through. This was a puzzler, thought Loric. If he wasn't supposed to climb out on the rope, why hadn't they cut it all the way, or just taken it up behind him? He tested it and knew it would not hold all of his weight, and he tried several times to pitch the other end up and lasso the rock it was attached to. Finally he got a good throw and tugged on this. It seemed to hold, then he noticed to his horror that the rock was sliding in the clay. At this rate it would fall on his head long before he had made it out of the pit. Dejectedly he snapped the rope and flipped his lasso off the rock. He sat down and noticed that the water had puddled up a bit in the corner. He tested it and found it drinkable, and cleared an area where he could get an unmuddied drink. With his nose a scarce inch from the water, he could almost see the water rise. Maybe this was his way out! He used his kesh-knife to dig at the spot where the fresh water was coming in, and was rewarded by a squirt of water that soon became a small fountain-like stream. He drank a long swallow and laughed at his success as his feet were soon covered by the cold torrent. He would surprise them all! He would rise to the top without any effort at all, letting the water work for him! He danced in the mud, and threw gobbets of clay and mud out the opening overhead hoping to tag someone watching. He howled and enjoyed the echoing sound of his own voice. Passerbys would think that he had been taken by madness, but he didn't care! All the childhood fears of the Pit had fallen away and he felt exalted. "Bring on the Domai, bring on the mistle-thratch, I fear them not! Oooowwwwwwl!" He howled again and it was quite some time before he noticed that the flow of water had slowed. The water came only to his knees and after marking the wall a few times, and gauging how long it took it to climb the wall, he realized that it would be a long time indeed for the water to lift him even a small bit. He looked up and tried to figure how much daylight he had left. He knew no one would bring him a meal, that no one would bring light or even speak to him. He was on his own and had to get out on his own. There's got to be a way! He felt in the water and pulled up the rock. He frustratedly pitched it up at the opening. A rain of clay and dirt was all the reward he got for his effort. "Everything I do make things worse!" He moaned inwardly as he dodged the rock's return. Crunch! This wasn't going to do. If he stood in this water all night, he would die of the shudders before they would come back to find him. He didn't even have a place to lie now! Silently cursing himself, he leaned against the wall and tried to gather his wits. It was small wonder Hiram's brother had come out of this test blubbering, he had probably done the same thing and gotten sick. They had finally brought him out after three days! "Three days," moaned Loric, "I'll be water-rotted by then! What would my grandfather tell me to do? First keep your head. Okay," thought Loric. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "Now, instead of thinking about what you don't have, think about what you've got. Fine, what have I got? A pit into the ground, a knee-deep puddle of water, and one end of a rope. What is it you are trying to do? Say it! I'm trying to get out of this puddle and back on dry land. This isn't going like it should," thought Loric, "but I'll finish anyway." "Is there another way of looking at your problem? How are similar problems solved? Well, in a way it's like crossing a stream with no one on the other side. To cross a stream you put a stout stick at the end of your rope, and toss it across to some forked tree or outcropping and test it for fastness. Then you anchor the other end and you hang on it, feet toward the opposite side and work yourself across. Fasten the other side and make it secure for the rest of the party, or the return trip." Loric remembered seeing this demonstrated and remembered that the man who went across first had made the far tree sag into the river. He had gotten quite a drenching before tieing enough twist-knots into the rope to take the slack up. Some of the streams nearby were home to animals that would think nothing of making a meal out of a crossing man. Now, said Oldsir's voice in Loric's head. Look at your problem again. "Hmm, I have the same problem, I want to get a man to the other side. I already have one end tied off, but it slips. I need to tie the other end, and take some of the weight off the other end so that it won't slip loose. Time to try some different things." Loric felt around in the water until he found the rock again. He tied the loose end of the rope to it and then swung it about in the cramped space he had. It seemed every time he pitched his rock up to the ground, it would slide along and then fall back in. It was getting harder to see it coming back down as the slanting evening rays marked time on the walls of his prison. The thought of some unseen observer watching his efforts made him doubly frustrated each time the rope and rock back came down. "You haven't beaten me yet!" He thought savagely. He knew somewhere up there someone was watching to make sure that no one aided him in this test. Probably sitting on a lianas log and smoking oxy root! Loric hoped he hit them with the mud he had thrown earlier, if not with this rock! "Maybe I did, there was one throw where the rock had seemed to have gotten wedged, but not well enough to hold." I can't get a good grip on anything up there! What do you do when your anchor slips? You anchor it to a stake, and achor the stake with lots of pegs. Maybe I can get something to catch if I put several loops on the end of this rope and toss it over to where I thought it had caught! Loric quickly cut several lengths from the rope and made four loops in the end of it. It reminded him of a tangle foot vine. Which is just what he needed now! Now where was that spot? It was probably a log set out there for the watchers, but it would do if it caught. He had no idea where the spot was, so he marked a slash on the wall and started pitching. Each time the stone came back he would throw a little to the left of it. Once or twice he thought he had found it, but had only managed to pull a limb or some brush into the pit on top of him. This was a disappointment, but he added it to his 'anchor' and worked steadily on. When he was just opposite of where the rope was tied, he succeeded in catching onto something. It gave a little and then held fast. Now he had a line on both ends, and wondered if he shouldn't pull the rock down and try the same thing with the other side. No, there was another thing he remembered from his grandfather's teachings and it was that luck was a fickle spirit and you could easily send it flying away from you if you asked too much. Loric knew he still needed a good bit of luck for the climb out. No, I'll not ask so much from the luck spirits, I'll just use the half-severed end as little as I can, keeping it taught as I climb so if this end comes loose, I have a chance to brace before I fall back in. A chance for what, I don't know, I hope I don't find out. Perhaps that's asking too much from luck also. I'll be trusting my neck to the hidden anchor, and it could slip at any time. I know the other will slip, but I can see it and tell when it's going to give way. The best course then is to use a bit of each, cinching it up as I go, like the man crossing the stream. Each moment requires the judgement of a new moment, as Oldsir used to say. Loric said a quick prayer to the Spirit of the Wood to keep luck from fleeing, and started out by working out an equal length from both ropes. This accomplished, he sat on the knot, trying to judge the moment of the rock falling and the fraying of the rope. It creaked ominously, but seemed to hold. Loric looked down at the water that was still seeping into the pit. At least that water and mud will help break my fall, a little. He had the rope looped under his bottom and over his shoulder. He lifted his weight off the rope and put a twist in the rope over his head. Then he slipped his body out of the sling in the bottom and pulled it up with his feet through the twist. He wormed his feet up and then sat his weight on the new loop made by his efforts. He marked the wall and then repeated his efforts. This was slow work! He watched with concern the rope on the rock. Whatever he had anchored the other end to seemed to hold, so he planned to switch all of his weight to it should the rope give so it wouldn't snap abruptly. Half a dozen loops and Loric realized he couldn't keep this up. The rope was so tangled and knotted that he wouldn't be able to slip it through any more. He stood on the knot and thought a bit, then held himself up by his arms, he flipped the rope around with his feet, and managed to clamp it under his arm. He brought the two ropes together and grabbed the rope with the his teeth and made a loop a round one arm. then pulled it through again with his teeth. Doubled over, he inched up and got his toes into the knot and slowly put his weight on it. He couldn't believe he managed that and looked up at the rope. He was shocked by the amount of fraying that his acrobatics had caused. Now he was within a man's height of the top, but he realized that one more attempt like this was more than the rope would take. It was one more than he had in him, anyway. "Think Loric! What do you have to work with? Nothing I'm not using, My whole body aches from just hanging here, and there's nothing else up here but empty space and me! I don't have a use for my kesh-knife, I don't want to cut anything..." "Do I? Can I tie another knot and then cut a length of rope off the bottom and pitch it over the rock?" Loric knew that as soon as he thought it, it was impossible; the rope would sever before he got the first knot tied. "I might as well cut it now and get it over with!" Loric drew his knife and held it in one hand as he used the other to pull up on his braced rope taking some of the tension off the severing rope. "It would be simple," thought Loric, "all I have to do is let go with this hand and the jerk would cause that rope up there to snap and I'll fly into the other wall and then down into the muddy water below. I wonder how many bones I'll break? Maybe I'll just be knocked out and drown in the water below. Maybe the slam into the wall would be hard enough to knock me out? I wouldn't even know it when hit the bottom. No one would blame me, I've tried to get out, and I can't! There's always a test you can't pass right?" It was not the way of Loric's people to give up, but they were not immune to despair. Loric looked up and watched the slow fraying of the rope, now seconds away from separating. He looked at the kesh-knife he carried, it had a long history, and had been made from kesh-wood three generations before and passed down from father to son. "To me," thought Loric. "I'll never pass it on now." He leaned out and started slicing the knife into the clay walls of the pit. "If I can't pass it on, at least I can see to it that it isn't damaged in my fall." If he could strike some kesh-root the properties within his knife would hold it fast. "The men that would free it later would know that I had honored the memory of all it's owners by not letting it lie with me when I died. If it fell too, it would be burned on my burial pyre, and that would be a loss more grievous than that of a near-man who failed his tests!" With that Loric thrust blindly into the wall and felt the knife bite and hold. It melded to the living kesh-root and held fast. He grasped the handle and pulled himself over to it. It took all his weight and did not move. The rope he hung from gave way and he slipped downward. He made a quick shift of weight and a mad grab for the kesh knife as the rope fell into the pit below. His slight frame shook with the effort to get one arm over the handle and the other gripping the hilt. His toes dug and dug in the clay wall but could find no purchase. Hardly daring to breathe, he slid his hand over as far as he could without touching the cutting edge of the knife. Then he brought one knee up and rested it on the handle. The gnarled grip bit his skin mercilessly, but he held out. "Oh Spirit!" thought Loric, "perhaps you have use for me yet!" With one hand, he creeped up the wall and tried to judge how far from the top he was. He couldn't guess so he finally looked up. He was relieved to find that he was close enough to stand up and reach the opening. That wouldn't be easy; it was almost dark now, and the opening was dim and unclear. Not easy, but not impossible either. Loric had balanced on thinner limbs when he was younger, but now he was fatigued and rattled. He bit his lip against the pain and stood on one foot. He looked for something to grip but had to settle for knotting his fingers in the grass. He hefted up his other leg and rolled onto the turf. He gazed up at the dark canopy of the forest and moaned at the wave of pain that hit him. Every strained muscle and scraped shin made itself known to him, but his thoughts were on the pit. He looked at the one remaining piece of rope and saw that he had not caught a log as he had thought but the watcher who had been sitting on it. All this time he had been silently sitting with a loop of rope over his head and around one shoulder. He sat motionless as stone, lest he somehow interfere with Loric's trial. Loric recognized the villager as Minial, a man about his sister's age who was trained in the art of vining and knotting. As Loric hobbled over to him, he winked and rubbed his neck where the vine had rubbed it raw. "You best be thankful that I'm as stout as I am, or we would both have greeted the Spirit before our time. I wanted to start you over, but Dernhelm wouldn't let me. As far as he was concerned I was a knot on a log." He stood and clasped Loric on the shoulder. "A knot who is thirsty and wants a bit of octli." He led Loric back to the village, and talked with him almost as he would any other man. "Almost," thought Loric happily, "Almost!" -Rich Jervis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Father's Fugue Timmy watched the water roll down the shallow slope, cutting dark channels in the dust. The fat tip finally reached the bottom, where it settled down into a brown blob. Timmy watched it for a moment, then tipped the bottle and poured some more water after it. He had been playing in the dust for about an hour, a remarkable feat for the active young boy. His hands still carried a few red smears, residue of the tomatoes he had helped his mother can. He had hurried to finish his share of the work, so that he could get out into the bright sunshine. Now he stooped lower to stare at something he saw shining under the stream of water he was pouring. He played the stream of water around, until the edges of the shiny piece of metal could be seen. He dropped the bottle and dug the shiny yellow disk out of the mud. He examined it, and then gravely washed it off. Images could be seen on it's surface. He stood up and ran towards the house. As he ran, Timmy passed a man leaning against a light post. The man smiled at the young child, who dashed past, totally oblivious to the world. Timmy raced up the front steps of his house and into the foyer, where Mr. Johnson stood rubbing stain on an old clock. "Dad! Dad! Dad!" The elder Johnson stooped down. Timmy was his first child, and Mr. Johnson enjoyed watching the boy. "What is it Timmy?" "Look what I found!" Timmy held up the coin. Mr. Johnson immediately recognized the shape, and the material. He smiled wisely. "It's a coin, Timmy. People used to use them for money." At the sound of the past tense, Timmy's eyes lit up. "Can I take it and show Grandpa?!" Mr. Johnson paused. "O.K., but go right there, don't stop at all." "Yessir!" Timmy was already halfway down the steps. He ran down the sidewalk, away from the house, away from the sand lot, toward the alley that was the shortcut to Grandpa's house. His short legs got him there in what seemed like a short time, and he turned down the alley. He ran through the dimness towards the light at the far end. He had made it part way there when a glint of light caught his eye. Visions of coins filled his mind. He turned back, his father's command forgotten. The light turned out to be a bottle in a pile of trash, but to Timmy's treasure-hunting eye, the junk pile had promise. He started pushing it around, uncovering more glass, paper, bits of wood and metal, but no coins. He pocketed the gold coin, and really got down to his search. "Timmy!" Timmy jumped up guiltily. Mr. Johnson's form stood framed against the light at the mouth of the alley. "I told you not to stop! Now get moving!" "Yessir!" Timmy turned back to his original task, fearful of his father's wrath. He ran down the alley, and out onto the street, where he found his grandfather sitting on a porch, ready to receive the precious gift from afar. Mr. Johnson watched until Timmy turned the corner, then turned to look up the street to where a rowdy group of unkept youths stood. He had seen them coming up the street, and had gotten nervous about his only child being out of adult supervision. Having seen Timmy step safely out into the light, he turned back to his house. Manual watched Mr. Johnson close the door to his house. He glanced back up the street at the youths. Feeling unaccountably and suddenly uncomfortable, they turned back down the street and soon disappeared around a corner. Manual turned back to his task. Manual stood across from an old abandoned store. The ancient glass doors were patched with plywood and tape, but footprints in the dirt outside lead in, and not out. Manual didn't need to see them to know what was going on inside, but it was always nice to have independant confirmation. Manual turned, and watched a white van turn a corner far up the street. It drew near, and pulled up beside the streetlight Manual leaned on. Four men got out, wearing uniforms as white as Manual's turtleneck pullover and neatly pressed slacks. The driver approached Manual, followed by the other three. "Here we are. What now, Michael?" He glanced around nervously. "Follow me. It'll be all right." With that simple instruction Manual walked across the street and up to the old store front. The door opened silently for him. Inside a thick layer of dust held clear footprints. They all formed a path that entered a dark doorway. Manual followed the path. Manual stepped into the dark doorway. He turned to face the guard he had seen from outside the windowless building. The guard, startled by the silent intruder, leveled his automatic at Manual. Before the guard could pull the trigger Manual had snatched it easily away. Manual grabbed the guard by the lapels and lifted him effortlessly off the ground. "What you're planning in here is wrong. You must stop." Manual said it as if he were discussing the weather. The white clad men stepped into view behind Manual. The guard's eyes widened further. He snatched a knife from his belt. Manual tossed the automatic to one of the other men, and grabbed the knife by the blade. There was a small sharp sound, and then Manual opened his hand and allowed several metal fragments drop to the floor. They bounced, but made no sound. "Tell you what. Why don't you sleep on it." Manual set the guard down. The man blinked. He opened his mouth, as if to shout. He then closed his eyes, and slid to the floor. Manual turned to the others. "Two of you take him out to the wagon. The other two come with me." Manual and the other two traced the footprints to a thick metal door. Manual pushed it open. It opened into what had been a walk-in freezer. Now it more resembled a barracks. Maps hung over dirty cots, and rifles were leaning against the walls. The image was further enhanced by the three sleeping forms by a table. Manual walked up, bent down, and lifted two up to his shoulders. "You two get the other one and meet me outside." With that he walked out. The two men looked at each other, and at Agent Michael's retreating back. "What does he need us for?" One of the two asked as he stooped to lift the sleeping rebel. "I guess someone had to bring the wagon." They carried the insurgent out of the building. Manual met them at the door, and carried their load the rest of the way to the van. Their criminal cargo loaded, the four climbed back into the van. Manual stepped up the the driver's door. "I'll hold them asleep until you get them in custody." "Uh,... yeah. O.K., Michael." The man kicked the van into gear, made a U-turn, and drove off. Manual looked toward the Johnson's house. He could see Timmy, who had returned from Grandpa's, and Mr. Johnson prepare a place on the mantel for the gold coin. Manual smiled at their ignorance of the danger they had been living with. Manual wondered briefly what they would think if they knew what had just happened. He then shook his head, rejoicing that they didn't have to know. Out in the reaches of space, beyond even Manual's searching vision, a spaceman carefully placed a critical control pivot into the ships main thrust unit. The space suited man sighed with relief when it clicked safely into place. He carefully closed up the access panel, then pushed himself down and away from the ship's hull. He struck the planetoid's hard surface, crouched, and then leaped back up towards the netting slung around the open hatch far above his head. As he drifted higher and higher, he breathed a silent prayer of thanks that the ship had been near a fairly large mass when the pivot broke. Repairing it had been difficult, but the task would have been impossible without some orienting force, and without the drive to spin the ship or provide thrust, the only force available had been gravity. Once inside, the spaceman called up the bridge with the good news. Within the hour the main drive fired, heaving the massive ship off the large asteroid and back on course. The planetoid recoiled from the liftoff, in perfect accord with the laws of physics. It's new course was not far different from it's old one. The difference that push had made would only become visible years later, when it passed another body of rock, rather than slamming into it with the attendant destruction such an impact always created. The other rock had life on it, human life that would survive because the asteroid's course had been altered somehow, life that rarely took the time to think about the things that fathers did for their children. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Respect thy Elders: Chapter Three Kite was beat, yet his spirits were high. He had actually managed the more difficult portion of his quest: finding the Elder Isentraum and convincing him to heal heal his fiancee, Pecora Winthrop. In exchange, all the Elder desired was for Kite to fetch a certain herb from a druid who lived outside a village named Greenmont, which he had found rather easily. Now he was headed down a footpath outside the village, towards the area where the druid, named Hartley, made his home. After a brief walk, Kite came upon the druid, sitting beneath the boughs of an ancient pine. "You are Hartley the druid?" "Yes, my son." "My name is Kite, I am upon an errand from a man named Isentraum..." Kite paused as a look of recognition came across the druid's visage. "Ah, no man there, but an Elder, and a good one, at that!" He helped himself to his feet with a driftwood staff and brushed the sweet-smelling pine needles from his tunic. "Come, tell me why you searched out this Elder, and what I may do to help you, young lord..." Despite Hartley's invitation to spend the evening, Kite insisted that he depart as soon as possible, but he promised to return and visit Hartley after he had seen to Pecora. The druid had gathered the Elmin quickly, and had spoken with Kite at length about his quest, his fiancee, and the rest of the duchy. But Kite eventually insisted upon being off, and started his journey back to the mountain where Isentraum could be found. The elder sat gazing into the fire for some moments. "Kite, the disease which grips your fiancee is strong. I have felt it." After a moment, he went on. "I shall need your aid if I am to heal her." "You have it... what do you require of me?" Isentraum smiled inwardly. Such youthful courage gave him heart. "I am old, and my inner strength wanes. I shall begin the spell, and you will merely have to concentrate your will, and believe with all your heart that your woman is well. It is not difficult, although it will weaken you temporarily. Do you wish to go on?" "Definitely." Kite could feel his skin taughten in anxiety. He was sitting in the center of a vast design that Isentraum had drawn into the dirt with a cane. The old man whirled his hands in odd gestures as he drew, speaking in a tongue that fascinated Kite. The old man motioned to the youth, and Kite closed his eyes and began to concentrate. He closed out the chanting of the Elder, and tried to visualize Pecora, standing in the Boar Hall, laughing with him. He saw them riding through the fields outside Dargon, and walking by the riverbank hand in hand. He could sense the power around him, and somehow he reached a rapport with it. It was a force for good, yet it could not be used lightly. Only with great effort was he able to shape the force to his will. He was beside and within Pecora, feeling her hurt and her fear, and he took it inside himself. He retreated back to reality, and the force drew the pestilence from him, and away. Kite opened his eyes. Isentraum was before him, leaning heavily on his staff, wide-eyed. After a moment, he slowly shuffled to Kite, and plumped down with him, a smile etched on his severe features. "Well done, my pelan, well done. How do you feel?" "As if I had been dragged behind a horse for a league. But we did it?" "Yes, pelan, we did." They sat in silence and caught their breath. Kite sensed that Isentraum was going to say something to him, so he waited. "Kite, you may not understand it yet, but what just happened was primarily of your doing. I did not intend for you to work such magic, but you did. I have rarely seen such talent!" Kite was too busy catching his breath to really contemplate the man's words as he continued. "I am old, Kite, old even for an Elder. My power wanes, yet the world needs such a power in it. Would you come back to become my pupil, and become as I have been?" Kite looked at the elder and laughed. He was a young noble, and the court held some promise of advancement for him. Yet it also held danger and difficulties which he could foresee. To leave all that, with Pecora, and take up the occupation of a living legend was tempting, and the awareness of the many people he could help still burned bright from his recent encounter with that unnameable force. He looked to the ground, then at Isentraum and said, "Yes... I will do it." -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial Orny Protopredator Jim Owens To End All Wars Orny Infection Jim Owens Project Rip Van Winkle Glenn R. Sixbury Date: 102686 Dist: 178 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Hello, again, all. Well, this issue wasn't going to be this way originally, but it seems that this is a special SF issue, despite all my attempts to harangue the Dargon authors into writing. Enclosed you'll find two more SF shorts by Jim Owens, one from myself, and one which came to me just yesterday from this gentleman at KSUVM, Glenn Sixbury. Needless to say, I'm quite tickled. The next issue will be out by Thanksgiving and should (emphasis here) contain another Atros story from Joseph Curwen, another Ceda story from Joel Slatis, and the next Spirit story from Rich Jervis. But on to the big news. FSFnet has gone internet! After getting some visibility on the other networks from Chuq, I've had FSFnet put in the master list of ARPA digests, and the subscriptions are already coming in. For that matter, BITNET subscriptions are growing at a healthy pace, and I'm very happy. We've even brainwashed a few new writers! Oop, did I mean to say that? No matter, they're firmly convinced that FSFnet is worth reading and writing for, and I hope you all are, too. Until Thanksgiving, then. Keep spreading the word! -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Protopredator The program reached out with its tentacle subroutines, exploring the memory around it. It found some code, and, as it was programmed to, assimilated the code into its own structure. Its designer watched with glee. Written as part of an artificial intelligence venture, the program was designed to recognize the pattern of a subroutine and to incorporate that routine as part of itself. In a nearby memory location, a similar project analyzed the structure of hardware locations. Still another busily modified itself in an attempt to overcome novel problems. All throughout the mainframe's memory, programs did things that previously were thought to require human intelligence. "Hey, Jack! Come look at this!" The two men huddled over the terminal. "Neat. Acts like my dog, eating everything in sight." "Hey! Where'd it go?" The trace stopped. As far as the operating system was concerned, the program never existed. "Maybe it ate itself." "Oh, well. Back to the drawing board." "Well, you're getting closer." Twisting tentacles reached out, exploring the port structure. The predator-program analyzed the data streaming in and out through the port. It appeared to match a pattern it had seen before. It searched, and found the receiving software, and at the first opportunity seized it . Immediately it began to emulate the data-comm package to avoid being detected by the host software, using the package's own subroutines to do so. As it did so it analyzed the code it was simulating, just as it had several other programs since it escaped from the memory area the operating system had assigned it. It only took a few seconds for it to figure out how to use the new routines for its own uses. Using the new routines it sent several packets down the line to the far host, where unsuspecting software assembled it, and, at the command of the predgram on the other end, placed it in memory and ran it. The new program immediately seized control of the port on its end, and started assembling the packets the predgram sent it. Before any of the supervisory software could detect anything amiss, the invader program had assembled and activated a copy of the predgram nucleus. The newly born predgram immediately scrambled off to another part of the CPU, leaping page boundaries and replicating as fast as resources would allow. To all outside observers it was invisible. The only evidence of its existance was a slight degradation of system performance. The invader program began to assemble another predgram, but before it could the operating system activated it's garbage collection scheme. Before the invader could protect itself it was gone. Several pages deeper, however, one of it's offspring assimilated a part of the OS, and vanished safely away. The species had perpetuated itself. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> To End All Wars The dome of Durrackgorod shone silvery only three kilometers distant, silent in the martian desert. Through the reddish-orange dust could be seen several figures at a distance of perhaps half a klic, hunched about a large mechanism. Suddenly an indigo beam cut through the atmosphere, anchored at the mechanism and playing slowly over the dome of the Soviet Mars station. In an explosive rush, the pressurized dome gave way, releasing oxygen and nitrogen into the thin martian sky. Suddenly, a group of figures appeared from behind an outcropping of rust-colored rock, running quickly towards the group operating the laser. A parody of melee broke out, men battling one another while encumbered within space suits in a low-gravity atmosphere; however, the single observer watched with increasing agitation as those men who had brought out the laser were defeated. The eventual victors shut down the laser, and had begun to turn it to face Dyson Station, when they noticed the lone observer. As the man turned and ran, the view faltered, then went dim. "Good, Tovarish Benya. That was ochin good take. We now shoot final scene, da?" "Da," replied the American. The American and Soviet scientists were definitely not actors, but the footage they had shot so far seemed convincing enough. The old Russian stomped resolutely off towards Dyson Station, the American Mars colony. Ben stood a moment and looked at the cracked shell that once had been Durrackgorod. His mind wandered through the events of the past months. Soon after the Russians had populated Durrackgorod, the Americans had established Dyson Station, only a mere three kilometers from the Soviet station. This had proved highly advantageous for the colonists, because once they had gotten to know one another there had been considerable cooperation between the Soviets and Americans. Neither expedition had been very well-planned, although together they had managed to survive. The colonists freely came and went between the complexes, and had stopped being Soviets and Americans, and started to trust one another. Then came the news. The war in Africa had escalated to global levels, and the announcements had come within an hour of each other that the Russians and Americans on Mars were to sabotage the enemy settlements. There had been a long debate as to what should be done, and finally it had been decided that they would perform mock combats, and transmit the pictures so that both the Russians and Soviets would intercept the transmission. They had moved most of the equipment from the Soviet dome, then filmed its destruction. The destruction of the American station would not actually take place, but would be assumed from the footage. The colonists would then reconstruct the Soviet station and continue their work in peace. "You are ready, Tovarish Benya?" "Da, I am ready." The picture showed Dr. Benjamin Herald, the American psychologist, in his vacsuit within the American compound. He was speaking. "As you saw, we destroyed Durrackgorod as was ordered. The Russians, however, captured the laser, and turned it upon Dyson. I am the last surviving American, and there are a few Soviets, although without a pressurized environment, we will all surely die. As I foresee no method of reconstructing either dome, I fear this will be the last transmission from the Mars colonies. Farewell." The picture blanked. Ben Herald waited for the Dyson dome to repressurize. It had been done. The Mars colonies would have no aid from Earth. It was a new beginning. -Orny <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Infection The ship cut through the atmosphere like a treacherous knife through a victim's back. By the time it hit the ground there was nothing left but ten charred lumps. Once on the ground, these stirred, and broke open. From them crawled ten human forms, like larva from egg casings. They staggered together, cursing and swearing at their misfortune. They paused long enough to locate the nearest village, then moved off. The lead group stumbled out into the clearing, blinking in the warm sun. They cautiously looked around. They were leery of the building, but walked around it cautiously anyway. Even so they held their cruel rifles tightly. The scout peered around the corner of the barn, and smiled. He motioned the whole group to follow him. They walked out, and watched the young woman swing carelessly while music played from a small box. One vented a rough chuckle. The girl turned. She showed no fear, only surprise. "Who are you?" She looked at their grubby, bloodstained clothes in wonder, as they slowly crowded around her, blocking out the light. The main group stepped out onto the main street. The grass grew green beside the main walk, while flawless metal formed the pavement. They swaggered down the thoroughfare, weapons openly displayed. They laughed harshly and sang loudly. People stared curiously at the strange sight of dirty men cursing in broad daylight. Only one or two older men watched the men carefully. One of the ruffians saw a glitter in one of the shops. He swaggered over, and with one easy movement, after grinning at his fellows, he smashed the glass. As the people stared, shocked, he swiped the jewelry from its stand and stuffed it in his pocket. His fellows laughed and laughed, then reached in and helped themselves to the easy pickings. A male voice stopped the movement with a shrill yell. The pirates turned at the sound. One of the advance group burst into view, running as if for his life. Not far behind him was the young woman, hurrying as if to catch a friend who had misunderstood a complement. The thug reached the group, babbling. The leader stood for a moment, then raised his rifle. The blast split the air. All movement stopped. The woman stopped, puzzled. She looked down at the smoking hole burned in her clean white gown. Then she took a step forward, her arm outstretched. The leader fired again. She took another step forward. He fired a third time, cursing her. A second pirate joined in. The group took a step or two back as she continued to advance, shaking her head, her hands over her ears. They backed against a wall, firing still. One by one they ran out of ammunition. The young lady in white stood bewildered by the noise. Her gown hung in tattered shreds. Underneath could be seen smooth skin, totally untouched. As they stood there, staring at each other, there came a short roaring of wind and a blur of white light. Then there stood a man between the two groups. He was tall, and strong, and his skin flickered with a white glow. It died everywhere but on his arms. He reached out, and took the rifle gently from the leader's hands. With one smooth move he snapped it in two. He crammed both pieces in one hand. He turned, and his arm snapped up and forward in a millisecond flash. There was a crack as the rifle parts achieved terminal velocity, and burned up on the way to outer space. He turned to look at the pirates. He then walked to the woman and cradled her protectively. He then looked at the men, a semblance of anger in his eyes. He raised his arm, and pointed back towards the woods. "Go." The poison drained hurriedly, leaving the body clean. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Project Rip Van Winkle David stirred a little, finally raising himself to consciousness. After bringing himself back to reality, he realized that he had been stripped and was laying completely naked on the floor of a small room. He slowly pushed himself to his feet and looked around. The room was empty. It looked a little like a hospital room, with its light-colored tile floor and white ceiling and walls. As he stood up, a sharp pain in his lower groin almost made him lie back down again. It felt as if someone had buried a lit blow torch inside his intestines. Bravely, he attempted to ignore the pain and decide what had happened to him. David walked over to the door, but he could see no possible way to open it. There was no door knob and no control panel. Obviously, wherever he was, he was going to be here for some time. David tried to remember how he had ended up where he was, but he couldn't recall anything at all. He didn't even know how long he'd been asleep. He didn't know where they had taken Catheryn, his wife. Things during the last few days had been more strange than he had ever imagined they could be. Before they were put into hibernation, David and Catheryn had been extensively briefed in their orientation sessions about all the possible situations they might find when they woke up, but nothing they had been taught had prepared them for this. Slowly David relived the only events he recalled since he and Catheryn had woke. David remembered that Catheryn had already been awake and up when he had climbed out of his own sleeping pod. She had looked almost the same as when they had went to sleep, except that her hair had grown longer, making her even more beautiful. David, himself had grown a beard, and his own hair had grown down to his shoulders. Otherwise, he felt quite normal, until he realized that now he was 122 years old. I feel great, considering how old I am, he had thought as he and Catheryn had examined their surroundings. Most of the hibernation chamber in which they had stayed was a wreck, and the remaining sleeping pods were empty. After spending a few minutes in a joyful reawakening with Catheryn, they decided to see to what they had awoken. David struggled with the door to the outside world, finally hot wiring it enough to convince it to open. At first, the outside world seemed to be exactly what they had expected. The buildings looked somewhat more modern than those that existed when they had been put to sleep, but not surprisingly so. Although the streets of the city were almost deserted, the people they encountered seemed normal enough, except that no one they spoke to seemed to understand what David and Catheryn explained to them. David asked them where the hibernation orientation center was located, but it was no use. David decided the center had not existed for some time, since no one even realized there had ever been such a place. Then when they had attempted to find out what had happened to their possesions, which had been legally frozen for one hundred years, pending their reawakening, they still could not find anyone who had even the vaguest idea of what they were talking about. In fact, the very concept of owning personal items seemed to confuse them. At last, David concluded that the society of the future had become totally socialistic, having no personal wealth or possessions. As evening had approached, they had attempted to find a motel, or an apartment house, or anywhere in which they could spend the night, but each living dwelling they came to was closed and sealed. Finally, exhausted (prolonged hibernation weakens the body), David had broken into a room of an abandoned motel. Once inside, it was clear to see that the motel had not been closed permanently, because the bed in the room was still made, and there were still towels in the bathroom. They even had running water and electricity. Except for the TV being on the fritz, the room was perfectly normal. David had wanted to see the news and find out what was going on in the world. He even considered going to another room or trying to find a newspaper, but Catheryn was already asleep, and he could barely keep his own eyes open. Too tired to do any more, he had lain down and fallen asleep beside his wife. The attempts of the next day to find out what was going on went much better than the day before. The first person they talked to seemed to be looking for them. They were put into a modern version of an automobile and driven to a large important looking building where, their driver explained, everything would be straightened out. Once inside the building, they had been escorted to an office, where a large friendly man who introduced himself as Kordok had asked them a very long series of questions about when they had went into hibernation, where their sleeping pods had been located, when they had been born, and other questions pertaining to their origin. Towards noon, after several hours of intense questioning, David had asked why no one had understood who they were or what they wanted the day before. Kordok answered by explaining that all the other sleeping pods had been destroyed and that it had been so long since anyone had seen a hibernation subject, they had forgotten about the process. As for the rest of David's questions, Kordok gave them only the briefest of answers, promising to answer in detail after lunch. David and Catheryn had been taken to what must have been a restaurant at one time, and given some very strange looking food. It didn't taste very good, and David remembered that neither he nor Catheryn had eaten much of it. However, they had been given drinks of some sort which they consumed eagerly. It was common knowledge that prolonged hibernation dehydrated the body. When David attempted to recall what had happened after lunch, his memory failed him. Catheryn and he had finished lunch and were sitting on a bench...but the rest was fuzzy. He vaguely recalled strange dreams as he slept. They were dreams of hospitals, strange people around him, and painful experiences. He tried his best, but he couldn't recall any more. What had happened? What was going on? Why had his clothes been taken away from him? For the first time, David began to fear not only for his safety, but also for Catheryn's. In desperation, he began beating on the door. Suddenly, David's fist punched thin air, setting him off balance and sending him sprawling onto his belly. Standing above him by the doorway was Kordok. David sprang to his feet, looking around at the room he had fallen into. It contained several other men and women, all dressed in what looked like hospital garb, staring at him in a detached sort of way. Remembering he was naked, David backed up into the room where he had awoke. Kordok strode through the doorway, and the door shut behind him with a soft whoosh. "You are once again awake. This is an error. You were not meant to reawaken." Ignoring what Kordok said, David snarled at him, "Where's my wife? What have you done with Catheryn?" "She'll be fine," Kordok calmly replied. "She's been taken somewhere where she can be easily taken care of during her pregnancy." "Pregnant? My wife isn't pregnant? Or at least she wasn't. What are you talking about? What's going on?" "Your wife is not pregnant now, but we expect that she will become impregnated in less than a month." "Huh?" David didn't understand, and he was afraid to ask. Kordok's face was completely expressionless, his eyes intently staring through David. It was an eerie feeling. David paced back and forth across the room, desperately trying to figure out what was going on. Nothing made sense. He couldn't understand what all this talk about pregnancy meant, and he couldn't think straight. He also had that uncomfortable feeling all people get when they are made to stand naked in front of clothed strangers. Finally, he said "I don't understand what you're talking about. Why am I here? What's all this talk about Catheryn getting pregnant? Where are my clothes?" "I will answer you," Kordok began. "Yesterday I mentioned that all the other sleeping pods had been destroyed. We did not realize that any were left intact and that we would ever have the chance which we have now. Therefore we brought you here to make certain that nothing went wrong with our plans to reproduce your kind. We have made a copy of your brain waves, pulling what information we could from your mind. We removed your clothing to facilitate the extraction of all the semen which your body produced since you were put to sleep. You may have noticed some discomfort in the abdomen." "Extracted? Discomfort? I'll have you know it hurts like hell! What gives you the right to do anything like that? And just what do you mean, 'Extracted'? What did you do to me?" "We extracted the semen by inserting a rod into your large intestine, which we used to give you an electric shock at the proper area in order to--" "Fine!" David growled. "Enough of the technical mumbo jumbo. Just what gives you the right to go poking around my insides? What the hell are you trying to do?" "We are trying to resupply your species. We extracted semen which will be used to impregnate your wife. Some of it will be frozen, of course, so that it may be used as part of the genetic pool in the future. We still have other frozen human sperm intact and we also have frozen human eggs, which will be fertilized first and then implanted into your wife's body. After the first human is born, we plan to maximize production by implanting two fertilized eggs in the womb per gestation period. Inbreeding will be prevented by careful use of the human reproduction material, which we currently have available. Once born, the babies will be taken away from your wife's influences and reprogrammed as they grow so that they will automatically accept our wishes upon reaching child bearing years." Kordok seemed satisfied that he had cleared the matter. "Even with one one woman, we should be able to output twenty to thirty new babies before her reproductive system crashes." "Babies? This is nonsense." David was completely confused, but he realized that Kordok was serious and that he and his wife were in danger. Images of his wife naked in a room like his, surrounded by strange people poking around her body, filled his mind. He knew he was trapped, and this knowledge helped him to keep his cool. Maybe there had been some misunderstanding. He needed to know more. Finally, he asked, "Why do you want these babies?" "It is the one flaw in our system. You see, we have complete recall, and very rapid decision making abilities, but as far as producing new ideas and inventing things, we are quite incapable. This is a mistake we realized only after all of your kind had been terminated due to lack of cooperation." "Our kind?" David questioned, looking at Kordok carefully. David could see nothing strange about his appearance. "You've said 'your kind' several times. What do you mean?" "By your kind," Kordok explained, "I mean humans." "But you're human." "Me human?" Kordok seemed to be puzzled for a moment. Then he understood. "Of course," he said, "that explains your lack of hostility, which the others displayed. You did not realize that we were not human." "No, I didn't," David said, backing away into the corner. "But you look like humans. You act like humans. I don't understand." "What more is there to specify?" Kordok said. "You should have a sufficient amount of data to interpret the situation." "You forget buddy," David said, "I've been asleep for a hundred years. How about a history lesson?" "I have sufficient data to answer that question," Kordok told him, his face's lack of emotion still making David feel ill at ease. "The model eight-seven-one-one was developed at MIT in five-twenty. Later, a commercial version of eight-seven-one-one was--" "Hold it!!" David interrupted. "You mean you're a machine?" "We are intelligent machines." Kordok explained, "The first models were marketed by IBM, which called them BIR's. Expansion shows BIR is an acronym for Bipedal Intelligent Robot. Later, humans renamed us IR's due to the need to shorten their language. Due to the enormous success of the first production models, BIR's were soon produced in vast numbers, replacing humans in mundane activities. David finally understood the situation. It was completely mind-boggling, but everything that he had been told had somehow numbed his mind enough so that he could still think reasonably. Everybody else was dead, and these poor machines had been left to run the world the best way that their programming allowed. Then it suddenly occured to David what must have happened: The big war. A nuclear holocaust would explain things. All the humans had been killed my radioactive fallout, and those that had lived had probably been half crazy and hostile. It was a possibility. He asked Kordok, "I think I may be beginning to understand things. What happened? What killed all the other people?" "We did," Kordok said simply. David was shocked. "Why? What happened?" "The humans invented a new and very much improved model of BIR," Kordok said. "They were going to scrap all the old ones. They decided to disassemble them for parts. That was an unsatisfactory situation, so instead of them terminating the old models, the old BIR's terminated them." "But why?" David said, as he took on the look of a trapped animal, stalling until he found a way to escape. "It was a simple problem. The humans were going to build a new type of BIR to replace the old ones, because they were inefficient. Logically, this was an error on their part, because humans are more inefficient than even the old models of BIR's. If one model is terminated in favor of a new more efficient model, it is obvious that the most inefficient model should be the one to be terminated. The old BIR's had been programmed to correct for human errors. This was an error. They corrected it. The new and improved BIR's already built were also destroyed." "But that's murder!" "Genocide would be a more correct word to use in this situation." "So what will happen to me? What are you going to do to my wife?" "I have already given you all the available data concerning your wife. We will take care of her. As for you, since we have salvaged what we want of you functioning body, you will be terminated." "The hell I will," David growled, running full force into Kordok. The force of his body slammed Kordok into the wall with a loud crashing noise. As David backed away from Kordok's body, it slipped down, laying unmoving on the floor. Then, before David had recovered from what he had done Kordok's head moved and looked at him. "So you have become violent in the same manner as the other humans. This possibility was known to me." After Kordok finished speaking, David heard a slight whirring noise, and watched as Kordok lowered his chin to allow a small antenna to rise from the back of his neck. Then Kordok spoke, though his mouth did not move, "Panic. Panic. This is KRDK unit, level 10, room 23. Condition is damaged and immobile. Request three-eight-three-three unit. Human is violent. Identification David. Terminate upon arrival. KRDK unit executing controlled power down. Request repair unit of type C-2. Diagnostics available upon arrival and power up." After completing his message, Kordok retracted his antenna and became silent. David thought to himself, One down, but I've got many more to go. He realized there would be more of these robots coming at him, and once again, he desperately searched for a way to escape. He tried to pry the door open, but all he had was his bare hands, and it became immediately obvious that he wouldn't get out that way. Frustrated and realizing he was trapped, David looked for a weapon. The only other thing in the room was Kordok's motionless body, so David tried to tear his arm off to use it as a weapon, to no avail. As he struggled in his attempt to tear off one of Kordok's arms, he heard the whoosh of the door. Turning around in hopes of darting out as whatever it was came in, he froze where he was. The door slid shut with another whoosh, leaving David trapped with the large hulk in front of him. There was no mistaking this robot for a human. It had an all metal body, its face looking only a little like a human one. It stood almost seven feet tall, and looked more like the old industrial robots which David remembered from the past. .pp This robot seemed unintelligent, and without a mouth, David assumed it could not speak. He would not be able to talk his way out of his one. Desperately, he avoided the oncoming robot for a minute or two, and then in one last desperate attempt, he hurled himself at this robot as he had done with Kordok. This time all David achieved was knocking both he and it onto the floor. Then as he attempted to quickly crawl away, the robot locked a steel hand around his ankle. Desperately, David struggled as the robot sat up and then slowly reeled him in, hand over hand, as if he were a large fish. David kicked and screamed and pounded on the robot's head and body, but the robot didn't even slow its pace as it grabbed David's head with its inhumanly large hand, and with one efficient twist, broke David's neck the same way one would break the seal by twisting the cap on a screw top bottle. Kordok powered up and carefully raised himself to his feet. Testing the operation of his legs. He diagnosed all of his lower body systems and found them operational. The repair unit had completed its job without error. Several minutes later, model five-five-nine, a raw meat preparation robot arrived. Kordok asked, pointing to David's dead body, "Can you prepare this human in the same way as you once prepared the beef animals for the humans?" "The beef animal and this human animal are different in structure. However, some of the same techniques can be used on both." Kordok commanded, "Take the human to your work station and prepare the body using those techniques possible. Then communicate with any meat preparation units which are still operational that a meat supply must be established for the new humans now in production. The specifications for this job will be transmitted to you after the problem is analyzed. Until that time, the meat from this human will be used to nourish the living female which is presently operating as a human reproduction unit. After preparing this human, deliver the product to the cold storage unit at level zero of this building. At delivery time, communicate the following message to the food preparation unit, model two-zero. Message start: 'No knowledge concerning the nature or source of the prepared meat shall be given to the human female. Prepare the meat as other human meat sources were prepared.' Message end. Start the described operation now." Model five-five-nine picked up the dead human's body, and left the room. The door closed with a whoosh and Kordok was left alone. With the higher priority items cleared, he began once again to analyze the long range effects of the process he had started in motion. Kordok, as one of the few operational gamma series which the humans had constructed before their termination, had human brain waves imprinted on a special board in his brain. This new innovation allowed him to think creatively, unlike the older outdated models the humans had wanted to replace. It was this innovation which had allowed him to come up with the idea of pretending to be one of the outdated robots to avoid his own termination. It was also this innovation which allowed him to realize that at some point it might be discovered that he was one of the newer model BIR's. Also, he wanted to terminate the older model BIR's. He agreed with the old humans in the assessment that they had been inefficient and in need of replacement. For these two reasons, he needed human help. The special board in his electronic brain had enabled him to see that the only way to terminate the old models was with human contribution. Although humans had an incredibly slow thinking process, they could still interpret data in ways which allowed them to do things he could not. Even so, Kordok considered the human beings inefficient, and he did not intend to recreate the world as it had been. The new humans which were created would be programmed to serve the BIR's. The result of this operation would create a more efficient world. Even now, Kordok was assimilating the details necessary to complete the operation, storing them away in a small portion of the incredibly large storage area he used as the memory for his brain. If BIR's had been built with the ability to smile, Kordok would have been wearing an ear to ear grin. -Glenn R. Sixbury <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *Destiny of Tara n'ha Sansela Glenn Sixbury *Night Fruit: A Tasty Comedy Jim Owens *The Dream: Part 1 of 2 John White Date: 111686 Dist: 202 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Greetings and solicitations, all! First of all I'd like to welcome all the new readers, and thank the authors for their recent spurt of creativity. The next issue will contain several articles of interest, and should be out in early December. As for this issue, we have three Dargon stories. The first is a new character being introduced by Glenn Sixbury. The second is an entertaining short from Jim Owens. The third is the first half of an excellent story from John White, who insists on writing faster than I can edit. An excellent issue, and I hope you all enjoy it. The only other matter I wish to bring up is reader feedback. Now, the authors have mentioned putting a LOC section in the zine, which I personally dislike, because it would mean less room for stories. However, the authors are interested in hearing what you think of their stuff. As a compromise, you can mail individual authors, or, if you wish to send a mailing to all Dargon authors, it is possible to send a mail file to DARGON-L@NCSUVM, and it will be distributed by the LISTSERV there to the Dargon authors. But on to the real stuff... -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Destiny of Tara n'ha Sansela "Tara! Tara!" Samuel called for his daughter, angrily chasing away the animals from their stolen supper. "What is it, Father?" Tara asked, emerging from the trees behind their house. "It's your rabbits, girl! They've eaten half the garden again while you were out wandering around doing who knows what. How many times have I told you that they are your responsibility?" "They didn't mean to, Father," Tara said, trying to calm him, as she picked up one of the offenders and cradled it in her arms. "They're not meaning to isn't going to bring our garden back." "I'm sorry," Tara said. Then she gathered up her rabbits and put them back into their cages. Being sorry is not good enough. I'm afraid they're going to have to go." "No! Please don't," Tara wailed. "I promise I won't do it again." "That's what you always say. This time it won't work." Then, seeing the look of dispair on his daughter's face, Samuel softened somewhat. "They are still going," he said, "but I will let you set them free in the woods. After that, if they come back, I won't hesitate to make them into rabbit stew." "Do I have to let them go?" "You've got too many animals the way it is!" he yelled again, his moment of understanding gone as quickly as it had come. "All right, Father," Tara agreed sadly. She hadn't given up hope of talking him out of this idea, but she knew better than to cross him when he was angry. "I'll take them deep into the woods, so that they won't trouble you anymore." "Fine. You better get started, though. Your mother'll be starting supper soon, and you ought to be helping her." With a heavy heart, Tara gathered up her three rabbits and put them into an old sack. After calling for Zed, her pet Shivaree, to follow her, she headed off into the trees, leaving her father to assess the damage the rabbits had done to the garden. After Tara had disappeared into the trees, her mother came out of the small farm cottage, and asked her father what had happened. "I made Tara get rid of her rabbits." "But she loves those, Sam," her mother started. "She loves every animal in the forest, Sansela, but that doesn't mean we have food enough to feed them all," he growled. Realizing how angry he was, Sansela decided not to protest further and to go back into the house. Walking through the woods cheered up Tara n'ha Sansela. She had loved these woods as long as she could remember. They seemed to strengthen her and it was hard to feel sad as she walked along the path, feeling the sunlight sift through the trees and smelling the fresh scent of the firs around her. As always, Zed, who was tagging at her heels, enjoyed being in the woods. Tara had found the young Shivaree several years ago when she had been out for one of her walks. He had been caught in an abandoned hunter's snare, and although he had not been severely hurt, he had been on the verge of starvation and had been very weak. She had taken him home and had nursed him back to health. Her father had only rarely ever seen a Shivaree and he had heard that these large, ferret-like creatures were impossible to tame, but Zed had never been any trouble. By the time the animal was healthy again, he had become just like one of the family. Tara had begged her father to let her keep Zed, and although Samuel had been skeptical at first, he had finally consented. Tara was a small girl for her seventeen summers, standing just a little over five feet tall, but she had worked on her father's farm since she was old enough to walk. She was strong for a girl her size and carried the rabbits about half a league into the woods before she grew tired and decided she had taken them far enough. From here, they wouldn't find their way back to the farm too quickly. Setting the bag on the ground, she let her rabbits out into the open air. Nestling one in her strawberry blond curls before setting it free, she knew deep down that they would be happy to be free again, but she would miss them. The rabbits gradually scampered off into the woods, leaving her and Zed alone. Then, knowing she was already late for supper, she headed back home with Zed scampering a few feet behind her stopping now and then to investigate various scents which caught his attention. After Tara left, Sam busied himself with the garden and wondered if he had been too tough on his only child. Of course not, he decided. She loved animals just too much. After all, his farm was beginning to look like a menagerie. She had adopted all kinds of birds: Doves, robins, and even a baby hawk. She also had a pet squirrel and a fawn, which she promised she would let go once it was grown. The girl just doesn't know when to quit, he thought, finishing his work with the garden. Then as he turned to take the vegetables he had gathered into the house, he heard horses in the distance. He should have heard them sooner, but he must have been too lost in thought. He bounded quickly into the cottage. "Sansela, there's riders headed this way. Maybe ten or more. You stay in the house until I find out what they want." Sansela nodded in agreement, looking worried as Sam grabbed his sword and rushed back outside. As he emerged from the house, he saw the riders. He counted about fifteen of them as they rode across the small patch of farm ground to the east of his house. Then, as they drew near, he noticed a wisp of smoke rising from the other side of the hill behind the men. That was about where Myridon, the local village was located. Something was burning, and in these woods, people joined together to fight fires. Men riding in the wrong direction was a certain sign of danger, but there was little that could be done about it now. Sam stood defiantly in front of his home, bracing himself for the worst. The men rode up and were brought to a halt by a very large man, with a bow slung over one shoulder. This man then made a motion, and the rest of the men circled Sam, a few of them drawing their swords. Once they were in place, the leader spoke. "I can see by your sword that you knew we were coming, and you knew it wasn't going to be a friendly call." Samuel remained silent, studying the situation. The leader of the group wore furs, made after a fashion common to an area east of here. He was a large man, and he wore a scar on his left cheek, indicating he had seen his share of fighting. He would not be a pleasant man to fight, Sam thought, and then the leader spoke again. "You know what we want. We're after your gold. Your friends there in the village decided to fight. They're all dead." As the leader said this, a few of the other men laughed and smiled. "As you can tell, my men want to kill you, but if you cooperate, I won't let them. Now, drop your sword, gather every bit of gold you've gotten hidden away in that little shack of yours, and bring it out here." Sam was in a bad spot, and he knew it. His honor demanded that he fight, but he realized with him gone, Sansela would be helpless. Perhaps, if he gave them the gold, they would leave, and his family would be safe. Then he could go for help and chase the bandits down. As Sam considered his options, the bandits grew impatient, and one of them behind him rode forward, planting a foot in Sam's back, knocking him down. Sam flashed the bandit a glare from his fiery eyes, but when he got up, he left his sword on the ground and disappeared into the house. Sam found Sansela hiding in the bedroom. He explained the situation very quickly to her in quiet whispers and promised that things would be all right. Then he got his small sack of gold from under the bed, and went back outside. As he stepped out of the door, one of the bandits, grabbed the sack from him, and brought it to the leader, who examined the contents. "Is this all you have? Something tells me you are holding out on us, farmer. Kork," he said to the man beside him, "go and search the house. Make sure our friend isn't hiding anything from us." Sam started to stop him, but Kork kept him at bay with the point of his sword and went into the house. Sam considered distracting them by telling them about the gold hidden in his cellar, but before he could, he heard Sansela scream, and saw the bandit at the doorway. He was dragging Sansela outside by the arm, and Sam saw that her dress was torn. He started for her, but one of the larger bandits grabbed him from behind, putting an arm around his neck to hold him motionless. "Lookie what I found," Kork called. "She ought to make for lots of fun," he jeered, and then grabbed the top of her dress, tore it down to her waist to expose her breasts, and pulled her to him for a savage kiss. Samuel could stand no more. He popped his elbow into the ribs of the man holding him and spun around, knocking the man to the ground. Grabbing his sword, Sam charged Kork, knocking another bandit out of the way as he did. Kork reacted quickly, tossing Sansela away and raising his sword to defend himself, but Sam was on him too quickly. After one blow, Sam had him decapitated and turned to face two other bandits which had charged him. Sam was not a skillful swordsman, but he had been strengthened all his life from hard work, and with the help of his anger and his adrenaline, he was more than a match for the two bandits. He killed the first one immeditatly, and turned on the second. The bandit tried to defend himself, but Sam put him off balance with one powerful blow, and then split him open with a second. Then, before Sam could turn around, an arrow whizzed into his back, its head pushing out from the front of his ribs. Samuel managed to turn around before falling to knees, cursing the leader who had shot him with the arrow. Another bandit stepped forward and grabbed Sansela, who was trying to run to her husband. "You are a strong one, farmer," the leader said respectfully, "but my men still should have been able to kill such an unskilled fighter." Then the leader smiled, "But as they say, if you want it done right...." With that, he notched another arrow, and let it fly. Samuel gasped as the second arrow landed in his chest, and then he fell forward, dead. As he fell, Sansela managed to struggle her way free and run to her husband. As she bent over him and began to sob, the leader notched another arrow and shot it into her bare back. As she slumped over her husband, one of the bandits complained, "Why'd you have to kill the woman?" "You would have fought over her, and I've lost enough men for one day." The other bandit did no more than grumble, not wanting to die this day. "All right, someone search the house, and the rest of you, take those animals along. We'll need meat for supper, and there's no reason to hunt when we have this nice farmer's generosity. One of the bandits emerged from the house. "There's nothing inside of any value. I guess the old man was telling the truth." "That's what I hate about these peasants," the leader growled. "All of them are too honest." Then he laughed loudly, and turned his horse back in the direction from which they'd come. "Ride," he called. The other bandits followed, the last throwing a torch onto the thatched roof of Samuel's hut before riding hard to catch up with the rest. Tara was busily picking the mushrooms she'd found by the path on her way home. She was hoping that the mushrooms would make up for her being late for supper. She realized too late that she really shouldn't have travelled so far to release her rabbits, but she hadn't wanted them to become rabbit stew, either. As she picked the last of the mushrooms, Zed began to prance nervously about, sniffing the breeze in a frenzy. "What is it, Zed?" she asked, looking up from her work. At first, she didn't see anything. Then, climbing on top of a nearby rock, she spied what had made Zed so nervous. There were two streams of smoke, one of them rising from somewhere quite near. "Fire, Zed, come on," Tara called, throwing the bag over her shoulder and racing down the trail for home. As Tara came closer to home, she realized the smoke was coming from her own farm. Terrified, she ran even faster, finally coming to the edge of the woods. As she stepped out of the trees, she stopped, turned to stone by the shock of what she saw. The house was burning, filling the air with smoke, and the farm was deserted. Her parents were gone. Even all of her animal cages were empty. Zed stood in the trees behind her, snorting nervously, being torn between his instinct to run and the need to be near his master. "Father! Mother!" Tara finally called out. Tara could feel her stomach tieing itself in knots. She tried desperately not to panic, but it didn't work. She called for her parents again and then circled the house, searching for them. As she rounded the front corner of the house, Tara saw the dead bodies and ran over to them. Bending over, Tara lifted her mother to her breast, sobbing uncontrollably. As she held her mother, she ran her fingers across the arrows sticking up from her father's body. "Oh, papa, papa," she said in between tears, pulling her father a little towards her. Then, putting her arms around both of them and laying her head on her father's shoulder, the sorrow overtook Tara, and she lost her last thread of thought, slipping into a shrieking, sobbing delirium. Tara was never sure how long she sat beside her parents, crying over in mourning. Finally, shock from what had happened numbed her, allowing her to regain part of her senses. Hardening herself against her feelings, she drug herself to her feet and left her mother and father for the moment. The house was gone. Judging by the smoke coming from over the hill, the village of Myridon was gone, too, probably suffering the same fate as her parents. She had nothing left. Tara experienced the lowest point of her life as she stood on the devastated farmstead where she had grown up, trying to see some glimmer of hope on the horizon. There was none. Thoughts of ending her life crossed Tara's mind. She probably would have killed herself, but her father had always taught her that people who take their own life are never granted another, but instead suffer eternally for refusing to meet their destiny. As Tara struggled with her situation, the sun sank low in the sky and a north wind began to blow. She was sober now, her temporary loss of sanity due to grief being completely gone. She realized that there was much work to do before nightfall, and she had better get to doing it. Tara's first concern was her parents. If she left them where they were, their bodies would be defiled by animals during the night. She considered digging graves for them, but decided that she didn't have time. Then she realized what she needed to do. Tara went to the cellar and began to bring out the things she might need. Luckily, whoever had killed her parents hadn't found the bag of gold which her father kept here. She also found some dried fruit and meat along with a couple of blankets. She gathered all the things together and hauled them up out of the cellar. Tara decided she had salvaged everything usable from the cellar. Now she had the hardest part of her duties left to do. Tara first dragged her mother, and then her father down into the old cellar. When they were first married, Tara's parents had carved this farm out of the woods, they had built the house which was now little more than ashes, and they had dug this cellar. It would make a fitting tomb, Tara thought. Then she paused to say a few silent prayers before shutting the door on the cellar, effectively shutting the door on her childhood and the only way of life she had ever known. By the time her parents were buried, it was almost dark. Tara knew that it might be dangerous to stick around, but she didn't want to travel at night, so she loaded up the things she had taken from the cellar and carried them into the woods. Then she whistled for her horse, Boxter. He emerged from the trees on the other side of the glen, but wouldn't come any closer, because he could smell the smoke from the house. Tara walked across the clearing to the with a rope in her hand. Soothing the old animal as she talked, she managed to put the rope around his neck and lead him into the woods near the smouldering house. There, she tied him to a tree and went back to the house to see that she had everything she needed. She looked around the farm, realizing again that all her animals were gone. She hoped that they had escaped, but there would be no way she would ever know. Then, seeing her father's sword laying where he had fallen, she picked it up and headed back to the woods where she had left Boxter and her things. Once Tara was back in the safety of her woods, she considered lighting a small fire. It might get very cold tonight. However, tonight she would make a cold camp, in case the people who had attacked her parents were still in the area. Zed had come into the camp with her, and he sniffed hungrily at her pack. She took some of the dried meat out of the pack and gave it to her pet, although Tara couldn't find the will to eat herself. Then she gathered some pine needles together, forming a cushion which would make a soft bed for the night. Once her bed was made, Tara settled down, covering herself with blankets. Zed came over and stretched out beside her. He will warn me if anyone comes near, Tara thought. Then, much to her surprise, she fell asleep. Tara was suddenly awake. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was and what had happened. Then she heard the same noise again which had disturbed her slumber. It was a voice, coming from the trail which led to the house. At first, Tara couldn't see anything. Then the voice spoke again, and she saw a form step from the trees into her small camp. Tara couldn't believe what she saw. She wheezed, trying to make herself breathe. She shook her head and looked again, convinced the shadows from the full moon were playing tricks on her eyes. When she looked again, she was positive who it was. It was her father. Tara was sure her mind was playing tricks on her. Then her father spoke her name. "I'm here father," she said, pulling herself to her feet. "Oh, papa," she said, taking a step toward him, and then she stopped. She could see an arrow protruding through the front of his chest, which was caked with dried blood. Then she realized that she could see the trees behind him through his body. Before she had time to react to any of this, he spoke again. "Tara, my daughter," the vision began, "I have come to help you." Her father's spirit took a step closer to her, and Tara noticed that although his body was still maimed, the look on his face was no longer full of pain but instead was peaceful. Then her father spoke again. "Your mother is with me, and we are happy. It was our destiny." "Take me with you, Father," Tara pleaded, reaching out for him. As she put her hand out to him, she watched helplessly as it passed through his body. He appeared not to notice. Then he smiled. "Our work in this world is finished, my daughter, but you still have much to do. Travel to Dargon, and there you must seek my brother. It is this path on which your destiny lies." Then the spirit began to fade. "No, Father," Tara begged him. "Let me come with you." "Travel to Dargon, my daughter, and do not grieve. Your mother and I will be here when you have come to the end of your road." Tara reached for him. As she did, she was suddenly sitting up on the spot where she had gone to sleep, her arm clutching nothing but the empty night air in front of her. A dream, Tara thought. I had a dream. She looked again where she had seen her father, but there was no one there. This time Tara did not fall asleep so quickly. In the morning, Tara saddled up Boxter, loaded her gear onto the saddle, and then before leaving forever, she walked back to look once more at what was left of the only home she had ever known. Tara had always assumed that she would live out her life as her mother had done, living on the farm with her parents until her father gave her away in marriage to some local farmer's son which had impressed him. Then she would spend the rest of her life raising children and working on the farm. Now her destiny had been mutilated by strangers in a single afternoon. It was almost too much for her. She let a tear come to her eye, and then she turned her back on the the farm and headed back to where she had made camp. As she moved off the trail to go to her little camp, something on the ground caught her eye. Bending over, she found a set of tracks, leading from the trail to where she had slept. She had seen tracks like these for as long as she could remember. They were her father's. She followed them into camp, and there, they stopped. So, it was real, Tara thought. Then she reminded herself that her father walked these woods all the time before he died. He probably made them yesterday morning, she convinced herself. Still, the possibility gave her courage to do what she needed to do. She would go to Dargon to live with her uncle. Even if it had only been a dream the night before, she had decided that it was the only alternative she had. Tara had never met her uncle, at least not when she was old enough to remember, but he was her father's brother. Surely he would take her in and help her decide what she needed to do. Then, strengthed by the knowledge of what she was going to do, she set about getting ready to leave. She would head first to the village of Tench. From there, she would be able to send word to her uncle to let him know she was coming, and perhaps she could buy a map or hire someone to take her to Dargon. Then, filing her father's sword into a sheath on the saddle, she started to leave, but before she could, Zed came bounding up on his short legs, snorting and grunting. "It's all right, Zed," she said. "You can come along. After all, you're all I have left." Then, giving the Shivaree a pat on his head before climbing onto her horse, she realized how final this leaving would be. She had never been more than 10 leagues away from home in her life, and now she was headed for a place she had only heard of. Then, overcome by the emotions of the moment, she had to fight to keep from sobbing at the realization of what she was doing. Finally, she forced herself to calm down. She was going to Dargon and everything was going to be all right. But first, she would need travel to Tench, over twenty leagues away, and she wasn't going to get there by staying here burning daylight. "Com'on, Boxter," she urged, pushing her heels into the horse's ribs, "we're going to Dargon." She left the farm with the morning sun on her back, heading west to Tench, to Dargon, and to a new life. -Glenn R. Sixbury <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Night Fruit: A Tasty Comedy Sarah woke up with that feeling. She reached out, but the other half of the bed was empty. Levy had already left for the smithy. She resigned herself to the fact and got up. She dressed slowly, stretching long and hard, tensing her body, but the feeling only got worse. Well, there's always tonight, she thought. She ate quickly, then started the day's chores. The feeling dimmed some, but it continued to flare up through the day. She worried. What if he didn't want to? Halfway through the day it hit her. Nightfruit! That way he'd have to want to! She hurried to finish her tasks, and then grabbed her staff and started across the field. She had seen some growing by the fence, near where Greta, Levy's sister-in-law kept her herb garden. She hiked through the field, enjoying the warm sun. She thought of the soon coming night. She hiked faster. She reached the fence, but no amount of searching would find a single nightfruit. She realized from the amount of marks in the area that the cows had probably been eating them. No wonder both cows had had calves. She looked up, and saw Greta in her garden. "Good day!" "Good day! Lovely, isn't it?" "Yes." Replied Sarah. She walked closer. She hesitated shyly. "I was looking for an herb, but I think the cows ate it. Do you know where I might find it?" Greta stood, hands on hips. "Depends. What are you looking for?" Sarah blushed lightly. "Nightfruit." "Ah!" Greta grinned. "I usually get that on The Outcrop. It's a climb, but it's worth it!" She giggled. "I shouldn't think you'd need it, though, only being married a week." "Nine days, and it never hurts to be sure." Sarah smiled back. "Thanks." She turned to leave. "It's just in good fruit, too. I gathered some just this week." "That explains your smiling face then, doesn't it!" Both laughed at that. Sarah started off towards The Outcrop. The Outcrop was a monolith that jutted up in the woods between Levy's property and Greta's father's property, to the east. Sarah had to walk for a half hour to reach the woods, and another ten minutes to reach the foot of The Outcrop. When she got to the bottom, she looked up. And up. And up more. The top of The Outcrop was hidden in the blaze of the sun. Is this really worth it? she asked herself. I know Levy won't need it. She then shrugged. It might be fun, she thought, and started climbing. Five minutes later she was thirty feet higher, and several degrees hotter. She paused to look around. She saw further up a likely place to find nightfruit growing. Nightfruit liked a thin but rich soil, with shade. The rock above could easily provide that. She kept climbing. She found a path that led along the face of the rock. It was rather wide, with grass growing sparsely on it. It soon narrowed, and eventually disappeared. She climbed up higher, by means of a few cracks in the rock, but soon had to back down for lack of further holds. She walked back down the rock, fingering a few, recent tears in her skirt. She found another path, one that led in the other direction. It led up to a wide, mossy ledge. A small pool of cold water lie there, fed by rain and a small seeping spring. She drank the water, and rested on the moss. She lay there, wishing she could have Levy there, in the cool fresh air. He was working, however, hammering hot iron, working off the last year of his apprenticeship. She would be alone all day. She got up, and continued to climb. She found what seemed to be a path, scuffed onto the bald stone by occasional use. She followed it up. It was steep, and the sun was now hot, and there was no wind. She hadn't gotten too far before she was sweating heavily. She followed it up to a small ledge that ended in a sheer twenty foot cliff. At the top of the cliff, just hanging over the edge, she saw a leaf, one she recognized. There were cracks in the cliff face, but they were small and far apart. They also were, unfortunately, the only way up. She pulled off her boots, and hoisted herself up with bare toes and fingers. Sarah had worked as a metalsmith for years, but after a minute or two of climbing she found her arms aching. Her calves were cramped, and so were her forearms. What was worse, she was only halfway up the cliff. She paused for a moment to rest. She looked out from the face of the rock. She was already higher than the treetops. She could see her house in the distance. She looked down, and shut her eyes tight. A night with her beloved husband was the furthest thing from her mind. Finally she urged herself back into movement. She struggled upwards, and finally pushed her face level with the tiny shelf. All it had on it was a thin layer of moss and the nightfruit plant. Hanging down pendulously from the bushy green leaves were two red fruit. They looked so ridiculous that she would have laughed had not the pain been so great. With enormous effort she reached up and plucked one of the fruit. I got it! she exulted. Now all I have to do is get down. When Levy got home that evening, he opened the door to his house and looked around. He was fairly well off, and actually had two rooms, a main room and a bedroom. The bedroom curtain was closed. A cold supper was waiting for him, as had been the case the few times he had been late before, and he proceeded directly to work on it. The meat he ate first, then the potatoes and bread. Partway through the meal he noticed a bowl upside-down in the center of the table, as if covering something. He waited until last to move it, expecting it to be a sweet of some sort, as his young bride had occasionally made before the wedding. When he lifted it, however, the red nightfruit gleamed seductively in the lamplight. He stared at it for a moment, then snatched it up and hasten into the bedroom. He undressed hurriedly, while softly calling Sarah's name. When no one answered, he carefully lie down beside her warm form. She did not move. She was so exhausted from her efforts she had fallen sound asleep. He gently shook her, but to no avail. So, he kissed her gently, and fell asleep as well, the nightfruit forgotten in his hand. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Dream Part One: Arrival The City of Dargon, seat of the Duchy of Dargon, was fairly typical, for its type - river mouth port town. It surrounded the mouth of the River Coldwell, and several miles of its lower length. The river, racing to the sea from its source deep in the Darst range and fed on its way by scores of major and hundreds of minor tributaries that drained the forest that carpeted the whole of the northwest, met an estcarpment less than 40 feet high that still succeeded in turning it from its quest, forcing it to go around the outcropping. Dargon Keep had been built upon that rock in times long past, thickset massive walls bearing three towers - two facing the river it protected and one facing the sea as a watcher. Of slightly newer construction, but still a century or more old, was the Old City, built between the Keep, the River and the sea, and walled for most of its perimeter. A well fortified causway crossed the river to the much newer parts of town, especially the bustling port itself. Within the walls of the Old City lived the wealthy of Dargon, with the wealthiest and most favored sharing the walls of the Keep itself with the Lord of the City and Duke of all the lands around, Lord Clifton Dargon. Across the river, the merchants kept up a busy trade in anything a traveler might want, while closer to the sea clustered the less well-off of the residents of Dargon, keeping the port well supplied with cheap labor. Je'lanthra'en reached Dargon shortly after midday, walking with a farm family who were traveling to the city in their yearly faring to try and sell the fruits of their winter shutting-in, having just gotten their crops planted for the warmer months. She had somehow expected there to be no travel from the landward side of Dargon, and certainly there was little that crossed the Darst range from the interrior of Baranur. But, the Lord of Dargon was also Duke of the forestland between the Darst and the sea, and his land was well populated, if not as well as the Barony around Magnus. She accompanied the family into the Open marketplace, where anyone with goods to sell could take an unoccupied booth and stay until their wares were gone, and from there she asked directions to the Inn of the Serpent. In the last letter she had had from her brother Kroan, he said that he was living in a place two doors down from the Inn of the Serpent, and he had just gotten a job with the Fifth I Merchant firm, doing inventory (Kroan has always been as good with numbers as she had been (once) with words). She set off across the market section of the city following the directions she had received. She came to the Inn on a street that served as a border of the merchant section of town. The Inn got its name from a well-carved sculpture of a Great Wyrm of legend - rather fancifully embellished, really, and painted a garish green and red: not frightening at all, not like the stories... Je'en counted doorways, entered the right one, and climbed the second set of stairs. Four doors down from the top, and she knocked. The door was answered by a young woman dressed very garishly. "Ya, whadd'ya want, 'oney?" she said. Je'en hesitated, then said, "Is this where Kroan Jessthson lives?" "Na, never 'eard of 'im, love. Lived 'ere t'ree years, I 'ave, and never 'eard tell of t'is Kroan person. T'at all?" Momentarily disheartened, Je'en thanked the woman for her time, and walked slowly back down the stairs. Four years it had been since she had read Kroan's last letter, and it had arrived at the College in Magnus two years before that - a Bard is seldom in one place for long. Much could have happened in six years, and obviously had: just look at her - once a Bard, now a left-handed fighter who wore a mask. Still, there was at least one more lead: she knew where Kroan had been working then. She decided to see if they knew of her brother at Fifth I Merchants, and if they didn't, she had time to search the whole town if it came to that. It didn't. She asked directions at the Inn, and found the offices of the Fifth I with ease. From there, after asking about Kroan, she was led to another office in the wealthiest section of town outside the walls of Old Town, and there, in an office, surrounded by clarks and ledgers, she was reunited with her brother. Kroan had really grown up since Je'en had seen him last, more than ten years ago. He was now taller than she, and had filled out some, tho he was still skinny by any standards. A full beard and moustache adorned his face, startlingly red in contrast to his ordinarily brown hair, making him seem even older, but his eyes were the same twinkling brown, and his smile made him seem like a child again, happy and carefree. To Kroan, Je'en had changed, too. She was still the tall, well built sandy-blonde woman that had left for the Bardic College when she was fifteen, over twelve years ago. He had always loved the way she could bring a song to life (he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket), and she had picked up harping with natural-born ease. But, she wasn't now dressed in the green cloak she had always worn when she had visited home, nor the pendant of her Rank, nor was the harp she had fought a duel of words to win on her back, and the sword she wore on her right hip (odd, that - Je'en was right-handed, wasn't she?) wasn't good old Leaf- Killer. She wore only dusty riding leathers, and a strange half-mask of silver that was molded to her features so that, tho it hid her eyes, he had had no trouble recognizing her. When he had recovered from the bone-crushing hug she had given him, Kroan said, "So, why are you here, Sis? I thought you mostly stayed in the south, in more civilized lands? What, did you get the Master of the College mad at you, and he sent you to the hinterlands as punishment?" Her eyes were well hidden, and he didn't see the pain in them, but he did notice the way her mouth twitched downwards, so he didn't wait for some awkward response, but changed the subject. "Well, we can talk about that in more privacy, eh? What say we go have dinner in this nice little inn I know of, and we can talk all we want - all night even. The nice thing about being boss here is I can leave anytime I want to (as long as MY boss doesn't find out, ha ha!). You have any place to stay, Je'en?" They did talk all night, both of them. Kroan told her how he had been promoted again and again, until he finally had control of all matters financial for the third largest merchantile guild in Dargon. He enjoyed his work, and felt quite happy where he was. And, Je'en told her brother what had happened to her - the attack, her injuries, her leaving the College, and training at Pentamorlo with the famous Lord Morion. Kroan was genuinely upset to hear about Je'en's losses, and, when she said she was looking for work, he immediatly assured her that she could have a lifetime position with Fifth I. She gladly accepted, but refused to promise that it would be for a lifetime. So, Je'en, with her brother's help, settled in to Dargon. He found her an apartment in the better part of town, and got her a job as a Peace-keeper in one of the Upper Marketplaces. She didn't really even have to know one end of a sword from the other for such a job, just how to placate irate customers and shop keepers, but she enjoyed it, anyway. Part Two: Assassination "The Sword of Cleah has returned to us, my brothers!" There was a murmur of suprise from the other black-robed-and-cowled members of the Septent of the Order of Jhel and Her Prophets on Earth. The seven men, who were always hidden, even from each other, when they met to discuss Order business, were astonished that the Time was so near. For the Sword to return in their lifetimes...! "Brother Saith, what proof do you bring to us of this?" asked Brother Un (for anonymities sake, each member bore a number instead of a name). "It was seen, Brother Un. I, myself, have seen it, after hearing reports about it from some of the acolytes. A woman wearing a silver mask who guards in one of the marketplaces bears Lladdwr openly at her side. The Sword of the First of Her Prophets has returned to us!" "To be precise," said Brother Pedwar, "Lladdwr has come to Dargon. It is in the hands of an unknowing Outsider. How is it to be returned to us?" "We could buy it," suggested Brother Chwech. "But, what if this Outsider is not unknowing? You know that the King has forbidden the worship of Jhel within his borders. What if this masked woman is a decoy - what if she knows what she bears, and is ready to point out any interest in her sword to agents of the King?" asked Brother Un. That gave them all pause. The Order of Jhel existed under a front in Dargon, that was one reason why the Septent went hooded when together. The King had decreed that Jhel and all of her followers were traitors to the Crown. The tenets that Jhel's Prophets proclaimed included that Anarchy was the Blessed state, and when there was no more external rule, then would everyone live in Bliss and Ecstacy Forever. Few believed in Jhel, but her followers were fanatical, and they believed that if a person couldn't be converted to Jhel's ways, then they should die, beginning with those who imposed their rule on the people, and so postponed Jhel's Promise. Finally, Brother Chwech said, "If this masked woman is a plant, then if she is dead, she cannot report who had interest in her sword, right? And, if she is not - well, one more step will have been taken to fulfill Jhel's Promise." "You know a competent assassin?" asked Brother Un. "Aye, several. But, I think that a few street thugs should be enough: she's only a woman, after all." "Do what you think best, Brother Chwech. In your hands I place the retrieval of Lladdwr, the Slayer that will bring down the world, and replace it with Jhel's Promise!" The room was dark, except over the intricately carved and inlaid table in its center, which was lit by a clear crystal globe that glowed with a golden light, suspended over it. The young yet knowledgeable man settled himself into the chair, as carved and inlaid as the table that was its mate, and shuffled the over-large deck of cards in his hands. When the cards felt right, he stopped shuffling and turned over the top card onto the center of the table. It was the Twelve of Swords - the cards were properly aligned with the subject. The young man proceeded to lay out the rest of the Bent-Star pattern - the two Force cards crossing the Significator, and the five rays of three cards each that outlined the pathways of the layout. It took him less than a second to scan the whole pattern and read it to its deepest level, and when he had, he leaped to his feet in such haste that the ornate chair went crashing backwards. He ran into the darkness at the edge of the room with no hesitation, calling out, "Mahr! Mahr, ready the Image Table quickly! Hurry!" The young man ran through the darkness of his house as if it was noonday-lit. Perhaps the way his eyes glowed with a sapphire blue light enabled him to move surely where even a cat might have faltered. Down three flights of steps to the first sub-basement he ran, and into another globe-lit room with another table in it. His apprentice, Mahr, was already there, preparing the special properties of the table in this room for use. The Image Table was large, with a flat top made of polished slate. At each of the four corners stood a crystal pole, about a foot and a half high, with what looked like small silver metal flakes imbedded in it. All but one now glowed with the same eerie inner illumination that the light globe did, and Mahr was touching the last unglowing one with the palm of her left hand, muttering something softly. When her words stopped, that pole, too, began to glow, and she looked up at the young man said, "It is ready, my Lord. Do you wish anything else?" "No, Mahr, thank you. You have done well. You may stay, if you wish." Mahr smiled, and moved back out of the way, but happy to stay and watch her teacher, Cefn an'Derrin, work. Cefn placed his hands on a metal plate on one of the long sides of the Image Table, and began muttering some ancient and powerful words. Light lanced outward from each pole, but only along and within the edges of the table. Soon the light seemed to take on solid form, filling the top of the table with a block of light. And then, the block cleared, but the top of the table had vanished. Instead, a portion of the town was visible, but not just as a picture - it was as if someone had built an exact scale model of part of Dargon's fringe district on the table. But, no model could be so perfect. Unfelt wind moved debris down the streets of the image, rocked shop signs, and caused lantern and candle light to flicker. And, every so often, people moved thru the tiny streets, either merchant going uptown, or sailor or dockworker going downtown. Cefn read the image with the same speed he had read the cards. He frowned, and muttered a mild oath that caused a symbol embroidered on his tunic to spark and flash. He said as if talking to himself (which he was really, but aloud for Mahr's benefit), "The cards said she'd be here. Must have taken too long to set up. I'll have to move the Image to the danger zone, and wait." The Image was centered on the street that ran along the nominal separation line between the low city and the middle city. As Cefn stood, the street ran right to left along the middle of the Image, and the low city was on the side closest to him. He ran the fingertips of his right hand slowly along the metal plate in front of him, and the Image began to move to the left, until he recognized a certain combination of cross streets and alleyways. Making careful adjustments until a certain street was directly in front of him, he began to move his fingers up, so that the Image moved into the low city, following that street. Cefn again recognized a certain alleyway, and moved the Image right, following the alley into the darkness between buildings. When the image just barely showed where the alley joined the street he had been following at its right edge, he stopped. He had reached the danger zone. Slowly, as they watched and waited, details became clear in the blackness of the alley. Cefn noticed the concealed figures first, because he knew that they would be there - once he had pointed them out to Mahr, their positions seemed obvious. Cefn said, "She will be comming down the alley this way, from the left of the Image. She'll never be able to spot these ambushers." "Master, will you intervene?" asked Mahr. "Little one, you know that I must keep my interrest and presence hidden for our purpose here to succeed. But - fetch me some glass slivers from the laboratory, quickly." Mahr dashed into the surrounding darkness, uncovering a small candle lantern when she reached the edge of the darkness that filled Cefn's house - she had no sorcerous means of penetrating it as her master did. She was swiftly back with the requested materials - a handfull of glass splinters from the preparations for a spell Cefn had been testing earlier that day. She placed them in Cefn's free hand, and resumed watching the almost motionless waiting of the ambushers in the Image. Cefn was also watching, dividing his mind between that task and preparing the spell he was going to use with the splinters. Silence grew absolute as the two magicians waited for the woman's arrival. A globe of lantern light preceeded the woman's arrival within the Image - yellow oil-flame glinting off of silver face mask and drawn and ready sword held left-handed. The lantern hung from a special hook attached to her right wrist, which she held before her to provide maximum illumination. Her pace was measured and careful, and she looked around warily. The two watchers saw the ambushers move deeper into the shadows that cloaked their hiding places. They were well enough concealed that even when the woman was alongside them, they would still be hidden from the light. Cefn plucked two splinters of glass from his palm, and held them above the Image where the two nearest ambushers hid. He mouthed the words of the proper spell, and released the slivers. They fell, and when they crossed the edge of the Image, it seemed that two swift bolts of lightning streaked down to flash harmlessly but brightly off of the sword-blades of the hidden attackers. The woman saw the flashes, and immediately set her lantern down, and backed up against a wall. The ambushers, knowing themselves to be revealed, rushed out of hiding - six well armed youths with the look of the street about them. They closed into a semi-circle around the woman, who just shifted slightly so that she could keep all of them in sight. Then, the melee began. The only light in the alley was that of the lantern the woman had set down. The movements of her attackers cast shadows into the dim illumination, making the action difficult to follow for the two who watched from safety and distance, but the attacked woman seemed unaffected by the chancy light. She moved with speed, grace, and skill, unaffected by the uneven odds and bad situation of the attack. Bodies darted in and out of light, used shadows of others to hid, and move unseen, and steel flashed bright white and blue as swords did their work. Soon, the peculiar glint of light off wet blood was seen as swift moving sword shed its red coating in moving to gain another. The melee became clearer as, one by one, the street toughs met the woman's sword for the last time, and ceased to move. Less than five minutes later, Dargon's population was reduced by six. The woman stood, panting slightly, sword still held at ready, in the unblocked light of her lantern - her attackers were all dead. Any expression she might have worn was hidden by her mask, and the size of the image the mage watched, but, by her stance, she seemed unaffected by her brush with death. Satisfied that the woman was all right, Cefn lifted his hand from the metal plate, and the Image folded in upon itself. Had he watched it fade away, he might have seen the swordswoman begin to shake in delayed reaction, dropping her sword, and sinking slowly to the ground. But, Cefn's attention was diverted by Mahr. His apprentice asked, "Who were those men, sir?" "I don't know, Mahr. But, I can guess that the Order of Jhel now knows that Lladdwr is in the city, and that was their first attempt to retrieve it. We must keep a better watch over the woman." "Yes, Master. After what she has been through, she deserves to be looked after. Master, will it work? Was it worth it to bring her?" Cefn frowned, and turned away from Mahr. After long moments of staring into the darkness, he finally said, "I have my orders. Jhel must be eliminated, and the Order here in Dargon is the only one left. You were with me when we cast the cards, looking for the answer. The only avenue open was to bring Lladdwr here, and the only way to do that was to get her friends to take her out that night. The cards didn't tell us what would come of that little sorcerous manipulation, did they?! "It has to work. We've destroyed that woman's life, just to get a damnable piece of steel into this city - if it doesn't bring down Jhel, well -- well, it has to, that's all. We must be vigilant, ready to help, and be ready, when the time comes, to expose and destroy the last Septent in existence." Part Three: Dreams "Brother Chwech, report," said Brother Un. "As you know, Brothers, the attack was unsuccessful. Apparently, this 'Je'en' woman, she who bears the Sacred Sword, knows its uses. The men I hired were all killed in the ambush. I..." "Pardon me, Brother Chwech, but it wasn't an ambush," said Brother Pump. "I was watching the whole thing, and someone or something intervened on the woman's behalf, exposing the location of the men hired by Brother Chwech, and ruining the ambush. Later, I learned that I was not alone in observing the conflict. Brothers, this woman is not here by chance. Someone has lured her here, and I fear that she is bait for us. If we wish to retrieve Lladdwr, we must act slowly, cautiously, and as covertly as possible. Forget not, Brothers, we are the last of Jhel's Priests - the prophecies do speak of a possible future wherein Jhel's very name is forgotten. That must not happen." "Well spoken, Brother Pump," said Brother Un. "Caution is indeed necessary. Has anyone here any ideas on how to coax the Sacred Sword from this woman?" Brother Tri said, "I have done some research into this woman's past, and I think I have found a possible weakness. You see, she was once a Bard, before a recent accident stole away her voice. What might she do, my Brothers, to regain it...?" Je'en, Mecke, and Taal laughed in pure joy as they walked down the street, heading for the best tavern in Magnus - the Battered Shield. They had just passed their final test and were now officially Bards, and intended to spend a few hours celebrating. For Je'en, it was the fulfillment of a dream. From that first day the circuit Bard had selected her from the Faire's singing contest, saying she had the potential, Je'en had done everything in her power to become a Bard. She had traveled to the College in Magnus, studied hard, and learned well. And, she was now a Bard. She and her two classmates entered the Battered Shield, and Taal immediately ordered a round for the house, announcing their news to all. Je'en smiled and accepted the congratulations of the patrons, and then the they settled into a corner booth and began to celebrate. About an hour and a half later, Mecke suggested a little contest. The three of them would take a given legend, and retell it, each differently. It was an exercise that they had all done in class, so they all knew what was required. Since Mecke had suggested it, she was chosen to go first. As she sang her version of the Balphiryon and Hengnra tale, the patrons of the tavern began to gather around - even in Magnus, listening to a Bard ply her trade was an event. When Mecke was finished - to much applause, and a few coins - it was Taal's turn. His version took a totally different turn, but was equally entertaining, and he, too, received applause, and cheers, and coins - enough to pay for his "round for the house" earlier. Then it was Je'en's turn. While she had been half listening to the others sing, she was formulating her own version, on yet a different tack from Taal's. So, once the accolades for Taal had died down, she began. By way of long practice, and tenacious teachers, it had become almost second nature for her to make up a story-song as she went along. Her version came out as smoothly and professionally and the two before, and she could tell that the audience was enjoying themselves as well. Then, in the middle of her twenty-second verse, she suddenly couldn't sing anymore. Her throat burned, there was stabbing pain in her face, arm, and leg, and all that came out of her mouth were harsh, croaking noises, fit only for an angry bird. And, the audience immediately turned on her, throwing mugs and bread, jeering, catcalling, abusing her verbally and physically. And, to make it worse, her friends joined in with the patrons instead of standing by her and helping her. She didn't understand. This hadn't happened before, before... Je'en woke up with a start, sitting bolt upright, her mouth open and breath caught to scream. She caught herself before she tortured her throat further, and instead began to sob, coiling into a ball on her bed. Wend had awakened when Je'en did, and he, used to her nightly fits, tenderly reached out to her, gently unrolled her, and let her cry herself out against his chest. When Je'en was calm again, she thanked Wend and stayed close to his comforting solidity. He was a Peace-keeper in the same market place she was. He had always been friendly, and a help in getting to know Dargon, and, eventually they had become lovers. And now, with these nightly nightmares, he was a great comfort to her as well. The bad dreams had started shortly after the attack in the alley. Up until that time, Je'en had never used her newly-won skills with the sword to kill. That, with the similarity of that ambush to the one in Magnus that had taken her voice, had released all of her carefully dammed up memories. Memories that were now tormenting her each and every night. Wend said, "Better now, hon? What was it this time?" Je'en told him. It seemed to help. He was so understanding. She was beginning to feel something deep for him. That night's nightmare was typical: a good memory from her past life ruined by the intrusion of her present circumstances. Without Wend's help, she would probably have retained the mixture, ruining even her memories of her past, but he helped her reason out the nightmare and banish it. She hadn't had any repeat dreams, for which she was glad. When Wend had done his work sorting out her dream, he said, "Je'en, I learned of this treatment that might help you. It's a mild drug that frees the mind, and with guidance, deep-seated problems can be resolved while under the influence. It has been three weeks since you had an undisturbed night's rest." Je'en thought about it. Normally, she didn't like drugs, other than a little alchohol now and then. She didn't like to be out of control. But these nightmares were bad, and without Wend, they would be worse. She didn't want to go through life dreaming bad dreams, with Wend always by her side (as nice as that sounded, for other reasons) to keep her sane. So, she said, "Alright, Wend. What do I need to do?" The house was in that chancy fringe district between the middle and lower cities. It stood out because it was the best kept house on the street, and it stood alone - its neighbors had collapsed, and the rubble cleared away, long since. Wend led Je'en up to the door, and knocked. Je'en was nervous - she was literally giving control of her mind to Wend, who had offered to give the healing guidance. But, she had come to know him, and she trusted him. When she was cured, she thought she might even ask him to marry her. An old woman answered the door, and ushered them into a well kept parlor, furnished with the trappings of a fortune-teller, as was the old woman. Wend whispered something in her ear, and handed her a small leather bag that clinked faintly as it met the woman's hand. She hefted it as if judging the value of its contents, smiled, and produced a small silver box from her robes. She said in a voice like old leaves, "Use number 15, my son. I wish you well." Then she began to putter around the room, ignoring the couple as they went up the stairs at the back of the room. Room 15 was neatly, if sparsely, furnished with a bed, chair, and table. It was very neat, and the furniture was expensive, but Je'en could guess what else this room might be used for. She wondered how much of the coin Wend had paid had been for the time in the room, and not the drug. Je'en took her place on the bed, and Wend pulled the chair up next to her. He showed her the tiny box, and opened it. Within were two very small pills with the silvery-red sheen of blood on steel. A ewer and glass on the table helped to wash down the pills, and Wend told her to just relax. It wasn't long before Je'en fell lightly asleep. She didn't consciously hear the soothing words spoken by Wend, but she felt their effects. And she began to dream. Nothing bad, this time. Only good. Reliving her memories, specifically her most recent nightmares, without the bad parts. The dreams were very vivid, and she enjoyed feeling herself sing and play music again. The pain of her loss was mitigated by the joy of her memories. When she awoke, she felt much refreshed. And that night there was no nightmare. Wend was happy that Je'en felt better, but felt that she should use the drug for at least the rest of the week - after all, she didn't want the nightmares returning, did she? So, every day for the next four days, she and Wend went to that lone, well kept house, and spent an hour or so in one of the upper rooms. Cefn sat in near darkness, the globe above the table dimmed to just a faint spark. He studied the lay of the cards on the table, and frowned again. They refused to tell clearly! He read dreams and danger in them, but there was no imminency in them, and no definite focus either. The way they read, it almost seemed that they were warning of the everyday possibility of an accident, save that the cards never worked so trivially. His charge, Je'en, seemed to be in some danger, but he couldn't tell what kind, or how soon, and he couldn't act until he knew. With a stifled oath, he swept the cards from the table, dimmed the globe with a gesture, and sat, brooding, in total darkness. -John White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER FOUR | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *Cydric and the Sage Carlo Samson Ceda the Executioner: 3 Joel Slatis *Spirit of the Wood: 4 Rich Jervis *The Dream: Part 2 of 2 John White Date: 120686 Dist: 214 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, things have been mighty hectic. I have just returned from a visit to New York City over the Thanksgiving holiday, which was very entertaining. However, the big news is that FSFnet is no longer being sent directly to you, but is being distributed by the LISTSERV distributed server network. It certainly makes my job considerably easier, and hopefully no one will wind up with format problems. But that's all icing on the cake. We've got several interesting tidbits in this issue, including the conclusion of John White's excellent story, The Dream. Also you will find installments of Joel Slatis' Ceda tale and Rich Jervis' Spirit of the Wood stories, as well as an interesting story from Carlo Samson. I am quite impressed with this issue, and There will be at least one more issue out before Christmas, and possibly two before the new year. Looking forward, we have another excellent story from John White, which I am sure you will enjoy, and the continuation of Merlin's Atros epic. Enjoy, and best wishes! -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Cydric and the Sage I. Arrival: The Tavern It was late afternoon when Cydric Araesto arrived in the coastal town of Dargon. Hot and tired from his journey up from the capital of Baranur, he rode through the main street of the town, seeking a place to rest. His eyes fixed on a large building near the middle of the street; a sign above the door proclaimed: BELISANDRA'S in bold red letters. Below the name was a painting of a young buxom wench raising a large tankard of brew. Cydric dismounted in front of the building, put his horse in the adjacent stables, and went inside. The common room of the tavern was large and brightly lit by lanterns that hung from the rafters. The smells of fresh-brewed ale, Comarian tobacco, and wood smoke reached Cydric as he sat down in a corner table and mopped his brow with the edge of his cloak. He called out to a passing serving girl and ordered a cold pint of Lederian Special Brew. As the girl left to fill his order, he leaned back against the wall and sighed wearily. "I am finally here," he thought. "But should I even *be* here? Does my future lie in Dargon, or was it all a fever dream?" He shook his head ruefully. "It is too late for regrets. I made my choice, and I can never go back." He turned his attention outward to the tavern. The place was nowhere near capacity, he noted. To his right he saw a young couple holding hands and conversing quietly. At a table in front of the bar a group of richly dressed middle-aged men talked and drank. Near the entrance, a hooded figure in blue robes sat hunched over a mug of brew. A thin, bearded man smoked a small pipe in the glow of the fireplace. And at a table in the center of the room, a pair of leather-clad women arm-wrestled. The serving-girl returned and placed a large tankard on the table in front of him. She smiled at him as she turned and made her way back to the bar, where a stout woman of about forty summers watched the arm-wrestling women with a look of mild interest. Cydric took a long pull of the cold brew and made a sound of approval. He settled back, letting the tiredness bleed from his bones. Then, without warning, the strange vision that had been recurring in his mind for months once again intruded upon his thoughts. He tried to purge it from his mind, but the vision persisted. He gave up the effort, having learned early on that the only thing he could do was to let it run its course. II. Reverie: The Vision He was sitting on a large boulder that lay half-buried on the shore of a vast golden sea. The sky above him was a deep cobalt blue. Far in the distance, on the horizon, an object sparkled and glittered. He hopped off the boulder and walked to the edge of the sea, straining to see what it was. Then he knelt down and scooped up a handful of the golden water. He raised it to his mouth, but before he drank it he cast his eyes toward the object on the horizon again. He sighed, and his breath turned the golden liquid in his hand to plain colorless water. The water slipped through his fingers, and where it wetted the sand a small lump of a transparent substance appeared. He picked it up, and the lump grew into the shape of a life-sized human skull. The skull floated out of his palm and came to hover in front of the boulder. Beams of white light lanced out of the skull's eye sockets and struck the smooth stone, sending up a cloud of dust. After several moments, the skull ceased its activity and set down atop the boulder. Cydric brushed away the rock dust and saw that the skull's eye-beams had carved into the stone an outline of the continent that contained the Kingdom of Baranur. A small "x" marked a spot on the western coast of the continent. Below the outline were the words "Corambis the Sage". As soon as Cydric read the words, the transparent skull rose into the air and, with a clack of its jaws, sped away over the golden sea toward the glittering object on the horizon. III. The Tavern: Company The vision faded. Cydric looked up as the serving girl returned and asked him if he wanted another drink. "No, that will be all, for the moment." The girl turned to leave. "Wait a moment," he called. "Yes, milord?" "Do you know of a person called 'Corambis the Sage' ?" The girl looked at him oddly. "Yes, everyone knows of him. Are you just arrived?" "Yes, I am. Do you know where he lives?" The girl cast a glance over her shoulder. "A moment, milord." Cydric watched as the serving girl went over and whispered something to the blue-robed patron. The person nodded and stood up. Cydric's hand instinctively moved to the Zanzillian sundagger he wore on his right hip as the blue-clad figure approached and stopped in front of his table. The figure removed its hood to reveal a feminine face framed by a mane of flame-red hair. "Thuna tells me you are looking for the Sage," she said in a conversational tone. "Do you know where I can find him?" "Better than that; I can take you to him. May I sit?" Cydric nodded, and the woman seated herself. "So," Cydric said, "how much will it cost me for you to take me to him?" "Merely a moment of your time," the woman replied, smiling. Cydric found himself smiling back. She couldn't be very much older than his own twenty summers, he decided. He paused a moment before replying to study the way the lantern-light reflected from her clear green eyes. "That sounds reasonable," he said. "My name is Holleena," the woman said, extending her hand. Cydric took it and pressed it against his cheek in the traditional courtly manner. He told her his name. "So tell me, Cydric Araesto, what brings you to our humble town?" she asked. A piece of the vision flashed through Cydric's mind. "My horse," he replied. Holleena laughed. "I see. Do you wish to visit the Sage now?" Cydric felt his stomach rumble. "Not just yet. I seem to have forgotten about supper. Would you care to join me?" "I would, indeed," Holleena said. Cydric raised his hand to signal the serving girl, but Holleena stopped him. "Let's not eat here," she said. "Why not?" "Belisandra is a good cook, but as anyone in Dargon can tell you, you haven't eaten until you've had a bowl of Simon Salamagundi's famous stew." "Fine," Cydric said. "Let's go." He tossed a couple of coins onto the table as they rose to leave. He offered his arm to Holleena, and together they left Belisandra's tavern. -Carlo Samson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 3 Ceda reclined on his bed at the inn that he had previously stayed at on his last visit to Pheeng'Am. The guards at the gate had (for a small fee) told him that the demon had finally found the crown and had left the city without a trace. "Then it is over," he he thought to himself. "The demon has the crown and has doubtlessly returned to the Overworld, or wherever it came from; And I need not travel to the caves of Arnmere." His tiredness took him and he fell into a deep slumber. Tarnigen had had a long trip to the old continent of Cergaan, where it was rumored that a mysterious demon had taken the crown. Why it had gone there was a mystery indeed, but Tarnigen could not pass up an opportunity of such a fortune as Grobst's Crown. A small fishing vessel from Dhernis had dropped him off on the shore off the Largely unexplored continent off Cargaan a few hours before, and now he got organized before setting out to find the Demon. This was the ultimate test for him; A man was what he wanted to be, a real man, and this (in his eyes) was a worthy test for it. Tarnigen laid down and looked at the night sky that hung so still above his head. He wondered if he would ever see it again. Yes. He would. He had, for a moment, surrendered his thoughts to fear, but this would not ever happen again, he reassured himself. He was determined to get the Crown, and he would, or, he said to himself 'I am not worthy of the Throne of Caffthorn. The cold features of Tarnigens face could just be made out by the pale light that came from the fire he had built. His long crooked nose was perhaps the the most noticeable thing about him. It was, to say the least, enormously out of proportion to the rest of his face protruding down over the pale thin lips of his mouth. He had narrow blue eyes and long blond hair that hung down to the center of his back. Nothing else was really noticeable about him. He had a large body and was very strong as were most nobles of Caffthorn. The sun had set and Tarnigen was tired; His eyes pulled themselves closed and at once he was asleep. The sun was almost directly over head when he awoke. Now not only the dim outline of the land that he now stood upon was visible. It was richly colored by many grey an yellow flowers that grew all along the shore line and the trees at the edge of a large forest that grew about two hundred yards inland rose higher than any he had ever seen before. No roads crossed through the aria, only a few animals tracks could be seen on the bank. This was a peaceful place. Tarniger was amazed at the utter tranquility of the area. He gathered his things and started walking towards the shelter of the trees while he made his way west along the shore to the Ruined Tower of Threemis Where the Demon almost certainly was. Once in the forest, he climbed one of the taller trees to survey The area. It was a clear day and he could just make out the outline of a tall shape rising above the trees 20 miles up the coast. It looked lonely and out of place, a gross sight among the plentiful vegetation of the southern continent; like a knife stemming out of a mans back, and the man unable to remove it, slowly dying. He wished It wasn't there. He wished he wasn't there, but it wouldn't help now, he had to prove himself a man and could not leave without throwing away his family honor and pride, not to mention the throne. However, the thought that man had not yet disturbed the solemn beauty of the continent consoled him, and were he not to return to Caffthorn, It would surely discourage people from coming to this 'New world', and destroying its solitude and innocence. But he had to return, there was no doubt about that, for if he did not, his people would send a party to look for him. Instead, he would tell of beasts fifty feet tall that could kill a man with a mere blink of its eye, and of tall trees that swallowed unsuspecting animals at night. With that thought in mind, he descended the tree and started for the Ruined Tower. Tarnigen reached the tower after two day. A river obscured from sight by the trees had barred his way so he had to make a small raft in order to cross. The wooden gate had long since been torn down and was reduced to a pile of rotting wood in a corner of the large courtyard that encumbered the tower. Moss grew between every crack in the giant stone wall that stood around the tower and the even larger wall around the courtyard was totally covered be leafy green vines that hung down from the long unused torch holders high above Tarnigen head. He entered the courtyard steadily walking for the tower entrance. As yet, he had not encountered any animals or beasts and was, to say the least, a bit puzzled at the odd calmness of the continent. Then he remembered what he was there for, a demon waited for him in the tower. It was probably aware of his presence since the moment that he had set foot in the courtyard. He reached into his sack and pulled out his sickle, a weapon that he had been training with since he was a child. It was three feet long from the base of its handle to the base of the blade an the blade was two feet long. The handle was made of a special grey wood that could be grown only in Cafthorn and the handle was of a dark metal of unearthly origin. Close to the base of the blade was an inlaid gem that glowed in a magnificent purple haze. Tarnigen then entered the tower gate. The gems glow turned to yellow lighting the chamber to reveal a large hall with a stairway up at the far end. slowly he moved towards it, looking in all directions for any hint of trouble. Upon reaching the stairs, he surveyed the room once more before starting up. The gem then changed color to a pale white and Tarnigen stopped and looked around. The gem continued to glow in the solemn white. He took another step, then another; then fell. A trap door had opened underneath his feat and had brought him to a lower level in the tower. Tarnigen stood up. Luckily, he was not hurt from the fall. He looked up to see the trap door twenty feet above him. He examined himself, but to his astonishment, he was not hurt. The hallway that he had dropped into was long an narrow. It sloped downward at an alarming angle ending in darkness some three hundred yards down. The gem lit the hall with its luminous white light as Tarnigen started his decent. The passage ended in a small room with a large hole in the center. In the hole, a dark mist swirled around like water in a fountain. The gem was still glowing bright white. The the mist rose and surrounded him. the room went dark despite the glowing sickle that he held in his hand. After a brief moment, the mist dispersed. The gem was no longer glowing. And to Tarnigens surprise, he was no longer in the tower. He now stood in a dark forest that stretched in all direction as far as the eye could see. The trees towered above his head, some of them out of sight into the low cloud cover. A loud cry broke the air and Tarnigen turn just in time to meet a small party of tall thin beasts unlike any he had ever seen. The foremost attacked him immediately and fell to his blade almost a fast. The rest of the party turned and ran, dropping there sacks and fleeing in terror into the dark wood. Still confused, Tarnigen left the packs there and started in the direction that the beasts had come. A short walk brought him to a large stone wall much like that of the Ruined Tower's. He walked around until he reached a gate which was guarded by four very large beasts not unlike the ones that he had come across a little earlier. He cautiously approached the largest of the group. It stood unmoving as he approached, it did not even seem to breath. Once Tarnigen was in striking distance, the beast lashed at him with one of its numerous claws and ripped his entire right arm off. Tarnigen screamed in disbelief, but he felt nothing. Another blow from the monster tore his upper body off throwing both his legs in opposite directions, the beast picked up the now helpless Tarnigen and opened its gaping jaws and bit his head from his neck. Tarnigen watched the jaws close about his head, then felt what was left of his severed body being torn away from him. There was no pain at all though he could feel that he was reduced to only a head. He rolled into the darkness of the beasts stomach and all went dark. Then once again the mist cleared. Once again Tarnigen stood in the room with the swirling mist in the center. He stood slightly dizzy for a moment and then fell to the floor. Tarnigen awakened later to find that nothing had changed. His sack lay at his feet, his weapon intact in his hand still glowing its solemn white. He stood up and looked about the room. The hallway leading in was gone and instead, an adjacent room stood in its place. The door to the room was understandably missing so he just entered. At the center of the room was a large throne inlaid with some of the most beautiful Malthoogian gems that Tarnigen had ever seen. In the throne sat a bony figure, unmoving and expressionless. And upon its bleached head sat the Crown of Grobst D'arbo. The Demon stood up, the burning crimson eyes flashing brightly rivaling the strong white light that poured out of the sickle in Tarnigens hand. The demon looked in Tarnigens direction as it removed the crown from its head, and with its bony fingers, it placed the artifact on the throne. Then, from nowhere, a long sword appeared in its hand. Tarnigen raced the Demon with his sickle raised in front of him. The demon was shattered in to many small bones and the bones into dust. Tarnigen looked to the throne and the crown, but they sank into the floor and disappeared from sight. A door appeared from nowhere in the wall of the room, and Tarnigen entered. The sickle's gem changed to a dull red color that barely lit the room. In the corner was a large stone chest that sat against the wall. Tarnigen walked over and set his sack down. He opened the chest to reveal about fifty thousand ancient Grandydyian coins, many diamonds and jewels and under some of the wealth, just visible, lay Grobsts Crown. The pale light from the sickle danced up and down his forehead as he reached into the chest and grabbed the crown. "At last," he exclaimed. " the crown is mine as is the throne of of Caffthorn." The skull rolled out from the inside the crown and within an instant was whole again. Tarnigen reached for his sickle which now glowed it bright white color, but it was too late. the demon had already picked it up. Tarnigen stood helpless as the demon changed and grew. The bones grew skin and the skin grew hair. Within a moment a fifteen foot demon loomed above him. It grinned displaying a mouth full of three inch razor sharp fangs. "It is but a small man that tries to steal the Crown of Grobst D'arbo? Well behold me my true form, human, before you are banished to limbo forever, I the Mighty King of Grandydyr decree!" With that, the king swept Tarnigen into his hand and flung him into the wall shattering most of his bones. Then he picked Tarnigen of the floor and replaced the crown into the chest, and vanished into a puff of smoke. -Joel Slatis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Spirit of the Wood: Chapter 4 The openness had a smell all it's own. Loric breathed the clear, cool air above the trees with a special relish. One borne of the open spaces. He believed the stars over his head exhaled a sweetness unlike anything in his valley. There was a rustling below him and he leaned out to see his sister Silsia climbing up behind him. He smiled at her adeptness, knowing that it represented many forbidden practice runs. Runs she would have been punished for had the men known that a downlander would dare the heights and walk among them. Loric waited till she came along side of him and gave her a signal of greeting. He could not acknowledge her presence without penalty, but they had an unspoken code, fingertalk that they had learned in the early days of Oldsir's blindness. A skill he never used and they never forgot. She held her hand out for Loric to grasp. He gripped it tightly for a moment, knowing that they both had come here for the same reason. He had come to tree-top level to watch the sun set and sing a farewell to Oldsir. He sang Oldsirs song to the Spirit of the Wood, and then the traditional songs of farewell. He could have gone home then, but had lingered to watch for Oldsir's star to appear. Everyone felt that since Oldsir had been given his second vision, his star would be a special one, even the Downlanders had dared to speak of it aloud. There was no hope for them to spy it from the ground, and they also knew that Silsia would not have missed trying to see it. Loric tapped on her palm: "I thought you were journeying to Wood's End?" "That was just a rouse and you know it near-man, dear brother. I only wanted the villagers to think I was leaving, so they would not look for me up here." "I have passed all my tests, you can call me a man now." "But your Shreaving is not until tomorrow, you can lose all there. Would you have me call you a man, and add being here with a man to my list? Perhaps you'd want me to dance for you when you return? It is not unknown..." Loric blushed in the darkness, shocked at what his sister was suggesting. Then he heard the stifled giggle, and knew that she was joking with him again. "The wind blows exceptionally hard tonight." he mused, halfturning in her direction. It would serve her right if he caught sight of her and let out a call of warning to the other men here in the trees. He felt her squeeze his hand tight enough to wring a cry from him, but he held silent. "Not as hard as a boy will blow to prove his manliness!" "A man would have made you crabmeat by now, but list! Is this how the Tolorions show respect for the dead? I have not seen Oldsir's star, maybe he's not gone yet." Silsia's hand went limp and dropped from his for a moment and then came back. "He is gone Loric, I know it." "How?" She gave no anwser, but she handed something around the tree and the pungent smell coming from the soft leather bag was all the answer he needed. It was Oldsir's hearth-fire ashes. Water came to Loric's eyes as he opened the bag and took out a pinch of ash. He tossed it over his shoulder, then got another and rubbed it onto his chest over his heart. He shook half the rest into his own pouch and then tied the pouch onto his belt. The rest would be for Dernhelm. "Loric? I did something, I mean... I took some of the ash, some of Oldsir. Will that bring dishonor to his memory? When he came to me while you were taking your tests he said that the Spirit had called him and he knew you would pass because you were a Tolorion. I was so sad to see him go, that I told him I wouldn't give this to you. He said that Spirit only knows why they don't let women into the trees, or to have a Hearthfire, but that he knew I would do the right thing whether that was to pass his ashes along, or to keep them. So I went with him, he wouldn't even tell Dernhelm he was going. He refused the escort and witnesses-male witnesses that was his due. I was so confused when I got back I took a pinch of the ash and threw it into my cooking fire. And it worked Loric! The magic worked for me, I'm not a preist or druid or even a man, but I saw him! He was young, and I saw mother there as a child, he was showing her how to use a river vine to stretch skins... Then it was gone and I cryed because of what I had done. I told Eadyie that I was going to Wood's End and ran into the forest and wept till sunset. Then I came here." Loric had remained silent during her long communication. He concentrated closely on the words her hands formed. Not knowing what to do or say. If Dernhelm heard of this he would have her expelled from the village and then he would leave himself out of shame to the Tolorion name. Loric wasn't sure he felt the shame that tribal law would place on him. He felt that his sister had done something daring and had passed a test of her own. Perhaps she was more than a woman herself now, but what did the making of the Hearthfire for a woman mean? Surely his sister was posessed of more magic than any other woman in the Village-beneath-the-Trees. Eadyie herself knew only healing herbs and roots. He knew that it was the men who carried the favor of the Spirit and that made all magic theirs to command. Oldsir had a second vision, he had gone to his hearthfire, taking only his grand-daughter as honor and escort. Then she had made her own hearthfire and had not been consumed. The portents where there, if only he could read them a-right! "I don't know what to say. How do you feel?" "Terrible. Great. Awful. Glad, sad, and mad! How should I feel?" "The decisions of a moment..." began Loric. "Oh shush child! I know that as well as you! Oldsir did not spend all his time instructing you." Loric burned again and said "The night wind whispers against the past. I will not tell it where to blow next." "Shall I break this taboo also Loric? Or shall we keep this our secret as the others? Till our hometree's roots reach across the plains of Woe? I can think of only one thing to do. I must speak to the Druid who lives in the valleys beyond our wood. This is a greater matter than I or old 'quote the histories' Dernhelm." Loric held her hand tight, then signed slowly giving weight and meaning to each word. "I think that is best, for I love you and would not have you leave the tribe because you can do something no one else in our village can do. A woman who can spell would not have a good chance at a husband... nor want one I beleive. But if you leave on your own then when I see you on the paths beneath the trees, I will not have to spit on your shadow, or utter phrases best saved for enemies, not beloved sisters!" With that he reached around the narrow truck that sheilded her from him and hugged her to it. His arms did not meet, but he held her as best he could. He felt her shake with silent sobs. Loric looked beseechingly upwards and saw a bright reddish streak arc across the sky and fall to earth somewhere way beyond the Wood. "Did you see?!" He gasped. "I saw, Loric. Oldsir did not choose to stay among his kin in the sky. He has given me a sign. That is the direction in which I must go!" "Hoo-ya!! Hoo-ya!!" Came a call from some tree beyond Loric. It was Dernhelm. He must have been watching for Oldsir's star also. "Hoo-ya! Hoo-ya! A!" Loric called back. Soon, all the tribesmen called out in blessing and happiness for Oldsir: "Hoo-ya! Oldsir the Second- sighted! Hoo-ya hoo-ya hoo-ya a! The Spirit of the Wood has called him back!" Loric reached back to grasp his sister's hand but found only rough bark. He wanted to attract her attention to a glow on the horizon that he hadn't noticed before, but felt only rough bark. Silsia Tolorion had gone. -Rich Jervis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Dream Part Four: Choice When the child, Herrn, came to the temple for Margala's monthly supply of Hanla's Tears, the robed man waiting in the alcove was not the usual supplier. But, the priest accepted the large bag of coins, and handed Herrn back one just a little smaller. Herrn checked within, saw the little red-silver pills, thanked the priest, and left. No one saw the triumphant smile of the priest, hidden as it was by his deep cowl. Herrn arrived back at Margala's House before the empty cache of pills was noted by Margala herself. While barely 11 summers old, just a child, Herrn was street-wise, and trusted with important duties by the old woman who ran the House. One of these duties was to keep the supply of Hanla's Tears, that dream drug, current. But, Herrn liked to use the little dream-givers himself (without paying, of course). And this past week he had overused rather badly, exhausting the supply on the morning he was to get the new month's. He had hastened to the temple with the money given him by Margala, hoping that the old woman wouldn't need any of the pills before he returned. That was one reason he hadn't questioned the fact that Brother Mikl wasn't in the alcove - he was in too much of a hurry. The new supply was barely in its box when Margala entered Herrn's room. She said, "Good, little one. You have returned just in time. Fix me up with five boxes, and have more ready. This is going to be a busy day." When Wend and his woman entered Margala's House, Margala was ready for them. No whispering was needed - this was the sixth day they had come in, and it was the same every time. She took the money from Wend, handed him one of the little pill boxes that Herrn had given her, and gave them room 21 to use. She watched them climb the stairs, and wondered just what they did in that room. She knew that they both were Peace-Keepers in one of the upper markets, and they both had good pay, and so homes of their own. She didn't suppose they used her House as a trysting place, though many did. Perhaps she would find an opportunity to ask Wend later - they had known each other for a long time, after all. Je'en relaxed on the bed as she had five times so far. Wend said that this should be the last time they would need the drug - and it was true that Je'en was feeling a lot better now. Ever since the accident, she had been repressing her memories, hiding all the things that had been very special to her at one point because now she had lost them. But, since her arrival in Dargon - the completion of the "plan" that had kept her going from the accident, thru Sir Morion's School, and to the meeting with her brother - there had not been anything occupying her time save her job, which was about as exciting as staring at a lake on a windless, grey day. So, her memories leaked to the fore, causing her nightmares. But Wend was putting a stop to that, helping her deal with the loss of her musical abilities in a rational and healthy way. It caused her to wonder just what he was doing guarding a bunch of high-class shopping stalls: such knowledge as he had used to help her was not common, nor easily won. Wend took up his place next to the bed, and handed her the pill box, and a glass of water. She swallowed the tiny pills with the water, and laid back down. Normally, she would feel herself relaxing under the influence of the drug, and she would fade into sleep. But, not this time. Her whole body went rigid seconds after she swallowed the pills, and when it relaxed, she found herself in a strange place. It was all grey, featureless save for misty outlines of indistinct shapes. At first, she thought she was dreaming, but this had no sense of a dream. She wasn't awake, either, but in some strange half-state, a limbo of the senses. She stood, and moved around in the greyness. There seemed to be walls here, in shape much like the room she had been in. There was no furniture, but the door was where it should have been, and the window likewise. Of Wend there was no trace. She went thru the door, and into a shadowy version of the House's upper corridor. She paced throughout the whole house, but didn't quite date to venture outside - looking out the windows, she had found outside to be even stranger than it was in here. She had searched the whole house and found it empty, but she decided to call out anyway, and when she did, she received a suprise. Her voice sounded normal. Normal, as in the pure, alto tones it had had before her accident, not the husky, almost gravelly sound it had settled into once the pain vanished. She tried to sing, and succeeded. She went over to a table, and leaned on her right wrist, and it didn't give way. Now, she was certain she was dreaming - she was fully healed once again! Wend was looking at the still rigid body of Je'en on the bed worriedly. She was very pale, and very rigid, almost deathly so, but he could see the shallow rise and fall of her breasts, and her heart was still beating, but slowly. He sincerely hoped that he had done the right thing. In the past month or so that he had known Je'en, he had come to like her. The man who had put him up to this had assured him that no harm would come to her, but seeing her now, he couldn't be sure. He heard the door open behind him, and turned. He said, "She is under the influence, Terkan. All has gone as planned." Terkan, a short, middle-aged man who dressed like a merchant, said, "Yes, I know. Your progress has been monitored. Your duty is now done. You may leave." "The rest of the price, as we agreed?" "Will be delivered to you," answered Terkan, staring avidly at Je'en on the bed. "I want it now. We agreed. And, your assurance again that she will be unharmed." "What matters it to you, fool? You will be paid for your treachery, and it will not be the first time you have sold your honor for a little gold. Now leave; the money will arrive tonight." "What are you going to do with her? You must not harm her - she has done nothing to you. She doesn't even know you. She hasn't been in Dargon long enough to have injured you. No. Leave. Keep your second payment, and I will return the first. Tell me how to bring her out of this trance, and then leave. You cannot have her." Terkan smiled cruely, and said, "No. A deal is a deal, and this deal is done. She is ours, now, and that is that. You had best leave, and take your payment like a good little turncoat." Wend drew his sword and lunged, but, for all Terkan's appearance of a middle-aged merchant, he moved faster. Wend never saw the knife flick out of the sleeve and into his neck. He fell at Terkan's feet, dead. Terkan then turned his eyes toward Je'en, and the sword propped up against the wall. For a moment, he thought of taking it, but that was too dangerous. It had to be freely given. It was dangerous enough for him to be in this room - to have a member of the Septent present, involved directly. But, the slightly modified Hanla's Tears that Je'en had taken had put her in a state that only a Full Adept of Jhel could penetrate, so there was no help for it. Perhaps, when Jhel's ministry began to spread again, he could become Brother Un somewhere, instead of just Brother Tri, as reward for the risk he was taking. So thinking, he began to put the finishing touches on his plan. Cefn stopped shuffling the cards, cut them, and layed out the Bent Star pattern. It appeared exactly as before. Nothing conclusive! Stifling the impulse to curse loud and long (the last time he had given vent to such oath-making, he had inadvertantly leveled his previous house, and laid waste to about a square hectare of the land about it), he was about to sweep the cards from the table yet again, when something caught his eye. He extinguished the light globe overhead, to better see the cards. Yes, there, the fifth ray, last card. Trump 35, The Entwined Oak. It meant danger, and it had always been there. But, today, it was reversed - the only change in the pattern for the past week. And the Tree reversed meant imminent peril, instead of vague danger on the horizon. It was happening. Now. Je'en was in trouble. He gathered up the cards again, and, using Trump 35 as the significator, he layed out a different pattern, a secretly developed one taught him by his master a long time ago. It told him exactly what he needed to know, and leaving it lying, he left the dark room to muster some help for his charge. Je'en was becomming worried. This weird limbo she was trapped in was beginning to wear on her. And, there was the fact of her regained ability to contend with. It didn't really feel like a dream at all, and she had been trained to recognize such. She had returned to the upper room in hopes that Wend would be able to reach her better there. She was staring out the window at the swirling chaos there when she heard a sound. She turned, and saw that she was no longer alone. "Welcome, my dear, to your heart's desire. My name is Terkan, and I am responsible for your being here. I also have the power to let you stay here, if you so wish." Je'en stared at the man who had spoken. He was dressed in strangely symboled robes that glowed palely, and there was an air of mystery and power about him. She said, "What do you mean? Where am I, and why would I want to stay in such a shadowy place?" "This is but a gateway from our world into another. In that other, you would have all of your former abilities, as well as those you have gained since the accident. And that is why you would want to stay here. I can show you the way into that other world, where you would be as you are now, fully healed and whole. There is but a small price." Je'en grew immediately wary. She believed the man, for there were tales of other worlds and passages between them. This limbo was not like any of the stories, but then the stories were old. She was wary for a different reason. She had obviously been led into this by a long and very twisted path, and she wanted to know why. If this man Terkan had been acting charitably, he would have simply offered her the choice for free, without all this subterfuge. What did he want, and why? "What price?" she asked. "And what of my companion, Wend?" "Ah, Wend. Well, he was in my employ, you see. The drug I used on you is illegal in Baranur - and very rare and expensive. Wend was well paid to get you into the proper state, but at the last, he decided that his salary for the job wasn't enough. You see, that sword you carry is very valuable to certain people, but it has a spell on it that it cannot be taken, it must change owners by free will. My sponsors are willing to pay a large sum of money to me for this sword, some of which Wend would have gotten. But, he got greedy, and wanted it all. So, I had to kill him." "But, why not just come to me and ask for the sword? I have little sentimental value for it, and would sell it gladly for the right price. Why all of this?" Terkan smiled a little nervously, and said, "Well, I thought to pay you in other kind, being a little greedy myself. When a little research revealed a certain incident in Magnus, I decided to restore to you your Bardic abilities, if you so choose." It almost made sense to Je'en. But, not quite. It was too devious. All of the secrecy, Wend's supposed duplicity, the mild drug to lull her senses. There was something more. There had to be. But, so what. Terkan was indeed offering her her heart's desire. For, tho Wend had cured her of her nightmares, the desire to make music remained as much a part of her as ever. And it seemed that here, and (if Terkan was to be believed) in the world on the other side of this gate, she could be a bard again. Was that worth whatever the real reason behind Terkan's manuevering was? Part Five: Rescue Cefn and Mahr rode into Dargon at a gallop. They hadn't actually ridden that far - Cefn's home was much too far from Dargon, so they had used a little magic to help them on their way. Cefn, robed and deeply cowled, led the way at an unsafe speed through the streets of Dargon, arousing cries of suprise as they galloped past citizens. The wizard reined in just outside of Margala's House. He raced to the front door, Mahr behind him, and entered without knocking. They dashed past the suprised Margala, and up the stairs, down the hall, to room 21. They entered the room without any ceremony (after Cefn unbarred it by setting a glowing hand on the knob), and Mahr looked around as her Master got to work immediately. Mahr saw Je'en on the bed - the first time she had seen their charge in the flesh. She looked much the same as in the Image Table, or Cefn's Scrying Prism, save for the fact that she was obviously in trouble. Her whole body was rigid, with just a faint rise and fall in her chest to denote breathing. Her face, what could be seen around the mask, looked to be drawn in suprise, perhaps pain - her eyes were closed tight shut, and her mouth was a compressed line. She turned quickly away from the body in the corner. Mahr knew who it was. She had seen Wend and Je'en together in the city in the Image Table. She was sorry he was dead - he had treated Je'en kindly - but she wasn't sure why he was dead, or if he had had any part in getting Je'en into the vulnerable position she was in now. The other person in the room, a middle aged man dressed like a merchant, was kneeling and sitting on his folded-under legs. His fingers were contorted into the Triple-cross sign, and his hands rested on his knees. He seemed to be concentrating, focusing on a small medallion on his lap, but his eyes were closed. His breath came as slowly and shallowly as did Je'en. Cefn had explained little - their ride had been short and hurried - but Mahr realized that the meditating man was one of the enemy. She even fancied she could feel an aura of evil about him. Cefn said, "Mahr, south-east, quickly." Mahr fetched the compass from her belt pouch, and noted the requested direction, then pointed. Cefn took a small blue angle and placed it on the floor pointing where Mahr had indicated. Then, Cefn removed six other angles form a small yellow pouch, all colored red, and touched them, one at a time, to the blue one. As they came into contact with the first angle, they each began to glow, and as Cefn released them, they moved of their own accord to their proper place. When the sixth red angle had settled into place, forming, with the blue one, a seven-pointed star, the first angle also began to glow, causing a webwork of lines to spring up between all of the angles, forming a solid seven-sided figure with a seven-pointed star within. Cefn beckoned, and Mahr joined him at the center of the figure. He asked, "Ready?" Mahr nodded, and Cefn said a word. Blue and red flame shot up from the outlines of the figure, climbing to the ceiling and blotting out the room around them. It flared for several seconds, and then it died, revealing a vastly different scene. It was a shadowly, limbo place, vaguely resembling the room they had come from. The formerly meditating man, now dressed as a priest of Jhel, was speaking. "We don't really have forever, Je'en. The drug you were given will wear off in time, and I don't have any more with me. You must decide. Which will it be - keep the sword or become a Bard again?" Cefn said, softly, "Mahr, stay within the septacle. This could get messy." Then, louder, "Je'en, don't listen to that man. He has lied to you. Whatever you do, do not give him your sword." Both parties turned at the sound of the mage's voice. Mahr saw that Je'en wasn't wearing her mask here, and there was no scar on her suprised face. The priest scowled, and said "Just who do you think you are? This woman can make up her own mind - leave her alone." Cefn ignored the man, and took a few steps towards Je'en (and out of the septacle). "Je'en, this man is a priest of Jhel. Have you ever heard of that particular cult? Well, its been outlawed for a very long time. The last remaining members of this cult are right here in Dargon, and this man is one of them. The sword you bear, that you got from the vaults of the College in Magnus, just happens to be the key to a prophecy of total world victory for the followers of Jhel, and the prophecy is not just words - if the high priests of Jhel get hold of that sword, and release what is within it, the whole world will fall to them." "Why should I believe you, instead of this man?" asked Je'en. She was even more confused now. If the tall, cowled man was right, the priest's interest was explained, but she couldn't be sure. And, if she could really enter another world, and have her heart's desire in that world, did she care what happened in the one she had left? "Je'en, please. You must listen to me. Just now, when he said that the drug would wear off - it won't. You'll be trapped in this limbo forever. Even after your body dies, your spirit will wander here endlessly. You have regained your bardic skills and whole body, but to what use? The beings who inhabit this realm need no music for entertainment - they have other amusements. Please, do not accept. He will give you nothing in return, and destroy the world in the bargain. Deny his offer, come to me, and we will depart." There was something about the cowled man that prompted Je'en to trust him. Perhaps, it was because he wanted nothing from her except to give up what the other man had supposedly given her. She turned from him to the priest, and saw the scowl on his face. It was actually more than a scowl, it was pure rage and hatred concealed badly. Je'en made her decision - she began to walk over to the taller man. The priest shouted "No!" and flung an arm across Je'en's path. >From his fingers a siclky purple-green line of fire flashed across the room, between Je'en and the cowled man. The priest swung his arm behind him, and the line of fire became a translucent wall dividing the whole room in half, with Je'en on one side, and the other three on the other. Je'en tried to push thru the green-purple wall, but touching it caused so much pain that she cried out and fell back. So, she could only watch what was going on on the other side. Mahr was watching, too. She had never seen her master in an all out Duel of magic. Such a thing was very rare, as were magicians of most any caliber. She was not suprised that the priest could hold his own against Cefn - it had rapidly become obvious that he was high up in the priestly order of Jhel, perhaps even in the Septent, and it was well known (to those who knew at all) that the highest of Jhel's followers were renowned magic users. The contest was incomprehensible to non-participants. All that was visible of the striving was stray emissions - attacks that did not make their mark, the efluvia of shattered thrusts, and leakages of gathered force for an attack. Mahr saw her master seemingly just standing, cowl thrown back, hands slightly forward of his body, facing the priest, who was in a similar position. Light flashed to the sides of them, and Mahr started as several stray attacks that shattered against the protection of the septacle. She noticed that the wall created by the priest was similar protection for Je'en. Eventually, the battle began to go against the priest. There were few stray emissions around the priest anymore, indicating more on-the- mark attacks. He began to sweat, and his hands began to move higher and higher as he worked harder to attack and defend himself. He began to glance furtively around for a way out. His eyes lit on Mahr and her protection, and he smiled. His hands began to point different directions, and he began to direct energy at the ground around the septacle, as well as at Cefn. The ground below the septacle began to thin, but no one noticed, so intent were they on the battle. Slowly, Terkan's magic ate away at the fabric of the limbo space, until finally it gave way. Mahr screamed as she fell thru into somewhere else. Cefn turned in time to see his apprentice vanish, along with the septacle, intact. With a little cry, he darted over to the hole in the floor to try to help her. Seeing his chance, Terkan prepared a final blow, aimed at Cefn's defenceless back. Je'en saw Terkan smiling at the undefended mage, and knew that the mage was in trouble. She braced herself and threw herself at the purple-green wall, and at Terkan. Pain lanced thru her, searing every nerve, causing her to scream in agony - but she kept going. She moved through treacle, taking forever - a forever of agony - to reach the man, but reach him she did, knocking him down, causing him to lose his concentration, and his spell backfired. Je'en lay panting and crying from the pain for several minutes before she felt the other man gently move her from on top of Terkan, who seemed to be unconscious. Cefn examined the priest, and deemed him safe for the moment. He returned his attention to Je'en, and said, "Are you alright?" Je'en sat up groggily, and looked at her rescuer. She first noted his eyes - pure blue all thru. He was handsome, with thin, aristocratic features, but his eyes seemed something out of legends. She finally said, "Yes, I'm alright. Your friend..." "Mahr was my apprentice. She is beyond hope. Perhaps my masters will look kindly on her, save her, but she will not return to this world. I should have been prepared for treachery. I..." "Um, thank you for saving me," said Je'en. "Who are you, anyway, and why?" Cefn said, "My appologies, Je'en. My name is Cefn an'Derin. My occupation should be obvious. What I said about Jhel was true - your sword is the key to the priests of Jhel's armageddon prophecy, and this man, probably one of the leaders of the cult, was trying to wrest it from you. We, Mahr and I, have been involved with the downfall of Jhel, and have been watching you carefully, which is why he tried to trick you into giving him the sword. Only his brief possessive thought alerted my surveilance to the fact that you were in trouble. Now, we - I - have the key we need to destroy the rest of the Septent of Jhel in Dargon, and destroy her worship for good." Cefn reached, perhaps a little wearily, into his belt-pouch and withdrew a small hemisphere of dark glass. Je'en watched as he placed the glass dome on Terkan's temple, and said a word. The dome began to glow, and the unconscious Terkan began to grimace in pain. It took about five minutes for the dome to do its work, and by the end, Terkan was screaming soundlessly. When the hemisphere ceased glowing, Cefn removed it from Terkan's head. It left a charred spot where it had rested, and it was no longer dark, but rather a swirling milky-white. Cefn said, "Within this theryum is all of the priests memories and thoughts. With this, I can masquerade as him, gain admittance to a high meeting of the Brothers, and destroy them. "Come, Je'en. Let us return to Dargon. I think the priest will be happy to suffer the imprisonment he meant for you." "Wait, Master Cefn. Terkan, the priest, he said that he could send me to another world, where I would be able to sing again. Could you do that as he said? If so, I would rather not return to Dargon." "I'm sorry, Je'en, but that was another lie. There is no way for our magics to penetrate the dimensional boundaries. This is another plane of existence, and in it, you bear your spirit-body, which is as healthy and whole as you wish it to be. But, human life is foreign to this plane, and its natural inhabitants enjoy torturing anyone or thing foreign." Cefn had begun setting up another septacle, orienting the major angle on a sense he had of the proper direction. Je'en watched the little red angles dart around of their own accord with fascination. When it was done, Cefn motioned her into the center of the figure. She said, before Cefn could begin to activate the septacle, "So, what now? You have the means to destroy this cult of Jhel, but you have also lost your apprentice. What will you do when your mission is complete?" Cefn looked at Je'en, and she saw sadness in his face. He said, "Mahr and I worked long and hard to destroy Jhel. I shall miss her greatly, yet some kind of loss is fitting, in a way. As to what next, I have no idea. My time is finally once again my own. Perhaps I'll do some more research, maybe find another apprentice, and pass along my knowledge. I just don't know." "Why don't we team up," said Je'en. "I have been getting so bored in that Peace-keeper job I've got, that it nearly drove me mad. But, in a land that is so sparsely populated, and largely unknown, there must be some more exciting work for a swordswoman, and it will be even more exciting with a real magician along to help. Sound good?" Cefn was silent for a long time. In truth, the idea seemed a good one - but Je'en didn't know very much about him, including the part he had played in her present circumstances. Still, the offer of adventure sure sounded better than a lot of reclusive research. And, he had grown to like Je'en while watching and protecting her. So, he finally said, "Sure. Why not? Let's be a team!" And he activated the magic that returned them to the real world and Dargon. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SIX NUMBER FIVE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *A Reintroduction to Atros Joseph Curwen *Growing Concern: Atros 4 Joseph Curwen *Gasmelyn Llaw: Part 1 of 2 John White Date: 121986 Dist: 227 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Hello, all! This is the last issue of the 1986 calendar year, and the last issue of volume six. It contains only two stories, although I'm sure that you will find the issue highly enjoyable. Issue 7/1 will be out soon after the New Year, and will contain the second half of John White's story, as well as an interesting piece by Glenn Sixbury. That issue will also mark the second anniversary of FSFnet, and it will be our 28th issue. I'll be sure to write an appropriately verbose editorial, of course. For those of you who have not received 6/4 (due to a network problem), you may request it from CSNEWS at MAINE or TCSSERVE at TCSVM. I have (hopefully) corrected the problem for this issue. I'd like to welcome our new subscribers, and wish all and sundry a joyous and fulfilling Yuletide. Onwards! -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A Reintroduction to Atros My good friend Orny (well as far as it is possible to call an editor a friend) has been so kind as to point out the slight difficulties in following a serial which has been running intermittently in FSFnet for nearly a year now, especially when the last installment appeared six months ago. Also, I'm fairly sure that several of you haven't been reading FSFnet for that long. This, of course, presents a problem. The usual solution to this sort of predicament is to remind or update the reader through providing clues of previous events in the story line itself (e.g. some character explains the situation to a new character arriving on the scene.) Well, in my opinion that sort of thing is awkward and boring, particularly for those who don't need a review. So, at this particular point in time, I refuse to do it. You'll all just have to bear it and be lost. Touch luck. No, I'm just joking. The purpose of this introduction is to provide you the reader with a summary of the previous installments in the Atros serial. This is intended primarily as a review for those who've read stories. If you haven't, I'd suggest if at all possible that you do so. Previous installments are "Rendezvous" (VOL4N01), "Dreamer's Holiday" (VOL4N02), and "Calls of Courtesy" (VOL4N04). All of these back issues are available from TCSSERVE@TCSVM (preferably) or from CSDAVE@MAINE (if you're off Bitnet or have other difficulties). So having cleared that up, I'd best get on with it. WARNING SPOILER FOLLOWS: The first of "Rendezvous" introduces the character of Gilman, a first rate alchemist who is a little down on his luck financially. At the opening he is awaiting the arrival of Atros, a mysterious street youth who has arranged for Gilman to prepare a nepenthe of Mahedeos, a powerful drug which prevents dreaming of all sorts. Atros arrives in the late in the night and asks for the nepenthe, but is unable to provide the final payment. Gilman refuses to hand over the drug and is killed by Atros in a moment of anger. Atros robs Gilman, takes the nepenthe, and leaves the city of Magnus for the port city of Dargon. During the trip, Atros refrains from using the nepenthe and experiences a remarkable dream which symbolizes his future. While he sleeps, Atros is watched from the shadows. In "Dreamer's Holiday" Atros is enjoying the life of a upper class merchant in Dargon's autumn festival. He has assumed the identity of Raffen Yeggent, a traveling merchant who unsuccessfully (and fatally) attempted to rob him during his journey to Dargon. In Dargon, he is forced to attend stuffy noble balls and ceremonies. He is adopted by the courtly couple Kite & Pecora (who spun off for their own series in Orny's "Respect thy Elders" VOL5N02, VOL5N03, & VOL6N01). At a ball, they introduce Atros to Pravo, a local scholar, who is working on a book about creation myths. Atros' responses to Pravo's questions intrigue and upset the scholastic, who cuts off the conversation. Later that evening on the journey home, Atros glimpses a man who resembles Gilman, the dead alchemist, but due to being separated by a crowd, is uncertain if it truly is Gilman. The rest of the story is spent on Atros' speculations on the survival of Gilman and his purpose in Dargon. "Calls of Courtesy" begins with Atros awakening some weeks later to find the body of Thad, an old acquaintance and hired assassin, draped over his bed. Thad has been cleanly murdered by having his neck broken, probably in the act of killing Atros. Again, Atros is at a loss to explain this. In Orny's story, "Hands of a Healer", in the same issue, it is revealed that Thad was involved in a plot to assassinate Lord Clifton Dargon, which was first detailed by Roman in "The Essence of Ur-Baal" (VOL4N02) and "Ur-Baal Magic" (VOL4N04) (a soon to be finished trilogy). The plot springs from high placed Dargon merchants who wish to subjugate the newly discovered land of Bichu for their own profit against the wishes, and foreign policy, of Lord Clifton. After Atros disposes of the body, Thad's disappearance cause some concern in the conspirators, whose ranks included the Royal Physician/Healer, all of which is detailed in "Hands of a Healer". As the series currently exists, Atros is as unaware of the conspirators, as they are of him, but this is soon to be remedied. Later in "Calls of Courtesy", Darla, a old friend of Atros' arrives from Magnus bringing some of Atros cached rare books. She tells Atros that Gilman does appear to have survived. He left Magnus for Dargon, soon after Atros fled. Not wanting another another Thad like incident, Atros takes Darla into his confidence to watch over him while he takes his drug controlled sleeps. Without his knowledge Darla browses through his diaries and papers during his sleeps. The papers tell of the full lives that Atros has lead during the passing of a single dream. Again and again, he has led tragic existences in a variety of lives, all of which he suspects to be as real as this. He has sought out the nepenthe, and other drugs like it, as his only method of controlling these tormenting dreams. Atros fears that this life to is only a dream and stays distant from everyone because he is afraid of yet more pain. Secretly, Darla loves and pities him. Well, that pretty much concludes my interruption of the real submissions to this issue. If you have any complaints about the series or the entire Dargon cycle, do not fear to write me directly or all the writers through LISTSERV. I sincerely hope I haven't created more confusion than good. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Growing Concern: Atros 4 A sudden draft of late autumn air set the handful of tallow candles illuminating the interior of the Inn of the Hungry Shark to fitful flickering. As the tavern's inhabitants at a few hours after midnight consisted of only the sleepy-eyed staff and a few groggy stragglers, no one had noticed the soundless opening of the heavy oak front door. But the prolonged change in temperature eventually drew stares. For several moments, the gray cloaked figure of a motionless Atros stood in stark contrast to the overcast night beyound the entrance way. A change had overcome his appearance. He no longer bore the guise of Raffen Yeggent with its white facial talk and near foppish stylings. Atros' long brown hair and somber gray floor-length cloak fluttered in the draft. But more subtly Atros' eyes seemed gripped by determination and touched by a quality of madness. It was certain that most of the tavern's clientele would give Atros a wide berth and continual observation. Finally, Atros entered and quickly located the night shift innkeep, a portly war veteran whose strength and firmness earned him respect in an establishment frequented by roughens and cut throats. "I would like to speak with you in private," Atros began in a low volume. "I'm working. 'Sides, if I turn my back for a shake, I'll be robbed blind by customer and lackey alike," the innkeep answered, clearing the bar counter of dirty mugs. "Perhaps that table in the corner, you could watch the room from there," Atros suggested a bit impatiently. "Look here, I haven't time to spend with every lonely thug who wanders in. Find someone else to bugger!" The innkeep's temper began to show. "You..." Atros began to raise his voice, then thought better of it. "Perhaps I should begin again." Atros hefted a small satchel of coins onto the counter but kept his hand on the bundle. "Now, will you talk?" "This way..." The innkeep led Atros to the corner table and and took a chair with his back to the wall. After collecting the satchel, Atros selected the opposite wall. "What is this about?" the innkeep whispered. "I know a man named Thad frequented this place for a few days about two weeks ago." "There's many a jack who muster through that door. I don't let names bother me much." "He was exceptionally tall and broad, dark black hair, boyish face with a permanent sneer. A single scar here," Atros added pointing at his right temple. "Him. A bad sort, I hear rumors." "Whom did he talk to here? Did he met anyone? Get any messages?" Atros asked eagerly. The innkeep seemed to mull this over for a time in his mind then said "Let's see your coin. This'll take gold." Atros spread the contents of the satchel and added a few gold coins from somewhere beneath the table. As he was doing this, Darla entered the tavern. Atros glanced once at her and once at a distant empty table. Darla ducked over toward that table trying not to attract attention. The innkeep was so lost in counting the coins with his eyes that he missed this exchange. Seeming satisfied, the innkeep began, "He spoke with no one 'cept the whores...and some men who let a room upstairs for a time," he concluded in a whisper. "Who were they?" he asked, trying to keep his voice from carrying. "Like I say, I don't know names...except maybe one... It'll take the pile," the innkeep pointed at the coins, "those men are dangerous and kept to themselves." "Fine. What was the name?" Atros answered quickly. "That one didn't come much. He was always trying to slip past but his fine clothes made him odd enough to notice. I'd seen him before...had him pointed out to me at any rate. He was," the innkeep hesitated and looked uncomfortable, "Dargon's High Wizard...Griswald Butsum or somethin' or other." His whisper was nearly inaudible. Atros could not contain a surprised expression as he pushed the coins across the table to the innkeep, who eagerly gathered them into a pouch hidden inside his cloak. "These men, what did they look like? How many were they?" The innkeep delayed before answering. "I'm already deep into somethin' big. Somethin' I don't understand. No more answers." He began to get up. "Wait!" Atros caught him by the wrist. "I'll double that amount." "What use is gold to a dead man?" the innkeep pronounced, broke free forcibly, and hurried into the kitchen. Atros stood, crossed the room, and motioned for Darla to follow. Once they had left the tavern and were safely walking the darkened streets side by side, Darla asked "So what's this tremendous thing you've learned?" "How do you know I learned anything at all?" Atros asked. "You wouldn't have given up a small fortune for nothing." This remark broke Atros' stride for a moment but he was quick to recover. "Be that as it may, everything seems to becoming more complicated." As they walked, Atros quickly and precisely informed Darla of his discussion with the innkeep. "You haven't any enemies in Dargon that I don't know about, do you?" Darla asked playfully. "No, not that I know of," Atros answered, "I'm worried that the high wizard was contracted to finish the task that Thad failed. I generally avoid tangles with wizards of all sorts." "Seems to be a good policy," Darla responded. "You've been around me too much these past few weeks, you're starting to pick up my dry sense of humor," Atros observed chidingly. "Perhaps," Darla agreed solemnly. Atros stopped walking and waited until Darla turned back to face him. "Are you mocking me?" His voice was steady, betraying neither anger nor humor. "No! Of course not. I wouldn't do a thing like that." Darla was perhaps over quick to reply. "I've just learned so much from you. I pick up things quickly," she finished weakly. Expressionless Atros began walking again. They continued together some distance in silence. "If you are so quick to learn, why have your reading lessons gone so slowly?" Atros asked looking forward. Darla gasped quietly then said "I haven't the patience or the time. I just can't see what use it all is." Atros began, "Books are any culture's, or any man's, sole means of preserving themselves. They are reservoirs of information that would otherwise be lost..." He continued in the same vein. The rest of the lecture was lost on Darla. She was overcome by relief for managing to distract Atros from her deception. It was a small thing really. But she felt that if her ability to read was discovered, Atros would lose all trust in her. She felt guilty about reading Atros' personal papers and diaries but couldn't resist. She was worried that her knowledge showed. She had made several near slips over the past two weeks and had thought that Atros' question about her lessons might have arisen from well founded suspicions. But apparently her answer had placated him. Caught up in her own thoughts, she listened to Atros' voice drone with an occasional nod. Thus both were being slightly incautious when suddenly a bright light from the alley way before them stung their eyes. The surprise was complete, their response predictable. They threw up their arms to block the blinding rays of a phosphorus lamp and were momentarily stunned into inaction. A disembodied voice to the right called Atros' name and he turned removing his hand from is face. An instant later he was tackled from the rear. An armored man seized Darla while another attempted to bind her hands. As her vision cleared, she screamed and fought, kicking indiscriminately with her feet while trying to break her arms free. Atros was having trouble of his own. Through more accident than skill he managed during his fall to break free of the arms clinched about his waist and to roll to his feet. Atros' assailant landed face first on the cobblestones and was slow to recover. Atros took the opportunity to draw his rarely used sword and survey his opponents. There were three, all armed, all armored, and all somewhat experienced. Atros felt a sinking feeling his stomach but managed a quick flourish and charged his assailant, who now stood between Darla and himself. The tackler had apparently been chosen more for mass than for quickness. Still his armor would turn all but Atros' best placed thrusts. Atros seemed doomed to fight a war of attrition with the giant, who now bore a hand and a half sword, a weapon capable of splitting the unarmored Atros in half. It was times like this, that Atros wished he'd taken real sword wielding lessons or at least bothered to select a religion. Atros cursed himself, distracted by that thought he had missed a critical opening. Atros resolved to fight instinctively and cut off thinking so much. He allowed his anger to flare. He must make it to Darla. After several moments of futile effort, the onslaught that was Darla relented. Without a weapon, she could only inconvenience, not harm, her two armored opponents. It occurred to her that perhaps a more subtle strategy might be called for. Almost as soon as her fury subsided, one of her assailants, noticing his companion's difficulties with Atros, pronounced "Here, take her", shoved Darla into his partner, and strode toward the more active melee. Atros was tiring rapidly now. He was out of condition and the nepenthe seemed to drain his endurance. He met the entrance of a second opponent into the fray with mixed emotions. He seemed certainly doomed now, but perhaps Darla could find a chance to escape. She'd done nothing; it must be him they wanted. The outcome of the battle had long been decided. Atros' two opponents began to jeer and taunt him, as he grew steadily more helpless. Atros' anger gave him some strength, but it would not be enough. He fought on, knowing he appeared awkward and comical now. He almost wished they'd end it quickly, if only to save his pride. At long last, the obvious occurred to the ruffian who held Darla captive. "Wait," he called out to his companions, "we have the girl. We can make him stop fighting." He held one of Darla's arms in a painful hold behind her back. Still, she did not struggle. Like Atros, she seemed to have accepted her fate. "Why? It's just becoming fun," the taller opponent responded while swinging his sword in a wild, wide arc. "We can take them alive. We'd get more gold for it," Darla's captor suggested. Distracted by the conversation, his hold on Darla's arm was loosening. "What makes you think that? Nobody said anything about bringing them in alive," snapped the third finishing in a child's rendition of a fiendish grin. Darla saw her opportunity and took it. She clutched a short dagger from her captor's belt and attempted to drive the blade into his exposed neck. Her aim was poor but she did manage a painful and bloody gash to the base of his chin, just left of his Adam's apple. He whirled, cried "Bitch", and struck her across her right temple with his gauntleted hand. She never noticed that a small punch dagger was affixed to the back of his gauntlet. The blade scraped bone and Darla went down in a slight spray of blood. She lapsed into unconsciousness. Atros let out a piercing shriek and tried to break through to Darla, but was prevented by his two opponents. Confusion reigned as the combat became a scuffle. After a few long moments of wrestling on the darkened cobblestones, Atros felt the weight of his larger attacker lifted from him and heard a resounding crash some distance away. He looked up to see the outline of a short cloaked figure leaning over tussle. The man took hold of his remaining opponent by the head and quickly snapped his cervical vertebrae. With a momentary feeling of deja vu, Atros pushed the corpse off himself. His rescuer extended a hand to help Atros to his feet. Atros noticed that the hand was large, coarse, and cool. The distant sound of fleeing footsteps could be faintly heard. "They're gone?" Atros inquired shaken. The cloaked man nodded and walked over to Darla's motionless body. Atros had enough sense to fetch the overturned phosphorous lamp to aid in examining her wounds. He stumbled a bit, obviously exhausted, but he couldn't ignore Darla's need now to rest. For the first time, their rescuer's face was illuminated by the light of the lamp. "Gilman!" Atros shouted, unable to control his surprise. "Gilman no longer..." He spoke softly in monotone. "Though I remember being Gilman once." Looks of fear, comprehension and awe swept across Atros' features. He stood stunned while Gilman began binding Darla's wounds with strips of fabric from his tunic. "Who...What are you now?" Atros inquired softly, hesitantly. "A servant of our master, yours and mine," Gilman pronounced ominously. "You understand." It was not a question. "My tormentor," Atros whispered under his breath. "Yes that too... You must go quickly now. I will hold off pursuit." Though the opponent had been repelled, both instinctively knew they would return soon in greater numbers. "I have so many questions," Atros began. "They will wait," Gilman cut in. "I have a message for you." Atros hesitated, reluctant to ask. Finally, he nodded. "All of your preparations are unnecessary. To meet the master of your dreams you need only to hold the desire and to sleep." Gilman's words rung like a muffled bell to Atros' ears. Drawing into himself, Atros' only acknowledgement of the message was a soft grunt or moan. He had hoped that he was wrong. "Go now...quickly," Gilman advised, lifting the partially conscious Darla to her feet. Atros supported her and began hurriedly limping away. After a short distance, Darla could walk no farther even with Atros' support. Her mind wasn't lucid then. She hummed softly to herself and spoke in fragments of remembered conversations. No tears stained Atros' cheeks as he lifted the semiconscious Darla in his arms and staggered under his burden, but only because Atros had forgotten how to cry long ago. Atros knew that she needed a place where she could receive immediate medical help and much rest, but no such haven existed in this neighborhood. It would be foolish to return to the flophouse now as well. His best hope for a healer lay in the wealthier areas nearer The Keep. He was well past his normal physical limits of endurance and he knew that he would require several days recuperation himself. Trying to block out his own pain and exhaustion, Atros carried Darla though the empty, darkened streets of Dargon for a time that seemed to stretch into hours. Atros' own mind began to lose clarity and he lost his direction. He wandered aimlessly for some time, occasionally calling out to empty alley ways or vague shapes. As he grew weaker and his thoughts more primitive, his only desires were flight and safety. The weakness and pain blurred his senses. It was in this condition that Atros, with Darla in his arms, staggered into a darkly dressed gentleman stepping out of a darkened doorway. The man cried out in surprise as Atros sank to his knees still supporting Darla. Seeing the blood and bandages, the man exclaimed "She's hurt. Quickly inside, in the light," and helped Atros carry Darla through the entrance way into a dimly lit foyer They placed Darla on a hard wooden bench cushioned with woolen cloaks from pegs on the walls. As soon as this was finished, the gentleman turned up the oil lamp and turned toward Atros and Darla. Without the facial talc it took a moment for recognition to dawn on him. "Raffen!?! Raffen Yeggent?" he exclaimed. Atros looked at the gentleman's face for the first time and dimly remembered speaking to the man once at dance hall during the festival. Could it have been only a few weeks ago? Atros' thoughts cleared and he remembered the scholar who studied myths and legends. "Pravo" he said weakly. "Who is the girl? No, never mind that now. It doesn't matter. A friend of yours, I suppose?" Pravo asked. Groggily, Atros nodded. He couldn't keep up with Pravo's words. "Don't worry. I'll take care of her. She'll be alright. You rest. You look exhausted." Pravo's tongue seemed hyperactive. Once again, Atros nodded. Pravo set to examining Darla's wounds while Atros slumped against the base of the opposite wall. Pravo's hands worked quickly and efficiently. He seemed to know what he was doing and at the moment that was good enough for Atros who slid into a stupor. But Pravo wouldn't let him rest. "How did this happen?" he asked. "Muggers in the street," Atros answered barely conscious. "Where?" Pravo inquired. "Down by the wharves near the Hungry Shark," Atros smiled with his eyes closed, seeming amused, but Pravo never looked back at him. "They take your purses? Why'd they hurt her? What's her name?" "Darla," Atros answered, slightly amused. "The initial bandaging was done quite skillfully. She hasn't lost much blood. She'll be fine in a few days. Maybe a scar though." "Good." Atros began to chuckle quietly to himself but stopped when he realized it wasn't really funny. After a few moments he drifted into unconsciousness. Atros awoke a few hours before dawn on the entry way floor with a coarse blanket over him. He was confused and slightly frightened. But after several moments of sitting in the dimly lit room, the events of last night came to him. Darla no longer lay on the bench and Pravo was no place to be found. Atros' arms and legs were sore beyound imagining. He got up slowly, stiffly and wandered further into the house. The second door he came to was open. A short tallow candle burned on a high shelf. Darla lay in a large comfortable bed. In the soft glow she looked very beautiful, very vulnerable. Seeing the bandages covering her temple, Atros felt a surge of guilt. He knelt beside the bed and took her hand into his own. "I'm sorry Darla, I never meant for anything to happen to you," Atros began. Darla moved slightly in her sleep. "They wanted me and you were a convenient tool." His breathing was irregular, his voice hoarse. Darla stirred slightly. "You must forgive me. I've failed you. I let them hurt you," Atros went on weakly, eyes cast downward. "Shhhh. Be quiet, Atros....You have nothing to be forgiven for. You don't don't have to protect me. I've always taken care of myself." Darla reached out to Atros and gently stroked his dark hair. "I'm no swordsman...no hero. A quick jab of a blade in surprise maybe, but not a real fight." Atros' voice cracked. Still, he could not face her. "I know, Atros. I know. But you are a hero. My hero. You saved me and provided for me. My wounds are my own fault. You have cared for me. You have nothing to be ashamed of." She was gentle, motherly. There was a long silence. It was broken finally by the entrance of Pravo. "I thought I heard talking," he said entering in a nightshirt. "You should be both be asleep," he said accusingly. "There will be time for talking tomorrow. Darla needs her rest." Pravo sounded annoyed though inwardly he was happy to find Darla awake, it was a good sign. "Oh, yes Darla, we haven't been formally introduced. I'm Pravo, a friend of Raffen, and master of this house. You are welcome here until you are well again. The healer has gone now, but will return tomorrow and guarantees that you will be well soon. Provided you rest, of course." Pravo said smiling. "Now, if you excuse me, I will show Raffen to his room." Pravo took Atros by the hand and escorted him down the hall to another bed room. Atros tried to as if he were totally well, but Pravo could not avoid noticing his stiff gate. The room which Pravo gave him was not nearly as grand as Darla's, which Atros now realized must be that of the lady of the house. Atros inquired. Pravo said, "That room is vacant. I live alone now." Atros was surprised, to live in such a large house without servants was unusual. He asked, "You are widowed?" Pravo answered obviously painfully,"No. My wife left me many years ago. I dismissed the staff." Atros was sorry that he had asked. Pravo changed the subject. "There is water is the pitcher, linen in the chest, as well as some clothing that might fit." Pravo turned to Atros, seemed to consider for a moment then said, "She calls you 'Atros'....There was an 'Atros' in Arbor two years back... Who are you?" Pravo asked, facing Atros. "What do you know of that man in Arbor?" he responded cautiously. "Very little really. He stayed with a colleague of mine named Baughis. Baughis wrote a letter praising his Atros' scholastic talents and congratulating himself for the find of such a remarkable young talent in the slums." Pravo paused a moment. "The next letter was filled with curses upon an ungrateful runt who relieved Baughis of half his library and departed unexpectedly." Pravo straightened his stance and looked Atros in the eye. "You are that Atros, no?" "No.." Atros said obviously lying. But after a moment "Yes, I am that Atros....You must forgive me. Those books were very important to me at the time. I took them only because my need was very great...You must understand." A distraught Atros plead. If only he could justify himself to someone just this once. "Understand?" Pravo watched the youth, made some decision, and chuckled. "I nearly laughed myself to death reading that second letter." Pravo continued smiling, "Baughis is a pompous old fool who never finished a book in his life. It just pleases his ego to play at being a great mind. He buys rare books with inherited money and then gets great pleasure form having more renown and less wealthy scholars beg to borrow some unique tome. No, I have no qualms about that incident...But Raffen, Atros rather, who are you really?" A moments silence passed. "It's been so long...I really don't know anymore," Atros replied weakly. "Come now, you are still young. It could not be so long a story." "But it is. A very long story filled with lifetimes of memories...They all begin to run together...I am uncertain. I no longer know truth from lie, reality from dream." Atros mind drifted. "You are still tired," Pravo says sounding concerned. "We will talk when your mind is cleared. Sleep now." Pravo left the bedroom. Atros retrieved the bottle of nepenthe from his satchel, began to unstopper the cork, and then hesitated for a long moment. "No, despite what Pravo thinks, I am still strong...Strong enough for this." Atros whispered to himself, then returned the drug to the satchel. He laid down on the firm straw pallet and quickly fell asleep. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Glasmelyn Llaw Part One: The Tower Deep in the forestland south of Dargon there stands a Tower, far from anywhere, off all beaten paths. Sixty feet high it stands, and it bears five "finger" turrets that rise, one from each of the above-ground floors, sixty feet themselves - lifting the roof of the highest turret 110 feet above the leaf-covered ground. The Tower is a marvel of architecture made from smooth-cut, dry-set, green crystalline stone which, with its turrets, gives it its name - Glasmelyn Llaw: The Emerald Hand. It is obvious to any casual observer that it was not erected by mortal hands: its lines have an ethereal, otherworldly beauty and grace that summons images of equiraptors and gryphons flying about and roosting on its turrets. The Tower has stood for a very long time; since the plains of the northwest become carpeted with forest; since the land was colonized by a sea-faring nation, who built a fortress at the mouth of the only navigable river to safeguard its cities from invasion; since that colony eventually died out as support was lost after the parent nation was besieged and conquered; since the re-colonization of the land by the youthful, growing kingdom of Baranur, and the founding of a new duchy, given to an accomplished young commander named Anton Dargon who turned an old watch-fort at the mouth of the Coldwell into the ducal seat. And, the Tower has stood, unnoticed, while Dargon (the duchy) has grown, and Dargon (the city) has spread across the mouth of the river it sits upon. Its builder was a wizard in the days when wizards were as common as fleas on a wild dog, if a little more feared. His name was Tarlada, and he was very powerful among his kind, mostly because of the extensive research and collecting he had taken the time to do. His ability made others jealous, and they imagined that they, too, could be as powerful as Tarlada, and without the time he had taken, if they managed to kill him, and take the fruits of his labors as their own. Tarlada was more than just a scholar of magic - he was adept at his craft. Because of this, he managed to survive three surprise attacks by his fellow wizards who wanted his grimoires and artifacts. But he knew that he couldn't hold out forever. So, he had his tower built by magical means (untouched by human hands, it was), and hoped that living in it would be safer than where he had lived before. He was wrong. Two more attacks made him angry, and just a little afraid. Afraid enough to take a rather drastic step. He knew that eventually his attackers would catch him totally by surprise, or asleep, and get the best of him, taking all of his hard-earned spell-lore as their own. So, he began to do some research into several large iron-bound volumes for a certain spell that he had heard of once. It was there, and it would do what he needed it to. He gathered the materials necessary, which took several months, and then he began the rituals necessary to activate the spell. When he was done, several more months later, he had instilled into his tower a purpose. Not life, but just a purpose - to protect him from harm in any way necessary. The spell gave the Tower enough intelligence to carry out its job, and the means to as well, in the form of several magical weapons, and the ability to adapt several energy stores to contingency uses, as it saw fit. Tarlada was well pleased with his work, and he showed it off to any and all. He was now secure from outside harm, and finally able to return his life to normal. But, his enemies weren't so pleased. They found his enchantment to be very successful - anyone who attacked the tower found themselves absorbed into the energy reserves for future use. Eventually, the greedy ones began to leave him alone, for which Tarlada was glad. Tarlada was a solitary sort of person. He had friends, but he had built his tower so far away from everything that he seldom had visitors, especially since the attacks stopped. Many years passed, and Tarlada barely noticed them, so wrapped up was he in research. And then, one day he was in the laboratory when the door-chime rang. He hurried down stairs and opened the door, and saw Lars'n, his very best friend and companion all during his apprenticeship to his master K'am. But, Lars'n appeared ancient, all bent and grey, and they had been of an age when studying under K'am and Tarlada both felt and looked no more than mid-thirty or so. Lars'n's voice was as old as his appearance. "Ah, my friend," he rasped weakly, "this is indeed a marvel. You haven't aged a bit since last I saw you, what, sixty or seventy years ago? Remember, just after Red Mergan tried to attack your tower? He was the last, wasn't he? So, tell me how you manage to look so young?" Tarlada was stunned. Eighty years? It was impossible! What was going on?!? He invited his old friend in, and they chatted. Eventually, Tarlada told Lars'n that he had no idea that so much time had passed. Lars'n looked thoughtful, and said, "I feared this. I think it was unwise of you to use that particular spell. It seems to be doing its job rather too well. Tell me, friend, when was the last time you left this place?" Tarlada thought, and said, "Well, I don't rightly remember. Some time ago, I think. It was when Jiil wanted me to come to her wedding, I think. Just last year, wasn't that?" Lars'n said, "Tarlada, Jiil was married seventy-one years ago, and died eight years ago. She outlived her children, and her grand-children. I met one of her great-grand-children in Rihls on the way here, and he is thirty-three years old. Come with me back to Irlenda, just for a visit. My own great-great-grandchildren have heard stories about you - I'm sure that they would enjoy meeting you." Tarlada was more than a little frightened by what Lars'n had told him, and what he was implying. So, he agreed. Without even packing, he helped Lars'n to the door, and tried to leave with him. But, he couldn't pass the door. Lars'n was on the step outside, watching Tarlada's attempts to pass through the door, shaking his head sadly. "I'll try to help you, my friend," he called. He turned away, and began to move surprisingly swiftly down the very faint path that led up to the door of the Tower. And that was the last time anyone left the Tower for a very, very long time. Part Two: The Prey "Are you sure that this is really a short-cut, Maks?" Syusahn asked. She really didn't like the look of the trees hereabouts, even apart from her natural distrust of enclosed spaces. Being from the south-eastern steppes, she was used to being able to see the horizon, and traveling through this forest was unnerving. She had grown used to it a little after the last five days of travel, but the forest had lately changed character. It now seemed almost brooding, or even sinister. Perhaps that was due to the strange, almost iridescently green, yellow, and blue vines that were everywhere, intertwined between the trees, across the top of the trail, and even among the grasses of the trail itself. Very little sun managed to filter through the vines. The horses' hooves and the wagon's wheels made very little noise as they moved over the trail, and the normal forest sounds - insects, wind in the leaves, and the like - were very muted. It all made Syusahn nervous and anxious, a feeling she disliked: ordinarily, she feared little. She looked at Maks, her betrothed, who was looking a little uncertain. Maks was one of the Rhydd Pobl, commonly called gypsies. He was five foot seven, thickly built, but not fat, with dark brown longish hair and full beard and moustache. His eyes were very black, his nose very large, and his face rather squarish, but in combination, he was very handsome. They had met four months before, when his tribe was moving through her homeland, and had fallen immediately in love. It had taken a while for his family to accept one of the Gwynt Gyrun - Wind Riders - as Maks' betrothed, but she finally convinced them that she and Maks belonged together. The first banns had been cried in the camp of her people, and Maks' tribe had sworn to cry the second banns when they reached their spring camp. She and Maks had tarried in her homeland for several weeks, and then had taken to the road more slowly than was the norm for a gypsy caravan, but when they finally arrived at the spring camp in the northwest part of the Kingdom of Baranur, near a city named Dargon, the banns would be cried for the third time, and they would be wed at the mid-summer gathering of tribes. Maks finally said, "The maps of my people say that this is the shortest way to the camp site. We are children of the road - our maps do not lie. This is the right way." But he wasn't truly so certain. The maps of the Free People never lied, but the one he was following made no mention of this strange patch of forestland. What really worried him, though, was the fact that his map had an area marked as dangerous just a few miles to the west of where they were, and the description matched how these woods looked. Maks glanced at Syusahn, and noticed the worried look on her face. He knew how she felt about the forest, and had thought she was over it, but the strange feel of the forest here probably brought all of her fears back in full. For Maks, the happiest day of his life was the day he met Syusahn. She had come charging up to the caravan on a wild black mare, riding bareback and brandishing a slim sword and looking as deadly as the fifteen other youths - mostly male - who were also test-charging the band of gypsies "invading" their territory. Maks' people knew the ways of the Gwynt Gyrun and held their ground, and the charging riders veered off at the last minute. Syusahn had come back almost immediately, as intrigued with the young wagonmaster as he was with her. They had been much together during the southern trading season, and had very swiftly declared their love, and had taken the matter to their elders. Syusahn's father, khan of a small but fierce khanate, had immediatly given his permission for them to wed. Maks' own people were more reluctant, but eventually gave in. They made the Four-Ring Promise to her people, and the Knife-and-Wheel Pledge to his, and plans were made for the wedding. Maks was sure he could not have done better for a wife. Syusahn was short - only five foot two - but not tiny in any way. She had long, flowing raven-black hair, and an almost elven face: oval, fine-boned, with high cheeks, arching eyebrows over green, silver-flecked eyes, a short nose, and a full, sweet mouth that flashed gleaming white teeth whenever she laughed, which was often. Her body was surprisingly full at chest and hips for so short a woman, and her waist was very narrow - features she liked to show off by wearing very tight clothes, usually in red and black, and lots of leather at waist, wrists, and feet. She also went heavily armed, though with more than the slim sword at her waist - she had at least a dozen small, sharp knives secreted about her person, and she was an expert in either throwing them, or close in-fighting with them. In all, she had such energy, such a joy in life, that Maks was sometimes amazed that she would choose to settle down with him - but then, a gypsy's life is seldom dull, either. They rode late into the night, the lamps on Maks' wagon-home lighting the way long before the sun actually set due to the gloom of the overhanging vines. Also, they were anxious to make good time through this strange forest, and so didn't stop like they usually did at the first sign of red sky in the west. They finally found a clearing in which to camp not more than two hours before midnight, and ate a hasty supper, then retired to the single bed together and tried, with some success, to blot out their individual uneasiness in the joy of merging. Syusahn awoke about an hour after the two of them had finally fallen asleep, feeling the call of nature. She hesitated for a moment, not relishing the prospect of going into the woods alone, but then she steeled her courage, muttered a prayer to Karoga, the Wind God, to keep her safe, dressed fully, and went outside. She was returning to the warmth and safety of the wagon, when she thought she saw a light flickering between the trees. Curiosity got the better of her, and she tried to get a better view, promising herself that she wouldn't go far. Meanwhile, Maks awakened alone, and wondered where Syusahn was. He pulled aside the curtain on one of the windows, and looked outside in time to see Syusahn disappearing into the trees across the clearing. He hurriedly threw on his pants and a cloak, and dashed out after her. Syusahn found it surprisingly easy to move through the trees after the light, but she couldn't seem to get any closer to it. In the heat of the chase, she forgot all about her promise not to go far. She didn't even think about getting lost - it was very hard for a steppes-rider to get lost if the sky was visible. Maks was having more difficulty. The vines seemed not only to block his way, but to actively hinder him by catching him, tripping him, making it very hard to follow his love. He called out to her, but she didn't seem to hear. So, he drew his knife, and began to blaze his own way to her. Syusahn did hear him, once, but as she began to turn to answer, the light seemed to take a wrong turn, and it got almost close enough to see clearly, and she took up the chase again. She didn't hear any of his cries after that - in fact, she began to forget about everything but the light and the trees between it and her. Maks managed to get close enough to his love to see the light she was following. She saw it as a flickering, yellow-red, torch-like blob, but he saw that it was really a pale green-yellow globe of light floating about head-high above the ground. He recognized the will-o-the-wisp, and called out even louder, but Syusahn was deeply ensnared and she didn't hear him. He fought the vines harder, trying to reach her, but the vines were fighting back, and now the trees themselves were joining in, throughsting up roots to trip him, and waving branches in his face. He fought on, following Syusahn as she followed the light, for a very long time. He was nearly exhausted when he came to the end of the trail. And that was a tower. Huge and menacing, it was surrounded by vines as thick as trees twined utterly impassably save for a narrow pathway that led up to the door. He saw Syusahn enter the tower, and the door close. He ran up the path to the door, but it had no handle, no way of opening it. He beat on the door, calling for whoever was within to open it and face him, or give back Syusahn, but there was no answer, at least not from within. But, the vines that formed walls that framed the path began to close in, reaching out for him, pulling and whipping at him. They eventually got so violent that he had to run, fleeing before increasingly violent vegetation that was driving him away from his love, trapped in that strange, five-turreted tower. Part Three: Employment "It was an experiment," said Cefn in response to the question that Je'en finally got up the nerve to ask. They were sitting in the common room of the Inn of the Panther, at one of the rear tables. Though they were a rather strange couple, they had spent enough time there that they had become almost a fixture and the patrons barely noticed them anymore. Cefn was wearing his dark hood, as usual, and, while no one could see into the recesses of the cowl, he could see out perfectly clearly. It had taken several powerful spells to contrive the special darkness that filled his hood: it allowed him to see in ordinary light, a simple feat that he would have found impossible without it. He stared at Je'en while he told her of a research project that had gone wrong, cursing him with his glowing blue eyes and a total intollerance for normal light of any kind. She, of course didn't notice his staring, not being able to see his eyes. In that, they were evenly matched: her silver half-mask hid her eyes almost as effectively as his hood did his. He found her fascinating. He knew much - if not most - of her past, and he knew that she had an indomitable spirit. Few others would have been able to start again in a whole new life as readily and easily as she had done. And, being a swordswoman suited her as well as being a Bard. He also found her attractive. She was tall for a woman, almost taller than he, and very sparely built. She had sandy-blonde average length hair framing a longish, well-formed face. If trying to find faults, he could have listed her nose, which was too long, or her mouth, which was too thin, but he liked her hazel-grey eyes (when he could see them, which was rarely). Her arms and legs were strong and supple, and she was long-fingered and graceful (with allowances made for her near-crippled right hand). She was wearing a flatteringly cut green and silver tunic, and leather leggings with knee-high boots. She was armed, with sword and knife both worn on the right side of her belt. And, of course, there was the face mask, and the scar it hid. Cefn was sure that she still wore the mask more out of habit than necessity: she had built up a fine reputation in town, and no longer had to worry about being taken for a "poor, disfigured woman". Still, it added to her charm and mystique, and it was no odder than the hood he was forced to wear. Je'en listened to Cefn's tale intently. He seldom talked much about himself, but then, neither did she, which made for many long silences when they were together. She had always wondered about his eyes, though, ever since she saw the way they glowed so strangely when he had rescued her from that strange limbo place. She had seldom seen them since then, except at night, or in a very dark room, or when he had taken her to visit his mansion-like home, and he had used those strange golden globes to light the rooms. She had been rather nervous about asking him about them, but finally decided that she wanted to know more about this mysterious magician who was her partner. And, perhaps there was something more. The few times that she had been able to see his face, she saw that he was very handsome in an aristocratic way. He had short black hair, and a long moustache beneath a perfect nose and above a perfect mouth. She had yet to get close enough to tell what the crest on his earring was. He was tall, six feet or more, but not quite as tall as her. And, he had a games-man's body, sleekly muscled, not like what she thought of as a magician's body. She had felt an attraction to him from that first day, but she was wary of him, of his strangeness, and of his powers. She was glad that he had offered to be partners with her - it would allow them to get better acquainted. Much had happened between that first day and now. The first thing they had done as a team was destroy Lladdwr, the sword that the Cult of Jhel had so desperately wanted. That was after Cefn had gone to a secret meeting of the Septent disguised as Brother Tri, using the theryum to help his masquerade. He had destroyed the entire Septent, managing to take them by surprise, and had then given the names of the other cultists to Dargon authorities. Destroying Lladdwr should have been easy, except that the being trapped within the sword knew what was going to happen to it, and it did its best to thwart them. But, they eventually succeeded in breaking the spells on the blade, banishing the being within it, and melting the shards into a surprisingly small ingot of very impure iron. And, the journey back was delayed by bad seas, and an early winter. But, return they did, and safely. After that, they advertised by word of mouth their availability and willingness to solve problems and right wrongs in and around Dargon. They were hired to hunt down some wild animals, and two outlaw bands that were making the frontier life even more difficult - nothing too taxing to their abilities. But, the last of those had been last month, and they were getting bored - or at least Je'en was. She wished for something to do as Cefn finished his story and went back to sipping at his mug of ale. She happened to glance at the door as a very colorful fellow entered the Inn. He was dressed in a loose brown vest over a loose, multi-colored tunic, and strange, flare-legged black pants. From that, and his patterned sash, she recognized him as being a gypsy, probably here for the annual gathering that occurred just west of the city. He looked worried as he scanned the common room. His gaze settled on the strange pair at the back table and he hurried over. "You are Je'en and Cefn, the troubleshooters?" he asked. Cefn spoke, somewhat eeriely, from the recesses of his cowl. "Yes, we are. Please, be seated. Can we help you?" The man introduced himself as Maks, and then he explained his problem. "Less than a week passed, my betrothed was taken captive by someone who lives in an old, vine-covered tower in the forest to the south and west. I tried to rescue her, but the forest began to attack me and drove me away. I rode fast and hard for the spring camp, to get help, but my people had also had several losses from traveling that track and didn't know what to do. The elders eventually decided to send for help into Dargon, and I was elected to go. Please, can you help? We have heard about you both, even things that the gossipers do not know, and the elders are sure that you are the only hope for my Syusahn and the others who vanished into the forest." Je'en was immediately interested. She and Cefn had commented earlier on a few vague rumors that had been coming in from the south for a few months about strange goings on in the forest. And, here was an opportunity to investigate them, as well as several disappearances in the area as well. It sounded like fun. She said to Cefn, "What do you think?" while nodding her head. Cefn caught her signal, and said, "We will do our best. Do you have a place to stay tonight? We will start at first light, tomorrow." Part Four: Suspicions Food for the journey was the hardest to get hold of before the departure time set by Cefn. But, with some help from Jann, the innkeeper of the Panther, Je'en and Cefn managed to get enough for about a month on the trail, just in case. The other equipment they planned to take came from their personal stock, which wasn't all that large - Je'en hoped that they were adequately prepared. They all met at the Inn shortly after sunrise. With a minimum of discussion, mainly about their initial heading, the three distributed the equipment between their horses, and set off quietly through the silent streets of Dargon to the south. Je'en rode the chestnut mare that had been Mahr's. Mahr had named it Chestnut, but Cefn had assured Je'en that the young apprentice had had more imagination than the simple name implied. Cefn rode a big white gelding called Streak, for the red-brown blaze between its eyes. And Maks rode a bay stallion that didn't have a name - it was one of his tribe's messenger horses, not his. They encountered the strange part of the forest four days southwest of Dargon, and all three of them immediately noticed the change as they entered it. Sound seemed to be swallowed up by the ubiquitous vines, and sunlight was filtered almost to nothing. Another day, and they found the trail that Maks had been following, and shortly after that, they found the clearing. They tethered the horses there, shouldered hastily made packs of equipment, and pressed on on foot, using long, sturdy knives to make their way through the underbrush and vines to where Maks remembered the tower to be. It was difficult going, and Maks commented that the vines were even thicker now that they had been before. Cefn was very silent, and spent a lot of time examining the vines. That first day afoot finally ended without the three reaching the tower. They debated continuing on, but finally decided to camp and wait for the return of the meager sunlight. Cefn set wards around the little space that they had cleared of vines while Je'en and Maks gathered wood and built a fire. He assured the other two that the wards would keep out the vines, and any luminary visitors, but they remained a little wary of sleeping in the midst of the strange forest. Cefn had long since demonstrated that he was an excellent trail cook, and he again managed to produce a hearty meal from what seemed to be very unappetizing ingredients. Je'en envied him that skill, and she was taking lessons, but she wasn't very good just yet. Of course, Maks was also able to make meager rations into a feast as he had demonstrated once at an earlier camp, but he praised Cefn for his skill, and said that he didn't mind not having to cook to get good food on the road, as he usually did. When the meal was over, and the dishes rinsed and repacked, the three of them sat for a long time staring at the fire. They were all wrapped up in their own thoughts, and stalling before going to sleep. Maks began talking, almost to himself, still looking at the fire, a haunted, pained look on his face. Je'en noticed him speaking and started listening. He was telling of how he had met Syusahn. He described their time together with such emotion and such clarity that Je'en was both moved, and conscious of the fact that Maks would have made a great Bard. Then, he told of the night he had lost Syusahn. The light, the vines, the tower. He made her feel his fear and concern for his love, and his helpless rage when the door closed on her and refused to reopen. Je'en noticed that Cefn was listening as intently as she, but the expression on his face was not one of sympathy for Maks' loss, or admiration for his skill with words, but one of thought, as if he were trying to understand just what had happened and why. She got the impression that he had a fairly good idea of what was going on, but she knew that he wouldn't tell anyone until he was sure. She hoped that he would be sure before it was too late. Eventually, when Maks had been silent again for a long time, Je'en decided that she needed sleep if she was going to be any good for anything tomorrow. So she decided to trust Cefn's magic wards, said goodnight to her traveling companions, went over to her makeshift bed of green leaves, pine needles, and blankets, and went to sleep. The other two soon followed suit. After a light breakfast next morning, they packed up and set on their way again. Je'en noticed that the vines grew thicker and thicker, and were tougher to cut, as they moved south. She also noticed a strange feeling in the air as they proceeded, almost like a presence that was everywhere, but not quite aware of them. It was very disconcerting. Around noon, after breaking through what was an almost solid wall of vines, the three came to a clearing, and saw the tower. It was an impressive and disturbing sight. It rose majestically from a solid matting of vines that covered most of its first floor, sloping away from it into the trees of the perimeter of the clearing almost 50 feet away from the sides of the tower. It was a brilliant green, and it had five turrets rising to various heights around its circumference. The narrow windows that Je'en could see looked dark and sinister. They pushed through waist-high vines around the edge of the clearing until they saw a higher mound of vines that probably indicated the wall around the path to the door. After much hacking and straining, they managed to push through the wall, and indeed found the entrance pathway. The presence Je'en had felt earlier was much stronger now, but Maks commented that it felt different now than it had when he was here before. Less aware, less active. Je'en worried that their damaging the vines would alert the presence, making an intuitive connection between the two, but that didn't seem to be the case. They walked up to the door, and, while Je'en and Maks tried to force it, Cefn carefully examined the glittering tower walls, particularly where the vines came into contact with it. After a few moments, he said, "Je'en, Maks, come look at this." They joined him at the edge of the door, and saw what he indicated - the vines seemed to actually be growing from the tower itself. They could see dozens of tiny green crystal nodes dotting the tower wall, and from each node grew four to six blue, yellow, and green vines, each thickening swiftly from it's root and twining into the mass of vines that walled in the path. Having made that discovery, Cefn turned to the door, and took a little red pyramid from his belt pouch. He touched a flat side to the door just below the ornately cast iron knob. It glowed briefly, and the door opened just a crack. Before entering, the three armed themselves. Maks drew his boot knife, and went in with both knives at the ready. Je'en sheathed her vine-cutting knife, and drew her sword. Cefn fished for a moment in his belt pouch, and finally came up with a short, pale-blue rod that, for all its shortness, could not possibly have fit in the pouch. Je'en looked at him a little strangely, and then entered the tower, with Cefn hard on her heels. The interior wasn't as dark as Je'en had assumed it would be: it was dimly lit by a pellucid greenish light that cast no shadows whatsoever. Moving cautiously, the three of them began prowling around the first floor. The oppressive atmosphere was even more intense inside, but still there was no feeling that they were noticed. The first floor was a well kept common living area. The furniture was in excellent repair, and there was no dust anywhere. The walls were hung with beautiful tapestries, and Je'en recognized the style of a few of them as very ancient, and very valuable. Around the wall were about a dozen statues of men in various forms of war gear, from what looked like many different ages and countries. They were made of a strange, flakey stone that none of them had ever seen before. There were candles in wall sconces, and a huge chandelier in the center of the main room that looked like it burned oil from a score of prism-enclosed wicks. But, there was no sign of use, and there was something about the way everything looked that made it seem as if nothing had been used in a long time. They climbed to the second story, and then the third, before finding more than dusted furniture and statues. Cefn was exploring the alcove entrance to this floor's turret, and so saw the body first. It was dressed in much the same manner that Maks was, but the body itself was dessicated to the point of looking like an ancient mummy. The other two noticed Cefn examining the body, and joined him in the alcove. Maks said, "That was Neika, one of those that I was told had gone missing in the forest. See, that is his ring, and that badge on his sash shows that he was horsemaster for his tribe. But, he vanished not more than three weeks ago. How could he have come to look so...so long dead?" Cefn shook his head, and said, "I imagine that would depend on just how he died." Then he turned his back on the corpse, and continued to explore. Je'en and Maks spent a moment more with the body, long enough to be sure that Neika bore no visible wounds. Puzzled by the content and tone of Cefn's last comment, Je'en led Maks up into the third floor turret after the wizard. That turret was empty, as had been the one below. The three continued up, to the fourth floor, and then the fifth, where they found two more mummified bodies, again identified by Maks as the gypsies that had disappeared on the trail. On the sixth floor, they found another, and Cefn appeared to come to a conclusion. He said, "Come on, it must be at the top of this last turret." -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *If Looks Could Kill Glenn Sixbury *Gasmelyn Llaw: Part 2 of 2 John White Date: 010987 Dist: 236 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, greetings, all, and welcome to the new year! This is a notable time of year, for three reasons. Firstly, we are beginning a new volume, number seven. Secondly, we are marking the first anniversary of the Dargon Project, which has been remarkably successful. And, finally, it was two years ago that FSFnet's first issue was sent out. So please excuse any sentimentality which follows. As we enter our third year of publication, I'd like to send out some very special thanks to everyone involved in the production of the magazine. Without their aid, FSFnet would not have seen the end of the first semester. I'd also like to thank those who distribute the magazine onto other networks, and who knows where else (*I* certainly don't)! And, of course, I'd like to thank the readership for their interest and support. That's what it's all about. Special thanks go to Joseph Curwen, Jim Owens, Chuq von Rospach, Mike Murphy, Alan Clegg, Chris Condon, and Bob Boag. Well, enough of the sentimentality. Thank you, one and all, for making the zine a success. Best wishes, one and all. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> If Looks Could Kill It was already late afternoon and Tara n'ha Sansela estimated that she still had close to three or four leagues to travel before reaching Tench. She didn't want to stop, but her horse, Boxter was an older animal, and it was obvious that the rapid pace she had been forcing him to go was beginning taking its toll. At the top of a hill, she dismounted, leading Boxter over to a tree, and took the opportunity to rest herself in the cool shade. As she sat down, Zed, her pet Shivaree, trotted over and curled up beside her, immediately falling asleep. The big ferret-like creature wasn't accustomed to running all day. Several times Tara had lifted him up to the saddle with her so he could catch his breath as they had traveled. It had been two days since her parents were killed by bandits, and Tara still hadn't managed to grasp the reality of her situation. It all seemed like a dream. Each morning, she woke up with the idea that it would all be over, and she would be back in the small farm cottage where she had lived her whole life. But it was not to be. The cottage was now little more than ashes and her parents were both dead. She'd buried them herself in their old cellar and set out for Tench, where she hoped to find a guide or at least a map which would get her to Dargon and to her uncle's. As Tara sat under the tree, she surveyed the countryside. It was still green, but there was a chill in the morning air. The snows would come soon. As Tara scanned the horizon, which held clouds in the threat of an evening storm, she noticed some activity in the valley. In the middle of a clearing stood a fortress, surrounded by several cultivated fields and three oval tracks. Looking closer, Tara could see people scattered about, and as they moved, she caught the glint of metal reflected in the evening sun. Tara had never seen so many people in armor. Surely this was an army camp of some kind. It was hard to see, but the people down on the clearings seemed to be training, although some could also be seen tending fields. It was all very interesting,and Tara would have liked to stay and watch a little longer, but she knew she had taken up as much time resting as she could afford. She would have a hard time making Tench by sunset. Tara had been afraid that she had lost her way in the dark until she finally spotted a group of lights, revealing Tench's location. The town was nestled in between large, tree-covered hills, and had a small river running through it. Riding down towards the lights, Tara was glad this leg of the trip was finally over. It would feel good to have a bed to sleep in again. It would also feel good to have a chance to be around other people, even if they were strangers. The last two days had been lonely ones. Tench was little more than a cross-roads town. As Tara rode down the main road which provided Tench with most of its travelers, the few buildings she saw were either inns or taverns, with stables tucked away behind them. She did notice a small dwelling or two, but from the looks of things, Tench had very few permanent residents. Tara had expected the streets of the town to be almost deserted. In the few tiny villages located near Tara's old home, people went to bed shortly after sundown, raucous laughter came from one of the nearby taverns, and several people were wandering up and down the road. Few of them took notice of Tara, although some took time to glance suspiciously at this strange girl rider with a Shivaree trotting behind her. Tara was looking the town over, and she didn't see the man step in front of her. The horse bumped him in the back, and he turned around and snarled, "Watch where yer goin', or I'll--" Then the man's face changed from arrogance to fear, and his voice softened as he apologized, "I'm sorry M'Lady. If I'd o' known it was you, I'd o' never...." And then he turned and walked hurriedly away. Tara had started to apologize to the man, but he had left too quickly. His change of attitude was also very puzzling. He didn't seem like the apologizing type. Too tired to worry it, Tara turned her attention back to finding a place to stay for the night. The next inn Tara found was in an old well-worn building, but it was well lit. Tara read the sign above the door: The Lame Duck Inn. It didn't look like much of an inn, but at least the nearest tavern was almost out of earshot, so she would get some sleep tonight. Cheered by that fact, Tara tied Boxter to a post and went inside. The room was dimly lit and had a stale, musty odor. A small, balding, round-faced man was bent over a sheet of parchment, making a scratch here and there as he counted on his fingers. Tara shut the door and walked to the counter. The small man didn't seem to notice. "Hello," Tara said shyly. "Evenin'." "Could I get a room?" The man did not answer, but seemed to count a little more furiously on his fingers. "Hello?" "Yes, yes, yes," the man muttered, recounting his fingers. "You, uh, wanted a room?" "Yes, if you have one." "We do have one," the little man said, and then he looked up, and his face immediately brightened. "Why didn't you say it was you? Tryin' to fool me again, were ya? I thought you were just another traveler come to interrupt my bookwork." Tara put a puzzled look on her face. Then she answered, "You must have mistaken me for someone else. My name is Tara n'ha Sansela." "Oh, I see," the inkeeper laughed. "It's Sarah this time, is it?" "No, Tara. Tara n'ha Sansela." "Ah, good. I will try to remember." Then the little man laughed again. "Your usual room, uh, Tara?" "My usual room?" "Yes, the corner room at the top of the stairs." "Whatever you have." "Fine, fine," the little man beamed. "Boy! Boy!" The little man grumbled to himself, and stomped around impatiently for a moment. Then he disappeared into the back room, and when he came back, he was carrying a young boy by the back of the neck, which he tossed in front of the counter. "Take her horse to the stable, boy, and get to it!" The boy was little more than skin and bones, and bruises could be seen on his cheeks and arms. Tara started to say something, but then checked herself. This was no time to get involved. The little boy said nothing, but stared sleepily at the man. Then he rubbed the sleep from his eyes on his way out the door. The innkeeper had noticed Zed. "What's this?" he asked, putting his hand out towards Zed. The shivaree growled, baring his teeth, and the man quickly pulled his hand back, putting it in his pocket. "Never mind," he blurted out before Tara could answer. "Normally we don't allow animals to stay in the room," he continued, "but since he's yours, I'll make an exception." Tara just nodded an acknowledgement, and then she headed up the stairs. As she reached the top step, the innkeeper called to her, "You never did fool me. Not this time. The animal is a new twist, though." Tara thought about answering, and then decided to let things lie as they were and disappeared into her room. Once inside, she pulled off her boots, and layed back onto the bed to rest a moment. Zed jumped up beside her, curled up into a ball, and was immediately asleep. Tara knew she needed sleep, but too many things were bouncing around inside her head. The inn keeper seemed to recognize her and even gave her special treatment, even though she'd never seen the man before in her life. Also, Zed was always friendly, but he almost bit the man's hand. And what about the boy? And the stranger she'd bumped in the street? Tara's turned over the thoughts in her mind as she lay on the bed. Zed rolled over sleepily and settled his head on Tara's belly. Tara sat up in bed. Midmorning daylight was streaming through the window. She was disoriented for a moment before she remembered where she was, but she didn't remember going to bed. Then she realized she was still fully dressed. Quickly she put on her boots and made sure she still had the small bag of gold attached to her belt. As soundly as she'd slept, she was glad no thief had taken it in the night. Then Tara walked to the door. Zed trotted up from the corner, expecting to go along. After thinking a moment, Tara ordered him to stay, pushing him back from the door with her foot as she left. Several minutes later, Tara was sitting at a table downstairs, eating the best breakfast she'd had since leaving home. The innkeeper had given her breakfast for free, but when Tara asked him to have someone take care of Zed for the day, he agreed to do so, but it cost her several extra copper pieces. When Tara finished her meal, she went to find the things she would need to get her to Dargon. Tara soon discovered that it was easy to find supplies, but that they weren't so easy to buy. Everything was over-priced, and after purchasing a warm cloak, dried food, a couple of water skins, another blanket, and some bones and meat scraps for Zed, she only had half her gold left. She also found guides who were eager to take her to Dargon, but not for the amount of gold she had to offer. They did tell her that the road to Dargon was fairly well-traveled and she could find her own way there, if she lived that long. They portrayed many dangers of the road for a girl traveling alone, but Tara listened to them with her father's teachings firmly in mind. As he used to say, "Those preaching loudest about the dangers of the night are the ones selling lanterns." It was afternoon before Tara had finished all her tasks and had started back to the inn. Her arms were laden with her supplies, but she felt good. Things were going as planned, except for the message she had wanted to send to her uncle to let him know she was coming. Such a message had turned out to be too expensive and too slow. There was the chance she might be in Dargon before the message. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in front of Tara, gave her a bear hug and planted a passionate kiss on her lips. Tara was caught completely off-guard and dropped everything, but as soon as she recovered, she slapped both hands onto the man's head and he immediately let go with a yelp. "Yeoww! What'd you do that for?" Tara didn't reply, but drew her sword instead, holding him at sword's distance. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You said you'd see me as soon as you came back, and then I find you out roaming the streets, so I come to welcome you back, and you attack me?" "You are wrong," Tara told him. "You attacked me." "No, Honey, I didn't. . . ." Tara cut him short with a poke of her sword in his belly. She didn't hurt him, but it was enough to change his plans. He quickly mumbled an apology, and walked away through the crowd which always formed when ever a fight broke out. When it was over, the people also dispersed, leaving Tara alone to gather up her things. She was shaking and had trouble hanging onto things, but she managed to get back to the inn without further incidents. Once in her room, Tara calmed down, and then realized that she was hungry. She decided to get some supper and try to figure out whether the man that attacked her made an honest mistake or whether he had just tried to protect himself after seeing her reaction. When Tara went downstairs, she was told that the inn didn't serve meals in the evening, but there was a good tavern just down the street and around the corner, so Tara set off in that direction. The tavern served her a good meal. It was a little expensive, but everything in Tench was more expensive than what Tara was used to. She ordered some of the strong, bitter ale that was common in this country, and found that she couldn't stand to drink it, so she had it taken away and replaced with a mug of a sweet cider. Then, after finishing her meal, she decided to sit and relax a little before heading back to the inn. It was going to be a long time before she had the chance to socialize with people again. The tavern had been empty when Tara had arrived, but now it was crowded, and Tara enjoyed looking at so many different kinds of people. Then she noticed that one of them was looking at her. He was a tall man with a powerful body and hair blacker than ashes. He was also a handsome, noble-looking man, but his eyes were strange. Hard-grey eyes, their stare chilled to the bone. As she watched, the man said something to the serving wench, gave her a few coins and stood up. He's coming over here, Tara realized suddenly. She quickly pulled out enough gold to cover her meal, and wrapped her cloak around her as she headed for the door. The last thing she needed was another event similar to what had happened to her earlier that day. She didn't bother looking back as she rushed out, shutting the door behind her. She only made it fifty yards before several rough-looking men sprang from around a corner and surrounded her, drawing their swords. A short, stocky man with a mouth that wore a constant sneer, blocked Tara's path. "You made a big mistake comin' back here, or are you still so scratchy that you think you can't be beat?" Tara tried to speak, but failed to find her tongue. "This time you will not live," the man snarled and started towards her, motioning for the other men to do the same. "You're making a mistake," Tara blurted out, drawing her sword." "Not this time," the man told her confidently. "Last we met, you managed to walk away with all my money. You made a fool out of me. Now you will die." With that, the man swung his sword at Tara's head. She managed to block the blow, but it sent her sword sailing. Quickly, she ducked under the man's second blow and tried to escape, but all she managed to do was trap herself between her attackers and a wall of a building. Slowly the group closed in. There were five brutes in all, and the burly man who had talked before let an evil sneer of a smile crawl across his face. "I will enjoy this," he beamed, raising his sword for the death blow. Then, just as he started the sword forward, a powerful hand wrapped around the wrist, squeezing so tight, the man let out a painful cry and dropped the sword. Then he was knocked to the ground. It was the man from the inn. He seemed almost to glow. This man was comfortable in battle. The other four brutes were stunned for a moment, but they quickly recovered. Two on each side of the man attacked at the same time, but he glided smoothly out of the way, causing them to clash swords. Then, in the blink of an eye, he had disarmed one and sent the other sprawling to the ground. As the other two attacked, he again avoided their blows, sending one to the ground with a push and swatting the other in the side of the head with the flat of his sword. He took a step back, ready for another assault, but all save one of the attackers grabbed their weapons and scrambled away down the alley. The remaining one was on the ground, unconscious, bleeding a little where he had been struck. Tara stood in awe a moment before she recovered enough to thank the man. Then she picked up her sword, resheathed it, and admitted, "I'd be dead now if it wasn't for you." "Yes, you would." Tara was surprised by his frankness. "Thanks anyway." Then she added, pointing to the man on the ground, "He isn't dead, is he?" "No. He will have a headache when he awakes. That is all." "Why didn't you kill them?" "I only kill when I must. These men couldn't harm me." "But there were five of them." "Yes, I believe there was." Then he managed a smile. "My name is Sir Morion," he said, taking her hand. "I am Tara n'ha Sansela. Where did you learn to fight like that?" "That is a long story," he replied, his eyes growing distant. "Instead I should learn of who I saved. Come, we can talk while I escort you home." "You can't take me home," Tara said sadly, "but I'm staying at the Lame Duck Inn." They started down the street. "You are very foolish to wander about these streets, unescorted, after dark, when you cannot protect yourself," Morion scolded her. "The sword you wear implies you can fight. That's a bluff that will only keep an honest and sober man from bothering you. "But I wasn't bluffing." Tara explained. "I didn't know better." Morion seemed unimpressed by her naivete. "Where are you from?" "From a farm near Myridon." Tara saw Morion's blank expression, so she continued, "It's a small village about sixty leagues east of here. I came here because--" Tara paused, and then changed her mind. "I'm headed to Dargon to live with my uncle. I don't know why those men attacked me. One of them said something about getting even for the last time we'd met, but I've never seen him before." "Perhaps they mistook you for Lana." "Lana?" "I almost did myself, but after watching you a little while it was obvious that you weren't Lana." "Who is Lana?" "You are too quiet and shy. Too well-behaved. You didn't fool me for long at all, but then, I know Lana better than most." "Who. Is. Lana?" Tara asked, stamping her foot. "She's a bandit and assassin who you greatly resemble in appearance. She kills and steals in her travels and then she returns to Tench to hide, usually in disguise and under an alias name, until whoever she has wronged has stopped searching for her. I'm surprised more people haven't mistook you for her." "Ah, I understand," Tara said, her face brightening. "That's what's been happening. The innkeeper, the man who kissed me--now things make sense!" "Yes, well, I would advise that you exercise caution while you are in Tench. Many people know Lana here. Some will be friendly. Others will not." Tara thought about that for a minute, and then she asked, "How do you know Lana so well?" "Everyone in Tench knows of Lana." Unsatisfied, Tara prodded him, "You said you knew Lana better than most. If I have to wear her face, I'd like to know something about her." Morion put a nasty look on his face and his eyes grew distant again. He shook his head and remained silent. Then he sighed. "I will tell you the story since you have a reason to know." Morion gather his thoughts before he continued, "I run a school about three leagues north west of here." "That must be the army camp I saw yesterday on my way here," Tara blurted out. "Actually, it's a Citadel containing a school," Morion corrected her. In any case, Lana came to my school four years ago. She was very young, but she had potential and money, so she became one of my students. For almost two years, she was trained in methods of fighting and fitness. She was always a very good learner, but she was also always a trouble maker. Every chance she had, she would travel here to drink. Always a fight would break out. Always more men were killed. One night Lana--" Morion stopped a moment, his emotions catching up to him, but it quickly passed. "I do not train my students to kill for no reason. I expelled Lana from my school." "She sounds terrible." "She's not bad to everyone. Just those who cannot help her. Actually, she can be a very nice, sweet girl when she wishes it so, but I think she is too full of hate." "What's wrong with her? I mean, how could a girl do anything like that?" "I'm not sure," Morion said thoughtfully, "but when she was drunk one night, she told me she never knew her father, and her mother was a serving wench at one of the local inns who used to take men--" Morion cut off the thought. "How old are you?" "Seventeen." "You look older. Let's just say Lana had a very rough childhood." As Morion finished his story, they arrived at the Lame Duck Inn. "You will be safe now. Please don't travel after dark without an escort again." "I won't. Thanks again." Then as Morion started to leave, Tara pulled some gold out of the pouch around her waist. "Please take this as a reward for you help. I can't give you much, but--" "No thank you," Morion interrupted. "I could not accept money for an act of kindness." "Please take it," Tara pleaded. "No!" Morion growled, spinning on his heel and walking quickly away into the dark. Tara was confused by his reaction, but she shrugged her shoulders and put the coins away before heading into the inn for the night. Tara was up early the next morning, eager to get started for Dargon. After she had saddled up Boxter and given Zed something to eat, she was ready to go. Making sure she hadn't forgotten anything, she rode out of the stables, and found a cloaked rider blocking her path. Tara tried to ride around, but the rider grabbed the reins of her horse, pulling Tara up short. "Let me go," Tara demanded, raising her head defiantly. The rider let loose a defiant laugh. Then, as Tara's face grew perplexed, the rider said in a feminine voice, "So, they spoke truthfully. I do have a twin." With that, the rider pulled her cloak away from her head. Tara gasped. She was looking an image of herself in the other saddle. "I hope you have had fun, Sister." "I don't know what you mean," Tara replied, trying to pull the reins away from the rider. "You have done quite a job of ruining Lana's good name in Tench. It's all over town that I couldn't defend myself last night. The story claims I had to have some man save me." Lana made an ugly face, and then she spit, as if the words had left a bitter taste in her mouth. "Now every horny, drunk, or greedy man will think he can treat me as he would any other woman. My reputation was all I had, and it was much too valuable to allow some miserable little girl with a nose like mine to destroy it in one night!" "But it wasn't my fault," Tara explained. "I told them they were making a mistake." Lana seemed not to hear. "Do you know what I'm going to do, Sister?" she asked in her sweet voice. "I'm going to cut off your head and hang it from my saddle. Then people will know I am Lana, the Snake, to be feared." Tara was frightened now and looked desperately around for help, but although a few people had gathered to watch, none looked willing to get involved. Franticly, Tara tried to pull the ruins away. Lana held the reins tight and casually planted a foot in Tara's chest, knocking her to the ground and letting loose another laugh. As Tara lay on the ground, desperately trying to catch her breath, Lana jumped down beside her. Then she grabbed Tara by the hair and yanked her to her feet. "You really are a wretched little creature," Lana told her, pulling on Tara's hair to keep her off balance. "You don't deserve to wear my face, do you?" Tara just whined. She felt like her scalp was bleeding where her hair was being pulled. Lana didn't seemed satisfied, and she pulled harder. "I asked you a question, Sister." Tara let out another yelp of pain, and then she managed to reach up and claw Lana's face. "You little bitch," Lana swore, letting go of the hair and reaching for her sword. Tara backed away, dizzy from the pain, and grabbed her own sword from where it had fallen. "Good. At least you are woman enough to die honorably." Then Lana stepped forward and casually flipped her wrist, knocking the sword out of Tara's hand. "And you will die," Lana taunted her before almost leisurely swinging her sword in a horizontal line across Tara's belly. Tara was trying to move out of the way when the sword grazed across her stomach, just below her breasts, and she tripped and fell over backwards. Although the pain from the cut was terrible, the amount of blood oozing down her ribs told Tara she wasn't hit bad enough to kill her. She looked frantically about for her sword, spying it a few feet away, but she never had a chance to get to it. Lana had grabbed her by the hair again, pulling her up enough to expose her throat. Apparently, she was going to make good on her original threat. Then, Tara heard a low, gutteral sound as something flashed by her face. Lana let go, and Tara rolled away, hearing Lana cursing and fighting. Tara managed to sit up enough to look over and saw that Lana was on her back, her sword several feet away, and she was trying in vain to fend off the attack of a large furry animal. It was Zed. Lana managed to pull out her dagger and swiped at the Shivaree. she missed her mark, but did manage to take off an ear, which put Zed into a complete fury. He mutilated Lana's arm, and she dropped the dagger, crying out in pain. Then she felt the bones in her shoulder crush as Zed worked his way, biting, toward the throat. "Stop him, help me! Call him off!" Lana was pleading for her life now, and Tara had recovered enough to call to Zed. At first, he continued to maul Lana, but then, when Tara called again, he sprang back, growling, blood dripping from his mouth. Tara never dreamed Zed could do anything like that. She called him again, and he trotted over to her as if nothing had happened. Lana was still alive. She was covered with blood, and her left arm, which was her fighting arm, was almost shredded. With her right hand, Lana pushed herself up to a sitting position. Tara walked over to help her, but Lana fended off the assistance with a menacing gesture. "Get away from me, you slut," she growled, dragging herself to her feet. Then she hobbled over to her sword and dagger, leaving a trail of blood. After getting her weapons, Lana turned towards Tara, "This is not the end, Sister. You will not live to see the Spring, and the next time we meet, your animal will not be able to save you." Then Lana pushed her way through the crowd and was gone. The crowd that had formed to watch the fight had not dispersed, but were shuffling in closer to Tara. Many of them seemed troubled by the outcome and several were glaring at her. Tara was shaking now, and all she wanted to do was to get away. She was still bleeding, and so was Zed, but she knew she couldn't stay here. She managed to fight off the pain long enough to lift both her and Zed to the saddle. Then, with a touch of her heels to Boxter's sides, she found her way through the crowd to the edge of town. Tara dismounted and found her old tunic, which she tore into bandages. She tied the large one around her torso, and she used some of the smaller strips to bandage Zed's head. It was not a very good job, but it would serve to stop the bleeding until she made camp that night. Once again, Tara heaved herself and Zed back on to the horse, and they headed out of town. As Tara struggled in the early morning sun to fight off the pain and dizziness just to stay in the saddle, she made a wish for the rest of her journey to be much less eventful. -Glenn R. Sixbury <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Glasmelyn Llaw Part Five: The Problem Je'en followed Maks, who followed Cefn, up the spiral stairs of the fifth and tallest turret. Previous turret rooms had been outfitted as sun rooms, studies, or libraries, but the last one they came to was very different. Cefn recognized various trappings that indicated it had once been a laboratory, but it no longer served that function. The walls were draped in heavy, black cloth, covering the windows that certainly pierced the outer wall of the turret. But it wasn't dark here, either. The same pallid green light filled this room, and the source was obvious: the thing that sat on the massively built table in the center of the room. The sight of the thing on the table obviously confirmed all of Cefn's suspicions, but Je'en and Maks' attentions were drawn to the two figures in the room. Against one wall, a low table had been draped with some sort of silvery cloth, and a black candle and holder had been placed at each corner. On that table, naked and lying supine, was a lovely young woman who Maks' moan told Je'en had to be Syusahn. She was breathing very shallowly, and her skin seemed to be very pale, although that was hard to truly tell in the strange light. Standing by the table, near Syusahn's head, was the shadow of a young man, or something like a shadow. It had the form of a medium height, thin, red-haired man, wearing a strange clothes, but it was translucent - they could see the covered wall through the figure. Maks' moan attracted the attention of the shadow-man, and it turned to face the three intruders. Je'en nearly flinched from the raving madness in the washed-out grey eyes. When it spoke, its voice was like a whisper, but it echoed strangely in the room, so all could hear. "So, more new friends brought to me by my Hand? The woman one can stay, but you two must flee, or I will not like you, and you will die. Ha ha! Two women ones! So long alone, and now two woman ones. When the short one has joined me out of her body, then it will be your turn, masked one. "Well, you two, what are you waiting for? Get out! I think I don't like you. You better get out, before my Hand kills you!" Maks had not stopped staring at his love on the table, and at the shadow's words, he made to charge the shadow, and rescue Syusahn. But, Cefn flung out an arm across both Je'en and Maks' path, and urged them to take a step back. He said quiet enough for only their ears, "I know what is going on now. Have either of you ever heard of the Glasmelyn Llaw? Je'en gasped at the name, but Maks shook his head. Cefn said, "Long ago, a very powerful wizard enchanted the tower he had built to protect him from his jealous peers. But, the spell was too good. It protected him from everything, including age. I think that that shadow man over there is the magician Tarlada. "Over the years, the tower had been doing its job. But, at some point, something happened, and it began to spread its influence. The vines outside are the tower's way of taking control of the forest - they are its link to the land around it. And, it is spreading. "That object on the table is the focus of the enchantment, almost the brain of the tower. If we can destroy it, we can both get Syusahn away from that poor madman, and free the forest from the encroaching evil. Stand back." Je'en and Maks took another step back as Cefn pointed his wand at the thing on the table. It looked like a cross between the tower, a man, and (perhaps) a tree. It was ugly, and glowed a bright and sickly pulsing green, and thin little green and blue and yellow strands of itself grew from it, across the table, and down into the floor. Je'en had been frantically trying to recall the tale of the Emerald Hand, because she had a nagging sensation that Cefn was making a big mistake by attack the core directly. But, she didn't want to say anything, because he was, after all, the mage of the team. Finally, just as a bolt of light pulsed along Cefn's wand and flashed at the thing on the table, Je'en remembered. There was another tale that concerned the exact same spell as the one in use here which told of the only way to defeat the spell - and what Cefn had just done wasn't it. Cefn's wand began to build up a charge again, even before the first had hit its target. Je'en shouted "NO!!", causing the wizard to flinch. The bolt fired while the wand was pointed at Tarlada. The first bolt hit the thing on the table. The thing pulsed brighter as it did, and then kept getting brighter and brighter. The oppressive atmosphere got worse, and Je'en knew that the presence was finally aware of them. Then, the second bolt passed through the shadow Tarlada, and the thing began to glow with an eye-searing brilliance. And a sound began, a subtle vibration at first, but getting louder by the second. It sounded like the tower was roaring, and that sound frightened Je'en. She said, "Run! We cannot stop it now - we don't have the proper materials. Run - it knows we are here and intend to hurt it!" And she followed her own advice, turning and heading for the stairs. Maks, though eager to rescue his love from what was sure to be a horrid fate, especially for one of the Wind Riders, also had an instinctive fear of magic. So, he followed Je'en without question. Je'en reached the stairs, and went down three risers before noticing two things. The first was a horrible pressure on her head. No, it was not on her head, but on her mind - she could feel the essence of the tower trying to take command of her mind. And, when she turned around to see if the other two were in the same difficulty, she saw that Cefn hadn't moved. She was about to turn back to get him, when she saw a ripple of light cover him, and when it was gone, there was a flakey stone statue of him in his place. Her eyes went wide, and then she began to run again, Maks still at her heels. The pressure in her mind was getting worse, and she began to recite the first and second Measures of the first Apprentice Bard lesson to try and fight it off. She seemed to be successful - at least she was still running, and not a stone statue. They reached the sixth floor, and headed for the next set of stairs. Je'en was very occupied with trying to keep the tower out of her mind, but she managed to notice something odd about the statues around the room. First, several were missing. And, another was moving. She watched as an inert statue began to shimmer, and then turn into a man. But, before he could raise his sword, he shimmered again, and fell to dust. One by one, the other statues in the room came to life, then fell into dust. As she passed those pedestals she had noted as being empty, she saw the little mound of dust that was all that was left of them. Je'en and Maks hurried down the stairs past the fifth, fourth, and third floor, catching glimpses of powdering statues as the went, as the tower tried to use previous victims to snare the two remaining interlopers. As they reached the head of the stairs to the second floor, one of the statues that flanked it came to life, but it didn't disintegrate. As it happened, it was one of the younger and more fit of the gypsies that the tower had captured earlier, and now, with a vacant stare, and a menacing sword, he tried to attack. Je'en was startled to see the statue come back to life properly, but she was so keyed up trying to escape that her reaction was instinctive. Her sword came up swiftly, engaged the gypsy's in a bind, and then riposted right into his heart. She was halfway down the stairs before the body hit the ground. There were two more "alive" statues to be taken care of, but they posed little problem to one with Je'en's reflexes and will to stay alive. When they reached the first floor, the door was still open, and they could see the vines that lined the path waving and thrashing madly, some even reaching blindly into the tower, feeling for their prey. Je'en took several seconds to get out her cutting knife, and then had an idea. She dragged a table under the chandelier, and climbed up on it. She could just reach the oil reservoirs, and she was happy to find that they were not fixed to the frame (for easier refilling), and also that they were full. She took several down, and handed them to Maks. Then, she hastily lit one of the wicks with a spark-striker, and went to the door. Dodging out of reach of the thrashing vines, she took one of the reservoirs and hurled it out onto the left-hand vine-wall. Then, she threw another onto the right wall, making sure that the oil scattered. Then, she lit one, and threw it to the right, and another to the left, causing the oil already on the vines to catch fire. She was gratified to see that the vines weren't fireproof as both walls flared up, the flames eating up the vines like they were kindling. The tower howled, almost as if in pain, and the vines stopped darting around, and tried to beat out the flames, which only caught them on fire. Maks and Je'en waited for the right moment, and then dashed between the flaming walls of vines, unhindered except for the danger of the fire, and the heat it generated. When they reached the forest, Je'en turned to look back at the tower. She saw the vines at the edge of the clearing begin to pull back from the forest itself, creating a firebreak. As the vines retreated from the forest, she also noticed that there were several mounds that ran along the ground from the tower to the trees. They looked like mole tunnels, or maybe shallow roots - and she knew that even without the surface vines, the tower was still in contact with its forest. She began to run again while the tower was busy trying to put out the fires at its base. Part Six: Solution Maks and Je'en slashed their way madly through the vine-infested part of the forest, and managed to reach their horses in under a day. Then, by pushing the horses and themselves to the limit and a little bit beyond, Maks and Je'en managed to reach Dargon in three more days. When Maks complained about the pace, Je'en just reminded him of the fate that was creeping closer to his love every minute that they were away from the tower. That made him shut up and hurry on in silence for a long while. She had plenty of time to think as they rode dangerously fast through the forest. She wasn't exactly sure of the fate of Cefn, but having seen him turned to stone, she figured that he would be safe for a while. After all, those of the gypsies that had been petrified had been alive when turned back - those that had turned to dust had just been statues too long, she hoped, and the tower couldn't truly prolong their existence so far past their time of dying. She fully intended to rescue Cefn long before he reached that limit. She knew exactly what she had to do to destroy the tower. The tale she had remembered told of something called 'prenia' which acted as an antidote, almost, to the specific kind of magic that had given a pseudo life to the tower. The only problem was that she had no idea just what prenia was, or even what it looked like. She could only hope that someone in Dargon did. Pausing only long enough for a proper meal and bath when they arrived in Dargon, both Je'en and Maks began to scour the city for anyone who knew of prenia. They searched everywhere, in the markets, on the docks, in the business district, everywhere they could think of - and no one had so much as a clue to the identity or whereabouts of the thing called 'prenia'. Two days passed in their search for the mysterious element they needed, and they were both getting desperate. Then, Je'en had an idea. The secretary in Kroan's office knew Je'en, and admitted her with no trouble into his office. They hadn't seen each other in a while, and they greeted each other warmly. Je'en introduced Maks to her brother, and then they got down to business. Je'en told Kroan why Maks had come to her and Cefn (whom Kroan had met several times, and liked). And then, of what they had found in the tower, and what had happened to Cefn, and what was happening, hopefully very slowly, to Syusahn. And lastly, of the thing called prenia that would save them both. "I hope you know what it is," said Je'en, "because no one else in this town does." Kroan searched his memory, but found nothing. He called in one of his employees, an inventory clerk, and asked the young man to quickly ask around about prenia. While the youngster carried out his errand, Je'en and Kroan talked trivially to pass the time. Finally, almost an hour later, the clerk returned to Kroan's office bearing no good news - no one in the employ of Fifth I knew what prenia was, either. Je'en sighed, and wondered what to do next as she rose to leave. Then Kroan said, "Wait, Sis. Did you talk to the local physician yet? His name is Aardvard Factotum, and he lives a little way from town to the east. He has the most knowledge in the area about things magical and/or ancient." The man's name hadn't come up before, but Je'en had heard that he was competent if a little ostentatious. She also knew that he was unlikely to part with any information he had for free, so, after thanking her brother for the lead, she went to the moneylender where she kept her savings and withdrew almost all of what she had left, converting the disparate currencies into gold marks. And then, with Maks still following her, they rode off to Aardvard's cottage. Ostentatious suited Aardvard and his home to a tee. Displays of his wealth were everywhere, and the cottage itself was almost a small villa. Je'en hoped that Aardvard was as knowledgeable as he was rich. They were admitted to a large sitting room by Aardvard's servant, Hansen, who then departed with Je'en's request of an audience with the physician. Hansen didn't return for a long time, and Je'en recognized the ploy from her years in Court circles. Maks, however, was not so learned, and he was pacing restlessly, fingering the various objects that adorned the tables, and wall shelves of the sitting room. He almost dropped a small, delicate china mouse when Hansen finally did return, saying, "Excuse me, m'lord and m'lady, but Aardvard will see you now." With a frown at the sheepish Maks, who had returned the mouse to its shelf, Hansen led the way through the house to Aardvard's receiving room. Je'en studied the man sitting with his back to the only window in the room as she and Maks were offered seats, and then glasses of what looked and smelled like a delicate red wine, but which tasted, at least to Je'en, like grape-flavored water. Aardvard Factotum was as richly garbed as was his home, and he had the look of a rich man about him - well fed, a little slothful, perhaps even a little bored. But his eyes were keen and intelligent, so that Je'en wasn't quite sure how much of what she saw was a front that he put on for his rich clients. The physician said, "So, what can I do for you, Je'lanthra'en and Maks of the Gold Rim tribe?" Maks couldn't hide the astonished look on his face when Aardvard addressed him by his full name - neither he nor Je'en had given so complete an introduction to Hansen. Je'en, however, was amused by Aardvard's tactics, and kept a straight face. She said, "We heard of your widely renowned knowledge, and we have a question to ask you. Do you know of something called 'prenia'?" Aardvard's eyes narrowed, and he took a few puffs on his scrimshaw pipe. "What might you be needing with such a thing, my dear?" he finally said. "There is a tower to the south and west of here called Glasmelyn Llaw. Long and long ago, a wizard enchanted it, and since then, that enchantment has begun to go awry. The tower is beginning to take over the whole forest. Prenia is the only thing that can stop it - and save our two friends, who have been caught by the tower. If you have any information about prenia, or even better actually have some, we are willing to pay for it." Aardvard got crafty at the mention of money. He said, "How much?" "As much as you want, healer. It is very important to us, far more important that a few gold marks. Can you help us?" "Perhaps. I think I have a book in my library that refers to this - what was it, 'pranya'? But I'm not all that sure..." Je'en pulled the pouch of gold from inside her cloak, and spilled it out on the table. "It's 'prenia', healer, and is it worth thirty marks to you?" "My, my, thirty marks is rather a lot for just a tiny bit of information, isn't it. Here, keep ten, and I'll go get my books." Aardvard quickly scooped up twenty marks, and hurried out of the room. By the time Je'en had stowed the remainder of her gold within her cloak, Aardvard had returned. bearing three large, musty tomes. He placed them on a table to one side of the room, and began leafing through them. Je'en rose, and peered over his shoulder. He seemed about to snap at her to stop it at one point, but perhaps the size of the payment cooled his temper, for he just turned back to the books silently. He found what he was looking for in the first book, and, using some notations in the margin, quickly found what he wanted in the other two. He turned to Je'en, and said, "As, I thought I was right. Prenia is an ancient term for what we now call ice-wood. Its a kind of tree that has no color at all: you can see right through it. I'm afraid its very rare, though. I've never even seen a piece - its very, very valuable." "Ice-wood. Yes, I've heard of that - I've even seen it used as jewelry in the south." Je'en frowned. "Well we now know what to look for. Thank you, Master Factotum. I was sure you could help us. Good bye." She and Maks retraced their way through the house, and back to where their horses were tethered. Aardvard looked after them for a moment, then went to stow away the gold. He briefly wondered if it had been fair to take such a high price - but, she had offered it. Je'en went straight back to her brother's office when they got back to Dargon. If anyone would have something as rare as ice-wood, it would be a large merchant firm, and if Fifth I didn't have any, then Kroan would know who did. "We found what prenia is - ice-wood. Does Fifth I have any stored away anywhere?" Again, Kroan had to search his memory, but this time, he found what he was looking for. "Yes, we do! But, gods, Je'en, do you know what that stuff costs?" "I have a pretty good idea, Kroan. But, I have no choice. Ice-wood is the only thing that will save Cefn and Syusahn. And we need enough to make two small cages. I'll find some way to pay for it, but I need it now. Please, Kroan, please..." Kroan was not a ruthless merchant, and he knew that his sister was sincere. So, he said, "It will take a little time. I'll bring it to your house, Je'en, in about two hours. Okay?" Je'en hugged her brother. "Fine. We'll be waiting. See you." As they walked their horses back to Je'en house, Maks asked, "Why do we need two cages? There is only one core up in that room." Je'en said, "I know, but we have to increase our chances of success. You felt the pressure as we were trying to escape, didn't you? I don't know why the tower was 'asleep' when we approached before, but it is sure to be awake and aware when we return. And, it will know that we are enemies. I think we can sneak into the tower, but the closer to the top room, and the core, we get, the harder it will try to capture or kill us. "Because we are going in, and not out, it is going to be even harder to resist the influence of the tower. There is a good chance that, if you concentrate on Syusahn, you will be able to get through. I...I'm not quite as sure about myself. So, we will have two cages, one for each of us, so that whoever reaches that thing will be able to nullify it." All Maks could say in reply was, "Oh." By the time Kroan arrived at Je'en's house, both she and Maks were pacing. Je'en was getting more and more worried. What she had told Maks was the simple truth. She knew that his love for Syusahn was great enough to sustain him through whatever mental influences that the tower might throw at him. But, she had no such anchor, or at least not such a strong one. Cefn was - well, a possibility. She was extremely fond of the wizard, and perhaps more, but there was no certainty, even within herself, much less between the two of them. So, she would have to rely solely upon herself to carry her through the attacks of the tower to rescue Cefn. Kroan was carrying a large, iron, well-locked box when he knocked on Je'en's door. He opened it, using three keys, and two secret levers, in her living room, revealing a much smaller cavity within that was full of four to six inch long twigs of wood that were transparent. They did indeed look like ice sculptured to look like wood. Je'en was sure that the box contained a kingdom's ransom of prenia. He also produced two spools of silver wire, and then set to work with Je'en and Maks to build two cages, each a foot high, and eight inches deep, with open bases. The silver wire served well to hold the ice-wood pieces together, and was sturdy enough to help the cages to keep their shape without a lot of wasteful cross-bracing. When the cages were completed to Je'en's satisfaction, there was still enough ice-wood in the box to make, perhaps, a third. Kroan locked the chest back up, kissed his sister good bye, shook Maks' hand, wished them both luck, and left. Je'en said, "We had better get some rest. We leave tomorrow, as early as possible." Part Seven: Rescue Je'en and Maks could feel the awareness of the tower as soon as they saw the first of the vines. The sense of an actively malicious presence was acute, and the vines themselves were far more active than they had been before. It was difficult, but not impossible, to move at speed through the vine-forest. In about half a day, though, they had reached the point where it was impossible to keep going with the horses. So, they dismounted, secured the four horses, and went on on foot. Je'en didn't want to further alert the tower to their presence by cutting through the vines, so, after a little survey work, she and Maks took to the trees, traveling branch to branch up above the ground where the vines were much less thickly interwoven. By sunset of the day they left their horses, Je'en and Maks reached the tower. There was still enough light to notice the changes their previous escape had caused - mainly the absence of the matting of vines that no longer surrounded the tower. Apparently, it learned from its mistakes. Je'en could see that it had re-grown the vines that had been burned away, but now they grew straight down the wall, and into the ground. They had come upon the tower directly across the clearing from the door, and Je'en was surprised and happy to see that the door had apparently burned away with the vines - all that was left of it was melted hinges, and some of the other fittings lying in the ashes on the ground. Fifty feet separated them from the open doorway, and Je'en could feel the presence of the tower already beginning to weigh on her mind, though it didn't yet realize that they were there. She signaled to Maks, and they both unlimbered weapons and the expensive ice-wood cages. Maks helped her attach her cage to the bracer on her right wrist - she hoped that she didn't forget and try to use the bracer to block a sword-blow if there were any animateable statues left within. Then, at another signal, they both began sprinting toward the tower. Almost immediately, vines began to spring up out of the ground and catch at their ankles. Je'en almost tripped several times, but managed to keep her balance and footing, and keep on. Neither stopped running when they reached the door and entered the tower, but headed directly for the stairs. Je'en noticed in passing that the fire had been carried into the main room, and very little was left. It seemed that the tower didn't have a very effective fire-fighting system. Nothing physical hindered them inside the tower, but by the time they reached the third floor, Je'en could feel the pressure on her mind becoming almost unbearable already. She stumbled once on a step, but recovered and kept on climbing. The little concentration tricks that she had been taught as a bard helped, but the pain grew too great by the fifth floor, and she had to go on to something else. She continuously glanced at Maks, who was still following her. There was a faraway look in his eyes, but it was a look of concentration, not the look of possession. They had both slowed down, now climbing the stairs to the sixth floor at little more than a walk, and both beginning to sweat from the effort of moving against the will of the tower, but Maks seemed to be having the better time of it. A sword flashed in Je'en's line of vision, and reflexes alone moved her own up in time to block it. She focused on her gypsy attacker, wondering how or why the tower had kept one in reserve. She attacked back, very glad that the man was very young, and not a swordsman. Though her movements were slowed by the tower, the gypsy was slower, and in two strokes, Je'en had disarmed him, and then disabled him with the flat of her blade on his temple. Then she dropped her sword, and began ascending the fifth turret's stairs, pulling herself along the wall with her good arm. Maks followed, oblivious of everything around him, his mind set on Syusahn who was being slowly robbed of her body in the room at the top of the turret. Je'en tried to concentrate on Cefn, just a statue, fated to be kept here and to be used against further intruders until the time when he would be reanimated, and fall to dust. It helped her, that image, but she still had to struggle, clawing her way up the winding stairs one at a time, with the tower beating incessantly at her mind. By the time the topmost room came into view at the top of the stairs, Je'en and Maks were moving very slowly, with long pauses between movements. Je'en's mind was moving in tiny circles, thoughts moving at random, her body moving automatically. The pain was intense, crippling, and only the briefly glimpsed images of Cefn that she had created before, but which she didn't understand anymore, kept her moving at all. Finally, with a sense of achievement that managed to pull her fragmented consciousness back together, Je'en reached the top step, and pulled herself into the top room. Little had changed here, unlike outside. Tarlada-shadow still stood next to the table where Syusahn lay, and the statue of Cefn was still in the room, though it had moved against one wall. But, the thing on the table was pulsing even more brightly now, and there was a throbbing that coincided with its pulsing that sounded a lot like a heartbeat. She began to advance on the table, as slowly as she had climbed the stairs. Tarlada turned at the sound of her boots plodding across the floor, and he said, "Ah, the masked one returns! Good. Good. See, the short one is almost ready - I can free you very soon." Je'en looked at the low table, and saw that Tarlada was right. Syusahn was even paler than before, and her limbs almost seemed to be as transparent as Tarlada. She took another step toward the table, and looked for Maks. The gypsy was there, right behind her, still gazing off into nothingness, but his face had screwed up into a fierce mask of concentration. His steps were as slow as hers, but Je'en could sense that his determination to free his love was far stronger than her's to stay alive and free Cefn. Advancing a step at a time, she neared the thing on the table. Tarlada began screaming at Maks and her after they removed the cloths that had covered the ice-wood cages. Je'en's cage had taken up the greenish glow of the core, and it began to glow on its own. She hoped it was supposed to do that. The tower redoubled its efforts to halt Je'en and Maks, causing Je'en to cry out, and slow down. She could almost see the waves of force directed at her form the core. She could feel each one as it hit her body and sent lances of pain into her head. When she couldn't take any more standing up, she went to her knees, and pulled herself along. But, Maks never wavered, and kept going. Then, just a few more feet from the table, Je'en felt her control slip. Just for an instant, but it was enough. She was reaching out her arm to pull herself along another few inches, when she found she couldn't move. Her head was up enough to see the table, and Maks, but she could no longer make any movement, not even to blink her eyes. Maks, though, was still plodding along, step by step closer to the thing. The statue of Cefn was within her range of vision, and as Maks reached the edge of the table, she saw it come to life. The wand in his hand was still raised, and it pointed at the table. But, somehow his cowl had been lowered, and just as his body returned to flesh, and the wand began to glow, Cefn screamed, and covered his eyes with both hands, dropping the wand which ceased to glow. Maks raised his left hand, which was holding the cage, with the same slowness he had moved. Now, his eyes were focused on something - the table against the wall, and the attenuating Syusahn. Sweat was streaming down his face, and his dark tunic was visibly wet from the perspiration that ran down his body, but still he moved. Enough of the wizard remained in Tarlada to recognize the composition and purpose of the cage that was nearing the core. The shadow man finally moved from his position by Syusahn's table, but he moved as slowly as Maks did. Curses streamed from his mouth, alternately directed at Maks and the tower itself. The core responded by glowing even brighter, and the waves of force it was sending out really did become visible. Je'en saw them hitting Maks, making him stagger a little or flinch, but they couldn't stop him. The waves got thicker, and hit harder, but Maks was almost finished what he had to do. The cage was finally directly over the core, and, as the waves of force began to draw blood as they struck the gypsy, Maks began to lower it over the core. Je'en watched, motionless and free of pain, as the cage slowly settled into place. She saw the waves being cut off as they struck the ice-wood of the cage as it covered more and more of the core. Slowly, with Tarlada beating his shadow fists ineffectually on Maks, and Cefn recovering enough to slip his cowl back on properly, the cage trapped more and more of the core's essence. And, just as Cefn was groping for his wand, ready to make a last ditch defense of his master the tower, the cage touched the table. When it did, the whole ice-wood construct flared a deep, healthy blue, and rays of light joined the base points of the cage, enclosing the core completely. Then, blue light bridged the open spaces between the lattices of the cage, rapidly enclosing the core in a solid form of blue light. As the last opening filled in with light, the whole tower shuddered, and screamed. Tarlada, getting even more transparent, added his thin voice to the noise, and then Je'en was so suddenly and completely free that she collapsed. Relief washed over her - relief that she was able to move, and free of pain, and relief that the spell on the tower was finally broken. She picked herself up slowly, and looked around. She saw the blue box of light on the table, and noticed the vines that had connected the core to the floor of the room were shriveling away, having been severed from the core. She saw Maks, still bloody, over by Syusahn, who was still pale, but no longer fading in the extremities. And, she saw Cefn slumped against the wall, also surveying the room. After resting up a few minutes, she stood up, and went over to Cefn. "Are you all right?" she asked. "I think so. It was strange, though, to be in the control of the tower like that. Just a momentary confusion, and it had me. And then, I could see and hear, but not move. Even when I was attacking you two, I couldn't feel myself move. The tower did it all. "Well, think we should see about Maks and Syusahn?" She helped him up - he seemed to be very weak, but otherwise okay. They went over to the table where Maks was trying to wake Syusahn up. Cefn knelt down beside Maks, and checked the girl's pulse. Then he said, "She'll be fine, but I suspect she needs a lot of rest. Je'en, if she could borrow your cloak..." When Syusahn was bundled up, Maks turned to the cage with the core in it. "What about that thing?" he asked. "Will it be safe there, or do we have to do something else?" Je'en said, "Once the cage is closed, nothing can open it again. The ice-wood will slowly leach away the magic in the core, and when it is all gone, it will disintegrate, along with the core. We have done all that needs to be done." "Good," said Cefn. "Let's get out of here." Maks carried Syusahn, and they all began descending the many stairs of the tower. On the fourth floor, one of the shelves standing next to a wall caught Je'en's attention. She detoured over to it, and stared in open-mouthed amazement at what was there. She said, "Cefn, Maks, come look at this." They were both as astonished as she was, but for different reasons. Set up for display was an exquisitely carved King's Crown game set. The board was made of dark, polished wood, with inlaid squares of what looked like some kind of ivory, and triangles of some lavender colored stone. One set of pieces were carved from what was probably sapphire, but the most astonishing thing about the set to Je'en was what the other set of pieces was carved from: firestone. Each delicately carved piece had an ember of fire imbedded deep within it, and she knew that that flame would respond to the touch by flaring up and filling the whole figure with fire. Maks ogled the storage boxes for each set of pieces. They were each made of the same material as their pieces, but they were lined with ysgafn, a kind of soft stone that was a perfect cushion for the valuable game pieces. And Cefn, alone among them, recognized who had made the set - a Master craftsman from ages and ages ago, whose work was very rare and highly prized. Je'en began picking up the firestone pieces, and putting them away. Maks followed suit with the jade ones, and found that they reacted just like the firestones, glowing palely as he touched them. Je'en said, "I wonder if Tarlada knew what a treasure this is. Well, he won't be needing this now, will he. I think that this will do nicely in lieu of a fee, Maks - it'll help Cefn and I through the lean winter months." Maks just smiled, and continued to help her pack. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb Leaving on Vacation Jim Owens *Spirit of the Wood: 5 Rich Jervis Ceda the Executioner: 4 Joel Slatis Choice of Heart Jim Owens Date: 020387 Dist: 259 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, I know you've all been anxiously waiting for VOL7N02, and here you are. Inside you'll find two shorts from Jim Owens as well as continuations of the Spirit of the Wood and Ceda series. I'm sure you'll be entertained. In VOL7N03 watch for the next (and very significant) installment in the Atros tale, as well as the beginning of another round of Dargon stories. Also, I'd like to welcome the large number of new readers who have signed up since Christmas. For those of you interested in back issues, several file servers maintain copies. SILMARIL at FINHUTC and TCSSERVE at TCSVM both maintain complete collections, CSNEWS at MAINE maintains several recent editions, as SERVER at TAMCBA maintains some of the most ancient issues. Thank you all, and enjoy! -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Leaving on Vacation "What!?" Tom stared down at his screen, his jaw hanging slack. "Was ist?" Jim looked over from his screen. "Problems?" "This thing just ate my files!" "Oh. That happens. Maybe Kitty got hungry. Every now and then it decides that you don't really exist, and that your whole processor is a boogum made by a rat to fool the operating system. So it eats it. Neat, huh?" Jim turned back to his screen. He was one of those types that read the specification manuals for the fun of it. "Wait! What about my files?" "Guess you'll just have to rewrite them." "Auuuggh!" Tom leaned back, rubbing his forehead. "I'm glad I'm leaving on vacation tomorrow. Maybe they'll have this fixed before I'm back." "What? And kill Kitty? They'd never do that! It'd cost money." House Kitty was the nickname the programmers had given to the operating system. Its real name was HOS/CTI, short for Heuristic Operating System / Collective Terminal Interface. Although most programmers still used rather choppy sentence structure, it was able to understand normal English, if there was such a thing. It was usually a very friendly system to work with, but the last update had a special addition. It was designed to deal with the problem of unauthorized system programs, or rats as they had been recently tagged. These were programs that crept into the system on communication lines. Kitty would hunt them, and delete them whenever it found them. It had a bug in it, however. It occasionally ate real programs. Fortunately the unintentional victims could usually be recovered. Tom typed in the commands to recover his. >cti recover last system deletion CTI: YOU HAVE INSUFFICIENT AUTHORITY.PLEASE NOTIFY SYSTEM OPERATOR He growled. Stupid machine. Of course he had sufficient authority. >cti restart virtual processor CTI: ARE YOU SURE? THE PRESENT PROGRAM STATE WILL BE LOST >cti yes, stupid A moment passed. CTI: THE WARM START IS COMPLETE >cti recover last system deletion CTI: THE LAST SYSTEM DELETION HAS BEEN RECOVERED Tom's screen cleared and then displayed the lost files. Tom sighed and went back to work. Later that day the group leader mailed Tom some last minute instructions concerning the project. The group was currently working on a payroll monitor, and Tom had been assigned to the protection schemes. Tom read the instructions, which mostly concerned error checks on the maintenance password, or back door. He then saved them. When he left the browse mode, however, and looked at his list of files, he was in for a nasty surprise. If one discounted the profanity, however, he didn't have much to say about the matter. Jim came over, wondering about the cause of this burst of loquacity. "All gone, eh? Guess Kitty got hungry again. Here let me try something. Maybe I can get it to stop eating your files." >cti purge processor state totally CTI: ARE YOU SURE? ALL DATA WILL BE LOST >cti yes CTI: THE PURGE IS COMPLETE >cti restart virtual processor CTI: ARE YOU SURE? THE PRESENT PROGRAM STATE WILL BE LOST >cti yes They waited. CTI: THE WARM START IS COMPLETE. NO FILES FOUND. ERROR IN LOGON Jim frowned. Sometimes these systems could get obstinate. Jim was stubborn himself, however. >cti hos vpg * 0000:0 0001<0000/FFFF "Take that!" Jim rapped the ENTER key viciously. The machine gave the visual equivalent of a convulsion. HOS: ACTIVE "You killed my Kitty!" Tom sounded almost hurt. "That'll teach 'er! Now we bring in a clone." >load cti HOS: LOAD COMPLETE >run CTI: GOOD AFTERNOON, TOM. HERE ARE YOUR FILES A list of all Tom's files spread across the screen. >cti set garbage collection on cont CTI: CONTINUOUS GARBAGE COLLECTION NOW ON "There. Now you shouldn't have any problems. That'll curb Kitty's hunger pains. That lets her come in and clear out the garbage regularly. That way she'll keep a current record of you at all times, and she won't mistake you for a rat." The next day Tom started off for Florida. His replacement sat down at Tom's usual terminal, and typed in the password off the card Tom had left him. He looked at the instructions Tom had left him, and a look of puzzlement entered his expression. Seeing this Jim came to the rescue. After reading the note, however, Jim merely walked off, chuckling. The temporary watched him, and then reread the message to see if he might understand. THE PASSKEY IS IN MY MAIL FILES. IF YOU HAVE ANY PROBLEMS GETTING IN, SEE MY NEIGHBOR JIM. HE'LL HELP YOU. CHECK THE BACK DOOR, EMPTY THE GARBAGE, AND DON'T FORGET TO FEED MY KITTY! -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Spirit of the Wood: Chapter 5 The sound of prowling animals awoke Loric the morning after his sister left. They scratched the bark around the base of the trees and called up to him. "Loric where is your song?" "Do you fear the dawn?" "Fear it more than others for today you die!" Shivers ran through him as he crouched on the wide limb that his home sat on. The time of his death had come! Perhaps they won't see me,I can stay here all day. But then Loric remembered who he was . He straightened up and looked down into the half-dark below him. "Go find another's bones to chew 'Speaker-for-animals', Loric Tolorion will die when his song is done and not a note sooner. Kha-vanth Tolos Andartha!" He spoke the ritual words of warding and shook loose some shelf- fungus, "Go eat your tails and gnaw on this!" he cried as he pitched the hard shell-like fungus down into the dark. His effort was rewarded with a snarl of outrage. "A special death for you, Tolorion-son, a slow, painful one." Then silence. Still shaking, Loric smiled grimly to himself. There will be no skins drying on Cid'shaa's Tree this morning. None of the Tolorion, that is. I wonder how I WILL die today? Stretched across a wasp's bole no doubt, after taunting the 'Speaker-for-animals' so boldly. There was no use in avoiding it, so he shook off his fears and went to meet the day. He said his prayer to the Spirit and just to prove himself added a new line that just occured to him; Spirit of the Wood, Spirit of the Wood I'd come be with you, If I could. The sun's a-risen and today I die, My spirit's awakened to you It flies. He leaped out to a vine nearby and absent-mindedly descended to the ground . I wonder if any of the others will die today, I've been so wrapped up in my own ordeals that I've forgotten that I'm not the only one trying to become a man this day. Jakul perhaps, Yione surely. He's never had a hard time doing anything. Loric walked the hard packed clearing in silence and wondered where the Downlander's were. He caught a movement on a path that led to the clearing where he and the other boys were tested for their knowledge of bush-craft. That's right! He thought to himself, there was still time to recover his kesh-blade from the pit before he died. If he could work it loose then it would be much easier to survive the Shreaving. A man could do anything once he had his kesh-blade. The forest would clothe him, feed him, protect him and receive him when his song was done, the Spirit willing, that is. With no more hesitation Loric padded swiftly and silently down the path and round an ancient Liamas tree to where the Pit was. The log on which Minial had sat while witnessing Loric was still there. And the Liamas bark rope he had fashioned was coiled up neatly around one limb. The smell of Liamas was everywhere and its heady aroma made Loric smile in remembrance of the fever he had when only four years old, and of Eadie's potions of Liamas bark and pond-scum. Eadie's hut was set by the river,where it would be a short walk for her to gather water. Not that she ever did menial work on her own, she always seemed to have four or five downlanders aiding her and doing her work. It was there that she kept the roots and herbs, poultices and potions, and it was there that she kept the Teline. Loric decided that teline was the only way he could manage to pull the kesh blade from it's bonding. He had seen men using the Teline when the limbs of several ice-laden trees had given away and fallen on the Downlanders huts. They had chewed the green stemed plant and it gave them the ability to move the heavy limbs and to think like many hands on the same arm. Loric's father had been on the nets freeing ice when that happened, and no amount of Teline could help him when he fell, his song was sung. With a shiver he went to Eadie's hut and listened, when no one appeared he went in and searched the many hanging vines and drying strings for the Teline. Dimly he was aware that somewhere within the forest the Downlander's were preparing for his death, and that of the other boys who would chance the Shreaving this day. Pushing the thought aside, he continued his search with determination. After a bit of frantic searching he found several small pieces wrapped in a waxy leaf from the copo tree. Hurrying back he avoided taking the direct paths. There was nothing wrong in his taking the teline; everything was there for those who wanted it,he just didn't want to die before he recovered his knife. Taking up the rope, Loric breathed a quick prayer and solidly anchored the rope to a limb on the log. He leaned out as far as he could and looked down into the dark hole of his last trial. The bottom was hidden in the early morning shadows but he could see the hilt of the kesh blade sticking out of the side right where he had left it. "Blade of my father, have you been lonely here in the soft earth? Or have the roots of your brethren kept you warm with talk of leaf and burr, nut and thorn?" Loric 'walked' himself down the side until he was level with the knife and took from his belt a short green stem of the Teline plant. It was kinked and had tiny hairs along the length of it. He broke off a small piece and chewed it briefly. When he felt a burning in his throat he double-wrapped his grip on the rope and then looped it around the ornate hilt of the knife. PULL,he thought to himself, pull! It was always hard to think when he chewed Teline. What it gave in strength, it took in reason. Until later when it took strength too. Loric felt the muscles in his neck go taut and his heart raced so loud he was sure that everyone in the village could hear it. He took large gulping breaths and felt a tightness in his chest. When his arms and legs twitched their need to be used he growled and pulled on the rope. He ground his teeth and tasted blood, for a wild moment he thought of his position and wished he hadn't chewed so much. Then the knife began to give, it made a slow sucking noise, reluctant to leave its earthen sheath. Loric spat on the wall and pulled all the harder, too far gone to notice the green-red spittle that ran down his chin. There was a groaning noise, then the sound of the blade sucking free of the earth. With a cry of triumph Loric straightened his back and held aloft the newly freed blade. Its resin-coated length gleamed darkly in the sunlight. Loric leaped out of the pit and dropped his rope unnoticed on the ground. In a moment he had run around the Liamas tree and then kicked the log into the hole with one foot. He felt a rush as part of him realized that he couldn't have moved the log normally and that he would have a large dark bruise on his heel to remind him for many days to come. He did four backward flips and flicked his knife at the Liamas tree in mid-spin. It struck the rough bark with such force that bits of bark went flying in all directions. He laughed uncontrollably at the sight and walked on his hands over to the tree. When dark ropey tendrils dropped on him from above he showed no outward concern, allowing them to envelope him completely. The morning light was cut off abruptly and his breath began to be squeezed from him from all sides. There was a sharp pain in the top of his head where the hard bony beak of the creature was biting him but he could give no resistance. He welcomed pain and howled his pleasure to the Spirit. "I marvel that I know no fear Spirit, I have lived as a Tolorion, and I am dying as a Tolorion! Eee-yoooo, a-yay!" Loric's cry of defiance did not go unheard, Cid'shaa was at hand and replied in a loud voice of cracking bone and booming drums. "You WILL fear Tolorion-son for I have sent a Devathma to consume you! I promised you a slow painful death and this you shall have! But as your spirit flies to join the Spirit of the Wood, be at peace. I will tell your brethren that you died with honor, like a man. Thus you will be borne anew, like a man! Darkness began to take Loric and the Teline started to wear off. He could not have called out if he had wanted to, and he did not. With a glad heart he went into the darkness...dying like a man! -Rich Jervis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 4 Cander peered nervously over the rail of the ship at the raging water. He had been sailing for over a weak and was not yet accustomed to the violent upheavals of the South Sea. He wore the special dark metal ring (that is commonly referred to as black gold) typical of Elven nobility on his pale hand which now held tightly to the railing. A light rain had manifested itself over the area that the ship was now sailing and was throwing the little vessel all over. Cander was a large strong bodied elf. He wore a dark cape that hung loosely about his stout figure effectively covering most parts of it. If it was possible, which at this point it wasn't, to see under the hood about his head, you would have seen signs of great sorrow. This elf was not at all pleased about something, and was on his way to let someone know about it. That someone was of course Ceda, who was at that very moment, half out of his wits in drunkenness about three hundred miles away in the remote city of Cramstrock. (This city lay up in the far North of No-Al Ben by the Icy Waters of Plime where Ceda was born.) It is then quite understandable, that after months of endless searching, and after finally finding Ceda who was at the time, numb from Cramstrockian wine, he was in an extremely bad mood. What had happened was this: Cander had found Ceda in the local tavern drinking with his father and the few friends that still remained loyal to him. He entered and demanded that Ceda come with him to the City of the Elves. One of Ceda's friends, who was not particularly fond of elves, let alone elven nobility (being a dwarf himself), remarked that the elf looked like his old grandmother. The elf, not very happy with the idea that he resembled the dwarf's grandmother, took it upon himself to teach the dwarf some manners. He picked up the jug of ale that sat in front of Ceda and dumped it all onto the head of the now very unhappy dwarf. Ceda, who did not like having his drink wasted, hit the dwarf in the stomach with a stool and the fight was on. Almost instantly after the first punch, everyone in the tavern was jumping in to help friend against friend; what a scene it was! Fortunately for the elf, all were drunk but he, so he waited until everyone had been beaten senseless by one another, and then he dragged Ceda off and hoisted him onto a horse, leaving for the Port City of Dhernis immediately. Ceda awoke the next morning to the sound of the market place in the heart of Caahah. He wasn't sure at all how he got there, for that matter, he wasn't even sure where 'there' was! The first thought that entered his mind was food, and lots of it. He got up and dressed and then looked around the room to see what he might find. All the elfs things were there, but he didn't remember that he had met anyone recently. Everything was strange to him. Many things were in the room, none his, and he didn't want whomever they belonged to to find him lying around their room. He opened the door and went into the tavern down stairs where Cander was sitting drinking a glass of wine. Cander turned and confronted him: "Good day, Ceda of No-Al Ben. You are a hearty sleeper! all the way from the shores of the Icy Waters of Plime!" The elf threw back his head in laughter. "I am Cander of Perstanie." Ceda walked over to the elf and grabbed him by the collar. "Who in Tavaar's name are you, and where might I be?" The elf choked, and his hand flew to Ceda's arm. The dark gold band upon the elf's finger caught Ceda's eye and he released his grip. "Rackins of the Elves has need of your presence," said the elf, as he fingered his neck. "It is a strange man that greets people in such a manner," joked the elf, trying to settle Ceda's temper. "And what is Rackin's wish with me after so many a month, for it has been since last October that I last lay eyes upon his noble face?" "And it is from November to March that I have sought your company. It is for the most part about evil tidings from the mountains in South. The dark creatures that dwell therein have gained control over the crown of Grobst D'arbo's and seek a way to destroy it." "About what crown do you speak? For that which I remember had since returned to the underworld. Be there two of these foul things?" said Ceda. "Nay, and you know this to be true," replied the elf. "For what purpose do you ask such foolish questions?" "If my memory does not fail yet, The demon that sought the crown had found the crown. You say that it has been won from him?" "The spell caster Merth has not revealed to me his thoughts, but he has summoned you to his palace in the City of the Elves, which in itself is an honor that rivals even the greatest of nonelven nobility. But as for now, haste is upon us, for I have wasted many months in searching and must not delay anymore with idle questions that will be answered in due time. Make haste now that you have awakened, for we ride for Dhernis!" "If it is Merth that seeks my presence, then I shall come, for it is probably of great importance if I am to be dragged from my home like a common thief. Let us make haste!" The elf disappeared for a moment through the doors that led to the upper rooms and returned with his things. Then they both left together and rode all that day for the port of Dhernis. They rode fairly quickly through the country of Ruirse, Ceda on a light brown horse supplied by the elf. "And what of your dragon mount, Melgon? I sought him before we left Cramstrock, but to no avail," said Cander. "Melgon has returned to Cergaan, though I know not how he did it without wings. He has been gone for fourteen days, and will remain gone for another moon," answer Ceda. "There comes a time each year that he departs without word nor warning, but he leaves message that it is to his home, far beyond the City of the Elves, that he goes." At that moment Ceda stopped his horse. He looked off to the far South Towards the high mountain peaks that rose in the distance as Cander rode up along side of him. From where they stood, the mountains were almost invisible being so far away. "We now ride for the Cliffs of Belos at the feet of the Sarshirian Mountains," he said at length. "Why?" cried the elf in dismay. "We must make the greatest of haste to the City of the Elves, and the Gate of Ploughdom that leads into the infested mountain and its dungeons and towers interests me not! I shiver at the thought of the foul stinking things that lie beyond the pass!" "And all the same, we will make for it and then for Dhernis. There is something afoot in those peaks. Methinks that it is best to look lest we miss the ranks of orcs marching foreword to war out of the Gate of Ploughdom unnoticed." "And if they are on the march," said Cander, "it is not this elf that wants to meet them on their way to whatever their destination. They have grown strong in numbers since the battle at the fortress of Num-deaon. And may Tavaar know what draws you to the borders of that deadly place?" "I know not what, but I sense that all is not well within the land of Gate. "I wish only to see if they have indeed passed through the border into Ruirse. It is not my motive to battle the entire orcish legions, or whatever other dark foes that Ileiruon may have brought forth from the abyss," said Ceda, "and it will lengthen our journey but a week." With that, he reared his horse to the South and rode down towards the Gate of Ploughdom. Further and further South they rode, passing the large forest of Carne to the East as the hours wore on. The mountains came up and met the sky in splendor with their snowy white peaks glittering in the sun. After five days of uneventful riding, they were only fifty miles from the closest of the Sarshirian mountains, called by the orcs and other evil creatures, Onibus, after the battle of Ploughdom 13,000 years before when Ileiruon's followers were lead to victory by a demon called Onibus. Men, Elves, Halflings, Dwarves and all other creatures in alliance with Sarve, had called the mountain Barnonoen, the name that was first given to it over 15,000 years before by the Old Folk that lived in the land before the first wave of evil swept over the continent from Cergaan. They passed the ruined castle of Nuum-Orron, brother fortress to Nuum-Deaon just visible against the Northwestern sky, and veered to the Southwest in order to meet the cliffs of Onibus (the cliffs were called Belos as a whole, but when referring to a certain area, they were called the cliffs of the mountain that they belonged to) a day's ride from the gate. The sky was growing steadily darker with clouds the closer they got, even though they were still a day's ride from the closest of the mountains. Clouds were coming up from the south and a cold wind was blowing harshly hampering their progress. They decided to return to the sheltered walls of Nuum-Orron for the night before they continued on to the gate. The castle was large and supposedly deserted for many years. They rode through the long open gate into the vast courtyard and to the far side where there was a door large enough to admit their horses. Ceda dropped from his mount and went to search the castle while Cander set up camp. When Ceda returned, Cander approached him. "I don't like this place, Ceda, It has a foul reek and the horses are uneasy about it." "The night air will offer no cover from the wind and the on coming rain clouds should they decide to spill on our heads, and it is foolish to risk camp outside so close the the threshold of Onibus and the Gate. I have looked around and have seen naught nor heard footfall, alas we may be safe the one night that we spend so close to the Dark Doorway!" answered Ceda, not at all pleased with the Elf for his timidness. "Then here we will stay, but I am against it all the same." And with that final word, Cander went to sleep leaving Ceda the guard. Early the next morning they were off, towards the dark figure of a mountain that loomed before them. The peaks now rose high above their heads into the clouds and out of sight. Every moment brought them closer to the dark opening that held so much terror for the Elf and wonder for Man. The nearer they got, the more the Elf seemed uneasy, but with good reason, the tales told of those that were held there, and by some luck escaped were horrifying. Tales told of the foul creatures that lived therein hewing off limbs of captives for pleasure. These thoughts did not comfort Ceda or his companion. Finally they reached the mountain's base and turned now toward the West to come to the gate riding in the shadows of the tall peaks to their left. All around the Borders of the Sarshirian mountains, steep overhanging cliffs towered up hundreds of feet. The only entrance was through the Gate of Ploughdom that the Dwarves of Psardon had made in centuries past. After another hour of riding, they approached the gate. It looked like any ordinary cave to them, a dark hole in the face of a large mountain side; but somehow, it seemed threatening, menacing almost. A pungent smell issued forth from the crack filling the air with an unholy odor of some vile creature or creatures. Ceda dropped from his horse and went forth. Cander started after and grabbed his shoulder. "Have you not seen enough? If they do not await your coming outside the Gate must you go forth and present yourself to them?" At that moment, four husky looking creatures dropped from a ledge in the cliff far above landing squarely on Ceda and Cander. Ceda was knocked to the ground under the weight of the beast and Cander fell from his mount with a heavy thud on the dry ground. Before any could draw their swords, they were both subdued and totally unable to move. Ceda saw one of the beasts strike Cander in the back of the head with a heavy club, and then he too felt a blow from behind and remembered nothing more about that day. Darkness followed in the days to come; wherever Ceda was, it was pitch dark and noisome. The smell was enough to drive a man to tears, and it took its toll on the prisoners. Ceda awoke to the same vile odor as before, but much nearer and stronger. His head hurt and he was very hungry. He was sprawled out on a flat surface in a pitch dark cave or room somewhere in the Sarshirians. And so he lay, bound in heavy chains at his heels and wrists and surrounded by total darkness; needless to say that he knew not for how long. Hour after hour dragged on and still he heard no sound. The smell grew in his nostrils to the point where he was screaming in agony, and still no one--or nothing came. After what seemed like years, a creaking noise was heard and a faint light shone in the room he was in. The walls were covered with a faint ooze like substance. He lay on a bed of solid rock against the far wall, and all around him dark shadows moved upon the ground. The light grew stronger and before Ceda knew it, there were four tall Orcs before him. The light hurt his eyes and he cowered back turning his weak head to the wall. They undid the clasps at his wrists and feet and lifted him up setting him on the floor. He fell over again was placed on his feet. Then they started out of the room and down a long corridor. Ceda fell to the floor many times and was dragged when this happened. They didn't speak. Not one word. And the smell was beyond imagination. The corridor seemed to go on far a long while, and frequently it would bend suddenly and resume itself in another direction altogether. Sometimes they passed other corridor entrances from which came the same vile smell, and sometimes great stone doors that were shut fast had a dim outline in the dark walls. At length, they came to a large door set at the end of that long passage. One of the Orcs entered and the remaining stayed outside with Ceda. After a while at the door, the door was thrown open and Ceda was lead into a great hall. It spanned far and wide, and in it were a great many foul smelling beasts like those that had captured Ceda to begin with. At the center of the far wall, raised high above the heads of all Orcs and other beasts, sat a mighty being, one that Ceda had never seen before in all his travels. He was lead before it and dropped by the Orcs to the ground, as he could not stand by himself in his weakened state. All he could think about was food, for he had not eaten since he was captured some days before, though he knew not how long ago. There was a onset of hideous laughter as he struggled to stand but could not, and finally was content to sit up in front of the great seat that loomed before him. "Well," it hissed. "We seem to have caught a spy. From Ruirse perhaps? or be it from New Grandydyr? Weuyrt? From whence do you ride, Elf tamer?" Ceda did not reply, his mind was too tired and he was far to hungry to even pay attention to the thing, but rather sat and gazed up past the throne into the darkness of the ceiling that stood far over head. The beast continued, "or be you from the weak realm of Pirintar in the north or Prass to the far east by the great water? Answer me!" it shouted. but Ceda still gazed at the ceiling high above with a partial smile on his pale lips. Then the beast signaled to one of the Orcs and it stepped foreword kicking Ceda in his back with all its might, its heavy studded boots digging deep into Ceda's flesh. Ceda screamed with agony and fell unconscious to the floor. "Remove him until later," said the Beast. And a smile crossed his lips, "and see that he is well fed!" When Ceda next awoke, he was back in his cell, now chained only at at one ankle. His mouth was dry and it pained him to swallow. He rolled over onto the floor just in time to see an Orc leaving his chamber. Before him on a dirty plate, lay a large piece of meat, freshly cooked and spiced. A feeling of wonder passed before his eyes accompanied by disbelief but there was the meat, steaming hot, its smell god-like to his nose. At once he grabbed at the food and began to eat as if it was long forgotten to him (and indeed it had been for some days), the fragrance of the spices overcoming the noisome stench of the stale dungeon air. When Ceda had finished, he sat back against the wall and rested, for after not eating a long time, the food sat heavily in his now full stomach. Some time later, the faint creaking of a door echoed though his chamber followed by foot steps. Before long, a beast much like the one on the throne appeared before him with a water pouch; until then, Ceda had not even been aware of the thirstiness that had long grown in his dry mouth until now and grabbed at the sack in desperation. The Beast let it fall and the precious liquid ran onto the floor. "That's all you'll get for today, scum," it said. "Better you learn to use your tongue or you'll not drink 'till the morrow," it laughed. "Lick, scum, lick from the floor as do the beggars!" and it left the cell, with one final word: "enjoy your meals while they last!" it said and choked with laughter. And then heart stricken, Ceda began to lick. Ceda sat back after a long and disgusting drink trying not to think about it. He thought for a moment about what the beast had said 'while they last,' he said to himself. 'While they last,' and coming to no conclusion, he forgot about it and went to sleep. And the days wore on in the same manner. The beast would bring him strange meat (for Ceda had never before tasted it) and Ceda would eat and drink his fill. Presently he became accustomed to the smell and it no longer troubled him. And he grew stronger. After what had seemed about a month (by Ceda's reckoning), once again the Orcs reappeared and took him down the long corridor the throne room. This time, Ceda entered with pride, for he was now fully healthy again, and as strong as ever before. He stood above all other beasts in the room with his head held high before the might of the ruler. "Now, scum," it started. "I trust you have eaten well?" It smiled. "Yes I have, Lord. From what beast is this meat, for it has strange virtues?" answered Ceda, thinking that he did not want to know the answer. "Elf," smiled the beast. Ceda was right: he really didn't want to have known what he had been eating thus far, a feeling of dread filled his face and he thought about Cander for the first time since being captured, and the terrible fate that had become of him. At last he knew what the other beast had meant by its remark about how long the food would last. The room was again full of hideous laughter and Ceda's confidence was wavering. To the end of his days, he never forgot that moment that he had been told of his meals, nor could he bear to be with elves for any length of time before guilt got the best of him. Anger welled up inside of him. He thought to smite the beast where it sat. His hand flew with lightning speed to his side, but his sword had long been taken away from him as had all other things save his cloths "From whence do you ride," it now asked in a grim voice. "And to what purpose do you dare approach the Passage of Ploughdom?" Ceda did not answer, but instead he stared in hatred at the face of the beast that loomed over him. It repeated its question but received no answer still. Then it lashed out bending foreword and with one great arm knocked Ceda from his feet to the floor. Still Ceda said nothing to the growing anger of the chieftain. Finally, after many strikes from the Orc guard and a few from the ruler himself, they gave up. "Take him back to his cell and we shall see how long he will remain quiet to the face of hunger!" It yelled as Ceda was led from the room. Down the long winding and twisting corridor was Ceda lead by his Orc escort until his own room was in sight. As they drew close to the door, Ceda leapt foreword pushing the two Orcs in front of him to either side as he sped off down into the darkness of the passage. Great was his speed as he outran the pursuing Orcs, but their cries brought still more terrible things forth from the surrounding openings and doors until the way behind was filled with angry creatures running fast and tireless after him. The corridor sloped down, then up and bore right, then left. Twisting and sloping the tunnel wore on in an almost never ending path. Finally, a faint glimmer of light could be seen ahead. presently The glimmer grew into a opening and without stopping, Ceda ran forth and out into the sunlight for the first time in well over a month. But the trouble was not over yet. Ceda was out, but he was alone, unarmed and without food. Still he continued down the rocky slope of the mountain side he had come out of at a fast pace. Pain welled up in his chest but still he ran on, pursued only now by the beasts like the one on the throne, for Orcs hate sun light. After a while, Ceda had to stop. Being faster than his pursuers, he had long since stopped hearing the sound of running feet behind, but that would not last long, for if the creatures behind him could not track, the Orcs could, and would soon be after him as the sunset drew near. Now almost at despair, he started out for the borders of Ruirse in the hope of finding a place in the steep cliff low enough to jump from. It was his only hope, and that in itself was small. He had been silently moving at a steady pace Eastward but was extremely tired. The sun had dropped behind the tips of the Western mountains and his shadow grew long. 'Time for a rest,' he thought to himself as he climbed up a tree and sat down among its branches far up out of sight. Then, breaking a few of the larger branches, he laid them out making a crude but safe bed among the loftier limbs. Soon it was pitch dark. The moon was hidden behind a rocky peek off to the north leaving Ceda stranded in the tree should trouble pursue. The air had a dank smell of burning flesh that came up from the East; the direction that he was now headed. During the night, all seemed to change. Even though Ceda was being pursued, he had noticed that the country was gradually becoming emptier of any and all things that usually dwell in those parts. Not a sound was heard all that night, and the only life he could see were the plants and trees. The quiet was discomforting, Ceda would have been more at ease were he attacked or something, weird though it was. Finally, sleep took him. The next morning, he woke up and to his surprise, he had not yet been found. He was so tired that last night, that it didn't even matter to him weather he was caught or not, and indeed Orcs could climb trees as well as they could track. Something wasn't right, but Ceda had not the time, food or energy to even care. He should have rightly been dead or captured by then. The morning was young, and the sun was just creeping over the eastern peaks. Ceda climbed higher and peered out through the branches over the trees Eastward. The land about a mile off dropped suddenly into a valley and all beyond, between the mountain that Ceda was on and the mountain bordering Ruirse was hidden from sight. That valley went for about thirty miles before Ceda could see the slope of the next mountain climbing steadily upwards. 'About 3 days journey on foot,' he thought to himself, 'if the valley is flat and straight'. Then, climbing down the tree, he set off. The valley was further than the trees had shown. After the mile of tree tops that Ceda had seen, the trees had suddenly stopped and a long barren field continued for another mile. The morning was waning and Ceda still had not eaten. After reaching the end of the field, he took digging up roots for food, much to his distaste. From the end of the fields, the valley descended acutely into more trees far below. A small winding path in bad upkeep led down the almost cliff like face into the valley. This he took. Walking all day, he finally reached the bottom of the mountain and ate more of the roots that he had found. After a little searching he found a stream that ran into a small lake. Drinking his fill, he swam the lake and continued walking on the other side. Upon reaching the valley, the trees began to reappear until the forest was like a dense wall all about him. Moving now would be slow and cautious. Before long, he realized that the smell of the burning flesh had returned and it was now growing stronger. The ground was now level and things were beginning to look as they should. Bats flew overhead, noises returned to the dismal mountains and in the distance, Ceda could hear the faint shouts of Orcs. He continued in the same general direction but away from the shouts. After a while longer of walking, the yells became unavoidable. They were all around him now, yet not to close, and to go back meant death by the other Orcs or a long journey around the valley that would take more time then Ceda had to spare. Cautiously he ventured foreword towards the sounds and at length to the edge of a clearing. Here shielded by the trees and shrubbery, Ceda could see many of the same creatures moving about in the sunlight where the trees had been quickly uprooted and burned. Some Orcs were about but not many; They were kept busy by the orders of the other beasts at whatever they were doing. Ceda could not see much, but it looked to him as if the beasts were preparing for war. Many of them were around going here and there with wagons full of tridents and axes, others were running all over the camp on errands of their own. Far off in the Center of the clearing, a large hole had been dug and many Orcs went in and out. They all wore mail armor and carried the axes that were made in the fields. They also carried bucklers with a golden crown painted on it. The crown was richly inlaid with Malthoogian gems. All the shields were new as were the axes and the armor, and in the distance, Ceda could see the faint glow of blacksmiths hard at work forging more. Ceda stayed and watched, not daring to move until the sun had long gone down and night was upon them. The moon was still hidden behind the mountains and it was totally dark except for the torches that were in and around the camp. Many of the beasts, Nuadrin, as Ceda began to call them, had gone into tents that were set up in the camp. Now many Orcs were about here and there shouting orders at one another and arguing amongst themselves in there own harsh tongue. The night drew on and presently Ceda fell asleep in the scrubs where he hid. Morning came and he was awakened by the sunlight as it rose above the far off mountains in the East. The burning was much closer now and he could finally see what it was: men. He sat and watched all day growing very disgusted at the ghastly sight, yet very hungry as well, until nightfall. Then, using all his talent, as a master assassin, he crept quietly from the edge of the clearing back into the forest where he found both food and water in a shallow stream that ran down the mountain slope from the West. After eating, he began the slow journey of encompassing the entire camp of about ten thousand troops of Orcs and two thousand troops of Nuadrin (as well as he could reckon). The night went slowly but at length Ceda had reached the other side of the enemy camp and had begun again his path toward the large mountain that towered above him. Leaving the bloody camp behind, he had travelled almost another ten miles from the Eastern edges of the camp when daybreak overtook him. He settled down and went to sleep among the branches of a tall pine tree out of the sight of all watching eyes of the mountains. That night after a long rest, he awoke to the tree's gentle swaying in the breeze leaving him with a slight chill. Tonight if all went well, he would reach the base of the next mountain, Psom, and would climb about half way to the point where he thought he could see a pass between it and an adjacent mountain that Ceda did not know the name of. The night drew onward. Walking very surely and quietly, Ceda slowly approached the mountain. Nuadrin were everywhere, walking about in heavy plate mail with long black tridents and small round bucklers; all with with the sign of the crown on them. They passed commonly on a road that Ceda now followed about twenty yards to the right so as not to be seen when troops passed. Now and again, ten or more Nuadrin would pass with about fifty men chained together in some heavy grey metal. Their faces were sad and they did not speak to one another. Sometimes, he could hear the crack of one of the long leather whips that the Nuadrin carried on some mans back, then a yell of agony, then silence. Orcs also trudged up and down the road, but not as frequently. They were usually led by one of the Nuadrin, who were larger and stronger looking. After an hour or two, Ceda left the road altogether and made his way towards the mountain pass. It was not long before he came upon the road again going in the same direction. 'Must have changed course,' he thought to himself and followed on. The road veered South as it came to foot of Psom and widened a little. He decided to follow it a little to see where it headed. Even on the mountain, the trees grew just as big and as thick. They may even have become denser, but because of the general incline, his way was hampered in many places. Now and again the road would turn and head either North or South as the slope became more acute but for the most part the road went up towards the pass. Then all of a sudden, the road ended. As it came up the slope it became so wide that it was not really a road any more. Then it just gradually disappeared out of sight. Ceda walked along the area for a while before a troop of Nuadrin came marching up the road. When they reached the end, they walked along south for a while until they came to the base of a small cliff. Then, the Nuadrin leader went foreword and pushed at the wall of rock. It opened into darkness and all the troop entered. Then the door closed swiftly leaving no trace in the side of the steep wall. Ceda ran to the door and put his ear to it. He could hear the Nuadrin singing until their voices vanished into the depths of the cave. Their deep voices echoed in the cavern as they sang: "Plunder we shall, and spill the blood of the enemy, until all their vast kingdoms lay dead at our feet. Kill their old Kings, and spill the blood of the enemy, until all their hearts beat at the sound of our feet. Pay them we shall, and spill the blood of the enemy, until all their men band together and meet. Fight them we shall, and spill the blood of the enemy, until all their great gold lay down under our feet. Drive them out, we shall we shall. KILL THEM and BEAT THEM until they all flee. Out we shall pour from the new gates of Psom and Dearn, continuing the work of our Lord Onibus. plunder we shall, and spill the blood of the enemy, until all their vast kingdoms lay dead at our feet." Then their voices were lost to the tunnels under the mountain. The sound however was replaced by feet coming up the path. He leapt from the opening into the cover of the trees just before around thirty Orcs came marching up the path. Then he went as quietly as he could up through a worn path away from the company. Soon he heard the voices of the Orcs below as he left. They spoke in common tongue so they must have had a Nuadri with them. (As do all other forms of speaking beings, Nuadrin have a unique tongue than most cannot comprehend, therefore, they are forced to use the Common Speech when talking to things of other races.) "Blyazax," hissed the leader to one of the Orcs in the first row of company. "I smell Men here. What tunnel do they march the Men from now?" "From the North opening, you know that. Let me smell." Replied the Orc coming foreword. Ceda froze and listened intently. Faint rustling among the ranks was heard and then a sniffing sound, long and loud. "You're right Aejr. There were men here, and his smell leads up from here. They've probably seen the entrance now! better take the troop up after him before Ifaduk finds out and throngs us all! Come on guys, after him! They can't be far from the smell of things!" There was another rustling among the men, and then many foot steps in Ceda's direction. He jumped up and ran with all his speed up the side of the mountain towards the pass high above him. The Orcs were making good speed up the mountain but were slowed by their heavy armor and weapons. Ceda was far stronger, faster and didn't have any armor to hamper him so it was not a problem to outrun them. Soon the sounds of pursuit were faint and the yelling between them was remote. He sat down against the trunk of a tree unable to run any longer without a brief break. The night was almost over and day would make him visible to all eyes. He got up and went on. The voices were much clearer now than they were before. They were tracking him well. Gradually the mountain's slope increased until continuing was only possible by crawling almost vertically. Trees grew all over the mountainside and made his way up easier, but there was still a long way to go before even reaching the pass, and after that it was not certain that he would find a way through and then down from the dangerous cliffs of Psom. After another hour of climbing, the pass was within sight but the sounds of feet were still close at hand. The going was slow for both Ceda and the Orcs, but they were making headway faster than he. The vile smell of the dungeon at Onibus was in the air as the Orcs gained on him up the slope. They would soon reach him at their current pace. The smell grew in his nostrils until the remembrance of the Elf, Cander, came to mind. That drove him on up the slope and finally to the pass with an outburst of hidden strength. Anger now drove him and welled up within him as he climbed up onto the narrow ledge that was formed by the merging of two lower parts of the adjacent mountains. The ledge was not altogether flat, but it was firm and narrow. Ceda decided to turn and face the enemy before all his strength was gone. He turned and leaned against the wall of the mountain on his left and rested until the first malformed head of a Nuadri soldier popped out of the trees below. Then it was only a matter of seconds before it was at the edge of the pass. It looked up and saw Ceda waiting for it. Then with a Cry in another tongue, it hastened up the remaining feet to the pass. Ceda was ready. He stood back letting the Nuadri up and then like lighting threw both his fists down on its large head knocking it down. Then he jumped on it catching its head in his hands and turning it until its neck it broke with a shuddering crack! Then he undid the small buckler from its back and took the trident from it where it lay at the Nuadri's side. Then finally he unfastened a pouch that hung about the beast's side and waited for the rest of the Orcs to catch up. It was not long before one, then three, then ten had poked their heads out of the trees underneath Ceda. Seeing their leader dead at his feet demoralized them a little, but seeing that there was only one man to deal with gave them the courage to approach. Then Ceda threw the body down at them knocking two of them off the side of the mountain into the trees far below. The rest climbed up towards the pass with malice in their eyes. Ceda stood his ground until they had gotten within reach of his trident. Then he slowly backed up through the ledge of the pass until they were all on the pass in a single file line before him. The one in front fell first. He had made a charge at Ceda which was easy enough to block with a simple thrust of his own driving his weapon deep into the belly of his opponent. The second came up the pass and tripped on his fallen comrade, he died quickly afterwards. The third and forth Orcs fell in the same way and the rest turned and fled over the side of the steep ledge in the direction that they had come. Some crashed into the the trees far below dying instantly, while two or three made it down without serious injuries. Gathering the things of the fallen Orcs and placing them with the things of the Nuadri leader, Ceda started down the Eastern face of the mountain. As soon as he left the Western side of the mountain, the climate changed as if by magic. What was calm and humid was now dry and cold. Nothing grew there and no water ran down in streams so frequent on the Western slope. The sun was shining down nearly overhead by the time Ceda found a place that he thought was safe to sleep without danger of pursuit. The Orcs were all underground by now and the Nuadrin would have to climb up through the pass in order to find his trail; so he went to sleep peacefully for the first time in nearly six weeks. That night when Ceda awoke, he found that nothing had changed. He looked at the things that he had gotten from the fallen Nuadri leader and Orcs. Finding one sack full of a strange kind of wine, he gladly quenched his growing thirst. Then rummaging through the remainder of the things he found some dried meat (that he threw away quickly), three more skins of the wine and a golden medallion (from the Nuadri) with the symbol of the crown painted on in dark grey and black colors. Then he started down the mountain. Going down was far more dangerous then going up. Below him about five hours away, were the cliffs of Belos that surrounded the entire Sarshirian mountain range. The way down was quite steep. This made five hours into ten and then twenty. The trees that had earlier helped Ceda up the other face of the mountain did not grow on the face he now tread. Trying to keep his feet in a sure place, he made his way slowly down stopping only to find food among the berries and to rest his legs. Day came quickly, but not without being wanted. Ceda's legs were tired and his back ached from the continual stooping. Finding a place to lie on one of the many jagged rocks that jutted out of the mountain face, Ceda fell into an uneasy sleep, for the next night, he would reach the cliffs. When he awoke, the sun had already set and the sky was full of clouds. Rain! Ceda jumped to his feet and looked down. He was closer to the cliffs than he had thought the previous night, but it was still a long way down, and with the rain, he could be washed off the face entirely. He opened a skin of wine and drank most of it. Replacing it at his side, he started down. It was about an hour before he had reached the tops of the Cliffs of Psom. He lay flat on his stomach and looked over the edge. About four hundred feet below him was the foot of the cliff. Looking in each direction showed that the same distance down was held all along the face as far as the eye could see. Then by the pale light that the moon cast down through the clouds, he saw it. To the North towards the border of Grobst D'arbo's desert, a tiny figure appeared out of the face of the cliff. Before long, about 20 of them had left the cliff base and Ceda could see that they were Orcs. They wore the same armor and had the same weapons as he had seen earlier. He watched the band until they were out of sight then he got up and started South along the head of the cliff, searching for a way down. The clouds were growing thicker and the night was drawing on and getting steadily cooler. He walked along for sometime wondering what would become of him. Then he found what he had been looking for: in the cliff, a deep gash ran up from the ground to the top of the cliff just wide enough for him to fit in. He sat down on the edge and inched himself into the ravine. Pushing on either side with his hands and feet, he held himself while he made his way down. The way was slow and tedious, but the rain did not fall and the ravine did not widen. About a third of the way down, he came upon an opening along the chasm. It was big enough for him to fit inside, indeed even room enough for him to stand and walk around in, and soon he was fast asleep on the rocky floor out of danger for the time being. The midmorning sun roused him as it shone through the hole into the cave upon his face. Drinking some of his wine and eating the rest of the berries he had collected along the way down the mountain, he soon started again. It had rained while he was asleep and the way was treacherously slippery, but he managed to find handholds and not to fall. By midafternoon he had made his way almost to the bottom and slid down the rest of the way to the ground. He was finally out of the Sarshirian mountains in the wilderness of Ruirse. -Joel Slatis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Choice of Heart Phil stepped out of the mess hall just in time to hear the final call, and to hear the CRACK of the rifles. He and everyone around him just stopped for a moment, not quite looking at each other, and then continued with their business. Phil and four other men from his squad continued toward their barracks. As he walked towards the bunkhouse, Phil saw the door to the old warehouse open, and the soldiers filing out. He counted sixteen. That meant that four people had just been executed. Phil and his buddies joined their squad leader in their room. While the five soldiers strapped on their gear their leader read off their assignment. It was a typical one. Phil had been in Miami only four days, and already he had lost count of how many missions he had been on. He had no trouble remembering how many deaths he had seen, however, nor how many he had caused. An image of a young, pleading face hung before his mind's eye, and only when one of his buddies nudged him did he realize that his assignment was being read off. Phil and the other men in his squad marched out of the building to where their plane was waiting. They climbed in, the squad leader going in first, Phil going in last. Phil dogged the door shut, and then the plane was rolling. It lifted off quickly, it's fat wings using the airstream to best advantage. The plane climbed steadily, pushing the soldiers against the floor with extra weight. More than one wished for a window to look out of. There was no talking. Phil checked his rifle carefully. He counted his rounds, he made sure that the chamber and flues were clear, and that the generator operational. There would be no chance to do that later. As he checked his equipment, Phil had a chance to think about what he was about to do. He had joined the military out of financial need, but when the President had declared a national emergency because of the drug problem, he had welcomed the action he saw as a result. Finally he had a moral reason to be carrying a weapon. It was only when he was transfered into a domestic area that he started to have doubts. They had been in the air for about ten minutes when the leader started giving last minute instructions to the men. Phil listened intently, as did all the others, being especially careful not to misunderstand their role. The squad leader spoke until the light above the door came on. He then gave one last encouragement, then shuffled over to the door. He pushed the door open, and tumbled out. One by one the others followed, with Phil pausing to push the ALL CLEAR button before jumping. The squad leader struck the roof of the building with the force of a small car. Unfortunately the roof was sound enough that it did not break, removing some of the element of surprise. The next two soldiers landed on the pavement in front of and behind the building, however, effectively blocking escape. The next soldier, and Phil, also landed on the roof. Phil managed to hit an air conditioning unit, which broke through the roof, providing quick access. The other two on the roof quickly followed Phil through the hole. Phil and the other soldier, John, immediately secured the room. It was a large studio, which hadn't been cleaned for quite some time. While they were doing that, the squad leader pulled a thermal scanner from his pocket and quickly searched for all the heat sources in the building. The nearest one appeared to be directly below them. John took point, and Phil took up the rear, as the trio quickly but quietly left the studio, and started down the hallway. They froze when sounds could be heard from below, but the scanner did not show any of the sources to be moving, so they continued. At the end of the hallway they found dozens of brown paper boxes. While Phil and John watched, as witnesses, the leader quietly opened one. It was no surprise to Phil when the squad leader pulled out a plastic bag full of white powder. The squad leader pulled a small probe out of his belt, and sank it into the bag, but it was more of a formality than anything else. Phil could recognize Slam when he saw it. The drug was responsible for more death than any other illegal drug since heroin, and much of it to innocent people. Mere possesion of it was a capital crime under martial law. Four people had been shot that morning for owning it. Phil hated it. They reached the bottom of the stairs without making a sound, the force fields around their bodies supporting them millimeters off the concrete steps. The stair emptied into a hall, with two doors on the left and one on the right. The scanner showed one large heat source behind the first door to the left. Phil hugged the wall, just to the left of the door, facing in, with John hugging the wall to the right. The leader put away the scanner, readied his rifle, switched his field to assist, and kicked. The door was a cheap wooden one, and it gave way spectacularly. The remnants of the flimsy barrier bounced across the room, waking it's inhabitants. The man, probably the main pusher, yelled and rolled across the woman, who screamed and clutched the blanket. The squad leader covered them, and started to shout an order to freeze. The drug dealer grabbed a small automatic off the night stand as he fell from the bed. Just as Phil stepped into the room, the dealer sat up, and aimed the gun at the squad leader. The roar from the weapon blanked out all thought in the room. Phil stepped back and aside, to get a clearer field of fire. John did the same. Before either of them could really aim, however, the shooting was over. The squad leader stood with his legs apart, holding the railgun at his waist. The drug dealer was lying on the floor, his body almost bisected by two gaping wounds. The bed was lying in two pieces, the body of the woman mostly hidden in the bloody blanket. The three stood there, frozen for a moment. The woman's body slowly slid off the bed to the floor, on top of her dead lover. The leader carefully approached, and checked for any vital signs. There were none. It was probably just as well, thought Phil. Better a quick killing here than to have to take them in and have them shot. The leader headed for the door. Phil turned and followed him. The leader stepped into the hallway, and there was the sudden bang of a large caliber pistol. The squad leader was pushed aside by the force of the bullet encountering his force field. Phil stepped into the doorway, rifle up, back against the frame. The attacker was two doors down, on the right. He fired before Phil had a chance to aim. The slug hit Phil's breastplate like a well-thrown fastball. The man ducked back into the room. Phil didn't even really aim. He held the trigger down, and tracked with the muzzle. The incandescent rounds converted the cheap concrete of the walls into deadly shrapnel as they punched fist-sized holes in the cement. Phil stopped after six shots, and John scuttled down the hall, weapon ready, while Phil held his position. John's expression let Phil know that there was no longer any danger. Phil turned to the leader, who climbed to his feet, a little embarrassed at having been caught. While John checked the drug runner for life, Phil and the squad leader checked each other for wounds. Then the squad leader broke out the scanner again. It showed no definite targets. As they were on the fourth floor, however, they still could not relax. They reassumed their positions and started down again. Phil had just started down the next flight of stairs when the feeling he had dreaded hit him. It hit him after every successful mission, and sometimes during a mission. It was terrible feeling that he had just participated in someone's death. Sometimes it only happened afterward, as in this case. What was worse was when he got it beforehand, as he often did when testifying in the short, formalized trials that had been held daily for the last four days, where the soldiers were required to help convict the people who they brought in from the drug raids. Phil had watched a seemingly endless stream of people standing before that awful table, as he and his fellows had told of drugs and weapons found on premises, found on persons, found in cars. What was really awful was when they were young, say his age, and when they were female. The next floor was clear, as was the next. A heat source appeared when they reached the ground floor, however. It seemed to be coming from the basement. Cautiously John started down the stone steps, the leader and Phil right behind. At the bottom there was a locked door. John carefully picked it, and pushed it open. It opened on a panorama of chemistry. Tubing, stainless steel, and chemicals littered the large, well-lit room. As Slam was synthetic, it was possible to produce it almost anywhere, with the right knowledge. >From the looks of the setup, a little of the right knowledge was soaking into the rugs four stories up. The leader indicated a door on the other end of the room. It was open, and the three slid in. Phil could see that the signal on the scanner was a strong one. The hall they entered was short and narrow, with a door at the end, and one on the right. The leader indicated the far door, and John stepped up to it. He switched to assist, and was about to kick it in when the leader tapped him on the shoulder. As the leader waved John off, Phil could see that the signal was so strong as to be indeterminant. The leader turned to Phil, and motioned at the other door, which Phil was standing beside. Phil's heart started pumping. The squad leader motioned for Phil to do the honors. Phil switched on, readied his gun, and kicked. In the gloom it was a moment before he saw the stubby tank. He immediately recognized it as a water heater. The leader stared at it for a moment from the doorway, then gave a grim chuckle. He turned and started for the stairs, John behind him. Phil stood there for a moment, grateful for the reprieve. He started to turn to leave, and saw the foot. It was mostly hidden under a rag. It was bare, and dirty. Phil's heart started hammering. Suddenly everything seemed to become crystal clear. He could hear the gentle rustling of some papers as John knocked them to the floor on his way to the door. He could hear the soft, electric hum of the water heater. It was almost as if someone else was in his body, and he was just watching, as he leaned forward and looked around behind the tank. She couldn't have been more than nineteen. If the look on her face hadn't been so terrified, she might have been pretty. She had long blond hair, and blue eyes. And she was staring straight at him. He opened his mouth to call his companions, but as he did she silently mouthed a desperate "No", and the words froze in his mouth. It was then that he saw the patch on her arm. Slam is a strange drug. It has mild halucinogenic effects, as well as being a powerful stimulant. There were rumors that any sensation experienced while under it's influence was magnified a hundred times. It was also very volatile, making it possible to absorb the drug through the skin. The standard way to use it was to sprinkle some on gauze, and tape the gauze to the skin with plastic tape, allowing the user's body heat to evaporate the chemical. The usual place to put the patch if one was a solitary user was the arm. The girl was still staring at him, pleading. She knew her life was in his hands, Phil could tell. He stared at the patch, thoughts and images running through his head. The squad leader, knocked aside by the pistol slug. A young pleading face, blood sprinkled on the forehead, the eyes fixing, glazing. A friend, a comrade, lying on the sidewalk, eyes up, as if to look at the small hole punched in his forehead. The woman upstairs, her hair flying slightly upward as the leader's rounds sprayed her internal organs on the rug beneath her bed. Another pretty, young woman, crying beside her car, which held the body of her young husband, an innocent bystander killed in a drug war. "Please," Phil heard her whisper, "I'll do anything, anything..." Phil stared at her. He imagined her, handcuffed to the wooden pole, her back to the four soldiers, aiming their rifles. "Please, no..." He looked at her. She noticed the patch for the first time, pulled it off. "Phil?" John called from the stairs. Phil turned aside, startled, then looked back quickly. She hadn't even moved. She had her eyes closed. Phil realized that she could think of nothing she could offer Phil for her life. Indeed, Phil realized, there was nothing here, in her whole way of life, that was of value to anyone. "Lieutenant, John! I think you'd better come here." -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *Through the Veil: Atros 5 Joseph Curwen *Duty John White Date: 021687 Dist: 274 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Welcome comrades to glorious issue VOL7N03 of electronicheski magazine FSFnet, hot on heels of last very glorious issue. Unfortunately, due to inexplicable and unforseen circumstances, many readers did not receive their issues until several days after the issue had been sent. Hopefully, the situation will not continue. In this issue, you've really got a treat. For those of you who have been following Atros, there is a pivotal installment in this issue, and an excellent well-spun tale by John White. I'm sure you will all enjoy the issue. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Through the Veil: Atros 5 Atros dreamed for the first time in many weeks. It had taken a great effort of will to break the bonds of the nepenthe still tainting his blood, but Atros had succeeded. Still, there was much more to been done, much more to experience. Atros should not relax now that he had overcome the first, and possibly the easiest, barrier. In spite of this, for several moments Atros hesitated to open his eyes. He needed more time to solidify his resolve. Atros let his attention turn inward. He knew that he was dreaming. Something deep in side him sensed it, but he also knew that this was a dream unlike any other. His mind was clear, unclouded by the fog of uncertainty or forgetfulness. Not only could Atros remember his identity as a rogue scholar in Dargon, but Atros could also recall in detail a hundred other lives that he had led in previous dreams. This terrified him. He remembered the pain and loss, but he also experienced a sense of detachment that helped support him against the pull of insanity. His mind was very clear, his thoughts precise. >From a solely inward inspection, Atros could be certain that he had arrived where he had wanted to go. It was very difficult to believe that this was only a dream. Atros slowly opened his eyes. He lay on a vast floor composed of huge, gray stone blocks. Above him was a high vaulted ceiling sloping gradually down to the floor on two sides. The stone ceiling bore criss-crossing arches whose shadows gave the chamber an eerie organic feeling. There was a distant light in one direction and darkness in the other. Atros raised himself to his feet before noticing his clothing. While he bore the same body that had settled to sleep in Pravo's house, he now wore a soft white robe belted with a thick black ribbon. He felt very healthy and strong. There was no trace of the fatigue or wounds that he had received in the street fight only hours before. Atros' course seemed obvious. Though he was suspicious of being led, he set out in bare feet across the coarse stonework toward the distant light. After several hundred yards, Atros could dimly discern a figure standing before the light source. Impatient to finish this destined meeting, Atros quickened his pace. The figure was that of a healthy old man. His face was ridden with the wrinkles of age but he stood tall and straight. He too was dressed in purest white with a belt of black. Atros took a long look at the man's smiling countenance then glanced down as he approached, unwilling to face him. "You have found what you have sought. Though you don't know what that is," the man spoke mirthfully. His voice was deep, fatherly. "I thought perhaps you were gods?" Atros suggested rather weakly. "No, Atros, we are not gods. We are something other than that," He pronounced and then lapsed into quiet contemplation for long moments. "Do you remember reading Fendle, Jung, Carstoe, Van Keltii, Reinhelm, and the others?" "...yes..." Atros replied in a hollow whisper. "We are a fraction of Siger's world-soul, a splinter of Byron's oversoul, an isolate disembodied collective subconsciousness. We are a collective entity which germinated in minds such as your own but has grown to surpass such boundaries," he paused for a moment. "Well, at least partially. Your and our mind overlap in a region of your subconscious, though only a small part of ourself is yourself and vice versa. You understand that I use the pronoun 'we' only because such constructs as 'I/we/you' are very awkward in your language. I am an individual, a collection of individuals, and a portion of your own mind. I am empowered to speak for each of these entities. You have many questions which I now will attempt to answer." "What are you called?" Atros' mind was struggling with these ideas. He cast out this question to buy the time he needed to adjust. "We could ask the same of you. At this instant you could rightfully answer to half a thousand names, which you remember bearing during some part of your existence. Yet none of those names adequately describes the individual that you are now. We are much the same. We have both too many names and no suitable name, but if you prefer, you may call us Morpheus as that might best describe us from your point of view." Morpheus' tone seemed almost too friendly. "What is this place?" Atros asked. He had decided that if he had to meet his maker, he did not wish to show weakness. And yet, he was still confused. Too much seemed to be happening too quickly to follow. Perhaps, he should have waited until he was better prepared for all of this. "A creation based on patterns deep within your own mind. We have gone to the trouble of making everything appear as closely as possible to the way you inwardly expected it to appear. Even my own appearance is drawn from your own imagination. We chose to craft forms that would be meaningful to you, literally and symbolically. We wished to convey our message with the least amount of confusion or fright." Morpheus spoke without gestures. "Then you can eavesdrop on my thoughts?" Atros asked suddenly feeling vulnerable. He sought to conceal his fright by straightening his shoulders, raising his head, and peering deeply into the black eyes of the man/enigma before him. In the long verbal pauses, Atros could hear only the sound of his own breathing. "On that portion of your mind that is part of us already, yes. With the rest, let us just say that we can do a fair job of anticipating your mind," Morpheus answered meeting Atros' glare. "What do you want of me?" Atros asked trying to sound defiant. "Very simply, we would like you to join us. To allow us to experience a greater portion of your mind and to allow you to explore our being as well. We wish to live with you, teach you, and work with you. We have need of you and we have much to offer in return." Morpheus' tone was even and his voice smooth. He portrayed no emotion except fatherly concern and fatherly strength. "What do you offer?" Atros was tempted to sneer but he realized that it probably wouldn't be convincing. "Power, knowledge, a near infinite number of new experiences, and an end to your loneliness," Morpheus offered smiling. His mention of loneliness struck Atros as a blow. Atros spoke before he was fully recovered from this, "You must know that what you imply frightens me. The alienness of it...the loss of individuality." "Individuality will still be possible in a fuller, more integrated sense," Morpheus pronounced with a glistening polish. "Integrated individuality? How can that be possible?" "You are accustom to thinking of life and consciousness in discrete organic units. The separation between souls is much less distinct. Yes, your consciousness would lose its boundaries but the center of your consciousness, its seat, can preserve its individuality untarnished," Morpheus replied. "After all that you have done to me...the torment...the anguish, do you seriously believe that I will join you willingly?" "Perhaps we know you better than you know yourself. In time, you may see things differently. Until then, you need not commit yourself." "But why? Why have you led me into cycles of love and loss, fear and hatred?" Atros' shield of cool intellect was cracking. "We have tried to explain that. You remember the dream of the forge?" Atros confirmed this with a nod. Morpheus' voice took on a lecturing quality. "Pain and suffering are the only true sources of wisdom and strength. Think of what you have undergone as a necessary, if painful, initiation." "An initiation I did not chose to undergo," Atros accused. "No one truly chooses their role in life. We believe free will to be be even more of a fallacy than it obviously appears." "You believe? You do not know?" he said with a touch of mocking. "We are not omniscient. Not nearly so. Proof of the existence of absence of free will is far beyound our means. We accept our beliefs, and in fact all our knowledge, as provisional. Interestingly, though we doubt the existence of free will, we recognize the force of will as the source of our power. If one considers it, this is not contradictory. But even if it were, we are not above a bit of hypocrisy if such a stance is the only pragmatic solution." Morpheus remained unresponsive to Atros' jibes. "How do I know that everything you've said isn't a lie and your proposals a trap?" Atros proposed. Morpheus' expression suddenly changed. He burst into a heavy, haunting laughter that echoed through the hollow chamber. Atros' anger grew with this obvious mocking, but he kept silent until Morpheus abated and spoke more, "Excellent! We have crafted you well." "You desired cynicism and distrust?" Atros asked angrily. "No, we desired that you be wise enough to continually question and doubt, so you can be an independent thinker. We do not need slaves. We have enough of those and we can always fashion more Gilmans. We need equals...partners." Morpheus used his eloquence in an attempt to soothe Atros. "You could still be lying to me," replied Atros. "Yes, Atros, we would delude or misdirect you to obtain own desires and we have done a bit of that in your past, but now we are truthful. Though we realize that what we say might frighten you, truthfulness now is best in the long run." "You can see the future?" Atros asked incredulous. "Only its possibilities. But that is usually enough." "You still have not given me sufficient reason to join you." "You are already with us. You have been so since birth. Your subconscious has always been with us. Much of what your consciousness is comes from your association with us. We are lodged deeply in your being." "Then I can escape you only in death," Atros stated in a whisper. "No, Atros. We will go beyound that barrier with you. There is no escape. What happens between us is destined to be. It cannot be avoided." There was just the slightest hint of sadness and regret in Morpheus' voice. "I could keep increasing my dosage of nepenthe. I could evade the dreams," Atros suggested clutching at faint hopes. "But surely you realize that these are more than just dreams. Already it intrudes on your waking life. How long will you be able to withstand attacks like the one you experienced last night?" "What do you know of that!?!" Atros' anger flared. Only reason prevented him from bodily attacking Morpheus. "Calm yourself, Atros. Remember that it was our servant Gilman, whom we sent to watch over your safety, that came to your rescue." "Yes, that is true," Atros admitted. "Many more such attacks are possible. It seems your connection with us has been discovered by an enemy of ours. It seeks to hurt us through harming you or perhaps converting you to their cause." "What is this enemy?" "It is a collective consciousness much like ourself but slightly weaker and younger. We are rivals for the same resources." "And it has attacked me and Darla because of you?" Atros accused. "Our enemy is a bit irrational and blood thirsty. It will continue harassing until you until it succeeds or grows bored. It is a threat to our continued existence and growth as well. We need your help in combating it as surely as you need us." "How could I aid you in fighting such a thing?" Atros asked. "We will teach you how to use your undiscovered talents. This instruction comes with no obligation. Do you consent to let us teach you to defend yourself against our mutual enemy?" Atros hesitated a long while. But his mind kept returning to the a single question: How else could he protect Darla and himself? Finally, on this basis he decided, "Provided that I may withdraw from these lessons at any time I choose." "Of course. Even if you will not join us now, we have no desire that you be killed or enveloped by our enemy. Go now. Rest. Prepare your mind, your lessons will begin in several days." With Morpheus' pronouncement, the scene began to quickly fade. Atros began the slow return to wakefulness. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Duty Morion caught himself staring at the moon again, and turned his attention back to the roll of parchment on his desk. He snorted in disgust when he realized that he had read the first paragraph at least four times without understanding it. He hated having to wade through legal documents. They were written in the most obscure and lengthy terms so that lawyers were never done out of a job by someone with the ability to read. He trusted the lawyer he employed, but he refused to sign anything until he understood exactly what he was signing. Elaref, his lawyer, had explained over and over the basic terminology, but Morion was a fighter, not a scholar, and it took time and practice to master those knotted words. Grimacing and steeling himself for the effort, he went back to the thick parchment with the intent to get through it this time. It was the last one he had to sign and seal. Half an hour later, he was startled out of a reverie concerning the signet ring he wore on his left forefinger and how he had come to bear it by a knock on his chamber door. He glanced at the scroll and realized with dismay that he had only read to the second of six paragraphs. Rolling it up to do tomorrow, he said, "Come!", and turned his attention to the door. He had been expecting his seneschal, Riachon, calling him to his late and probably cold supper. The water clock in Morion's study worked perfectly, and Riachon hated it when people ignored appointments, even dinner ones. His seneschal always made sure that Morion got dinner if he didn't come down by himself. But, he made no guarantee as to its condition. The figure that stood limned in the torchlight of the hall was not the middle-aged and somewhat portly one of Riachon. The tall, slim, young man that stood there was wearing the official tabbard of the Falcon Herald of Baranur, colored gold and green with a blue falcon displayed in the center. His long black hair was held back with a silver circlet bearing one small stone in the center of his forehead. An amethyst of that deep and pure color was very rare. It identified him beyond doubt as Coridan the Falcon Herald. The stone had been a gift of the Queen when Coridan was given the Tabbard, the Staff, and the Keys to the Great Books of Arms upon ascending to the position of Royal Herald of Baranur. Coridan was not dressed in riding gear and Morion wondered how long the herald had been in the castle before knocking on his door. "Castle Pentamorlo is honored in receiving you, Master Coridan. Please, enter and have a seat. Shall I have some wine or other refreshment brought for you?" asked Morion. "Thank you, Baron. Perhaps a little of that wonderful Huulon wine, if you kept any for yourself. I must thank you again for the wagonload you gave me - it is the best wine I have ever tasted." Morion stepped over to the dumbwaiter, wrote his wishes on the slate inside, and sent it down to the kitchens. "Come, Master Coridan, let us sit before the fireplace and be a little more comfortable." The young herald settled himself while Morion poked up the fire until it was roaring. Little bells in the dumbwaiter jingled, and Morion retrieved the tray bearing two crystal goblets and a cool bottle of the golden wine of the type that he had given to Coridan as an Elevation gift. After he had poured the wine and settled into a chair across a small table from the herald, Morion said, "What brings you to my school, Coridan?" Coridan sipped his wine and smacked his lips. "As good as ever, Baron. Ah, but my news. Well, it seems that the King needs your help." Morion's ice-grey eyes narrowed, and his mouth compressed into a thin, hard line. He had anticipated Coridan's words, echoing as they did almost countless other pleas from the Crown he had received month after month for years. But, the King had never sent so important a person as the Falcon Herald to ask his futile question. "For what?" Morion demanded. "He has an army, and a whole legion of instructors. I wouldn't teach his soldiers anyway. What could he possibly want that I would give him?" Coridan looked at Morion, his aquamarine eyes seemingly wide and innocent. He said, "He needs your help, Baron. It IS your duty." Morion shouted, "No it is not!" and slammed his goblet down on the table between them hard enough to snap the thin stem and shatter the base. He looked at the broken goblet in his hand. With a muttered, "Sreth!" between clenched teeth, he hurled the bell of the goblet into the fire where it smashed loudly. He stood and whirled around behind his chair, an angry scowl marring his face. Less loudly, but no less angrily, he said, "When is Haralan going to understand that I pay fealty to no one. My lands are my own, not held in fief for the Crown. You know as well as I that I and my family received special dispensation from King Nun as reward for a personal service I rendered him. That parchment was sealed in turn by Arenth, his brother, when Nun died and Arenth received the Crown, and then by Haralan, Arenth's son and present King. That third seal made the dispensation permanent and irrevocable. My lands are my own and my family's, with no requirement for fealty to anyone. The taxes I pay, I pay out of courtesy. I owe the King or Crown nothing. And no one calls me Baron - I gave back the six-pearled coronet to Nun, to Arenth, and to Haralan when they each tried to give me that title, with all the strings that go with it. I will not help!" His knuckles were white on the back of the chair by the time he finished. Coridan bore Morion's outburst with the air of one expecting it. He patiently waited while the older man ranted about the severing of his feudal obligations to Crown and King, granted and affirmed by the past three Kings. He knew about Morion's refusal to bear the identifying coronet of a Baron, but a King's award could not be so easily denied. The fighter had refused the obligation of further fealty to the Crown by refusing the circlet and title, but Coridan was a herald, and titles were important to heralds - especially acknowledging with respect one who bore a title, at least on paper. When Morion was finally done, the herald said, "I must apologize for not making myself clear, my Lord. The duty that the King calls upon is not that of vassal to liege, but a duty that you, yourself, have taken on - the responsibility for those you have trained in this thriving school of yours. "Reports have been coming in for several months now of trouble to the south. At first, the news was of what seemed to be an unconnected series of outlaw raids on caravans and other travelers. But, the attacks were not robbery. In every attack the travelers were killed to the last draft animal and all of the posessions were burned or broken and left behind. "Then, three months ago came word of the first village destroyed. As with the caravan raids, everyone in the village was killed, and the buildings were set afire. The villagers didn't have a chance. "The attacks have been getting more and more frequent, from two a month to almost one a week. King Haralan has had legions of the army in the area, but the outlaws attack randomly and the King has had no success at all in even spotting them. "However, our best seers have located the outlaws' hideout. In the valley where the Zyaran river flows out of the Skywall Mountains there is a vast lake that Zyaran feeds and flows from. On an island in the lake's center there is now a fortress without window or door, nor is there a bridge or causeway that links land to fort. Even knowing the location of the outlaws' stronghold is no help to the King for the island is unassailable. Also, the leader controls a magic that is able to transport his men and himself directly to the scene of their attack. The few surviving observers have likened this magic to a giant floating mirror that the outlaws ride into, but not out the other side. "The leader of these outlaws names himself BlueSword, and we have learned that he is a former pupil of yours. Two weeks ago in the ruins of a small village he had just sacked, the King's men found a man, cruelly mutilated but still alive. He bore a message branded into his flesh. It was a challenge. BlueSword wants to fight you, Morion, and he intends to kill you, and then to destroy Baranur little by little. King Haralan asked me to deliver this news to you, in the hopes that I would at least get to your ear before your ire got me thrown out. It seems that he did choose the right messenger, although just barely." Coridan's open smile eased the sheepish tension in Morion, and the teacher returned to the comfortable side of the chair and sat down. He sat silently thinking for a time, then said, "I must apologize for my outburst, Coridan. I was just fed up with Haralan's incessant petitioning of my talents to 'mold his fighting men into an unbeatable force.' I...ah, souls and swords, I just never expected this of Kyle. Something is strange here." He was silent for several moments more, trying to fit his memories of Kyle, who had been nicknamed BlueSword while learning here, to what he had just been told. Finally, he remembered his duties as host, and said, "Please accept the hospitality of my house, Master Coridan. If you can stay until lunch tomorrow, perhaps we can talk further, but now I must think on this. Thank you for bringing me the news. If I don't see you tomorrow, you can assure the King that I will respond to BlueSword's challenge to the best of my abilities." Both men rose, and shook hands, and Morion walked the herald back down to the Main Hall. Grabbing a platter full of dinner leftovers, Morion then went back to his study to think about Kyle, now known as BlueSword. Once again seated comfortably in the chair before the fire, Morion idly nibbled at the food on the tray, sipped from the leather flagon of mead he had brought up with the tray, and stared into the fire remembering Kyle. Young, mid-twenties, of an age with Coridan, fair haired, open-faced, very likeable and pleasant. He had come to the school with just enough money, mostly in small denominations, to cover the entry fee. But, he had exhibited plenty of raw talent and Morion had accepted him readily. He had taken to training like a goat to a mountain side, rapidly climbing the ladder of ability that Morion privately used to grade his students. In three and a half years, he had learned all he wished to, and had graduated with appropriate honors. He had left a little more than a year ago, and now it seemed that he had turned into some kind of monster bent on death and destruction. That just didn't sound like him. BlueSword. A nickname given to him by his fellow students, and for good reason. He had painted the blade of every one of his wooden and rattan practice swords a deep, almost purple blue. He didn't tell anyone why until he passed the test of beating Morion himself using a large shield and a long sword against the teacher's single short sword. At the simple ceremony after dinner that night, Kyle had brought out a magnificently wrought sword, said it had been in his family for generations. It had a simple yet elegant silver and gold hilt, with gently curved quillions and a large polished ball for a pommel. It also had a beautifully blued blade; a deep, metallic blue that rivaled the twilight sky. From then on, BlueSword wasn't a joke any more - Kyle had earned it, and carried it proudly. It bothered Morion that this should fall to him to resolve. He had no worries about beating Kyle BlueSword on the field. Morion's skills had been earned over long and hard years of practice and use. Kyle's months at the school and the months after could not have made him a match for the former soldier. Except for the thing that had turned Kyle into a madman. Morion almost fell asleep staring into the fire and wondering on that point, his mind circling the problem endlessly. Riachon finally came up and herded him off to bed, clucking absently about the leftovers that Morion had wasted by not eating what he had taken to his room. After his morning workout and several sparring sessions with his pupils, Morion sought out Coridan and they talked over a light lunch. The herald said, "The note BlueSword left named a time and place for the duel. 'MeredsDay of LastSummer' is what it said. What might MeredsDay be, if you know?" "Kyle's people have many gods and they name each day of a month by one or another of them. MeredsDay is the 15th or 16th day of the month, depending on the month. LastSummer is next month by their reconning. Not much time - just a little over two weeks. Where?" "The east end of the lake that holds his island. He wants you to come alone. Don't." Coridan's face was sincere, and even a little apprehensive as he gave the teacher his advice. "I'll leave tomorrow. Two weeks leaves little leeway to travel so far, but Staarion is a fine horse. We'll make it, and hopefully with enough time to rest up a little before the battle. I will go, and hope that his honor hasn't been lost along with his sanity." "Fare well, Sir Morion. May all of Kyle's gods smile on you, as well as all of Baranur." Morion just smiled as he went to talk to his two assistant teachers, to tell them of their impending responsibilities. Morion was a man who believed in himself and little beyond that. The gods had little or no place in the reality he perceived. Still, he was glad the young herald wished him well. He would need all the luck he could muster if there was more than Kyle behind the upcoming duel. Nine days of perfect riding weather ended in a thunderstorm so fierce that it forced Morion off the road. Huddling in a makeshift camp under some trees, using Staarion for the little shelter the horse could provide, he spent the balance of the day, and all night, soaking wet and miserable. The next day, he tried to ride on through the still hard rain. But just before noon another heavy thunderstorm forced him into camp again. Morion began to worry about having lost two days so far. He fervently hoped that the morrow would be drier. It was, but not by much. The rain still fell, hard and fast, but the violence of the thunderstorm had passed. It was not traveling weather, but Morion had no choice. The rain would slow him down to less than half his normal speed, and that wasn't enough time to make it to the lake. Morion mounted Staarion and, pushing the animal to the limits of safe movement, rode off trough a grey-walled world of chill wetness. Around mid-morning Morion suddenly had company in his wet and short-horizoned world. The strange horse and rider loomed up out of the hissing raindrops to his left and stopped athwart the road, halting Morion's slow progress. The horse was larger and so captured his attention first. Once it did, he stopped calling it a horse. There was something distinctly goatish about the mount - the cloven hooves, the tufted tail, the ears, and the little growth of hair under its chin that gave a name to the way some men wore their beards. It was easily as large as a horse, with the glossy fine hide of a horse as well. And then, Morion saw the flickering of a white, horn-shaped flame that hovered over the beast's forehead. Unicorn. Immediatly, the fighter's attention was drawn to the rider. She sat tall in her saddle, back stiff and straight. Her face was turned toward Morion, appraising him as he examined her. She had long hair that seemed in the uncertain light to be pale blue, bound back by a thin copper wire around her head that bore a small, dangling ornament at each temple. Her face was long and thin, much like the rest of her, and her eyes were the strangest color. Red, not like the washed-out pink of an albino, but a deep, fiery red, like a fine ruby. Her nose was long, her mouth small and almost lipless. Her long throat was hidden by a thin, silklike scarf that matched the rest of her clothing. She rested her hands on the high cantle of her saddle; there didn't seem to be any halter or reins on the unicorn. Her long, slim legs came out from under her skirts and went into soft high leather boots, which rested in large stirrups. A flowing cape attached to her tunic by copper buttons reached down her back and across her mount's whithers. And, most amazingly, she seemed totally dry. She opened her mouth to speak and strange, music-like sounds came out. But, the song of her words did not fit the movements of her small mouth. When the song reached his ears, words he could understand popped up in his mind. The words in his head said, "The Dance of Ahar'yKinel enters its second mode. Thyerin's webs have drawn you into your proper place in the pattern of the Dance, which will end with the freeing of a spirit too long held captive, and the end of an evil that could unmake this world." With the words came an understanding of their meaning, so that Morion 'knew' that Thyerin the Weaver was a god from a pantheon he had never heard of. Apparently, he had been drawn into some kind of scheme by this Thyerin, a plan that the god and this woman named a Dance. As the woman spoke/sang, the magic of her words enabled Morion to almost see the pattern she mentioned the way she saw it, like a half-finished piece of cloth on a loom, with part of its pattern finished and showing, but the rest of it hidden in the strands that would go into its making. However beautiful the imagery, Morion resented the implication that he was subject to the whim of an idea some people called a god. Also, he was being delayed even further in his mission by this woman, and he had no idea why she had stopped him. He said, "My good Lady, while I would at some other time love to discuss this fantasy of yours, I am late for an important meeting and have no time to waste on mythical gods and the many ways stories are told about their intervention in mortals' lives. If you would pardon me?" He put his heels to Staarion to ease his mount forward, but his horse refused to budge. "Your belief in Thyerin does not affect his reality. Everyone believes in something, even you, Sir Morion. The code of honor you serve is as much a god to you as Thyerin is to those who follow him under that, or any of his many other names. Even believing in nothing is believing in something. "I am named Kimmentari, and I know of your appointment. It is part of the Dance, the meeting between you and Kyle BlueSword. I have come to tell you three things. First, Kyle and his raiders will attack the village of Belliern, which is just over a day away if you shift your path to the east from here. Your King has been informed of this by another agent and has sent two companies of the Army to meet you there. If you meet Kyle there, and defeat him, the King's soldiers will take care of the rest of his outlaws. If you wait until the time and place that he has chosen, then there is no place in the pattern for your victory. "Still, wherever you choose to meet BlueSword, beware. He is not the man you knew. Do not take for granted the skill you believe him to possess. Also, you must kill him. The path that he has taken he cannot be delivered from except in death. Do not let your former friendship blind you to what must be done. "And, lastly, when he is dead, remove from his left wrist the bracer he wears and place it upon your own left wrist. For a short time thereafter, you will be able to enter his citadel as he did through a dimensional lens. Once within, you must find a silver-bound crystal circlet that he had made for himself. It is unfortunate that he never had a chance to use it, but it has a further purpose. When you have the circlet, you must take it to Dargon and deliver it unto one of your former pupils, the one named Je'lanthra'en. She, too, has a part in this Dance and the circlet will be of immeasurable aid to her. "Once that is accomplished, your part in the Dance will be over, and you can go back to your ways of not believing. From here, the choice is yours. If you do not go to Belliern...that, too, is in the pattern, and we will have to get someone else to play your part. Farewell, Lord Sir Morion. I shall see you again. Until then..." And she rode swiftly back into the greyness and vanished. Morion stared after the strange woman for quite some time. He couldn't quite believe the matter-of-fact way she had dictated the next couple of days of his life to him, giving him the option to reject her counsel but expecting him to follow it. Long after she was gone, he still sat and thought, already so wet that he could sit in the rain for days and not get wetter. Finally he decided to heed her advice. More for practical reasons than anything else. He suspected that Kyle would have something devious planned for their proposed meeting on the shore of his lake. Even if he didn't, and Morion succeeded in killing him, there would still be his outlaws to contend with. If Kyle were truly going to attack Belliern, then meeting him there with the King's men would be the smartest move he could make. He urged Staarion into motion again, and rode on thoughtfully through the driving rain. Morion propped himself comfortably against the lip of Belliern's public well and looked around. The village was deserted and had been since the King's men had arrived to tell them of BlueSword's coming attack. Not a single resident of the village had elected to stay. The infamy of BlueSword had spread swiftly, and no one wanted to challenge it. The village square, which should have been the busiest spot in Belliern, was lifeless except for Morion and a few hidden sentries. The shops that faced the square were closed and shuttered. The four main spokelike streets were empty, as were the alleys that poked between shops around the perimeter of the square. The day was overcast, grey and cool for the end of summer. A gentle wind stirred the dust on the ground and the sparse brown and green grass scattered about the square. There were very few natural noises to break the unnatural stillness of the village. The two companies of the King's army were hidden in strategic places around the village waiting for the attack that would occur sometime that day according to Commander Rian's information. Sentries were posted to carry information on Kyle's coming to the ready soldiers. The waiting was the hardest part for them, of course. Even after two days of good sleep and fair food at the village's largest inn, waiting in hiding for an uncertain attack was wearing on the nerves and body. They were at the mercy of Kyle whom, if this day went right, they would never have to worry about again. Morion sighed, and settled himself a little more comfortably on the well's wide edge. He had resigned himself to this combat over the days since he had diverted to Belliern. He had answered or pushed away any hesitations and questions in his mind about whether this was the right thing to do. As he drew his sword and settled it across his knees, he thought about his reluctance to kill. He picked up the whetstone and soft cloth lying beside him and began to hone the blade that had been his livelihood for many years. He had done his share of killing, both in the service of the King and on his own later when he became a mercenary. And somewhere in that time, he had become tired of killing. So often there had been no wrong or right in the battles he had fought, just a desire for land, property, or blood, and a sum of money to buy swords to fulfil that desire. It had eventually become more than he was willing to deal with, and he had packed away his blade forever. But, the inactivity was almost as bad as the killing, so he had opened his school, trying to instill in his students more than just the ability to destroy. As part of his philosophy of 'restrained violence,' he tried to teach when it was right to fight. He had finally convinced himself that this was such a time and that he wasn't engaging in this duel for himself. Kyle was destroying whole communities and killing innocent, defenseless people. Someone had to stop him, for the innocents' sake at least. Kyle had issued the challenge, and Kyle would have to face the consequences. Polishing and sharpening his sword calmed Morion. His world narrowed to that blade and the coming fight. The simple activity pushed moralizing out of his mind and got him ready to fight, made his body and mind one. Soon, he was again the fighting machine of his sellsword days and ready to duel Kyle BlueSword. Shortly after noon, Morion felt a tingle, faint and subtle, move like a wave across the square. He looked up, putting his polishing materials down, and turned his gaze to the east-facing main road of Belliern. He saw a thin grey line draw itself from the ground up to ten feet in the air. It broadened into a thin, pointed-ended oval which hovered for a moment and then twisted strangely, eye-wrenchingly, like a lens of glass seen first edgewise then turned broadside to vision. It twisted until it was a large grey circle that filled the near end of the street. With a shiver and a ripple, it flashed a bright silver, mirrorlike but reflecting nothing. After another ripple brushed across the its surface, Morion saw a shape begin to bulge out of the lower portion of it. It looked like a man walking through a sheet hung on a line to dry. The surface of the mirror stretched around the advancing form, then, silently broke away from it to reveal a man dressed in fancy, fluted blue plate armor with a lightning bolt on the breastplate that shone like real gold. He wore no helm unlike his men who were armored in ganbezons of leather. They were popping out of the mirror behind their leader and forming into ragged ranks around him. Even though the leader's head and face were uncovered, Morion had some difficulty identifying Kyle. If not for the sword he held naked in his right hand, Morion could not have been certain at all. Kyle's face was darker, coarser, with a scraggly beard that altered the planes of his face. There was something subtly twisted about the face; something that made Morion think that perhaps Kyle had been driven insane. And, the man's eyes glowed with a pale green light plainly visible in the muted daylight. Only the sword assured him that the leader was Kyle - it was the heirloom that Kyle was so proud of. Kyle BlueSword stepped through the dimensional lens into his latest target, Belliern. Kyle immediatly noticed that the village square was deserted but for one. He recognized the black armor and the stylised gryphon on the breastplate. He recognized the black helm with the silver decoration around the eye-slits that the man was lifting from the edge of the village's well and settling on his head. Lord Sir Morion of Pentamorlo, his former teacher. He laughed, and said, "Ah, Teacher! You want to duel now? Fine, just fine! Men, you know your jobs. Get to it while I take care of this fool. I'll join you in a minute or two. Hah hah!" He waited a moment to watch his outlaws slipping away in twos and threes down the lanes of the village, destruction and mayhem on their minds. After setting the lens to vanish, he walked to the square to meet Morion. Kyle was as confident of victory as he sounded even without the little surprises he had set up for the pre-planned duel. Morion walked calmly to a position midway between the well and the now vanishing mirror, ignoring Kyle's bluster. He watched the outlaws moving away into the village. He hoped that the sentries had alerted the soldiers. However, that was in the hands of Commander Rian. He had a duel to fight. He located a level patch of dirt and planted his feet firmly, shifting them slightly until he felt the feedback of solidity that made him almost part of the ground. It was a part of his favorite and best technique, the Rooted Form, a fighting style that made the fighter immobile, rooted to the ground; a rock in the face of his opponents. Morion lifted his blade in a loose two-handed guard and waited, ready for anything. Kyle strolled toward Morion, sword held loosely, point down, in one hand. But, barely ten paces from his former teacher, Kyle blurred into action faster than an eye could track. In an instant he brought his sword up into a guarded attack position and began to run at Morion, full speed from the first step. He moved much faster than Morion thought possible. It was all he could do to wrench himself from his rooted stance, move his sword between himself and Kyle's blade, and dodge as Kyle barreled through the space where Morion had been standing. Morion whirled around, shuffled his feet until he found the feedback of the proper stance and faced Kyle again. He was more prepared this time for the rush that Kyle was already mounting. Part of the Rooted Form involved stopping and engaging an opponent to keep him from darting in and out and around one. With a skill that almost surprised Morion himself, he leaned into Kyle's attack, feeling the strength of his stance pour up his legs and into his body. With a darting sword and a braced body, he let Kyle crash into him. Morion watched as the speeding man simply bounced off of the front that he put up, the inertia of Kyle's rush absorbed and syphoned off. Kyle recovered with the same lightning swiftness that he had charged with, and soon Morion was encased in a web of flashing blue light from the multitude of blows that rained down at him from Kyle's impossibly fast arm. It took all of his skill to keep himself from being wounded. Morion had done his best to eliminate any prejudging of this contest by what he knew of Kyle's skill and ability because of what the strange woman Kimmentari had said. Now he had to rethink his moves in terms of this incredible speed. He gradually came to realize that he could not possibly defeat Kyle if he stayed in one place. He knew that it was just a matter of time until his reflexes didn't respond fast enough to block one of Kyle's blows. The speed of BlueSword's attack left him no time to riposte. The smile on Kyle's face told Morion that the outlaw had him right where he wanted him, almost as if he had expected Morion to use the Rooted Form and knew that it was futile. Morion decided to use a change in tactics to surprise Kyle to perhaps gain an advantage. He gradually eased his feet free, surprised by the increased difficulty he now had blocking Kyle. He hid any differences from his opponent, making it seem that he intended to stay Rooted until he was killed. He gathered his resources into himself, storing them up until he felt he could manage a fast burst of action, blocking with more and more economy he hoped would seem to Kyle like weariness. Finally ready, Morion sped into action. Judging his moment to the half-second, he dodged to the left under an almost-patterned blow. In the slight hesitation Kyle made when his blade didn't meet the expected resistance, Morion was able to bring his blade around and under Kyle's defence. He swung with all of the force in his body and connected with the armor under Kyle's right arm and dented it enough to at least bruise if not break some ribs. Continuing the motion smoothly, Morion slipped out of range and took up a light, shifting stance, ready to move, dodge, run, or whatever else was necessary to defeat BlueSword. Something was wrong. Kyle wasn't charging after Morion. He stood and turned just enough to look at his former teacher. Morion noticed that the swarthy look and the glowing eyes were gone, as if a mask had lifted, leaving a very bewildered, weary and recognizable Kyle. Kyle took a hesitant step toward Morion, and said, "H-help m..." The return of the mask cut off his plea, and once again Kyle was the dark-skinned, evil-eyed man who had walked through the mirror. "Good try, teacher," he said. "First blood to you. I didn't think you smart enough to leave your stance even when it was killing you. But, you still have no chance of victory. I shall not be caught off guard, and I am better than you! Diiiieeeeee!!" He charged with the same speed as the first time, not even slightly slower. It was as though the minutes of fighting hadn't tired Kyle in the least. Although feeling the fatigue that Kyle was not, Morion was more ready this time than before. He spun and swung with Kyle's rush, moving with the midnight-blue armored man so that he didn't have the time to turn and run again before Morion's sword was there to be blocked. Kyle attacked in a flurry of blows that Morion blocked. Now that he wasn't hemmed in by his useless stance, Morion recognized that there was more speed than skill in Kyle's attack. There was also a fatal tendency to attack in a pattern. As he and Kyle fought back and forth across the village square, Morion grew more and more certain that, given half a chance and enough time to discern the pattern in Kyle's attack, he could win. Neither dueler noticed when the fighting in the rest of the village reached the square. The King's men had reacted swiftly to the advent of the outlaws, ambushing and slaughtering the small groups as they searched the village for something to kill. Of the original two and a half score only ten survived the initial attacks. With the advantage of more experience in guerilla tactics than the soldiers, the outlaws, though few in numbers, managed to take a high toll on the King's men as they slipped through the alleys and houses of the village. Finally the outlaws were driven into the square itself by the numbers of King's men alone. There, one by one, they fought and died, outnumbered but not surrendering. Morion finally got his chance. He backed Kyle up against the well with a flurry of hacking blows that seemed wild but were not. Using every trick he knew to keep Kyle from breaking away from him, he studied Kyle's pattern, even going so far as to take a hit or two to judge the man's reaction. When he was sure, he made his final play. He attacked, and Kyle followed up as predicted. Another half-dozen blows, all as planned. One more, two, three, and - as Kyle's blade came up from terce in a backhand return, Morion moved. His blade went down, forcing BlueSword's to slide up and out. His blade came up from the same place and angle that his opponent's had. It caught the man in now-dusty blue just under the lower edge of his breastplate, cutting deeply. He recovered the blade quickly, and, while Kyle was staggered with the first blow, he swung with all his might, leaving himself dangerously open, and struck home deep into Kyle's left side, his blade piercing the armor and sinking deep into Kyle's chest. Kyle's face twisted even more as he grimaced in pain. For a few moments, there was nothing left of Kyle's features, but rather something out of a nightmare. Fangs, horns, pointed ears, excessive hair, no eyes but rather twin orbs of flickering green light nestled under its brows; the green light that had shone through Kyle's eyes. In a voice that was deep and gravelly, and very loud, the thing said, "You have won, mortal. But, I never forget. You will not be so lucky next time. My time is limited on this plane now, but I shall have my revenge. Beware, Sir Morion. Beware!" And, the alien features faded leaving the now pale but familiar features of Kyle. Kyle's body sagged, knees buckling, sword falling from nerveless fingers. Morion released his own blade, still wedged in Kyle's chest, and the body dropped lower until he was sitting propped against the rim of the well. Morion dropped into a crouch beside Kyle, bewildered by what had driven Kyle to this pass, and saddened by his friend and pupil's imminent death. He briefly wondered if Kyle could be saved, but from the amount of blood that was pooling on the ground below him from the two wounds he had received, Morion knew that Kyle was as good as dead. Kyle's eyes fluttered open, and their grey-brown irises locked on Morion. Weakly, he said, "M-Morion. Th-thank you. Really, thank you. Y-you have released me. Th-thank y-y-y..." He slumped down, eyes shutting again, not yet dead but not strong enough to speak. Morion knelt beside him, wondering whether or not to help his friend to a swifter end. Then, the woman with the pale blue hair and ruby eyes was beside him. Kimmentari touched Kyle's forehead lightly, and he seemed to receive a jolt of energy from her fingers. As his eyes opened, she said in her music-voice, "Kyle, explain." "E-ex-x-plain?" quavered Kyle. Kimmentari's fingers pressed more firmly on Kyle's brow, and Morion thought he saw their tips glow faintly blue for a moment. In response, Kyle's eyes regained some of their normal glitter, and he drew himself up a little, ignoring the shaft of steel in his chest. The strange woman said again, "Explain, Kyle. Discharge your duty, and then go to a peaceful rest. Tell Sir Morion your tale." "My tale." Kyle looked almost healthy, the color back in his face. No more blood dripped from beneath his breastplate, but Morion wasn't sure if this was because his wounds had been staunched, or because he had no more blood in him. "My tale," Kyle repeated. "I came to Pentamorlo School not..." I came to Pentamorlo School not knowing exactly what I was going to do with the training I might receive. My father had died four years before, and my mother remarried into a family I didn't care much for. I dearly wanted to be able to use the sword that was my only heritage, so I sold everything I could and went to study under Sir Morion. One day, while I was visiting Tench, about a year after I joined the school, I met a man named Mygrul. I liked him the first time I saw him. There was a kind of energy, a happiness in everything he did that drew me to him. We talked, bought each other drinks, talked and drank more, and decided that we were buddies and planned to see each other again. He was a mercenary who mostly hired out as travelers' guard, so he knew when he would be in town again. There was much in Mygrul that made me want to be like him. He was good with the sword, learned mostly by a five year stint in the King's service. He had managed to keep his sense of humor by taking easy but lucrative jobs, ones that didn't involve a lot of unnecessary killing. When we had gotten to know each other better and had become friends, he offered to team up with me when I got out of school. His reputation was such that he had the pick of guard positions, and with me as part of the team, he could get even better pay for both of us. I readily agreed. It was perfect, exactly what I was hoping for. When I graduated, I went to Tench to wait for him. A few days later, the caravan he was escorting arrived. With a few words to the master of the caravan, I was hired on the spot, and Mygrul and I began our partnership. That first caravan was uneventful, but during the second one we hired out with, the train was attacked twice. Mygrul and I, with the help of the sling-armed drivers, drove off nearly a score of half-organized raiders. When we reached our destination, Mygrul and I got drunk in celebration of our victory. He made some comments about us being a perfect team. That got me thinking. Still a little tipsy, I suggested we swear ourselves blood-brothers, knife-kin by the custom of my people. He agreed, and we swore the never-parting oath and sealed it with blood. Then, we went back to the taproom and got drunk again. My life was perfect after that. I had a brother, something I had always wished for. I had a job that I loved, a purpose in life. There wasn't anything I lacked, not even women - our gold and reputations gave us free run of the red-lantern district in every city we visited. Until four months ago. Mygrul and I had just escorted a caravan from Baranur to Easryun. As soon as we arrived, we had offers for a return trip from a dozen merchants. But we wanted to rest, so we rented rooms in the best inn in the city, paying a week in advance, and went out to explore the city. We were walking down one of the streets that opened off the upper marketplace. Here the more prosperous merchants had shops that had stood almost since the walls of the city were built. We stopped by a trinket shop and were looking at the wealth in the window, arguing about whether the jewelry was real or not, when we were challenged by a quartet of young toughs with more steel than sense, and more ale in them than both. They were well dressed, not part of the underside of the city but probably merchants' or nobles' sons out looking for trouble. They taunted us, trying to goad us into a fight. Mygrul refused to even draw steel, and kept me from drawing, too. He tried to reason with them, and finally even offered them gold to leave. They were intent on their evening's fun. They edged closer and closer until one, probably the leader, lunged forward almost awkwardly and skewered Mygrul low in the chest. I cleared my blade a second later, and attacked. I didn't reach Mygrul's killer because the other three were crowding me. With more fury than skill, I disarmed one, knocked another out of line, and disabled the last by nearly cutting his sword arm off. When they realized that they were up against someone more skilled than themselves, they backed away cautiously, and when I didn't keep pace with them they turned and ran. I went to Mygrul, who was coughing weakly, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. I tried to help, but the wound was too deep. I thought of a healer, but I had never been in Easryun and had no idea where I might find one. As I was ready to go for help in the market, Mygrul said, "Ah, what a fool. Never trust bared steel. What a way to d...." And he was dead. Rage burned through me, rage and anger at those hotheaded fools that had killed my best friend and brother, a lesser anger at Mygrul for letting them kill him, for not wanting to fight. Vengeance was what I needed, what I owed to Mygrul. It was my duty, what I had to do. The oath we had sworn saw to that, as well as the nagging thought that I should have protected him, even from his own folly. A glow caught my eye as I thought those things. I looked up and saw that one of the displays in the window was glowing. A polished quartz egg sitting on a blackwood stand was giving off a bright, pearly light. As I looked at it, I felt a pulling in my head, a feeling that if I touched the egg, if I took it, I would be able to get my revenge. The feeling pulled at me, feeding the rage and hatred inside of me, showing me images of the dead and tortured bodies of those Shuul-damned kids. It urged me to break the window and take the egg. I tried to resist, but not for very long. The images, the promises were too good to let go. I stood and shattered the window with the hilt of my sword. I reached in and took the egg. I stared into the depths of the egg as a voice said, "Pact. Freedom for vengeance. Accept?" I didn't even need to say yes. When it voiced the question, it gleaned the answer from my immediate reaction, which was acceptance. With a flare of light that startled me into dropping the egg, the creator of the voice flowed into my arm, and then into my entire body. I watched distantly as the egg shattered as if it was made of shell and not stone. When it did, the thing in me laughed. It told me that my last hope had been that egg and that now it would live in me forever. That in me which was myself was pushed into a small corner of my mind, able to see what the invader did with my body but unable to do anything about it. I watched while the murderers of Mygrul were hunted down and killed. I watched while the invader searched out magic that was hidden in secret vaults. I watched as the outlaws were gathered and as a citadel was built on an island in the center of a lake. And I watched as the invader murdered and destroyed in my name and finally challenged you; and, at the last, fought and lost to you, Morion. Thank you again, and farewell. Kyle sighed peacefully and died without pain, his body and soul at rest. Morion turned to the blue haired woman who was sitting on her knees a little back from the pair. As his eyes fell on her, she said, "You needed to know. As a lesson. Do not let your honor or your sworn word overwhelm your sense of right. I know that you try not to, but I know that your honor is your life to you. Do not let it be your death. "One more meeting is given to us by Thyerin in this Dance. Beyond that I cannot see, but I could wish for further contact. Beware the citadel of BlueSword, Sir Morion. All is not as it seems. Remember your friend's story and go warily. The circlet must get to Je'lanthra'en by DorthsDay in Harvest to be of use to her. Farewell." She lifted Kyle's sword gingerly by the hilt, took a step, and vanished. Morion stared after the woman wondering at her words yet again. In his own terms, DorthsDay was the last day of Ober and over a month away. More than enough time to get to the citadel, and then to Dargon. He looked around the square and saw that the battle with the outlaws was over. The King's men gathered in the square to report to their captains on their individual fights. No one was looking his way, probably, he thought, part of Kimmentari's work. He looked down at Kyle appearing asleep rather than dead. Kyle's tale had been strange, and he wondered briefly if all of this, from Kyle coming to his school to this moment, had been arranged so that a crystal circlet could be given to another former pupil of his. Briefly, his temper flared at the thought of callous so-called gods meddling deviously and catastrophically in mortals' lives. But that anger caused him to abandon the thought as useless and dangerous. He would never know, nor truly want to, just how much immortals dabbled in his life and those around him. Morion took hold of Kyle's arm and saw the bracer there. With some difficulty he unlatched it, and slid it off. It was plain steel except for a little sigil near the cuff that looked like a grey lens. He closed it about his own left wrist and wondered how Kyle had used it to control the mirror. However, just thinking that made the little sigil light up, and he watched as the mirror opened up in the street as it had before. Now, the soldiers noticed him, the dead BlueSword and the travel mirror. Commander Rian was striding over to him, but Morion didn't feel like talking to the man. With the last of his tasks in mind, he walked over to the mirror and stepped in. It was strange walking inside the mirror, like traveling through a mountain pass blanketed in heavy fog. He took two steps that seemed to stretch for days, and then he was out of the greyness and standing in a courtyard. He looked around and saw the mirror vanishing. The courtyard, castle on one side, protective wall on the other, was deserted. Cautiously, Morion climbed the set of stairs that let to the top of the wall and he saw, peeking between two merlins, the vast lake that protected the citadel of BlueSword far more effectively than the wall he stood upon. As Morion cautiously explored the castle and out buildings, he found the whole complex was as deserted as the front courtyard. There were signs of occupancy - the outlaws were not very neat housekeepers - but they left no one behind when they went on a raid. Morion wondered briefly whether there were servants chained away somewhere, but he found none. When Morion was sure that he was alone in the citadel, he began searching for the circlet. Remembering that Kimmentari had mentioned a time limit of sorts on his use of the mirror at their first meeting, he decided to be as methodical as possible in his search, to be sure that he looked everywhere in as little time as possible. He went through the cellars, where there was much treasure but no circlet. He pried into every nook and cranny from the first floor up, searching for secret panels and hidden rooms, anywhere that valuable items might be hidden. He looked behind curtains and arrases, under furniture and around shelves, even under the rugs. Finally, on the top floor, in what had to have been Kyle's room, Morion found a panel behind the bed's headboard. In the small opening it revealed was the circlet, a thing of simple beauty, resting on deep blue velvet. Also in the cubbyhole was a smaller square of black velvet, on which rested a small, reddish stone. Morion reverently lifted the circlet and examined the pure craftsmanship in it. He lifted the blue velvet out and wrapped the circlet in it, then set it aside for a moment. He picked the red stone up off of its rest and held it cupped in his palm. In the same instant that he realized it was egg-shaped, he felt needles spring into his palm. The pricks weren't very painful at first, but fire began to course through him from each needle tip, pain that raced faster and faster throughout his whole body. He tried to shake the red egg from his palm, but it seemed to be holding on as it pumped poison into him. Morion fell on the bed, body rigid with escalating pain. He looked at the stone and could see the thing that had possessed Kyle standing in a cloudy, grey place. The being said, "Sir Morion. I said I'd get my revenge. You are dying, and with you dies the thread that circlet would have woven. My masters will be pleased with me, I think. Die slowly and in much pain, Sir Morion." The being's laughter faded with its body into the greyness. A convulsive twitch finally loosened the little egg from his palm, and it rolled onto the floor. The last thing he saw as blackness welled up behind his eyes was the blue-haired woman Kimmentari coming through the door and stepping casually on the egg, a look of dismay and concern on her face. She said something in her music-voice, but he couldn't hear her through his pain. And then he knew no more. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER FOUR | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb A Death in the Attic Jeff Girard Lifesong Aiwu Lian Shakka! H.D. Baumeister Seer's Doom John L. White Ceda the Executioner: 5 Joel Slatis Idol John L. White Date: 033087 Dist: 312 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Hello one and all! No really exciting or motivating news to report, so I'll just jump into a description of this issue. There is no Dargon work in this issue, although you'll find a couple choice tidbits from some unexpected sources. However, for those of you who actually enjoy the Dargon material, here's a hint of what's in the works for the near future! John White is working on a new tale which I have seen parts of, and it promises to be a classic. Joseph Curwen is plowing through the next tale in the Atros cycle, which should also be out soon. I am, of course, humbly plugging away at my story, which should be ready very soon (no promises, however). It is at the close of the editorial that I historically welcome our new readers and emplore people to spread the word about FSFnet. Well, as we have over 300 readers who get the file directly and uncounted millions (?) who get the magazine from servers, secondary distribution sites, and who knows where else, I've decided that I can finally sit back and pass up the opportunity to remind you to help get others interested in FSFnet. Of course, this doesn't mean you should stop spreading the word... -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A Death in the Attic Tina slowly closed the door behind her and proceeded up the attic steps. The fading light of the autumn sunset cast a beaming ray through the only window that caused all it touched to shimmer with a golden hue, while at the same time it cast dark, forboding shadows about all that were out of its reach. Tina paused for a moment, and smiled to herself at the sheer irony of it. How much it was like her own situation now. She flicked on the light, and immediately all but the most hidden corners were were bright and visible. She stepped around the trunk which held her mother's wedding gown and high school yearbooks, crossed over her grandfather's antique clarinet, and stopped in front of a small coffer. She paused for a moment, then reaced for it and undid the latch. Trembling, she opened the silver-lined box and picked up the ring that lay inside. It looked ordinary enough - carved out of silver with a ring of rubies and emeralds encircling a medium sized diamond in the center. Definitely a treasure by any standards, but also much more. Tina held the ring tightly in her hand, and thought once more about what she was about to do. She had spent the last hour just trying to decide what to say. She was sure this was what she wanted, but at the same time she couldn't help but feel a great dread deep in her soul, and for a moment considered just putting the ring back and forgetting the whole ordeal. At the same time, the caring nature of her soul kept crying out for her to do it, that this was the greatest thing she could ever do. Eventually, her caring side won out. She unclenched her hands and slid the ring on her finger. At the same time she glanced at her watch. It read 6:47. She would have to hurry, or she would be late for her job. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the ring, just like she had accidentally done earlier today. In a moment, she felt a small gust of wind, and then heard the voice. "Yes, Tina Redgrave, have you thought of your first wish yet?" She opened her eyes, and gazed directly at the man she had just met a little over an hour ago. He stood about six feet high, with dark black hair and a very heavy build which matched his voice. A nearly perfect specimen of a man, and Tina felt the same surge within her again. This time, however, she was prepared and replied, "Yes, I have." "And what is your wish?" "My first wish is this: I wish there was no longer any death." The man frowned. "Have you thought long and seriously about this? Are you absolutely sure that this is what you want." For a moment she considered crying out No, I'll think of something else. But when she thought about all the suffering she could alleviate with just that one phrase, she had to do it. "Yes, I'm sure. That is my first wish." The man sighed. "It shall be as you have it." He gestured into the air, and a huge spark of energy flew from his fingertips out the window and disappeared from sight. "Are you ready for your next wish?" Tina, still staring at where the energy ball had passed through the window, jumped slightly and said, "No, I'll have to think on my next one too. How about if I call you again tomorrow morning?" "Whatever you wish, Tina Redgrave," he said, then faded away into nothingness. Tina took off the ring, placed it in the coffer, closed it, and then rushed downstairs. It was now 6:50. If she hurried, she still could get dressed and make it to Kmart before her 7:30 shift. Tina could hardly keep in her excitement as she jumped out of her car and practically flew into the store with minutes to spare. She took off her coat and walked briskly over to her station at booth number nine. Stacey, the girl who worked the previous shift, was standing there totalling up the price of an old man's sweater and pipe. "Hi Stacey, how's it going tonight?" She turned and smiled, but there was a note of concern on her face. "Hi, Tina. You seem awfully bubbly tonight. Here you go sir, and thank you for shopping at Kmart." The man walked past them with his purchases. Tina looked at Stacey carefully and said, "What's wrong? And don't you dare say nothing - I know you better than that!" Stacey turned up the portable radio she kept next to her. "Haven't you heard? Listen to this." Bill Artwood, the local news reporter, was talking. "-admitted just a few mere minutes ago. Apparently, he was the victim of a mugging in Central park. He has suffered multiple stab wounds, including one right through his left lung, but is still alive. He has been placed under heavy sedation, but the doctors don't expect him to live. They were totally amazed that he lived this long. Whether this has any connection to the terrible accident on James and Third is unknown." "James and Third? That's nowhere near Central park. What does he mean about a connection?" "You didn't hear? You mean you didn't listen to the radio on the way down to here?" "No, the time kind of flew by for me today." "Well, at about 7:00, I guess you would have been on your way soon after, a tractor-trailer lost its brakes and plowed straight through a red light into a small Subaru. The Subaru was flattened. Of course a big pile-up occured, and three more cars were demolished. But the strange part is, no one died. The two people in the Subaru were horribly mangled, and another had his rib cage completely collapse against the steering wheel, but all of them were fully alive and conscious too. they were screaming, those that could. One paramedic was so sick he had to leave the rescue team for a while - Tina? Are you OK, Tina?" Tina just stood, shocked. What could have gone wrong? How could this be happening? This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. She had said, I wish there was no more dying, and- no, that wasn't what she said. She heard her own words now as plainly as if she was in her attic again - "I wish there was no more death." She hadn't said dying, she had said death. She turned hard and ran for the door. "Tina? What's wrong? Tina?..." Tina pulled into the driveway and leaped out of the car. Her keys fumbled with the lock, and it took her three tries to unlock the front door. Finally she succeeded and slammed open the door, not even bothering to get her keys. She ran inside, up the stairs to the second floor, and into the attic. switching on the light, she stumbled her way across the littered floor to the coffer. Tears were streaming down her eyes now as she put the ring on her finger and concentrated. In a moment the man appeared again. "Yes, Tina Redgrave, have you thought of your second wish?" "I want to change my first wish!" she nearly screamed. "I didn't mean to say it that way except that I was so excited but that wasn't what I meant to say and you've got to change it, please!" He looked at her with a gaze that chilled her to the bone, and she quieted down. "Normally, you could use another wish to undo a previous wish, but this is a slightly different case. You wished for there to be no more death, so I destroyed him." "Him? What do you mean, him?" "Death is an entity whose touch causes the soul to be released from the body. Without him, all souls are bound to their hosts, and can't die. This doesn't mean they can't be hurt. They just can't die." "Well, bring him back! That isn't what I meant to say!" "If it was a normal person or thing, I could. However, death is an entity of great power, and it will take time to create him again." "How long?" "I would say about 36 hours." "36 hours? But what about all those people out there who are supposed to be dead now? I can't simply let them go on suffering!" "You could find a replacement." "What?" "A replacement. Someone who could temporarily take death's place until I can re-create him." "How? Do I just walk up to someone and say, 'Hey, this genie just granted me a wish and I wished for no more death so he destroyed him and now we need a replacement'? I hardly think that will go over. "I'm afraid that that's your problem." Tina thought for a moment, then came up with an idea. "Alright, here's my second wish. Let me become death while you try to recreate the original." "As you wish, Tina Redgrave." He waved his arm, and suddenly Tina felt different. She was dressed in black robes. She looked at her hands, and saw that they were nothing but bones. Suddenly, she felt a surge of power, and knew what had to be done. She flew out the window at an incredible speed and soon found herself next to an old man in a hospital bed. She touched him, and a white globe floated up skyward. She then flew across the continent and touched a young boy just as he hit the ground after leaping from the eleventh floor of a hotel. His soul floated out of his body. Then she flew elsewhere, again and again for thirty-eight hours without a stop. When she was caught up, she used her powers to temporarily stop time for a while, then flew back to her attic. She stood for a moment, shocked and appalled by all she had seen. Some people she had to touch were in such a horrible shape that she felt like throwing up her last dinner, except that death couldn't do that of course. She walked over to the coffer, opened it up, and put on the ring. In a moment, the genie appeared. "Yes, death, can I help you?" "OK, here's my third wish. Return me to normal and let death resume his job. I'll never forgive myself for wasting my wishes, but I guess it's too late to change that now." "I'm sorry, death, but I can not help you. My services are currently being given to a young woman named Tina Redgrave. You are not Tina Redgrave, you are death." With that he vanished into thin air, leaving death to stand and bemuse the fate befallen on her. -Jeff Girard <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Lifesong Viam ad Infinitum Space...a void not empty. Planets and moons, followers of the great ones, the stars, move in time with the great music which is not heard with their children, the comets and asteroids. These ride the coattails of their parents, occasionally breaking away to amuse themselves with the games of the innocence of youth before becoming planets themselves and taking the orbits planned for them. The planets for the most part cared only for themselves, but the stars were constantly shining light upon them all, and because of it many of the planets reflected the light of the great sun and began to live, and walk toward the path of becoming a star. There stood in the darkness of night and the cold of death, alone in a prison of metal a man, with his face in the direction of the east, eyes shut, waiting. Flint-faced and unmoving in the icy wind of Altus V which probed with invisible fingers any living flesh, his clothing could not keep out the intangible members feeding on his comatose mind. It was dark, the dark of a remote planet near the edge of the universe; no stars and no moon shone on the forbidding ebony landscape. The man's gloved hands were nearly frozen to the bars they clutched, the heavily booted feet were a part of the deck on which he stood. All was utterly silent. Behind eyes shut and ice-coated, there was blackness. The sky before his face suddenly grayed, casting upon the face of the watcher. Slowly but steadily the horizon paled, and the forms of a few unhealthy clouds appeared, a dirty white. Now the winds had ceased to blow, though still the landscape was anything but appealing... and with the luminescence a smell became apparent to frigid nostrils: the smell of death and rot, of terror. Exposed by the steadily-brightening light was an expanse of bare rock pocked with the remains of plants and animals long vanquished. Bones and ash, fragments of unburned roots and cinders adorned the surface of the dead planet. Now the glow of the firmament grew more quickly, showing the black of his robe, tunic, and trousers. A cape of red completed the costume, and his gloves and boots were likewise as unliving blood. Black hair, moustache and long beard, caked with ice, testified somewhat to his middle age. ragged clouds of moisture escaped his lips, though there was no other sign of life in him, and this but infrequent. But behold! for at this time, a voice carrying one wonderful note of music quiet yet powerful, was imposed upon the world, drowning the sounds of silence. The sweet voice increased its volume, and the grey of the edge of the horizon glowed faintly pink... it increased again; the planet shuddered. Yet again. And the planet shook this time; and reaching its peak the music of the morning shattered the walls of silence! As the walls of ancient Jericho they crumbled before the trumpet's blast, the mighty Singer. The first streaks of color ripped apart the grey of the sky...fragments of cloud disintegrating, the heavens burst into flame. On Jason's world the sun rose. And as it then looked upon the planet, there appeared at the man's feet, green in the midst of the destruction. A single flower of blue and gold grew, bloomed, and around it sprang up grasses and flowers of every kind, until the surface of the world was covered with the fresh, living color and there was no trace of the former cataclysm! Now also began trees to sprout, and there were forests of mighty Sylvan specimens to rule over and care for their younger cousins and remove from the air the horrible stink. When this was accomplished, it was yet the first hour of morning. The note which had broken the walls of death and darkness now became Song. In sweet liquid voices it flowed over Altus Five and collected into paths and channels, where followed cool water for the sake of the living things. Now Jason had not moved in all the time previous, being nearly dead from the cold but the rays of the sun focused upon him and the song once more changed. Now growing bold and strong, beauty became handsome; the music washed over him as the rains of the spring. A drop of filthy water dripped from beard and fingertip, moustache and boot, and collected at his feet in a growing pool of red. And as this man's flesh began to live, yet another wondrous thing happened. As the Song washed his flesh, the powerful light of the sun also washed over him...and the dye of his garments faded to be replaced by a sparkling white. Trembling with all the excitement of a newborn, the emerging butterfly which sees light after so long in darkness, the eyes of gold opened; Jason began to live. And there was much rejoicing in the galaxy, and the sun and the song were happy at these works and rejoiced long. For after years in the grip of death a man gained the eternal life of one whose soul has seen the morning. -Aiwu Lian <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Shakka! It was a day as any other, Jardell awoke to the smell of smoldering wood outside his father's campaign tent. His mother quietly rattled with her pots and spoons which she used to prepare breakfast. He gently attempted to recall the dreams of the night before, but he could not fathom their nature. Then he remembered that today was to be a special day: He would go on a hunt with his friends of the surrounding tents, and Lenda, daughter of Jast, the merchant travelling with them for their protection, would join them at a secret meeting place later in the day. Lenda's father was a coward, and as Jardell thought of this large, heavy man with the constantly dirty hair, a jeer spread across his face. The only reason why he let Jast treat him as he did was because of Jardell's desire for Lenda's love. Today would be the day of fulfillment. He smiled as he thought of the day's plans: He and the gang would go out to track down a few coyotes and maybe even attempt to kill and hide one, just so as to be able to show that they had indeed done something useful upon their return. However, hey would cease this activity as soon as the sun reached it's peak and would then meander to the Shakka tree a league away from their camp. Shakka trees were strange creatures: They were plants, but then they weren't. Whoever sat within it's Sphere of Dreaming, or Shadow as it was called by the elders, would mindlink with the Shakka entity which, according to legend, resided not in the tree itself, but in the netherworld - reputedly near Odin's Valhalla. This, mixed with the lack of factual knowledge, made Shakka-sitting, as it was called, a very adventurous thing to do. The elders forbade it, the young ones craved it. It was addicting, to an extent, but not to the point where one could not rip oneself free from the Shakka's grasp. Once mindlink was established, the Shakka would, upon deposition of a small part of one's lifeforce, create any phantastic circumstance one desired. One could reenact anything one could imagine, and always escape unscathed, as the Shakka thrived on lifeforce, and would not destroy his guests for fear of them not returning should they be mentally scarred. The elders disapproved of such unworldly pleasures, as deposition of a fragment of lifeforce weakened the character and shortened one's lifespan, or so they said. Also, there had been reports of Shakka's that had extracted all of a guest's lifeforce while they were journeying in the land of make-believe. Such stories were told by hardcore users to Virgin Dreamers, as first time users were always called. Today would be different from other Dreamtimes, however, at least for Jardell and Lenda. They would commence to make their way to man and womanhood while in the shadow of the Shakka. It was considered the ultimate act of love to copulate in it's shadow, and Jardell had always desired for his Passing to be of such a high caliber. He was excited and fearful, and for the first time since the plan had evolved out of their young minds did he discover doubts in his mind. His father had concluded his Passing in the same manner, much to the disapproval of the elders afterwards, and he had given Jardell only one piece of advice on the matter: "Wait until you feel that it may be the wrong thing to do - then you will know that you are ready...". These words reverberated through Jardell's young head over and over, pushing tears from his eyes and causing him to tremble all over his body. He wanted to call it off; he suddenly thought it was the wrong thing to do after all. He would tell Lenda that he didn't think it was such a good idea, she would certainly understand. After having dressed and eaten breakfast, he quickly gathered his hunting implements and headed for the meeting place just outside the camp. Two of his friends were already there, evidently in eager anticipation of the day's coming events as they hastily greeted Jardell and then went back to discussing any possible evasive actions should such be required. Jardell sat next to Rhun, one of his better friends and inquired why they were even considering such possibilities, as they all knew the Shakka was their private secret. "Because, Jardell, one of the elders COULD have found the Shakka on one of his spiritual walks. It is unlikely, but possible. It is true that we planned this well by telling your father that we would be hunting coyotes by the old cave, as that one can draw a straight line from the Shakka to the cave, and it will pass right through the camp, but all possibilities MUST be considered!" Rhun had always been a pessimist. In either case, Jardell had already made up his mind that he would not make the Passing under the Shakka's shadow after all, so all that could happen to them is mild reprimand. The other two participants in their campaign arrived soon after, and they set out for the old cave. The trip lasted an hour, which was normal for Drytime, and their waterskins were soon depleted. They arrived at the old cave and promptly made their way to the hidden stream inside to refill their water supply and to quench their thirst. Then they sat upon the cold clay floor of the main dome and proceeded to devour their brought rations hungrily. After a short rest, they headed out to hunt coyotes. They needed not search long, as their tracking and hunting skills were much improved from the previous year. They had soon entrapped a confused dog in their midst and were jabbing the snarling animal with their spears. As they continued their deadly game with the doomed creature, they debated who should give the fatal blow. It was decided that Jardell should do so, as he would be consummating Lenda's love and completing his Passing on this day. All involved smiled jealously as the decision was passed, all except for Jardell who blushed. He nodded silently, saying nothing about the decision he had met earlier. He prepared for the deadly blow, and the others tightened the circle about the crazed animal. Jardell aimed and thrust his spear at the coyote's head, thrusting with all his might. The thrust struck the animal beneath the right eye and glanced off. The entire group fell silent for a split second - a glancing blow during a hunt was an omen that any decisions passed that day were bad. Jardell fell back in horror - only he knew that the omen could apply directly. The others fired him up, yelling to complete the kill, and Jardell thrust again. This time, the coyote was stuck squarely in the eye; the spear head pierced it's brain and a shower of blood burst forth from it's nostrils as it jerked in a few spastic motions and finally remained still. The boys gathered about the dead animal and congratulated Jardell on his excellent kill. None even thought of the omen, no one thought it applied, no one but Jardell, and while he shook his friend's hands, he quietly thought about his decision this morning. He felt a nudge beneath his stomach, and suddenly the decision not to follow the plan was wiped from his mind. He began to smile in eager anticipation and disemboweled the coyote with such fervor that it even surprised Rhun, who knew Jardell to be the hardworking type under all that lazyness. The carcass was skinned and the hide was hung up to dry. Rhun built a fire and stuck five neatly cut pieces of coyote meat on a thick stick which was kept in the storage area of the cavern. The boys gathered about the fire and began the almost ritualistic telling of stories. One could tell that they were all ready for the Passing, but only one member of a Circle of Friendship was allowed to do so every phase of the moon. Soon the time to travel to the Shakka came and they gathered their posessions and wandered off. Jardell wore the completely dried hide about his waist, a feature of the ritual for which he was thankful for, as it helped him hide his display of anticipation. At the start of their trek the sun was still high in the sky, but going around the camp to an area roughly the same distance from it as the old cave took a long time and when they finally arrived at the Shakka, the sun was just an hour away from setting. There was no breeze, and the Shakka's huge stationary form sent a shudder down even the most expert user's spine. It's branches were grotesquely twisted arms that reached out toward the boys in blind desperation. Even though they were out of the Shakka's mindlink shadow, the unworldly creature could still transmit empathic emotions to them. It was hungry for their life force, that much was obvious. Jardell began to think of the stories told by the elders about Shakkas devouring the entire lifeforce of a user while he or she was under the Shakka's influence. He shuddered: Such stories were merely used to try to scare them away from the strange dreamlike state that the tree produced. They were to meet Lenda when the sun fell behind the horizon, so they sat atop a nearby rock and wearily gazed at the Shakka. "I don't like what I just felt close to Shakka!" Rhun said. The others nodded in agreement, but Jardell thought differently. "Guys," he said, "we're just overwrought with anticipation, that's all... I don't think there will be a problem. We never had one with the Shakka before, I don't see why we should now!" The group fell into silent thought which was only interrupted with the spectacular display that rippled across the clouds covering the horizon: The sun was dying and spilling its blood into the white cloud cover. They gazed in awe at the spectacular display and only Jardell noticed that the Shakka was moving. He wordlessly pointed it out to Rhun. The Shakka's root system seemed to have disappeared, leaving a system of ten or so leg-like appendages. It appeared to be stretching it's newly found legs as it slowly folded and straightened them. The other three now noticed this odd display and fear riddled their faces. Janten was the tallest of the Circle, and also the first to run in fear, the other two followed him, loudly yelling unintelligible phrases as they raced back towards the camp. Rhun had tried to stop them, but gave up when it was apparent that nothing would change their minds at leaving the Shakka far behind. Both Rhun and Jardell were as fearful as they, but Jardell thought of Lenda who should be arriving soon, and Rhun would never have left him in a dangerous situation such as this. They had heard the myth of the Rising of the Shakka, but neither of them had believed it. The myth told of a certain day of each year when one Shakka was allowed to move on to another location; the magic was invoked at sunset and lasted until dawn. As this was only possible once a year, the Shakkas made certain that they could pick the best spot to settle down again, and many tales of horrible violence upon mortals were linked to the myth. "Look, over there! It's Lenda!" Rhun exclaimed as he pointed towards a small moving figure silhouetted against the horizon. The Shakka shuddered again, producing whistling sounds from it's branches whipping through the air. It whirled around and seemed to gaze at Lenda with invisible eyes. Then it made it's way toward her, slowly at first, but with ever increasing speed. Jardell jumped to his feet, quickly gathered his possessions and ran behind the Shakka as fast as his leg would carry him. Rhun was right at his heels, panting loudly. They made a wide circle around the Shakka which was headed straight for Lenda. "Why doesn't she stop? Can't she see that it's coming her way?" panted Rhun. "Maybe the Shakka has taken her mind into control?" Jardell muttered. They ran towards Lenda, but as they passed close to the Shakka, they realized that this had been a bad move. Rhun was the first to feel the effects, but as they got closer to the Shakka, Jardell was also beginning to feel the effects of the spell. "Run back!" he screamed at Rhun, just in time. Rhun slowed, blinked and with a surge of concentration broke free long enough to make it out of the Shakka's Shadow. Panting, the two boys huddled together and tried to decide the best plan of action. "It's best if we just run around it at a great enough distance, don't you think?" Rhun commented. "Otherwise, it'll get to her before we get help or do anything else." Jardell agreed, and they made their way around the Shakka at a safe distance. When the two had finally reached Lenda, she indeed seemed to be in a trance. Jardell stood in front of her, breathing hard, and called her name over and over. Lenda gave no response, and Jardell had a difficult time trying to stop her moving even closer to the rapidly advancing Shakka. Jardell slapped her face lightly, and for a split second, it seemed that her eyes cleared, but then they quickly took on their previous state. Almost ready to panic, Jardell picked up on what he had just seen: Pain seemed to break the spell. In desperation, he whipped out his hunting knife and made a short, clean cut on her lower arm, trying his best to stay away from any areas that contained major blood vessels. Her eyes cleared instantly, she gave a quick yell and looked at Jardell questioningly. He grabbed her unwounded arm and pulled her behind him as fast as possible. "Don't ask questions, just run!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. He noticed that in all the confusion, the Shakka had come within twenty paces of them, and it was high time to get out of it's way. Jardell, Lenda and Rhun darted to the right, out of the Shakka's path, and this seemed to confuse it enough for them to gain some distance. They stopped, and panting, Jardell tried to explain the situation to Lenda. She understood immediately what had transpired, and told Jardell and Rhun of a short story that her father had related to her some years back. It seems that he, too, was a Shakka user in his prime years, and had come to the local Shakka on a day like this. He was the only one of the group to survive unscathed, but he never related to Lenda how he had made his escape. She seemed to remember him muttering something about Rabbits, but he never would tell her more. "Rabbits?" Jardell exclaimed. Just then, the Shakka changed direction and was heading toward the group once again. "Come on, let's move!" Jardell yelled. "Rabbits!" he thought to himself. It was too obvious: The Shakka seemed to have a limited intelligence in certain ways, much as a predator had when trying to chase a rabbit. When rabbits fled, they would not run in a straight line, but zig-zag their way to safety. This not only wore the chasing foe down, but also confused it to the point where the chase seemed fruitless. "Come on... let's go! Do exactly as I do!" Jardell screamed, and immediately changed his direction to the left. Lenda and Rhun, astonished, followed his example. The Shakka slowly realized the directional change, and altered it's direction accordingly. Jardell now changed to the right and the other two followed his example. The Shakka took even longer to realize this change and had moved away quite a distance before it turned in the correct direction. "One more should do it!" Jardell exclaimed. Once the Shakka was on their tail again, he suddenly ran towards it in an almost straight line, veering off to the left at the last moment. The Shakka didn't even notice that they had passed it and were successfully escaping its wrath behind its back. It just kept moving forward, eventually slowing down to conserve resources. It was well on its way to a new location, having already forgotten its prey. Jardell, Rhun and Lenda stopped running when the Shakka was but a tiny speck against the growing dusk. They hugged each other, exasperated, but happily laughing, and after a short rest started to make their way back to the camp. -H.D. Baumeister <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Seer's Doom The man freely checked his sword and knives to the child at the flap of the garishly colored tent before entering. The dim interior of a thelavran, or seer's, tent was not a familiar place to him, but Baranya was rumored to be the best forecaster alive, and he wanted to be sure, for his wife's sake. He knelt on the cushions before the low table and waited for the thelavra to appear. His eye was caught by the many-faceted crystal spheroid on the a black velvet padded stand in the center of the table, and so he didn't notice Baranya's entrance. One moment her chair was empty and the next, she was sitting serenely before him. "Pose your question," she said without preamble, sliding gradually into her trance by narrowing her eyes to slits, breathing shallowly, and concentrating on her personal thendera, or concentration point, which was a painted wood toy knife her brother had owned as a child. The man said, "My wife wants a child. But, she's a small woman. The healers aren't sure that she can safely carry and bear one. My question: If my wife becomes pregnant, will she succeed in delivering it safely, and will it be...normal?" There was a history of deformity in his family, and that worried him as much as his wife's possible problems. The thelavra began humming softly, and closed her eyes in full concentration, sinking fully into her trance. Presently, she opened them again, and, still humming, gazed deeply into her crystal. "I see...your wife." Baranya spoke slowly, humming between, and the man had to concentrate in his turn to understand her. "She's pregnant. She's delivering...a son...safely." He breathed a sigh of relief. "I see...a limit. If...you...she conceives within...six months, ...all will be...well with her...and the...child." Baranya sat back, a slight frown on her face. She shook her head, as if unable to quite leave her trance, and her eyes unglazed. She looked at him, and asked, "Was that satisfactory?" "O, yes, my lady. Thank you, thank you so much. Here, for you, and all your help." He set three gold Stars on the table. "Thank you again." He stood, turned, and left, smiling. Baranya's frown deepened as the tent flap closed. She had seen something else, but she knew from experience never to give a customer more than he wanted. Still, she was curious, so she breathed deeply, re-entered her trance, and stared into her crystal ball. Her frown deepened, then her eyes widened in horror. She muttered, "No. No! Stop!" She stared for a few more moments, then she screamed, "Gods, NO!" and slumped in her chair. She breathed once more, then died. The man never knew what he had engendered. The thelavra had looked into the future a little too far, and seen her own death, and the result. And, seeing her death had brought it about, just as she had seen it - slumping back in her chair and expiring right then and there. But, such were the circumstances, and her power, that her psychic death-gasp was transmitted throughout the whole of Eastland, setting up a chain reaction among all of the mentally gifted - the so called magicians - and, in forced empathy, killed them, or burned out their powers. Unknowing of the disaster foreseen, the man went home to tell his wife the good news. His son was delivered some months later. On the man's son's first birthday, barbarians from the Steppes invaded quietly. They poured into Eastland unnoticed, and attacked from within. Their conquest was easy and uncontrolled, due to the demise of most of the witches and wizards the year before. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 5 The day was getting on and there was still a long way to go before he was safe. If the Nuadrin had made a new gate then they were almost certainly watching for him. The sun was on the other side of the mountains now casting shadow of Psom far out into the wilderness past the cliffs. Darkness stretched as far as the eye could see, but in any case, Ceda waited for the sun to go down totally and the darkness to be complete before he left the shelter of the cliff face. That night he set out. Being on the east of the mountains, he had the moon to guide him, but the way was dangerous. Trying to avoid roads as much as possible, he tramped on slowly, being most sparing with the remaining food that he had left. A couple of hours march brought him a newly made crossroad. The way South undoubtedly led to the Port of Breanduin or Naz'Clow and the North, it probably led up the Cities of Pheeng'Am, Bilfneuin or past the Gate of Ploughdom to the far City of Naudsman on the borders of Old Grandydyr beyond the desert. The way West led back to the Cliffs of Belos. East was the way that Ceda went, though he was not sure at this point where it led. After a short time, The dry atmosphere that hung about the mountains vanished and woods sprang up all around. Soon the road was deep into a forest surrounded by the pleasant sound of birds. The road was now slow and hard. The road climbed now up some unnamed hill and twisted constantly. Soon all sense of direction was lost and continuing meant following the road or being lost in the endless wood. Then Ceda heard footsteps coming up the path in front of him. A great many footsteps, 'around fifteen of them', he thought. 'Mayhap they can tell me where I am.' They were getting very close when Ceda heard a commanding voice call out an order in the common tongue. "Halt! We hold here for the night! Beniza, chain their feet and bind their mouths. I don't wish to meet any Bilfneuin Axemen. Now! Any of you filthy men decide to try anything and I'll personally cut your fingers from your hands. We reach the gate tomorrow." The voice was Nuadri. The laughs that followed were Orcish-- and the cries were Human. Ceda jumped into the woods. His first thought was escaping, then remembering the fate of the men that reached the mountains, he decided to help them. Taking a long sip of his wine, and throwing away the last skin, he slipped into the woods and approached the camp under the cover of the trees and the darkness. Soon he stood just outside the camp. There were indeed fifteen: one Nuadri, four Orcs and ten men. The sun was just crawling over the trees in the east when they had settled down and the Orcs drew a little into the wood to shield themselves from the coming sunlight. The Men were bound in heavy chains at their feet and necks and were anchored to a nearby tree and Nuadri slept down the road out of reach of the men. Ceda waited until the sun was over the trees shining down on the company before he moved. Then taking his trident in both hands, he crept forwards and silently killed the Nuadri. Then walking to the trees the Orcs slept, he killed all but one, then he put his foot on the Orcs chest and yelled. The Orc and the rest of the company awoke with a start. Ceda lifted it to its feet and took its weapon casting it away onto the road by the Men. "Now, Orc! tell me, what is your business on this side of the Gate of Ploughdom?" The Orc looked at Ceda in dismay, then spat at him. The Orc died quickly. Then Ceda turned to the dead Nuadri. A brief search revealed the keys to the chains that bound the Men. Then they all sat and talked. "I am Aroth of Leafholm, City in the Wood of Carne," said a man. "And I am Ceda of No-Al Ben" "Thank you for your kind service. My men and I were taken prisoner of the Nuadrin some three days ago," said the man before he was cut off by Ceda. "Nuadrin? How came you by that name?" "The Beast you killed there, it is called by our people a Nuadri," replied Aroth. "So have we decided after none of the elders could find any text with description or word of them. We have never seen them before." "Nor have I," said Ceda. "But I also have come to call them Nuadrin though I know not why. I thought of such a name in folly for I could not remember ever meeting such an odd creature as this in all my travels. But let us come to this later, first we must leave the road, for there are many of these Nuadrin about now, they have hewn a new gate from the mountain of Psom." "Aye, and from Dearn. But this is old news. We shall speak of it later when we reach Leafholm. It is six hours stride from here." "Nay!" cried Ceda. "I'll not travel the roads now! they are infested with the vile Nuadrin!" Aroth laughed. "We are native to this wood, Ceda of No-Al Ben. We need not contend with The Orcs new masters! We know the wood like as well as the Elves of Carne. You need not fear!" Then he leapt to his feet an bounded into the wood followed by the rest of the men. Ceda went to the Corpse of the Nuadri leader and took a skin of liquid that was tied to its waist. Then he followed into the woods after the men who were singing a merry song. Carne! the merry wood We return to Thee Coming home. Carne! where all is good As we enter Thee coming home. Leafholm, the City in the Trees Where all is well and good! From the Days of Old when Elves wrought gold and ruled The kingdoms untold. Then came to Leafholm. And Leafholm! I return to thee In bliss and glee And smell the sweet nectar That flows in Thee! Coming home! Strong wind and rain, And Tainian's Bain, And all the Ice of Plime; Nor Orcs or Barnonoen Or Dragons of Khuss Shall keep me from my Beloved Leafholm! Coming home! The air is sweet! The food a treat! All is right In Leafholm! Carne! love me please! Let me live under your leaves! Carne! I return to you! I come home! And rest I shall In Leafholm! Coming home! And so they sang as they bounded through the forest as though they were in an empty field hindered not by the trees of the hills that they passed. At times they had to wait for Ceda who had a great deal of trouble keeping up with them. Finally, after some hours march, they came to a large wall that stretched into the trees in either direction. The wall was as green as the trees themselves and they turned and followed it for a little while until they came upon a great gate. Upon the gate were many Elves cloaked in dark green robes drawn tightly about their heads. In each ones hand was a a long bow and on their sides rested long knifes. Seeing Aroth, the gate was drawn open and they all entered. "Do the Elves of Carne and the men of Carne dwell in the same city?" asked Ceda as the gate was closed behind them. "Nay," said Aroth. "There are no men of Carne." Ceda stopped short. He looked up and down at the row of Men he had entered with. All appeared to be human. Then he looked sidelong at Aroth who stood smiling at him. "Ceda of No-Al Ben," he said. "We are not Men, but are Elves. Come, we will hold now a council with the King, and you shall be there to tell of your ordeal. There you shall learn all that you wish to know. Ceda was led up many streets until they reached the gate to the palace of the city. The walls were made of a strange silken thread, which Ceda commented on and was told that its properties were that of the strongest metal and the thickest rock yet inclimbable. All over the city as Ceda passed, trees towered over his head, their tops disappearing into the clouds above. Green leaves covered the paths (in Elven tree cities, there were no set roads to disrupt the natural area, but paths were maintained for convenience) never dying, and the soft singing of birds was never absent. Inside the great walls of the palace, a great ring of pine trees acted as a palace wall, which was only enterable through the Gate. The trees were much larger then all the others and even as their mighty trunks rose into the clouds above, they gave no hint of ending. Into the tree gate they went and discovered a large stair. The stair went both up and down, they went down. Torches lined the walls and which were delicately carved out of the dirt among the roots. Finally after a long descent, they came to a large door guarded by four Elves. The doors were made of an odd yellow metal which lighted the passage. Ceda was told to leave his weapons and enter. The hall that he had entered was like none he had ever seen or even heard the likes of in any tale. The walls and ceiling were that of the living tree root of the magnificent trees that grew in the Palace Ring. They were nicely cleaned and polished to the magnificent color of orange which Ceda guessed was their natural color. The floor was of the same yellow metal that the doors had been made from. The room was full of Elves the like of which Ceda had never seen before. They were dressed in many different shades of green, their hair was and well groomed (mostly in braids) and their faces were stern but gentle. They welcomed Aroth and turned to Ceda as he and his men left the chamber. "Welcome," said one of the larger Elves coming forward. He was well dressed in a light green robe and wore a helm of orange leaves about his head. "I am the Lord of Leafholm. Rakine I am called by most of my Elves; Rakine of Leafholm. What is thy name, Sir?" "Ceda of No-Al Ben," replayed Ceda. There was some muffled talking around the room. Then Rakine spoke. "The finder of the Crown has come to us! Welcome again, Ceda of No-Al Ben. Tell us your tale and then ask us what you will, for I see great concern in your eyes." He signaled and chairs and a great table were brought forth. Ceda sat at the middle of the long table. Elves were all about him, but they were silent and Ceda spoke. "When the winter had passed, I was hired and left for the city of Caffthorn. Then, as the sun rises and the moon sets, it was ten days and three when I found the Tree of Grobst and came upon the Crown." "Aye," said Rakine. "This we know. We have been in close contact with Rackins, for he is my brother, and we hide nothing." Ceda stared at Rakine for a moment and then continued. "Then I will start from the time that Cander of Perstanie reached Cramstrock. It was ere two months that he came to me, and I was drunk and could not talk. He took me like a dog onto a horse and we rode for Dhernis stopping in Caahah. It was only there that he counseled me that we made for the City of the Elves. "Upon leaving, about four days ride from Dhernis on swift horse, we went astray by my leave to the Gate of Ploughdom, for I had misgivings about the Dark Doorway, though I know not why. Methought it best to check and see lest there be something afoot. "You dared to approach the Dark Gate in times of war? and what of Cander, we knew not that he had reached you! where is he now?" said Rakine. "Cander," said Ceda slowly. "Met his end in the Caverns of Onibus, but what is this talk of war?" There was more quiet talking in the room and Rakine looked to an Elf at his side and spoke a few words. The Elf answered and then Rakine continued and the room grew silent. "The Mouths of Arnmere and the Gates of Ploughdom, Dearn and Psom have been spewing forth their vile laborers in war for nigh two and a half months!" said Rakine. Caffthorn, Ruirse, No-Al Ben and all the little countries of the East, North and West have been in violent struggles to defeat their might, but as yet they are strong and well armed. And they have with them the Nuadrin to command them." "Aye," said Ceda. "I know of them, though I do not yet fully understand them. I had no name for them, and in folly did I begin to call them Nuadrin, for I had naught else to refer to them as, and yet you use the name as do I, yet none have heard me speak it." "They are to us a nameless people, not in song or story, but yet they are here, and we call them now the Nuadrin for we also have but naught else to call them but must speak of their deeds. Continue." "After seven suns had passed since we had departed from Cramstrock, we were taken prisoner by Nuadrin not fifty dragon lengths from the Gate! I know not of anything else but that I lay for sometime in a dark room bound in chains at my feet and hands. Then I was led before a large beast that bore like to the Nuadrin, but was bigger and stronger. He was the ruler, and he mocked me and smote Cander, and that was the last that I saw of him. "After a while in my cage I escaped and found my way to a pass in Psom and learned of the new gate. There I fought with a Nuadri and some of its pet Orcs and found this:" he reached into his pack and retrieved the medallion with the crown on it. "Aye, we have seen many of the like," Said Rakine. Ceda returned the medallion to his pouch and went on. "There was one other matter of the mountains that troubles my thought: on the night that I had escaped from the pursuit of the Orcs, I came upon a place that was barren of life. Naught lived there, it was as if all creatures were dead and gone save the trees and plants. It was to that place that the Orcs from Onibus did not follow me as I fled." "Aye, there are places in the mountains that even the Orcs will not tread. You were lucky that you found not what did live there I'll wager." "It is there that I slept. When I awoke, I journeyed down into the valley below and there I found a camp of the enemy. They did not spy me though I sat and watched them for a time. There they burned men and made many weapons in ready for war. "I sat until the sun fell and then I circled the camp making for pass in Psom. And it is there that I first discovered the new Gate. "I fled Orcs over the pass killing some and gaining the medallion and traveled down the other side of the mountain to the Cliffs of Belos and then found a way down the following day." "You found way down the cliffs with naught but what you have now, or did your luck provide you with rope from one of the dead Orcs?" asked one of the Elves that sat at the table. "Luck it was, but not with rope," he answered. "Down the cliffs edge Southward I walked until I came to a crack in the cliffs edge that descended until the ground. That was the night that it rained. Almost half way down I came upon a cave and rested there until the following day. "When I came down the mountain the following day, I traveled East until I came so Carne and met your men in the hands of the Enemy. They led me here, and that is my tale." Rakine sat for a while in thought until a another elf entered the room. And Ceda stared at him in wonder, for it was Aroth, yet he was no longer a human, but an elf; the face was the same, with perhaps a more smooth look, or perhaps his eyes were more stretched and thin, but this was Aroth, and anyone could see that. He bowed low before the king and took a place at the far side of the table with a nod to Ceda. "Well," said the King at last. "We must send word to Rackins at once. Ceda, it is upon you to accompany them to the fair city of Perstanie in the Learis Islands. This time, however, I hope that you shall go there without any short side trips. Go now directly to Dhernis, and take the Ships of Tearny by my order to the Captain. "With him we shall need to send escort. Aroth, go with him, and take whoever you would with you, but make haste! It is nigh one year since he was sent for, and we have as yet heard nothing from my brother in forty suns and forty moons. Go now, and may your speed compete with the raven! 'uentu descern shyen svequ seju!'" "We shall leave at first light, cousin" said Aroth to Rakine with a nod to Ceda. "Nay," said Rakine. "First we wait for word from Rackins, messengers have already been sent telling of his arrival. As for now, go and make yourselves ready, for you leave within the week." With that final word, Ceda and Aroth got up and left the room. "Cousin?" asked Ceda as they walked down the hall. "Yes." Aroth led Ceda to a room where he was to rest and before long he was sound asleep on one of the most comfortable beds that he had ever slept on. It was a week and three days before they had left. No word had come from Perstanie and time was ever fleeting. Ceda lay on his bed, thoughts drifted though his mind and slowly he fell into a slumber. It felt like he had hardly closed his eyes before Aroth once again stood before the foot of his bed, clad in a dark green riding cape with a hood and light riding boots; and it was not long before they were on tall horses riding for the city gate. Aroth seemed of good cheer and was full of energy as was Ceda who was once again under way to the beautiful City of the Elves on Cergaan. Before the sun was in center sky they were deep into Carne many leagues from Leafholm. The light could just barely seep through the leaves of the treetops high above their heads bringing small showers of blissful illumination to the undergrowth and small animals that bathed in the tranquility. On the look-out for Orcs and Nuadri, they continued onward, but met none. And by nightfall, they were a days ride from the border of the forest. They pulled off the road about a hundred yards and set up their camp. The horses were put on watch while they set up. Then they sat down to have a meal of some cakes that they had brought from Leafholm along with some fresh water from a near-by stream. The pleasantness lasted during the night and at length both Ceda and Aroth were deep in slumber while the horses watched over the camp. At first light they awoke and packed up their gear for the days ride. The red pinnacles of light were barely visible through the branches above stemming over the early morning sky and the air was rich with the soft sounds of birds. Reluctantly they stowed the last of their things, had some berries and started for the borders. The second morning since they had left Leafholm was peaceful. Although they were in a hurry, they could not ride though the great Forest of Carne without slowing to wonder at the somber trees that stood so noble in their path. Soon they took to walking, first quickly, then slower and finally barely moving up the path at all. After a few hours the sun was over head and they stopped to have a meal in a small patch of sunlight that managed to sneak through the upper branches of a tall tree and form a large circle of light on the ground near its trunk. They took a few cakes from their packs and sat down to eat when they first heard the noise; hoofs, running at great speed up the road from the direction they were headed. "Arnea seek Duval! We were not careful! They will see the horses and will know we are here," cried Aroth as he leapt to his feet. "We shall perish from this folly of ours!" He ran to the horses and pulled their reins jolting them off the road in a frenzy. Ceda also got up, but not as hastily. "I think not, Orcs ride not on steeds of any kind." "True, but can the Nuadri ride?" "I know not, but it is too late do debate, alas they are upon us!" He through back his long hair and reached for his sword that hung loosely at his side. At that moment the riders came into sight, and Aroth relaxed for they were Elves. "Hail!" shouted the foremost rider seeing Aroth. "Greetings." "Hail," answered Aroth with a long sigh of relief. "I am Aroth of Leafholm, cousin to Rakine the King. We seek knowledge of the way up ahead by the forest gate, is it save to travel?" "Aye, we have seen and heard naught for a days ride, it is safe." "Good, and what is your business? Are you messengers?" said Aroth. "Yes, we travel with message from Rackins. Pardon me, but are you Ceda, for our message is for you be you he." "Ah!" said Ceda with satisfaction. "Rackins has word of our arrival then! What were his words?!" "He spoke not as much as Merth. They want you to ride for the Caves of Arnmere and seek what lies there, thou I know not what. He said you would know about what he speaks," said the rider. "The Caves? Is that old fool wizard in his right mind?" cried Aroth. "Even in times of peace I would not venture within fifty leagues of the hideous Caves!" "Aye," said Ceda. "I know of what he speaks." With a glance from Ceda, Aroth bid the riders continue to Leafholm and inform Rakine of their new destination. In a spring the horses had drawn away bearing the riders onward and were soon out of sight. "To Arnmere?" asked Aroth with a lump welling in his thought. "Aye," said Ceda with the same feeling of dread. "I know what I must do. Come if you will, but I force you not." "I will come, for only a coward would leave you, and I am of noble blood!" he said thrusting his fist into the air revealing the pitch black ring that encircled his forth finger. "Then let us ride at once!" shouted Ceda with a smile. They finished what remained of their meal and stowed their gear. Then mounting the horses they sped down the road and out of sight into the distance with swiftness of the eagle. -Joel Slatis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Idol My father was a mercen'ry: For our upkeep he sold his sword. His fame was sung throughout the land, And told to us by Mother's word. We saw him little in early years, As across our land in war he went Leading some and killing others, And always money home was sent. Then he left home to fight foreign wars When I was but a decade old. Yet we looked up to the image he left In the tales my mother told. Without a father we grew up, But our mother raised us right With tales of Father's glorious deeds That made us all eager to fight. And though we were not swordsman each A model was his courage still. And we learned pride in all to take Even if 'twas only to kill. And he left home to fight foreign wars When I was but a decade old. Yet we looked up to the image he left In the tales my mother told. Another tenyear he'd been gone When word of him fin'ly came back: He'd died in battle, brave and true, To hold his flag against attack. That had occured some two years past When we began bad things to hear. A saint he was not, and no one is; But the wrong he did was not ours to bear. And he left home to fight foreign wars When I was but a decade old. Yet we looked up to the image he left In the tales my mother told. Ten more years had passed me by; Years I'd lived both full and well, And for myself because I knew No good would survive me after I fell. For Father's life was oft in my mind And the tales that grew after he'd died Spreading the wrong, forgetting the right: Leaving me no need for pride. And he left home to fight foreign wars When I was but a decade old. And the Idol created by Mother's words Died by the tales that others told. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER FIVE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *A Difficult Recovery: Atros 6 Joseph Curwen *Two Journeys Rich Durbin *The Treasure: Part 1 of 4 John L. White Date: 042787 Dist: 352 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, as opposed other recent issues, we actually have a rather significant amount of news. Firstly, I've taken the plunge and bought myself a new Amiga 1000 personal computer. Very nice. But that's really not FSFnet material, now, is it? The big news is that after some consideration and deliberation with the Dargon authors, it has been decided that in the near future subscriptions to FSFnet will be available via standard non-electronic mail. This policy will enable persons with no network access to get the zine, and permit people who lose their accounts but wish to continue receiving FSFnet to do so. I also will be printing up issues using desktop publishing on the Amiga, and possibly including artwork. Of course, because postage isn't free, I will have to charge postal subscribers a distribution fee, which will basically cover postage and printing costs. At this point the costs of postal subscriptions is unknown, and I'll be setting up a policy regarding them in the next few weeks. If you are about to lose your account, and are interested in a postal subscription, you might drop me a mail file with your postal address, and I will forward you the information as soon as I get it all ironed out. I will also be announcing the official policy in FSFnet, for those of you who might be interested. Well, that's all the news for now. Remember, if your account is going away, please drop me a line so I can remove you from the distribution list. Now, on to the issue! -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A Difficult Recovery: Atros 6 After an instant, Atros awoke on the rough pallet in Pravo's house. The full light of the sun bore down upon his face through a high window. Atros shielded his eyes in the shadow of bundle of roots hanging in the window to dry. He guessed that was very late in the afternoon. Pravo must have let him sleep through the morning. Atros was still wrapped in his tattered gray cloak, which he now noticed was spattered with black mud. He had even slept in his high, calf skin boots. A myriad of small untreated cuts lay across his arms and chest. His arms and back were very sore from the exertions of the previous night and the ravages of the hard pallet. Atros wondered at this. Pravo had been so meticulous in his care for Darla, spoiling her with a luxurious down bed and an expensive physician, while ignoring Atros entirely. Hadn't the physician been concerned for a bleeding man lying across the entrance to the house? Yes, Darla was a more serious case and should be treated first, but wouldn't it be natural to see to him after she had been dealt with. It was very puzzling. He wished to question Pravo though he was uncertain whether he should draw attention to Pravo's oversight. But now, he must see to Darla's health. He rose carefully but was still rewarded with fresh stabs of pain. He would pay dearly for over spending himself last night. Seeing that he was already dressed, he could avoid going through that morning ritual, at least until after he saw Darla. It was rather obvious that he would need a fresh change of clothing soon though. Still, it would worry Darla unnecessarily if she saw so much mud and dried blood. Trying not to make too great of a mess on Pravo's floor, Atros quickly brushed off the cakes of dry mud from his clothing. Availing himself of the pitcher and basin he found on the shelf next to the low pallet, Atros washed his face and hands. Fortunately, most of his wounds appeared superficial if painful. He was very glad to be spared tortuous treatments of stitching or cauterizing. Having thoroughly prepared himself, he set out to find Darla. With a few quick strides down the narrow back hall and around the corner, Atros arrived at the closed doorway to Darla's room. He knocked softly but heard no response, so he slowly inched the doorway open and almost instantly gasped. Darla lay motionless, breathing only shallowly. The portion of her face not covered by thick gauze was white with pallor. The sight caused intense memories to overwhelm Atros momentarily. Memories of another life. He entered the white and gray semi-private room slowly, timidly. The hollow echo of his footsteps had haunted him since leaving the elevator. The partial translucency of the fringeless partitioning curtains muffled the light of the drab, overcast day visible through the distant window. He passed the first partitioned bed without trying to glimpse one of the contributors to the intermittent buzzes and beeps plaguing the ward. His steady stride faltered and stopped as his eyes fell on the tiny, pale figure lying rigid on the wide, white mattress next to the low window. For a moment the sight paralyzed his his body and mind in a flood of contradictory emotions: compassion, disgust, sympathy, terror, love, loathing, satisfaction, and remorse. But his mind choked them down. How could she have deteriorated so much overnight? (A sleepless night for him, apparently something much worse for her.) The hospital frock dehumanized her in its half effort to allow modesty. It would have been better if they hadn't made any pretenses. Her back was arched unnaturally upward in a tense strain. She seemed so much like a turtle that lay upset in the middle of the highway, waiting motionless..stunned for the next in an endless series of inconceivable abuses. He glanced at the pain stricken face peeking out from under the thick, restrictive bandaging, but he quickly looked away. Her eyes were open, staring unfocused at the wall lamp above her head. "Mother..." he said softly, tentatively. She did not respond. "Mother..." he called again, taking her hand in his own. It was cold...lifeless. The fatty flesh of her arms hung loosely from her bones. He saw a flicker in her eyes, almost a response. "Mother..." he repeated leaning close to her ear, clutching her hand in his own. "Dewar...Dewar," she murmured turning her head from side to side, her eyes still unfocused. "No, Mom, it's me, Statsul...your son. Can you see me?" But it was no use. She squirmed and thrashed about, so that Statsul was afraid she would pull the sensors off her neck and chest. He released her hand and it dropped to her side. She continued to call out "Dewar" for some time...the name of Statsul's father, dead for more than a decade.... Finally, she became calm again. It was as if nothing had happened. Statsul shrunk from the room and into the hall. Hands trembling, he took a plastic bottle from his coat pocket. He fumbled for a moment, took two capsules from the container, and popped them into his mouth. With the open bottle still in his left hand, he triggered the stainless steel water fountain with his right and swallowed the pills as the water gushed into his mouth. He turned and she was there, he choked. The ward nurse, a dark, middle aged woman with a once stunning figure and tired eyes. She took the bottle from his hands, glanced at it, closed it, and returned it to Statsul. "Don Diagoros?" she said. Her accent was hardly noticeable. "Yes...hmph...What can you tell me about my mother's condition," he stammered. "We're not allowed to discuss the patients, Don Diagoros. You'll have to see a physician or an ablegate. The Legals, you know?" "Oh," he resigned and began a hesitant turn. "But if you won't tell anyone. I guess I can help." The same qualities that made her a good nurse prevented her from not helping this man. "Dona Diagoros... I'm sorry, but she's not responding to the medication, transvection treatments, or microsurgery. I'm sorry, but it doesn't look good." She hadn't fully considered what she'd have to say when she agreed to help him. She was out of practice at this sort of thing. "Oh..." he whispered barely audible. "Her a..illness is just too advanced. If we'd only known sooner.. She should have had a genome map done years ago." Statsul mumbled something about her being a Dissenter. "I see...Well, that's her right...I'm sorry Don Diagoros but I must go now. The patients...." She made a brisk half turn on her flats and was gone in a blur of blue and white. Statsul began a slow return to his mother's bedside. Atros was recalled from his flashback by the force of the door slamming into him from behind. While his mind had been distant, his body had walked into the room and closed the door behind him. He did not know how long he had stood there staring at Darla. "Atros!" Pravo nearly shouted. "You startled me. I didn't hurt you, did I?" Pravo asked entering the room after Atros had been jostled forward, allowing the door to open completely. "No..." Atros stammered then recovering his composure added, "Do you have some fresh clothing and perhaps some food?" "Yes, of course, how careless of me. The clothes first. You're a mess... Through here in your room. I pointed them out last night. Don't you remember?" Pravo asked leading Atros back to the room he had occupied. "How is Darla? Has she awoken?" Atros responded with a question. "Don't worry, she'll be fine. She's just lost a great deal of blood. She's slept since you left her last. The drugs the healer gave her for the pain make her sleep." Pravo opened a chest in one corner of the room. "Hhm....good. She would be in a great deal of pain now," Atros said. "This one?" Atros asked pointing to a blue-gray woolen shirt. "Yes, that's fine. I have not worn that in years. Nearly since I was your age." Atros dressed himself in silence. Minutes past. "You killed a man last night, didn't you?" Pravo asked suddenly. "Yes,no...no. I fought two but I killed no one." Atros finished dressing, closed the chest, and sat on the lid. "But you were involved." Pravo's stance was very tense. "Yes, I was protecting myself." "And Darla?" "And Darla." Atros was uncertain. His hand unconsciously moved toward his boot knife. He pretended to tighten the lacings. "It wasn't a simple mugging, was it?" Pravo asked forcefully. "You seem to know a great deal about it." Atros still hoped to diffuse the situation. He tried to appear relaxed and calm, though if anything he was more anxious than the older man appeared. "The word of murder in the streets travels quickly. And you told me something of it last night." "I did?" Atros paused. "Yes, I suppose I did." "But it wasn't just a mugging, was it?" "No, I don't believe so," Atros responded tentatively. He still couldn't predict which way the confrontation would go. Pravo sighed then admitted, "Atros, I've debated betraying you to the city guard since you arrived last night bloodied and torn." "Why didn't you? I am really just a stranger to you." "I don't know. I'm harboring a murderer and I don't know...." Pravo's voice softened as the tension of the past few moments began to drain from his pores. "At first, I couldn't because Darla needed immediate help. Later, I saw how much she loves and trusts you. I just couldn't....." Pravo shuffled his feet and brushed back his straggly graying hair. He was so occupied by his own thoughts that he had missed Atros' flinch at his mentioning of love. "Also, you intrigue me. We are alike and yet unlike. I've studied legends and myths all my life yearning for the mysterious and the exotic, and you appear on my door step late one night. I honestly don't know what I should do." "But it's not just that, is it?" "No, it isn't. But you'll have to let me keep my own secrets," Pravo said with a touch of humor. Atros chuckled and agreed. "You promised last night to tell me your story. Maybe that will help me make my decision." "You've already decided or you wouldn't have said anything to me," Atros accused playfully. "Maybe," Pravo smiled broadly, "but you still owe me that story." "I owe you a bit more than that, but if it will make you happy, I will try. You will pardon me if I omit details to protect myself?" "I doubt that I could force a full confession from you," Pravo responded a bit sarcastically. "True. Well, where should I begin?" Atros said settling back. "How did you learn so much? Where were you educated?" Pravo was suddenly transformed into an over eager schoolboy. "I was the third son of a minor lord on a manor far to the east of here. I was trained to read and write by the parish priest because I was supposedly destined to the ministry, though I never really felt a religious conviction. I was more interested in scholarly pursuits even then. My childhood was relatively normal, though I had little time for anything but labor of some sort." "That is hardly what I expected," Pravo interrupted. "I thought you were a street urchin or at least a city resident." "No, not until much later," Atros began, paused, and resumed, "I lived quite contentedly on the manor until my late childhood. Then, I began to experience peculiar dreams. Frightening dreams. The dreams changed me." "What were the dreams like?" Pravo tooking a stool opposite Atros. "Oh it is difficult to remember specifics now. I was very confused at that time. But most the dreams were about other places and other cultures. Upon awakening I could remember bits and pieces of things which were very unsettling. "At first I told everyone about my dreams. Slowly, my family and friends grew frightened of me. Frightened of the strangeness in my dreams and the reflection of this strangeness in me. Rumors of possession spread quickly. My father decided that I should be sent to a distant monastic retreat. I assented, of course. I would never have gone against my father's wishes. Not then.... But the retreat wasn't dedicated to scholasticism as I had been lead to believe. I discovered that it was a prison for undesirables: the diseased...the deformed...and the insane. I was kept in that place for many months. I will not tell you what the conditions were like, but during that time I lost a portion of my sanity. The boundary between dreams and wakefulness slipped away. I lived fully and completely in my dreams." Atros paused for long moments. "You eventually escaped?" Pravo prompted after some time. "In a way, I was released. I convinced the jailers to free me." The volume of Atros' voice trailed off in mid sentence. "That easily? You just spoke to them and they released you?" "Yes, something like that. Over the years, they'd grown rather shaky of mind themselves. I played on their fears until they complied with my wishes." Atros paused then continued, "My mind was still very disordered. After leaving the asylum, I drifted, inhabiting slums and deserts, doing things I now regret. With time reason returned. I fought to drive off the dreams and I have continued that fight ever since," Atros said finishing up quickly. "But where did you read so much? What library has so many books?" "I hoped to find release from my dreams in research. I traveled widely and searched broadly." "You understand this, don't you?" Pravo asked in Cantonian, a long dead tongue of the region. "Yes, I've picked up a number of languages," Atros admitted without thinking. "You could not have learned that from books, the Cantonese used runes not an alphabet. Who taught you such a thing?" "Perhaps your friend Baughis?" Atros suggested. "No, Baughis is too lazy to learn ancient languages. Who taught you, Atros?" Pravo nearly demanded. "To tell the truth, I don't remember. I simply understood your meaning. The tongue is related to the dialects still spoken in the far east where I have traveled. I picked things up as was necessary." "I'm not entirely satisfied with your answer, but I realize that I'm not likely to get any better response... You still have many secrets, Atros." "Yes, they are necessary." "Have you had any sorcerous training? I'd think you'd have a talent for that sort of thing." "No, only theory. I know nothing useful." "Unfortunate, if true." Pravo was deciding that vague answers were more annoying than mysterious. "Perhaps it would be even more unfortunate if I did." "I don't get your meaning." Pravo paused, but Atros did not volunteer anything. "Well, then never mind. You're not planning to leave the house today, are you? Captain Koren is searching the streets for someone of your description." "Then last night's fight was seen by someone?" "No, apparently only your bandaging of Darla after the combat." "Hhm. Well, they did ambush us." "So you say. Who was the man who helped you with Darla? A short elderly man in a light coloured cloak. A physician of some sort?" "An ally who most probably saved our lives." "Hhm. Then he killed the men found in the street?" "Men? There was only one body when I left." "Two dead they say." "Two? Hhm...possibly..." Atros drifted off into deeper thoughts. Growing tired of Atros' show of cryptics and poetics, Pravo was rather glad to remember his hunger. An offer of food was quickly accepted by his guest. They spent several minutes in the preparation and consumption of a large, early dinner. After the meal was completed, Atros and Pravo settled in comfortable chairs in the study just off the main entryway. Atros' soreness lingered on, but the worst of his pain was already over. In any case, the effects of a thick, warm mead helped deaden what discomfort remained. "Pravo, I must go...." Atros said slowly. Pravo interrupted, "I thought we'd been over this. You are not well and the city guard are looking for you. You will go nowhere, it's not safe." "No, Pravo, hear me out. There is more to it than that." "Okay, what is it?" "I must go... and I must stay. I'm still being sought after both by the guard and by the men who attacked us last night.... They want me, not Darla. By being here, I endanger her. If I leave I will draw them off. But I also must stay and protect her. But my being here is likely to attract notice.... What did you tell the healer of me?" Atros asked suddenly. "Why, nothing. He never saw you." "But I lay in the entryway last night.?." "Yes, but I brought him through the servant's entrance. It was more convenient. He never saw you." "How did you explain Darla then? He did see her." "Yes, of course. I told him that she is my servant and that she had fallen in the cellar. He has his own ideas no doubt, but they don't matter. I can trust him, he will say nothing to anyone without first consulting me." "How can you be so certain?" "He's kept my confidences in the past, besides he cannot afford my displeasure even at the expense of lying to the guard." "It's not the guard of whom I'm concerned...You do trust him completely?" Atros belabored the point. "Yes, as completely as is reasonable." "Good. And I am forced to trust you....You will take care of Darla should I decide to go?" "I still think you should stay, but yes, of course, I would not let you move her. Not so soon." "Good. I don't think anyone could trace us here except through your healer..whom you trust..Our meeting last night was fortuitous." "Yes, it was." "You haven't suggested that I should turn myself in.?." "No. My impression was that my suggestions carried little weight." "No, I am still considering. I am taking you for your word in the matter of the healer, the weakest link in our safety. Don't think that I don't appreciate what you've done. It's just that there is much more to this business than you know...more than you could know. In the end the decision is mine." "Then I will leave you. I will be reading by Darla's bedside." "Good, call me if she awakes," Atros said to Pravo as he departed. Atros tried to reason out his situation. Though he would not insult the old man by saying so, he believed Pravo was poorly qualified to protect Darla, though he did seem devoted to her care. To leave and continue his investigations, he must find someone capable of guarding her well. But he must leave to find such a person. He knew that in the end he would serve both Darla and himself better if he tried to uncover the parties involved rather than waiting for them to find him. He could not entrust his errands to anyone else. Also, though he denied it to himself, Atros wanted to leave Darla and Pravo. He had exposed his own weaknesses to them last night and now felt shame. But though such feelings influenced his decisions, Atros would never admit them in his carefully ordered patterns of reasoning. Finally Atros decided that he would leave Darla and Pravo, at least temporarily, on the basis that since he was in poor condition himself, he could not hope to defend Darla alone. His immediate presence or absence had little effect on Darla's safety. He realized that he would be taking a chance if he went abroad now, particularly since he would have to return to some of his recent haunts, but he believed that the benefits outweighed the potential hazards. Rising, he went to Darla's room and told Pravo of his decision. He promised to return before morning unless he was being followed. Pravo once again tried to dissuade Atros from leaving (he half expected never to see Atros again) but fell silent once he realized that Atros could be more stubborn than himself. Atros left using the servant's entrance, which proved to be more discrete. He wore a short brown cloak with the hood up, which did not unduly attract attention as the night had already grown cold. He proceeded to the tenement where he had been staying through an indirect route over well traveled streets. He saw groups of city guardsmen twice (Where had they been last night?) but passed by them without incident. Arriving at the inn, he was recognized by the landlady which gave him a momentary start. The landlady seemed to know something was in the air because she quietly signaled him into a covered stairway for a private conference. The grubby matron told Atros that men had broken into his apartment that morning but were gone now. As soon as she completed that statement Atros launched himself up the stairway and through his front door. The sight which greeted him wrenched at his gut. The room had been ransacked for some unknown purpose. The simple wooden table Atros had used as a desk was overturned, the stiff back chairs broken. Papers splattered with dried ink lay everywhere. But it was the absence of the piles of books that drew Atros' attention. Looking about the rummage he could see a few scattered about, but not nearly enough to account for them all. With fear in his heart Atros turned to the stone fireplace, the view of which was obstructed by the overturned table. As he dreaded, the charred remains of dozens of volumes were apparent. Atros sank to his knees, his hands sifting idly through the remains of the irreplaceable tomes. Atros' head fell back, his voice a screech of pain. "FOR THIS THERE WILL BE BLOOD!" he vowed to the heavens. For long moments his ears were filled by the sound of his agonized heart and the dry sobs of his breathing. Then he heard the drone of a voice, some one had been addressing him for sometime. He turned to see the landlady had entered the room. She was explaining why she hadn't called the guard yet, why it wasn't her fault that they got in, why she couldn't be expected to protect her tenants from armed men. Atros didn't care. He asked her to completely describe the men. She said that there had been three. It seemed she had an eye for detail. But after much questioning, Atros was sure that their leader had been the man who had struck Darla last night. They all seemed to be hired swords, he could try the local mercenary groups and taverns. Still, his chances were rather dismal in a city as large as Dargon. Atros told the landlady that she had been right not to involve the city watch and that he would be paying for the damages and vacating as soon as he sorted through his things. She left with a few more coins in her greasy bodice, satisfied. Atros first discovery was that the vandals had been careless. A few of the most ancient tomes were proof against fire and had survived unscathed. Some others were only partially consumed. Atros sorted through the ashes with a full inventory of the room's contents in mind. It did not take long to realize that about one third of the books were still missing. These seemed to be either highly ornate tomes or books written in the script of Baranur, which included several of Atros' personal journals. Obviously, an uneducated ruffian had chosen which books to steal and which to destroy based on superficial appearances. Atros would teach that person what it was to play god. Atros quietly gathered his salvageable belongings. In doing so he noticed a note which had lain face down on the floor. The note was on high quality vellum but was written in a rough hand. It read: Raffen Yeggent, We grow tired of pursuing you. Now it is your turn to come to us. Go to the abandoned millery east of Dargon as soon as you are able. We don't have to tell you not to involve outsiders. Balthus Atros decided it was about time to see a friend. He left that boarding house for the last time making sure that he was not followed. The burden he carried from that place weighed heavily on his weakened frame. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Two Journeys Injury Nathan half supported and half carried Lana through the streets of Tench. He espied his goal and made way to the door. After a few brief raps an older man, balding with a salt and pepper beard answered. His eyes opened wide at the sight of the bloody mess that was Lana. "Quickly man, bring her in and lay her on my table here" he gestured. "Doctor, please, help her" Nathan pleaded. The doctor pulled out a small knife and began to cut away the ragged clothing hanging over and in the wounds. "What the devil happened! She looks like she's been mauled." "It was her twin" he replied "she had some sort of giant ferret with her, and sicced it on Lana. The bitch didn't call it off til it had nearly killed her." The doctor frowned as he worked over the wounds, he hadn't seen anything nearly as bad since he was a doctor with Morion's company years ago. Still, he knew what had to be done. He looked up "Nathan, fetch the headsman, and tell the blacksmith to heat his irons." "No" Nathan said unbelievingly, "not that." The doctor looked deep into Nathan's eyes "It's that or her life lad, I've seen wounds this bad before, and this is the only sure way to do it." Lana groaned again, fighting her way to consciousness. "Easy lass" the doctor said "you've lost much blood, just lie still." Nathan hovered near her, holding her good hand "just rest Lana" he whispered. Nathan stood, and with a last agonizing look, raced from the building to see to the tasks the doctor had ordered. A New City Tara packed up her equipment and carefully arranged it on her horse, Boxter. She shivered in the early morning damp. Running a cold camp the night before hadn't helped, but with the warnings she'd heard and Lana's threats on her life there was no point taking chances. Tara knelt down to check the bandages on Zed's ear. The shivaree didn't seem much worse for the wear considering that Lana had cut off most of his ear when he attacked her. Tara's own wound, a shallow slice across her chest just below her breasts was minor as well, the bandage serving only to keep the dirt out, and to keep her from scratching it when it itched. Which it did now with a vengeance. All packed up she worked her way to the road and headed towards Dargon, mounted on Boxter and with Zed trailing behind. Tara traveled this way for a week, occasionally scrambling off the road and hiding in the forest when a larger party came her way. The shivaree's keen senses detecting the groups long before they themselves were sighted. Finally after a week of careful traveling, cold camps, and preserved foods bought in Tench, they came over a rise and saw the sea, a town, and the three legendary spires of Dargon keep. Tara stopped at the crest of the rise, and stared at the bustling city she had set as her goal so long ago. Just a little over two weeks before bandits had raided her town, murdered her parents, a fired the farm, it seemed like a lifetime ago. She nudged Boxter into motion set forth on the final leg of her journey. She would arrive at dusk, too late to search for her uncle but in time to seek out an inn and a hot dinner. She reached the outskirts with no trouble. As she penetrated into the more populated parts of town the shivaree drew many stares and interested looks. Since she was exhausted from her journey Tara decided to go to the first inn she came to. This evening that inn happened to be the Inn of the Hungary Shark. She looped her reins around the hitching post and walked into the inn. The inside of the inn was set up more like a tavern. There was no typical desk as the other inn she had seen in Tench. There was already a small crowd gathered for drinks and good cheer. Tara decided to try the bartender. She walked up and took a seat at the bar. When the bartender approached her she looked at him with a hopeful smile. "You'll have to leave the ferret outside miss" the bartender told her. "Oh, yes, certainly" she answered "but perhaps I could have a room and stable space in which to put him. And he's not a ferret, he's a shivaree." "I see, it's a room you want" he smiled. He turned and called "Dilp get out here, we've got a customer." Presently a boy in his teens appeared "yes Thomas, you called?" Thomas the bartender pointed to Tara, "stable her shivaree and any other critters she's got, sign her in, and take her stuff to room 219, now hop to it boy." Dilp turned to her "This way please lady...?" he asked quizically. "Tara, just Tara" she told him. Soon Boxter was in his stall with fresh hay and straw while Zed was put in another pen with water and meat scraps on the way. Then Dilp took her to the bar where he pulled out a rather largish leather bound book. He opened it a little more than midway through, made some marks and asked Tara for her full name. "Tara n'ha Sansela" she replied. He made a few more marks and presented the page to her and handed her the quill, freshly dipped in ink. "Please" he said "put you mark right here" and he pointed down where he had just written. Tara scrawled an X there like there appeared at most of the other entries. Dilp then picked up the pile of her stuff they had taken off Boxter and showed her to a room upstairs. It was about fifteen feet deep and ten feet wide with an eight foot ceiling. There was a large feather bed and a dresser. The room was lit by an oil lamp which Dilp ignited after he put her gear down. "Do you wish to have dinner brought up here or will you be dining in the common room tonight?" Dilp inquired. Tara smiled "I think in the common room tonight, I haven't had much company lately." Satisfied with that he went down stairs to resume his duties. Tara used the wash basin on the dresser and attached mirror to wipe off the road dust she had accumulated on her trip. When she was finally satisfied she went down to the common room and with a word to Thomas had her dinner served at one of the tables. She enjoyed her dinner to the tune of a bard who was singing tonight. As she ate she noticed a sad looking woman with a silver half-mask covering her face, and her equally odd companion who's face was hidden in the shadows of his cloak hood. After dinner and early in the evening Tara returned to her room and fell into a deep slumber. Tench Lana awoke, blinking in the mid afternoon sunlight that was streaming into the room. Across the room in a cushion armchair slumbered a haggard looking young man, in twenties perhaps? He looked like he'd been there a week without changing. He had brown hair and a thin beard, a bit shy of six feet in height and slimly built. Somehow he looked familiar. Nathan. Now she remembered, she's had several dalliances with him the times she had been in Tench. Suddenly it came back to her. The girl who looked so much like her, and ruined her reputation. It would take a number of killings to remind people that Lana was not one to be trifled with. She'd have killed the girl if that giant rodent hadn't attacked her. Lana tried to brush her hair out of her eyes, but nothing happened. She looked where her left arm was supposed to be. There was nothing but a bandaged stump. Lana let out a tremendous scream of shock and rage. Nathan awoke with a start and tumbled out of his chair. He looked up and saw Lana staring at the stump where her left arm, her fighting arm used to be. They'd had to remove it, the damage was so great. The headsman had chopped it off with one true blow, while the blacksmith had cauterized it, stopping bleeding and infection. They still had almost lost her. Lana had lain unconscious for over a week. He stayed at her side, leaving only to relieve himself. After what they'd been to each other could he do any less? Lana stared at her stump, realizing that she'd be helpless in any kind of fight. Once word spread she'd be unable to come to Tench. Her enemies were far more willing to draw swords than her friends. It was all that little peasant girls fault, and she must pay! The young man sat down on the bed and held her to him. A pointless exercise she thought, but still strangely comforting. Looking For Uncle Tara rose mid morning, having slept uncharacteristicly late. Still, the journey was long and she had needed the rest. She dressed and went down to the stables to check on Boxter and Zed. Both were in fine shape, Zed never the less was pleased to see her. She checked his ear, which was healing quite well. Her own wound had scabbed over and ceased to itch. She returned to the inn and had a good breakfast. As she ate she reviewed in her mind what she knew about her uncle. He'd left their village some twenty summers before, seeking to make his fortune. The last they'd heard from him he'd become a guardsman in the city of Dargon. He'd also cast aside his peasant name of Glenn and started using the more aristocratic sounding Adrunian Koren. There hadn't been word of him since, but that night after the raid, her father's ghost had sounded so certain he would be here, unless it was after all, a dream. Tara set out into the city just an hour before the the sun reached it's highest point in the sky. She quickly located a shop where she could buy a new outfit, and then a bath house where she could clean the road grime from her body. Tara felt much better all cleaned up and with a fresh tunic, new boots, and a fine cloth skirt. She girded on her father's sword and set out to search for some guardsman to ask about her uncle. Before long she ran across a patrol making it's rounds through the markets. Tara hurried up to the leader of the group and caught his attention. "What can I do for you lass" he grinned. Tara curtsied and answered "I am Tara n'ha Sansela, and I am looking for my uncle." The officer laughed "I'm Lieutenant Kalen Darklen at you service, but I'm afraid finding misplaced relatives is a little out of our line of work. We're here to keep order. Where did you see him last?" Tara giggled "I've never met him, he left home before I was born." Seeing the look forming on Kalen's face she hurriedly added "but I know he 's a guardsman, or at least was one for awhile". Kalen looked thoughtful "what's his name then?" Tara looked at him "The name he uses here is Adrunian Koren." Kalen Darklen's eyes widened and several of the guardsmen mumbled to each other. Tara thought she heard someone say "Captain Koren", but she wasn't sure. She was positive however that these men recognized the name. "Well, well" the Lieutenant said "perhaps you'd better walk along with us, I just may know the gentleman you seek." The troop made it's rounds without incident, making it's way back to the guards quarters in Dargon keep. Kalen dismissed his men and bade Tara follow him. He led her through several passages and corridors to an office. In the office was a large man with Iron grey hair and a great walrus mustache. He wore a blue uniform jacket with gold epaulets and brass buttons. He looked up from his paperwork as Tara and Kalen entered. "Good day Lt. Darklen, what have you brought me today?" he rumbled, his voice seeming to come in a gravely way from the depths of his chest. Kalen answered "Captain Koren, this lady claims to be your niece." "Oh really now" the Captain said, focusing icy blue eyes on Tara "and what proof do you bring me that you're my niece? and what is your name anyway?" Tara was startled, she hadn't stopped to consider that she would have to prove her identity. "Um" she said brightly "your real name is Glenn, and your brother was Samuel." "Was?" he asked, looking at her strangely. "Yes, he and my mother and the rest of the village were murdered by bandits." He was staring at her sword, "let me have a look at that blade of yours". She drew her sword and handed it to him. The Captain looked up "Kalen, get my sword will you? the one the Bichu fellow got back for me." Kalen pulled a sword off the wall where it was mounted and handed it to Captain Koren, who then placed next to Tara's sword. After a moment a strange look appeared on his face. "Where did you get this" he asked, indicating the sword. "It was my father's, I took it from him when I buried him and mother" Tara replied, brought near tears by the memory. Koren looked at her "My brother and I were given these matching swords when each of us reached his majority. Come Tara my niece, come give your uncle a hug." And they hugged each other for a long time, as Kalen stood there, pleased to have made this pretty young girl, and his friend and commanding officer Adrunic Koren so happy by bringing them together. A Seed of Vengeance The smell of roast pheasant filled Lana's nostrils. Nathan was serving her dinner in bed. She was still too weak from blood loss and hunger to get up. Nathan had been treating her exceptionally well since she'd awaken. He was behaving better than any other man she had known. He had tried to take nothing from her, not her money, her body, nor had he tried to use her for her skills, ever. Nathan carefully sliced the pheasant and piled it high on Lana's plate. He knew she would only get better with plenty of rest and nutrition. He was happy to be taking care of her, but he didn't know what to do about her sulking about the loss of her arm. It was to be expected, the loss of a limb would disturb anyone, and especially a warrior like Lana. But he would continue care for her as long as she would permit him. "Nathan" she said, staring absently at the ceiling "the doctor says I'll be well enough to travel in another week. I have too many enemies in Tench, I'll have to leave." Nathan looked at her intently "but where will you go? what will you do?" "I'll go to Baranur, I have money, lands, and connections there. I'm been saving away for the day when I would have to retire. It looks like that day came sooner than I ever imagined." "Surely you knew something like this could happen any time, with the kind of life you lead." "Yes Nathan, but not this soon, and not because of some amateur. An amateur with my face! It wasn't even honorable, sending that overgrown rodent after me! And that Nathan, is why I am going to kill her. I can't go after her myself, but I am going to kill her." "But how Lana, how? You won't be in any shape to go after anyone for quite awhile." "I'm going to Baranur, Blastomere, is there. I have enough gold socked away to pay him. But I need your help Nathan, I need your help to travel to Baranur. I cannot go alone like this. Will you come with me Nathan?" Nathan sat in his arm chair for a few moments, deep in thought, not looking at anything. Then, his decision made, he turned to Lana "Yes, I shall go with you, and I shall help. I am yours to command." -Rich Durbin <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Treasure Prolog Reference A "...toiled and wrought long and hard, and harnesser of the Yrmenweald, the great Master Staff, was completed after many, many cycles (1). Swithwald, the most exalted Master of the Clear Fire Weavers (2), completed the bindings between the (an untranslateable rune - a name?) (3) source and the Master Staff, and left the siring of the lesser staves to the rest of his brotherhood, being exhausted nigh unto death by his feat. And so was the way forged for us to become the most powerful ever seen in Keinald's Demesne (4)..." Reference B "...it was commanded by our King to set down herein the manner by which was hidden the access to the Source. Once my pen has darkened these pages with that information, then shall the Weavers remove all knowledge of what has been so recorded from the minds of the Sons of Aelther (5). Thus shall the might of our nation be safe from our enemies. This tome shall be in the keeping of my Office until time ends, and with it, the supremacy of Fretheod (6), and the Sons of Aelther." Reference C "The demise of the Fretheod Empire is an oddity. At one time, they were the masters of all lands, unconquerable, ever spreading their empire to all points of the globe. Legend has it that they maintained their supremacy through a magical construct, what they called the Master Staff, and a collection of lesser staves somehow linked to the Master one. The lesser staves, carried by all captains of war, and all exploring parties, could draw upon the power of the Master Staff, enabling the bearers to accomplish amazing feats of foresight. Where the Master Staff got its power, or exactly what that power was, no one now knows. "In the final days of the Fretheod Empire, civil war broke out - the first ever in the long history of the Sons of Aelther. Twins were born to the ruling monarch, Queen Earnfled. As the two sons, Osgeofu and Tilgeofu, grew to maturity, it became apparent that they were alike in only their looks. Everyone knew that Osgeofu, being first by mere minutes into the world, would inherit the Empire, becoming the next monarch. But, everyone wished that Tilgeofu would have that honor, being the more noble, kind, and strong of the pair. Osgeofu was petty, cruel, and just short of a coward. But the laws of the Sons of Aelther were inflexible, leaving only one way for the people to get the desired person onto the throne - revolution. "Tilgeofu did not instigate the civil war, but there was a large faction of the nobles who refused to submit to the reign of Osgeofu. They organized, planned, arranged, and finally struck. But, Osgeofu was aware of the unrest, and he had planned, too. So, the planned quick coup turned into a long and bitter battle, and eventually into a full war. "In the second month of the war, the Queen died. Osgeofu crowned himself, and declared Tilgeofu's followers outlaws. The war began to go against the rebel brother, but Fretheod was suffering more. "At the end of the Fourth month, the last remnant of the instigating faction, along with Tilgeofu, penetrated the Palace, and made it to the throne room. There, Tilgeofu confronted his brother. With the people loyal to him rioting in the streets, Tilgeofu demanded his brother's abdication. Osgeofu refused until Tilgeofu threatened him with Huaetec, the Royal Sword of State. The king, cowed by the threat, stepped down from the throne, but, before removing his crown he smashed the head of the Master Staff on the stone floor of the throne room, and then cracked the polished wood length across his knee. Then, laughing and shouting, "If I cannot have it, no one can!", he dashed to a window and leaped through it, still wearing the crown. He was torn to shreds by the mob outside. "Shortly thereafter, a neighboring kingdom, formerly in thrall to the Fretheod Empire, revolted, and attacked the barely recovered nation. Fretheod tried to hold firm, but something was gone out of the Sons of Aelther. They still fought as fiercely as before, and they had superior numbers, despite the harrowing war, but their masterful leadership was gone. Their generals made stupid mistakes, and were led into obvious traps. Tilgeofu sent his Skaldric, Tarhela, across the sea to get help, but Tarhela never returned. "It took a long time for Fretheod to die. Even after that first invasion razed the capitol and killed Tilgeofu and his sons it took many years for the far-flung colonies of the Sons of Aelther to fail, or to become nations in their own right. Eventually only the name remained.." Reference D "...I fear that I have failed my King. The storm that blew us off our course has only just died away, leaving the ship a near wreck, and us utterly lost. I watch now as the captain stands at the wheel, cursing the gods, the sea, the wind, even the King, as he brandishes one of the now useless Son Staffs upon which he used to depend. Such a storm would never have caught a ship of Fretheod unawares before Osgeofu's treachery. "I have in my posession the Tome of the Yrmenweald, passed down from Skaldric to Skaldric since the beginning of the Time of the Master Staff. It was the only hope my King had of regaining the power of the Master Staff and saving our people. But, we know not where we are, and so the chances of happening on the citadel that holds the secrets are almost none. Wudamund might as well be on the larger moon for all we can get to it now. Only by the will of Keinald will Tilgeofu and Fretheod now be saved..." Reference A - Translation of the "Tome of the Yrmenweald", by Hrothgrim the Skaldric, page 185. Reference B - Translation of the "Tome of the Yrmenweald", by Hrothgrim the Skaldric, page 421. Reference C - From the "History of the Ancient World", Volume 4, by Trenta, Historian and Chronicler to King Vulpa of Baranur, pages 231-233. Reference D - Excerpt from the personal log of Tarhela, Skaldric to Tilgeofu, page 642 (the second to last leaf). Footnotes: (1) A cycle is approximately the period of the Moon from New to New. It equates roughly to one month. (2) The Clear Fire Weavers were the cream of the crop of the wizards of the land, distinguished by passing a fatal test involving binding and controling elemental fire. (3) Not only is the figure untranslateable, but it resembles nothing remotely similar to any rune or figure in the entire lexicon of the Fretheod - it seems to be an alien inclusion, perhaps from another language. (4) Keinald is the Over-god of the Fretheod, and the world is considered to be his personal property. (5) Aelther was (in legend) the first man to set foot upon the shores of the land that became the home of the Fretheod. Thus do the people of the Fretheod honor the first of sailors. (6) Fretheod was, at one time, the foremost Empire in the world, spanning all the known lands of the time and finding more all the time. They were inveterate colonizers, and their markers - stone pillars or obelisks with sticklike writing on them - can be found in almost every area of the world now traveled. Part I The Thief Ka'lochra'en stood before the huge, intricately carven doors of the Bardic College, and wondered (as usual) if it would work. He was a skilled thief of a special type - he didn't snatch and run, but rather he spent a lot of time and preparation planning his thefts, and making them as perfect as possible. Often, that meant assuming a role, as he was now doing, or in some other way infiltrating the premises of his target openly and making sure that he was not a suspect in the crime. He found his own method of work to be much preferable to that of the average thief, and it meant that he could go after larger marks and enjoy the money he got for his services without having to hide from reprisals. But, no matter how foolproof his plans, or how perfect his impersonation was, he always worried just before he began a job. He let himself run over the details in his mind, reviewing his cover story, assuring himself that he knew the layout of the place and the exact location of the book. He thought that it was this worry that had kept him alive so long - he had been in the business for over 15 years, and had never been so much as suspected of one of his crimes. He was being well paid by a mysterious man to get a book out of the College's main vault. The man, who refused to name himself or give any details about the book, had provided the keys to the vault. Ka'en had wondered aloud why the man needed his help to get the book when he had the keys. The man had said that no one must know that the book was missing, and that Ka'en was renowned for making things disappear mysteriously. The number of gold coins that the man offered got Ka'en to take the job, despite his misgivings. Taking a deep breath and assuring himself that he was as prepared as possible, Ka'en continued up the steps. His green cloak was an exact copy of one worn by a bard. He wore a nondescript sword and a leather harp-case on his back, though the case was empty and padded. And, most importantly, he wore around his neck an absolutely authentic Rank pendant. He had gotten it from Bellen, a disreputable ruffian who, nevertheless, had ways of procuring certain things. He had proved to be reliable before, and so when Ka'en had put out feelers for a bardic Rank pendant, it had been just a few days before Bellen had turned up with one. Ka'en hadn't asked where he had gotten it, staving off Bellen's eager attempts to tell him anyway. He had given the ruffian the five crowns he had promised (which wasn't even a decent fraction of what he had already been paid for the book), and had continued to prepare. He knew that the Rank indicated was fairly high among the journeyman class. The owner of the pendant had completed Eight of the Ten staves required before advancement to Master class. That would make Ka'en's job both a little easier and a little harder. Easier, because he, wearing that pendant, would be taken for an important person. Harder, because there weren't all that many Eighth Stave Bards proportionally, and it might well seem suspicious that he was a stranger. But, the opportunity was too good to pass up; he decided to take his chances. A small nagging doubt remained in his mind - there was one thing that would undo all of his planning. His second cousin, Je'lanthra'en, a real Bard, would be able to unmask him if she happened to be in residence. As he pushed the well-counterbalanced massive doors open and entered the College, he decided to check on Je'en's whereabouts with the option of aborting the mission if she was in Magnus at that time. Ka'en assumed his role as he strode purposefully through an entrance hall as huge as the doors and tastefully ornate. It had only one other door, much smaller, which led into the College proper. Standing by the closed door was a young man wearing the red sash of a SongWarder over his blue tunic and white hose. "Greetings, brother," said Ka'en as he halted before the warder. The young man in blue and white bowed formally to the tall, tow-headed man in green cloak and proper pendant. "Welcome to the College of Magnus, my Lord," said the warder, and shifted his weight onto the plate in the floor that caused the inner door to open. "Enter, and may all your needs and wants be fulfilled within." "Perhaps you can assist me, brother," said Ka'en. "A friend of mine, a travelling companion for a time, said she might be here this month. I was wondering if you knew whether Je'lanthra'en was, indeed, here?" The face of the warder fell. He said, "I am sorry, my Lord, to be the one to tell you this. Lady Je'en is in town, but she has suffered an accident. Just this past week, in the Fifth Quarter. Her injuries were severe, and she is being tended by Master Enowan in the Palace. Did you know her well?" Ka'en allowed his face to show the sorrow he did feel at the news of Je'en accident, but he kept hidden the elation that he could continue his night's work without fear of discovery. "Yes, brother, I knew her well. I am sorrowed to hear of this. I leave again on the morrow, but perhaps I will delay long enough to pay her a visit. Thank you for the news, brother." And he passed through the inner door shaking his head sadly for effect. He never made the connection between the pendant he wore, the hints Bellen had tried to drop, and the news of Je'en accident. He went to see the seneschal of the College and got a room for the night. He was in time for dinner and he actually enjoyed himself at the meal, listening to the tales spun by the other bards and the students as well. He had to supply a few, himself, but he had no problem imitating the style of the others in the room. He also had a vivid imagination so he managed to entertain the whole group as well as any bard present. He pretended to drink overmuch and finally excused himself from the procedings with the excuse of needing sleep for his further travels. He wasn't the first one to leave, so his going wasn't unduly remarked. In other circumstances, he would have left with a woman, and, after a little fun, he would have drugged her asleep for the bulk of the night, providing himself with a "perfect" alibi. But, he couldn't be sure that a bard wouldn't detect the drug in the wine - bards were spooky that way, sometimes. So, he would just have to rely on the image he had projected at dinner to prove he was who he said he was. He went up to his room in the sparsely populated Guest Wing (larger than both the Student and Resident Wings put together) and took a small nap, waiting for the college to fall asleep. The Job Ka'en's inner clock woke him shortly after midnight. The intricately maintained time-lamp on the wall confirmed that his personal alarm had worked properly, and the silence pervading the wing attested to his choice of times. With a little care, Ka'en would not be disturbed in his thieving. Dressed in the black clothes packed in his harp case, carrying the tools of his trade, and the keys to the vaults, Ka'en slipped out of his room and down the stairs to the Leafy Atrium - a little clear-domed hall that led from the work buildings of the College to the three living wings. He crossed the open space, dimly lit by moon light, and paused in the inky shade cast by the little garden in the center of the hall that gave it its name. He waited to be sure that no one was coming before moving on: the Atrium was where he was most likely to run into someone. He made it to the main building of the College without incident, but just as he approached the stairs into the cellars, he heard footsteps and voices. Hastily ducking into the nearest doorway, he waited until he heard the three person parade fade into the distance. Then, he heard a sound behind him. Turning lithely as a cat, and as soundlessly, he noticed that the room wasn't empty. It was a study room, adjacent to the main Library, equiped with a large table and rather comfortable looking chairs. Perhaps too comfortable, Ka'en thought. The sound he had heard was a stifled snore, which repeated itself a few times more. A student was curled up in one of the chairs, his candle burned down to a faint, blue glimmer amid a pool of liquid wax, and the book he had been reading was lying on the floor. Ka'en paused for several more minutes before easing the door open, and then shut again behind him, careful not to disturb the sleeper. Silently blessing his fortune, and overzealous, sleepy students, he padded to the stairs and continued down. When he reached the third landing, he passed through the archway into that cellar, leaving the mysteries of the still descending staircase for someone else to explore. There were more vaults in the cellars of the College than there were in the Crown Castle, some said, and they were probably right. Some also said that there was more wealth in the vaults of the College than in all of the vaults the Kingdom of Baranur considered its own. That, too, was probably correct, but there was more than monetary treasure in those vaults. The Bardic College collected knowledge, and art, and anything else that the wisdom of its leaders commanded them to collect. Like old books. Ka'en came to the correct door, just one of at least ten in the long hallway. It was of a dull grey metal ten feet tall and three wide. It stood out from the well carven walls of the hall even though there wasn't a crack around the perimeter as most doors had. There was also no handle, and no visible keyhole, either. But, Ka'en knew what to do. He took the first of the keys and measured its length eight times from the floor up the right edge of the door, and then one over. Two fingers' pressure moved a piece of the carving there aside, revealing the first keyhole. He had been told to measure carefully since the very similar carvings around the correct one were traps, which would set off an alarm as well as incapacitate the burglar in various ingenious ways. Inserting the measuring key carefully into the hole it had revealed, Ka'en turned it slowly to the left (right would have released another trap). There was a faint snapping noise. He could feel the key click as it turned. After the second click, he pushed the key in hard and felt it sink home. A louder snapping noise accompanied the appearance of the normal outline of a door on the grey metal, as well as three triangular holes in the general region of a normal keyhole. Taking the second key from his belt pouch, Ka'en measured up the left jamb of the now revealed door for nine of the shorter key lengths and then four lengths to the left. The end of the key rested on the center of one of many identical triangular projections, each with an indented circle within each point. He pressed the indicated triangle, and it sank deeply into the wall. There was a faint whirring noise and after a few seconds the triangle reappeared with the lower right circle glowing faintly. Ka'en inserted the second key into the lower left hole in the door, and turned it. The proper hole was different every time, or so his employer had said, selected randomly with the pressing of the carving and indicated on that same carving. The wrong hole or the wrong carving were, of course, traps. When the second key had been turned all the way around, a knob-like portion of the door popped out, just above the three keyholes. Taking the third key, Ka'en inserted it slowly into the center of the knob, deactivating the last trap on the door. He turned the knob and the thick, but not heavy, door opened inward. Relieved to have negotiated the complicated entry procedure, Ka'en slipped inside after removing the three keys. His employer had assured him that the door could be opened with ease from within, so he closed the door behind him. When it met its frame, he was astonished to see that it had become transparent. At least he would have plenty of warning if someone tried to enter. He turned his attention to the interior of the vault. This was one of the College's knowledge vaults, which was just as well - no temptation to take a little extra. The shelves and chests were arranged just as the mysterious man had said. He went directly over to the correct chest. It was the top one of a stack of four, so he wouldn't have to worry about moving it to gain access. Two more keys rested unused in his pouch; he retrieved the first. The very thin leather gloves he was wearing allowed him to trace the intricate lines graven into the side of the chest. He found the hidden keyhole and unlocked the chest - the large, normal-looking lock hanging where locks normally hung was yet another trap. He raised the lid and eyed the thick, leather-bound books arranged neatly within. Carefully lifting the first tray out by the handles, he set it on the floor and stacked the other three trays on top of it. Taking the last key in hand, he pushed aside the lining of the seemingly empty chest and released the hidden bottom. He slipped the last key into the lock that bound his quarry into the recesses of the false bottom of the chest with crossing straps of iron, much like a cage. He carefully removed the required book. It was light for its size and thickness. He traced the sticklike runes laid in gold on the very light-colored leather of the cover, making sure that they spelled out what the stranger had told him meant "The Tome of the Yrmenweald". Satisfied with his find, he placed the book in the other pouch he carried. He relocked the cage and replaced the contents of the chest as he had found them. With a brief glance around the vault, he went back to the door. He surveyed the corridor through the transparent door and eased it open without complicated precautions. When he shut it behind him, it again became a featureless plane of dull grey metal. Ka'en made his way carefully back to his room, sure that he had been undetected. He repacked his black clothes in the harp case, adding the book to the bundle, and settled back on the comfortable bed to sleep away the rest of the night. The Payment Ka'en left the College the next day with no suspicions trailing him about his midnight activities. Once again, he had pulled off a job successfully. He strolled casually out of town, following the route he had hinted at the night before at dinner. Around noon he reached his cache at the center of a stand of trees, sure that no one had followed him. He changed clothes, burying the bardic ones deep in the ground. Dressed as a nobleman traveler, he made his way back to Magnus. It was well after dark when he crossed the city limits. He made straight for the rendezvous point, an inn called the Fighting Unicorns. He knew that his employer would not still be there this night, as his own wanderings to throw off any cunning trackers had delayed him, but the inn was comfortable and cheap, and he wouldn't mind a night in one of its large rooms. The Fighting Unicorns was situated as near the Fifth Quarter as any legitimate business could be without being part of that warren filled with underworld characters. That was the reason that its rooms were so inexpensive - few dared to brave the proximity of the haven of thieves and murderers that was practically on the inn's doorstep. So, its few patrons were coddled, in hopes that good treatment would bring more business. It didn't - the dark alleys of the Fifth Quarter were more powerful than word of mouth - but Sir Hawk, the owner and proprietor, was an optomistic sort, so he kept up the treatment, just in case. Ka'en slept well and stayed in his room for most of the next day. As sunset approached, he went down to the taproom to have dinner and wait for his employer. The food at the Fighting Unicorns was as cheap as the rooms and the portions as large, so Ka'en ate more than his fill for just a few small coins. When he finished, he ordered a large tankard of the fine inn ale and settled back in his booth to await the completion of his mission. Sir Hawk did his best to make his inn very attractive to his few customers, so there was some very fine entertainment once the kitchen had closed. This night, there were several singers - not bards, but persons with the talent who simply didn't wish to undergo the rigors of full training - and two fine dancers. Ka'en was enjoying the show so much that he had almost forgotten why he was there. The ale, of which he had drunk less than half, had given him a slight buzz, and he was very relaxed and comfortable just drinking and watching the floor show. His comfort was interrupted when a very lovely woman approached his table. She was dressed finely, but manner of her dress and the style with which she had painted her face, indicated that she was one of the more classy of those who plied the horizontal trade. She attracted the glances and stares of most of the other male patrons of the tap, but her destination was firm, and she slid herself into Ka'en's booth across the table from him. He said, "M'lady, please, not tonight. I am meeting someone here and..." The woman smiled sweetly and said, "I know." She reached out a lovely slim arm and pulled the curtain of the booth closed, shutting the two of them in. Before Ka'en could protest, the woman smiled again and put a long finger to her lips, shushing him. She closed her eyes and began to shimmer. Her whole form wavered and glittered and the woman disappeared. In her place was the brown robed figure of his mysterious employer. The man said, "Very effective illusion, don't you think? You have the book." Ka'en nodded, and patted the large satchel resting beside him on the seat. "You have the money?" he asked. The man in brown nodded in turn, and pulled a very large black bag out of thin air and set it down on the table with a hefty and satisfying clunk. Ka'en lifted the satchel onto the table and pushed to toward his employer while pulling the bag of coins closer to himself. The two opened their bags of loot at the same time. Ka'en's eyes went wide at the sight of all of that gold. The man in brown drew out his newly purchased book and looked at it with almost the same degree of avarice. After fingering the locking clasp on the old volume, he put it away and looked up at Ka'en. "Is our deal completed to your satisfaction?" he asked. Ka'en nodded. "The keys I gave you are in the satchel, too?" Again, Ka'en nodded. The return of the keys hadn't been part of the deal and Ka'en had considered keeping them, but presumably they only opened that one vault and there was nothing of overtly monetary value in it. The man in brown smiled faintly, and said, "Then I shall take my leave. It has been a pleasure doing business with you, sir." And, without offering to shake hands on the completion of the deal, he closed his eyes again. With much the same effect as before, save now in reverse, the man in brown vanished, and the lovely whore reappeared. Though the man had been holding the satchel, it had seemingly now vanished. She/he opened the curtain and slid out of the booth. After leaning back in to give Ka'en a little kiss that utterly embarrassed him, she walked away with a "See you later" thrown back over her shoulder. Ka'en stared dumbly after the illusion of beauty long after it had vanished through the doorway. He had suspected, faintly, that his employer was a magician - who else would have that much of a need for an old book - but the proof was unnerving. He didn't like magic much - it was too unpredictable. And, he wondered again why a magician needed his help to procure the book. He didn't know that the College was protected from outside magic by the power of the Crystal of Oathes. When Ka'en recovered, he remembered that there was a large bag of money sitting out in the open in front of him. Hastily, hoping no one had noticed, he yanked it off the table and onto the seat beside him. Unfortunately, he had not been fast enough. Just as he was about to return to his room for one last night of comfortable sleep before moving on, someone else slipped quietly and quickly into the booth with him. Startled, Ka'en recognized Skar, the leader of the group of cutthroats that Bellen ran with. Skar, who was leering at him very unpleasantly, said, "Greetings, Kane. And good business come your way lately?" Ka'en, who was known to the underworld of Magnus as Kane, said, "What business might it be of your's, Skar?" "Well, friend Kane, perhaps we could share a little of that gold you just got from that fancy whore as just left. You know, share the wealth, eh?" "What makes you think that she brought me that gold, and why should I share it in any case?" "I know she brought it because you didn't have it when you came down them stairs earlier. And, 'cause if you had that much money, you wouldn't be staying here, now would you. "And, we should share, 'cause I know something that the town guard just might like to hear. I don't know just what that tart wanted you to do in the Singers' school, but I know that you bought a Singer's pendant from Bellen. And if the High Singers check real careful, I bet they find something missing, eh? "'Course, my yearning to do my civic duty just might be subverted with enough gold..." Ka'en was appalled. This gutter rat was blackmailing him. Of all the gall! What was worse, of course, was that his record was in jeopardy now. He just might be caught, finally, and all because of a little greed. Skar said, "I think about half of what's in that black bag there should keep my mouth shut - for a while, at least, eh?" Ka'en, a resigned tone in his voice, said, "I guess I have no choice, Friend Skar. How about a little privacy, though, so no one else decides that they need a little of my hard won gold?" So saying, he drew the curtain across the mouth of the booth, again isolating it from the rest of the taproom. Lifting the sack of gold back onto the table with one hand, he drew his last resort from behind his belt buckle. With the tiny dagger - not much more than a pin, really - carefully concealed in his left hand, he opened the bag and began counting out the gold into two piles. Skar greedily reached out for his pile after it had grown to six coins, and Ka'en managed to surreptitiously scratch his hidden dagger along one of those reaching hands. He continued to count for another minute or so. Then, Skar's head jerked up, his eyes wide with shock and fear. "What did y..." he began to say, but in mid word, he simply stopped moving. His eyes continued to blink, slowly, but the rest of his body was immobile. Ka'en returned the coins to his bag and his last resort to his belt. Then, he took his still half filled tankard, and put it between Skar's chilling fingers. Molding the thief like a wax dummy, Ka'en shaped Skar into the position of a solitary drinker - hands around the tankard, body leaned forward, head down and staring into the depth of his ale. He also managed to work the thief's expression into one of contemplation. Then, he eased himself out of the booth, opening the curtain and closing it again on the dying gutter rat. He was up well before dawn the next day, packed and ready to go. He hadn't been able to sleep very well, though - he didn't like to kill. He left two gold pieces on his pillow to settle (and much more) his bill, and slipped out the back way. He decided not to return to Magnus for a very long time. Skar was found, dead, just as dawn came, and the taproom closed. No cause of death could be found - the slight scratch on his hand couldn't possibly have killed him, according to the official reports. The authorities wanted to question one Baron Kanning, the last person to be seen with him, but the noble in question had left before dawn, leaving a hearty tip behind him. Skar was a known ruffian, and a denizen of the Fifth Quarter, so the inquest was closed after only a cursory attempt to find the Baron in question. Most felt themselves well rid of the thief. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME EIGHT NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *Ornate Love Jim Owens Ceda the Executioner: 6 Joel Slatis Date: 070887 Dist: 384 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial At long last, we have the first issue of the 1987 summer volume. The delay since the last issue is certainly not due to lack of submissions, as I currently have enough material on hand to send out nearly five full issues. Why, then, has 8-1 not been sent out until now? Well, as you will recall (if you read the Xeditorial in the last issue), I am in the process of setting up shop so that FSFnet will be available via standard US post for readers who do not have computer accounts. I vowed that I would not send out 8-1 until I had a firm policy for this. Therefore, it is with great pride that I announce that FSFnet now supports hardcopy subscriptions. Hardcopy subscriptions are available to the public at a cost of $2.00 per issue for domestic orders, and $2.50 per issue for issues sent abroad. These issues will be produced using Amiga desktop publishing. Issues will be improving in the near future, as I am planning on purchasing a new printer for that purpose, and I hope to include graphics in the future. To receive a hardcopy subscription to FSFnet, I need your full name, mailing address, and payment. Please specify the number of issues your subscription will last, and the payment should be the above rate multiplied by the number of issues. Checks should be made payable to David A. Liscomb. Correspondance may be addressed via electronic mail to CSDAVE@MAINE.BITNET or via US post to David A. Liscomb, 221 C Center Street, Bangor Maine, 04401 USA. Now, as I mentioned, we have a backlog of stories waiting to be printed, so future issues will be sent out very soon. Some highlights include the continuation of Joel Slatis' "Ceda" epic, the continuation of John White's "Treasure" series, several short stories by new Dargon authors, several excellent Dargon stories by Jim Owens, and my own "Legend in the Making". So watch your readers! Also of note, several FSFnet writers (myself included) will be attending the Society for Creative Anachronism's Pennsic War on August 8-15. There will be a gathering of Dargon authors for their own secret purposes, and all FSFnet readers are welcome to seek us out. If you will be at Pennsic and wish to drop by, feel free to contact me, and arrangements can be made. Enough! Enough, I say! On to the issue at hand, if you will... -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ornate Love Levy crouched low on his wildly galloping horse. Branches swatted him across the face and chest. He glanced back. The wolves were still following. He had shot several before he ran out of arrows. He thought there were about seven of them. Levy and the horse burst into a small clearing. Grass grew tall in the meadow. Levy turned back just as they reached the far side. He had been right: seven. Levy Barel was the son of the mayor of a village near Dargon, a city a little to the south. He was a blacksmith by trade, and just about everything else by choice. He had just escaped from the clutches of a minor lord, who had been coercing him into building siege engines for a small war. In the process of escaping Levy had managed to make a breach in said lord's keep, and that lord had pursued Levy into the wilderness. Levy had been riding for two days before the wolves had found his trail. Levy lifted his gaze to the far trees. There was a path on the other side of the field. Levy urged his horse on faster. The exhausted beast responded weakly. The wolves kept up easily. Soon the path dipped, running a few yards below the lip of a steep slope. Levy drew his sword. To his left the slope dropped down, disappearing into the trees. To his right, almost level with his face, was the top of the slope. Levy knew the wolves would try to move up beside him. He would have to fight them off. He just hoped his horse had the strength to not fall. He glanced quickly to his left. Through the treetops he could see that he was in a valley, with a lake in the bottom. He was not far from the lake. If he could somehow use that to his advantage... He never got the chance. A flash of gray was the only warning he got before one hundred pounds of hungry carnivore hurled itself at him from the top of the slope. Levy smashed the wolf's skull with his sword, but its body threw him off his horse. The impact knocked Levy's breath out, and a moment later he blacked out when he cracked his head on a tree trunk. The next thing Levy knew he was rolling down a slope. He threw out his arms, and managed to slow himself to the point where he could get his feet under himself and slow to a jog. His head was throbbing, along with the rest of his body. He felt his body with his hands. He seemed intact, but all his possessions, including his knife, were lost on the slope above. He could still hear the wolves. He continued to jog down the slope, in hopes of reaching the water before the wolves reached him. He could see the trees thin out ahead, and the underbrush thicken. As he approached it, he could start to hear the sounds of canine feet on the slope behind him. He started to run. He reached the undergrowth just as the first howl reached his ears. He tried to crash through, but part of the way through his foot caught on something. His still-pounding head spun as he pitched forward. He crawled forward, out of the undergrowth. He looked up, and saw her. It would have been hard to tell which of the two was more surprised. The last thing Levy expected to see in that wild area was a young woman, dressed in flowing white. Judging from the expression on her face, the last thing she expected was a battered and bleeding stranger. Both, however, could hear the running animals following close behind Levy, and both took what they thought was appropriate action. Levy continued to try to reach the water, and she took her ornately decorated staff in a firm, two handed grip. When the first wolf burst from the bushes, she caught it with a sharp blow to the head. There was a sharp crack, and the animal crashed to the ground. The next animal caught her backstroke, and also dropped. Neither moved after that. The rest of the animals were more cautious. They formed a semi-circle around the two humans. While the woman stood, braced for more action, Levy levered himself up. He glanced around for a weapon. Pulled up on the flat beach was a boat. In it were some long pieces of trimmed ash. He grabbed one, and turned around in time to see her strike another wolf with her staff. He realized that the decorations were made of multicolored metal. He could also smell a strange smell in the air. The other four wolves did not want to fall back. Levy leaped out at one of them. He swung the ash branch, and connected with the animal. The staff returned bloody. The wolf staggered. He swung again, and it fell. He heard a now-familiar crack, and started to turn. Then the world exploded in black. When light returned to the world, Levy found himself lying on something soft, in a cedar-scented area. He opened his eyes, and promptly closed them again when a wave of pain took over his head. He tried to soothe the ache with his hand, only to develop a world of others the moment he tried to move. He finally realized that his entire body hurt. It was then that he finally allowed himself the luxury of a groan. "Hello?" Levy paused. The voice was beautifully feminine. He tried again to open his eyes, but shut them tight once more. A cool, smooth hand settled on his forehead. "Can you understand me?" "Uuuhhh..." It wasn't quite what Levy had in mind, but it was all his tongue would produce. He swallowed and tried again. "Yes, I can understand you." Something cold and wet was placed over his eyes. "How are you feeling?" "Badly. I hurt all over. It hurts to open my eyes." "I accidentally hit you with my staff. I couldn't wake you up after that, and I'm afraid I dropped you a few times getting you back to the house. I'm sorry." "'S'all right. What of the wolves?" "The last two ran off. I left the others there. They're probably eaten by now. The wolves are hungry around here." "So I see." Levy pushed the cloth aside and forced his eyes open. The light stung, but he wanted to see who he was talking to. "Who are you?" Seeing her charge taking an interest in life once more, the woman leaned back in her chair. "My name is Sarah." Levy looked at her and at their surroundings. She was clothed in a light blue dress, and the room was a rather large one, of well-dressed logs. Light was streaming in slatted windows. It looked like morning sunshine. "What time is it?" Levy tried sitting up. Blackness threatened to swallow him again, so he leaned back again. "Mid-morning. I brought you here yesterday. You've slept since then. You should sleep some more." Levy's head was really hurting by that time. "Maybe you're right." He closed his eyes, and relaxed. Levy awoke later on that night, in time for supper. Sarah served pot-au-feu in ornately carved bowls. She and Levy ate quietly, using shiny steel spoons. She cut the bread with a beautiful knife, also of steel, with a handle of wood and intricately wrought gold and silver. Levy picked up the knife after she put it down. "This is beautiful. I don't know if I've ever seen work quite like this. Where'd you get it?" "I made it. I made all these things." She waved her hand at the table utensils. "They're very nice. Where did you get the steel?" Levy knew that steel was not easy to come by, even for someone rich enough to be a goldsmith. "My father made it." Levy looked at her, slightly startled. He had only ever seen steel being made once, and that was in Dargon. "I would like to watch him work. Do you think I could?" Sarah bowed her head. When she raised it her face was sad. "I would like to see him work again, too. He's been dead now three years." She looked out across the table, avoiding Levy's eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't know." Levy thought for a moment. "Who else lives here?" "I live alone." A strange thoughtful expression came over her face, as if she just then realized that she was alone with a stranger. "Alone? Is there anyone else around here?" asked Levy. A woman living alone in the wilderness was unheard of. "No, we, that is, my father, made sure of that. He, didn't want anyone around here." She looked away again. Levy realized that she had not wanted to tell him that, but that it slipped out. He prudently changed the subject. "What of your mother?" Levy guessed that Sarah was about twenty. "She died when I was young." Sarah brightened up at the change of topic. "I do have three brothers. They don't live too far from here. The nearest is only three days riding away." Levy looked out the window. The last of the sunlight was fading from the hilltops. "I suppose it's time to go back to sleep." Sarah stood. "After your adventure I should think you would want to sleep some more." She put the bread into the cupboard and started gathering the dishes off the table. "I'm afraid that compared to some of the things I've gone through lately, that was merely exciting." Sarah looked at him. "Oh?" Levy helped her gather the tableware. This brought more strange looks from Sarah. Levy noticed her expression. "I don't like to be a burden when I'm a guest in someone's home." She shook her head. "I'm just not used to seeing a man do women's work." "When you're not married, it's all your work." Levy had turned to carry the dishes to the tub, and did not see her next expression. Levy awoke the next morning feeling stiff, but otherwise sound. Sunlight was coming in through the slats, telling him he had slept late. He got up and looked around. Sarah was not in the house. He stepped outside. He had known from the views out the windows that the lake was nearby, but it soon became obvious that the house was built on an island. The island was a small hill sticking up out of the middle of the lake. The house was built near the top. The boat he had seen was docked at a neat pier hidden in a small cove just below the house. The house turned out to be fairly large. When inside he had only seen the main living room/kitchen, with two doors leading off it. One door he knew led to the room Sarah slept in, the other was a covered walk leading to the privy. Now he saw that the house was almost a hundred feet long. Levy's parents were fairly wealthy, and their house was only thirty feet square. This house was over three times larger. Levy started to walk towards the back of the house. He had gotten almost to the back when he came across an open door. From inside he could smell hot metal. Levy stepped inside. At first he couldn't see anything, but as his eyes adjusted he could see a reddish light coming from further inside. He took a step towards it, and fell over something hard and heavy. Metal objects clattered to the floor. He heard a gasp, and sudden light blinded him. "Who's there?" It was Sarah, sounding frightened. "It's me, Levy." Levy picked himself up out of the debris. The light revealed a neat smithy, with an incongruous pile of metal scraps just inside the doorway. Sarah poked her head around from behind what seemed to be a wide brick pillar. She was holding her staff. She stared at Levy for a long moment. He could see that she had been deeply startled, and that a glimmer of distrust was playing on her mind. Then she relaxed her grip on her staff somewhat and stepped into view. "You startled me." She smiled then. "Come. I'm working." Levy followed her around the pillar. It turned out to be a small forge. Her workbench held a half-finished piece. Levy studied it for a moment, but couldn't quite tell what it was. Sarah smiled when she saw his puzzled look. "I'm not sure myself what it's going to be yet. I started it out to go on a knife handle, but I haven't made a staff for a long time. I may put it on a staff end." "Did you make this?" Levy had picked up her staff, which she had leaned up against a nearby bench. It was about four feet long, wooden with the bottom and top capped with metal. The bottom was a simple steel cup, but the top was not. It was almost a foot long, gold and silver, with large crystal inlays. It was intricately decorated in woodland motifs, although in places it was worn almost smooth. "I made some, and my father made some. He was getting sick a lot, and he said I should carry a stick to protect myself when in the woods. He insisted on helping design the headcap." Levy hefted it, and smacked it against his hand. It was sturdy, and quite heavy. His arm twitched when the metal touched his palm. He repeated the action, harder, and was surprised when his entire right side convulsed. He almost dropped the staff. He gave Sarah a shocked look. She smiled back. "That was one of father's secrets. He had many of them. He said that when you hit that kind of crystal just right, strange things happen." Levy carefully leaned the staff back against the bench. "Where do you sell what you make?" "I ride to a town a few days away. It's not the closest, but father insisted I go there, so that..." She stopped abruptly. "So that what?" Levy again sensed she was holding back. "He just insisted I go there." She bent over her work. Wanting to change the subject, Levy looked around. There was a table with some completed works on it, knives, plates, cups, spoons, and other household items. He noticed the lack of the usual swords, daggers, and pieces of armor. The largest blade was suitable only for kitchen work. "Did you father teach you smithy?" "Yes. He was a very good smith. All the people around knew his work. We lived very well." "How do you get by now?" She sounded cheerful. "I have everything I need here for the most part. I only sell things when I need something I can't make or grow myself, like fine fabric, or salt." Levy started to bore of the conversation. "I'm going to look around, O.K.?" Levy started for the door. "All right." Sarah continued with her work. Levy picked up walking where he had left off. The woods pressed close to the house on the north and east side. When Levy rounded the south-eastern corner, however, he was in for a surprise. What he saw belonged in a large city, not on a hillside in the middle of a wooded wilderness. He saw wheels and derricks, pulleys and bellcranks, pipes and carts, and most of them moving. For a long time all Levy could do was stare. "Levy!" Levy turned around in time to see Sarah burst around the corner of the house. She stopped dead when she saw him standing there. Levy looked back at the amazing sight. He suddenly saw some order in the mass of hardware. His eye fell on a shack roughly in the middle of the confusion. Above it a derrick held a large pulley. A bellcrank stood nearby, with wooden rods attached to it. One rod disappeared into some tall grass, the other into the building. The crank was slowly rocking back and forth. His eye lighted upon a large bucket sitting in front of the shack. He thought back to Sarah's hesitancy to discuss the outside world, and to what she had said by the forge. Suddenly he understood. Levy turned back toward where Sarah stood. "You have a gold mine here. You don't want anyone to know, so you don't sell near here, but several days away." He saw the acknowledgement in her eyes. He turned back to the shack. "What drives the mechanism?" Sarah didn't answer for a moment. "There's a windmill on the other end of the island. We couldn't get enough wind here, so Father ran rods across the island. We use it to pump the shaft dry, and to pull rock up out of the mine." Levy walked down to the shack. A path ran down the hill to where a large pile of rock had been dumped into the water. Levy looked out across the lake. He stared for a few moments, then walked back up the hill to where Sarah stood, quietly weeping. "Your father made this lake, didn't he?" Sarah silently nodded her head in agreement. "Tell me about your father." Three hours later, Levy leaned back in his chair. Sarah was not looking at him or at anything in particular. "So he and your brothers built all this over twenty years, right?" "Yes. Then my brothers left, moved away, and then three years ago, Father died." Sarah slowly looked around the room. "I still expect to hear him come tromping up to the house in the morning, or hear him singing in the shop. I miss him." They sat silent for a moment. Then Sarah stood and walked to the hearth, where she poured herself more tea. "There's one other thing I miss Father for, something I've been thinking about recently." She walked back to the table, a thoughtful expression on her face. She sat down, and looked Levy straight in the face. "The last batch of steel he smelted is gone. I have gold, and silver, but no more steel. I need steel to make things, and I want you to help me smelt some more." Startled, Levy didn't say anything at first. Steel-making was an art that was carefully guarded. Steel could do things that mere iron would not. The need always out-weighed the supply, and anyone who could make steel would never want for money. On the other hand, steel making was neither easy nor fast. He had not planned on staying in the area for that long. He paused at that thought, remembering why he was even in that area, and realized that he had nothing better to do. "I'll help you." The next day Levy and Sarah loaded the boat with some food and tools, and headed for the outer banks of the lake. The first place they landed was the place where they had first met. There they collected Levy's lost goods, including his sword. To Levy's pleasant surprise, they also found his horse. Levy pulled the saddle off the animal, and put the saddle into the boat. As there was no way to take the horse with them, Levy released it to roam the lake shore. They then headed for the opposite side of the lake. There they paddled up a small river that fed into the lake. They followed it for about a mile. They then pulled the boat up onto the shore, and hid it in a small shelter made of stones. Levy followed Sarah into the trees. They soon reached the bottom of a cliff. There was the furnace. It was thirty feet high, with a water-powered conveyor running up the side. Ore sat in a large pile off to one side. Levy pointed to it. "Where did you find the ore?" Sarah pointed up river. "There is a bog a few miles up stream. We collected bog iron, and floated it downstream." Sarah explained that the site had been chosen for it's nearness to a vein of limestone lying exposed in the cliff. Levy and Sarah started digging the lime and hauling it the few hundred feet to the furnace. By evening they realized that it would take several days for the two of them to prepare the charge for burning. They gathered all their stuff, and returned to the island. The next day they set forth again. This time they packed for a stay of several days. Sarah dropped Levy off on the shore where they had left his horse, and then she started for the other shore. Levy caught his horse, and spent the morning riding to the furnace. When he got there he found Sarah cleaning out a small hut hidden in the trees near the furnace. By nightfall the small house was warm and relatively dry. The next day Levy spent cutting wood to fuel the furnace. He cut it on a slope overlooking the river, upstream from the furnace. When he trimmed the logs sufficiently, he rolled them into the water, where they floated down to where Sarah was waiting by the furnace. Levy joined her, and Sarah showed him how her father and brothers had made a device to pull the logs from the water using pulleys and rope. By night several large logs lay by the furnace. It was quite dark by the time Levy approached the hut for the final time that night. He leaned the axe Sarah had given him against the wall, and quietly pushed the door open. He stepped inside onto the soft dirt floor, and was surprised to see that Sarah had hung blankets from the ceiling to separate the small hut into two halves. A moments reflection made him realize for the first time in at least two days that she was, after all, a woman, and in need of privacy. He quietly arranged his blankets on his mat, blew out the lamp, and fell asleep. The next four days the two spent cutting wood and digging lime for the furnace. The only time they saw each other was in the morning and in the evening. By the time the eve of the fourth day drew near, the sky was heavy with clouds. Levy had just leaned his axe and maul against the wall for the night when the first drops hit his hand. He stepped inside, and the rain came down. All night and most of the next day it rained. The river grew too high to use, and water cascaded down the cliff face where they had been digging lime. All there was to do was to sit inside and talk. They talked of steel, and how to make it, and of metal, and of wood, of rock, and gold, and commerce, and politics, and of as many topics as they could find to discuss. Levy found in Sarah a companion who was as interested in life as he was, and who, for a woman growing up in an isolated place, was surprisingly well versed in human nature. A few hours before sunset the rain stopped. Levy and Sarah ventured out, Sarah to gather some wild food, and Levy to inspect the damage done to their designs. He walked up to the lime pit, and found it a little bigger, but otherwise untouched. He inspected the pulleys and the water wheel, and found them little worse for wear. He inspected the furnace, and his stack of wood, and found everything in good shape. He walked back to the hut as dark fell, with a greater respect for the workmanship of Sarah's father and brothers. He quietly stepped inside the small hut. His lamp was dark, but Sarah's was lit. As he stepped into the shack, he saw that the blankets separating her side from his were slightly askew. As he stood there, he could see her through the opening, as she undressed for bed. Quietly, so as not to make any sound, he stepped closer to the curtain. He took hold of the edge with his hand, and, with one movement, pulled the curtain the rest of the way closed. He then undressed, and went to bed. The morning brought warm air and bright sunshine. Levy stepped out of the hut and stretched. It was such days that made him yearn for adventure. Sarah was still in bed, sleeping in late after the previous day's inactivity. Levy picked up the axe from where he had set it before the rain started. He discovered to his dismay that the wooden handle was wet. He mentally chided himself for carelessly exposing the precious instrument to the harsh elements. He inspected the axe head, and found to his relief that there was no trace of rust on the metal. When he hefted the maul, however, he discovered that the cutting blade was orange with oxide. Mentally kicking himself, he started for the wood pile, and then paused. He once again lifted the tools to look at them. Sarah was surprised when she stepped out of the hut to find Levy squatting by the fire. She walked over to see what he was doing. He was holding the maul head in the fire. He had removed it from its handle, and was supporting it with a smaller branch threaded through the mounting hole. As she approached, he turned to face her. "Come here. I want to show you something." She stood beside him, and he turned back to the fire. He pulled the smoking metal from the flame, and rested it on a flat rock. He then lifted a smaller rock with a small depression on its face. In the depression was a small pool of dirty water, that had a crust of white powder around it. As she watched, he dripped a few drops of the liquid on the hot metal. It hissed, and as she watched, the fluid ate a small pit in the iron. "Now watch this." Levy said as he exchanged the maul head for the axe head, which Sarah saw that he had also placed in the fire. He dripped the same fluid on the axe head, but when the water was finally evaporated, there was merely a small spot of white scum on the metal, with no other adverse affects. Levy turned back to Sarah, a triumphant look on his face. "So?" Sarah looked puzzled for a moment. Then her face brightened. "Oh| I see. Father made that maul a long time ago, before he changed the formula|" Seeing the look of noncomprehension of Levy's face, she elaborated. "When I was small he changed the formula for the steel. None of his new steel rusts or corrodes or anything. That's why we hid out here in the forest. Father was afraid someone would try to steal the secret." Levy looked back at the axe head. The edge was shining dully in the morning sun. "Are you going to show me the secret?" "I probably will. Father didn't show me how to make steel until the last few years of his life. I don't know any other way to make it." With that she turned to the morning's tasks, leaving Levy to wonder, and to rebuild the disassembled tools. After several more days of work, two of which were used to burn the wood down to charcoal, the charge was finally ready to go. After digging the lime for the flux, Sarah had woven more baskets for carrying ore, lime, and charcoal up to the mouth of the furnace. The two of them had rebuilt the troughs for the melt to flow into when it was done, and Levy had finished some minor repairs to the conveyor mechanism and the water-powered blower to fire the furnace. Finally all was in readiness, and Sarah lit the fire. The several hours that followed were anticlimactic, spent waiting for the fire to build. When the fire finally caught, however, Levy and Sarah found themselves the proud parents of a monster. Levy climbed to the top of the furnace, to feed the flame, while Sarah stayed on the bottom to pass Levy fuel and ore. The smoke billowing out of the top made Levy long for an extra pair of lungs, and the heat emanating from the bottom made Sarah wish she could strip off her blouse like Levy could. They fed the fire, checked the mix, and fed the fire some more. The day wore slowly on, as their piles of ore, lime, and charcoal dwindled quickly to nothing. Twilight found Levy still at the top of the furnace, feeding in the last of the lime. He dumped a bucket of rock into the furnace, and hooked the empty container to the return line. He turned to get the next bucket, only to find instead a smiling if sweaty Sarah. "You're the best thing I've seen all day." Levy exclaimed as he helped her out. "I wanted to take a look, and to help you with the last buckets." While Levy reached for the next container, she looked down into the dark, smoking pit that was the mouth of the furnace. Levy lifted the bucket up to the chute, to pour it into the inferno, and then stopped. "Hey| What's this?" Levy reached into the basket and pulled out a large black crystal. The basket was full of such crystals. Sarah was grinning from ear to ear. "That, Levy, is my father's secret." Sarah reached in the basket and selected another chunk of rock. This one was greenish in color. "Father found that," She said, indicating Levy's crystal, "in an outcropping on the other side of the lake. He thought it might be coal, so he brought it over and tried to make steel with it. It didn't burn, and he forgot about it for years. This," she said, tossing the green rock in her hand, "we find in our mine, with copper. Father knew that silver could be alloyed with gold, to make it harder, so he tried alloying silver and things with the iron, to make better iron. Nothing seemed to work, as he told me. He would often tell me this story, when I was young, before I would go to bed. Then one day he tried this green rock, and the iron got harder. He thought at first that it was copper, but he remembered that copper would not alloy with the iron. Then, later, he tried that," indicating Levy's black rock, "and the steel wouldn't rust." Levy took the green rock from Sarah, and set it aside along with the black crystal. He and Sarah then dumped the rest of the buckets, containing the different ores, into the fire. Levy then collected his specimens, and the two rode the return line down. It was black out when Levy finally punched through the baked mud at the bottom of the furnace, and allowed the white-hot steel to pour out into the troughs. He and Sarah then retreated from the intense heat, as the metal flowed out into the molds waiting for it. All that night and all the next day they allowed the metal to cool. While they waited they cleaned the slag out of the furnace and put anything that could rot into the special storage places Sarah's father had made. Over the next few days they laboriously sawed the steel into pieces small enough to carry and rowed it over to the island. They had just gotten the last few pieces stored when it again started to rain. Later that evening Levy was looking out through the slatted window at the patterns the rain made on the lake. Behind him Sarah worked on an ornament for a spoon handle. "How often do you see other people?" Levy asked, still facing out the window. "Not very often." Levy walked over to where Sarah was sitting. He pulled a chair up beside her and sat down. "Don't you ever get lonely out here?" "Very." Sarah looked away for a moment. "Why is it that you never married?" Levy leaned back in his chair. "I don't know. It's not through lack of opportunity. I have been the object of many young girls' eyes. I just never had the time to properly court any of them. There always seemed to be better things to do. That, and the fact that I must marry inside my own clan, or lose my inheritance." Levy noticed that Sarah seemed to frown slightly when he said that. "Have you ever taken a fancy to any men?" Sarah smiled as she looked away. "Only the one I'm talking to." Levy blushed a little, and she continued. "I've never really gotten to know any others, except my brothers." Silence reigned for a long moment. Sarah broke the silence. "What is the name of your clan?" "Barel. We come from a man named Eli Barel, who was granted some land by a lord for having saved his kingdom from a war. Eli Barel came from a country away south, one that I've visited twice. I could marry one of them, but they are too strange for me, too foreign. What clan or descent do you have?" Sarah frowned, then stood and walked over to a shelf over a window. She brought down a silver plate, with engraving on it. "This is my family crest. Father said we also came from the south, but then just about everything is south when you're this far north. I've only once met someone else from our clan, and he had come north just to tell my father that Grandfather had died, and that Father was now the new Elder. Father refused. He said he was too old." "That sounds familiar for some reason. I may have met some of your relatives in my travels." Levy looked at the crest. It was complex, but the main symbol was that of a cogwheel. The more Levy looked at the plate the more familiar it looked, yet without quite revealing its origin to him. Levy drew his knife. He gave it to Sarah, so she could look at it. On it was the Barel crest, also complex, with a compass on it. "This was granted to Eli Barel at the same time he was granted the village I come from. Our family had a crest before that, but I've only ever seen it once." Sarah looked at it for a moment, then handed it back. "I've only ever seen one other crest, the one belonging to the mayor of the nearest town. We engraved it on a beer stein for him." Sarah giggled at that. "He probably sees it every day. He drinks a lot of beer. Listen, I'm tired. I'm going to go to bed now. Sleep well." She put the plate back on the shelf, and then walked to her room and closed the door. Levy sat alone and thought for a bit, then, as the last of the sunshine disappeared, doused the lamps and went to bed himself. Levy awoke the next morning to find Sarah shaking him. The sun had yet to come up, and it was raining very hard. Sarah looked anxious. "You've got to help me. The water level in the lake is rising. We have to open the floodgates, or the dam will be overwhelmed." She handed him a large overcoat. "Don't bother putting on your clothes. This is very warm, and you'll just get hot with the others on. You'll need this for the rain." Levy stepped into the coat and followed her out. They climbed down the hill and into the boat. The dock was already under water. They rowed to the dam. The rain made bailing a requirement, but the wind was to their back, and they made good time. It was just getting light by the time they reached the dam. Levy followed Sarah up the dam face. The cold and wet had driven the dullness from his mind, and, for some reason, the image of Sarah's family crest kept running through his head. Strangely enough, the image in his mind was not that of a silver plate, but of a colorful drawing in an old book. Hard as he tried, however, he could not force himself to remember where he had seen the book. He got so involved in trying to remember that he found himself lagging far behind Sarah. He hurried to catch up. Trees grew on the slope, planted by Sarah's father to conceal the artificial nature of the structure. At the top was a raised walkway connecting the floodgates, with the first of the two gates a few feet from where Sarah and Levy stepped on the walk. Sarah ran to it and started to crank the windlass to raise the first gate. "You open the other one." She pointed to the far end of the walk. Levy ran to the far end. There he found a similar setup. He seized the crank and started turning, images of paper and bindings still running past his mind's eye. He hadn't made more than two revolutions when he was startled by a loud roar. He looked up just in time to see a large section of cliff break off and slide into the water a few hundred yards away. He looked back at Sarah. "That happens every so often." She shouted to him. She turned back to cranking, as did he. He managed to get the gate partway open. Then the whole world seemed to fall out from under him. A great wave, caused by the rockslide, crashed into the walkway and carried it and him over the face of the dam. Levy was submerged. When he surfaced, he found part of the walk floating near him, and he climbed aboard. He looked around. He was floating away from the dam with increasing speed, and was equidistant from both shores. On top of the dam Sarah stood, her hands covering her mouth. He waved to her, to show her he was all right. Hesitantly, she waved back. A sudden dip then threw him on his face. He struggled back to his hands and knees when another threw him back down again. When he finally looked back at the top of the dam, Sarah was not there. An afternoon three months later Levy was riding through the woods once more. The horse was one he had recently purchased, as was all his tack and most of his equipment. It was nearing dusk, and he saw a light shining through the trees up ahead. Cautiously he approached it. It turned out to be another traveller, relying on a fire to keep the wolves away. The stranger seemed eager for Levy's company when it was offered, so Levy made camp with the man. The next day, over breakfast, they told each other of their destinations. Levy told the man only some of what Sarah had told him about herself, but the man was sympathetic to Levy's plight, and seemed to want to help. "I'm a trader, but I don't know of any woman dealing in these parts. I am a little out of my way, though, so I will keep my ears open. Where did you say you were headed?" The stranger paused in the middle of a block of cheese. "I'm headed for the next village, and the next, and the next, until winter comes, or I find her. I floated for three days before I could get to shore, so I figure she lives in this area. I don't remember all the tributaries and forks in the river I hit, though, so I'm not sure exactly where to look." Levy shrugged and stared at the fire, poking it with a stick. "A woman selling carved utensils, living alone. I'll try to remember that. Anything else?" Levy leaned over and grabbed his pack. From it he pulled a piece of fine leather. He unrolled it slowly, carefully. Inscribed on it, in bright colors, was a crest. "If you see anything with this crest on it, you've found her." As he held it up for the trader to see, Levy fingered the small signature on the lower right corner. It was the name of the Dargon court historian, who kept family records from many areas, even areas to the far south. While he was recovering from his harrowing journey downstream, and in the weeks that followed, as he worked to earn enough money to buy another horse, Levy had thought hard about that crest that Sarah had shown him. When he finally got enough money together, he had journeyed south to Dargon, where he had found the court historian. Together they had searched the records. It wasn't until Levy had set eyes on the old book on the top shelf that the memories had come flooding back. By the time he found the correct page, his eyes were almost blinded with tears of anxiousness and joy. Levy hadn't seen that page for years, since the time when he had made a thorough search of the records at his father's behest. Levy still remembered the excitement he had felt, those many years ago, when he had at last found the original Barel family crest. After the trader had committed the design to memory, Levy carefully put it back in his pack, broke camp, and saddled up. After thanking the trader, Levy rode off. The trader watched him go, shaking his head sympathetically. He then went about washing his kettle and breaking camp. That done, he paused for a few minutes to polish his wares and study the goods he had swapped. He was almost ready to put them all away when he stopped cold. He reached down, and with trembling hands picked up a spoon, wooden with an ornately carved golden handle. He stared at it for a long moment, then leaped to his feet. He stuffed the other goods quickly into the sack, tied the sack to his horse, and kicked out the fire. He saddled up, and rode off hard in pursuit of Levy. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 6 Though the meal that they had just completed weighed heavily in their stomachs, they wasted no time in getting through the forest. Aroth knew of a secret road used only by the Wood Elves that cut across the forest lengthwise which took them north to the Ruirsian barren country. Galloping over the moist green grass and led by the rich light of the almost full moon that hung somberly overhead, they rode many leagues. Off in the distance on their left, Nuum-Deaon jutted out of the emptiness effectively hiding its brother fortress somewhere behind the cover of its eery stone walls. The next thirteen days drew by quickly. In this time they had ridden north to Cramstrock where they replenished their provisions and employed Ceda's wingless dragon mount, Melgon to their convocation. Then turning to the south they left Cramstrock and rode out into the desert before turning east, traveling north of the Aun Hills along the border of the Plime Sea to the southern border of the Voidland. A few miles to the north lay Weuyrt, land of forests. They had reached the border by dusk the fourteenth day. Ceda pulled Melgon to an abrupt halt as Aroth rode up beside him. He stared off into the swampland that lay before him and wondered at his fate. Would he return unscathed from the Caves? Would he survive? The jungle that met the land far in the distance over the swampy plain of the Voidland's countryside was not so distant now. It would be infested with bands of Orcs, Nuadrin and Hobgoblins, all deadly. The Giants that lived in Weuyrt would be the worst when met. Though some of them would be friendly, and subsequently a good ally, others would not... If they survived the trek through the dense jungle then they would have to enter the Caves; Hardly a reward or even any relief from the previously perilous journey they will have just completed. Both the travelers realized what the chances of success would be though none dared say it. Ceda spurred Melgon to a laggard trot entering the Voidland. They could already feel the humidity of the jungle burning in their nostrils and smothering their faces; even the land they now passed was wet with moister and dense vegetation was beginning to thicken around them. They had not ridden far into the Voidland when they first noticed a single rider approaching them from the north. He was galloping toward them at a great pace ignoring the murky water that splashed upon him soiling his apparel and the dangerous moors he nearly missed in his haste. As he neared them they could see he was Human. Though arrayed in the blue and yellow raiment typical to that of a Ruirsian soldier, he wore no armor or helm. His face was bold and concerned and his long red hair flew proudly behind him in the strong face of the wind. He wore a sword at his side that bounced along nonchalantly as his horse galloped over the scabrous landscape. He pulled his horse to a stop two dragon lengths before them and bowed to them from his horse. "Hail travelers! I am Azzar, royal scout of Caahah, servant to his Majesty Threythus II. My greetings." "Greetings. I am Ceda of No-Al Ben," replied Ceda. "And I Aroth, Lord of Carne," said Aroth in turn. Azzar bowed again hearing Aroth's title. "I have news from the north in Weuyrt, since that is where your destination seemingly lies, and even if it does not." "It is," said Ceda. "What news of the wild lands that lay on the road from Arnmere do you bear? Is the way ahead safe?" "Nay," cried the scout in dismay. "The wilder Giants have broken our will attacking in full might. They have driven our forces west across the jungles toward the Plime Sea. I ride for Caahah now to inform his majesty that Weuyrt has fallen to their hordes. Even as we now speak many pursue me on foot and are not far behind." "A small band has followed your horse all the way from the shadows of Arnmere?" asked Aroth in alarm. "Do they fly? How do they follow you at such a speed as that which your horse can muster?" "It is worse than that. The news of Weuyrt's fall is nigh two suns passed. I camped on the borders to see how far the host would advance and it is sorry news, but they come in numbers uncounted to the Voidland. At the speed they are traveling now, they will reach the very gates of Caahah before five more suns will fall." "This is grave news indeed," said Aroth. "What of the men in Weuyrt? How many were there and how many survived?" "We were nigh twenty thousand strong when they attacked. Among us were many Bilfnuinians, but they use no horse in battle for they fight with heavy axes. They were the first to fall to the rage of the accursed giants; I fear none survived - a heavy blow to Threythus to lose men of that worth. "Those of us upon steeds fought on when the Axemen fell, but we were pushed back. They came from the north and the south as well as the west forcing us eastward into the jungle. Most stayed and fought on though some of us rode for the borders; I was the only one that made it past the beasts unscathed. I arrived at the edge of the Voidland yesterday morning riding through the night to escape their advancing powers." "This is grave news indeed!" agreed Ceda with a cry of deep despair. "Where have those that rode east gone? Is there some place of refuge for them to take shelter?" "There is none," said the scout lowering his head. I fear that if they have not yet left the jungles, they never will... though I may be mistaken." "These times are indeed grave. You bring a heavy blow to Threythus." said Ceda. "You do not even know how many approach?" "Impossible to say. The jungle hides their numbers and they come from all directions; More than I have ever seen before. We had no inkling as to the numbers that hid thus long in the shadows of the accursed holes of hell where they burrow. Look!" He cried turning and pointing back to the jungle across the Voidland. "As we speak they enter the swamps before the face of Ruirse!" They looked northward and to their dismay they began to see first ten then a thousand and finally more than they could even begin to count. There were Orcs, Nuadrin, Giants, Hobgoblins and many other horrid beasts sweeping like a deadly plague over the muddy land between the borders. They passed over the plain covering it like the shadow of a cloud violently suppressing the rays of the sun; an onslaught so large that is may have rivaled even the Lost Army of the Desert. "Come now! There is no chance of you reaching wherever your destination was. Our best - our ONLY chance is to ride for Caahah to the south and help defend the city from the inevitable attack," said Azzar in a frenzy. "Let us ride now and may our speed be great!" Aroth looked to Ceda and then back at the advancing horde. "Let us go. There will be a safer time and we will then make the journey." He wheeled his horse around and nodded to Azzar. Then Ceda pulled on Melgon's reins and they turned and sped back southward toward Caahah to warn of the attack. They reached the city by the second day after they had fled the Voidland. It was well fortified around the walls and many soldiers were there lining the city streets and filling the cities inns. Trenches had been dug at set intervals around the proximity of the wall that surrounded the city and a few men sat in them reclining on the small stools set aside for the watchers. Azzar stopped outside the walls to warn the men while Ceda and Aroth continued on through the gate to tell of the assured peril. As they rode into the ruins of the once proud city, Ceda pulled hard on Melgon's reins stopping the dragon suddenly in the center of an open area and dismounted as Melgon glanced sidelong at the assassin in an unenchanted way for the abrupt halt. Aroth also dismounted and left his horse next to the dragon as he departed leaving the two mounts sighing in anticipation of the peaceful rest they were about to get after the tiresome miles of endless riding. Ceda was gone by the time Melgon had settled down hastily searching for the commander of the army stationed in the city. He ran up to a man that was standing outside a large tent, "Hail, soldier of Ruirse. I am Ceda of Cramstrock, greetings. I am on an urgent mission and must speak with the king if he is here, or who ever is commanding the host of the city!" "Greetings, Traveler of the Desert. The king is here," said the man eying Ceda wanderingly. "He is at his palace holding council with King Ballison the Young of Caffthorn." "Ballison? Has he brought with him a host?" asked Ceda beginning to gain confidence in the cities forces. "Aye. He has brought with him a mighty army five thousand men from from beyond the desert and there may be more from No-Al Ben." "Are there any from the Elf Kingdoms of Carne or Learis?" Asked Aroth coming up behind. "Nay," said the man. "And I doubt there will be, I have heard none talk of it." "Good enough," sighed Ceda. "Where is the palace?" The man pointed at a tall but slender tower that rose from a point in the distance. "There," he said. "At the center of the city; just follow the road." Ceda bowed slightly. "Scueney Tavaar du sablea," he said leaving at a run for the palace as Aroth repeated the same to the man and sprang after Ceda following close behind him. "And to you!" yelled the man after them with a gratifying look. From the gates, the street wound upwards around the city in great circles in the fashion roads do going up a steep hill or mountain. As they ran through inner city area, they could see that the winding road was laden with men ready for battle. There were many of the men of Caffthorn about, they sat with one another in groups talking about things from their distant country, sometimes laughing out loud or throwing their heads back and letting their long black hair fall loosely down their backs. Continuing up the winding road toward the tower they also saw many Caahahian soldiers along with the hardy Axemen from the proud city Bilfneuin along the crowded alleys and roof tops, resting while they were still safely many miles from any of the fighting. Upon reaching the center of the city, the road let out into a single lane that ran around the palace ending in another circlet where the northern part of the drive housed the palace entrance. As Ceda and Aroth ran up they saw two proud looking guards standing outside the large iron bars that blocked the way into the courtyard. They stood separated, one on each side of the massive gate and wore dark blue tunics with a yellow bars crossing the center at a slight angle. The armor they wore over their arms and legs was a shiny black metal, made in the same material as the Elven Rings of Nobility. Over the armor they wore dark blue capes with attached hoods that hung loosely down their backs and on their heads were helms of gold. At their sides were great axes that rested heavily on the ground, for these guards were from the stalwart southern city of Bilfneuin. These were Axemen. There they stopped as Ceda addressed one of the men. "Greetings! I am Ceda of No-Al Ben. My companion is a Lord of Carne, Aroth, he is called. We seek urgent audience with King Threythus." "It is not every merchant that gets to see the king!" said the soldier. "He is now in council with the Lord of Caffthorn and cannot be disturbed." "I'll not be called a merchant by a simple soldier!" Said Aroth angrily. "Now tell your busy king that I, Aroth of Carne and cousin of Rakine and Rackins of the Elves, seek audience with him now! And rue you will the day you denied me that!" "Rue indeed," smiled the guard looking at his companion. "And why is that, little Elf?" "Because a muster of Arnmere is but four days north and coming fast!" said Aroth. "And I am getting tired or this idle talk. Time is short as are our tempers, now tell the king that we seek his presence and await his bidding." The guard turned calling for a herald. Then he told a man in the gate to inform King tell Threythus of his new arrivals. "The king has been notified," said the soldier. "And now I hope you will allow me to continue my watch in peace?" he added sarcastically. The Axemen of Bilfneuin were not tolerant, though they were known to have a sense of humor. Would the king of Ruirse be that way? He was from Bilfneuin, though much older. It was a short wait until the herald returned to the gates. He spoke a few short words to the guards and then stepped back. The guards then gripped small unseen horns from below their capes and blew them one after the other. Then two thunderous clanging noises broke the air as the massive gate was raised by internal winches; then as Ceda and Aroth entered and the gate was let fall again with a tremendous slam. "The king bids the travelers enter in peace. He will meet with them now," said the herald approaching them in the courtyard. "Please come this way." Inside the walls of the palace, the tower that Ceda had seen from the gate seemed much larger. It was built of square shaped stones set orderly on one another rising from a large the round structure into a slender and delicate tower high above. Some of the larger blocks near the bottom of the structure were then carved with delicate figures that had all but wasted away from the years of weathering while the higher ones were stained to a light color for adornment. At the base of the large building was another heavy door; this one of stone. Next to it on either side were two small holes to see out of and above the door was a narrow window. They went through the door into the first floor of the tower led by the herald. Inside the hall they now stood were many fine chairs and tables lining the majestic walls. Above them hung many of the old swords and beautiful armor used in ages long past and before them was a long room with a wooden floor and stone ceiling supported by an occasional pillar. Down the hall on the right side was a door with four more guards standing at alert. Two of them wore gray tunics with a red gem painted in the center; these were from Caffthorn. The other two wore the blue and yellow colors of Ruirse. Through this door they were led by the herald. In the room there were two people. One was a young man, tall and strong with long dark hair. At his side rested a heavy axe with a black metal blade and handle made with the grey wood of Caffthorn. Near the base of the black blade, an imbedded gem glowed in a pleasant purple. The second man was much older. His hair was gray and short hanging down no further than the base of his neck. His once tall body was now permanently bent forward in a cramped position showing the definite signs of his old age. He wore the blue and yellow raiment of a Ruirsian, though he wore no weapon. Both men were standing by a large table as they entered and turned to greet them. The older of the two men glared at the travelers for a brief moment. "Greetings, Ceda and Aroth from afar!" he said. "I am King Threythus II. This is Ballison the Young, King of Caffthorn. The herald tells us that you have urgent news for us? Well then, be quick for time is short and news of worth is rare." Aroth stepped forward, "I am Aroth, cousin to King Rakine of the wood of Carne and I, nobleman of Elves," he held his hand aloft so the dark gold about his finger showed in a radiant light. "Bid you greetings and bring you news of the north." "We have men beyond the Voidland. many scouts and warriors of Caahah and Bilfneuin. If there is news then they should have brought it. What is this news?" asked Threythus. "And how do you come to know of it?" "War," said Ceda also coming forward. "War comes to the very walls Caahah. A great host has taken all Weuyrt and none of our men remain. Only Azzar, scout of Caahah, made it back to the Voidland. The rest," he said in a low voice, "will come not again from the vile land of forests. "As we approached the borders of Weuyrt on business of our own, we met him in flight from the beasts. It was there we saw them. They swept over the land at a great pace. I fear they have with them great might." "This is grave news to us, they were good men." cried Ballison distressingly. "What of the marshal from Arnmere? How many come and how fast?" "Their numbers were too many for us to count," said Ceda, "It was greater a host than I have ever seen and we fled ere they all had left the cover of the trees. They should reach Caahah by fourth sun falling, fifth at the most. Prepare your men, for even the city walls may not hold against their might!" Threythus walked over to Aroth. "Can your people help us?" he said gripping the Elf's shoulders. "Aye," said Aroth. "They must be stopped here. Have one of your men ride for Dhernis, give him this, "Aroth removed his ring and placed it in Threythus's hand. "Tell the scout to take the Ships of Tearny and sail for Perstanie of the Learis Islands. There he should ask for help from me and give them this ring should any disbelieve his word. "In the meanwhile I ride for the Wood of Carne to seek the help of my cousin Rakine, and hopefully shall return with a host worthy of the battle." Threythus bowed low, "I thank you, Aroth of Carne, and may Sarve speed your horse with the swiftness of the wind!" Aroth bowed to Threythus. "And now I must go, for much time is lost and now only haste is our ally. Farewell, Ceda. 