Dragon Zine N 1-8 (fancy)1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 1 ==========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 1, Issue 1 11/04/88 Cir 687 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DAG Dafydd Editorial Unlikely Partners, Pt 2 Max Khaytsus 12-16 Naia, 1013 Runaway Michelle Brothers 29 Seber, 1012, and 16 Naia, 1013 Steel Souls John Sullivan 10-11 Yule, 1013 Inquiries John Doucette 29 Yuli-7 Sy, 1013 Trial by Fire, Prologue M. Wendy Henniquin 6 Sy, 1013 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dafydd's Amber Glow Hello, readers! Here it is, the first issue of the 'replacement' - or rather, continuation - of FSFNet. As the new Editor, I hope that DargonZine serves you all as well as my predecesor's magazine did. DargonZine is not really a replacement for FSFNet, but rather a vehicle for the continuation of the Dargon Project, which made up a substantial part of the material in FSFNet. DargonZine will not be publishing anything non-Dargon, but R. Allen Jervis (C78KCK@IRISHMVS) has consented to take up the slack and publish any non-Dargon SF or Fantasy that anyone out there would like to write and/or read. This first issue contains five stories, three from authors new to the project. The first is from Max Khaytsus, and continues his "Unlikely Partners" story, Part 1 of which was in FSFNET Vol11N2. The second story, "Runaway", is by our first new author Michelle Brothers. The first part of the story provides some background to the rest of the story, and the second part, which happens some 9 months later, happens shortly after Max's story ends - in fact, they cross to a minor extent. The third story is from another new author, John Sullivan. "Steel Souls" gives us a little insight into the character of Ittosai. It takes place between "Worthy of the Title" and "A Visit to Connall", which appeared in FSFNet Vol10N5 and Vol11N3 respectively, before Ittosai has become the Castellan of Connall. The fourth story is by John Doucette (our third new author) and is titled "Inquiries", which introduces some foreign intrigue. And last is the beginning of an exciting new story line by M. Wendy Henniquin called "Trial by Fire". A well packed issue for the initial issue of DargonZine - I hope that you readers will enjoy it. Dafydd, Editor DargonZine (m.k.a. John L White) (b.c.k.a. WHITE@DUVM.bitnet) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Unlikely Partners Part 2 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a khaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu) Terell poured together the last of the solutions. If his books and speculations were right, he would be able to keep the virus alive for days. Finding a cure would be profitable, but how often would a cure for lycanthropy be needed in a civilized land? To turn a profit he would have to have a disease to cure. If only there was a way to make people get the disease...and of course in sight of profit, there is always a way! Deep in thought Terell started his walk home. The first thing he needed was a constant source of the virus, then a place to spread it. By the time Kera came downstairs to breakfast, Rien was already up, waiting for her. To her it seemed he invested far too much trust into a common street thief. At least more than she would. Most people don't just pick up thieves off the street and hope for the best. It's not like she had any plans to stab him in the back or anything, but he was still far too trusting. "I didn't grow any new body hair last night," Kera said, slumping down in a chair across from Rien. "Good morning," he answered. "I take it you're late because you stopped to check?" "I'm used to getting up late, since I do most of my work in the late afternoon and evening." "Warriors get up with the chickens," Rien said, motioning for the innkeep to serve breakfast. "I was wondering about your sleeping habits," Kera grinned. "So what do you want me to do first?" "After breakfast we need to get your equipment and I want a wizard to check you over. Then we will worry about your training." "Sorry, I don't do wizards," Kera said, looking over what the bar maid placed before her. "If you want to be apprenticed, you will have to do what I say, especially if it is to save your life." Kera's eyes narrowed. "Why?" "I don't take apprentices so that they foam at the mouth and howl at the moon," Rien answered calmly. "Why didn't you just leave me? Or kill me? I stole from you, hurt you! For God's sake, I wanted to kill you!" "That's not my way," Rien continued in his calm tone. "I do not kill for pleasure or sport. Life is a right I can neither grant to, nor revoke from an individual." "Even in defense of yourself?" "Defense is different. Yesterday and the day before were different." "Your eyes changed color yesterday!" Kera remembered. Rien's voice became even quieter. "A gypsy once told me that what you saw happened derives from another duality within me." "Like what?" Kera leaned forward, not quite realizing that she was also beginning to whisper. "It's nothing that should concern you at the moment," Rien said. The rest of the meal passed without a word. "Where is she, old bat?" Cril screamed, throwing the old woman to the ground. "I don't know. She never came back..." was the weak response. "You're lying!" This time there was no answer. "Put her in the blocks," Cril breathed his anger to the guards. Kera had become very important to Liriss two days ago, when she made the biggest theft since she started. Apparently that was also enough to have two of Liriss' men arrested and two more beaten beyond recognition. Whomever that purse belonged to, was seemingly mad about the whole affair. For that matter, so was Liriss. Cril stepped back to allow the guards to drag out the old maid. "Be you damned!" she hissed as they half carried her out. He restrained himself from the urge to break her neck. Cril took the time to dress in medium armor before before presenting his information to Liriss. There was no reason to expose one's self to unnecessary danger. His boss has been known to kill people for as little as saying "good morning". Naturally those mornings were in no way good. This was another morning that did not seem good to Cril. All he was able to learn was that the girl was last seen leaving the alley with a tall, blond man. Odds are she never even made it inside the building. That was more than reason enough to believe the old chamber maid and believe her he did, but she was going to drown just for a show of force, for the memory of all those before her and all those yet to come...and most of all, for these who may have known the answer to his question and withheld information. Cril knocked on a door and entered. On the far side of the room stood Liriss, holding a nearly full wine glass, staring out the window in deep thought. "Sir!" Cril began, but was abruptly interrupted. "Spare me your excuses. I heard what you did." Cril took a single step back in fear. "The maid is too old to serve properly, but should you lay another hand on any of my staff, no matter how decrepit, you shall be joining them in their fate." Cril drew in a breath of relief. Refraining from punishment would not be hard. Placing the glass on the window sill, Liriss turned around. His harsh features expressed anger. "If you do not locate Kera in a week, don't bother coming back." "Grandfather!" yelled the young girl. "Some big guy wants to see you!" Rien smiled in spite of his serious visit. There was some innocent, naive quality in children that always produced this reaction. "Oh, I'm coming!" he heard the wizard's voice. "Doesn't anyone know I work at this time?" His soft expression changed at the sight of Rien and Kera. "I don't want you here and I certainly don't want her here. Go." Rien blocked the closing door with his foot. "You have to help me. You are the only expert on this in town." "No," the wizard insisted. "What I know is only history. I am no alchemist. There are plenty of others who are better equipped to help you. Please, go now." There was no arguing with the man and Rien was not about to try. He could always challenge a fighter or a thief, but uninvited pesterance of a mage could be costly. "Just one thing," he finally asked. "Tell me if she has the disease." Unwillingly Taishent pulled out the white orb and taking a step towards Kera, uttered the incantation. A faint green glow illuminated his hand. Rien looked at the glow with a feeling of helplessness. No explanations needed to be given, but at least now the truth was clearly available. "Thank you," he said quietly and taking Kera by her arm, lead her away from the door. "Wait!" Taishent called out. "If you are unable to find help in the city, I hear there is an old woman living deep in the woods south of Dargon. She may be able to help." Rien wanted to turn around to thank the man again, but something inside of him urged him to keep going. In the morning of the following day, Rien returned to visit Terell, who he had not seen since the day of his initial visit. Many changes had taken place in the alchemist's mind since then. "I can't have you running around all the time!" Terell yelled at Rien. "I need you to provide me samples when I need them, not at your leisure!" "I came here to get a cure, not to be bled into a glass. There is only so much blood I can provide for you." Terell paced his lab, glancing at filled and empty glassware. "How can you expect me to find you a cure if I have no samples to study?" Rien shrugged. "How can I expect to be cured if there is no life fluid in me?" Grabbing a vial off the shelf, Terell thrust it to Rien. "Drink this. It will relieve your fatigue." And indeed it did so. With a single sip Rien collapsed to the floor, spilling the potion and breaking the vial. The sound of breaking glass filled his ears even after darkness filled his eyes. Kera searched out the scribe's cart at the market place and carefully approached, searching the crowd for familiar faces. Public appearances like this could be dangerous now. "Ellis, do you have the book I asked for?" she inquired of the shifty man watching the cart. He glanced around and motioned her to follow him to the side of an enclosed booth. Shielded by the wall, he produced a book and handed it to Kera. "The Realities of Myths" read the silver lettering on the cover. Kera flipped it open to reveal the seal of Dargon on the inside. The book immediately snapped shut. "You stole this from the Duke's library?" she almost exclaimed. "You said you only wanted to borrow it for a few days..." "And Rish Vogel just handed it to you?" "Well, no...it's kind of on a secretive loan." Hiding the book in the folds of her cloak, Kera thanked Ellis. "I'll have it back to you in a few days," she promised. "No hurry. No one knows what happened to it. Keep it." Kera smiled and turned to leave. "Wait," Ellis stopped her. "There are a lot of people out there who want to see you dead. Be careful. I heard some men are looking for you. I am sure if you come back now and tell them you were detained, they won't punish you." Pulling the hood of her cloak up, Kera disappeared into the crowd. The decision she was about to make would be very final. The ringing continued in Rien's ears even after his sight returned. With great effort he focused his eyes on his surroundings. He was sitting upright, in some laboratory, with his back against a wall. A heavy wool blanket was draped over him. Someone was spilling some liquid down his chin. "Stop dribbling and drink it," he heard Kera's voice and turned his head. His detached thoughts registered a liquid splashing on the blanket. 'The potion!' he thought, trying to avoid the glass, but only succeeded in spilling some more of it. "It's only water," he heard Kera's voice again. "Drink it." He did. A minute passed as Rien tried to compose himself. For some reason his body still did not follow the instructions he gave it. 'What was that damn potion?' "Terell..." Rien tried to voice his thoughts. "He's not here," Kera's voice sounded again and he again felt the glass at his mouth and swallowed. "My clothes..." Rien struggled, realizing the blanket was the only thing he had on. "Bring me his clothes!" Kera ordered and Rien struggled to look up. A vague shape and running footsteps were the only evidence of another presence. "You didn't have any when I found you," Kera told Rien and gave him another sip of the water. Rien's head was beginning to clear and the ringing in his ears subsided. Again he looked around the lab. The most noticeable feature was a body in a pool of blood. "Who was that?" Rien asked. "An assistant, I guess," Kera answered. "He tried to stop me, so I jabbed him a few times." Rien tried not to look disapproving. "How long was I here?" "Today is the 15th of Naia; it's past sunset." "Almost two days..." Rien murmured. "What did that damned idiot do to me?" "There are a lot of scratches on your right arm," Kera said cautious not to disclose that her examination had been more thorough than that. Rien pulled his arm from under the blanket. It barely responded. On it were three deep incisions that still produced traces of blood. "He bled me. Damned idiot!" Running footsteps again filled the room and a young boy appeared with a bundle of clothes. He carefully handed them to Kera and backed off. "Are you strong enough to get up?" Kera asked Rien. He nodded and stood up, clutching the blanket. "I assume you want me to turn around," Kera grinned, handing Rien his clothes. "Up to you," he answered and let the blanket drop. Kera instantly spun about to face the wall. "I see you have no problems with modesty." "Do you?" Rien asked, starting to dress. "I might not have had a great childhood, but I did have some social values implanted in me." "Oh, those..." Rien said. "Modesty was not a very big thing where I grew up." "This might come out a bit foolish, but just where did you grow up?" "East of here, a very long distance away." "Past the mountain range?" Kera insisted. "Past the mountains," Rien agreed. "In the forest on the other side." "I've never even been outside of Dargon," Kera sighed. "You may get your chance soon. I just lost all my trust of Terell. Tell me what happened in the last two days." Kera leaned against a table, still facing the wall. "I went to see a friend yesterday morning, asking about that book you wanted..." "Did you get it?" Rien interrupted