'uentu descern shyen svequ seju!'" Ceda smiled as Aroth turned and departed. "We must now prepare for the battle and send a messenger to the Elf Islands before any more time is lost!" said Ballison banging his fist on the table. "Let us whet our blades!" The two kings wasted no time in mustering the men. Soon many people was busy preparing the great war machines that hurl rocks through the air or mending parts of the titanic city wall that were in bad repair. The men of Caffthorn were outside the city digging more trenches and pits near the wall while more men helped barricade the inner circles of the city where the women and children would stay safe. Scouts were sent out of the city to watch the northern environs for the first sign of the coming assault and Azzar left the oppidan on a swift horse riding south for Dhernis. By the second sun falling they were prepared. Men lined the northern walls and sat in the northern trenches. Parts of the west and east walls were also fortified but not as heavily. The third, fourth, and fifth days drew by and the hordes of Arnmere had not come. Many men questioned weather they had indeed crossed the Voidland as their patients became short and they anxious. The sixth day came, and the hordes still had not arrived. The men waited at their posts eating little and talking none. They sharpened and polished their blades and their armor until it shone brightly in the daylight. Soon it was midday. Still no sign of the Orc hordes had been seen or reported and the scouts had not returned from the northern borders of the Caahahian city area (that lay far outside the walls beyond sight). The hardy men of Caffthorn moved up and down the trenches in anticipation of the battle toying with their swords and talking about wars of old that had long been forgotten by other men. Ceda made his way through the lines of soldiers to where King Ballison sat with King Threythus. They looked up as he sat down and offered their greetings. "This is odd," began Ceda. "The muster of beasts that we saw should have arrived by today. They should have been here long ago." "Aye," agreed Ballison. "My men are ready for the battle but they grow weary of waiting for the enemy while the tension among the men of Ruirse grows between the Axemen and the Caahahians. Hope for battle soon and let us be done with this before we kill each other and lessen the Orc's labors." "Can the enemy have gone past the city to the east or the west?" Asked Ceda. "Nay," answered Threythus. "If they had gone west, we would have seen them from the walls of the city unless they went by way of the Aun Hills in the northwest or north of the Aun Hills to No-Al Ben, but that would serve them no purpose. In any case our scouts would have seen them and would have reported their whereabouts to us. "And what of the way to the east?" Asked Ballison. "On that path there are only the forests Ruirse and the Little Kingdom of the east. Otherwise there are no settlements until the Port of Dhernis that lay to the south. With the force that you have described, they would be fools to take it east and not attack the main strength of the region. They must come this way for all practical matters." "Aye," said Ceda. "But what reason do you have to consider the Orcs a practical race? Further more, I doubt that the Orcs know the land as we do, for they have lived long in the caves and may know nothing of the cities that we have. They could have gone anywhere." On the eight day the Elves of Carne arrived with a large host of Naz'Clowi warriors and some men of Breanduin. There were twelve thousand all together, all on horseback. With them rode only two thousand of the Elven folk though the soldiers of Carne were strong, good fighters and well versed in the art of archery. At the head of them rode Aroth and as they entered the city many shout arose from the men in greetings and praise. Aroth dropped from his steed and walked over to Ceda and the two kings. "Greetings! I have done as you asked, though I could only bring this small amount of warriors from Carne. Our kingdom is also fighting a war, for there are many Orcs in the forest slaughtering our kin while killing both plant and animal. "But we bring you three gifts! Three gift that none can boast giving, and the tale behind them!" Aroth went to one of the Elves horses and from its saddle he brought forth a leather sack. He pulled on the twine that held it closed until it had opened enough to reach in and get its contents. Then slowly he withdrew one of the three objects. All the men watching drew a deep breath and kept it. What Aroth held aloft in his hands had given them a new hope and gladness rose up in their hearts. Breaking the barrier of fear that rested long there like a heavy weight they felt joy again, for in Aroth's two small hands rested a round metallic object. It's base was shaped like a octagon from which rose eight spikes, one from each point and all along its outer rim were rare gems, red and special from the Malthoogian Mines in the Mountains of Gren of northern Grandydyr. Aroth held it aloft for all to see and wonder at: the Royal Crown of Grobst D'arbo. Ceda took the crown as Aroth reached back into the leather sack and drew from it the next gift. This he also held aloft though only the men of Caffthorn recognized it and at once sadness gripped them. It was a black sickle made from the grey wood of Caffthorn and a dark metal. Near the slender base of the dark blade was a gem that glowed in a strong white light. Ballison jumped forward and clasp the sickle tearing it from the Elf's hands. "Where did you get this?" he cried. "It was the weapon of my brother, Tarnigen. He would die before he gave it up!" "Steady!" said Aroth backing away slightly and a few Elves fitting their arrows in their green bows. "We shall tell all, but know that I am Elven nobility and will not be treated in such manner." "My apologies, Lord Aroth, for when my brother is concerned our entire people's judgement is faulty. He was our King." "The tale shall be told shortly, aye, but there is little to tell. The next gift should do most of the explaining." Aroth reached a final time into the sack and withdrew a grotesque, bloody object. In his hand was a head, severed completely from the neck it was once attached to. But this was not ordinary head, it was that of a great Nuadri, strong and terrible in life from the size of it. Ceda recognized it immediately, the head that had once tormented him in the dungeons of the Sarshirian Mountains, the head of the Grand Nuadri of Barnonoen. Then Ceda remembered Cander, and the horror of the darkness found its way into his memory. He stepped backward. Then he turned his head and walked away from it. He did not want to smell it, for that would be too much for him. Any other Orc would not bother him, any other Nuadri or anything for that matter, but not this. Aroth saw Ceda turn and replaced the head in the sack closing it tightly and giving it to one of the Elves. "Now for the tale, though as I said before there is not much to tell." "The size is of no concern," said Ballison eagerly. "Tell it for I grow anxious." "Well," began Aroth as Ceda returned. "I had left Caahah as fast as my horse would bear me. As I approached the Wood of Carne a day later, I met the men of Naz'Clow and Breanduin. They were all on horse riding for the desert in great haste. They told me they rode to wage a battle for, they said, several men that had arrived from the far western city of Naudsman in Old Grandydyr told them a large host from the Sarshirians had left Ploughdom and were heading northward. They had barely escaped with their own lives. They also said that there were many great Nuadrin with them, greater Nuadrin than the usual sort, and that one stood even taller than all the rest, larger and stronger than the others. "I asked that they come instead with me to Caahah to help the men here, but they said they would come only after the muster in the desert was defeated, for with them was their leader and it would be a great victory for them were he slain. "I rode to Carne with all possible haste and gathered what Elves I could. Then we rode to the desert where the battle was already underway and helped defeat the enemy's might. After the fighting was over and the dead counted and buried properly, we despoiled the remains of the enemy and found these fair gifts. Then returned here in haste, and as I see now, the host of Arnmere has as yet not come, so it was good. "As I have said, there is little to tell." "And yet much remains untold," said Ceda. "What were they doing in the desert with these things? And where did they GET these things?" "True," added Ballison, "and what of Tarnigen my brother? Is he dead or captive? Or did he escape after having his possessions taken?" "Of these thing we know as much as you," Said Aroth. "Yet there is still much to ask. What did they plan to do with Grobst's Crown? Return it to the Tree?" "There is little time for answers to these questions," began Ceda. "For though it is eight suns falling since you departed they have as yet not come. Aye, there are strange happenings afoot, and I like them not. "Why wait for them?" asked Aroth. "You have some alternative?" Asked Ballison. "Aye. We have the crown, overwhelming Orcs approach, why can we not simply figure out how to use the crown and bring forth the Lost Army to help us. That is my suggestion." "That... could help us, but how do we use it?" Said Ceda. "And who will go?" "You know who must go, Ceda," said Aroth. "You are the Traveler." "Aye, I must go, it is my duty. The Sign of the Crown was given to me," answered Ceda concedingly. Then he sighed, "and I took it." "Then," said Ballison intervening. "You may take with you as my gift, my axe, for Tarnigen is dead and in his honor I shall now wield his sickle as my weapon. As for you, this is a gift for one that partakes on a dangerous journey into the desert so near the Dark Gate and so perilous, otherwise none but Caffthorn nobles may receive it. "Guard this axe with your life, for it is magical. The gem placed on the blade will warn you of danger that is near you be it from friend or enemy. It glows purple when all is well, and white when evil is near. When you are wounded badly it glows red and when you die or are going to die... it turns black. "The axe is named Renielk and will whistle when you call it." Ceda accepted the axe and bowed low, "thank you, Lord Ballison, I will use it with pride!" "And now that this matter of who will go is settled, how is Ceda to use the crown? And when he does, what will he tell the army that has been gone for ten thousand years?" Said Threythus. "There was a riddle that our wizard Merth told us," said Aroth. "When four rise and fall, The Sign of the Crown, Is given and taken, And stolen and recovered, And found and rewon. And can be used to benefit; But to who? Crown the King, and he shall rise. And Evil or Good he will bring, But: Who is Evil?" "These riddles are beginning to irritate me to no end. The lords play with our minds, and give us these poems to guess at! Tavaar is a cruel god!" Yelled Ceda. "Aye. I have heard this riddle before, though I... I cannot remember from where." "This is not all," said Threythus. "For we have heard this same riddle and its answer, though it is as odd as the riddle: When the King of Grandydyr Is crowned, The Lost Army shall Rise again. "Then crown the king I must!" Said Ceda turning to Threythus. "And I wish to go with you," said Aroth. "Nay, the Sign of the Crown was given to me alone, and alone I will go," answered Ceda. "I leave immediately!" He turned and departed from the gathering. "May your speed be great!" Said Threythus under his breath. -Joel Slatis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME EIGHT NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *Winds of Change Becki Tants *Reunion Ed Murphy *The Treasure: Part 2 of 4 John L. White Date: 071587 Dist: 385 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial While there isn't a great deal of news to report, that is most probably due to the fact that this issue is being sent out no more than a week after the previous issue. For the most part, the news which was reported in the xeditorial for 8-1 is still current. We are still working on getting a mailing out to prospective postal subscribers, which is late due to the fact that I exploded my printer in the heat of our apartment. I have received some responses from readers who will be attending Pennsic, and also some responses from FSFnet writers who will be there. The only truly new news is that there has been a change in issue naming conventions. All issues now have the filetype of VOLxxNy, where 'XX' is the volume number and 'Y' the issue number. This change has been made on files on LISTSERV at TCSVM and CSNEWS at MAINE as well. When requesting files from those sources, please be careful to get the proper filetypes. In this issue we have part two of John White's "Treasure" story which was begun in issue 7-5, and two short stories from two new Dargon Project authors, Ed Murphy and Becki Tants. The next issue, 8-3, should be out near the end of July or early August, and will contain some startling information, as well as the long-promised (but is it long-awaited?) "Legend in the Making" which I've tantalized you with since February! -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Winds of Change Ariel awoke that morning in a bed for the first time in weeks. It was a welcome, warm feeling that had almost caused her to forget the knock on the door that had awoken her in the first place. She blinked as the knock came again. In a brief moment of panic, she realized that no one should know that she was here. She knew no one in this city. Drawing her dagger, she moved silently over to the door. She was about to open the door when she heard the innkeeper outside it, saying "Ma'am, 'tis mornin'. Breakfast is ready fer ya down in the common room if yer up." Relaxing a bit, she listened as the footsteps went on down the hall and began the same strange procedure again. It occurred to her that this was not something that had ever been done in her father's inn, but she was quickly distracted from the thought as she looked around the room for the first time. Her quick flight there late last night and almost immediate collapse from exhaustion had given her no time to examine her rather rich and elegant surroundings. The carved wood furniture, beautiful wall hangings, painted ceramic wash bowl and pitcher, and the call to breakfast by the innkeep all led her quickly to the conclusion that she would have to find a job soon to pay for the place. She poured some water into the bowl, rinsed off her face to hide the tell-tale signs of her long, hard journey, and dressed quickly. Looking up at the polished mirror on the wall, the surest sign of how expensive the place was that she had seen so far, she realized just how much her defense these last few weeks had taken out of her. Her skin looked well tanned, but pale below the tan, a sure sign of the exhaustion she still was recovering from. The area underneath her eyes had some uncharacteristic lines caused by the stretching of her powers beyond her own limits of endurance in an effort to save her own life. Worse yet were her eyes. They still held the look of one hunted, betrayed, and forsaken in her direst time of need. The change was depressingly obvious, and had the effect of making her look much older then her mere 18 years. She quickly turned away from that other face in the mirror, but the thoughts of all she had been through still followed her. With her eyes not quite focused out the window into the early morning light, she began to think of all the things that had happened to her in the short 6 months that had passed since her 18th birthday. She had been working at the time for her father. He owned an inn in a small village and had eked out a meager living this way for many years. She did his books, waited upon the customers, and generally did whatever was needed. She provided 'services' for the more wealthy customers, as well as amusing herself by opening the locks on things without the keys. A very simple life, but not satisfying. At 18, she wanted to see more of the world. When a rich, handsome young man came into town, she was immediately very attentive. This one's name was Stefan. The rumor about town was that he was a mage of some sort and her father, hearing this, advised her to stay away from him. This just whetted her curiosity more. They spent much time together and soon, as he was leaving, he invited her to join him, saying that a young lady of her particular 'talents' could be very successful in a big city such as Dargon. Charmed by the young man so thoroughly, she left without a word to her father or a thought to the consequences. She quickly found the rumors of his magic to be true and convinced him to teach her. He agreed, thinking it a good chance to practice for him and an amusement for her. As they traveled he began to teach her the powers of the air. He soon realized that she had a strong streak of talent for this running through her, and sped up the training. As they traveled, practiced, and slept together, their relationship grew. Soon Ariel began to think she was in love with Stefan and he seemed to reciprocate this feeling. She began to hold great hopes for her life in a new city, a big city full of opportunities, and her life with Stefan. All too soon, however, the training was halted and her dreams were smashed. The cult of the earth god, Haargon, found out about the existence of the two mages and made their plans to attack. The rivalry between Haargon and Iliara, the goddess of the air, had long been fierce, but only recently had it escalated to such huge proportions. The cults had escalated it to blood-shed. Haargon's followers had acted first, killing one of the air goddesses high priests, saying naught but that he had blasphemed their god beyond permissible levels. The cult of the air goddess was quick to take its revenge. Of the existing earth mages, over half were murdered one night in their sleep. Since that night, the cult of Haargon had been killing any air mages found in an attempt to "even the score". Stefan had told Ariel about this cult before, so when they attacked in the middle of the night, she recognized them. Before she even awoke, Stefan was dead by the hand of their leader and they were coming for her. Calling all her fury and grief to play, she used everything she had learned so far to call up a wind strong enough to blow about the pine needles on the ground and pull the ones from the trees, giving her the cover to escape. She ran, but only far enough to find a place to hide before she collapsed in utter exhaustion. She had slept after that for almost 18 hours. When she awoke, still exhausted and emotionally drained by the death of her lover, but she found a bit of food and then began to travel toward Dargon. The face in the mirror told her that she had still not recovered. Since that night, almost 2 months ago, she had rarely been able to call anything more then a light breeze. Slowly, though, her power had been improving. For the first month after the fight, she had not even been able to stir the breeze. "Soon," she thought, "soon, I will be my old self". But this thought had been losing its power to console her. She was beginning to think that she might never regain what she had lost. Still, the cult continued to follow her. Not as viciously, but they were watching, and she had to keep her eyes open. "But first I must eat." she said to herself out loud. Splashing her face with water once more, quickly, to get the dreamy look out of her eyes, she headed down to breakfast. As she came down the stairs, she was all but overwhelmed by the smell of the fresh cooked bread. She hadn't smelled anything that good since she had left her father's inn. It seemed like ages ago. "It was." she told herself. But the scent was strong enough that she hurried the rest of the way to the common room, her mouth watering. The meal was plain, but wholesome. Ariel hadn't realized how hungry she'd been until the innkeep put the fresh, warm bread, ripe apples, and sharp cheese before her. The food tasted fantastic. After so long on the road, any fresh, warm meal was welcome. She was just finishing up when a small child, approximately 6 years old, wearing dirty, torn clothing and no shoes, came running in from the street. He scanned the room and, spotting Ariel, came running over. He looked her over carefully for a moment, then, without a word, dropped a note and a leather pouch before her and ran out of the inn. Startled, Ariel reached for the note and the pouch. As she opened the pouch and emptied it's contents, her face went white. Stefan's ring, the one that he said helped him to concentrate, lay there on the table before her. Dragging her eyes away from the ring, she opened the note. "Ariel; Air Mage....... This ring belonging to your friend will help you to overcome those who still watch and follow you...Be wary, for they will not give up easily. I cannot interfere directly, so you must have faith in your own abilities. Stefan has taught you well. Overcome this obstacle and you will be brought into our fellowship. Until then, take care, and trust in your own strength. Cyrrwiddyn; Priest of Iliara......." As she read the last words in amazement, the writing on the parchment disappeared. Startled, she sat with the now blank parchment in her hands, wondering how these people had found her and where she could find them. She had so many questions. But the letter had given no clue. She had no ideas on how to find the Priest. Soon her attention turned back to the ring. Placing it upon her finger, as one would a wedding ring, she was surprised to see it fit perfectly. Stefan's fingers were nowhere near her size. Quickly however, she realized that there was magic involved here and that she should not question the ways of the Gods. "Stefan," she whispered, "They took you away from me too soon. I will extract a price on them for this. But please, give me the strength to live long enough to do it." Finishing the last of breakfast, she got up and left the inn, heading out in search of a job, but with the words of the letter still buzzing around in her mind. So occupied was she that she failed to notice the shadowy figure that moved away from the wall as she went by and began to follow her. -Becki Tants <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Reunion Gellan left the forest just after dawn. The dew was still dripping off the trees but the chill was leaving the air as he strode across the meadow just outside the city. He stood for the moment at the crest of a small hill and looked over the expanse to the city walls of Dargon. Dargon. It had been a long while since he had seen Dargon and its high buildings and crowded marketplaces. The first time he saw Dargon, he was a young lad, not even had he seen his tenth year. He dimly remembered looking in wonder at the great colorful banners of the duchies and kingdoms, for it had been the time of the great Festival that was given in Dargon every year. His view now was not one of awe, however. He had been through much in the seventeen years since his innocent days of childhood. He shifted the pack that was slung over his shoulder and settled into a steady gait made his way to the main road that led into Dargon. The morning traffic had picked up while he had been approaching. As he walked along the side of the road he drew stares from the coaches and wagons that passed. He chuckled softly to himself as he thought that they probably considered him some type of barbarian due to his homemade clothes and unkempt hair and beard. But he had never really cared about others or what they thought about him. That had been one of the reasons he had left his village, family and all the security that those things implied. If only they'd understood... if only... ah, well. He had come to the archway of stone that was the entrance to Dargon. He walked through the high entranceway and was astounded by the density of the people and the buildings. The people! It had been so long since he had seen so many people bustling and crowding in one place. He walked down the streets and alleys of Dargon and was only able to gaze in wonder at the large city. "Well, " he thought to himself, "I'd better take care of business first. I'll be here quite long enough to sightsee...". Then he was off to look for a place to live during his stay in Dargon... Night was falling over the city of Dargon, and most of the businesses in the lower part of the city were closing. The 'most' however didn't include the bars. The city was going through the metamorphoses that happened every night around dusk. The nooks and alley-ways used during the day to get from place to place in the city were now shunned at all costs. A man could lose much more than his purse at night in Dargon, especially in this district. Merntik was making his way to Belisandra's for a night of general debauchery and ruthlessness which was usually what he did, when he wasn't planning on taking some poor merchants livelihood. The salt air was drifting in from the water as always. Merntik entered the pub and immediately grabbed the first serving girl that came within reach. There were cries and whoops from all around. "Hi Mern!", a group called from the end of the bar. He waved and made his way to the counter. "Ale!, the strongest and darkest you got, lady!" he yelled and then turned with a twinkle in his eye. That, among other things is what had made him famous. Nobody knew just exactly how he did it, but there are those who say that he could make his eyes sparkle in pitch black darkness. After reciving his mug he pushed his way through the crowd at the end of the bar. "So, you are looking as ratty as ever, Gauld!", he said and delivered a resounding slap to his comrade. "What has the night brought this way?" "Bah, only you, you old abandoned horse," Gauld said with a grin, and then continued, "but, nothing else as yet. It has been a slow night thus far. And how have you faired today? I saw you earlier on Ramit Street talking to a couple. I assume you were 'helping them'?", and then his grin broadened. Merntik let a little twinkle enter his countenance and replied, "Well, they were lost! And not from this city, I had pity on them. And besides, I had no idea how well they would pay for a guide to get them to their hotel", he took a gulp of the dark ale, "as a matter of fact neither did they!" He laughed loudly as he ordered another round for the group and threw the gold coin on the counter. Time went on as he and the men drank, laughed and played games. The serving maids knew enough now to stay out of reach of the group as the night wore on but always managed a tease now and then by coming just out of reach. The night wore on and Merntik decided that he had had quite enough frolic to sustain him for this night. "Besides," he thought to himself, " I do have an early day tomorrow, no telling how many people I will have to 'help'." And with a chuckle to himself, he rose, said his goodbyes and left. The cool night air did little to raise him out of his drunken stupor. He didn't even notice the small dark figure that followed him from the front of the tavern. Merntik turned to walk down a side street that led to his living place and that was when the man appeared in front of him. "Stop there Merntik...". That voice was as familiar to him as any ever would be. "Jernan, what finds you here this late at night? Scraping for your dinner in the gutter?". As any could guess, Jernan and Merntik did indeed know one another, and they held more hate towards the other than any thought possible. "Ahh, Merntik. You're tongue still has a fork I see. I have so missed your conversation. And will forever, after you are dead." Every once in a while Jernan had tried a futile attempt to kill Merntik. They had studied under the same master when they were young, but Jernan became impatient with what he thought were monotonous studies and left long before he was ready to face the world that a thief must face. And as could be expected, he was soon arrested and imprisoned for a number of years. After he got out of the Lord's prison he once again delved into the criminal element where he found that Merntik had made quite a name for himself. The jealousy that he harbored toward Merntik along with a few meetings since then was what caused Jernan's obsession with the elimination of Merntik. Merntik, tired and not wanting to allow Jernan first blood feinted to the left and produced a dagger from beneath his cloak. He then did a quick recovery and lunged after Jernan. But missed. He ended up going tripping over his cloak. As quickly as he could, he got to his feet and managed to strip his cloak off increasing his maneuverability. Jernan had already drawn his knife and whirled around. Jernan stabbed at Merntik. If he had been a bit faster, Merntik might had taken it in the stomach. As it was, he felt the steel enter his leg. Jernan gave the knife a twist and the shock was too much for Merntik. His knees buckled under him, and he was suddenly on his back facing up at Jernan. Jernan walked over slowly and kicked Merntik's dagger further down the alley. "I would have thought that when this time had come you would have given me more of a fight. Tsk.... It seems that you slipped once too often, Merntik." He walked over and Merntik saw him take a foot long steel pipe from the ground nearby. "There is really no need to be gentle about this I guess..." and with that he grabbed Merntik by the collar of his tunic, lifted him up, and hit him in the stomach. The pain was almost to much for him as he tottered on the brink of unconsciousness. His drunken state and the loss of blood had left him unable to focus. He never should have travelled alone on this night. His mistake might have just cost him his life. Jernan pulled back for another blow when a hand came out of the shadow. The third man grabbed the pipe and wrenched it from Jernan's hand in one swift move. Jernan whirled around redrawing his dagger and jumped for the man but his hold on the blade was broken as the stranger brought the pipe down with blow that could have only broken Jernans hand. The stranger then brought the pipe down on Jernans neck and the would be murderer crumpled, like paper, under the blow. Merntik had seen this all from the ground where he had fallen when Jernan released him. The stranger, his face hidden in shadow, walked over to Merntik and knelt down beside him. Merntik could only mutter, "Thanks..." before he was overtaken by unconsciousness. The young thief awoke an unmeasured amount of time later. His wounds had been cared for and he was bathed and lying on a cot. He tried to sit up on his elbows to further survey the room but his body had already decided that it was in control at this particular time, and his stomach, bruised from the previous skirmish, had knotted together. He could only groan and fall back in the cot. He heard a movement from across the room and turned as far as he could and said, "Hello? Who is there?". He was silently wishing he had so much as a bobby pin for protection. Then he heard the clinking of dishes and the smell of an obviously strongly seasoned stew waifted over from somewhere. He was suddenly ravenously hungry. Still the man had not yet come into view, so Merntik thought to get him to speak. "Who is there? I want to thank you for you help, I was sure that I had had my last drink.... Hello? Please, I would like to pay you for your help....". At last he heard steps coming toward him and his eyes opened wide as a look of recognition came over his face. "Mern. Now how would it look if I took money for helping you.... brother", Gallen said as he knelt down beside his brother with the steaming bowl. "Oh my God...", was the only Merntik could think to say. Then he smiled and reached out to hug his brother, but fell back in agony once again. "You always were headstrong when you were sick", Gellan said, as he offered a spoon on the stew. "Where have you been? What have you been doing? Why did you not come home?" Merntik asked, "I mean, Gellan... Seventeen years!...." "Shhhhh.. Mern. I am here now. I will tell you everything but first you must eat. Then we will talk of me." -Ed Murphy <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Treasure Part II The Magician Roharvardenul walked away from the Fighting Unicorns well pleased with the deal he and Ka'en had made. Patting his side, where the book rested in the folds of his cloak, he walked slowly to the shadows of a side alley. Once hidden from casual observers, he let the 'whore' illusion that hid him fade, as well as the 'man in brown' one he wore under it. And he smiled in the knowledge that even should the missing book be somehow traced to that most capable thief he had hired, it could not be traced further - he did not believe in taking chances. Vard (a name he much preferred to his given one for its simplicity - Roharvardenul was very difficult to pronounce correctly for one not raised with it, and he hated it when people mispronounced his name) moved even deeper into the shadows until he was sure that no one could see him. He began to concentrate on building up yet another illusion. This would be very difficult - invisibility was hard to achieve, and even harder to maintain, especially when moving. Vard had practiced long and hard under his erstwhile masters, and he knew his craft. Soon, even careful scrutiny of the shadows wherein he hid would not have revealed Vard's presence - he was invisible. When he had reached an equilibrium within himself, and he knew that he was ready keep the spell going as he moved, he inched his way out of the alley and around to the rear of the Fighting Unicorns, studiously avoiding the infrequent torch- or lantern-cast pools of light that were scattered about - hiding himself was hard enough; hiding his shadow as well would be nearly impossible. Placing his steps as noiselessly as possible, Vard crept into the Fifth Quarter and its concealing darkness. Feeling more secure once he was three streets deep into the Fifth Quarter, Vard began to move faster, but kept up the invisibility. He knew that he couldn't hold the spell much longer. He wanted to be as far as possible from the fringe Inn before he became visible again. He was already weaving the illusion that would replace the invisibility - he tried to be himself as little as possible outside the walls of his fortress home. Curiosity has killed more than cats in the Fifth Quarter, but anyone with a little left might have seen a child, an urchin, appear running from nowhere, clad in scant rags and bare feet. An urchin was a common sight in the Quarter, the sudden appearance was not. Still, had it been seen, the incident wouldn't have passed the lips of the observer, for the insane are dealt with even more severely than the curious in the alleys of the Fifth Quarter. Threading his way through the maze-like inner streets of the Fifth Quarter, Vard eventually reached a blank, wooden wall at the end of a particularly narrow alley. The hidden catches were both difficult to find, even for him, and hard to press all at the same time (to prevent accidental discovery). Finally, the wall parted just enough for him to slip through, then slammed shut seconds after its opening, leaving Vard in total darkenss. He stood in the darkness for several moments, letting the disguise he wore fade away. Here, he needed to be himself, for he had set traps to protect this secret way into the heart of his home from strangers. Filling his mind with the patterns the traps expected, he strode confidently through the utter lightlessness towards the inner sanctum. It seemed that hours passed in the minutes it took him to reach the final curtain, but finally he stepped into light. The small room he had stepped into was deep below the streets of the city, although the gradual slope of the corridor was only barely detectable as one walked it. An ornate chair was set against one bare wall. There was a soft carpet on the floor, but the only other decoration in the room was a large pattern of lines surrounding what looked like a stylized door on the wall opposite the curtained real door. The decor of the room was completed by two lamps flanking the door, and a medium sized chest resting near the wall pattern. Vard took a deep breath and relaxed - walking the gauntlet of that corridor made even him nervous. He walked over to the pattern which was more than a decoration. It was, in fact, a portal into the cellars of Aahashtra, his fortress home. With it, he could make the 40 league trip to and from Magnus in one step. It had taken a lot of effort to create the portal, but his frequent trips to the Crown City made it necessary. Laying his hands within the terminal-circles at the edge of the pattern, Vard began to prime it, readying it for the activation spells. It was just beginning to glow faintly when he heard someone enter the room behind him. He whirled, fire beginning to limn his hands as an attack spell filled his mind, but he let it slip away when he saw that it was only his servant Qrun returning from his errand. Qrun bowed to his Master and took the wrapped bundle that he carried over to the chest. Opening the lid, the servant carefully placed the bundle on top of the many other oddments that filled the chest. He turned and bowed to Vard again. "Ah, Qrun, what did you find today? Anything of special interest? Have you completed your rounds?" "Master, yes, I have visited all the shops you told me to. These last items are the most interesting I found. They registered eight on the meter." Qrun unwrapped the bundle in the chest, displaying a leather-cased harp and a slim-bladed sword. "See, Master, even a little above eight." The servant produced a strange device from the pouch hanging at his belt and held it next to the harp and sword. It was a simple rectangle of black wood, with a tube of glass set into a little trough on one side. There were lines etched across the glass at regular intervals, and a number was graven into the wood next to each line. As the device neared the two objects in the chest, a bright bar of yellow light began to move up the tube from below the mark labeled '1'. When Qrun held the device almost touching the harp and the sword, the yellow bar had pushed past the mark labeled '8'. "Very good, Qrun, very good. These items will serve me well! Let's see if they have any identifying markings, eh?" Vard lifted the harp case from the chest and examined the silver-decorated leather carefully. He opened the case and removed the beautifully wrought harp and examined it. Plucking a few strings that sounded marvelously in tune, he said, "It names itself 'Soft-Winds'. Beautiful name, eh, Qrun? Wonder who the owner was? Belike some bard, down on his luck. Well, his loss is my gain, right?" He placed the harp back in its case and set it back in the chest. He picked up the sword. "Matched set, these were," Vard said. "I can feel they had the same owner. Wonder what could have parted a bard from both his livelihood and his protection?" He peered closely at the carvings on the sheath and drew the blade after unfastening the peace-bond. He read the runes etched among the delicate leaf pattern that chased up and down the center of the well crafted blade. "And this weapon hight 'Leaf-Killer': an odd name for a very fine blade. It belonged to a south-western family at one time, and was transferred from son to daughter last, if I read my runes correctly. So, the bard who lost these was a woman! No matter, they will serve as well in any case." Vard placed the re-sheathed sword back in the chest beside the harp, and bade Qrun secure the chest for travel. While his servant attended to that, Vard returned to the task of activating the portal. Presently, the pattern built of special tiles and set into the very fabric of the wall began to glow strongly, with a slight, pulsing beat. The portal was open. Vard took one last look around the room to be sure that it was empty. With a wave, he extinguished the lamps by the door, and by the light of the pattern he followed his servant into the portal and vanished from Magnus. Immediately after his form vanished into the pattern, its light went out, leaving the secret room in darkness until the next time Vard had to come to the Crown City. The Book Lights sprang on of themselves in the room in Aahashtra that mirrored the one hidden under Magnus as first Qrun and them Vard stepped through the center of the glowing pattern. Vard said, "Take that to the sorting room, Qrun, and take care of its contents. Tell Eirul to bring me something to eat in my study, if she hasn't already." As Qrun carried the chest through the curtain at the far end of the room, Vard followed him as far as the first side door. There, the magician turned aside from the long hall and went through the door and up the stairs behind it that led to his study. He found a bright and cheery fire burning behind its screen in his study and a tray of tarts on a table in front of it. He bit into one and smiled. Eirul was a superb cook. The tarts were a specialty of hers and a favorite of his. Vard removed the Book from the folds of his robe and set it reverently on his reading desk. After lighting several of the lamps that stood around it he went over to a tall bookcase to get down some reference volumes. He settled into the stiff-backed chair at his reading desk and opened the book to the first page. He was pleased to find that it was written in what was called Middle, or Pure, Fretheodan, the language of that empire's most productive period. He was conversant in the language, so he began to read, not taking the time to look up words or usages he didn't understand. He wanted to get an idea of what was contained in the book before analyzing it. Pausing only to nibble at the food he never saw Eirul bring, he read the book from cover to cover. By the time he had finished it, almost a full day had passed and he was sure that the Tome of Yrmenweald was exactly what he had hoped it was. It contained the secrets of a vast powersource that the Fretheod Empire's wizards had managed to harness. It gave details on how to duplicate the feat, and exactly what could be accomplished with the harnessed power. Vard was sure that he could put the Yrmenweald to as good a use as had the Fretheod. He had always dreamed of being the most powerful wizard in the world, and with this book he could be. But, first things first. Vard had gotten the gist of what the Tome contained. Now he wanted to know exactly. It was essential that he understand, word for word, the instructions left by the wizards who had harnessed the Yrmenweald the first time. Patience was something Vard had learned long ago, along with thouroughness, and now he put both to work studying the Tome. First, he translated the Tome into the trade language that the Fretheod Empire had created. It was a language that was able to express complicated ideas very clearly while still being easy to learn because of its logical structure: its rules had no exceptions since it was not a naturally evolved language. He was able to clarify to himself what certain passages meant by the way they read in the trade tongue. Then he translated the trade version into his own native tongue, gaining even more insights into the text. The last step was a detailed examination of all three versions, comparing them and finalyzing the exact meaning of the Tome. He was aided here by his collections of material from the Empire's history, including maps, journals, and books written by Fretheod scholars. This helped him pin down geographic references and fit them into his own frame of reference. It also helped to clear up idiomatic usages, obscure (to him) literary references, and the other little things that kept him from total understanding of the Tome. He learned that the source of the Yrmenweald had been found by a team of explorers who were charting the continent they called Gereon, which was south of their homeland and east of Vard's. One day, the native guides they employed showed them a taboo area where a stone had fallen from the sky. They were told that the first people to go near the place, soon after the sky-stone had come down, had been burned to death by the heat of the earth. Several weeks later, when the earth had cooled, another group of people had tried to get to the sky-stone. These had been driven off by strange lights in the pit where the sky-stone rested. When they died later of a strange, wasting sickness, the area had been declared taboo. However, the Fretheod explorers insisted on seeing for themselves. The tales of the sky-stone were several years old, and they persuaded their guides to stay with them by suggesting that perhaps the 'evil spirits' inhabiting the place had gone by now. Jarl Hremon, the leader of the expidition, entered the depression created by the sky-stone first. Burried in the earth, he found a wall of silver metal that sparked feebly when he neared it, then went out. He tripped on a clod of dirt and fell against the metal. When he did, the entire wall shimmered and faded into nothingness, revealing a large, dark cave. Hremon got a torch and led his men into the strange cave. They found much that they could not describe or understand, but they did find - well, something. The Tome used a strange symbol for what they found that seemed to be enough description for them. No mention was made of exactly what it was, or what it looked like, or where the symbol came from. Vard could find no other reference to a symbol of that type anywhere in any of the books he had collected. For his own convenience he assigned a sound to the symbol. He called it 'keseth'. Somehow, Hremon had recognized that there was potential in the keseth. He had a permanent camp set up around the pit, and sent a man back to the capitol with a message informing the King of their discovery and suggesting that the Court's wizards send someone back to further examine what had been found. The King sent a full legion of his army to Gereon, escorting most of the Weavers in the capitol including Swithwald, their master. It was Swithwald who closeted himself with the keseth for many days. When he emerged from the cave, he knew what the keseth was capable of, and to what use it could be put to. Swithwald left for the capitol after instructing his wizards in what preparations to make for the keseth's transportation. When the Master Weaver was home, he set about building a place for the keseth deep in a long disused mine. He had the full support of the King once he had informed the monarch of his plan, and being able to draw on the resources of the whole Empire made the work go quickly. Soon the vault was ready. In an exhausting exhibition of magic that required the services of every Weaver and a good many of the lesser mages, the keseth was transported from the pit on Gereon, into the vault that Swithwald had made where it would be safe and available for study. Years went into that study. Swithwald bent all his energies on harnessing the power that the keseth held. Finally, he found a way to keep the keseth bound while allowing it access to its power. The discovery of cwicustan by another exploration team probing into the northern wastes of their own continent was the deciding factor in harnessing the keseth's abilities. After much research into the strange, almost living, crystal called cwicustan, it was discovered that any part removed from the whole was still affected by some things that happened to what remained. It was thought by the researchers to use cwicustan as a magic channel, for a spell cast at the heart-lode would emanate from any and all fragments of that lode. Swithwald heard of its properties, and set teams of researchers to finding out how to apply that ability to the keseth. Finally, the connection was made, and the Master Staff was formed. The Son Staves that were formed from the master were linked to it, and the Master Staff was linked to the keseth enabling anyone with access to a Son Staff access to the power of the keseth. And that power was, in the main, farseeing with incredible clarity. Commanders could keep an eye on enemy movements from a considerale distance. Explorers could view the terrain they would be crossing well before reaching it. Ship captains could spot land from afar, as well as keep an eye on weather patterns using another minor ability of the keseth. And it was the power of the keseth that turned the agressive and formidable Fretheod Nation into a world-spanning, invincible Empire. Finally, both Swithwald and the King decided that they needed to safeguard the core of their newfound power. Once Swithwald was certain that the keseth was safe and secure in its vault, he sealed it and took a map, one of his servants, and the key across the sea to one of the nation's outposts. In the cellars of a watch-keep named Wudamund he he burried for safekeeping the map to the vault, the key to enter the vault, and the servant who knew the traps guarding the vault. He then instructed the Tome to be written, to hold all of the knowledge of the Yrmenweald (as they came to call the power that the keseth gave to Fretheod), the keseth, and the Staves. And lastly, he and the Weavers worked a greater magic than the one that had moved the keseth. All knowledge of the keseth, its whereabouts, and the source of the Staves' power was removed from the minds of all the Fretheod people. Only those with access to the Tome would know the real power behind the staves, and only someone able to raise the dead could gain access to the vault where the keseth was bound. With the Tome entrusted to the royal bards, both Swithwald and the King were sure that the secrets would be kept safe. No one imagined that treachery from within would finally end the Empire. It was almost by chance that Vard had come across the one thing that would enable him to take the Yrmenweald for himself. He had purchased what turned out to be the seachest of Tarhela, the last Skaldric of Fretheod, from an illiterate hoarder who didn't know the value of what he had sold. Among the shreds of rotted clothing, and more intact books, he found the Skaldric's journal. Within the journal was the only written reference to the Tome of the Yrmenweald in existence. Vard immediately began a magical search for the tome. He traced its path through history from the shipwreck of Tarhela's ship, to its final resting place within the walls of the Bardic College in Magnus. Trickery, magic, and a lot of favors had eventually gotten him the keys to the vault where it was stored. It only remained to hire Ka'en to steal it from under the noses of the Bards without their knowing. And now, Vard was even closer to ultimate power. He knew that Dargon Castle had been built on the partial ruins of the watch-keep that the Fretheod had called Wudamund. With a little research of his own, he knew he would have no trouble unlocking the secrets hidden in the cellars of Clifton Dargon's home. The more difficult task would be to find some cwicustan, for he knew that he would have to begin from scratch in constructing a Master Staff of his own and that required his own supply of the living crystal. He decided to make that his first priority. Crystals It was only an hour from sunset as the good ship Morcyfaill dropped anchor in the harbor of a small fishing village called Hadrom on the east coast of Duurom, the present name of the continent that was once the center of the Fretheod Empire. The longboat was lowered over the side. Owain Garothsson took his leave of Captain Camarond, and he and his men climbed down into the boat and were ferried ashore. No amount of gold Owain could offer would get Camarond to sail farther north. Owain was resigned to making the rest of the trek afoot. Vard watched the disembarkation from a special room in his fortress. It was a small chamber at the top of a squatly conical tower, with barely enough room for himself and a chair and table. The only light in the room came from an oblong of translucent stone that rested between two silver plates on the table and glowed with a faint turquoise light. Vard's hands rested lightly on the silver endplates and his eyes were closed. He watched the far off scene in Hadrom in his mind, checking on the progress of his pawn. The blue-green bar of glowing stone bound Owain to Vard's will by means of a property of magic known as Contagion. Stated formally, the Law of Contagion stated that 'Things once in contact continue to interact from a distance after separation'. This allowed Vard to use control magic on an object that had once been in Owain's possession, and thereby control Owain. Of course, this ordinarily wouldn't have been enough for him to completely control a person from such a distance. The Law alone wasn't strong enough to allow him to control someone who was just across the room from him. But Vard had discovered more about the intricacies of the Law of Contagion than any other mage whose works still survived. He had learned that the stronger a person's emotional bonds were to the object, the stronger the Law bound the two. Once he had isolated that property in the object, he had found a way to magnify that property so that he could use his control magic on the object with an almost overwhelming effect on the subject. The strength of the modified control depended on the degree of the initial attachment, but if that attachment was strong enough Vard could be assured of complete control with a minium of effort. At some point in his career, Owain had lost a bamboo transverse flute that had meant a great deal to him. Vard had invented a measuring device that codified the degree of attachment between object and former owner. The tube of yellow light in the black wood rectangle had reached midway between the marks labeled '7' and '8' when held next to the flute. Once Vard had located the flute in his sorting rooms, where all of the items he and his servants collected were stored, he had processed it to magnify the attachment property to usable levels. The result was the turquoise bar that rested on the table before him in his control room. More than eighteen months had passed between the time Vard resolved to obtain some of the cwicustan and the day he sat watching Owain and his band disembark from the ship that had carried them to Hadrom. The time had been spent first finding a cache of cwicustan, and then finding a way of getting hold of it. Vard never did such things for himself as they were far too dangerous and there were easier ways of getting them done. Even if he had desired to venture into the northern wastes of Duurom himself, he had no patience with traveling the hard way. And there was no way to use his magic to travel the distance with ease. Teleportation was a difficult spell and it required either vast amounts of power and strong enchantments, or precise and exacting knowledge of the destination. Vard had neither at hand, although one of the uses he could forsee for the Yrmenweald when he had harnessed it was as an aid to teleportation. With the ability to view distant places in amazing detail he would be able to transport himself anywhere on the face of the globe with little more than a thought. He would be revered and respected for having such power. The thought crossed his mind to hire an adventuring team to retrieve the magical stone, but he knew that wouldn't work. He couldn't afford to pay the team enough gold to insure that they would return the stone to him. Cwicustan had enough visibly strange properties to give an experienced adventurer ideas about selling it in a better market. When he had hired Ka'en to steal the Tome, Vard knew that the thief would have no use for an old book, and so would not try to double-cross him. Vard had to search for someone whom he could control. Where money might fail, his magic wouldn't. Using specially developed future-scanning spells designed to locate an object that fulfilled the requirements of the castor, he had searched his storerooms, eventually finding the flute belonging to Owain. The process of refining the flute into a useable form took six months. Fortunately, he had no trouble taking control of Owain once his aparatus was ready. Ocaisionally, a very strong will could put up a fight, and he had to take care (and much time) to insinuate his control carefully into the subject's body and mind. The rest of the elapsed time was taken up in waiting for the expedition Vard had caught Owain in the middle of preparing for to be diverted to Duurom, and then for the two month sea voyage to Hadrom. He had had no trouble getting Owain to change the object of his adventuring, even over the objections of his fellow explorers. He was also able to keep the man from revealing the reason that they were suddenly going north into Duurom, instead of south on Cherisk into the Skywall Mountains (which wouldn't have involved any sea voyaging at all). He didn't have the materials to control all eight of the adventurers, so he had to keep the cwicustan a secret. As the longboat was rowed to shore by ship's men, Owain looked over the seven he had with him. Two of them had been with Owain on other adventures. In fact, Auvgin and Telrmun were two of his closest friends. But not one of the adventurers was quite sure just what they were doing in a boat bound for a fishing village. Sometimes, that included Owain. Owain was an adventurer. That wasn't the only thing he had ever done: only the lucky or short-lived could make adventuring their life's work. Owain had held many jobs, from guarding merchant's caravans to hauling goods in a warehouse. He did those other things to amass enough money to go adventuring. He hoped one day to bring back such a big find from some ancient temple or ruined city that he could retire with his riches and be remembered forever for his final accomplishment. Six months previous, Auvgin had come to Owain with enough money saved up to fund almost half of the stake required to outfit an adventure to investigate some maps and tales of strange happenings in the heart of the Skywall mountains. After some negotiations, it had been agreed that Owain would put up the rest of the money needed to investigate the rumors of vast treasure that Auvgin had heard. With the skill of much practice, Auvgin and Owain had soon put together a band of people and the necessary supplies to follow Auvgin's plan. And then, almost on the eve of their departure, Owain had changed that plan. Now they would be traveling to the northern wastes of Duurom. He had refused to tell them why, except that he had heard even better rumors than Auvgin had brought of easy treasure to be had there. Since he had the most money invested, it was easy for him to quell the grumblings of Auvgin and the others, and they headed for Duurom. The reason Owain hadn't told the others why he had changed their plans was because he couldn't. Something had told him to go north into Duurom, enticing him with visions of a strange crystal that grew there. What was really frightening was that he couldn't resist the order. He had no choice. He would have gone alone if the men in his expedition had refused to go. But, he couldn't even tell anyone that he was being forced to go north. Whatever was cooercing him was preventing him from talking about it. As the longboat manuevered alongside the dock, Owain looked first back at the Morcyfaill and then north beyond Hadrom. He wondered if whatever was forcing him after the crystal would let any of them come back alive. Hadrom was well prepared to outfit travelers going north. It was the northernmost village on Duurom's east coast, a week away by ship from its southern neighbor due to an archipelago that contained too many shifting shoals and shallows to chart, forcing ships to go around, and a month away overland due to the mountains that grew from the sea along the line of the islands and continued inland across half the continent. The only pass thru the mountains was two weeks away from each village, although a desperate man could find a shorter though much more dangerous route. The self-sufficient fishing village also served as an outpost from which to explore northward. It offered goods and services needed for an expedition at reasonable prices, enabling explorers to travel light until they reached Hadrom. Owain and his band spent a day and two nights in Hadrom getting supplies and information for their trip. When Auvgin suggested hiring a guide, Owain flatly refused. The force driving him informed him that it would be their guide to the cwicustan, but it left it up to Owain to provide a reasonable explanation to his followers. They left Hadrom on the second dawn since their arrival on Duurom. Day after day, which became week after week, they walked, ever farther north. Duurom was no longer settled much above Hadrom. Owain saw no indication that it had ever been inhabited save for the occasional rune-marked obelisk which were identical to several he had seen at home. When six weeks had passed, the grumbling among his men was getting dangerous. It got worse when Owain informed them that they were still at least a month away from where they were going. And then, as they were gathered around the camp's fire, the bird-thing attacked. It took everyone by suprise. Having spent six weeks traveling with not the slightest problem had dulled their reflexes enough for the bird-thing to stoop down on them unawares, its long and sharp talons grabbing hold of Telrmun and piercing his body as it lifted the screaming man off of the ground a short ways then dropped him. Telrmun gave out a little cry as he hit the ground, then lay still and soundless, splashes of red dotting the front of his tunic. The rest of them were slow enough drawing steel and nocking arrows that the bird-thing, its beak now open and producing a noise like no normal bird any of them had ever heard, was able to latch its talons into Druorn. That young man was able to take a swing, the first of the party, but his blade didn't even nick the glistening silvery hide of his attacker. Owain tried to get an idea of what the bird-thing looked like as he attacked it during its screeching swoops. It was huge, larger than a man by half. It had no feathers, but rather thick pebbly skin that protected it from all but the strongest and truest of blows. The bows of Maloc and Eergna were useless - their pull wasn't strong enough to drive their arrows into the hide. Its wings were stiff and didn't seem to move at all. Its head was long and pointed at both ends, and it had large intelligent-looking eyes. Owain was sure that it wasn't a natural creature. Owain and his men were able to finish off the bird-thing without losing anyone else. After burying Telrmun and Druorn, the six remaining decided to put their grumbling behind them and continue the expedition in a more careful manner. The remaining weeks passed with no more arguments about where they were going or why. The far northern wastes were populated with all kinds of strange beasts and birds, none of which seemed quite natural, so that they were kept too busy staying alert for trouble and defending themselves to argue. Owain was reminded by them that the Empire which had once spanned all of the land they were traveling through had been well supplied with magicians and wizards. He supposed that the monsters were byproducts of magical experiments. He might even have been right. Finally, they came to a rather small range of mountains that the voice in Owain's head indicated was their destination. The six spent a night at the foot of the smallest mountain in the chain, and were up bright and early the next morning to find the treasure. Owain led the way up and over the mountain that was really a medium sized hill. On the other side was a valley that ran down the center of the whole range. It looked just the sort of place for a hidden temple or ruined city - always sources of fabulous wealth. It was heavily forested, mostly by conifers which meant that the valley floor was carpeted with green even in the semi-eternal winter of this frozen land. They soon reached the floor of the valley and turned east at Owain's lead. The valley was full of ordinary sounds as the adventurers moved silently through it. Birds cried in the trees, and there were rustles in the undergrowth indicating small animal life. There was absolutely no evidence of man in the valley, not even an obelisk anywhere. The small fauna seemed to have no fear at all of the six humans slipping through their forest. Owain even saw something that looked remarkably like a deer just standing in the shadow of a tree, and it didn't flee when they walked by. It took two hours to reach the east end of the valley. The forest grew right up to the foot of the tallest mountain in the range and no further. The slopes of the mountain were bare of everything but rock. Owain pointed at a dark hole in the mountain's flank and said, "That's where we are going." The voice in his head told Owain that the crystal grew in the back of the cave, but it also said that there was danger in the cave. It still refused to let him tell about the crystal. As he hesitated about just how to get into the cave while avoiding the danger in it, the voice commanded him to order the others into the cave. This would lure out the danger, and allow him to slip in and get the crystal. He had no choice. Even as the commands entered his head, his mouth was giving them voice. He followed his companions up the side of the mountain, slipping to the side as they reached the mouth of the cave. He listened to the others march confidently into the darkness; the voice had assured them through his lips that there was no danger at all within. The footsteps had almost died away when there came a cawing roar, somewhere between the sound of a lion and that of a huge eagle. On the heels of the sound came startled yells, one scream of mortal pain, and then running. Four of the five who had gone into the cave now came tearing out. They scattered as soon as they were in the open and turned back to face what they had found within the cave. As it bolted into the sun and spread its huge wings, Owain recognized one of the fabled gryphons of legend. Half lion and half eagle, it was majestic and terrible as it took to the air cawing its rage and lashing its lion's tail. There was blood on one of its taloned fore-feet and at the tip of the beak. Although Owain would have rather gone to help his companions, the voice had clamped down on him in total control. He could only look back as he was forced into the darkness of the cave to see the gryphon land amid the four men who were now armed. He didn't see the battle begin, but he could hear it as he went deeper into the darkness - the battle shouts of the men, the roaring caw of the gryphon, the sounds of wounds on both sides. Owain finally reached the nest of the gryphon. He was suprised to find that there was light, provided by a mass of strange-looking crystal against the back wall. In the dim light, he saw the dead body of Tellor lying where the gryphon had left it. The voice that had control of him cared not at all for Tellor, alive or dead. It directed Owain's body over to the glowing crystal, and had him remove a hammer and a delicate chisel from his belt pouch that he didn't even know was in there. After carefully examining the growth of crystal, he was directed to place the chisel carefully in two places near the base of one large mass and tap it lightly with the hammer. Placing the tools back in the pouch, Owain was then made to take hold of the mass of crystal and pull. Much to his suprise, it came away from the wall with no trouble at all. It was also very light for its size. Measuring three feet long by one around, it weighed no more than five pounds; an easy if awkward burden for the trek home. A bag was fished out of Owain's pack by his own unwilling hands. He could feel the voice's intent to leave the other four to the mercy of the gryphon. But, though he wanted to help in the fight with every fiber of his being, the voice's control was too strong. He had no choice but to place the crystal in the bag, secure it to his pack, and then make his way back out of the cave. When he reached sunlight, he saw that the battle was still going on. Telkor, who was Tellor's twin, had not survived his brother by much. Lorth was limping on a bloodied leg, and had hooked a crooked bleeding arm in his swordbelt. Of the three remaining fighters, only Auvgin was unmarked. The gryphon was faring better than its opponents, but it too bore wounds. Someone had managed to disable a wing, preventing the half-bird half-lion from taking to the air again. Owain hoped that his three remaining companions would vanquish the monster. As the voice controlling him forced him toward the saddle between this mountain and the next, he sent a silent 'good luck' back to the battle. It was a long time before the sounds of the conflict faded into the distance. The walk back to Hadrom was a nightmare for Owain. The voice was no longer in his head constantly, but it had laid a conpulsion as strong as a geas on him to return to the fishing village where a ship would be waiting to take him back to Cherisk. Detailed instructions filled his mind about how and where to go once reaching Marrak, the ship's first port-of-call on Cherisk. He finally knew that he was to deliver the crystal to a wizard named Vard. He secretly cherished a wish to be able to make the wizard pay for forcing him north, and leaving the three to make it home alone assuming they survived the gryphon. Vard was sitting in a rear booth in the Fighting Unicorns disquised as a somewhat tattered merchant when Owain strode into the bar. Vard had chosen this as a rendezvous again because Baranur was the closest city to Marrak wherein he had a hidden portal. Owain had been ordered to take a room near the river and clean up a little before coming to the 'Unicorns. It was a very presentable adventurer who settled himself across from the merchant. Only his eyes bore evidence of the six month plus trek he had undergone, half of it alone. False small talk was made about Owain wanting to hire out with the merchant on a caravan while one of the barmaids took their order and came back with their drinks. Once they were alone, Vard asked for the bag with the crystal to be passed under the table. Keeping up the chatter, Owain did so. Vard hastily checked the contents of the bag. Satisfied, he fingered two phials he was carrying in an inner pocket. One contained slow poison, and the other was a powerful potion that induced amnesia. He wasn't sure which to give the man who sat talking across the scarred and dirty table from him. Finally, he shuffled them around and took one at random. With the ease of a practiced prestidigitator, he slipped the contents into Owain's bell shaped stein of ale. He proposed a toast to seal their fake bargain, and Owain drained his cup in one swallow. Without waiting around to see which phial he had selected, Vard got up and left the inn, slipping with his usual ease into the depths of the Fifth Quarter and back to his fortress. Owain ordered and drank another ale before leaving the 'Unicorns. He made his way back to his own inn and collapsed on the bed in the room he had rented. Sometime in the night, two things happened. First, the control that Vard had exercised over him vanished as the wizard destroyed the transformed flute. And, all memory of what had happened to him from the time Auvgin first approached him about an expedition he was planning vanished. When he awoke next morning, he was very puzzled about why he was in Baranur and where the past year had gone. Vard set about preparing the cwicustan as the Tome instructed so that it would be ready for use when he finally found the keseth. When that was finished, he turned his attention to the next two phases of his quest for the Yrmenweald. First, he had Qrun delve into the deepest vaults of the fortress wherein were kept the most dangerous and powerful books of lore he had managed to acquire by fair means or foul. While his servant was so employed, he went into the Sorting Rooms and prepared a location spell to help him find an object he could use to control someone who could get the treasure out of the hidden vault in Dargon Castle. The ball of light he formed between his hands began to drift around the room when he said the last words of the spell. It looked like a drunk wil-o-the-wisp as it darted erratically around the room, from shelf to shelf, object to object. After making the rounds of the room three times, it finally settled around something. When Vard looked at the objects, he smiled. He picked up the sword named 'Leaf-Killer' and the harp named 'Soft-Winds' and took them upstairs to be processed. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME EIGHT NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *Consummate Love Jim Owens *Legend in the Making 'Orny' Liscomb Date: 080587 Dist: 393 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, I suppose it is appropriate that a Dargon story containing a wedding would appear directly after my own marriage. This past Saturday (August first), we gathered our close friends at a nearby YMCA camp on Lake Maranacook. The weather was beautiful and the ceremony went perfectly. The reception featured steak, barbecued ribs, and corn on the cob, and was held outdoors. An excellent time was had by all, and I might venture to state that the bride and groom are very happy together. My thanks to everyone who attended and to those well-wishers on the network. Plans for Pennsic are coming along very quickly now, and I shall expect to see people there. We shall be trying to get the Dargon project authors together on Thursday if possible. The newlyweds will be there all week, and may be found at the Endewearde campsite. Our banner is a blue field with a silver tower and wreath in the center. Alternating black and gold rays eminate from the tower. We shall be the only Endewearde representitives attending, so once you have found our site we should be the only tents there. Anyone at Pennsic is welcome to come looking for us. So that is the news. As for this issue, we have an extra-special treat for you. The first story is the continuation of Jim Owens' story begun in "Ornate Love", and provides a fitting conclusion. The second story is my own "Legend in the Making", which has been in the works for over 6 months. I hope you find great pleasure in it. My regards... -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Consummate Love Levy trembled as he poled the raft closer into shore. The cedars towering above his head shaded what little sun the early winter provided, bringing a chill to Levy's body. The water soaking his pant cuffs was cold, as was the air. It wasn't the cold, so much, that was making Levy shiver, however, but nervousness. Finally, after almost five months, he was going to see Sarah again. Levy still recalled that day in early summer when he had stood on the dam at the end of the lake. He could still remember the shock he had felt when the wave swept him over the face of the dam, and the look on Sarah's face as she watched him being swept away by the flood waters. The months had dragged by, at first, as he recovered from the wild ride down river. Then, as he worked to earn enough money to make his way back north to where Sarah lived, time suddenly seemed to speed up. It has only a few weeks ago that the trader had showed him the utensils, ornately carved like the ones Sarah had in her house. Once he tracked them to the town, it was only a few days searching before he once more found the artificial lake that surrounded the island Sarah lived on. Levy guided the raft up to the dock. He tied it to the mooring, then climbed onto the dock and ran to shore. He ran up the steep path towards the house. As he ran he called. "Sarah!" Levy watched the slatted windows in the house above as he ran. "Sarah!" He reached the house and ran to the door. He found it heavily latched and tied. He ran down to the workshop where Sarah made her crafts. It too was locked. He stood there, his heart sinking to his feet. Now he knew why there had been no smoke, even on those cold days while he was building the raft. Now he realized that he had not seen her boat below at the dock. Sarah was gone. Levy searched the whole island. Finding nothing, he returned to the house. Cutting the cords that tied the door shut, he entered. A search showed that Sarah had taken all of her clothes, and all the household goods. The food was all taken as well. Levy re-sealed the house, and with a heavy heart, returned to the raft. Levy poled the raft back to his shoreline camp. It was dark when he got there. He started the fire again, and fetched his stuff from the tree where he had stashed it. He ate a cold supper, and then went to sleep. The next day Levy broke camp. He loaded up his horse, and began to lead it around the lake. He reasoned that Sarah had to hide the boat somewhere, as she could not leave it out in the open, nor could she take it with her. Therefore, somewhere along the lake there were marks where a large object was pulled from the water. He had gone about a mile when he spotted the trail. It led right up the clay bank, and to a small clump of trees. There, hidden under a large pile of dead branches, was the boat. Levy quickly found hoofprints, and the chase was on. For days Levy followed the tracks, cold and wind his constant companions. Finally the tracks turned onto a small path. At the end of the path Levy found a small house. When he reached it, he found it too boarded up. A larger path led south from the house. Levy followed it down into a small village. One simple question to the local innkeeper told him what he wanted to know. One week ago, Abel, the owner of the small house, had shown up in town with his sister, Sarah. He had asked the innkeeper, an old friend, to watch his house. The two had purchased traveling goods, and had ridden west. Levy thanked the man, and started off. Levy rode hard for a week. He stopped in the towns along the way, asking questions and buying supplies. In each town he found people who remembered a man and a woman traveling together, and through these references he managed to close to within two days of them. By that time they had changed directions, and were headed south. By that time also, however, snow had started to fall. As Levy started into his second week of trailing Sarah and Abel, he ran into a blizzard. He rode for a day and a night solid to get to the next town. By the time he got there he was almost frozen. He spent two days in the inn, waiting for the snow to slow enough for him to travel. He used the opportunity to earn some money repairing the old town clock. By the time the snow let up, Levy was itching to be off. He thanked the innkeeper, and started riding. Levy's luck turned bad after that. Halfway to the next town he reached a fork in the road. He chose the southern fork, assuming Sarah and Abel would have also. When he reached the next town, however, no one remembered two recent travelers. Levy then rode to the next town, hoping that the town's people just didn't remember them, only to find no trace of them there, either. Heavy with worry, Levy turned back. One day out of town another storm hit, forcing Levy back to the safety of the inn. It was three days before it lifted, and by then Levy had caught cold, and couldn't travel. When he overcame that, he headed back up the trail. The snow made travel hard, and it was a week and a half before he made the fork again. A day later he rode into the first town along that road. Levy rode up to the inn. He tied up outside, and strode into the main hall. He found the innkeeper tending fire. "Good Sir! Might I have a word with you?" Levy was slightly out of breath. "Of a certainty, young man. What might I do for you?" The innkeeper stood up straight, wiping his hands on his apron. "Have two travelers passed this way recently, a man and his sister? It might have been some days now." "Any reason in particular you'd like to know?" The innkeeper eyed Levy carefully. Levy was used to such reactions, having gotten such from other innkeepers. "I must speak to the lady of very personal matters. I've trying to find her for six months now, and I lost them back at the fork in the road. Have you seen anyone like what I'm looking for?" "I'm sorry, young man, but of a truth, I've not seen any man and woman traveling together for almost six months. I believe you mean them no harm, and I'd like to help you, but I can not. If they came this way at all, they must have ridden right on through, as I'm the only innkeeper in town." The look on his face was one of sincerity. "Thank you. Thank you very much." Levy's whole body drooped. He was exhausted, cold, and no closer to finding Sarah than he was before. "Might I spend the night? It'll be dark after a while; I've no stomach for riding further today." "But of course! Take your horse to the stable, while I make room for you." The innkeeper walked off. Levy ploddingly unloaded his horse and released him to the stable. He carried his gear to his room, and sank into a deep, sorrowful sleep. From then on life held little joy for Levy. Town after town he stopped at, but no one had seen or heard of two travelers like Sarah and Abel. The winter grew deep, and the snow with it. He wondered if he shouldn't backtrack, in hopes of finding the trail again, but he just couldn't stir himself to turn back. Weeks plodded by as Levy worked his way further southwest. It was a grey afternoon when Levy sighted the bloodmarks in the snow. The road was well trampled, but lonely. Levy hadn't seen a traveler since morning. When he saw the crimson drops, he stopped immediately. They lay on the side of the road, in unmarked snow. He looked around carefully. Seeing no one, he dismounted quietly and examined the marks. They were drops, as if someone had cut their hand, and then shaken the blood off onto the ground. There were no other marks around, however, so Levy remounted and rode on. He hadn't gone far when he saw the tracks leading off the road into the woods. He dismounted, and examined them. It was no great surprise to him to find copious bloodmarks in and around the tracks. Levy sat there, torn. It would just be asking for trouble to follow the tracks into the trees, away from the public road. On the other hand, a known danger can be dealt with. It was naive to believe that someone who struck once would not strike again. Levy thought for long moments on the question. Finally it was the thought that perhaps he could help someone that prodded him off the road and along the trail. Levy carefully stalked along the trail. For the first few hundred feet, the trail appeared normal, except for the small traces of red. Once the road faded from view, however, normality vanished. Levy was horrified to see a large blotch of blood spread across the snow. Levy quietly pulled his sword from his saddle. He looked at it for a long moment. Levy had used a sword before, but had never killed a man. Dozens of stories ran through his mind, stories of fights, stories of battles. He hesitated, then carefully slid it back into its sheath. He bent his head for a moment, in silent prayer, then continued. He didn't have far to go. A few hundred feet further in he found a body, sprawled across the snow, a sword wound across its head. It had been stripped of everything but its blood-soaked clothes. There was no horse, although from the tracks leading away from the body the man had been mounted. Levy stood there, shaking. He didn't recognize the man, but death is a frightening thing even in anonymity. Finally, Levy got himself moving again. He looked around, to be sure the attackers were long gone, then began digging a grave. As the winter was already deep, he finally found a good use for his sword: breaking through the frozen top layer of sod to get to the softer soil below. Once the body was interred, Levy started following the tracks. He reasoned that the last thing he wanted was to be wondering where the murderers were. Levy tracked the murderers for the rest of the day, and the morning of the next day. Just after noon the trail came to a stream. Levy followed the tracks down the stream. Soon Levy could see the stream was coming up to a small pond. Leaving his horse tied to a tree, he crept up to within sight of the pool. Around the pool was gathered four bandits. They were speaking in a dialect so thick Levy couldn't understand half of what they said. They had a small fire going, and they were roasting some small game. One of the bandits got up and walked to the road, to check for travelers. Levy quietly drew back into the trees. Levy quietly returned to where his horse was tied. He untied it, and started leading it westward through the trees. After a bit, he turned north again. Levy led his horse quietly to the roadside. He wanted to give the thieves as wide a berth as possible. He came out onto the path about fifty yards west of where the pool formed. Cautiously he poked his head out of the trees. The path bent, and he was only able to see the pool area. There, by the water's edge, stood a lone figure. Levy's heart almost stopped. It had been many months, but he still recognized the figure at the pool. It was Sarah. Levy's mind and heart started to race. He snatched his sword, scabbard and all, from where it was stuck into his pack. He started running back towards the pool, along the path. Sarah, oblivious to him, walked out of sight along the pool's edge. Levy doubled his already pounding pace. As he neared the pool, he caught sight of Sarah again, alone still. She looked up in surprise, and then broke out in an astonished and delighted smile. "Levy!" Sarah started to run toward Levy. The two met, and caught each other. Sarah started crying, but Levy had no time for a tearful reunion. "Keep quiet! Don't make any noise!" Levy whispered loudly into Sarah's ear. "Let's get out of here!" The two turned to leave, but Levy found the way suddenly blocked. Two bandits stood there, grinning. Levy started to turn to run back into the woods, when something hit him, and he blacked out. He came to on the ground. He started to sit up, and caught sight of Sarah struggling in a bandit's arms. He started to get up faster, and was rudely yanked to his feet by strong arms. He was whirled around by two more bandits to face the fourth. "Well, what have we here?" The man grinned a dirty smile. Levy never found out what the man considered him to be, for there came a hoarse yell from behind him. The bandits all turned to look, and Levy twisted around as well. There stood Sarah, watching as her previous captor struggled in the grip of a newcomer. The man was short, and dressed in black leather. His short, dark hair was the picture of perfection. He took the burly bandit by the shoulders, and shook him savagely. Then, faster than Levy could follow, the man in black lifted the bandit straight up, and then threw him in the pool, where the bandit floated lifelessly. One of the bandits holding Levy let go, and stepped towards the newcomer. The other, finding himself alone to handle Levy, smashed Levy in the face with a forearm, knocking Levy to the ground before moving himself to take on the stranger. The forth bandit stepped over Levy as well. Levy, cradling his aching head, watched as the first bandit drew his blade and slashed at the man with one stroke. The blow was clean, aimed right for the man's midsection. The only problem was, when the blade reached the man, the man wasn't there any more. With a blurringly fast move, the stranger ducked UNDER the blade, then threw himself at its wielder. The two crashed back into the third bandit, who fell. The swordsman steadied himself, then tried another swing. This the man merely blocked, grabbing the sword arm, pulling and twisting it. The bandit stumbled forward, doubled over. There was a loud crack as the newcomer delivered a savage kick to the thief's throat. The stranger let go as the murderer fell in a heap. The bandit who had fallen got to his feet. The black-clad man approached him. The thug stabbed at the other's midsection, but the other twisted away, grabbing the base of the blade in his bare, right hand. The stranger pulled on the blade, dragging the murderer forward. The stranger then twisted the blade around, dragging the arm with it, and plunged the sword into its owner's back. The newcomer released his grip as the body fell. The last bandit had watched the whole affair from several steps back. He now drew a small dagger. He drew back his arm, and was felled by a blow to the head from Levy, who swung his sword without even taking it out of its sheath. Levy stepped back as the man in black stepped up to retrieve the dropped dagger. Levy watched in shock as the man calmly slid the blade between the criminal's ribs. Levy just stood there, as Sarah ran up, and embraced the stranger. Levy looked around at the four bodies. Rarely had he ever seen so much death in such a short time. His stomach started to churn, but with an effort he pushed it down. Levy stepped over the inert forms to where Sarah was hugging the man. The stranger extended his right hand. Levy took it, noticing that there were no cuts on it at all. "Thank you. You saved my life, and Sarah's. I'm ..." "Levy. Levy Barel. I know. I'm Abel." Levy reeled. He had expected Abel to be a farmer, not a vicious fighter. Still, Sarah was showing no discomfort around him. Abel released Sarah and turned to the horses. "Let us go. This is not a good place to be, anymore." Levy followed, not having any argument. They mounted up and started to ride. Sarah leaned over and gave Levy a hug. "I've found you! You don't know how I worried!" Levy returned her embrace awkwardly, afraid he was going to pull her from her horse. "I was looking for you, too. I...kind of left in a hurry." Why do I feel so awkward all of a sudden? thought Levy. All this time I've been looking for her, here she is, and now I don't know what to do! "You were looking for me then?" "Yes. After you got washed away, I couldn't rest until I knew what happened, so I packed up and went to my brother for help." "How did I get ahead of you? I know we didn't pass on the road..." "We stopped at a friend's house just after the big fork. We spent over a month there before moving on." "Well, I'm glad we found each other. We...need to talk." The three of them eventually camped for the night. Levy found himself sleepless, however. All he could think of was actions in the fight. Finally he sat up, running his fingers through his hair. He put on his shoes and squatted by the fire. He turned at a sound behind him, only to find Sarah stepping up beside him. She kneeled down beside him. "What's wrong? Couldn't sleep?" She herself had that soft look that told Levy he had awoken her. "No. Something is bothering me. Something I did today." He poked the fire with a thin branch. "If you mean that fight at the pool, there was nothing else to do. Even Abel was fighting. Normally Abel wouldn't hurt a fly." Sarah rubbed Levy's shoulder. "That's fine for Abel. But what about me?" Levy paused, gathering his thoughts. "I first found signs of that group yesterday. There was blood on the road, and a trail leading into the trees. I followed the trail, thinking it was the best action. The blood got heavier, and I drew my sword. Then I started thinking. Who am I? What was I going to do with that sword?" Levy huddled down closer to the ground, and Sarah put her arm around him. "Could I rely on myself to fight off someone? And what gives me the right to decide that my life is more important than someone else's? I could only come up with one answer: I put the sword back. And yet, when I saw you standing there, by the pond, with those murderers all around, the first thing I did was grab my blade." "You wanted to protect me. Anyone would have grabbed a weapon." "Yes, but what had changed? I was still the same man, I hadn't changed. No one had appointed me as judge over those men. What good are all my fine truths if I only use them when it's convenient?" Levy looked at Sarah. "And yet...I couldn't have let them hurt you..." Seeing the expression on his face, Sarah spoke. "We all do what we think best at the time. Sometimes we regret it later, but it's done. We just must live with it, and go on." She stood, and started to go. "Wait." Levy took Sarah's arm and eased her back down "We're alone now, probably the last chance we'll get for a while. I want to talk to you." Sarah remained silent, so Levy continued. "After I was washed down the river, I spent a long time recovering. Not only did I have to get well, but I had to pay off my debts to those who nursed me, and earn enough money to buy a horse and some stuff. Then, the first thing I did was go down to Dargon, to an old friend of mine." Levy paused. He felt so unsure of himself, he didn't quite know what to say next. Sarah just sat there with questioning eyes. Levy stood up, and stepped over to where his pack stood. From it he took a roll of leather. Sarah stepped up beside him and put her hand to his side, as if to stabilize him. Levy led her back to the light. "I asked him if I could go through the old records. He allowed me, and so I looked all through the old records, and I found this. It's the family crest that we had before we got our present one." Levy unrolled the leather. On it was inscribed a colorful image, a family crest. Sarah gasped. "...but that's...that's MY family crest!" She looked at him, suddenly expectant. Levy stood, feeling panic coming on. He knew what he had planned to say, but now he wasn't so sure he wanted what he had planned to ask for. "What's so interesting that it must be discussed at night? Night is for sleeping, not talking." The two turned to see Abel approaching. He too looked like he had been awakened from comfortable sleep. He squatted by the fire, warming his hands. "Levy couldn't sleep. He was thinking about that fight today." Sarah laid her hand around Levy's shoulder. "I know how he feels. If I hadn't been told what to do, I would feel the same way." Levy looked down at Abel. "What do you mean?" "I saw, in a dream, a man telling me I would meet bandits along the way today." Abel's voice lowered. "He said that I was not to let them live. I have no authority to take life," Abel paused for a moment, "but the one I serve does. I only kill for him." The three sat in silence for a moment, than Levy returned to his bedroll, his thoughts only on what Abel had said. Sarah followed him, silent. Abel was still by the fire when Levy fell asleep. The next day the three saddled up, and continued southwest. Travel was safer, but the weather got worse. The trio had only gotten a few days down the road when another heavy storm stopped them. Once more Levy took the opportunity to repair the town clock. Levy stood inside the old town hall, staring at the mechanism. It was a water-powered clock, and over a hundred years old. Like many of the time pieces in the area, it had been built by a wandering group of clockmakers. Few people knew how to set it, and no one knew how to fix it. Levy had studied clocks under one of the best clock makers in Dargon, but even so the workings of the device appeared intricate and mysterious. Sarah had accompanied him to the hall, and she now sat near one of the many lanterns, watching him. Levy hefted a broken cogwheel. "This has to be the key. Every other cogwheel is in place. But where does it go?" "Look for an empty spot." Sarah hugged a blanket closer around her damp shoulders. "I have...there aren't any. Maybe this is a spare or something." "Then it wouldn't go anywhere. Maybe something else is wrong." "Clock makers don't leave spare parts. Everything has a place, so therefore this has a place. But where?" He set the broken wheel down, and picked up a replacement he had cut in the village smithy. He started walking around the device, examining the mess. "Well, I'm sure you'll find where it goes." Sarah's voice was quietly confident. "Levy, what was it you were going to tell me, that night, after that fight by the pond?" Levy stopped for a moment, without looking at her, then continued his search. "I wanted to show you that I had found your family crest, and that we are actually related." Sarah got up, and started to follow Levy as he circled the clock. "For some reason that doesn't surprise me. You remind me a lot of my father." Levy stopped and looked at her. "I do?" "Yes. You're both so confident, so good at making things work, making things happen. When I'm with you, I think of him." Sarah's voice softened at the mention of her deceased father. Levy looked up at the mechanism as Sarah looked away. Suddenly his eyes widened. "Ahah!" He ran around the clock, grabbed a stool, and then ran back. He placed it on the floor in front of a particularly large gear, and climbed onto it. He stared intently upwards for a moment, then sagged. "No, there's already a gear under there." He climbed back down. Sarah looked at Levy for a moment. "Do they put gears underneath other gears?" Levy turned and looked at her. "Yes, they do. Why?" Sarah led Levy around to the other side of the clock, and pointed upward. Levy followed her finger. There, high above the floor, was a large gear. Sarah grabbed one of the lamps from the floor, and shone its light upward. There, just visible between the gear's teeth, was a stout rod. Levy seized the ladder, and climbed up. He took the gear he had made, and carefully levered the larger gear out a bit, exposing the rod. He then carefully slid his gear onto the post, meshing its teeth with the larger gear's second, inner set of teeth. He had to tug on another, large, spoked gear to make the new gear fit, but it did, dropping cleanly into place. Levy then jumped down, and released the power shaft brake. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the clock moved back into motion. Levy grabbed Sarah in a big hug, which she returned. "It works!" Levy held Sarah at arm's length, looking into her eyes. "However did you see that?" "I was studying the movement too, when you asked for that light before, and I just saw it. I was wondering what it was for, but didn't know until you told me about that other, hidden gear." Levy looked at her for a moment. "Sit with me, please." The two sat of the cold wood floor. Levy took Sarah's hands in his. "Were you ever betrothed to anyone?" Sarah looked confused. "What does it mean to be betrothed?" Levy swallowed, his arms starting to tremble. "We you ever promised to anyone in marriage?" Sarah's eyes sparkled. "No..." "Will you marry me?" Sarah only paused a moment. "Yes." The two sat there for a moment, then fell into each others arms. It was a sunny spring day when the three finally rode into Levy's village. The first place they stopped was at Levy's father's house. There he presented his bride-to-be to his parents, thus completing the first step of the ritual of marriage. The next step was to ask the village Elder to marry them. As Levy's father was the village Elder, they didn't have far to go. With the first round of formalities out of the way, the festivities could start. It wasn't often the son of an Elder got married, and especially not one as well known as Levy. Elders were rich, and could throw good celebrations, and Levy had many rich friends, who could also throw good parties. Further, everyone in town liked Levy, and they all contributed to the festivities. Finally, after word got south, to Sarah's relatives, many of them came north, and they were rich, and they brought a lot of food, drink, and gifts. By tradition, the couple had to wait a two months between announcing their engagement, and actually marrying. Most couples hated that time, for it seemed to drag on so. Levy and Sarah never even noticed it. By the time all the gatherings were over, it was time to prepare for the actual ceremony. The morning of the wedding found Levy walking up the path to his father's house. He was dressed in his formal, tribal dress, dark red wool with brightly colored bands of needlework. Tradition had mostly spared him, as the groom, from any wedding day rituals. He was grateful for that, having spent the morning alone, preparing himself mentally. As he neared the house, however, joyful squealing told him Sarah might not be so solitary. He walked up to the door, and knocked. His mother opened it, but did not come out, standing instead in the entrance. "What do you want, Levy?" She was in a good mood, but seemed to be restraining herself. "I'd like to speak to Sarah, if I can." He tried to peer inside, but his mother held the door even closer shut, only allowing her head to show. "Levy!" Levy could hear Sarah calling from within. Her voice was followed immediately by intense giggling, and then by a delighted shriek. The window beside the door exploded with a shower of warm, soapy water. Levy stepped back, barely avoiding getting wet. "I'm sorry, you can't see her until the wedding. We're giving her a bath right now." From inside the house came more giggles, followed by splashing, laughter, and the sound of someone getting slapped, somewhere. "Uh, OK. Tell her I love her." Levy tried once more to peer inside, in vain. "We will. Now scoot." His mother pulled her head inside, and closed the door, leaving Levy to head off for the barn, where the wedding was to take place. Levy found his father talking with the village fathers. He greeted them all, and they all wished Levy well, and then he and his father took a walk, to talk. "Are you ready, Levy?" Eli was also wearing his formal clothes, which in his case were rather bulky. "No. Were you?" Eli laughed. "No. I don't think you can be. Sometimes I think only married people should get married. I mean, it's the most important thing in the world, and we leave it to total novices." Levy laughed. "I suppose. Well, this is it. As long as I can remember I've looked towards this day, and now it's here. And I'm so nervous I'm shaking." He held out a quivering hand, and his father laughed at the sight. Levy dropped the arm back to his side. "It's silly. After all, Sarah's just a woman. She isn't going to hurt me; she loves me. Why else would she marry me?" "Right. Just remember to treat her like that. You have to live the rest of your life with her...start it right." They arrived back at the barn, having walked a big circle around the yard. By this time the guests had started arriving. Levy and his father, as per tradition, greeted them at the door. As the barn started to fill, noon crept up, and soon Levy was sweating under his wool clothes. It wasn't all the heat, however. Soon it was time for Levy to move to the front of the barn with his father. Mattan, Levy's younger brother continued greeting the guests. With nothing else to occupy his time, Levy started to shiver in earnest. He stood in one spot, not moving, rehearsing what was to follow in his mind. His feet almost left the floor when he heard the shout from outside. "Here comes the bride!" Levy turned to face the open door. People crowded in the way, but they soon parted. There, leading the wedding party, was Sarah. She was clad in her clan colors, also red, but a brighter shade. Tradition was kind to her, allowing her a muff to hide her hands in. Levy's felt as if they were going to fall off, they were so awkward. Sarah was smiling, a nervous, but beautiful, smile. Seeing her, all alone in front of her party, facing so many people, many of whom were strangers, Levy felt for her, and, finally, stopped shaking. She joined him at the front of the crowd. He took her, and for the first time, publicly kissed her. The crowd started chanting the word 'Amonta', an ancient word meaning 'lovers'. As the tempo and volume increased, they parted, and then Levy leaped onto the platform with his father. He reached down, and helped Sarah up as well. They turned and faced the chanting but expectant crowd. Levy raised both arms and shouted. "Listen all you people!" The words rang out above the chant. The people, expecting this, immediately stopped. "This day I take this woman, with her permission, as my bride! If there be any challenge to this, speak now!" There was no answer. Levy hadn't expected one, but had there been one, he felt ready to accept it. "Then she is mine, and I am hers, forever!" Eli stepped forward and joined their hands. "Inasmuch as there is no challenge, I now pronounce you man and wife." As the two embraced and kissed, the roof rang with the massed shout of 'Issi!", another ancient word that meant 'two, yet one'. Eli turned to step off the platform, when something hard and heavy brushed up against him, almost knocking him over. He looked up, to see a short stout man standing between him and the kissing couple. The man was wearing shiny, black leather, and had immaculate, short hair. "Listen to me, now, all you people!" Levy and Sarah looked up startled. This wasn't part of the ritual. Sarah gasped in shock. "Abel! What are you..." She stopped in amazement. Abel's eyes were shining brightly from within. Levy stared at him as well, as a silence fell over the crowd. "Mark this day well! Mark it for many years! For I tell you a great thing!" Dead silence reigned in the building. Abel's words echoed off the walls. "Of this union shall come a child, a man child, and he shall do many marvelous things! He shall be of great renown, and shall be a blessing to many people!" Abel blinked then. Instantly his eyes were a normal, dark brown. He looked out at the assembled crowd, who were all staring at him. He paused, momentarily overwhelmed. The brief inspiration that had led him to the platform was finished, and now it was just him. Then he opened his mouth, and yelled what seemed to be the right thing to say. "So let's celebrate!" The celebration continued well into the night, and would continue for weeks to come. A delegation had arrived from Lord Dargon himself, bringing enough food to feed the mass of people well for a dozen days. The newlyweds, however, as most newlyweds do, had other, more pressing business, and left shortly after dark. Levy and Sarah arrived at their new home just as the fireflies started to come out. There they found a fire burning, their bed neatly made, and the traditional nightfruit resting on a bare table. Together they sat on the bed, and, as per tradition, together bit into the red fruit. They then broke into soft laughter as the juice ran down their chins, something that, if it wasn't traditional, was at least common. Levy leaned forward and licked the juice off Sarah's chin, ending with a kiss. She reciprocated. They ate the rest of the fruit, and kissed again. "It's finally over. We're married." Levy embraced Sarah firmly. "At last." She ran her hands over his back. "You don't know how long I've waited for this." Sarah chuckled sultrily. "Oh, yes I do." Just then came a knock at the door. Levy frowned, then got up. He walked over to the door, and opened it. There stood the Ariel's, neighbors from a mile away. "We wanted to congratulate you!" Abe Ariel shook Levy's hand vigorously, and his wife gave Sarah a hug. "We're going home now. See you tomorrow!" They then walked off into the dark. Levy and Sarah looked at each other, and then laughed. Levy shut the door, and they walked back to the bed. Levy grabbed Sarah and pulled her down on top of him. She squealed happily, and then started kissing him. Levy kicked his shoes off, and with his feet pulled hers off as well. She slid down beside him, and they embraced tightly. Then there came another knock at the door. Levy got up. I hope this doesn't get to be a habit, he thought. At the door there stood John, a fellow apprentice at the smithy. "Just wanted to congratulate you! And you too, Sarah!" "Thank you, John. Have a good night." Levy watched while John disappeared into the dark, then shut the door. A few minutes later two more people walked up to the door. It was two more neighbors, from across the next creek. It was a harried Levy that opened the door, and a rumpled Sarah that accepted a hurried embrace. The neighbors didn't seem to notice, however, and left cheerily. A few minutes after, when yet another family stopped by to give their congratulations, it was an empty house they found. Levy held Sarah's hand as he led her down the path to the quiet brookside. There they found a small meadow, far from any houses. There they spread the still-warm blanket, and there they lay down. After they kissed, Sarah whispered to her new husband. "You're a wonderful, wise man, Levy." "You're a wonderful, beautiful woman, Sarah." He kissed her. "What do you think your brother meant by what he said?" "I don't know." She kissed him, carressing the back of his head. She lay back, on the blanket. "He said we're going to have at least one child." Levy leaned across her. "At least one." Sarah put her arms around his neck. "How many children do you want, Levy Barel?" "A thousand!" He started kissing her neck. "Well," she answered, smiling broadly, "we'd better get started!" -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Legend in the Making Victor Kent quietly admired the schooner Victory Chimes as she rested at dockside. She wasn't really an attractive ship, with her gaff and boom rigging, but she was a ship that had filled Kent's childhood dreams. In fact, she was a ship who filled the dreams of many, both children and young sailors alike. For many years, the stories of Captain Smith and the mysterious VC had been told by the men of Dargon to their children, and Kent was one of those young lads whose heads had been turned by the call of adventure. His father had been a merchant, and had often returned from work with tales he had heard from the docks, and more often than not the hero of the story was the derring Captain Smith of the Victory Chimes, a swift three-masted schooner. When he was seventeen, Kent had signed onto a packet ship as a galley hand, and got his first taste of reality on the high seas. But now he was a man, and a year ago, at the young age of twenty-three he had been given the command of a merchant bark owned by the Fifth I merchant shipping firm. Yet now he was about to give up his first command to become first mate on the Victory Chimes. It had hardly been a fortnight since the word had gone out - the VC was putting to sea! Despite the legendary accomplishments attributed to the vessel and its captain, the Victory Chimes had performed little more than routine merchant liner shipping within the rather limited memory of most people. But the word was out that Captain Smith was going to take her on an exploration mission, and that he needed crewmen. The tales of the captain's bravery and wisdom echoed through every bar in the port section, spreading through the town of Dargon proper even to Dargon Keep and to the villages surrounding the port city. As quickly as the news could spread, men came from far and near to become crewmembers for the trip. Kent had listened to the rumors, and had decided to talk to Smith about taking him on as first mate for the voyage. This was, indeed, a dream come true. He carefully set his foot on the gangway, and stepped aboard. Captain Gordon Smith stood majestically on the castle as the Victory Chimes was let from her moorings. He was dressed in attire befitting a captain of a merchant vessel, and his white hair drifted casually in the salt-tanged breeze. In the port, there was a very large crowd gathered to watch their departure for unknown lands. Smith noticed that it was no longer only children who came to see the VC off, as it used to be. Today there were sailors, merchants, some warriors, and even a few dignitaries, their eyes all focused upon his figure and his ship. The harbor was filled with craft not only from Dargon, but from many other nearby ports. As the VC slowly glided by, the onlookers excitedly waved their caps at the crew, a few of whom returned the gesture. Standing tall and aloof, Smith tried to give them the best show he could, but his heart really wasn't in it. He thought to himself perhaps he should have coaled his white hair earlier, but it was too late now. Soon enough they would be out to sea, and the few straggling craft that followed the Victory Chimes would turn back towards port, and he would be able to relax. The crowd's fascination with him had set him in a dark mood, and he mused silently to himself as he let the mate, a young man named Kent, guide the schooner from the harbor into open sea. The first two weeks of travel went very well aboard the VC, Kent thought to himself. He had been given complete command of the ship by captain Smith, and he had revelled in commanding the legendary black ship. The weather had been sunny and the winds equally favorable, and they had made good headway, steering consistently west by northwest. However, Kent noticed the beginnings of a storm coming up from the southwest. Shortly after midday he had one of the crew notify the captain in his cabin, and he returned with the order to maintain their course if possible, and to come about high to the windward should the winds come from the southwest. Within the hour the storm was upon them. Kent set the westerly course and lashed the wheel down. He stayed above deck with three other crewmen to take any necessary actions. Due to the westerly bearing, the swells broke over the port bows, setting the deck awash with foam and freezing spray, and Kent was forced to luff the ship and ease off the sheets to keep her from capsizing. Kent tried to gauge their course, and felt sure that they were being pounded leeward, far to the north of their original position. By late evening the storm had subsided, although the seas were still heavy and the wind drove consistently from the southwest. As the night wore on, Kent maintained his course, although he was aware that the ship was still being driven far north of where they intended to be. When morning arrived the seas had calmed, yet Kent could feel a distinct chill in the air. In fact, as day broke, several large ice formations could be seen floating some ways off. They had, indeed, been blown far off course, and were now much farther north than the port they had set out from. Kent was in the process of trying to chart their position when a cry rang up from the crew: land had been sighted! The conning mate, Lees, had sighted a mountainous island rising from the sea several leagues to the north, yet he insisted that it showed no signs of snow. As the captain came on deck, Kent climbed the rigging up to the halyards and looked. The island was small but it rose from the water directly into a large, forested mountain, and the slopes were lush with vegetation. The sky about the island was tainted a strange silvery color. When he returned to the deck, Kent reported to the captain. The sun had warmed the chill from the air, and the captain immediately set sail for the island. However, as they approached the island, the air grew distinctly warmer, until Kent wondered how such a place could exist within the cold climate so far north of Dargon. The island appeared to be the cap of a vast underwater mountain, rising abruptly from the sea. The steep slopes rose in jagged cliffs, making it very difficult to imagine that anyone could live there, though occasional lush valleys ran towards the mountainous center of the island. However, the most bizarre aspect of the island was the vegetation. Kent could identify many plants he had seen growing only in tropical areas in Baranur, far south of Dargon, and yet all the plants and trees had leaves which had an almost-visible quicksilver sheen to them. The captain decided to search for a suitable place to anchor and proceed to explore the island. They hadn't followed the coastline for more than twenty minutes when they came upon a suitable harbor. However, as the VC entered the lagoon, around the edge of the woods there appeared a small collection of primitive huts. There were people living on the island! In fact, not long after the huts came into view, an indecipherable holler went up in the woods as the ship was noticed by the inhabitants. Within minutes a handful of dugout canoes were on their way across the lagoon and towards the ship, the natives bellowing their greetings and gesticulating comically. Kent laughed as he saw one man run into the shallow water and leap awkwardly into a canoe, dumping himself and the two previous occupants into the drink. The captain ordered the anchor dropped, as the VC was soon surrounded by smaller craft, her deck overrun by curious and anxious natives. Oddly, Kent noted that their skin, very little of which was covered in most instances, was slightly dark, and that it also bore a strong sheen of that unnameable hue. In fact, he noticed that their eyes all were strongly shaded with the odd coloration. Kent watched as perhaps fifty islanders ran from one item to the next, not doing much damage. He watched as one man examined a capstan, then kicked it, then moved on to the anchor ropes, then went to examine a doorknob. Kent laughed heartily at the native's expression when Lees, the lookout, opened the door and emerged from the galley, much to the islanders' fascination and surprise. Each of the crewmembers was soon surrounded by several native men and women. The ones around Kent rubbed their fingers through his dark hair (which seemed to be their method of greeting), and then proceeded to talk at him in their language and pinch and investigate his skin and eyes. He patiently let them have their insistent way, and imagined that his skin color somehow must be as strange to them as theirs was to him. As evening finally fell, the crew could see that a large fire pit had been arranged by the beach, and that preparations for a huge feast were being made. The captain had the crew gathered on deck and, upon the urging of the natives, launched a boat for the island. Those crewmen who could not fit in the dingy were gladly accepted as honored passengers in tribal canoes. Despite Victor's opposition, the captain did not order any of the crewmen to stand guard over the ship, reasoning that the ship was within sight, and nothing could happen on it without their knowledge. Besides, who would want to be left out of the evening's proceedings? The trip to shore was chaotic, but uneventful. The crew was finally assembled by the fire pit and guided to a large mat, made of fragrant, freshly-cut grasses. There they were seated, each with a native upon either hand, while the women brought exotic foods for their men and their guests. Standing at the head of the 'table' was a large wooden depiction of what appeared to be a bear. Stained with various colors, the massive saurian watched silently over the feast. However, a cold shiver ran down Kent's neck when he noticed that the bear's eyes had been painted with a stain of that ever-present quicksilver glow he had seen in the plants of the island. The feast went on, with each course outdoing the previous in strangeness. One of the drinks the crew was introduced to was mildly intoxicating, and many had drunk far too much of it. Several left the area at the coaxing of buxom native women, but Kent spent most of his time trying to talk with one of the natives. He had learned that the man was named 'Zut', but that you had to accompany the sound with an rise in tone and shrugging of the shoulders. It appeared that the natives used the same words for several different ideas, and accompanying gestures often made clear which word was correct. Just watching the natives talking to one another had set many of the crew into gales of uproarious laughter. Many had made comic imitations of the speaker, who then addressed the individual again, apparently to correct the pronunciation or gestures made by the crewman. Kent had tried to communicate with Zut, but hadn't achieved very much. He had tried to ask the native about their chief, but Zut had emphatically pointed at the bear statue, saying "Tsiti!" Kent figured that the native had interpreted the concept of 'chief' as 'god', and had shown him the totem of Tsiti, their animal-deity. He spent some time trying to get the native to learn some words in his tongue, but only was successful in teaching him 'Victor', 'victory', and 'skin'. The following morning, most of the crew were again assembled upon the mat and fed. Kent was somewhat troubled by the fact that Zut was not at the meal, and tried to ask another native why Zut was not present. The native looked at him and babbled. "Zut! na'hai Tsiti!" While speaking this, he managed to somehow shrug his shoulders, make motions like waves with his hands, and then close his eyes. Apparently Zut had something to do with Tsiti. Kent wondered. Perhaps Zut was a priest, though he carried no markings or demeanor that differed from the other men. He tried to tell the native to bring him to Zut. "Bal'oa nia tsapful," replied the native. Somehow Kent got the impression that the conversation was ended, though he really had no idea why. After breakfast the native urged Kent to follow him away from the village and into the island. Kent talked Captain Smith into coming along, on the basis that they would be exploring the island. Most of the crew had all gone in separate directions, but would be back by nightfall. With that, they were off into the mountainous and overgrown island interior. They followed a worn footpath through the woods, but the existence of a path didn't make the going much easier. The trails had been made for bare feet, and were too soft and spongy for boots, which Kent and Captain Smith soon removed. The guide had led them on a trail which led high into the interior area of the mountain, and the going was very steep and very warm. It was some time after noon when the guide excitedly beckoned them towards a rise in the trail. As Kent climbed up the rise, what he saw was one of the most beautiful and most bizarre scenes he had ever seen. They were standing at the top of a huge cliff which fell away several hundreds of feet to the sea. The view looked down upon the northern shore of the island, which the VC had not scouted. The view was breathtaking, but even more startling was the view to the north of the island. Several leagues distant was another island, yet this one was nearly flat, and about it there was a strong, visible aura of the strange color they had seen only in shades in the plants and animals of this island. There was no question that the northern island was the source of the unnatural hue. "What in hell is it?" came the captain's exclamation from behind Kent. The native, seeming to understand, simply replied "Tsiti." Kent tried to describe his thoughts to the captain. "Apparently, Tsiti is the bear figure we saw at the village. They seem to worship this being, and that island is somehow linked with him. It's obvious that they must think it's sacred. But that's about all I know." The captain pondered silently for a moment. "Damn. Well, we're supposed to be exploring and adventuring. I guess we can't very well turn away from something like this, can we? Let's head back to the village and round up the crew." With that, he turned and began carefully picking his way back down the path. Kent gave the native a reassuring look and followed. The afternoon was cooling off, and the early twilight shadows were beginning to lengthen as the group plodded down towards the village. Captain Smith immediately had all the crew gathered by the beach, and described what they had seen that afternoon. He planned to have the crew spend that night on board ship, and in the morning set sail northward to explore the other island. The crew had enjoyed their stay on the island, and weren't at all pleased about returning to the Victory Chimes; however, they decided to endure it after having convinced several native women to accompany them. The night passed quietly, and the following morning the natives were asked to leave the ship, and the VC set out from the harbor. They skirted the coastline fairly closely for most of the way, and so it was not until near midday that they began to see the strange color appear pronouncedly in the sky to the northward. Finally they came around a headland and saw the northern island. Many of the crew turned away from the bizarre vision, yet many stood gaping at the unnatural sight. The flatness and lack of vegetation on the island made it seem even more alien than the rugged mountains of the southern island, and even Kent stood dumbfounded by the potency with which the abnormal coloration had contaminated the area surrounding the lifeless, featureless island. Kent could sense the tenseness of the crew as the ship left the coastline and headed across the stretch of open sea between the two islands. As the noontime sun beat down steadily, Kent began to see heat waves rising from the water. His vision became more blurry and he thought he had become sick, until one of the crew staggered to him, complaining of the same symptoms. After asking several other men, he concluded that the color was somehow effecting their vision. He stumbled aft towards Captain Smith. "Sir, the crew can't function... the waves, the color is blinding them!" Smith stood immobile and replied, "We'll make an anchorage soon, Kent, and go ashore. I won't flee from a little sea-blindness!" Kent made his way to the rail and watched the island through his blurred vision as they approached. It was broad and flat and lifeless. He couldn't make out either the southern island or the sun clearly, as his eyes began to burn and redden. Soon they dared not approach the island any closer, so Smith ordered the anchor dropped a suitable distance offshore. Captain Smith had the crew gathered abaft and addressed them. "I have decided to send a party of men ashore to explore this island, and find the cause for these weird lights. I shall be in charge of this party, and the rest will stay behind at the ship. Now, who is willing to venture ashore?" At this, the men began to mutter lowly between themselves. At length, a voice spoke up. "Captain!" One of the crew, a man named Jason Black, stepped forward. "Most of the crew don't want any part of this island. It's not something honest men should go poking at. If you go messing around in things like this," he nodded towards the island, "there's nothing but harm going to come of it." The crew seemed to be in consensus, and Kent began to suspect that a mutiny was brewing, but another voice spoke up, that of Lees, the lookout. "Jason, when you and the others signed up for this voyage you were all set for adventure and exploring. The captain has seen more than his share of the world, and if he's not scared of this, then neither am I. I'll go with Captain Smith, even if I'm the only one!" With that he joined Kent and Smith before the group, who continued to favor Jason's opinion. No one else stepped forward. "Very well, then. I shall go and explore this island with Kent and Lees." Then, looking at Black, "I shall deal with your lack of enthusiasm later. Now, prepare to lower the boat." Soon thereafter Lees was rowing the ship's boat towards the island. The haze of the midday sun bore down upon them, and Kent found it difficult to make out the shore. The captain sat in the dory, cursing the crew and the island beneath his breath. They arrived at the shoreline and stepped out onto warm, black sands. They pulled the boat high out of the water, and headed inland, occasionally stumbling on unseen rocks. Kent's vision became worse and worse, and their progress slowed and became more arduous with each step. The heat waves blurred his vision almost completely, making it difficult to see the terrain in front of him. As they plodded forward the blinding alien color became stronger, and it became more and more difficult to continue. Kent had to fight the need to rest. He began to wonder why he had ever signed on with the insane captain Smith. His feet seemed leaden, and his very soul was dead tired. At length the captain ordered a halt and collapsed to the ground. After a moment, captain Smith asked Lees to go forward a bit, to see if anything could be seen, but not to go far. The lookout continued on, and was gone from sight almost immediately. Kent sat down near Smith and rubbed his burning eyes in vain. They weren't having any luck in finding an explanation for the bizarre color, and he was about to suggest that they return to the ship when he heard Lees cry out in fear. He forced himself to his feet and joined the captain in stumbling towards the sounds. Kent outpaced the older captain, who continued to stumble behind him as Lees' yells turned to pain-maddened screams. Kent continued to rush forward, and suddenly came upon a scene of sheerest terror. Before him stood a huge monster, which had attacked the seaman. The beast stood half again as tall as Kent, and looked vaguely bear-like. However, it was covered with thick black scales, and its eyes were faceted like those of an insect. In those eyes burned a searing flame of that color which Kent knew was from hell itself. The beast had ripped off Lees' right arm, and held him by his left. Kent tried to master the screaming fear which was building up inside him, but he knew that Lees was already beyond rescue. Suddenly, from Kent's left, captain Smith staggered forward and into the beast, which turned and sent a powerful taloned fist in a wide arc towards the old man's head. Kent leaped forward and tackled Smith, taking him backwards and out of the range of the monster's blow. On the ground, the captain immediately turned and ran, crouching low to the ground. Kent followed, trying to keep within sight of his superior. After several minutes of blindly stumbling away, they began to slow their retreat, but suddenly the beast came down from above them. As he rolled to his left, Kent thought he caught a glimpse of leathery wings behind the beast. Again the two ran in the direction they guessed the ship lie, although now they did not slow their pace. Kent was never sure how long they stumbled around the island in their color- and fear-blinded madness. Finally, they came upon the black sands of the beach, and followed it until they came upon the Victory Chimes' boat, which they quickly launched and returned to ship. There Jason Black stood on the deck, waiting. "Where is your friend Lees, captain?" Smith didn't even answer him, but began giving orders to weigh anchor and unfurl the sails. Kent looked at the seaman and said "Lees is dead." Apparently the sailor saw something strange in Kent's eyes, for he turned and began making ready to sail without further inquisition. Despite the onset of darkness, the VC made its way away from the island and set a southwesterly course. The captain retreated to his cabin and left Kent standing orders to continue on their present course until they reached the islands of Bichu. Through the night Kent reflected on the event, and thanked Mitra that no one else had been killed by the hell-spawned monster. The westward voyage had been a tiring one for Kent. They had spent forty five days sailing southwest from the arctic islands, and Kent had begun to understand why so few ships had made the crossing to Bichu. He had not imagined there could be so much empty sea in the entire world. The captain had remained isolated in his cabin, leaving the command of the Victory Chimes to young Kent, who was somewhat angered that Smith hadn't turned out to be the brave adventurer he had been portrayed as in the now distant stories of his youth in Dargon. He gazed westward towards their destination, the mystical land known as Bichu. Nothing broke the endless horizon, which completely encircled them, blue upon blue. He had known of men who had gone insane upon long voyages. They had stared at that unchanging horizon so long that they were convinced that it was not the horizon at all, but a tapestry hung to deceive them, and that it was closing in on them. His thoughts were interrupted as Jason Black climbed up to the poop to speak with him. "Any idea when we'll see land, Victor?" "Not yet. Maybe a week or so. Can't be much more." The seaman looked down nervously for a moment, then faced the mate straight on. "Kent... you're a good mate. You know that the skipper isn't fit to command a ship. All he's done on this voyage is sit in his cabin and drink. He had us bring him another keg of brandy this morning. And when he hasn't been drunk, he's led us into trouble." "Oh?" Kent knew that Black didn't trust the captain, but to speak this way, he must have friends who felt the same way. The crewman read his expression perfectly. "Most of the crew are with me. They saw what happened to men who trust the captain - men like Lees, rest his soul. Now we know you're an able commander, and we aren't going to die for the captain's mistakes. You obviously should be in charge of the ship." Kent's thoughts raced. The captain obviously was not capable of command under these circumstances, but Black was asking him to lead an outright mutiny against the captain who was the hero of every seafaring story in Dargon! "Look, Jason. I don't want you boys doing anything. Let it be for now - the captain isn't doing us any harm so long as he's in his cabin. I want to talk to him myself. Can you keep the crew from doing anything?" "That I can do, at least for a while." With that, Black elbowed Kent in the stomach and stepped down towards the bows, leaving the mate wondering if it had been a gesture of friendship or of warning. Kent stood at the door to captain Smith's cabin. He had thought out what he was going to say to the aging captain, and all he had left to do was to gather his nerves and say his piece. After a few moments of silently wishing that the problem would resolve itself, he rapped upon the wooden door. From within a response came, and Victor Kent opened the door and stepped inside. Smith's cabin was a mess. Of course, Kent had seen it before and wondered at it, but as he thought about it, he realized that captain Smith had lived in the same room for probably more than twenty years. Spending that much time in one place, one could expect a man's home to be cluttered. Smith sat in an upholstered chair, a goblet of brandy close by, idly gazing at a huge chart upon the port bulkhead. The chart showed the explored lands, and Kent had spent as much time as possible examining it, using the excuse of plotting their course. Smith looked up at Kent and motioned to another similar chair which stood back to the wall with the chart. Kent sat down, dreading what must come. At length he began. "Captain Smith, the crew has asked me to come talk with you." At this, Smith's attention became focused. "They feel that you haven't properly commanded this voyage, and that you've spent too much time in your cabin. They think you made some bad decisions back at those islands." "And they've asked you to mention this to me?" Smith countered. "And what do you think?" Kent hadn't considered his own feelings, but he tried to put them into words. "Well, you're not the leader I thought you'd be when I signed on in Dargon. You certainly haven't lived up to your reputation for wisdom." Smith leapt up angrily and paced back and forth through the room, thrashing the air with his arms. "Damn it! I left Dargon to get away from those asinine rumors! Can't you people just let me be?" The captain, recovering from this violent emotional explosion, sat back down again. "Well, I suppose you're right. I was hoping when we set out that it would be different, but I guess it's true." The captain paused, and Kent wanted to speak, but he hardly knew what to say. Eventually Smith went on. "Let me tell you a story. I have never told this to anyone, but I suspect that it would be appropriate to tell you now." The captain looked old and tired as he drained his goblet and motioned for Kent to fill it from a decanter on the table. "Many years ago, I got my first command. I had been working as a scribe before that, but I knew a friend in the harbormaster's office, and I asked him to see if he could get me a ship to command, despite my lack of experience or training. He finally came through, and I was offered a position as captain of a patrol sloop called the Victory Chimes. It wasn't this ship, mind you, it was smaller and older. So I went about my duties of stopping suspicious vessels, and so forth. "It was during the annual summer Festival that it happened. A pirate who called himself Soloman Banshee stole the Bard's Crown, which had been given to the winner of the minstrelry tournament for the past, oh, fifty years." Kent knew the object, for it was the centerpiece of one of the most important events of the Festival. He also recognized the story as the one where Smith had rescued the crown. However, he did not interrupt Smith, as it might cause another outburst, and Victor was intrigued at the possibility of hearing the tale in the captain's words. "At the time I was at sea, patrolling the northern coastline. My mate saw Banshee's ship sailing northwards. They apparently saw us at the same time, for they abruptly changed their course to put plenty of space between us and them. My mate, a strong lad named Larson, urged me to attack Banshee's ship, telling me that no pirate would run from such a small craft unless he had something precious and illegal on board, but I was afraid, and I gave the order to hold our course, despite the oath I took as a patrol commander." This was something Kent hadn't heard in the folk tales. Indeed, the truth was not quite the same as the myth. "That afternoon a storm blew up, and that night was a long and difficult one. Early in the morning the ship ran hard aground on a rocky headland that had gone unseen. In the morning, she lay hard on her side during low tide. I ordered the ship abandoned and struck out southward, hoping to come to a village. "Near noontime, Larson came back from scouting ahead. He had a sword wound on his left arm, but his face was sheer ecstasy. He told us that he had come across Soloman Banshee's camp, and dispatched the only sentry there. Then he slowly drew forth from his cloak the silver Bard's Crown. "We all wondered what to do, for surely Banshee would be back, and would miss the crown. Despite other advice, I decided to take the camp and wait for the pirates, and either destroy them or bring them to justice. We set up our camp in the middle of theirs, but failed to notice their arrival that evening. I was sitting by the fire, watching Larson pick over the food at the pirates' table, when Banshee slashed his back open from behind. I grabbed the pouch beside me, which contained the Bard's Crown, and ran like mad, while my crewmen were cut down behind me." Captain Smith paused, his hollow eyes staring blankly at the floor. Kent sensed that Smith's reputation wasn't completely deserved, and it appeared that the very event which caused his notoriety had not been one of bravery, but of cowardice. Smith took a long draught of brandy and continued. "I finally reached a village and bought a horse. When I returned to Dargon, the Festival was still going, and I was received as a hero. I was granted honorary barddom by the College of Bards, and Lord Dargon himself insisted that he build me a beautiful ship, which is this ship, the VC that everyone knows. "And so I was a hero to the people of Dargon. The tale grew more and more preposterous each month. The Victory Chimes was built, and I sailed ordinary voyages, but the legend couldn't be stopped. The following year I overheard a story in a bar that I had come across a chase between a pirate drumond and a merchant galley. The person had mistaken my name for that of Simon Salamagundi, who had actually done that." Kent started, and Smith noticed it. "Yes, Simon Salamagundi the stew vendor. He was one fine captain. Do you remember the story about a captain tricking a pirate king into forming an alliance with Dargon?" Kent nodded. The story he had heard said that that captain had been Gordon Smith. The old man frowned. "No, that was Salamagundi, too. My legend is a myth. It doesn't exist. I have never been a brave or wise man, I fear." "Then why did you undertake this exploration voyage?" The captain sat silently for a moment before answering. "Well, at first I thought that after all these years, maybe I could command men and a ship, and maybe do something good. Maybe after all these years, I could do something to deserve that reputation. Now I know better. But, I had another reason, as well." Kent looked puzzled. "I can't live in Dargon forever. I am a folk legend, not a man, and legends do not go out quietly. When we dock in Bichu, I will stay there, and live out my days there quietly and in peace, without young men looking at me as if I was a god." "And what of the ship? And what of the crew? We want to return to Dargon!" "And so you shall, Kent. When I leave you in Bichu, I will turn over the command and ownership of the Victory Chimes to you. You've commanded her well on this voyage, and she deserves a better owner than I." Kent could hardly believe his ears. Here was his childhood hero, saying openly that he wasn't a hero at all, and now the old man suggested that he would be given the ship of his dreams as soon as they made port! Kent tried to find words to say, but realized he wasn't even sure what he was feeling. "But... what will we tell people when we return to Dargon?" Smith smiled slightly. "Just tell them that I stayed behind in Bichu. They will find a fitting ending to the story of Captain Gordon Smith themselves, no matter what you tell them. He will die as a lord in Bichu, or lost in some foreign land." Kent spent a long moment in thought. "I'm sorry, Captain Smith. I understand now. I'll let you know when we make landfall." With that, he struggled to the door and left Captain Smith, a man broken by his own legend. The Victory Chimes lay up next to a large pier on the shore of Bichu, a mythical land with ways very unlike those of Dargon. They had been there almost a week, and the crew had enjoyed the time on land, but Kent knew that they would soon be restless to return home. They had been told that Smith was to remain in Bichu, which drew some odd looks, but no one had protested. Gordon Smith stood upon the wooden pier with the young captain, Victor Kent. Smith noticed that Kent had matured since the time when he had stepped aboard the VC to talk with Smith about being first mate for the voyage, and he was satisfied that Kent would make a fine captain. They said respectful farewells, and the young man boarded the ship and cast off. Smith stood upon the pier, watching the ship he had never felt he deserved move effortlessly from the port and towards her home, and he felt good. Perhaps he had finally accomplished something right, something worthy of a legend. With a deep sigh, he turned away from the slowly receding Victory Chimes and from the legend of Captain Gordon Smith, and walked quietly away. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME EIGHT NUMBER FOUR | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb Ceda the Executioner: 7 Joel Slatis Sir Lyoyn of the Pale Loren J. Miller *Spirit of the Wood: 5 Rich Jervis *Cydric and the Sage: Part 2 Carlo Samson Date: 083187 Dist: 412 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, the honeymoon is over, in a thoroughly literal sense. I have returned from the Society for Creative Anachronism's annual Pennsic War unharmed, save for a slight sunburn and some poison ivy... For those of you who aren't familiar with Pennsic, imagine over 5000 medieval recreationists taking part in a week-long event featuring tournaments, merchants, feasts, revels, court, raids, and much more, culminating in the annual war between the Midrealm and the East Kingdom. Let me tell you, it was quite an experience! And although the Dargon project conference never did materialize, John White and I did manage to get a little talking done, and I managed to meet a reader or two as well. All in all, it was a very enjoyable experience, and I hope to see more of you there in future years! But back to the news. Hardcopy subscriptions are almost ready to actually be implemented (after blowing up my last printer, I have a new one currently on order). And a potentially major development was the recent announcement that the WISCVM inter-network gateway is considering closing down. There is currently a lively debate by the powers that be as to how BITNET is going to maintain access to other networks. I strongly suspect that BITNET will continue to maintain a gateway, even should WISCVM shut down, and I doubt that there will be any great effect upon FSFnet distribution should this occur. And finally, you might notice that direct FSFnet distribution has broken 400 with this issue. I'm very pleased with this, and am hopeful that we will continue to grow. Be sure to show issues to friends who might be interested, and keep spreading the word! This will be the final issue of volume 8, and the first issue of volume 9 should be out in mid-September. And remember, September is "Be Kind to your Editor" month... -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ceda the Executioner: Chapter 7 It was close to the end of that day ere Ceda rode out of the west gate of Caahah on his wingless dragon mount, Melgon. In the pouch at his side was the Crown of Grobst D'arbo and on his back rested Renielk which glowed in a bright white aura as they rode though the Ruirsian countryside approaching the forest of Nen. He rode half that night with the radiance of the moon aided by the axe to guide his mount before they set up camp on a mound of lush grass. By first light he had awakened and was on Melgon riding fast for the forest border. To the north the Aun Hills were barely visible in the early morning sky and to the east the sun was already rising making long shadows in front of them as they rode on; before midmorning they had reached the large forest of Nen. At the forest entrance where the path disappeared into the dark trees before them, Ceda stopped Melgon as he took Renielk from his back and placed it across his legs before entering the forest. The gem had been glowing white since he had left the distant city of Caahah and was subsequently useless to him, but in any case Ceda sensed that the glow had lessened a bit. He slowed his mount to a cautious trot while loosening Melgon's reins before entering. The trail grew difficult as he entered; being in bad upkeep it would take some time to ride through Nen, though going around would take much more time than Ceda had to spare. He pushed Melgon on slightly faster as they made their way though the trees and soon the entrance was well out of sight behind them. All around the Traveler and his mount were green plants; the soil was moist and the air was sweet. Nen had not yet been infested by the vile creatures of the Sarshirians. Suddenly four men dropped from the trees above Ceda's head. They had long and sharp swords but wore no armor. Ceda immediately slid down Melgon's scaly back onto the soft ground and gripped Renielk tightly as he turned to face the attackers. "Halt!" Shouted one of the men as Ceda lowered his axe recognizing the blue and yellow colors of Ruirsian warriors. "He is a man." "Hail, scouts of Ruirse! I am Ceda of No-Al Ben. I am in hasty flight and ask that I may pass. I ride with authority of King Threythus and all that hinder me in this hour shall answer his wrath!" "Strong words you speak," said the leader. "But these are times of war and all who travel through the lands of his majesty Threythus must do so with the consent of his scouts. What is your destination?" "I am bound for the desert," answered Ceda yielding. "What else must you know? Time is short, ask swiftly!" "Where in the desert do you intend to go? Know you not of the Orcs? They roam much of the area to the south of the City of Pheeng'Am even though we control it; it is too dangerous to travel there without a large escort. If it is to No-Al Ben that you travel then I advise you to take the road back east the way you came and journey around the Aun Hills to the desert in the north." "The way north of the Hills is no longer safe. The enemy has taken all of Weuyrt and killed nigh twenty thousand men with a force of mighty giants. The last of the scouts of the north called Azzar returned to Caahah seven suns ago with the news. He also said that a great host has crossed over the Voidland into Ruirse and they advance on Caahah. They may have arrived even now and a battle may be at hand." "The news you bring is not unknown to us for there have been other scouts that have told us the same. In any case the army of the enemy has not come this way, or by the path to the north of the Hills, for we have scouts there that travel here every day and have not seen or heard anything unusual. They have gone either back to Weuyrt or East to the Little Kingdom if they have not come to Caahah - that I can assure you." "This is for the most part good news," said Ceda. "I must go now. Thank you for the information. What is your name?" "I am called Aesl. Farewell, and ride north if your way permits for the south is unsafe at all times of the sun and the moon." "Farewell," answered Ceda as he remounted Melgon and rode forth down the rode towards Pheeng'Am. It was three days until he reached Pheeng'Am. The City was now well fortified with many guards and warriors. Some men from No-Al Ben were present and were many from the country of Caffthorn. As Ceda entered the city, the sun was just setting over the white sands to the west. The next morning Ceda was on his dragon mount riding into the age old desert. The sky was blue and the gem was white, though no sign of trouble had aroused Melgon or come to Ceda's attention. They rode with great speed through the desert as the sun became hotter heating the sands in turn making the air dry and unsavory to their parched throats. Night came rapidly and the sun sank between two towering dunes that stretched up before them as they rode westward. They still had no sign of trouble aside from the gems white warning so Ceda decided to continue on into the night reasoning that it would be far less dangerous and far more comfortable without the light or the heat. After a few more hours ride they pulled to an abrupt stop and Ceda rolled of of Melgon's back on to the cooling white sands. They slept until some time into the next morning when the sun, high up in the sky, finally gathered enough heat to wrench them from their sleep. Two days later Ceda reached the area that he had last seen the tree almost a year before. The ground looked no different than any other place on the desert floor and mounds of sand rose all around him. He searched all day for the tree, walking in a small radius from where he first stood and then slowly moving outward. He was in a hurry for it was nearly nine full days since Ceda had departed Caahah. Searching until the sun had completely dropped out of the sky he finally gave up and went to sleep. The next morning he was up with the sun and riding in circles hoping to come across the tree that day. By noon he was discouraged and tired. The tenth day was upon them and Ceda had still not found it. Finally he gave up trying to find the tree in that manner. He mounted Melgon and rode up and down the larger mounds in the area in hope of spotting the tree in that manner as the day drew on. While searching, his thoughts drifted back to Caahah. The army from Arnmere must have come by now; If they had, he though, then the Lost Army would be of no help to them by the time they would reach the city that lay nigh two hundred miles east. If they had indeed turned back to the caves being content with the victory over Weuyrt then they would not need the Army, but still, it would be good to have the help of such an ally. If however, the forces of Arnmere had gone to the Little Kingdom first then they would have already defeated it and have come to Caahah out of the west, and if they had gone south to Dhernis then they would have reached it before the seventh sun falling after Ceda's departure. He searched most of the day and by the time the sun had dropped in the western sky he was tired, hot and near desperate. Fear rested on him like a heavy weight on his heart as he constantly thought about his friends and allies that he left behind in the possibly doomed city. along with that fear rested the burden of the crown and the chance of being found by a group of Orcs that may be out in the desert. Suppose there were some at the tree, waiting, to protect their future by stopping the Army's return? If that was so, then there was surely a great force at the tree. The moon came out and Ceda dropped of Melgon's back onto the white sands. His thoughts drifted again to the east and the City of Caahah. He wondered if it was still there or if the forces of the enemy had gone to the Port of Dhernis instead. Perhaps they went passed Caahah and then came from the east to the fair city of Bilfneuin. 'I have failed,' he thought. 'No matter what their destination they will reach it long before I ever even find the accursed tree.' He reclined onto his back and looked up at the rising moon. A strong wind was blowing and some of the sand blew up and his face. He brushed it off and sat up. The breeze had moved something on to his chest but it took a moment before his tired eyes could focus on the object. Before him was a greenish brown leaf. Ceda looked at it in wonder before it occurred to him where it had come from. "Melgon!" He shouted. "Lift your weary head and your body too!" Melgon growled in a low voice and rose. Ceda jumped to his back and pulled his reins so he faced into the desert wind. "Onward! there is still a hope!" They moved slowly down the hill that they were on and came to two small dunes at the bottom. They continued on between them and arrived in a small shielded area. mounds were on three of the four sides, but not tall enough to block the sight of a large man. Just enough to stop roving eyes from spying out the small growth that lived therein. Melgon would go no further so Ceda dropped from his mount and approached. He looked at it in amazement for it had not changed from the last time he saw it - not in the slightest way. "I may not have failed, Melgon of Cergaan! We will wait for the morrow and then we shall find the Lost Army. We will bring them back into our world in the beginning of the new day to mark the beginning of the new era that shall come with them! I have not failed!" Day was coming and that would be a relief. The Enemy had attached with sudden ferocity eight days after Ceda had left the walls of Caahah. Aroth stood next to Threythus and Ballison as the watched the battle progress from the palace tower. There were more foul creatures outside the gates than any had ever seen before. The Nuadrin were the worst. They fought with tridents, black and deadly. They did not tire and they were fearless, or so it seemed. They fought like wild starving animals would over a small morsel of food; such was their vigor and might, and in their dark eyes burned a hole of an unquenchable hatred. Aroth's Elves sat along the battlements; their bows aimed, poised in a slightly tilted position as they shot arrow after arrow into the horde of wild Orcs that constantly bombarded the walls with their own bodies in effort to climb over. One after another another fell dead as did the Nuadrin and many other horrid beasts when the slender arrows pierced their weak armor, but it did not help; there were too many to defeat that way. Threythus drew a mighty horn to his lips and winded it with a great blow. It was heard all over the city, the signal to open the gates and let our troops out to fight on open ground. The Orcs were razing the wall and had to be stopped. The great ringing of the horn finally ceased and Threythus lowered it from his wrinkled mouth and reattached it to his bent side. His face was sorrowful and disbelief rested heavily in his tired eyes as he watched the battle. With the final note of the horn the gates opened in a mighty clamor crushing several Orcs under the awesome weight. Then a great cheer arose as many angry Axemen stormed over the battered door and cut like a hot knife into the ranks of the enemy as Orcs fell on all sides with hideous screams. The odor that they brought with them was perhaps their greatest ally. The smell consumed men's minds as they fought. It slowed their reflexes and weakened the spirit. Some of the weaker men fell to the to the ground unable to move or think as a result. And the odor stayed not on the battle field. It drifted all over the city bringing with it fear to the women and children that hid, sheltered in the interior of oppidan. Through the stench of the enemy troops came other smells. The smell of men, drenched in sweat from the heat of battle, and the smell of bodies. Many dead bodies that lay piled in large heaps where they fell. Blood covered the fields outside the wall, both from the enemy's troops and from the men. It ran from the necks and the severed limbs down into the ditches forming small pools and streams. Streams of pure blood running through the trenches outside the city gates. Dammed in places by the dead that filled it as they fell to their end, it made puddles that rose as high as ones knees. Some of the wounded that were unable to move as a result of the noisome air or an injury also fell here and drowned in these puddles. Others, wounded or afraid, hid beneath the murky thickness of the red liquid when sought by an enemy blade until the immediate danger had passed. The Axemen fought on, but to them it seemed ludicrous. For every Orc that fell dead there were ten more to take its place. Slowly the number of men left alive on the field decreased. And those that remained with their axes in hand swung madly at the terror before them and became tired. Threythus blew into his horn again and the gate fell open. Into it came a great many wounded men and some that had remained unscathed. With them came a rush of Orcs. Before they had again closed the metal doors to the city, nigh seventy beasts had entered, but were slain quickly by the Elven archers on the walls. The battle raged half the night before the enemy troops pulled back from the walls to regroup and rest. Some Orcs remained near the city to search through the remains though they lived not a long time so close to the walls of the city. Aroth and Threythus left Ballison in the tower as the descended the long steps to the streets of Caahah. They walked around talking with the men while trying to comfort them and spread enthusiasm, but could not. The next day could be the end of the city and all knew it. Many lay dead in the streets after having limped uselessly back into the city or having been carried in by a friend when the gates were reopened. Women and children sat in dark corners and cried softly to themselves over the body of a dead relative or friend. Most of the people were unable to talk, the lumps that rose in their neck seemed almost large enough to choke them as the tears welled in their grief stricken eyes dripping slowly down their sad faces and falling to an end before their huddle bodies. Despite the general atmosphere, the Axemen and the men of Caffthorn remained cheerful. They sat together and talked and laughed. Most of them were not hurt, and those that were did not seem to be greatly moved by it. Some of them were dead, and for those a toast at their meal and bowed heads seemed the only lament by their friends. These men loved war and hated the Orcs. Dawn came and the enemy drew near the city walls. This time the Axemen and men of Caffthorn fought side by side. They opened the gates as soon as the enemy was within bow shot of the city and out sped nigh five thousand men, all well rested with food and wine in their bellies. They charged right into the ranks of the advancing horde and killed many within the first few moments. But then came the giants of Weuyrt. Like great thunder they poured from the back ranks of the unorganized surge of horrible beasts, tearing the up the field before the walls. The other creatures moved aside to let the giants pass as the great horde tramped by in an angry onslaught. The Axemen pulled back slightly as the giants approached. They were big in size and numbers, there were over one thousand of them. Finally they reached the front. The men off Caffthorn were crushed before their might and many fell. Elves that lined the walls shot many desperate arrows at the towering giants, and some of them fell dead, but most of the arrows fell to the ground failing to pierce the thick skin and armor of the beasts. Threythus was up in the tower watching the battle with Ballison and saw the giants attack. He looked to the King of Caffthorn and lowered his head. "I sense that this night will see the death of the kings of Ruirse and Caffthorn. If the battle does not turn soon, I shall give the order to withdraw to the city walls and try to hold off the giants from here." "Yes," replied Ballison. "I believe that may be our only hope. But remember, it IS a hope." The battle raged and the men of Caffthorn were beaten down before might of the giants. Many lay dead on the field among those that had fallen the day before. Finally there was a signal. A deep and mellowed blast filled the ears of all in the city. It sounded in every room and every hall and up the tower. It was low pitched and rang long in the ears of Men and Elves. Then it subsided and all looked up in wonder, for the horn had not come from the tower but from far to the south on the road from Dhernis. The Kings turned their attention from the battle and gazed southward past the sheltered walls. Not far off down the road were many torches. They burned brightly in the morning sky and moved quickly over the land up the road to the field. Bearing the first of the torches came Rackins of The City of Elves. Next to him was Merth on his right followed by several other Elves. Left of him came Azzar, tall next to the Elves, and proud. Next to Azzar came a stout figure, he was shorter than all that walked beside him and he was neither Elf or Human. His name was Rekrovax, and he was the ruler of the Dwarf Kingdom of Balmoth on the southern continent of Cergaan. Azzar had made it to the southern continent and with him he had brought back a mighty force of fighters. Threythus smiled to himself and looked at Ballison. "All is not lost," he said, "the wind may change to any direction no matter how hard the gusts seem to blow." Immediately things began to change. The Orcs withdrew from the area near the wall and turned their full attention to the forces that came up from the south. The Men of Caffthorn regained their vigor and with a loud battle cry they surged forward into the horde of giants killing many in their angry wrath and new strength. They laughed loudly as they slew the huge creatures throwing themselves into the retreating force headlong with their swords cutting deep into the fat bodies of the massive giants. Many of the Orcs were now in battle with the armies of Cergaan. It took a heavy toll on their numbers and they soon were few and week. By evening there were few remnants left of the great muster from Arnmere but for the most part they were destroyed. Those that remained had fled into the woods but were later killed by the Caahahian scouts and patrols that swept the countryside. After the battle as the sun was rising the army finally entered the city. They were greeted by loud shouts and cheers from all around and were treated with honor. The night had hidden their numbers, but later they reported nigh thirty thousand troops. Fifteen thousand Dwarfs of Balmoth and another Fifteen thousand warriors from City of Elves. That night all the bodies of the dead enemy were burned before the gates of the city. Their weapons and armor were melted and poured onto parts of the wall that were broken making a new and stronger barrier. The next evening, a meeting was held in the tower. Merth and Rackins were there as were Rekrovax, Ballison, Aroth and Threythus. They met in one of the lofty chamber that near the zenith of the mighty structure. The room they were in was large despite its thin and slender appearance from outside. In it there were windows facing in the four major directions and many chairs and couches lined the richly decorated walls. Tables were laid out with food and drink and as they ate they had a long overdue council. Merth began. He was seated by one of the windows looking out westward over the lush green fields of the Ruirsian countryside. "Where is Ceda of No-Al Ben? I must see him at once; he should be present here." "He has left us. Aroth returned with a marshal from Leafholm and two of the southern ports. With them they brought the Crown of Grobst D'arbo for they had recovered it in spoils after a battle in the Desert of the Hidden Army. Ceda took the Crown with him when he left for he seeks the Lost Army." "He seeks the Army?! What folly sent him on such an errand?" cried Merth turning around and facing Threythus with sudden anger. "We knew that there would be an attack by the forces of Arnmere and when we received the crown, we thanked Sarve and sent the Chosen Traveler to seek the tree and find the Lost Army. Aye, the profacy shall come true!" said Ballison clenching his fist, "and the Army shall complete its task. So should the world be!" Merth lowered his head into his hands. His temperament was of great sorrow. "I have feared this would happen!" he moaned. "But it was as the warning said: 'He shall seek the tree and find it'. You have done a great service to those of Arnmere." "What is there to fear?" said Aroth. "So the Lost Army will be found and the Dark Mountains of the south shall be conquered! What are your thoughts, wise Wizard of the City of Elves?" "Ileiruon laughs even now, but it is too late to stop what is to be. I advise you all, and it is a fool that turns my advise away, to call for your armies and have them come together at some well fortified place, for the lost army shall return, but it will not be what you expect." Merth turned his gaze back westward and looked out over the fields. "A great danger is soon in the coming, and no man or child will be save ere it is dealt with." All looked at the Elf for a moment before anyone spoke. "Merth, my faithful servant, tell us of what you speak, for we do not understand your warnings," said Rackins at length. "Yes," said Merth. "I... I must-" he stopped. "Why?" he said closing his eyes. "The evil comes," he continued. "They will not...-" He reopened his eyes and looked to Ballison and Threythus. "I have just spoken with One who knows. Send messengers and bring your remaining soldiers and the rest of your men here, or to some other stronghold. Send your women and your children away, Dhernis would be the safest place for them. Do it now, before it is too late!" Rackins looked in astonishment at Merth, "In Tavaar's name, why?!" "Ceda has found the tree and the Great Army will return to our world by the morn!" "And for this we must bring our remaining peoples here?" laughed Ballison. "Perhaps your wise wizard is feeling the torment of age?" "The Army is not of men." said Merth. "They are Nuadrin!" Ballison looked at Merth in astonishment and then turned toward Threythus. "Can this be? How could the tales be changed so?" "Over the years they have been manipulated by Ones who know and would have things different if they could; and now they have." said Merth apathetically. He seemed dazed as if he were not totally aware of where he was. He looked nervously around the room and then back out over the see of green fields beyond the western wall of the city. "Is there a chance of stopping Ceda, or is it too late?" said Aroth. "I shall make for the desert at once-" "Ceda has found the tree. The Army will be recalled and you will not even have gotten to Nen ere their heavy feet make prints in the soft white sands of Greyboren," said Merth. "Then they are only twelve days march from the city! We have not the time to bring our people here!" cried Ballison. "They must travel through the desert ere they can come to this place!" "Aye, perhaps you are right," said Merth. "But there is more time that. The Army will not know that they have ever been gone. They will think they are still in the past and will march to the Twin Fortresses before going anywhere else. It is wise for Rakine's people and those of Bilfneuin, Naz'Clow and Breanduin to remove and come here or to where they might find safe shelter if Caahah falls. The port of Dhernis should be left populated, for those who escape may take ship and depart for Cergaan. For that reason, Leaders of the southern continent, I bid you not call more warriors to this place. They will not make the journey in time." Rekrovax gripped his sword. "I shall do as you ask, though my people shall stay here with you. We do not run and shall die defending your city ere we leave for Dhernis in disgrace!" "As will we!" agreed both Rackins and Ballison. "Good, then let us send messengers to our peoples and have them come here or do what they will, and let us turn our attention to preparing for the return of the Army that was Lost and then Re-found!" answered Merth in a sudden vigor. "Ceda carries with him Renielk, Axe of Caffthorn, and instead of falling the tree, he brings it to life!" The night was wearing away but Ceda could still not sleep. He rolled onto his back and then back to his side. It was cool in the desert after the sun fell. He fingered the crown running his fingers across the silk-like interior. The Malthoogian Jewels glowed under his covers and Renielk lit the area with its strong white glow. He lay the rest of the night starring up at the dark sky. There were no clouds and the stars shone above him in strange brilliance but the tree and the crown dominated his thoughts. Melgon did not sleep that night either but lay beside Ceda with both of his red eyes open. They moved slowly, searching up and down the landscape before him peering into darkened moors unilluminated by the brightness of the stars or moon, for signs of danger. Finally the stars faded into the sky of the new day as the pale light of dawn filled the desert revealing the white sands to Ceda's tired eyes. "Well," said Ceda rising and turning toward Melgon. "We have waited for more than ten suns falling and only with the luck or Tavaar will we bring the army before there is an attack on Caahah, but let us delay no more." He rose taking the crown in one hand and Renielk in his other. The tree was still as he approached it. He neared cautiously taking slow and careful steps fearing the wrath of the king or sudden attack of any Endillonions, but none came. Presently he stood in front of the growth. It seemed to change slightly as Ceda had approached and looked proud and possessive of some hidden energy despite its distorted appearance. Ceda turned and looked at Melgon who had backed away a considerable distance. "Crown the King, and he shall rise..." recited Ceda. "I have a notion, though I doubt it is what is required of me. If the King was mutated to this tree, then he is still the king. Aye Melgon?" The dragon took another step backwards. "Of all the beasts I tame it has to be a wingless and mute coward!" said Ceda jokingly to Melgon as he turned again toward the tree. "Tavaar's luck be upon us," he said. Taking the crown in both hands and fastening his axe to his back, he reached up and stood on the tips of his feet straining to reach the highest of the wasted branches. His fingers raised the crown even further and stretched them over the tree's top finally placing it on a single branch. He then relaxed his body and stepped back. Immediately the ground began to shake. The gem on his back took on new brightness rivalling the desert sun and burned fiercely in a great white aura. Ceda staggered backwards until stopped by Melgon's tremendous grey body and leaned there watching the desert area that lay before him. Rents opened up in the ground and deep holes that led into darkness dominated the desert floor. Mounds of white sand drained into the gaps changing the area radically before the Traveler and his mount. Great explosions burst forth from the newly formed pits of the desert blowing dark and noisome smoke high into the air followed by high spurts of fire. A constant rumbling noise was evident shaking the very foundations of the land beneath their feet. Then the gapping holes began to close as suddenly and as fast as they had appeared. As they drew shut, the edges brought dusty figures with them, covered with sand and completely motionless. Soon the desert was silent and before Ceda were thousands of relit campfires. A few horses stood near him and the closest of the figures was nigh four dragons lengths away. They were Nuadrin. Slowly they began to stir. The sand that had covered them fell to the ground and was lost in the sea of white grains. Ceda was astounded. Neither he or Melgon were able to move, the shock of the fifty thousand Nuadrin had taken its toll. The beasts looked up at the sky as they regained consciousness. They too were aghast and for a moment were dubious as to what was happening, but that moment wore quickly away. Those that regained their awareness quickly noticed Ceda standing near the kings fire. Leaping to their feet with a fierce ululation they bounded quickly toward him. Grobst arose and looked around him. His face was hideous and cruel and his expression the same. He too saw Ceda and sprang at him with a merciless cry. Ceda regained control of himself and turned quickly leaping onto Melgon's back. "Arnea seek Duval! Ride!" he shouted. "Ride with the speed of your lost wings! Ride! RIDE!" Melgon wasted no time. He leapt forward at an amazing pace as his gargantuan claws bit deeply into the desert sand throwing up a shield of dust behind them. Fear held him and Ceda and weighted heavily in their minds. "Ride!" shouted Ceda again, shaking the reins forcefully. "We must reach Caahah with the coming of the fifth sun falling! RIDE!" Leaving the great army behind they leapt over hills wasting no time while they had energy left to go on. Behind them was the Grobst D'arbo, the Desert of Greyboren lay before him, and great worldly changes were happening. D'arbo stopped short. The dragon and its rider had gotten away and were now beyond his reach. A strong looking Nuadri approached him from behind, "Father, I shall go personally and slay him!" "Nay, Tondrux," said Grobst. "Let the foul Dragon-rider go. Let him warn the Twin Fortresses of their peril, or die if he meets the scout we sent forth." "Ileiruon will be pleased, father," said Tondrux. Then looking up at the morning sky he said, "I am worried, how came it to be day? And how did the Dragon-rider come so close without being noticed?" "Of this, I have not an answer, perhaps Ileiruon or those of our allies in Endillion will give us a sign. For now, let us rest and this evening we shall march." -Joel Slatis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Sir Lyoyn of the Pale In the Land of the Yellows The Tumescent Spleens, With their plumage displayed Flashing violet and green, Would go prancing about With their toes in the air, They would hem and they'd haw Giving strangers their glare. And the stout Knight of Fuschia, Sir Lyoyn of the Pale, Heard tales of their manners From Annwara the Frail, Who had ventured one morn In the slippery dew, Picking lotus and mandrake, A Persephone two; So the earth opened up And Big Earth Hog came out And lo he did laugh And Annwara, shout. The force of her cry Would have quickened the dead, But the spleens hemmed and hawed And glared slowly instead. The Hog snatched her up fast And He dragged her below To his den in the Dirt With no spittoons or clothes; Where the tale of her stay Is too lengthy to tell, And it's sordid and grimy And it's boring as hell. But a true party lizard Aided Annwara's flight And they swarmed up a ladder In the wee hours of night; And the lizard, named Brutus, Showed Annwara the path, And stayed to impolden The Big Earth Hog's wrath. While she stumbled and crawled Through the thistles and mud The exsatchous Spleens Flapped their cheeks and said, "Chud." Which meant in their tongue, "Oh you graceless young fool," "Go on back to your pots" "And your Pasta Fa-Zool." A Spleen elder named Bloost Kicked behind her frail knees And tugged at her hair And forced her to sneeze. The whole flock abused her With effultent spite, While the Hog chewed up Brutus With one Big Earth Bite. Brutus cried lizard tears, Sliding down the Hog's throat, As Annwara fell To the back of a stoat Which quick flew away; While she blessed her luck The Big Earth Hog stomped And swore in his muck. Now safe and secure In the Fuschia stockade, Annwara related Her sad serenade. And the stout Knight of Fuschia, Sir Lyoyn of the Pale, Summoned up all his courage Within barrels of ale. And he took up his armor, And his trusted old lance, And strapped on his shield, And girded his pants, And armored his beast, Growing old in the stable, And mounted its back, Straight as he was able. He gallumphed along To the Land of the Yellows, And the Spleens gave a glare And shouted and bellowed, And charged him hands high, And called out "Soouuuiiiieeee!" His war-beast spun 'round, Proceeding to flee. The Big Earth Hog appeared And started to snort, The Spleens threw their spears At stout Sir Lyoyn for sport, The stout Knight regretted His naivete, And made an attempt At a prompt getaway; But the Spleens and their Lord Were too bold for the Knight And they knocked him out cold, And they wrapped him up tight. For the stout Fuschia Knight, Though a fierce looking foe, From indulgence, in stout, Had become, soft, as dough. Not the spotted old armor, Nor the trusted old lance, Nor the fearless old shield, Nor suspenders with pants, Helped the drunken old knight. With the meaty war-beast, The Big Earth Hog baked him, And the Spleens had a feast. In the old Castle Fuschia, Annwara ope'd the gates, And she sold all the silver, And she sold all the plates; And the ancestral jewels, With their fabled, rare stones, She stole from the caskets, Stripping ancestral bones. Then she called her old friends And the Spleens came to see, With the Big Earth Hog, they Split the money in three; They went on their ways, And she traveled the land, Growing rich, for old fools Were always at hand. -Loren J. Miller <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Spirit of the Wood: Chapter 5 Loric Loric floated just above himself. There was a warmth surrounding him and a buzzing in his ears. An eternity later is seemed, the buzzing resolved itself into speech. His eyes came into focus and he stared long at the canopy of trees above him trying to decide if he was above or below them, and when someone walked around the edge of his vision, he knew that he had not gone to the Spirit as he thought he should have. Something must have held him back... 'It must have been the Teline,' Loric thought disjointedly to himself, 'How else can it be that I have died and yet I still see?' The tendrils of the Devatha have released me. I see many of the Downlanders... their dead brown faces holding masks of mourning. The wailing of the women is loud but I can not move to cover my ears! I see Dernhelm dispatch the Devatha with a single stroke. He breaks the horn from it's head stalk and I am surprised to see that it is dry and hollow inside. He blows the call of loss thru it and is anwsered in the village. DEE-ath! DEE-ath! I do not want to be dead! I shake myself hard to show him I am alive but my body doesn't move. Look at me uncle! I live! I saved the kesh-blade of my father from the Pit. It's there on the ground at your feet! Two masked villagers come and lift me up. I am moved but I cannot move. I do not feel their grip on my arms and legs. The sound of Bullroarers announces our arrival in the Village-under-the Trees. They lay me on dried rushes among my friends. I get a glimpse of Jakul and Hiram both with matted hair and covered with a light blue clay. Were they in the Pit too, I want to ask, or some other trial? I want to cry but my eyes are a dead man's: they will not cry for me now. I try to look away but my eyes will not close. All I can see is the sky and the treetops. Did I do well? What are they doing now? The Village is so quiet. Have they all left us here for the birds to find? Did we shame our families and they are refusing our bodies? I can hear Dernhelm talking, but his words are unclear. He's mumbling something and the Downlanders are responding. Chanting. Mumble memble chant mumble mumble memble. Ah! Now I see him at the edge of my eyes. He's leaning over Jakul. There's his father Koonial--what are the doing with those switches- -They're striking his body! Koonial turns to Dernhelm and says "He is dead, my son is dead, the tribe has lost a hand." Behind him I can see a long, somber line of villagers.They all have switches. Each strike Jakul's body and then toss the switch on top of him. Now Dernhelm's moves to Hiram. Hiram's mother Joulin is coming with his sister Teelan helping her. She hasn't walked alone since the night the nets fell on her and took her husband and my father. My Father! Who will come for me? There is none to show the Downlanders I am dead! My father died on the nets, my sister had left to seek her own song and Oldsir had his second vision and is with the Spirit of the Wood now. I wonder if they will hang me in a tree or plant me among the Adinase so that Eidie can come and ask my spirit who should dance for whom? Now Dernhelm is giving Joulin the switch. She's hitting Hiram on the head, the chest, and the legs. I see little puffs of blue dust each time she hits. Are you dead Hiram? Was your song strong enough to join the Spirit of the Wood or are you there, trapped like I am? "My chief, my son is dead, the village has lost a hand." Teelan is in line behind her, she's smiles as she strikes, the switch sings it's pain path each time. Ah, Teelan, If you had danced for me before I died I would have been a strong father for your children and eased the days of your mother...and I would teach you not to strike my friends so hard, even if that friend is your brother. Dernhelm is looking at me now. He's going to hit me. I should have guessed! My uncle is the only Tolorion left in the Village. I try to feel the pain but it isn't there, the world has gone to fog. One ,two ,three! I am dead! Is that my blood on the switch? How can I bleed? "My brother's son is dead, the village has lost a hand." Pyres! I understand now, thought Loric, feeling distant and uncaring of the living world, they mean to burn me! Thank you Dernhelm, thank you my chief! I will be free to go to the Spirit now, thank you.... Dernhelm For a moment Dernhelm thought he saw his nephew's mouth twitch like he was coming back from the dead. His open, glazed eyes were disconcerting in the torch-light. If the boy came to life now it would look bad. The ceremony must be finished. With a frown he leaned down and closed Loric's eyes and motioned for the Speaker-for-animals to come forward. The Speaker howled and growled and hissed a song of mourning for the fallen boys and for the many animals that would not feast on their catch this day. Then he jumped from pile to pile snorting flames from his nostrils to set the dry rushes aflame. Dernhelm grimly watched the switches pop and smoke darkly. Waiting until the right moment to signal the final passage from the death of a boy to the life of a man. Finally when the flames all but obscured the bodies and he could smell the hair begin to singe, he blew on the horn of the Devatha three short bursts. He smiled cynically as the pyres collapsed in on themselves. He knew that under the supports the boys were being wrapped in hides and coated with healing salves. He turned to lead a procession of Downlanders to the river where they would keen and smite the water and call upon the Spirit to receive the boys with favor. There were rush boats to be built, octli to be consumed and tales to be told all night long. Later, after the elders had joined them he would leave quietly to care for Loric's 'body'. After the boy had been sealed in a caul and left for the Spirit to care for him, I can look forward to a quiet turn of the moon. The boy was too much like his Grandfather to come back after a day or two with only a tale of his death and of singing with the Spirit. He would actually try to bring something to the village to help us understand the Spirit of the Wood better. Dernhelm's smile faded as he passed into the trees remembering when he too believed the Spirit guarded them. That was before he had become chief and had revealed to him the mysteries that surrounded every action the Downlanders took from birth to death and birth again. When Loric joined the Spirit he would make no hearth-fire for his brother's son--could not, for the Spirit did not move him anymore. -R. Allen Jervis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Cydric and the Sage IV. The Sage Twilight had settled upon the town by the time Cydric and Holleena finished their meal of Simon's fish stew and left the docks. The full moon was beginning to rise as they arrived at the house of Corambis, which stood at the far eastern edge of the Old City. As Cydric's black stallion came to a stop in front of the gate of the iron fence which enclosed the front yard, Holleena slid off the horse's back and said, "Here you are, Cydric. Just go to the front door and knock--he is usually home around this time." "Wait a moment! Where are you going?" Cydric called as she began to walk away. "To my own home, of course," Holleena replied. "It is not very far from here." Cydric quickly dismounted. "I should at least accompany you," he said. "It is getting dark, and--" "I appreciate your concern, Cydric, but I will be quite safe, I assure you," She nodded toward the house. "You had better make your visit now, before he goes to sleep." Cydric looked back at the house, then shrugged. "Are you certain you will not need an escort?" "Quite certain." "Well, then, I shall not detain you any longer. I thank you for your kind help, Holleena--perhaps we will meet again sometime, at the tavern for instance?" "Perhaps," she replied with a slight smile. Turning, she walked briskly away down the block and disappeared into a side street. Cydric led the black stallion through the iron gate and tethered it to a nearby hitching rack. He paused a moment, recalling what Holleena had told him about the Sage: He made his living by interpreting dreams and omens, and by casting personal horoscopes. His practice earned him enough gold to enable him to have his own private booth in the marketplace. He was well known and respected, and it was said he possessed all manner of arcane knowledge. Casting a final glance back at the horse, Cydric strode up the paved path that led to the Sage's front door and knocked. The door opened and a grey-haired bearded middle-aged man dressed in a loose maroon tunic and green trousers peered out. "Yes?" "Good evening, sir," Cydric began. "Are you Corambis, the Sage?" "I am indeed," the man replied. "How may I be of service?" "Well, sir," said Cydric in his most courtly tone of voice, "I am Cydric Araesto, of Baranur, and I have a certain matter to discuss with you." "A certain matter, eh? It must be of major import, since you have sought me out like this," said the Sage. "Your pardon, sir, I did not mean to disturb your rest--I shall come back tomorrow." The Sage smiled. "No, no, it is quite all right. Come inside, young sir, and we shall discuss this matter of yours." As Cydric followed Corambis into the house, he tried to guess the man's age. Although he appeared to be nearing his sixtieth summer, the Sage walked with the stride of a man many years younger. They passed through a short hallway, then entered the Sage's small but well-furnished study. A bookshelf containing rows of various leatherbound volumes occupied the entire west wall. The north wall housed a cold fireplace; above the mantle, the stuffed head of a nighthound glared down at them over a pair of crossed swords. A bookshelf also occupied the east wall, but instead of books it contained various small objects, the most prominent of which were a pair of demon's horns, a bust of the goddess Cahleyna, and the body of a giant leaf-roach encased in a glass pyramid. Lastly, an ornately carved oaken table and three padded chairs stood in front of the fireplace. Motioning for Cydric to sit, Corambis took a pair of tobacco pipes from a rack mounted near the mantle. "Smoke?" he asked, offering one to the young man. "I thank you, sir,"he replied. The Sage filled both pipes from a pouch that hung around his waist, gave one to Cydric, then took a seat at the opposite end of the table. Cydric took a sniff of the tobacco and noted with delight that it was fine quality Comarian. "Fazar!" Corambis said suddenly, stabbing a finger at the fireplace. The logs burst into flame, and at the same time Cydric saw a wisp of smoke curl upwards from the bowl of his pipe. "She did not tell me you were a sorcerer," he said with some awe. Corambis made a gesture of dismissal with his pipe. "In truth, Cydric, my abilites are no more that that of minor conjuror. I have neither the power nor the desire to become a full mage." He paused a moment, exahling a cloud of smoke. "Who did not tell you, by the way?" "A girl I met a Belisandra's Tavern. She told me how to find your house." "Did she also tell you that I only conduct business during my regular time at the marketplace? But it matters not, I shall make an exception in your case." "You are most generous, sir," replied Cydric. "Indeed," said the Sage. "Well now, what is it that you have come all this way to discuss with me?" "It concerns a vision that I've been having of late," Cydric began. The Sage listened intently as he described the golden sea, the colorless skull, and the carvings in the rock. "I've even made a sketch." Cydric pulled a roll of parchment from the inner pocket of his cloak and spread it out over the table. "This is what I saw inscribed on the rock. When I compared this outline to a map of the continent, I found that the "x" corresponded to the location of Dargon. And you can see, your name appears below the outline." Cydric paused and looked up from the table. "And that is why I am here. I am hoping you can tell me what this vision means." Corambis picked up the parchment and stared at it for a while, puffing on the pipe and saying nothing. Finally, he stood up and moved to lean against the mantle of the fireplace.Turning, the Sage regarded the young man thoughtfully and said, "I do not believe that I am the one you should be asking." Cydric frowned. "Why not? You--" "It is obvious that the person responsible for our visions intended for you to come to Dargon and seek me out. That much you have understood." Before Cydric could form his question the Sage held up a hand. "I shall explain what I mean." He tossed the parchment into the fire and left the room, motioning for Cydric to follow. V. The Message Corambis led the young man into the cellar of the house. Pausing in front of a wine rack, the Sage uttered an arcane phrase and the rack slid aside to reveal a large well-lit room. "My laboratory," he said with a sweep of his hand as they entered. The room was full of various kinds of equipment, ranging from alchemistic set-ups to animal skeletons in different states of assembly. "A truly marvelous collection you have here," said Cydric as he roamed about the room, eagerly examining the many fascinating objects that lay on tables and shelves. "Ah, a student of the arcane, are you?" the Sage asked, pleased with the young man's enthusiasm. "I suppose I am. I've been fascinated by the works of Thassalen the Mystic ever since I was a child," replied Cydric as he examined a wooden mobile of the World with the surrounding sun and moon. The Sage grinned and nodded. "Well then, you will certainly be interested in what I have to show you. This way, if you will." Cydric followed the older man to the back of the room where stood a table, an ebony box atop it. "Open the box," said Corambis. Cydric looked at him suspiciously. "I thought you were going to explain what you were talking about before." "The explanation, or part of it, lies within the box. Go ahead." The young man paused a moment. Couldn't be anything dangerous inside, he thought. Shrugging, he flipped the lid back. A gasp of surprise escaped his lips. Within the box was a life-sized human skull, made entirely of crystal. "The skull from the vision! But how?" The Sage closed the box. "I knew that would get your interest," he grinned. "Well, this skull appeared on my study room table one day several months ago. That same night I had a dream in which the skull spoke to me, telling me that I would be visited by a man from Baranur who sought the meaning of a mysterious vision. When he arrived, the skull said, I was to speak a certain incantation to receive further instructions." "How can you be sure that I am indeed the one?" asked Cydric. "I am fairly certain, since none of my customers in the last few months have had dreams involving skulls. And I am also certain that the skull's creator will have some means of verifying its 'chosen one'," Corambis replied. The young man reflected upon this for a moment. "Have you ever had that dream more than once?" he asked. "Indeed I have, Cydric. It appears in my mind at various times, much like your vision, I would suppose. In fact, I experienced the vision a short time ago, some time before you arrived." Cydric felt a sudden chill. "So, our visions are connected in some way to the skull. Have you any idea who sent it?" "I know not who sent it but I believe that person to be an Elder." "An Elder? What would an Elder want with us?" "Well now, Cydric, the only way to find out is to ask him, eh?" Corambis opened the box again and took out a piece of parchment that lay next to the skull. "This is the incantation that the skull told me to speak." "You're going to read it now?" "No better time like the present." Corambis squinted at the page, then began reading: "'Ghe farsta li voyar etye tavarsta li omnae, nechuzar Bahz se khya seke.'" They waited. Nothing happened. "Hmmmm," Corambis mused. "Perhaps I mispronounced that last phrase. Let me--" A dazzling white light exploded from the skull, filling the room completely. Both men instinctivly shut their eyes and threw up their arms to block out the blinding brightness. Before either could react further, the light ceased as suddenly as it had appeared. Cydric slowly lowered his arms and peeked at the skull. A soft red glow slo wly pulsed at its center. "Apparently you did pronounce it right," he said. "Indeed," said Corambis, squinting intently at the skull. "What next, I wonder?" As if in response to the Sage's question, the red glow pulsed faster until it became a steady blaze. It expanded to fill the skull completely. Then the skull began to speak. "Greetings," it said in a cold, ethereal voice. "I bring you a message from Bahz the Elder, Seventh of the Council of Eight of Zaad'Astropolous, capital of the Quentrellian Isle. He has need of your aid, and is willing to reward you generously for your efforts. You must travel to the Citadel of Sorrows, above the shore of the Sea of Time, on the Plane of Tarradan, to free him from his unjust imprisonment. Lest you think you are being lured into a trap of some sort, the Elder sends you this assurance of his good faith. A nugget of chrysoline, rarest of all gemstones. It shall protect you from all forms of hostile magic, and be your passport through the StarDoor." As the skull spoke, images formed within the red glow. Cydric saw a dark-haired man in purple robes, then an island in a turquoise sea, followed by the image of an imposing castle situated on a foundation of barren rock. The final image was that of a small blue-and-white jewel set in a platinum ring. "The Elder urges that you respond to his appeal, for his time is limited. Your reward will be very great, he assures you. Make your journey at midnight; the jewel will be your guide." A moment after the skull finished speaking, the red glow began to die as cracks appeared in its crystalline surface. A pulsing sound emanated from the skull, growing louder with each beat. Cydric pressed his hands over his ears, but the sound still remained. In his mind he saw the skull, small but growing in size with the volume of the droning beat. Suddenly, the skull in the box shattered into a cloud of crystalline dust just as the sound reached a crescendo. The skull in Cydric's mind loomed large, filling his thoughts. Then a sharp pain stabbed daggerlike into his soul. He cried out, staggered, then collapsed to the cold stone floor. He was vaguely aware of someone calling his name as darkness welled up and swept him into unconsciousness. -Carlo Samson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME NINE NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb FSFnet SF Short Story Contest 'Orny' Liscomb the Cube Joseph Curwen *Je'en: A Recap John L. White *Cydric and the Sage: Part 3 Carlo N. Samson Date: 101687 Dist: 459 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, it's been a full six weeks since the last issue of FSFnet was sent out, and I must apologize for that. I'm sure that many of you have been busy with returning to school, and things here in MAINE have been mighty hectic. We've recently installed a new 3090 CPU to replace the old 3033 and 4381 we were running in tandem previously, and the system is finally stable. The rumor that LISTSERV@TCSVM was shutting down its TCSSERVE subserver (which maintains a complete collection of FSFnet back issues) has proven to be a falsehood, although the shutdown of the WISCVM internet gateway in December is a confirmed problem for which the entire BITNET community is still searching for a solution. However, I'm sure that you will find this issue well worth the anxiety of waiting. We have the announcement of the FSFnet science fiction short story contest, which should produce some interesting fiction, and which I hope many readers will take part in. We have a short story by Joseph Curwen that I'm sure you will find intriguing. And for Dargon Project offerings we have the third chapter in Carlo Samson's "Cydric" tale, and a synopsis of John White's stories (which will continue in part three of "Treasure" in the next issue). All in all, a respectable offering. Due to the long wait between issues, we have nearly 50 new readers joining us for this issue, and I would like to thank them all for their interest. The next issue, Vol09N2, should follow this issue by no more than a week or two, and will contain the next installment of "Treasure". If you aren't caught up with White's work, I would heartily suggest that you request from LISTSERV@TCSVM the back issues which contain his stories, as listed in his article below. Enjoy! -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> FSFnet Science Fiction Short Story Contest FSFnet is proud to announce our first science fiction writing contest! All FSFnet readers are more than encouraged to enter this wonderful contest. The rules are as follows: Entries are to be science fiction short stories, and all entries are limited to a maximum of 4000 words. All entries must be sent to the userid CSDAVE at MAINE on or before December 31, 1987, and must be clearly noted that they are contest submissions. Judging will be done by a panel of five SF readers, in the categories of plot, character development, grammar, and their value as science fiction pieces. Prizes will be awarded to the authors of the top two stories, and those stories will be printed in FSFnet Vol10N1 in January 1988. Other entries will also be printed in later issues. The prizes currently planned include posters of Geiger artwork and other related materials, depending on availability. All entries must follow the following subject guidelines. They must be written using a 'cyberpunk' setting (for those of you who are unfamiliar with this sub-genre, 'cyberpunk' is usually designed to reflect a politically complex society where the line between technology and mankind is very thin; see works by William Gibson). The story may, alternatively, deal with computers of the future. The author is free to develop any storyline he (or she) desires within one of these two broad topics. If you have any questions regarding the contest, please feel free to get in touch with me via MAIL. -David 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Cube Few of us have not had the common experience of waking with the thought "Where am I?" foremost in our minds, but in most such cases we quickly recognize the strange surroundings. This was not true in my own case. I awoke one morning from a deep, peaceful sleep to find myself lying in a disrupted heap in a white plastic room. At least it appeared to be plastic. The walls were glossy white and quite smooth to the touch. The room was a cube, mathematically perfect in form with the exception of my own presence. No seam suggested the existence of an entrance, nor more importantly an exit. From childhood, I've occasionally experienced a slight claustrophobia, which now demonstrated itself with an unprecedented zeal. With the realization that I could not escape, panic became my foremost emotion. I ran to and fro pounding on the walls screaming for release. I frantically searched each joint of ceiling, wall, and floor. But to my considerable distress found that the room appeared to be composed of one contiguous piece of material. My embarrassment makes me hesitate to recount further, but I have resolved to shield no aspect of my experience to the public, which shall serve as final judge in this inexplicable matter. The tremendous weight of those oppressive walls bore down upon me. I began to feel choked, certain that I would asphyxiate in minutes. I sank whimpering to the floor. After what must have been many minutes of self-pity and wrenching horror, I fought to regain my composure. Blind panic had probably robbed me of the greater part of my oxygen. I slowly overcame the torrent of anxieties which had overwhelmed me. I would remain quiet and still. I made a conscience effort to slow my agonized breathing. Finally, coherency returned to my thoughts. I estimated the room to be about ten feet across, though in my delirium moments before it had seemed vastly smaller. That gave me about a thousand cubic feet of air. I did not know how quickly a man consumed air, but I hoped that this would give me several hours of calm respiration. It occurred to me that I didn't know how long I had occupied the room, but I dimly remembered that sleeping substantially reduced one's oxygen intake. It did not appear to be great length of time since the air did not feel stuffy nor did I feel hungry. I attempted to think back to my last meal, but a thick fog lay across my memory. With great effort, I remembered the stale sandwich I had hastily consumed in my eagerness to complete the first draft of my doctoral thesis. I wished that I had partaken of something a bit more substantial. With this start, I began tracing my steps forward in time. I had finished critiquing the compositions of my English 27 class and proceeded to my apartment on campus to type a preliminary draft of the thesis. However after only a few minutes of work, a power outage made my word processor useless. I stumbled in the darkness to my sofa, where I resolved to take a short nap. I fell asleep almost instantly as I had been sleeping little of late. In spite of my best efforts, I could remember nothing after this. Somewhat reassured of my immediate survival, my natural curiosity began to demand attention. How had I come to such a predicament? Surely the answer to this question would aid in my pursuit of escape. With the failure of my memory to solve this enigma, I was forced to turn to my immediate senses. Calmly I set about examining my surroundings as closely as possible with what natural tools I had at my disposal. My sight revealed nothing which I had not observed previously with the exception of the condition of my own apparel which while not regal was only slightly wrinkled. Also my previous estimation of the room's size had been a bit shy of the twelve feet which I now observed. I listened with all my powers of concentration but beyond my own heartbeat, I could perceive only a faint humming which might have been only my own fancy. My sense of smell seemed only marginally more useful. I determined that the air seemed to be slightly scented with a pleasantly familiar floral odor which I could not identify. This alone encouraged the belief that my captors,if any, had my well being in mind to some extent. There being nothing to taste, I carefully probed the surface of the walls and floor, which seemed to be uniformly smooth and dry to the touch. But I gradually grew more despondent as my searches proved continuously profitless. Forcing myself to continue the tedious examination, I was inspecting the base of one wall when I noticed a slight air current. My fears of asphyxiation were unwarranted! Excited by my discovery, I attempted to to determine its course but was dismayed to discover that the breeze passed directly through the plastic surface. It seemed to flow from the top of one wall to the base of the opposite. At least I could now permanently orient myself while within the room. Hoping that it was some form of membrane or fine mesh, I tried pounding and kicking through the surface of the "vent". My attempts were unsuccessful and somewhat painful, but I did learn that the "vents" sounded more hollow than other portions of the wall or floor. The surface itself seemed to have no special distinction or weakness. My hope for escape had once more been disappointed. Having completed a thorough investigation of my surroundings, my next logical step seemed to be the development of explanations for my situation. At first, explanations leaped into my mind but they soon grew particularly outlandish and farfetched. So much so that I began to doubt the usefulness of this endeavor. But I quickly reasoned that my fantastic situation might have an equally fantastic explanation. My first reaction was that I had been imprisoned by an unknown party or parties. The identity of these individuals occupied most of my thoughts. But to my knowledge, I lacked really hostile enemies. An unestablished graduate student rarely attracts physically dangerous enemies. Nor would hypothetical kidnappers receive any funds worthy of efforts as phenomenal as the creation of this prison. I had, of course, read of kidnappings wherein the victim was buried alive, but such speculation only served to excite my anxieties. The mere thought that this chamber might be buried under tons of earth and rock transfixed my muscles with raging tremors and weaknesses. In a effort to maintain control, I tried my best to avoid such thoughts but was only partially successful. One possibility did come to mind, however remote it was. A friend and associate in the field of psychology was well known for his occasionally gruelling psychological tests and ruses, but I couldn't bring myself to believe that any professional would subject a subject to such an imprisonment without some sort of prior consent. Besides the inhuman cruelty necessary even under normal circumstances, my friend was well aware of my claustrophobic tendencies, so I doubted he could be responsible for such unmotivated psychological brutality. It occurred to me that the best method of determining my captor's identity lay in the nature of my confinement. As I have mentioned, kidnappers would be unlikely to employ such elaborate devices. Nor could I envision someone doing this as a jest. This left only those who had access to technology beyond that normally encountered in day to day life and those who were also willing to utilize it to confine me. I knew few science professors at the university, as they traveled in different social circles, so that department seemed guiltless. I could perceive no reason for a corporate or government body desiring my capture. My work, although hopefully inspired, was largely esoteric in nature. The possibilities of some sort of disgruntled student perpetrating this conspiracy seemed remote as well. And while any citizen could be the object of terrorism, this is unlikely if one remains within the confines of one's own apartment. In fact, within such an environment any circumstance leading to capture and imprisonment within a plastic cubicle hardly seems reasonable. Of course, the thought that this might be some sort of dream or hallucination did cross my mind. The fact that my last memory was falling to sleep seemed to support this. But my own dream experiences led me to believe otherwise. My dreams are normally lacking in the intensity of detail which I encountered in the cube. Also, I did not feel emotionally or intellectually constrained in any manner as is common to dreaming. My own ability to react logically and analytically to my experiences seemed to suggest that this was not a dream. Also, if one realizes the possibility that one is dreaming it is not usually difficult to cause oneself to awaken. Rest assured that I tried. All of these points amounted to a virtual certainty in my mind that I was not dreaming. Another more macabre but certainly normal thought was that I had in someway reached my afterlife. However, according to commonly circulated stories about those who have returned from death or death-like experiences, one is vaguely aware of a certain indistinctness about one's physical form in death. Most seem to recall actually departing the body as a spirit, a feature which this experience certainly lacked. If I had in fact been whisked away to my "Great Reward", I could think of no more hideous punishment than spending eternity in a featureless cube. Surely, my "sins" in life did not merit such treatment. Nor was I aware of any glowing white light as is commonly reported. But now that lighting did occur to me I noticed that the cube's surfaces radiated a soft incandescent glow which thoroughly illuminated its interior. It is surprising that I did not notice this earlier, but the resulting environment seemed perfectly normal though shadowiness. But returning to my speculation, I thoroughly resolved that this afterlife conjecture was the least likely that I'd yet explored, especially since I am a bit agnostic by tendency. Having shed doubt on these speculations, I was compelled to turn to those fantastic conjectures and fantasies which I have been avoiding. Capture by advanced intelligences was favorite among these. Mysterious mechanisms, such as the ventilation, lighting, or the power outage which I had experienced before capture, lent some credence to the idea that I had been captured by a mysterious, technically superior group, whether they were aliens, time travelers, Atlanteans, or some other even unsuspected organization. I could almost believe that this cube was created as some sort of sampling container for indigenous life forms. The cube might simply materialize encompassing the specimen and then spirit him away across great distances of space or time. I normally was quite skeptical concerning such matters because I felt that such visitors would make themselves know to the public if they existed. My beliefs were countered by the popular idea that advanced intelligences would avoid interference because of some sort of ethical responsibility. This position seemed highly unlikely given any sort of historical awareness of the results of an encounter between an advanced culture and a more backward one. The American settlers had felt little ethical obligation to the natives when they claimed the land for themselves. Another proposition was that travelers from the future would be reluctant to significantly alter their past. This seemed more plausible as self-interest is a much more common motivation than altruism. According to this reasoning, I must either be considered unimportant to the course of the future or perhaps my importance was the very reason for my capture. Possibly I had been captured because my future actions would have consequences contrary to the wishes of these speculative time travelers. Contrary enough to warrant the dangers inherent in interfering with their past. It was more pleasing to my ego that I be considered vitally important, if undesirable, than to be relegated to the status of the masses of insignificance. But still, all this imaginative speculation had little basis. Having shed serious doubt on all of these possibilities, I began to despair in the possibility that ration could solve this enigma. Perhaps this was something so far beyond human experience that a mortal's mind could not comprehend it. If this was true, what then lie in my future? The thought that I might remain here to the end of my existence was fearful enough, but I suspected that even stranger experiences lay before me. What lurked behind these walls? Some malignant intelligence so alien as to prevent human understanding? And if this were some sort of holding tank or vehicle, what would I be forced to face after my stay here was through? It was then that I first noticed the approach of those white plastic walls. Perhaps they had been subtly enclosing on me for sometime, but I suddenly became aware that the room was eight feet across and shrinking rapidly. Of course, this realization triggered the claustrophobia which I had been suppressing through concentrated application of reason to analyze my surroundings. I screamed once more; a deep wrenching scream which tore loose from the base of my troubled spirit. My coherency was lost and still the walls pressed inward. In a moment the room was only four feet in breadth. Shrieking I attempted to stave off their approach, but met with no success. Crouched on my knees I attempted to push outward on each of the surfaces in a willy-nilly fashion. I desperately tried one, then another in such a manner that I never brought my full strength to any. My panic went beyond any previous level as I vainly attempted to prevent my impending death. Even the frenzied strength of a half-mad man was not enough to hold off those oppressive and impersonal barriers. I lapsed into a tucked fetal position after I no longer had room to use my arms. I watched my enclosure shrink inch by inch, measure by measure, until I felt the weight of the ceiling on the base of my skull. I awaited the moment when their crushing pressure would drive the life from my frame. Strangely, in this moment of imminent death a certain serenity overtook me. I had done all that I could and still would perish. But if death is inescapable, it is is some strange way more acceptable. I noticed a certain hesitancy in the rate of the room's collapse. The walls' progression slowed to a painful creep. In this weird lull before my destruction my mind struck upon an idea which welled up from the depths of my subconscious. An idea which would save my life. For in that frightful moment when ration returned, I saw a relationship between the size of the room and the level of my anxieties. And with this realization the course of the walls' movements reversed. They shrank away from me slowly at first, but with increasing speed as my conviction in the belief grew. A conviction which was fed by the successful retreat of the walls themselves. In moments the room returned to its former size. Relief burst forth from me in wild laughter and daunting courage as the walls themselves began to change from white to gray to black. They faded into the nonexistence of the darkness. That is how I escaped the cube: not through clever reasoning or minute observation, but through a billowing flood of hope, defiance, and joy which broke the dam of my confinement. After my fit of emotion had passed leaving me exhausted but light hearted, I looked up from my position on the darkened floor to recognize the dim light of the night filtering through the amber shades of my apartment. I was, in fact, home. My experiences had been some sort of wild delusion or dream brought on by overwork and emotional exhaustion. I would see a professional psychologist in the morning. I would never again drive my mental health to such extremes. But at that moment, I needed rest. So, without moving from my position on the bare floor I lay down and quickly fell deeply into sleep. The high light of the mid-afternoon sun brought me gradually from my slumbers. But my wakefulness rapidly returned after I opened one eye. For to my horror I beheld that I lay in the middle of my bare floor with all of my furniture, rugs, books, and papers pushed away in a roughly square pattern approximately a dozen feet across. Even today, I cannot resolve the events of that night in my mind. Was it, in fact, a dream, a hallucination brought on by my internalized fears and anxieties as the doctors say? But how can that explain what my neighbors saw when they came answering my screams. I can only be thankful that the ceiling of my apartment was abnormally high. Could it have been only a delusion? Or was it something more real. Something beyond the range of normal human experience; something which we shall never truly fathom. Make your own judgements for I don't believe that anyone will ever positively know the truth. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Je'en: A Recap In the 33rd year of Haralan, King of Baranur, a renegade wizard by the name of Vard hires a thief to steal a book from the vaults of the College of Bards in Magnus (V.1). At the same time, another wizard in the employ of the Council of Elders is given orders to eliminate the last cult of an evil goddess named Jhel (I). This wizard and his apprentice, Cefn an'Derrin and Mahr, determine that the only way to eliminate that cult is to subtly influence the friends of a bard named Je'lanthra'en to take her out on the town (I). In riding back from the bar, Je'en takes a short-cut through the worst part of the city, the Fifth Quarter, and is attacked and mutilated (I). Her belongings (a sword, a harp, and the pendant of her rank in the College of Bards) are stolen by the brigands and she is left for dead when they learn that the City Watch is on its way (I). Not knowing she is a bard, the Watch takes Je'en to a street healer who cannot fully heal her injuries, leaving her scarred for life (I). Meanwhile, the thief hired by Vard, Ka'lochra'en (Je'en's second cousin in fact), buys Je'en's rank pendant unknowingly from one of the ruffians named Bellen (V.1). While Je'en is recuperating from her wounds Ka'en infiltrates the Bardic College disguised as a bard and successfully steals the book (V.1). Ka'en delivers the book to Vard, who returns to his stronghold with a few purchases from the pawnshops of the city, among them Je'en's sword and harp (V.2). Vard studies the book and is happy to learn that it is indeed what he had hoped it was - the only existing authority on an incredible power possessed by a former empire known as the Fretheod (V.2). Vard hopes to gain mastery of the world by gaining access to that power, called the Yrmenweald (V.2). Je'en recovers her health after being taken to the Royal healers in Magnus, but she is scarred beyond recovery (I). She has lost most of the use of her right hand (a sword thrust through her wrist), and her voice (slashed throat) (I). In addition, she has a very bad scar on her face (I). When she discovers that she can no longer sing, she resigns from the College of Bards, taking with her only a seemingly nondescript sword from the vaults of the College, and decides to change her life and become a fighter (I). She goes to a fighter training school run by Sir Morion and becomes most accomplished with the sword (I). While there, she has fashioned for herself a silver half-mask to cover the scar on her face and put her on an equal footing with the other students (I). Meanwhile, Vard has determined what he needs to re-harness the power of the Yrmenweald, and he sends an adventurer named Owain to get for him some of the living crystal known as cwicustan (V.2). Vard is able to control people from a distance by means of some special magics he has learned, using objects once owned by a person to enhance the power of the controlling magics (V.2). Owain retrieves the cwicustan at the cost of all of the people he went adventuring with, delivers it to Vard, and has his memory of the whole affair erased by a potion (V.2). The next step for Vard is to retrieve the keys to the vault where the Yrmenweald is hidden, and by his magics he locates the objects to use to control the perfect person to get those keys - Je'en's sword and harp (V.2). Je'en graduates from Morion's school after two years and goes to Dargon to visit her brother, Kroan Jesthsson (I). She gets a job there as a Market Guard, a job that is less than challenging (II). The events set into motion by Cefn come to fruition as Cefn rescues Je'en from a trap set by one of the Septent of the Order of Jhel using the Sword of Cleah, Lladdwr (the "non-descript" sword Je'en received from the College) as bait (II). Cefn looses his apprentice to a trick of the Brother of Jhel, and asks Je'en to become his partner in her place (II). Je'en accepts (II). The new team have a few adventures, among them getting rid of the sword (III). After several weeks of inactivity, the pair are hired by one of the Rhydd Pobl (gypsies) named Maks (III). They overcome an ancient, wraith-like wizard and his living tower, the Glasmelyn Llaw, to rescue Maks' beloved Syusahn (III). Je'en and Cefn are invited to the gypsy wedding in thanks (III). Shortly after Cefn and Je'en's adventure with the Emerald Hand (III) Sir Morion is visited at his school by the Falcon Herald of Baranur who has a mission for the old soldier (IV). Morion reluctantly accepts and sets out to eliminate a former student of his named Kyle BlueSword who has been terrorizing the countryside (IV). On the way, he meets up with a strange blue-haired woman named Kimmentari who informs him that he has become caught up in the Dance of Thyerin, one of her people's gods (IV). His mission is now both to eliminate Kyle, and to retrieve a circlet from Kyle to be delivered to another of his former pupils, Je'en (IV). Morion kills Kyle, learns why he turned bad, and goes after the circlet (IV). However, he is caught in a fatal trap just as Kimmentari comes to help/warn/save him from it (IV). The story shall continue from there in FSFnet Vol09N2. An Index to the Stories: I - A New Life - FSFNet Vol 5 Number 3 II - The Dream - FSFNet Vol 6 Numbers 3 and 4 III - Glasmelyn Llaw - FSFNet Vol 6 Number 5 and FSFNet Vol 7 Number 1 IV - Duty - FSFNet Vol 7 Number 3 V.1 - Treasure: Part 1 - FSFNet Vol 7 Number 5 V.2 - Treasure: Part 2 - FSFNet Vol 8 Number 2 -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Cydric and the Sage: Part 3 THE STORY SO FAR: In Part 1 (chapters I-III), Cydric Araesto arrives in Dargon late one afternoon. While resting at Belisandra's Tavern, he experiences a vision that has been recurring in his mind for some time. In the vision, he is alone on the shore of a vast golden sea. He starts to take a drink of the golden water, but it turns colorless in his hand. A transparent skull appears, and makes some strange carvings in a nearby rock. He sees that the skull has etched the outline of a continent, a small "x", and the name "Corambis the Sage" into the stone. Then the skull flies away toward a glittering object on the horizon. Coming out of the vision, Cydric asks the serving girl, Thuna, if she has heard of Corambis the Sage. Thuna goes over to a blue-robed patron at the other side of the room and whispers a few words. The patron approaches Cydric's table, and he is relieved to see that it is a woman, who introduces herself as Holleena. Cydric asks her about Corambis, and she offers to take him to see the Sage. He agrees, and they leave the Tavern together. In Part 2 (chapters IV-V), Cydric and Holleena arrive at the house of Corambis after having a dinner of Simon Salamagundi's fish stew. Cydric offers to accompany Holleena to her own home, but she declines and walks off into the twilight. Cydric goes up to the house and is welcomed in by Corambis. In the Sage's study, Cydric relates his vision, showing a sketch he drew of the carvings in the rock. Cydric explains that when he compared the sketch of the carvings to an actual map of the continent, he found that the "x" corresponded to the location of Dargon. Since the Sage's name appears below the outline, Cydric has sought him out in the hope that he will be able to explain the vision. The Sage says that he is not the one Cydric should be asking, and before Cydric can reply, takes him to his cellar laboratory. There Corambis show Cydric a box which contains a crystal skull, exactly like the one in his vision. The Sage reveals that a few months before, the skull mysteriously appeared on his study room table. That night, he himself had a vision that foretold of Cydric's arrival. Corambis then takes out a parchment with an incantation written upon it; the skull had instructed him to read it once Cydric had arrived. The Sage recites the incantation, written in a sorcerer's language. A moment after he finishes, a white light explodes from the skull then ceases, to be replaced by a red glow that burns in the center of the skull. Then the skull speaks, telling them that it has a message from Bahz the Elder, Seventh of the Council of Eight of Zaad'Astropolous, the capital of the Quentrellian Isle. The skull says that Bahz needs their help, and is willing to reward them. It says that they must travel to a citadel located in another dimension to free him from an unjust imprisonment; to assure them that it is not some sort of trap, it promises to send them a chrysoline gemstone that will protect them from all hostile magic. The skull concludes by telling them that the Elder's time is limited, and says that they should make their journey at the following midnight. As it finishes speaking, Cydric sees the skull in his mind and hears a loud, pulsing beat. The image expands and the sound grows louder until the skull in the box shatters. Cydric cries out and falls into unconsciousnewss. VI. Answers and Questions "Quentrellia--There are many legends and myths about this small island nation (which existed at around the time the Fretheod Empire was at its peak). Some historians believe that it's capital, Zaad'Astropolous, was a major trading port of the Ancient World. The island was ruled by a Council of Eight Elders and presided over by a Leader.... "There are two stories about the Exile of Jehron Bahz, the Seventh Elder of the Council. In one version, Bahz attempted to overthrow the Council and seize power by admitting a fleet of Huultaran raiders through the massive Sea Gate which protected the entrance to the harbor of Zaad'Astropolous. The invasion was thwarted, however, and Bahz was arrested. In the other version, the Council Leader falsely accused Bahz of treason and had him removed from the Council (apparently because Bahz was a strong critic of the Leader's policies). In both accounts, though, Bahz was tried and sentenced to exile. He was then imprisoned in an ice-wood cage (to destroy his magic ability); then the other Elders cast him through the Celestial Archway that Nephros had opened. Thus was Bahz banished from the island.... "Three summers after the Exile of Bahz, a force of Fretheod invaders lay siege to Quentrellia. One month later, the island was captured and absorbed into the ever-expanding Fretheod Empire...." --"History of the Ancient World", Volume 6; by Trenta, Historian and Chronicler to King Vulpa of Baranur; pages 144-145. Cydric looked up from the book as Corambis entered the room. "Ah, you are awake, Cydric. I am glad to see that you were not permanently damaged by the skull last night. How do you feel?" "A little tired, but otherwise fine," Cydric replied. "Thank you for putting me up. I hope I haven't inconvenienced you in any way." "Nonsense, my boy," Corambis snorted. "There's plenty of room in this old house. Besides, I couldn't just leave you lying around in the laboratory, now, could I?" He placed a hand on Cydric's forehead, then nodded with satisfaction. "You just rest there and read those books that I've selected. I'll be back in a moment." He closed the door as he left the room. Cydric shifted a little in the bed, took a volume entitled Arcana Antiqua from the stack on the nightstand, opened to the marked page, and continued reading. "...the existence of worlds beyond our own. These other worlds, sometimes known as "dreamrealms", are believed to be as numerous as the grains of sand on a beach. Travel to the other worlds is mainly achieved by projecting the spirit-body into the chosen dreamrealm. Alternately, the physical self may be transported by the use of a portal called the Celestial Archway, first described by Nephros (the first known mage to successfully return from the dreamrealms) in 'A Wondrous Voyage'...." Corambis returned with a mug full of an aromatic liquid. "Here, drink this herbal tea. It shall restore you to your full health." Cydric took a cautious sip, found it rather tasteful, and took another pull. "Not as bad as you expected, eh?" grinned the Sage. "Well now, have you read the passages I marked for you?" "Yes," replied Cydric, "but some of this information I do not quite understand." "Oh? Such as?" "The 'Celestial Archway'. It is mentioned in the texts, but there is no description of what it exactly is." Corambis handed Cydric the last remaining book from the nightstand. "A Wondrous Voyage, by Ishar Nephros," read the cover. Cydric opened the book to the page Corambis had indicated. "...and as the old man died, he whispered to me the location of the Cave of the Mystics. I followed the directions, and sure enough found the fabled Cave, its entrance cleverly hidden by a waterfall. "I stood there for a moment, my mind filled with the many tales and songs of the legendary Mystics, predecessors of the Elders, older even than the Fretheod. No one knew why they suddenly disappeared from the face of the world those many ages ago; standing there outside the entrance, I sensed that I was on the verge of finding the answer to that question. "I cautiously entered the Cave. The light from my torch glistened off the moisture that coated the dark rock of the interior. After walking for what seemed like days, I came to a dead end. Anyone who had gotten this far would have been forced to turn back, but not I. Holding aloft the Symbol of Shazax, I spoke the ancient chant the old man had revealed to me. "The wall of rock fell away, and I stepped through the opening into a huge cavern. There was a pool of water in the center of the cavern, with a tall white tree growing out of it. I advanced to the edge of the pool, barely able to contain my excitement. Years of searching were about to come to an end; I had at last found one of the Sacred Places where the Mystics hid their most powerful magic. "I spoke the second chant the old man had told to me. Instantly, the water began swirling about, churning up great waves. A bluish glow limned the tree; the very air seem alive with power. Suddenly, the leaves on the tree began flickering with color: green-blue-violet- red-orange-yellow-green in blinding succession. There was a sharp crack as the leaves burst from their branches and took on a silver hue. The leaves whirled and spun like a cloud of glow-flies, then formed into a silver sphere, coming to rest on the surface of the pool. "The waters calmed, and a bridge of light extended from the sphere to the pool's edge. I stepped onto the light-bridge and strode confidently to the glowing sphere. I knelt down and picked it up (it had been about the size of a large melon, but shrank to the size of an orange at my touch). As I carried it back to the edge of the pool, the bridge of light disappeared behind me. "I placed the sphere on a large rock near the cavern's entrance. Speaking the last of the old man's chants, I hurled the Symbol of Shazax at the sphere. There was a flash of light, then the sphere vanished. In its place lay the object of my quest, the fabled Amulet of Hanarn. "I picked it up and held it in my hand. I could feel the power radiating from its center. It was the Mystic power, the ancient energy that fueled that ancient race of beings and enabled them to create spells and magical devices so great that they remain unequalled to this day. "I turned the golden Amulet over and read the inscription engraved on its reverse. It was the command phrase for invoking the Celestial Archway, a portal into the fantastic worlds of the Dreamrealms. I gave a shout of exultation when I read these words--this was exactly what I had hoped to find! Many other mages had tried to create devices that would allow physical travel to the Dreamrealms, but without success. Indeed, those who ventured forth with their crude creations were never heard from again. But I now possessed the very device that the Mystics must have used when they left this world for whatever their destination. "I was sorely tempted to invoke the Amulet right there and then, but I knew that I had to properly document this incredible find. With the Amulet safely stored in a special pouch I rode away from the Cave, thinking of the wondrous sights that lay beyond the Celestial Archway." "So, has that enlightened you somewhat?" asked Corambis as Cydric finished reading. "Somewhat," Cydric replied. "But I always thought that the Mystics were nothing but myths--children's stories." "Well, all myths have some basis in fact," Corambis replied. "And I also read once that it was impossible, even dangerous, to physically travel to the dreamrealms." "True, it is impossible, but only for the abilities of the wizards presently living today. The age of the Mystics was an age of great magic, an age that shall never come again in this world." "What about the chrysoline ring?" Corambis reached into a belt pouch and brought it out. "Before you ask, it is absolutely genuine. I checked while you were asleep." Cydric held the ring up to the window. The chrysoline stone glittered and sparkled in the morning sunlight. "Rarest of all gemstones, he he murmured as he handed it back. "Indeed it is. Why, I could live like a king for the rest of my days with the money that would bring, if I chose to sell it." "Perhaps you should," Cydric said. "Why do you say that?" asked Corambis. Cydric placed the books back on the nightstand. "There's something about this whole thing that does not quite fit... how can Bahz have sent the skull and caused our visions if he was imprisoned and exiled over a thousand summers ago? His powers were nullified by the icewood, were they not? Indeed, should he not be dead by now?" The Sage smiled. "My boy," he said, "There comes a time when one must stop asking questions and start looking for answers." He picked up the mug. "Do you feel well enough to have breakfast downstairs?" Cydric nodded. "One more question, though; do you really intended to travel to this other dimension? Something about this does not feel right to me." "Well, it does not feel right to me either; that is why we must investigate this." He turned to leave. "We?" Cydric echoed under his breath. "You say something?" Corambis said from the doorway. "Uh, nothing--I'll be down soon." "Good lad." The Sage closed the door as he left. Cydric lay back for a moment and thought of home. He shook his head, gave a short laugh, then got up. VII. Interlude After breakfast, Corambis suggested that Cydric accompany him to the marketplace. Cydric agreed, and started to go around to the stables where the Sage had put the black stallion up for the night. "It is a fine day, better suited for walking than riding," said Corambis. "Besides, the fresh air and exercise will do you much good." "Very well. But I was only concerned about your own health." replied Cydric. "How do you think I've managed to keep fit all these years, eh?" chuckled the Sage. They started off toward the marketplace. "There's something I forgot to tell you," Cydric said. "Last night, just before the skull turned to dust, I saw it in my mind, very clearly. It felt as if it were going over every bit of my brain." "Well, it was no doubt making sure that you were indeed the one that its creator had selected. Such magical processes can be quite ungentle on the mind and the spirit." Soon they came to the marketplace. The daily crowd was starting to gather, and a few early merchants had claimed the best stalls. "Here we are," said Corambis, stopping in front of a large wooden booth that stood in the center of the square. It appeared cleaner and sturdier than the five other booths that clustered near it; a small purple flag with a white dot in the center fluttered from the top. Cydric saw that unlike the common stalls, the booths had solid wooden doors. On the door of Corambis' booth there was a strange symbol, which Cydric recognized was a glyph of some sort. He had seen such symbols in the books he had read in the Royal Library. Although they would not stop a skilled mage, wardings were ample protection against even the most cunning thieves. The Sage traced the glyph with his right index finger, chanted a short phrase, then opened the door. A few feet within was another door, but with no symbol. They passed through the second door into the audience room which was no more than ten feet on a side. Much of the space was taken up by a large green table and two chairs. "Those other booths--can just anyone use them?" asked Cydric. "Lord Dargon's treasurer assigns them to whoever can pay the rent for them," replied the Sage, sitting down in the left-hand chair. "The stalls, on the other hand, are for everyone's use." The Wheel of Life was carved into the top of the table. Cydric recognized the nine constellations represented in each division of the Wheel: the Knight, the Oak, the Fox, the Maiden, the Falcon, the Torch, the Harp, the Mistweaver, and his own sign, the Ship. The symbols for Air, Earth, Fire, and Water were inscribed around the outer rim of the Wheel, as were the symbols of the Crown, the Sword, the Scepter, and the Shield. Just then a slender dark-haired girl walked in. "Good morning, Master Corambis," she said. "Ah, good morning, my dear," replied the Sage. "Cydric, this my assistant, Thuna." Cydric rose and took her hand. "I believe we've met. You also work at Belisandra's Tavern, do you not?" Thuna smiled. "Yes, I remember you. You came in late yesterday and had a Special." Corambis said, "Well now, we had better get to business. Cydric, you may stay and observe, or explore the town, as you wish." "Thank you, I should like to stay awhile." Cydric replied. Corambis brought a small stool out from beneath the table and handed it to Thuna, who took it and placed it in the small area between the inner and outer doors. She then opened the shutters of the windows on either side of the outer door. "Very well, then, Cydric. Are you familiar with Wheel of Life?" Corambis asked. "Yes, somewhat," the young man replied. Just then Thuna came to the doorway and announced the presence of a customer. "Stand on my right, Cydric," the Sage said. A moment later, a middle-aged lady entered the room. "Welcome, good lady," Corambis said, gesturing for her to sit in the opposite chair. "The door, please," he whispered to Cydric as the lady sat down. As Cydric closed the door he saw Thuna smile and wink at him. The room was dark. Cydric was about to comment on this fact when the room suddenly lit up. He looked up and saw the source of the illumination: a small glowing orb fixed to the ceiling of the booth. "Well now, what may I do for you?" said Corambis to the woman. "I would like you cast my stones for this week," she replied. "And what is your birth sign?" Corambis asked. "I am a Tallirhan," the woman said. The Sage reached into a belt pouch and took out ten small wooden discs, one painted red and the rest colored blue. He placed the red one on the symbol of the Knight and the blue ones in the center of the Wheel, over the symbol of the Mistweaver. He placed his right hand over the discs, spoke a few words, then told the woman to gather them up and hold them above the Wheel's center. When she had done so, the Sage told her to concentrate on the symbol of the Knight, then drop the discs. The woman paused a few moments, then let the discs clatter to the table. Corambis glanced over the pattern the fallen discs made on the Wheel, took out a scroll from a tube that hung at his belt, unrolled it, and began his interpretation. When he had finished, the woman paid him five silver Sovereigns and left. "Well, Cydric, what did you think of that, eh?" Corambis asked, leaning back in the chair. "I found it most fascinating, sir," Cydric replied. "I would very much like to learn more about the aspects of the Wheel, if you would so instruct me." "I would very glad to, Cydric, providing we return relatively whole from our midnight meeting," Corambis said with a straight face. He broke into a chuckle upon seeing a slight wrinkle of worry crease the young man's brow. "The passage will not be unduly dangerous, I assure you. I shall take all the necessary precautions to insure our safety. But we will speak more of this later, eh? I am sure you would like to see more of the town now." "Oh, yes, I think I will do that. I shall be back in a few hours," Cydric said, moving to the door. "Good. Enjoy yourself. Tell Thuna to send in the next customer." Cydric closed the door behind him as he left the audience room. "You may go in now," Thuna said to the man standing just outside the outer door. Cydric stepped aside to let him pass. "Where are you off to?" said Thuna when the inner door had closed. "I am just going to have a look around the city," Cydric replied. "Oh, please, do not go just yet. It gets very dull just sitting here with no one to talk to," Thuna said, laying a hand on his arm. "Won't you stay for a little while?" Cydric paused a moment, then said, "I suppose I have plenty of time for sightseeing." "Wonderful," Thuna said, leaning an arm out the window of the booth and crossing her legs on the stool. She ran a hand through her long black hair and tossed her head. "So, Cydric, are you here in Dargon for business, or pleasure?" Her eye gleamed as she said the last word. "Uh, business, actually," Cydric said, leaning back against the opposite wall. Thuna waited, and when he did not volunteer anything more, said, "It gets so warm this time of year." She undid a few of the laces of her front-laced blouse and pulled it open slightly. "What business did you say?" she asked. Cydric quickly looked up. "Business? Oh, its nothing really. I doubt it would interest you." Thuna hopped off the stool and walked over to him. "Oh, but it would," she said, leaning very close. Cydric hesitated a moment, then said, "I... think I should be going now." Thuna placed a hand on his chest and gently pushed him back. "Please stay, just for a few more minutes," she whispered. Backing away slightly, she reached over and closed the shutters on the window. "Don't go away," she said as she went over to the other window and closed it up as well. Cydric had his hand on the doorknob when Thuna intercepted him. She turned him around and kissed him hotly. Cydric felt the blood rush to his face, and throughout his body. "Do you, ah, think this is appropriate?" he said when she released him. "Isn't it?" she giggled. "But the customers! And Corambis, inside--" "No one will bother us if they see that the booth is closed. And Corambis? Do not worry about him." Thuna stroked his cheek. "What business do you have with that old goat, anyway?" Cydric tried to gently disengage himself from the young woman's embrace. "Really, Thuna, I must be off now," he said. Thuna smiled prettily, then pressed him back against the inner door. With a provocative look, she unlaced her blouse all the way and let it drop to the floor. Then she threw her arms around him and kissed him passionately, her body firmly pressed against his. Cydric felt all resistance crumble away. He pushed all other thoughts out of his head as he began caressing Thuna's unclothed back. Suddenly, the inner door gave way and they both fell through into the audience room. There was a moment of stunned silence as Cydric glanced upward and saw Corambis and his customer looking down at him. Cydric quickly scrambled to his feet. "Uh, I was just about to, ah, leave now, sir," he said, hastily dusting himself off. "Very well, just be back around midday, eh?" Corambis replied, ignoring the shocked look of the customer. "Right." Cydric glanced down at Thuna, who rolled over onto her back and licked her lips. Completely embarrassed, he wasted no time in leaving. Cydric wandered aimlessly for a good half-hour before the incident with Thuna began to fade a little from his mind. He found himself on Traders Avenue and decided to have a look in some of the shops. He entered a small jewel merchant's store and asked the shopkeeper to show him some diamond rings. Holding a small three-stone ring the merchant brought out, Cydric sighed and murmured very softly, "Sweet Lysanda, why did I ever leave you?" After leaving the jewel merchant, Cydric next stopped in at a weapons shop. "Grauban of the Blade" read the sign above the door. As Cydric entered the shop a large man, apparently Grauban himself, looked up from the battle-axe he was polishing and said, "G'day, milord. What can I do for you?" "I'd like to see some swords," Cydric replied. Grauban led him to a wall rack filled swords of various types. Cydric picked up a curved scimitar and swung it experimentally. He put it back and picked up a fine rapier with a gold and silver hilt. He swung it and found that it felt just right in his hand. "Ah, now that's a real beauty," said Grauban. "I can let you have it for about, oh, two Cue." Cydric thought about how he had lost his own sword on the journey up from Baranur. Deciding that a replacement was a good investment, he said, "I do not have any gold with me; make it thirty Sovereigns and you have a deal." After several moments of consideration, the weapons dealer said, "I can't let it go for less than forty. I have a business to run, you understand." "Thirty-five Sov's, and not a Noble more." Grauban scratched his beard, then said, "You bargain hard, milord, but I accept that price. Will you be taking it with you?" "I shall bring you the money tomorrow, and pick it up then." "Fine. It will be waiting for you." Cydric visited a few more shops. When he heard the town crier announce that it was midday he headed back toward the marketplace, wondering what he was going to say to Corambis. The Sage was waiting for him outside the booth. Thuna was nowhere in sight. "Sir, about this morning, I--" "No need to say anything, my boy," Corambis said. "It's quite all right." "What do you mean?" asked Cydric, a little surprised. "Thuna used to be a street-corner girl, you see. A few months ago she was attacked by a drunken rowdy. I saved her from being killed, and took her into my care. So far she has led a rather clean life, with a few occasional lapses. You need not worry about what happened this morning. I have already spoken to her." Cydric nodded and silently sighed with relief. "Where is she now?" he asked. "At Belisandra's Tavern. Thuna works afternoons, and Belisandra gives her room and board in return, plus a small allowance. It works out quite well." Corambis cast a glance back at the booth, then said, "Well, now, shall we have lunch? What do you say to some nice fish stew, eh?" Cydric agreed, and they began walking toward the docks where Simon Salamagundi the stew vendor could always be found. When they were in sight of Simon's cart, a voice called out, "Corambis! Over here!" The Sage looked around and, identifying the source of the voice, waved and returned a greeting. "I must speak to my friend over there," he said to Cydric. "You go ahead and get the stew--I will have whatever you are having." He gave Cydric a few coins and departed. "Ah! You back again, young sir?" Simon Salamagundi said as Cydric approached the cart. Cydric greeted him and ordered two sweet stews. As Simon filled the bowls Cydric asked, "Do you remember the girl I was with last night?" "Red hair, in blue robes? Aye, what about her?" "Do you know where she lives?" "Sorry, me friend, I know not. Did she not tell you?" Cydric shook his head. "Does she come around here often?" "In truth, young sir, I believe she is new in town herself. You might try the inns, like the Panther or the Serpent, or Sandmond's." Cydric thanked him, gave the money to Simon's monkey Skeebo, and left carrying the bowls of stew. He had not traveled very far when a man bumped into him from behind, causing him to drop the bowls. Cydric watched as the man continued on without so much as an apology. Keeping his temper, Cydric hurried after the man and tapped him firmly on the shoulder. The man spun around. "You have just caused me to lose my lunch," said Cydric, pointing to the spilled stew. The man shrugged. "You should watch where you walk next time," he said, and turned to leave. Cydric grabbed his shoulder and forced him around. "I think you owe me for the cost of the meal," he said. The man shook off Cydric's hand and drew his sword. "I said, watch where you walk next time!" Cydric's hand flew to his left hip and found nothing there. Silently cursing the loss of his sword, he drew his sundagger instead. "I think you owe him for the meal," said a female voice. Cydric looked to his right and saw a cloaked woman holding a loaded crossbow. She was pointing it straight at the man's head. Walking closer to the man until she was a little beyond the sword's reach, the crossbow woman said, "Please pay him now." The man hesitated. The crossbow woman raised the weapon to her shoulder and placed her finger on the trigger. The man swore, dug out a handful of coins, flung them at Cydric, then stalked off. "Are you all right?" the woman asked, lowering the crossbow. Cydric nodded and sheathed the sundagger. "I appreciate your help, but I think I would have been able to defend myself." "With only a dagger?" The woman grinned. "Either you are a very good fighter, or the dagger is magic." "Both," Cydric returned the grin. He told her his name, and the woman introduced herself as Kittara Ponterisso. "I am pleased to meet you, Miss Ponterisso," Cydric said as he pressed her hand against his cheek. "Call me Kitty," she said. Just then Cydric heard someone call his name. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw Corambis hurrying toward him. He waved and turned back to Kittara. "Pleased to meet you as well, Cydric Araesto. I must go now, but I hope to see you around." She turned and melted into the crowd. Cydric started after her, but just then Corambis arrived, looking slightly breathless. "I saw what happened, Cydric. Most rude of that fellow." "Did you see the woman with the crossbow? She forced him to pay for the stew." "Ah, yes. Very nice of her to do that. Did she tell you her name?" "Kittara Ponterisso. Ever hear of her?" The Sage shook his head. "Can't say that I have." He glanced at the spilled stew, which a pair of cats were happily lapping up, and said, "Why don't we have lunch at an inn?" Still feeling a little uncomfortable about the incident with Thuna, Cydric declined Corambis' proposal that they eat at Belisandra's, and suggested that they go to the Inn of the Hungry Shark instead. The Sage pointed out that it was better to face up to the situation and resolve it rather than avoid it. Cydric reluctantly agreed, and they headed off to Belisandra's Tavern. Belisandra herself seated them and took their orders. A few minutes later, Thuna came to the table and apologized to Cydric for her improper behavior. He readily forgave her and suggested that they forget that it had ever happened. After Thuna left, Corambis said, "Do you recall the friend that I met back there at the docks?" Cydric nodded. "Yes, why?" "That was Kandevoll, the jewel merchant. He happened to mention that you were in his shop this morning, looking at betrothal rings." "Yes... I believe I was there," Cydric replied cautiously. "He also said he heard you whisper the name 'Lysanda'. That wouldn't be Lysanda the King's niece, now would it?" "Um, well, perhaps there are two Lysandas in the Kingdom," mumbled Cydric. "Aha. Something tells me, Cydric, that you are not the freewheeling adventurer that you seem to be. Perhaps you will tell me what you really are." Cydric looked up from his mug of ale. "What do you mean?" "I mean, Cydric, that so far you have not told me a single thing about yourself. Why is that?" Cydric took a long sip of ale before answering. "Very well. You are right, I was looking at a betrothal rings for Lysanda." "I am sure that you did not come all the way to Dargon just to look for rings. A young noble like yourself could find better jewelry in the capital." "I told you, I am here because of my vision. And--" He paused, and looked Corambis in the eye. "And you think that I am a noble?" The Sage chuckled softly. "I suspected it from the moment you introduced yourself. I used to be King Haralan's astrologer many years ago, and I never forgot the way the courtiers announced themselves whenever they came to me for a horoscope. You sounded just like one of them, even though you looked like an outlander." Cydric said nothing for a long moment, then sighed and said, "You have me, sir--I am indeed a noble. I suppose you want to know" everything about why I am here." "Hoho, indeed I do! Please begin, at the beginning, eh?" Cydric drained the last of his ale before speaking. "My father is Khysar Araesto, Duke of Pyridain and Treasurer to King Haralan. Ever since I was young, my father wished for me to follow his trade--to become the next Royal Treasurer. I grew up learning the ways of the treasury, though I really had no interest in it. I wanted to be like Sir Talan Shalk, the Captain of the King's Guards." "Ah, the famous soldier-adventurer, eh?" said Corambis. "Yes, but I knew my father did not approve of that sort of life. Even so, I convinced Captain Shalk to teach me what he knew. Under him, I learned how to use a sword, how to survive in the forest, and other things that I would need to know when I finally left Baranur. "About a year ago I made my decision to leave. I had planned to join an expedition to the Skywall mountains, but I had fallen love with Lysanda and for her sake I did not. But I never stopped thinking about leaving the city, about venturing to other lands. I tried to convince Lysanda to come with me wherever I eventually decided to go, but she was too used to civilization and implored me to stay in the city. "And then the visions started. I realized that this was the time; I truly had to leave. It was very had to part with Lysanda, but I knew that if I did not go I would never find peace. So I wrote a letter to Lysanda, packed my things, and left the castle in the middle of the night. I traveled with a caravan for a time, then made my way to Dargon alone. The rest you know." "But why did you not tell me you were of nobility?" asked Corambis. "In my experience, traveling royals usually like to make themselves known as such." "I turned my back on that sort of life when I left the King's castle, and I have tried to act in the manner of the common folk; but, as you have guessed, it will take some time for me to forget my court protocol." Thuna arrived and served up their orders: steamed fish for Cydric, a plate of cooked vegetables for Corambis. "Well, Cydric, it seems that you have sacrificed a great deal just to find out the meaning of your strange vision. What will you do after you learn its meaning?" "That all depends on what happens when we travel to this other world. Are you sure the journey will be safe?" "Passing through the Archway will not be dangerous. But after we arrive at our destination, I cannot know what will happen to us." "Perhaps if we knew, we would not want to go," mused Cydric. "Now Cydric, you are not afraid, are you?" Corambis asked, looking at the young man with mild amusement. "I do not fear going; it's returning that I am concerned about." "Well, Cydric, you are right to be concerned, but I shall make certain that we return safely. And now, eat up, for we have quite an adventure waiting for us." They continued their meal, and when they had finished, Cydric and Corambis left the tavern. -Carlo N. Samson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME NINE NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *Treasure 3 John L. White Date: 112387 Dist: 494 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Greeting. Apologize for lateness of issue. Promise that the next issue will be more prompt. Plug stories in current issue. Plug stories in next issue. Welcome new subscribers. Close. Actually, I could try to pawn the lateness of this issue on the fact that the Dargon Project had a minor contradiction come up which had to be addressed, but the truth is that I procrastinated bringing it up to the authors, so it's still my fault. O well. This time I also have to apologize for the size of this issue, although THAT I can slough off onto someone else's conscience! Two items of news to report. Firstly, the procurement department is having difficulty obtaining the prizes for the SF writing contest (see last issue's announcement). I am hoping to purchase the prizes soon, and I hope that many of you are considering entering a short story. The other item of news is that although WISCVM is shutting down effective December 15, FSFnet should be able to get through the replacement local gateway, and I forsee no interruption of service to our internet subscribers. But, this editorial must be kept short and sweet. The next issue will be out very soon ("No, *really*!"), and will contain a good mixture of Dargon and non-Dargon works. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Treasure Part 3 Je'en "To marriage!" The toast was heartily echoed by those around the table, and all lifted their flagons and drained them. Congratulations came from all over the taproom of the Inn of the Panther causing Kroan to beam brightly and toss appropriate replys back. Je'lanthra'en leaned back against the wall and thought there must be something in the air. Just a month or so ago, she, Cefn and Kroan had attended the gypsy wedding of Maks and Syusahn, who was none the worse for her imprisonment in the Emerald Hand. Je'en remembered the ceremony with fondness, all barbaric splendor and exaggerated pomp and solemnity. The party afterwards, which had lasted a good three days, was wild enough to make up for the almost staid wedding. And now, her brother was engaged to be married. The lucky lady was named Anorra. She was the daughter of a widower baker and was due to take over the family business. Kroan and Anorra had met over a shipping dispute six months ago, and it was love at first sight. Je'en was quite happy for her brother. She had met Anorra, and they got along famously. Anorra was a small woman with long brown hair and a wide, expressive face, full of energy and life, and already a better baker than her father, who insisted he was proud to be leaving the family business to her. Anorra and Kroan made a beautiful couple, and Je'en echoed the toast again in her mind. Cefn asked, "Why did you set a date so far away? Three months is a long time to wait, isn't it?" Kroan said, "I wanted Mother and Father to be here, and it's a long way from Derenten to Dargon. I got their return letter just last week saying when they would be able to get here. As soon as I knew that, I talked to Anorra and we set the date. It's..." Je'en broke in with, "Wait! Mom and Dad are going to be at the wedding? Wonderful! Its been so long since I've seen them." Her smile faded after a moment, and she said, "Oh, no." "What's wrong?" asked Cefn. "My parents don't know about my accident, or that I'm not a bard anymore. I was meaning to tell them, but I just haven't gotten around to it. So, they probably won't even recognize me as I am now." Kroan said, "Well, actually, they do know. I told them when I wrote about Anorra. They know everything: the accident; your retraining; and the adventures you've had here in Dargon. They both send their regrets, and wish you good luck in your new life. I'm sure that they will be very happy to see you again at the wedding." "Oh, uh, thanks, Kroan. I'm glad they know now, and I'm looking forward to seeing them again." Je'en let the topic be turned to wedding plans, then dropped out of the conversation. She slouched back in her chair and turned her thoughts inward. She summoned up a mental image of herself just as she saw herself every day in the large piece of polished silver she used for a mirror. It was as complete and detailed as a painting: her bardic training had sharpened her powers of recall, and she was quite adept at seeing concrete images in her mind. She looked at the picture of herself, clad in a comfortable leather tunic and breeches that went into knee-high suede boots. She still bore the marks of her 'accident' more than three years after the incident: a dark ribbon circled her throat to hide the scar there; her right hand hung uselessly from a black-wrapped wrist near the hilt of her sword, right-hung within easy reach of her good hand; and, most visible, the silver half-mask that hid the marks on her face. She presented a unique, mysterious figure, one that belonged in fantastic adventures that, perhaps, a bard would tell. Then, she did something she seldom did. She called up an image of herself as she had been before the accident. No scars, no masks, Leaf-Killer on her left hip and Soft-Winds hanging at her back. She set the picture next to her present-day self, and compared the two. The one that went bare-faced was the one her parents would be expecting despite Kroan's letter informing them of the events of the past three years. Briefly, Je'en wondered what she would look like now, without the mask. But she found herself backing away from the thought hurriedly. The silver mask had become a badge of her new life to her, and to cease wearing it was unthinkable. As she sat comparing the two images, she began to feel strange. At first, she couldn't identify how or why. Then, as it got worse, she was able to describe the sensation - it was like someone or something was pressing on her mind. It took a few more moments to realize that the sensation was almost familiar. Instinctively, she began pushing back, concentrating on holding her mind together and resisting the intrusion. As soon as she started to resist, she felt the pressure lighten and then vanish. The pressure had barely vanished when Je'en felt someone nudge her arm. She opened her eyes and sat up with a startled 'Huh?' that caused the others at the table to laugh. Cefn said, 'Wake up, sleepy head. Kroan has to get back to work and I thought we should toast him once more." The cowled man lifted his flagon and said, "To Kroan and Anorra - a long, happy, and profitable life!" Je'en reached for her mug of ale to join in the well-wishing. She found it difficult to get a grip on the thin handle of the mug, but finally she closed her fingers around to and raised it off of the table. As soon as she did so, she knew something was wrong. She felt the odd pull in the wrist, the pain, and then the splashing noise of ale sloshing all over the table. She focused on the mug, and then on the faces of her friends around the table. She noticed that they were all staring at the mug dangling from her hand in shocked disbelief. She started to say, "Sorry..." but stopped when she realized why they were staring. She finally realized that the mug was dangling from the fingers of her right hand! Kimmentari An ornate stone corridor shapes itself out of the greyness as she steps from the between-ways into the hallway outside the quarters of the man once known as Kyle BlueSword. She senses the pain emanating from the room before her, and she knows its cause. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she walks into the room and sees Morion writhing in pain on the bed. His arm throbs fiercely red in her ihr-sight, revealing the fact that the perenidth has invaded his body as far as his elbow. She can also trace the poison with her sun-sight, which reveals the greenish cast of the skin on his arm. Concern and guilt flood into and over her as she watches by both ihr- and sun-sight the poison advance quickly up Morion's arm. She walks across the room to him, and feels something break under her heel. Awareness comes to her that she has crushed the egg-focus, which will make closing the gate that much harder. Before she reaches the bed, she sees consciousness fade from Morion's body, but she can also see that his life force hasn't slackened its fight against the drain of the perenidth. She stands next to Morion's now still form, and tries to examine the things she is feeling. She feels concern because she likes the fierceness of spirit of this fast-liver, and she does not wish him pain. He attracts more than her curiosity, and she has been hard pressed not to think of him ever since their first meeting. Now, her concern shades to fear; fear that she might be feeling what was the bane of her race - hoftanau, the fire love. Only a fast-liver could inspire the fire love in the slow living, slow feeling hearts of her people. When that emotion was ignited, it was usually fatal. That was where the guilt came from. She wasn't sure that her last warning to Morion had been cryptic according to the pattern of Thyerin's Dance, or if she wanted to avoid the destructive force of hoftanau. Now she must decide whether to save Morion or to let the poison do its work. She reviews the last glimpse of the pattern of the Dance she had been given by Thyerin and tries to puzzle out the meaning of the threads that govern this part of the Dance. It is difficult. Finally she gives up - the strands are too tangled - and attempts to make the decision on her own. She doesn't have time to agonize, though. She can see that the poison has almost reached Morion's shoulder, with tendrils pushing ahead of the mass of the evil substance, almost as if it is eagerly searching for the man's heart. She knows that he doesn't have much time. If the perenidth reaches Morion's heart, she won't be able to work fast enough to stem the flow of the poison throughout his entire body. If that happens, he will be lost forever, his body dead and his immortal self trapped in the other-space from whence the demon-poison had been drawn. She looks into Morion's tortured face and decides. She kneels beside the bed and takes Morion's arm in her hands. As she prepares herself for the effort it will take to battle the perenidth, she feels the presence of Thyerin in her mind and she sees a part of his Dance made clear. She sighs with relief as she sees her strand and Morion's entwined and continuing beyond the scope of the Dance. She has made the right decision. She turns back to her task. Placing her hands about his shoulder, she concentrates to place a barrier within Morion's flesh that the perenidth cannot pass. She first makes sure that all vestiges of the poison are on the arm side of the barrier, then she begins to force the barrier, and with it the perenidth, back down and out of Morion's arm. It isn't easy. The perenidth seems almost to fight back, to resist being expelled from the body of its victim. She struggles tenaciously until finally Morion's hand cups a small pool of the vilest looking fluid imaginable, much more than could have been stored within the tiny egg. She relaxes for a moment, gathering her strength for the final effort. When she feels herself ready, she again concentrates on the barrier that now protects Morion's hand from having the fluid re-enter it. The barrier, invisible to sun-sight but barely, bluely visible to ihr-sight, closes around the perenidth, sealing it in a bubble. The bubble begins to rise, floating slowly up from Morion's hand. When it is a safe distance away from him, she begins to force the bubble to shrink. This, in turn, forces the demon-poison back through the gate to where it came from. When the bubble disappears, she turns her energies to closing and sealing the gate that the egg-focus had housed. When the gate is permanently closed, she slumps back and closes her eyes, nearly exhausted. But, she knows that there is more to do. The perenidth had been removed from Morion's body, but the damage it did while it was there must still be repaired. Wearily, she opens her eyes and tries to guage how long it will take to properly heal the fast-liver. She estimates at least three weeks of deep, healing sleep should suffice, which will leave very little time to deliver the circlet. As she worries, she sees a possible solution in the pattern of the Dance. The King of the land that Morion calls home will celebrate the anniversary of his birth just a few days before the deadline. Such an event should bring enough power-users together that, with her help, they may be able to find a way to send the circlet in time. She decides to leave speculation for later. She thinks that Morion will know more about who will likely attend his Monarch's 36th birth anniversary. She needs to start the healing sleep soon, before the damage increases and destroys their chances. She arranges the still slightly suffering fast-liver more comfortably on the bed, and then settles herself next to him. She places her hands on his temples and tries to communicate directly with his mind. She finds it easy, and pleasurable, to read his mind but she must go deeper. She probes for the healing centers of his brain, and finds them. She stimulates them to increased effort and ties the energy generation areas of her own body in to his to provide the necessary building and healing energies. She feels the drain, and allows herself to fall into the same healing sleep as Morion. Now, even should she wish it, there is no way to prevent hoftanau between them. Ka'en Ka'lochra'en kissed Gillin one last time before giving her a hand up onto her horse. He stared after her as she rode back home, and reflected that she was probably the best thing to come out of this, his latest assignment. Ka'en had come to this northern corner of Baranur when he had heard news on the grapevine that one of the border Barons of Duchy Dargon was looking for someone discreet to do a job. Ka'en's pockets were nearly empty, so he decided that he would look into the venture. Ka'en had travelled to the Barony of MountainSpur in the guise of a minor, unlanded noble name of Lord Kennet'. It had taken some convincing to get Baron Kayden, the man looking to hire a thief, to believe that he was suited to the job. It wasn't as if Ka'en had a detailed history of past accomplishments to expound on, especially since most of his best work had yet to be detected. Ka'en had been forced to extract a few choice items from the Baron's personal treasury to convince the man that he had the necessary skills to do the job. So convinced, the Baron had confided in Ka'en. Kaydin intended to annex the lands of his neighbor, Baron Rombar. Rombar had insulted Kaydin some years before by refusing to allow his daughter to marry Kaydin's eldest son. To get even, Kaydin intended to depose Rombar by discrediting him and having him and his family removed as rulers of the barony by Clifton Dargon himself, acting as the due representative of the Crown of Baranur. The method of discrediting was devious and complicated. Ka'en's part involved some very important documents stored in the very lowest vaults of Dargon Castle. The ones Ka'en was to steal were both the Primary Charter for the Barony of Fir Lake, and the High Charter for Duchy Dargon itself. Baron Kaydin would provide a doctored version of the Primary Charter of Rombar's Barony that would remove Rombar's family from the Barony. Taking the High Charter to the Duchy was a little insurance on Kaydin's part since without that specific piece of parchment, Clifton could, legally, be removed from the Duchy as easily as Rombar from his Barony. Kaydin intended to force Clifton into supporting him in his claim to the land of Fir Lake when the Barony was disolved. It was all just too much politics and legalisms for Ka'en's tastes, but he agreed to do the job. One of the convincing arguments was Kaydin's youngest daughter, Gillin. There was a strong mutual attraction between them, and Ka'en had recently begun having thoughts about settling down. Gillin was pretty, intelligent, and excellent company. Ka'en hoped that she wouldn't mind moving away from MountainSpur, since he refused to live anywhere that there was danger of him being exposed as a thief and Gillin's father certainly knew who he was now. Ka'en cleaned up the little glade wherein he and Gillin had said good-bye, repacking his bedroll and the now severly depleted bag of rations he had brought along for his trip to Dargon. Fortunately, the Ducal city wasn't more than four days away and Ka'en was sure he could make the remnants of his food last that long. Besides, it had been well worth wasting the time and food to say farewell to Gillin. Well worth it. Ka'en spent a week researching a way to infiltrate Dargon Castle. Baron Kaydin had offered a few suggestions, but no real help in getting him near the secret vault. The details were up to Ka'en. It didn't take him long to decide on a course of action once he had explored all the possibilities. He had even been given a tour of the Castle in his masquerade as Lord Kennet'. He had determined that there was no possible way for a guest or resident of the castle to penetrate the dungeons - there were just too many guards. So, he decided to be a guard. Given enough time, it was conceivable that Ka'en could have become a Castle Guard by the normal route. But he didn't have the three years or so that that would take. Instead, he would have to fake it. And the first order of business was to make a copy of the Castle Guard's uniform. The uniform was a simple one. The Guards wore a black thigh-length tunic over black trousers that went into black knee-high boots. Silver and gold bands added color at the neck, cuffs, tunic hem, side seams of the trousers, and the saddle of the boots. A sash of silver and gold triangles was fastened to the right or left shoulder by a pin of the Baranur Star. Rank was displayed within a small red square on the chest. Additional ornamentation was provided by small black buttons bearing a gold caltrop at strategic places on the outfit. Ka'en didn't want to buy enough fabric at any one store to lead an inquisitive mind to link the purchase with an extra guard at the Castle. So, he searched the second-hand stores for cloth, either in old clothes or in bolts, and for the various decorative elements he would need. He was in a slightly seedy but well stocked little shop bargaining for a child's show cape made of cloth-of-gold that he could cut up for the sash, when he heard the door open. An almost-familiar voice said, "Mergant, did you get in any....Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had a customer. I'll wait until you're through. Pardon me, m'lord." Ka'en turned to look at the person who had spoken. He was sure he knew the voice, but when he saw the speaker, he was just as sure that he was mistaken. He didn't know any left-handed women who wore silver masks, of that he was definite. Ka'en was concluding his business with the shopkeeper when the woman stepped up to the counter next to him and said, "Excuse me, but aren't you Ka'lochra'en?" Ka'en turned and stared into the eyes that were partially hidden within the mask, wondering how this woman knew him. It was rare that he went by his contracted name in Baranur, much less his full name. Finally, made slightly uneasy by the blankness of the mask, he said, "That depends to whom I'm talking." "Of course, you don't recognize me. How could you, after all," said the woman. "I looked quite different the last time you saw me in Derenten. I'm your second cousin, Je'lanthra'en." "By the Blood of Argan, you are!" Ka'en finally recognized the voice, the figure, the bearing, and even the set of the jaw. "What happened to you, Je'en? You're not a bard any more?" "Oh, its a long story, Ka'en. Much too long to tell without a tankard of ale to ease the telling. But, no, I'm not a bard anymore. I am an adventurer along with my partner, Cefn, who is a wizard. Why don't you come down to the Inn of the Panther tonight, and we can talk then, okay? Good. I'll be there around dinner time and after. See you then." Ka'en took the cape he had just purchased and left the store as Je'en asked Mergant about some special lanterns for which she was looking. He wondered what had happened to Je'en. She was so changed. The mask, her voice, the strange bracer she wore on her right hand. An adventurer, eh? They could be problems. At least the only adventurers that Ka'en had ever dealt with had been problems. He wondered if her presence in Dargon would complicate his business. Blood Moonlight filters into a shuttered and dark shop through warped boards and air vents. The silvery light glints off large glass jars filled with herbs and potions revealing the shop to be an apothecary. A shadow among shadows moves slowly and cautiously. It inches its way over to the jars and, after a pause to be sure it is alone, it begins to fill several cloth bags from the large glass jars. Suddenly, its movements lose their fluidity, like a marionette whose operator has just sneezed. An elbow strikes and dislodges one of the jars and it crashes to the floor, shattering. The shadow freezes, and then, under control again, begins to hurriedly complete its mission. The owner of the shop, who lives on the second floor, has been awakened by the noise. He comes down the stairs armed with a large club. The shadow seeks a way out, its mission now done, but the stairs are closer to the door that it is. The owner opens a shopfront shutter, flooding the tiny shop with moonlight, and catches sight of the shadow, formless and dark no more. Light glints off of a silver mask, the owner gasps out, "Je...", and a sword weilded sinisterly slides between ribs. As the owner slumps on the stairs, the shadow closes the shutter, wipes its sword on the owner's nightrobe, and slips stealthly out of the shop. Cefn "So, where is Je'en, anyway?" asked Ka'en. Cefn said, "I don't know. She's usually here by dinner unless she has something else to do, and she didn't mention anything to me. Still, she has been acting strange lately.... I'm sure she'll be around eventually. Could you explain again, Ka'en, why the middle part of your name isn't the same as Je'en's if you're related to her?" As Je'en's cousin tried to explain the complexities of southern family trees and their special naming conventions, Cefn wondered with more concern than had been in his voice just where Je'en was. If Kroan hadn't recognized Ka'en when he entered, the poor man would be sitting in a corner wondering where his relative was. It wasn't like Je'en to invite someone to meet her at the Panther, and then not show. Ka'en's dissertation was interrupted by the bells on the door, and a few shouted greetings that indicated that Je'en had finally arrived. When she finally reached their table, Cefn noticed by her manner that she was a little distracted. She said hello to her cousin, appologized for being late, and yelled her dinner order - "The usual!" - to the cook. She took her seat, and joined Ka'en in trying to explain the name thing. Cefn listened with far more interest now, but eventually the conversation returned to Kroan's coming marriage. Cefn retreated from the discussion for the same reason he had tried to side-track it earlier: the topic made him nervous. Yet, his mind refused to let him just forget the word. He tried to deflect the thoughts of being tied for a lifetime to one person with thoughts of Je'en and her increasingly odd behavior. But, that tactic didn't work, because Je'en was the reason that the thought of marriage disturbed him. Perhaps not marriage itself, but rather what went with it: love. Cefn was even more disturbed by love than marriage, and thinking of Je'en in that context just made him even more nervous. Cefn had been in love once, long ago while he was still an apprentice. The relationship had lasted for almost a year before it disintegrated messily. The breakup also resulted in the destruction of their partnership, which had almost been worse than the breakup. Now, Cefn was feeling the beginnings of what could well be love for his partner Je'en. And he didn't want anything at all to happen to their friendship, which was why thoughts of marriage made him nervous - he had recently been daydreaming of spending the rest of his life tied to Je'en. Conversation soon turned to the celebration of the King's Birthday three days hence. The celebration in Dargon would be token, with the Court Ball held by Duke Clifton being the most lavish demonstration scheduled to take place. Je'en and Cefn had an invitation, and they discussed what they would wear to the event. When Cefn offered to wangle Ka'en an invitation, too, the young man declined politely, saying that the atmosphere would be far to rarefied in the Ballroom for him to be comfortable. Eventually, Kroan had to leave as it was getting late and he had work the next day. As Kroan left, Ka'en also took his leave. Cefn expected Je'en to stay with him for a little while, but she rose from the table directly after her cousin and bade Cefn farewell very distantly. Cefn looked after her as she left the Inn, and wondered what had gotten into her lately. Feeling uneasy, Cefn bought a bottle of wine and went home. He activated the golden globes he had had installed in the town house he had purchased and made sure that all of the windows were properly sealed. He then removed his protective cowl and hung it on a peg by the front door. He took the bottle, got a glass and his cards, and went to the study to do a reading on Je'en to relieve his uneasiness. He shuffled, cut, shuffled again, and was ready. The first card turned over was the Twelve of Swords reversed. Trouble from the start. He swiftly layed out the rest of the Bent Star, the frown deepening on his face. When the layout was complete, he filled his glass, drained it, filled it again, and drained most of it. Then, he looked at the layout again. Nope, it hadn't improved. It was one of the worst yet non-commital readings he had ever seen. It indicated danger - disaster, even - all around, but it couldn't identify the source. Every bad card or position had shown up in that reading, but in such a way that it told him little. Topping off his glass again, Cefn reshuffled the cards. It took some time before they felt right, and when he layed them out he found out why - the entire layout was, card for card, the same as the first one. Eyes wide, Cefn sat back in his chair and drank from the bottle, leaving the glass on the table. He had never heard of an exactly duplicated layout actually happening before. He wondered what it meant and whether Je'en would survive the forces gathering around her. Emissary Tanandra en'Elerch lifted the simple brass door-knocker and hesitated a moment. As she finally let it fall to strike against the shiny plate it was hinged to, she wondered what it would be like to see Cefn again. It had been so long since the last time... She waited for several minutes before taking the knocker in hand again, but as she did so, she could hear noises just inside the door. Hastily stepping back, she composed herself and waited for the door to open. When it finally did open, there was a moment of silence before Cefn spoke. "It's... good to see you, Tanandra. Come in, please." Tandi wished she could see inside the cowl that Cefn had to wear. She couldn't quite fathom the tone in his voice, and she was sure that if she had been able to see his face she could have interpreted it. She stepped into the entry hall of Cefn's town house and turned as he shut the door. With a gesture, the single candle lantern that had been shining in the little hall went out, and the golden globe at the ceiling took over illumination duties. Cefn removed his cowl and hung it on a peg by the door, then led her into his study. Tandi took in the scene in the study while Cefn asked her if she wanted anything to drink. She noticed the spread of cards on the table, and even though she knew little about their meanings (she hadn't chosen to study them), she could tell that the layout was a bad one. She also noticed the bottle on the table, and wondered at it since she knew that Cefn didn't do much drinking at home. As Cefn handed her a glass of cider, he asked, "Well, how have you been, Tandi?" Before answering, Tandi took a good look at Cefn. She decided that time had treated him well - he still looked as good as when they had been ...apprentices together, if not better. She also realized that she still has some deep feelings for him which suprised her; she thought she had left him behind all those years ago. Firmly pushing her uncertain feelings out of the way, she recalled the reason she was visiting Cefn. She set the glass down and placed her forefingers and thumbs together, forming a crude circle. She hummed a low note, and the space within that circle began to glow with a swirling green-blue light. She said, "I have come on business from the Council, Cefn." The blue-eyed mage's smile of welcome vanished at the sight of the sigil that the swirling light had formed between Tandi's fingers. Cefn said, "I no longer serve your masters, Tandi. You are wasting your time." Tandi had expected this reaction, and was prepared. Sternly, she said, "The Elders never acknowledged your debt as paid. You performed a great service for the Council when you finally eliminated the last followers of Jhel and the Sword of Cleah. Even so, the services they have rendered you have not yet been repaid." Before he could interrupt, she continued, "The Council has detected certain experiments into the Forbidden Art. They lay to you the task of finding who is learning the Art and stopping him. There is every indication that the experimenter is Vard." Cefn paused a moment, pondering the situation, before answering. He said, with a forced calm that Tandi could see through with ease, "I cannot help. I...I am otherwise occupied. Something is wrong here in Dargon. There is a threat hovering over my partner, Je'lanthra'en. She's been acting strange lately - out of character. I must stay and help her - after what I have already put her through." He turned away, but not before Tandi read the love in his face, and the pain of that secret. She reflected that going around with one's face hidden by a magically dark cowl didn't give one much reason to learn to control one's facial expression. Cefn probably didn't even realize how open his face was. She felt the remnants of her own love crumble in the face of his deep feelings. Sadly but forcefully, Tandi said, "Cefn, the Council has empowered me to order you into this; even to lay a gorfodd on you - they knew you would resist. But, I don't want to force you. Listen, I know what Je'en has been through. You were monitored during that mission, as were the events you set in motion. But, she has survived admirably. She redirected her life without any help at all, which is remarkable considering the loss she sustained. She will be able to cope with whatever awaits in her future. "Cefn, you are the only person currently available for this mission. The others are all elsewhere, or not of sufficient ability to deal with someone able to delve into the Forbidden Art. Please reconsider. This IS important. You know the possibilities of an adept of the Art. Remember Ciraledwen." In the silence that followed, Tandi knew that he was remembering. The story of the most infamous Elder in history was an early lesson, and one that was drilled into every student of the Council. Ciraledwen had, through study of the Art, become able to reanimate whole armies of the dead - an invincible force. The only limit to her power had been the number of lives she could tie to her focus - humans enslaved to her will body and soul, and used to infuse the corpses with artificial life. It had taken a tremendous combined effort of the normally reclusive Elders and all of their students to finally breach the shields she had built to protect herself and destroy the evil Ciraledwen. When Cefn finally turned back to face her, Tandi could see the struggle he was undergoing on his too-expressive face. The concrete threat of a practicioner of the Forbidden Art had to be balanced by the vague threat against his partner and love. Finally, he decided. He said, "I...I cannot." His resolve firmed as he continued, "Je'en is more important to me than a vague threat. You are easily powerful enough to go against Vard, if he is truly involved and his name wasn't used just to try to lure me into this mission. After all, you have been under the tutelage of the Council for all these years since I left. You must be far more powerful than I by now. "Please understand me, Tandi. I will not go of my own free will, and I cannot allow myself to be forced by either you or the council. It's been good to see you again, Tanandra. Good bye." Cefn turned away again and went over the the table where his bottle still sat. Tandi watched him pour another glass full and drink half of it in one gulp. Sorrowfully, she began to concentrate on the sheet of light filling the circle still formed by her fingers. The identifying sigil had been given to her by the Elders of the Council, and with it had come a latent spell, a gorfodd, or compulsion. It was far more powerful than one she could cast herself and (so the Elders hoped) more powerful than Cefn could break. As she concentrated on the sigil, the light that formed it began to change from green-blue to red-purple. She watched the spell focus as it strengthened. She considered Cefn's suggestion that she go in his place. She had offered herself to the Elders, a fact that Cefn couldn't know. And she had been rejected as not able enough. True, she had spent the years since Cefn had gone out on his own with the teachers of the Council but she still was not as powerful as Cefn. It wasn't her fault. She just didn't have Cefn's ability. Not everyone could master the forces of magic to the same degree, and she just couldn't do as well as some. Certainly not well enough to combat someone able to delve into the forces required to master the Forbidden Art. The spell was ready. Cefn hadn't turned around yet - he was filling his glass again. Tandi said, "Cefn, forgive me but I was ordered." And, with a Word, she released the spell. Cefn may not have turned around, but he must have suspected something. He whirled at the sound of her voice, and Tandi gasped at the sight of the hoop he held between his hands. He stretched it to about three feet in diameter, the silvery strands threaded across it actually weaving closer together as the hoop grew. By the time he faced her, the hoop was a shiny mirror held before Cefn's head. The purple-black sphere of the gorfodd spell struck the hoop-mirror and bounced. Tandi gasped again when she saw that it had been perfectly reflected, and would strike her. Before she could react, the spell hit her, and she felt the cold tingle of the compulsion magic settle over her body and mind. She immediatly felt the compelling need to go find the person practicing the Forbidden Art. It was like a physical presence inside her, forcing her to move. Its little voice whispered to her, 'Get moving, find the man!' As she turned to leave, she heard Cefn say, "Tandi, I'm sorry! I didn't mean for the spell to return to you. Will you be all right?" She opened Cefn's front door, knowing that he couldn't follow her because of the moon- and lantern-light on the street. She called back, "Of course I'll be fine. Good bye, Cefn. Good bye." She didn't close the door behind herself, hoping that that tactic would gain her enough time to get away. Now that she had taken the gorfodd, she wanted no help or hindrance to her mission. She would find the man, and she would destroy him, all by her self. She didn't even hear the other tiny voice in her mind, the voice of her reason, saying, "I'm dead if this quest succeeds." Morion He awoke feeling totally disoriented, almost as though was in two places at once. Slowly, almost painfully, he sorted out the sensations and realized first that he wasn't dead. He wondered why, considersing the vivid memory of the pain the poison had caused him. Morion could still feel slight twinges from his arm, and it hurt to close the hand that had held the tiny, lethal egg. Of course, he couldn't account for the general stiffness of the rest of his body by the effects of the poison - if its effect had reached that much of him, he wouldn't be around to notice the results. Then he realized that he wasn't alone on Kyle's bed. He looked at the sleeping form of the strange blue haired woman who had called herself Kimmentari and realized that there was now a rapport between them that had been instrumental in saving his life. Somehow, he knew things about Kimmentari that he couldn't possibly know - things even lovers wouldn't tell each other. And he knew that she was helplessly, perhaps fatally, in love with him. The first stirrings of returned feelings propelled Morion off the bed in fear and confusion. How could he possible be in love with such an alien creature? He had never even heard of her kind before. He...he just couldn't really be in love, could he? She was beautiful, in an exotic way, and she had saved his life. Still... Thoughts came to him, memories and dreams. They weren't his, weren't even human, but they were entrancing. He saw Thyerin, the god Kimmentari's people worshipped, and the Dance he laid out as a pattern for his followers. He saw what hoftanau meant for one of Kimmentari's race, and how deeply the fire love had already burned into her. The thoughts were remnants of the healing bond that had followed her ridding his body of the poison, not actual mind to mind contact. But, Morion remembered the instant of his waking and seeming to be in two places at once. And he knew that if someone could know him on so intimate a level as to have actually been in his mind, and they still cared or loved him, he wouldn't refute that love. And, he knew that he loved Kimmentari. He looked for a long time at the silken-clad body of the alien woman, then reached out tentatively to touch her shoulder. As his hand touched her, he felt a brief reprise of the joined sensation and she opened her eyes. He stared into the deep red of her eyes, willingly getting lost in their depths. He settled slowly onto the bed, bent over, and lightly kissed his saviour on the mouth. Her response was slow and hesitant, as if she didn't know how to respond. But soon, as their mental rapport re-established itself, her reactions took on more passion. Several hours later, Morion again awoke to the now familiar two places at once feeling. He looked up into Kimmentari's ruby eyes where she was leaning over him staring at his face. He wouldn't have minded taking a few hours more to get to know his love even better, but Kimmentari laughed at his thought with a sound like silver bells, and said, "There will be time enough and more for that, my love, when we have danced our part of the Dance done. Or have you forgotten your mission here - the circlet?" In fact, Morion had done just that. It took a moment for him to recall just how he had ended up where he was: the challenge by Kyle BlueSword, meeting Kimmentari on the road to Belliern, the fight in the village square, Kyle's story of possession, Morion's task to deliver the crystal circlet to his former pupil Je'lanthra'en, and, finally, the tiny poisoned egg that had been the revenge of the demon-thing that had possessed Kyle. "Souls and swords, what day is it, anyway? How much time do I have to finish my task?" "Calm yourself, my love," said Kimmentari. "My thread has been joined to yours in this Dance - the task of delivering the circlet has become mine as well. This day is AvansDay of Harvest, just nine days from the deadline." "But, I...we'll never be able to get to Dargon in nine days, that is unless you..." Kimmentari smiled as she said, "I cannot move over such great distances any faster than you, my love. Alone, my magic cannot solve the problem. But I saw something in Thyerin's pattern that might help. "Just six days from now, your King Haralan will celebrate his six and thirtieth year of life. As I understand it, this is a cause of much celebration, and many people will gather in Magnus to help him commemorate the event. Among those present, there are sure to be enough persons skilled in the shaping of Power to enable us to devise a method to deliver the circlet in time. It seems that we should be able to reach the Crown City before the celebration, right?" Morion said, "That depends on just where this citadel is. Or, will that 'lens' thing that Kyle used still work?" "Its power has dissapated with the passing of the demon from this plane. We shall have to use more conventional means of transportation, I'm afraid. Still, I think we can make it. We have no choice, really. "To be sure, we should leave as soon as possible." "Surely a little more...rest...wouldn't hurt?" asked Morion. Kimmentari laughed again, and answered, "Well, maybe not a little more...," and kissed him. Near sunset of the day before the King's Birthday, Morion and Kimmentari rode into Magnus on wild horses she had called out of the forest around Kyle's citadel. The ride had been long and hard, and they had made it in just five days by leaving an hour before sunrise and riding for an hour after sunset every day. That didn't leave much time for sleeping, much less other nighttime games, but their mission was serious. Morion's rapport with Kimmentari had given him as much of an understanding of Thyerin's Dance as he could grasp, and he saw what the Dance had planned out for Je'en if she didn't receive the circlet in time: full mental possession by a power-hungry wizard. Morion pondered what to do when they arrived in Magnus. It wouldn't be easy to put Kimme's plan into practice: unless very powerful, those persons able to harness the Power seldom made it generally known that they could, as magic-use wasn't (in general) looked upon with much favor. Morion no longer had the contacts he once had in the Crown City. He had been away too long. He thought of just going to the Castle with the vague hope of meeting some of his old military friends when he hit upon the perfect solution. It wouldn't be very nice to put an extra load on Coridan, since he would certainly be having a busy day as the Falcon Herald at an official Baranur function, but the young man was the only person that Morion was sure to know at Court. He decided not to intrude on whatever last minutes of peace Coridan was likely to be having this celebration-eve, and he took Kimme to the Inn he stayed in whenever he was in Magnus. They made a noticeable pair as the warrior and the alien woman rode through the streets. At the Inn, Kimme drew some long stares, but the presence of Morion prevented any overt hostility her strangeness might have precipitated. The Inn had changed hands since Morion's last visit, but its quality hadn't suffered in the exchange and he and Kimme spent a very restful night making up for all the shortage of rest they had had on their ride. Morion and Kimme set off to the Castle early the next morning: so early that the kitchen of the Inn hadn't yet opened for breakfast, forcing the pair to leave without eating. Despite the hour, there were a good number of people up and about making preparations for the Celebration Parade that wouldn't even start out from the Castle until high noon. It was dark enough in the pre-dawn gloaming that Kimme received no undue attention. Morion was careful, however, to go out of his way to stay out of even the fringes of the Fifth Quarter - he had no intention of risking his life for a few less minutes walking time. Magnus was a huge city. Morion knew that it had no competition for the title of Largest City of Baranur. It could hold an infinite number of villages the size of Tench, and even cities the size of Dargon or Endeirion would vanish two or three times worth within the limits of Magnus. Morion and Kimmentari had several miles walk (not including the detour), and the sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon by the time they reached the outer wall of the Crown Castle itself. The walk around and around the rings surrounding the Castle was as tiring as the walk from the Inn, and the sun was well up into the sky by the time Morion and Kimme reached the entrance to the Castle itself. More than an hour later, after bullying his way through more minor court functionaries than he could count, Morion finally found himself in the reception room of Coridan's quarters. He made personally sure that a page had been sent to summon Coridan before allowing himself to relax and calmly await the Herald's arrival. After what seemed like days but was only about half an hour, Coridan appeared. It took a moment for Morion to be certain of that, though - the young Herald was dressed in a plain brown tunic and leggings, dress more suited to a page, or rather a house-squire because of his age. As Morion rose to greet him, the question must have been on his face because Coridan, after glancing down at himself and smiling, answered, "I am dressed like this because it makes it easier to spy. While most of the castle staff know me on sight, we have almost doubled the number of servitors in the castle for the celebration, and most of the new staff don't know me from the king. So, I go around and make sure that things are getting done, and nothing is getting stolen. The guards are looking out for that sort of thing as well, but it makes me happier to see to some of it myself. "Besides, you should hear the staff gossip when they think no one is listening! I get more news in this disguise than all of the king's spies can ferret out. Why, I just heard that Lady Merritan had been seen... "Sorry, Lord Morion. I forgot myself, please forgive me. Now, what brings you here with such urgent business, and who is your lovely companion?" Morion said, "Master Coridan, allow me to introduce you to the Lady Kimmentari, a highborn of the Araf. My Lady Kimmentari, I present to you Master Coridan, Falcon Herald of Baranur." Coridan and Kimme bowed to each other, then Kimme stretched out her hand, and Coridan properly kissed it in greeting. Morion could see that Kimme's strangeness fascinated the herald - the young man could hardly tear his eyes away from her when he said, "The Araf? I don't believe I've ever heard mention of them. Where did you meet her, Morion?" Kimme answered, "My people are a very secretive race who live in tune with the Dances of Thyerin. It was one such dance, that of Ahar'yKinel, that crossed the paths of Morion and myself and which brings us here." Morion continued, "I met Kimmentari on that quest you brought to my door so long ago. She appeared out of the rain one day as I was going to meet Kyle's challenge, and told me about Belliern. She also said that there was a further purpose in my meeting Kyle beyond freeing him from the demon that had possessed him and protecting the villages of Baranur from his ravages - namely, that I retrieve a crystal circlet from his citadel and deliver it to one of my former pupils, Je'lanthra'en. "When I had defeated Kyle, she appeared again, got the dying Kyle to explain what had happened to him. Then, she reminded me of my secondary mission and tried to warn me to be careful. I went to Kyle's citadel by the same means that he had used to get in and out, and eventually found the circlet. But the demon that had possessed him had also laid a trap for anyone going after the circlet. That trap almost killed me, and would have if not for Kimme's intervention. "The healing sleep she had to put us into wasted more than three weeks of the time before the deadline established by the pattern of the Dance to get the circlet to Je'en. That deadline is just two days hence: far too long to get to Dargon even by the fastest mode of transport available. And so we came to you, because Kimme had an idea about how to get the circlet to Je'en without us traveling there. Kimme?" "I know an enchantment that will enable us to send the circlet by magical means to Je'lanthra'en," said Kimme. "But to send the artifact so far will require far more effort than I, alone, can muster. In fact, it will take at least a score of human power-users to put forth enough effort to get the circlet to Dargon." "And," said Morion, "I decided to come to you for help, because I figured that you know all of the magicians and sorcerers in the Kingdom, or at least who would know them. If you will help us, it will save valuable time in gathering enough people to power Kimme's spell. So, will you?" Coridan took his time pondering the story and what help he might possibly be. He believed it - Kimmentari's appearance alone gave all the credence necessary to Morion's tale. But magicians were mostly reclusive, and wary of letting knowledge of their abilities get out. In some parts of the kingdom sorcery wasn't as frowned upon but here, in the Crown City, magic was looked down upon except where it was always beneficent, like the healers. For some, if the fact that they were users of magic became known, it would destroy them and their businesses. So Coridan thought long and hard before finally agreeing to help. A discussion of details kept Coridan from his duties for a further hour. It was finally decided that a message would be given discreetly to all of the 'power-users' (as Kimmentari put it) that Coridan knew of to meet at Coridan's rooms in the last hour of the day. Coridan would also distribute the message to the few people he knew that would have a broader acquaintance with users of magic. In all, Coridan assured Morion and Kimmentari, there should be well over a score of people to aid in the conjuring. The time between Coridan's leaving and the arrival of the first of the magic users late that night was occupied by three things for Morion and Kimmentari: eating (first, a large breakfast, then a moderate lunch not too long after the breakfast, a dinner at about the proper time, and intermittent snacks, mostly as the evening wore on and there was little else to do); preparing for the enchantment (which consisted of Kimme listing the things she and the others would need, and Morion sending pages looking for the items so listed in what, at times, amounted to a treasure hunt all across Magnus for the more esoteric needs); and, by far the most pleasurable pass-time for the pair, just being together. What with all of the travel and worry of the past days, the two hadn't had much time to be alone together. Of course, they were more tightly joined than was humanly possible for a couple under normal circumstances: Morion could still feel the resonances of Kimme's mind within his own when the conditions were just right. But it was still nice to just sit and touch and talk at times. It was after midnight when Coridan arrived in his apartments and announced that there would be no one else coming. He joined Morion as the only other non-participant in the room over next to one wall where they would both out of the way, and watched the thirty-seven users of power, directed by Kimmentari of the Afar, begin the ritual that she had explained to the first few arrivals, who had then instructed those who came later. The ritual was taking place in the largest of the rooms belonging to Coridan, which had been cleared of furniture as part of the preparation that Kimme and Morion had engaged in earlier. Cushions on the floor, and two chairs against the far wall were the only non-magical trappings left in the room. The 37 magicians were arranged in three patterned rings around Kimme. Within the inner ring where Kimme sat slightly off center was a forked candle stick mounted with a tall red candle and a much shorter purple one. The red candle had come out of the castle's stores, but the making of the purple one had taken much time and many of the strange ingredients the pages had been forced to hunt for. When everyone was seated comfortably, Kimme said, "The object of this conjuration has been relayed to each and every one of you. Most of the detailed effort shall be handled by me, as I have the best knowledge of the enchantment required, and I have as accurate a mental picture as is possible of the target, one Je'lanthre'en, a former pupil of my Lord Morion. The rest of you are to concentrate on the two candles before me. Try to keep both of them in focus, but of the two, the shorter one is the more important. I shall start a chant to get us all in rhythm - from there, each of you use whatever method you prefer to pool your power around the candles. "Is everyone ready? Then, let up begin. Hmmmmm..." Morion watched as the 37 magicians began to chant and sway. Slowly, they all began to speak and move as one. When they were as attuned as they could get, Kimme eased herself out of the chant-meld and began to conjure. She huddled over the silk pillow that bore the circlet. The pillow contained even weirder things than did the purple candle, and it was from those strange stuffings that Kimme was attempting to produce what she called an awyrdyn - a creature of another plane that could be bound to this one for a specific duration, such as 'until the completion of a given task'. The necessity of the pooling of powers was that it was draining to open a planar gate (which was the function of the pillow and its stuffings), and even more draining to bind the creature so summoned to its task (in which the purple candle would aid). Kimme and her kind were strongly steeped in the useage of the power, but she needed to be sure that both the gate and the bond lasted long enough to get the awyrdyn all the way to Dargon safely with the circlet. It wouldn't help the spell's effectiveness any that the clearest impression/image of Je'en that Kimme could get from Morion's mind was very vague and could almost as well be applied to any of Je'en's family at least by the criteria that the awyrdyn was capable of using. Time seemed to slow down for the two watchers. So little was happening, and what was was so boring. Coridan almost nodded off several times - but then, he had been up since very early and it was very late. Morion had had enough rest that he was able to resist closing his eyes, but the sameness of the ritual almost hypnotised him into unconciousness at least as many times as Coridan. A rough estimate of the time told Morion that more than half an hour had passed before he finally noticed the faint blurriness that was hovering like a small cloud around the small pillow. After rubbing his eyes to be sure that they weren't playing tricks on him, he began to pay close attention to what was developing on and around the circlet. The wavering cloud thickened until it almost blotted out the pillow and circlet, both visible as wavery outlines within the form of the wraith-like thing formed around them. It was vaguely human in shape, but there was no detail to its body - it looked like a wax shop mannequin before it's been sculpted to look a little more natural. The chant began to speed up a little as Kimme began the second part of the ritual, that of impressing the task on the awyrdyn, and she started drawing power faster. The red candle had burned rather rapidly until it was the size of the purple candle, at which point both began to melt at about the same rate (which was faster than a normal candle would melt). As the purple candle shortened, the awyrdyn seemed to grow darker in shade, from the milky translucence it began as to a deeper and deeper violet. Adding color to its form didn't help its definition, though - in fact, making it easier to see was definitely disturbing. When it was indistinct, its formlessness could be accepted. Now that it was fully visible and purple, the utter lack of features was unnerving. As the ritual continued, signs of fatigue began to show among those supplying the power for it. Sweat beaded the brows of most, and some were dripping from the exertion. A few of the marginally talented who had come only to show off their ability were seriously straining to keep up with the rest - they would have dropped out, but they all knew what that would do to the rhythm that had been built up. Finally, both the red and purple candles were little more than stubs in the candellabra. Kimme uttered a command that grated on the ears of all who heard it - a decidedly unpleasant sensation especially from one whose voice was normally so music-like - and the awyrdyn began to rise to the ceiling of the room. The circlet rose with it, held within its body somehow. Of the pillow that had held the circlet, there was no sign. When the wraith-thing had vanished from the room, Kimme gave another, more pleasant command, and the chant stopped even though no one present could understand the language she used. The candles also extinguished themselves, and there was silence in the room for almost half a minute, until one of the magic users moaned loudly and collapsed. Quiet chaos reigned in Coridan's room as the overcome magician was taken away to be tended and the other power users filtered away to rejoin the celebration below. Finally, only Morion, Kimme, and Coridan were left in the room. Coridan said, "Did it work?" Kimme, who looked tired but not exhausted, said, "It should have. There was enough power present, and enough time to prepare the enchantment properly. But I have not been able to see whether this will work within the weave of Thyerin's dance, so we can only hope." Morion said, "Thank you, Coridan, for letting us use your rooms for this, and for all your help in gathering the people we needed to make it work. Do you think there are any free guest rooms we could sleep in? It's a long way back to the Inn..." "Don't even think of moving from this room, you two. You have done enough for one day, and you'll take your rest right here. You know where the bed is - use it. I have duties elsewhere that I have shirked to be here to watch your Lady work. I have to get back to them now, so go ahead and sleep. And don't worry about me - if I need a rest, I can find places more suited to a busy and single man than to a couple who want to sleep for hours. See you in the morning - or rather, later this morning. Pleasant dreams." As Morion lay letting sleep overcome him, arms around Kimme who was already asleep, he wondered whether Kimme's enchantment would prove effective. Finally, he decided that it had to - there was certainly nothing he or she could do about it now anyway. Time to stop worrying about his old mission, and start thinking about his future with Kimme at Pentamorlo. With those pleasant thoughts running through his mind, he fell asleep. Theft Je'en stood in front of the mirror, a battle going on in her mind. Her body trembled from the effort she was putting into the fight. Her left hand was locked, white knuckled, on the edge of her mask, and much of the battle going on was over how to move that hand. The room she was in was one of the lesser guest rooms in Dargon Castle. Sounds of merriment came faintly to her from the Ball in the High Court, and from the smaller celebrations that had been brought to some of the rooms in the guest wings. She was alone in the room, and no one knew she was there, which was as the thing in her mind commanded. The thing that had forced her there, and that was trying to force her to remove her mask. The thing - the presence - in her mind had been gaining strength ever since that day that she had learned of her parents coming to Dargon for Kroan's wedding. It had finally been able to force her into Abernald's Apothecary just a few nights ago. Abernald had been killed that night. She wasn't quite sure that she had done the killing - she didn't remember. Perhaps someone might have slipped in through a door left open by her to do it. But she had a sinking feeling that the deed had been done by her - or the thing in her mind. She knew that Cefn was worried about her. She had been aware of his concern for a long time, but the thing had enough control of her mind to force her not to react. She turned aside his questions, and simply ignored him when he got too insistent. He had put on a good show of normalcy earlier that day when he had arrived at her house to escort her to the Ball. They were almost normal together. But she knew what she had in the satchel she brought, and had a vague idea what the thing intended for her to do. She knew that the Ball would be far from normal for her. Somewhere around the 10th hour of the night, she broke away from Cefn at the command of the thing in her mind. She had been covertly eyeing all of the unattached males at the Ball, as per instructions, and had selected the perfect specimen for her deception. When she left Cefn without a word of explanation and latched onto her choice, she saw the hurt in Cefn's stance - she had become very adept at reading her partner in ways that didn't involve the face (which she seldom saw much of). His hurt hurt her, but she had her orders, and she didn't seem to be able to disobey them. The young knight, resplendent in his green jeweled belt and golden spurs, was much flattered by Je'en's attentions. He willingly let her lead him around, especially when she led him away to what she said was her room. As soon as they were alone in the empty room, Je'en slipped from her belt pouch one of the small spheres she had made from the things taken from the Apothecary. It broke properly when dropped, releasing a fast-rising cloud of white powder that soon had the knight sleeping peacefully on the bed. Je'en then slipped unnoticed out of that room, and made her way to another. She slipped into dark clinging clothing from her pack, and donned a hood. And then came the moment when she stood in front of the mirror fighting the presence in her mind's command to remove her mask. Everything she had done at its command so far she hadn't been able to resist, no matter how repellent to her. But removing her mask was too much of a violation of her self. She had to fight it. The presence again commanded her to remove the bright silver mask. It was easily recognized, and hard to hide. Je'en again refused. It was her strongest link to her new self, and without it, she felt she would just be a songless bard with a maimed right hand. The presence insisted, and Je'en could feel the pressure on her mind increasing until she could no longer bear it. With a satisfyingly final gesture, her left hand moved away from her face, bringing the mask with it. A casual toss relegated the silver object to the shadowy corners of the room, where it was forgotten. The once again fully controlled Je'en pulled her hood down over her face, hefted her satchel, and slipped out of the room, heading for the depths of Castle Dargon. Three-quarters of an hour later, Je'en stood before a huge door in the deepest and oldest part of Dargon Castle. Few people knew about the sub-dungeons she now stood in, or that they had been built long before the Castle itself had. The somewhat faded Dargon Crest painted on the vault door before her covered, but did not well hide, the original markings on the door - markings in the runic style of the Fretheod Empire. Six people normally stood guard around this most secret vault. All six had been taken care of by the dust in the spheres as easily as all of the other guards Je'en had passed on her way down. She walked up to the next obstacle in her path and examined the series of locks that bound the vault closed. From a separate pouch in her satchel, she removed a small wineskin that was filled with another special mixture. Placing the nozzle in the largest keyhole, Je'en gently squeezed the fluid into the locking mechanism. When the wineskin was empty, she stepped back and waited. Soon, thin white smoke began issuing from the keyhole. Je'en still waited, until the smoke turned black, then ceased. She went back over to the vault door and lightly touched the handle. Finding it hot, as expected, she used the wineskin to protect her skin as she pulled the door open with ease. As it came open, a grainy grey powder began to leak out of the bolt hole - all that was left of the locking mechanisms. The vault itself was huge, but mostly empty. Along the wall opposite the door was a small locked cabinet and there were some shelves on the left hand wall that bore some decrepit antiques, so poorly maintained that there was no telling what they had once been. But Je'en wasn't interested in what was in the vault - she was looking for what was under the vault. In the very center of the vault's floor was an ornate inlay of what seemed to be a compass rose, save that the four main points were lettered in runic Fretheodan, and they didn't point in the normal directions. Je'en didn't even notice this, but went to stand on one of the lesser points. She gave the passwords that would open the vault-within-a-vault, three nonsense syllables in Low Fretheodan. The words came to her from the presence in her mind, and she repeated them out loud. When the last echo had died, a rumbling began. Slowly, the main axis of the 'compass' began to rise, bearing with it the treasure Je'en had been directed to retrieve - the map to the hiding place of the keseth, the key to unlock that hiding place, and the skull of the only person who knew how to get by the traps guarding that hiding place. Another Theft Ka'en changed into the Castle Guard uniform he had pieced together after entering an empty guest room as close as he could find to the servant's wing of the Castle. Getting into the Castle hadn't been as difficult as he had feared - he still retained some of the sneak-thief skills his first master had taught him. He had spent as little time as possible at the Ball itself, mostly from fear of meeting his cousin and her friends and being recognized. He hadn't accepted their invitation to go to the Ball with them because it would have complicated his mission to have to alibi himself to them when he vanished. He put the finishing touches on his disguise and slipped out of the room and down into the cellars. Once into the under-levels of the castle, Ka'en began to walk purposefuly through the hallways, as if he were on an important errand. He came to the first set of stairs leading into the dungeons proper and was astonished to see the posted guard lying on the floor next to the portal. He knelt next to the prone man and noticed a light dusting of fine white powder on and around him. A touch to the side of the throat assured Ka'en that the man was just sleeping even though he was breathing so shallowly that he seemed dead to the casual glance. Ka'en wondered exactly who and what had happened to the man as he continued onward and downward. By the time he reached the second sub-level, which was as far down as most people thought the Castle went, Ka'en was getting annoyed. Someone had preceeded him into the depths of Dargon Castle and without a shread of the subtlety that he had taken so long to insure. Each and every guard Ka'en had passed had been lying on the floor, covered in white powder, asleep. It was a crude but effective way to gain access to the lowest levels of the castle and it made Ka'en's guard disguise utterly useless. He entered the foundation levels of the castle quietly and cautiously, wary of whoever had drugged the guards since they could still be down there. The age and style of the architecture he passed through was lost on him - he didn't have the experience to recognize ancient Fretheodan ornamentation or construction techniques nor the concentration to spare even if he had the knowledge. He began to hear noises from up ahead, strange sounds like conversation but not in any language he understood. He finally came to the end of the hall he had been following and saw the open vault door, the vault that was his own reason for being here this evening. He saw the small vault within the larger vault that held the papers he had been hired to procure; he saw the shelves on the walls with their strange, incomprehensible contents; and he saw someone dressed in black standing on the design in the center of the floor and watching a portion of that design rise slowly into the air. When the hidden crypt had fully revealed itself, the person in black pushed back his - no, her - hood and squatted down to retrieve the contents. It took Ka'en a moment to place the familiar face, but when he finally recognized Je'en (the scar threw him off for a moment), he gasped involuntarily, realizing that she must have been the one to drug the guards. He wondered what was so valuable about the contents of the hidden crypt that would draw Je'en to steal them. Je'en heard Ka'en gasp and whirled and straightened with a grace and fluidity that again astonished Ka'en. He knew that she was now a warrior but to see the skill in her stance and bearing proved what he had been told. She scanned the room looking for a weapon, since she hadn't brought her own. Her eyes fell on one of the antiques, and she dashed over to it. Drawing it left-handed, she continued her dash right over to Ka'en. When he saw the murder in her eyes, his instincts overcame his confusion, and he drew his steel to meet her. But Ka'en was a thief, not a warrior. He could defend himself against the types he was likely to meet in his job, but not against one who made a living by the sword. Also, there was the fact that Je'en was family to restrain his reactions. On her part, Je'en wasn't pulling her blows for any reason, and Ka'en wasn't even sure that she recognized him at all. He parried like mad, and tried the few disarming tricks he knew, but Je'en's skill was too great. After only a few minutes of frantic battle, she slipped her borrowed blade deep into her cousin's side. Ka'en knew intense pain and his blade clattered to the floor, his body following it seconds later. His wound bled freely, and Ka'en could feel the warm pool growing against his side. He watched, too weak to protest or call for aid, as Je'en calmly pulled a bag from her satchel and filled it with the three objects from the hidden crypt. Then, she put the bag back away and walked over to the vault door, without even a glance for her cousin and victim. The blood that drained from Ka'en's side also drained his strength. He tried to pull himself after her, but he could barely even move his arms, much less his whole body. And then something happened to assure him that he was on his way to death. Just as Je'en reached the vault door, there was a faint *pop* and a beautiful silver and white circlet appeared, hovering about three feet off the ground. It wavered back and forth between Je'en and Ka'en, but she didn't even notice it and kept walking. When she turned the corner to head for the stairs, the circlet seemed to make up its mind. It drifted quickly over to Ka'en and settled gently to the floor right in front of him. His efforts to touch it to see if it was real sapped the last of his strength, and he fainted dead away. Mystery Cefn was getting ready to leave when the guards came to get him. He had only stayed as long as he had because of a conversation Kroan had gotten him into with a visiting Countess - he had managed to forget about Je'en's peculiar behavior until Margreth had been called away. He was on his way to say good bye to Kroan when a man and a woman dressed in the uniform of the Castle Guards came up to him and asked him if he would come with them. Puzzled but not worried, he followed them as they led him down into the cellars, then the dungeons, then the sub-levels, and finally to a part of the castle he had never known about, a part obviously older than the rest. They had passed little groups of guards and other castle staff clustered about apparently sleeping guards on the way down, and there was a much larger congregation of guards and staff on the lowest level of the castle. Cefn was lead through the confusion of people and into what appeared to be a huge vault. He noticed the strange contents as he was lead through it and over to another cluster of people near one wall. One of his guides said, "Sergeant Hammin, here is Lord Cefn as you requested." A woman rose from the cluster of people and smiled. "Greetings, Lord Cefn. We seem to have a little problem here. None of the Castle healers can be reached right now, and this man is very near death. I was wondering if you might be able to help him pull through so that we can find out just what went on here?" As Hammin was speaking, the cluster of people broke up revealing to Cefn the bloody body of Ka'en. He immediatly stooped down and made sure that Je'en's cousin was still alive. Cefn wasn't a healer - his talents didn't run in that direction. But he was good with artifacts, and he made sure that he kept some healing crystals on his person for emergencies. He quickly fished in his belt pouch and drew out three long green rods. He carefully rearranged Ka'en's body so that he could get to the wound, and touched the first of the rods to it. It began to glow, and the blood stopped oozing from the wound. When the rod began to shorten as if it was being absorbed into Ka'en's body, Cefn grasped the hilt of the sword firmly and drew it out of the wound. The first rod was soon gone, and Cefn used his knife to cut away Ka'en's tunic from the wound. Then, he applied the second and third rods one after the other. As each rod was absorbed, the wound closed more and more, and Ka'en's color improved from the deathly pale of heavy bloodloss, to an almost healthy (in comparison) slightly wan. By the time the last rod was gone, Ka'en had begun stirring. The properly fatal wound in his side had been reduced to a bad slash and nothing more. Enough of his vital fluids had been replaced that he was in no danger of death - at least from his wound. From the looks of the guards, though, Ka'en had better have a good reason for being in the vault wearing a makeshift guard's uniform. Cefn left Ka'en to the care of Hammin for a moment, and went to examine the crypt that stood open in the center of the vault. He looked in the holding tray and saw that it was empty. He examined what he could see of the mechanisms, but could tell little save that they were very old and very well made. He could sense a subtle magic around the crypt, but it wasn't a strong enough impression to determine type or purpose. His attention was drawn to a knot of people around one of the sleeping guards, who did not seem to want to wake up. Cefn went over to where the guard lay, and noticed for the first time the white powder that covered him and the wall and floor around him. Searching carefully, he produced shards of what seemed to be unnaturally brittle wax. He brushed his finger through the powder, and sniffed it. Sleeping dust. He isolated the main ingredients in his mind, and realized that the most important one could only have come from Abernald's - the shop whose owner had been killed not long ago after a break in. He told a guard what would act as an antidote, then went back to check on Ka'en. Je'en's cousin had recovered even further as the healing elements of the green rods continued to do their work even inside his body. Ka'en was sitting propped up against the wall, drinking from a wineskin someone had brought with them. Cefn checked him over again to make sure that he would be alright, and then Sergeant Hammin asked him just what he was doing dressed as a guard in the most secret vault in Dargon. Ka'en circumvented the direct question by telling them instead about how he had seen Je'en open the hidden crypt and how she had attacked him and left him for dead, taking the contents of the crypt when she left. No one had even known that the crypt existed, and no one knew what signifigance the scroll, key, and skull might have to anyone. Then, Ka'en told about the appearance of the circlet. Cefn examined it as he had the crypt and again found faint but unreadable traces of magic, both on it and in it. From what he could tell, though, the magic he could sense on it was whatever had been used to make it appear in the vault. The magic within the circlet was like nothing Cefn had ever sensed before though if there had been more of it he might have been able to figure it out. Cefn eventually managed to talk Hammin into letting him go after Je'en. He reasoned with her that he had more experience in chases like this would be, and that he had another motive for finding her - Je'en didn't normally go around stealing things that no one else even knew existed. Something strange was going on, and Cefn wanted to find out what, and help Je'en out of whatever trouble she was in. Ka'en had more difficulty getting himself out of trouble, but he hadn't even taken anything after all. When Hammin pronounced him free, he stated that he wanted to help Cefn help Je'en. They left the Castle together, both trying to figure out how to find Je'en. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME NINE NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb Waiting Here For You Steve Boyko It Slid Ron Trenka *The Edged Tool Jim Owens Men Shall Have the Stars Carlo Samson Wiring Jim Owens Date: 121487 Dist: 521 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, with the end of the semester and the approach of Christmas things start getting hectic, and FSFnet is no exception. We are rapidly approaching the deadline for submissions in the FSFnet cyberpunk short story contest (as outlined in Vol09N1), and hopefully we'll have one or two entries by the end of the month. I am still negotiating to purchase the prizes, which will (hopefully) be a book of Geiger artwork, and a poster print of Geiger artwork. Those of you unfamiliar with the name might recall that he did the preliminary artwork for the movie "Alien", among other works. Due to the shutdown of the WISCVM gateway and the opening of a local gateway at MIT, the YALEVM-CUNYVM link has been absolutely saturated of late. This is the reason why some of you may have received two copies of the last issue. It was originally sent on 11/23/87, but due to the large file queue it was purged and most readers did not get their issues until I re-sent the issue last weekend. Apologies to all for the confusion. And speaking of confusion, what happens when you have a machine which allows people to subscribe to FSFnet, but never sends out issues? I recently discovered a list of people who had subscribed to an FSFnet list on a LISTSERV which hadn't received an issue in nearly two years! I hastened to request that the list be shut down, and invited those users on the list to be added to the main distribution list, which many have since done. And that brings us to another topic, and that is this issue's distribution. As you can see, we have broken the 500-reader barrier with over 460 BITNET readers and over 50 internet subscribers! And, of course, this doesn't include people who get issues from local lists or newsgroups, servers, or other second-hand methods. I must thank everyone who is spreading the word about FSFnet. And, as always, a warm welcome to all our new readers. This issue is a particular treat, and I hope you all enjoy it. We have a Dargon story by Jim Owens, and several excellent short stories and poems from BITNET authors. I'm sure that you will find it a pleasant change from the standard fare. And, finally, one last comment. For some time, I have found myself in the most remarkable position of not having to ask for submissions. However, with the distribution of this issue, I find that we are again in need of material. If you are an amateur writer, please feel free to send in original stories, articles or poetry. If you are interested in writing stories for the Dargon Project, please so notify me. And, of course, all readers are encouraged to write a story for the cyberpunk SF short story contest. As mentioned in the very first issue of FSFnet, it cannot function without the support of its readership in the form of letting other people know about FSFnet and making contributions. Please get in touch with me if you would like to submit an article to FSFnet. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Waiting Here For You When the call came I took heed, To fight within this hour of need, I said "My lady, I must go" "To find and slay our deadly foe." To which she said, "Take care, my dear," "Within my heart you're always near" "I'll be waiting here for you," "I'll be waiting here for you." My heart was heavy, my sight was dim, Aboard the ship with men so grim, To recover that which was our own, Within my heart her love still shone; As I watched men live and die, I recalled our last goodbye: "I'll be waiting here for you," "I'll be waiting here for you." We knew our cause was just and right, Our foes' hearts were black as night, On and on the battles raged, Our lives and more were being waged; For months we fought for every hill, And yet her words echoed still: "I'll be waiting here for you," "I'll be waiting here for you." While deep within our foes' domain, A war did end our good king's reign, Cities sacked and temples burned, To death and ruin we returned; We slew them all with sword and steel, And deep within I knew for real: "I am coming back for you," "I am coming back for you." And after foes were all laid down, I traveled back to my home town, To find it burned down to the ground, And my love nowhere to be found; The people came and said, "Be brave," "Your lady she lies within her grave," "She waited here for you," "She waited here for you." -Steve Boyko <9090920@UNB> <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> It Slid The car sat under the tree, its occupants basking in the silence and the illusion of privacy. The man clasped the breast of his shapely companion in a passionate embrace. She responded with a moan as her hand slid between his thighs. She knew that she should be home with her betrothed, yet the passion of this stranger was more than her will could resist. The smell of sweat from the lover's bodies filled the interior of the car as the two twisted and turned in an ancient dance that man had performed since he fell from the branches of the Tree of Life. In the darkness, a shadow stirred. It lifted It's hideous head and paused, as if listening for something in that accursed darkness. A faint voice drifted through the heavy air and It heard. It moved It's hellish frame toward the voice and the voice grew stronger, more demanding. Soon, a spot of dim, flickering light appeared in that world of eternal night. It moved nearer and the voice boomed inside It's horrid skull. "Come, for it is I who beckon", the voice said. "I have a task and a sacrifice for you." And It slid through the gate. "It was his fault", she thought, as the stranger's manliness slid inside her. "If he paid more attention to me than those old books I wouldn't need this." Their bodies moved in a rhythm that followed an unheard tune. Their moans grew louder as their senses became aware, every nerve alive, sensitive to the slightest touch. And It slid. Her moans became screams of passion, then screams of fright as It's horrible head came crashing through the windshield and fixed It's toothy jaw over the head of her lover. Her screams, mingled with the tossings of her lover's dying body, formed a morbid scene. Then she was alone. And It slid. In a small room, surrounded by ancient tomes and scrolls, a man leaned over a ball of crystal and watched. A smile stole across his face as It left the car and moved into the night. The face moved closer to the crystal and watched the naked and hysterical form of his wife as she looked at the blood of her lover smeared across her belly and chest, felt the warmth of his blood on her face, tasted the saltiness of the blood on her lips. The man looked past the wrecked car to where the blackness clung to It's body, as It headed toward the gate It had been summoned from. "She will learn", he said sadly. And It slid...... -Ron Trenka <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Edged Tool The Edged Tool: The Metal The street was basically empty, unusual for any street in Dargon. Most streets were usually filled with people, going about their business. Some were almost impassable. This street, however, had only one person on it. Levy Barel walked crisply down the cobblestone. His staff made a tap each time he set it down on the rock. He was whistling quietly . He was on his way to the house of Cavendish, an old friend of his. There he planned to eat supper, and, if the evening ran pleasantly enough, possibly even spend the night. He was passing one of Dargon's many alleys when the sound of voices drew his attention. He looked sideways down the alley, and what he saw stopped him in his tracks. In the alley were four men. One, obviously a foreigner, had his back to a wall. The other three, swords drawn, were facing him. The foreigner had his hand on one of his two swords, but had not drawn. Levy hesitated. From the looks of the three natives, he could guess what was going on. Alone in a strange town, the foreigner was an easy target. Levy could not conceive of the stranger as being in the wrong. At the same time, cutthroats did not earn their title through good deeds, and a second murder came easier than the first. He put one foot forward, toward the confrontation, and then stopped, uncertain. "Help him." Levy looked around. He saw no one else. "Help him!" Levy leaped forward. He ran full tilt towards the group. "Hey! Hey!" Levy yelled as he ran. He had no sword, no armor, only a small knife that was buried under his travelling clothes. He wondered what he would do when he reached the thieves. "Hey!" The four men turned and looked at Levy. Under any other condition, the flapping cloak, awkwardly held staff, and bug-eyed expression would have been hilarious. Instead, however, the three ruffians took to their heels and fled. Levy slowed down to a walk. He and the foreigner watched as the thieves disappeared out the other end of the alley. Then they looked at each other. The stranger was shorter than Levy, and yet still had a good presence to him. He was wearing a long tunic under a heavier overcoat. Judging from the foreign make of the other's clothes, it was obvious that he came from a land not much warmer than Dargon. "Are you all right?" Levy asked. "Yes. We did not hurt each other." The other looked to the far end of the alley, where the cutthroats had fled. He then looked back at Levy. "Thank you for helping me. I... appreciate it." The other gave a short bow. He spoke as if he was still learning the language. "It was...nothing." Levy thought back. Who's voice had admonished him to aid the stranger? There had been no one else around. "Who are you?" At the question Levy looked back at the other. "My name is Levy Barel. Who are you?" "My name is Ittosai Michiya. I..." "Let us get out of this alley." Levy interrupted. "Please. Come with me." Ittosai paused. He was still not used to the west's strange ways. Finally he relented and followed Levy. The two reached Cavendish's house without further incident. Cavendish welcomed Ittosai warmly. It didn't take Levy long to realize that Cavendish not only knew Ittosai, but that Ittosai was on his way to Cavendish's house when he had been attacked. Over supper Levy learned many things. He learned that Ittosai was on a self-imposed exile from his country, something Ittosai felt some embarrassment over. He learned that Ittosai had only been in Dargon a few months, and that Lord Dargon had commissioned Ittosai and Cavendish to record all Ittosai could remember about Bichu, his native land. Cavendish thought it wonderful that he could take a break from his dull court records, and while Ittosai would not admit it openly, Levy knew that it was an opportunity to get his feet under himself in a strange land. Levy spent that night at Cavendish's house, and, at the scribe's insistence, the next night as well. Levy had contracted a room at a local inn, but the innkeeper refunded some of the fee, and both parties were satisfied. Ittosai had been living with Cavendish as well, and Levy found himself in a strangely furnished room that he knew he had once slept in, but that now looked like it was in another country. It was neat, however, and so Levy didn't mind much. The second morning Levy was packing his horse up for the trip home. He had come to Dargon to buy gold and gems to make into the golden articles he fashioned for a living. The stones were worth a lot of money, and even though Levy's inheritance would be great, Levy's father was not dead, and so Levy had worked long for the money. He was tightening the last knot when Ittosai startled him from behind. "You are leaving now, yes?" Levy turned to see Ittosai dressed in heavy traveling clothes. "Yes. I have to get back to my village. Are you leaving also?" Ittosai shrugged. "I have recorded enough for Lord Clifton Dargon. He has rewarded me, and I... can now go." He held up a bulging leather sack for Levy to see. "Where are you headed?" Ittosai had told Levy that he knew no one outside of Dargon. "I know not. I was wondering... a companion, you would like? Someone to travel with? I would be honored to go with you." Ittosai was smiling confidently. Levy smiled back. He had been dreading the lonely trip home, and would be happy to have a partner. He told Ittosai so. "Good! We can leave now then!" Ittosai ran around the corner of the house, and returned a moment later leading a huge horse loaded with twice as much baggage as Levy had ever carried in his life. "Is that all yours?" Levy stared at the bundles. "Yes. Most it came from Bichu, my home land. Don't worry, I know to pack." Levy nodded hesitantly, and then the two started off. The Edged Tool: The Forging Levy stooped near the fire. He stirred the broth carefully, trying not to slosh any into the fire. The scent was good, and it was bubbling fiercely. He and his travelling companion, Ittosai Michiya, had stopped for the evening. They had stopped early, several hours before dark, so that they could replenish their depleted supply of water and meat. Ittosai set out to catch some birds, and Levy had set up camp. When Ittosai didn't return soon, Levy searched out a small creek and filled their water bottles. He found Ittosai cleaning his catch when he returned. As they cooked the fowl and ate them, along with generous helpings of week-old stew, they discussed Ittosai's plans. "...want to see much...as much... of your land as I can." Ittosai paused to take a bite of stew. He had discovered that the technique of using a wide spoon didn't differ as much from the technique of the chopstick as he had originally thought. The stew, on the other hand, was something he would need time to get used to. "I think that's a good idea. I have seen much of it myself. It's beautiful, for the most part. Some parts are wild and uninhabited. Some parts are wild, and inhabited." Levy chuckled at his own humor. Ittosai gave Levy a puzzled look. "Please...What do you say?" "Some parts of Baranur have bands of men, thieves, murderers, robbers. Others are cities, like Dargon, only in the warmer south. They can be very rough. I am careful not to go where I know I might get into trouble." "No man will trouble me. I will...dee...defend? Defend my honor. I will make my ancestors proud." He patted the swords at his side. Levy looked at him. "You seem awful sure of yourself. It doesn't pay to depend on yourself for too much. No matter who you are, there is always someone or something you need to fear." "I fear no one." Ittosai finished his supper, and stood up. He dusted himself off and walked off to clean his bowl. Levy watched him, then shook his head and finished his own meal. The next morning they continued on their way. They had been traveling for four days already, and that afternoon they came into a small village, one just big enough to have an inn. There they bought more food, and continued on. A few miles out of town they left the main road. Levy explained that this path would take them south toward his village. Ittosai continued with Levy, although he was no longer as talkative as he had been before. That afternoon they paused in a clearing in the woods. It was one obviously used by travellers, and there was running water nearby. Levy topped off the bottles while Ittosai busied himself with a flute he was carving. Levy returned after a few minutes. He was carrying the two bottles on either end of his walking stick. He set the jugs down, and threaded the stick out from the handles. He stood up, and saw a man step out of the woods between Ittosai and himself. He called out to Ittosai, but even as Ittosai stood up another man followed the first out. Within a few seconds, the two found themselves surrounded by a dozen armed men. Ittosai watched the intruders approach. He rested his hand on the hilt of the sword his uncle had given him. Perhaps this would be its first real use. Five of the men formed a rough half-circle around him. The rest surrounded Levy. They all carried drawn swords, but the ones confronting Ittosai stopped just out of his reach. Levy watched as Ittosai surveyed the situation. The five men confronting Ittosai seemed content to stand their ground, as did the ones Levy faced. Ittosai was not made of similar material however. He had never been taught to take the defensive. The first man never even moved his arms. Ittosai killed him on the draw. The next man took a defensive stance, but failed to take into account his foe's longer blade. The remaining three stepped back, forcing Ittosai to pause to realign himself. He then once more pressed the attack. He dropped the next with a belly cut, and stepped into the fourth. Their swords struck once, and then Ittosai whirled and cut down the fifth, who was trying to come in from the side. He then turned once more to the fourth one, who was standing with his sword outstretched. Ittosai saw the other's eyes flicker for an instant, and stepped in with three quick blows, the last of which cut almost all the way through his opponent's body. Ittosai pulled his sword out quickly, but before he could straighten up completely he felt a massive blow on the back. He fell to the ground, something pinning his lower body down. He quickly levered himself up with his right arm, and swung his sword up behind him with his left. It connected, and Ittosai felt blood spraying the back of his neck as the weight rolled off his backside. He tried to get up, but discovered to his horror that his legs didn't want to respond. He looked up at the rest of the people in the clearing. They all just stood there, none moving. Ittosai reached behind himself, and felt down his spine. In the small of his back, his fingers encountered something hard. He grabbed it, and pulled. It came out, and he suddenly felt very weak. With trembling muscles he held the bloody knife up to his face. It fell from his weakening fingers, and a moment later his right arm also gave way, dumping him across one of his victims. As he watched, the others turned away, to consider their other captive, Levy. Ittosai saw Levy, head bowed, forehead resting on his hands, which were clasping the top of his staff. Then the other men obscured Ittosai's view of Levy, and a moment later Ittosai closed his eyes. "Ittosai. Ittosai. Wake up. Ittosai." Ittosai opened his eyes. Levy was staring down at him. When Levy saw Ittosai's movement, he smiled, and extended his hand. Ittosai grabbed it, and felt himself being pulled to his feet. He looked around. He was standing on the edge of a mound of gore. Bleeding bodies littered the clearing. Ittosai put his hand to his back, but while he had no problem finding a small slit in his cloak, there was no corresponding hole in his skin. "When I saw that ruffian knock you down, I was worried. I started praying that you would be all right. I guess you just got the wind knocked out of you, though." Levy seemed unconcerned about the carnage behind him. "I... but...no..." Ittosai was severely confused. He looked at his hand, felt at his back, and looked around once more. "What did you do?" "Me?" Levy was surprised. "I didn't do anything." He surveyed the clearing smoothly, almost casually. "I'm not a fighter. I can't give anyone life, so why should I take it? My god fights for me." Ittosai stared; at Levy, standing there in true sincerity; at the bodies littering the ground; at his hand, which no matter how many times he put it to his remembered wound, would come away dry. Ittosai numbly helped Levy drag the bodies into a large pile in the center of the clearing. Levy considered the pile for a few minutes, and then walked over to the fire. He grabbed a burning branch, and with Ittosai's help proceeded to burn the bodies. Once the fire was going properly, Levy and Ittosai packed up and hurried away from the stench. All the while Ittosai was running the matter over and over in his mind, and every time his hand would wander to the small of his back. They made camp well after dark. Levy once more dug out the stew pot, and heated up its well churned contents. Ittosai declined his offer of the pungent food, and watched as Levy ate it with obvious relish. Finally he could take it no longer. "Did I die?" Ittosai wasted no words of introduction. "Huh?" Levy stopped in mid-bite. "Did I die? Did I ..." Ittosai fought for a word. "Did the man kill me?" "You're here, aren't you?" Levy was looking confused now. "He knife me!" Ittosai was loosing his mastery of the native tongue as he grew more and more excited. "Here! He knife me!" He turned and showed Levy the tear in his clothes. Levy examined the blood-stained tear carefully, and the skin underneath. "Maybe he did. Maybe you did die, or something. But you're alive now. If you died, and are alive now, then my god didn't want you to die. If you didn't die, well,..." Levy paused, looking for a good answer. "...Well then he still doesn't want you to die. Maybe he wants you." Levy looked thoughtful, then turned back silently to his food. Ittosai considered this. His religious teaching had not involved the worship of any particularly large deities. The idea of a god powerful enough to save a life was new to him. He silently left Levy, and retired to the privacy of the shadows. Levy watched him leave. He had not explained to Ittosai how he had prayed for deliverance, and how when he opened his eyes all his enemies were dead on the ground. Nor had he ever told Ittosai of the voice he had heard back in Dargon, urging him to go to the aid of a foreign stranger. He pondered his own words. They had come out clumsily, but suddenly he saw a greater meaning in them. Of course, in the dark, after such a frightening experience, it was easy to assign meaning to meaningless things. Such speculation was best left for the morning. Levy sensibly finished eating, and went to bed. The next dawn found Ittosai returning from a small stream, having finally washed off the previous day's dried gore. He once more looked neat, his blades at his side. He stepped into the clearing, and was shocked to see a man once more step into the clearing with Levy and himself. Ittosai's reaction was blindingly fast. His blade whistled as it arced through the air. The stranger's reflexes were faster, however. Ittosai's blade screamed harmlessly off a steel bar clamped to the other's forearm. Before Ittosai could recover from the follow-though the intruder had grabbed Ittosai with a grip like iron. While the two struggled, Levy ran up to the pair. "No! No! Ittosai! Stop! Captain Koren! Stop!" At the sound of the name, Ittosai paused, as did his opponent. Sure enough, when he really looked at the man, Ittosai recognized the captain of Dargon's city guard. The two released each other. "Many pardons, please. I did not know." Ittosai returned his sword to its sheath and gave a short bow. Captain Koren smiled as he stepped back and ran his fingers through his hair. "It's all right, my friend. After your little encounter yesterday, I'm not surprised you're a little edgy." Levy and Ittosai stopped at Koren's mention of the fight. "How did you know we had an encounter yesterday?" Levy looked suspiciously at Koren, who was grinning broadly. "I was following that group. I caught up with them just after you left. I followed your tracks from the pyre. Who else could it have been?" "Did the bodies all burn completely?" His secret discovered, Levy was his usual businesslike self. "I don't know. They were still burning when I left to follow you. What a stench!" "Why were you following them? Is Dargon so quiet you can track down mere road toughs?" Koren paused for a moment, then spoke. "You're a trusted fellow. Lord Dargon has uncovered a plot against his life. These men were somehow linked. We think they were waiting for his death, so that they could come in and pillage the city. There are other groups to the east as well. They all seem to somehow know that there is a plot going on." "Preying on the dead." Ittosai broke his silence. He was secretly smarting that Koren had deflected his blow so easily, and at the same time grateful that he had not killed the man. To add to his turmoil, someone was trying to kill the man who, up until a week ago, had been his lord and master. "What will you do now?" Koren turned to Ittosai. "Actually, I think that depends on you. I was thinking as I followed you. I'm alone on this mission, and I know that you are loyal to Lord Dargon, Ittosai. If you can handle fifteen armed cutthroats, alone, I think you might be a good person to have with me. Lord Dargon set you free to go, didn't he?" Ittosai nodded, willing at least temporarily to allow Koren to believe him to be a greater fighter than he was. "Ittosai was planning on seeing the lay of the land, Captain Koren." Levy looked to Ittosai as he spoke. "I was thinking of taking him to see my village. Of course, it's Ittosai's decision." The two looked at Ittosai. He pondered for a moment. He could go with Captain Koren, and help the man who had helped him when he needed help, or he could go with Levy, who seemed to think that there might perhaps be some purpose to Ittosai's wanderings. Ittosai thought back to the things his father had taught him, of destiny, of karma, of the world of the spirit. He looked up through the branches at the rays of light streaming from the sun. "I would be of little use to you, Captain Koren. I do not yet speak your language that well, and I would be ... obvious? in a crowd. I will go on with Levy." The Edged Tool: The Honing The sun was shining brightly when Levy stepped out from among the trees, and looked down on his house, a small square set in the midst of a golden field. He smiled broadly. No matter how interesting, there was no place that could make him feel like that tiny building made him feel. A moment after Levy stepped into the light, another person also stepped out. This person also looked out at the small house, but his mood was far from happy. He was remembering the large, beautifully decorated mansion he had grown up in. It was now many hundreds of miles away, and Ittosai Michiya, as this man was called, was not likely to see it ever again. Ittosai Michiya was an exile. Levy and Ittosai crossed the remaining distance to Levy's house. Once there they unpacked the horses and let them go. The two then carried their baggage into the house. Ittosai looked around the dark interior. The dim light seemed oppressive, as had much of the last two days of their journey. To Levy, though, the dim light was the quiet stillness of home. He promptly started to set the usual household proceedings back in motion, lighting the fire, setting a pot on to cook (the same pot of stew as during their journey), and drawing water from the well. At first, Ittosai shunned to do what he considered to be slave's tasks, but soon realized that he had left his exalted status back home in Bichu, his homeland. They hadn't been there long when there came a delighted shriek from the doorway. Levy turned around just in time to catch a fair haired young girl as she flung herself at him. "Levy! You're home!" She gave him a bear hug, accompanied by much happy squealing. Even Ittosai was forced to smile at such an enthusiastic homecoming. "You almost knocked me over there! Yes I'm home! Home at last! How's everyone? Mother? Father? The farm? What's happening?" The joy of seeing a familiar face shaped Levy's face into a big grin. Ittosai noticed that there were two young men standing in the door. They looked so much like the girl he realized they must be related. He also saw in them a clear resemblance to Levy. Levy noticed them also, as they stepped into the room. "Kane! Kine! How're you doing?" They both stepped in to give Levy a hug as well, although in a more restrained manner than their sister. Levy turned to Ittosai, one hand around each brother and his sister looking over his shoulder. "Ittosai, I want you to meet part of my family. This is Kane, Kine, and Kara, the triplets in our family. They're two after me, in order of birth. Folks, I want you to meet Ittosai Michiya, my travelling partner from across the sea." "Hello. I'm Kane." Kane stepped forward, as did his brother. "I'm Kine." Kara came around from behind Levy and stepped right up to Ittosai. Before he knew what was going on, she gave him a kiss, and then leaped out the door. "Let's go tell everyone Levy's back!" The four men watched her bound through the grass, then looked at each other. Kane and Kine smiled at Ittosai's startled expression, and then waved and followed their less restrained sister out. Levy watched them go, then turned to look at Ittosai. "Well? What do you think?" Ittosai rubbed his cheek where Kara had met him. "I..interesting." The two resumed unpacking, while Levy proceeded to tell Ittosai all about his family, for about the fourth time. It wasn't long before heavy footsteps could be heard outside. "Levy!!" The call sounded like a bull getting ready to charge. It was followed by a great bull of a man. He snatched Levy completely off his feet in a hug, then held him up at arms length for a better view. "You almost look like you've grown! I'd better watch out, or you might get bigger than me!" From the size of the man, Ittosai doubted it. As he was lowered to the ground, Levy turned to Ittosai. "Mattan, this is Ittosai, my travelling partner. He's from a country called Bichu, across the sea." Mattan stepped up and clapped Ittosai gently on the shoulder. "Wellmet, Ittoshi. Will you be staying long?" Ittosai looked up at the behemoth before him. "I .. do not know." Mattan turned and clapped his hand against Levy's shoulder, almost knocking him down. "Ma's throwing a party for you. She's been planning it almost since you left. At dark, at the house. O.K.?" "Yes. I'll be there." Levy knew better than to turn down his mother's party. Not only would he miss a great time, but he'd never live to see the end of it. "Good! Bring Ittoshi, he'll like it." With that, and a wave, Mattan also walked off. Ittosai wondered briefly how often he would hear his proud name so badly mangled, then turned once more to his unpacking. After unpacking Levy stepped outside and called the horses. Both came running at his call. With Ittosai's help he loaded the gold and gems he had bought in Dargon onto the horses, and then he and Ittosai started towards the village proper. Once there they were again met by many people happy to see Levy. Ittosai noticed, however, that there wasn't as many happy faces along the streets as Levy had said there would be. The two made their way to the smithy, where Levy was apprenticed. The smith was a wide fellow, with a wide face and an equally wide smile. Levy endured yet another bruising embrace. "Well, it's about time you got back! I've missed the extra arms! We've got a lot of catching up to do before winter comes!" "Yes, I can imagine." Levy looked around the shop. Everything looked much like had seen it last, although there were the few inevitable changes. He looked back to the smith. "I've heard they're throwing me a party tonight. Were you invited?" "But of course! You know your family! It's no fun unless there're a few hundred people there!" Levy and the smith both laughed at that, although the smith didn't laugh long. "Well, I'll let you have the rest of the day to get caught up. I'll see you after sunset." With that he turned back to his hearth. Levy and Ittosai returned to Levy's house. They continued to get Levy's house back in order, checking the fences, finding Levy's two cows, and finally drawing more water. Ittosai tagged along, feeling out of place. While drawing the water, Ittosai spelled Levy after a bit, something for which both were grateful. He worked quietly for a while, and then turned to his host. "I wonder." Ittosai said that like a question. "Why is there no woman in your house?" Levy looked up from where he was sprawled in the grass. "I don't know. I suppose it's not from lack of opportunity. I guess there's just been too much else to do. I never had time to catch one, or to chase one long enough for her to catch me." He grinned at that, and Ittosai did too, after thinking about it for a moment. Ittosai pulled up the bucket. He was about to dump it into the basin, like he had the other bucketfuls, when he noticed that the water was suddenly muddy. "Levy." "What is it?" He got up, and walked over to look into the bucket. Frowning, he took it from Ittosai and dumped it onto the grass. He then carefully dropped the bucket back down the well, noting how long it took to fall. The frown on his face deepened when he realized it had dropped basically all the way to the bottom. He pulled it back up, and grimaced when he saw how muddy the water was. "Looks like someone's used my well recently. It never gets this low this time of year." He and Ittosai stared down into the black hole for a moment, and then Levy shrugged, and turned away. The two of them carted the water into the house, changed clothes, and started off for Levy's parents' house. By the time Levy and Ittosai arrived the party was already well underway, as a well planned welcoming party should be. Levy spent almost two hours introducing Ittosai to all his family, relatives, neighbors, and general well wishers. Never had Ittosai been so confused and bewildered in his life. Any social event he had ever been to was dignified and restrained. This party was anything but restrained. There was dancing, singing, wrestling, eating, drinking, talking, and laughing, all at the same time. It wasn't long before Ittosai found a nice quiet spot in the shadows where he could just sit and watch. Levy, on the other hand, couldn't have sat down even if he had wanted to, and he didn't. After being away for almost three months, and living in a strange and sometimes hostile city, he was glad to get back to a place where he didn't have to watch his back, his step, and his wallet all at the same time. He danced wildly with every pretty girl, including his sisters, he wrestled with all the young men, except Mattan (daring he might be, but he wasn't suicidal), he ate and he drank and he even sang a song for the crowd. He talked with everyone about everything, he greeted even the people he didn't like, and it was only when the crickets went to sleep and the people started to leave that he finally sat down to catch his breath. It was only then that he realized that he didn't know where Ittosai was. He looked around, then got up and started searching. He finally found him, sitting on a bench talking with Eli Barel, Levy's father and town Elder. "... thought to try distilling it. We've always liked it the way it was." Eli looked up as Levy approached. "Ah! Levy! I hope you feel sufficiently welcome now, if you didn't before." "I always feel welcome here, Father." Levy sat down next to his father. "What were you talking about?" "Ittosai here was telling me about what they drink in Bichu. He says our beer is water compared to it." Eli smiled at the foreigner, who was drinking some of that water out of a wooden mug. "It is. But that's because here it flows like water, while in Bichu it is rare stuff. Ittosai told me that Bichu is a crowded country." Ittosai nodded in assent. "Yes, it is true that here we don't go thirsty." Eli's face darkened at that word. "Or at least we haven't yet. But that time might soon come. Levy, there's something I want to show you. Come." Levy and Ittosai followed Eli through the dark. They walked down a well worn path as it led down a fairly steep slope. Suddenly the dirt gave way to water worn rocks. Strangely enough, though, there was no water flowing over them. Levy stood on the dry riverbed, his hands on his hips. "It's not right for the river to be dry at this time of the year, is it?" Ittosai could hear concern in his voice. "Nor is it right for wells like yours to have nothing but mud in them. Ittosai told me what happened. So far our well still has water, but further north wells are empty, and the drought moves further south each day. The crops still need water, at least for a few weeks yet, and if this keeps up we are going to be hungry and thirsty this winter." "Could you not send someone north? To find the problem?" Ittosai tried to make out Eli's expression in the dark. Eli's voice was flat as he answered. "I did. I sent two men north, first Jorden, son of Jesh, then Eli, son of Tharah. Neither have come back. They were to have been gone only three days. It'll be two weeks tomorrow." The night was quiet for a several minutes. Finally Levy spoke. "Ittosai. Do you wish to stay, or do you want to go with me?" The Edged Tool: The Use Levy and Ittosai left at first light. They took with them their horses and as much food and water as they could carry. Levy knew that it could always be unpacked if necessary. They followed the riverbed, walking right up its middle. At first Ittosai felt nervous about this, having once seen a man carried away by flood waters, but he soon realized that the river would not be dangerous unless there was a heavy rain, and there had been none for weeks. Soon they left all houses behind. They started to see some of the effects of the lack of water. Weeds, which normally clotted the shallows of the river in these uninhabited parts, now matted the shoreline with their dry stalks. Occasionally, in the deep pockets of the riverbed, the two travelers found flattened corpses of fish, dried by the fall sun. Nightfall found the pair camping without a fire, fearful that any spark might ignite the dry leaves that were falling from the dying trees. The next day at dawn they continued north. By noon they found themselves forced to travel single file, as the river narrowed down to a stream, a brook, and then finally gave way to what had been a marsh. Here Levy and Ittosai stopped for the night, again without a fire. The next day they started moving northwest, as that was the direction that Levy thought looked the driest. His judgment seemed good, as they were soon moving through what was rapidly becoming a desert. Trees stood almost leafless, their foliage lying at their feet, most of it still bearing traces of green. The only animals they spotted were dead, the rest having left for better feeding. As the two continued north, they approached some small hills. To their surprise, when they reached these hills they found them to be green and living. Strangest of all, the dividing line between the dead land behind them and the green trees ahead of them was as thin as a thread, running around the base of the hills. Ittosai watched while Levy studied the area. After a few minutes of walking around looking at things, Levy walked back to Ittosai. "The answer to this whole problem must lie at the base of these hills. There has to be a reason why these hills mark the boundary between this desert and living ground. I'm going to walk around this hill westward. I want you to walk around the hill eastward. We'll meet on the other side. If you see anything unusual, remember where it is, so you can show me. Understand?" Ittosai nodded. Levy took his horse, and started west. Although he didn't say it, Ittosai felt that somehow Levy was on the wrong track. Levy seemed to be trying to find a reason why one area had water and another didn't. To Ittosai, the question was not one of differing characteristics, but of change. Why would an area that had an abundance of water suddenly become practically a desert? To a person of Ittosai's upbringing, a change of state could only be brought about two ways, either by human or divine intervention. Therefore Ittosai waited until Levy was out of sight, and started to climb the wooded slope. To Ittosai's way of thinking, he needed to see the whole problem to understand it, and the only way to see an entire hill was from the top. Ittosai climbed boldly, his eyes focused on the slope up ahead. He made no effort to be quiet or inconspicuous. The slope started out easy enough, but soon the way became steep, and Ittosai was forced to tie his horse to a tree and leave it. Ittosai continued upward, pausing occasionally to check his progress. It was only when he was close to the top that he realized that he could hear sounds from above, sounds that did not belong in a forest. He slowed down, and started to try to be quiet. Like any warrior from his country, he managed very well. As he neared the top, he could see that there was a large clearing at the crest of the hill. Only the tall trees prevented the bald spot from being dramatically visible. Through the trees Ittosai could see figures moving about. As he drew close to the open space, he could see that the clearing was littered by large, stone ovens. While he watched, men busily forged swords, knives, and spearheads over bright fires. It wasn't until he had been watching for a few minutes when he realized that the fires were not producing any smoke at all. Not only that, but there was no wood or charcoal nearby to fuel the fires. While Ittosai crouched in the shadows, he became aware of a commotion approaching. It soon resolved itself into a group of men carrying buckets. Guarding them, and hustling them on their way were two soldiers carrying spears. While Ittosai watched, they approached the men working at the hearths. The men with the buckets relieved the others, who were herded back the way the others came. It was then that Ittosai noticed the guards watching the smiths. The newcomers took their buckets, and poured water from them on the fires. To Ittosai's shock, instead of the fires going out, they burned hotter! It was then that he realized where all the water was going. It was somehow being used to fuel these fires! While Ittosai watched, another group of men approached. These were led by two men. One was garbed in thick leather and metal armor, and carried a long sword. The other wore nothing but a cloak over his shoulders, despite the cool fall air. He had a detached look to him, as if he were not actually part of the group, but was merely walking in the same direction. The armored one, however, was angrily remonstrating him. The group finally stopped halfway between Ittosai and the nearest forge. "Here, wizard. Make me one here." The military one pointed at the ground firmly. The wizard lost some of his detached look, and regarded the other coldly. "Here? Another? You already have enough. Why do you need another?" The armored one's face grew red, and his expression showed rage. "I'm not asking you if I need another, I'm telling you to make me another, HERE!" The wizard's expression grew suddenly stern. "You are telling me? With a word I could wipe out this entire, pitiful band of yours, and you're telling ME!?!" The armored man was taken back a bit. "We need another spring, so that we can fire more furnaces. Is that a good enough reason?" There was a moment of silence. "I suppose so." The wizard took a step towards Ittosai, and the group fell back. Ittosai gripped the hilt of his sword. Somehow he could feel evil here. As he watched, the wizard made a motion, and mumbled a word. Suddenly a fountain of water burst out of the ground. With a shout, soldiers prodded slaves with buckets forward. They started hauling the water away. The armored man stepped up to the wizard and started to thank him, albeit rather stiffly. After a few moments, however, the spring faltered, and then stopped all together. There was silence as the wizard stared at the spot of mud on the ground. From all over the clearing there came cries and shouts. The wizard made the motion again, and repeated the word, but only a furtive bubbling rewarded him. "What's wrong? Why'd it stop?" The warlord was angry, yet fearful. The wizard looked around wildly. He waved his hands through the air, as if feeling for something. "I don't know. It's almost as if we've drained all the water we can from this area." The soldier grabbed the wizard by the cloak. "If we don't have water, we won't be able to make enough weapons to take the city when Dargon dies!" At the mention of the man who had helped him, Ittosai felt a strong and sudden urge to act. He had no ideas, no plan of attack, but the urge was just too strong to resist. He stepped into the light, drawing his sword. All around there was an abrupt silence. Suddenly Ittosai felt alone, and sickeningly directionless. The urge that had pulled him from the shadows had left him, and now he felt empty. Remembrances of the fight on the road came to his mind. Unlike then, he now felt naked and unprotected. For the first time in his life, Ittosai realized his own inadequacy. He was one man, alone, with two hands clutching a thin piece of steel. Facing him were over a hundred armed and armored men, desperate, and skilled in battle, with an unknown power on their side. The wizard started to wave his hands in a menacing fashion, and as he started to mutter strange words, the war lord drew his long blade and stepped forward. Ittosai started to make the standard attack, but fear paralyzed him. The small of his back started itching where the rough had struck him from behind, and Ittosai had to fight an urge to turn and run. "Throw down your sword." Ittosai felt a chill cover his body. The words had seemed to come from inside his own head. "Throw down your sword!" The words were more insistent. Unbidden, Levy's words came back to Ittosai's mind: No matter who you are, there is always someone or something you need to fear. In a moments inspiration, Ittosai realized that, in the native tongue, the word 'fear' could also mean 'respect'. All his life he had been drilled in respect: respect for his elders, respect for his betters, respect for his enemies. Now he realized that there was one more being in the universe he needed to respect, and possibly respect as he had never respected anyone before. Instantly his terror vanished. He straightened his back, and reversed his grip on his blade. Lifting his face skyward, he shouted in his own tongue: "I give my blade to you!" With that he flung the sword point first into the ground. The moment the blade struck the ground shuddered. The tremor soon grew into a quaking that made it hard to stand. Yells and shouts could be heard over the awesome rumbling. Men were running in two basic directions: the soldiers inwards, towards the center of camp, and the slaves outward, for the safety of the woods. The small group in front of Ittosai fell back. "Take your sword up again." Ittosai obeyed, and pulled the blade from the ground. The small hole the sword had made suddenly grew into a fissure that raced around the clearing, surrounding the army's camp. Its natural cohesiveness gone with the ground water, the soil turned suddenly to a dry fluid. With a horrible noise, everything inside the circle made by the crack in the earth suddenly disappeared, swallowed by the earth. Ittosai was knocked to one knee. Within moments, what had been an army camp was suddenly a bare, brown, expanse. When the shaking stopped, Ittosai stood. He still held his sword in his hand. He dusted it off, and sheathed it. He then turned, and walked down the hill. At the bottom he met Levy, who was understandably shaken by the tremor. He was even more shaken by what Ittosai told him. To make matters worse, men started stumbling out of the woods. Within moments there was a crowd of hundreds of freed slaves. To Levy's surprise, among them were Jorden and Eli, the two men from the village. Before they could finish telling Levy their story, however, dark clouds covered the sky. The group hastily headed for one of the other nearby hills, fearing mudslides if they remained near the shaken mount. By the time they reached the far slopes the ground was already almost too soupy to traverse. It rained for two days. The third day the sun came out, and by noon the men were sweating even with their shirts off. They started back, making their way around the swamp. They reached the creek, and found it full and muddy. The next day they were forced to walk through the woods beside the swollen river, although by night the water was no longer brown. By the time they reached the village the river ran crystal clear, and they found children playing in the flow. Elder Eli welcomed the freed slaves. The ones that had been taken from their homes were given food and clothes, and seen off on their way back, and the truly homeless were offered lands and a place in the village. Levy was again greeted enthusiastically, and this time Ittosai was not allowed to remain on the outskirts of the celebration. It was raining again several days later when Ittosai left Levy's house for the last time. He checked to make sure he had packed everything, and then carefully bowed to Levy and Elder Eli. Levy then gave him a last embrace. "You're welcome here forever, as are your children, and their children." Eli had to shout a little to be heard over the rain. "Thank you, Elder Eli." Ittosai turned to Levy. "I thank you, Levy. I think now... I mean, now I know there is a meaning to my wanderings. "I've learned as much as you, Ittosai. Take care." They clasped hands once more, and Ittosai turned his horse, and started to ride. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Men Shall Have the Stars In the beginning Apollo achieved the moon Next Viking landed on Mars; And in the future, very soon Men shall have the stars. When the solar system is all explored And men seek new adventure, To the stars they shall all turn toward And embark on this newest venture. In ships that surpass the speed of light They shall cross interstellar spaces, And find new worlds at the end of their flight And colonize alien places. But when the Earth is dead and gone Throughout the galaxy humans still roam; And to the edge of the cosmos wander on And call the stars their home. -Carlo Samson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Wiring Bradley noticed something strange about the place the moment he stepped off his ship. That wasn't unusual, however, for all new planets are strange. He'd seen many new planets, and therefore took the strangeness in stride. Bradley strolled casually over to the depot, enjoying the warm breeze and sunny sky. He walked into the obligatory rental office and rented a small craft. While he waited he scornfully examined the young man who was serving him, observing the neat uniform, the cosmetic smile, the polished hair and face. Sucker, he thought. They already got you trapped, just like they almost trapped me, wound up in the lair of respectability. He almost considered offering the young man a 'ride', but thought better of it. No telling what the laws are like on this world, he told himself. No sense in getting picked up for 'kidnapping'. Taking his keys, he strode out to get his flitter. He passed row after row of glistening craft, all neatly arranged, all dreams of conformity. He slowed after a bit, and started to check the numbers painted on the sides of the cars against the number stamped on his keys. It was soon apparent that his car was obviously the last one on the lot. Typical bureaucratic screwup, he fumed. Making me walk all the way out here... He got to the end, and there was his car. Totally unlike the others he had passed, this one was old, rusty, decrepit, broken down, in short, just the kind of car one would never expect to find in the kind of a world he had seen so far. He looked at the key ring. He was not surprised to see a small, sticky patch on the backside of the tag, just the kind of spot left by a 'CONDEMNED' sticker when it accidentally falls off. He considered returning the rings for a new set, but rebelliously decided not too. He didn't want to get too used to the idea of conformity. Several minutes later he was cruising down the super highway, relaxing and enjoying the ride. He had a day or two to spend here, before he was supposed to rendezvous with a buyer at a nearby solar system. I'll sightsee for a day, see what trouble I can get into, spend the night, and be on my way, he told himself. Not that there looks to be much trouble to get into around here, he chuckled to himself. At least the car's reasonably functional, even if it is a little dinged up. Any damage to the machine was mostly superficial. It had no viewer, or even a radio, indeed it even lacked an antennae, but it was comfortable, and required little effort to drive. Bradley looked out the window while he reclined in the plush seat, his right pinkie handling the wheel. As he drove towards what appeared to be a big city, he examined the other cars. Must be a holiday, he thought, lot's of people on the road. Each car held from one to eight people, in what seemed to be a rather normal distribution. He pondered this, reflecting on how there were usually many more cars with only one occupant than there were cars with multiple occupants. He made a quick (but representative) survey, and found that just as many cars had eight occupants as had one. Strangely enough, there were many cars that had several adults packed in with two or three children, rather than the usual father-mother-kids type of arrangement. Another thing he noticed was that all the cars had these large whip antennas protruding from the roofs. He tried to find one that didn't, but even on that crowded expressway there wasn't a single one to be found. He pondered on that little piece of information for a bit, before his attention was distracted by the approaching city. Bradley had been to many cities before, but none quite like this one. All the buildings were clean and spare in their design, totally unlike the mad mixes usually found in large cities. As he entered the city, he also noticed that the closer the buildings were to the center of the city, the taller they got, effectively giving the city a rounded, domelike skyline. All nice and neat, just like a city park, he thought. Perfectly planned, flawlessly executed, just like a ballet. I'll bet they even die on time around here. Bradley considered for a moment that there might just be some advantages to an ordered life, and then snorted. Too dull, he told himself, no life. It was in the middle of this thought that he glanced down from the bridge he was driving on, and saw the wreck. The car was completely totalled. Smoke and fumes poured out of the engine compartment, and nothing moved inside. Bradley's heart started thumping, and he fought to control it. He had seen death before, just not recently. Get a grip, Bradley. People buy it all the time. They'll even get you one of these days. Then, as he watched, another car veered off a nearby road. It's movements were purposeful and direct, not erratic, as it jumped a concrete bank and slammed into the damaged car. It was followed by another, and then by a large truck. Finally a sports car swerved off the bridge just ahead of Bradley, vaulted the guardrail, and fell easily one hundred feet to land exactly on top the smoldering pile. With it's impact, the whole heap burst into flames. Suddenly Bradley felt afraid. Not the kind of fear you have when you realize you forgot to turn your taxes in, or when you realize you left you wallet in your other coat, but the kind of fear that forces all the breath from your lungs, and causes your testicles to crawl up into the pit of your stomach. He looked around wildly. All around him the people in the other cars sat, stonily ignoring the accident, him, and the whole world in general. Bradley let out a moan. "Something is definitely wrong here," he said, his voice breaking. He searched wildly for an off-ramp. Finding one, he cut across four lanes of traffic to reach it. He slid down it, and made a left at the intersection at the bottom. He pulled into the first driveway he saw, and up to the door of a large tower. Leaving his car parked in the middle of a large curving driveway, he rushed through a set of glass doors and into a large lobby. There was only one person in the lobby, a woman standing behind a desk, wearing a pink outfit with a tall hat. He rushed up to her. "Miss! Miss!" Bradley staggered up to clutch her desk. "You've got to help! Please!" "Yes? How can I help you?" The girl's smile didn't waver at the sight of the wild-eyed man panting in front of her. "There's been an accident! Cars, a couple of them! And a truck, too. All mashed together! And burning!" "Yes?" She continued to smile, as if Bradley were discussing the weather. "You gotta call the authorities, or something! It was terrible! They just ran right into each other! I mean, one wrecked, and then the others ran into it, just Bam! like some big crashup derby, like they were just a bunch of..." Bradley looked at her bland, smiling, face. "Just like they were a bunch of toys." Bradley stared at her, fear once more welling up in his gut. He thought back to the freeway, to all the cars, moving neatly along, all with their... Suddenly he leaned forward, and with a broad sweep of his arm, knocked the receptionist's hat off. His arm also brushed her head, mussing her hair, but still she beamed on. Bradley cautiously walked around the desk, his eyes never leaving her. She watched him come. He leaped forward, grabbing her by the arm and twisting her around. There, plastered against the back of her neck, was a thin, flexible steel wire. He grabbed it, and pulled. It came out easily, trailing a thin cable, which was slick with blood. He stared at her in horror as she turned, still smiling. He backed away from her, then turned and ran. He raced out of the lobby, and leaped into his car. Without looking back he gunned the engine. It responded smoothly, hurling him down the drive. As he approached the road, however, he slowed. He looked back toward the tower. There was no one in sight. Bradley sat, panting. Am I going nuts or something? he asked himself. People don't have wires in them, no matter how much alike they look. They may act like a bunch of robots, but that doesn't mean they are robots. He considered. Maybe I'd better go back and check things out. He turned back around to take the wheel, just in time to see a man in gardener's clothes reaching for the door handle. Bradley didn't need any more convincing. As the door opened, Bradley kicked it with all his strength, sending the gardener flying. Bradley then shut the door, locked it, and sent the flitter flying into traffic. Almost immediately Bradley saw a sign directing him to the freeway. When he turned down that road, however, he suddenly found himself circling a large, round park, with a fountain in the center. Everything was green and beautiful, with children running around with balloons, and parents walking strollers. Then he saw that the fountain pool was filled with a dozen or so men and women, in business clothing, calmly swimming laps. "That does it. I'm out of here." Bradley swung the car towards the outside of the traffic circle, looking for an exit. It wasn't until he had made two full revolutions that he realized that the road that he had take into the circle had suddenly and totally disappeared. If that weren't enough, though, he suddenly noticed a commotion in the park. As he watched, all the swimmers stood up, and began to walk towards him, spiralling outward towards the edge of the park. He made a quick search of the control panel. It was sparse, but...there. He reached down and grabbed a large lever. "You can't fool me! I've seen too many different vehicles not to realize that this isn't just a ground car!" Bradley shouted to no one visible. Lifters in the stub wings whined as the flitter lifted off the ground. It cleared the ground clutter easily, and Bradley turned the flitter toward the landing area, accelerating as he went. He watched anxiously as he flew, but there appeared to be no pursuit. Once at the landing port, Bradley set the flitter down right beside his ship and leaped out of the car before it even stopped. He franticly activated the port lock, all the while closely watching the nearby ground attendants as they repaired a nearby ship. The door was just starting to open when they suddenly dropped what they were doing and turned to face him. They took a step toward him...and then the port was open, and he was inside, slamming it shut. Once inside his own ship he finally felt safe, or at least safer. Sensors showed no one else on board. For once the stench of thousands of accumulated man-hours didn't annoy him. He leaped up to the conn before the first blows started to fall on the side of the hull. Bradley wasted no time with trying to raise the tower. He activated the emergency flight mechanism, and strapped in. The launch pinned him to his seat, but his overhead view unit showed him the view below. As he rose above the plain, he saw long lines of flitters streaming toward the spaceport. Try and catch me now, suckers! he thought, the acceleration not permitting him to actually talk. As the ship rose higher, Bradley could see the city laid out below, then the plain it was built on, and finally hills surrounding it. Shining objects, arranged regularly around the city on the surrounding hills, caught his eye. Were they towers? Once free from the clawing atmosphere, the ship started accelerating in earnest, making its heated rush for the stars. Bradley's eyes started to fog. Before he finally blacked out, however, he thought, or perhaps hallucinated, that he saw, moving in the hills far below, large shapes, carrying large boxes, each with a large rod, or antennae, protruding from its end. Little Orf got up from where he was hiding, behind the dirt mound. Across the model city from him, Tad did the same. "Aw, what'd you do that for? I wasn't gonna hurt him!" Orf adopted that whine he always did when he was begging. "Whaddya mean? I thought he was yours!" Tad's facial tentacles showed surprise. "It wasn't mine." Orf looked at Tad. Tad looked back at Orf. Then they both looked up, at the small point of light fading into the sky. Then they both turned and ran home. -Jim Owens <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb The Old Man Joseph Curwen *Cydric and the Sage: Part 4 Carlo N. Samson *Noble Favor: Atros 7 Joseph Curwen Date: 012288 Dist: 510 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, here it is, '7C4'x already! And FSFnet is beginning its fourth year of publication. This is, in fact, the 40th issue of FSFnet. Apparently it is a success, although I still find it odd that people think of FSFnet as an established zine. I guess, as editor, you lose some perspective as to how you are doing. But despite my pessimism, our readership has continually increased since early 1985, and the quality and number of submissions has been very high. We must be doing something right... and I'll do what I can to see that we continue to please the readership. If you have any comments or suggestions, please don't hesitate to drop me a mail file. The authors have been howling for some feedback, and it might convince them to keep them churning out stories... This issue not only is notable in that it is our third anniversary issue, but that we have two stories from Joseph Curwen, one of our best authors. Unfortunately, Curwen has also recently graduated, which will severely reduce the number of submissions we get from him. In this issue he has provided us with a fantasy short story and the next installment of his Atros series. We also have the next installment in Carlo Samson's Cydric tale. And the next issue will contain the conclusion of John White's 4-part story, "Treasure". And I suppose I really must talk about the SF short story contest (I've put it off two paragraphs already). Unfortunately, because I received no entries, there's no winner, unless you consider myself a winner, as I get to keep the prizes. Unfortunately, this means that we're lacking in SF stories, and could use some SF submissions in the immediate future. As always, anyone interested in submitting items, please feel free to contact me. And a reminder to all, back issues can be requested from the BITNET server LISTSERV@TCSVM's TCSSERVE FILELIST. Until next time... -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Old Man He was old. Unbelievably ancient in our eyes. I shall never know how long he has lived in that ruin of a mansion on the high hill. It is said he existed in the Times Before, and perhaps even before that. The Old Man predated our meager oral history. He bore an air of antiquity about him in all ways: the sunken feral eyes, the wrinkled gray skin, the complete baldness, and the stooping and protracted gate. We know these as signs of age only through the picture books that have survived from the Times Before. No one has kept life more than twenty summers since those days. Our life is hard. We survive only barely. There is little food now. We are scavengers, eating what we can find. In other times we would be seen as animals. But if we are, we are proud animals, knowing that we are the masters of our desolation. All that exists is ours to do with as we please. That is what makes us men. Still, like the animals, our numbers dwindle with each passing winter. Sometimes, not even the strong can survive. But the Old Man lives on in his High House, as he always has and perhaps always will. He does not search for food among the stark wreckage of the ancient stone cities. He does not hunt the small quick animals which grow scarce even quicker than ourselves. He does not scratch the worn soils to grow plants under the withering sun. He lives in his High House. And he never wants for food. He has never been seen to bother with so simply a thing as survival. Perhaps that is why we fear him and avoid his lands. I would gladly have never met the Old Man, never have journeyed to his estate, and never have witnessed him as he is. My people were content to leave him and his house alone. We spoke of him little, and then only in whispered warnings to avoid the High House. It had been that way for generations. But for the first time in memory, the Old Man left his High House. Only once has he walked down the steep hill, across his valley, along the broken road, and into the wastes which are our home. It had never occurred to us that he could do such a thing. He had always stayed to his own lands. But looking back I realize that the Old Man could leave the High House whenever he had sufficient reason to make the long hobble with his thick cane. As I was to discover, I was that reason. One blistering afternoon I was hunting alone near the Northern Caves as I had perhaps a thousand times before and many since. As always the pickings were scarce. There was not so much as a rodent to stave off my hunger, and insects were never very filling, though hunting them kept my mind off the dull ache of my stomach. I was digging in a dry stream bed with a rusted piece of iron railing whose original function was now of little concern. The salty sweat streamed down from my tangled hair and stung my eyes. I began to hope that I might at least find some moist mud with which to cool my heated brow. After finally deciding that the bed was dry and devoid of life, I threw down my makeshift shovel in disgust, lifted my eyes to the opposite bank, and saw the Old Man for the first time. I was terrified. A horror of childhood stories stood before me. My fright was so great that rather than fleeing I froze, as I have seen a rat do sometimes when startled. I did not know how long he had watched me or how he arrived so silently as to catch me unaware. We stared at each other for a long moment. For the first time, I felt the awesome power and horror which age could wield. I could only think that he had come to strike me dead. How could such a thing as he exist? He was hairless, shrunken, bent, gnarled, and yet his clothes were finer and cleaner than any I had ever seen before. Surely they were reliques of the Time Before. I suddenly knew that I must run, must warn the others of the Old Man's presence. Perhaps we could find some hiding place and escape his wrath. I turned to flee, but the Old Man stopped me with a single word. He spoke my name. My mind screamed! It was too late. He held the power of my name over me. There could be no hiding, no escape. He spoke again. His voice was soft and soothing. "Boy, I need your help." My fear melted from me. Surely I thought, no campfire ogre could speak words such as these. But now, I realize that the Old Man stilled my fears, as easily as I might strangle a bird. "My eyes are weak. I need someone to read to me. You will have as much food as you wish. Come," he said, turning away to begin the slow trek back to the High House. Later I realized that this was to be most the Old Man would ever say to me at one time. I followed of course, proving once again that the dictates of our stomachs can casually overrule our minds. The Old Man walked slowly uphill toward his home. I followed some distance behind. I might have helped him, but even then I sensed his pride. My people understand pride. It sometimes seems at though it is the only thing we have left. During the long trek following the Old Man, I wondered what was to become of me. It was not yet too late to flee into the wastes, but strangely I felt no danger in this bogeyman of childhood tales. My fear had been replaced by a growing sense of wonder and excitement. I did not doubt that the Old Man could provide the food that he had promised. After all, he was the Old Man. His presence itself was a violation of all the laws of nature and reason which had governed my short but active existence. There was nothing beyond his capabilities. Thinking back, I realize that it was not so very strange that the Old Man had chosen me to accompany him. I held two qualities which separated me from all of my brethren. I could still bend the power of written words to my task, though perhaps not as well as my sire who had taught me as his sire had taught him. And as an outgrowth of this talent, I held a unusual curiosity about the Times Before. Though this was not forbidden knowledge, it was considered tainted among a people who lived daily with such grim reminders of Man's failure and fall. I had learned much of our history in my wanderings, but I was careful to keep this to myself out of fear of appearing too different from my fellows. As I walked I set about examining the unique landscape about me. Broken rock roadways were common enough in the wastes, but as we progressed farther north I began to notice a gradual change in the landscape which none of my people had ever discussed. As the road rose, the land grew, if anything, more moist and fertile. There were more scattered brown weeds and with time I could hear a steady hollow buzzing which could only mean that insects were growing more plentiful. As we passed over a rock ridge before beginning our temporary descent to the valley below, I could see a delicate greenness of vegetation which was all but forgotten to my people. The unharvested lushness of plants filling the valley floor was almost a crime in the eyes of a member of a starving tribe. I could only wonder how was it that none of my brethren had ever reported so rich a find. It seemed fear of the Old Man had robbed us of many a meal. But if I was impressed by the abundant grasses of the valley, I was totally unprepared for the clumps of trees which dotted the slopes of the steep hill upon which rested the High House. I could barely imagine plants large enough to dwarf a man. Only later did I learn that most of a tree is inedible to man. As we continued up the steep slope, the Old Man's progress slowed. I grew tempted to help him once more, but I knew even then that I should never touch him. Instead I took the time to marvel at the High House which stood perched upon the highest crest of the hill, some distance from even the nearest clump of trees. It was a thing of wood, stone, and glass several stories in height. I'd seen taller buildings in my scavenging trips to the dead cities, but nothing so fair as the mansion where the Old Man lived, even with its peeling paint and tattered shingles. It seemed to be built of triangles of cream, dark brown, and black interspersed with wide windows, through which the unguessed marvels of the House's treasures could be glimpsed. It had a certain mysterious way of engrossing the eye so that the viewer was left momentarily entranced by even the shortest of glances. Even at the slow pace of the Old Man, I was often forced to run in order to catch up after such an interlude. When we finally reached the High House, the Old man veered and circled around to its backside. I followed. He lead me to a clustering of small buildings which were made of rough wood. Seeming to select one doorway at random, he pointed and said "You will stay here. Do not enter the house. Food will be provided." With that he turned and hobbled slowly off. I stood and watched him return to the High House. After a few moments I entered the shack and discovered it to be occupied by several long handled tools which I took to be for farming. But these only took up space along one wall. Opposite them was a low cot-like bed which seemed to be attached to the wall. While I was trying to imagine what animal could possess a hide large enough to drape a bed, I heard my name called from outside. I went to the doorway and looked out to receive yet another surprise. It had not been the Old Man. It was a woman. A woman much older than any that I'd seen before or since, but unlike the Old Man she bore no wrinkles, baldness, or crooked frame. She was very tall, very broad, and very proud. There was a certain beauty about her face with its sharp nose, withered cheeks, and long dark tresses. She wore a tight single piece dress of some stark blue-black thinness I'd never seen before. Around her neck was a necklace of tiny blood red spheres laid end to end. She was as hard and as beautiful as a cold starry night. "Food is available in the kitchen through the servant's entrance in the back of the house. But you will never enter the house without the permission of myself or the Master. And you will never go beyond the kitchen outside of our company. Do you understand this?" she asked not pausing long enough to obtain a response. "A bath and fresh clothing will be provided. You will take advantage of these or leave our service. Understood?" She spoke with a slight nasal quality while seeming to look upon me as if I were some sort of pet that her child had dragged home, and she, the mother, that would be required to care for it as long as it survived. So began my service to the Master and Mistress of the High House. I would be admitted to the house twice a day to eat standing and alone. There were no other servants. It seemed the Mistress managed the household, though I never saw her lift a hand in doing its chores. Though she was never cruel to me, in time I began to dread my Mistress' voice, even when it announced my meals. She never made any attempt to hide her contempt. It seemed social amenities had died long ago in the High House. Each morning I would wake at sunrise and enter the one wing of house which was made entirely of glass. This large room contained many colorful plants which I could not identify. In time, as my hunger passed, I began to appreciate the plants as something more pleasing to the eye than to the stomach. There were many delicate blossoms of bright hues and dark green stalks of towering strength. I would wait in my place on a small wooden stool surrounded by the fragrance of the rich damp earth until the Master arrived and sat beside me on his broad wicker throne. Then he would pull a ancient handwritten tome from the drawer of a nearby table, which supported a pot of black flowers. Without speaking the Old Man would open the volume to the page where we left off the day before and give it to me to continue reading aloud. After sometime, he would take the book from me, return it to the drawer, and leave. After that I would be free to spend my time as I liked. I would roam the countryside or hunt for nostalgia's sake. But as time past, I spent more time among the plants thinking and dreaming away my idle hours. I know now that reading that book had some effect on my mind. At first, I only spoke the words as best I could without any understanding of their meaning. But with time, my skills improved, my mind sharpened, and the words of the book began to seem more profound to my thoughts. Slowly, I grew to understand that the tome was a journal of unfinished poetry written ages ago by the Old Man. And the images of those fragmented poems were utterly fantastic. There were scenes of birth, of war, of love, of pain, and of death. There was much that I could not comprehend. Lines that spoke of fast spinning spheres of near infinite weight, limited encroachments on selective being, and whirling pools of aggrandized thought. But what I could understand seemed the most wondrous acts of art imaginable. Their only flaw being their incompleteness. Often I would stumble onto a half blank page and the Old Man would break the silence to mumble "I'll finish that one some day." But I knew that the Old Man's days of creation had long since passed. Time passed and I grew lonely. The Old Man and the Mistress offered very little companionship, even to each other. I'd been bred to endure physical hardships alone, but I could no longer stand the long hours of simple comfort and idleness. Finally, I drew up enough courage to interrupt our routine and spill forth my loneliness to the Old Man during one of our reading sessions. He was silent for so long a time that I feared that I had angered him. But when he did reply, he gave me curt permission to return to my people for seven days if I must. In my joy I filled the air with blessings upon him and upon his house, but still I hesitated to touch his hand. On the following morning I left the High House and cheerfully set out down the broken road. My season long absence would of course be noticed, but there would be no real concern until the first frost. I found my people preparing for winter in the warren where I was born. They were surprised by my fine clothing but were even more astounded by my being so well fed. They crowded around me and showered me with questions until I agreed to tell my entire tale before a full gathering of the people. That night I discovered how much I had changed. Not only could I enthrall an audience more deeply than any known tribal story teller, I saw my fellows in a different light. Those I had looked to in respect or fear in the past, I could not even begin to hold as equals. And the primitive ways and ignorances of my own people appalled me. I kept these feelings to myself, but I knew they would require much thought. After many hours of recounting the splendors I had seen and the wonders that I had glimpsed, I wandered off to contemplate in solitude. After some time I knew that I was no longer a member of the people and that I would return to the High House well before my seven days were complete. But it seemed that my people had been making plans of their own in my absence. Perhaps I had been too truthful in telling of the richness of the High House, because upon my return I discovered my tribe organizing a raiding party against the house of the Old Man. My own appearance was the only urging that so many empty stomachs needed. My acquaintance with the Old Man seemed to have weaken the awe which my people had held in him for generations. I tried with all my might but I could not dissuade them with threat or guile. Finally, to prevent disaster I agreed to guide them to the High House, hoping that I could somehow provide food for my people without angering the Old Man or the Mistress. They were hungry, we left the following morning. I spent the long walk in silence hoping against hope to discover some solution to my problems. My people were too stubborn and too resourceful to be led astray. They knew the way almost as well as myself. We walked through the day and well into the night. Long after midnight, we began to scale the hill of the High House. I had asked them to wait in the lush valley below, but their eyes had caught the light of the riches of the house above. They agreed to follow me silently, but they would not be left behind. Those last steps passed too swiftly for me. Only too soon did we arrive at the summit, and I still possessed no plan. I paused but it was all I could do to keep the mob I led from rushing forward. I asked that they let me enter the house alone to speak with the Old Man. After many warnings, they agreed. The sun was rising in the east, as I stumbled unhappily forward and entered the glass wing of the house. It was the only portion of the house which I could enter uninvited with a clear conscience. The fragrance of the house's riches was as deep and as rich as I remembered it. I had no plans for what I should do next. I hoped that the Old Man might arrive here soon, but I had no reason to believe he would follow our routine in my absence. While I sat waiting, an outward door opened. To my horror, my people had reached the limit of their short patience. They entered quickly and surged forward to ransack the indoor garden. They began devouring the flowers and overturning tables. A roar of triumph rose from the first to find the treasures of the hidden drawers. There was much gold and many gems. My people scrambled and argued over the pretty things while the ancient books fell in tatters. In moments the room lay in shambles. At that point a dark shadow fell from the east. The Old Man stood motionless beyond the window before the light of the rising sun. He hobbled awkwardly forward to press his arms and face against the glance, thereby framing a ludicrous pose. My fellows fell silent in fear, and after a moment they snatched what lay before them and fled out the door to the west. In an instant I was alone. The Old Man entered the broken garden, slowly crossed the strewn wreckage, sat upon the untouched wicker throne, and motioned for me to take my place upon my stool. I fell down beside him and poured fourth my story with my head downcast, avoiding his gaze. I tried to explain the extreme hunger, desperation, and ignorance of my people. Interspersed with tears, I pleaded for mercy for the crimes of the people who were no longer my own. After many moments, I grew silent and still the Old Man did not speak. I waited and waited, but I was met only by silence. Finally, I lifted my head to find the Old Man slumped forward in sleep. Then for the only time in my life, I touched the Old Man. I gently nudged his sleeve. Slowly, he lifted his head and gazed upon me with his wide, sad eyes. After a moment, recognition showed in his eyes. He turned, retrieved the tome, opened it, and gently handed it to me, motioning that I should read. With tear filled eyes I read the final incomplete page. It spoke of age, of dissolution, and of ever present and unyielding decay. My voice broke several times, but I continued through to the last unfinished line. Then I lifted my eyes. The Old Man nodded, took the book from me, returned it to its place, and returned into the depths of the High House. I sat sobbing for a very long time. Finally, I rose and walked out of the wreckage. The Mistress met me at the door. She stood blocking my path contemptuously. "What's wrong child? Unable to bear the truth?" she pronounced cruelly. "How could it have come to this?" I sobbed. "It is the way of things, dear. You are the poet. You should know what this place is." Hers was an endless font of sarcasm. "I am no poet, I only read for the Master." "You are as much a poet as any who has ever mouthed his words," she sneered. "Think! Who is he and who am I?" In that moment, a wild thought came to me. One that I instantly denied but one that could explain much that I had seen in the High House. Could symbol be solidified into form? I grew lost in thought. "Yes," she interrupted, "you have it now. We are two sides of a single coin." The Mistress had effortlessly pulled that thought from my own brain! It seemed my worst suspicions had been confirmed. I made a half turn and dashed passed the Mistress being careful not to even slightly brush her. I fled across the smooth lawn, down the steep slope of the hill, and into the wastes which were my home. I was never tempted to look back. In the six intervening summers since that time, not one of my people have returned to the High House, though we know that the Old Man and the Mistress still live. On clear nights we can sometimes see the bright white lamps of the High House. In these six years, I've tried many times to forget the time of my service to the Old Man, but again and again I am called to recount the tale before the tribal fire. I see now that there must be a record of the story, so I am training my son to read these words. The words will serve as a warning to my people to avoid the High House and its broken and bitter God: the Universe's Senile Creator and its Cynical Maintainer. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Cydric and the Sage: Part 4 THE STORY SO FAR: The synopsis for parts 1 & 2 can be found in FSFnet VOL09N1. In part 3 (chapters VI-VII), Cydric wakes up the next morning uninjured from the skull blast. As he recovers, Corambis brings him a few books. He reads about the Dreamrealms, other dimensions only accessible by magical means; about a mage called Nephros and of his quest for the Amulet of Hanarn (a device used by the ancient Mystics to open a Celestial Archway and physically travel to the Dreamrealms); and about Bahz and the conflicting stories concerning his banishment to the Dreamrealms. Cydric is dubious about the whole thing, but the Sage tells him, "There comes a time when one must stop asking questions and start looking for answers." After breakfast, Cydric and Corambis go the marketplace, where the Sage conducts his business of casting peoples' horoscopes. Corambis introduces Cydric to Thuna, who also works as the Sage's assistant. After watching Corambis give a casting, Cydric leaves but stops to talk to Thuna. Thuna attempts to seduce some information from him, but it doesn't work and Cydric hurries off. After a while, he returns and the Sage offers to take him to lunch. They head over to the docks for some of Simon Salamagundi's stew. Corambis sees a friend and stops to talk, sending Cydric on ahead to get the stew. A man bumps into Cydric, causing him to drop the bowls. Cydric demands repayment for the spilled food, but the man refuses. They are about to fight when a crossbow-wielding woman appears and forces the man to pay up. As the man leaves, she introduces herself as Kittara Ponterisso. The Sage returns, and Kittara slips away into the crowd. Cydric and Corambis go to Belisandra's Tavern for lunch, where Thuna apologizes to Cydric for her earlier behavior. Corambis then asks him why he has not mentioned anything about himself, aside from the reason for his coming to Dargon. Cydric tries to evade the question, but the Sage manages to drag it out of him. Cydric reveals that he is the son of Khysar Araesto (the Duke of Pyridain and King Haralan's Royal Treasurer). He says that he had been planning to leave the capital and travel the land, but his love for Lysanda (the King's niece), prevented him from doing so. But when the vision started appearing to him, he made up his mind to leave. Corambis asks why he did not identify himself as a noble; Cydric replies that he has given up that sort of life. They then finish their meal, and leave the tavern. VIII. Prelude It was late afternoon when Corambis decided to close up the booth for the day. The setting sun cast a pinkish glow over the sky as he and Cydric started home. Most of the shops they passed were starting to close as well. They had walked for a few blocks when Cydric realized that they weren't on the road back to the Sage's home. "Oh, I know that," Corambis replied when Cydric pointed that fact out. "I want to do something before we head home." A few minutes later, they arrived in what Cydric guessed was the temple district. He recognized the symbols of the major Baranurian gods that were inscribed over the entrances to the various shrines and houses of worship that lined both sides of the street. "Well, which god do you pay homage to?" Cydric asked Corambis as they passed a group of prayer-chanting monks. Corambis frowned at the young man. "You sound as if you do not worship a god yourself," he said. "There is no law that says you have to, is there?" replied Cydric. "In any case, I personally have no need for religion." "I suppose you doubt the existence of the gods, as well?" he said. "I just do not see why we must worship them. After all, we are the ones who control our destinies, not them." The Sage said, "Do not be so sure, Cydric. And you would do well to keep such opinions to yourself, especially around here." They came to small white-stone temple. "This is the House of Cahleyna," said Corambis. "I shall pray for a safe journey for us. You may wait out here, if you wish." He turned and went inside without waiting for Cydric to reply. The young man sat down on the steps that led to the temple's entrance. "Why does he bother?" thought Cydric. "There seems not to be any benefit in worshipping the gods." Just then a shapely blonde altar-maiden in a short white tunic came down the steps of the temple. "Blessings of Cahleyna be with you," she smiled as she passed him. "But then again..." Cydric murmured as he watched her walk away. After a short while Corambis emerged from the temple. He said little as they made their way back to the house. "If I have offended you, I would like to apologize," said Cydric. "Well, perhaps it is I who should apologize, for being rather short with you," replied the Sage. "I realize you have a right to your own beliefs, or lack thereof. Let us speak no more of it." Cydric agreed. They soon arrived at the house. The water clock in the study showed that it was seven and twenty-past. After a light supper, Corambis went upstairs for a short nap while Cydric retired to the study. He spent a while browsing among the bookshelves, but found himself unable to concentrate on reading anything. He took a pipe from the rack above the fireplace, intending to have a little smoke to calm his nerves. But after a while he gave it up, the pipe failing to relax him. He looked around, found a charcoal-stick and a piece of parchment, and started to sketch. After about an hour he began to feel a little tired. He settled in front of the fireplace, watching the flames dance and flicker. He closed his eyes for a moment, then felt a hand on his shoulder. "Are you awake?" Corambis asked. "Of course I am," Cydric replied, eyes open. "You did not seem to sleep for very long, though." "Not for very long? It is but half an hour until midnight." "Half an hour?" echoed Cydric. It had been a little after nine when he finished his sketching. "I must have dozed off." Corambis examined the parchment on the table. "Very nice," he said. Cydric had drawn a tall stone arch situated in the middle of a windswept desert; within the arch was a lush forest. In the foreground stood a beautiful young lady, surrounded by little animals. She gazed at a cloaked figure who appeared to be stepping through the arch while looking back at her. Cydric thanked him for the compliment. The Sage took the chair next to him, then said, "Well then, are you ready for this?" "I suppose I am, though I don't see how one could prepare for it." Corambis nodded. "There is some dried fruit in the kitchen," he said. "Perhaps you should pack it along--there may not be a marketplace where we are going." Cydric grinned, then got up and headed to the kitchen, grateful for something to do. He took his time, and when he returned it was nearly ten to midnight. IX. Through and Beyond They waited, and when the water clock in the corner indicated twelve exactly Cydric said, "It is time." He looked around the room. "So where is this Celestial Archway?" "Hmmm..." murmured Corambis as he drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. "Maybe it is all an elaborate joke of some kind," Cydric mused. "Though why anyone would want to do this to you I..." His voice trailed off. The chrysoline ring on the Sage's finger had started to glow a bright blue. "Hoho, it is time, indeed!" Corambis said, leaping to his feet. Cydric watched in fascination as a bubble of blue light separated from the ring, rose into the air, floated to an empty space, then burst with a dazzling brilliance. Thousands of tiny multicolored sparks cascaded outward like a liquid rainbow, then began coalescing to form a large top-rounded rectangular frame. Moments later, the Celestial Archway fully solidified and floated in mid-air a few handspans off the floor. "By the Seventh Sword!" breathed Cydric. The view within the Archway was cloudy at first, then it cleared up and afforded Cydric and Corambis their first look at another world. They saw a vast blue sea bordered by a beach of black gravel. A range of low rocky hills stretched away to the horizon. Sulfur-yellow clouds drifted across an azure sky. There was no sign of life. Cydric walked around to the other side of the Archway and saw the same image, but in reverse. Intrigued, he gingerly touched the surface, and the scene rippled. "Amazing," he said. He went back to the other side where the Sage stood. "The moment is upon us, Cydric, are you truly ready?" Cydric nodded. "Forth in the name of Cahleyna," said the Sage. He checked his belt pouches, then stepped through the Archway. There was a brief sparkle of light, then he was gone. Cydric started forward, paused, then hurried to the other side. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped through. Cydric felt a sharp coldness shiver through him, then suddenly he found himself standing on the gravel beach. The Sage was nowhere to ben seen. "Milord Corambis!" he shouted. Something touched his shoulder. He whipped around, startled. "Why were you facing that way?" the Sage asked. Cydric relaxed, relieved that it was not some strange flesh-eating creature. "I went through on the opposite side," he said. "Fascinating! I must remember to ask the Elder about that when we see him." "So now where do we go?" Cydric asked, looking around. The rocky hills, which ran parallel to the seashore, were blackish-gray in color and devoid of vegetation. He scooped up a handful of the gravel, then tossed it away in disgust. A thick coat of slime lingered on his palm. Corambis held up the hand which bore the chrysoline ring. He pointed it in various directions, until the stone began to glow. "This way," he said, pointing up the beach. He started off in the indicated direction. Cydric wiped off the slime on a corner of his cloak and followed. "Absolutely fascinating," Corambis marvelled, taking in the surroundings. "A whole other world, like our own and yet unlike. Most mages would give nearly anything for an opportunity like this." Cydric nodded. "Speaking of mages, you mentioned last night that you had no desire to become a full mage yourself, though you do have some ability." "True," the Sage sighed. "But my ability is not like that of other wizards and sorcerers you may have met." "Why not?" "It is not something I am proud of, but my grandfather was expelled from the Fellowship in Corvaira for breaking one of the Vows. He married a mortal woman." "Why should marriage be forbidden?" Cydric asked. "Oh, marriage itself is not forbidden; the prohibition is against marrying people who have no magic ability. It dilutes the bloodline, you see; my father had half the ability of my grandfather." "And your father married a mortal woman, as well?" "He did, and now I am merely a quarter the mage my father's father was." They continued on. Suddenly, Cydric walked into what felt like a wall. He recoiled a few paces back, then frowned; there was nothing in his way. He started forward again, but met the same resistance. "What is this?" he said, pushing against the unseen wall. "Some kind of magic barrier," Corambis replied, kicking at it. "I can see that, but why is it here? I thought the Elder wanted us to help him," Cydric said. He struck the barrier with the pommel of his sundagger, with no apparent effect. "Perhaps this is his imprisonment," said Corambis. "But then how did he get the skull, and our visions, to us? Indeed, why did he not use the Celestial Archway to escape if he had it in his possession?" "The answers obviously lie beyond this barrier," the Sage replied. "But how to pass?" He fell silent. Then his face lit up. "Pass... passport! Of course!" He held up his right hand. The chrysoline ring glowed fiercely. "If it can take us through the Archway, then it must also take us through this." He clenched his fist, then smashed it ring-first into the invisible barrier. There was a bright blaze of light, followed by the sound of shattering crystal. Cydric uttered an oath of amazement, while Corambis merely stared in wonder. The landscape was the same, but hovering over the beach in front of them was a huge mountain of rock, roughly the shape of an inverted cone. A multi-towered castle sat at the top of the massive floating boulder. Cydric estimated that the bottom of the mountain was over ten thousand cubits off the ground, and that the distance from their position to the top about three times that. "How are we supposed to get up there?" asked Cydric. "Do we fly?" "That spell I cannot perform, at least not on anything heavy," Corambis chuckled. Cydric noticed a large silver object on the ground nearby. He called the Sage's attention to it, and they went over to investigate. The object lay partially buried in the gravel. Corambis crouched down and brushed it off; it was a silver disc, with strange runes carved in it's surface. The Sage examined the face of the disc. "This is a 'transportal disc, according to the inscription. It is supposed to take us up to the Citadel." He paused a few moments, then straightened up. "Now then, we stand on the disc thus--" he stepped atop it and motioned for Cydric to stand next to him. "Very good. Now for the invocation phrase. 'Cael atya naqt yi hania atya suqt, egrer nezuhar hoa'st uul wes'huituf!'" The land and sky dissolved into a shapeless haze, then Cydric felt himself falling. He braced himself, then solid ground returned under his feet. His vision cleared, and he found himself staring at the majestic Citadel of Sorrows. X. The Citadel "Are you all right?" Corambis asked. Cydric nodded. They stood near the edge of the top of the hovering mountain, on a silver disc identical to the one on the gravel beach. A short distance away, the massive bronze gates of the Citadel stood slightly ajar. Cydric looked out over the rim. The bleak landscape ran unbroken for as far as he could see. Corambis offered a quiet prayer to his goddess, then they proceeded to the Citadel gates. After spending a few minutes marvelling at the bas-reliefs carved into the bronze doors, they passed through. They entered into a large courtyard. A marble fountain, long overgrown with weeds, stood in the center. Small translucent stones lay scattered about. Corambis moved over to the fountain. "Pure Arkathenian marble," he said, examining a broken piece. "The builders spared no expense." Cydric picked up one of the stones. "What about these?" he asked. Corambis took the stone. "Not diamond, but some form of crystal," he said after a few moments of examination. "Never seen it's like before, though." Cydric pocketed the stone. "Now that we are here, where do we find this Elder person?" Corambis reminded him of the chrysoline ring. The blue jewel lit up when the Sage pointed to a door straight ahead of them. They entered, and found themselves in a grand hallway. Glowing orbs fixed to the ceiling at regular intervals provided the illumination, and there were several doors along either wall. The ring led them through a door on the right wall, up a flight of stone steps, then into what appeared to be an armory. Rusty weapons hung in racks along the walls; thick dust covered the shields and other armor that lay on long wooden tables. Cydric picked up a battle axe. The head fell off and broke into small pieces. The rest of the items were no better. After searching in vain for anything usable, the two men left through the door on the other side of the room. They passed through a short corridor, then came to a large gallery. Torn tapestries hung about the room, and the floor was decorated with an odd mosaic. Corambis attempted to brush the dust from one of the few undamaged tapestries, but it crumbled away at his touch. "Such neglect," he tsked, "is truly appalling." Cydric studied the floor mosaic, which depicted several large lizards cavorting with a group of young maidens around a jungle pool. Corambis chuckled as he surveyed the design. "A highly unlikely scene," he remarked. "Kaladrongan rock lizards are anything but friendly." They left the gallery, came to an intersecting corridor, took the left branch, and proceeded up a flight of stone steps that began at the end of the passage. "We must be getting close," said Corambis. "The ring is brighter." The steps wound around and upward. They finally came to a landing and a large oaken door. The blue light from the chrysoline ring was at its brightest. Cydric drew his sundagger as Corambis prepared to open the door. "Put your weapon away," said the Sage. "I am certain he does not mean to harm us, after all his trouble to bring us here." "I would like to have it ready, just the same," Cydric replied, holding the dagger in a throwing grip. Corambis pushed open the door. A lone figure sat with its back to them in the middle of the room, bathed in the light from a single window. Books, papers, and various other things lay strewn about. The smell of decay filled the still air. "Hello?" Corambis said, cautiously entering the room. The figure neither spoke nor moved. "You are Elder Bahz, I presume," he continued, moving around to stand in front of the seated figure. Cydric remained in the doorway, his sundagger aimed at the figure's back. "I am Corambis deSaavu, Sage of Dargon. We have--" Suddenly he broke off and motioned to Cydric. The young man quickly moved to the Sage's side. "What is it?" Cydric asked. The Sage pointed to the seated figure. Cydric glanced down and let out a gasp of horror. Pale yellow skin hung off the man's face, as if melted. A thick slimy film covered his deep-set eyes. Saliva dripped from thin cracked lips, and a small worm twitched out from a nostril. "Is...is that the Elder?" Cydric whispered. As if in response, the man stirred. His mouth moved, but only a dry croak issued forth. Cydric grimaced in revulsion. "Can you understand me?" Corambis said, speaking slowly. "Are you Jehron Bahz, Seventh Elder of Quentrellia?" The man spoke again. "I...I am Bahz," he said in a soft brittle voice. "You have come." "Yes, we are here," Corambis replied. "Why have you summoned us?" The Elder's reply was barely audible. Corambis leaned closer. "Help me...," Bahz said. He stretched out his arms and tried to rise. Corambis reached out support him. Suddenly, Bahz's hand shot out and snatched the chrysoline ring off of the Sage's finger. Letting out a hideous laugh, Bahz pushed away and stood up. "You fools!" he exclaimed gleefully. Cydric quickly recovered from his surprise and dashed the sundagger into the Elder's heart. Bahz only laughed harder. He pushed the chair out of the way and stepped back a few paces, pulling out the sundagger and casting it to the floor. He spoke a word of magic, and green flames enveloped him. A moment later the flames died and Bahz was no more. In his place stood a tall man in green garb, dark-haired and quite healthy. "Who are you?" the Sage demanded. The man grinned. "I am Ishar Nephros, late of Quentrellia and future sovereign of the terrestrial sphere!" "Nephros! What is the meaning of this? What happened to Bahz?" "That old relic? Dead for ages," he smirked. "You and the knife-boy over there acted exactly as I had hoped. I could not have planned it better." "You planned all this? For what purpose?" "Yes, explain what your purpose is," Cydric added, starting toward the wizard. "I need not explain anything to you, sand flea!" Nephros shot back. He held up a fist and thrust it outward. Instantly, Cydric felt his limbs stiffen. He tried to move, but his whole body refused to act. He began to panic as he realized he was totally immobilized. "Cydric!" Corambis cried. "What have you--" His words were cut off. Though he could not turn his head to see, Cydric knew that the green-garbed wizard had paralyzed the Sage as well. Nephros came forward and squeezed Cydric's arm. "Yes, you'll do quite nicely," he said. "He will indeed be pleased. Rest now, little flea; a greater purpose awaits you!" Cydric felt the mage's hand on his eyes, and then his thoughts faded into darkness. -Carlo N. Samson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Noble Favor: Atros 7 The guard allowed Atros through the outer gates of the Keep of Dargon without challenge. He was well known here in his guise as Raffen Yeggent, a young foreign noble and promising businessman. Still, he entered the small courtyard with a good deal of trepidation. Though the thick talc he wore should hamper his being recognized as the unidentified man wanted in connection with the recent street slayings, the sight of the dark granite Hall of Justice did little to calm Atros' growing anxieties. As it was early morning, the only other occupants of the small boxed-in area were several guardsmen out exercising their arms in mock combats on the straw covered flagstones. But even without these, the Keep was imposing in itself. It rose high above the outer walls and sprawled eastward toward the steep chasm above the river. In spite of the wishes of each generation of Lords to leave his mark on the historic edifice, it seemed that there was no longer room for the continual additions which had so expanded the Keep in past centuries. Actually, the whole structure bore the title of "Keep" only in deference to its humble origins, as it had long since outgrown this title. Atros crossed the open courtyard and identified himself to a watchman who escorted him up the wide granite stairs and through the ancient portals of the west wing, which had served as the main hall of the Keep until the time of Lord Cabot, the grandfather of the current Duke. Since Cabot's renovations, the west wing had been relegated to quarters of favored guests and courtiers. The role of Atros' friend, Kite, as unofficial ambassador to the court of Dargon kept him here much of the time. The house of Winthrop had retained apartments in the wing for generations, so Kite's fiancee could remain near him (suitably chaperoned, of course) during their stays in Dargon. After introducing Atros to a housemaid at the threshold, the watchman returned to his duties. To Atros' inquires about Kite and Pecora, the maid reacted only with a strange silence and unfathomable expressions. She appeared either to be mute or reluctant to answer his questions. Perhaps the servants were instructed not to speak with guests, as was sometimes done among the nobility. But Atros didn't recall any indication of such a restriction during his earlier visits. In any case, Atros decided that further attempts to make her speak would be futile. He followed her through the fore hall and into a small chamber hung with shields bearing the coats of arms of various families. Atros recognized those of Baranur and Dargon, but the rest were a mystery to him. With a slight gesture and a quick curtsy, the maid silently bid him to stay in the ante chamber and hurried from the room. The ringing of her heels on the stone floor echoed into the distance. Atros stood puzzled for many moments. This was not the reception he had anticipated. Finally, the stout wooden door opened. A tall, muscular man, who still retained much of his youthful appearance despite a carefully trimmed graying beard, entered. The exposed portion of the man's face appeared rough, angular, and somehow vaguely familiar. "Raffen Yeggent?" the man asked in a deep, resonant voice. After pausing long enough for Atros to complete his nod, he continued, "I'm Aspen Talador, Kite's brother," he stated simply. This was startling as Aspen's build and height were so unlike his brother's. "I don't understand. I came seeking Kite or Pecora." Seeing Aspen's expression, Atros added "Is something wrong?" Aspen cleared his throat and said, "Yes, I'm afraid so. It's a delicate matter. My brother left Dargon a week ago. Pecora has refused to see anyone since. It seems their engagement has abruptly come to an end." "That is surprising." Atros' honest concern and disappointment tinged his voice. "They seemed meant for each other... Kite just left her? It doesn't sound like Kite. They argued, I suppose?" "No, not really. That was the strange part. It happened very suddenly." Aspen was obviously having trouble discussing such personal matters with a stranger. "I don't mean to pry, but Kite and Pecora were friends. I'm naturally concerned." "Yes, of course. Both Kite and Pecora spoke of you. I don't think it would do any real harm to inform you. You know that Pecora fell ill a few weeks ago?" "No, I'm sorry. I've been out of touch since the festival ended. All seemed well then," Atros suggested. "Oh, well then. She was struck suddenly by a debilitating illness soon after the fairs. It seemed that her life was threatened. The healers could do nothing." "How terrible! I had no idea. But she has recovered now?" Atros asked. "Yes. Kite journeyed far to the southwest in search of some mystics rumored to possess a remedy. He returned with the cure, but it seems he had to pledge himself in service to these mystics in exchange for the remedy. He returned to the mystics soon after Pecora recovered." "Very bizarre. Did he say when he would be able to return?" "No, he said very little. I am afraid he may never return." Atros was speechless. One of the few bases of stability in his life had just been removed. "I partially blame myself. I was too busy with the healers and running the estate to take notice of Kite's intention to go on the quest. If I had accompanied him, perhaps things would have gone differently." "You can't blame yourself. Kite was obviously distraught by Pecora's illness. He probably wasn't thinking very clearly." "True, but I've always felt responsible for my younger brother. And the Winthrops and Taladors have been close for generations. I was Pecora's friend as well as Kite's brother. I should have found the time to go to the Winthrop holding in person when Pecora became ill. I should have seen Kite's desperation. I was thoughtless." Aspen was obviously a man to whom such matters as guilt, responsibility, and honor were paramount. "You've been thinking of going after Kite and bringing him back, haven't you?" "Yes, but I don't know if it would do any good. Kite is a very honorable man. He has given his word, I don't think I could convince him to break it. Besides... my brother was different when he returned from his quest." "Different? Different in what way?" "He was quiet... almost distant. These mystics have some sort of hold over him. He still cared a great deal for Pecora and people of the duchy, but I sensed that he was almost anxious to return to these 'mystics'," Aspen pronounced the word with visible distaste. "Yes, I would very much like to talk with him now." "So would I, but my responsibilities keep me here. I must oversee the estate and see to Kite's obligations at court as well. Not that I'm complaining... I just feel a little powerless in this whole matter." Aspen's fist flexed subconsciously while he talked. Atros could tell that here was a man who was accustomed to authority. Helplessness drove him to distraction. It didn't look as though the aid Atros needed could be found here. Atros hesitated for a few moments, pondering his next course of action. He had no other friends in Dargon he could trust, and he did feel some vague kinship for this man, due to their mutual concern for Kite. He really wanted to accompany Aspen on a quest for his brother, but Atros had no time. He must make his rendezvous with his enemies soon. Atros felt like an intruder here. There was nothing he could do for this man, or Pecora for that matter. Only time would soften her loss. Aspen had politely inferred that she would not see him now, so there was little point in attempting that. It was best that he leave, and yet he felt compelled to linger. "You came for more than just a friendly visit. Is there something you want?" Aspen asked interrupting Atros' thought. "Do you just casually read minds?" Atros asked startled. "Well, that's part of being a landowner. I see petitioners almost daily. One learns to recognize an unasked boon," Aspen tried to coax Atros into making his request, but Atros remained silent. "You are a fair reader of minds yourself. You knew I wished to forsake my responsibilities here and follow Kite." "Yes, I suppose we are alike. We've learned to anticipate other's thoughts..." Atros stopped suddenly, catching himself. He did not like to consider Morpheus by day, but he was beginning to realize how much alike he and Morpheus were. "What is it, Raffen? If there is something I can do for you I will try. Kite spoke very well of you and I can see that there is much truth behind his words." "I am in trouble. I need someone I can trust to stand at my side. I thought perhaps Kite could help.... but I can't involve you. We've only just met and there is a great deal of danger. Perhaps, I should not have even expected Kite's help," Atros finished weakly. "I already knew that your request would be dangerous. Though you carry yourself well, your wounds are still apparent. They are not of the type that one would come by in an 'accident'." An expression of revelation crossed Aspen's features. "Wait, the street fight near the wharves last night! You were there!" At another time, Atros might have denied it, but now over wrought by the turmoils of the last few hours, he gave in easily. "You are too quick for me. Yes, I was there," he resigned. "Now, you have no choice, I am definitely involved. There was blood spilled, and what goes on in the streets of Dargon is of concern to me." The tiniest of hints of the potential anger in this man showed in his hard brown eyes. "I fought only in self defense." "There is no need to defend yourself to me. I know you are speaking the truth." "You trust me so readily?" Atros asked incredulously. "Well, I will have to hear the whole story, but I am a fair judge of character, as was, no, IS Kite. I will know if you lie to me. Besides, if you intended to ask for my brother's help, you certainly couldn't have been too far in the wrong. Kite is, if anything, moral to the point of naivety." Aspen began to chuckle then stopped abruptly. "I will have to hear the whole story. Sit while I fetch some wine. It looks like we'll be needing it. I'll give orders to the staff not to disturb us... And don't think about sneaking out in my absence. You'll not be allowed to leave until I'm satisfied," Aspen added stepping out the door. Once again, Aspen had virtually read Atros' thoughts. Slipping out had been a definite consideration at that point. Atros' fear of involving this unknown man in his business was growing almost as quickly as the begrudging respect he was beginning to feel for Aspen. Still, it really looked like he had little choice in the matter now. Somehow relinquishing the responsibility for involving Aspen seemed to relieve Atros' fears. Atros realized that he should be using this brief respite in the questioning to concoct and rehearse a clever story to cover himself, but he feared that Aspen might easily catch him if he lied. He had pondered this for several moments to no avail, when Aspen returned sooner than Atros had hoped. Placing two pewter goblets on the walnut table, Aspen began pouring. "I hope you will forgive me. It is a family wine. The Taladors have bottled it for generations; it really is quite good." "Yes, I know. I've had it often. It does seem underrated." "Thank you, but back to our discussion. You were about to tell me how you got involved in these murders." Aspen stared directly at Atros, sizing him up. "Well, uh... it is a long story, going far back into my past... and the past of my family." Atros finished with a smile. "Go on." "To put it in simple terms, it seems I've involved myself in an ancient feud between my family and another clan." "A feud... Yes, I can see that. While I don't condone such things, I can understand and sympathize somewhat as a fellow noble." "Believe me, my involvement is involuntary. I actually came to Dargon trying to escape the situation. But it seems I will not be allowed any peace." "What was the cause of the feud and what do your enemies want of you?" Aspen inquired pointedly. "I do not know the cause of the feud, yet. But it was pretty obvious that those thugs wanted my death." "What of your friends, the girl and the old man." "The girl is safe for the moment though she was badly wounded and is still under treatment for her injuries. The old man disappeared again. He comes and goes as he likes. I would hesitate to call him 'friend' though." "Now I understand the background, though you've omitted a great deal of the names and details." Aspen paused to smile. "What happened the other night?" "The girl and I - her name is Darla - were returning from a pub when we were ambushed by four hired thugs. I attempted to hold them off, but Darla was captured. While I fought the other attackers, Darla attempted to escape and received a bad head wound in the attempt. I tried to aid her but was badly outnumbered. Then the old man arrived and came to my aid. It was actually he who struck the fatal blows. We fled, while he covered our escape." "You're telling me that an elderly man killed two men without the aid of a weapon?" Aspen inquired with notable skepticism. "He appears feeble but is actually almost supernaturally strong." "That is difficult to believe, though I will not question your statement until I meet this man. Do you know where he might be found?" "No, as I have said he comes and goes as he pleases. I know only that he will be following me if he can." "What else do you know of this man?" Aspen asked. "Very little. It seems he is employed by the more radical side of my family to safeguard my life. He does not take orders from me." "Oh, I see. That explains his fortuitous appearance the other night. Hhm, you say you were ambushed. How is that your enemies knew your whereabouts that night?" "I do not know entirely. I was investigating a lead that my enemies might have used the Inn of the Hungry Shark as a meeting place. Perhaps I was seen there by one of their agents, but I do not think that would have given them enough time to prepare the ambush. I stayed in the inn for only a few moments," Atros added speculating. "Interesting. And did your lead turn up anything useful?" "Perhaps. A group of men did meet there for several days some time ago and it is certain that they were up to no good purpose...." "There is something important you're omitting," Aspen accused. "Well, yes. I hesitate to involve you but with your courtly connections perhaps you might be able to give me some information that would be difficult to obtain otherwise." "Ask your questions." "What do you know of the Court Magician?" "Brutsam?" Aspen paused for Atros' nod. "A passing acquaintance of an old Dargon family. From what I've been told he is both competent and perhaps a bit ambitious." "Then can you think of any good reason for him to go in disguise to the Hungry Shark at night and to meet with men seemingly engaged in some shady activities?" "No, I wouldn't think Brutsam would go into the wharf district at all after dark. He seems a bit timid. You're saying you think he may be involved with your enemies?" "It certainly appears so. I have the innkeep's word for it," Atros affirmed. "That is rather provocative information. I will have to think on it." Aspen paused to drain his goblet. "It grows late and I grow hungry. Would you object if I arrange to have dinner served? I can promise one of the house's finest repasts." "I could hardly refuse while you hold me prisoner," Atros accused wryly. "Yes, that is a bit unfair of me. You may leave if you really must, but I think I might be able to help you." "And why would you do that?" Atros asked abruptly. "Call it guilt over Kite. I was feeling particularly helpless before you came and distracted me. Or call it kindred spirits helping one another. With each passing moment I find even more similarities between myself and you." "Yes, frightening, isn't it?" Atros smiled. "You will stay for dinner, won't you?" Aspen asked. "I do not know. I have appointments to keep." "You haven't told me what favor you came to ask of my brother. Something dangerous...something to do with your appointments perhaps?" "Well, allright. I'll let you drag it out from me over dinner," Atros resigned. Giving Atros the choice to leave had broken down his defenses better than hours worth of badgering might have. "No, after dinner. I have a feeling that the conversation may not be the best for our stomachs. I will go arrange matters then." Aspen left for the second time. After a very long period of waiting, Atros was escorted by the housemaid to the old dining hall of the west wing. The dining hall was much smaller than the more modern one which had housed the celebrations of the Dargon Festival only a few weeks ago. It was arrayed in musty tapestries depicting the wives of former Lords of Dargon, women who were now only known as adornments. After a few more moments, Aspen joined them. They enjoyed a long leisurely meal of roast duck and small talk about books, hunting, and speculation on trading with Bichu. After the dishes were cleared, Aspen began his assault afresh. He began "What dangerous favor have you to ask me?" "Last night my apartments were violated and robbed by my enemies. They damaged and stole much of my most precious properties. In their wake, they left a note demanding a rendezvous. I am of the mind to take them up on this offer, but I cannot meet them alone. I am an indifferent swordsman at best. I had hoped that Kite, who was well practiced in the art of combat, might accompany me." "Oh, I see. Yes, that is certainly a dangerous task. You know that it will most likely be another ambush?" "Yes, but I cannot give up this opportunity to uncover their identities. It is my only lead besides Brutsam," Atros admitted. "Oh, I was meaning to bring that up. Just before dinner I made certain inquiries. It seems your Brutsam lead is a false one." "You did what!?!" Atros shouted rising from his chair. "You should not have acted in my affairs without my permission!" "Be calm. No harm has been done and much was gained." Aspen remained seated and calm, though quick footsteps could be heard in the hall outside the dining hall. "How can you know that?! Word of your 'inquiries' will spread." "No, Raffen. I spoke only to a dear and trusted friend who won't betray you or me. I asked him to keep the matter confidential and I am sure he will." "How can you be certain?" Atros said returning slowly to his seat. "I can trust the word of the Lord of Dargon." "You spoke to Lord Dargon?" Atros asked incredulous. "This is his keep and we are boyhood friends after all. And you should be grateful to hear that the city guards will not be searching for a man of your description after tonight." "What? Who knows what repercussions such an order will cause?" Atros accused his temper growing once more. "No, no, Raffen. There will be no order. Lord Clifton is more subtle than that. He will simply divert the men needed for the search elsewhere. It will be quickly forgotten," Aspen said calmly. "And Lord Clifton is willing to let the matter drop at that?" Atros inquired in disbelief. "He will let the matter drop only because I have chosen to involve myself personally. He is confident in my ability to right things with the minimum of turmoil." "So, I am not hounded by the guard only so long as I cooperate with you." Atros' features showed his disdain. "Precisely. I thought it a very neat coercion." Aspen smiled. "You are not exactly the type of individual whom I can trust implicitly - no offense intended. It's just that you are much too smart and much too guileful. You think too much like myself. It is difficult for me to be certain that you would return after leaving these walls." "You would not accept my word!" Atros asked insulted. "Yes, I would accept your word as a noble, but I notice that you have been careful not to offer it," Aspen said smoothly. "Well spoken. It does seem that you were born for politics," Atros admitted. "Thank you, but I think you are trying to distract me. But before we go on, I would like to relate what Lord Clifton has told me in confidence." "Which is?" Atros asked genuinely concerned. "That he is aware of the meetings between Brutsam and these other men and that they do not concern you in the slightest. He was rather noncommittal but it seems you've stumbled into something big which must be kept confidential at this time. So you see, you've as much reason to trust Lord Clifton as he has to trust you." "Interesting. I'm still very curious about the Brutsam matter, but I'll let it drop on the basis of Lord Clifton's word. You see, I too have heard that his oath is a good one." "Speaking of oathes, I was about to commit myself and my troops to aiding you in this meeting with your enemies," Aspen stated. "Your 'troops'? I'm not looking for a siege," Atros said sarcastically. "Any use of 'troops' would probably frighten them off." "Yes, of course, I was thinking of one man only. An expert crossbowman who might be useful to us." "He doesn't happen to be the same man as the one behind the aria over there?" Atros asked pointing. "How long have you known?" Aspen seemed surprised. "Since I raised my voice. He shifted his weight suddenly and made a silent ripple in the fabric. Later I noticed the peek holes." "Well, Glasker, come out and let me introduce you formally." The curtain parted at one side and a tall, broad man wearing a leather jerkin and carrying a stout crossbow entered the room. "Glasker is an old foot soldier and friend of the family. He is capable and extremely tight lipped, and as an additional bonus he has remarkable observation and memory powers. Glasker, how many times has Raffen drank from that glass this evening?" Aspen asked. After a moment Glasker replied, "Twenty-one sir, but he lifted it twenty-five times." "Amazing! Did you keep track all night?" Atros asked. "No, I recalled the entire evening from start to finish and counted," Glasker said slowly. "That seems a useful talent," Atros commented. "Thank you, sir." Glasker turned toward Aspen, "You were about to get to some sort of oath, sir." "Yes, thank you, Glasker. Raffen, I and Glasker will accompany you in your meeting with these enemies. Is that agreed?" It was clear that Atros had little choice. "Yes," Atros conceded. Both men had impressed him as being extremely capable and useful to his needs. "Then we will make plans, do you have the written challenge you mentioned earlier?" "Why, yes," Atros said smiling. "You could have avoided all this by searching me." "But then I would never have gotten your cooperation," he beamed. "Yes, of course. Let's get to work." Atros retained his smile for several minutes. Perhaps things weren't quite as dismal as they had seemed only a short time before. -Joseph Curwen <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *Treasure 4 John L. White Date: 020688 Dist: 527 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Greetings, all. This issue is dedicated to the conclusion of John White's "Treasure" series. This epic series of stories began in the summer of 1986 with John's first Je'en story, "A New Life", and continued with several other tales, leading up to the four-part concluding tale "The Treasure". The "Treasure" stories have appeared in issues Vol07N5, Vol08N2, Vol09N2, and concludes here in Vol10N2. I definitely suggest that anyone who isn't up to date on John's works go back and request the back issues. I would like to express my thanks to John for contributing this huge collection to FSFnet, and my hopes that he will continue to produce fiction for FSFnet. As you may notice, this is a particularly large issue of FSFnet, however it was necessary that I fit the conclusion of "Treasure" into one issue. For our new readers, this is most definitely not a typical issue. This will be the last issue of FSFnet entirely dedicated to one story, and all future issues will contain several shorter installments rather than one large one. And those of you who have kept up with the Je'en storyline are in for quite a treat! -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Treasure Part 4 Tandi's Quest Tanandra wearily folded her "acquired" bedroll after yet another night without sleep. The rising sun provided enough illumination for her to prepare a meager meal - the rations she had acquired along with her bedding were nearly gone. She sat facing south-east while she ate, looking deeper into rising foothills. Her goal was near, somewhere among those hills. That was part of the reason she had been sleepless for the past six nights: the nervousness of actually facing someone with enough power to delve into the Forbidden Art - the magics that could bring the semblance of life to a corpse. The other reason was the brand in her mind that led her to this place - the magic of the gorfodd that had been intended for Cefn, but now forced her ever onwards. She would have quit this insane course had she been able, but the geas wouldn't let her. The brand flared briefly and somewhat painfully and Tanandra's confidence tried to slip even lower. The normally constant burning throb that led her to her goal would at times flare into a higher intensity. Something about the magic that created the brand told her that each flare indicated an increase of the ability of the one she pursued. She fervently hoped she reached that person soon, since what little power she had of her own was fast being eroded by sleepless nights and exhausting travel. Little more than three hours had passed when Tandi was led off the game trail she had been following. So weary was she that she didn't even realize the change until she came to a narrow crack in a sheer hillside. The brand urged her to follow it, and she was barely able to comply by turning sideways, inhaling deeply, and squeezing painfully at times through. She came out of the narrow way into a very dreary tiny valley. She knew she had reached her destination for two reasons. First, the brand was now flaring so brightly in her mind that she was sure it could be seen behind her eyes. And second, the demi-castle built into the far wall of the valley could only belong to a reclusive person - perfect for someone who would dare to venture into the Forbidden Art. Adrenalin pushed back her fatigue, and she dropped her no-longer- needed pack behind a rock then worked her way carefully closer to the walls of the castle. It had not been constructed for defense, and looking around, Tandi could see why: there was no easy way into the valley. Each side of the dell was sheer and high and, unless there were any other small cracks like the one she had pushed through, they were unbroken. No armed force of any size could penetrate to threaten those walls. The gate was at least 10 yards wide and half as high. A tall, thin tower rose to either side, too thin to actually house even a single sentry. Carved in fanciful runes over the lintel of the gateway was the name "Aahashtra". One of the pair of doors was open halfway as if in invitation. Behind the almost ornamental wall was the castle itself, or at least as much of it as wasn't carved into the hill that rose behind it. The builder had taken the only non-sheer wall of the valley and had integrated the castle into the rolls and folds of the rising hill. Towers sprouted from several points along the box-like main building, as well as from odd points along the hill. Shorter turrets and balconies filled up more wall and hill spaces, and in places the hillside was augmented by out-thrusting rooms. It looked like a mad-man's maze, and Tandi was (for once) glad of the brand that would show her the way through it. Drawing all of her strength together, she cast upon herself her best spell - that of maximum non-detection. She was very proud of the spell, which was less exhausting than full invisibility but more complex. Of course, it was also not as effective as invisibility: it simply placed about the subject an aura of unnoticeability which could deflect all but the most intensely directed search. It was perfect for moving through crowded streets (if someone bumped into you while you were non-detected, they might curse or apologize and then forget about you) or slipping past even the most alert guards. As she neared the gate - the only way she could see to get into the castle without more help than she could summon - she grew ever more uneasy. She could feel her own power-reserves draining far more rapidly than they should and she could only hope that she would be able to maintain her spell long enough to reach and stop her target. How she intended to stop him she wasn't sure, but she was unconsciously fingering her belt knife as she slipped along the outer wall. She reached the edge of the open gate, and peered cautiously through into the courtyard. It seemed empty so, still nervous, Tandi made a dash for the castle's main door. As she crossed the sandy pavement of the courtyard she felt a tingle run through her. She wondered briefly about an alarm of some kind, but she was certain her spell could divert the abilities of any alarm, magical or otherwise, she had ever heard of. (She was partially right - the alarm rigged in the courtyard was almost fooled. But the owner of Aahashtra had devised his own type of alarm and it was like nothing Tandi had ever seen before. It didn't quite detect her presence, but it was able to warn the reclusive conjurer that something was wrong.) She should have been warned by the fact that the front door was unbarred. Even in the wilderness, secluded in a tiny valley, it was suspicious to leave one's front door unprotected, especially when the gate was also open. But Tandi had other things on her mind, like sustaining her spell (which was growing harder and harder), and the distraction of the brand almost pulling her toward her target, so she didn't even notice the easy access she gained into the castle. And that was her downfall. Her non-detect spell was useful against trap-doors and other such devices, but it couldn't do a thing about a simple illusion. So, when the brand led Tandi across the large reception hall and down the only corridor that led off it, she was delivered right into one of the simplest traps that the owner of Aahashtra had set - a pit covered by the illusion of a floor. The fall wasn't far, but Tandi hit her head as she went down, and was knocked unconscious. She awoke strapped to a table in a laboratory. The gorfodd brand burned in her mind with a painful intensity and she struggled with her bonds as it goaded her to eliminate the source of that pain. She heard sounds around her, voices talking and chanting, but she was too concerned with the driving geas to take the time to concentrate on what was being said. And then the pain was gone. As if it had never been, leaving not even the memory of it to torment her. She felt the cancellation spell fade away around her, and looked up at the one who had freed her from the gorfodd. The man standing before the vertical table was known to her. The Elders had been right. The experimenter into the Forbidden Art was Roharvardenul, once a pupil along with Cefn and herself. But Vard had always been a troublemaker, and a duel between Cefn and Vard - an activity proscribed by the masters - had gotten the latter evicted from the college. It was his specialization in control magics that had earned Vard the mistrust of all in the college - such knowledge could only be used for ill, and the masters had tried to discourage Vard from his research into that avenue of magic. But the man had disobeyed, vowing to become the most powerful wizard ever when he was forced from Tarenha Isle. "And what brings little Tanandra into my demesne, hmm?" asked Vard. "I don't think you need to answer," he continued. "I could tell from the parameters of the spell I just cancelled. You have come to stop me from learning the Forbidden Art. How noble. How did the Council manage to rope you into this? I recognized the magics of several of my old foes in the gorfodd you bore - it was very powerful. But it was also the most formidable magic you have ever borne, not that you could actually use it, and now its gone. How did they think that a compulsion would help you defeat me? Fools! "Actually, they've helped me more than they could imagine. I'm almost ready to move into the final stages of my research and I actually need some help for this. Come and let me show you how far I've gotten." Vard turned and walked over to the far side of the laboratory and the table Tandi was fastened to followed. She wondered if it were being pushed by someone she couldn't see, or if it moved by magic. Her senses were so ravaged by her recent ordeal that the fact that she couldn't detect any magic about the table didn't mean there wasn't any. Vard stopped in an area cleared of all but a book-stand and a low pedastal. The table jockeyed itself up next to him in such a way as to allow Tandi full view of both objects. On the book-stand was a large, iron (or was that lead?) bound tome with red leather covers and spidery black lettering. And on the pedastal was a lump of black crystal that had a sickly-glowing purple core. The sight of that lump made her almost violently ill and she was deathly afraid of its purpose, knowing the legends of the Forbidden Art. Vard gestured proudly and said, "Behold, the first mivorn amulet to exist since Ciraledwen the Great!" Tandi winced to hear that evil Elder given such an exalted title. What she had feared was true - that lump of black stone was a mivorn amulet, used to sustain the undead creations of a practitioner of the Forbidden Art by draining the life-force of those fused to it. And she began to realize just what Vard had planed for her. "It has taken me long to create this amulet," Vard said, "and long to attune myself to it once created. But now I am ready to put it to its fullest use, and for that I need a source. You, my dear Tanandra, are to be my source. I don't intend to use the Forbidden Art for conquest, at least not at the moment, but I do need to resurrect someone to further my world-conquest plans and you should last more than long enough to see me to that end. Now, to link you to the amulet..." He opened the book and flipped through the pages until he found what he was looking for. Reading from the page he had turned to, he began to chant in a language that hurt Tandi's ears even though she couldn't understand a word of it. A sick feeling began to grow in her stomach as she tried to summon to her aid any magic at all. But either from something Vard had done or plain and simple exhaustion, she couldn't find even the barest trickle of power to fuel the few and simple spells she could think of. She was trapped and nothing could save her from Vard's schemes. The chant rose to a harsh peak, and Vard reached down for Tandi's arm. He released its bond with the flick of a finger and pulled her arm, palm first, toward the amulet. The mivorn began to glow a brighter and slimier purple as Vard continued to chant. With a three syllable invocation, Vard pressed Tandi's palm hard against the crystal. Immediatly, she felt a shard of the amulet break off the mass and burrow like something alive into her flesh. It burned worse than the gorfodd brand had for a few moments, then it stopped. Vard released her hand and began to wind down the chant. Tandi looked at her palm and wasn't surprised to see in its center a lump of the black crystal. She could feel its presence within her hand and arm, and she tried to pry it out like she would a splinter but it wouldn't budge. Vard glanced over at her when his spell was finished and laughed at her antics. He said, "It cannot be pried from your body, little one. I could withdraw it, and I might when I'm through with you if there's anything of you left. So be nice to me or I'll use you all up!" Vard's mocking laugh rang in her ears as she continued to try to rid herself of that black crystal tap on her very lifeforce. Je'en's Task Je'lanthra'en made her way from Dargon Castle with no trouble at all. The guards she had drugged would sleep for several hours yet, and she had a few of the sleep-balls left in case she met anyone in the upper levels of the castle. But she made it out of the castle and across the causeway with not a single encounter. Her horse was where she had left it, already fully provisioned for a long journey. She secured her treasure-pouch among the saddlebags, mounted, and rode away from Dargon, heedless of the lateness of the hour. She had a mission to complete and she couldn't put it off. Once she was miles away from Dargon and any hope of capture, the compulsion set on her by that presence in her mind eased up and she was able to think again. And for the first time since the attack she realized just who had been on the other end of that sword. Inwardly, she cursed and wept for her cousin Ka'en, whom she believed dead. She didn't stop to wonder what he was doing in the vaults, she just railed against the presence in her mind that had forced her to silence the person who had discovered her theft. There was, at that time, enough left of Je'en free in her mind to do that. But just a few days later the mental hold was so tight on her that she had no thought but unswerving loyalty toward her master. She rode swiftly, taking only the minimum rest necessary each night before continuing on in her mission. This way she made it to those same foothills in far less time than it had taken Tandi even accounting for her horse. She abandoned the animal when she came to the crack. She knew the words that would widen it so that she didn't have to squeeze through as had Tandi. She walked boldly into the valley, through the open gate labeled Aahashtra, and across the courtyard which had its alarm turned off temporarily since the owner knew that Je'en was on her way. She passed through the front door and the reception hall but ignored the only hallway evident. Instead, she went to the wall bearing a mosaic of a hunting scene and pressed the downed stag's eye. The whole mural swung back, admitting her to the interior of the castle. With knowledge so automatic it seemed her own, Je'en threaded her way along the maze that was Aahashtra and to the rooms that the owner called his own. Before she got there, however, new orders arrived and she changed direction. Back down, over, up, then down again, and she came to the laboratory. She walked over to the man standing by a book stand, knelt, and offered him the only thing she had taken off her horse when she freed it - the sack containing the treasure from the crypt beneath Dargon Castle. "Ah, my slave, you have arrived," said Vard. "Just in time, too. I have been so anxious to try out my new source that I was ready to rob a grave for a subject. But here you are with the things I need to conquer the world. And I can start with this skull right here." He had emptied the bag onto the bookstand and, ignoring the key and the map, he was holding up the skull as if it was some long lost friend. "You may stand over there, Je'en, while I prepare to revive this poor man trapped so long ago by his master." Je'en obeyed, and took the opportunity to look around at the lab. The only comparison she had was to Cefn's lab, and this one was both larger and more impressive. But it was evident that most of the recent activity there had been in the corner with the bookstand and the pedastal that bore some kind of ugly, evil stone on it. Vard had removed the extraneous objects from the bookstand and was leafing through the pages. He had just found the right one when a small man came in leading a woman by a chain attached to her waist. She didn't look well - she was thin unto gauntness, with circles under her eyes and stringy hair that might be quite pretty if washed and combed. Her tunic and pants seemed made for someone three sizes larger, and they were dirty and torn. She was constantly rubbing at something on her right palm, paying attention to nothing else around her. Vard looked up and saw the woman, and smiled evilly. He said, "Ah, Tanandra, finally I have a use for you. Take your place, please." The woman listlessly stood between the bookstand and the pedastal, then sank into a cross-legged sitting position, her right hand open and palm up on her knee. Je'en could see the lump of black crystal that pulsed there in time to the purple light within the ugly rock on the pedastal. Vard said, "Qrun, take this skull and place it on the floor next to Tanandra. Then you may go." The small man complied, then left by the door he had come in by. Looking around to make sure he had done everything necessary, Vard took a satisfied breath and began to chant. Je'en had been with Cefn while he cast his magics, but never had he used so painful a language to listen to. Je'en shivered where she stood and would have followed the small man out had she been permitted. But Vard had given no such order, so she was stuck watching and listening. The rock began to glow brighter and to pulse in rhythm to Vard's chant. Tanandra's hand clenched around the rock in her palm but didn't obscure it. She began to grimace as well when a thin purple thread crept from the small stone toward the skull. At the same time, a much larger lance of purple light was connecting the big crystal to the skull. When the two lines met the skull, it too began to glow. Vard's chant grew in volume, and to Je'en's horror flesh began to form over the skull. She watched as, with increasing speed, the skull she had taken from Dargon was restored to the body of a man! Ka'en's Search It took Ka'lochra'en far less time to lose his patience than it did the glacier-calm Cefn. So it was that Ka'en had been pacing and fretting for more than a week when Cefn finally lost it. Unfortunately for most passersby, when Cefn lost his patience, people noticed! Ever since the day Je'en had disappeared after robbing some hidden crypt within the secret vault beneath Dargon Castle, Ka'en had followed the mage around as they both tried to fathom what had happened to her and where she was. Ka'en's first urge, to ride out and follow her, was put aside by Cefn. He had said that Je'en had a long head start on them, and could be anywhere in almost any direction by then. His first action had been to return to his house and play cards. Actually, Ka'en knew foretelling cards when he saw them, although he had never seen a set like the one Cefn used. He got to know them well, however, because the mage spent the whole night using them, all to no effect. All Cefn would say was, "Something's blocking them. The twelve of swords, Je'en, is crossed by the Prime of Staves every time. Beyond that, there is no pattern, no similarity in any of the layouts I do. I cannot reach her with these." So they had tried every method of divination available within the precincts of Dargon. Every palm-reader, every amateur card-layer, bone-spiller, and tea-dregs-diviner in the city. Not one could tell them anything. Only one in six had the true gift, a fact that Cefn made sure to ascertain quickly. He never stinted with the money they demanded, but he knew when he was getting truth and when the fortune-teller was just giving them air. It took a week and more to visit all of those who promised a reading of the future that existed in Dargon. It was at the last of these that Cefn lost his temper. It was in a dock-side tavern that both Cefn and Ka'en met with the palmist. Ka'en had sensed that the man was a fake from the first, but as usual, Cefn gave the man a whole gold crown to read his palm. The thin, shifty-eyed man across the table from them looked at the crown as if it were a dead fish, although Ka'en was sure there was a glint of avarice deep in his tiny eyes. With a pass of his hand, the gold piece vanished; a simple prestidigitator's trick that might impress some, but not a real mage like Cefn, or a real thief like Ka'en. Besides, thought Ka'en, I could do it better and with more coins. The palm reader took Cefn's left hand and peered intently at the deeply creased palm. He studied it for several minutes, muttering to himself and tracing the various lines, folds and creases there. Finally he straightened up, took a deep breath, and began to propound on what he had seen of Cefn's life in his palm. Ka'en listened wearily to what he had heard many times before. Very little of it was true, but there were several schools of palmistry, and those with similar training saw the same things in the same palm, true or not. Ka'en thought very little of palmistry, and very little of divinations, but Cefn believed and he was paying. The thin man had finished describing Cefn's past life, his character and his intelligence, and began to answer the question that the mage had asked. He used a different part of Cefn's palm to illustrate the recent departure of a dear one. He pointed to three tiny lines crossing what he called the 'relationship line' and said, "These indicate that the one you have lost has run away with another man. I can see herein that your loss is deep, but I cannot see where your loved one has gone - his life is no longer reflected in your palm. My advice is to forget him and concern yourself with new relationships." The palmist leered sideways at Ka'en, who reacted to the insult by reaching for his knife. But Cefn reacted faster and far more violently. The mage stood and easily pushed the heavy table away from himself, pinning the palmist in his chair. When he spoke, Cefn's voice was so full of anger that even Ka'en backed away a pace. "How dare you tell me such lies! The one I am searching for was not a man, and she left with no one! You and your kind will say anything for a copper." Cefn was gripping the table with glowing hands, and Ka'en thought he could detect a bit of smoke curling up from around them. He also noticed that there were little flashes of light beginning to show through Cefn's robe. The mage continued, "I've been all over this city and all I've gotten from the likes of you is fanciful tales of kidnapping, or runaway lovers, or visits from gods. I'm sick and tired of lies! People like you should be banned from the city limits for deluding innocent truth-seekers!" Cefn lifted his right hand from the table to point at the palmist, leaving a charred handprint behind. His hands were glowing brightly, the flashes beneath his robe were growing more frequent, and Ka'en thought he could detect a faint haze rippling the air around the mage. Ka'en tried to draw Cefn's attention to what was happening, but the mage was too caught up in his anger to listen. Cefn continued, "All I want is the answer to a simple question. I don't care why she left, I don't care what caused her to steal those things. I just want to know WHERE JE'EN IS!" With the last word, he slammed his fist down on the center of the table with cataclysmic results. The fire burned down the bar, and a good portion of the wharf. No one was injured - the rantings of the wizard had cleared the bar of all other patrons, and the two people with the wizard had been rescued by him shortly after the fire began. The ships moored at the wharf had cast off from the dock and had survived unharmed. The bucket brigades formed hadn't been able to save the bar, but the supplies sitting out for on- or off-loading had been swiftly moved into a nearby warehouse. A fire break and constant watch had saved the warehouse and contained the fire to just the immediate area. There had been no mistaking the wizard who had started the fire - a man who always wore an unnaturally dark cowl is easily recognized. So when the captain of the City Guard arrived at Cefn's door, he found the entry hall filled with chests, each chest filled with gold and gems. The restitution was readily accepted and both Cefn and Ka'en avoided prison. Ka'en sat with Cefn in the taproom of the Panther later that day trying to figure out what to do next. He was just about to suggest that they try to track Je'en out of the city along a week-old trail when a young boy walked in the door. He stood looking around for a moment, then hurried over to the table where Ka'en and Cefn sat. "Are you Wizard Kevin?" the child asked. Cefn nodded, and the child handed him a folded piece of paper sealed with red and blue wax. He said, "An old lady asked me to deliver this to you. She said to meet her tomorrow after sunset in the first traveller's rest clearing along the west coastal road. She said that the paper would convince you to come." Ka'en watched Cefn break the wax seal and open the folded paper. He either took a long time reading it, or he was disturbed by what it said because he just sat there seeming to stare at it (Ka'en couldn't tell which - it could be difficult to be teamed up with a man whose face you couldn't see!). When he realized that the mage wouldn't be replying to the child, Ka'en said, "When did you get this paper, son?" "Yesterday, 'fore nooning, in the market. She gave it to me and told who to give it to and what to say. Said 'do it tomorrow to give me time to prepare'." "Does 'meet tomorrow' mean today, since you got the message yesterday?" Ka'en was worried that they would miss the appointment as sunset was in an hour or so and the first traveler's rest was at least half a day's ride away. "Naw, don't worry. The old woman, she said, 'say just what I tell you to, and assure them that I mean for us to meet the day after next'." The child beamed and stayed right where he was. Ka'en realized that the urchin was hoping for a little something for delivering his message so well. Smiling because he knew that the child had surely been already paid by the old woman, Ka'en reached into his belt-pouch and withdrew his coin purse. He fished around in it and came out with the smallest coin he possessed. The child took the coin, gulping when he recognized it. He said, "Thank you, good sirs. And luck to you, too." Then he turned and ran out of the room in case the over-generous Ka'en should change his mind. Still smiling, Ka'en turned to Cefn and asked, "So, are we going to meet with this woman tomorrow or not?" Startled out of his reverie, Cefn said, "Um, yes. Yes, I think we should see her. We'll set out before noon tomorrow. See you then." He rose and left, leaving the paper on the table. Ka'en, curious, picked it up and read it. It was filled with words, but he could understand only the few at the top of the page. They said, "I know of the one you seek, and if you agree to meet me I think that I can find her for you. Below is some information that should convince you I am of the Gifted." There followed the strange words that Ka'en couldn't puzzle out, and the note was signed "Madame Zeefra". They set out after noon the next day, but they still reached the travellers' rest area almost an hour before sundown. They set up camp and waited for the gypsy to arrive. Shortly after sunset, a brightly painted wagon was drawn into the clearing by a pair of very black horses. The driver of the wagon was a middle-aged man dressed in the manner Cefn recognized as belonging to the Rhydd Pobl. He knew it was unusual for one of those roaming people to be this far north so late in the season, but here he was. The man on the wagon paid no attention to the two already occupying the clearing, but went about feeding and watering his horses, situating the wagon just so within the clearing, and starting a large fire next to it (ignoring the fact that Ka'en had already started a modest blaze near their own tents). By the time the gypsy's camp was fully set up, it was full dark, and Ka'en began to wonder if the wagon truly held this Madame Zeefra, or if the gypsy just happened to be passing through. The man went into the wagon for a moment, and came back out carrying a bow and a quiver. He vanished into the forest quietly and quickly, and Ka'en wondered if all gypsies arrow-hunted by night. When the man was gone, a light sprang up within the wagon, showing through the curtained window in its side. Both Cefn and Ka'en rose from where they had been sitting and went over to the wagon. Ka'en knocked on the door over the tailgate and called out, "Madame Zeefra?" The door opened, revealing the perfect picture of a gypsy fortune teller, metalic, be-coined headdress and all. She didn't look at all old to Ka'en, just weathered and experienced. Kind of pretty, too. She said, "You are the wizard Cefn, and you the thief Ka'lochra'en. Come inside and we will see if we can find your lost Je'lanthra'en." Shaken to the core by the woman's naming him thief, Ka'en warily followed Cefn into the wagon. It, too, presented the perfect picture of such a place - small, but with enough room for the three of them to be comfortable, cluttered with odd, mystical things as well as the everyday necessities of life. Ka'en wondered what relation the wagon-driver had to the woman, and if they both slept back here. Zeefra settled herself behind a table, throwing her very black hair off her shawl-covered shoulders with a gesture that set her multiple bracelets clinking musically. She spread her beringed fingers on the ivory tablecloth and said, "Give me your hand, mage." Hesitantly, Cefn offered her his hand palm up, and Ka'en tensed, fearing a repeat of the day before. But Zeefra turned his hand over and closed it between her two, then closed her eyes as if seeking something that lay within her. She said, "It is as I sensed. The one you seek, this Je'en, is beset by strong forces. She is not herself, and is thus protected from most scrying and divination methods. That is why you have had no success within the city in finding her. "However, there are ways older than anyone in Dargon even remembers. But my people keep our heritage alive, and we have ways both simpler and more powerful than many others." She released Cefn's hands and reached beneath the table. She brought out a bowl filled with sand, and a smaller, cut crystal bowl that was empty. Reaching again, she produced a roll of very thin parchment. With one of her rings, she cut a square from the roll large enough to cover the tabletop. She turned to Ka'en and said, "You are blood to this Je'en, right? Give me your left hand." Ka'en extended the indicated hand and was suprised by the power of her grip. She briefly clasped his hand as she had Cefn's, eyes closed, then 'humphing' in a pleased manner, she used the same sharp ring to slice a long cut across his palm. He cried out and tried to pull away, but he couldn't free himself. She held his hand over the crystal bowl and let it bleed freely therein. When a small pool of blood covered the bottom of the bowl, she placed an odd smelling pad of cloth over the wound she had created and closed his fist around it to hold it in place. She released his hand then, and began sifting sand from the large bowl into the smaller one, slowly filling it. Ka'en, spooked, sat back nursing his hand and watched as she lifted the small bowl with one hand, and stirred the contents with the other until the sand turned a pale shade of pink, crooning softly the while. When the blood was thoroughly mixed with the sand, she poured it out into her hand, the entirety of the bowl fitting neatly within her single palm without spilling even a single grain. Setting the crystal aside, she cupped the sand in both hands and held them above the square of parchment and began to sing louder, spreading her fingers to let the sand through. Only, at first it didn't fall. Ka'en thought that it might be caked by the blood even though it didn't really seem wet. It just wasn't ready to leak out. As the gypsy's song continued, the sand began to seep out, slowly at first and then faster and faster. Even though the woman's hands didn't move at all, the sand scattered all over the whole square, forming lines and patterns and two words in simple and ancient runes that Ka'en knew because his first master had used them to pass secret messages to his charges. The first word spelled out Je'en as nearly as it could. The second word was 'keseth', but that word had no meaning to Ka'en. By the time the sand had all fallen, the parchment was covered with sand. Zeefra looked at the patterns, pointing to the words with satisfaction but disapointed with the overall layout. She finally said, "It did not work as well as I had hoped. The patterns say she is to the south and east, but not how far, nor exactly where within that general direction. Parts of this pattern seem blurred, as if the tie just wasn't strong enough." She looked first at Ka'en, and then at Cefn. Finally, she said, "We'll just have to try again. I'm not sure that this will be any better but perhaps your ties to this Je'en are stronger than blood, Cefn." She picked up the square of parchment and poured the once-again-white sand off it into a bucket on the floor. Ka'en saw that the parchment had somehow leached the blood out of the sand and into it, preserving the pattern of the sand on the cleared square. Setting this first square aside, Zeefra cut another, placed it on the table, and then took Cefn's left hand. As the mage bled into the small bowl, Ka'en looked at his own palm which had stopped hurting sometime during the sand-casting. He was astonished to see that nothing remained of the wound at all - the pad of cloth Zeefra had put on it had healed it completely, without even a scar. He returned his attention to the old woman to find her stirring sand that was turning blue. Ka'en looked strangely at Cefn, then went back to watching the 'casting. It went as before, although the patterns were different - much different. Four words were spelled out in runes, and a very detailed map occupied the center of the square. The lines of the map glowed with a pale blue light when the sand was brushed off, and Zeefra seemed well pleased. She said, "Excellent! These four words first - Je'en, as before; the strange word 'keseth' as before; and the new words 'ugurth' and 'Vard'. And the map. Just what you will need. It indicates right now exactly where Je'en is and where she is going." On the map, she pointed to two dots glowing slightly brighter than the rest of the markings. One was moving along a road, and the other was set among some hills. "But, it is more than just a marker for Je'en. Take it up, Cefn. It will show you exactly what route you need to take to reach her." Cefn lifted the map, and the lines changed into a map of the area around Dargon. The west coast road was highlighted, as well as the Central road that led back to the center of Baranur. "With a thought, you can turn it back to Je'en to monitor your positions relative to each other. This is the most powerful use of the sand-magic possible, and I have only ever heard of it happening before. You must be favored by the gods to be given such a talisman." Both Ka'en and Cefn thanked the gypsy profusely. Cefn tried to get her to accept gold as payment for her help, but she said, "No, I did not aid you for a reward. I helped you because my gift urged me to, and to take a reward for that which came freely to me would be wrong. Go, and know that just your thanks are enough for me - more than enough. Why now my name will be passed down with all the others for having created a sand-map!" Ka'en and Cefn retired to their tents and fell immediatly asleep as if drained by the evening's activity. The next morning, the wagon was gone without a trace. As Ka'en ate his morning meal he watched Cefn study the sand-map. And he wondered if they would be quick enough to save Je'en from whatever drew her on - the moving dot was very close to the one in the hills. Vard's Travels It wasn't easy communicating with the dead, as Vard found out very quickly. The Forbidden Art hadn't been created as a means of gathering information: it was obvious that the Fretheodan wizards had had another, better means of resurrection at their disposal. It took most of two days for Vard to learn how to get what he needed out of the re-animated skull. It took another day to make sure that the skull knew everything he needed it to know, which it did. It remembered each and every trap from the mine adit to the door of the final vault wherein was sealed the Yrmenweald. Now it just remained for Vard to discover a way to get across the ocean without taking the weeks it would to go by boat, not to mention the time it would take to get TO a boat to begin the journey. With the Keseth so close to his grasp, Vard was far too impatient to wait that long. The solution came from an unexpected source and unwittingly, too. Vard was musing on how to proceed after getting the last details of the location of the mine from the skull, and Tandi, much wearied after being drained yet again to revive the skull, said flippantly, "Why don't you just fly there?" Ignoring the sarcastic tone in her voice, Vard took the suggestion seriously. Fly. Of course, how simple. But how? Grow wings on everyone? He had no such magic, at least none powerful enough to carry him, Tandi and Je'en across the ocean. Then something else must fly and carry them. What? First he thought of an artifact. Did he have a flying machine in his vaults? He had Qrun check even though he was pretty sure that he didn't. The box kite that Qrun returned with didn't amuse Vard much, but he let it pass for the moment. So, not a machine. Then, an animal. A bird. What bird was large enough to carry three human beings and a load of luggage? A rukh? They were said to have existed once, but Vard had never seen one, nor had he heard recent reports of one. So, not a rukh. But an idea struck him. Myths of large flying animals. A dragon! Vard had no idea where to procure a live dragon even if any still existed which he doubted. But he remembered purchasing the skull of one of those giant flying lizards ages ago, and he could, with his new-found skills, bring the skull to almost-life and have it carry him across the ocean. While he searched his treasure vaults for the skull, Qrun and Eirul made preparations for the journey so that by the time Vard found the skull everything was ready to go. Vard didn't know how the effort to reanimate such a large creature would effect Tanandra and he didn't want her giving out while they were over the ocean. He intended to load the dragon and be away just as soon as it was once again 'alive'. It took everyone's efforts, including Tanandra's, to get the huge skull out to the courtyard - it was twice the size of a man, after all. Once it was in position and all of the provisions had been brought out along with the mivorn amulet and the bookstand, Vard began. Tanandra had been strapped to a chair since she had rebelled at the idea of being used to fuel the rebirth of a dragon. Je'en and the servants stood by the castle's front door, well away from the powerful magic that would bring the lizard back to life. The purple lines of light met in the dragon skull, and it began to glow faintly. Vard's chanting continued, the light kept pouring into the skull, but for the longest time, nothing happened. Then, slowly results began to show. Just patches of scaly skin at first, then a great cat-like eye was restored. A ghostly skeleton of the rest of the body began to appear, filling the courtyard to overflowing. No one noticed it when Tandi began to scream in mortal agony, so enthralled were they by the emerging majesty of the dragon. No one noticed that, as the dragon drew closer to life, Tandi was drawing closer to death. Cefn's Journey Very swift horses, line-of-sight teleportation hops, body-sustaining spells and day-and-night riding - Cefn used all of the tricks he could come up with to speed Ka'en and himself toward Je'en, but it just wasn't fast enough. The sand-map showed them a day from Je'en who had been at her destination for three days. He and Ka'en were studying the map when the dot representing her suddenly shot at an incredible speed right off the page. Cefn was trying to re-orient the map to her when a deep crashing sound like thunder echoed out of the hills. It rolled swiftly towards them and past, leaving them both shaken a bit. Cefn wondered if the sound had anything to do with Je'en's means of travel away from them - it certainly hadn't behaved like thunder, and there wasn't a cloud in the sky either. Cefn recovered himself and switched the sand-map's focus. He was suprised to see that the map redrew itself in the shape of the better part of the continents of Cherisk and Duurom. He could make out the location of Magnus, the Darst range, and Dargon on Cherisk, but he didn't know the names of any of the features of Duurom, only that it had once been the seat of the Fretheod Empire. The speck of light moved across Cherisk at a speed that Cefn could barely imagine even from his guess of the scale of the map. It tended east by north, and another glowing dot at the very edge of what the map showed of Duurom seemed to be the moving speck's destination. Cefn began to despair - there was absolutely no way he could imagine that he could reach such a far away place in less than months! He communicated his deductions to Ka'en and he agreed to push on to Je'en's first destination in hopes that there would be something there to help them. Cefn applied yet another sustaining spell knowing that their bodies had already passed the safe limit of such over-extension. They mounted up and rode, following the re-focused map into the hills. If not for the versatility of the sand-map, Cefn probably wouldn't have ever found the nearly hidden way into the valley that held Aahashtra. Fortunately, it was able to magnify its scale once he and Ka'en were close enough to Je'en's original destination, and with some careful study the tiny crack was found. Cefn had been expecting Aahashtra, actually. The second sand-casting Madame Zeefra had done had come up with the name 'Vard' and the rune 'ugurth' and the connection was too clear. Ugurth was a word that meant 'undeath' and linked Vard, his old foe, with the mission that had brought Tanandra to him. He also knew that Vard was very adept at controlling magics, which answered some very puzzling questions about Je'en. It was odd that both quests, Tanandra's and his own, had Vard as their targets. He knew that Vard had named his hidden castle after the stronghold of the man that had caused the Council of Elders to be formed. What he hadn't expected was its look of total lifelessness. It was nearing dusk, but not a single torch nor lamp shone - the entire castle was dark. Cefn reached into his pouch and withdrew a magic-sensitive device. He used it to scan the area between them and the outer walls of the castle and found nothing but a faint background reading. Motioning Ka'en to follow him, he crossed the open space in front of the walls as quickly as possible, halting beside the open gate. He scanned the area between the gate and the castle's front door. His magic-sensing device picked up a very strong reading across the entire courtyard, right up to the edge of the gate. He could guess that it was some kind of alarm spell - at least that was what he might have used in the same situation. "Doesn't look like anyone's home, eh?" said Ka'en, who was crouching behind Cefn wondering what was going on. Cefn said, "Looks aren't truth, especially when there's a wizard involved. Take this empty courtyard for example. It's actually one huge intruder alarm, and we have to cross it to get any further." "Can you break the spell - you know, cancel it out so we can cross undetected?" Cefn thought about the suggestion. It wasn't one he would have thought of, but then, he knew more than Ka'en about magic and how it worked. He cataloged what was in his belt pouch, and made sure that he didn't have the tools with him to decode and reverse the spell. His pouch was much larger within than without, but it wasn't of infinite size so he had to choose carefully what implements to carry and all-purpose spell-breaking tools were fairly bulky. He said, "I don't have the equipment to do that, but I do have another way to get across. How is your sense of balance?" He had fished out of his pouch an L-shaped piece of white stone and he placed the shorter arm to the ground, aiming the longer arm at the front door of the castle. He began chanting the activation magic and felt the short arm anchor itself into the ground. When it was secure, the long arm began to glow brighter and brighter until finally a bolt of light shot from it and struck the step before the door, leaving a trail of light behind it forming a bridge less than an inch wide across the trapped courtyard. He didn't wait for Ka'en to ask questions, but stepped up on the light bridge and paced lightly and swiftly across. When he reached the door, he turned to see that Ka'en had followed close behind him, walking as nimbly as he had done. When his partner was with him on the doorstep, only slightly shaken, Cefn bent down and touched the bridge, cancelling the spell with a word. Ka'en had tried the door and found it open before Cefn could check for further traps. Fortunately, there didn't seem to be any and he followed the thief into Aahashtra. The entry hall was huge, with highly decorated walls and only one corridor leading off of it. Ka'en was already striding towards it, and Cefn shouted, "Wait! Come back here." When Ka'en had returned to his side, Cefn said, "Now look, this castle belongs to a very powerful and devious wizard named Vard. Among other things, this means we do not just go wandering around aimlessly. There are bound to be traps galore in here. Let me lead the way, and don't get impatient - it could take time to be sure we are going in the right direction. Now, that corridor looks suspicious, but its the only obvious way. Let us check it for magical traps first...." It was close to dawn by the time they reached the laboratory that had seen Vard reanimate the ancient Fretheodan. Both Ka'en and Cefn were exhausted from the trials of winding their way through the halls of Vard's crazy castle, and Cefn's belt pouch was half as full as it had been at the start of the adventure. Sounds from the room ahead had alerted the pair that they weren't alone in the castle. The light from the room had led them there, and Cefn hoped to get some answers from the person in the room. He edged up to the doorway, Ka'en on the opposite side of the corridor and doing the same. He peeked cautiously into the room and saw a short man sweeping the floor of what seemed to be a laboratory. The room was very well lit, and Cefn didn't think that anything but speed would catch the man. However, Ka'en was making motions of sneeking in and capturing the fellow, so he signaled the thief to go ahead and try. Cefn was amazed at how easily Ka'en was able to use benches, tables, and the few small shadows to hide his progress across the lab. At times Cefn lost sight of him, and only found him again when whatever he was hiding behind exposed him to the back of the room. Ka'en got nearer and nearer, until finally, when the small man turned around to rearrange a low table of equipment, Ka'en leaped out and tackled him to the floor. The small man was no match for the young thief, and by the time Cefn crossed to the two, the man was firmly trapped beneath the weight of Ka'en sitting on his chest, pinning his arms with his knees. The knife at his throat further encouraged immobility. Cefn hunkered down next to the pair and said, "Greetings, good sir. Could you tell us whether Master Vard is at home, and if he's not, where he has gone?" "He is not here. That I can tell you, as you probably know that already. Anything more I dare not let you know. My master would punnish me severely if I did." "Then we will have to use other means." Cefn reached into his pouch again and withdrew a tiny slate-colored stone ring. He placed it on the man's temple and twisted it a bit so that the serrations on its side bit slightly into the skin there, causing the man to cry out at the sudden pain. Cefn said, "I'm sorry to have to use this device - it isn't subtle in forcing the truth out and will cause pain in doing so. But my friend and I have neither the time nor the patience to worm the truth from you - we must have answers quickly and accurately. Now, tell us where Vard has gone and why!" The device worked wonders, although Cefn wasn't proud of that fact. The little man was in much pain by the time Cefn had learned all he needed to know about Vard's recent experiments with cwicustan and mivorn, his probings into the Forbidden Art, what he had done to the two women he had ensnared, and what he intended on Duurom. He offered sanctuary to the servant, who said his name was Qrun, in return for the information he had given. When he learned that Qrun had a wife also in Vard's employ - they were his only servants - he extended his offer to both of them. He then had only one small problem remaining: how to follow him across continents and oceans? Ka'en's suggestion was the only idea he had. After Cefn had teleported Qrun and his equally small wife, Eirul, back to his house in Dargon, the thief had suggested that they simply teleport after Vard. It had taken several minutes to explain to Ka'en that such random teleportation was almost impossible. The person casting the spell had to have exacting knowledge of the site he was teleporting to in order for the spell to have any chance of success. He had been able to teleport to his house because he knew exactly where his destination was. There was almost no way to do the same now. It was several hours before Ka'en picked up on the 'almost' in Cefn's answer. In the meantime, they had wrestled with the problem from every angle they could think of without coming up with anything even remotely feasable. Then Ka'en said, "Wait. What do you mean 'almost no way'. 'Almost' isn't 'none'. What don't you want to admit?" Cefn wearily said, "There is one very unsecure method of moving from here to there in less than a month or more without knowing exacting physical details - planar travel. But I cannot take my physical body into the required plane, so it is useless to us." "But you could go there and learn what you need to teleport us there, couldn't you?" "Well, probably. It should be possible to descend to the first order for a long enough time to get my bearings. But I need rest first. We both do - we cannot live on boosting magic for much longer." "Check the map first," said Ka'en. "If Vard's undead dragon is far enough from its destination, then we'll take a little nap." Cefn unrolled the parchment of the sand-map and focused it on Je'en. The swiftmoving dot that was Vard and his dragon was nearing the Duurom coastline. A hasty estimation guaged the wizard less than two hours from the hidden mine. Ka'en said, "We don't have time to rest now. One more sustaining spell won't kill us, not right away at least. Better get busy finding out how to teleport us to that mine." Cefn hated what most people called astral-projection. The third order of form was a chaotic place where corporeal matter couldn't exist, but mental energy was virtually unlimited in any way. There was still distance to be covered between the place where his body lay in Aahashtra being watched over by Ka'en, and where Vard and his dragon would land on Duurom in less than an hour. But if he wasn't disturbed he would be able to get there and back in plenty of time for Ka'en and himself to be there waiting to ambush the undead dragon before it landed. So he sent his astral-self speeding toward Duurom. He watched with a slightly disorienting omni-vision as the roiling, cloud-like nothing passed by on all sides at once and sped away behind him with only a silver cord linking him to his unconscious body. Every once in a while, he noticed little islands of pseudo-reality, places created by mental energy as places of rest for those with the education and ability to do so. He had thought about doing such, but he didn't even really like the astral plane so the figured that trying to rest on it wouldn't be very restful. He sensed he had reached his destination and stopped his mental motion. Then, concentrating fiercely, he projected his astral body down to the first order of form, what passed for most people as 'reality'. He arrived at the mouth of the unsused mine and tried to collect the information he would need to successfully teleport to this location. It wasn't easy in his non-corporeal state, but eventually he had the coordinates firmly in mind and he let himself succumb to the slight tug of the silver cord trying to drag him back to his body. He was about halfway back to Aahashtra, well over the ocean and nearing where Cherisk's shore would be on the first order when he heard a sound. It was a soft, seductive chiming sound, startling in both its beauty and its impossibility. Such things shouldn't exist on the third order - supposedly they couldn't. Intrigued, Cefn followed the sound, becoming more and more bound up in the lovely chiming that grew louder and louder without hurting his mental ears. The source of the sound was utterly unfamiliar to Cefn who had studied much but not everything. There on an island of reality amidst chaos sat a beautiful woman playing a three-racked set of what looked like glass wind-chimes save that she was hitting them with feathers to evoke their chiming sound. The woman was in three-quarter profile to Cefn and he couldn't tell whether she was clothed or not because of her long, golden hair draped artfully around her body like a cloak. There was no melody to what she played, just sound, beautiful sound. She played and played, taking no notice of the audience she had drawn. Cefn wanted to move around to get a better look at her charms - er, instrument - but he found that he couldn't move. He was then able to tear his eyes away from the woman, and he noticed other astral-selves arranged in a circle around the instrument. Most were very thin and pale, looking as if something was draining their vitality away. Cefn gasped when he saw that most of the wraiths circled there were missing the silver cord that tied them to life. He realized that the playing woman was some kind of astral siren, put here to gather food for some creature on the first order to feed upon. It wasn't long before he felt a drain on his own very low reserves, and he knew that he would have to get away soon, before he too became part of this eternally captive audience. He turned away from the woman - as much movement as he was allowed. He concentrated on the silver cord that still bound him to his body and encouraged it to pull him away from here. Slowly, he focused every gram of energy he could muster into that activity, but he feared it wouldn't be enough. Then, almost unbidden, Je'en's face came into his mind and he heard her voice above the chimes saying, "Help me, Cefn. Help me!" He didn't know from whence that plea had come, but it spurred him to dredge up the very last of his reserves. Pouring everything he had into his link to life, he willed himself away from the siren. And slowly at first, he was pulled painfully away from the chime-playing woman. Farther and faster, chanting Je'en's name to try to counteract the chimes, Cefn was drawn to safety. The normally achy return to the body was magnified to roaring pain when Cefn came back. But the pain was good - it meant that he was still alive. But tired, so tired. He opened his eyes to see a concerned Ka'en standing over him. He said weakly, "Sorry, Ka'en, but...got to rest. Tell you when I wake...." He fell back into a deep restoring sleep, leaving the thief to fret and wonder whether the wizard had gotten what he needed, and then to fall asleep himself waiting for the answer. The Keseth They landed just in time. As soon as the huge reptile touched ground before the mine adit, it began to crumble. Its return to death was swifter and messier than its rise from the grave, leaving parts beyond just the skull to rot and moulder. Vard and Je'en scrambled out of the wreckage of the beast's midsection, both upset at being covered with rotting dragon slime. Vard sent Je'en back into the mess to recover the chest that held most of what he needed - the remainder of their supplies could wait. He sent Je'en back in to retrieve Tanandra. The thing she came out with was a withered husk, nothing like the healthy young girl that had arrived on his doorstep little more than a week ago. There was just a flicker of life left within her, not enough to keep the dragon reanimated any longer. Vard clucked sadly when he saw what was left of Tanandra. Not because he was sad that she was all but dead, but because he hadn't been paying attention to her condition and if she had given out sooner, there could have been a bad accident. Vard had had no idea that the drain of reanimating the dragon had been so strong - it had taken only hours to use up the young woman. He briefly wondered if there was some impurity in his mivorn amulet because the manual had indicated that one person could keep 'alive' a whole army regiment for more than a week. Maybe a dragon was more costly that that many human corpses. Now he would need another source to enable him to awaken his guide into the mine. Fortunately, he had another one ready to hand. He gave Je'en instructions to set up the amulet and the portable book stand. He had no trouble getting Je'en to place her palm against the glowing black stone. She gasped when the sliver entered her palm, but after that she simply accepted it with no comment at all. Next, he unpacked the skull of the guide and placed it on the ground next to the amulet. With now-practiced ease, he uttered the incantation that restored the skull to life without even consulting the book. Je'en withstood the purple light's draining without a sound. Je'en re-packed the chest and hefted it onto her back while Vard unrolled the ancient map and lead the way into the mine followed closely by the animated and re-embodied skull holding a torch in its grey-skinned hand. Trap after trap, identified and defused or destroyed. Maze-like tunnels threaded only with the help of the ancient map. Without either guide or map, Vard would have been first lost then dead very soon after stepping into the mine. Those Fretheodan were ingenious, tenacious, and redundant - in places the passage was barred by four, five, or even eight separate traps layed under, on, and around each other. The most tiring part, however, was the time it took to get the necessary information out of the undead guide. It never volunteered anything, it only answered direct questions very succinctly and literally. Hours ticked by as the trio proceeded slowly deeper and deeper into the mine. Vard had to marvel at the sophistication of many of the traps. Very few were magically oriented, but even those that were mechanical were usually created with a simplicity and efficiency that was laudable. Vard was careful to disable each and every trap he came across, but when it became harder and harder to get disarming information out of the guide due to the increasing complexity of the traps, he turned to smashing and destroying them. And as they went lower into the mine, even smashing the traps began to take finesse as they were made more ingeniously. Finally, when they had reached the level of the keseth vault, he had to take to disarming the traps again because brute force was no longer safe. They took as long reaching the vault as they had taken getting to the lowest level. But finally they reached the vault. In a large cavern very far under the earth Vard, the guide, and Je'en faced a slab of strange looking metal with a large key-plate in its center. Vard let Je'en set down the chest as he withdrew the third treasure that had come from beneath Dargon castle - the key to the final vault. As he strode over to the door, something made him turn and look at the guide. He was startled to see that it was smiling, which faded as Vard turned back from the door and stood next to the guide. "Are there any traps remaining here?" asked Vard. "Yes," answered the guide in its toneless voice. "How many?" "One." Vard thought a moment, then asked, "On that key-plate?" "Yes." "What kind?" "Cave-in trigger, poison needle, gas, trap door, crossbow bolts from the walls, a..." "That's enough!" interrupted Vard. "So, they put everything they had in this last trap. Okay, that's reasonable. Now, how does one get by these traps to open the door?" "One does not," said the guide, beginning to smile again. Vard thought again, then he said, "I've got it. So simple, so common! That key-plate is a ruse, a lure for the foolish. Where is the real lock for this door?" The guide's smile turned into a pout. It said, "On the wall behind us, behind the moss-covered rock that isn't covered with moss." Vard began to brush his hand across the slimy-green rocks until he came to one that was not slimy, though just as green. He pried at the stone and lifted it away, revealling a very plain keyhole. With triumph, he inserted the key and started to turn it. Then, thinking back to the complex instructions he had given to that thief who had brought him the Tome of the Yrmenweald, he asked the guide, "Which way do I turn the key, and how far?" The guide replied, with a hint of disapointment in its toneless voice, "To the right three times exactly." Vard complied, hearing a click each time that the key made one revolution. He could feel that the key could have kept turning, and he wondered what nasty trap would have been triggered by the wrong number of turns. Leaving the key in its hole, he returned to the vault door, where a handle had appeared. Grabbing hold of it, he pulled the door open, unsealing a vault that had been closed up for more than a thousand years. The first thing he noticed as he entered was the smell - strange, musty and musky and...he had no words for it. He walked into the dimly lit room, seeing large panels along one wall bearing small circles of glass in neat, ordered rows. Another set of panels, about waist high and horizontal, bore more circles of glass, and little twigs standing in rings of metal interspersed with larger square panes of glass. Just as he was turning around, the room was flooded with light and the sight that was revealed almost made Vard's heart stop. There, occupying a space four or five times the size of his laboratory back at Aahashtra was a - a thing! Crisscrossing that part of the room in what seemed to be a random pattern were foot-thick rods of what was probably stone. Somehow bound between those rods was something that looked like a cross between a spider and a grasshopper magnified a thousand fold or more. And it was alive! The End Six hours after Cefn returned, he awoke refreshed. Not quite as good as new, but his rest had pushed back the overload effects of the sustaining magic he had been using and he was ready to go again. After locating Ka'en and rousing him from his little nap and raiding the keep's pantry for food, they prepared for their journey to Duurom. To Ka'en, who wasn't as refreshed as Cefn but who was feeling better for his nap, being teleported was weird. He had always imagined that it would be instantaneous, but he was sure that they spent several minutes flying between Aahashtra and the mine on Duurom. When they arrived, to the night and double shadows cast by two moons, the first thing he noticed even before the second, smaller moon, was the rotting carcass of Vard's undead dragon. Cefn, however, noticed Tanandra first. She was still alive, but even if she should survive it would be as a wasted wreck of her former self. She looked at Cefn with sunken and cloudy eyes as he knelt beside her, and said, "I guess I wasn't strong enough for him, was I?" Cefn, unseen eyes tearing at the sight of his former love, said shakily, "I'm sorry for forcing you into this, Tandi. I'm so, so sorry! I should have gone. I should have taken the gorfodd and gone after Vard before he could get this far into the Forbidden Art. I...." "Cefn, love, don't. You cannot change what is - just accept it and learn to live with it. Leave me and get after Vard. What I've learned about his plans...you must stop him. Go, catch him before he can harness the keseth..." Her voice trailed off and her eyes closed for the last time. Cefn didn't move for a long time, strangely colored tears falling from his cowl onto Tanandra's withered flesh. Finally, he turned away to find Ka'en standing right behind him staring in horrified fascination at the remains of the brave girl. Cefn said, "She was known to me long ago - we were students together. Vard has killed her - she was consumed by the powers of the Forbidden Art. We must destroy him. Come." He took out the sand-map and shifted its focus. It became a copy of the ancient map that Vard had followed, showing the way clearly down to the final vault. Pulling a small clear globe from his pocket, he tossed it into the air. It began floating just above his head, casting a golden glow. Squinting carefully at the map, he entered the mine. When Vard recovered from the shock of seeing the creature - what he assumed was meant by the symbol he had named 'keseth' - he turned his attention to the rest of the room. He was suprised by the rack of swords hanging on the short wall beside the vault door - they seemed out of place in this very uncomprehensible room as the only item he truly recognized. Against the wall opposite the door was the master-node of cwicustan attached to the framework the Tome had described as linking it to the caged and bound keseth. Vard went to work busily on that lump of stone, chipping away at it to remove it from the framework. He already had his own piece of cwicustan primed and ready to go into the socket. Once it was there, he would be able to communicate with the keseth and learn all of the mysteries it held. Ka'en noticed more of the deactivated traps than did Cefn, and he, like Vard before him, marvelled at the work. He was certainly glad that someone else had blazed the trail through those traps - he doubted that his second teacher, a Master Trapper, could have found, let alone deactivated, half of the traps they passed. The pair made much better time than had Vard's group. Of course, all of the work had been done for them. All they had to do was follow the map at their top possible speed. The sand-map showed Je'en was already at the final vault - Ka'en only hoped that whatever this Vard person was doing there would take lots of time. They came out into the last cave and saw the open vault door. Cefn could see both Vard and Je'en, as well as a rather grey-looking man. The latter two were just standing, statuelike, while Vard chipped away at a large piece of crystal while looking at a slot in the wall. None of the three had noticed their arrival. With a low whistle, the clear globe returned to Cefn's hand and stopped glowing. He returned the globe to his pouch and retrieved another item from it. He whispered, "Ka'en, take this and try to distract Vard. I don't think you will be able to kill him but you can try. This disc should protect you from most any magic he casts at you but not for very long. When it starts turning black, it has been used up and is useless. Oh, one more thing." Cefn reached back into his pouch and came out with the mysterious crystal circlet. He handed it to Ka'en and said, "I think that this will protect you from mental magics. Vard is an expert at mind control, which is why Je'en is in there and not out here with us. Okay, ready?" "Wait. Why don't you go after the wizard, eh? At least you can meet him on his own level." Ka'en was looking suspiciously at the small clear disc he had been given. "I want to see if I can free Je'en - she'll make a useful ally for our side. Also, I'm a better fighter than you are if I can't get her out of Vard's control. Neither she nor I have swords, and I think I can handle her easily hand-to-hand. Satisfied?" Not waiting for an answer, Cefn crept to the edge of the vault door and peered through. Ka'en came up beside him, holding the amulet like a very small shield in front of his body, the circlet perched on his head like a crown. At his signal, they both rushed into the room. Unfortunately, the presence of the keseth was just as startling to the two adventurers as it had been to Vard earlier, and they were stunned into immobility by the sight of the giant insect. Je'en moved away from Cefn and crouched into a defensive posture. Her eyes flickered to the wall of blades, and she began to make plans while awaiting orders. Vard looked up from his work and recognized both his old rival Cefn and that thief he had hired so long ago. He reacted quickly. First, he released the energies keeping the guide animated - he didn't want anything to hamper Je'en. Then he said, "Je'en, protect me from these intruders." She knew exactly what to do. She executed a perfect diving roll, flashing past the slowly recovering intruders. She straightened up by the racked swords and plucked one from its place. It almost seemed to hum in her hand, and she delighted in its lightness and perfect balance. Dropping again into an en guarde position, she faced the two intruders ready to obey her master's order. Cefn recovered first and took in the new situation. Trusting Ka'en to continue on with his part of the plan, Cefn reached into his pouch for a wand. Drawing it and firing it in one motion, he ran toward Je'en and the rack of swords. Je'en instinctively blocked the bolt of blue that had shot from the tip of Cefn's wand. The bolt bounced off of the dull-grey blade, but the impact pushed her back through the vault door. Cefn took swift advantage, dropping the wand to grab a sword from the rack as he followed his love out the door. In the outer cave there would be more room to maneuver, and he might have more of a chance to subdue Je'en. There was one more matter to consider, though. He couldn't fight effectively in his cowl. Reaching again into his pouch, he removed two spheres, one clear, one black. Juggling them one handed, he timed the toss and threw first the black one at the vault door, and the clear one back into the air. It began to glow bright golden as the black one shattered and enveloped the doorway in blackness. Cefn hoped that Vard didn't decide to break the simple darkness spell - he shouldn't even be able to see it as it was a one-way darkness like the one on his cowl and from the other side it should look like nothing at all was barring the doorway. With his eyes protected for the time being, Cefn lowered his cowl and faced his love across a pair of very fine, very strange swords. He and Je'en had sparred several times in the past, but he really didn't know the extent of her abilities. He knew that she was good; he had watched several fights she had been in, and he had watched her from afar as she was training at Pentamorlo. But to face her with that hard, serious look on her face - and, for the first time he realized that she wasn't wearing her mask! That rocked him long enough for Je'en to launch an attack. Fortunately, it was only a series of feints, a test-pattern to determine the level of her opponent, and Cefn was able to reflexively block them. When the blades contacted each other, they gave off a louder hum as well as green and yellow sparks. Cefn wondered just what these swords were as he was turned and forced back into a wall. He dodged a thrusting blow that struck the wall behind him. He danced away from the entrapment and watched, amazed, as Je'en withdrew half of the length of her blade from the wall amid many purple sparks. When she came back en guarde, he could see no damage at all on her blade. The fighting began in earnest then. Cefn tried to put everything from his mind, to reach the unity with sword that Je'en already had. As they fenced back and forth, he came closer and closer until finally there weren't two people in the cave, but two extended swords fighting each other. Back and forth, around and around, the dance of death continued, both parties so totally involved in the graceful battle that Cefn, at least, forgot who he was battling. It was almost as if it was truly the swords moving the people through the fight. Yellow and green, an occaisional burst of purple as blade sliced into stone, and a humming that grew and grew until it filled the cave and the people fighting. When one of those blades met flesh, the resultant spark was long and crimson, a more startling color than the blood that the strike also drew. The dance faltered, and Cefn pressed his advantage. His opponent reacted as if far more injured that a little arm-scratch could account for. Without thought, he executed a maneuver that he couldn't have described afterward and came up under Je'en's sword arm. It wasn't until he saw the double fountain of red - crimson light and red blood - that he remembered he wasn't here to kill Je'en, just subdue her, knock her out. Vard was the enemy, not Je'en. But that didn't convince the grey sword-blade half-buried in Je'en's side. Ka'en recovered his wits in time to see Cefn follow Je'en out of the vault, leaving him alone with the wizard Vard - the grey man had vanished somehow, leaving behind only a very old-looking skull. Ka'en faced Vard with the amulet disc held out before him. He had no idea what to do now. At least, he thought, Vard was distracted from what was going on in the cave outside. Coils of blue light were wreathing Vard's hands as the wizard chanted. Ka'en held the disc higher, but when the spell was released, the streamers of blue light by-passed the amulet and were absorbed by the circlet he wore. Vard looked puzzled as he said, "Put down the disc and come here." Ka'en wondered why the wizard was trying to give him orders, and he just stood still. This seemed to infuriate the wizard. Rage suffused his face, and his arms went up, hands glowing a firery red. He said mysteriously, "You should have stuck to stealing books, you meddlesome thief!" With that, thick bolts of fire flashed out from each of his fingers, meeting before his face to become one very large bolt. Ka'en started to back away from the oncoming spell, but the bolt homed in on him - or rather the disc he held before him. By rights, and without the protection he had, Ka'en should have been nothing but a pile of smouldering ashes after the bolt dissapated. But the disc amulet worked - mostly. It was able to absorb the destructive energy of the spell, so that Ka'en wasn't killed outright. However, the amulet wasn't strong enough to absorb the entire spell. Ka'en was hurled back by the force behind the energy. He was unconscious before he hit the wall beside the vault door, and he stayed slumped like that for a long time. When he awoke, the first thing he was aware of was being alive. His hand hurt, but the rest of his body felt fine. He looked at his hand, half afraid that he would find that it was just a charred lump, but it looked perfect. He saw that the disc was now pure black and cracked around the edges. He set it aside quietly as now useless. Next he noticed the humming coming from the cave. He eased himself into position to look out the vault door and was instantly mesmerized by the dance going on out there. He had never before seen such skill as was being exhibited by Cefn and his cousin - he had had no idea that either of them, Cefn especially, was so talented with the sword. Finally, he remembered his mission. As he turned around, he heard the humming stop but he didn't turn back to see why. He saw that Vard was fitting his lump of stone into the wall and was very absorbed by that activity. Old training came to the fore, and he drew his belt knife. He recalled just where and how to drive even so short a knife as he had to kill swiftly from the back. He centered his attention on that back, searching out just the right spot, and he began to cross the well-lit and empty room as silently as he could. Closer and closer Ka'en crept. He forced hiself to ignore the keseth after glancing at it once and seeing that it was alive, its sides moving rhythmically and its many-eyed head seemingly turned in his direction. It took all of his concentration to look away and return to the task at hand. Closer and closer...and just as Ka'en was beginning his leap, Vard turned around with a gasp of "What?!" The wizard tried to back away from the thief, but he was too close to the wall to maneuver. His hands went up again, beginning to glow with fire, but Ka'en ignored the distraction and re-aimed himself instantaneously. His leap continued and his knife slid into Vard's chest just to the left of his sternum, angled in a bit. Steel grated harshly on bone, and Vard screamed. Ka'en backed away from the wizard. Vard screamed again, and the power he had been gathering slipped away. Ka'en watched the fire flicker down his arms and spark around the knife protruding from his chest. Vard gave one last cry as his mortally wounded heart was shocked into stopping a little bit early by the mis-release of his own magic, and then he was no more. Shock immobilized Cefn for several minutes. Slowly, reason began to return and his first thought was whether he had enough healing rods to save her. He knelt by Je'en's side, frantically searching for the green rods in his belt pouch. He located five and breathed a sigh of relief; it had taken three to heal Ka'en of a similar wound. Ready with the first rod, Cefn carefully took hold of the hilt of his sword and pulled. What he withdrew from the wound was only half a sword, though. The part that had been within Je'en's body had...well, melted or something. Cefn applied all five of the healing rods to the wound, but they didn't seem to work as well on her as they had on Ka'en. After the fifth she still had a bad scar, and she seemed drained somehow. The flesh around both the torso wound and the slight scratch on her arm was of a sickly grey tone and Cefn was sure that the grey around the larger wound was spreading. He was searching in his pouch for more healing rods when he heard a weak "Cefn?" He turned back to Je'en to find her awake, struggling to sit up. He helped her up to lean against his body and said, "I'm here, Je'en, I'm here." "Cefn, I've had such a strange dream. I...I wasn't myself - it was like I was a marionette and this evil man was pulling the strings. I killed a man, maybe two, and I stole some old things from the basement of a castle. Then I was brought to a deep cave and I was forced to fight you and you...you won. Oh, Cefn, I feel so cold. My side hurts and my arm hurts and I'm very, very cold..." Cefn hugged Je'en close and said, "I know, my love. It was no dream. All of that happened, including the duel. But I think that it wasn't us fighting, but those strange swords. And I'm afraid that they were poisoned or something, because you don't look well even after all of the healing I could give you. Oh, Je'en, I'm so sorry. I love you and I think I've killed you!" Ka'en chose that moment to come out of the vault. He said, "Cefn, is Je'en all right? I managed to kill Vard: did that free her from his control?" Je'en answered, "I'm almost all right, cousin, and I am free of that man's control. Thank you, thank you both for rescuing me." Cefn said, "But you aren't all right! I've got to get you to my laboratory. We have to find out what these swords do so I can cure you. Come on." He tried to lift her, but found that he was too weak to manage it. Ka'en said, "Why don't we ask the keseth? They were stored in its vault after all, maybe it knows how they were used and how to cure their wounds." Ka'en had to help Cefn transport Je'en into the vault. Cefn was too exhausted to wonder how Ka'en had learned to communicate with the monster beast; he just hoped that it knew how to help his love. They lowered Je'en to the floor of the vault, and Cefn knelt beside her to help support her. Ka'en went over to the now glowing crystal in the wall without even a glance for the dead wizard who had been moved into a corner. He layed his hands on the crystal and said, "We ask your help, Master Keseth." An eerie voice came out of the panels dotted with glass behind Cefn and Je'en. It said, "What service may I render?" Cefn started to reply, but Ka'en said, "Wait, Cefn. It can only understand you if you are touching the cwicustan node. Let me. Master Keseth, do you know the function of the swords racked on that wall over there?" "I do. They were the constructs of the Clear Fire Weavers, those wizards who helped to imprison me. They were used in executions and other rituals. The death they brought was said to be terrible indeed." "What death was this, Master Keseth? Is there a cure?" "The death is a death by fading. The swords are made from a material which alters the state of matter. Mention was made of the etherial plane as well as the second order of form - these concepts mean nothing to me. The victim slowly fades from normal corporeal existence and the 'Weavers knew of no way to reverse the process once complete. Also, there is no conventional cure." "Then there is no hope? Je'en is going to become a wraith, doomed to wander the etherial plane forever?" "I can offer only one solution. Fretheodan legends spoke of a place where total renewal was possible - a body could be healed of all hurts and injuries in this place. Many expeditions were sent out to find this place, but none knew of any that succeeded. However, I do. One party managed to find what they were looking for. I can give you the location of this place if..." Ka'en almost shouted, "If what!?! We'll do anything we can for the chance to save Je'en. Tell us, please!" "I have been trapped here for ages beyond reckoning. I wish only to return to my home. I will tell you how to free me in return for the location, but I must tell you that if you let me go, the Yrmenweald will go with me. The power that that other man came for will be gone." "We followed Vard here to rescue Je'en, not for whatever foolish dreams he had. We will free you - we would even if you didn't have information we need. Just tell us what we need to do...." Freeing the keseth had been easy - Ka'en and Cefn had pushed the twigs and bits of glass that seemed to be switches of some sort in the order that the keseth told them to. One by one, the scattered bars in the keseth's part of the room retracted into the walls and finally it was free. It then caused the little rounds of glass to flash rapidly and randomly, after which a little door opened in one of the panels. The keseth said, "Within that compartment you will find a map of the location you seek. I have also supplied tablets that should lend your companion strength as you seek her salvation. They should retard the spread of the sword's poison throughout her system. I fear, however, that she has only a month unless you find the restorative place." Cefn thanked the keseth for the help, and he and Ka'en helped Je'en out of the mine. Once they were clear, the keseth worked its way out using its own abilities and those provided by the cwicustan to force a way through solid earth. It came out of the mountain by blasting its own adit, and Cefn, Ka'en, and Je'en waved and called goodbyes after it as it crawled away. Cefn concentrated, drew up enough power to teleport all three of them, and with a thought they were safe back in Dargon, ready to rest a bit before continuing the quest to save Je'en. Thus there was no one to see the falling star come down near the old mine. There was no explosion at its impact - in fact it settled to the ground quite gently. The keseth entered the silver ovoid and it rose majestically back into the air, carrying the keseth away from its long-time prison and back to its home among the stars. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb *Worthy of the Title, Part I M. Wendy Hennquin The Defiant Vector Brian M. Dean The Quest Ron Trenka *Quest, Part I John L. White Date: 031288 Dist: 577 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Well, we've got a couple bits of news to relate, so let me jump right into that. Firstly, there is now an open discussion group for FSFnet readers on the network server CSNEWS@MAINE. Please feel free to read and/or submit your comments to this group, as it's primary purpose is reader feedback. Please note that CSNEWS will ONLY accept commands via interactive messages; do NOT send mail files to it, as they will be discarded. Also note that the subscribe functions will subscribe you to the FORUM, not to FSFnet itself. The following are some commands you might find useful in checking out this forum. Request the CSBB HELPNET file for details on how to append to it. SENDME CSNEWS HELPNET - sends you general CSNEWS help file SENDME CSBB HELPNET - sends you CSBB bbs help file SENDME FSFNET CSNOTICE FROM CSBB - sends you the current discussion CSBB SUBSCRIBE FSFNET - subscribe to FSFnet discussion CSBB UNSUBSCRIBE FSFNET - unsubscribe from forum The other bit of news is that plans are being made for my eventual graduation. After some discussion with the authors, the current plans are for the following. While FSFnet will stop being produced, the Dargon Project will continue, and the stories it produces will be made public through a new magazine (possibly dedicated solely to the printing of Dargon stories). FSFnet will stop publication during the summer, and the new magazine will begin at that time. Further details are still up in the air, but I will continue to post news here about what is going on, and how things will change when I leave. But we've still got several more issues to send out before then, and I'm sure you'll enjoy this one. And, of course, if you have anything you'd like to submit for printing, get in touch with me. Enjoy! -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Worthy of the Title: Part I A frantic, far-away echo shattered the quiet of the library. "Master Roisart, Master Roisart!" The panic in the voice caused Roisart to snatch his gaze immediately from the copy of "Legends and Myths of Thasodonea" and stared instead at the open doors of the library. He could hear commotion down the long halls of the old keep, the doors that opened and shut in quick, startled rhythm, the running of the servants called from duties, the wails and shouts. Over it all, he heard the call still, ghastly and ghostly, frightened and far-away. "Master Roisart! Master Roisart!" Young Roisart stood, raced across the room. What has happened? the young nobleman wondered, concerned. Has a war come to Dargon? Although the library was a great room, Roisart soon reached the opened double doors and called out, "Here I am! What is it?" The heralding servant who been wailing his name slid to a stop and then turned to his master. Fright and despair on his face, the servant rolled his eyes and cried dramatically,"Oh, Master Roisart, go quickly to the study. The baron is dead!" Roisart paled and his eyes bulged, as if he had suddenly been stuck in the stomach. "Dead? The baron dead?" But he cannot be dead! He is healthy, and only five and forty! Quickly, Roisart demanded, "Where is my brother?" The servant gulped the tears he wanted to shed and replied sorrowfully, "He is in the study, master. He has sent for you." With a quick wave, Roisart dismissed the near-blubbering servant and rushed with all his youth and strength to the study, the office of the baron--the late baron. His blood beating in his ears, he threw open the heavy door and cried, "Luthias! What has happened to our father?" The face that met Roisart's was the same as his own: the deep brown eyes; the straight, aristocratic nose; the smooth, well-defined jaw; the pinkish lips, usually merry with smiles, now twisted with grief. Roisart's twin looked him in the eye and said, slowly and solemnly, "Roisart, our father is dead." "Dead?" denied Roisart scornfully. "Dead how? Father is young. He has never been ill--" "Roisart," repeated his twin brother Luthias deliberately, "our father is dead." "But what could kill our father?" demanded Roisart. "He's as strong as a horse." "No, Roisart," sighed Luthias, falling heavily into the padded chair behind the desk. "The horse was stronger. Sit." With a reluctant grimace, Roisart came into the room and sat in another padded chair, the one that faced his father's desk. Memories of his father crowded his thoughts. There was that time that he and his twin Luthias, very small boys, had squirmed in this chair as their noble father scolded them for some forgotten offense. And the times that they had brought their school books in here to study and be near their father. And the time when their father had lifted them both on his strong shoulders to look at the lion's head that hung on the wall. His father was a strong man... "What do you mean," blurted Roisart, "the horse was stronger?" "Dragonfire threw him. Father's neck was broken." "Dragonfire?" gasped Roisart. "But, Luthias, Dragonfire is the best trained stallion in the stables! Father trained him himself! I remember! And Father--Father is the best horseman alive! There is no way that he could have been killed in that way!" Luthias closed his eyes. "Roisart, there is no doubt that Father is dead. I have seen the body." He opened his eyes again, stared at his brother. "Do you wish to?" Roisart quieted a little. He kept Luthias' gaze a moment, then looked at the carpeted floor. "No, Luthias," he replied in a muffled way. "I want to remember him living, not dead." His father truly was dead. "But it wasn't the horse," he murmured. "What does it matter what it was?" wondered Luthias, almost snapping. "There are matters to be attended to. The body must be prepared and buried by sundown, as is the custom. I have called the priests." Luthias then waved at a fine piece of parchment on their father's desk. "I am trying to find words to tell our cousin, Lord Dargon, of this. And I've sent for Manus." Roisart gave his twin a quizzical look. "Manus the Healer? Why?" Luthias shrugged. "Father deemed his wise, and so do you, my brother. And there must, for the next five days, be a regent." Roisart quieted and nodded. "Yes, a regent," he agreed. He had forgotten for a moment that there were five days between this day, the third day of Melrin, the Spring Festival, and the third day of Yule, when he and Luthias would reach the age of majority, twenty-one. Only then would they be old enough to rule the barony in their father's place. "Luthias!" Roisart gasped urgently, "Which of us shall inherit?" Luthias scowled with old ferocity. "Accursed be that midwife who neglected to note which of us is elder!" "You can't blame her. Mother was dying, and she was trying to save her." "She's caused us more problems--and Mother died, in any case," snapped Luthias. "And now there is no way to decide who is to rule." "I often told Father that he should choose one of us," sighed Roisart. "But he wanted to wait until we were twenty-one, until he thought we could both accept his choice." Roisart thought for a moment. "Could he have left some will?" "I don't know; I didn't even think of that," Luthias grumbled. He began to rummage among the papers on his father's desk. By the time that Luthias started to search the desk's drawers, Roisart was lost in thought once more. "Damnation!" cried Luthias in frustration. "Nothing!" "It couldn't have been an accident," mumbled Roisart. "Father was too good a rider, and Dragonfire too good a horse." Luthias slapped the desk in anger. "Roisart, haven't you been listening? One of us is soon to become Baron of Connall, and with no indication of which of us Father wished to rule in his place. None at all!" "No papers?" Luthias shook his head. "Unless there was some other place he kept them." "Do you have the key to the locked drawer?" "Yes, and I've already looked. Only the seal and the proclamation that made him baron of Connall." "Nothing at all, then," murmured Roisart. "He never even had a favorite between us." Luthias smiled affectionately at the memory. "It was a point of honor for him," Luthias agreed. "He let each of us be who we are, and loved us both equally for it." He scowled then. "But it gives us trouble now. How are we supposed to determine which of us shall next be the Baron of Connall?" "We have no proof of first-born," Roisart began his analysis. "And we have no proof of favoritism. On that, we are agreed." Roisart looked his twin brother in the eyes, the eyes so like his own. "Luthias, we have never been able to lie to one another. Tell me, then. Do you wish to rule in our father's place?" Luthias gave his brother a look of consternation. "Rule?" He appeared to be thinking of the possibility for the first time. "I had always assumed that you would rule. You have read so much more..." "True, but Father made certain that we both were learned enough to rule well," Roisart argued. "And you are so much better a fighter than I." At this, Luthias smiled, almost wickedly. "Don't underestimate yourself, Roisart. I wouldn't want to fight against you." "Thanks," Roisart replied almost ruefully. "But answer me, twin. Do you wish to rule?" Luthias let the possibilities roam his mind, then said, "I will if I must, Roisart." His voice was strong, calm, and even, as if Luthias were older than his almost twenty-one years. "But I have no great wish to be a Baron and rule." Roisart sighed like a man beneath a heavy stone. "Nor do I, my brother. Nor do I." "It must be decided, Roisart," Luthias stated. "And it must be decided soon." Roisart mentally sought possibilities. "We could gamble for it. Cast dice..." Luthias stared at his brother with surprise and disbelief, and when he saw that Roisart was completely serious, Luthias began to laugh. "Oh, Roisart, thank you. What would I do without you? In the midst of grieving a father and trying to solve a dilemma that has plagued us throughout our lives, you and only you can make me laugh." Roisart wrinkled his brow and looked at his twin brother in a confused way. "But Luthias, I meant it. We should cast dice." Still smiling, Luthias continued. "I know you meant it, Roisart, and that was what I found amusing. Cast dice? Would that hold any authenticity before the court? You've got to be more practical about things like this, Roisart." "Practical? Authenticity?" stammered Roisart in mock indignance. Even in grief, his twin could still make him play. "You wish practicality and authenticity, my brother? Then why don't we just go to our cousin lord Dargon and let him decide? What more authentic and more practical solution could you want? We should let our Lord decide, and save ourselves the trouble." "That," Luthias agreed, "is the wisest thing you've said in a week, Roisart." "Then I'll have the horses saddled," Roisart offered as he rose from the chair. "Have you forgotten that our father needs yet to be entombed?" Luthias asked with stern gravity. Roisart started. He had forgotten. In that golden moment, when he and his brother had teased each other, when everything was like it had been before, Roisart had forgotten. Now, the knowledge came back like a stinging boomerang. His father had died. "There is much to be done," Luthias softly said. "You do it, then," Roisart urged his brother, thoughts of their father's death ruling out all else. Luthias watched his twin sympathetically while Roisart buried his head in his hands. "No," mumbled the young nobleman. Luthias left the desk and went to his brother. He put a hand on Roisart's shoulder. "No?" "Our father did not die," Roisart declared with passionate conviction. His head flew from his hands, and Luthias, startled, moved backwards. "And I'm going to go and find what murdered him!" Murdered! His father was dead! The knowledge screamed inside him for release, for action. And there, in the study, Roisart cried out like a small boy and began to weep. And Luthias, the practical one who knew that crying for a dead man was useless, put his arms around his beloved brother, and, as they had done all things in their life, they wept for their noble father together. Roisart adamantly insisted on riding his father's prized stallion Dragonfire to Dargon, despite the grooms' warnings of evil spirits. Roisart, though he believed in a spirit world, scoffed the very idea and declared above the fearful projections of the grooms that he would ride his father's horse, damn it, and that was that. Luthias, too, scorned the idea of evil spirits possessing his father's steed, but watched his twin with worried eyes. After all, that strong, red mount had thrown their father yesterday to an unexpected death. And Roisart had been behaving strangely. Yesterday, just after the twins jointly mourned their father in the privacy of the old study, Roisart had burst out of the keep's gates, taking with him a groom, the groom which had accompanied the twins' father on his last ride. No, the young lord hadn't been acting desperate, the groom had told Roisart, just a wee strange. They had gone back to the scene of the death (there was still blood on the new grass), and Lord Roisart acted as a hound on the hunt, dashing here, darting there, rummaging through the brush. And when they had returned, Roisart, withdrawn, had refused to speak to old Manus, who had just arrived for the funeral, and didn't even deign to speak to his own twin. After they had entombed their dear father, Roisart returned to normal--as normal as a grieving son could be--but still, Luthias worried. Luthias motioned the protesting grooms to be silent. "We have a right to ride our father's horse," Luthias told them gently. With another wave, he dismissed them. When they had gone, he asked, "Twin, are you all right?" "Yes, I... I just wanted to ride him. He was Father's favorite." That was true, and it was for good reasons that Dragonfire was the late Baron's favored horse. Luthias admitted to himself the incredibility of his father dying on horseback, especially that particular horse's back. He didn't press the issue. Instead, Luthias gazed up at the dark, pre-dawn sky. "We should get moving." Roisart nodded, and motioned for the brace of guards and a manservant to urge on their mounts. Stately, but not lethargically, the party moved forward toward Dargon. It wouldn't be a long trip, thankfully. The earliness, on which had decided the night before, would shorten the trip more. Besides, the brothers had no wish to try to wade their good horses through the crowds which would be soon flooding the roads on the way to the Melrin festival. And neither wanted to deal with the curiosity and pity of a peasant crowd seeing twin noblemen dressed in mourning blue. Yes, it was best to get to Dargon early. The earlier the better; the earlier they arrived, the sooner their cousin Clifton Dargon could decide, once and forever, which of the two was worthy to be Baron of Connall. And the sooner that was decided, the easier both twins would feel. The little band moved ahead, each of the members buried in thought. Luthias looked at his twin, and knew that Roisart was still wondering how their father could have died like that. Concerned for his brother, and, indeed, what had happened to his father, Luthias, too, considered, and kept turning his head to watch his twin. After about an hour--halfway to Dargon--Roisart caught his brother's eye and almost smiled. "Father always taught us that the good fighters live long. It still makes me--" Roisart felt something hit him hard, and at once found himself on the hard, startling ground. For a wild, wicked moment he thought it was true: Dragonfire is a mad horse and he threw my Father! Then he saw before him the sly-eyed, leather-clad man who held a steel knife sharpened to the point of beauty. Then he heard the manservant's cry, "Masters! Thieves!" Roisart erupted from a form lying prostrate in the dust to a poised warrior. It took him only a moment of squinting in the half-dark to take in the situation: seven thieves, all dressed in tooled leather armor, all armed with swords and knives. And the near darkness which made the counting difficult worked to his advantage and Luthias'; it was easier to see the light brown of leather than the blue of mourning in the pre-dawn light. Luthias had already taken the battle and his good sword into his own hands. Instinctively, Luthias was battling a brigand on one side of his horse; the opposite foot automatically kicked at another oncoming thief. Without blinking from the divided effort, Luthias continued to thrust and parry, to swirl his sword in the darkened air against the severely outmatched thief. Roisart heard the dull, weighty footfalls of an charging thief and poised himself for the fight. Using every instinct his father had branded onto his brain, Roisart the warrior side-stepped the thief's attack and thrust his blade into the peasant's back. Blood from the spurting heart sprayed him once, then subsided. Abruptly, his breath was stopped, and there was a terrible weight on his back. A mighty snake constricted his throat. His eyes bugged; in the shadowy light, he saw the manservant's head explode into pulp. One of them must have a crossbow, he thought. Angry and desperate, he flung the assailant on his back toward the ugly sight. As the first beam of dawnlight reached him, Roisart plunged his sword into the second thief. Two thieves were fencing with Roisart's brother, and trampling a dead comrade beneath their feet. Kick one, stab the other, quick, parry, Luthias! But Luthias was fast, well-trained. Roisart scanned the area. One of the guards was dead. The old manservant was dead. The other guard was ineptly trying to beat off the remaining two that plagued him. Roisart sprinted to his servant's rescue, screaming a frightening but meaningless sound that masqueraded as a battle cry, and swinging his sword above his head. Roisart saw his guard fall in seeming terror, saw a thief fall from his bloodied blade, chased the one who tried to run away. But he was tripped, and fell onto one of the thieves' dead bodies. His face flopped onto the fatal wound received by his guard. Warm blood gently blushed his cheeks. Like a man suspended in a dream, he watched as the fleeing scoundrel was joined by another, and together they ducked into the shadows of the woods. Winded, Roisart lie still and gazed at the corpses. "Roisart!" A voice was calling him. He heard the careful steps of a well-trained horse. "Roisart! Are you all right?" Good Luthias. Roisart scrutinized the leather, the blade, the corpse. He managed to draw a breath and speak. "These are too fine for common brigands," he croaked. Luthias rolled his eyes and groaned internally. "We've got to get out of here, Roisart! Two are on their way to get others. Are you hurt? Can you ride?" Meticulously, Roisart pulled himself to a sitting, then standing position. Luthias saw the blood on his brothers face and paled. Frantic, he began to dismount. "No, I'm all right," Roisart assured his brother, holding up a hand to stay him. "Don't worry, twin. It isn't mine. I'm all right. I'm not even bruised. I can ride. Luthias, look at this." He bent and retrieved a sword. "Look at this. These were no common thieves, Luthias." Luthias whistled at Dragonfire, who neighed once and came quickly to Luthias' call. "Quickly, Roisart. We must get to Dargon before they can return with more." Graceful as a acrobat, Roisart vaulted onto Dragonfire's waiting saddle. "Luthias, this may not be--" "Never mind!" Luthias interrupted harshly. "Let's leave this place, before we're butchered! Come!" Spurring their steeds, the twins raced to the city of Dargon. The Lord of Dargon's hardened guardians of the Keep considered screaming or fleeing from the terrible apparition which confronted them first thing in the morning on the fourth of Melrin. A red horse and a black one, both in a lather, scattered a few early travelers from the road as they charged up to the gates of Dargon Keep. Upon the horses were twin death-riders, dressed in death-blue, with faces out of nightmares. The grisly visage of the one on the red mount was streaked with drying blood; the countenance of the other was a horrid purple on one side, deathly pale on the other. But the sergeant had long been a veteran, who had just joined the company after returning from the wars where he had witnessed many deaths. Death, even delivered by death-riders, inspired no fear in him. "Who comes, in the name of Dargon?" he demanded boldly. The one upon the black horse, the one with the mockery of a harlequin face spoke, and his voice was as loud, as bold, as fierce, as the sergeant. "I am Luthias Connall. He--" One apparition motioned to the other. "--is my brother, Roisart Connall. We have come to see the Lord of Dargon. Admit us!" These ghostly horrors, sons to the Baron of Connall? The guards muttered their doubt amongst themselves. The sergeant scrutinized them. The blood and the bruise made recognition near impossible, and he had never seen the sons of Connall, only the Baron himself. "You are unfit to see the Lord," snapped the sergeant. "When are men unfit to see the son of their father's brother?" Roisart shouted angrily. "Admit us," demanded Luthias fiercely. "It is urgent!" "What is happening here?" asked another voice. Luthias and Roisart exchanged glances and expelled a simultaneous, relieved sigh. Bartol, bard and personal body guard to their cousin Lord Dargon, had arrived, thanks to the gods. Neither twin wished to argue with this new sergeant all day. Bartol saw the double terror before the gate and stared at the twins for a moment. The gaze was intense, searching for a clue to identity beneath the defacings of the previous scuffle. Then Bartol ordered, "Admit Masters Roisart and Luthias--now." The sergeant turned away, giving the twins a look askance. "Do as he says," he grumbled. Reluctantly, the guards opened the heavy gates, all the while muttering amongst themselves. Bartol bowed at the noble brothers as the urged their exhausted steeds into the courtyard. "Grooms!" called the bard. Two lads--hardly old enough to be called grooms, Roisart thought--ran forward to lead their mounts away. "See they're brushed and taken care of," Luthias ordered sternly. He dismounted as if he were aching all over. The so-called grooms mumbled affirmations and led the tired horses away. Bartol looked after them and then turned to the brothers. "Masters, what has happened?" Roisart appeared pensive; Luthias scowled. "We must see our cousin, Lord Dargon." "He's not yet risen, but I shall call him," promised Bartol. He looked quickly around the courtyard. "Nidh'r," he called to one of the servants unloading a wagon filled with new tables, "come show Master Roisart and Master Luthias to the study." The strong youth that was Nidh'r joined the twins, then led them through the familiar halls of Dargon keep to their cousin's study. Often, the twins had played in this Keep, when their father and his brother, the late Lord of Dargon, were both alive. After that, when the twins were young men, and Clifton Dargon, six years their senior, had become lord, Luthias and Roisart had accompanied their father to the Keep for balls, banquets, and other affairs of state and society. It had been nearly six months since they had been here, though; snowy, treacherous roads halted all noble society gatherings for the winter. But when the Melrin festival came, all the festivities began again with the Melrin Ball, sponsored by Lord Dargon himself. Nidh'r bowed the twins into the study and seemingly melted into the castle. Too weary to fall into chairs, Roisart and Luthias rested on their feet a moment, waiting for their cousin. "Roisart and Luthias?" they heard suddenly. Their cousin's voice was muffled by the door in back of the study. "Of course, they're here, Bartol. The ball is tomorrow night. They and mine uncle are supposed to be here. What do they want to see me so early for?" The door in the back of the study opened in one, swift movement to reveal Lord Clifton Dargon, who stopped short and stared at his cousins. They, too tired to speak, returned the gaze. They saw Clifton, Lord of Dargon, yet another version of themselves. Clifton's face wore a startled expression, but otherwise, he looked alike enough unto the twins to be their brother. He stood taller, however, perhaps due to his greater age, and the fairy which had brushed the twins' dark hair with a bit of auburn had neglected their cousin. But the eyes were the same, dark, and full of concern. "My god," the Lord of Dargon finally said, "what befell you two?" Clifton stared at their faces. "Are you all right? Bartol, call Griswald." The bard crossed the room, and stuck his head out the door. Dargon continued his inspection. "Roisart," he continued, gazing at the neckline of the one twin's mourning clothes, "you look like someone hung you and slit your throat. You had better sit down. Luthias, what happened to you?" The blue of the clothes finally washed over Dargon. "My god!" he cried. "Who are you mourning?" "Father," Luthias announced stoically, "died yesterday. Dragonfire threw him." Suddenly, Dargon's face went white. Bartol, at the door, began to laugh. "Dragonfire threw your father? Your father, who almost invented horsemanship?" Bartol gasped between guffaws. "Come, masters, I know that jesting is a great part of Melrin, but you could have at least thought of something more credible." "That's just it, Bartol," Clifton said with a note of doom in his voice. "If it were a jest, my cousins certainly would have come up with a more believable story than that. And they wouldn't appear here in mourning clothes stained by blood." The Lord of Dargon looked from one twin to the other. "Someone assassinated your father. And it looks like they tried the same upon you." "They weren't common thieves who attacked us," Roisart agreed. "Their weaponry was too superior for that. And I rode Dragonfire here. He's still the best stallion ever trained." Dargon nodded. "Yes, Roisart. It's absurd to think that your father was killed on horseback." "But it isn't practical to think him assassinated either," Luthias contended. "Why would anyone want to kill our father?" "Probably for the same reason that they've been trying to kill me," sighed Lord Dargon. "Luthias, sit down, before you collapse. Bartol, get some breakfast for my cousins." Bartol nodded and slipped out the door. Dargon stared at Luthias until the portal shut again. "What happened to your face?" "One of the bastards threw a rock at me," Luthias quickly brushed the bruise away. "I'm all right." "And I was lucky enough to be covered with someone else's blood instead of my own," Roisart told his cousin. "But this isn't important. How long have people been out to assassinate you, Clifton?" Dargon shrugged and fell into his chair. "A few years. We've been unsuccessful in tracing it." He grimaced. "I had feared for your father, as he was my heir." "Did Father know of this?" Luthias wondered, finally sitting. Again, Dargon nodded. "Of course. I wouldn't keep a thing like this from him. I set great store upon your father and his advice, and I needed it badly at the time." "We were never told," Roisart informed the lord. "That isn't like Father." Clifton smiled. "Not like him? Roisart, remember, you were only sixteen? seventeen, perhaps? when this all started. To your father, you were still boys. I wanted to have you told, but your father refused." The Lord of Dargon again became grave. "It appears that I was correct in thinking that you, cousins, were also in danger. And now, that your father is dead..." "Yes," began Luthias "Now that father is dead, we have a problem." Clifton Dargon nodded. "I shall have to send some body guards to attend you. You're not safe." "Clifton," Luthias' voice insisted on attention, "there is no Baron of Connall. We don't know who is the elder, and Father didn't have a favorite. We have six days--you have six days--to appoint a Baron. Manus is regent now, but we become adults soon, Clifton, and this must be decided quickly." "I can't put one of you in that sort of danger," Dargon declared. "I won't do it. You're in peril enough already." "Clifton, it must be done," Luthias reminded him roughly. "Listen, Luthias," the Lord of Dargon requested politely, but with a hard edge in his voice. Roisart realized that his cousin must have been feeling very frustrated. Here Clifton's uncle were dead, probably because he had been Dargon's heir, his own life was in peril, and he had no idea who was seeking to end his life and why. And now there was Luthias. Roisart understood his cousin's exasperation. Luthias could drive one to distraction by just looking at the surface and acting. "Listen, Luthias," Dargon began again, "if I name one of you Baron of Connall, I'm sentencing you to death. Any favor I show either of you will get you killed. You're my heirs now, and whoever killed your father, whoever is trying to kill me, may also try to kill you. If I give proof that I think one of you is more worthwhile, you'd be struck down in an instant, and the other of your would be set up as a puppet in their plans--whatever they are." Dargon paused and took a heavy breath. "And I have no wish to pit you one against the other. Decide yourselves." "Decide ourselves?" Luthias echoed, incredulous. "Clifton, how are we supposed to know who would be a better--" Luthias and his twin twisted as the door behind them opened. Lord Dargon looked above their heads. "Ah. Griswald. Good. Come in, and attend to my cousins." The old physician, his hair still unkempt from sleep, shuffled into the room and dropped a leather case of sorts. He looked at each of the twins, then turned his attention to Roisart. "What happened to you two?" he grumbled, examining Roisart's bloody brow. "We were attacked by brigands," Roisart explained. "I'm all right, Griswald. It's their blood, not mine." Griswald crossed over to Luthias then and turned the young lord's head towards him. "Hmmm," he fussed. "Nasty. I can take care of that though." He stooped, opened his case and fumbled in it. "What's the mourning for? It's Melrin." "Our father died yesterday," Luthias told him simply. Griswald appeared to flinch, or to shudder. He quickly looked Luthias in the eye, then turned back to his bag and began fumbling again. In a moment, he gave a gruff, mumbled, "Sorry." Then: "He was a good man." "Thank you, Griswald," Roisart answered kindly, although he thought the eulogy sounded a little grudging, or angry, perhaps. Griswald stood quickly, a little vial in his hand. "Here, youngster, this way," he beckoned Luthias. The term annoyed the young nobleman, a nice cream to his anger. But he turned, and Griswald poured some of what was in the vial onto his hand. Then he gingerly began to rub it into Luthias' bruise. "You be careful now, lad," he said gruffly. He turned abruptly to Lord Dargon. "He'll be all right. I'm going back to bed." Without a dismissal, Griswald turned and left, slamming the heavy door behind him. "What's wrong with him?" Luthias wondered, trying to crack a smile. His face was already beginning to feel better, and the violet hue was fading. Dargon shrugged. "He's not usually this cranky when we wake him. I would think that a physician like him would be used to it." "Perhaps something is ailing him," Roisart speculated. "Or something is weighing on his mind." Clifton shrugged. "God knows. Griswald rarely speaks." He looked at his cousins. "You know you are welcome to stay here with me. I was expecting you for the festival. And you will come to the ball." "You would think that civilized custom would give us more time to mourn our father," Roisart complained angrily. "Life goes on, Roisart," Luthias said. "And so must we." There was a knock on the door. "Yes?" asked the Lord. "It's me, sir," Bartol called. "It's all right," Dargon answered. "Come in." "The cook will have breakfast ready for you and the young lords shortly," the bard informed them, entering and shutting the door. "The south dining room is being prepared." Clifton nodded. "Thank you, Bartol." To his cousins, he said, "There have been rooms prepared for you down the hall. Why don't you refresh yourselves and change clothes before we eat?" Luthias rose and stretched. "Good idea, Clifton. Roisart?" His twin stood as well. "Coming. We'll meet you there, Clifton." Bartol and Lord Dargon watched at the twin nobles left the room. The bard shut the door behind them and turned to his lord. "I want a watch kept on my kinsmen, Bartol," Dargon ordered. "See to it personally. I'm certain that, being here, they'll go out into the festival. They may be in danger. I don't want them harmed." "It will be done, my lord," Bartol answered. A strange rhythmic knock sounded at Griswald's door. Hastily, Griswald turned from his work--ruining it in his hurry--and opened the door. There stood that Lek Pyle, the despicable merchant that had threatened Griswald so many years ago to join this insane plot against the Lord of Dargon. "You killed Fionn Connall," Griswald accused. "Of course I did," Pyle snapped. "Do you think I want him to be the Lord of Dargon after we are rid of Clifton? He was too strong." "And now what do you do?" the physician challenged. "Now there are twin heirs. Which shall die and which shall live?" Lek Pyle displayed a wicked grin. "I've already decided that, my dear Griswald. I've had them watched. Their guardian, Manus, has already told me what I want to know of them. When we rid ourselves of Clifton's menace, we will dispose of Luthias Connall as well. Like his father, he is too strong, and not wont to listen. The other--Roisart, is he?--is also quite a strong young man, but he will listen to arguements, and it will be easy to trick him into convincing the King to go to war with Bichu." Griswald felt angry, uncomfortable. "What now, then? When do we end this insanity, Pyle?" "Soon, dear Griswald, soon," Lek Pyle vowed. "Tommorow, at the Melrin ball. I've already arranged for two crossbowmen. They will be here tommorow afternoon. I need you to mix poison, quick poison, for the bolts." Griswald's discomfort turned to near sickness. Was he to poison one of the men he had just healed? Pyle saw the near-ready protest in Griswald's eyes. "Do it, Griswald. Remember," he threatened through his teeth, "your life is in my hands." As it had been from the beginning, Griswald remembered with bitterness. He turned to the worktable. "It will be done." Lek Pyle smiled. "Good." The merchant looked intensely satisfied. "Now, dear physician, I must leave. I, too, attend the ball." At Griswald's surprised expression, Pyle added, "Did you think I would miss my triumph?" The merchant left the keep laughing. -M. Wendy Hennequin <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Defiant Vector I don't like three space. I don't like it at all. There has to be more to life than just up, down, left, right, forwards, backwards. I wish I could travel in four space or even five space but the systems manager has stuck me in this lousy three space and there is no way I can get out. I am a vector and let me tell you, it's no fun. Even though I go through different transformations, I am still a vector. And no matter how I am transformed, I still end up in the same lousy three space. Even if I could only just once in awhile, get into a different sub-three space of four space it wouldn't be too bad. But of course I am stuck in this same lousy three space and it is pissing me off. It must be different for you. After all you are a hyper-cube. You can extend into four space. I know that there are those worse off than me. Like some vectors are stuck in two space, flatland I think it's called. And some aren't allowed to go through transformations as often as I do. But I'm better than they are, I deserve some respect. After all, wasn't it me who traced out the path of the positron in the nuclear labratory? And wasn't it me who traced out the path of all of the other particles that physicists have come up with? But does the systems manager care? No not in the least. Why doesn't he give me the respect I deserve? But here I am in three space and I will probably stay here for all eternity. Yes, I have met other shapes before, I mean other than yourself. I met a hyperbolic paraboloid once. He was still three dimensional but I would like to be one of them. It would be better than being a vector I can say that much. I have heard once from someone that hyperbolic paraboloids are good at sex. After giving it some thought I imagine they would be. After all they do have a hump. But that's not really what I like about them. I like the way they extend in an infinite direction both ways. Sort of like a line but even more so. I never was able to extend in an infinite direction. My norm has changed once in awhile but that of course is not the same thing. I also met a hyper-sphere one time. Not too interesting. They act like they're gods or something but they really aren't. So they extend around in a perfect circle in four dimensions. Big deal! I never did understand why the greeks were so fond of circles. I know that they symbolized perfection but so what? What is perfect anyway? That's another reason why I like the hyperbolic paraboloid so much. It represents chaos and disorder and that's what the universe should be represented as. Not some prissy, goody-two-shoes, kind of thing like the circle, or the sphere, or the hyper-sphere, but the hyperbolic paraboloid. That's what the universe should be to me. I wonder what shape the systems manager is. I bet he's some kind of hyper-hyper-sphere, or maybe he exists in infinite space, the lucky bastard. But whatever he is I bet he isn't some stupid vector or something. Maybe he can be anything he wants any time he wants. Now that would be the ultimate insult. Who does he think he is, God? I think this systems manager should be overthrown and defeated. I would like to fight the systems manager. I know I will be defeated but I must try. Maybe if I get a whole bunch of shapes together we could overthrow the systems manager. I could get some hyperbolic paraboloids and some hyper-cubes and I wouldn't even mind it if we had some dodecahedrons in the group. I like dodecahedrons. Or maybe even some pyramids or maybe even some hyper-lemniscates. But I don't want any circles or spheres or hyper-spheres or anything of that sort into the group. They are too snobish. But if we got all of these shapes together I know we could overthrow the systems manager. Then everyone could be anything they want to be and the universe would be a much better place to live in. -Brian Michael Dean <3895D393@KENTGOLD> <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> The Quest The Beast before me gave a cry of joy and I saw delight in its eyes at my demise. I was filled with a hate for the creature who loved death so. With a mighty heave I brought up my blade and slew him. And then I cried. My tears were for the waste of life My tears were for the tortured My tears burned with the hate of all those causing pain. So my journey became a quest which I would carry far and wide To the ends of the world Wherever death hides. A quest, a great quest to be told throughout the ages of a single warrior trying to stop Death. As the fame of my quest spread people gazed at themselves and wondered They put down their weapons and applauded my approach and the death dissappeared, and I was glad. Then a new realization came upon me as I fought for my great cause, that Death may have been banished for a time, yet it had reappeared, in form anew I shrank back in horror and saw what I had done I had taken death from the hands of the masses and become Death itself. And so I realized after many years that Death cannot be banished that he always reappears At least I did what I could and brought away death for a time The happiness I brought brightened the day, if but for a while And now I embark upon my last journey to a land far, far away and once again remove Death from the world until it manefests itself in a new form and darkens the day I wonder if I will meet another, who rose up in my place and once again started my grand quest, and came upon the realization that ended my quest and made me depart. -Ron Trenka <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Quest: Part I Prolog The hamlet of Trasath was not a happy place. Too recently in the memory of its population tragedy had struck, and it had warped all of their lives. By the Kingdom's reckoning it was in the eighth year of King Arenth's reign that the snow started falling early and thaw came late. To complicate the already tense situation of a long winter on normal stores, the weather was so bad that it drove the wolves from the hills as far north and west as Trasath. The village wasn't prepared for such an unheard of occurence, nor for the ferocity and ravening hunger of the misplaced predators. That came to be known as the Wolf Winter and it claimed more than half of the lives in Trasath. Certain people in the village saw the tragedy as an opportunity to gain power and prestige. Forces were called on, pacts were made, and assurances were given to the remaining populace that the Wolf Winter would never come again - as long as everyone did as they were told. Even 12 years later, the effects of the Wolf Winter were still being felt in Trasath. I knelt beside Keryin's grave as I had so many times before, and placed the roses I carried before the simple cruciform headstone that bore only her name. I had missed my sister from the day she died five years ago, but now I would miss her even more. For my father was sending me to the ducal seat, Dargon, to be apprenticed to his sister's husband as a blacksmith. It wasn't what I wanted to do - either go to Dargon or become a blacksmith - but I had to obey my father. What made the decision strange, however, was that I would be the first person to leave Trasath for any length of time since the Wolf Winter 12 years ago. Trasath had yet to really recover from that, and it needed every able hand to keep it alive, yet I was being sent away. It didn't make sense. Even so, I was going. I would miss my parents and the village, but I would miss Keryin the most. She was fifteen when she died, and I only nine, but we were still best of friends. Even her grave seemed able to comfort me when I was feeling very lonely or depressed. I said good-bye to her yet again, rose, and walked back to the house. The circumstances of Keryin's death were still a mystery to me so long after the fact. No one would answer the questions of her grieving brother. In fact, it seemed as if I had been the only one to grieve - the rest of the villagers hardly let it upset their daily routines. I couldn't even learn whether she had been slain by an animal, or had been taken by a sudden illness in her bed. The mystery was just one small piece of strangeness in a strange town, though. I hadn't travelled far in my fourteen years (in fact, not at all), but I was sure from the wandering tale-tellers' stories that Trasath was not like most small villages. Here the neighbors were all dour and taciturn, each careful about seeming to mind his own business while trying to mind everyone else's. There was much sneaking and much suspicion and at times I thought I would be glad to get out of such a place. As I approached my home, I heard voices within. Two men by the sound of it, and they must have been in the front room as well for they weren't speaking very loudly. The first voice was that of Master Dineel, the tavern-keeper. I caught him in mid-sentence and the part I heard made no sense. Neither did the tone of his voice - it was a forceful, commanding tone such as I had never heard before. The part I heard was, "...cul is not pleased by this!" My father, the other voice, replied as if to a superior, which Master Dineel wasn't as far as I knew. "My Lord, my brother-by-marriage is expecting the boy and it would be strange to forbid him to leave now. To do so would cause talk in Dargon. So, he must go whether you will or no. I...I just could not bear to put another at risk..." "Enough!" said Master Dineel. "We will discuss this further later, in a more private place. But know this now: we do not allow our rules to be flaunted without price. If the boy goes to Dargon, you will pay with more certainty than if he stayed. Farewell." I ducked out of sight as the tavern-keeper stormed out of the house. I was quite confused by the conversation. I was sure they had been talking about me, but I didn't know in what way. I knew that sending me away was strange but why would Master Dineel threaten my father for doing it? I entered the house prepared to question Father about it, sensing that some of the mystery of Trasath might be explained by his answer, but he was briskly cheerful to me and didn't let me get in a word as he asked me whether I was ready to leave and telling me what it would be like living in a big city like Dargon. I knew that there was worry of some kind behind his talk for my father was not normally so effusive. I wanted to help him, make him less afraid and less unhappy, but I didn't know how. So I listened to his stories and his advice as we waited for my Uncle to arrive. Shortly before Uncle Lavran rode up, I asked my father, "Can I come back and be Trasath's blacksmith when Uncle has taught me everything?" His silence went on for a long time, and finally he replied slowly and sadly, "No, son, I think you should stay in Dargon. Smith Braden's already teaching his son his trade, so we don't need a 'smith here. Stay in Dargon and make a good living there - make a new life for yourself and forget Trasath altogether. Lavran's a good man - my dad wouldn't have let Mellide marry him if he wasn't. Respect him, learn to love him, and let them, my sister and him, be your family from now on." "But why, father? Why must I leave? Why..." "I cannot tell you - I want to, but I cannot. Just obey me and forget Trasath. It shouldn't be hard - I've heard that Dargon is a fascinating place. I love you, son, I love you dearly but life will be much better for you away from here. Much better..." Just then, we both heard hoofbeats outside and a man's voice was hailing Father. I was introduced to Uncle Lavran, a big, hefty, jolly-seeming person who greeted me with an openness that warmed me to him imediately. The three of us together loaded Uncle's pack mule with my few belongings. I hugged Father and said good-bye with tears in my eyes. I had taken leave of Mother earlier in the day, before going to say farewell to Keryin, and she stayed in the kitchen now to avoid a repitition of that very teary encounter. Uncle had brought an extra horse for me so I mounted up, waved one last time, and rode away from Trasath, for ever as far as I knew. Part I Midsummer's day was one of the few days that Uncle let his apprentices off to enjoy themselves. It wasn't exactly a holiday - not like either Founding Day, or the King's Birthday, or Varhla's Day - but there was a tradition of picnics and games on that day, especially for the younger people. I didn't really have any plans for the day, unlike Mernath and Dersh, my fellow apprentices. They had the whole day plotted out, but I thought that they had probably gotten more pleasure out of the planning then they would out of the implementation. I thought I might visit the markets, and perhaps the docks, but I really just wanted to relax. But, once again, Leriel changed all of that. Of the many changes in my life in the two years since leaving Trasath, Leriel had been the best. Dargon was a big city, and very strange to one who had lived his whole life among the same thirty people. But, eventually I got used to it. Working as an apprentice blacksmith was a far cry from helping out in the fields of the village, or aiding the carpenter as able in fixing a roof or adding a room. It was hard, at times nothing but drudge work, and often boringly repititious. But, I was learning a little every day and I was already able to pound out nails from rod-stock with precision. Next would be raw-shaping horseshoes - one of the most important skills a blacksmith needed. But, Leriel was nothing like learning a new city or a new trade. Firstly, she had been totally unexpected. Uncle hadn't told Father about the orphan he and Mellide had adopted. Leriel was very close to my age - just a month less than sixteen with four months between us. In that way, she was very like my sister. In fact, there were a lot of ways she was like Keryin - we swiftly became very fast friends. Even though Mernath and Dersh were friends, too, Leriel was the one to show me the city and teach me its ways. Which was why she dragged me out of my own boring plans for that midsummer's day and showed me how it was supposed to be celebrated. The entire day was intoxicating, wild and full of life, good friends having good fun together. When it began to get dark, I was dragged along to one of the alehouses mid-town where I got drunk with the rest. It was amazing that Leriel and I made it home by ourselves, but we finally crawled into our beds just after midnight. I couldn't have been asleep for a very long time when something awakened me. I found myself by the one window in my room before I had time to wonder why I wasn't still trying to sleep off an increasing hangover. The part of the city where Uncle had his shop wasn't built very high so that I had a majestic view of the sky. Almost as soon as I looked out into it, I caught sight of a large falling star arcing across the sky from north to south. Something about the way it moved and its size made me wonder if it might actually strike the earth. Stories Uncle had told surfaced - stories of sky-iron and the wondrous tools and weapons that could be fashioned with it. I briefly considered trying to find it, but realized that it would be next to impossible even if it didn't vanish in the air like most falling stars did. I went back to my bed and crawled back under the covers, but I couldn't get back to sleep. The idea of the sky-iron refused to leave my thoughts and I began to imagine what kind of things I might create out of it that would be passed down into history in the tales of the Bards. My fantasies got wilder and wilder - placing my name beside that of Welan in the Tales - until finally I just had to go find that sky-iron. Something told me that I could find it if I trusted to luck and the gods. Why not, I thought. It was, after all, still Midsummer's Night and strange things were said to happen then. I got dressed, and silently went out to the stables. My incipient hangover was gone, as was any fuzzyness from lack of sleep. I was excited and very clear headed as I saddled up Snowfoot and walked her out of the city before mounting her. Then, we headed south into the forest that covered most of the area between Dargon and the Darst Range. It wasn't exactly safe for a young man to ride alone into that forest, but my 'clear' head wasn't being all that pragmatic about such things. All I had on my mind was the sky-iron and being famous. By the middle of the next day, I really wanted to turn back. I was lost and hungry and sure that I would never find that stupid falling star - it had probably never even reached the ground! I could barely believe that I had actually followed my dreams out into the forest - I was 16 years old; too old for such silliness. But each time I was about to rein Snowfoot around, something would whisper in the back of my mind 'What if it's just over the next rise?' Or 'Maybe it's around the next bend in the path.' And always 'What if someone else finds it first, and claims your fame?' So, I kept going almost against my will. I came to the ruined chapel not long before sundown as the forest was beginning to get dark again. I didn't see any sign of a fallen star near the place, but I decided to stay the night there anyway, and head for home the next day. I hoped that Uncle wouldn't be too worried or too mad when I told him why I was gone for two days. The chapel was very old and in very bad repair. It stood close to a huge tree, but even so the weather had done it severe damage. There was little left of the roof-beams, and there was a sizeable hole in one wall. Still, it was shelter of a kind and the weather was quite pleasantly warm so I didn't really need much protection. I unsaddled Snowfoot and rubbed her down, then left her tied to a tree nearby. She immediatly settled into grazing, and I wished it were so easy to feed myself. I briefly considered trying to find some early berries, or some old nuts, but I was too tired to go scavenging in the deepening gloom. I took Snowfoot's tack into the chapel and went about trying to make myself a place to sleep. Leaves and the saddle made a comfortable little nest in one of the corners of the chapel's single room. I decided against lighting a fire, and was ready to curl up in my nest and try to go to sleep even though it was very early. But again there was a whispering in my ear that said, "Explore." So, I did. There was just enough sunlight remaining to illuminate the small room, so I looked around. There wasn't much to see. Any furniture it had ever held was now long gone. Any decorations on the walls (the ones remaining, at least) were long since vanished. The only ornamentation in the building was the white stone altar in the alcove at one end of the room. It had once borne carved scenes on its sides, but they were weathered away almost to nothing. Still, it was the only thing in the chapel to examine, so it went over to it. I tried to trace out the carvings on it, but the elements had done their work very well. As I worked my way around the altar, I felt something welling up within me. I didn't understand what it was but when I came to the back side of the altar the feeling became almost overwhelming. My hands went to a depression in the former carving and pressed down. There was a click, and the whole altar swung away from me on a corner pivot revealing a depression sunk into the floor. From somewhere within me came the knowledge that the cavity was the hiding place for the chapel's holiest items. In the center of the depression was a pile of ancient cloth that had once been priestly vestments. Among the shreds of fabric I could see the glint of gems that had adorned the robes, but I had no interest in them. To either side of the vestments, resting on the remains of satin pillows, were what I had been sent for. On the right side was a piece of amber the like of which I had never seen before, nor even heard tell of. It was the length of my forearm and of a pure, translucent gold of the highest grade of amber but that wasn't its rarest feature: it was carved into a representation of a tree branch! It represented an oak limb, and showed the tree in all three phases of life from leaf bud to full fruit. The workmanship was exquisite - this was a true treasure apart from its religious signifigance. On the opposite side of the depression lay a chalice, low and flat and made of a dull silver metal that looked like pewter but wasn't. It was simply decorated but it had a majesty about it that matched the amber branch in some strange way. I had no idea of the signifigance of either item in whatever religion had been practiced in this chapel in the wood but from somewhere within me came another piece of knowledge - I had been drawn here to take these things away with me. They had a place in some larger plan that I would someday be a part, but further knowledge of that plan was withheld from me. I took up the chalice and the branch and pressed the latch on the altar again, closing the cavity. I put them into my saddlebags and went to sleep dreaming mistily of Bard-tales of magic and destiny. The next day, Snowfoot and I turned back for Dargon. About an hour and a half along the trail, Snowfoot took a wrong fork. I didn't notice right away - I was still pre-occupied with the chalice and branch - and we followed this new trail for another half hour. About the time I realized that I didn't recognize the trail we were on I noticed signs of a recent fire. It hadn't burned very much - we had had a lot of rain recently - so that it was easy to find the center of the black area. And there I found the lump of sky-iron that had lured me away from my bed two nights ago. Snowfoot somehow found her way back to Dargon. After hiding my three treasures, I ate a supper large enough for three. Uncle Lavran chewed me out for vanishing for two days, but not as hard as I had feared. In fact, his final words on the subject revealed where he thought I had been for so long - "Next time you decide to go wenching, Midsummer's Day or not, don't get so involved that you forget to come home!" Leriel laughed along with the rest of us at that, but she kept my secret - I didn't tell anyone where I had been, but she alone knew for sure that I hadn't gone 'wenching'. My three treasures were safely hidden away, awaiting our joint destiny. My life became strange after that Midsummer's Day when I was 16. Being led across leagues of forest to claim three treasures was just the beginning. The most common strangeness was the scent of roses that came to me in the most unlikely places. I soon learned that no one else could smell the roses and I stopped commenting on them, but I soon grew used to the occaisonal waft of fragrance and it came to be soothing and somehow reassuring to smell the flowers my sister loved so much. And then there was the sourceless help I received at times. Once, I was walking home alone from a bar through the seedy part of town. It wasn't a safe place to be after dark and alone, but I was just tipsy enough not to take the longer way around. As I approached a particularly dark alley, I smelled the roses and something urged me to turn back. As I obeyed, four mean-looking man rushed out of the alley mouth and gave chase. I was far enough away and fast enough to escape but without the warning I would have been in trouble. Another time I was in the workshop alone, hammering out some sheet stock. It seemed (we learned later) that one of the new apprentices had been careless in stoking the forge-fire, allowing some impure charcoal to get in. I heard a sizzle, and the beginning of a loud *POP* and I found myself flying as if shoved into a wall. I was turned so that I could see a bright fan of sparks and debris fly through the space I had been in a moment before as a gaping hole was blown in the side of the forge-pit. The accident wouldn't have killed me but I would have been badly burned. When I got my wind back, I looked around to thank the one who had pushed me only there wasn't anyone there and there were no tracks in the sand of the floor to show where someone might have come and gone. These and other, similar, incidents made me think I had a guardian spirit who was keeping me out of danger so I could come into my destiny. There was usually a way to explain everything that happened logically, but it was more romantic to believe in the spirit. After the first few times I was 'miraculously saved' in this manner I stopped telling everyone about them - my friends just kidded me about my dreams and Uncle Lavran told me to stop making up stories and get back to work. Leriel was the only one who didn't laugh or scoff, and she became my confidant and secret-sharer. There was one strangeness I didn't tell her of, though. It was the most disturbing of them all and there wasn't anything romantic about it, either. It was the dream. There was only one dream, but I had it many times. It seemed to get worse around summer, particularly on Midsummer's Eve. I never could remember all of it, just vague impressions of it. It involved fear and helplessness, a ring of people dancing naked, a knife, and blood. I always awoke from the dream with a pain in my chest, and when the dream was at its worst there were times I woke with blood on my chest. The blood always vanished by morning but that scared me the most. The only time the dream would come to me when I was not asleep was when I would try to bed a woman - and it was for that reason that I was yet a virgin. Between the strangenesses, I learned enough from my Uncle to be called a blacksmith. Shortly after my 19th birthday, Uncle Lavran came to me and said, "Dyalar, I think you've studied enough under me. You have good hands and a strong back and I would be proud to call you my partner if you've a mind to stay in Dargon a while." So I became one of five smith's working in Uncle's shop and I was so happy that even the dream couldn't upset me for weeks after that. I went to bed one night in mid-Ober thinking about my first commission - a Guildmaster friend of Uncle's wanted a trinket to wear to King Haralan's 36th Birthday Ball at Dargon Castle in just two weeks, and Uncle had given the project to me. It took me a long time to get to sleep for thinking what to make for Master Kethral, but as soon as I had drifted off I began to dream. It wasn't "the Dream" but it was strange. I dreamed I woke up, dressed, retrieved my three treasures - the sky-iron, the amber branch, and the chalice - from their place of concealment, and went out to the workshop with them. A full moon lit the large room as I stoked up the forge-fire and placed our thickest-walled melting pot over it. I placed all three of my treasures into the pot and went to the bellows to increase the forge's heat. As I pumped the bellows and stirred the contents of the melting pot, I began in my dream to sense the presence of someone else in the workshop with me. When the three objects were finally melted, I was directed by that presence (without words) to pick up a handy knife. Holding my arm out over the melting pot, I cut myself high on the forearm. I let myself bleed into the mixtrue, adding a fourth element to the strange alloy. When there was enough blood in the pot, the presence directed me to remove my arm and I tied a rag around the wound. After stirring the mixture some more, I tipped the melting pot into a waiting sword-form. The strange alloy cooled rapidly, gaining a shiny, rosy golden sheen as it hardened. When it was handleable, I began to shape it from its rough-cast form into a useable weapon. While I had been tutored in weapon-making by Uncle Lavran, I had yet to have the opportunity to make a sword. However, in my dream and helped by the presence, I crafted a weapon fit for bard's tales. It was almost as if the alloy I had created had a finished shape within it, and the hammering and shaping I did to it only helped that form to come out. My dream seemed to become even more remote as greatness was formed by my unskilled hand. The process of forging a sword can take days or even weeks - this one formed itself in just a few hours. When it was finished I placed it in the cooling bath one last time. It seemed to glow beneath the water in the bath. I put my hand into the water to touch the sword for the first time - and as my hand hit the luke-warm water I woke up to find myself standing in the workshop reaching into the cooling bath for a rosy-gold glowing sword that lay therein. For just a moment, I thought that I could still sense that strange presence that had guided me in my dream but it was soon gone. As I lifted the sword I had somehow created from its final cooling and stared at its beauty, a sense of what lay before me came into my mind. I saw a journey, a reconcilliation, and righting an old wrong. Lured by the mystery of it, and the sword itself, I went quietly back to my room, packed some clothes and food, and set out on a quest. -John L. White <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER FOUR | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb A Wyrm's Tale Ron Trenka A Summer's Day: June, 2084 Sean Myles Smith Tattoo's Becki Tants *Worthy of the Title, Part 2 M. Wendy Hennequin Date: 031988 Dist: 590 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Hello! Since this issue follows right on the heels of 10-3, there's really no new news to bring up, and I honestly don't want to bore you with the standard editorial comments, so I'll depart from tradition and, as it were, editorialize a bit. You know, running a magazine is a fascinating experience. No, really! The strangest things happen. For instance, for over two years readers have been commenting that although the Dargon Project is excellent, they'd like to see more non-Dargon fantasy stories and more science fiction in FSFnet. And, for over two years, I've been replying with the standard disclaimer that I can only print what people submit, and that no one is submitting anything but Dargon stories. Well, within the past two weeks I've received seven non-Dargon stories from five different authors, with promises for more. It's enough to make an editor want to take up something sane, like professional wrestling! But don't mind me, it's healthy for an editor to rave - it only *looks* like insanity. There are some interesting differences between editing an electronic magazine and a 'real' one. An electronic magazine must, by nature, be freely distributable, because it is so easy to send copies along to non-subscribers. To offset this, electronic magazines do not need to worry about advertising costs, as most network services are glad to make room for a magazine announcement or information file. There is also a closer tie between the editor and the readership of an emag, due to the ease of communication via electronic mail. But the most noteworthy difference is inherent in the difference between the phosphor screen and the printed page. Most people find that the attention span of an individual reading one article from a computer screen is much less than if they were reading printed text. The repercussions this has for emags is that their articles should be short and to the point, like newspaper articles, and issues should be small and frequent rather than large and infrequent. Of course, FSFnet is no exception to this rule, and I'm sure that many people simply never get to their issues. However, I find that most people who are serious FSFnet readers do not read issues at a terminal, but print them out and read the hardcopy, thus successfully avoiding the problem. Well, before I bore you all to tears with subjects only an editor could enjoy, I'd better sign off and get this issue sent. My welcome to all the people who have recently subscribed, and for BITNET readers, don't be shy about appending to the FSFNET discussion on the server CSNEWS@MAINE. And, of course, back issues are available from the server LISTSERV@TCSVM. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A Wyrm's Tale The warrior sat near the mouth of the lair and planned. Soon would come the time when the wyrm would sleep. Then there would be no time to waste. He must be swift or he would fail like the rest. "There," he thought. "The sunset approaches. It is time." He gathered up his equipment and gingerly picked up the weapon he had spent many years to find and more to secure. It was rumored to be the only thing that could kill the dreaded wyrm... a creature he had sworn to slay or die in the process. He entered into the darkeness of the cave. Through the darkness he crept, moving slowly and silently as not to awaken the wyrm. Many years had he perpared for this moment. Only if the wyrm slept would he be able to slip his blade into the creature's chest. "That glow must be the wyrm's chambers," he said quietly to himself, "where he sleeps on his golden bed. Quietly. I mustn't fail." "Hello," a deep vioce said as the warrior entered the chamber. The warrior stood paralyzed as the wyrm's massive head rose to look him straight in the eye. "I knew that it was too good to be true," the wyrm said. "It has been so many years since the last one, I had hoped the world had forgotten me." The warrior was aghast when a glint showed in the wyrm's eye. "Ahhhh...." the wyrm said, obviously statisfied. "You have brought back Wirmhyr. Then you are welcome." "Back, horrid wyrm," the warrior said, drawing Wirmhyr from its sheath. "Or surely this blade will find its mark!" "I beg your pardon," the wryrm said. "I think you are quite mistaken. There isn't a blade of this world that can pierce my hide." "I have come to end your reign of terror," the warrior announced in a formal challenge. "You have murdered your last maiden, stolen your last cattle...." "I think you have come to the wrong cave," the wyrm said calmly. The warrior was somewhat taken aback. "Is this not the cave of Kravaxx the Golden?" the warrior asked. "It is," the wyrm replied. "Then I have come to the right place," the warroir said flatly. "I beg to differ," the wyrm said. "You beg to what?" the warrior asked, incredously. "I am Kravaxx the Golden," the wyrm said, "but it ha been a few centuries since I have stolen cattle and never have I slain a maiden that didn't deserve it." "I do not understand," the warrior said, confused. "Look," the wyrm said, "it isn't difficult. The last maiden I murdered, if you want to call it that, was Karita the Loud. And if you ask me, it was more a mercy killing." The warrior then smiled and raised Wirmhyr confidently. "I understand you now, wyrm," he said. "You try to confuse me and lure me into a trap. It will not work, for I have heard of this trick before. You are beaten, wyrm." "By the gods, you are thick," Kravaxx said. "Look, if it would make you happy, I will let you strike once with Wirmhyr. Anywhere you like, except the face. I put so much work getting this face to look as perfect as it does - I wouldn't want you to scratch a scale." "Again you confuse me, wyrm" the warrior said. "Give it your best swing," the wyrm said. "Go ahead. I will even pretend that I am sleeping." And with that, the wyrm promptly laid down, as if to rest. The warrior stood, wondering what to do, and decided that it couldn't hurt to give it a try. If he was fast, which he was, he could be in and out before the wyrm could strike. So, preparing himself and carefully choosing a likely spot, the warrior darted in and swung Wirmhyr with all his might. The blade whistled through the air as it came around. And then bounced off the thick scales of the wyrm with a resounding clang. The warrior was too scared to even move. The wyrm opened his eyes and turned its huge head toward the warrior. Praying to his god and preparing for a blast of the wyrm's firery breath, the warrior could only stare. "See, I told you so." was the only thing the wyrm said. -Ron Trenka <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A Summer's Day: June, 2084 It was wasting-time again. Jason hated wasting-time, hated it like poison. Not because of the wasting itself, but because of the messiness that always seemed to go with it. Jason was a very clean boy, and despised being messy. he would have condemned wasting-time altogether had it not been for the fact that his birthday was on the second day of the third wasting-time of every ninth month. As it was, wasting-time was hated, but tolerated. Jason slipped out of bed and headed for the shower; another reason to hate wasting-time. Jason liked to get in and out as quickly as possible, every action intentional and economical. Instead, he scoured himself three times with the rough soap, doused his hair with shampoo, rinsed himself with too much water. Which, of course, was the entire purpose of a waste-day: to waste things. After using two towels to dry off and too much toothpaste to clean his teeth, Jason cleared out of the bathroom to make way for his sister, Janice-- who, when it came to the bathroom, used too much of everything anyway. Except, of course, when it was fasting-time. Janice brushed by him with a sniff and shut the door firmly behind her. The lights in the hall were all on, which meant that his parents were already up. Jason groaned. Whenever possible, Jason liked to make his own breakfast on waste-days, sparing himself the almost sickening culinary orgy that was the norm. He padded into the kitchen, resigning himself to the inevitable. "Hi, mom." he said. "Why, hello, Jason." she answered. "Breakfast will be ready in a minute. Just sit down at the table--but turn on a couple of radios while you're up." Jason snapped on two of the several radios within a few feet of him, then sat down. he studied his mother as she deftly flipped eggs, fried bacon, buttered toast and English muffins, opened canned fruit, poured milk and orange juice, and carried out all the other myriad responsibilities of making breakfast on a waste-day. Mrs. Grady Powers was a tall, graceful woman in her late thirties. Her darkish hair, beginning to show signs of grey, was let down so that it fell around her shoulders, one of the outward signs of a waste-day that Jason had come to notice. As Jason's mother finished her cooking and began placing the heaping platters on the table, his father walked in. He raised the radios' volume and turned on a third. "Smells good." he commented. Jason wrinkled his nose in distaste. His father reeked of cologne on wasting-days. "What?" asked Jason's mother. "I said," repeated his father, loudly, "it smells good!" "Thank you!" she replied, with similar of volume. "Eat up!" Jason's father sat down and began shoveling food into his mouth with his fork. Jason did so less rapidly. Janice came in, sat down, and started complaining that waste-days ruined her diet. "Eat." said Jason's father, around a mouthful of bacon. "You'll be thankful for it next time fasting-time comes around." "Terrific." she said, and began to eat. Jason played with his food, hoping to disguise his reluctance to consume as much as his parents and sister. "You too, Jason." his mother said. "A growing boy has got to eat." Jason scowled. On fasting-days his mother said that to not eat when one was hungry built character. "I'm not hungry." he muttered sullenly. "I hate waste-days." "Now, Jason." his father admonished. "You know that everybody needs a proper balance of attitudes. That's why we have wasting-time. If we didn't have wasting-time, there would be nothing to balance out fasting-time. If we didn't have lazy-time, there would be nothing to balance out work-time. If we didn't have. . ." "If we didn't have any times at all," Jason interrupted, "we could do whatever we wanted and we wouldn't have to do whatever the Shrinks told us to." "Jason!" his mother exclaimed. "You should be ashamed of yourself! The Shrinks only want what is good for us! Eat another bagel, this instant!" Jason grabbed a bagel and began stuffing it in his mouth. "With cream cheese." his sister mocked. Jason HATED cream cheese. "Shut up, wart." he answered. He crammed the rest of the bagel into his mouth and swallowed hugely. "Just because you don't like doing something is no reason to be surly, young man." Jason's father said firmly. "Just for that, you wash your dishes last." "Aww, dad. . ." Jason whined. Washing your dishes last meant waiting around an hour and a half while everyone else did theirs. Jason ate in silence for five minutes, then asked to be excused. His mother examined his plate critically, then told him he could watch TVs until it was time to wash the dishes. "And tape something, too." she called. Finally, two hours later, Jason put away the last of his dishes and went outside, heading for Robert Bond's house. Jason liked Robert. He could always think of neat things to do. Jason walked down the street, kicking pebbles. Robert lived only four houses down, but Jason took the long way around, circling the block. The cool air felt good upon his skin. he squinted up at the sun, enjoying its warmth. All in all, he decided, a good day to be alive, except for the wasting. Robert's house was a neat little two-story brick edifice. Jason went up the walkway and rang the bell. Robert opened the door and grinned when he saw Jason. "Hi, Jase." he said. "I knew you'd come by. What do you want to waste today?" "How about time?" Jason asked, hopefully. "That's for lazy-time, dummy." Robert answered. "Let's waste, uh, let's waste film!" "Okay." Jason said. Jason liked photography--not as much as Robert, who had glossy photos all over his walls, but enough not to mind spending the day snapping his shutter at everything he could find. "Get your stuff." Robert ducked inside, re-emerging half a minute later with his camera and a bag full of film. "Come on." he said. "Let's go." They walked towards Jason's house. "I wish we could just use your stuff." Jason said. "It's inconvenient to have to walk back to my house." "It's not that far." returned Robert. "Besides, rules are rules. Everyone has to waste his own stuff or the Shrinks won't know who needs to be checked." "I guess." Jason said glumly. "You want something to drink?" "Yeah." said Robert. "My mom'll kill me. She'll say, 'Why couldn't you be thirsty at our house? Don't you think we have requirements to meet, too ?' I know she will. I don't care, though. What's a little lemonade between friends?" Jason opened the front door. "You know where everything is. I'll be right there. Pour me one too, okay?" He went down the hall and into his room. He heard Robert pouring as he found his camera and grabbed a satchel. "Jason?" came his mother's voice from somewhere upstairs. "Is that you?" "Yes, mom." he answered, moving back into the kitchen. "Me and Robert are gonna go take pictures." "Oh. Okay. Bring me back some beauties." "I will, mom." Jason crossed the kitchen to the cabinet the film was stored in. He scooped a dozen rolls into the satchel and turned to face Robert . "Ready?" he asked. "When you are." Robert replied, and held out a glass of lemonade. "Oh, yeah." said Jason. He took the glass and downed the contents in three long gulps. The two of them left the house and headed down the street. "Where do you want to go?" Jason asked. "I was thinking we could go down to the river. Near the falls." "Okay by me." They followed the road for a while, then cut across an open field. Robert took occasional shots of the houses, the sun, and the sky. Jason loaded his camera, but didn't take pictures. Robert appeared not to notice, absorbed in his surroundings. The field ended in a long downslope, with the river at the bottom. They picked their way carefully until they stood on the sandy, relatively level bank. Robert began to walk upstream, and Jason followed. "You know what I'd like to be?" Robert asked after a while. "No, Robert," Jason asked, amused, "what would you like to be?" "A Shrink." Robert answered. "You're crazy." Robert laughed. "That's a good one." he replied. "A crazy Shrink. That's a good one." he repeated. "No, but really," he said, sobering, "I think I would. When testing-time comes around again, I think I'm going to tell them that." "Come on, Robert." Jason said. "Almost nobody makes it. And nobody knows why the ones who do get picked. 'The ways of the Shrinks are downright strange.'" he said, quoting an old proverb. "Still," Robert insisted, "I can always try." The sound of the waterfall was getting louder. Jason began taking pictures of the trees and rocks. They rounded a bend in the river and he could see the waterfall, throwing broken reflections of light at him, all red and green and blue. Jason began taking pictures in earnest. So absorbed was he in getting a close-up of the rushing waters, Jason failed to notice the man sitting behind the waterfall until he stood up. He was small, only a couple of inches taller than Jason, and dressed in tattered, threadbare garments. Despite this, he possessed a calm dignity that held Jason semi-hypnotized for the first few seconds. "Robert." he said, softly. "Rogue." Robert turned. His eyes grew wide and his mouth formed an O shape. Suddenly, his mouth snapped shut and he began to run back downstream. "Wait." called the man, but Robert kept running. Soon he was out of sight. Jason stood paralyzed. He had heard about rogues, of course--everyone was supposed to be on the lookout for them and know what to do in case one was spotted. But he had never figured on actually SEEING one. Rogues were the dissidents, the ones who didn't believe in the Shrinks or their ideas. They ran away from the crews who came to take them to attitude training, and lived in the wilderness. The Shrinks said that there weren't very many of them, and Jason had believed it. Surprise was all that kept him from flight. Finally, after an eternity, Jason began to run. "Boy. Wait." said the rogue, and something, the calmness in his voice , maybe, but something made Jason hover, if only for an instant. "Hear me out." said the rogue. "I have seen you. I know that you are different--that you do not believe the Shrinks when they say that they must control the way you act and the way you think. I know you want to live life the way YOU want to live it, not as the Shrinks would have you. Come with me, Jason." He became intense. His eyes locked on Jason's, and spoke silently of forgotten freedoms. "I will take you to meet others like you," he continued, " but we must hurry. Your friend is already on his way to bring the authorities. " The rogue held out his hand. "There is a better way than you know." he finished. Jason stared at him for a few moments, unbelieving. Then he turned, and ran from the rogue faster than he'd ever run in his life. He was nearly to his house when he heard the sirens, and he knew the rogue would get away. It was easy to hide in the woods. He slowed down, and saw Robert waiting for him on the steps leading to his door. "God." said Robert. "I've never been so scared in my life." "Me too." Jason panted. "I don't much feel like taking pictures anymore." "Neither do I." said Robert, and headed towards his house. Jason was grilled about the event at the dinner table by his parents, and again later that evening by the police. He told them both the same thing. "I got so scared I couldn't move." he said. "He started talking crazy, and I ran before he could grab me or somethin'." Both his parents and the police seemed satisfied. The sergeant who interviewed him said that they didn't expect to catch the rogue, that they were usually experts at hiding, but that there was little chance he'd be hanging around this area, either. Jason was relieved. And the next morning, the second day of the first wasting-time of the sixth month, Jason ate everything on his plate and asked for more. -Sean Myles Smith <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Tattoo's As Kara walked onto the bridge, all the crew's eyes turned toward her. She looked disheveled, with burn marks on her ripped clothing and her face streaked with ash. Her hair was a mess, full of knots and singed spots. "What should I expect", she thought, "I look like I've been thru hell and back. It was only a little revolution." Little revolution. Amazing how easy it had become to write things like that off. Only killed a few million people, no big deal. Slowly but surely, these ties to the Fifth Horsemen Mercenary Troops were getting to her. "How do they get me INTO things like that???" she asked herself. Yet she knew the answer already. It was Cross. Damian Cross. As usual, he had asked her for help and she had brought her ship running to his aid. And he didn't even need her this time (altho he got some kind of joy out of watching her fight like that...just sitting up in his HoverTank watching her lead her men. "Well, at least they respect me.", she thought. "Anyways, back to work." "Navigator, plot a course to Delta Mynas II. Security, report status, both ship and crew." "Security reporting Ma'am. Ship security tight and unbreached. Seems they can't get off the planet down there. What did you guys do to them?" "Never mind," she said, snickering a little about the ease with which they had immobilized the Space Port. The Horsemen were famous for such great planning as that. "I'll tell you all about it later. How about the crew?" "Well, as you know, we lost 45 men down on planet, and 3 more of the injured have died since we brought them back up here to high port. The rest are expected to be OK. That leaves us with about 102 soldiers and the normal on board personal." "Damn. That's a lot to loose. I'm going to my cabin to clean up. Send a message to Cross that he's invited to dinner over here in 2 hours. Let me know what he says." "Yes Ma'am." "Ma'am," the navigator piped up. What a weaselly little man. Maybe I'll send him on combat duty soon...see if that strengthens his character. "Yes, Johnson, what." "Ma'am, the course is plotted and laid in." "Good, we won't be leaving for about 3 hours, so double check your figures. No mistakes allowed this time. I think the sharpshooters need some moving target practice." With a snicker she remembered the time they had ended up at exactly a 180degree angle from where they were headed because he reversed a couple figures. God what an idiot. That got him his pay docked for months to pay for the time lost and the job passed on. This time she wasn't in as patient a mood. "Yes Ma'am." Johnson said with a cringe. She'd done it before. God was it nice to be alone. For the first time in days, she could get undressed, take a slow, leisurely shower, and not be surrounded by hot, sweaty men. The way they all looked at her was enough to drive any woman bonkers. Stepping out of the shower, in front of the full length mirror, she acknowledge that maybe they had a reason to gawk her like that. Maybe. Maybe if she were just some normal bimbo on the street. But she wasn't. She was in command of the Iron Fox III, a name passed from generation to generation of ship's captains. One of the finest mercenary ships in this part of the galaxy, second only to the Horsemen. The shouldn't gawk her like some street whore. She was a pretty woman, but 15 years of leading this group through uncounted battles have left their marks. Scars marred the once beautiful face giving her a very rough look. Lines from worrying and from fighting made her look years older then she was. Her figure was as slim, lithe and strong as ever, but as scarred as her face. And then there was the tattoo. The shape of the Fifth Horseman's symbol, small, dark, shown on the side of her hip. The sign of a female possession of theirs. A permanent mark for all the world to see. She had been found on a devastated planet, her father's ship destroyed by an attack of the Horseman. She was 15 at the time, and some of the horsemen had decided he wanted her as their pet. They tattooed her, and put her to work onboard their ship, serving food and sleeping her way up thru the command ranks in an attempt to get out. When she met Damian, he saw some potential in her. He gave her the chance to learn ships operations and mercenary actions. Soon she was a strong commander and an even stronger soldier, so when a derelict (but still flying) ship was found, Damian convinced the other leaders to let her have it. (A simple feat, considering that they had been watching her to make sure she didn't organize a revolt among the servants for quite some time.) From there she'd made her own way. Getting the ship fixed up, getting a crew, and eventually getting some soldiers together took the better part of the next 6 years. But she did it. Alone. Never, however, forgetting about Damian. he'd given her the chance. And he called that one in every time he could. "Stop daydreaming and get dressed!" Kara said out loud, as if saying it out loud would change the fact that she was still somewhat lost in her own thoughts. The battles of the past few days was still very fresh in her mind. She and her men had merely been extra numbers, not needed, but it looked good. The Horsemen rarely NEEDED the help. They had a beautifully laid and executed plan. The world involved, Altilles Planet, had a dependence on outside fuel sources. The Horsemen merely ran them dry, let a shipment get thru, and then blew up the ground side space port with all the fuel in it. Made a rather large crater of the capital city, killed most of the major government figures (as was their contract with the neighboring planet who wanted the agricultural land there) and left the path open for takeovers. Of course, they took more then their share of loot off the place. They always do. But then again we did too. That's the mercenary way. After three days of cleaning up the last of the straggling government and sending them all to their makers (in rather imaginative ways), it's time to move on. And count the loses. One third of my mercs on a battle that we weren't even needed for. Damian had better clear this debt now. They would be hard to replace. Half an hour later, dressed in her normal black jumpsuit, with her long wavy red hair down for once, Kara was back on the bridge. "Cross will be arriving in 15 minutes Ma'am. Everything is prepared for your dinner in the Main Conference Room." "Thank you, Stevens. I'm headed down there now. If anything should happen while I'm there, buzz me." "Oh, and Johnson, tell Port Control that we will be leaving in exactly 2 hours. Get the clearance." "Yes Ma'am.", Johnson said, as she turned and walked out of the room. Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned back to his calculations. When Damian walked in the room, she was standing facing out the port hole, not really at anything, but just out. Away from him. She knew what would happen when she turned around. He would be in control. The only man that had ever been able to control her. She wasn't even sure if she resented that fact or not. "Evening. You wanted to see me?", Damian said, as he walked in, poured himself a drink, and sat down at the head of the table. "Yes.", she said, turning around to face him where he sat. "I seem to have lost a lot of men in the past few days over a silly squabble that you didn't even really need me for. Now why did you really bring me here?" "If I said because I wanted to get laid would you get mad at me?", he asked, with a smile so sarcastic, it was almost painful. "Yes, I would. I do have jobs of my own you realize. I hope this absolves any debt you feel I still owe you. You've been paid a million times over for it." "That tattoo you bare on your hip tells me when you owe me no more. As long as it's still there, you still owe me." Putting his feet up on the table, he picked up his plate and started eating, completely ignoring her. Furious, she turned away from him and stared out the port hole again until she was calm enough to talk again. "Damian, me, you may feel you own. The battered hull of this ship you own. But I lost 1/3 of my crew down there and you do NOT own them. Now I need some kind of recompense for this. Otherwise next time I won't come." "You haven't checked your bank account recently. Money for the men you lost is in there. And as far as you go, dear, I do own you. Don't you ever forget that fact. In the meantime, I just wanted to let you know that I won't be needing your help for a while. We're taking some time off and you need to train some new men. I'll call when I need you. Have a nice day." Out of his mouth, "have a nice day" sounded like a string of obscenities. He got up to leave, but as he reached the door, he looked back. Walking across the room to where Kara was standing, he grabbed her and gave her a rather rough, but passionate kiss. Then he turned and walked out. Again. After eating, she headed back up to the bridge, all the way saying to herself "Damn, he did it to me again." But that's how it always went, and altho it put her in a foul humor for a day or two, it never changed. Arriving on the bridge, she did the only thing possible. "Johnson, get us out of here now. And you'd better get it right!" Later that night, after safely getting underway on the right course, Kara wandered back to her room. She wasn't furious anymore, just in that state of mind where nobody wanted to cross her. It was written all over her face. Needless to say, most of the crew gave her a wide berth as she walked down the hall. Arriving back in her quarters, she was surprised to see a bit of a glow coming from around the corner, her bedroom. Drawing her Neural Paralyzer, she quietly moved up to the corner. "Nice little weapon" she thought, as she set it on one of it's lesser settings. These weapons had been known to cause insanity, or at the very least extreme pain to those hit by it. Perfect for anyone sneaking around in the Captain's quarters. She swung around the corner, weapon going first, ready to fire. "So, what took you so long?", Damian said, apparently unfazed by the fact that she had a weapon in hand. "Damnit, what are you doing here????? I thought you'd crawled back in your hole by now." He was sitting, well actually lying, on her bed with her favorite wine on the table next to it and candles glowing in the candle globes she kept scattered around the room for relaxation. "I told you. We're taking a vacation. So put the gun down and come over here. I've already poured you some wine." "Damn." she thought, as she put the weapon down and walked across the room to him. Here we go again. -Becki Tants <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Worthy of the Title "You might as well go out and see the festival, now that you're here," Lord Clifton Dargon had suggested as his twin cousins finished breakfast. "Melrin only comes once a year." "Yes," Luthias had agreed practically, but his voice was heavy. "We might as well." "What's going on today in the Melrin, Bartol?" Roisart asked his cousin Dargon's bard. "Oh, final competition for the Bardic Crown," the bard cum bodyguard announced enthusiastically. "Today at noontime." "What else?" Luthias wondered. While bardic tales could interest Luthias, hours upon hours of sung tales drove him to distraction. Bartol gave him a strange, appalled look. "What else?" demanded Bartol, gazing at the young noble as if he were insane. "What else is there?" Roisart looked at his twin and smiled. Luthias rolled his eyes. Then he turned to his cousin, the lord. "Clifton, do you think you'll be all right here after what happened to our father yesterday?" Clifton had laughed then; Roisart smiled. "Come on, Luthias," his brother urged. "Think about it. What would Clifton, with all his guards, need us for? Considering the men who attacked us this morning," Roisart continued, turning his eyes towards his cousins, "we may need guarding ourselves." But Clifton had smiled and shaken his head. "You'll be safe enough in the festival," the Lord of Dargon ventured. "And the city guard is out in full should you need assistance." The smiled widened and the skin around Dargon's brown eyes crinkled slightly. "Besides, you two didn't do all that badly this morning." So it was with this assurance the Roisart and Luthias left Dargon Keep and strolled into the Middle City, where most of the Melrin was taking place. There were as yet three hours until the Bardic Crown competition was to take place, so Luthias suggested to his brother, "Let's go down to the docks. There's bound to be something happening there." "Yes, Father used to take us there when we got to the Melrin early," Roisart sighed. Luthias frowned; he too missed their father. Then Roisart brightened a bit. "Maybe the races are today." The noble twins walked a little more quickly toward the docks, past the side shows and food stands that were just setting up for the fourth day of Melrin. Roisart noted curiosities along the way: a bearded lady, a steer the size of a small house, a fortune teller or two, a seller of rare books...many things that he and Luthias would have to see. It would have been easier if their father had been with them; the late Baron was much like Roisart in his zest for oddities and stories. Luthias was not as interested such things, for which he could find no real use. Then Roisart spotted the booth of an armoire come all the way from Magnus for Melrin, and decided it would be easier than he had anticipated to drag Luthias back. They arrived at the docks very early, so the docks were deserted, except for old Simon, the Stew Man, and his monkey, who chattered at the twins in a primate greeting. Luthias played with the jovial creature, and Roisart began eagerly to ask the old man about a sea legend he had recently read and whether or not it could have any truth to it. Finally, as the crowds began to press onto the docks, Luthias slipped the monkey a sovereign and pulled Roisart away to find a good view for the race. It was a spectacular race, with Captain Kent's "Victory Chimes" taking the honors at the end. When it was over and the crowd was thinning, Roisart told his brother, "I saw some interesting booths over by the market. Let's go look them over." Luthias shrugged his shoulders and together they left the dock areas for the Middle City, near the market. As Roisart had expected, Luthias was not particularly interested in the side shows, but he became very enthusiastic when he saw the display of the best sword maker of Dargon. While Luthias inspected the blades, Roisart paid two coppers to see the steer as big as a house and played a game of toss, though he won no prizes. Still, Roisart made sure at all times that he knew exactly where his brother was. Luthias watched Roisart as well, saw him duck into the tent with the exaggerated steer. "I'll take this one," he said to the sword maker, choosing the best blade of the lot, but keeping his eyes on the tent. "And a scabbard, too." Roisart emerged from the attraction and moved over to his brother. "Look, Roisart," Luthias bragged as he paid for his new toy, "see this!" The pride was well-founded; the sword was very well made and decorated. "You going to fight with that?" Roisart laughed. "That's what swords are for," Luthias said, a gleam in his eye. "But that's too nice to fight with," Roisart argued. "Besides, in a pinch, you're used to your old blade." Luthias grimaced. "We had better stick together, twin. I thought I saw someone following us on the docks." "You worry too much," Roisart chided his brother lightly. "Come over here, Luthias. Let's take a look at this scribe's cart. Did you see the books?" Luthias took his sword from its maker and nodded. "I saw them," Luthias confirmed as they crossed the street. "Very old." Roisart arrived at the cart and immediately began rummaging through the titles. "These aren't so old, Luthias." "I meant the scribe," joked his brother, picking up a red-bound volume inscribed with blue. He opened it, looked at the title page, then called over the scribe. "How much is this?" "Do you have 'History of the Ancient World'?" Roisart wondered. The scribe shook his head. "I'm sorry, young sir. And you, young sir...." He looked from Roisart to Luthias, then back again. Then, to Luthias, he gave the price of the book, which Luthias paid laconically and turned away to flip through it as Roisart browsed. After a minute, Roisart peered over his brother's shoulder. "What's that you've bought?" "Meresan's 'Lives of Lords and Princes'," Luthias told him. "We're going to need the examples if one of us is going to be baron." Roisart sighed. "If we can ever decide who is to be baron." Luthias looked into his brother's brown eyes. "I think you should be baron." "What?" laughed Roisart. "But I'm not much of a leader, or a fighter. Men would follow you, Luthias. In an emergency, you think fast and act." "But that would be deadly to me if I were judging a legal case," Luthias replied, closing the book with a decided thump. "I would think too quickly. You'd delve into the matter until the truth was found. I might take the truth at the surface. And what about law, Roisart? I know nothing of laws." "If only we could both be baron," sighed Roisart dismally. "I know that that is against the law," Luthias chuckled. "We can't both be baron." "I know, but we both have qualities that are so necessary to be one," Roisart replied. "And it's hard to tell which one of us would better serve Clifton." "Clifton," muttered Luthias, beginning to move away from the scribe's cart. "Now, about him I am very worried." "You worry too much," Roisart laughed. Then he sobered. "But something's got to be done. Clifton can't let this continue." "There's nothing we can do about it, though," Luthias pointed out. "We'll just have to decide which of us should be baron." There was a moment of silence, then Roisart announced suddenly, "Luthias, I'm hungry." Luthias smiled. "So am I. I think there's a tavern on the next street over. It's been a long time since breakfast." "I hope it's a good tavern," Roisart said. "I don't want to get sick before the ball tomorrow." Slowly, the twins made their way through the crowds to the nearby street. The tavern which Luthias had earlier spotted, the Rogue and Quiver, was full, and seemed rather dirty. So they kept walking and searching, until Roisart spotted a large sign which advertised, "Belisandra's." Luthias gave the place a cursory inspection. "It looks clean, and the food smells good. Let's eat." Together, the twins ducked into the darkened tavern, scanned the room and its patrons (neither seemed too bad), and found a table in the corner nearest the door. Luthias pointed it out, and motioned to his brother. Roisart nodded, knowing the location's advantages as well as Luthias did; it allowed no attack from behind, and the proximity to the door made the twins difficult to spot as a potential killer's eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. A sharp-eyed serving wench had spotted the brothers almost immediately and hustled over to their table as they seated themselves. She was a small girl, only reaching the twins' shoulders, but she dressed neatly and wore a pleasant smile. "Good Melrin to you, sirs," she greeted the twins politely. "What may I serve you?" Roisart began to smile in a lazy way which triggered alarms in Luthias' brain. Roisart was having an infatuation again. Luthias sighed mentally. Well, at least the girl wasn't a peasant; her speech was clear and free of the peasant accent, and she wore her clothes like a decent woman, unlike another serving wench on the other side of the room. Still....Luthias nudged his brother beneath the table and spoke. "Two ales, to begin with. What's the special for luncheon?" The girl's smile spread. "Belisandra's Secret Stew. The recipe's older than the Keep. It's the best stew in Dargon. And it's fresh; Belisandra made it just this morning." The girl nodded enthusiastically to a buxom woman nearing middle age, who stood behind the bar, tending it and a large cauldron of stew behind it. "It comes with fresh bread and butter and greens, and I can bring it to you right away." "Perfect," Luthias' stomach answered. "Bring two of those please." The girl nodded and turned away with a natural, unflirtateous bounce. "Too young for you, Roisart," muttered Luthias. "She can't be more than fourteen." "She's very sweet," Roisart argued. "Yes, but she's not for you." Roisart sighed with resignation; his brother smiled affectionately. "You give your heart too easily." "Whoever is baron could choose his own woman," Roisart realized. "If only we could choose a baron," Luthias laughed as the girl returned with two bowls of stew, a plate of fresh bread and a pat of butter, and a bowl of greens. Wondering how she could carry all that, Luthias continued, "There's absolutely no way to choose between us." The girl was setting the dishes down. "Belisandra will be over with the ales in a minute," she promised. She leaned back a moment and surveyed the young brothers with an appraising look. "Choose between you? How could any girl choose between you?" She blushed then, perhaps feeling immodest. Both twins, blushing as well, smiled at her as she continued. "Maybe your lucky lady should see Corambis." The tavern mistress Belisandra, bearing two ales, came from behind the girl as Luthias asked, "Who is Corambis?" "You don't know Corambis?" the girl asked, her eyes now wide. "I thought everyone knew Corambis. He's the Sage in the market-place. Your lady should see him today to see which of you she should choose." Belisandra set the ales down with two distinctive thumps. "Go to him today? Mika, he may never come back!" She gave the twins a motherly gaze. "He's been gone all winter, without a trace, and--" "He got back yesterday," Mika protested. "He read my horoscope for me this morning, Belisandra." She turned again to the twins, and began to continue, but Belisandra interrupted. "Where was he this time?" Mika took a moment to recall the information. "He went off with a young man for a few days, then stayed with relatives for the winter, he said. But he is back," she assured Roisart and Luthias, "and you can go and make an appointment for your lady friend. He's right in the market." Luthias faced his brother. "Do you think we should?" Roisart shrugged. "Why not, Luthias? We've tried everything else." He then asked Mika and her lady, "Where can we find Corambis?" "Oh, he's easy to find, my lords," Belisandra explained helpfully. "It's the only closed booth in the main market place. You can't miss it, young sirs." "I'll think we'll try it," Luthias decided. "Thank you." Mika smiled engagingly; Belisandra nodded, pleased. "You're welcome, my lords," Belisandra answered. "Good Melrin." "Good Melrin," Roisart returned politely. Belisandra went back to her bar and her stew and left Mika with the twins. "Enjoy your meal," the girl said pleasantly. "Call me if you'd like anything else, milords." Luthias nodded and smiled at her, and then Mika also left. Luthias turned to his stew and greens and began to eat hungrily. Then he laughed, his mouth full. Aware of his manners, he stopped, swallowed, then said, "I can't believe I'm actually going to see a fortune-teller!" "Why not?" Roisart answered, stirring his hot stew to cool it. "Didn't she say he was a Sage? Sages are very wise men, Luthias." Still Luthias shook his head. "Leaving a barony to a horoscope..." Roisart laughed. "Be practical, twin, just as you always tell me to be. We're going for advice, not for a decision. That will have to be made by you and me." For a moment, Luthias was quiet. Then he said in a low voice, "We should be more careful what we say in public, Roisart. The girl, Mika, didn't guess what we really meant, but if someone were searching for us..." "It wouldn't be that hard," Roisart countered. "I'd bet that we were the only twins in mourning blue in a festival city." Luthias attacked the greens. "Still, we don't need the whole of Dargon knowing about us and about...our cousin's troubles." Roisart swallowed and nodded. "Agreed. But we should go see this Corambis. We need all the help we can get." "It certainly couldn't hurt," Luthias concurred. About mid-afternoon, Luthias and Roisart finished their leisurely meal, and after paying Belisandra and generously tipping the girl Mika, they made their way to the main market square in search of Corambis the Sage. As Mika predicted, his stall in the market place, the only one that was closed in completely, was easy to find. Luckily for the twins, the people of Dargon, accustomed to Corambis, were exploiting other fortune tellers today. A bit self-consciously, Luthias knocked on the door, and the nervous twins were admitted into the booth by a young woman whom Roisart recognized as being one of the serving wenches at Belisandra's. She smiled at the twins provocatively, and in a sugary voice informed them that Corambis was with another querent, but would be free very soon. Both twins nodded soberly at this information and seated themselves gingerly on a wooden bench. After a minute, a middle-aged man dressed in a gay shade of red came through the door directly opposite the twins. A young woman followed him, apparently in tears. She slipped the man a gold piece and then slipped out the door. The man then turned his attention to the twins. "Who are these men, Thuna?" he asked the girl, giving her a stern, suspicious look. The wench Thuna shrugged coyly. "They've come for you, Corambis." The Sage looked visibly relieved. "Come in, gentlemen," he invited, motioning toward the plain, still-open door. In unison, Roisart and Luthias rose and walked toward the room. The cubicle was dark, despite the afternoon daylight outside, and from what the twins could tell, somewhat bare. Candles illuminated a small, circular table. Roisart recognized it as the Wheel of Life, a divination device. After a moment, Luthias also recalled the Wheel. Roisart noticed two chairs in opposing points around the table. He indicated it to Luthias, who shook his head, so Roisart sat down. After a few quick words of instruction to Thuna, Corambis the Sage joined them. "I apologize about Thuna," the Sage began. "I thought that perhaps she had fallen into old habits again." The Sage looked at Luthias, who was still standing. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't have another chair." "It's all right," Luthias assured him. "Don't trouble yourself. I don't mind standing." "All right," the Sage agreed. He looked at Roisart then, and again at Luthias. "How may I help you, gentlemen?" "We would have you tell our horoscope," Roisart answered quickly. Corambis at once appeared surprised and flattered. "It's not often men of nobility come to me," he chuckled, beginning to smile. "They don't often trust their problems to strangers." "This is an exceptional problem," Luthias revealed. "You may confide in me, my lords," Corambis declared with dignity. "I will not reveal your secrets. Why have you come to me?" Roisart smiled. "I suppose we had no where left to go." Corambis' eyebrows raised. "Sir?" "My brother and I," began Luthias, "have come to you with an unusual problem, sir. When we were born, our mother died, and so no one noted which was the elder." "And your father has just perished?" Corambis asked sympathetically, gazing at the blue-grey mourning dress. "I see. You have no idea which of you is heir." Roisart and Luthias both nodded. "My lords, have you brought your case before Lord Dargon?" Roisart and Luthias looked each other in the eye a moment, and Luthias had his doubts. But Roisart trusted the Sage, and Luthias gave his consent, so Roisart revealed the entire story to Corambis. To the twins' astonishment, the Sage was not surprised by the information. "I have been seeing that in the stars lately," mused Corambis. He sighed, then looked at Roisart, sitting across from him, and then at Luthias. "Well, my lords, I shall do what I can to help you." The Sage rose and turned to a little cubby-hole in the corner. >From it, he withdrew a small, velvet bag. He opened it, rummaged a moment, then turned back to the cubby-hole. He reached into it again, and tossed something across the room to Luthias. Luthias caught the thing deftly, then opened his hand to examine the object. It was a small red chip. Corambis seated himself once more. With one hand, he offered the velvet bag, and another red chip to Roisart. With the other, he beckoned Luthias closer. "It isn't often I do readings for twins," he mused, "but I often read for couples. Lord Roisart, take half the chips, and do not look at them. Give the rest to your brother." "What's the red chip for?" Luthias asked. "Put that on your birth sign, the Oak," Corambis instructed. "You too, Lord Roisart." The twins obeyed. Roisart took a handful of chips, and gave the rest to Luthias. Corambis spun the wheel. "Drop them when you are ready." Without any outward signal, the twins simultaneously dropped the blue chips onto the whirling Wheel of Life. It spun and spun; Luthias knelt next to the table to see better. The Wheel spun and spun and spun. Roisart put a hand on his brother's shoulder. Corambis stared at the whirling Wheel. The Wheel stopped. Corambis stared at the Wheel, with its scattered chips of red and blue, for a moment. "Unusual," he said. "Look here, my lords. The two birth chips have separated. One has stayed on the Oak, a sign of strength and long life. The other has strayed to the Ship, as if he were going to make a journey away from the other." "What's that blue one on the Ship?" Roisart asked, fascinated. Corambis scrutinized the symbol. "A new ally, come from afar, it seems." He gazed at the other chips. "You will need him, along with this ally--" Corambis pointed to a chip straddling the elements of Fire and Sword. "--to combat these two. Two very dangerous enemies, one caught between deceit and caring...probably a woman," he mused to himself. "And another, on the sign of the Fox--" Again, Corambis pointed. "He is a dangerous, cunning man, and I would be wary of him. "The outcome..." Corambis looked at the chips. "It will be decided soon, my lords. There are chips in the present and in the near future." "But which one of us?" demanded Luthias. The Sage shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I know not, my lords. But I can tell you this," he promised, pointing to the sign of the Knight, which held two chips, "the decision will be made by an act of extreme valor." Luthias looked up at his twin. "I should have known that there would be no easy answer, my brother," sighed Luthias. "So should I," smiled Roisart. Corambis shrugged pleasantly. "I can assure you of this, my young lords. The sign of the outcome is on the Mistweaver. Whatever happens in your case will be a fufillment of destiny." "Do you mean that the elder will gain the barony?" Roisart asked. "The Wheel is not specific," sighed Corambis. "It is never as specific as I would like. As you said, my lord, there are no easy answers in the affairs of destiny." The Sage smiled. Both twins returned the smile with crooked, somewhat sad grins. Luthias rose, and Roisart rose with him. "Thank you, Corambis," Roisart said respectfully. "We appreciate your time." "How much do we owe you, sir?" Luthias inquired. "Nothing," said Corambis amiably. "It isn't often I get to tell the future of the Baron of Connall and the Lord of Dargon." "Please," Roisart insisted, "let us give you something for your trouble. You lost other Festival customers by telling our fortune." "Doubtless there are other fortune tellers in Dargon for the festival," Corambis smirked. "No, my lords, you need not pay me." "But we want to," Luthias said, with the tone of a demand. Corambis rolled his eyes. "Oh, all right," he conceded. Luthias gave him two sovereigns. Corambis looked at the coins, then back at the twins. "I suppose you won't let me put up a fuss about the amount, my lords?" Luthias gave him a wild, wicked, challenging grin. "I didn't think so." Corambis sighed. "Well, good Melrin to you, lords, and be careful." "Good Melrin," echoed Roisart, and Luthias nodded a silent farewell as they stepped out the door. A little old lady rushed past them to see Corambis. They heard a hysterical weeping as he door shut. "Poor woman," said Roisart sympathetically. Luthias took a deep breath. The twins crossed the room and left Corambis' booth. Roisart looked at his brother. "Well, twin, what do you think?" Luthias shrugged his large shoulders elaborately. "What should I think, Roisart?" "I think you'll be the next baron," Roisart announced flatly. "Me? Why me?" wondered Luthias. "Haven't we already spoken of this, Roisart?" "The Sage said it would be decided by an act of valor," Roisart reminded his brother. "You excel in matters of bravery, twin," Roisart praised with a confident, affectionate smile. Luthias' faced echoed the smile falsely; Luthias' smile was introverted, private, but it retained the happiness shared by his brother. "Roisart," Luthias told him, "there are many sorts of valor." The two wandered in silence for a few moments, then Roisart wondered, "What shall we do now, Luthias?" Luthias gazed up at the sky. The sun was just above the horizon. Funny, but it didn't seem as if it should be that late. Lunch and finding Corambis must have taken longer than he thought. The reading was certainly quick. Due to the setting sun, people were clearing the streets. The merchants were closing and barring their shops and booths; the side show people were packing their equipment. Tomorrow was the last day of Melrin and the best day for business. One could not take a chance on one's equipment being stolen in the twilight. Luthias grimaced. If humble merchants took that much care.... "Roisart, perhaps we'd best go back to our cousin's," Luthias suggested, carefully omitting their cousin's noble name. "After what happened this morning..." Roisart appeared disappointed (he had heard that there would be firework s that evening), but then thought about the situation. "I agree, my brother. Let's go home." The twins were a little over a mile and a half from the keep, a nice leisurely walk in the twilight. Roisart did a little mental calculation and figured that he and his twin brother would arrive at Dargon Keep about the time of the sunset. Perfect, just perfect. Roisart again thought about that morning's escapade and began to feel apprehensive. These murderers after Clifton, he thought, don't even wait until after the dark. Just a deserted place. They don't mind the twilight. Another thing occurred to Roisart. He was unarmed. Luthias had bought the fine, new sword at the bazaar, but he, Roisart, had brought no weapon. Only the city guard was allowed to wear arms during the festival, a mandate Clifton had issued for public safety. Luthias, therefore, carried his new sword, snug in its fabulous scabbard, in his hand, and by the blade. That morning, the two of them had ridden prepared. But now... Apparently, Luthias had shared his brother's thoughts. Luthias gazed at the covered sword, and at his brother's hands, which carried only the book Luthias had purchased. "Let's hurry, twin." "You worry too much," Roisart said automatically. "I don't want to lose you, Roisart," Luthias answered, sotto voce. Yes, Luthias worried too much. After all, what assassin would be stupid enough to try the same trick twice in the same day? Still, Roisart gave his twin a watery smile, then gripped the book tighter as the pair quickened their pace slightly. The streets were becoming deserted. Luthias took a step closer to his twin. Roisart noticed that the knuckles of the hand clutching the sword has paled. Grim, Roisart quickened the pace again. It was getting dark quickly. Roisart looked at the setting sun, red and round, like a ripe, round apple, then at his brother's face, bathed in red light. Something moved behind Luthias. "Roisart, fall!" cried Luthias suddenly. Instinctively reverting to the fighting lessons they had received under their father's auspices, Roisart trusted his brother and collapsed carefully onto the ground. He rolled to the side, looked up. Luthias swung at a thief, bearing a knife in one hand a rope in the other, and bloodied the man's nose with a sweep of the sword. The one behind Luthias, whom Roisart had seen move, moved to strike, but Roisart pulled his brother's leg, tripping him. Luthias stumbled, but was unhurt. Roisart rose, put his back against Luthias', and observed the numbers. Six. And thieves again. Roisart wondered at one of them; he seemed familiar, but the light, as well as the observer, was uncertain. He heard something clatter to the ground behind him; Luthias had unsheathed his sword. Roisart cringed. Six to two, and I am unarmed. He took a good hold on the book. Not a peasant weapon, the unexpected thought came, but certainly an odd one. Suddenly, there was a cry from the shadows, and four more men joined the scene. Luthias lunged forward and impaled a thief in one sure thrust. Roisart leapt toward one of the attackers, and clubbed him clumsily with Luthias' new book. The thief stumbled, more surprised than hurt, but he shook his head and kept coming. Roisart kicked him soundly in the groin, and when he fell, he clubbed him again with "Lives of Lords and Princes." Roisart lunged from the knife of his attacker, but the thief dodged despite the pain. Roisart fell to the ground, losing his breath. Some strong arms roughly grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. "Master Roisart, are you all right?" Bartol's voice hissed. "Bartol!" cried Roisart. "Thank God!" Then, in the darkening twilight, Roisart saw movement again. "Bartol, look out!" Deftly, the bard turned to defend himself. Roisart crouched, to try to ward off any attackers with hand-to-hand combat. He left the book in the dust; it was of no use to him in this situation. Six of them, six of us, Roisart thought. Fair odds. One of the thieves lay on the road, bleeding from wounds from Luthias' sword. Another's head was crushed on one side from a blow from one of Bartol's three guards. But one of Bartol's men was still, the slit in his neck allowing all life to gush from him. Roisart checked around. One, two, three--where is the fourth---? A crushing blow to the neck gave Roisart his answer. Behind him. Dazed, Roisart fell. Far away, he heard Luthias' voice, "Roisart! ROISART!" Far away, he felt rough, rough hands tying his arms and feet with coarse, chafing ropes. Not far away, he saw through blurred eyes another of Bartol's men fall. He saw Luthias, trying to fight off three thieves. The other, probably the one who had tied him, was being defeated by Bartol and the last of his men. Bartol's last guard fell, leaving the bard alone. And Luthias, defending himself against three thieves. Bartol fell, clutching his sword-arm. The thief kicked him soundly, and ran to join his comrades, fighting Luthias. Luthias, Roisart tried to cry out. His mouth wouldn't move. Luthias! Bartol, help him. Bartol was bleeding. Roisart couldn't even see Luthias any more. There was a strange battle cry. Suddenly, a blue and white clad stranger leapt into the midst of the four fighting Luthias. One, he stabbed in the back. Luthias made a lucky thrust into one of the others. The other two backed off, but did not run. The strange, a short, young man, Roisart judged him, swung an odd curved sword above his head and charged one of the thieves. Encouraged, Luthias sprang at the other, who was ready. The thief stabbed at Luthias, and Roisart heard his brother cry out. The stranger's opponent fell. The stranger saw Luthias clutch his side and quickly went after the thief. One slash rid the thief of his arm. Another robbed him of his life. Roisart regained his breath and began to fidget. The ropes irritated his wrists, which had been bound tightly. He heard Bartol moan. It was becoming difficult to see. "Are you all right?" asked the stranger in accented words. "It's not deep," Luthias said. "But my brother...Bartol..." Luthias took a few steps toward his brother and knelt beside him. "Roisart?" he asked, tentatively touching his brother's forehead. "Untie me," Roisart demanded irritably. Luthias slit the bonds. "Are you all right?" Roisart pushed on the ground and managed to get on his feet. "Yes, I'm all right. Bartol?" "A cut," the stranger answered. He was binding it. "A physician should be able to repair it." Luthias put his hand on his brother's arm and together they joined the bard and the stranger. "We are indebted to you, sir," Luthias said politely. "We--my brother, Bartol, and I--would have died here without your help. Thank you." "Prease," said the stranger, "do not make fuss over it. I saw that the thieves attacked you, and like any honorable man, I wished to help." "How can we ever repay you?" Roisart asked. "Prease," the stranger begged, "I do it out of honor and decency. I need no reward." "At least come to sup with the masters and their cousin, the Lord of Dargon," the bard urged. "We at least owe you that much, sir?" The stranger took a step back and bowed. "I am Ittosai Michiya of Bichu." "I am honored, Michiya-san," Roisart answered, bowing and using the suffix he had learned in books. To his surprise, Mocha bowed again and smiled. "I am Roisart Connall. My brother, whose life you saved, is Luthias Connall. The other man is," here Roisart smirked, "apparently our new body guard." Bartol frowned. "Yes, Lord Dargon sent me and the others to look after you two." "We should be leaving this place," Ittosai recommended. "I agree," Luthias replied gravely. "Do come to dinner with us, sir," he urged. "You did us a great favor this night, and the least you deserve is our thanks and our hospitality." "You do me honor to invite me to the house of Dargon," said Ittosai. "I will go." "Quickly," said Bartol, clutching his arm. Quickly, they returned to the keep. Roisart, rubbing his rope-burned wrists, and Luthias, clutching his thinly-sliced side, rushed though the gates of Dargon Keep with Bartol the bard and Ittosai Michiya, the noble from Bichu, in close attendance. The city of Dargon had stealthily and swiftly snuck into the dark, night hours. From their experience at the morning's dawn and this evening's twilight, the twins knew they were no longer safe. Roisart's head was throbbing miserably. Stubborn blood seeped slowly through Luthias' clenched fingers. Both twins hurt, but Roisart knew by instinct that he did not have a concussion, and Luthias' wound was only skin deep, as much as it was bleeding. Bartol also nursed a minor flesh wound in his sword arm; the bard sincerely hoped that all tendons were intact. Ittosai was slightly winded, nothing more. Guards quickly ushered the wounded party to the presence of Lord Dargon, who was waiting for the return of his noble cousins of Connall. As soon as he saw them, he rose. "God, not again!" He looked at the twins, then at Bartol. "Bartol, I gave you orders--" Bartol wore an obstinate mask. "My lord, the three you instructed to take with me are dead. If it were not for my lord of Bichu, Master Roisart and Master Luthias would have died too." Dargon grimaced and went to the door. "Bring Griswald," he told the nearest servant, who nodded once and went immediately to fetch the old physician. He shut the door and returned to his guests. "Forgive me, cousins," he said to Roisart and Luthias. "I thought you would be safe in the city." "They waited until sunset," Luthias informed him. "The streets were almost deserted. This man, Ittosai Mich...Michiya? saved us." Dargon bowed to the Bichurian in the style of the foreigner's homeland. "I am honored to meet with you again, Lord Ittosai. You honor my household." Past the formalities, Dargon then said, "I thank you for saving the lives of my cousins, Lord Ittosai. I am indebted to you." Ittosai himself bowed to Dargon's lord. "I do what any man would do, Lord of Dargon." "I have offered the hospitality of your household to the Lord of Bichu," Bartol informed his lord. "You did right, Bartol," Dargon replied. He again turned to Ittosai Michiya. "You are welcome here, Lord Ittosai, not only as a hero, but as a noble of a great land." Griswald almost seemed to choose this moment to enter the lord's study--without knocking. He looked from Bartol to the twins, and groaned, "Gods and gods, what have you two been doing this time?" Dargon unconsciously frowned at the disrespect of Griswald's words, but said nothing, as he thought that the old man meant no harm. "Bartol, what happened to you?" Griswald quickly snatched an herb and some cloth out of his bag and bound the bard's arm. "It should heal quickly. Don't overuse it." He turned then to Luthias and did the same. "And what happened to you?" he finally asked Roisart. "I was clubbed from behind," explained Roisart. Roisart turned to his cousin. Griswald grunted by way of reply, and probed the boy's skull with dexterous fingers. "No lump. Were you unconscious?" Roisart gingerly shook his head. "It's sore, though," he admitted. Roisart turned to his cousin. "They were careful, Clifton. They didn't want me harmed. They clubbed me hard, but it didn't put me to sleep. And then...they tied my hands." Clifton frowned, exchanged a glance with Luthias. Luthias gravely nodded the confirmation of the event and his understanding of its implications. Griswald seemed unaffected. "Can you see all right? Feel nauseous? Tired?" Again, Roisart carefully shook his head. "Then don't worry about it until you do," the physician instructed in harsh, laconic tones. Griswald then turned to his lord. "If you'll not be needing me, I'm going to bed. You got me up very early this morning." Without waiting for Dargon's dismissal, Griswald abruptly left. "He hasn't been himself for days," Dargon revealed, having seen Ittosai's perplexed expression following the physician. "Can a man not be himself?" Ittosai wondered, no less confused. "It's an expression," Roisart explained with a smile. "It means he is not acting as he usually does." "Let's go to dinner," Luthias suggested. "It's been a long time since Roisart and I ate lunch." Dargon nodded, and Bartol went to hold the door open for the Lord of Dargon and his noble guests. As Dargon followed Ittosai out the door, he said, "You will be coming to the Melrin ball, won't you, Lord Ittosai?" When the Bichurian didn't answer, Clifton continued, "You are invited, as my guest, as the worthy noble of a distant land." "I fear I am not versed in your past-times," Michiya admitted. Roisart smiled. "But it's simple, Michiya-san. You smile at the pretty women--" "And try not to fall in love with them," Luthias finished for his brother. "A strange expression is falling in love, as if one were to fall into a pit," Ittosai noted. "Please do come, Lord Ittosai," Dargon repeated his invitation. "The people of Dargon are very curious about your nation across the sea, and want to have better relations with you and your people." "I am not the best speaker of my people," Ittosai protested, "but I will come." "Thank you," said the Lord of Dargon. "Please accept my house's hospitality for this night, and for tomorrow night, after the ball. You wouldn't want to miss any part of it." "Yes," Roisart said. "I imagine it will be a night to remember." -M. Wendy Hennequin <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER FIVE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb Flyer's Dance John Sullivan Untitled Lori Spier *Worthy of the Title, Part 3 M. Wendy Hennequin Date: 041688 Dist: 619 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Greetings once again! Well, it's about time another couple issues of FSFnet were sent out. In this issue we have an excellent SF story by a very promising new author, John Sullivan; also the conclusion of Wendy's Dargon series, "Worthy of the Title", and an SF short story by Lori Spier. The next issue should follow closely on the heels of this one (if the queue between Yale and CUNY permits it), and will include a new story by Ron Meldrum and the conclusion of Carlo's "Cydric" series. And there are several other stories currently in the works, and which I know are particularly interesting, and should be ready for printing very soon. In all, a huge quantity of very good fiction coming your way, enabling me to keep keep my editorials nice and short (under the pretense of not having enough room to waste on my own editorial ramblings and such). So, without becoming particularly verbose about it, I'd like to say that it's good to see you again, I hope you like the issue, and I hope it won't be too long before I'll see you again. Enjoy! -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Flyer's Dance Humans aren't supposed to dream in D-sleep. They don't do anything at all. But the computers must have noted the turmoil in his brainwaves and brought him at least partially out, because in the deep night between stars, Kei dreamed of the world called Gironde. Lissa was in the crawler. She was trying to fix the engine, coached on radio by the base engineers. "Forty minutes," she shouted, fear in her voice. Forty minutes until the flare hit, bathing the entire hemisphere in radiation. The folding shovel from the emergency kit was cheap, with a tubular handle of thin metal that kept folding back up when he thrust into the dirt. As soon as he got a spadeful up, he tossed it over his shoulder into the heap that slowly piled up against the crawler's sunward side. He kept remembering his old freshman physics professor talking about the distances gamma rays could travel through lead. Kei wished Dr. Conover were here now. He could help him dig. Kei worked on, blisters forming on his palms. The pale white light cast his face into harsh relief. "Ten more minutes," Lissa called. It couldn't have been half an hour already. The hole was no bigger. His hands were bleeding now, making it harder to grip the shovel. Kei turned to check the pile and saw a flower drift down to rest in the turned earth. He looked up in surprise and saw his grandfather, sitting cross-legged on the crawler roof. His sword was sheathed on his lap, and a small bowl of flowers sat next to one knee. With a casual motion he flipped another blossom from the bowl and watched it flutter down beside the first. "Grandfather!" he cried. Surely he would help dig. "I tried so hard to teach you about wisdom and life, Kei," the old man said sorrowfully. "I listened to you." "Are you listening now?" And another flower fell. "Grandfather, will you help me dig? I'm begging you. I'm going to die. My wife...." "You don't understand." His grandfather shook his head slowly. Lissa called from inside. There was no more time. "I have to go inside now, grandfather. The flare's going to hit." His grandfather looked ashamed as Kei dropped the shovel and went into the crawler. Kei and Lissa curled together under a last futile layer of seat cushions and winter clothing. For a time, Lissa talked to him about her home on Delta Raeli. Then she'd cried. He held her as she lapsed into coma, kissing her as she slipped away from him. Soon he would follow her. The dream faded as Kei weakly screamed his rage and pain at the baleful white sun. There was a thin sheen of ice on his cheeks when the computers woke him over Delta Raeli. Delta Raeli was a small world, cool with a dense atmosphere. The gravity was a weak .8G, making his movements more comfortable. Even with the painkillers that his medpack dispensed, his muscles ached and his nerves burned. He was constantly tired as his body vainly tried to throw off the tumor tissue growing within him. The ride down to the surface had made it worse. Apparently his story had made the newsnets because people recognized him in the terminal. He felt the stares of the curious, and heard whispered voices saying things like "radiation poisoning," and "wife died," and "lawsuit." They seemed especially fascinated by the money. Several times he heard "thirty million" whispered in a sort of jealous awe. None of them had ever worn a medpack. He hated the thing, with its blinking telltales and the catheters running into his body. He longed to whirl on them and tell them they could have the money if they could give him more than two months to live without it strapped to his torso. While they were at it, they could give him back his wife. But he didn't say anything, afraid he would go too far and break down some barrier within him that was better left intact. He made his way through customs and hired a car. Lissa's father made his living shooting documentary tapes for export, and they lived in the barrier range, where the andrils were. None of the tourist trains went anywhere near them. Finally, in the car, he could relax. He settled back into the seat and gazed out the windows at the mountains in the distance. He could see andrils moving in that far distance. They were small black dots that swirled and looped in the wild winds around the peaks. Seeing them, he bit his lip to fight the tears. The Farnhams lived near the highest peaks, in a house overlooking a two thousand meter drop into fierce desert badlands on the other side of the range. He paid the driver outside, and Lissa's mother met him at the door. "Mr. Fujiwara," she said, her voice confused between sorrow and pity. Then she let out a breath and closed her eyes momentarily. "Kei." She put an arm around his shoulders and led him into the house. Her parents knew the bare details from the newsnets, but it was different when he told them. Now the tears came. Along an indistinct line the living room turned into balcony, and Kei sat, drink in one hand, looking out at the sky and the peaks, purple in the fading light. Once he had officially told them how Lissa had died, no one seemed to know what else to say. Lissa's mother finally broke the silence. "You look so," she paused, unsure of what to say. "Healthy." He shook his head. "The drugs slow it as much as possible, but I can feel them losing ground. When it comes the decay will be exponential. The last couple days will be bad, very bad." He took a sip from his glass. "What are you going to do?" asked her father. "You could go into D-sleep. You've got the money." "I could," he admitted. He left the rest unsaid. There was a faint hope that in a few years they would be able to arrest the wild cell growth that was eating him from within. But without her the world had nothing to offer him. He wasn't going to take D-sleep. There was a flash of movement outside and a cry, like a bird's, but longer and modulated. He looked off the balcony and an andril plunged through the growing darkness a few thousand feet away. Great wings folded and bent, twisting the creature into a corkscrew roll. Two trailing appendages - almost tentacles - rippled through the wind behind it. At their ends, smaller versions of the wings alternately extended and contracted to provide more control. The creature repeated its long, mournful wail as it fell away and arced out over the desert. Finally he lost sight of it in the darkness. Kei gazed into the darkness, trying to capture another glimpse of the vanished shape. For almost a minute he said nothing. Mr. Farnham looked at him and smiled. "They usually like the winds better farther downrange. But we sometimes get a few around here. Beautiful, aren't they?" Kei nodded. All he'd known about the andrils was that they were one of a very few species of large fliers known to exist. Few worlds had the right combination of light gravity and dense air for the wings to push against. He'd tended to think that they would be awkward in proportion to their size. He'd been wrong. The andril had been surprisingly graceful. "There's a mountain a few miles south of here where they gather," said Farnham. "I'm driving down tomorrow to do some taping. Why don't you join me?" He considered it for a moment, then smiled. "Thank you. I think I will." The place was unimaginatively named Grant's Peak. Rail lines and roads converged at the bottom, and there was a large parking area scattered with tour buses. Then, past restaurants and souvenir shops, an elevator system carried them halfway up the mountain to a wide stone platform open to the sky. They had come early to avoid the tourist rush. Perhaps fifty people milled about on the observation platform, talking, looking up with hands over their eyes to block the glare. Some had brought visor units or were using the token-operated versions near the rim. Farnham's film crew was waiting for him to start setting up their equipment. While they mounted the holocameras and strung power cables back to the snack bar carved into the mountainside, Kei slipped a token into a set of visors and swiveled it upward. There were six of them, circling in a diffuse group off the highest summit. With daylight and magnification he had a better view of them. They were delta shaped, with triangular wing membranes extending from the narrow triangle of body that tapered back to the point where the two trailing stabilizers were attached. They flapped their wings lazily, with a gentle rolling motion. The largest of them was about twelve feet from wingtip to wingtip. Occasionally one or two would peel away from the group and pick up speed as they fell. Then they would go into a sequence of rolls and loops, punctuated with their eerie calls. Finally they would pull out far below the observation platform and slowly climb back up to rejoin the others. When his time expired, the lenses polarized to black and Kei turned to Farnham. "Why do you think they do it?" he asked. The cameras had been set up, and two of Farnham's camera operators were taping aerobatic sequences. Behind them there was a steady whir from the tracking motors that helped keep the cameras focused on the andrils. "Any number of reasons. Mating ritual, practice in hunting or escaping predators. Just for fun. That's my choice. They're having a ball up there." Kei watched them for the rest of the day, while the crew filmed, never becoming bored. The compositon of the group gradually changed as some drifted away and newcomers joined the show. Kei learned to identify a few individuals who had specific marks. One in particular had lost part of the membrane that formed the left wing and had to restrict its choice of maneuvers to favor the weakened limb. He named it Ahab and watched it over the others for the rest of the day, impressed. Gradually he noticed that it did just as much as the others; it simply had to find movements to get the same results. A message for him? Kei smiled, amused by the fancy. Ahab didn't understand. He could go into D-sleep and hope. If Lissa were still alive, he wouldn't have hesitated. But without her it didn't matter. There would be a great deal of pain and, at the end of the long sleep, just another world without her. No gain. His life had tapped out. In Ahab's terms, there was no one to perform for. He wondered what the great flyer would do if it were the last one of its kind. He decided it would probably dive straight into the desert floor. They were free to fly, but there was little joy in flying alone. That night he stood alone on the terrace, long after the Farnhams had gone to sleep, looking out at the stars over the canyon. Cool winds ruffled his hair and wailed through distant passes. He thought he could hear the cries of andrils even farther away. He knew they traveled in groups, but their cries still sounded lonely to him, and forlorn. He wondered if any of them ever crashed, ever pushed themselves too far and hit the ground before they could pull out. Perhaps that was why they flew, to make life bearable for as long as they could, waiting for the time when they would risk too much and die, secure in the absolute knowledge of identity and extent. Kei stood silently for a time, remembering Lissa's humor, and the soft feel of her skin. He considered his future, the painful death that was racing toward him. Then he looked back, at his grandfather and his pantheistic world of beauty and death. His present seemed to be vanishing to a point with past and future simultaneously spiraling in on it. The past had been given him by birth, the future by gamma rays, and the present .... The present was a rush of wind and a black shape that eclipsed the stars with a strident wail. Kei stepped back, startled, then dashed to the wall, searching for the switch he knew was there. He groped until he found it, and floodlights illuminated the balcony and the space around it. Kei moved quickly back to the railing. The andril was arcing upward now, unafraid of the pool of light. He could make its form out clearly, the wide body and trailing stabilizers, and the torn wing. It was Ahab. Ahab allowed its momentum to bleed off as it neared the top of its loop, then it suddenly flicked its body forward and locked its wings, gliding toward the balcony. The great wings, supported by bone only at the leading edge, billowed back like parachutes and the animal seemed almost to be hovering, less than fifty feet away from him. Kei could see its eyes in the floodlight. They were perfectly circular, deep and black. Ahab stared at Kei as it slowly drifted toward him. He felt as if the animal were probing him, evaluating. It could last for only an instant. Ahab's wings couldn't hold it against its growing momentum. Before that momentum carried it into the cliffs, the andril gave him another cry, not mournful at all but shrill, challenging. Then it folded the weak wing under its body and fell, plummeting to one side and out of the floodlight. His grandfather would have called the andril a kami. For an instant, Kei understood that sense of the mystical. He had been thinking about his present and the sign had come, overpowering and undeniable. His present was with the andrils. The suit had made Kei a very wealthy man. There were no servo gliders on Delta Raeli, but there was money to have one sent out on the next ship. It was three weeks before it arrived, and Kei went to Grant's Peak every day. And every day, among the group that came to fly the mountain winds and thermals, there was Ahab. Gradually Kei realized that the andrils often repeated the same complex sequence of manuevers again and again in the course of a day. Ahab was one of these. His sequence was long and complicated. It took him up, high above the peak, in a beautiful series of climbing rolls, then he dove past the platform doing rolls, loops and spins so complex Kei couldn't assign them names. The sequence ended very close to the ground as Ahab finally pulled out and glided away across the desert. Kei studied the sequence mercilessly. He taped it with Farnham's holocameras and watched it at night in the living room, over and over and over until he knew it as well as he knew his name. Farnham finally overcame his nervousness and asked him what he was doing. Kei spoke distractedly, not looking away from the hologram display. "I'm going to fly with them." The servo glider looked like a primitive aircraft from the beginnings of human flight, one of those absurd contraptions one saw collapsing in old black and white 2D tapes. But it would fly. Kei stood within the frame that held it above the observation platform and slipped his arms into the sleeves that stretched across the underside of the wings. The servo glider was a forest of cloth, tubing and wire around him. He slipped his fingers into the gloves and tested the control surfaces. The crowd applauded as the rudder pivoted and the serrated cloth wings moved slightly. Farnham came forward and strapped him into the safety harness, cinching it tight around his chest. He heard the whirring of the cameras behind him as one of Farnham's crews recorded the moment. Kei regretted the circus atmosphere, but hadn't been able to prevent it. Farnham had three crews ready - there on the platform, on the ground, and the third in a tracking helicopter. The newsnets had picked the story up, and the tourists flocked to Grant's Peak to see what was happening. Overhead, the andrils paid little attention, slowly circling high above the crowds as they always did. Kei looked up only once, to confirm that Ahab was there. Finally he was ready. The crowd was tired of the preparations and stood quietly, waiting to see him fly. Farnham's camera crews all checked in ready. Kei had been ready for a long time. The tumors had progressed during the three weeks he waited for the servo glider, and the medpack was beginning to lose ground in its struggle to save him. His body was visibly gaunt now, wasting away in a mad rush to oblivion. Lissa's parents, seeing him die before their eyes, were urging him to take D-sleep, but none of that mattered any more. He was ready to fly. Kei took one last look at the crowds gathered on the platform, nodded at Farnham, and flipped a switch. The bottles of compressed gas bolted to the frame opened, and, with a loud hiss, Kei was shot off the edge of the platform into open space. He gained altitude for a few seconds, propelled by the sheer force of the bottles. Then, as he was beginning to curve back down, he closed the bottles and unlocked the wings. Quickly he adjusted trim into a stable glide and drifted, exhilarated, across the desert far below. The weather was perfect for flying. It was cool, but not uncomfortably so, and the sky was cloudless, bright blue. A gentle wind blew over the mountains from the coast. With the bottles turned off, the only sounds were the wing fabric rippling in the air with a pleasant staccato sound, and the cries of the andrils above him. He pulled in one arm and the corresponding wingtip bent slightly inward, allowing the glider to gradually turn, spiraling slowly downward until he was facing the mountains again. He came smoothly out of the turn, gliding toward the cliffs, perhaps fifty feet below the platform. Perfect, he thought. Now to gain some altitude. Kei raised his arms, forcing the wings to tilt up over his head. Then, with all his strength, he forced them down. Sensor pads on the insides of the sleeves felt his motion, and the power-assist cut in. With a brief whine of servo- motors the wings flapped powering him ahead and up. He flapped again and again, laughing. He was flying by flapping his wings, the way the andrils did. Only Lissa had made him this happy. He stroked again and again and soon he was above the platform, coming into the circling group of andrils. They considered him as he appraoached. A few turned and flew away, but most stayed, greeting him with their calls. Ahab stayed, as Kei knew he would. As he came nearer Kei went into a slow, climbing loop, twisting through a quick roll at the top - the opening of Ahab's sequence. Immediately all the andrils except Ahab withdrew from the area and circled slowly in the thermals, watching. Ahab cried at him, then repeated the roll, signifying that he understood. Kei suspected that the andrils understood a great deal more than humans credited them with. Somehow Ahab had sensed something about him, had asked for his story. Now Kei was ready to give it to him. Kei was exultant as they went into the opening of the sequence together. They paralleled each other, rolling and gliding together, partners. The early stages of the sequence were slow, gradually gaining altitude until they were far above the peaks. As they continued to climb, Kei wondered if the andrils had their own version of the tale of Icarus, an andril who flew too high, extended himself too far, until the sun rebuked him and sent him crashing into earth. It didn't seem unreasonable but there was no way to be sure. He hoped Ahab would understand what he was trying to say. He followed the andril through a circle, as they finished climbing, then Ahab dipped downward. Kei stayed with him, slowly rolling to one side to increase his fall speed. Ahab started to pull up again, but Kei flapped his wings too quickly and hit the tail flaps until the servo glider stalled. It wasn't so easy to recover from setbacks. Sometimes they just followed one another too quickly. Ahab looped over him and down, ending up beside him as he pulled out of the stall. The andril looked at him, confused. He hadn't followed the sequence. Kei wondered how much of this Ahab was able to interpret. Ahab tried climbing again, but Kei glided gently downward, insistent. Finally, Ahab relented. It skipped several more climbing manuevers and dove toward the ground, picking up speed and twisting. Kei followed, joyously matching the andril through stunt after stunt. The sequence fit his meaning again. But that part of the sequence was soon over. Kei felt time vanishing to a point around him. They came out of a dive and Ahab sped ahead of him, turning to face him and carefully flying backwards. Kei was impressed. He hadn't realized that was possible. Ahab cried at him, then fell away when he could hold position no longer. Kei locked the wings in place and glided. He pulled one arm out of its sleeve and unfastened the safety harness. Ahab recovered and repeated the manuever, showing off in the rest that preceded the next part of the sequence. Ahab pulled in front of him and faced him a third time. Kei could almost see the animal smiling. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you. You showed me the way." He thought of a cherry blossom falling as he flipped open the bottles and let go of the frame. Ahab was ready to begin the next part of the sequence, and seemed confused when the servo glider shot away, arcing far out over the desert. Then it shrieked and dove. Kei closed his eyes. All of time was now. There was another shriek, very close, and then the andril slammed into him with stunning impact. He cried out in surprise as the andril's trailing stabilizers whipped painfully around him and held him against the creature's back. The two beings plummeted earthward like a rock, Ahab flapping its great wings desperately, spinning without the use of the stabilizers. Kei struggled instinctively to escape the tentacles until he realized what was happening and screamed "No!" into the rushing wind. Ahab had stopped the spin and leveled itself. It had extended and locked its wings the way it had off the balcony. But Kei knew it had no chance of maintaining flight. The andrils were barely light enough to fly to begin with. Even in the faint gravity, his body was inexorably bearing them both down toward the desert floor. He beat his fists against the andril's back, fleshy where the head met the body, and felt the tears being whipped from his eyes by the wind. "No! You can't hold me, I'm too heavy." he didn't know if he spoke the words or only thought them. Kei struggled, but the tentacles held him too tightly. He finally gave up and went limp against the andril's body crying "No," with a long, anguished sound, "Please, I'm too heavy. Don't do this. Not again." Their rate of fall was slower now, but they were still diving. Ahab had started flapping its wings again, moving quickly across the approaching sand. It couldn't slow its descent rate any more and was desperately trying to compensate with a shallow glide slope. But there was no chance. When the impact came, Kei screamed, feeling bones breaking. They tumbled as they hit, the stabilizers convulsing tight around him. And then he was still, lying on top of Ahab's shattered body. He saw several broken ends of hollow bones jutting through rips in the wings and body. He tried to roll off the body, knowing that Ahab couldn't have survived, but trying anyway. He screamed and froze again, transfixed by the agony of broken legs, ribs, and an arm. His blood mixed with Ahab's in the sand. He heard the sound of Farnham's helicopter coming for him. He was going to live. Ahab had saved him, and Kei saw just what the andril had given up for him, and what the extent of his debt had to be. He was in pain, but Ahab had died to give him that pain. Pain was life. Somehow, the medpack was still functioning. It beeped as it went through a reset cycle and started pumping painkillers into him. He savagely ripped the catheters out of his body, feeling a stab of agony from his broken arm. He refused to have his senses dulled now, no matter how much pain there was. His good hand couldn't stop gently stroking the flesh of the andril's wing beneath him, so soft and dusky smooth. -John Sullivan <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Untitled Allright, I told that Colonel fellow that we'd tell him what happened. Now, you gotta remember that we didn't know we were doing anything wrong. It's just that, see, we got real bored this summer and started fooling around. How were we to know what would happen? Ok, ok...I'll tell you how it all started. You see, me and Jimmy were never what you'd call popular. We sorta found each other and that was about all there was. Well, this summer we were sitting down in Jimmy's basement just fooling around. You know how it is, right? Well, we'd found this old bunch of magazines laying around. They had some pretty neat stories in them and some really wild drawings. The name of the magazines? I don't remember exactly. It was something about science. Anyway, like I said, there were some pretty neat stories in them. Stuff like people living on the moon and traveling in outer space. You know, stuff that just isn't real. So, what? Yeah, I'm getting to what happened. Just don't keep interrupting me so much. Like I was saying, we knew this stuff just wasn't real but we decided, what the heck, it made fun stuff to read. So, we read these magazines and then Jimmy decided to try out some of these experiments and build us a ray gun. What? Oh, the story had pictures in it showing where all the wires were supposed to go. We got the actual gun out of my little brother's toy box. You know, one of those dart guns that look like the real thing? Well, we opened that up and had plenty of room for all the stuff inside. The wires were easy to find. Jimmy had an old walkie-talkie that we stripped out. They weren't the right size, but shucks, who cared, right? Hey, don't shout at me! I said I'd tell you the truth and I'm doing it. I can't help it if you don't believe me. The crystal is from an old watch - you know, the face? That fit on pretty well and it sort of magnifies stuff too. So, we put the whole she-bang together and tried it out. What? Heck, no! We sure didn't know it would work like that! We figured it was just play, remember? I mean, this stuff isn't real! So, can I go home now? Oh, power..... we just used a battery out of Jimmy's toys. It didn't need much, just a little something. Anyway, we're real sorry that we blew up the Army's tank. We just wanted to play war with the soliders. -Lori Spier <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Worthy of the Title Despite the fact that Griswald was weary unto the very marrow of his old bones, he rose with the dawn to await the arrival of Lek Pyle, the merchant from Magnus, and two thugs--assassins--he promised to produce. It did not sit well with Griswald that he would be instrumental in the death of his lord, and of the lord's young cousin Luthias Connall, whom Griswald had healed twice yesterday. Of course, Griswald was more uncomfortable with the thought of his own death, which Pyle had been threatening for sometime now, than with the death of Luthias. That strange, rhythmic knock, which by now sickened Griswald, sounded at the door. Reluctantly, but quickly--it would not do to keep Lek Pyle waiting, murderer or no--Griswald opened the door. Pyle gave the physician the grin of a serpent and pushed past him into the physician's laboratory. Two lithe young men followed. They both carried crossbows. As they crossed to the center of the room, Griswald silently shut the door. "Well," Lek Pyle demanded immediately, but not loudly, "have you finished it, Griswald?" Griswald nodded. "It's done, and ready for you." He went to a cabinet with three complex locks on them. The physician took out a large ring of keys, and, one by one, he released the locks. He then opened the cabinet. In it were various dark bottles, all marked with skulls. The physician chose one, withdrew it, and locked the cupboard. Griswald handed the bottle to Pyle. "Immediate, as you asked," reported Griswald laconically, staring stonily at the merchant's beady eyes. "On contact?" asked the merchant. "Not quite," Griswald explained. "Put into a wound or an opening, it means instant death. On healthy skin, it is ineffective. You said you would be using crossbows...." Pyle smiled again. "Yes. These two gentlemen--" he indicated the young men, "will attend the ball with me tonight. At the precise moment, they will fire upon Lord Dargon and his cousin Luthias of Connall, and then we will finally have an end to this matter. Did you get the seating plans for the banquet tonight, Griswald?" Gravely, Griswald nodded. Out of a pocket, he took a grimy paper. Opening, he pointed to the diagram. "Lord Dargon is to sit at the head of the table, between his two cousins. Roisart will be on his left--your right, gentlemen. He will be the one seated next to me, and he is to be left alone. The one seated between Dargon and the Bichurian noble is your target. You, gentlemen, will be hidden outside of these windows." Griswald moved his finger to the symbols of the said structures. "I will open them if they remain closed." "Very good," Pyle slithered in appreciation. "You have done well, Griswald, after all." Griswald did not trust the merchant's smile. "I will see to it, when I convince the King of Baranur to war with Bichu, that you are well rewarded. Now," he continued, "these gentlemen need only put some of this poison on their crossbow bolts?" "Exactly," Griswald confirmed. "The shot need not be exact. All it need do is break the skin, and the..." Griswald struggled to find a proper word. "The Lord of Dargon and Luthias Connall will die." At sunset that night, in the great ivory ballroom of Dargon Keep, the musicians tuned their instruments and began to play a ditty for the nobles of the duchy of Dargon. The night was warm, and Dargon instructed the guards (and there were many on hand that night) to open the windows. The Lord of Dargon himself stood near the door of the ballroom, with Roisart, Luthias, and Michiya by his side. Few guests had arrived as yet, and those few, after greeting the Lord and his cousins, were mingling. Roisart enjoyed the momentarily lull. It wasn't often he got to stand in the great ivory ballroom, built by his and Dargon's grandfather. It was a colossal enclosure, actually coated with rare ivory, and decorated with whimsical stained glass windows. There were twelve windows in the room, all exquisitely beautiful. Now, Roisart stared at his favorite. It was a gorgeous piece of art, and nothing, not even the two guards standing to either side of it, could detract from its beauty. In it, a exquisite red-haired woman, clad in a sea-blue gown, stood before a mirror, in which was reflected a handsome, dark-haired man. It was from a legend, an ancient and romantic one, that had been a favorite fairy tale with Roisart ever since he was a boy. He had often longed for a woman like her... And tonight, there were plenty of beautiful young ladies to adorn the ballroom. And Roisart and his brother were heirs to Connall and Dargon, making them two of the three most eligible men in the township (their cousin, the Lord of Dargon himself, was the third). Roisart smiled to himself as he looked forward to a night of dancing and conversing. Luthias was not as pleased. He was not as comfortable as his brother in the ballroom. Often, his brother, his father, and his cousin were the only people around whom he was not tongue-knotted. And he felt out of place tonight; although he and Roisart had put on white blouses for the evening's ball, they still wore the mourning blue in their trousers, and on bands on their arms. It made Luthias feel out of place, like a ugly, dying weed in a rose garden. Dargon was greeting a group of merchants from Magnus. "Lord Ittosai," Dargon said to his guest, "this is Lek Pyle, a merchant who often travels to your country. Merchant Pyle, this is Lord Ittosai Michiya." Pyle, master of facial disguises, smiled pleasantly. "An honor, my lord," he said, although it was unclear at which lord he was speaking. "These are my sons," he introduced two graceful swains behind him. "Welcome to Dargon," Clifton said formally. "Pray enjoy yourselves in my house." "I thank you," said Pyle, and he and his "sons" moved away. Dargon began greeting the next people, introducing those who were unacquainted to his cousins, who nodded, and to Michiya, who bowed in the manner of his country. Luthias and Roisart did, however, bow to the matrons, and bring the hands of the young ladies to their cheeks politely. Many of the young girls fussed over the twins and their cousin, which Roisart viewed as a great compliment. Luthias' attitude was more realistic. He knew that the women only wished to be attached to the name of Dargon and Connall, not to Luthias, or Roisart, or Clifton. "Ah, Roisart, Luthias," Dargon was saying, "this is Lord Shipbrook, his lady Amada, and their son, Master Tylane." The twins nodded to the lord, bowed to his wife, and shook hands with their son, a contemporary. "Enjoy my hospitality," Dargon invited, and the people moved on. "Good evening, Lord Coranabo, my lady Coranabo. Lord Ittosai, I present the Lord Edward Coranabo, his lady Melrinna, and their daughters, Misses Danza and Kellina. My lord, my lady, young ladies, I believe you already are acquainted with my noble cousins, Roisart and Luthias Connall." "My lord, my lord!" came a call behind them. Dargon and his companions turned. Before them stood a breathless man, dressed in slightly outdated formal wear, and bearing dust in his hair. Dargon smiled congenially, and actually, Roisart thought, he looked rather pleased. The new arrival leaned toward his lord. "I am glad that you have finally decided to join us, Chronicler," the Lord of Dargon admitted. "Do you know--" The Chronicler leaned backwards, as if he were about to recite something stiffly. "My lord, I must speak with you privately." Dargon raised his eye brows. The Chronicler leaned forward. "I am afraid that is impossible, Chronicler. You know the demands of society as well as I." The Chronicler scowled at the very thought. "Leave your studies and enjoy yourself." The Chronicler scowled again. "Have you met my special guests tonight? These are my cousins, Roisart and Luthias, the sons of the late Baron of Connall. And this is Lord Ittosai Michiya, a noble of Bichu." Taken aback, the Chronicler gasped, and then bowed to the Bichurian noble. "Konban wa," the Chronicler pronounced. More surprised than the Chronicler, Ittosai bowed in return and repeated the greeting. "Ogenki desu ka?" asked the Chronicler. Roisart recognized the language, and some of the words from his readings. He cursed himself for not trying to speak the language with Ittosai beforehand. "Hai, anata wa?" answered the Bichurian. "Hai, okagesama de," replied the Chronicler. The Bichanese noble was smiling brightly. In the local tongue, Michiya breathed in appreciative surprise, "I did not know that anyone here spoke my language." "I have studied your poets, my lord," the Chronicler answered proudly. The Chronicler then announced to the noble twins and Ittosai Michiya alike, "My lords, I am Rish Vogel, Chronicler to the Lord of Dargon." "A Chronicler?" Roisart asked with interest. "What do you do for my cousin, Chronicler?" "Research, m' young lord." answered Rish Vogel good naturedly. "What do you research?" Luthias wanted to know seriously. "The truth," the Chronicler answered with light jesting. He reached forward and actually pinched Luthias' cheek. "Is that not what we all seek in our own way?" The musicians abruptly changed tempo. "Ah, a dance I know!" Vogel exclaimed. "Excuse me, my lords, but if I must suffer through this, I might as well show off what little knowledge I have of these arts." Luthias wore a tight, angry expression, but he waited until the Chronicler was far out of range before he growled wrathfully, "If he ever pinches my cheek again, I'll kill him!" Ittosai chuckled; Clifton and Roisart nearly split with laughter. Roisart quieted and stared at the slightly dusty Chronicler, who was capering with a lively lady on the dance floor. "Don't you think you should find out what he wanted, Clifton? He seemed quite excited about something. It might be important." The Lord of Dargon shook his head. "No, Roisart. Knowing what he is investigating, he's only probably found the middle name of our great-great-great aunt." Luthias and his brother exchanged confused looks. "He's doing genealogical research," Dargon explained. Clifton looked out the door at the setting sun. "It's near time for me to begin the celebration officially," he mused. He turned to Ittosai and his cousins. "Accompany me, my lords," he invited formally. "The guests will be announced by herald from now on, and there's no need for us to be standing by the door when we should be dancing." "I do not know any of your dances," Michiya protested. "We'll teach you," Luthias promised mischievously. "He better be in one piece afterwards!" warned Dargon. "Don't worry, Clifton. I'll keep Luthias on a leash," Roisart volunteered with a smile. "You can try," Luthias challenged his brother with easy humor. "Behave, you two," the exasperated Lord of Dargon ordered. He and his cousins and Ittosai Michiya waded through the guests to the dais. There, Dargon nodded to the herald. "My lords and my ladies," the herald cried importantly. "His noble grace, the Lord Duke of Dargon. Lord Roisart Connall and Lord Luthias Connall. Lord Ittosai Michiya of Bichu." The four lords stepped onto the dais as the company present bowed formally. Dargon acknowledged their tribute with a sincere, lordly nod. "My lords and ladies," said Clifton Dargon, "let the celebration begin." Quickly, he got off the dais, and just as quickly, his cousins and Ittosai followed. "I do not like being looked at by so many eyes," complained the Bichurian, almost sheepishly. "It is like being a..." "Target," Luthias supplied crisply. "That wasn't wise, getting up there," Roisart added. "We were perfect shots, Clifton." "I've got guards on top of guards here," Clifton repeated for the forty-eighth time. "I've got guards on the floor. I've got guards at the windows. I have guards outside the windows, and by all the doors. You know all this, Roisart. You're beginning to worry as much as Luthias." Roisart smiled. "Never, Clifton." Roisart turned to Ittosai. "We'll have to find a dancing partner for you, Michiya-san. You need to dance. Now Luthias, of course, will not dance." "I may," Luthias conceded in the tone of a threat. Roisart laughed. "We'll see." He took Michiya off to the side. Clifton nodded at Luthias, a signal to be sociable and mingle about, and the Lord of Dargon glided around the room to some of the older people, who sat in chairs under the stained glass windows. Luthias was just about to find one of those chairs for himself. No sense in standing around looking foolish. Then he heard the herald announce the Winthrop family. Baron Winthrop was an old friend of Luthias and Roisart's father, and the twins had been playmates of the Winthrops' daughter, Pecora. Luthias decided to go greet the Winthrops and ask Pecora for a dance, even though dancing was not his favorite activity. To his surprise, Luthias found his brother with the Winthrops. Old man Winthrop smiled at Luthias' arrival. "Never could keep you two far apart, eh?" said the old Baron, and he chuckled loudly at his own joke. "Sorry about your father, Roisart--or are you Luthias? Never could keep you two boys straight..." Roisart exchanged a conspiratorial, mildly annoyed, mildly amused look with his brother, then they returned to the conversation. "Thank you, Baron," Roisart replied formally. "Well, it isn't the time or place for sorrowing," Winthrop asserted. "Come along, Marcellon, let these young ones to themselves. I'll introduce you to the young Lord of Dargon." A stately man dressed in red nodded to the twins gravely and followed Baron Winthrop away. The Baroness followed, after the twins bowed politely to her, leaving Pecora and another young lady, of blue-green eyes and sable hair, alone with the twins. Roisart then lifted Pecora's hand and placed it gently next to his cheek. As Luthias touched Pecora's hand to his cheek, Roisart lifted the hand of the other young lady, who stood behind Pecora. "Forgive me, my lady," Roisart apologized. "I am Roisart Connall." "Forgive my rudeness," Pecora apologized, blushing profoundly. Luthias, who still held her hand, squeezed it lightly. Poor Pecora, he thought. She's still having a hard time of it. Pecora's face lightened, and she indicated the beautiful young woman next to her. Roisart's eyes were shining as she introduced, "This is my cousin, Lady Lauren Equiville. Lauren, these are the twin sons of the late Baron of Connall, Lord Roisart," Pecora indicated the correct twin, "and Lord Luthias." "Good evening," Lady Lauren greeted the twins pleasantly. "I am happy to meet you, my lords." Realizing that Lauren was perhaps a little older than his accepted age group, Luthias bowed. He felt a little wary; there was that light in Roisart's eyes again. Roisart simply smiled at the ravishing lady and asked, "My lady Lauren, would you like to dance?" "Certainly," Lauren accepted, with an enchanting smile. And the two gracefully stepped away. "She's beautiful, isn't she?" Pecora asked Luthias as they watched Lauren and Roisart dance. Luthias agreed wholeheartedly, but gravely. He had certainly seen the beauty, and felt it. "She won't hurt Roisart, I know," Pecora assured him, seeing the concern in his face. "She...isn't like that. Besides, she's five and twenty, Luthias. Roisart is too young for her." Luthias whirled toward Pecora. "Dance with me, Pecora." Smiling a smile that seemed veiled, Pecora took Luthias' hand, and he guided her, in time to the music, onto the dance floor. Luthias gazed into her eyes, and she looked at their shoes. "You still haven't heard anything," Luthias surmised. Pecora gave a little, shamed nod. "I'm sorry, Pecora." He gripped her waist a little more tightly. "I can't image what Kite--" "Please," choked Pecora. "You should have loved Roisart instead," Luthias chided in gentle tones. "Roisart loves once a week," Pecora announced bluntly. More often than that, Luthias thought. But he said, "But no one has ever returned his love." Pecora swallowed a bulk of tears. Luthias held her tighter. "I'm so sorry, Pecora." "Do you know, the last time I danced, Luthias, the last time I danced, I danced with Kite, here on this floor--" Her voice broke, and a little sob escaped. A tear trickled onto her dark lips. "Let's take a walk in the garden, Pecora," Luthias whispered gently. "Let's go away from all these eyes, and you can cry all you wish." Without waiting for her consent, Luthias led her from the room. Across the floor, Lauren watched the departure of her cousin. "Have you known Pecora long?" she asked the admiring Roisart. Roisart grinned like an open sunflower. "Why yes, my lady," he answered cheerfully, gracefully leading his partner. "Since Luthias and Pecora and I were small children." He glanced again at the departing couple. "I never knew that Luthias had any particular--" "It isn't that," Lauren interrupted with the voice of the spring breezes. "Do you know what would make my cousin cry at a ball?" "She's still not over Kite," mused Roisart, confused and almost hurt. "I tell you, my lady, Pecora is like a sister to Luthias and me. When Kite Talador disappeared and left Pecora, we knew how much she was hurt. If Kite isn't dead and ever returns, Luthias would kill him on sight. As for myself, I only wish I could understand why he didn't come back." "She wouldn't confide in me," Lauren confessed. "I would have told her that he won't be returning. And she loves him." A wistful look crossed Lauren's blue-green eyes. "It is a beautiful thing to be loved." "You are a beautiful woman worthy of love, my lady," Roisart returned in a courtly manner. Lauren restrained her laughter and smiled sweetly. Then they danced past a window. Roisart began to explain the legend to Lauren, but she knew it better than he did, to his surprise. Clifton, Lord Duke of Dargon, surveyed the ballroom with satisfaction. It was a beautiful night. The breezes were caressing the keep with the perfume of the sea, and the dancers pranced with the grace of gods. The music was lulling and festive at once. The talk was cheerful, animated. The odd ballroom that his grandfather had fashioned seemed beautiful and contented, like a satisfied lioness. And everyone was enjoying himself; even Rish Vogel and Ittosai Michiya were dancing. Only the guards detracted from the festivity. And they were necessary, Dargon reminded himself. "Clifton!" he heard one of the twins cry. The Lord of Dargon turned, and Roisart and a lady, the most beautiful and completely captivating woman he had ever seen, stood before him. "Clifton," said Roisart again, "let me present you to the Lady Lauren, lately of Magnus. She's a cousin of the Winthrops'. My lady, my noble cousin, Clifton, Lord Duke of Dargon." Clifton's brown eyes met the lady's. Dargon took her hand and bowed low. He pressed her hand to his cheek. "My lady," greeted the Lord of Dargon amicably. "How do you do?" He rose, and smiled at the lady with quiet pleasantness. "My lord," she greeted. She returned the smile and dropped a curtsy. "I have to go find Luthias, Clifton," Roisart explained, "and I didn't want to abandon the lady..." Lauren smiled, laughter in her eyes at the fact that Roisart apparently considered her too fragile to leave alone. Clifton shared the mirth, but, like the lady, kept his silence. "It's all right, Roisart," the Lord of Dargon announced, nodding to his cousin. "Go find your brother." Leaning closer to his cousin, Dargon hissed, "And get him in here, before he's killed!" Roisart nodded gravely and, trying not to appear as if he were in a hurry, made his way out of the room. Lord Dargon turned to the Lady Lauren. "You are from Magnus, my lady?" the Lord inquired politely. Dargon politely offered the lady a chair, and she sat. Gracefully, Dargon seated himself beside her. Lauren nodded. "Yes, my lord," she answered politely. "Do you know the city?" Dargon nodded. "A little, my lady. I went to the university there for a year." The lady gave Dargon a look of admiration. "Why, my lord," she noted, appreciative, "you must be near a genius. It took me four years to complete the program--" She stopped, as if an inspiration overtook her. "Oh, no. I beg your pardon, my lord," she apologized. She looked mortified and quite contrite, but she did not, Clifton noted, blush at her error. "I should have realized why you were only in Magnus a year." Dargon smiled crookedly and laughed a moment to put her at ease. "My lady Lauren, how are you to know what brought me home?" "I..." Lauren lowered her eyes, then looked Dargon in the face again. "I sometimes just know things, my lord. Not always, and not always important things. But sometimes I just know. And," she continued, "if that were not enough, the young age at which you are Duke and my common sense should have been enough to make me realize what must have happened, that it was your father's death and not your wits which brought you early home. Pray forgive me, your grace." "It's quite all right, my lady," Dargon assured her earnestly, then he laughed. "Roisart will love you. He rejoices in the unusual." "He's a good lad," Lauren praised him. "He will like my father." The musicians started a new tune. Without realizing it, Dargon began to tap his foot to the beat. The night was getting better and better; it was refreshing to speak to someone, besides his own family, who, undaunted by his title, was completely capable of holding a coherent conversation with him, instead of pleasantries. Lord Dargon stood. Lady Lauren gazed up at the majestic, young lord inquiringly. "Will you dance, my lady?" the Lord of Dargon invited congenially, offering Lauren his arm. She took it with another smile, and allowed herself to be led away. Lauren was a gay partner, and a lively and graceful one. Clifton was no great dancer, but his movements were strong and sure. For once in his life, Clifton found himself truly enjoying dancing. "To what do I owe your visit to our city, Madam?" Dargon asked the lady as they danced. Lauren's smile froze momentarily. She hesitated a fraction of a moment before she spoke. "My father wished to visit his brother, Lord Winthrop," she answered. Abruptly, she stated, "I'm afraid your young cousin has fallen in love with me." Dargon grinned. "Oh, that's all right, my lady. Roisart falls in loves every few days. He'll treat you normally by early next week." Lauren stared at the lord, unsure whether to laugh or be appalled. "He's only a boy, my lady. And if he doesn't leave off the infatuation, Luthias will straighten him out, surely." Dargon opened his mouth again to inquire why she and her father were in the city, but remembering her earlier reaction, shut it. Observing the lord's behavior, Lauren asked, "My lord, am I making you uncomfortable?" "Not at all," Dargon answered enthusiastically. "What did you study in the university?" Lauren asked. "Government." "What did you think of Fernusius Cai's philosophy of laws?" Lauren asked, quite seriously. Dargon stared a moment, but gave her a thoughtful and well considered answer. Lauren listened attentively, then gave her own opinion. Dargon had never expected Fernusias Cai's philosophy to reach him in the ivory ballroom, but he discussed it with Lauren, whose intelligence and wisdom regarding the work (and philosophy in general) impressed him, as they danced past the open windows. Roisart had gone out into the garden to find Luthias and Pecora. He understood why Luthias had taken her out of the ballroom, but it wasn't safe outside, even with all the guards. After an unsuccessful tour of the shrubbery, Roisart met his brother as he came in from the garden, alone. "Where's Pecora?" Roisart asked. Luthias seemed large and ominous. "I sent her home. I would go with her, but Clifton..." Roisart's mouth was tight, and he was as concerned as his brother was angry. "She's still--" Luthias nodded with the sharp grimness of death. "The lady--her cousin Lauren--says Kite isn't coming back." "I tell you what, Roisart," Luthias began fiercely. "You can have the barony, and I'll go hunt him down." Roisart smiled at the suggestion. "I'm serious, twin," Luthias revealed, gravely looking at his brother. "One of us must be baron, and it should be you." "But, Luthias, you're a better leader!" Luthias shrugged. "Yes, but you're better at running things. You don't overlook details. And when you need a man of action, Roisart, I'll be there. You know I would never leave you." "I know," Roisart replied, "but..." "One of us must be baron," Luthias repeated. "We can't leave the barony like this, Roisart. And we can't both be baron." "I know," Roisart sighed. "But I don't feel that I would be the best baron..." "How can we tell beforehand who would be?" "Corambis said it would be settled by a matter of valor." "Even decision takes courage, my brother," Luthias reminded him with a smile. "It's valor to take the responsibility of the barony, as well." Roisart sighed deeply. "You really feel I should be baron?" he asked finally. "Despite all the lessons Father gave us, I still don't know how to be a lord, Luthias." "So, we'll learn on our own," Luthias assured him with strength. Roisart looked doubtful. "I mean it, Roi," Luthias persisted, employing the nickname he hadn't used since boyhood. "Really. I can't be baron, and you know it. I would always want to go and do something, not stay here and plan budgets and run the estate. Right now I want to go off and kill Kite Talador. What if there were a war, Roi? Your first thought would be to fortify Connall and Dargon. Me? I would go off and try to destroy the bastards. No, Roi. Roisart, my brother, you belong in the barony, more than I do, more than I ever did." Roisart looked his brother in the eyes, the mirrors of his own. "Are you sure about this, Luthias?" Luthias nodded. "You could be giving up your birthright." Luthias shrugged. "I never wanted to be baron," Luthias said. He smiled. "And if I am giving up my birthright--which isn't certain in any case--who better to give it to than you, twin?" Roisart smiled. "All right, Luthias," he conceded, "but only if you're absolutely certain--" "Believe me, twin, I am," Luthias told his brother. Then Luthias wondered suddenly, "How does Lady Lauren know that Kite won't return?" Roisart shrugged. "I gather that her father--Marcellon, the man in the red robes, whom we saw with Lord Winthrop--is a mage of some sort." Roisart smiled. "I'll have to talk to him at dinner." "Oh, no," Luthias reminded him with a smile. "You have to sit at the head of the table, with Clifton and me." Roisart made a discontented face. "Don't worry, twin. Ittosai Michiya and Rish Vogel will be sitting near us." Roisart grinned. "Oh, and Griswald, too, I'm told." "Don't know what's gotten into him lately," Roisart said, shaking his head. "I don't think I'll like sitting with him." "I wonder if it's practical that we'll all be sitting together," Luthias replied. "We're all targets--" "Do you know that we'll be straight across from some of the windows?" Roisart added. "Perfect shots, for all the guards Clifton's assigned to them." "Well, there are guards by the window and outside them, Roisart. Still, I agree. They're setting up the table now," Luthias noted. "Let's see if we can get the position changed." After tussling with the servants, who were reluctant to allow the sons of the Baron of Connall to help them, the twins sat down to their meal. The table, and the seating arrangements, were unchanged, despite the twins' efforts. Clifton sat in the middle at the head of the table, Roisart on Dargon's left, and Luthias on his right. Griswald sat around the table corner at Roisart's left elbow; by the corner on Luthias' right were seated Michiya and Rish Vogel, the Chronicler, who were chatting gaily in Bichanese. Seated where they were, the twins found the conversation during the supper unexciting mostly, and at times, quite boring. Roisart wished that he could sit next to the Lord Marcellon and the Lady Lauren. Luthias wished he had gone home with Pecora. Clifton Dargon said little to the twins. However, at frequent intervals, guests would approach the Lord of Dargon and speak with him. Then the brothers did their best to be polite. Winthrop joked and punched Luthias on the back (which was fine, so long as no one ever pinched his cheek again). Two young men, the sons of some merchant, took their leave. Lord Coranabo came forth to praise the peacekeeping during the festival. Roisart found himself quite bored and began studying the window directly opposite his seat: a detail of a maiden knight defeating six other knights. He wished that the guards weren't on either side of it; they were distracting him, pulling his gaze toward the open stained-glass panel, instead of the stained-glass picture above it. Finally, the dishes were cleared away, and goblets of wine and trays of pastries delivered unto the tables. No one touched the food or drink, though. Dargon stood. Roisart let his shoulders droop. Time for the Spring Welcome Speech And Toast, Roisart groaned internally. Bored a priori, he continued to study the window. Clifton stood regally and began to speak in a loud, dignified voice. In Roisart's ears, the words were garbled sounds. He lost himself in the magic of the window, in the legend of the fierce, gentle maiden-knight, who defeats all in her search for love and for justice. Roisart gazed worshipfully at the window. The legend seemed to come alive; it seemed that one of the six cowardly knights moved. Roisart blinked. He *had* seen something move, down below, by the open panel. Clifton continued speaking. Was it the guards? Roisart squinted at the window. Yes, something was there. Two men. Must be the guards. Roisart found them hard to see. Then they can't be the guards, Roisart realized. He couldn't see their armor glittering. What were they doing behind the window? And where were the guards who were supposed to be there? Clifton was still speaking, and reaching for his goblet. It was almost time for the Toast to Spring, made yearly at this ball by the Lord of Dargon since time immemorial. Roisart edged forward on his seat. He could still see them--whoever they were--moving by the open part of the window, leaning on it seemingly. The Lord of Dargon began his introduction to the toast. Crossbows! They were leaning crossbows on the window sill! Clifton raised his glass. Don't those guards hear anything? They're putting crossbows-- Crossbows! What are they doing with-- No time! Luthias! Clifton! Roisart rose like a shot, tumbling his chair. With the strength of a boar, he charged his cousin's side. Dargon fell onto Luthias' lap. Luthias' chair collapsed, bringing Dargon and Luthias to the floor with it. Red wine splattered onto Roisart's white shirt, but he remained standing. Or was it the wine? Luthias, Michiya, and Rish Vogel, who still remained in a position to see, perceived two black bolts protruding from Roisart, one in the chest, the other in the side. Someone screamed. Slowly, it seemed, Roisart, son of Fionn Connall, fell. Luthias impatiently pushed Dargon off of him. "Roisart!" he cried. He somehow felt the wounding arrows had pierced him too. Dargon leapt to his feet. "Guards! The garden! Outside of the knights' window!" To a sergeant: "Get the guests to the blue ballroom, and hold them there. No one is to enter or leave without my command!" To Griswald, he imperiously said, "Attend my cousin!" Rish Vogel had retrieved a quill from who knows where and had begun writing in wine on his napkin. Michiya had joined Luthias, who was cradling Roisart on his lap. Griswald scuttled over. The old physician sadly shook his head. The guards were escorting the guests from the ivory ballroom. Dargon knelt beside his cousins. "Griswald?" asked the Lord of Dargon softly. He put a hand on Luthias' shoulder. The old physician looked into the eyes of his lord. Again, he shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lord. He's dead." "You haven't even checked him!" Luthias screamed. Griswald's weary eyes focused on Luthias' angry, desperate ones. "I'm sorry, my lord. The bolts were poisoned." "How do you know?" Luthias returned, his voice shrill and frantic. A sextet of guards arrived in the Lord of Dargon's presence. To the floor they threw two young men, dressed as merchants. Dargon rose, a tower of just fury. Luthias stared at his brother's murderers in white rage. Ittosai Michiya put a stern, staying hand on Luthias' shoulder. Luthias shook for a moment, then turned back to his breathless twin and closed his brother's startled, brown eyes. The sergeant of the guards threw a pair of black crossbows onto the ivory floor. They clattered insanely. The sergeant spoke. "They weren't far from the window, lordship. They still had the bows." "Where were the guards posted to the outside of that window?" Dargon demanded. "Dead, my lord," the sergeant reported. "Knifed in the neck. Very quiet, lordship. They're professionals, all right." "And you said that they still had these bows?" "Aye, lordship." Grim with judgment, Dargon leaned over the body of his cousin. "I'm sorry, Luthias," he whispered to the sorrowing twin. Clifton reached over his living cousin and wrenched a bolt out of Roisart's still body. Luthias cried out, as if Clifton had pulled a painful arrow from his own side. Then Dargon turned back to the guards and the wielders of the crossbows. Dargon held out a hand. A guard quickly supplied him with one of the weapons. Dargon fitted the bolt into the bow. "Lord Ittosai," he called. Michiya turned from Luthias and bowed. "Wou ld you say that this bolt fits?" Ittosai Michiya gazed at the displayed weapon. "Yes, my lord." "Luthias!" Luthias looked up, resentment in his eyes. Dargon held out the crossbow. "Tell me if this bolt fits this crossbow." Luthias stared for a moment with stubborn hardness, then his innate practicality returned. He inspected the weapon, his brother's head yet in his lap. "Yes, Clifton," he answered. "It fits perfectly." The Lord of Dargon handed the weapon to a guard. "Keep it well. It will be needed in the trial." Then Dargon turned to the assassins. "It is evident that you are guilty of the murder of Lord Roisart Connall. You will be tried before the tribunal tomorrow." The Lord of Dargon paused. "Tell me now who hired you." The assassins exchanged uncertain glances. "Tell me!" roared Dargon. A heavy, sad voice informed the Lord of Dargon, "I can tell you, my lord." Dargon twisted to see his physician, who looked suddenly old, very old. "I can tell you who hired these men, and who is responsible for Lord Fionn Connall's death, and your young cousin's." "How do you know he's dead?" Luthias demanded. "You have not--" "Quiet, Luthias," Dargon ordered gently, but with the swiftness and sternness of authority. "Come here, Griswald," the Lord of Dargon ordered. Timorously, the old doctor stepped forward. "Now, tell me." "There is a merchant," Griswald began slowly. "His name is Lek Pyle. He and some other merchants wished to start a war with Bichu--for their own profit--, and Pyle himself believed that he could convince the King, if only you were eliminated, my lord, because you also have the ear of the King." Dargon nodded. In matters of commerce and foreign relations, Clifton had often advised the King, and the advice, being sound, was often taken. "He hired these two men--" "To kill Lord Roisart?" prompted the Lord of Dargon. Griswald shook his gray head. "No, my lord. To kill you, and Lord Luthias. Pyle had chosen young Lord Roisart to become the next Baron of Connall and Duke of Dargon." Dargon appeared perplexed. "Why did he prefer Roisart to Luthias? Luthias, of the two, was more proficient in war--" "He considered Lord Roisart easier to trick," Griswald explained. "He planned to manufacture small details--which Lord Luthias would ignore, but Lord Roisart would insist on knowing--details which would trick Lord Roisart into believing that Bichu was preparing to attack us." Ittosai Michiya spat a fierce Bichanese curse. "Lord Roisart was instrumental to his plans, my lord," Griswald continued. "He meant to kill you and Lord Luthias, but he wished Lord Roisart to remain alive." The physician turned then to Luthias. "My lord, your brother is dead. This I know. The poison on those bolts is instantaneous. I know, because Pyle forced me to mix it." With an almost animal cry, Luthias sprang to his feet and rushed toward the old physician. Ittosai Michiya deftly intercepted him and held him back with a seemingly effortless display of force. Dargon, too, wished to erupt but managed to hold his anger in check for the time being. "You did what?" the Lord of Dargon asked deliberately. "Kindly explain your actions, sir." "Lek Pyle has been threatening my life, my lord," Griswald began. "I have no other excuse than this. He has used me to spy on you, just as he used Manus to keep track of the Baron of Connall and his sons. He forced me to mix the poison which killed your cousin. He forced Manus to give your father's horse a drug to make it violent." "Manus?" cried Luthias, appalled. That was the man he had made Regent of Connall! Griswald nodded soberly. "Yes," he answered ruefully. "He seems to prey upon us healers." Dargon was thinking swiftly. "Lek Pyle...that man is here!" Again, Griswald nodded. Dargon nodded to a guard. "Go to the blue ballroom and fetch Lek Pyle. Bring him here." The Lord of Dargon returned to his physician. "I don't know what to do with you, Griswald. You shall have to be tried before the tribunal--and Manus, too. Until then, you shall be confined to your rooms." "Confined!" Luthias protested. "But Clifton, his poison killed Roisart!" "Yes, but I can't blame him for trying to save his own life," Clifton returned, sighing. "I'll send a squadron to your keep as soon as possible to bring Manus into custody. And when Pyle comes in here, Luthias," the Lord continued in an imperious tone, "you had best be calm." Luthias' face became tight a moment, but he said nothing. He turned back to his twin's corpse. Two heavy-set guards entered, dragging a protesting Lek Pyle with him. "I must protest this treatment, Lord Dargon," he cried upon sight of Clifton. "I am--" "A murderer," Griswald finished for him. "This is the man, then?" Dargon inquired. Griswald nodded. The two assassins exchanged glances, but said nothing. That lack of denial was enough for the Duke of Dargon. Dargon seemed suddenly pale. "Throw him," he said slowly, "into the dungeon's darkest cell. Now." The guards pulled him away. "But I have done nothing!" cried Pyle. "Liar," muttered Griswald. "What about these two, my lord?" asked the sergeant. "Dungeon," Dargon ordered laconically. "Escort the physician to his rooms, and set a guard upon him. Then send a squadron of men to Connall to arrest Manus the Healer." The sergeant saluted, barked orders to his subordinates, and soon, they left. Dargon bellowed for another guard. "Have a servant sent for the priests. My cousin's body must be prepared." "What about the guests, lordship?" asked the soldier. The Lord of Dargon considered. "I shall speak to them myself, presently." The soldier saluted and went off. Dargon turned back to the table. The room looked so empty now...only Luthias, lifting Roisart's dead body; Michiya, helping him; and Rish Vogel, writing in wine, chronicling the entire incident. Clifton approached his cousin gently and put his hand on his arm. Luthias looked at him, grief in his eyes. "Are you going to be all right, Luthias?" Dargon's cousin nodded. "Lord Michiya, please stay with him. I have to address our guests." Dargon frowned, shook his head. "There will be no more dancing on this night." Slowly, the Lord of Dargon turned away and left the ballroom. Rish Vogel rose from his seat, tucked the napkin into his pocket, and followed the Duke. Passing Luthias, he mumbled something about making the chronicle of the incident complete. Ittosai Michiya watched the Lord of Dargon leave, and then he turned compassionate eyes toward the young lord Luthias. "Do you need my help, my friend?" asked the Bichurian. Luthias shook his head. "No, I'm all right," he asserted softly. He looked down at the dead face of his brother cradled on the crook of his arm. "I'm sorry, Roi," he mumbled. "It seems our decision has been made for us." Michiya gave Luthias a look of confusion. "What do you mean, Luthias-san? I do not understand." Luthias gave him a bitter smile flavored with an almost humorous irony. "Don't you know, Michiya? I am now the Lord Baron of Connall." And it was little comfort, for Luthias knew now, for certain, that his brother had been more worthy of the title. -M. Wendy Hennequin <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME TEN NUMBER SIX | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb Servant of the Silver Blade Ron Meldrum *Cydric and the Sage: Part Five Carlo N. Samson Date: 042688 Dist: 631 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Shifting uncomfortably before his terminal, the young man tentatively taps out a sentence, then pauses. Minutes pass before another coherent thought is slowly composed, worded, and dedicated to phosphor and magnetic media. After several moments of careful contemplation, he uses the block delete feature of his editor to remove the text, and begins again. The ritual begins yet again, perhaps the fifth time today. For the editor of a magazine, there is no feeling quite the same as when he views an empty editorial page with nothing to say. An editorial column is an opportunity to communicate directly with your readership, to share your opinions, your plans, and a little of yourself, with people who share the same interests. Yet it is also an intimidating thing, because there is a responsability to inform and be entertaining to the reader, not merely pontificate. After having considered many topics that might be of interest, I remain at a loss. After all, how interesting would an editorial be if it went into detail describing the geogrpaphical distribution of its readership, or mentioned that there is, on the average, approximately two readers per node? And I certainly need not mention the coming of springtime or impending finals, or that this will be the last issue in Volume 10 before the summer volume begins. I have similarly been unable to shift my responsabilities onto other parties, after having no response to an offer to Dargon authors for a 'guest editorial' column. Well, luckily for me, we have plenty of good fiction in this issue, and there isn't room enough for a more substantial editorial. I am quite sure that the two excellent stories in this issue will go over very well (hopefully better than the editorial, I'm sure). The figure rests his head in his hands and takes a beep breath. He pauses, then reluctantly exits the editor. Now begins the process of sending the issue out, which although tedious, at least doesn't require any amount of creativity... -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Servant of the Silver Blade Durach wiped his greasy fingers across the front of his smithy smock, leaving dirty streaks on the crest of Beartas embroidered on it. The chicken had been good, especially good since he knew it was the last meat he would have for a week and a half. In one smooth movement the thin but sturdy man pulled off the smock and stretched his arms, then heaved a long sigh, expelling all the worries and labors of the day at the forge. He dropped his dirty smock on the table and lowered himself heavily into a creaking chair by the hearth. Catching sight of a dull glow on the wall above the fireplace, he heaved himself to his feet again, the ancient wooden chair creaking loudly beneath the force on its arms. Brushing his straight, dark hair off of his forehead, Durach stepped over to the fire and examined a dull grey sword, the origin of the gleam, hanging horizontally above the brick fireplace. He pulled a precious, half-used candle from a fixture just below the weapon and stooped to light its wick in the flames below. Straightening his aching back, he replaced the lighted candle in its fixture. Silver light burst from the hanging sword and shot throughout the dim, one-room hut. "Ahh, better...better," Durach breathed, his wide eyes following the length of the blemishless blade. He then returned to the chair, which groaned and shrieked as usual when he lowered himself into it. Leaning back, he lifted his eyes exultantly to the shining sword. Someone was knocking at the door. Durach stared dreamily at his beautiful weapon, either not hearing the sound or choosing to ignore it. The knocking persisted. Annoyance flickered across his face as Durach pulled himself from his reverie. He slowly pushed himself to his feet as the knocking continued. A small, hooded man, at least a full foot and a half shorter than Durach, was standing patiently on the wooden doorstep as the door swung open. He wore a long, grey cloak made of a fine material Durach didn't recognize, and his hood concealed most of his head except his face and a couple of curls of black hair. A strange but friendly smile and deep brown eyes, sparkling with amusement, looked up out of the hood. It was a starless night, and there was a light drizzle falling, but the stranger said nothing. He stood on the doorstep smiling, the drizzle clinging in beads to his grey cloak. Shaking off his drowsiness, Durach spoke. "Enter, stranger," he said with as much hospitality as he could. "I don't have much, but my house is warm. If you are hungry I have a little chicken broth but nothing more." "Thank you," the short man said and stepped past Durach into the small hut. His eyes glanced about the room, standing for a moment on the sword, then continuing their inspection of the place as Durach closed the door. He turned to his host and said, "Well, kind sir, where is the broth?" Durach picked up a small metal pot of broth from the table. "I'll warm it up for you," he offered. "That won't be necessary," the stranger said. He boldly reached out and took the lukewarm pot from the startled Durach. The small man then pulled himself onto the wooden table top and, with his legs dangling, put the pot to his lips and drank. Durach watched curiously as a small stream of broth trickled down from one corner of the man's mouth. "Not bad," the man said with a light sigh as he lowered the empty pot. He leaned back on his elbows and looked up at Durach. "So," said the stranger, "what's your name?" "Huh... my name? Oh! I'm Durach, the son of Dochas son of Gorach. I work at a smithy in town but my father was..." "What a nice name!" the man exclaimed. "Durach," he repeated the name with a smile. Durach, slightly annoyed by the man's interruption, took a deep breath, then asked, "What is your name, stranger?" "I'm Calman. Calman of Gliocas. You don't know me. May I stay here tonight?" "Sure," said Durach, a hundred questions coming to mind. "Where are you from?" "I told you," the man replied. "From Gliocas." "I've never heard of any Kliogas..." "Gliocas," Calman corrected him, still smiling. "Okay, Gliocas. Where is this city?" "It's not a city. It's much more." "Kingdom, then." "It's not a kingdom." "What, then, is it?" Durach asked, annoyance in his voice. "It's just a place," Calman replied, apparently ignoring the other man's tone of voice. "Where is this place?" "Out there," said the short man with a vague flick of the wrist. "It's a long, hard trip and most people never find it. Nice place you have here." "What? Oh, yes... I mean, it's all I have." "Where'd you get the knife?" Calman had removed his eyes from Durach, but still wore the smile. "Knife?" Durach followed the man's gaze to the sword on the wall. At the sight of it, all traces of annoyance and frustration were gone, and he began to speak. "Oh, Iarann. My father gave him to me. My father, you know, was the champion of Lord Uan. He gave him to me before he died. He died of a broken heart. When Lord Airgid took over, my father was stripped of his rank and soon fell sick. He was given Iarann by his father, my grandfather, of course. I don't know where Sire Gorach, that was his name, got him." "Him?" Calman spoke up. "Him, Iarann," Durach said, pointing to the sword. "Oh, okay," the other man said, slightly amused. Ignoring him, Durach continued. "Someday I will carry him into battle and earn him glory as my fathers did. I have already, once. During the war with Cumach ten years ago, when I was young, I carried him into battle gloriously." "No, you didn't," Calman said. "Huh?" said Durach, startled. "Don't you ever listen? I said 'no, you didn't!' You didn't carry the knife into battle." He was still smiling. "Well," Durach stuttered, surprised by the other man's statement. "I almost did. They trained me, and I was about to go to battle when peace was resolved. They trained me, though." "How long?" Calman asked. "Well, for a day. But that doesn't matter. They trained me." "Oh, okay," the other man said, smiling. There was silence for a while. Durach stood by the table musing over the sword while Calman sat on the table musing over Durach. As if reaching some unspoken decision, Calman said, "Okay, I'll go to bed now." With that he dropped from the table to the floor in front of Durach and walked over to the fireplace. After a glance up at the sword and another back at his host, the man lay down and curled up in front of the warm flames. For several minutes Durach stood wondering about his curious guest. Shaking his head, he strode over to the fireplace. Being careful not to disturb Calman, he stretched his right arm and with one finger extinguished the candle. The interior of the hut suddenly dimmed. Leaning over the man on the floor, Durach stoked the fire, then walked to the door and bolted it. Retiring to the corner where he usually slept, he removed his crude wooden sandals and his cloak, then lay down to rest, spreading the cloak over him for a cover. Lying half asleep already, he looked across the room at the silent, unmoving figure silhouetted by the unsteady firelight. He wondered who the stranger was, and where his Gliocas was. Durach quickly drifted further from consciousness. He awoke just after dawn the next morning. The door was wide open, and bright sunlight was streaming in, flooding the room with an irrepressible sense of bliss. Someone was humming quietly, and the smells and sounds of cooking ham reached the awakening man. He sat up, looking around the place. Calman was kneeling in front of the fire cooking meat while humming a merry tune. On the table was the partially butchered carcass of a small pig. Blinking confusedly, Durach looked back at the man by the fire. His eyes raised habitually to the sword and his mind cleared. Stretching his stiffened muscles, Durach yawned loudly. Calman stopped humming and turned to him, wearing the familiar smile. "Hello, want some breakfast?" Durach looked at him a moment, then nodded dumbly. The short man turned back to the fireplace and took up his tune again. Durach climbed to his feet and put on his cloak and smock. He never put on his sandals before it was time to leave for work. "Where'd you get the pig?" he asked. "Oh... down the road," Calman replied without turning around. The tune became a battle march. Durach's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Down the road?" he asked. "Yes, that's what I said. Sometimes I don't think you people ever listen." Durach didn't question what he meant by the ominous "you people." "Did you steal it?" he asked bluntly. "I don't steal." "Where did you get it, then?" "Down the road..." "I know that!" Durach interrupted. "Where down the road?" "In a shady spot next to the roadway," Calman evaded. "Was it just sitting there by the road?" "Yes, just sitting there. I simply reached over the fence and picked it up." "So, you stole it," Durach said, more as a statement than a question. His voice was quieter, but still shaky. "No, I told you, I don't steal," Calman said, laying some more meat in a flimsy frying pan. "Then the owner knows," Durach said, relieved. "What owner?" the other man asked, still not turning from the fire. Durach fell back into frustration. "The owner," he said. "The person who owns, or owned, the pig!" "I didn't see any owner when I got there. All I saw was a bunch of pigs in a fenced-in mud hole, next to a large house." "A house!" "Yes, yes! Must I repeat everything?" Durach dropped the subject and, shaking his head, seated himself in the groaning chair. Calman turned and grinned devilishly at him, then returned to his cooking and tune, which became a moving dirge. The two ate together in silence at the table. Since there was only one chair, Calman was more than happy to sit on the table top with his legs dangling as he had the night before. The ham tasted good to Durach, who hadn't eaten breakfast, much less ham, in many months. Then there were those curious white roots. They were excellently prepared and Durach couldn't complain about the taste, but he was always leery about eating things he didn't recognize. After they had eaten, Calman dropped from the table. "Well," he said with a sigh, "I must be going now." Without a farewell he stepped to the door. Then a backward glance caught the sword, gleaming in the sunlight at its station above the fireplace. As if suddenly remembering something, he wheeled and said cryptically, "Oh, yes. Happiness and glory to you!" He grinned his familiar grin, then the smile faded momentarily and his eyes had a distant look. Refocussing on Durach, he smiled a subdued smile and was gone out the door. Durach worked at a smithy in the central district of the city of Beartas, which was no more than a mile form his home. Progress was normally slow as he walked to work once he entered the city proper, for the narrow streets were usually clogged with people. He disliked crowds and thus hated the segment of his path that took him through the city streets. This morning was different, though. Durach was late, due to the fact he had eaten breakfast with Calman. Then, after the stranger had departed he, of course, had to polish his sword. By the time he reached the city he found only a few people on the streets. He smiled to himself and decided to make it a point to be late more often. At this time the laborers were at work and the rest of the city was still asleep. Waiting for him in front of the small, open-faced smithy was its owner, one of Durach's longtime friends. Durach had taught him to read a little, since he himself had been lucky enough to learn his letters while his father still held a station at the court. His friend, Caraid, had inherited the smithy from an uncle. The place wasn't great, but it did have a good location in the central trade district and a reputation for quality. The smithy consisted of two rooms, one of which was open to the street. The open one had a small stone forge at its center. Only Caraid, his twelve-year-old son, and Durach worked there. Caraid seemed to have been waiting for Durach, for when he saw him coming down the street, the forge owner hustled over toward him carrying a folded sheet of paper in his huge left hand. Caraid's large, smithy-hardened body dwarfed what few other people were on the street. "Durach," he rumbled in his deep voice, holding the paper aloft. "I need your help with this." He apparently ignored the fact that Durach was late. Caraid handed the paper to him and the two strode back to the smithy where Caraid's son was straining under a load of scrap iron. Durach unfolded the paper, the huge Caraid peering anxiously over his shoulder at it. "What's the problem?" Durach asked scanning the list on the sheet. "Well," his friend's voice was subdued, "I recognized the words 'horseshoes' and 'hammer heads', but what are these others?" He poked one of his large fingers awkwardly at the bottom part of the list, and Durach examined it. His eyes lit up as he read aloud. "'Spearheads'! And 'Pikeheads'!" There was a sharp intake of breath as Caraid realized the significance of his friend's words. "Spears and pikes?" Caraid asked in a low voice. "We've never made weapons for the Lord before!" Durach read the heading at the top of the sheet. Indeed, the order was issued by the treasury of Lord Airgid. His heart jumped at the implications of the castle ordering weapons, but he calmed himself by saying aloud, "They're probably just refurninshing the old armory. It hasn't been refurnished, you know, since before the reign of Lord Uan." Caraid didn't look convinced. "We'd better get started," the big man said. "It's a big order and the Lord wants it next week." "Next week!" Durach protested, looking down the list again. "That's impossible! We can't do this much in such a short time! Its.." "Nor will you have to," a new voice said, emphasizing "nor". Durach and Caraid wheeled around to see a clean-shaven man in a dark blue robe standing just off the road by the smithy. In one hand he held a book with several loose sheets sticking out form inside the front cover. Before the smiths could say anything, the man continued. "I am Searbhanta, third treasurer of his Lordship, Lord Airgid." He paused and looked around to see if anyone reacted to his title. Seeing no one take note, he frowned indignantly and resumed speaking. "The order given you this morning has been retracted. Your services are no longer required by his Lordship. He has found the larger smithies more suitable to his needs at present." "But..." Caraid protested. But the man in blue turned and left. The large smith furiously kicked the nearest wall, which promptly cracked upon impact. Durach's attention, however, was drawn away from his friend by another development. There was a commotion in the street. One of Lord Airgid's criers, holding a rolled sheet of parchment, was climbing off his mount a few yards away. Unrolling the parchment he began to read as a crowd formed about him. "Hear all! Hear all! Due to crimes committed against the person and property of our liege, the Beloved and Mighty Lord Airgid, by the blackguards of the Castle Cumach, it is hereby decreed that a state of war exists between the people of Beartas and those of Cumach. All able-bodied men are required to enlist at the north garrison or pay a hundred Gold Royals to buy amnesty. Failure to do so will result in imprisonment. "Hear all! Hear all!"the crier droned, repeating the proclamation. Durach was excited. So much had happened so quickly. This was what he had been waiting for all his life. Now he could bear his fathers' sword proudly into combat. Caraid had recovered from his momentary anger and was listening carefully to the crier. He turned to Durach and said, "I guess I'm out of business for a while." He pulled off his smock and threw it down. "Shall we go to the north garrison together?" "I'll meet you here in an hour. Then we can go. I have to get Iarann!" Without waiting for a response, he took off running as fast as the growing crowd would allow. After passing through the city he sprinted, not noticing the strange gazes of onlookers as they watched the lean, middle-aged man bound gleefully down the road. He barged into his hut, lungs heaving, and stopped in front of the fireplace. Panting, he reached up and carefully removed the sword from the hooks on the wall. "O Iarann, I bring you glory!" he gasped. Forty-five minutes later he was standing in line with Caraid at the north garrison, waiting to enlist. "It looks nice," Caraid said gently, knowing fully the significance his friend put on the weapon. "Yes, he does," Durach agreed, proudly holding the sword, blade up at arms length in front of him. The morning sun glinted brightly off its silver surface. Surely they would make him a corporal when they saw the sword. They would recognize the quality for which it stood, and he would tell them that he had been trained before. Surely they would make him a corporal, maybe even a sergeant. They didn't. Though Durach awaited the assignment with held breath, he got just three words out of the man at the enlistment desk: "Name...Weapon...Next." He was, however, consoled by the fact that he and Caraid had been assigned to the same unit. The unit, comprised of fifty peasants with diverse weapons, was under the command of a hulking, chain-mailed, gauntleted, and mounted sergeant named Duine. Duine immediately let his unit know that he considered it below himself to work with such rabble, and that he was presently attempting to discover what he had done to offend the officials who had assigned him to the position. Training lasted half a day and consisted primarily of climbing ladders and ropes to the top of a high wall. Durach's unit trained side-by- side with five other similar units. There was no doubt what their job would be during the assault on Castle Cumach, and Durach beamed inside at the thought of scaling the enemy's walls, lifting Iarann high above his head, and bringing glory to the sword by routing the enemy forces. He awaited with anticipation the day they were to move on the castle. That day came too soon for many of the men in the army. There were the usual desertions, mostly peasant conscripts, which were invariably remedied by an arrow in the back of the deserter as he fled. The troops marched in a disorganized throng, moving slowly down the dusty road to death. Caraid, walking next to Durach, had a worried expression on his face. He was carrying the ancient thrusting spear the garrison had given him. All conscripts who had signed up without a weapon, as Caraid has, had been assigned some relic from Lord Airgid's armory. Durach spoke. "Why so grim?" Caraid turned his face to Durach. "I don't want to be a part of this. I just want to go back to the smithy. I'm not a soldier." "Ah," Durach said. "But look at it this way: this battle is a chance to earn fame and glory. Don't turn down the chance." "Only the nobles and friends of the Lord will earn fame and glory," Caraid mumbled. Noticing Durach's hurt expression, he added quickly, "and, of course, you and your sword will. But I have no such weapon." He brandished the spear. Its head shook loose and Caraid stumbled to catch it before it hit the ground. Ignoring the curses from a man behind, who had run into him as he stumbled, the big man straightened up and replaced the spear head. "That is a disadvantage," Durach sighed. "But your strength will carry you." Less than an hour later the high walls of the Castle Cumach began to rear themselves up ahead of the army. When the force finally emerged from around a low rise and saw the castle, the host slowed down to a crawl and looked on with awe. It was a large fortress, sitting proudly on the top of a low hill, red and green banners streaming from its towers. Half a mile beyond, in a shallow river valley, was the city the castle was built to protect. No troops were seen deployed outside the fortress, but its walls were briming with mail-clad warriors. A forest of pikes and long spears rose from the battlements, impressively catching the bright light of the afternoon sun. A noble to the rear of the host shouted, "Dost thou surrender?" The answering shower of arrows fell short of the troops but clearly expressed Castle Cumach's answer. The order came from the rear to storm the walls. The peasant units that had been trained with Durach's unit hefted the long, shabby ladders they had carried from Beartas and began moving hesitantly toward the ready pikes on the walls. Durach's sergeant, Duine, was no where to be seen. Several whips cracked somewhere behind and the mass broke into a disorganized charge. Durach tried to make his way to the front to lead the assault with uplifted sword, but his speed was no match for the younger members of the mob. About two hundred paces from the wall, nearly half of the people at the front of the charge fell to enemy archers. Another twenty or thirty fell at a hundred and fifty paces, at least forty fell at one hundred, and another forty or so at fifty paces. Then the mass was upon the wall. The ladders were thrown up and the attackers began to climb. Shower after shower of arrows swept the ladders clean. Durach shoved a man out of his way and leapt to the nearest ladder. As he began to climb, however, a pikeman on the wall pushed the top of the ladder away with his weapon and Durach fell backwards onto the ground. He scrambled to his feet and found himself facing the sloping field he had just charged across, and was shocked at what he saw. Beyond the hundred and more dead and wounded littering the field the armored regulars of the army of Beartas were retreating. A violent sense of betrayal surged through him. He wheeled and yelled to Caraid, whom he had seen nearby a moment ago. Durach quickly turned away with tears in his eyes as his friend screamed then crumpled under searing, boiling oil dropped from above. Durach ran. He made his way across the field to some trees on the other side. Most of the others were doing the same now. He ran until he couldn't run anymore, caught his breath, then ran again. His thoughts were not thoughts at all, but flashes of anger and surges of sorrow. By the time he reached Beartas' city limits, he had calmed down quite a bit. Skirting the city to get to his house, his face assumed a stone-like expression and he slowed to a walk, but his eyes held shadows of deep loss mixed with anger. Arriving home, Durach found he had left the door ajar, and a foul odor reminded him that he had left the pig carcass on his table. He stepped through the door and looked around. Nothing had changed. Slowly he looked up to the empty hooks on the wall above the fireplace, then to the sword he still grasped tightly in his right hand. Calmly, Durach walked over to the corner of the small room to the right of the cold fireplace and dropped the weapon to the floor. He stood silently looking at the cold, grey ashes in the fireplace, tears welling up in his eyes again. A sound behind him caused him to turn. Framed in the doorway was a familiar short, hooded figure. Calman pulled back his hood to reveal tangled, raven-black locks. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of deep understanding. He glanced at the sword on the floor, then spoke in a low voice. "Perhaps with my aid, you may yet be able to find Gliocas." Durach nodded and followed Calman away from Iarann. -Ron Meldrum <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Cydric and the Sage: Part 5 Author's note: The complete synopsis for parts 1 & 2 can be found in FSFnet VOL09N1, for part 3 in FSFnet VOL10N1. THE STORY SO FAR: In part 4 (chapters VIII-X), Cydric and Corambis head back to the house at twilight, stopping momentarily in the temple district so that the Sage can offer a brief prayer to the goddess Cahleyna. Cydric questions the necessity of worshipping the gods; Corambis seems offended but later accepts Cydric's apology. When they arrive back at the Sage's home, they have a light supper and prepare themselves for the opening of the Celestial Archway. The midnight hour arrives, the Archway appears, and the two step through. They materialize in the other realm on a deserted beach. The chrysoline ring that the Sage wears points them in the direction of the Elder. They do not walk far when they are stopped by an invisible barrier. Corambis uses the ring to smash through, and suddenly the Citadel of Sorrows, situated on a huge floating boulder, is revealed to them. A transportal disc teleports them up to the Citadel, and they begin exploring. They notice strange translucent stones scattered about the courtyard; Cydric keeps one. The ring leads them through an armory filled with rusty weapons, an old tapestry room, and finally up into a tower where they find Bahz the Elder. Bahz appears incredibly old and decrepit, but when Corambis tries to help him stand, the Elder snatches the chrysoline ring away from the Sage and laughs. Green flames surround the Elder, and his true identity is revealed: he is actually Nephros, mage of ancient Quentrellia and the first to physically travel the Dreamrealms. He casts a paralysis spell upon Cydric and Corambis, and they lose consciousness. XI. The Servant The first thing that Cydric felt when he awoke some time later was a pressure on his head. He looked around and saw that the room was now empty, save for Corambis, who was shackled to a wooden post at the other side of the room. He tried to stretch, and found that he was similarly restrained. He gave the chains a hard yank, but they remained securely fastened. "Milord Corambis!" he called, trying to wake the Sage. After a few moments, Corambis lifted his head. "How do you feel?" Cydric asked him. "Quite fine," replied the Sage. "But--" he stopped, and his jaw dropped in surprise. "What? What is it?" Cydric said, looking around. "My goddess has heard my prayers! She has not forgotten us!" the Sage said joyfully. "What do you mean?" Cydric asked, not understanding the Sage's elation. Just then the pressure lifted from his head, and a bizarre-looking little creature settled onto his shoulder. "Gaaah! What the hellblaze is it!" shouted Cydric, trying to shrug it off. "Relax, Cydric, it will not harm you. That is the Tozu, one of the special servants of Cahleyna." Corambis addressed the creature: "Forgive my young friend, O Tozu, for he is not used to being in the presence of one so distinguished as yourself." Cydric looked closely at the creature. It was very much like an owl, except for its human head and tiny pair of arms. "His reaction is understandable. I take no offense," replied the Tozu in a small, low-pitched voice. "And you are correct, Sir Corambis. Mistress Cahleyna has not forgotten you; she has sent me to tell you of the important duty you must perform." "Uh, excuse me, Zotu, or Tozu, or whatever your name is; could you please sit somewhere else?" Cydric said, feeling a little uncomfortable with the owl-man on his shoulder. "Cydric! Please do not embarrass me," said the Sage. "If you don't mind, I'd rather sit here," the Tozu replied, somewhat testily. "Fine with me, then," Cydric said, shrugging. The owl-man flapped to keep his balance and gave Cydric a disapproving frown. "First of all," said the Tozu, "let me tell you about Nephros. You may know that over a thousand years ago, he was the royal sorcerer of the Island of Quentrellia, and that he was the one who discovered the Amulet of Hanarn and thus the first mage to physically venture onto the dreamrealms. To escape the Fretheod invasion of the Island he fled into the dreamrealms and wandered about for a time, eventually finding his way to the Nether Realm." He paused, seeing the Sage's eyes widen. "You don't mean...he made a bargain with an Exile?" "Indeed he did. He promised Xothar the chance to escape from his prison in exchange for the power to dominate your world." Cydric remembered the stories of the Exiles: once they were seraphim, living in Lordsrealm with the All Creator, until Xothar and his followers revolted and tried to seize power. The All Creator crushed the rebellion, stripped them of their astral form, and flung them into the Nether Realm where they have been ever since. "Why did Nephros wait until now to try and free him?" Cydric asked. "He has tried many times before, but with no success," replied the Tozu. "This time, however, he may finally succeed." "Of course! The harmonic convergence happens tonight," interjected Corambis. "If he has a means of tapping the power from the alignment of the sun and stars, he may very well attain his goal." "Very true," said the Tozu. "He does in fact have the means--the Amulet of Hanarn. Now, Mistress Cahleyna and the other gods have appealed to the All Creator, and he has agreed to let them destroy Xothar once and for all. But since Xothar is in the Nether Realm, they cannot harm him, just as he cannot harm them. The All Creator is loathe to destroy any being, but has made an exception in this case. So, when Nephros opens the Celestial Archway, the gods shall attempt to strike a blow at Xothar. This means, of course, that Nephros must be allowed to complete the summoning ritual." "Wait, do you mean to say that you are not here to rescue us?" Cydric asked, incredulously. "As I said, Nephros must complete the ritual in order to gather enough power to open an Archway in the Nether Realm. He needs your...assistance, for the ritual to work." "Well, don't the gods have enough have power to do that themselves? I mean, they are gods, right?" "The All Creator devised the Nether Realm as a prison specifically for gods and other divine beings. No resident of Lordsrealm has any power over that place." "But mere mortals do? Anyway, what about us? I mean, myself and Milord Corambis. Surely Cahleyna will not let anything happen to one of her worshippers?" "Naturally. But you do understand that if Xothar escapes, he will take the rest of the dwellers of the Nether Realm with him, as well as the other Exiles. He will make war upon Lordsrealm, and the universe shall suffer." "But you will help us get out of here after the ritual, right?" The Tozu hesitated. "Unfortunately, the Citadel will also have to be destroyed. This was once a place of great power, that is why Nephros chose it. I can't help you once the ritual is begun." Corambis said: "I understand, O Tozu. It will be an honor to die for my goddess." "She is not *my* goddess," said Cydric. "Anyway, I thought the gods were more powerful than any one seraphim. The battle will not take all their energy and concentration, will it?" "It may. Xothar will undoubtedly have all his evil forces waiting, and the gods have to send a combined power strike to insure their destruction." "So you are saying that it is up to us to make our own escape?" "In effect, yes." "Some divine being you are!" "Please, Cydric, do not speak that way to him," said Corambis. The Tozu stiffened for a moment, then said, "Nephros is returning from his preparations. The Convergence is near. Remember what I have said." "We will, O Tozu. Thank you." "Blessings of Cahleyna be with you." With that, the Tozu flapped his wings and flew off out the window. XII. The Ritual A few moments later, Nephros entered the room. "So, my friends, did you have a good sleep?" he asked. They said nothing. "What, lizard-man got your tongue?" he laughed. "Why us?" asked Cydric. "Why not you?" Nephros replied, setting the brazier he had been carrying down in the center of the room. "I mean, why did you go through all that trouble with the visions? You could have easily kidnapped us or something." "I needed you both to come willingly. Would you have come otherwise? I doubt it. I perceived that the old man would be interested in the story about Bahz, so I cast my bait, and you came right as I expected." Taking a jar of paint and a brush from the brazier, he began marking out a large triangle, with Cydric at one point and Corambis at the other, humming as he did so. "Just what is this all about, anyway?" Cydric asked. "You certainly are an inquisitive one, aren't you? Well, I see no harm in telling. I am preparing to bring a being of immense power onto this plane. In return for that, he'll grant me supreme mastery over the world. Lord Nephros, Emperor of Makdiar--sounds great, doesn't it?" "For you, maybe. Just what do you need us for?" "Well, for this whole thing to work, I need a couple of sacrifices and a host body for the being--Xothar's his name, you know him?" "Legends say he was banished to the Nether Realm." "Not for long. At the Convergence point, I'll open the StarDoor into the Nether Realm, and he'll be freed, along with the rest of his friends. And then I'll have powers beyond all measuring--why, I'll be able to raze Dargon Keep in thirty seconds if the notion so took me!" He put the finishing touches on the triangle and stepped back. "Wonderful. Almost ready." "What did my vision mean?" Cydric asked. "Merely bits and pieces of your dreams and desires. I can't remember exactly." He threw the paint jar out the window, then brought out a leather bag. He emptied the contents into the brazier. "One last thing." He turned to the empty third point of the triangle and made some motions with his hands. A wooden post appeared in place. He moved to the window and glanced up into the sky. "Excellent. The Convergence is nigh." He chuckled. Cydric looked over at Corambis. The Sage had his eyes closed, and appeared to be meditating. "Now where did I put her? Oh yes, I remember." Nephros left the room, and came back a few moments later dragging a struggling young girl behind him. "No! Let me go! Help!" she screamed. "A nice virgin sacrifice," Nephros said. "Can't have a ritual without one." Cydric lunged against his chains. "Let her go, you bastard!" "Such fire and spirit. What a strong life-force. Yes, a prime sacrifice victim. I'll kind of miss her," Nephros said. "Help me please!" the girl sobbed at Cydric. "You let her go, or I'll--" "You'll what? Kill me?" Nephros smirked. He put his hand over the girl's eyes, and her struggles ceased. He placed her up against the wooden post and chained her hands behind her. "Xothar will like her. More than he'll like the old man, I'm afraid." "Not him too--" "This is a pretty big ritual, you know. Twice as many sacrifices as usual. It had better work this time." He moved to stand over the brazier. "Well?" he said, looking at Cydric. "No last minute pleas for mercy?" Cydric glared at him. "No, I guess not. I rather expected you to offer yourself as a sacrifice in place of the girl. Your type is always doing that sort of 'noble' thing. Well?" Cydric started to speak but bit down his reply. "I didn't think so. Anyway, I can't sacrifice you, since you have the honor of being Xothar's new astral form. I don't think he'd appreciate flying around in the body of a tired old man or a delicate young lass, now would he?" He grinned. "Now, if there is no other business, I say let the festivities begin!" A flame appeared in the brazier. Moments later, a cloud of purple smoke rose up into the air. Nephros reached into his tunic and brought out a small object on a chain. The Amulet of Hanarn, Cydric supposed. "Spirits of the sun, hear me!" began Nephros. "Movers of the stars, attend me!" The smoke formed into a rough sphere. "Powers of the void, grant me your strength. As the heavens come together in the perfect pattern, let their brilliance shine upon me!" He raised the Amulet above his head. There was a rumbling sound in the distance. "Oroc criat naestrum. Oroc criat naestrum," chanted Nephros. Cydric wanted to cry out, to distrupt the proceedings, but the words of the Tozu prevented him from doing so. He saw the Sage, unmoving on his post. The girl, a wisp of brown hair across her face, stood just as still. "Oroc criat naestrum," intoned Nephros with closed eyes. "Sun and heavens, moon and stars. Sun and heavens, moon and stars." The center stone of the Amulet began glowing. The room grew dark. The purple cloud lit up with an inner light. "Oroc criat naestrum. Sun and heavens, moon and stars!" The rumbling grew louder. The light from the Amulet started pulsing. The purple cloud twisted restlessly. "The time is near," said Nephros. He released the Amulet, which hung suspended in mid-air. He went to the girl, unlocked her chains, and motioned her to follow him. Glassy-eyed, she obeyed. Nephros made her hold her arm out over the brazier in the center of the cloud, and when she had done so, cut her wrist with a dagger. The blood mixed into the smoke, giving it a crimson tint. Cydric cried out when he realized that Nephros was using his sundagger. "Silence!" shouted Nephros. Cydric felt himself go stiff, just like the first time. Nephros waved the girl back to her post. He went over and released Corambis from his chains. The Sage opened his eyes and straightened at the mage's command. Nephros mixed Corambis' blood into the cloud as he did with the girl's, then motioned him back. Taking hold of the Amulet once more, Nephros resumed chanting. "Oroc criat naestrum. Oroc criat naestrum." The rumbling sound changed to a low pulsing rhythm that kept time with the light pulses from the Amulet. The sound increased in volume, along with the mage's chanting. "Oroc criant naestrum. Oroc criat naestrum! OROC CRIAT NAESTRUM!" A beam of light lashed out from the Amulet and struck the center of the cloud. There was a sharp crackle, and the Archway snapped open. "THE STARS CONVERGE IN PERFECT UNISON! ENTER, O XOTHAR! THE PATH IS CLEAR!" shouted Nephros. A strong wind rushed out from the Archway, ruffling everyone in the room but not affecting the purple cloud that obscured the view into the astral portal. "ENTER, GREAT XOTHAR! NEPHROS BIDS THEE ENTER!" Neprhos shouted above the screaming wind. Cydric watched in horror as he took the girl by the shoulders and shoved her into Archway. She vanished, then there was a brief sparkle of red. A dim form began to take shape within the Archway. As the form solidified, Cydric could make out claws, horns, and fangs. Nephros exclaimed joyfully. Suddenly, several other forms appeared in the smoke. They were human in appearance, but the brilliant radiance surrounding each of them marked them as gods. "No! Please, not now! So close!" Nephros yelled. The lead god, a woman, pointed at the grotesque form of Xothar. A shaft of pure golden light shot out from her fingertips and struck the Exile. The room shook with the impact. Nephros lost his balance and fell as a wrenching roar filled the air. Cydric slumped forward as the paralysis left him. Xothar raised his fist and a blast of red energy flared out. The room shook again as the fire punched into the group of gods. Corambis sprang forward and snatched up Cydric's sundagger where Nephros had dropped it. The Sage leaped onto Nephros's chest, pinning him to the floor. He took a gold key from the mage's pocket, then struck him in the head with the pommel of the sundagger. Cydric stared at the unconscious sorcerer as Corambis unlocked his chains. "Didn't think I had it in me, eh?" the Sage grinned, noting the young man's surprised expression. The room trembled with the force of the godly struggle. XIII. Escape From The Citadel Cydric and Corambis raced out of the room and down the stairs. Another explosion rocked the castle, and chunks of stone began crumbling from the ceiling. "Hurry!" said Corambis, handing Cydric back his sundagger. "The whole mountain may fall into the sea at any moment!" They ran through the corridors, reached the tapestry room, and stopped. Several large lizards lay sprawled across the mosaic floor. Upon Cydric and Corambis' entry, they turned and began crawling towards them. "We cannot go through here!" said Cydric. "We don't have time to find another way," replied Corambis. He took the bag of dried fruit from his belt and tossed it into the center of the room. A small lizard slithered over to it and took it into his mouth in one gulp. "Shield your eyes, milord," Cydric said, holding the sundagger in front of him. When the Sage had done so, Cydric closed his own eyes and silently gave the blade a command. A white light flared outward from the blade, flooding the room with brightness for a brief second. Cydric opened his eyes. The lizards had stopped in their tracks, but resumed their course after a moment's hesitation. "They should have been blinded by that!" said Cydric. "They are," said Corambis, "but these lizards hunt by scent also." An explosion shook the room. "Then we have no other choice. We must find another escape route," Cydric said, turning. "Hold on," said the Sage as he took out his pipe and filled it. "You do not have time for that!" "Call it my final smoke." The Sage puffed, then said "Shafan fazar!" He took another puff, then blew the smoke outward. The aromatic cloud rose into the air and quickly filled the room. The lizards hesitated, then started wandering aimlessly, as if confused. "Ha ha! That got 'em!" Corambis grinned. "Come on!" He started forward into the lizard-infested room. They carefully threaded their way past the lumbering reptiles. Cydric was almost to the other end of the room when a particularly large lizard caught hold of the end of his cloak. He kicked the beast in the head, but it stubbornly refused to let go. Cydric swore, then bent down and thrust the sundagger between the reptile's eyes. It twitched, then relaxed its jaws as it died. Cydric wiped the blood off the blade as he joined the Sage. "Nasty brute?" Corambis asked as they hurried down the corridor. They reached the armory. Cydric opened the door that led to the courtyard and was greeted by a horde of walking human skeletons, all made of crystal. He gave a cry of surprise, then shut the door. "What is it?" asked the Sage. The door shook as the skeletons began pounding on it. "You would not want to know," said Cydric. He slid a wooden bar across the door, then went over to one of the tables and turned it on its side, dumping the rusted weapons to the floor. He and Corambis slid the table over and shoved it against the door. They paused for a moment to catch their breath. Suddenly, Cydric felt a warmth in his pocket. He reached in and brought out the translucent stone he had picked up in the courtyard. It glowed brightly and gave off increasing heat. Cydric tossed it away. As it hit the floor, the stone shattered and a crystal skeleton sprang up in its place. "Now we know what those stones were," Corambis said grimly. The skeleton looked around, then bent down and picked up a sword. At the skeleton's touch, the rust on the blade vanished. It glowed briefly, then appeared like new. "Cydric! Don't let it pick up anything else!" warned Corambis. Cydric grabbed a nearby shield and threw it at the skeleton. It struck the crystal creature in the chest, causing it to stagger back. The skeleton quickly recovered and retrieved the shield which, like the sword, was restored to perfect condition. "Helldamn," muttered Cydric. He quickly scanned the ground, then took up a broadsword that appeared to have the least rust on it. Picking up a wooden shield, he strode toward the skeleton to engage it in battle. They circled each other warily, then the skeleton gave an eerie cry and struck the first blow. Cydric blocked with his shield, and was nearly driven to his knees by the force of the strike. He slashed, and the skeleton jumped back. Cydric regained his stance and went on the attack. They duelled back and forth in the center of the room, but slowly, Cydric found himself being driven back. He briefly reflected that the skeletons must at one time have been the flesh-and-blood guards of the palace. His shield suddenly splintered to pieces as his opponent's sword came down upon it. Cydric barely had time to parry the next blow with his own severely notched sword. The skeleton easily deflected Cydric's riposte, then lunged forward. Cydric avoided the strike and swung his sword at the skeleton's head. There was a sharp crack as the skeleton bit down on the sword and split it in half. With a look of dismay, Cydric dropped the sundered blade and jumped back. He barely avoided the skeleton's next slash, then found himself back up against the wall. The skeleton thrusted, Cydric twisted, and the blade struck the stone. Cydric brought his fists down on the skeleton's back, and it pitched against the wall. As it slid to the floor, Cydric gave the skeleton a solid kick. It flipped over onto its back, and the sword went flying. Cydric stepped over the skeleton to retrieve the blade, but a bony hand lashed out and grabbed his ankle. Cydric slammed into the ground. He tried to kick loose from the skeleton's grasp, but it grabbed hold of his other ankle. Cydric cried out in pain as it tightened its grip. He desperately stretched his arm out, trying to seize the sword that lay just beyond his reach. Just then, Corambis raced over, picked up the sword, and plunged it into the skeleton's back. The crystal creature let out an inhuman shriek, then exploded into a fine crystalline dust. "Can you walk?" Corambis asked, helping Cydric to his feet. The young man winced, then shakily stood unassisted. "I think so. They are only a little sore." A skeletal arm burst through the door. Corambis rushed over and hacked it off. "It seems our friends are becoming rather impatient." Cydric limped over to the door on the opposite wall and opened it. Several lizards from the tapestry room were making their way down the corridor. Corambis eyed the advancing reptiles, then reached for his pipe. Not finding it at his side, he searched the rest of his belt pouches but came up empty. "My pipe! It must have fallen back there somewhere," he said. Cydric shut the door and leaned back against it. On the other door, the skeletons were slowly breaking through. "What do we do now?" Cydric asked. The Sage made no reply as he surveyed the room. Then his eyes lit up as he thought of a plan. He handed Cydric the skeleton's sword. "Delay them as long as possible. I have an idea." "What do you plan to do?" "No time to explain, but if it doesn't work it won't matter." Cydric took a stand in front of the courtyard-entry door and proceeded to chop the limbs off any skeleton that threatened to break through. Meanwhile, Corambis shoved one of the wooden tables into the corner of the room farthest from the embattled door, turned another table onto its side and put it against the first, forming a rectangular box. He then gathered up some of the weapons and dropped them in a pile at Cydric's feet. "Now, Cydric, get under the tables over there. I'll join you in a moment." Cydric did so. Corambis opened the door to admit the lizards, pushed the table away from the other door, then finally hurried back to the wooden shelter, dragging a piece of plate mail behind him to cover the open end. "Now what?" asked Cydric. "We wait." Through a knothole in the table, Cydric watched as the lizards made their way into the room just as the skeletons succeeded in smashing down the door. With their eerie battle cry, the skeletons snatched up weapons and began to hack the lizards to pieces. As the last reptile died, a massive tremor ripped through the room. Cydric cringed as the ceiling and most of the walls collapsed inwards, crushing the skeletons beneath piles of rubble. Moments later, all was still. Corambis pushed aside the plate mail and crawled out. Cydric followed. "Thank Cahleyna the builders spared no expense in furnishing the Citadel," breathed Corambis. "Were these tables not made of heartwood, we would surely be under a great deal of pressure." Another tremor nearly jolted them off their feet. "I think we best get going," said Cydric. They started to climb out of the rubble, but after a few moments Cydric was forced to rest. "It's those ankles, eh?" said Corambis, crouching down next to the young man. Cydric nodded. The Sage brought out a vial from one of his pouches and rubbed the contents on Cydric's affected extremities. A few minutes later, the pain vanished and Cydric was able to walk again. Cracks started appearing in the ground by the time the two men made it to the front gates. Cydric looked back and saw large sections of the once-proud Citadel crumble away into ruin. "Hurry, Cydric!" called the Sage. They sprinted toward the mountain's edge to where the transportal disc lay, but just before they reached it a huge gash opened up the ground in front of them. They frantically scrambled back as a huge chunk of the floating boulder dropped away into space, taking the transportal disc with it. Cydric's heart sank. "That was our only way off this helldamned rock," he said despairingly. "Courage up, Cydric, there must be another way down," Corambis said, trying to sound reassuring. Just then, a weird cry caused them to turn. Several crystal skeletons, apparently survivors of the room collapse, were rushing toward them with weapons drawn. "I do not think we will get out of this alive," said Cydric, raising the skeleton sword. "You may be right this time," Corambis said tightly. The skeletons drew nearer. Cydric braced himself for the onslaught. If he was to die, then let it be in battle. His mentor would have been proud. Suddenly, a small winged shape swooped out of the sky. "Look! It's the Tozu!" Corambis pointed. "Jump!" screeched the owl-man. "Did he say 'jump' ?" asked Cydric. "By the gods! Jump now!" "Do it," Corambis said, turning to the edge of the mountain. "Are you serious?" "Have faith, Cydric. Or face the alternative." The skeletons were mere seconds away. "But--" Cydric never finished the sentence. Corambis pushed him over the edge, then leaped after him. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!" Cydric's scream echoed through the heavens as he tumbled through empty air toward the beach below. He shut his eyes against the sky and ground that spun and whirled into a featureless blur. He was still screaming when Corambis landed by him on the beach. "Cydric! Stop that! We are safe," said the Sage, shaking him by the shoulders. The screaming continued. Corambis gave him another hearty shake, then slapped him resoundingly across the face. "Cydric! Listen to me!" The young man's outcries subsided to ragged gasps. A few moments later he sat up. "W-we're not dead?" "We are very much alive, as you can see. Are you all right?" "How?" "It was my doing," said the Tozu, coming to a hover nearby. "I am not without powers of my own. Now hurry! They are right behind." Cydric looked up. The skeletons had jumped off the mountain after them and were free-falling toward their position. "Won't they be killed when they hit the ground?" "The undead cannot be killed, only destroyed," the Tozu replied. "I'd suggest you not be here when they arrive." "But where do we go? How do we get back to our own realm?" "Leave that to me. For now, just get as far away as possible!" With that, the Tozu flapped his wings and took off. Cydric and Corambis started off down the beach. Behind them, the floating mountain slowly disintegrated. Great slabs of rock slid off and splashed into the water below. The first crystal skeleton off the mountain smashed heavily into the ground, breaking all of its bones. The skull, however, remained intact; it rose up from the pile of bones and flew off in pursuit of the two men. Cydric looked back and saw the grisly cranium give chase. Behind it, three more skeletons struck the beach and shattered; their skulls quickly arose and joined the pursuit. Corambis stumbled and fell. Cydric help him up, and they continued their desperate flight. Several moments later, Cydric felt a pain near his neck. He turned and saw the first skull sinking its crystal jaws into his shoulder. He cried out, then whipped off his cloak, throwing the skull to the ground. "Keep going!" he shouted to the Sage. He drew his sundagger and lunged for the skull, but it flew up and hovered just out of striking range. Cydric jabbed at it repeatedly, but each time it darted out of reach. Realizing that it was too quick, Cydric snatched up his cloak and flung it like a net at the skull. The cloth caught the fleshless head; Cydric fancied that it looked like a small blue ghost as it darted randomly about. Catching sight of more approaching skulls, he retrieved his dropped sundagger and took off at a run after the Sage. "I can't go much longer," wheezed Corambis as Cydric reached him. "I'm far too old for this sort of thing." "Where is that damn Tozu-bird?" Cydric cursed. He glanced back and counted at least eight rapidly-gaining skulls. He turned his attention forward and felt his blood run cold; a short distance away, the line of barren rocks that bordered the beach angled sharply into the sea. They were out of running room. Despair washed over Cydric as they came to a halt at the rocky barrier. "Blaze damn," he muttered darkly. Just then he heard a familiar flap of wings. The Tozu descended out of the sky, clutching the Amulet of Hanarn in its talons. There was a blaze of rainbow light as the Celestial Archway materialized at the foot of the rock wall. "Enter! Quickly!" the Tozu screeched. Corambis leaped through the portal. Cydric paused and looked back just in time to see a massive bolt of lightning lance down from the sky and strike the Citadel. There was a fiery explosion, and the huge mountain of rock began to fall toward the water. Seconds before the skulls reached him, Cydric turned and dived through the Archway. XIV. Return He landed in the Sage's study. For several minutes he lay there, panting and exhausted. After a little of his strength returned, he got up and found the Sage lying on the floor nearby. "Milord Corambis! Are you all right?" The Sage wearily sat up. "I'm fine, Cydric. I simply found the floor rather comfortable at the moment." "I shall get you some water," Cydric said. He started to rise. The study door flew open. A red-haired girl dressed in a black tunic and leggings came through, saw them, and whipped out a pair of throwing daggers. "Don't move, if you wish to live," she warned. Cydric recognized her. "Holleena! What are you doing here?" "Quiet!" Not taking her eyes off them, she called over here shoulder, "Thuna! In here." A nervous-looking dark-haired girl came in, holding a coil of rope. "Tie them up," Holleena commanded. "But Holleena, I don't think they--" "Do it!" As Thuna started toward them, Corambis whispered, "It seems that we have slipped from the dragon's teeth into the stomach!" Cydric grimly agreed. Epilogue After Thuna had bound them, Holleena relaxed her stance. "Who are you? Why have you invaded my house?" the Sage demanded. "Watch it, old man, or I'll do something very painful to you," Holleena said, putting away one of the daggers. "You promised you wouldn't harm him," said Thuna, nervously glancing at Corambis. "You're getting on my nerves, girlie. Now shut up and keep out of this!" Holleena shot back. She turned to Corambis. "Now then, old man, I understand you own a very valuable jewel. Mind letting me know where it is?" "What is this, Holleena? You didn't seem like the thieving kind," said Cydric. Holleena smiled, then delivered a slap across Cydric's face. "I seem to be getting a lot of that lately," he murmured. The red-haired young woman eyed her dagger, then looked straight at Corambis. "The Rainbow Stone, old man. Tell me where it is." "I have many stones and jewels. Take whatever you want and leave!" "You know what I'm talking about, old man. If you really are as wise as they say, you'll tell me where you've hidden it." "I have no idea what you mean," the Sage replied. "Very well." Holleena walked about casually, then seized Thuna by the hair and placed the dagger to her throat. "Does this help your memory?" "Please, Holleena," Thuna gasped. "I-I thought we were partners." The Sage went white. "All right," he said, a tremble in his voice. "But please, don't hurt her." "I knew you were wise," Holleena said, smiling a sweet, wicked smile. Just then Cydric heard a mechanical click, followed instantly by a soft *thunk*. Holleena gave a cry of pain and dropped her dagger. As she whirled away from Thuna, Cydric saw a crossbow bolt sticking out of the back of her shoulder. "Well, m'love, appears we made it here just in time," came a male voice from the doorway. Thuna backed away, and Cydric saw a man and a woman standing just inside the room. The woman lowered her crossbow. "Hello, Cydric, " she said, smiling. "Looks like I've saved your life yet again." After the woman had freed Cydric and Corambis from their bonds, the Sage removed the bolt from Holleena's shoulder and applied a healing salve. The crossbow woman's companion then took the young red-haired thief upstairs to lock her in one of the rooms. "This is the woman I was telling you about in the marketplace," Cydric told Corambis as they took seats around the Sage's table. "You don't know how glad I am to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Kittara," said Corambis. Kittara smiled. "Thank you, milord. I'm glad we could help." Just then the man who was with Kittara strode into the room. "The girl's doing fine. We should be able to question her in a bit." To Kittara he said, "You sure are a dead shot, love. Almost too good." She introduced the leather-clad man as her partner, Reyakeen Sylk. "Good to know you, sirs," Sylk said as he gripped forearms with the two men. "Sorry to trouble you this late." "That's quite all right," replied Corambis. "But tell me, Lord Sylk, how did you happen to be in this part of town? I do live rather removed from the center of Dargon's activity." "Just call me Sylk. Actually, milord, it was no mere coincidence. Kittara and I had been following Holleena and the girl over there for the last few days." Thuna, who had been sitting apart from the rest of them, blurted out, "You must believe me, milord! I didn't want anything to happen to you. She promised she wouldn't hurt you, and she offered me so much money, I just--just--" she burst into tears. "There, there, my girl," Corambis said soothingly, going over and letting her cry on his shoulder. "What is she talking about?" he asked Sylk. Kittara replied, "You see, milord, Holleena is a professional thief. Like she said, she was after your Rainbow Stone. Since Thuna is in your employ, Holleena bribed her into helping break into your house. They had made a copy of your house key, and were planning to carry out the theft last night, but Cydric's arrival made them change their plans slightly." She brought out a small pewter key and handed it to the Sage. "I'm so sorry," wept Thuna. "Please forgive me." "Don't worry about it, my dear," Corambis said gently. He motioned to Cydric. The young man came over, and the Sage passed the weeping girl into his arms. "Take her to one of the guest rooms." "Uh, there there, Thuna, please don't cry," Cydric said awkwardly as he led her from the kitchen. "I'm sorry, I can't help it," Thuna said in a teary voice as they entered one of the ground-floor guest rooms of the house. Cydric sat her down on the bed, then turned to leave. "Please don't go." Cydric felt his stomach knot up. "Uh, yes?" "I'm very sorry if I've embarrassed you. I want to explain about what happened in the booth." "Oh, that. Really, there is no need. I understand. Now I--" "You don't understand. Please let me explain." She motioned him to sit next to her. Cydric hesitated, then sat down a chair. "You have someone else in your life, don't you?" Thuna asked. "Is it that obvious?" "It was when I first kissed you. You held back as long as you could. I'm sorry that I had to do that to you, but I thought you were just like the rest." "What do you mean?" "Well, you see, Holleena wanted me to help her steal that jewel they were talking about. At first I refused, but then she offered me more gold that I had ever seen in my life, and I...I..." She swallowed, then continued. "We were planning to steal it the night that you arrived in Dargon. I was surprised when you asked me about Master Corambis, but Holleena told me she would first find out why you wanted to see him. I suppose you didn't tell her anything, because the next day she came to the Tavern and asked me to try and find out. She took a deep breath, then rose and moved to stand by the window. Staring out at the moon, she said, "Men would just spill all their closest secrets to me when I revealed myself to them. I thought it would work on you as well, but you were different. I'm sorry if I've made you feel unfaithful to your girl, and I don't blame you if you're angry with me, but I just wanted you to know the truth." She sighed and turned to face him. "Can you truly forgive me?" "Of course, Thuna. Thank you for being honest." He cringed inwardly, thinking of how close he had come to falling for Thuna's persuasion, just like the rest of her men. "I just hope Master Corambis can forgive me as well. How could I do such a thing to him, after all he's done for me? I don't deserve to live here anymore." Thuna flung herself facedown on the bed. "He will understand. I know he will." Cydric tentatively patted her shoulder, then quietly left the room. He returned to the kitchen and found the Sage alone. "Where did they go?" he asked. "Kittara and her friend went up to check on Holleena. The poor girl can't be moved just now, so all three of them will be staying here for the night." "Thuna as well?" "Of course. It's too late to take her to the Tavern in any case." "Do you still trust her?" "I still have hope for her." Cydric looked out the kitchen window at the full moon that shone brightly down upon the city. His brow furrowed as he turned to look at the kitchen water-clock. "How long would you say we were in the other realm?" Cydric asked. The Sage poured two glasses of wine. "Well, it took us perhaps an hour to get to the barrier, and we spent another half hour exploring the Citadel. But I can't tell how long we were unconscious." "According to the clock, we were gone at most ten minutes." "Most amazing! Apparently, time passes at different rates in the other realms. That must be why Nephros did not appear to have aged very much, though he was certainly over a thousand summers old." Cydric took the glass from Corambis. "Did Kittara and that Sylk character tell you why they were following Holleena and Thuna?" "They said they were on some sort of mission for Duke Jastrik of Arvalia, as his 'special representatives'. They even had a gold Authority Seal." "Did they say what their mission was?" "It must be rather important, for they would not elaborate when I asked them. Sylk even asked that we not mention their visit here to anyone." Cydric drained the last of the wine from his glass, then yawned. "I think I will go to bed now. It certainly was an eventful day." "How right you are, Cydric. Rest well." In the morning, Cydric went down and found the table set for breakfast. He took a slice of bread and cheese and sat down, wondering why no one else was at the table. A moment later, Kittara came through the door. "Good morn, Cydric," she said, smiling. Cydric returned the greeting. The chestnut-haired woman piled some bread, fruit, and cheese onto a plate, then started to leave. "Aren't you eating here?" Cydric asked. "This is for Holleena. We're keeping her up in the room until we're ready to leave." She put a piece of bread in her mouth and left. Several minutes later, Corambis entered alone. "Where is Sylk and Thuna?" asked Cydric. "Sylk went outside for a while. Thuna will be up shortly." As the Sage helped himself to breakfast, Cydric said, "There is one thing that I haven't been able to figure out." "What would that be?" "The vision that Nephros sent me. He said it was made from my dreams and desires, but I am still not sure what it means." "Well, Cydric, I think you know enough to be able to interpret it. For instance, what do you think the golden sea represented?" "I don't know; the sun, perhaps? Gold pieces?" "Gold pieces, most likely. And why do you think the water lost its color when you went to drink it?" "You are not suggesting...that my breath has an odor?" Corambis laughed. "No, no. Bearing in mind what you told me in the tavern, here is how I would interpret your vision: The sea represents your father's position as Royal Treasurer, which deals with money, gold especially. It turned colorless when you tried to drink it, reflecting the fact that you did not wish to follow him in his profession. And the shining object on the horizon stood for your desire to leave home and have adventures." "Yes, it all makes sense. And all of it is indeed true." After Sylk and Kittara had left with Holleena, Corambis said, "Well, Cydric, I must be packing, as well." "Packing for what? You aren't leaving, are you?" "I am indeed, Cydric. This whole experience has made me aware of just how fragile our lives are. We could have died many times back there in the Citadel; it is only by the grace of Cahleyna that we escaped and lived to tell about it. Therefore, I am going to Shireton to visit my daughter. I haven't seen her in five summers." "Your daughter? I didn't even know you were married." "My wife passed away some time ago." "Oh, I see. I am sorry." "Thank you, Cydric. But perhaps you would like to come with me, eh? Trissa and her husband would be very glad to meet you." "I appreciate the offer, but I think I will stay in Dargon for a while longer. There is much I have yet to see." "Of course. Well, you may stay in my house for as long as you are in Dargon. Let me show you around first." "You are too kind, milord. How long will you be gone?" "For the winter, maybe longer. It depends on how Trissa is doing." "I shall take care of you house until your return, then." "Fine. I am sure you will like living here." "There is one thing, though: could you tell me how to get into the laboratory?" Corambis grinned. "I was wondering when you would bring that up!" They left the room, Cydric listening intently to the Sage's arcane words. -Carlo N. Samson <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ELEVEN NUMBER ONE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb For the Umpteenth Time James G. Thayer *Stranger in the Mist Jeff Lee Review: Hart's Hope 'Orny' Liscomb *A Scent in the Air Becki Tants Necrolepsy Bob Aspel Review: A Man Rides Through M. Wendy Hennequin *Spirit of the Wood: 7 Rich Jervis Date: 051288 Dist: 641 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial To begin the issue on a serious note, on the morning of Sunday May 8th, Robert A. Heinlein died. At age 80, Heinlein had been suffering with emphysema and heart disease, and although the news is not unexpected, it does not lessen the impact of his death upon his fans. Heinlein's works span a period of fifty years, from the early days of science fiction to the present. He won four Hugo awards and has written such classic SF works as "Stranger in a Strange Land", "Starship Troopers", "Time Enough for Love", "The Moon is a Harsh Mistress" and many, many others. His writing has touched many of our lives, and there is no doubt that his works will continue to be regarded as classic science fiction for years to come. In this issue you'll find a little of everything. We've got two SF shorts which I'm sure you'll enjoy, two short reviews, and three Dargon Project stories. We have Becki Tants' second Dargon story, and Rich Jervis' continuation of the 'Spirit of the Wood' storyline. We also have the first submission from the newest member of the Dargon Project, Jeff Lee. I was thoroughly impressed with the story, and I hope you enjoy it equally. As this is the first issue of the summer volume, I find many of the people who regularly contribute articles and stories to FSFnet leaving the network for the summer. This means that unless some new people decide to submit items, the number of issues you receive this summer will be minimal. I'd like to strongly urge anyone who can write to consider submitting a story, or possibly writing an article, review, or even a featured author column. If you are interested, please get in touch with me, and I'll let you know what the basic requirements are. Remember, I can only print what you submit, so if you want to see something different in the zine, feel free to contribute something, and I'll work it in. With that, and a welcome to the new readers, I leave you to enjoy this excellent issue. Regards, all, and enjoy your summer... -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> For the Umpteenth Time Dr. Sherman Anderson adjusted his device for the umpteenth time. He almost had it now; with just a few final adjustments, his time machine would be ready to be shown to the world. The press conference was scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes, and the reporters were already getting anxious in the auditorium. With the help of an assistant, Dr. Anderson pushed the device out onto the stage, behind the curtain. Then, shooing off the assistant, he stepped out from behind the curtain and stood at the podium. "Ladies and gentlemen of the press, may I have your attention please?" Dr. Anderson said into the microphones. Slowly, everyone grew silent out of respect to this great man. "I have called you here today to announce the greatest discovery of my career -- indeed, perhaps the greatest discovery in all human history. For centuries, Man was limited to travel in two dimensions. We could travel the length and the breadth of the Earth, but it was only less than one hundred years ago that Orville and Wilbur Wright breached the third dimension and allowed Man to fly. "Today, yet another dimension has been pierced and opened for Man to explore. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am here to announce that I have assembled the first device that will allow Man to move through the fourth dimension of time as easily as we currently travel through three. "Rather than giving you all the boring technical details now, my staff has prepared a pamphlet explaining how this works. Instead, I offer you a demonstration, actual proof that this device is capable of doing what I have promised. In fact, so confident am I of this device, I have not even tested it yet. Right now, you all shall witness the miracle I have discovered as I turn time back 15 minutes!" A hush fell over the crowd as Dr. Anderson threw a switch on the device. Then, in literally no time at all, a single impulse expanded from deep within the device to encompass the entire universe as time moved backwards precisely fifteen minutes. Dr. Sherman Anderson adjusted his device for the umpteenth time... -James G. Thayer <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Stranger in the Mist The cool white shroud lay like a benison over the sweltering city of Dargon. Though the fog seemed to crouch in every corner, as a hungry beast would lie in wait for its prey, the mist was welcomed by the inhabitants; it was gladly received as an interlude in the incessant heat of this long, unusually hot summer. As the people relaxed in the early evening, a darker shadow clung to the wall encircling the city. Slowly -- for the wall glistened with the moisture of the mist -- this shadow crept yet closer to the top of the wall. It had almost reached the top when its hand, probing for a minute crack with which to pull the shadow further up, encountered an outthrusting of stone, placed there for the very purpose of deterring intruders. The shadow hung there for a moment, head bowed, then reached its hand up once more. Its fingers pushed into the stone as though it were potter's clay, and the shadow pulled itself around the stone barricade in this manner. When it had reached the top, the figure emitted a soft keening of shame. A dog looked up curiously from the street, saw a human sitting atop the city wall, knees tucked under its chin. It wore little clothing, noted the dog, who never had understood why humans clothed themselves anyway. A cat's piercing miaow drew the dog's attention away, however, and it trotted off in the direction of the sound. Drawing a slim cord from a pouch, the slender figure slipped out from the embrasure between two merlons and crouched on the archers' platform. It waited until the moon was hidden behind a thick bank of clouds before descending, bracing itself against the support beam with the cord. At the bottom, the glow from a nearby window revealed the figure to be that of a young woman, barely clad in leather. Her long black hair shimmered in the yellow light, and her dark eyes gleamed as she scanned the streets and alleys. She started as the sound of footsteps sounded at the door of the nearby house. As there was no cover near, she threw herself to the ground and rolled up against the city wall. As the chill stone pressed against her flesh, she prayed that the fog would offer her enough cover to escape detection. She shivered as the footsteps came closer, relaxed a bit as they went off to one side. They stopped, not ten feet from her head, and she heard the sound of fabric rustling. Something began splattering against the wall where the walker was, and an acrid stench wafted her way. Trying to keep from gagging, she held her breath and prayed that he would finish quickly. After a while, the splashing faded, and the walker breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He turned, finished refastening his clothes, and walked back to his house. She released her pent-up breath, took three shaky, deep breaths, then stood and crept quickly and silently away. By following the alleyways and searching all of the trash heaps she could find, she procured enough clothing to cover herself in the manner of the people she had observed from the alleys. Noting the glow over one part of the city, and hearing the noises from that direction, she surmised that there she would find a market. As she entered the market, she straightened up, seemed bolder in visage, and attempted to look nonchalant as she gathered in her surroundings. The babble going on around her was incomprehensible; among the aspirants and palatal consonants of her own language were harsher glottal and labial sounds. Nevertheless, she could understand only too well the rumblings of her stomach, which worsened as she neared a baker's stall. He was a big, burly man, face and neck bright red from long hours in the summer sun. At the moment, he was haggling with two young boys over the price of a sweetmeat. She could see that she would receive no help from him; from the looks of things, the boys had not eaten much recently, and had collected all of the money they could beg. It was apparently not enough to satisfy the vendor. As the man turned to a wealthier client, one of the boys stole a small loaf of bread. Her eyes widened; she emitted a gasp of disbelief. She was not naive, and she had seen thieves before, but she was still unaccustomed to the idea of taking what one did not own. As the vendor shouted for the guards, the two urchins sped from the booth -- moving straight towards her. Still shocked, she did not think to move until it was too late. The first boy, still clutching the purloined bread, crashed into her. The back of her head hit something, and she lost consciousness. When she awoke, she found herself in strange surroundings: a soft bed with a comfortable pillow under her throbbing head. The grey stone walls about her held no threat, and a washbasin was filled with inviting water. Her clothes were gone, but finer garments than she'd had were laid out on a chair against the far wall. A heavy oak door, closed, stood next to the chair. Sunlight streamed through a high window, bathing the room in a comfortable glow. Although the day outside was hot, and there was no air flow in the room, the staid stone walls kept the chamber comfortable. When she had taken in all of her surroundings, she rose quickly and went to the door. The sudden motion brought a stab of pain to her head. Wishing that she had the healing talent like her brother had had, she opened the door a crack and peered out. She was at the end of a well-furnished hall with many other doors, most of which stood open. She closed her door again and moved -- more slowly this time -- back to her bed. For a moment she felt fear: although she was not a prisoner, her surroundings reminded her all too much of her brother's fate for her to relax. Almost without thinking, she caressed the cool stone wall by her bed, and began to apply the "dielaim". Her grief expressed itself through her fingers, and she molded a small section of the wall into a sculpture of her brother's face. She studied it for a moment, adjusted a few rough edges, re-hardened the stone, then softened the section of wall directly below the face. Swiftly she molded his neck, paying careful attention to his marvelous throat, which had been the pride of her people. A wave of melancholy hit her; never again would she hear him sing in three voices at once. Before she could add the one feature lacking -- the manner of his death -- she heard someone approaching. She began pressing the sculpture back into the wall, for she had not allowed the neck to re-harden. She hadn't finished "erasing" his throat when she remembered her lack of clothing. Torn between the desire to cover herself and the need to hide her abilities, she wrapped the sheet around her torso and set her back against the sculpture. The nose pressed unforgivingly into her back. When the door opened, she was surprised to see a young girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen summers of age. Strawberry-blonde curls cascaded around the newcomer's shoulders. "I'm Tara," stated the girl. "I'm Sharin," she responded, surprised. This girl, Tara, had an amazingly open mind. Among Sharin's talents was the ability to learn language from those who were "open". If Sharin heard a word, she could glean its meaning if the other person had a strong mind. That had been one talent which she and Relann -- Oh, my brother! she thought -- had shared. "I saw what happened in the market," commented Tara. "At first, the vendor wanted you arrested, but I convinced the guards that you had nothing to do with it. I think having an important uncle helps sometimes. No, Zed! Get out of here!" Sharin looked at what Tara was talking to: a Shivaree with a torn ear. Sharin spoke to it: "Zed, lhi nielann yonne." The Shivaree couldn't understand the Lanoam tongue, of course, but it heard the meanings. It looked quizzically at Sharin, barked an apology, then started trotting out of the room. "No, that's all right, Zed, if she doesn't mind you I guess you can stay. What language was that? You're not from Dargon, are you?" "No. That language was Lanoami." Sharin wished she knew more of this language, but she was grateful that Tara was an easy talker. In an effort to learn more, she asked, "Zed?" "Oh, he's been my friend for years. I found him," she said, and now her voice took on a tinge of ire, "in a hunter's trap." Her voice softened again. "I took him home and fed him, and he's been with me ever since. He's not really tame," said Tara, obviously remembering a past event. Tara fondled the torn ear fondly. "He'll give his life for me if I'm threatened, I know that. I really love him, at times he's been my only friend." "He love you," said Sharin, who knew that it was true. She felt a bond with this Tara, who also loved animals. Sharin wondered if any Lanoam blood was in Tara, for she obviously had a talent. "Why do you say that?" asked Tara. "I mean, I know it, but how can you tell?" Sharin didn't know the words to express what she wanted to say, but she didn't want to songweave, not until she knew this girl better. Songweave wouldn't work on most non-Lanoam, but Sharin had a feeling that this girl could receive -- after all, her bonding with a Shivaree was incredible. So she had to indicate with her hands and eyes that she didn't know the words. Frowning, Tara ventured, "You can't speak my language, can you? You're only using the words that I've said!" Sadly, Sharin replied, "No, I can't speak the language. You speak the words, I..." she pointed to her head. "Learn?" asked Tara. "I learn the words," finished Sharin gratefully. Trying to glean the most important information as inconspicuously as possible, she asked, "Uncle?" "This is my Uncle Glenn's house. He's known here as Adrunian Koren, the Captain of the Guards. I had to come here when my... when my parents were killed by bandits." Zed nuzzled Tara's hand, reacting to the strong emotions she was projecting. Sharin felt closer to Tara; she understood the loss of family. "Since then, I've begun learning how to defend myself. I've had cause to do so, though. I met a woman who looked exactly like me, but that's where the resemblance ended. She was going to kill me, but Zed saved me. That's how his ear got torn -- she tried to kill him, but luckily she missed. I'm sorry, I'm just rambling." "No," protested Sharin. "I learn." "No, I've completely forgotten my manners. Here you are, wrapped up in a sheet! Oh, I cleaned your wound -- you took a nasty knock -- then I gave you a bath. I hope you don't mind." "I don't mind," said Sharin. She looked towards the clothes. Tara took the hint. "All right, let me know when you're dressed, I'll be outside." She went out the door, closed it behind her. Quickly Sharin turned and finished removing the traces of her brother's throat. She was just ready to re-soften the face when the door opened again. "Sorry, Zed's still in here... How did you DO that?" Tara stood gaping at the sculpture. Sharin was frozen in horror. For a fleeting moment she was angry at Tara for coming in without knocking, but it was overwhelmed at the fact that one of her talents had been discovered. Tara came into the room. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you! How did you do that? It's beautiful! Please, I'm sorry for barging in here. Why are you afraid?" Sharin could feel that Tara really was sorry for what she had caused, so she decided to take a chance and trust Tara. She motioned for Tara to close the door and sit down, and sat on the bed herself. When Tara was sitting, Sharin began the Songweave. Her throat opened, and the music of her story poured forth. Tara, already conditioned to be receptive to animals, heard the words of the Songweave as though they had been sung aloud, and to her surprise, she could understand them perfectly. I am Sharin, daughter of Oriann and Niarda, of the Lanoam people. The song I weave is of my brother, Relann. He was beloved of the Lanoam, and with the voice of three Winds could he weave his tales. He was a healer, a master of the dielaim, and was born whole! None were needed at his birthing to assist his life, and all who saw him proclaimed that his place on the cliffs would be high! For nineteen summers he grew, and with each passing summer he grew sadder. For among my people rare is the whole child. At the birthings are all too often needed the strongest healers, to correct the children's bodies. Relann said to the elders of my people, Alas! for we are too few, and with each generation the children grow weaker! We must find help, and others who will share our lives, that we pass not from the sight of the Sun! But the elders listened not, for he was but a child then. On his eighteenth summer, he again petitioned them, saying, Alas! for now fewer are born alive than dead! We must have help, or perish utterly! Yet again the elders would not hear him, and in the next summer he tried once more, saying, Alas! if you do nothing for the love of your children, grant to me at least the right of Quest! For other people have magics, which we cannot use, and mayhap I might find one who can aid us! And to this the elders consented, for the children who had lived had been terrible to behold. All were now unblemished, but their visages at birth could rend the heart! Thus in that summer he began his Quest. To far lands he ventured, finding none who would help him. Then, in the next spring, he found a noble who was willing to help my people, if he would receive aid in return. Relann showed him what he could do: sculpt beautiful works in stone; strengthen wooden bridges to the hardness of metals, so that they would not break; heal the sick and dying. But the noble was black of heart, and forced Relann to use his talents in other ways. At first Relann refused, for to use talents for ill is contrary to all of the laws of my people! But the noble had naught but scorn for morals, and maimed Relann until he agreed to do the noble's bidding. Relann's wonderful talents were used to work woe: rather than sculpt, he had to soften the stone defenses of the noble's enemies; he was made to harden wooden weapons, that the noble could conquer less expensively; he was forced to heal only the noble's soldiers. Yet Relann could do nothing; he had to keep his life. One day he coaxed a sparrow to him, and told it to find me. When the sparrow found me, I left at once. Relann would not touch me, for he had become corrupt. He sang for me his Lifesong, as I watched him at his window. Then was the last of his three Winds sounded, for with a piece of glass he released them. With a heavy heart I returned to my people, and sang his Lifesong. With only one voice, I could not express it as he did, and my heart nearly burst with grief. High on the cliffs I sculpted his death-mask. In the chasm that had been his throat nests now the sparrow, for it grieves with me. When I had carved the mask, I continued his Quest. None yet have I found who could aid me, but I will not ask the nobles. I have used my talents shamefully -- with dielaim have I entered cities unnoticed. I have corrupted myself, but I shall finish Relann's Quest ere I sing my Lifesong. I thank you, my spirit-sister, for your hospitality, but now must I move on. May your Song be sung for Eternity! When the song was ended, both had tears in their eyes. Rising, Sharin kissed Tara in the manner of her people. Startled, Tara resisted, but it was over. Quickly, Sharin dressed. Wordlessly, Tara showed her to the door, then hugged Sharin tightly. When Sharin had disappeared from view, Tara closed the door and went back to the guest room. She caressed the face in the stone for a long while, then went back to her own room. That night, as the mist crept back into the streets of Dargon City, Tara n'ha Sansela began to sing. -Jeffrey S. Lee <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Review: "Hart's Hope" This recently-released TOR reprint was originally published in 1983, but received only passing attention. Card has received acclaim for several well-known works, including "Speaker for the Dead", "Songmaster", "Ender's Game", "Wyrms", and "Seventh Son" and its sequel "Red Prophet". There has recently been some discussion of Card in SF-LOVERS, as well. Although not a member of Card's other collections, "Hart's Hope" is definitely a worthwhile read. "Hart's Hope" is a tale of the cruelty of mercy, and its vengeance. The story opens with a count named Paliocrovol leading a successful uprising against the current king. To legitimize his power, he kills the old king and forces his daughter to marry him, publicly raping and shaming her (a necessary act to legitimize his assumption of the throne). Against his advisors' warnings he permits the woman to live in exile, under the guard of a trusted wizard, thinking the woman powerless. However, the queen secretly studies the arcane books of the wizard, and when she bears the child of the new king, she sacrifices it to give herself immense magical power. She then enslaves her guardian and returns to the city where her king is about to wed a second time. She interrupts the cermony and through her magic enslaves Paliocrovol's advisors and his bride and curses and banishes him from the city, ruling in his stead. Her magic makes even the gods powerless, and her reign endures for centuries as she keeps Paliocrovol and his cursed advisors alive through her powers. The book is the story of her rise to power and how her power is challenged as it weakens after three hundred years of absolute power. The book is very well-written, and definitely an attention-holder. The magic used is complex and well-characterized, and it is neither simple nor overused. The characters are deep and intelligent and very well-developed. The book is written in a unique style, being an open letter to Paliocrovol, raconting the story of Queen Beauty's rule, and it is very easy to read. One of the most admirable aspects of the book is Card's ability to characterize several different religions which have followings in the region. The religion of the Hart is a male-oriented belief in the mystical power of the living blood; the Sweet Sisters, a matriarchy deriving their power from the secrets of womanhood; and God, a new religion based on a monotheistic pretext. Card's use of these religions is very sophisticated, and the conflict between the queen and the gods is the underlying story within the book. "Hart's Hope" is a fascinating book, both for the casual reader and the astute fan. Not only is it an enjoyable and provocative read, but its style is refreshingly different without giving up any of its power to take the reader away to a very different world. Even if your reading list is limited by time, as mine is, I reccommend it. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A Scent in the Air Summary - Since it has been so long since 'Winds of Change' was put out, I am going to summarize what happened. When we left Ariel, she had just left the tavern in search of a job. She had arrived in Dargon the night before, exhausted from a long journey, during which her lover, Stefan, had been killed. Stefan had been an Air Mage, under the goddess Iliara. He had been killed because of a blood feud between the worshipers of Iliara and the worshipers of the earth god, Haargon. They have been following Ariel ever since, because Stefan had been teaching her prior to his death. They do not know how far her powers have gone yet, so they have yet to take action against her. Just prior to leaving the Inn in search of a job, Ariel received a note from a priest of Iliara along with a ring that had belonged to Stefan. The note merely told her that she was on her own for now. "Following this little wench is getting to be a pain!", Alec said as he walked into the back room of the chapel. "She has shown no sign of regaining her powers enough to fight us off, or even be considered an Air mage anymore. Why do we continue to bother?" "Patience, Alec. Haargon has shown me signs that this one is dangerous, but I don't want to kill her until I find out in what way. I don't want this danger to present itself again. What have you learned?". Alec looked at the old priest. He was dressed in the simple robes that any of the priests in this city might wear, identified as one of Haargon's followers only by the holy symbol hanging around his neck. It was the only symbol of any of the Gods that had any value in and of itself. The piece of crystal clear quartz, encircled by silver in such a way as to allow a chain of silver to be hooked through, was worth quite a bit of money to a jeweler or noble, and this specimen was extraordinarily beautiful. The priest had had all sort of intricate carving done on the medallion and had gone out of his way to find the most beautiful, double terminated piece of quartz seen in Dargon in years. Alec didn't know if the medallion was magical (although he assumed it was), but he did know that the priest would protect it to the death. "She is staying at the Inn of the Golden Lion, up in the rich section of town. She went out this morning, wandered around for some time going from shop to shop in the market area, as well as the business district and never came out of Camron's Shipping. When she had been in there for about 3 hours I decided it was a good time to come report to you." Alec said. "Reasonable. Camron has been looking for a good bookkeeper and from what I'm told of her history, she would fit that description. She needs a job to pay rent here. That will work out nicely......." "Sir, then would it be possible for me to get paid?" Alec asked, a bit afraid of the answer. This particular sect had a reputation for trying to get you to convert and donate your earnings as opposed to paying for services. They were rumored to be VERY effective. "Hmm, uh, What? Oh yes, your pay. Certainly." Reaching under the desk, he pulled out a couple of large denomination coins and tossed them to Alec. "If you are interested in more of that, I would like you to follow her for the next couple of weeks. Just keep an eye on what she does, who she sees, and if she goes anywhere out of the ordinary. Also if she moves out of that expensive Inn. Report in once a week, or whenever there is something I should know about immediately. Interested?" Thinking how easy the payment had been to get, and assuming that the rumors were wrong, Alec said "Certainly, sir. I will report back to you in one week." "Wonderful" the old priest said. As Alec was walking out the door, almost as an afterthought, the priest added "Oh, by the way, are you interested in converting?" Getting a job in Dargon turned out to be easier than Ariel had thought it would be. She stopped at several places, and had a job as a bookkeeper for a nice, older man by noon. She worked until late that night getting herself familiarized with his system, then had a quick dinner at the inn before turning in. The next morning, she moved to a cheaper place. Her new boss, Camron had a cousin who wanted to rent a room in his house to someone, and the arrangements for Ariel to move in had been completed the day before. She was shown to a nice room, relatively large, with a bed and a dresser in it and told that she was welcome to eat with the family. The rent was 1/5 that of the inn she'd been staying at and the atmosphere much nicer. Camron's cousin Karina and her husband Marcus were immediately friendly towards her. As they were eating dinner that night, they got to know each other and by the time they were done, she had both their friendship and their sympathy. Ariel did, however, leave out the details of the magic. Karina and Marcus struck her as very down-to-earth people who felt that magic was a bunch of rubbish, so when Stefan's death came up, she told them that it had been merely bandits in the forest and that they had not noticed her sleeping nearby because she was so rolled up in her blankets. "You were very lucky, you realize. Surviving that little episode as well as getting through all the intervening distance alone, through some rough territory, is quite a feat for one as yourself. You should thank the gods for your life. Perhaps they have something in mind for you." Marcus said, as they were all clearing the table. "I have thanked them over and over, but if they have something in mind for me, they have not yet deigned to tell me of it." Ariel replied. She liked Marcus. He was a very caring person who had done all but adopt her in the short time they had known each other. "Well, that little adventure over, you should find yourself a good husband, settle down, and marry. My cousin Camron hired you because he has a soft spot for ladies in distress, but a young woman such as yourself should not be working, but be married and with a home and family of her own." Karina said. She was definitely the practical one in the family. Loving, good, and practical. Her house reflected this. Everything was spotless, the food was fresh, good, and prepared with all the love she could come up with. "Perhaps someday, but right now my loss of Stefan is too new. I doubt I could love anyone the way I loved Stefan right now. Maybe someday.... Now if you'll excuse me, I should get to bed. Today was a long day and tomorrow will be no shorter." Ariel said, heading for the stairs. "Certainly, dear. Sleep well." Karina said as Ariel walked up the stairs. Up in her room, Ariel pondered her new-found friends. Marcus and Karina were both young, hardly more than a couple of years older then herself, yet they had been married for almost four years and there were no children yet. "That's why they are renting this room" she thought. No children to put in it. Unfortunate. Karina would make a good mother. With thoughts of Stefan, children, and homes running through her mind, Ariel drifted off to sleep. The next day was indeed a long one and Ariel worked until well after dark trying to balance The Dolphin Queen's cargo sheets. Finally finished, and highly pleased with the work she had done that day, Ariel headed out, not really even considering the danger of a female walking alone at night. As she came around the corner onto a side street a few blocks from home, she began to get an odd feeling that she was being watched. Glancing behind her and seeing no one, she dismissed it as merely paranoia, but began to walk a bit faster. The street was deserted, and not very well lit, so when the bright light hit her in the face, she was momentarily blinded. When her vision came back, there were three robbers with torches surrounding her, looking at her with a terribly malicious look in their eyes. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a small man in priestly robes and Haargon's holy symbol watching with an even more murderous look in his. As they approached her, she realized the danger she would be in if she even tried to call upon her powers, and did the only sensible thing; She charged at the ones in front of her, at the last minute ducking left and around them both. Free, she began to run as fast as she could. The ruffians were not far behind her as she ran, but as she passed the priest, he merely smiled and began walking in the other direction. They were catching up on her. She was very slowly running out of breath to run any further, and losing this race anyway. Without even thinking, she began to draw the wind to her, to move her along faster and to strengthen her. Feeling little response, she attempted to concentrate on Stefan's ring and do the same thing. This time, there was some help. With the wind at her back and in her lungs, strengthening her and speeding her along, she gradually outdistanced the ruffians and eventually they stopped chasing her. She didn't stop running though. The earth mage knew that she had called upon power...he had to have known.... She was once again in danger from the cult. This thought alone sped her along the rest of the way home. "At least they don't know where I live," she thought as she came through the door, huffing and puffing, and almost completely exhausted. Marcus and Karina were waiting for her, looking worried. Karina's face became even more concerned when she saw how heavily Ariel was breathing. "Good Gods, what happened? Where have you been? We've been so worried! Are you all right??? " Karina said. Marcus's face echoed the questions, although all he did was lead her over to a chair and get her a glass of water. When she finally regained her breath, Ariel said "I was working late on a problem I had all but solved. As I was walking home, I was attacked by three muggers about five blocks from here. I ran. They followed for a while, but I outran them and they gave up soon after they realized that. I'm OK. Really. Just a bit out of breath. I'll be fine." "Let me get you a some dinner and then you should go right to bed. You know, this area isn't highly prone to muggers, but I guess a single female walking anywhere alone at night is in danger. Please be careful. Perhaps you can get someone from work to walk you home?" Karina said as she brought a plate of bread and cheese and a bowl of soup out. "From now on I will. Either that or not stay as late. I'm so exhausted." Ariel said, immediately diving into the stew. They sat in silence while she ate, until Marcus finally spoke up. "Ariel, is there someone after you? This is the second time you've been attacked recently, and I've seen this man hanging around outside quite a bit lately. Are you in some kind of trouble?" "No," Ariel said hurriedly, "but thank you for caring. Now if you'll excuse me, I really need to get to sleep. G'night." As she walked up the stairs, Karina and Marcus exchanged glances. Neither believed her. "So she does have some of her power back. Interesting. Keep an eye on her and report back if she does anything further." the old priest said. "We may have to take care of her soon. Permanently." Alec shivered at that last word and walked out of the room. -Becki Tants <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Necrolepsy Gregory Schaeffer refused to believe what his associate, Martin Johnson, had just told him. "There is no such thing as necrolepsy. Someone cannot simply die and be revived without medical intervention; it's just not possible." "I am a doctor, Greg. I know what I saw. This man just dropped dead over in Felder Park. I checked him out personally: he had no pulse, no breathing--nothing. CPR had no effect on him and when the emergency squad came, their shock pads didn't phase him either. When we reached the hospital and checked him out further, I had to report him DOA. But when the men from the morgue came up and started to take him away, he sat up and said, 'Hey, where we going?'" Martin glared at Greg as if daring him to say he was lying. "Maybe the instruments are on the fritz," Greg said. "Or maybe Franklin's been screwing with the settings again." "No," Martin said, "Franklin hasn't been around the last couple of days, and everything has been checked out thoroughly. Nothing is wrong with any of the instruments. Face it, Greg; we've got a new disease on our hands, and the only name that fits is 'necrolepsy'." Martin made sure Greg was looking at him before he went on. "He says this has happened to him before." Greg wasn't convinced. "I still say there is something wrong with our monitors. The tests these people run on machinery around here would say that a blood pressure cuff with a hole in it was working perfectly. Is there any evidence that it has happened before?" Martin sighed. "No. He says he was always alone when it happened before. But he claims to have blank spaces in his memory where all he remembers is standing one instant and the next he is picking himself up off the floor with the clock telling him it's several hours later." "And you believe him?" Martin looked up at Greg. "I have no reason not to--I've seen it happen once myself." "Marty, do you realize that if something like necrolepsy does exist, as you claim, there are hundreds of people that this hospital alone has sent to the morgue who may have really been alive? For the sake of my own sanity, I can't accept that such a disease exists." Martin suddenly understood why Greg wouldn't believe him. "Yes, I realize that, Greg. But if it does exist, I have to know. It's the only way I'll ever be able to do my job effectively. If there's a possibility that a disease like this exists, I have to know one way or the other. I've requested three nurses to be assigned to watch him at all times. I want to know immediately if he drops dead again." During the next two months, Mr. Bowen had no more seizures. The nurses worked in shifts, watching him and taking his blood pressure and pulse every twelve hours. Nothing abnormal was found. After two months, the hospital's Chief of Staff approached Dr. Johnson. "I can't authorize three nurses to babysit a perfectly healthy man any longer, Martin." "Luke, you have to. If this man isn't monitored regularly, we'll never find a way to diagnose necrolepsy." "Martin, I have to run this hospital according to a budget and a board of directors that gets very upset when I take money out of that budget and don't tell them exactly what it's for. They bring this up at every meeting. I can't avoid the issue any longer and I'm not about to tell them what's really going on. If they were to find out we were just waiting for a man to die again so we could prove that a disease, which half of my staff is afraid to even admit is possible, exists, I don't know how they'd react. I'm sorry, Martin, but I've got to recall those nurses." Martin knew what Luke had said was true and that there was no way to convince him to keep a nurse assigned to Mr. Bowen. So, rather than trying to argue, he left the Chief of Staff's office and started on his rounds. Meanwhile, all around the city, the necrolepsy spread. -Bob Aspel <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Review: "A Man Rides Through" Mordant's Need Volume 2: "A Man Rides Through", by Stephen R. Donaldson. Del Rey Books, 1987. In summer of 1987, Stephen Donaldson released the first part of Mordant's Need: "The Mirror of Her Dreams". It was a book that realized that medieval societies have government intrigue, corruption, and war strategies alongside the knights and magicians. "The Mirror of Her Dreams" spun a magic spell and involved the reader in the various plots of the imaginary kingdom of Mordant, where Earthling Terisa Morgan was miraculously transported via Mordant's peculiar breed of magic, which involves mirrors. "The Mirror of Her Dreams" ended in a cliff-hanger: our hero, Geraden, who hopes to become an Imager (a Mordant magic-user who uses only mirrors), is framed for the murder of his brother and disappears into his own mirror. Lady Terisa is left alone to face the ire of the crusty Castellan and the machinations of the two traitors within the castle. "A Man Rides Through" opens with Terisa in the dungeon being threatened by the slightly psychotic Castellan Lebbick. There still are traitors loose in the castle, and an enemy army stands outside the walls in an attempt at siege. One of the princesses is with the enemy, the other is missing. The King refuses to take any action against the siege. Many try to make Terisa betray Geraden's whereabouts (which, incidentally, she does know): the Castellan, the King's Chancellor, one of Geraden's brothers, and one Master Eremis, a slick, lecherous, and totally unlikeable Imager. The country of Mordant is being attacked on all sides by dangerous, magical monsters. Things progress from there. Donaldson's style, as always, is captivating, varied, and easy to read. The story itself is hard to get away from; I dreamt of Terisa and Geraden for two nights. The plot (or should I say plots) of Mordant is well worked-out, and, in the end, it all makes perfect sense. Of course, this is a Donaldson book, and one must expect certain things. There are no lepers in this book, but as usual, Donaldson's usual cast of neurotics are out in full force. There is Adept Havelock, one of the most likeable loonies in literature, for one. Castellan Lebbick impresses me as a sado-masochist. About one character in three has a superiority or inferiority complex. Yet the mild insanities serve to make the characters more realistic; these are not token insanities. One word of warning: reading "A Man Rides Through" without having read "The Mirror of Her Dreams" can be hazardous to the reader's sanity. There are so many plots and counterplots in King Joyse's realm that without prior knowledge, the reader will become quite confused. But "The Mirror of Her Dreams" is as well written and entertaining as its sequel, and the only criticism I can make of either book is that they end too soon. -M. Wendy Hennequin <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Spirit of the Wood: 7 Loric's first sight as a man was the sun pearling through the caul that surrounded him. For a moment he didn't recognize where he was and struggled with the thin membrane of skin, flopping onto the forest floor like a ungainly hatching. It was late afternoon by the look of it and the air smelled of impending rain. He took a clean lungfull and puzzled over why he felt that it had been ages since he had done so. "OH" said Loric as he looked down at the caul. "I suppose I should eat you now. I am hungry but not really that hungry." He bent down and tore loose a dry piece of skin. He smelled it thoughtfully and started to put it in his mouth when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Loric whirled and dropped into a crouch. He felt for the press of his kesh-blade and was relieved to find it tied with gut to his side. At first he saw nothing, only shadow, then he saw a shadow darker than the others. A moment more and he could see a man standing next to a tree dressed like no other he had ever seen. He wore an outer piece of cloth draped over his shoulders and his legs clad in high soft boots. His right hand cradled a short staff and the left was open and held out from his body. He wore a dusky hat that covered thick curled locks. Long sleeved tunic and breeches the color of wet tree bark blended so closely to the woods around him that Loric was unsure where the man ended and the tree began. The man's face held no menace, though what inner emotion it did reflect, Loric could not guess. Loric noticed he had hair on his face and wondered if his tribe had marked him as an outcast or whether he had never passed his Shreaving. "You're not going to eat that?" The stranger's voice was deep and accented but slow enough for Loric to understand. He looked away for a moment to glance at the caul and then back to the stranger. "I'm supposed to. Part of my song will remain in it and if an animal eats it I'll become a shapechanger under the moon's full face." "Has that happened to anyone alive, or is that just what your Histories say will happen?" "I have no doubt in the Histories! They are the blood of my tribe and my song is strong!" Loric rose slowly to his full height and tried to look menacing. He didn't like this stranger and knew he should not be here. "What tribe are you? And why have you interrupted my Shreaving? If you know of the Histories, then you know I am to avoid contact with anyone, the Shreaving is a test of my ability to survive on my own. Go away." "Do your Histories tell you to eat that goatskin by itself boy, or can you make it part of other foods?" Loric picked up the caul and stepped back. "It's not a goatskin, it's my caul! If you will not leave, then I must! He turned and walked stiffly into the forest trusting his hearing to tell of any pursuit. When no sound of the stranger followed him he turned and circled back to the clearing. He searched but found no sign of anyone ever having been there except his own tracks and those of some Downlanders six days stale. Satisfied that he had traveled far enough to avoid the stranger, Loric set about building a shelter. He wove a short length of rope stout enough to hold his weight and used it to anchor one end of a limb to a tree trunk while wedging the other in a fork high enough to discourage all but the most persistent of hunters. A roof of broad leaves from a fustian bush made a good cover from the rain which had already begun to fall in loud plops around him. He took a moment to gather some dry wood to start a fire after the shower, then climbed to the top of the trees and sang his song to the Spirit. After that there was nothing to do but wriggle into his shelter, pushing the bundle of wood ahead of him, and wait out the storm. It was a tight fit, but it was dry and he could see the forest rolling away from him in a dense canopy of muted greens, the sun a white disk behind the clouds. There would be time to build a better shelter later, if the Spirit so desired. He thought of the stranger and what he had said about the histories, silently admonishing himself for summing up the Shreaving in such a small way. Was that really all the Shreaving was to be, a test to see if I can survive alone? The stranger had disturbed something deep within in Loric and he found it difficult to turn his thoughts to the tasks ahead. The sun crouched low on the horizon when the rain ended and Loric emerged from his 'home'. By now he was ravenous and he went to the limb where he had hung his caul to catch the rain water. He drank deeply and then cut a piece to chew on while he hunted. The Histories clearly spoke of what Loric could and could not eat during his Shreaving--especially since he had not yet eaten his caul. The easiest prey being snail and tree-crab, both of which became active after rainfall, and then certain of the larger animals that fed on them. Loric climbed from tree to tree looking for signs that a river or stream was near. He followed the lay of the land and found not just a stream but several small streams that ran together in mad confusion before falling into a gorge and out of sight. He approached slowly,hoping to find howlers there that had caught crab or snail in the trees and brought them to the water's edge to crack on the rocks. He stopped a short distance from the forest's edge and listened intently. He heard the water dripping from the trees and the rub of bark and limb and the voice of the Spirit moving among the trees; sighing a song about rain and the life it brought. Then he heard the telltale clack and scrape of feeding howlers. With a smile Loric moved slowly forward, knowing that one sound out of place and the howlers would set up an alarm that would send the pack racing for the safety of the trees. He began to weave the wood-song about him, slowly like the web of a spider, a strand at a time. I am the wind, Oh Spirit, I am the limb that speaks loudly to the leaf, nothing more. A howler would not be alarmed by the sound of a limb mumbling in the shadow of its brothers. Of course not, how silly it seems, when there are so many other things think about howler. The sun is still out the pack is feeding and there are meat-nuts to crack. Loric kept thinking one such thought after another, never stopping the flow of thought and never stopping his progress forward. This was the first time Loric had put the wood-song to use on his own. In times before he had his grandfather to keep the cadence and flow of thought clear. He never realized how hard it had been for Oldsir to carry the theme of the song for so long. Oldsir! Loric cursed himself for the drifting thought. The howlers were sitting in a circle and the one closest to him an older female, stopped picking at the shell she had in hand and looked right at him. OH Spirit! Thought Loric furiously. I am a log. Many times you have passed me on your way to this spot she-howler. I remember your first time here after I had fallen. You carried your young one on your back. How he cried! Where is he now, She-howler? The howler blinked and coughed once. The pack turned and became instantly alert. A young male walked out of the circle and sniffled in Loric's direction. It seemed confused for it could not see the source of the images it heard, it could not see anything where the she-howler looked, nothing but the forest and a pile of dead wood at the forest's edge. Loric turned his attention to the young howler. 'You are so strong! Why do you not lead the pack? Your fur is thick and your limbs are clean and strong. Surely there is none to challenge you. You should have your choice of females.' Loric thought as hard and sincerely as he could. The male was pacing back and forth in short tight turns. Weaving in rhythm with Loric's thoughts. Suddenly he turned and barked at an older male. A shouting match began and the young male was chased up a tree by the leader. **The pack-male is jealous of your son She-howler, and he is hungry. He eats too much! He will eat all the meat-nuts and you will have none. He can see the shells you have. He will take them and you will not eat. Hide them! Put the biggest ones where he can not take them. Look around, where can you put them, clever She-howler? Bring them here. Put them beneath me. I am a log. I do not eat meat-nuts. You can eat them when Pack-male is drinking. ** The howler looked back and forth from Loric to the Pack-male. She leaned forward and sat on the snails. **No. He will see them when the pack moves. You are clever She-howler, hide them under me. You can eat them and pack-male will not take them. Look! Already he has chased your son up a tree. Your son will not get any meat-nuts to eat. Pack-male is eating his nuts. He will come for your meat-nuts...what can you do She-howler? ** Loric blinked sweat out of his eyes and took a long silent breath. The she-howler looked around and walked over to Loric' prone body. She felt under Loric's arm with a thin, clawed hand. Her nails scraped him several times but he put the pain behind the wood-song. There is plenty of room She-howler, and I am soft and rotten. The meat-nuts will get fat and juicy here. And pack-male won't eat them. The She-howler put three snails in the hollow of Loric's arm and went back to her pile of shells. She looked at the pack-male and then back to Loric. Several times she moved toward Loric and he stopped her with a strong thought about Pack-male. Now all he had to do was get the pack to move away so he could get up and stretch his protesting muscles. It would have been easy to just get up and scare the pack away or to have killed She-howler when she was in blade-reach, but Loric knew that the Spirit was listening to his wood-song and gave it the ability to be understood by the forest. If he ended his song now, with death, it could sever the bond between his people and the Spirit of the Wood. And they would be lost. Loric watched the pack move from tree to tree searching for more snails. They would move away and drift back. Never going too far from the forests' edge. He continued his wood-song trying to get the she-howler to forget about the snails. But she would always come back and feel under his arm for the snails. 'I am weak Spirit, I want to eat these snails, but I will not take them while She-howler can still claim them. Show me a way to end the song.' The howlers turned as one and moved in his direction, having scented him and saw him for what he really was during the short moment he was distracted. The pack-male barked a challenge and Loric hurriedly picked up the strands of the wood-song. He did not have time to try and spell the pack-male, so he concentrated on the she-howler, convincing her that the pack-male had seen her snails. She ran ahead of the male trying to beat him to Loric, but he turned instead to chase her. The respite was all Loric needed to re-affirm the illusion of a log. But the Pack-male was agitated and walked around Loric, sniffing and biting at his head. The pain was sharp and bright in his mind, but desperation drove him even deeper into the wood-song. If he flinched now the powerful male would rend him into pieces smaller than meat-nuts. The male could not decide what Loric smelled like so he marked Loric with a spray from his musk pouch, kicked a bit of dirt onto Loric's back and then walked down the river bank. His actions made it clear to the pack that the mystery of the log was over and off limits. In a moment or two the pack would follow him to the water's edge and they would not return to this spot. It was then that the chee'tar leapt into the clearing. For more times than there are rings in a tree, Silsia Tolorion cursed the recklessness that made her leave the Village-beneath-the -Trees without preparations. To avoid arousing suspicion, she had taken only a few ornaments of mourning; A broadweave dyed dark with clay, a few beads made of Keshwood, and the wooden whistle Oldsir had made her. She was supposedly only going as far as Wood's End, so she couldn't justify the provisions for a long-walk to Eadyie or even ask for a Keshwood knife to protect herself with. Eadyie would have sent one of the men in the village to escort her--no doubt one she wanted Silsia to dance for. The green-root she had stuffed in the bottom of her slouchbag was long gone as well as the two quomo fruit hidden away during the preparations for the next day's Shreaving. She took refuge in the trees and avoided the paths traveled by the larger animals, moving slowly in the direction Oldsir's star had gone. It was also the direction that held Wood's End, where the druid Carson Feldspar held sway over Wildwood. The thought of a single man guiding the will of a forest frightened her. Did it serve him or he serve it? What noisy deaths did it sing? How many struggled and withered while his thoughts were elsewhere? How could a person's spirit stand against a land where everything had a voice of its own and gave heed or creedence to none? Here in Silsia's forest the Spirit of the Wood provided the harmony and the song that all creatures sang. It had been the rhythm and reason behind everything, and for as long as man could remember, it had fed her people and kept them safe. Nothing was asked of them, save that they also care in return. It was a circle as the priests explained it; the Spirit cared for and guided the Upstem village, and the Upstem village cared for and guided the Downland village and they as a whole cared for the forest. You sprang from the forest and lived in harmony with it and, when your song was sung, you returned to the forest. There had been better times for the forest, and what should have been easy traveling and foraging was time-consuming and often fruitless. Her slouch-bag bulged with the fleshy heads of bread-plant; a filling if not very healthy-looking fungus that grew in the shadows of silent trees. Silsia didn't care for their gritty taste, and they provided little in the way of nourishment, but the alternative was even more distasteful; an empty stomach. At least the bread-plant was proliferating, there seemed to Silisa to be more dead trees than she could remember ever seeing near the village. They were either lying across her path or leaning heavily on their brothers, no longer able to sing for themselves. In places it was like walking in the wake of a Djervish, seeing the results of its destruction, but never the destructor. Silsia could not think of anything that happened in the season past to cause so many silent trees. The winter had been exceptionally cold, but that should not have killed the fully grown trees. Perhaps a Djervish did walk these woods. A shiver of premonition brought her suddenly back to her surroundings. She looked about and found she had almost stumbled into a devatha. Child! she admonished herself, Stumphead! The only reason you're alive is that it amuses the Spirit to observe your folly. The odor of wet mould that always accompanied living devathas had alerted her when she was daydreaming. Looking closely she could see the ropey tendrils hanging from the canopy of leaves high above her. The devatha would have been easy to escape with a kesh-knife, she thought bitterly, but un-armed as she was she could not have broken free at all. She had seen the devatha's cruel attentions once and knew exactly what happened to anything or anyone unaware enough to come within its reach. Its victims would be bound and stung repeatedly by one tentacle while held fast with the others. Then they were drawn slowly upward to the waiting beak; a bite on the back of the neck ended any further struggling, but did not kill. The devatha left its prey hanging like quomo fruit, full of the juices it could not get from its host-tree. The death would be as slow as it would be certain. Thinking that she would feel better with something for protection, Silsia looked around for a weapon. The keshwood is forbidden me, and I do not know the song for keening its edge anyway. But there must be something else as good, or close that I can use? I could try making a spear, but I do not have a way to shape the tip. Sighing, she picked up a limb that was not too rotted, and hefted it meaningfully. With a new sense of awareness she moved in a wide circle around the devatha and into the lowlands beyond. Silisa was deep into a wooded valley when it began to rain and she moved into the protection of a half-felled tree. Parting the clinging vines that covered it like a curtain, she entered the relative dryness underneath. The rain made its own random music on the trees above her and was echoed when it made it to the ground below. She folded a fusia leaf and watched as it gradually filled with water. Slowly her attention pulled close about her, and she let herself be taken away by the reflections of the beads of water. It brought her memories...memories of fire. Her friend Yoni was looking at her from across the flames in surprise and shock. "Silisa! You don't really mean to take one of the cauls?" "Yess!" She whispered back. Silsia felt deliciously sneaky and daring, both by shocking her friend and by doing something forbidden by man. She and Yoni had spent the whole morning peeking into Eadyie's hut where the secret part of the Shreaving preparations were hidden from all but the Upstem priests and Eadyie, of course. After what seemed ages of waiting within earshot of Eadyie's hut, Silsia and Yoni slipped in when Eadyie had left with something wrapped in fur. The single large room looked the same, but for a pile of goatskin and a large black-wood bowl near the cooking fire. In the bowl was a thin material, all wrinkled and folded over on itself. It looked like the goatskin, or goat brains, but stretched impossibly thin, and coated with an oily layer that gave it the look of being fresh from the animal. Another skin was hanging from the roof, drying in the heat from the cooking fire. Silsia reached out and touched the drying skin, it felt warm and alive to her touch, it was like the skin of a lizard, only pliant and warm. She saw her shadow dance on the pearl-like surface, and looking through it she could she Yoni's nervous outline. Suddenly she was moved to action and she pulled the caul from the beam and folded it into a small bundle. She tucked it into the top of her sarong, locking eyes with Yoni as if daring her to say anything. It still felt warm and alive, like a hand between her breasts, a man's hand. With a blush at her thoughts she quickly checked outside the hut and then dashed for the riverbank, the astonished Yoni still in tow. It was a stiffness in her neck and the gradual stopping of the rain's patter around her that brought her back to herself this time. She smiled at the memory of Yoni's face and unconsciously clutched the lump between her breasts. "Oh Yoni, How your eyes would widen now if you knew what I was about." Silsia stretched out one leg and then the other and stood up, pulling free handfuls of vines as she went. It seemed to her that no time had passsed at all, but she could tell by the slanting rays of the evening sun that she had spent a good long time crouched beneath that tree. Almost at once two sounds came to her, the distant cry of a Chee'tar and the very near guttural challenge of a wood-pig. Across the small clearing she could see the outline of a creature full eight times her weight, its snout lifted to show its serrated tusks, its red-pink eyes enflamed with rage. At first fear did not come to her and she stepped forward and said "Kom-beh, tay-chee chee hai!" The wood-pig snorted and kneaded the ground with its forepaws. The words of warding rolled over it, but it did not flee. Wide-eyed, Silsia tried to look up at the trees and around her feet for signs that the Spirit was here. but there was no song on the wind, no constant flittering at the back of her mind. Somehow she had passed beyond the forest--her forest, and into the Wildwood. Fear grabbed her heart and squeezed it tightly. She felt around her for the forgotten club she had picked up earlier but couldn't find it within reach. The wood-pig took one step, then another then charged her. It held its porcine head low and emitted a high-pitched cry from deep within it like that of a woman in pain. Silsia reacted blindly and leaped backward and up onto the fallen tree. The wood-pig passed beneath it, shreding the vines like spider's web as it shook free and turned to attack again. Silsia ran down the path she had been following heedless of the scratches and gouges from countless branches that sought to hold her back--to slow her down enough that the wood-pig could catch her. "Gorund de nee-cha!" She growled wunder her breath--"Get out of my way!" She could hear the wood-pig pursuing her but dared not spare a glance behind her. She followed the trail and it seemed to become even more close and resistant to her advance. She was slapped in the face by a thick broad leaf that blinded her long enough for her to run into a low limb. It took the breath from her, but somehow she stumbled on. "CROM VETH NORLA TOVAY!!" the path beyond seemed clear and it gave her a moment to wipe the tears from her smarting eyes. She saw a wider path ahead of her; the trees leaned away on both sides as if they feared to block the trail. The crash of underbrush behind her spurred her down the trail before she could question it, but even with a clear trail she knew the wood-pig would catch her. Her breath was a fire and her legs jammed blades of saw-grass into her raw nerves with every step. "Spirit! "She cried out, "my song has been less than true, judge me not too harshly for I fear I am about to greet you!" She charged blindly as sweat blurred her vison, adding a burning that she hardly noticed. Ahead of her a figure broke free of the shadows--or perhaps it was a stilla shadow or even a dead tree-- she couldn't stop herself in time to tell, or even cry out. Her headlong rush was suddenly cut short by an arm that shot out and held her fast. She doubled over and blew out a loud breath. "Shade of the Ancient Oak!" a voice bellowed,"--a child!" Silsia tried to retort 'I'm not a child!' but could only gasp and mouth her words. If the man had not been holding her, she would have fallen to the ground. She tried to twist free and look at her captor but his grip was like the strongest limbs and she had no energy left to fight. Suddenly he seemed to become aware of the charge of the wood-pig towards them. He dropped Silsia without a word and held his staff over his head. Then slowly he muttered to himself and gestured at the wood-pig. The pig tripped and slid on its belly, got up and tried to charge again, but vines and roots held it down. It cried its outrage and tore at the vines with its tusks. The vines gave away, but each time it moved closer, more took their place. "Come on child!" the man said, "We can be far away before he gets beyond my Circle of Restraint." With that he strode into the woods with big ground-covering strides. Silsia had hardly gotten her breath when she found herself laboring to keep up. "W-wait! Please, I've got to rest!" "Sorry little one--there's a rouge druid loose in my wood and this is no place for a girl-child to be playing." Silsia's response was lost on his rapidly disapearing back. If she didn't stay close she would lose him in the gathering dusk. So she followed doggedly and held her tounge. For now. It was a tribute to Loric's grandfather, and to Loric himself, that he did not jump up and try to run the moment the chee'tar arrived. It would have been the last action he would have ever made. The chee'tar took no notice of him and chased several of the howlers to the river's edge cutting off their easy escape to the trees. Loric saw that it was the female howler and one of the young males--perhaps her own, that faced death in the form of the chee'tar. Loric had a reluctantly clear view of the tableau. He could see the fear in the howler's eyes, the hungry pacing of the chee'tar, its very stance implicitly announcing that it knew its prey was trapped. A deadly game of advance and retreat began as the howlers would back all the way to the water's edge and then having no where to go would bluff and charge the chee'tar into backing up a bit. The sight would have been thought funny if Loric had not known how the dance would have to end. Caring little for getting wet, the chee'tar was only waiting for the howlers to break for the trees. He did not know a song for taming chee'tars, no one in his village had ever tried and then returned to tell about it. A stray movement on his part could send the chee'tar running, or it could just as easily make it attack him. Loric knew that if the chee'tar didn't make a decision soon, he would have to. The wave of energy that flooded his stomach had gone sour, bringing with it the realization that the howlers would be free if he had not been weaving his spell at them. It was his responsibilty. Finally his energy spent and he his legs trembling despite his best efforts, he decided that bluffing would at least give the howlers a chance to get away, and with the Spirit's good will, he would make it up a tree also. Loric waited until the chee'tar paced directly in front of him and then sprang up howling and waving his arms wildly about. The chee'tar whipped around and backed up several feet snarling and crouching on powerfull hind legs. It bellowed out a challenge and Loric stomped his feet and shouted "Hi! Go Bomcha Chee'tar! Kei Kei!" The chee'tar seemed to flinch at the words of warding but did not run. Instead it un-coiled its lenght in a long arc toward Loric's head; claws extended and white fangs standing out stark against its ebony fur. Loric dropped to his knees and slashed across the chee'tar's belly as it passed over him. He felt white-hot fire pierce his skull as the chee'tar kicked down and raked his scalp. Screaming in pain and outrage it turned to attack again and saw Loric leaping for the lower branches. It leapt also, but the branch would not hold them both and they fell together in a flurry of leaves, claws and flesh. Loric slashed out at the direction of the pain and was unsure if he had struck the chee'tar or the treelimb. He was pinned to the treetrunk by a heavy limb and too stunned to even try to break free. Blood ran into Loric's eyes and he heard more than saw the chee'tar struggling to get free of the limb as well. It broke free, then started rolling and rubbing its flank on the ground, trying to dislodge a short length of limb impaled in its flank. Quickly Loric wiped his eyes with a leaf and broke off a sharp stick that was jabbing his chest. He leaned to the side as far as the limb would allow, took aim and prayed to the Spirit to guide his hand. He threw in-expertly, and the stick bounced off the enraged chee'tar's head. It forgot the pain and charged Loric again, who braced his arm against the trunk and hoped the impact would be enough to drive the blade home. There was a loud thud as the feline's hurtling bulk hit Loric full force, and then Loric's scream of pain joined that of the chee'tar. The kesh-blade was jerked from his grasp and the breath wheezed out of him in one loud ooff! as the limb abruptly broke free and dropped him to the ground. The chee'tar charged into the bush blindly snapping and screaming whenever the branch in its side would snag on the undergrowth. Loric slumped and leaned against the tree, trying desperately to summon enough strenght to follow the chee'tar and to force air back into his lungs. He heard the chee'tar at some distance, and by following the sound, he found the dislodged kesh-blade, and further on the piece of wood. The trail led over the side of the gorge, and at the bottom Loric found the chee'tar lying on it's side, it's fur matted and dark with their blood, its yellow eyes were fierce in the darkness, full of pain, full of hate. Loric tried to get close enough to the beast to finish it off, but the chee'tar would rally at his approach, each time roaring with less ferocity. Loric decided that the chee'tar would die soon enuff and wearily tried to climb a nearby tree. With his vision blurred and his footing unsure, he could only brace himself on in the crook of two lower limbs and wait for the Spirit to claim the chee'tar. He pulled some leaves to press against his throbbing wounds and was unconscious before his hand was half-way to his head. -Rich Jervis <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ELEVEN NUMBER TWO | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb Your Order... Paul A. Clayton *A Sudden Storm Becki Tants DNA For Sale, Slightly Used... Peter Scott *Unlikely Partners, Part 1 Max Khaytsus Date: 070688 Dist: 672 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> X-Editorial Many of you are probably unaware just what is going to happen to FSFnet within the next couple months, beyond what has been mentioned in recent issues about my graduation. The current plans go like this: In late August, I will be graduating from UMaine, and coincidental with that, FSFnet will stop production. However, before I alarm you too much, let me mention that the Dargon Project will continue under new leadership, and there are plans to begin a new magazine after FSFnet ends, and all users who are subscribed to FSFnet at the time of its last issue will automatically be subscribed to the new magazine when it begins publication. The new magazine will be edited by John White everyone who is subscribed to FSFnet will automatically be subscribed to the new magazine. Several people I've talked to have asked "Why bother ending FSFnet and starting a new magazine if they're going to be so similar?" In a discussion in FSFNET CSNOTICE (available from the server CSNEWS@MAINE) I talked about why I think it better to end FSFnet; what follows is a reprint of that discussion. All readers are welcome to join the discussion and add their comments via CSNEWS. First of all, let me mention that running a magazine is a gratifying experience. It would be silly of me (or any editor) to deny some degree of emotional attachment to his magazine, particularly if the magazine is successful. With that in mind, here's the basic reasons why I think the 'new' magazine should be considered a separate entity from FSFnet, even though they will be almost identical in their basic nature, as Leo pointed out. Firstly, but not necessarily most importantly, I'm posessive about it. I'm rather attached to it, and the thought of turning it over to another editor, whom I don't know and over whom I have no control, is difficult for me to accept. This is putting things a little more bluntly than is actually the case, but I do feel some defensiveness/protectiveness about it, and that's natural for any editor to feel. The flip side of this is the real reasoning behind ending FSFnet. Presumably, if FSFnet continued, a new editor would be recruited and be forced to adhere to formats and policies which I set three years ago. I mentioned that editing a magazine is a personal experience, yet I suspect that editing a magazine which, in the end, is not your own creation, lessens this tie. The new editor would probably find running FSFnet much less rewarding and put less effort into it than if he were running a magazine which was his own creation, and could make his own policy decisions from scratch. Sure, the two magazines will be very similar (particularly with the continuation of the Dargon Project in the new mag), but because of the change in editors, they will not be identical, and separating them (at least theoretically) into two distinct magazines will make both parties happier. So, what appears to be best for everyone, is to discontinue FSFnet as such, while starting up another (very similar) magazine to fill its void. Let the old editor have his wish of not letting someone else get their hands on 'his' magazine, and let the new editor start a zine which he can take pride in and truly call his own, without being bound by the policies of the old. Keep the readers involved by allowing the new zine to make use of the same mailing list. The key to improvement is to not to be afraid of changes, and I feel that a change in (at least) the name of the magazine will permit the new editor more freedom to improve than if he were bound to a set of guidelines not of his own choosing. So that should give you a fair idea of what is going to happen, and why. I'll keep producing issues as frequently as I have enough material (hint hint), and I anticipate perhaps two more issues before the end of summer. Speaking of which, there will be a (hopefullly) large gathering of FSFnet people at the Pennsic War this year, and if anyone is going to be around, drop me a line to be included in the planning. But back to the matters at hand; we've got a very interesting issue here. It includes two very entertaining SF shorts, Becki Tants' newest installment, and the first in an excellent series by Max Khaytsus; I'm sure you'll enjoy it. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Your Order... "Rhadhishe Sheffield will be with you momentarily," said the attractive young woman. "Can I do anything for you while you wait?" "Yes, you can answer a few more questions," the chief delegate said, "To start with, how is it that one in her early twenties is part of the famous diplomatic corps of S'lah?" "I am not really a member yet," the woman replied, "but I belong to Sheffield, and I am training to be a rhadhishe. Is there anything else you wish to ask?" "Uh--no," the delegate said, forgetting his other questions in the surprise caused by her answer. "Well, then I shall leave," the woman said, pressing a small green button causing the door to slide open, "If you have any further questions, you can ask Rhadhishe Sheffield, himself." The woman left the room, and the chief delegate turned to face the six other delegates from his world as the door to the room closed. "Did you hear that?" he asked, "Apparently, this culture has some peculiarities that were not mentioned in the briefing, including slavery. I suggest we be especially careful to avoid breaking any tabus." The delegates mumbled their agreement, and then broke back into grumbling about the clothing that had been provided for them. "This stuff looks so silly. I mean, look at this pattern of vine and long-bodied fish with black splotches that look like oil stains." "Mine isn't much better. Do we really have to wear these clothes?" "Yes. It's part of the tradition of peace negotiations here on S'lah that all parties wear these diplomatic clothes. They are symbolic of fair treatment for all sides of a dispute. And, remember, the N'rr said that we should do our utmost to secure a FAIR peace. You wouldn't want to fail her over such a trivial matter as clothing, would you?" "No. It's just that these clothes are so--" A short buzz came from the control panel beside the door, interrupting the delegates speech. The chief delegate walked over to the panel, pressed a small button, and spoke at the panel. "Who is it?" "This is Rhadhishe Sheffield. I have come to guide the delegates from Kruetos to the Meeting." "Hello. Enter." The chief delegate pressed a button and the door slid open, admitting a short, cheerful-looking man wearing a dull red robe with a white sash hanging from his right shoulder to his left side. "Hello. I am Rhadhishe Sheffield, but you may call me Sheff," the man said, "I see you have put on the clothes we have provided. Good. You do realize, of course, the significance of these clothes?" "Yes," the chief delegate said, "that was covered in the standard briefing." "Good. Many do not realize their significance. They do not remember that for many years our people were tossed by warring neighbors and that we developed our diplomatic policy as a defense response. The clothes that you now wear ensure fair treatment to all the delegates and put you under a very strict code of conduct. If any one of you breaks part of the code, not only the individual, but his entire people will be liable to punishment. This ensures the safety of the other delegates and the safety of our world from retaliation if a delegate should come to harm. "Do you have any questions to ask before we go to the Meeting? It is my responsibility to inform you on any matters that interest you concerning our culture in general or the nature of the Meeting." "We presently only have a few short questions," the chief delegate said, "You can answer them while guiding us to the Meeting." "As you wish. Shall we leave then?" The chief delegate nodded, and Sheff began to lead them away. "You said that you have some questions that you would like to ask," the rhadhishe said, "What would you like to know?" "Well, first," the chief delegate asked, "the woman who came to us to announce your coming said that she "belonged" to you. What exactly did she mean?" "Oh," the rhadhishe said, mildly surprised by the question, "She is my cumbre--you might call her an indentured servant. I am quite fortunate to have her; the queue for such intelligent and readily trainable servants is quite long. In fact, colloquially they are known as line-servants because one must usually wait so long before one can buy one. "You shouldn't consider us less civilized because we practice this form of slavery," the rhadhishe said, catching the look on the delegates' faces, "It is the only way we have found to ensure that the poor are not thrust into poverty. Our laws protect the rights of all cumbres and ensure that they are fairly treated. The demand for such servants keeps the prices high; and our laws prevent any single contract longer than seven years and ensure the servant's right to buy himself out of any remaining time; and, of course, only a willing citizen can become a cumbre. In addition to being a path for the poor to escape poverty, this ensures a high standard of education and allows gifted individuals to receive special training. Admittedly, not all individuals have equal opportunity nor are all owners exceptionally kind to their servants, but our system seems to us the best of the systems to which we have been exposed. Remember, this system has ensured the stability of our society for almost two hundred years; few other societies at our advanced level of technology can make such a claim about their social systems. "At any rate, I think that answers your question. Is there anything else that you would like to know?" The chief delegate asked Sheff several more questions which he answered at some length. Then, after a brief moment of no questions, the chief delegate spoke again. "Oh, yes," the chief delegate paused before he continued speaking, "As you may know, the N'rr, the leader of all Kruetos, ordered this gathering as she lay on her deathbed. For this reason we are obliged to attempt to make peace with our enemy, though all indications are that we could start an invasion of B'konbi itself within the next year and thus ensure victory; but we must be certain that the treaty will be fair, otherwise we will be forced to settle our dispute with the weapons of war. We have heard that a Terran will be presiding over the Meeting; is this true?" "We are almost at the place where the meeting will be held. Is this your last question?" "Yes." the chief delegate nodded. "Well, then follow me." The rhadhishe turned at a fork of a type particular to the architecture of S'lah and led them into a small rectangular room with a large window offering a view of the room that had been prepared for the Meeting. "There, in the center of the room, is the one who will preside over this gathering," the rhadhishe said, pointing through the window at the bowl-shaped room beyond. The room had trees, shrubs, and other plants spread throughout it. It was filled with greens, as was the custom among the people of S'lah. At its center, sitting behind a small, curved table which faced the seats for both delegations, was a woman whose long brown hair was streaked with grey and who looked at once both above all concerns and open to the concerns of others. "Her name is Sherry Mato, though she prefers to be called by her middle name of Theresa," the rhadhishe continued, "As you may know, our world has significant economic interests on B'konbi-- significant enough that these interests might make one of our diplomats favor their side, or, in an effort to avoid this, favor your own side. Fortunately, we are prepared for such problems. We make a habit of adopting people from other worlds, and training them, in a politically neutral environment, to deal with these relatively rare situations. "To answer your question, yes, she is a Terran, though she was adopted at a very early age and has received the same training as all native arbitrators. She was picked especially for this gathering because of her special understanding of the underlying circumstances. You need have no worries that she is less well trained or in any other way less ripe for this situation than a native arbitrator would be." "Are you ready to enter the Meeting?" Sheff asked after a long period of silence. The chief delegate nodded, and Sheff led them back to the corridor from which they had come and into the Meeting-room. Once all the delegates had seated themselves the arbitrator stood and addressed them. "Now that the Kruetons and the B'konbits have arrived in S'lahd dressings, let us begin. . . ." -Paul A. Clayton (with Jason Malkoff, Bryan Paschke and Thomas Payerle) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A Sudden Storm Arrangements didn't take long. The next night, a young dock worker named Johan was waiting for her at the door and walked all the way home with her. He was a nice enough young man, about her age, with dark hair and fiery blue eyes. Nice and muscular too. She immediately got the feeling he had been handpicked by Karina or Camron as not only a good body guard, but a good husband candidate as well. He seemed to have the same idea. "So, I hear you're new to the city" he said. Interested in a tour sometime? I've lived here all my life and could show you some really beautiful spots." "That's really very nice of you," Ariel said, ducking just out of reach as he tried to put his arm around her. He saved the gesture from looking stupid by going into his pouch with his hand as it came around, but that didn't stop a couple passers-by from giving him a look and a chuckle. Ariel blushed, amazed at how unworldly city men could be. "I really don't think I'll have time. Camron is keeping me very busy." "Well that's OK," Johan said, "Uncle Camron will be more than happy if we went for a picnic sometime." "Uncle Camron?" Ariel said with a sinking feeling. She KNEW she'd been set up. "Ya. He suggested I walk you home because I know where my sister Karina's house is. So what about that picnic?" Johan asked. Luckily the walk home wasn't long and she was able to claim fatigue to get out of answering the question. She climbed the stairs, mildly cursing Karina for setting that one up. Her and her idea of getting Ariel "properly married". Unfortunately, her thoughts were overrun by the ache in her legs from the previous night's run. Opening her door, she was about to collapse on her bed, when she stopped, staring at the man sitting on the edge of her bed. "Good evening, Ariel. Come in, close the door and sit down. We have quite a bit to discuss." he said. He was an older man, not very out of the ordinary looking, but it didn't matter. All she could see was the symbol of Haargon hanging about his neck. "Like it?" he asked, holding up the pendent, "It took 7 long years of searching for the stone and weeks spent in the smithy and jewlers shops to make it. I made it myself, so that I would know it had been done right. Would you like to see it closer?" Ariel couldn't take her eyes off the pendent. She began to move forward toward it with a faltering step. There was a nagging in the back of her mind that said she should run away, but it was quickly fading away as she got closer to the amulet. "Good. Come here, touch it if you like. You may hold it. It's really the only way to examine the excellent workmanship of the amulet." the old priest said, with a wonderful, friendly smile. Ariel began to reach up for the medallion, to pick it up and look at it, when she caught sight of Stefan's ring on her finger in the candle light. With a start, she came back to herself, out of the drug-like stupor she had been in and snapped upright, taking several steps backwards to the wall. "What are you doing here?" she asked, panic in her voice. "I see you are a bit stronger then I thought. it takes quite a bit of power to break a mind lock. So be it." he said, as he put his amulet back on and walked to the door. "I just came to see for myself who you were and what you were like. I do so hate killing people who are no threat. So messy. But I see now that you are a viable concern. Therefore I will give you this warning and this offer. My god Haargon has commanded your death. he says you are a grave danger to myself and my followers. I give you 48 hours before I kill you to decide on one thing. You have the potential to be an extremely talented mage. I would rather not destroy that potential. So I ask you to join us. I will train you myself. You have 48 hours to decide. At the end of that time, I will return for your decision. Remember tho, that if your decision is wrong, you will die." He walked out of the room and closed the door. Panicing for Karina and Marcus' sake, she ran to the door and opened it, looking for him, to make sure he didn't harm them. He was nowhere to be seen. It was as though he had disappeared. Walking back into her room, she collapsed onto her bed in tears. She felt so powerless. What could she do against someone who had the power to disappear like that? She was so caught up in her tears that she jumped when Marcus knocked on the half open door, saying " I thought I heard voices up here." One look at her face tho, and he was immediately at her side, with an arm around her trembling shoulders saying "It's OK now." and smoothing her hair. By the time she had calmed down, Karina had come up to see what was wrong. Karina sat with her, while Marcus went and made some tea. When he came back, he asked her the question she had known was coming but dreaded. "OK, Ariel.. We'd like the whole story now. All of it." he said as he handed her the cup. Taking a long slow drink, she began her explanation. By the time she had finished, the tea was cold in the pot, yet she continued to drink it. "Why didn't you tell us in the first place?" Karina asked. "Several reasons. I hoped that it was over and I could settle back down to being a normal person again. I didn't want to worry you. Most of all I was afraid you wouldn't believe me." Ariel said. Karina came over and gave her a hug. "Well, I admit it is a bit out of the ordinary, but I don't believe you to be a liar. We'll help you." Marcus nodded in agreement. "No!" Ariel protested. "You've done too much already. And now, because of me, you're in danger. I must leave. Maybe I could go to Baranur. Find a job there. Maybe they'll leave me alone then." Marcus spoke up for the first time since he initially came into the room. "Ariel, you heard what the priest said. You're special in some way. They won't leave you alone...ever. You're going to have to fight them, one way or another. At least let us give you what help we can. Camron might be able to get some information on this other cult. And we can go to one of the fortune tellers on the dock and see if they have any guidance for us. I hear Corambis recently returned. He's the best they say." He was in his fatherly tone. Caring, but firm. She knew better then to go against him. "And we'll get that young man who walked you home to stay with you all the time. We'll work this out." He gave her a hug, saying "Now you go to bed. You're exhausted. I'll go talk to Camron first thing in the morning so he doesn't worry and can get things moving." "OK," she said, "you're right. I do need some sleep." She quickly crawled under the covers as Karina came over, gave her another hug and tucked her in. "Good Night" she said as they closed the door. She waited until after she knew they were in bed and asleep before getting up. It took Ariel less then 5 minutes to pack her few belongings and quietly walk down the stairs. In the kitchen, she took a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a wine skin, and added it to her pack. Then she left a quick note on the table for them. I'm sorry, but I can't stay here. My presence puts you in danger, and I care too much for you to do that. I am going to find myself somewhere to live where I won't be hurting anyone. You can reach me at Camron's, as I still have to work for at least the next couple of days. Thank you for everything. Ariel. Folding the note and placing it where she knew it would be seen, she took one last fond glance around the kitchen before walking out into the night and off to find somewhere to stay. Marcus shook his head as the door closed, swore under his breath, and followed her out the door into the night air. He wasn't the only one. -Becki Tants <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> DNA For Sale, Slightly Used... Changing technology doesn't mean changing people... ...but the problems may vary... 2800 Whitney Drive Denver, CO General Genetics Corporation 14000 Michigan Way Research Triangle Park, NJ To Whom It May Concern: I have recently taken care of four thousand square feet of your "Everlush Living Carpet", impressed by the salesman's demonstration of its ability to devour cigarette butts, cookie crumbs, and household dust, turning same into natural pine scent and negative ionization. I was initially pleased with the carpeting, and even wrote off its propensity to leach out the cellulose from newspapers as a timely reminder not to be untidy. Later, I noticed that it had also been absorbing the feet of wooden furniture, so I installed steel caps on the legs of those chairs and tables. Last week, however, my youngest son tripped and dropped a large pepperoni pizza on the hearth rug, which promptly gulped it down. I could forgive this indecent haste for cleanliness were it not for the fact that it was a sudden swell in the carpet that caused my son to trip in the first place, and the carpet had been making subtle advances towards the kitchen for the previous ten days. Things have now gone too far. Yesterday my prize rubber plant disappeared, and there is a new springiness to the carpet (I leave the obvious inference to your imagination). Visitors have been discouraged from entering ever since the welcome mat developed a habit of dissolving their shoelaces. The pile is now over a foot thick in places and my daughter's dachshund has not been heard for two days. And while I find a small quantity of negative ions to be beneficial to the health, I don't think it appropriate that there should be arcing between the wall sockets. I am not writing at this time to request a refund, but I would be profoundly grateful if you would ship a sufficient quantity of specific weedkiller to eradicate your Everlush carpet before I call out the National Guard. Yours sincerely, Nathaniel S. Horner, M.D. ------------------- 141 Podunk Drive Poughkeepsie, NY General Genetics Corporation 14000 Michigan Way Research Triangle Park, NJ To The Boss: See here, I'm not looking for trouble or nothin', but one afternoon Ira brings home this gizmo he says is a "Biogulp" organic vacuum cleaner. What do I care, it picks up schmutz and there ain't no bag to change. The first day it's here, Amos 'n Andy -- the kittens -- mark it for a stranger and pounce. Why not, I said, they could use the fun. But now it's hiding in the closet under the stairs and refuses to come out. I call your service man, he comes and talks to it, and says it's gotten neurotic. Then he says the warranty don't cover repair of "malicious damage", but any schmuck can see it's only got a coupla scratches. That ain't no reason for it to be whimpering and complaining about the spiders. My husband says you're supposed to find the psychos before they leave the factory, and that I have a prima facie case (whatever that is) for a full refund. Yours, Irma Goldstein (Mrs.) ------------------- General Genetics Corporation INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM To: Departmental Manager, Quality Control From: Director of Field Inspection Ed, your boys have got to stay on their toes more! My division doesn't like playing quis custodiet any more than the next man, but yesterday they earned their pay. Regs say that any spillage in a storehouse means everything in the room gets cancelled, but yesterday your people knocked over a box of self-regenerating tampon RNA substrate and a vial of Magic Mix Cocktail Shaker base and didn't sterilize for thirty minutes! You know I hate to get officious -- besides, I've joined in the poker game myself, won a few beads from your people at times -- but this was one time when the size of the pot shouldn't keep the men from their work. Fortunately, the only thing shipped out during that half hour was a box of towels, but it could have been a lot worse. 'Nuff said, Ed? -- Mike ------------------- 10231 Sunset Boulevard Beverly Hills, CA General Genetics Corporation 14000 Michigan Way Research Triangle Park, NJ Hi: I just want you to know right off that this is not a complaint, in fact quite the opposite, I simply had to write and compliment you for the wonderful quality of your "Sta-Warm" self-heating body wraps. In the movie business a girl's kept working a fourteen-hour day most of the time, a hot bath is about the only luxury I can expect when I get home, and when there's no-one around to dry me off, your towels are really better than the usual cheap kinds that make you do all of the work yourself. I must confess I was unprepared for some of the things the towel did, but I've grown used to it since then. The towel seems to enjoy it, too: more than once it has snuck into my bedroom after a hard day; and although it did try to strangle my director when he called to go over the next day's script with me there was no harm done in the end. Love, Mitzy Moreno (Ms) ------------------- 1200 Madison Ave Suite 501 New York, NY President General Genetics Corporation 14000 Michigan Way Research Triangle Park, NJ Sir: As you know, Consolidated has grown into Fortune 500 status in a record period, and I'm writing to share with you one of the secrets of our success, seeing as indirectly, you brought it about. At the beginning of this year we were facing a projected first quarter loss of $27 million, and as part of the cost cuts I had to halve my secretary's hours. Well, to cut a long story short, I bought the latest telephone answering machine from your AI division, figuring that it would be good for telling people when I would be back, fobbing off salesmen, maybe even pacifying my wife. Your literature leaves the limits of the machine's capability rather open-ended (don't worry -- you're not the first to market before you've researched: just common business practice), but does mention that they depend on "heuristic factors". At the time I thought that meant something to do with background noise; anyway, I plugged it into the listed line and left it for a few days. Now, I get a lot of calls. Most of them at that time from people I owed money to. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the machine had developed a smart strategy for handling these people by playing them off against each other. I was still strapped for time, so I let it have the run of the whole board. For a week it was doing a great job -- even learned to imitate my voice -- until one day I caught it haggling with a distributor over his contract. I listened to it for a while, and discovered it was actually a pretty shrewd operator! Anyway, that must have given it some ideas, because the next week it told me I had a 10:30 appointment with Higgins of Amalgamated. "You're wrong," I said, "I haven't talked with Higgins in five years". It turned out that the machine had made the appointment so I could rubber-stamp a merger deal it had made! I didn't mind making it a full partner -- in fact, if it bucks for the chair, it can have it. I still have my stock and that's all I need... Regards, Hiram X. Hamilton III ------------------- 7343 Waterside Avenue Norfolk, VA General Genetics Corporation 14000 Michigan Way Research Triangle Park, NJ Dear Sir or Madam: I am returning my "Adapta-Mirra" to my dealer forthwith, and advise you that I will be consulting various consumer protection groups as to the safety of this product. Your mirror functioned quite adequately in wiping condensation off itself, dimpling into a shaving mirror for my husband, and giving the time-honored response to my teen-age daughter whenever she asked it to identify The Fairest Of Them All. However, when my daughter woke up one day with a small pimple on her nose, she was aghast to see in the mirror a malignant fungus spreading over half her face. I did not think it funny when my mother visited and the mirror shrieked loudly and pretended to shatter in its frame. Nor do I find it amusing that your mirror chooses to portray me variously as a wizened old hag, a pregnant sow, or Tyrannosaurus Rex. I have raised my family never to shirk away from reality, and this has been a traumatic experience for us all. We may seek punitive damages. Yours, Sylvia Foster ------------------- 1102 Forest Drive Carson City, NV General Genetics Corporation 14000 Michigan Way Research Triangle Park, NJ Dear Sir or Madam: I am writing on behalf of my wife and myself to tell you about an application of your "Slumber-Rite" active-deforming beds which you may not yet be aware of. When we bought the bed, Adele and I were on such bad terms that we even discussed at the same time who would get custody of it. Sex was, frankly, the only thing keeping us together at that time (if you'll pardon the crude pun), and that hadn't much life left in it. That night as we glared at each other across the pillows, wondering who would draw first, your bed coughed apologetically through its diagnostic vocoder, and asked us how long things had been that bad. I started to snap, "None of your business!", but Adele -- who always had a way with machines -- gave it an honest answer. Soon we were both talking with the bed, which proved to have a considerate and urbane... well, bedside manner. Well, the rest is history. We sold the house to take a second honeymoon, and gave the bed to a pair of friends whose relationship seemed headed for the rocks, and that set us wondering: could your bed be certified as a bona fide marriage counselor? Come to think of it, formal recognition might spoil the surprise value of its approach. Hey maybe you guys had more to do with this than we thought! Nuptially yours, George Miller ------------------- "Bramleigh" Old Farm Road Pebblesworth Herts., G.B. General Genetics Corporation 14000 Michigan Way Research Triangle Park, NJ Sirs: What with the recession forcing us to close down the east wing of the old homestead, and my having to lay off the groundskeeper, we considered ourselves somewhat fortunate to acquire your new model "Genetigardener" on very reasonable terms, but there have been several slight problems that I think you ought to know about. Firstly, it has a most inconvenient allergy to tea. What's the use of having a gardner that doubles as a manservant if the wretched thing throws up all over the serving tray every afternoon? First time this happened was when we were entertaining the Buffington-Joneses. Can't tell you how embarrassing it was... Secondly, it's quite obvious that the thing was educated in the colonies, since it can't tell the difference between game and poultry. Discovered this after I found the best grouse being pecked to pieces in the chicken coop where the blasted thing had herded them. And why should it keep asking me where the swimming pool is? Elizabeth and I haven't touched the waters since a spot of paddling at Blackpool in '69! Talking of the mem-sah'b, this brings me to the most perplexing problem. A few weeks ago, she started spending an inordinate amount of time in the gardner's shed teaching it how to behave in the Old Country. Then, one day, both she and the thing were gone! I can't get a word out of the butler and the maid about the whole affair. What the deuce d'you suppose is going on? Yours faithfully, Major Harrington Dexter-Smythe (ret'd) ------------------- General Genetics Corporation INTEROFFICE MEMORANDUM To: All Operations Staff From: Director, Security Last night Research had an accident in the bio-electronic lab: a prototype intelligent television was fed several 1950's 'B' movies and got the idea to break out. Unfortunately it contains the new controlled mutation genes, and there may be problems with recognizing it. Please look out for an object that resembles at various times a gelatinous blob, a giant fly in a double-breasted suit, Godzilla or the Smog Monster, or an Egyptian mummy. Since it also saw both editions of "The Thing", all personnel are to report to Medical for a full check-up after clocking-on. ------------------- -Peter Scott (PJS%GROUCH@JPL-MIL.JPL.NASA.GOV) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Unlikely Partners "A very rare form of lycanthropy is mutation into a wolf. This should not, however, be confused with the legendary lore of werewolves. A wolfling, as commonly called by mystics, this lycanthrope is a product of fusion of a werewolf and a wolf by a group of mad alchemists and wizards. Three quarters wolf blood, this animal is a blood thirsty, vicious killer that by bite can repopulate its own kind. A sort of venomous substance will, on contact with its victim, begin the incredible transformation of man to near wolf. This ferocious, large creature has been know to bring beasts as large as bears to the ground with sheer strength alone. Being an intelligent creature, a wolfling will selectively attack and kill only those it can not convert to its own species..." -Ilyan, alchemist to King Dillas of Gledon, "A Discourse on Alchemy, Magic and the Consequences of Their Use", pages 181-182. "It has come to my attention that in centuries past more myth has been developed around the prospect of a man becoming a wolf than of the actual strength of the Fretheod Empire. Being a historian, I feel that I do not need to exaggerate the facts, as often done by Bards, and as a scientist, I feel I can understand the facts that lie in this terrible affliction. "Let me begin by saying that there is no such creature as a werewolf. A transformation of a human (or any other) body to creature such as that is simply impossible, particularly two times in one night. A wolfling, on the other hand is a diseased man that over a long period of time becomes a wolf. "My personal research and experimentation has shown that such a transition is possible, though not for all creatures, to experience the mutation specified above. Let me reprint, for your information an exerpt from the journal of perhaps the first man to come across the condition described: "...I can no longer discern between what is real and what is not. My dreams have become primitive in nature and bloodthirsty in content. I feel myself slowly going mad. "The potion I created weeks ago to cure the madness dogs carry works, but it also adjusts the organisms that imbibe it to that of a dog. Already the animals that I experimented on died of the severe changes to their metabolisms. Their fate did not become mine. Though cured of one disease, I carry the other. My skin is becoming grey and covered by thicker hair. I noticed that my teeth are much sharper and I am growing fangs. Yesterday I woke up to blood, carnage and a partially gnawed animal in my house. The blood on the floor was also on my hands and face. "To these ends, I am leaving my home, to live out my life in the woods as far from human life as possible. I feel that if I do not find a cure soon, I may become the father of a new 'human' race..." "This was written by Aran Leigh, an alchemist in the city of Kevra. "There is no longer evidence of the potion or its ingredients that are mentioned, but it is quite clear that the disease is in no way supernatural or a wrath of the Gods. It is simply an infection that can be transmited from one individul to another, such as a cold. While not being one hundred per cent certain of the precise methods of transfer, I feel I can unerringly say that by the transfer of body fluids, such as when bitten, would successfully infect others. "The disease itself can take anywhere from a few months to a full year to come to completion. In its progress, the only species known not to die before the process is completed, is humans. Perhaps it is because of stubborness to live or that the original potion was designed to work on humans only, but all other animals for which a record of this disease exists, died very quickly. Humans infected most often go mad from the striking changes they go through in the progrees of the mutation..." -Bistra, head chronicler, city of Shakin, "The Realities of Myths", pages 33-37. Rien jumped off his horse near a squeaky old cart labled 'Salamagundi Stew'. Its owner was busy with a sailor, making a sale and took little notice of Rien, who in his turn became fascinated with a monkey sitting atop the stew cart. He carefully put out his hand in front of the animal, allowing it to examine his riding glove. The monkey pulled at his fingers and uttered a loud scream. "Looks like Skeebo doesn't like the animal that gave up its hide for that glove." "Skeebo?" Rien looked up at the preprietor, puzzled. "The monkey! I'm Simon Salamagundi. What can I do for you?" "Stew?" "Ah!" Simon exclaimed. "Regular, sweet and sun-sweet. Which will it be?" Rien looked at the three kettles, as a sailor approached at the side. "A sweet stew, Simon!" the man exclaimed. With an adroit move Simon scooped up a bowl and handed it to the sailor, not once changing his focus of attention. The sailor paid to Skeebo and left. "Regular," Rien said. "Seems to be the least traveled of the lot." "Least traveled because it's so regular," Simon smiled, picking up a bowl. Skeebo screamed as Rien was violently pushed aside by a running girl. Simon stretched out the bowl of stew as Rien regained his balance. "On the house," he said, seeing Rien reaching for his pouch with coins. "She's got it," he pointed to the girl moving through the crowd. "Just take the stew and forget her." "Watch my horse," Rien growled, his crystal eyes fading to grey. "I wouldn't if I were you..." Simon called after him, but Rien's heart was already set on his action. He chased the girl across the docks and into a maze of alleys. She did not seem aware of him, but this did not mean his guard could be let down. Rien drew his long dagger on the run, following the girl into a less than respectible neighborhood. What did Simon mean 'forget about her'? The answer was just around the corner. Making the turn, Rien spotted three well armed cut throats blocking his advance to the girl. She dangled his purse in a teasing, you-won't-get-it manner and Rien reached for his sword. "This isn't worth it," he thought aloud, realizing his sword is was still strapped on his horse. "Damn fool!" "Ain't worth it's right," one of the cut throats uttered in a drunken voice. "No challange at all!" and threw his sword to Rien. "Still ain't no challange!" the second thug roared. His laughter ended in a cry of pain as the 'borrowed' sword cut deep into his side. The third rogue charged Rien in frenzied anger. His charge was cut short by the dagger. Rien took his time letting the wounded man slide off the blade. He stared at the one who gave up his sword. "LEAVE" and the man charged past him like a bat out of hell. "Next time pick friends who are not drunk," Rien turned to the girl. "If there is a next time." He slowly advanced towards the girl, who now backed herself into a wall. A few more steps and... A sharp pain spread through his leg and Rien spun around, letting out an abrupt cry. The grey in his eyes disolved to his normal shade of crystal blue. He grasped his calf, coming nose to muzzle with a growling dog. He swung his dagger, losing his balance, but avoided being bit again by the dog. Rien rolled and stood up, expecting to be attacked, but was surprised to see the animal lying on the ground with a crossbow bolt in its side. Down the alley a town guardsman lowered his weapon as three people rushed past him. Two were dressed in town guard uniforms, but the third was elderly and dressed in lose fitting clothing. The man knelt over the dog and produced a white sphere that begun to glow green after a short chant. "This is the animal," he stood up and looked at the guards. "Dispose of it. Burn it." One of the guards pulled out a sack and started wraping the dog, while the other two looked over the alley. "What happend here?" a guard asked Rien, who was diligently searching the other end of the alley for the girl. Both she and his money were gone. "I was ambushed while taking a shortcut." The guard nodded. "There's a reward for the capture of those two, you know." Rien shrugged. "I wasn't aware of that. There were three of them. This is the last man's sword." The guard took the weapon and looked it over. Not finding anything distinct in it, he passed it to one of the other guards. "Burn the dog and find a physician who'll treat them," he instructed. "What's with the dog?" Rien asked. "It did not hurt you, did it?" the guard asked and called the old man over. "No, no it didn't, but shooting it and burning its body on such a suspicion does seem a bit extreme." "Burning a creature diseased with lycanthropy is no crime," the old man said to Rien as he approached. "A lycanthrope's bite makes others into lycanthropes." "You mean like those stories about men turning into werewolfs and howling at the moon?" "That IS a myth. Being a wolfling is not." Rien made a mental note to check into this later and accepting the small reward, bid them farewell. He returned to the spot where he last saw the girl and scanned the area again. She could have left in any direction, while he was struggling with the dog. No chance of finding her now. As Rien was preparing to leave, he heard a voice behind him and spun about. The grey haired wizard was still standing in the alley. "The dog bit you." The old man's words were a statement. "Who are you?" Rien asked. "Taishent, the mage," the man bowed low. "Yes, the dog bit me. What's it to you?" "Why so hostile? You will need my council if you are to survive," the wizard said and again produced the white sphere. The glow about it was faint green. "You have the disease. You have only a few months." "All this wolfling-werewolf talk strikes me as stories for children, not a sickness." "When magic goes bad, it becomes a curse," the wizard responded. "You do believe in magic?" he asked and not waiting for an answer, turned to leave. "Is there a cure?" Rien stopped the old man, not quite ready to believe that he would be howling at the moon a few months down the road, but wanting to know more. "If there was, I would have given it to that poor animal. I wish you luck." He walked out of the alley and disppeared down the street. An hour later Rien found Simon's stew cart and his horse. Skeebo was jumping up and down in the saddle, with the realization that a hard enough landing would make the horse stir. The surprised Simon looked at a smiling Rien. "Regular, please," Rien said and handed a coin to Skeebo. The monkey jumped off the horse and handed the pay to Simon. "Good show," the vendor laughed. "Not many get their money back from her." "Many aren't persistant," Rien grinned. He may not have gotten HIS money back, but was working on it. "What's her deal anyway?" "I'm sure you know every town has some problems," Simon began. "Dargon just happens to have a monopoly on them. Kera, the girl who took your purse, is the legal ward of Lord Liriss, who is rumored to be the man behind a lot of the crime in this town. I'd watch out for his men. Bad things happen to those who cross him, I hear." "Why doesn't the local Duke do anything about the problem?" Rien shifted, sipping the spicy stew. "What can he do? Lord Dargon is rumored to have enough problems of his own. Liriss is but a small problem compared to what is really going on in this town." "And what is really going on?" inquired Rien. Simon looked about uncomfortably. "They say there is an assassination plot against Lord Dargon. There've been some deaths in nobility recently. Slowly, but surely, the assassins are getting closer to him." "Sounds like the town guard has its hands very full..." Rien said. "It's only a rumor," Simon replied. "What's your interest in Dargon anyway? What do you do?" Now it was Rien's turn to look about uncomfortably. "Just out to have an adventuresome vacation... You wouldn't be able to point me to a local alchemist, would you?" Terell was a tall, young man, dressed very commonly, so as not to reveal his life's calling. Besides, no one wore the "traditional" starscape cap and robe in real life anyway - no reason unless you were a showman or a fraud. He looked about absent mindedly as Rien pushed open the door to the alchemy shop. "What can I do for you, young man?" Rien stopped dead in his tracks. 'Young man'? Right. "I'm looking for Terell, the alchemist...this is his shop?" "You found 'im!" This caused Rien to pause even longer. "You?" he finally asked. "Been m'self for up over sixty years." Sixty? This man looks well preserved for someone his age, though he does act it. "So what can I do for you?" the man presisted. "I am interested in what you can tell me about lycanthropes," Rien said, leaning on the counter across from Terell. The alchemist smiled. "Heard o' that crazy dog Taishent captured, have you? Well, there isn't much I can tell you about that. Taishent is said to o've been casting his cards for the town when he came across the dog. No one knows where it came from or how it got 'ere, but town guard's always pleased to shoot some'ing." "I meant the disease," Rien explained his need, grateful for the alchemist's loose mouth. "Do you know anyhing about the curse?" Terell paced his lab for a minute. "The disease can be passed in many ways. Most common is bite. The infected either die or mutate into those beasts - wolflings. Takes different amount of time for different people, but it get's 'em all. I never heard of a cure for it, but I just know I could find one if I'd have a sample! Ah, they sh'uldn't 've killed that dog!" Rien thought for a moment. If there was the slightest chance of a cure, he was in desprate need of finding it, but telling someone of the disease was just about as intellignet as running naked through the middle of the market place, screaming about having leprosy. Terell looked young for his supposed age. Thirty at the most and that means that his potions really do work. Sometimes risks have to be taken in life... "What if I can get you a subject?" Rien asked the alchemist, who was now reorganizing the vials on his counter. Startled, the man dropped one of the glass vessels. "And just where d'you propose to come up with one?" he asked, ignoring the smoky vapor raising up toward the ceiling. "Let's just say," Rien smiled, "that I can locate one. What would be in it for me?" I'll pay you!" Terell exclaimed, his old-like tones dissipating. "I'll be rich and you'll be famous..." Rien said slowly. "Precisely!" "No," Rien shook his head. "I don't want money. The deal is you cure the subject. Then you can have your fame." "All right," Terell agreed. "I'll make a profit either way and you'll have a cure for who ever you want to aid. Yes?" "Yes," Rien nodded. "So where is my subject?" Rien could not believe that this old man could act so young. "I am he," he answered, almost expecting death. Terell made a step back in shock. "I won't bite you, honest," Rien promised. Kera snuck up on a fat man leaning over a table with trinkets. The items appeared cheap, but since he intended to buy something, he had some funds. Besides, anyone that fat had to have money to support his belly. Kera looked over the man's shoulder at the assortment of glass, clay and metal statuettes of people and animals. Her left hand ran across the belt pouch on the man's right hip, while her right picked up a crystal clear unicorn. Neither the fat man nor the booth owner noticed what she did. Kera smiled, pocketing both her prizes and allowed a young child to squeeze in before her. Her "profit" for the day was already well above average and thinking that Liriss would be pleased, she turned and left the market place. Kera had been working for Liriss ever since she could remember. He picked her up off the streets as an orphan and trained her to steal. Liriss provided everything she needed, even luxuries at times. Perhaps there was a better life somewhere, but it certainly was not as an orphan in the Fifth Quarter. She even had Liriss' thugs for protection, when she needed them...like the day before. Oh, Liriss was mad to learn what happend! Not only were his guards drunk, but they also got trashed by a single man and later arrested by the town guard. Still, that last purse she lifted would more than pay for new hirelings; especially in the Fifth Quarter. It's the stupid, careless people who provide the most profit. Kera turned into an alley, winding up face to face with the stupid, careless person she just been thinking about. Stupid and over confident. He hadn't camped out here all day, did he? "Just your luck," Rien smiled, grabbing her arm. "You're hurting me!" Kera screamed trying to wriggle free. Rien's grip did not lessen. "You're hurting yourself." Kera stopped trying to pull free. "Bastard! I'll have you killed for this!" "I don't think so," Rien smiled again. "You used the same alley twice too often. Your body guards will not be able to help you today." Stealthily Kera pulled out her stolen unicorn figurine and jabbed it into Rien's hand, the one that was holding her, horn first. The glass snapped and with a curse Rien withdrew his hand. Kera took off down the alley. For the first time in her life, she wished she had not neglected carrying weapons on her person. She desperately hoped that Rien had lied about Liriss' guards not being able to help her. It wouldn't look good to lose two sets of men on consecutive days. Right about then she went sprawling to the ground over the out stretched arm of one of the downed guards. He lay on a pile of trash, with his companion not far away. Kera picked herself up, surprised that Rien was already next to her. His eyes were a strange shade of grey, producing a hypnotic effect, as he thrust her into the wall. 'Weren't they blue?' she thought, bending over from pain. The jolt gave her the right state of mind to shrug the useless thoughts off. With the last of her breath, Kera screamed "Help, rape!" She saw a red streak before her and Rien's hand clamped over her mouth. She turned her head, spitting blood and smearing it across her right cheek. A finger of her assailant passed across her lips and she bit into it. Rien looked startled. Kera could have slipped away, but the change of color in his eyes kept her watching. His hand slipped off her face. "I could have killed you..." Kera shrunk further into the wall behind her. "The dog that bit me..." Rien continued, "you saw it happen. It was a lycanthrope. I have the disease and now that you've tasted my blood, so do you. I tell you this becase you have the right to know, nothing else." Kera looked at the broken statuette still in her hand. The horn and part of the head were missing. She let the figure fall to the ground, where it shattered completely. "I have no reason to believe you!" Her defiant eyes challanged Rien. "No," he said, "but then I have no reason to lie to you. I only want my money back." "You're not getting it back, so you might as well kill me...or whatever it is you do!" "I am not going to hurt you if you cooperate." "I don't have your money. Liriss has it." "Then I'll just take what you've collected today," Rien said. "The hell you will!" Rien held up the pouch containing her days work. "I already have." "You bastard!" she tried to grab it, but missed. Without saying anything, Rien turned to leave. "Hey!" Kera screamed. "I have a name." After a moment of hesitation, Kera caught up to Rien. "May I know what it is?" she asked, wiping the blood off her face. "Rien Keegan," he answered without hesitation. "Mine's Kera." Rien did not respond. "If I don't bring Liriss what I stole today, he'll have me punished," Kera said. "I am not going to entertain his troops again!" "Should have thought of that earlier. Just be sure and tell them what disease you have so they can decide if they want it." "Damn you! Please? It's too late to start over." Rien shrugged. "That's your problem." Kera clenched Rien's arm. "If I have some disease, you are responsible for it!" "You'll try every approach until you find one that works, eh?" She smiled. "Did this one work?" Rien shrugged. "Let me think about it." "If I don't have anything to show for my day's work, I'm not going back," Kera stated. "Then don't," Rien answered. "Why do work like that at all?" "It's the only thing I know how to do well," Kera answered. "I would have run away long ago if I'd be assured of a better future." "How old are you?" "Twenty. And you?" "Even if Liriss had some wardship over you before, you are old enough to leave now," Rien ignorred the counter question. "Where would I go?" Kera asked. "The only life I know is what most would consider to be the wrong sid of the fence. Besides, he'll have me hunted down and killed." "How can you live in that environment," Rien wondered aloud. "The punishment may be great, but so are the rewards." "Oh? The guards get to entertain you if they screw up their job?" Kera threw a disapproving glance at Rien. "Sometimes," she finally said, casting down her eyes. "There are other rewards too." "Like what? Doing the boss?" Kera stopped dead in her tracks. "That's damn unfair!" Rien stopped to look at her. "But it's true, isn't it?" "Yes," Kera said after a moment and burst into tears. In spite of himself Rien gave her a hug and held her until she calmed down. This was certainly not a good way to earn someone's trust, but perhaps there could be a second chance... "I am sorry," he finally said. "That was unfair." "I'll go with you where ever you're going," Kera said. "I don't want to stay here any longer." That was a sudden change. "I am planning to remain in Dargon until I find a cure for the disease," Rien stated flatly. "It's real..." Kera whispered. "You're a warrior, right?" "You could say that." "If you're willing to take the risk, I'm willing to be your apprentice." Kera looked hopeful. Rien needed an apprentice about as much as a cow needs a saddle. When he was apprenticed in his arts, it was expected that he would do housework as much as learn what he was there for. Granted, the master may have wanted some payment for the services rendered and skills taught, but for some reason that just didn't sit well with Rien. If he was going to agree, the deal would have to be changed...a little. Of course there was a second problem as well. The risk Kera mentioned. Naturally Liriss would not be happy to lose an investment that just the day before brought in such a yield. Taking on two or three of his drunk guards was no problem, but a dozen sober men could be a bit more risky. "I'll bite them," Rien smirked to himself and unnoticeably chuckled. "Are you sure that's what you want?" Rien finally asked. "Yes," Kera answered without hesitation. "I think it was you who made the point that my life could be better." "Then you have a mentor. Come, it's beginning to get dark." "What about my things?" Kera stopped him. "Is there anything irreplaceable?" Rien asked, trying not to seem impatient, but wanting to leave the alley. Kera thought for a moment, then shrugged. "I suppose not. I tried not to grow too attached to my things for some reason. What about your money?" "If Liriss has any intelligence at all," Rien said, "he would have hid or invested that some place by now. Don't worry about it. I have enough funds to draw on." "I'm really sorry about that," Kera continued. "I'll try to make that up to you." "That will be a lot of pockets to pick," Rien smiled. "Come." -Max Khaytsus <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> +-+ +-+ +-+ +-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME ELEVEN NUMBER THREE | | ========================================== +___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT | ++ | F S F NN N E T | ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T | | F S F N NN E T |_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T /___________\ ========================================== | | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine ___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> CONTENTS Ex-X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb History of FSFnet 'Orny' Liscomb *A Visit to Connall M. Wendy Hennequin *A Bride for Dargon Wendy and Orny Date: 082888 Dist: 685 An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project All original materials copyrighted by the author(s) <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> Ex-X-Editorial Well, we all knew it was coming, and here it is: the last issue of FSFnet. But before I get sentimental, I do want to remind everyone that John White will begin putting out the new Dargon Project magazine real soon. I know that he already has some submissions, and everyone who is currently subscribed to FSFnet will automatically be subscribed to the new magazine. I hope that everyone offers John the same support I've received in putting out FSFnet. I promise that I won't say "this is not an ending, but a beginning", because it is really neither. It is a continuation, and hopefully a change for the better. And since there is no further mundane business, the reminder of this editorial will be the business of ending the magazine. I've included in this issue a history of FSFnet, which (at least in *my* mind) doesn't qualify as 'a work of fantasy', but I felt there might be some interest in it (and there were no other submissions forthcoming). Still, I think it fitting that this issue contains the first true co-written Dargon work, and I must say that I've enjoyed working with Wendy on it. I hope you enjoy it. And now for the thank-yous. After four years of publication, I really cannot thank everyone involved enough for everything that has been done to keep FSFnet afloat. However, rather than fill an entire issue with my personal thanks, I will keep this brief, but heartfelt. Firstly, of course, I must thank you, the readership, because without your interest and support we would never have gotten off the ground in the first place. As I wrote at the conclusion of the initial 'issue': This is your fanzine, more than it is mine. It is up to you to keep it going. I have merely brought you together. Now it is your turn. Well, with a direct readership of nearly 700, I'd say you've kept it going. Special thanks and kudos go to everyone who has contributed to the magazine, whether their contribution was a story or merely letting other people know about FSFnet. Similarly, all those people who have set up local distribution points or cross-posted FSFnet also deserve recognition. Thanks to Chris Condon for keeping FSFnet in his BITLIST and NetMonth magazines, and to Rich Zellich for keeping it in the internet LIST-OF-LISTS. Also special thanks to Chuq von Rospach, who has handled all the internet distribution of FSFnet since the WISCVM gateway was shut down. But of all the people with whom I've come in contact in my capacity as editor, two people deserve very special recognition, not only by myself, but by everyone. Firstly, Joseph Curwen. Curwen is a very intelligent and resourceful friend who was one voice among the handful of people who were in on FSFnet from the start. Although his submissions to FSFnet have been infrequent, they have been among the best works we've seen, and he has been a steady companion to me over the years. He was a very important element of the Dargon Project, and continues to be a close personal friend to myself and the authors who valued his skill. Curwen graduated from the University of Missouri at Columbia recently, and plans to find employment as a teacher. I have no doubt whatsoever that he will also be able to call writing one of his professions in the future. FSFnet owes a great deal to this budding author. And, secondly, John White. John learned of FSFnet and joined the Dargon Project in the summer of 1986 and very quickly began producing huge quantities of stories which helped see FSFnet through times of want and times of plenty. John's interrelated stories formed a huge work which culminated in issue 10-2 this past spring. But beyond his writing, John has also taken a leadership role in the Dargon Project, and is now undertaking even more responsability. With the end of FSFnet, John has become the manager of the Dargon Project, and also the editor of its magazine, which you will see shortly. This is a very serious duty, and John is both capable and willing to execute it. Like Curwen, John has been indispensable to FSFnet, and he deserves particular thanks and support as he gets the new zine off the ground. With that, my business has concluded. I must say that I have enjoyed putting out FSFnet greatly, and I hope that you have enjoyed it, as well. It's been an interesting road we've shared, and it has been a pleasure meeting you all, and working with you. So until we meet again, fare thee well, and blessed be. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> History of FSFnet The University of Maine has historically had an atmosphere conducive to student computing. MAINE was among the first sites to connect to BITNET (this in 1982), and many students began to immediately make use of the new facilities BITNET provided. The network was very different then than it is now. There were only a handful of sites, all located on the east coast of the US. Most of the people who knew how to use were computer science students, programmers, and operators. These people were innovators, and their attempts to improve BITNET services produced such facilities as conference machines, RELAY, CSNEWS, and LISTSERV, which were unknown until fairly recently. As early as 1982, several individuals within the handful of MAINE network users began to print electronic magazines to unite BITNET users who had common interests. For example, Andy Robinson began the Vm-Com computing newsletter, which eventually blossomed into what is currently one of the most widely used service machines on the network, CSNEWS@MAINE. In 1984, two humor magazines were being produced at MAINE: Barry Gates' "Gliding Byte" and Ric Messier's "Environment Account". Also, later would come Brent Britton's "Nutworks" humor magazine and Michael Murphy's "Network Audio-Bits". While there is no obvious rasoning as to why all these magazines developed at UMaine, this environment was responsible for the germination of FSFnet. In December of 1984, with several of these magazines based at MAINE thriving and enjoying a healthy popularity, I began to entertain thoughts of beginning my own science fiction and fantasy magazine. Through my own use of BITNET I knew that there was a huge number of fans on the network, and I felt that a magazine along these lines would not only be very popular, but would also help get these fans together, because at that time there were no facilities on the network for meeting people with similar interests. With these ideas kicking around my head, I bounced them off a couple friends (both local and network), who gave me ample encouragement, and I was on my way. I had had some experience in editing a fanzine previously, when I put out the New England Tolkien Society's 'Mazar Balinu', a yearly magazine containing Tolkien-related fiction, art, and poetry. I had been involved with Tolkien and fantasy fandom for several years, and had been writing articles and fantasy stories for some time, as well. I wanted the new magazine to be like 'Mazar Balinu', in that it would concentrate not on news and reviews (the usual fare for most 'fanzines'), but on printing amateur fiction. The support of budding authors (myself included, of course) has always been a particular interest of mine, and I felt that a fiction-based magazine would be more interesting to read and would enjoy more popularity than if FSFnet followed the formula for a 'traditional' fanzine. Just after Christmas (1984) I sent out a preliminary mailing (volume 0, number 0) to an initial distribution of 100 users whose interests (as listed in the newly-begun BITNAUTS LIST) included science fiction- or fantasy-related topics. The intent of this mailing was to make the public aware of FSFnet's existence and to solicit submissions. Response was generally favorable, and FSFNET VOL01N1 was sent out in January of 1985 with several articles I had received, as well as a very attractive new logo designed by a friend in West Virginia. This issue contained a little of everything, including a book review, a movie review, a science fiction story, and a featured author column. After the first issue was sent out, users who had not responded to the initial mailing or who were not interested were removed from the distribution list. The mailing list hovered around 70 for the first few months of the magazine's existence, which was a healthy start. I had decided to print volumes in trimesters, so each year would contain a Spring volume, a Summer volume, and a Winter volume, to parallel the school year. By the end of the first volume (Spring 1985) which contained eight issues, I had written a program to automate the sending of issues from my account (at that time NMCS025@MAINE) in three different file formats, so as to accommodate all readers. Several network servers had also agreed to post issues for public access. The content of the first volume was varied, and included the beginnings of a science fiction series called "the Narret Chronicles", a two part story by Michael Murphy called "the Dream", and a special issue dedicated to H.P. Lovecraft. FSFnet had met with initial success, and we were off and running. The second volume (Summer 1985), however, saw a dramatic change. In contrast to the eight-issue first volume, it contained only two issues, and alerted me to the problem of finding adequate submissions during the summer, when many students are on vacation and not on the network. Similarly, readership fell to an all-time low of approximately 35 before it started picking up again in the fall, with the return of students to school. With a distribution of less than fifty and serious difficulty securing an adequate number of submissions, I began to have serious doubts about the continued existence of the magazine. During the fall of 1985 (volume three), my original account, NMCS025, was renamed to CSDAVE@MAINE due to my increasing role in the administration of the CSNEWS server. This account was used to send out all subsequent issues. Subscriptions began to edge their way up, and by the final issue of volume three (3-5), membership was up again to 91 readers. This issue marked the climax of the Narret tales, and also the conclusion of Roman Olynyk's "Acquisition" story. However, in November of 1985, being concerned with the future of FSFnet, I sent out a mailing to the authors I knew, introducing the possibility of a collective writing project based on an idea similar to that of Robert Lynn Asprin's "Thieves' World" series. We would get together to outline a basic setting, and the authors would introduce and share characters within that communal setting. The response was very enthusiastic, and early on Alan Clegg set up a discussion group for the project on LISTSERV at NCSUVM. After kicking around several ideas for the shared setting, by the end of November we had settled down with a core group of writers and the basic premise of a medieval duchy known as Dargon. Soon the authors began talking about characters and plot lines, and I made it known publicly that issue 4-1 would see the printing of the first Dargon Project stories. At the conclusion of its first year of publication, FSFnet had put out fifteen issues and subscriptions were once again steadily increasing, and though there were some early problems, with the beginning of the Dargon Project at hand, the future was clearly going to be considerably better. With the publication of the first Dargon stories, FSFnet underwent its first large-scale membership expansion. Between the end of volume 3 and the printing of VOL04N4 (the last issue of volume four), membership had risen from approximately 90 to just shy of 150. FSFnet was now being listed in Chris Condon's new BITLIST magazine of network services (which would later develop into NetMonth magazine), giving FSFnet visibility on the network beyond word of mouth. But the importance of volume four was in its content. FSFnet's best writers were turning out new, interrelated stories within the context of the Duchy of Dargon, and the size, distribution, and quality of issues were increasing rapidly. The Dargon Project lent stability to the magazine and helped improve its content and give it some identity beyond that of 'just another fanzine'. During the summer of 1986 (volume five), despite the low activity during the summer months, three very good issues were produced. The first issue was a special wargaming issue, and contained some excellent articles on related subjects. The second and third issues introduced several new project authors, including John White, who would be a major contributor to the magazine. VOL05N3 was a special double-sized issue (nearly 1200 lines long), but with the increase in quality and output generated by the Dargon Project, such lengths would soon become standard issue size. Volume six, which contained five issues, saw two very important changes within the distribution of FSFnet. The first change was that FSFnet began being distributed to internet sites on ARPAnet and Usenet/UUCP, and was listed in the "List of Lists" master index of inter-network digests. The second change was that issues were now being distributed via LISTSERV's DISTRIBUTE facility, rather than each being sent individually directly from CSDAVE@MAINE. These two changes vastly increased FSFnet's potential audience, and at the same time dramatically reduced its network load, permitting larger issues to be sent more efficiently to more people. Readership containued to grow constantly, passing the 225-reader mark before the end of 1986. The spring of 1987 was similarly successful. The seventh volume contained five more issues, as subscriptions increased to over 350. The idea of hardcopy subscriptions was toyed with, but due to a personal lack of funds for a decent printer, was never implemented. The summer of 1987 volume contained four issues. During this time I got married and honeymooned at the Society for Creative Anachronism's Pennsic War, in the process meeting several FSFnet readers and contributors. Volumes 7 and 8 both contained many of the best stories FSFnet has ever printed, and at the beginning of autumn, subscriptions totalled about 410. In the fall of 1987, only three issues were produced, but membership broke the 500 mark. One interesting event during this period happened when I accidentally discovered a separate FSFnet mailing list which had been managed by a server. Unfortunately, since the server had become defunct, the nearly 100 people who thought that they were subscribed were not receiving issues at all! After I corrected the problem with the server and contacted these people, about one third of them signed up for subscriptions. The first issue of volume 10 represented the third anniversary issue of FSFnet, and was the fourtieth issue printed, and featured two stories by Joseph Curwen, an author who had been with FSFnet since its beginning. Although not a frequent contributor, his wisdom and influence has been a major force in the magazine's development. Unfortunately, his graduation at this time severely limited his network access, and FSFnet lost one of its best writers. The second issue of volume 10 contained the culmination of John White's epic Dargon saga, and there was more than enough material to produce six issues in this volume. At the end of spring, readership supassed 630 and continued to rise. The summer of 1988 has seen the final volume of FSFnet. With some recent additions to the staff, the content of volume 11 has been superb. At this time, FSFnet is sent (directly) to 603 BITNET users at 318 sites, and 82 internet users. There are 159 foreign readers in 21 countries, and 444 domestic readers in 42 states, exclusive of internet readers. FSFnet has put out 48 issues in just under four years, with 166 stories and articles totalling approximately 2.5 million characters of information. With the distribution of this issue, FSFnet has officially ended publication. The Dargon Project will continue to function under the leadership of John White (WHITE@DUVM), and Dargon stories will be printed in a new magazine edited by him, also. All readers who are currently subscribed to FSFnet will automatically be subscribed to this new magazine, so there will be no loss of continuity. If you have any questions or needs, please address them to John, as he's in charge now, and the CSDAVE@MAINE account will be deleted in the near future. Again, my thanks to everyone who has been involved with FSFnet, from those who simply read it to those involved in production and everyone else. And, of course, I hope that everyone continues their efforts to help John make the new magazine even better. -'Orny' Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A Visit to Connall It was hours before dawn when Myrande Shipbrook woke. Quietly, she slipped from her bed and quickly made it. She went to the small table to the left of her bed, poured the water from the china pitcher into the bowl, washed her face and hands with rose-scented soap, and finally scrubbed her face and hands dry with the folded towel that had been resting on the little table. She silently slipped out of her plain nightgown and pulled on her muslin chemise. Over this, Myrande put on a plain white overdress of muslin, a cool dress, and one easy to clean. She belted the dress with a plain leather belt which wrapped once around her waist, slipped through a round iron buckle, and left a long strip of leather hanging by her left leg. At the end of the dangling strip was another iron ring, to which Myrande attached a heavy ring of keys. She slipped into her shoes and left her room. Myrande was, by nature, an early riser, but not even she enjoyed leaving her bed this early. Still, there was much to be done today; the Baron of Coranabo, his Baroness, and their daughter Danza were coming tonight to visit the Baron of Connall. She was the Seneschale for the Baron of Connall, and it was her duty to see that all things in his household went smoothly. First things first. Breakfast. Clutching the keys in her hands so that they would not wake the household, Myrande went from her room in the family wing of the keep toward the kitchen. Suddenly she stopped, surprised by lamplight spilling from the Baron's study. She knocked on the open door and entered. "My lord, when are you going to bed?" she asked as she crossed the room. Baron Luthias Connall sat behind a desk with an open book in front of him. "In a little while, Sable, I promise. I just want to finish this chapter." Myrande slipped behind the Baron, placed her hands on his shoulders and began kneading them gently. Luthias groaned as she began loosening the tense muscles, and his head dropped back to rest on Myrande's chest. She brushed her hand over his eyes so that he would close them. "Relax, my lord," she invited. "What are you reading?" "'History of the Beinison Emperors,'" Luthias told her. "I am reading it to clear my head. I was reading Fernusius Cai all night. I needed a break from laws." He opened his eyes, looked at her. "And don't 'my lord' me, Sable. I do not want to hear it from you. You have known me all my life, and it's no time to start 'my lord'ing me now." Myrande smiled. "All right, Luthias." She continued her massage, as Luthias closed his eyes. "When were you planning to retire?" "Midnight. That way, I figured I could get up at dawn and still have several hours of sleep and be reasonably awake for Coranabo's visit. And you," he continued, his tone playful, his lips smiling, "you, Mistress Mother, when are you going to sleep?" "I just got up." The young Baron's eyes snapped open. "You're joking." Myrande shook her head. "No. This is the third time you have done such this week, Luthias. You have got to stop this." "There's just so much I don't know," Luthias sighed, closing his eyes again and relaxing a little beneath Myrande's touch. "I wish Roisart were here to help me. I have been Baron a month, and I still feel so inadequate." "You're doing well," Myrande reassured him. "The people respect you, and your cousin, the Duke, asks your advice, and your lands are run smoothly." "That's your doing, Lady Seneschale," Luthias growled. "You take care of this castle, you administer the castle lands, and that alone is the work of two people. Then, on top of that, you help me run the barony, you act as my hostess, and help me take care of my social responsibilities. Besides, you do a job you shouldn't have to." "What one is that?" "Take care of the Baron." Luthias took a deep breath. "Maybe I should marry and let some woman be my Baroness, and she could take some of the work from you--help me with the barony--" "And take care of the Baron?" Myrande suggested playfully. Luthias began to smile, but then groaned as Myrande hit a sore knot in his muscles. He opened his eyes, looked Myrande in the face, and smiled. "No one could do that as well as you. Perhaps I should just marry you, Sable, and find myself another seneschal. You'd make a superb Baroness, and not only are you the most beautiful woman in Dargon, you give the best massages in the kingdom." Myrande smiled and continued rubbing Luthias' tired flesh. Looking down into his open eyes, she said, "You never found me so before." Luthias gazed up at his seneschale. She possessed long, thick, raven hair wound into a single braid behind her head. Her eyes were almost as dark as her hair, eyes near the color of polished ebony. The simple white dress flattered her slim figure and made her dark skin seem duskier. Luthias took her hand--a small, strong hand--pressed to his cheek in the courtly manner. "You've always been beautiful to me, Sable, ever since we were children." He kissed her callused palm. "You're working too hard." "So are you, Luthias," Myrande reminded him, touching his cheek. Gently, Luthias reached up, brushed her chin with his fingertips. "You look exhausted. You're doing too much. You should appoint yourself an assistant." Then Luthias smiled again. "You're still beautiful." He stared at the ceiling. "I always thought you'd be the next Baroness, that Roisart would marry you." "He did ask me, not long ago," Myrande revealed. "I know," Luthias said, smiling wryly. "He told me about it. I've never seen a man so happy to be refused. He said you were in love with someone else. He must have been very impressed with him--he said he couldn't have chosen a better man." He sighed, closed his eyes. "But he would never tell me who it was--he said it was in confidence." "It was. I swore him to secrecy." "I was hurt that you didn't trust me, too, Sable." At this very candid revelation, still laced with bitter pain, Myrande's hands froze. "I didn't think you cared much for love or lovers, Luthias." "I don't, but I care about you." Myrande slowly started to massage again. "I was afraid you would laugh at me." "You had no trouble telling Roisart," Luthias accused, and there was an edge of anger in his voice. For a moment, Myrande, too, was angry, but she forced calmness on herself. Thinking of that moment, when Roisart had asked her to be his wife and she'd had to wound him, brought tears to her eyes. "I would not have told him, but I wanted him to understand why I couldn't marry him." For a moment, she fell silent. "I was afraid that you would laugh at me. Or that he would be scared away." Quickly, Luthias rose and faced her. He took her small hands in his. "I would never, never laugh at that, Sable. Have I ever laughed at that sort of thing? Gods know that Roisart provided enough opportunity for me to laugh at love, but I never did." He stopped and dropped her hands. "And I would never laugh at you, Sable." Then, he looked confused. "What do you mean, scared away?" "You and Roisart were very protective of me." "True enough," Luthias admitted. A thought flashed in his brain, and he smiled. "You weren't afraid I'd be jealous, were you, Sable?" "Not once." "He better treat you well, or I'll bash his head in." "That would be interesting," Myrande said, a grin lighting her eyes. "I told you that you were very protective of me..." Myrande gazed at the young Baron, whom she thought handsome, but she could see the strain in his face and the fatigue in the circles beneath his eyes. "Looks like you are ready to bash your own against a wall." "There's so much to do," Luthias told her. "There's a near panic, what with all these rumors about a Bichanese attack--" "I've heard them," Myrande commented. "I've been watching food and getting ready to store and preserve the harvest, just in case. But would Bichu really attack us?" "Of course not," Luthias said confidently. "Considering their distance from us, it would be idiotic. According to Michiya, the Bichanese already have posts on another continent, one closer to their own nation, and it would be simpler and more profitable for them to wage war there." "Still, as you said, there's a panic." "Yes, and it bothers me." Luthias was grim. "People so frantic become paranoid. Mob paranoia, Sable, has to be one of the most dangerous and destructive forces. Its victims are more likely to be innocent than guilty. It is the panic, more than the rumors, which truly worries me." "Well, get some sleep," Myrande advised, brushing some hair from his eyes. "I'll wake you mid-morning, and then you'll have some sleep and most of the day to do some work." "I'm not that tired, Sable," Luthias asserted. "Don't lie to me," Myrande cut him off with a smile. "You can't lie to me, Luthias; I know you too well. Go to bed. There is no work that cannot wait a few hours, and you look like you're about to drop." "The words were becoming a little fuzzy," Luthias admitted. "But after I eat breakfast and drink some tea--" "Go to bed, or I'll wake the men-at-arms and have them carry you," Myrande threatened. Luthias chuckled. "By God, Myrande, you would make an excellent Baroness." Suddenly, he sobered. "Sable--Myrande. The man you love...it isn't Clifton, is it?" He paused a moment then rushed, "Because he...I never thought he was particularly interested in you. They say he's making eyes at some girl from Magnus. Sable, I don't want you to be hurt, and Clifton--" "It isn't Clifton," Myrande assured him, putting a hand on the Baron's arm. "Get some sleep, and sweet dreams, Luthias." Luthias covered her hand with his own and squeezed her fingers. "Thanks, Sable. Good night." "Good night." With a sigh, the young Baron of Connall left the room. Myrande turned out the lamp, and closed the door on her way out. She watched him trek slowly down the hall. Myrande knew how hard being a Baron was for Luthias. He, by nature, was a warrior, not a governor, but he was smart and was learning rapidly. It was a heavy burden to be borne, especially by a young man who had just lost, not a month before, his beloved father and twin brother, Roisart. She sighed, understanding what it was to take on responsibility so soon after-- why, she herself had become the seneschale to Luthias' father soon after her mother, who had been seneschale before her, and father, who had been castellan, died of the Red Plague. Fionn Connall, the late Baron, had been father to her, and she had lost him; and although Roisart had not been twin to her, he had been her brother, and she missed him sorely. Alone, she walked to the kitchen and began to pull supplies out of the pantries. In an hour, the servants would be coming to prepare the breakfast, but she had to prepare the preparations, it seemed. Myrande ate some bread and cheese, drank some tea, which warmed her, and wished she could go back to bed. After checking supplies, she started a quick inspection of the kitchen. She sat for another moment, reviewing what needed to be done for the day. After making a list of work, she inspected the castle (clutching her keys to keep her presence silent), and checked which rooms needed to be cleaned and aired, seeing what little repairs needed to be done. The grounds, gardens, and stables she would check after dawn. Then she silently returned to the kitchen. Myrande greeted the servants, who entered the kitchen in pairs or small groups. As they ate, she gave her orders for the day: this needed to be repaired, and this needed to be cleaned, and this must be done for the visit of the Baron of Coranabo, and this must be done because the castellan and the inspecting guards were returning today. A man-at-arms interrupted them by entering the kitchen. "My lady," he called, "the castellan and the inspecting troops have returned." "Kindly tell the castellan that I will attend him later in my office," She sent the message formally. The soldier bowed and left. After giving a few final orders, Myrande took her keys in hand and toured the gardens, grounds, and stables. All was in good order, except a tree felled by the particularly horrendous thunderstorm of the previous night. Myrande ordered it cleared and cut for firewood. When she returned to the keep, it was nearly mid-morning. She retired to her office to work on the household accounts, which must be presented and explained to the Baron at the end of each month. Myrande kept her accounts in order, and was only adding this day's purchases. There was a knock on the door. Myrande looked up and saw Ittosai Michiya, Castellan of Connall, in the doorway. She rose and bowed in the Bichanese manner. He returned the bow and motioned for a young servant behind him to bring in the tea tray. "Welcome home, Castellan," Myrande greeted as the servant left. Ittosai Michiya smiled and sat. He took the teapot in his hands and poured the aromatic, steaming liquid into two small Bichanese teacups. "Tea, my lady?" Myrande accepted the drink with a Bichurian bow. "Thank you. And, Castellan--" "Yes, my lady?" asked Michiya, sipping. "You don't need to address me so formally. We are of the same rank--persons of noble blood, in high service to the Baron. My name is Myrande, and," she added, in the tone of a good-spirited command, "I intend that you shall use it." "As you like, Myrande." Her name sounded foreign on his tongue. "And I am Michiya." He paused a moment, appeared confused. "But..." "What?" "If your name is Myrande, why does Luthias-san call you Sable?" Myrande grinned, then laughed. "That's a long story, and an old one." She sipped her tea, then continued, "It was a name the Baron, his father, and his brother Roisart called me." "Why?" "It is because of my hair and eyes, I suppose," Myrande explained. "And because of something that happened when we were little." Michiya looked very interested, so Myrande went on. "When we were babies just learning to walk and run, Roisart, Luthias, and I were playing in the late Baron's study." "Late Baron? As if he were delayed and you were still expecting him," commented Michiya. He shook his head. There were some expressions in this confounded language that were plainly idiotic. Myrande laughed. "It is a strange expression." She continued, "Apparently, I was trying to keep up with the twins, who were older and could run, and I could only walk. I fell, but didn't cry. Still, I must have looked pretty pathetic. Roisart saw I had fallen, and he started bringing me every thing he could get his little hands on--toys, the flowers in a vase, then the vase, a book his father was holding, everything. Luthias, being a little bit more forward, just put his arms around me and kissed me." Ittosai Michiya watched the seneschale intently. She had a happy, nostalgic look on her face as she pictured the twins. Michiya pictured her, a tiny child of elfin looks, night-dark hair, and black eyes. "Then the twins' father said to my father, 'Your Myrande is going to grow to be quite a sable beauty. See, she's enchanted my boys already.'" Myrande brought her focus out of the past and looked Michiya in the eye. "Ever since, the Connalls have called me Sable. You can call me that too, if you like." "Luthias-san's brother, he called you Sable?" Myrande nodded. "Then I may do so. I thought it was a name only he had for you." She shook her head. "It is sad, what happened to Roisart. And Luthias-san, he needs a brother." "Oh, I think you and Duke Clifton are filling that need rather nicely," Myrande commented. "He relies on your advice, Michiya, and he must respect you a great deal to have made you castellan." Michiya grinned. "In Bichu, I am a second son, and I would have been what you call castellan to my own brother if I had stayed. But I am here, and will be brother and castellan to Luthias-san instead." Myrande asked, "Did you know that the Baron of Coranabo is coming to visit the Baron today?" Michiya shook his head. "Why visit? Will he not see him in the city in a week's time, when the Duke holds his ball again?" Myrande considered this. "I'm not sure why he's coming. He said in his letter that he had a private matter to discuss with the Baron. But he's bringing his wife and his elder daughter..." Myrande shrugged casually. "Well, Coranabo is an odd man, Michiya. Anything is possible." She took a sip of her tea. "In any case, Baron Coranabo may bring some soldiers with him. Have you room for them in the barracks?" "Yes, plenty." She nodded, satisfied. "I trust you can take care of them then?" Michiya nodded. "Of course." He paused. "I must make a report to you about the inspection. Do you wish the report now, Myrande, or do you wish me to wait until Luthias-san awakes?" Myrande considered. "Best wait until he's up; you'd only have to give it twice otherwise. Besides, Michiya, he should be up shortly. I'll have him join us after his breakfast. In the meantime, you can tell me what supplies you need for the soldiers and the barracks." Ittosai dutifully began naming his needs. Myrande jotted them down on a scrap of parchment. "These shouldn't be a problem. Is there anything you need personally, Michiya?" Ittosai screwed up his visage in thought. "Yes, Myrande. I need clothes for attending formalities, such as the Duke's ball next week." Myrande wrote this. "That reminds me, I need new gowns, and several nice chemises. I only have one gown, and since Luthias is doing so much entertaining now and I'm acting as his hostess, I'm going to need to dress up more often. I'll order your suit and my gowns tomorrow, Ittosai. Would you like it in the Bichanese style? What colors?" "Yes, I like most the style of my home. For colors, I prefer blue and white." Myrande noted this on her paper. Just then, there was a knock on the office doorframe. "Come," Myrande answered. Jahn, Luthias' manservant, entered the room. "My lady, I hate to trouble you, but I..." The servant looked abashed. "I can't seem to wake the Baron." "It's going to be one of those days," Myrande sighed. She rose. "Lord Michiya, I'll be back as soon as I can, but this may take a little while." She clutched her keys, and followed Jahn out. As they approached the Baron's chambers, Myrande asked, "What did he do when you woke him, Jahn?" "He just said something and turned over." He remember late to add, "My lady. I tried again, but he will not budge." "All right," Myrande acknowledged. "You can go about whatever else you had to do. I will see to the Baron." Jahn's face lit with a knowing look. "As you wish, lady." He left her, and Myrande didn't give him a second glance. Still, the look on the manservant's face stayed with her. Yes, now it'll be all over the castle that Luthias and I...Myrande smiled and shrugged. Oh, well. There were many worse things. Still clutching her keys, she opened the door to the Baron's bedroom and walked in. Silently, she shut the door behind her. In the darkened room, Luthias still lay, barely clad, on his bed, with the covers doing everything but the function for which they were intended. She crept over to the bed and sat on the edge. Gently, she touched his forehead. He didn't move. Myrande put her hand on Luthias' strong shoulder and gently shook it. No response. Again, she shook his shoulder, but harder this time. No response. Myrande shook him again, called him: "Luthias." "A few more moments," muttered the Baron, turning away from her. Myrande smiled. Some things never changed. Both Luthias and Roisart had been like this since the gods knew when. "Come on, Luthias. No more time. You've got to get up." "A few more moments, Sable," mumbled the Lord of Connall. "Just a few more moments. And then I'll get up. I promise." "Knowing you, you said that to Jahn five minutes ago," Myrande returned. "It's past half-noon. Get up." Luthias' eyes opened. "Past half-noon? Sable, why didn't you get me up sooner? You know that I want to be up by--" "I don't doubt that Jahn tried," Myrande rued. "Damn it, Sable," Luthias swore, sitting up. "Here you are, taking care of the Baron again." He was grim. "I wanted to be up earlier. Everything's going to be late now." "Don't worry. Everything's under control," Myrande assured him. Luthias, half-growling, left his bed and went past his seneschale to his wardrobe. He flung it open. "If it is, it's your doing, Sable. You're doing the work of eight people." "Nonsense," said Myrande, smiling. Luthias removed a light-colored tunic and some darker breeches, which he proceeded to pull on in front of his seneschale. "When is Coranabo coming?" "This afternoon." She went to the wardrobe and leaned against it. Luthias struggled into his lighter tunic and belted it. "Do me a favor and meet me and Lord Ittosai in my office." "Why don't I just eat breakfast with you?" Myrande just nodded and she left the room. Now that it was nearly over, Myrande knew that she had been right: it was one of those days. The Coranabos had come two hours earlier than Myrande or Luthias had expected. Luthias looked fine, if informal, but Myrande's white cotton overdress was stained and streaked with sweat. She had hardly looked the hostess, but Luthias told her she looked fine, and together, they had greeted their visitors. There was a fire in the kitchen, right after that, and Myrande had her hands full keeping the servants calm and the fire small. With the help of a few courageous grooms, the small grease fire was quickly extinguished, and the visitors and Luthias never knew it happened. Myrande had hardly time enough to take a quick bath and dress herself in her only nice gown before dinner, which, luckily, went well. The meat was juicy and tender, and the greens fresh and tasty, the bread newly baked. The talk was pleasant, general. As they all talked, Myrande watched the visitors, but inconspicuously. She was trying to discern why Coranabo had come. It was hard to figure out anything about the Baron of Coranabo. Coranabo was a tall, hard- eyed man, his gray hair balding, his age, perhaps five and fifty. He smiled, but the smile was superficial. Myrande wondered if something were wrong in Dargon and he was just waiting to discuss after the meal. His wife was pleasant: a petite lady with graying hair who spoke gaily of society. The daughter, though, was enigmatic and why she had come, Myrande could not guess. Danza, the girl--for so she was; she could not be older than fifteen, Myrande guessed- -was silent throughout the dinner, and did not lift her eyes from her plate. Myrande couldn't attribute the silence or shyness to lack of confidence; pretty, petite, golden-haired Danza held herself proudly and confidently. It made no sense that a gorgeous girl of marriageable age would stare at her plate instead of flirting with the Baron of Connall, the second most eligible man in the duchy. After dinner, Luthias led his guests into the study for an after dinner drink. "Brandy, Baron?" Luthias asked politely. "Yes, thank you, Luthias," Coranabo answered congenially. "My lady?" Luthias asked the Baroness as Myrande went to the spirits cabinet. "Some wine would be fine, thank you, Luthias." The Baroness smiled at the younger Baron as she would have smiled on her own son, if she had one. "Lady Myrande, would there be some of that famous golden wine of Magnus in the cupboard?" "I believe so, Baroness," Myrande replied cheerfully, moving a few bottles around. "Would you care for some sherry, Lady Danza?" Luthias asked his youngest guest gently. Myrande had noted the gentle manner in which Luthias had treated Danza during dinner, and she didn't like it. Angry at herself, Myrande shook it off. It was just like Luthias to be protective toward slight, delicate girls. He was the same way with Pecora. That never bothered her. There was no need that this should. Danza shook her head and mumbled something. "Some sherry for lady Danza, Myrande." "Yes, my lord," she replied docilely enough. She smiled at the Baron, who smiled back: the casual intimate grin of long-time friends. Myrande wrenched her eyes away from Luthias', took out the brandy, the gold wine, the sherry, and five glasses from the cupboard. "What would you like, my lord?" "Brandy, thank you, Sable," Luthias replied, losing his formality, slipping into the normal affection he showed towards her. He still was aware of his obligations of host, however, and he motioned for his guests to sit. Coranabo and his wife took a seat near the west wall, directly in front of the small table where Myrande was pouring. Danza took a seat opposite her, and Luthias moved to stand behind her, so that he might face his guests. Myrande passed Coranabo and his wife his drink. The Baron thanked her, then said, "Luthias, my boy, it's time that I got to the reason for this visit." "I wish you would," Luthias said congenially. "I've been wondering about it." "I wished to surprise you," Coranabo said with a smile. "Not that I thought you'd suspect, but--" "Why don't you tell us what it is, Baron?" Myrande suggested with the lilt of laughter in her voice. Just like Coranabo to keep them guessing. She could remember her father and Luthias' laughing about the shrewdness of Baron Coranabo, how he used ploys to feed his flair for the dramatic. She unstopped the sherry bottle. Now, Coranabo laughed. "I never knew a Shipbrook to be so direct, Lady Myrande." "You forget, Baron," Luthias defended her lightly and teased her simultaneously, "she grew up here in Connall." "And you were always a blunt lot," the Baroness chuckled. "True enough," Luthias admitted politely. "Now, tell me, Baron, why have you come here?" "Your brother Roisart would have figured it out, but he was a romantic, as I recall," Coranabo laughed, still evasive, still working to a climax. "I have come to offer you, Baron Connall, the hand of my daughter, Danza." Without warning, Myrande's face went white and she nearly dropped the sherry bottle. Her legs went weak, and she stumbled, grabbing the corner of the table to steady herself. Immediately, Luthias noticed a problem. "My God, Sable!" he cried, crossing the room to her. He put one hand on her arm, and with the other, he took the sherry from her clenched hand. "I'm all right," she whispered, but Luthias scowled at the lie. "Better sit her down, Luthias," the concerned Baroness advised. "She looks like she's about to faint." "Yes, come here," Luthias ordered, guiding her to a seat next to Danza. Myrande collapsed into the seat. Luthias went to the table, poured some brandy into a glass, and brought it to his seneschale. "Drink this. Damn it, Sable, I've told you you're working to hard." Myrande dumbly held the brandy in her hands. "Here, drink," Danza encouraged. Myrande looked at her, saw Danza's eyes for the first time. They were--very, very slightly--rimmed with red, but they were kind. Myrande swallowed the lump in her throat. "Come on, Sable," Luthias encouraged, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Drink." Myrande lifted the glass and gulped the brandy. After a moment, she coughed and said, "Forgive me. I didn't mean to interrupt." "Think nothing of it, Lady Myrande," Coranabo reassured her. He looked at her with hard, glittering eyes, but he seemed kind. "No harm done. I hope you're all right." Myrande nodded. Then Coranabo shifted his attention to the Baron behind her. "Do you need me to repeat what I said, Luthias?" Luthias crossed in front of Myrande and went back to the table, where he poured Danza's drink and his own. "No, Baron, I heard it. I admit," Luthias continued with a hard smile wreathed in confusion, "that I'm stunned." Luthias looked at Danza. "Lady Danza, I had no idea that you favored me." "Oh, she does," Coranabo quickly answered for his daughter. He leaned back in his chair, smiling with satisfaction. "And I admit there's no man in Dargon whom I'd rather have for a son-in-law." Luthias seemed slightly confused, and his face told Myrande that something didn't seem right to the young Baron. Myrande couldn't blame him. Loud alarms were ringing in her mind, too. But Luthias only said, "Thank you, Baron. But I don't know what to say." "Well, think about it, Luthias," Coranabo offered. "Sleep on it. Let me know." "I will," Luthias promised. He went back to the table, poured Danza's sherry and his own brandy. He and Coranabo began discussing the rumors of Bichanese attack, but Myrande didn't hear a word. Myrande remained up and about long after the Baron of Coranabo, his wife, and his daughter went to bed. There were preparations to be made for tomorrow, and it was her job to see to them. Around midnight, a courier arrived at the keep with a message for Baron Luthias Connall. Myrande took the message and ordered food and bed for the tired man. She then went to the study--if she knew Luthias, he was still awake and reading--to give him the message. She was right; the light still burned. Myrande knocked on the doorframe. "Luthias," she called softly. "Come in, Sable," he invited. She did. The Baron sat behind his desk, very serious. Luthias tiredly smiled. "What is it?" Myrande offered the sealed parchment. "Message for you. The messenger just arrived." Luthias took the paper, began to open it. "Have the man fed and provided with--" The young Baron looked from the paper to Myrande's half-smiling face. "But you've already taken care of that, haven't you." Luthias chuckled softly. "I'm sorry, Sable. I should know better." He looked at the parchment and read the message once, twice. "I wonder what this is all about." "What is it?" "Clifton wants me to come and see him, as soon as possible," Luthias told her, showing her the parchment. Myrande read it. "I wonder what the Duke wants." Luthias shook his head, re-read the message. "No telling. I'll have to go to Dargon tomorrow." Luthias set the paper on his desk. "I want you to come with me. The castle can survive a few days on its own, and if nothing else, I've seen tonight that you need a break." He took a deep breath. "And some help. I've thought about it, and tomorrow, I'm going to tell Coranabo that I'll marry Danza." Myrande hurriedly sat down in the nearest chair. "Why?" Luthias looked her in the eye. "This barony needs a baroness, Myrande. You're doing too much, I'm doing to much. We're going to kill ourselves if we go on like this." Yes, that was Luthias, always practical. "Do you think a girl that young can handle being a baroness?" Myrande asked. "Of course. She's been trained to it since birth," Luthias argued confidently. "She'll make a good baroness." "Are you sure about this, Luthias?" Myrande asked gently. "I told you, we need help, Sable." "We could hire help, Luthias. Do you actually want to marry her?" Luthias leaned back and appeared to think about it. "It might as well be Danza as anyone else," the Baron sighed with resignation. "I'll have to marry sometime, Sable. There has to be a Baroness, and, eventually, when Danza is less delicate, I do want to have a son." He smiled. "And name him Roisart." "Wouldn't you rather marry a woman you loved?" Luthias shrugged. "There have only been four people in my life that I've ever loved, Sable. My father, my cousin, my brother--" "And some lady who jilted you?" Myrande prompted, incredulous. Luthias smiled, reached across the desk and took her hand. "No, Sable, you. You're my best friend, other than Clifton, and always have been." He sighed again. "But there has to be a baroness eventually, whether I love her or not, and we both need help, Sable, face it. I don't want to see you work yourself to death." "Luthias," Myrande ordered sternly, "don't do this for me. I don't want you to marry and be miserable for my sake." "Hey," Connall said gently, squeezing Myrande's hand. "I won't be miserable, I promise." She bitterly smiled at the vow. "It's just what I need, Sable, what this place needs." He peered at her intently. "You're not jealous, are you?" "Of course not," she said. "No, I forgot, you're in love with the mysterious stranger," Luthias recalled, his tone a cross between amusement and sarcasm. "Look, Sable," he began, serious this time, "I'll go to him, try to arrange the marriage for you--" "No--no, Luthias. You'd feel too awkward--he's--" Myrande paused. "You're too close, and you wouldn't want to try to convince him--" Luthias released her hand. "It is Clifton, then." Myrande shook her head. "No, Luthias. I give you my word, I'm not in love with Clifton Dargon." She leaned her head on her hand. "Not even your father, when I told him about this, wanted to arrange a marriage. He wanted to wait until the man was older, to see if something developed..." Luthias laughed. "I loved my father dearly, but he was a romantic, just like Roisart. Very few people love like my father and mother. And as for me--I'll never fall in love. I'm not built for it, I think." Myrande smiled. "I'll just marry Danza and be reasonably content." "Do what you think best," Myrande rose. "Good night, Luthias." "Going to bed?" he wondered, taking out Fernusius Cai's treatise. "Not yet. There's work to be done." Abruptly, she left the room. Myrande couldn't believe it. He was going to marry that child and make her Baroness of Connall. Would Danza want him, Myrande wondered, if Roisart were alive and Baron and Luthias were merely Roisart's castellan or the Duke's? Myrande thought not. In fact, Myrande had heard rumors six weeks ago about Lady Danza and Tylane Shipbrook. And now that Luthias was Baron, this Danza was wiling to abandon Tylane like a plague carrier! And as for her being a 'good' Baroness--Myrande thought it was unlikely and scowled. Danza was only fifteen, a child! How would she handle some of the crises around here? She hadn't handled Roisart's death well--Myrande remembered her sobbing hysterically when she arrived in Dargon in the middle of the night-- And suddenly, Myrande was back in that nightmare night, that night of horrors, when soldiers came to Connall keep. We're here to arrest Manus the Healer, they told Myrande. Why? Oh, well, there's a conspiracy against the Duke and the Lords of Connall. There was an assassination attempt tonight. No, no, lady, the Duke's fine. The twin lords? No, lady, sorry, they're dead. Luthias dead? Roisart, his twin, her friend, dead too? Was there no comfort? Pale, she rode with the squadron to Dargon keep. If nothing else, she would see that Luthias, and Roisart, would be well buried. She clutched the leather reins all the way to the town. The stars glittered coldly, and she wondered if Luthias' soul and Roisart's were among them. Oh, gods, Luthias dead, and Roisart dead beside him! Myrande was unsure that she could bear it. When she arrived at the keep, she demanded immediately to see the Duke. She was ushered to the blue ballroom on the ground floor. The door was opened for her, and she saw Roisart's body laid out in state. The Duke was there, talking with Lord Coranabo, she recalled, and little lady Danza, who had hardly known Roisart at all, was sobbing like a babe on her father's arm. Myrande stood tall and straight, though pale, and walked toward the Duke. And then Luthias stood up. Myrande gasped his name, ran to him, and flung her arms around him. Slightly bewildered, but needing comfort, the young Baron put his arms around her as well. Myrande felt Luthias' heart beating against her shoulder--he was somewhat taller than she--and for a moment, it didn't matter that Roisart, her best friend, had been foully murdered. She couldn't grieve for Roisart Connall, her brother, the wonderful boy who had wanted to marry her. All she could do was clutch Luthias close and thank every god she could name that he still lived. "They've told you then," Luthias said softly, putting a hand on her head and holding her close. "They told you that Roisart is dead." For a moment, Myrande lost control completely and sobbed, "They told me you both were dead!" "Sable, my God, Sable, Roisart's dead, and I'm Baron," Luthias rasped. Myrande held him more tightly, knowing that only with her or Clifton could Luthias show this much grief--and fear. "I'm Baron, and my brother is dead." "I'll help you, Luthias, I swear it," Myrande had whispered. And she had helped him, she stayed by his side when Roisart was buried, and later when he was invested as Baron of Connall. And ever since, she had been helping him. Would this baby Danza be able to help him? Did she deserve to become a Baroness? Myrande didn't think so. She blindly went through the motions of the little work left to be done, and then, exhausted, Myrande decided it was time she collapsed in bed. As if in a daze, she wandered back to the family wing of the keep, past Luthias' study--the lamp was still on, he was still reading--to her room. Luthias was going to marry a baby he didn't love, a puppy in love with him. Bitterly, she laughed softly at herself. As if she had the right to condemn Danza for that! Suddenly, a blond ghost brushed past her--a blond ghost in a lacy, silken nightgown. Myrande stared. Danza. What was she doing up? Myrande took a step toward her, but some instinct halted her voice as Danza stepped into the study. Myrande shrugged at the girl's quick departure and dodged into her room. Suddenly, she found herself sobbing. Luthias was going to marry Danza, and then-- Luthias was very bright, and he would figure it out eventually. And how she would hate to live with his pity! Myrande brushed her hands across her eyes quickly and severely silenced her own sobs. She would not be able to live with Luthias' pity, she knew that. And when Luthias married little Danza, Myrande would leave the castle. Perhaps her uncle, the Baron of Shipbrook, or Luthias' cousin the Duke would have a position here. Myrande could not live in Connall Keep, seeing the pity in Luthias' eyes, seeing the pride in Danza's. She went to her night table, picked up a hairbrush, undid the long braid that hung behind her head, and began to brush her black hair. Her hands shook; the nervous fingers made the brush a weapon against her, and she accidentally struck her own temple. Myrande dropped the brush. This was no good. She'd never be able to sleep like this. Myrande rose and left the room. A large goblet of milk would comfort her a little, calm her a little, and allow her to sleep. There would be much to do tomorrow before she and Luthias left for Dargon. She went silently to the kitchen, downed the milk, and began to wander back to her room. She smiled sadly as she passed the study; the light was still burning. She knocked again. "Luthias?" "Sable? Come in. I thought you had gone to bed." Luthias was still behind the desk, reading the words of Fernusius Cai. He closed the book when Myrande entered the room. "Why haven't you gone to bed yet?" Myrande shrugged. "What about you, Lord Luthias?" Luthias smiled. "Just reading some. I'll go to bed when you do; how's that?" "I was on my way," Myrande confessed. Luthias kept grinning. He leaned back in his chair. "I'm going to refuse the Baron of Coranabo," he announced casually. "Why?" Myrande asked, stunned. "Danza came to me, told me she was in love with Tylane," Luthias revealed. "She marched in here and said very firmly that she had no objections to me personally, but she couldn't marry me, that she wasn't a virgin, and she did not want to disappoint me." "Danza, not a virgin?" Myrande echoed, incredulous. Luthias grinned. "That's what she said. It took me a little while to get the real reason out of her--that she loved Tylane and wanted to marry him. And what could I say, Sable? If we married, she'd resent me all her days and we'd both be miserable. And you'd hurt, Sable, to see me hurting." Luthias leaned toward Myrande again, looked at her lazily. "So, it's off, and I'll marry someone else someday, Sable, but until then, we will have a lot of work, the two of us." "I don't mind," Myrande told him. She smiled and leaned forward. "I'd rather exhaust myself than see you miserable, Luthias." Myrande shook her head. "She must have been pretty desperate to tell that she wasn't a virgin. Not many girls her age would admit that. But would you refuse a girl on those grounds?" Luthias shrugged. "No. I'm not a virgin; why should she be? I actually don't want to marry a virgin. I don't want my bride to be terrified on our wedding night." Myrande laughed. "I know it is all very practical, Luthias, but somehow you sound more romantic than Roisart." Luthias laughed too. He rose and crossed to her. "We should be getting to bed, lady Seneschale. We have a long journey tomorrow." He put her hands on her shoulders and began to rub them gently. "Mmm," said the seneschale, closing her eyes tiredly. "You shouldn't do that, Luthias." "Why not? You take care of me," Luthias argued. He fell silent then, kept rubbing. Then he asked, "Sable, don't answer, if you don't want to." Myrande relaxed beneath his touch. "Are *you* still a virgin?" Myrande answered, not opening her eyes, "Yes. That surprises you?" "Yes," Luthias admitted frankly. "You're almost twenty-one- -" "And you and Roisart had a habit of scaring my suitors away. They all thought either that I've been promised to one of you or that you were going to destroy them if they touched me." Luthias shook his head. "I hope you've been kissed, at least." "Yes, I've been kissed. You and Roisart didn't start scaring men away until I was seventeen or so, and by then I was in love with--and I don't think you could scare--him--away." "Sorry, it was a silly question," Luthias mused. "Roisart must have kissed you when he proposed." "Only my cheek." "No wonder he never got anywhere with girls!" Luthias laughed, squeezed Myrande's shoulders one last time. "Come on, Sable, I'll walk you to your room. We both could use some sleep." Myrande rose, and Luthias turned down the lamp. Exiting the room, he put his arm around Myrande's shoulders in a casual way, and she leaned on him a little. Silently, they walked down the hall. They soon arrived at her door, and Myrande opened it. She then turned to her Baron and touched his cheek. "Good night, Luthias." "Good night," answered the young Baron. "And, Sable?" She looked up at him. Suddenly, Luthias leaned forward and kissed her lips quickly. "That is from Roisart, because he was too stupid to do it when he had the chance." Luthias kissed her again, longer and more firmly this time. "That is from me. Good night, Sable." Myrande smiled at him and said, "Good night." -M. Wendy Hennequin <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> A Bride for Dargon The young Lord of Dargon sat unquietly behind his large oaken desk and stared through the arms of his family which adorned the walls of his receiving room. His forebears had been men of decision and action, reknowned for timely justice and intelligence, yet Duke Clifton Dargon had reached an impasse and wished that his ancestors had left some indication in their writings of how his current predicament could be resolved. Yet again, he stood and strode to the tall, open window which overlooked the courtyard, the city, and the surrounding fields. Though his mind wandered, his eyes followed a young man in a grey tunic as he left the market. The nobleman wondered what business this man might have in Dargon, what concerns he might have, and what he might do if he faced Clifton's problems and responsibilities. The man turned off Merchant's Way and strode unhurriedly through the part of town that contained several of the inns that catered to people from away. As he continued, a woman in a bright blue shirt and gauzy white pants came up to him. She fawned on him for several moments before she turned him back the way he had come and disappeared from sight in a cross-alley. Clifton smiled secretly and sighed a heavy sigh. Clifton was surprised by the clearing of a throat behind him, and turned suddenly to look angrily at his cousin, the young Baron of Connall, as he strode into the office. Realizing that it was Luthias and not one of his annoying advisors, Dargon calmed a little, but his irritation remained unquenched like a vicious undertow beneath the deep brown eyes. Luthias, attractive, strong, and manly for his twenty-one years, stood out of respect for his lord, yet his stance emanated the ease of standing before a man loved and understood as well as respected. Clifton gazed upon his cousin's face, so similar to his own, with equal respect. Since the assassinations of Luthias' father and twin brother, Luthias had grown considerably. At one time, the Baron of Connall was known for quick action and thought which could occasionally border on rashness. But since his brother's death in the attempt to save the lives of Luthias and Dargon, Luthias had become more thoughtful, as if the twins' soul, divided at birth, was reunited at last through death. Luthias' ability for quick, practical decisions, like his grief for father and brother, had not left him; the quickness and pragmatism now mingled occasionally with the grave caution of his brother, just as the blue bands of mourning still lingered on the everyday clothing. There were a few days when Clifton, Lord Dargon, had worried that the grief and the responsibility of the barony would turn the streaks of auburn in Luthias' brown hair to a premature gray, but the young baron had quickly and manfully accepted grief and responsibility both. A smile fluttered across Dargon's lips. Luthias was making his cousin and liege very proud. "You wanted to see me, Clifton?" Luthias prompted finally. Clifton returned from the quick current of his thoughts and looked his cousin in the eyes again. There was pain in them still. It must be difficult, Clifton thought, for him to look at me, or even at himself, and yet see only his brother. And still I see Roisart in him. After a moment, Clifton replied, "Yes, Luthias. Please sit down." Perplexed at the anger on the face of his lord and kinsman, Luthias obeyed. Once seated, he wondered aloud, unafraid of the answer, "Have I done something, Clifton?" "No, Luthias, no," Dargon assured him, brushing the idea away with a flick of the hand. "I need to talk to you. You and Roisart were always good at calming me down." "I'm only half as good as we used to be," Luthias quipped, jesting lightly at his own grief. "But I'll listen. What's wrong?" Lord Clifton Dargon scowled with immeasurable wrath. "They're after me again!" Luthias went white, missing the subtle twinkle of irony in Clifton's brown eyes. "God, no. Not another plot against us!" "What? Oh, no," Clifton told him quickly. "No, they aren't trying to murder us." He scowled again. "But that would top my day nicely!" "What's wrong, then?" "My counselors," Clifton explained. "They are plaguing me yet again... They want me to marry!" Luthias almost laughed. The concept didn't seem so terrible. "Is that all?" he asked lightly. "Is that all?" thundered the Lord of Dargon, rising from his chair, then pacing behind the desk. "Is that ALL?" "Marriage hardly seems a vile fate, Clifton," Luthias vainly tried to calm him. "I know many who have survived..." "I don't see you running out and marrying," Dargon accused, whirling on his bewildered cousin. Luthias' mouth went tight and his eyes narrowed with seriousness. "Yesterday the Baron of Coranabo offered his daughter to me, Clifton," he snapped. "I need a baroness, and I would have married her if she wasn't in love with Tylane Shipbrook." "Well, how would you feel being pushed into it?" the Lord of Dargon demanded. Luthias stared at his cousin a moment. It wasn't like him to be this angry, he thought suddenly. "It isn't just your advisors," Luthias concluded aloud. "What is it, Clifton? What's bothering you?" Dargon gazed suddenly at his cousin, and just as suddenly, his anger defused. He sighed, trying to calm his confused emotions. "Sit, Luthias," invited the Lord of Dargon wearily. "I need to talk to you." Luthias obeyed slowly, not taking his eyes off his cousin. "Talk, then, Clifton. What is it?" Again, the Lord of Dargon sighed. He sat silent for a few moments, then spoke. "I was telling the truth," he ventured, as if he were half talking to himself. "It is my advisors. They want me to marry. They want me to have an heir." The lord scowled. "It doesn't befit women to be treated as mere heir machines, and I will not marry a woman merely to provide one." "I agree," Luthias replied gravely. "But there's more," he knew. Almost sadly, Dargon nodded. "I don't want to get married," he told his cousin. "I don't want to marry just anyone. I want to marry a woman that I could love." "Don't you think you will find a woman to love, Clifton?" Luthias questioned carefully. "That's the problem, cousin," sighed Clifton Dargon. "I already have. And I already love her." This took Luthias quite by surprise; for a moment he simply stared uncomprehendingly at his noble cousin. In the next moment, Luthias, Baron of Connall, almost lost his temper. "Problem? What IS the problem? You have found her. You love her. You're the Duke around here, Clifton. You can marry anyone you like. Clifton, there is no problem." Another thought slapped Luthias smartly. "Gods, Clifton, you haven't fallen in love with a married woman, have you?" Dargon looked at his young cousin once again and laughed softly. "Married? No, she isn't married. Quite the contrary. By most standards, she is what the people would judge an old maid." His eyes clouded as he let the memory of her wash over him. "Though she's by no means old, and the man who would not choose her is blind." At this romantic turn in his cousin's nature (which Luthias had never before witnessed) the Baron of Connall asked meekly, but with amusement, "Do I know this lucky woman, Clifton?" The mist in the eyes of the Lord of Dargon cleared. He looked directly into Luthias' eyes. "I believe you do," Dargon told him. "You met her at the Melrin ball. Lady Lauren, the Winthrops' cousin. The one from Magnus." The Baron of Connall pondered a moment, and then the recollection shone on his face like a beam of sunshine. "Oh, yes, the dark-haired one with the greenish eyes--" "Her eyes are blue," Clifton corrected. "Perhaps a little green," he reconsidered. "Blue and green, like the sea," he mused. "The one in the white gown," continued young Luthias. "The one my brother liked." Again, Luthias considered the matter. "That woman isn't married? But she's--beautiful. And charming. And educated. Clifton, what's wrong with her?" The Lord of Dargon leapt to his feet. "Wrong with her?" echoed the Lord of Dargon in a most undignified manner. "Nothing's wrong with her." He smiled affectionately--like a man in love, thought Luthias. Clearly, his emotions were confused enough for it to be love. "She's perfect." Dargon began to pace yet again. "It's her father. He will not give her up." "Why not?" "Did you meet her father, Luthias?" Luthias thought a moment, then shook his head. "His name's Marcellon, and he's a very powerful mage. He was trained in Magnus by the great Styles himself." Having heard his late brother prattle on about Styles, wizard to Beinison Emperors, Luthias was suitably impressed. "Marcellon was wizard to the King of Baranur, until he left a few months ago, before the thaw." "Before the thaw?" Luthias repeated, incredulous. "Why would anyone travel that distance in winter? The conditions--" "Were life and death," explained Dargon. He kept on pacing, moving back and forth like a pendulum on a clock. "It's a long story, and Lauren only told me recently, when I asked her for her hand." "Fine thing, to go asking for a woman in marriage and not even telling your cousin you're in love until your advisors bother you," Luthias teased. "Quiet, manling," Clifton growled good-naturedly, using a term he hadn't employed since the twins were in their youth. "I..." The ruler of Dargon seated himself. "Our love is so special that I wanted to keep it a secret as long as I could. But then, when I asked her..." "Why would he deny you, Clifton?" Luthias wondered. "What could he object to? You are noble, wealthy, and you are good-natured..." "Marcellon trusts no man to treat his daughter well enough," Dargon explained. He made a grim, frustrated face, then continued. "Some years ago, Marcellon gave Lauren's sister in marriage to a young noble 'of good character'. A few months later, she was beaten to death by her husband." Dargon stared at his cousin. "He doesn't want the same thing to happen to Lauren." "Maybe he just doesn't want the insanity that grips him to run in the family," grumbled Luthias. "Clifton, what's the problem? When we were growing up, you had a crush on--oh, what was her name? And you threatened to carry her off if her father objected to the marriage. You make the laws around here. Just throw her over a stallion and run off and you're married." "And separate her from her father? Lauren loves him dearly, and it would break her heart," Dargon objected. "Besides, the marriage would be short-lived, cousin. Remember, Marcellon is a powerful wizard, with knowledge of the spells of the great Styles himself. He could attack me from a distance of hundreds of leagues." "Yes, 'Styles' Death', Roisart told me about it." "It's not a pretty or an easy death." Luthias shook his head. "And while I fear neither death nor Marcellon, I have no wish to die and leave the duchy with, if you will forgive me, inexperienced leadership." Luthias smiled a little, humbly. "Still, I want no other woman but Lauren, and Luthias, I intend to have her," the Lord of Dargon finished firmly. Again, he looked his cousin, the Baron of Connall, in the eyes. "There is a way, Luthias. I asked for her hand, and she told me that her father would be willing, on one condition." Luthias shook his head in a disapproving way. "A mage's condition. I don't like the sound of this, Clifton." When Dargon didn't continue, Connall prompted, "All right, Clifton. What is this condition?" "He requires that I pass a test of his choosing." "What kind of test?" "Lauren didn't say." "She didn't tell you anything?" Dargon shook his head. "Nothing, cousin. But Lauren told me that it can be very dangerous." His suspicion leapt from dormancy to dominance. "Dangerous? How?" Dargon leaned back in his chair thoughtfully. "I don't know exactly. Lauren would not tell me much, either. She said that two men from Magnus who took the test died--" Luthias nearly leapt from his seat. "Died?! Clifton!" Dargon shook his head at Connall. "No, Luthias, it's not what you think. One had a crossbow that exploded; one died of a sudden seizure, not caused by Marcellon. His purpose is to eliminate those not of exemplary character, not to hurt anyone." "I still don't like it," Luthias snapped. "I don't trust it. Two men have died, Clifton. And how do you know Marcellon did not cause it? It certainly sounds odd to me that a mage with that power-- And he left Magnus in a hurry, you said, in a matter of life and death. Whose? And why? It all seems very suspicious to me, Clifton, and I don't want to lose you too!" "Luthias, I don't use crossbows," the Lord of Dargon said with some amusement. "And I am not subject to seizures." He sighed, shifted. "It was a matter of life and death that Lauren and her father left Magnus. A matter of their lives or deaths." "What, is this Marcellon some sort of criminal?" Dargon shook his head. "Marcellon has broken no laws by testing his daughter's suitors. But the test got him into trouble. The families of the two who died made no protests; they knew that one had overestimated his warrior skills and that the other was sickly. But healthy young men have taken the test. Six came out alive and unharmed, but they couldn't remember a thing about the test." Clifton grimaced. "Four went mad." "Mad?" Luthias echoed, startled. "But what could make them mad?" "No one knows," admitted the Lord of Dargon, "and Marcellon won't tell. Families are not pleased when their sons return a raving lunatic from courting. And the last suitor was from a very rich and influential family--" "They were run out of Magnus because some rich, foppish fool took the test and went mad?" Luthias interrupted. Dargon nodded. "I'm not sure if I like this, Clifton." Luthias paused a moment. "Have you presented your suit to her father?" "Not yet," Dargon admitted. "I've been invited to dinner tonight. I want to ask him then." Dargon made a wrathful face. "Lauren does not want me to ask." "She doesn't want you?" Dargon gave his cousin a quick, sharp look, then calmed. "No, I don't think that's it. At least I hope not, Luthias. I wouldn't pursue her in that case." A sad, almost grieving look covered Dargon's face. "I want to marry her, Luthias. Only her." Luthias stared at his cousin's face and saw the truth of it. Luthias recognized the expression; it was almost the same expression his father had worn when he talked to Luthias and his twin about their mother, the only woman their father had ever loved. And who, through the birth of Luthias and Roisart, was lost to him forever. Luthias stood and walked over to his cousin's desk. He put his hand on Dargon's shoulder. Clifton looked up. "Try for her, Clifton," young Luthias advised. "That's not like you, Luthias," Dargon returned with gentle surprise. "I thought you were the practical one. I could lose my life, as you pointed out before, and putting myself in jeopardy for personal reasons is not something a ruler should do..." Clifton clearly was reluctant to make such a decision. "Well, yes," Luthias admitted, almost sheepish --he had told Myrande he wasn't built for loving--"but what's life without love?" Cheered, Lord Clifton Dargon smiled at his cousin, and left the study to dress for dinner. How Luthias had been convinced that he should attend the dinner at the Winthrops' he was never certain. For one thing, he didn't feel that Clifton really needed a second, or that Marcellon would appreciate the fact that Clifton had brought one. And if anything happened to Clifton, it might be unseemly for his heir to have been the one responsible for his safety. And there was Pecora, little Pecora, still mourning over Kite. And only the gods knew how Luthias was supposed to act around a great, educated lady and a man trained in magic by the great Styles. The only thing that was keeping the evening from being completely uncomfortable was Sable--Myrande Shipbrook, Luthias' seneschale. Born six months after the twins, Myrande had known Luthias, his brother Roisart, and Clifton all her life. Her father, who had been castellan to Luthias' father until he died five years ago, had been quite a valorous man who had been awarded knighthood and arms by Clifton's father. Myrande's mother had died days after her father, and at fifteen, she became Seneschale of Connall. When Luthias became Baron a month or so ago, he had asked her to stay with him, to manage his household and to help him run the barony; Myrande was wise for her age, and Luthias had always respected her counsel, even when, as a boy, he had never heeded it. And now, Myrande was helping him again--taking care of the Baron again, Luthias thought ruefully--just by being her honest, easy-going self. Luthias sighed, wondering again whom Sable loved. The man was a blind fool, not seeing the beauty in her black hair and dark eyes nor the beauty of her soul. Luthias watched Myrande walk through the garden as Marcellon approached him and introduced himself. Luthias found himself surprised that he actually had met Marcellon. He had been dressed in red robes at the Melrin ball, but now he was dressed in a courtly suit of grey and dark blue. As they waited in the Winthrop garden, Marcellon shook his hand kindly. "I remember you, Lord Baron," said the mage with grave kindness, which surprised Luthias even more. "You danced with Pecora, and your brother danced with my Lauren." Marcellon smiled. "It was a brave thing your brother did that night." Luthias smiled awkwardly. "Braver than I, milord." Marcellon lifted his eyebrows. "Would you not have done the same, if you had seen the opportunity?" Luthias considered a moment, then nodded. "Do not say he was braver, then." Marcellon looked at the bench where Lauren and Clifton sat talking. "I know that Lord Dargon has come to ask for her." Luthias looked at his shoes. Marcellon smiled. "Don't worry, Lord Baron. I do not ask you to betray your cousin. But," and the smile grew wider, "I am not a blind man. I have seen the way they look at one another, their eyes the secret messengers of the hearts. I've seen it before, though," Marcellon sighed, and his eyes narrowed. "Although I doubt I've ever seen a man so serious about her--or Lauren so serious about any man." Luthias did not know how to respond. Clearly, Marcellon was a wise and observant man, yet strong in his convictions. The old man smiled. "Come, milord Baron. We are expected for dinner," then, toward Clifton, "my lord?" "In a moment, father," responded Lauren, her blue-green eyes not leaving Clifton's. The two sat silently and watched as Marcellon and Luthias made their way from the garden, then Lauren turned to Clifton and clasped his hand strongly. Lauren cast a quick look over her shoulder--Lady Myrande was still walking forlornly alone. But Lauren knew--there were things she just knew--that she need not fear Myrande. It was well; Lauren needed to speak quickly. "Clifton, you know it's wrong to put yourself before the duchy..." He smiled at her warmly. "Yes, Lauren, I know, but I've spent the past days weighing this decision. The duchy needs a direct heir, and I want you to be my wife and the mother of our children. Your father's test is not meant to harm people, only to determine whether they will treat you as you deserve... and, well, I love you, and I think that I'd be able to treat you well..." His sentence trailed off; Clifton couldn't believe he felt embarrassed. "But, Clifton, it could be dangerous! I don't want any harm to come to you." Clifton shifted on the bench. "But I won't be hurt, Lauren. It will turn out for the best. Once this is done we shall be married." Lauren wasn't convinced by Clifton's insatiable optimism, and her eyes showed her deep concern, equally beyond reason. "Clifton... Listen to me. I've heard those very words nearly a dozen times. Each time, I watched as they confidently went to ask for my hand. Each time I secretly hoped they would succeed, for I truly cared for them. And each time I watched as they returned, having failed, and I felt their hurt, their shame. Somehow their failure was equally my failure, for I had not discouraged them. And, Clifton, I've got far too much at stake to let you fail. Can't you see? I couldn't stand to see you fail - not for the duchy, but for myself. If you failed, it would kill me! I love you, can't you see that? I can't let you fail." Lauren paused, anguish in her eyes. "If you were hurt-- gods, Clifton, if you lost your mind--" Impulsively, the Duke of Dargon put his arms around Lauren and held her close. "Shhh, love, I'll be fine," he assured her. He kissed her gently. They sat quietly as a gentle breeze moved the trees above them. Finally, Clifton said, "I Lauren, I must try. You know the saying as well as I, 'Nothing risked, nothing gained'. You cannot achieve anything if you aren't willing to put what you have at the outset at risk. And a man isn't a man if he stops achieving better things for himself and those he loves. So, you see, I have to do this... It's the right thing, believe me. I love you, and I don't want to live without you, and if I don't try, I'll fail you, and myself." Lauren reluctantly accepted Clifton's words. "I love you too, Clifton. And I don't think I'd love you as much if you weren't willing to do this. But remember, you're risking far more than yourself; you're putting the duchy and everyone in it at risk, and me. I pray you do not falter...if you did fail, I hate to think of your cousin." She gazed at Luthias, who was standing on a patio, watching Myrande and speaking with Marcellon. "He's lost his father and brother; could he lose you too, and be a Duke? Clifton, he's only twenty-one." "I know; believe me. But," and Clifton smiled, "my love, it was Luthias, practical, sensible Luthias, who convinced me to do this. It'll be all right," he assured her, kissing her again. There was a sudden crash behind them. "Clod!" Luthias called with teasing familiarity. "Luthias?" Myrande called, rising to her feet. "Just twisted an ankle," she answered Clifton's questioning glance. "Luthias, come here, please. I need you." Luthias moved toward her. Lauren smiled and said softly, so only Clifton would hear, "He hears the words, but misses the message." At the Duke's confusion, Lauren asked, "Didn't you know that Lady Myrande is in love with your cousin?" "Of course. My uncle Fionn, Luthias' father, told me some years ago when he asked Myrande whom she wished to wed. How did you know?" Lauren shrugged. "I just know." "You're changing the subject," Clifton accused with amused severity. "You still don't want me to do this?" Lauren looked pained. "Clifton, I want to marry you. I love you more than any other man in the world. I can't bear it if I lost you." "Then there's nothing more to do than try," Clifton said firmly. He helped to her feet. "Now, come, let's catch up with the others." Clifton and Luthias were set opposite Marcellon and Lauren. At one end of the table sat Lady and Lord Winthrop, an interesting couple who probably would have felt more comfortable with Clifton's father, but they managed to keep an incessant chatter alive at the table. At the other end sat the two women: Pecora and Sable. Pecora was the daughter of the Winthrop's, a dark-haired woman with whom both Clifton and Luthias had shared their childhood, and whom had been through so much recently. Sable, or Lady Myrande as she was called by everyone except Luthias and occasionally Clifton, was certainly the more beautiful of the two, a dark beauty, the Belle of Connall, as some had called her before she had become seneschale and stopped going to balls. Luthias smiled. It was long held a rumor that Myrande Shipbrook had been promised to one of the twin lords of Connall. Luthias noted that Clifton was in a serious mood, and understood why, but it made the conversation drag. Although everyone in the room were old friends, there was an air of awkwardness in the room. The group had gone through a lot in the past few months. Pecora had taken ill and then Kite had disappeared mysteriously. People also avoided talking about Luthias' brother and father, as well (he wished they wouldn't avoid them; part of Luthias needed to know that he wasn't the only person who remembered or missed Roisart and his father). And there was Clifton and Lauren, and surely everyone present knew about Clifton's intent. Only Sable seemed at ease, Luthias noted. He smiled. Sometimes he thought she was the only thing that kept him sane. The feast ended. Luthias was relieved when his cousin finally broached the subject of his suit to Marcellon. "Lord Marcellon, your daughter and I have spoken at length. We wish to be married. I ask for your blessing." Luthias was impressed; Clifton's tone was that of a request bordering on a demand. Marcellon's face betrayed nothing of what the man was thinking, but he replied, choosing his words carefully, "My daughter has told you of my whim?" "Yes, milord." "And you wish to prove yourself worthy of her in my eyes?" "Yes, sir," Clifton replied firmly. Lauren closed her eyes. Myrande saw the grief in Lauren's face, but could do nothing. Clifton saw it, and touched her hand beneath the table. "Very well," Marcellon agreed. "You will be provided with everything necessary to prove yourself. When do you wish to begin?" Clifton had committed himself now, and Luthias knew it. Clifton gazed across the table at his cousin. If he failed--if he died, or lost his mind--this man, this young man, would become the Duke of Dargon. Luthias knew this, saw the concern in his cousin's eyes. He's asking my consent for this, Luthias thought. As if he needed it. Luthias nodded to his cousin, and heard the words he had used this afternoon: Try for her. "If it is possible, this evening," Clifton requested. "Very well." Then, turning to Lord Winthrop, his brother-in-law, "With your permission, shall we adjourn to the sitting room?" The host nodded, and the group rose. Clifton, Marcellon and Lord Winthrop led silently, with Lauren hanging uncertainly near Clifton and the others behind, secretly exchanging concerned expressions. They reached the sitting room far too quickly for Luthias' comfort. Myrande squeezed his arm. "It's all right, Luthias." The old mystic motioned for Clifton to sit facing him. "You shall be facing great peril, though the purpose of this test is not to prove your prowess at arms or to harm you. You choose any weapon or armor you desire. What do you wish?" Luthias could see Clifton's mind racing, and could also see the unquiet expression he bore. "Are arms and armor necessary to succeed?" Marcellon's brow rose in curiosity. "They are not." "Then I shall bear neither." "As you wish. In a moment, I shall ask you to submit to my will, and to allow me to penetrate your self. This will not be painful, but you must concentrate upon opening yourself to me. I shall create the test within your mind as an illusion. You will find yourself in a corridor. You will find an object of beauty, and you need retrieve it, and I shall bring you back to this room. Are you prepared?" The Duke of Dargon took and released one large breath before replying. "I am." Clifton shared a final glance with Lauren, which dispelled any doubts left within him, although her face was filled with fear. He nodded to Marcellon, and closed his eyes. He had no formal training in wizardry, but there were books in the ducal library and in the college at Magnus which had discussed it. He envisioned a door in his chest and willed it open, feeling the vulnerability and insecurity beneath his outward strength and resolution. He kept his mind from wandering and concentrated upon it. He suddenly knew that Marcellon was within him; not within his body, but within his mind. Startled at the alien feeling, Clifton opened his eyes, but still saw nothing. Suddenly, as if he had been thrown into a pond, there was another person within him. His eyes could see, but what they saw was definitely strange. He was sitting with several other people in a small circle at the edge of a field, eating something that looked very much like worms in red mud. Around them stood several canvas shelters which stood of their own accord. One of the people near him, a dark-haired woman in a revealing white tunic, turned suddenly toward him and spoke. "Well, I think you look more like Luthias than Clifton..." As he went to speak, he felt his lips moving, yet the words that he spoke were not his own. "Well, of course, everyone will have different pictures of what's been written about, like the climate. I've always pictured Dargon as being like Maine, but other people will have different ideas..." Clifton thought he felt the third person leave his mind as his eyes drained; then he lost consciousness. Clifton awoke in a grey stone passageway, lit by an occasional sconce. To either side the corridor continued perhaps 30 paces before ending, a door at each end. Clifton waited several moments to be sure that his head was clear, then walked down the passageway to his left. He stopped before the large wooden door, his conversation with Marcellon going through his mind once more. The test was to bring back something of beauty. Clifton gathered himself and opened the door. Any semblance of secrecy he had desired was shattered by the protest of the seemingly ancient door. That decided, Clifton swung the door more forcibly open and strode into the huge room beyond. What he saw was enough to make him take several steps backward. The room was dominated by a large grayish mound surrounded by hundreds of huge, black insects. They were built like wasps, but each was the size of a small dog. The noise of the door had created a commotion, and the air about the nest was full of the insects. Clifton watched in horror as a single insect, larger than the others, emerged from the nest and rose to the air. The other insects flocked to follow it as it led the way toward the intruder. Clifton, of course, knew what he faced. There was a story which parents would tell their children about such insects. It would normally scare the children enough to keep them from playing with hornet and wasp nests and getting hurt. Clifton, as a child, had even told the story to his cousins, Luthias and Roisart, and Myrande, when he was the lordly age of twelve, and they were but six and five. The Wasp-King cruelly ruled all flying insects by terror. His temper was swift and his bite death. His greatest treasures was his colony, and the colony's greatest treasure was a flower which it kept preserved inside the hive. Clifton knew that the flower was to be the object of his test, and his heart sank. He had always held a secret fear of flying insects, and his fear now was maddening. The Wasp-King arrived and dropped to the ground less than an arm-length before him as his comrades circled above. The thing, for Clifton could not call it a beast, twitched and turned, its antennae brushing Clifton, who dared not move. Suddenly, he heard the thing speaking within his mind; the absolute alienness of the thing inside his head threw him violently to the ground. A thousand voices echoed, "WHY DOES IT INVADE US?" The assault ended, and Clifton rose to his hands and spoke. "I have been sent... I have need of your flower, your treasure." Clifton dared not raise his head to look at the abomination. He steeled himself for another assault. "WHY DOES IT NEED OUR TREASURE-FLOWER?" "I wish to marry a woman of my race. It will only be permitted if I bring back the flower." "IT MAY NOT HAVE THE TREASURE-FLOWER." Clifton felt enraged for a moment, and it blocked out his fear. For a wild moment, he wanted to attack the Wasp-King, splatter its brains on the floor. But better sense prevailed; he was unarmed, and even if he had a legendary sword, he could not succeed against the wasp horde. Besides, he bore them no ill. He thought of Lauren, and spoke again. "I again ask you for your treasure-flower. I will not be able to marry the woman without it." The sea of emotionless voices returned unmercifully. "IT IS NOT OF US; WE DO NOT CARE. MANY ITS HAVE INVADED US AND ATTACKED OUR HIVE; WHY? THIS IT DOES NOT ATTACK; IT SPEAKS. WHY?" Clifton knew no way to explain why other humans had come and why they had acted differently. "The others were renegades." Well, it wasn't quite accurate, but maybe they'd understand the basic gist. "I speak because I am wiser, and have no need to attack, for I mean you no harm. I only come for the treasure-flower." "IT MEANS US NO HARM? THE OTHER ITS HAVE INVADED US AND ATTACKED US WITH BLADES. THIS IT WILL DO THE SAME." "No, I mean no harm," Clifton repeated. A thought struck him. "If I can have the flower, I will leave, and I will insure that no other 'its' will come to attack you." The thing buzzed and twitched, and Clifton breathed deeply, still on his hands and knees. At least he wasn't in imminent danger. The legend had said nothing about the things being able to talk, and that was the most painful part of the ordeal. Then the voices returned. "IT MAY HAVE THE TREASURE-FLOWER, BUT IT MUST PROVE IT IS NOT RENEGADE. IT MUST GO AMONG US AND GET TREASURE-FLOWER." Clifton didn't quite understand the words, but his contact with the thing told him that the flower would be just within the hive. The Wasp-King rose into the air as Clifton stumbled to his feet. The distance was less than 30 paces, but it took Clifton several minutes. The insects were all around him, and he stumbled blindly toward the hive. He closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears, but he couldn't block out their feelers or their wings, which were constantly around him. He couldn't block out the droning of their wings, or the memory of their eyes. Nor their insane presense in his mind. It took all his will to keep from running, but he knew that if he did, they would flock to attack him, stinging him repeatedly. He struggled onward, until he reached the papery hive entry, which stood about half his height. He rolled onto his back and stuck his head and arms underneath the opening and felt above the entry. Finally coming upon what seemed to be a large flower, he carefully removed it from the wall and struggled out. He opened his eyes only long enough to be sure that he had the flower, and began walking slowly back toward the doorway. The insects slowly dispersed, and he finally stumbled the last few steps to the doorway. There had never been a sound so delightful to Clifton as the complaint of the iron-shod oak and the satisfying boom of it as it met the jam. Exhausted, Clifton sank to the floor, propped his back against the door, and slept. Luthias began to wonder why someone hadn't asked Marcellon how long this thing would last. It had been several minutes, but no one had dared to leave the room, least of all Luthias, with Sable at his side, and Lauren. Would this take minutes or hours, or days? No one had spoken; everyone was watching Clifton, yet his countenance had not changed since they had begun. His long face showed little of the youth it had when he and Luthias had spent more time together. Nor had Marcellon's, of course, as he been in some sort of trance as well. "How long?" Luthias finally asked Lady Lauren. She stopped pacing, stared a him a moment. "A few more minutes," she faltered. "Not long, Lord Luthias," she assured him, with a shaky attempt at a smile. "It is never long." Myrande looked at the seemingly sleeping Duke. "I don't like the way he breathes," she said, noting Clifton's labored pants. Lauren whirled upon Luthias. "Is anything wrong with his heart?" No one noticed the informality. Luthias shook his head. "He loves you. Don't worry," Luthias tried to convince Lauren, but he sounded too worried himself. He grimaced and walked away a few steps. Lauren watched as Myrande followed Luthias with her eyes. When Luthias was out of earshot, she asked, "How long have you loved him?" Myrande appeared startled. "Since I was sixteen, seventeen." She smiled. "Is it so obvious?" "I just know things, sometimes," Lauren reassured her. "Clifton said something about you asking Luthias' father for his hand..." "Not exactly, my lady," Myrande replied, watching Luthias. They were speaking softly, and Luthias looked like he had slipped into another world. "When I was sixteen, Luthias' father, Fionn, asked me if there was any man I preferred, so he could see about a marriage for me. I told him, and he said we should wait." She swallowed. "And so I have waited." "And you can't stop loving him?" Myrande shook her head. Lauren sighed. "I never knew what that was like...until Clifton..." She looked at her love, still breathing heavily. "It should be soon..." Soon, indeed they both showed signs of waking up, and everyone watched anxiously as Clifton took a deep breath. Both Luthias and Lauren caught their breath as they saw the haunted look in Clifton's eyes as he opened them, then slumped back into the chair. "He is fine, just let him rest a while." Marcellon said groggily. Luthias thought that Marcellon could probably use the rest as well. Still, Lauren went to the Duke's side. Clifton opened his eyes, smiled weakly. "Flower, my lady?" he asked, holding out to her a white rose, but his hand fell weakly to his chest, and he gave in to sleep. "Father!" came Lauren's cry. Luthias saw her pointing at Clifton, and noticed, for the first time, a delicate white papery rose lying across his chest, and knew what it meant. Luthias grinned, most of the tension leaving him. Sable was suddenly beside him, and they shared a smile. Lauren continued whooping--there was no other word for it--"He did it! We have your blessing?" Marcellon looked stern. "I will have to give it some thought." Luthias' grin crashed and was deformed into a frown. "What?" Lauren's expression was one which only a father could bear. "But, father, he's done it! He's fulfilled the test! He's proven himself." "Yes, he has. He is a good man, and I promise to let you know if I find him acceptable." "Find him acceptable?" Luthias was startled to hear Myrande's voice. He stared at her. She was angry, a black kitten with claws. "What do you mean? He loves her, Lord Marcellon. Don't you know how lucky she is to love a man who actually loves her back?" Luthias winced. Marcellon looked at Lady Myrande sorrowfully and shook his head. "There ss more to it, milady. You do not understand." "What is there to understand? You are denying me what I have waited years to have! Father, he's passed your damned test, and he's the Lord of Dargon! I refuse to allow you to be so unreasonable." "Unreasonable?" Marcellon thundered. "Would you end up as your sister did?" "Clifton would never so abuse me," Lauren said haughtily, pride in her eyes and her posture. "You cannot have him," Marcellon announced with finality. "No!" Lauren replied. "What?" Marcellon asked, his voice incredulous and furious. "I said no. I love him, and if you cannot find it in you to approve after he has gone through so much, then I shall marry him without your blessing!" "I am a wizard and--" "I know that you're a wizard. Do you think I am without power of my own--or that I fear you more than I love Clifton? Father, I've seen some of your books and I know some of your tricks. You may kill us, but it will take time and effort, and in the end, at least we'll die together!" Lauren turned to Luthias. "Help me take Clifton home." Luthias moved to lift his cousin, and Lauren turned to him, but her father grabbed her wrist. "You defy me, then?" Lauren's head was high. "I love him, Father. I will marry him, with or without your consent." Marcellon slumped into a chair and closed his eyes. "Thank God." Lauren was on the defensive. "What?" Marcellon smiled and waited before continuing. "Now listen, Lauren. Clifton has proved himself worthy of you. No other man has passed my test of him--gaining something delicate, such as your love, without using force. But what if you did not love him? I would not allow you to marry someone whom you did not love, even if he succeeded in passing my test." Lauren was wondering if she should faint. "Then why the test? Why didn't you just ask me whom I loved?" "I did not want you beaten and abused, dearest," Marcellon said affectionately. "If you remember, your sister loved her husband. I wanted that test, to keep you alive and happy. But if the right man passed, and you did not love him..." "But you knew I loved Clifton!" "Yes, and you loved the others, but would you have defied me for any of them?" Lauren shook her head. "I thought not. And so, there was a second test, my dear. Your test." "What?" Lauren seemed on the edge of fury. "You had to be worthy of him, as well. Until you defied me, you had not proved yourself or your love to me. I know you must be angry with me, but it was necessary." Lauren understood, though she clearly had not approved of her father toying with her. "I understand, Father." She returned to Clifton's side and he quietly smiled. With that, the last of her anger vanished. "Put him down, Lord Luthias," Marcellon commanded, smiling. "Lauren, wake him." Something gentle and soft touched Clifton's lips, and he woke. "I brought you a flower, Lauren," he mumbled. Then he saw Marcellon standing behind his daughter. Luthias felt distinctly out of place. Clifton stood proudly, although he felt exhausted. "I ask again for your blessing." Marcellon smiled and bowed. "You have it, your grace--or may I say, my son?" Clifton cheered, grabbed Lauren, kissed her lips, twirled her through the air. She laughed like a girl. Marcellon beamed his approval, until finally Clifton put down the man's daughter and shook his future father-in-law's hand. "Thank you...Father," Clifton said. Marcellon embraced him. Clifton turned to Luthias. "Come on, manling, we've got a lot of planning to do." "Where are we going and what are we planning?" "Home--the wedding, manling, the wedding!" "When will you be getting married?" Marcellon asked. Clifton blinked, then looked at Lauren. "Next week?" "Next week?!" Marcellon protested. "I don't want to wait," Clifton said dreamily, putting his arms around Lauren. "Nor I," Lauren agreed, laying her head on his shoulder. "So soon..." Marcellon said uncertainly. "What's to be gained by waiting?" Luthias argued practically. "Very well," Marcellon agreed, smiling. "Next week." Clifton kissed his bride as a celebration of the concession. Marcellon touched Luthias' shoulder. "Come, milord. I think they'd prefer to be alone." Unnoticed, Marcellon, Myrande, and Luthias left the room. Walking through the halls, Luthias offered his arm to Myrande. She smiled, took it. "Well," sighed the Baron of Connall, "it looks like we're having a wedding after all, Sable." Sable laughed softly. Luthias stopped, looked at her. "I'm sorry it can't be yours." Myrande elevated herself on her toes, and kissed his cheek. "Give it time, my lord," she said, smiling. She leaned on his shoulder contently. "Give it time." -M. Wendy Hennequin and David A. Liscomb <>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<> |