her. "It should be on that big table with straps," Kera answered and continued her story. "He told me to come back in a day, so I returned to the inn to wait for you. I began getting worried by the time it got dark, but decided to wait until morning. In the morning I picked up your book and went back to the inn to see if you were back, but only found that my room had been ransacked. Yours wasn't touched, so I had all of our stuff moved to an inn down the street. I don't think anything was taken. "It was late afternoon by the time I decided to go look for you. You mentioned Terell before you left yesterday, so this shop seemed like a good start. Terell wasn't here, but his apprentices were. The big one didn't want to let me see the work area, so I grew suspicious and started a fight with him. I guess all bookworms are weak by nature." Kera paused, having finished her story. She waited a moment, then asked. "Are you done yet?" "One way to find out," Rien answered. Kera cautiously turned around. Rien sat on the large table in the middle of the room, legs crossed under him, examining the book she had brought. He was dressed. "This book belongs to the Duke of Dargon," Rien accused. "Uh-huh," Kera said carefully. "You said it was very important, so I spared no effort." "Doesn't matter either way," Rien said. "We'll be dead, should we fail. Liriss is after you, Terell has it in for me, the town guard is probably after us both and with lycanthropy on top of this...seems pretty grim, doesn't it?" Kera simply nodded. "Let's go get our stuff. We'll meet Terell here in the morning and be out of town by night fall." Kera moved about the room in the bulky field plate. "This is very heavy," she complained to Rien. "How do you expect me to fight in it?" "You'll get used to it," he said, checking to make sure nothing was left behind. "A horse saddled for the first time is also uncomfortable, but it gets used to carrying both gear and rider." "A saddle is probably more comfortable than this," Kera continued. "This is only for your protection," Rien said. "You'll get used to wearing it and fighting in it or you won't live very long. Grab your pack and let's go." The innkeeper was the only one up downstairs. He lazily looked at Rien and Kera clanking their way down the stairs. A look of surprise spread on his face. "Leaving so early, sir?" he inquired of Rien. "One has to get up early to go hunting," Rien responded. "Looks like you're ready to hunt a dragon," the innkeep laughed. "A small one," Rien said and placed some money on the counter. "A deposit for the room," he said. "We will return." "Do you require assistance with your horses?" the innkeep hurried to ask, placing the coins in his pocket. "Thank you, but no," Rien answered. "Then good luck on your hunt!" "You intend to come back?" Kera asked Rien once outside the inn. "No, but if we are traced this far, the innkeep's belief that we will return may delay pursuit," Rien answered. "I believe in dealing with only one problem at a time." "Do you think Liriss will follow us?" "Might. I'd rather expect the worst and be faced with only pleasant surprises." He stopped near Kera's horse. "Get on." "How!?" "Place your left leg in..." "In armor?" Kera interrupted him. "Unless you have other means of protection, yes." "It looks like it's going to rain," Kera said. "The armor might rust." "Well maintained armor will not rust from getting wet," Rien answered. "Get on." Kera looked at the horse apprehensively, then grabbing the sides of the saddle and placing her left foot in the stirrup, tried to pull herself up. The horse shifted uncomfortably. "Don't pull," Rien instructed. "Jump up and swing your leg over, just like you do without armor." "Yeah, right!" Kera exclaimed and after a moment of preparation did so, landing in the saddle with a grunt. "That hurts!" "Be glad it wasn't full plate," Rien answered, swinging into the saddle of his own horse. "Does that hurt men too?" Kera asked mockingly. "Only if they don't know what they are doing," Rien answered. The two made it down to Terell's laboratory-shop by sunrise. Using the key they took from the store a few hours before, they unlocked the door and walked in. The boy, who they locked in, hurried to the back of the room in fear. "Give him some food and have him stay in the other room," Rien instructed Kera, relocking the door behind them. After Kera left, he started looking over the vials located on the shelves. Things useful on quests were often found in places like this and while not having a lot of experience with magic, Rien felt he could lay a little claim to knowledge of herb lore and simple alchemy...especially if labels were available. By the time Kera returned, four of the vials stood separately on the table. "What's this?" she asked, taking a seat across from the door. "Three of them save lives, the other takes them," Rien continued rummaging through the shelves. "It's going to be a long journey. We may need them all." Kera nodded slightly. "What are you going to do about Terell?" "Listen to him. He may have a good reason for what he did." "What if he does?" "Let him continue his work." "And if he doesn't?" Rien faced Kera. "A reason that I do not find satisfactory does not necessarily have to be bad. When he provides his reason, I'll make my judgement." "And the boy?" Kera asked. "The child is only an apprentice. He did only what he was told; I can't blame him for that." "Sometimes I wish things were simpler," Kera sighed. "The simpler your life, the harder you would have to work to keep it that way," Rien answered, finally giving up on the rest of Terell's potions. He sat down, looking at Kera, who turned to face him. "A maid in Liriss' chambers told me to be careful of what I wish for. Someday someone may grant it..." "And you won't like the results," Rien finished the famous proverb. "I don't believe that's true." "What do you mean not true? Do you think it's not true for everything?" "I don't think any of it is true. It depends on who hears your wishes, not what the wishes are." Kera opened her mouth to speak, but the sound of a key turning in the door lock forced both her and Rien to take cover behind the furniture in the shop. A moment later the door opened and someone walked in. "Kapatil? Baska?" Terell's voice sounded as the door slammed shut. Rien permitted the footsteps to get past him, before getting out from behind his cover. Terell spun around and tried to back out, but the door to the laboratory was locked. "I will give you one chance only to explain your actions," Rien stated. Terell's response was drawing a dagger. "Damn half-breed! I should have killed you two days ago." Rien's eyes flared as he drew his sword. "Damn bastard half-breed!" Terell muttered again, swinging his dagger. It impacted against Rien's chest plate, doing no more damage than a light scratch. Rien thrust his sword forward, flawlessly penetrating the alchemist's upper chest. He looked on as his victim slid down to the ground, letting out his final breath. With it the truth of the events of the last two days fled forever. Kera's hand clamped down on Rien's shoulder. "Half-breed?" He shook his head. "An old, evil man." Kera looked at the slain body against the wall for a moment. "I guess we're finished here. Let's leave before the town guard finds us." "We're not leaving just yet," Rien walked over to the main door and relocked it. "Right now we need to get some rest." "We can't stay here!" Kera protested. "We'll be discovered! With him!" She thrust her hand out, pointing to Terell's body, grimly staring at the arguing pair. "I will put up a sign that will announce the shop as being closed for the day and at nightfall we will leave town. One day will not steer anyone's suspicion and we need the rest. At least you do." "I have been up for almost two days now," Kera admitted. "But being in your shoes does not seem like an appealing alternative." Rien smiled. "Be ready to leave at dusk." Cril and three of his men stepped out of the latest inn to be checked. Doing the work himself made him feel better, since a found trail was quickly lost the day before, due to a subordinate's negligence. This last visit uncovered a lot more than Cril had hoped to learn. Kera and her new companion left early in the morning on a hunting trip. There were two clear alternatives--follow them or wait. The wait could be extremely long. Their rooms were paid for a week in advance and Cril had now well under that for a deadline. He looked up and down the street in deep thought. There was no need to test Liriss' threat by waiting around. To follow would give a better chance of success. That was the only thing he had left to do. "Spread out," Cril told his men. "Two armored individuals can't be hard to find. Ask everyone!" The guards proceeded in different directions. Shortly before dusk Rien sat down to speak with Terell's remaining assistant. The boy sat quietly in a corner, fearing to even bring his eyes up to look at Rien. "You are afraid of me. Why?" The boy did his best to regain his posture. "You killed Master Terell..." "And you are afraid of my companion as well?" "I saw her kill Kapatil..." the boy whispered. "Do you think we will kill you?" Rien inquired. "Yes," came the barely audible response. "If you promise to do something for us, I promise we will let you go..." "You do?" the boy looked up. Rien nodded. "You must promise not to tell anybody that we were here or what we did and you will be free to go." "Really?" the youngster's eyes looked hopeful. "But you must promise! And keep that promise...or we will come back and find you." Rien's expression was hard. "You will say that some men came and killed everyone and that you were scared and ran away." The boy nodded silently, dropping to his knees. "I swear it, Sir!" Rien waited patiently to stress the moment. "You will leave after we do." He quickly got up and exited the laboratory. "What happened?" Kera asked him in the other room. "I wish I didn't have to scare him like I did," Rien admitted. "He looks no older than ten years." "Did he agree to keep quiet?" "I said we'll come back and find him is he tells anyone... I haven't seen anyone that scared in along time." "Will we?" "If anyone learns of what we've done here tonight, I fear we will no longer have to worry about that issue," Rien said. "Do you need help with your armor?" he tried to change the topic. "Just a little," Kera said. "My arms don't bend backwards." At dusk they unlocked all of the doors and set on their way out of Dargon in a strong downpour. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Runaway Part 1 by Michelle Brothers (b.c.k.a. brothers@tramp.uucp) "What the hell do you mean she's disappeared?" bellowed Teran, slamming his flagon onto the table, slopping liquid over the brim. "Damn it, Apollo, you were supposed to be keeping an eye on her!" Blue eyes flashed dangerously in the man's fair face. Apollo toyed with the idea of beating a hasty retreat, but decided against it. The fact that Teran would probably beat him to the door was almost as daunting as what would happen to him when he was caught. "I followed her into the market, just like you told me to," said Apollo, keeping his voice steady. "She shopped around a bit, bought a few things, then the next thing I knew, she was gone." Teran's glare darkened. Apollo forced himself not to cringe under the man's penetrating gaze. "You're one of the best people I've got and you lost her." Teran's voice was quieter than his glare and sounding all the more dangerous for it. His fingers drummed rhythmically on the table top, near his double edged eating dagger. He stood up slowly. "I have the twins looking for her..." Apollo said desperately. "That doesn't excuse-" The door to the room slammed open, effectively cutting Teran OFF. A PAIR OF IDENTICAL BROWN HAIRED BOYS STOOD, FRAMED IN THE doorway. Apollo whirled at the sound. "Well?" he snapped, masking his relief at the interruption in anger. "She's not in the city anymore," said one of the pair, fingering the cheap copper medallion around his neck. "She wasn't in the market or the area around it." "I checked the docks," said the other twin. He looked from one glaring man to the other. "According to...someone I know there, she got passage on the Dolphin's Anchor. It's headed for the mainland. A city by the name of Foroni." Apollo paled and Teran let loose an explosive string of curses. The twins looked at each other, then slipped back out the door. Their hastily retreating footsteps could be heard over the blond man's muttering. Apollo turned back to Teran, who had sat down again. "Have to get her back here," he murmured, oblivious to Apollo's presence. "Can't make a damn move without her." "Why?" "What?" Teran's head snapped up, realizing that he hadn't been left alone by the twins exit. He smoothed the obvious anger from his face and forced himself to relax back into the chair. "Why can't we make a move without Eliowy? Why is she so important?" Apollo leaned against the wall and folded his arms, looking more confident than he actually felt. Steady black eyes studied Teran from across the room. "She has to lead the attack from the castle," said Teran frankly. "You know that." "There are other people far more capable to lead that attack," snapped Apollo, pushing himself off the wall. Black hair flopped into his eyes. "Why her? Why not you or Vargis or even me?" Teran was silent. "Does it have something to do with that little trip she went on last year?" pressed Apollo, advancing a little closer to the table. "Something she found along the way to make her more formidable, perhaps?" Teran was still silent, but his bright blue eyes glittered. "A new power, perhaps?" Apollo advanced another step. "Magic, maybe? IS THERE magic involved?" "No!" Teran didn't specify which question the violent negative was appended to. "Then what the hell is it? Why is Eliowy so gods-damned important?" Teran rose slowly to his full, nearly seven foot, height, glaring down at his black haired companion. Apollo held his ground stubbornly. "That is quite enough," said Teran, expression completely neutral. "I want you to find the Anchor's destination and make arrangements for me to follow. Don't argue!" he snapped, as Apollo opened his mouth. "You will go now and do as I've told you. I'll have the bribe money ready as soon as you find me a ship." There was a brief stare-off then Apollo nodded sharply and headed for the door. He looked back. "I'll find out, Teran. Sooner OR LATER." HE LOCKED GAZES WITH TERAN, THEN LEFT, LEAVING THE DOOR open. Teran sat down once more. "Hopefully later," he said softly. "Hopefully much later." By the time Eliowy arrived in the town of Dargon, it was pouring rain. Water dripped down her hood, into her eyes and down her neck, chilling her. Her well worn boots were covered with mud and they squished with each step. Her small pack, which contained little more than a change of clothes, a few personal belongings and a hand harp, had become almost unbearably heavy during the last hour of walking. The sword banging at her hip was like a dead weight, dragging her down. Eliowy stared down the road leading into the center of town. It was deserted except for a few heavily cloaked figures hurrying to their various destinations amid the clusters of houses. None of the people seemed like the type to give directions. Eliowy sighed deeply, pulled her hood further down over her head, scattering droplets against the rain and resumed her trek into the city, her way dimly lit by an occasional heavy shielded street lantern. A few of the buildings along the way were lit, but none of them were an inn; not that she had the money to pay for a room. Three...no, four coppers would barely get her an indecent meal, never mind alone a dry place to sleep. "Damn," mumbled Eliowy. "Maybe I can play for my supper. Maybe they'll let me spend the night too. Maybe they'll like my playing enough to hire me." Lightning flashed directly overhead, closely followed by thunder. The rain abruptly increased. "Maybe I should worry about finding an inn first.," decided Eliowy glumly. "Nothing like a dose of cold, wet reality to ruin a perfectly good fantasy." She resumed walking, keeping her head lowered to keep the rain out of her eyes. She had walked about a block when a glimmer in the mud caught her eye. A silver piece lay in the road, rain having washed the mud from it. Lightning constantly flickering from cloud to cloud, caused the coin to flash dimly. Eliowy waited for another burst of lightning before bending down to pick it up. What a stroke of luck! "What have you found, youngster?" someone asked. Eliowy jerked back in surprise, tripping over her cloak, as she tried to stand. She found herself staring up at a trio of hooded, armored men. A lantern made it impossible for her to get much more detailed. The foremost figure moved a step closer and lantern light glinted off the long wood and metal sheath at his side. Lieutenant Kalen Darklen stared down at the young woman sitting on the ground before him. Rain ran down her face like tears, plastering her hair to the cheeks and soaking her tunic. Lantern light glinted off cloak clasp and weapon hilt and gave her eyes an odd amber shine. "You all right, miss?" Kalen asked, taking a step forward when the girl didn't get up. Her fall hadn't been hard enough to do damage, so there was no reason for her to continue sitting in the mud. He reached down to give a hand up. Eliowy scrambled back as the foremost figure reached out towards her, not hearing the man's concerned question. She stumbled to her feet, putting muddy foot prints on the hem of her cloak and tangling her scabbard in its folds. She stared at Kalen as he drew his hand back. The pair eyed one another for a few moments. Kalen with curiosity. Eliowy with rapidly growing panic. "They must have heard," she thought wildly. "Town guards are always talking with each other..." She stepped back. A puzzled frown crossed Kalen's face. "What is the matter with you?" he stepped forward decisively, to get the girl's face back in to the light. THAT SETTLED THE MATTER FOR ELIOWY, WHO PROMPTLY PANICKED AND BOLTED. With a started shout Kalen and company chased after her, the bouncing lantern making the shadows dance crazily along the walls. People were not in the habit of running from the guard, even in Dargon and Kalen's curiosity, not to mention his concern, was aroused. Eliowy dodged down the first side street she could find, cloak flapping behind her. "They know!" the thought pounded through her at the same speed as the racing of her heart and the pumping of her feet. "They must have heard bout Tench!" Another junction loomed ahead of her and she skidded into a right turn. Eliowy had arrived in Tench after several long months of travel and all she had cared about was finding an inexpensive inn and some food. Instead of this, she ran across three men who took exception to her having a weapon much finer than their own. Eliowy's fight to keep her most valued possession ended with one man dead, another injured and the third running for his life. Terrified that the last man would call the town guard after her, Eliowy fled the city, not realizing that he and his fellows would not admit to having been beaten by a lone girl. The footsteps grew closer and she slipped into another alley filled with crates, trying to use her size to her advantage. The fading sounds of cursing behind her was testament to her success. She paused, took several deep breaths, then resumed running. Eliowy rounded yet another corner and was back on the main street into and out of the city. Without thinking, she started across the street towards the waiting shadows of a nearby alley and was almost trampled by two armored figures on horseback. In her mad scramble to get out of the way, Eliowy slipped and once again landed full length in the mud. "Are you all right?" demanded one of the riders, swinging down from his mount. "Leave her, Rien. We haven't the time," the other rider, a female, shifted uneasily. "We have enough time to be certain she's all right," said Rien calmly. He reached down and helped Eliowy to her feet. "Be careful where you're going next time. You might have gotten hurt." "Sorry," gulped Eliowy. Her eyes scanned the area behind Rien. "I've got to go now!" She turned, shook off Rien's helping hand and ran. Rien returned to his horse. "Hey!" he heard and turned to see the lieutenant of the guard charging towards him. "Did you see a young girl come this way?" panted Kalen. Rien pointed in the general direction Eliowy had run in. "Thanks!" Rien remounted his horse as Kalen trotted away. "Let's go. And you don't have to tell me that was the city guard." His partner simply smiled and looked smug. Eliowy leaned against the wall of a building, breathing heavily. It looked like she had finally shaken her pursuers. Now all she had to do was find her way back out of the city and she'd be home free. Shouldering her pack with a sigh, Eliowy moved out into the street again, right into the arms of Kalen Darklen. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Steel Souls by John Sullivan (b.c.k.a. JSULLIV@VTVM1) From the seawall I watch as the sun flows down to the ocean, bleeding red into the water. The wind from the sea is cool and vigorous. It blows my hair in a black cloud around my head and whips the heavy fabric of my clothing until it snaps like the sails on the ship that brought me here. I come here whenever I can, and sometimes I work my way down the rocks to the water's edge to dip my fingers in the sea. It is my friend, the sea. I am stranded on this alien soil, but I can touch the sea. And the sea touches Bichu. The wind turns colder as the evening deepens. The sun has almost completely set now and the dockmen slowly filter away to homes, to taverns, to wherever they go. Some look at me as they walk away, noticing my different clothes, my face. They are peasants, uneducated and of no status, but they belong here, and they can see that I do not. They look at me with distaste as they pass and I try to ignore them and look at the remaining spot of the sun. Sages have told me that when the sun sets on Dargon, it rises over Bichu. If that is true, then my father is waking now, and remembering that I am gone. It has been a year since I left Bichu in disgrace. For a year my family has been shamed, my father without an heir. I fled from honor, and my life becomes more intertwined with this place every day. So my father awakes and begins a second year of sorrow and shame. His shame feeds on my own and feeds it in turn. How can I ever go home? The tavern is called Grey Talka's. It is an ugly place, near the warehouses and the docks, noisy and full of smoke, smelling of vomit and cheap ale. I sit alone at a table in the corner, my swords beside me for the people here are not to be trusted. A maid brings me a tankard of ale and I examine it for a moment, then dump the contents on the floor, carefully clean it with my sleeve and return it to her. "Another," I say, "this mug." She says nothing but returns with it to the long table where the keeper has set up his barrels. In Bichu a hosteler so insulted would either seek a champion to defend his reputation or close his tavern. Here, so long as I pay for the slop, I may pour it wherever I wish. The barmaid returns with my ale and collects her copper, saying nothing. The ale is bitter and poor. I drink it in large gulps, shaking my head to fight it, and order another. Time passes. "Mo iti do itte!" The barmaid does not come, and the men at the other tables glance at me, their eyes nervous behind their dullness. I realize that I have spoken in Bichanese. "Bring me another!" I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table; my head is heavy so I rest it in my hands. I'm weary of this land, its coarseness and barbarism. Decent men are so rare here that when they discover one they murder him from a place of concealment with crossbows. Their honor is blood in the table linens. The barmaid must be frightened of me, for the keeper himself brings my ale. He doesn't set it down, but demands three coppers instead of one, hoping I will leave. Several men have gathered in a nervous group near the kegs, waiting. His ale isn't worth three coppers, but neither is it worth one, and I have no intention of being intimidated by these peasants. I take a Bichanese crown from my pouch and let it glitter on the table. "You'll bring me as much as I ask for and leave me alone, won't you?" He looks at the flash of gold for a moment, then snaps it up and sets down the tankard with a muttered "Of course, milord." He goes back to his kegs and argues quietly with the others. After that word circulates that I'm not the street character they took me for; I have money. A few even consider taking me. I see them sizing me up, trying to appear dangerous. Meeting their gaze is enough to send them slinking back to their tables like rats. Crude beasts in a land of animals! I stand on the seawall to be upwind of them. When I can stand the tavern smell no longer I flee into the darkness of the streets, but the streets stink as well. The entire filthy city stinks, like the unwashed people, their disgusting rotted meat, their uncivilized habits. Even the ones who attempt to be civil cannot overlook their delusions of superiority. "We'll teach you to dance in our fashion, Lord Ichiya," with the slightest nuance of mockery on the honorific. "I've learned your language from reading your poets," he says, speaking like an addled child, disappointed when I do not fall at his feet in gratitude. I hate Dargon. I've admitted it and the hatred flows through that crack and washes over me like a flood. Even drunkenness here is low. Instead of freeing the spirit, it drags me down into the filth in the gutters. I walk rapidly through streets unfamiliar in the night, trying to find some clean place but there is none here, not in the street, or in the dishonor of the people. "Bastard dogs!" I shout at the dark, crumbling buildings in Bichanese, then "Zyatai an!" lapsing into Bichoi, the lower class dialect of peasants and beggars. Perhaps they will understand this. "Koshaddan! Tokodoshi esuna ko!" The hoarse cry echoes in the abandoned street and I laugh. I can imagine my mother hearing me, learning that I know such language. I can see the look on her face, as if I had greeted guests by pissing in their teacups. It has been a year since I saw my mother and thieves prowl these streets. I had scarcely left the ship when they began hurling themselves at me clumsily from the dark. With Roissart and Luthias they came and countless other times, as if this land itself feels my alienness and reacts with all the violence it spawns. But I can resist Dargon for there is violence within me as well. Around me, in the darkest corners of the alleys, furtive shapes move when they think I don't notice. No one moves through these reaches of the city unobserved at night. But these see my swords and move with caution. I realize that I have ceased my shouting and the fire moves in my blood with more than the ale. I sense their brutality, ebbing and flowing like the tides and I find some part of me that needs it. I begin to call to the inky shapes like a lover. I sing old Bichanese drinking songs, anything at all. I weave in my steps as the drunkenness crests within me. For a block they shadow me, and more. "Why are you waiting?" I cry in Bichoi, "I am foolish with drink and my purse is heavy." Come to me now, now. They come, two figures, weaving toward me, running from behind me, one at each quarter. They hold their swords reversed, their bodies curled around them. From that grip they will slash upward from their left then thrust down. I step, step, one more then one leg wavers under my weight and I stagger. Then, as my katana feels the fire as well and leaps into my hand with a metallic singing, time expands into the montage of battle. There is the sharp cry of the duellist and the right foot planted behind for the spin. The tip of a sword nicks my clothing as I spin away from it and I can feel my blade moving like a part of myself. The clatter of a parry and I continue my spin. Even drunk I can take these fools apart. I luxuriate in the force of my body's motion, the kinesthetics of the sword. A dark form before me as I complete the turn and my left hand completes its following arc and slaps against the lower menuki, fingers wrapping around the base of the hilt. The hand shifts the balance of the sword and I hold my breath, feeling the descent. And then the bite of the steel. The ecstasy of it! The bite, oh, the bite. Dim light brings the morning and the wind is chilling. I am on the floor of my rooms, drenched in sweat. I have committed murder. The watchmen who came soon after, drawn by the commotion, saw dead thieves and an acquaintance of Lord Dargon, and did not hold me. But I know the truth. There is no honor in inviting attack from an inferior fighter to justify a killing. There is only shame, cowardice, weakness. It's strange how little a moment of shame leaves of life. Once there was family, honor. Now there are only disjoint snippings from time, not unlike the way of a battle. The trunk with my belongings, opened less frequently every day. The remaining length of unused rice paper tucked under one arm, flashes of street life around me as I walk toward the harbor. Fishsellers, marketwomen, apprenticed boys running on the errands of their masters as if nothing has happened. Near the docks I discover a bowl of fish stew in my hand, the stewmonger expecting payment. I give him my purse. Then there is only myself, the sun rising behind me, the wind, the seawall and the nervous tossing of the sea. There is only one way to remove a stain such as this. I wonder if my parents across the ocean will feel the sting of the blade. I kneel on the seawall, the end of the ricepaper beneath my knees to keep it from blowing away in the wind. My katana weights the other end. I watch my hands wrap a length of cloth cut from my sleeve around the blade of the shorter wakizashi, once, twice, three and then four times. Then I hold the blade, one hand ginger on the cloth wrapping, the other butted against the hilt. When I was born my father expected only that I would carry the name of our family a step or two forward and not do it dishonor. I have done nothing else. I have fled from a challenge to the family name to this forsaken place, and I cannot even uphold the basic tenets of honor here, in a place without honor. Oh father, how I have shamed you, how I've shamed myself! There is only one way to undo the violence I have done to the reputation of clan Ichiya. Enough stalling, enough wallowing in the magnitude of my shame. A flash of courage to cleanse it. A stillness comes over me. Honor welcomes the intention to restore it and helps quiet the fear. The sounds of the town around me fade away and I breathe shallowly, in time with the rhythmic beat of the surf against the seawall. With the next wave, the surge of strength through my arms, and then peace. It comes. The water climbs, foaming white, the pitch of it rising, and then it crashes with a tremendous booming sound against the seawall. The muscles of my arms tense and move. And in the next instant I fall sideways, knocked over by some impact. There is pain, and grating of flesh against stone. For the briefest moment I am confused, like one just waking from a vivid dream. Then I see a body, on hands and knees over my legs, having dived into me from the right. Rage floods through me instantly, as if it has always been there. The ignorant brutes can't even keep from interfering in my most private moments! I kick his chest with both legs, knocking him away so that he rolls back until he is a pace away from me and seated in a clumsy sprawl. As quickly I roll forward to my knees and move after him. The wakizashi's wrapping begins to unwind and trail behind the blade like the tail of a comet as I raise it sideways, holding it over my head for the quick slash downward. As I loom over the man he moves forward, pride and ferocity in his bearing. He snaps his head back to expose the vital areas of the throat and barks "Ko choro an!" "Do what you must." The ritual words stop me as if paralyzed, frozen in attack posture, the wakizashi still held overhead. The cloth still hanging from the blade waves in the wind. I recognize the face of the stewmonger, eyes locked into my own. He is frightened, but he does not move. There is an instant to wonder how he comes to know our customs so well. Then he says the words again, softly this time and, unlike that damned fool of a chronicler perfectly, with no trace of accent. "Do what you must." He is right. I have murdered; I cannot expunge their blood with my own. In death there is escape, but the situation remains behind. It is only an escape, the apotheosis of self-pity. There is no honor in death to avoid responsibility. The realization is painful. Something I have been taught since childhood is a lie, but the stewseller is right! Honor requires the facing of responsibility, living with it, dealing with it. I will do what I must. I will go on. There is a clatter as the wakizashi falls from limp fingers to the stone. I fall forward, sobbing like a child and he draws me in and holds me silently. It's a hard thing; nothing has seemed to take on such scope before. Life had always seemed so brief a thing. When we rise to our feet there is blood, soaking my clothing, dripping into the crumpled length of rice paper. The blade of my wakizashi has slashed my side during the aborted thrust and my fall. Working quickly and efficiently the stew seller bandages it with the cloth from the blade. He is a man of many talents, my rescuer. I wonder why he contents himself selling fish stew on the docks. From a pocket he takes my coin pouch and returns it to me. "If my stew is so bad, I shouldn't charge so much for it." A light comment, denying the seriousness of the incident. He is telling me that the matter is closed. I bow deeply and he returns the bow, then turns and walks back toward his cart. I retrieve my swords and return them to their place. Suddenly freed, the bloody length of rice paper whips away in the wind. It is carried over the harbor for perhaps the length of a ship before fluttering down to float on the surface of the water. My blood soaks into the water, and the outgoing tide carries it toward distant Bichu. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Inquiries by John Doucette (b.c.k.a JDOUCETTE@UPEI) The guards at the end of the hall immediately snapped to attention upon noticing the black-robed figure approaching. Although the robes the individual wore hid all distinguishing features, the guards recognized who it was without so much as a second glance. It was fear, and a little common sense, that dictated their gesture of respect. Unpleasant things happened to those who displeased this man. The fact that their lord held this dark figure's abilities in high regard also warranted some display. He stopped at the doors to Lord Myros' study and waited, arms clasped within the sleeves of his velvet-soft robes, as one of the guards entered the study to inform his master of his guest's arrival. A moment later, the guard exited the study. "My Lord Myros will see you now," he announced in a deep voice. Without so much as a gesture of acknowledgement, the visitor entered. It was a moderately sized study, but it more than made up for its lack of space with the quality of the collection of books Lord Myros had acquired over the years. There were first editions of some of the finest books dealing with the art of war, and second or third editions of books dealing with such varied topics as governing, economics, and literature. In the center of the room sat a round oak table of the finest quality and around this were placed five exquisite high-backed chairs upholstered in dark purple velvet. A fireplace set in the wall opposite the entrance to the study was happily alight with a fire that was just now beginning to burn down. The candles in the candelabras were extinguished, thus casting the room into dancing shadows made by the firelight. Lord Myros sat in a sixth finely crafted chair by the fireplace, sipping brandy. He made sure that he and his visitor were alone before speaking. "Well, Celeste," he said, staring into the fireplace, "are the rumors true?" Celeste regarded Myros for a moment before answering. In his early forties, Myros looked like a man ten years his junior. His trim, fit body bore the scars of a lifetime of battle. Myros had long since lost count of the skirmishes and petty wars he had fought in. His blond hair was cut close in the military style. His blue eyes could be alive with emotion one moment, and as cold as ice the next. He was known for his ruthlessness towards his enemies, and his generosity towards his friends. A valuable ally, Celeste thought. Or a dangerous enemy. "I don't have all night," he said sharply. "Yes, my lord," she replied. "I was merely sorting out pertinent facts. To answer thy question, my lord, Baranur is rife with talk of an impending Bichanese invasion. The general consensus among the king's advisors is that Baranur should attack Bichu first before Bichu's forces are concentrated. King Haralan hath been giving this line of reasoning serious thought--" Myros laughed uproariously. "The fool! The Bichanese will cut him to pieces!" "If I may continue, my lord," she said icily. Celeste was not fond of interruptions. "There are two in Baranur who advise against attacking Bichu. The first is Duke Clifton Dargon. His Grace believeth most strongly that Bichu would never attack Baranur in the face of that nation's powerful navy. He also hath an earnest desire to avoid war. The second is Haralan's Knight Commander, Sir Edward Sothos. Sir Edward thinks it ludicrous to attack Bichu for purely military reasons, not the least of which is the unenviable task of supplying an army so far from home." "The combined efforts of both of these powerful and respected men, particularly Duke Dargon, hath thus far prevented any conflict." "So Edward is Haralan's Knight Commander, eh?" Myros muttered to himself. "You said something, my lord?" "Nothing of importance. What of Bichu? What are they planning?" he asked. "Regretfully, my lord, my scrying powers cannot reach such a far off land. Only the Bichanese know what they are planning." Myros rose and began pacing, pondering possible courses of action. After several minutes of this, he set his brandy down on the table and turned to face Celeste. "I think it's time we paid a visit to Baranur. I'd like to see how my dear friend Edward is faring. You will come as well, of course." "Of course, my lord," she said. Both knew that the price Celeste would ask would be high. Baroness Elaine Myros strolled the battlements in the warm Yuli breeze. She paused in her wanderings to take in the beauty of the sunset. The cloudless sky was crimson red. Elaine had never seen the sky this color. What does it portend? she thought. "There you are, my dear," Baron Myros said. She whirled around, a startled look on her face. "Corneilious!" she said. "You frightened me!" "I apologize, Elaine. I didn't mean to. I didn't realize you so deeply in thought. What's troubling you?" "Nothing, Corneilious." "Are you sure?" he asked dubiously. "Yes," she replied. "Really darling, there is nothing wrong. I was just enjoying the beauty of the sunset." "Ah. Well now that that's cleared up, I have a surprise for you." "Oh? What is it?" she asked expectantly. "We're going on a trip to Baranur." "Baranur? I've never heard of it." "Not many in the Empire have. It's a country about three months journey away. I have friends there, and I'd like to visit them. We haven't seen each other in almost six years." "When are we leaving?" "In about a week. It will take that long to organize things." "That should give me plenty of time to get ready," she said. "Do you know much about Baranur?" she asked her husband. "Some," he said. "Why don't we go to the study and I'll see if I have any books dealing with it?" "You should," she said with a smile. "You have a book on just about everything." Myros laughed. "Shall we?" As the sun dipped below the mountains, Myros and his wife descended the steps to the courtyard arm in arm. Others were discussing Myros' planned visit to Baranur. An hour previously, Celeste had finished gathering the spell components she needed. Now she stood in front of a body length mirror. The mirror's surface was a swirling, impenetrable grey mist. Celeste waited patiently. After several minutes, the mist gradually began to calm and then faded entirely. The figure reflected in the mirror could have been Celeste but for the fact that it was a man. "Cho dakh, Primus," Celeste said in greeting. "Cho dakh, Celeste," he replied in a voice that was barely above a whisper. "You have something to report?" "Yes, Primus," she answered. "Myros plans to journey to Magnus on the seventh of Sy." "Magnus?" he said, a faintly surprised look on his face. "A long journey. What dost Baron Myros wish to accomplish there?" he inquired. "He claims he wishes to visit a friend residing there, Primus. From his tone, this friend is more likely an enemy. I suspect that Myros has other motives than simple revenge, Primus. Unfortunately, I know'st not what they are." The man in the mirror paused, considering options. Celeste waited in respectful silence. Finally after ten minutes of pondering, he spoke. "There is only one reason that I can determine that would be sufficient to cause Myros to undertake such an arduous trip. He is undoubtedly scheming some method of turning the strife between Baranur and Bichu to his advantage. Perhaps he seeks allies." He nodded his head as if agreeing with himself. "Our Master must know of this. Thee hath done well, Celeste." "I thank thee for thy praise, Primus," Celeste said humbly. "What are your instructions?" A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Thee will go with Myros as thee hath no doubt already agreed. Thee may even keep his money." His smile disappeared. "Remember where thy loyalties lie, Celeste." The mist reappeared and quickly faded. Celeste now gazed upon her own reflection. Icy fingers of fear gripped her heart. He knows! she thought. How could I have been so careless? She began shaking violently at the thought of what the Primus would do to her if she transgressed again. I must remain calm. "Control," she repeated to herself over and over again. Within a few minutes, to all outward appearances Celeste radiated complete control and competence. Inwardly, she was still terrified. She went to the table and mixed a potion that would help her sleep, and more importantly, would cause her not to dream. She drank her concoction and was asleep in moments. The day dawned bright and clear. Myros stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard. Preparations were almost complete. Myros' bodyguard of fifty men were mounted and ready to move out. Celeste had arrived two hours ago. Myros and his advisors had been ready one hour ago. Elaine said she would be ready soon. "Elaine," Myros called. "We're ready to leave. Would you care to join us?" "Just a few more minutes, Corneilious." Myros was ready to scream. He was just about to pack Elaine's things for her when he was distracted by a commotion in the courtyard below. A messenger had just ridden through the gate and was demanding to see Baron Myros immediately. Myros' aide was trying to explain that he could see the baron when His Lordship was ready. Myros let the argument continue until it came to the point when blow were about to be exchanged. "Jordaan," he called, "what is the problem?" "A messenger to see you, my lord. He seems most anxious to speak with you." "So I gathered. Who have you come from?" he inquired of the messenger. "I have come from His Imperial Majesty. I have instructions to deliver this message to you personally, Your Lordship." "Jordaan, show our guest to my study. I shall be there shortly." "Yes, my lord. This way, please." Myros entered his quarters as the messenger was being shown to the study. "A messenger has arrived from the Emperor," he told Elaine. "The Emperor? What could His Majesty want?" "I have no idea. I'd best go and see him. Keep packing, dear. This shouldn't take long." Myros did have an idea of the message's content. He hoped he was wrong. He entered the study, his manner brisk. The messenger came over to greet him, but Myros dispensed with pleasantries. "Let me see it." The messenger handed him the message without comment. Myros' worst fears were true. The Emperor had learned of his impending departure for Baranur and had decided to appoint Myros as Ambassador to Baranur. His Imperial Majesty commanded Myros to determine which country should be supported in the upcoming war: Bichu or Baranur. "I was instructed to wait for your reply, Your Lordship," the messenger said. "Inform the Emperor I most humbly accept." The messenger nodded, then left Myros alone with his thoughts. How did he find out? No one but my advisors and Celeste knew of this. She would not betray me; she has no reason to. The cold realization hit him that one of those in his inner circle of most trusted advisors had to have betrayed him. He quickly ruled out Jordaan. He is absolutely loyal to me. But so are the others. Who is it? Celeste. She can find out. I'll have her use her magic. I have three months before I get to Magnus. Plenty of time. Slowly, he turned from the table and exited the room. When Myros entered the courtyard, Jordaan noticed something different about his liege. His eyes were like ice and his face a stone mask. The only time I have seen him this way was when we were in battle, he thought. What was in that dispatch? Jordaan rode over to where Myros was mounting his horse. "Is everything all right, my lord?" "Fine, Jordaan. Fine. Why do you ask?" "No reason, my lord," he replied carefully. "Then let us be off." "Yes, my lord." He turned in his saddle and ordered the column to move out. Flanked by the escort, Myros' party rode out the gate and began the long journey to Baranur. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Trial by Fire Prologue by M. Wendy Henniquin (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU) Roisart Connall watched silently as his cousin, Clifton, Duke of Dargon, donned elaborate Bichanese armor with the adept assistance of Ittosai Michiya. The Castellan of Connall already was prepared for the impending battle. Roisart's twin brother, Luthias, armored like a hero of old, stood nearby, his sword already in his hand. Coolly, Roisart cast an appraising eye on his cousin's armor. "It's really beautifully-made," Roisart concluded. "It is Bichu's finest," Castellan Ittosai announced proudly. He finished armoring the Duke, then put on his own stout helm. "I am ready for whatever comes," the castellan said. Luthias nodded respectfully to his castellan, warned, "We'd better go," and cast a nervous look over his shoulder at the white wall. Despite the concern flooding his face, Luthias looked brilliant, brave, like a knight in a legend. He wore his father's battle-scarred armor and bore his family's crest into war. His weapon, a fine steel sword, was worthy of a king. He gripped it more firmly, ready for whatever fighting would come. "You are right, Luthias-san," Ittosai concurred. He hefted his katana. "This will not be an easy battle." Nodding, Clifton reached out to his young cousin, Roisart and grasped his shoulder. "Get the defenses ready. You'll be safe here in Dargon Keep, but they may attack the city any day now ." A sorrowful look swept Clifton's features. "And take care of Lauren." I didn't know Roisart knew Lauren, Luthias thought, then wondered at his own idea. How could Roisart not know Lauren, their cousin's wife, the Duchess of Dargon? Roisart was at the wedding. He must have been. Roisart gripped Clifton's arm. "Be careful, Clifton." Roisart released the Duke, then turned to his brother, his twin. "Luthias..." Roisart paused awkwardly. Of the twins, Roisart usually had an easier time with words, with expressing feelings. Finally, he said, "Don't worry, twin. Everything will be well. I'll take care of the Duchy, and Sable's quite capable of taking care of our barony--and herself." Again Roisart paused, but this time he shook his head sadly. "You should have married her. The Baron of Shipbrook wants to marry her to Oleran now. You shouldn't have let him have the chance; you should have married Sable yourself." Upset that Roisart should throw this in his face, and angry that there was nothing he could do about the situation anyway, Luthias closed his eyes briefly. The sword trembled in his grip. "She's in love with someone else." Fury tainted Luthias' words. "And she won't say--" "Come on, manling," Clifton ordered suddenly. Luthias knew that Clifton was trying to sound light-hearted, but the words were rough, impatient, angry. Luthias let the 'manling' go, nodded a final farewell to his twin and joined his cousin and his castellan. Together, the three threw open the gates of Dargon Keep. Surrounding the walls were a hundred thousand men--the King's army. Ittosai vanished, as if he had been merely a figure in a dream. A knife suddenly flashed past Luthias' eyes and embedded itself in Clifton's gut. The Duke of Dargon fled desperately, pursued by countless, faceless soldiers. For a moment, Luthias froze so completely that he knew it couldn't be natural; in that moment, strong, bodiless arms secured his limbs, threw him to the hard ground, and held him fast. He watched them; they were ripping his chest plate with knives. Soon, blood covered his armor, and his kinsman Clifton sprinted past, his belly wound belching blood. Luthias tried to move to help his cousin, but the hold was iron-strong. And there was a pain, an annoyance, a torture. The butchers were hacking at his chest. "Luthias, help me!" Clifton yelled, frantic. Luthias could see him bleeding, his life soaking into the earth. Anguished, Luthias cried, "I can't!" "Help me! HELP ME!" Luthias almost wept; he couldn't move, he couldn't help as the King's guards caught his cousin and threw him to the ground. But Clifton rose again and sprinted. And there was pain again, horrid pain. Luthias looked at his chest. It was open, and the butchers no longer used knives, but their own, dirty hands. With bloodied, muddy fingers, they tore at his ribs. And there was no one to help but-- "Roisart!" Luthias called. "Help me! I need you!" Somewhere above him, in the castle window, Luthias saw his brother, no longer a healthy young man, but a specter of death--gray-faced, two black bolts sticking from his side and chest. The specter shook his head sadly. "I can't help you anymore, twin," Luthias heard his brother say regretfully, and then, Roisart, too was gone. "Roisart!" Luthias cried out in horror. The apparition did not return. His physical pain increased when his anguish did; both were now sharp. Luthias saw chunks of red fly past his eyes as the butchers clawed at him. And Clifton went past Luthias again, running for his life. Desperately, Luthias struggled, but the grip was too strong. "Clifton, run!" "Luthias, help me HELP ME!" "I can't reach you!" Luthias almost sobbed. "Run!" A wave of pain claimed Luthias then, strong as thunder, sharp as lightning. For a moment, the world before his eyes blackened. From above, Luthias saw himself, his chest opened like a poisonous flower, and the butchers' hands were tugging on his aorta. The veins around his heart were stretching--THE PAIN! The pain returned him to his body. Blood, his own blood, spurted in his eyes. He could scarcely breathe. "Luthias, where are you?" his cousin called from somewhere. "I need you!" Luthias tried to scream. The pain was incredible. He couldn't breathe. "Help me!" "THEY'RE TEARING MY HEART OUT!" Then the pain vanished, and the butchers faded as Ittosai had. Luthias found himself looking at Sable. Her hands held his heart in place. Luthias closed his eyes, tried to regain his strength. "You're mine now, woman!" and the pain returned with that declaration, made by a vaguely familiar voice. Luthias opened his eyes. Baron Oleran--that son of a --was holding Sable, viciously ripping her gown off, hitting her. She cried out. Blood geysered from her temple, spilled into her hair: on a field sable, blood gules. Oleran hit her again and laughed at her pain. "Luthias!" she cried, trying to reach him. Luthias tried to move, tried to help her, but the butchers were back, playing catch with his disembodied heart. They laughed, throwing it to each other, as it pumped Luthias' life blood onto the dusty ground. And then he saw Clifton, dead, his body being dissected before the King of Baranur. Someone was binding Ittosai's arms behind his back. Marcellon tried to cast a spell, tried to help them all, but the magic was gone; nothing happened. Not far from Luthias' own, stone body, Oleran beat and raped Sable. Oleran held a sword, moved to kill her-- "Sable!" Luthias screamed, bolting to a sitting position. "SABLE!" And Luthias awoke, sitting, gasping in reality. Frantic, his hand felt at his chest; it was smooth, intact, and the heart still within it beat wildly. It was a dream, he realized, only a dream. There was no battle; he was in the bedroom of his keep. Clifton was alive and well in his own keep, two hours' ride away. Sable slept unharmed not forty feet down the corridor. Ittosai, free and safe, dreamed peacefully in the castellan's rooms downstairs. And Roisart--Roisart lay dead in the crypts far below. Only a dream, and nothing had changed. Roisart was dead, Luthias was Baron of Connall, and he was alone. No, not alone. The door to his bedchamber slammed open, and someone bearing a pole weapon was standing, battle-ready,in the doorway. Behind the intruder were two others, equally alert, bearing swords. Automatically, Luthias tensed with the reactions of a long-time warrior. As his eyes adjusted, his hand began to creep toward the blade kept beside his bed. Then he recognized the closer visitor: Sable. Luthias tried vainly to slow his breathing. To the guards, he said, "I'm all right, men. Bad dream. Return to your posts, and thank you." The guards exchanged a shrug, nodded respectfully to their lord, and left. Still panting, Luthias tried to laugh at the armed woman before him. "Here you are, taking care of the Baron again." The Baron of Connall again tried to slow his breathing as his seneschal came forward and sat on the bed. She looked as if she had been on her way to bed; her hair was partially unbound, and she was clad in nothing but a gauzy nightdress made to be worn in the kind of raging heat that had been eclipsing Dargon of late. As she set her weapon against the bedpost, Luthias looked intently at her face. She glanced around the room, as if confused. "I thought you were being attacked," Sable said. "You were screaming--" Luthias scowled: pole weapon! It was a naginata, a weapon of Bichanese origin, a gift from Ittosai Michiya to Myrande, and the castellan had been instructing the seneschal in its use. Michiya had told Luthias just yesterday that she was becoming quite a she-demon with it. Oh, he understood, and it angered him. Sable had not come only to take care of him, but to defend him, with her life. The Baron scowled again. What the hell did she think they paid the guards for? Finally, Luthias sighed, half-amused, half-despairing. He touched her hair, almost laughed. "Are you my bodyguard now, too?" "I was closer than the guards," Myrande explained. "You sounded like you were in trouble." "Quit babying me," Luthias snapped defensively. "I'm strong enough to defend myself; I don't need a woman to do it for me." "I am your friend," Myrande returned angrily. "You would do the same for me. And don't give me that stupidity about my being a woman. Macdougalls says I'm a better shot than half your archers, and with this--" she indicated the naginata-- "I could destroy seven men together before they even got a shot at me." Unfortunately, she was right: Macdougalls, the assistant castellan, had praised Myrande's archery, and Ittosai Michiya had told him already about her skill with the naginata. He shook his head and looked at her in the moonlight: a dark, disheveled, fierce woman, clothed in an almost indecent nightgown that clung in some places to her sweaty skin...Luthias felt his body tense, but he smiled, wondering if there were any woman more attractive in the Kingdom-- And then the dream returned, and the young Baron groaned and put his head in his hands. Sable put her hand on his hair; it was damp with sweat from the horrid heat of reality, from the hot horror of the dream. Gently, she stroked his head. "Do you want to talk about it?" she asked softly. Censoring selected episodes, such as Roisart's advice and the later rape, he related what he could remember of the nightmare. "Those letters really bothered you, didn't they?" she asked, concerned. "More than you wanted to admit." Luthias attempted to smile. "Sable, you could always see through me." "That isn't true," Sable claimed, moving back a little to look at him. "And it isn't an answer, either." The young Baron's expression changed from one of bitter amusement to one of grim anger. "You're damn right they bothered me. First, I'm informed by the Justices that I am now Duke's Advocate. Now, I've got to be in Dargon City half my time, prosecuting criminals before the Tribunal--and I'm not skilled at law. Now, besides court time and traveling, I've got to do more reading. As if I didn't have enough to do!" "Don't yell at me," Sable protested. "I'm on your side, remember? If anyone knows how hard you work, I do, Luthias." Luthias smiled. She worked as hard--harder--than he did. "I know, Sable, and I'm sorry. But I'm overloaded as it is, and now this aggravation--" "Speaking of which," Sable prompted, thinking of the second missive that had arrived that day, "no one is better at aggravation than my uncle." "Yes, your stupid uncle, who never showed the slightest interest in you now wants to arrange your marriage." Luthias' mouth tightened. "That's bad in itself--I don't trust a man who would throw his brother out of his barony for no reason." "There was a reason," Myrande corrected. "He threw my father out because he married my mother before my uncle got the chance." She shrugged. "Doesn't matter. My father was happier being Castellan for your father and knight to the late Duke." "Well, he threw your father out, pretended he and your mother and you never existed, and now, he wants to want to marry you to Oleran--do you know what kind of man he is?" Myrande nodded. "I've heard the rumors." There were many rumors--nothing concrete--about Oleran, an older Baron from a neighboring Duchy. It was said almost universally that he was a brute, a killer, that he enjoyed others' pain, and tortured his first wife until she died. Sable shuddered. "You know I wouldn't marry him to save my life." "Yes, I know," Luthias confirmed, and his voice left no room for argument. "I forbid it." Sable chuckled. "You forbid, Luthias?" "I'm your guardian until you become twenty-one in Deber, and by law and by God, I forbid it!" Luthias snapped. "I'd rather murder Oleran and be imprisoned in the Keep for the rest of my life than have you marry that monster." "Don't worry," Sable advised him. She reached out and stroked his forearm. "I won't marry Oleran, or anyone else, for that matter--" She stopped, pulled her hand away. "I really should arrange a marriage for you," Luthias sighed, as if he regretted the situation. "Your uncle is right about that." Impulsively, he grasped her small hands. "Sable, tell me who this man is that you love. You might as well marry someone you care for." He squeezed her hands imploringly and peered at her dark face in the dimness. "Please...your uncle threatened to wrest your guardianship from me." Sable shook her head. "No. If he comes around on his own, all will be well, but I won't beg him to love me or be forced on him, as you seem to want, or sold to him like a horse, as my uncle prefers." "You're too proud for your own good," Luthias accused her angrily. "You should just tell him--" "And gain his pity? No," Myrande answered firmly, her chin stubborn. "I don't want your pity." She paused, as if finished, then added, "Or--his." "He'd be crazy if he pitied you," Luthias returned hotly. "Crazy if he didn't accept you and marry you--" For a wild, brief moment, it seemed like Roisart was there, and Luthias heard his words of the nightmare: "You should have married her yourself." Luthias sighed. The thought had crossed his mind before. He cared for Sable, and she for him; they got along well, and she would be an excellent Baroness. Looking at her again, in that sheer nightgown, Luthias found the idea appealing beyond its practical aspects. But she would never accept him. Sable had always been proud, and Luthias knew she would never accept his proposal, which she would think was made out of pity. Luthias grimaced. He didn't pity her; he loved her--she was his best friend--and he only wanted her to be happy. And so would the man she loved. Or else. If he could ever find out who he was! Oh, she was impossible! Luthias sighed and decided to end the argument. Not tonight, his head ached to much to argue with someone as iron-headed as Sable. He forced himself to laugh, then he hugged his seneschal. "Sable, what am I ever going to do with you?" Sable withdrew a little from his impulsive embrace. "I'll stay here and be your seneschal, Luthias, same as always." "You deserve better than to be toiling like a slave for the rest of your life." "So do you," Sable countered, "but it seems the Tribunal won't to let you get away with it." She drew a deep breath. "You should be going back to sleep, Baron." "Back to sleep?" Luthias echoed incredulously. "In this heat? After that dream?" The Baron of Connall shook his head. "No, thanks, Sable." He swung his legs over the side of the bed. "Going to read in the study?" "No, that would probably put me back to sleep," Luthias quipped. He stretched his arms above his head. He looked at her and decided not to look at her again until morning. He needed to move. "I'm going to go out and beat up the pell--can't do it during the day in this heat." He stood, looked back at Myrande's dark eyes; yes, that was safe enough. "And tomorrow, we'll go see Clifton." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 2 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 2, Issue 1 03/17/89 Cir 882 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DAG Dafydd Editorial A Night in the Town Carlo N. Samson 28 Naia, 1013 Trial by Fire, Part 1 M. Wendy Henniquin 7-12 Sy, 1013 The Game Begins John Doucette 13-14 Sy, 1013 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dafydd's Amber Glow This will be brief, as this issue is going to be very long. First, please don't be alarmed by the fact that this is Volume 2: yes, there was only one issue in Volume 1. I have decided to make each volume cover a Calendar year and, as Volume 1 went out in 1988 and it is now 1989, this issue must be in the second volume. Second, I would like to announce that Rich Jervis (voyager@irishmvs.bitnet) is handling orders for the DargonZine tshirt. He needs a few more promissory orders before he can get an estimate from the printer. The shirt will bear a design based on the the DargonZine logo in either silver on blue or black on blue. Current estimates for price are around eight dollars but a large response to this will cut the price accordingly. Please contact Rich for more information. No profits are expected as he will no doubt go in the hole from shipping costs. Lastly, the next issue of Volume 2 will be out within the month - I have enough stories right now to make this issue about three times the size it is, so you won't have to wait almost 5 months before reading more about Dargon. Thank you and good reading, Dafydd, Editor DargonZine (m.k.a. John L White) (b.c.k.a. WHITE@DUVM.bitnet) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 A Night in the Town by Carlo N. Samson (b.c.k.a U9862@uicvm.bitnet) The sun was setting as Cydric Araesto arrived in the coastal town of Sharks' Cove. He rode through the gates and onto the main street, seeking a place to rest after his journey up from Magnus, the Crown City of Baranur. After a short while, he decided to stop at a place called "The Hawk & Dragon Inn", as it looked a bit more respectable than the other taverns he had passed. Cydric snorted at the thought that anything in this rat- bag of a town could be respectable; all manner of thieves, smugglers, murderers and whores infested Sharks' Cove, so he had heard. Some even said the local guard were afraid to venture onto the streets at night. Cydric entered the common room of the Inn and sat down at a corner table. An odd feeling came over him; it seemed like he had done this before. And indeed, he had. His thoughts traveled back several months and several hundred leagues, to the northern town of Dargon. He had come into a tavern just like this one, met a girl who took him to a Sage, who took him on a strange adventure into a realm beyond dreams. But that time, he had been searching for an answer; this time, he just wanted to get away. At the bar, a group of revelers sang and drank, led by a young girl strumming skillfully on a mandolin. Her voice was light and pleasing, yet Cydric didn't think she was a bard. He called a serving girl over and ordered a drink. When it arrived, he took a sip and stared into the brown liquid, remembering the whole Dargon episode as if it had happened yesterday. It had all started with a strange, recurring vision, which always ended with the name "Corambis the Sage" and a map showing the location of Dargon. He told no one about it, since it wouldn't do for the son of King Haralan's Royal Treasurer to be thought insane. After a few months, though, he decided to follow up on the vision. He left the castle in the middle of the night, leaving only a letter to his fiancee Lysanda, King Haralan's niece. He arrived in Dargon and met Corambis, who also had been having visions. It turned out that their visions were being sent to them by an Elder, trapped in another realm of existence, who needed Cydric and the Sage to free him. They entered the realm through a portal opened by the Elder, but when they found him they discovered that he was really a sorcerer called Nephros, who needed them as part of a ritual to free a powerful demon from the Nether Realms. But with the help of Corambis' patron goddess they managed to escape, battling giant lizards and crystal skeletons along the way. Cydric smiled and took another sip. It had been a rather exciting experience, even though they could have been killed on several occasions. Then his expression sobered as he remembered what had happened after they returned to their own realm. A royal messenger had arrived at the house of Corambis, where Cydric had been staying, and informed the young noble that Lysanda was expecting a child, and had been for three months. Cydric had no choice but to return to the capital and marry her immediately to avoid a scandal. Unfortunately, rumors of Lysanda's pre-marital pregnancy began circulating, and were confirmed when the child was born only six months later. The High Church of Magnus was extremely shocked, but the Master Priest made no official comment after being taken aside by the King himself. Still, the public knew, and soon it got so that Cydric 1and Lysanda couldn't even go into town without people giving them looks and quietly whispering about "heathen fornication". This put a strain on their marriage, and a month later they had a fight which ended with Lysanda taking the baby and moving back in with her parents. She then petitioned the Church for a dissolution of the marriage, and when it was granted she and her parents moved far away from the capital. Cydric fell into disfavor around the court, so a month after Lysanda left he decided to leave as well, much to the relief of the courtiers and to the sorrow of his parents and friends. The sound of cheering interrupted Cydric's thoughts. The girl at the bar bowed with a flourish, her song apparently over. Cydric returned to his drink. "Sharks' Cove," he silently mused. "Not the best place in the world to end up in." He shook his head. "But at least no one knows me here. Time to make a new start. Hopefully I won't make such a mess of my life this time around." "Hello there," a voice at his elbow said. Cydric looked up and saw the mandolin girl standing next to him. "The tavern's full tonight, isn't it? Hardly any place to sit. Would you mind if I sat with you? I noticed you came in here alone. But if you're meeting someone I can just go somewhere else, but if you're not, I'd like to join you, if I may. Well?" "Uh, be my guest," said Cydric, after taking a moment to decipher what she had said. "Many thanks." The girl carefully placed her instrument on a chair and plopped her slender figure onto the table, dangling her legs over the edge. She was dressed explorer- style: billowy white shirt, maroon velvet vest, cotton breeches, and deerskin knee boots. Her tawny-auburn hair, short and curly, was quite unlike the long, braided style currently in fashion among the young ladies of the kingdom. Cydric guessed that she was just a bit younger than him, perhaps no more than 19 or 20. "You're dusty," she said. "Have you just ridden into town?" Cydric self-consciously ran a hand through his short brown hair. "Yes, as a matter of fact. I've been traveling." "You also sound tired. Is that the reason you didn't applaud my playing?" Cydric shrugged. "I suppose so." "Sorry," she said, laying her hand on his arm. "I don't mean to be so forward, especially with a stranger." She leaned over. "So, what's your name?" He introduced himself as Cydric Artovan. "Very pleased, Cydric," she said, extending her hand. Cydric went to press it against his cheek, in the usual manner of greeting; but after he had done so she gripped his forearm warrior-style. "My name's Amanda Lynn." "A mandolin?" Cydric said. She laughed. "That's what everyone says the first time I tell them. Just call me Mandi." "Very pleased, Mandi." Cydric sloshed the drink around in his mug. "Well, Cydric, now that we're no longer strangers--at least not _total_ strangers--tell me, what strange force compelled you to visit this town?" "Just passing through," Cydric replied. "Passing through?" She chuckled, then gathered her legs under her. "Most people go out of their way to avoid the Cove." "Actually, I may have to stay for a few days. I'm low on money. Would you happen to know if there are any, um, employment opportunities available around here?" "That depends." She peered over the edge of the table at Cydric's lap. "Hmmm, very nice." 1 "I beg your pardon?" "Your sword and dagger, I meant. How well can you use them?" "Well enough to defend myself." "That's not quite good enough for a mercenary position. Although...." "Yes?" "Is your codpiece in working order?" Cydric grinned uncertainly. "Ah, why would you want to know that?" Mandi cocked her head and winked at him. "Prostitutes aren't all women, you know." Cydric coughed. "Ah, I'm also able to read and write. Do you know of any children that need tutoring?" A scruffy-looking man from the next table leaned over and looked at them. "Why sure, son," he called. "Take my partner here--all 'is talk's babble, it is. Thinks you could teaches 'im to grunt some words, eh son?" He and his companions laughed uproariously. "Your mother eats flies, dung-breath!" Mandi called back. To Cydric she said, "Ignore those fools." "Yeah, you just be sure and show the old son there a good time, pretty missy," the man replied, leering. He turned back to his table. "I take it the whole town needs tutoring," Cydric said in a low voice. "You've got that right," Mandi replied. "Anyway, have you ever been on a ship before? A friend of mine is looking for additional crewmembers." Cydric's heart quickened. While in Dargon he had met a man, a former ship's captain turned stew-seller, who told him about his life and experiences at sea. After hearing his stories of action, danger, and romance, Cydric had decided to give the seagoing life a try. His marriage to Lysanda, however, put an end to that ambition; but now, things were different. "What does your friend do?" Cydric asked. "Is he a merchant, a fisherman?" "A slave trader," Mandi replied. She giggled at Cydric's surprised expression. "No, he's really a shipping merchant, as you guessed. Are you interested?" "Well yes, but I've never actually been on ship before." "Oh, that's all right. You'd get used to it eventually. But are you really sure you want to join up?" Cydric was silent for a few moments. "Yes," he finally said. "Why not? It'll keep me off the streets for a while." "Oh goody," Mandi said, sliding off the table. "I think he's over at the Abyssment tonight. Do you want to meet him now, or would you rather get cleaned up first?" "Give me a few minutes," Cydric said. After Cydric had checked his belongings into an upstairs room and washed up, he and Mandi set out on foot into the darkening streets. "On second thought, maybe we should do this tomorrow. I've heard that this town isn't safe after dark," Cydric said. "Oh really, Cydric, this place isn't as bad as you've heard," Mandi said. "Are you sure?" "Of course I am." She leaned close to his ear and whispered, "It's worse." "I hope you're jesting." Mandi laughed and put her hand on Cydric's shoulder. "Don't look so worried. The Abyssment's not far. Besides, my friend's leaving tomorrow morning, as he only needs a few men to replace the ones he lost overboard on his last run." 1 "Lost overboard?" "Storm at sea. Really, don't worry, they didn't die of plague or anything. He's a damn good captain, Thorne is." The sound of their footsteps echoed on the cobblestone streets as they walked along. "What is this Abyssment place, anyway?" asked Cydric. "It doesn't sound very wholesome." "It's only the best tavern this side of the Darst Range! My favorite night spot in all of Shark's Cove." "So why don't you work there, instead of at the Hawk and Dragon?" "Well, The Abyssment has it's own musicians, and alas! they don't need another one right now. But they do let me perform with them once in a while." "I don't see why they won't hire you permanently. You're the best mandolin player I've ever heard." "Oh! Do you really think so? Or are you just flattering me?" "No, I mean it. Who taught you?" "My father. Oh, now he really deserves to be called best mandolin. He gave me my name, you know. Said it was a charm to pass his abilities onto me." "It seems to have worked," Cydric said. Mandi smiled and laughed. "Oh Cydric, you're the one with charm!" A short while later they arrived at the establishment know as The Abyssment. The sign above the door spelled out the name in black-trimmed red letters, and the words "Gaius Caligula, Proprietor" appeared beneath. "Here we are," said Mandi. As soon as they entered, Cydric saw that it was unlike any tavern he had ever seen. The tables, booths, and bar were arranged so that there was a clear space in the center of the room where a crowd of people, most of them around Cydric and Mandi's age, danced to the fast and lively music being played by the trio of musicians near the bar. Glowing spheres set in the rafters sent out rays of rainbow light into the smoky air. The aromas of tobacco, ale, perfume, and food all hit Cydric at once. Mandi began moving her body to the beat of the music. "Wait for me at the bar," she said. "I'll try to find Captain Thorne." She vanished into the crowd. Cydric decided that whatever the people in the room were doing, it certainly wasn't dancing. They were swaying and gyrating their bodies to the driving beat of the drums; he found it hard to tell if anyone had a partner, since none of them were holding hands in the traditional manner. As he made his way to the bar he passed a table at which a group of young persons were sharing a pipe. "Excuse me," Cydric said to the boy who currently held the pipe, "but what sort of tobacco are you using?" The boy looked up with glazed eyes and said, "Beezorg, yo-man, beezorg." He gave the pipe to the girl across from him, smiled dreamily, then slumped headfirst onto the table. "Ah. I see. Thank you very much," Cydric said. He continued on his way, unsure of whether the boy's statement was an answer to his question or just an incoherent mumble. "What'll you have, squire?" asked the bartender as Cydric made for an empty stool. "A Lederian, please. In a clean mug, if you don't mind." "A clean mug, if I don't mind?" the bartender echoed. "Well, what if I did mind? What would you do about it?" "Please, just get me the drink," Cydric said, trying to sound 1rugged. "Very well, squire. But supposing I brought it to you in a really filthy, really disgusting mug? What would you do then?" Cydric started to reply, then noticed that the people near him were watching the exchange with interest. "Well, I'd...." Cydric hesitated. "You'd what?" "I'd...be sick." The bartender gave a hearty laugh. "This one's all right, folks!" he declared. From behind the bar he took a mug, wiped the inside clean with a rag, filled it with the requested drink, then set it before Cydric. "On the house." Cydric thanked him. The bartender grinned, then went to tend to another customer. Looking around the room, Cydric saw that the majority of the young patrons bore little resemblance to the youths that lived in the capital and other civilized areas. Many of the girls wore short skirts that exposed their knees, and had short hair like Mandi's; most of the boys wore leather jerkins decorated with strange symbols, and some had hair that reached past their shoulders. The person to Cydric's right got up and left, and a moment later a thin girl dressed in a black-striped red chemise sat down in the vacant seat. "Are you alone?" she asked. "Ah, actually, I'm waiting for someone," Cydric replied. "You?" "How about a dance?" She pushed back a lock of her straight blonde hair. A glint of light on the girl's face caught Cydric's eye. He looked closer, and saw that she had a small gold ring in the left side of her nose. "Back off, missy, he's with me," Mandi said, approaching them. The blonde girl gave Mandi a disdainful look, tossed her head, then left. "Did you see that? She had a ring in her nose," said Cydric. "Must have been a queenie," Mandi replied. "Anyway, Thorne'll be here later. He's got some other business to take care of." "How much later?" Cydric asked. "I don't want to stay too late." "Don't worry, he'll show up. Come on." "Where to now?" "I thought we might dance a little." "Dance? But--" "You don't know how? I'll teach you." Mandi pulled him onto the floor just as the musicians started another number. "The King doesn't dance like this," Cydric said. Mandi giggled and bumped him with her hip. "What does he know about dancing? Look, it's easy. Just do what I do." "This looks extremely sinful, Mandi." "Why Cydric, that's why it's so fun! Come on!" She put her hands in the air and began shaking her shoulders. Cydric watched her for a few moments, shrugged, then began shaking as well. After a while, the musicians decided to take a break. As the crowd broke up, Cydric and Mandi quickly occupied the nearest table. "Whew! Wasn't that the most fun you've ever had in your life?" Mandi asked breathlessly as they collapsed into the chairs. "I'm exhausted," Cydric said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Oh now, you enjoyed it, didn't you? You're a natural born dervish dancer if I ever saw one!" "Is that what it's called?" Cydric said, grinning faintly. "How appropriate. But--yes, I did rather enjoy it." He sat up a little and scanned the faces at the bar and the other tables. "Has the captain 1arrived yet?" "Relax, Cydric," Mandi said. "I told you, he'll be here." "If you say so," Cydric answered. "Yes, I do." Mandi felt her stomach, then said, "Why don't we have something to eat while we're waiting? I haven't had a single morsel since midday and I'm positively _starving_. How about you? You've been traveling all day, right? You must be completely _famished!_" "Now that you mention it, I could use a light meal." Mandi signalled to a serving boy. She whispered something to him, and he nodded and left. "What did you say?" asked Cydric. "I just told him to bring us some specialties of the house," said Mandi. The serving boy returned a short time later and placed two wooden bowls before them. "Right then Cydric, have a taste of this one." She indicated a bowl that contained several small white objects covered with a brownish gravy. "What is it?" Cydric said, eyeing the dish suspiciously. "Try it and find out." Mandi spooned up a portion and held it out to him. "Well, all right...." Cydric let her feed him. The white objects were crunchy, but with a soft chewy interior. "Interesting. There's a touch of wine in the sauce, but I can't place anything else. What is it?" "It's called 'kavaliculi', but it's better known as snails-in-sauce." Cydric made a choking sound. "_What_ in sauce?" "Snails. Don't worry, they're fully cooked." She dipped her finger into the bowl and licked up a bit of the wine gravy. "Isn't it delicious?" Cydric swallowed hard. "Quite a, uh, unique dish," he said, trying not to think about what he had just eaten. "Now try this," said Mandi, pushing the other bowl towards him. Cydric saw that it was full of what appeared to be bits of dried twigs. "Ladies first," he said. "Silly, it's only a dessert," she said, scooping up a small amount and stuffing it into her mouth. "A dessert? Well, why didn't you say so." Cydric ate some. The bits were crispy and coated with a sweet substance. "What do you think?" Mandi asked. "Hmmm. Very tasty." "I knew you'd like it! Do you want to know what these are called?" "I have a feeling you'd tell me anyway." "'Lyr-filas', or 'leaf-wrigglers dipped in honey'." Cydric smiled bravely as he felt the last bits slide down his throat. He firmly resolved not to eject the contents of his stomach onto the table--at least not in front of Mandi. "How, ah, delicious," he said. "I never knew insects could be made to taste so, um, flavorful." "They are good, aren't they? Well, let's finish the snails first--they're best eaten while warm." She handed Cydric a spoon. "Tell me something, Mandi," he said as he watched her dip into the bowl, "what do you have for breakfast? Glazed fly larvae on a biscuit?" "Only during Melrin," she said, grinning. Cydric had downed three mugs of water by the time they finished their unusual meal. 1 "It's getting late, Mandi. I think I'll go back to the inn now," Cydric said. "Oh, can't you wait just a few minutes longer? I'm sure he'll show up." "That's all right. I'll just look for a job tomorrow. I shouldn't have any trouble finding unschooled children in this town." "Don't you want to join a ship's crew and have adventure and excitement on the high seas?" Mandi asked. "Or would you rather teach some runny-faced urchin how to spell 'cur'? "What do you suppose is keeping him, then?" "I don't know. Be patient, I'm--" "--sure he'll be here," Cydric finished. "Thank you anyway." He got up to leave. "Well--you're right. I'm sorry I kept you so late. But aren't you at least going to walk me home?" "Certainly, if you'd like." "I certainly would. We're going the same way." "We are? Oh--you live at the Inn, don't you?" Mandi smiled merrily. "It's where I hang my mandolin!" Dim yellow light from street lanterns provided pale illumination as Cydric and Mandi stepped out into the cool night air and headed back toward the Hawk & Dragon. "So, Cydric, what did you think of your first night at the Abyssment?" Mandi asked. "Well," he replied, "if suggestive dancing, open drug use, and brazen prostitution becomes socially acceptable, it'll be the most popular tavern on Makdiar!" "Does that mean you liked it?" Cydric chuckled and made no reply. Looking up at the black star-strewn sky, he saw that there was no moon. He remembered an old childhood warning about thieves and nightshades preying on people foolish enough to be out on moonless nights. He'd long since lost his belief in nightshades, but thieves, he knew, were a grim reality. Turning to Mandi he said, "We'd better hurry back." "What for?" said Mandi, giving a little skip. "It's a magnificent night, absolutely beautiful. We should enjoy it." "I don't fancy having my throat slit by a brigand." "Oh Cydric, there's really nothing to worry about. I've walked home at night many times and as you can see, I'm still alive." "That may change one day." As they made their way through the silent streets, Cydric kept glancing at every shadow, down every alley, any place that might hide a potential attacker. Once or twice he thought he heard bootsteps. "My heart's on fire for you, hmm hmm hmm hmmmmmm hmmm," said Mandi. "Beg your pardon?" Cydric said. "Oh, that's just a song I'm composing. Would you like to hear it?" "Maybe later. We shouldn't call attention to ourselves." "And what's wrong with a little attention? I want everybody to hear this song. I want everybody to know my name!" She flung her arms wide and twirled in mid-step. "Mandi, please!" Cydric hissed. "I have the feeling we're being followed." "Really? How many people?" "Shhhh." Cydric stopped and listened intently. He heard a faint scuffling, then silence. "Well?" whispered Mandi. "I'm not sure. Two, maybe three. They've probably been behind us ever since we left the Abyssment." 1 "Oh good, an audience. Let me sing for them." "It'll be the last thing you ever do. Come on." He started walking rapidly, pulling Mandi along. "You don't have to act like a warrior for my benefit. I'm perfectly able to take care of myself," she said. "Are you any good with a blade?' "Well, no. But I can outrun anything on two legs." "Your own legs?" "Of course my own legs." "And I'm sure they're very nice legs. Now move them a little faster." Their shadowers soon abandoned all attempts at stealth. Cydric looked back down the street and saw two figures silhouetted against the lantern light. The sound of their footfalls echoed through the still night. "Damn," muttered Cydric. "What?" asked Mandi. "Don't look behind you, but they're starting to close in on us." Mandi looked anyway. "What do you think we should do? Are they going to hurt us?" "Well, they're certainly not going to ask to hear your song! Now, when I say run, run." "Okay," replied Mandi. "Last one back to the Inn is a dead man!" Literally, thought Cydric. He counted to five, then shouted: "Run, Mandi!" They shot away down the street. Cydric heard faint laughter over the clatter of bootsteps. Suddenly Mandi screamed. A dark-skinned man armed with a large curved sword stood in their path. They stopped in their tracks. Cydric looked back and saw one of their pursuers advancing toward them. The other one was nowhere to be seen. The man indicated a nearby alley. "In there," he said in a thickly accented voice. Cydric and Mandi raised their hands and walked to where he pointed. When they came to the wall at the end of the alley the man ordered them to turn around. "Your money," he said simply. As Mandi handed over her purse, Cydric recognized the sword as a shivash, a blade used by the warriors of the Lashkir Desert. He wondered what this particular Lashkirian was doing so far from home. "Now yours." The Lashkirian waved his blade threateningly at Cydric. "Look, just leave us alone and we won't give you any trouble," he replied. The man pressed the point of the shivash against Cydric's neck. "You will give it now, you blistered son of a jantral!" "Better do as he says," said Mandi. Cydric slowly reached for his belt pouch but found it missing. He patted himself all over, with the same negative result. "Sorry," he said. "I seem to have lost it all somewhere." The desert warrior let loose a string of curses in his native tongue. "Easy, friend," said another voice. Cydric saw another man, their initial pursuer, appear at the mouth of the alley. "He says he has no money," said the Lashkirian. "He said that, did he?" the other man replied, coming up to them. He scratched his stubbly brown beard. "What do you think, Scarabin, is he lying?" "Like a dog-skin rug," answered the Lashkirian. "Let us kill them both, master Kayne." "Well, not before I get to know the girl a little better," Kayne 1replied. He moved closer to Mandi, who delivered a solid kick to his shin. "Ouch! Spunky little wench, isn't she?" said Kayne as he hobbled back several paces. "Don't you try to take advantage of me!" said Mandi. "Be silent, girl!" Scarabin ordered. "And don't _you_ tell me what to do, lizard man!" The desert warrior growled. Cydric realized that she had delivered a dreadful insult to the Lashkirian. "I shall cut your throat out!" Scarabin shouted. He lunged at Mandi. "Temper, temper," said Kayne, catching Scarabin's arm. In a flash, Cydric kicked the shivash out of the Lashkirian's grip, delivered another kick to Kayne's stomach, then dropped back and drew his own sword. He was about to aim a sharp slash at Kayne's face when he felt Mandi grab his sword arm. "Let go, for gods' sake!" yelled Cydric. Instantly, Kayne came up and wrested the sword from Cydric's hand. He shoved the young man against the wall. Cydric drove his knee into Kayne's groin and shoved back. As Kayne staggered, Scarabin swung at Cydric's face. He stopped the blow with a left-arm rising block, then punched the Lashkirian in the chest. Scarabin fell back, then leaped forward, catching Cydric's head in his hands. Cydric felt Scarabin's thumb jab a spot behind his right ear, then suddenly he felt himself go weak. His knees buckled, then he collapsed to the ground. "You better not have killed him!" he heard Mandi say. She rolled him over, then sighed with relief as he dazedly shook his head. "Oh Cydric, you're all right, aren't you?" she asked, concern edging her voice. "Fine, just...fine," he replied, struggling up to a sitting position. He saw Kayne and Scarabin standing over them. "If you're going to kill us, why don't you get it over with!" he said fiercely. "Relax, Cydric," Mandi said, smoothing his hair. She turned and glowered at Scarabin. "Did you have to do that to him?" "My apologies, mistress Mandi. It was done out of instinct." "You know these people?" Cydric asked Mandi. "What's going on here?" "I suppose it's time we told you," said a female voice from the mouth of the alley. Cydric looked up and saw a tall dark-haired woman striding towards them. She was clad in black and silver, and carried a lantern. As she helped him to his feet she said, "I hope they didn't hurt you, Cydric. I told them to not to be too rough." "He's fine, all right, but what about me? I won't be able to make love for a month!" Kayne said, rubbing at the place where Cydric had kneed him. "What do you mean?" Cydric asked the woman. "Who are you? And how do you know my name?" "One question at a time, please. First let me introduce myself. I'm Brynna Thorne, captain of the trading vessel _Vanguard Voyager_. You've already met my crew, I think. Tyrus Kayne, my First Mate, and Scarabin, my best warrior." "You're Captain Thorne? But Mandi said--I mean, I thought you were--" "Thought I was what?" "Well, a man." "Is that what you told him?" Brynna asked, glancing sharply at Mandi. The young lady grinned sheepishly. "Well...." "I can't wait to hear your explanation for this one," said Brynna. "Well, you see, everyone I asked seemed interested in joining the 1crew. But when I told them about your being a woman, they sort of laughed and left." "I see." "Well, what else could I do?" "We'll speak about it later," Brynna said. She turned to Cydric. "Now then, I suppose you're wondering why I didn't show up at the Abyssment tonight?" "The question had crossed my mind." "Well, when Mandi told me you wanted to become a member of the crew but hadn't had any experience on a ship before, my first thought was to dismiss you outright. But she told me that you were desperately poor and in need of employment, so I decided to conduct a little test to see if you were suitable. I had her take you to the Abyssment, where I observed you for the whole night." "But how did Mandi contact you? I was with her all the time." "Not always," Mandi said. "Brynna was in the gaming parlor of the Hawk & Dragon. I spoke to her while you were checking your stuff into your room." Cydric nodded in understanding, then said to Brynna, "And you were at the Abyssment the whole time?" "I was indeed. And I must say, I was impressed by the way you handled yourself in the various situations you encountered. For instance, most people would have pulled a knife on that bartender, or simply left. You also seemed open-minded enough to try dervish dancing, even though it's been officially banned by the Church for ages. And you are one of the few people I've seen who hasn't immediately become sick after trying snails and wrigglers for the first time. "What this all means, Cydric, is that you seem like you'd be a good addition to our crew. I need people who are level-headed, and not afraid to experience new things. So, if you want to join us, you're most welcome. The decision is yours." "This attack was also part of my test, I gather." "Yes, it was. I was looking to see if your combat skills were any good, and from what I saw, yours appear to be above average." "Exactly what sort of trading do you do, though? I mean, there's not much need for a fighting crew unless you travel outside the patrolled sea lanes." "That's quite true," Brynna replied. "The nature of our trade takes us outside the normal routes, and consequently we run a greater risk of pirate attacks. You see, there's a great demand nowadays for unusual and exotic goods; we travel to the lesser known places of Makdiar in search of these things. We've collected heavenspice from Bichu, fire crystals from Karmitan, orchids from Sanctus Island...." "Not to mention relics from the temples at Yaltark, and sea-snail shells from the Wild Coast," added Kayne. "But understand, Cydric, that shipboard life will sometimes be hard, and there may come times when you'll wish you'd never signed aboard. And there often may be times where our lives will be in danger--not just from pirates, but from things unknown even to the most worldly wizard. Are you still interested?" "I'm willing to give it a try. And I'm not worried about death," answered Cydric. "Bravely spoken," Brynna said. "One more thing, though; do you mind the fact that I'm the captain? That is, do you object to taking orders from a woman?" Cydric paused, then said: "Not when she has a right to give them." "Wise answer, Cydric," remarked Kayne. "Does this mean you've accepted him?" Mandi asked, looking hopefully at Brynna. 1 "It does indeed. Welcome aboard, Cydric," she said, extending her hand. "Oh goody!" exclaimed Mandi, as Cydric smilingly thanked Brynna and gripped forearms with her. Kayne repeated the welcome, and Scarabin bowed politely. Mandi smiled broadly and gave the young man a hug. "We'll discuss terms and duties later," Brynna said. "But right now we should all go back to the Inn before some real thieves show up." As the group filed out of the alley, Mandi walked between Kayne and Scarabin. "Great acting, you two!" she said. "Sorry about that 'lizard man' thing, Scar. I wasn't thinking." "I am not offended, mistress Mandi. I know your intention was to make the attack seem real to the lad," the Lashkirian replied. "But _you_!" she said, whirling on Kayne, "If you ever try anything with me again, acting or not--I'll personally see to it that you're _never_ able to make love again." "Ouch," said Kayne, chuckling in amusement. While the three were thus conversing, Brynna took Cydric aside and whispered, "Since you've no previous shipboard experience, your duties will be simple at first. But there's one thing that I'll expect you to do, above all else." "Yes?" "Keep Mandi out of trouble. My young cousin seems to have developed a talent for it, ever since she stowed away and persuaded me to let her be part of the crew." "I'll do my best, my lady--er, captain." "I can tell you right now, though, it won't be easy." "That's right, it won't!" Mandi said, popping up between them. She slipped her arm around Cydric. "You and I are going to have such fun." "I can hardly wait," Cydric replied, grinning. Mandi pinched his cheek as they walked off into the night. The End ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Trial by Fire Part I Accused! by M. Wendy Henniquin (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU) As Luthias opened the door, the Duke of Dargon whooped, scooped his pretty wife into his arms, and twirled her in the air. Lauren, clad in a sunshiny yellow gown, clung to the Duke's neck and laughed gaily as a debutante. Luthias paused, unsure of the situation and what to do about it. He looked at Myrande for guidance. She shrugged. Above the laughter, Luthias called irritably, "Well, I'm glad you two have something to be happy about." Clifton set his wife gently on the floor and sprang across to the room to his cousin. "Luthias!" he greeted him. "You're going to be an uncle!" At this, Luthias blinked. "What? You're joking! Roisart went out and got some girl pregnant before he died?" A smile seeped across the young Baron's lips. "That wasn't Roisart's style at all." Myrande swatted him. "You dullard," she groaned. She looked at Lauren. "When, your grace?" "The seventeenth of Feber," Lauren stated confidently. "Lauren, you can't know that accurately," Clifton protested affectionately. Lauren nodded with assurance. "I just know." "I didn't think you'd start having children this soon," Luthias commented, collapsing into a chair. "Don't you want to be alone for a while?" "Oh, we'll find time enough to be alone, don't worry," Clifton assured his cousin. "Sure, cousin, and make more babies," Luthias finished irritably. "Married people have a tendency to do that sort of thing," Lauren teased her kinsman. "Of course," she continued, eyes twinkling, "it isn't exclusive to marriage, eh, Luthias?" Luthias glared at the Duke. "You told her! I don't believe this!" Clifton opened his mouth to reply, but his wife silenced him with a quick gesture. "Wait. Does Myrande know about this?" "What, about his wenching days?" Myrande asked. She smiled, waved Lauren's concern away. "Certainly. I'm the seneschal. I'm the one who holds the keys and lets arrant knaves in when they've been wenching." Luthias scowled at her teasing grin. "However," Myrande defended him, "he always made certain that there were no babies involved." He had almost been fanatic about it, as Sable recalled. Then she looked at the young Baron. "You haven't done anything like that in over two years, though." "That's because my father started hearing about it," grumbled Luthias. He glared at his seneschal. "It wasn't me!" she protested. "Don't you think that Roisart noticed your coming in late all the time?" "Besides, your father wasn't easily fooled," Clifton concluded. Seeing Luthias' discomfort, he moved behind his desk and changed the subject. What was past was past, after all. "So, Luthias, I gather you aren't having the best of days." The Duke scanned his cousin's face. "You don't look well." "Oh, I'm well enough," Luthias assured him sarcastically. "I'm just losing my mind." He flung one of the letters across the desk. "Take a look at that." Clifton opened the folded parchment and skimmed it. "The legal elections? I've already been informed," he said, handing the paper back to Luthias. "So?" 1 "Clifton, I'm going mad just trying to run the barony. I can't be Duke's Advocate, too. The mere traveling takes up so much time, and the preparation...besides, I know nothing of law. Even if I had the time to dedicate to this, I wouldn't be a good Advocate." "As I understand it," Lauren interposed, "you wouldn't be trying many cases, Luthias. You'd only be involved in cases where a member of the nobility were being tried, and then only for major crimes, such as murder or treason." "Right," Clifton confirmed. "That doesn't happen too often, manling. You should do well enough." "Can't you get someone else?" Luthias requested. "I really don't need the extra responsibility." "It's not my decision," the Duke reminded him. "By royal decree, the members of the Tribunal and the Duke's Advocate are chosen by election. Sorry." The Duke leaned back in his chair. "I hope you two are going to stay the week. The Tournament's only five days away, and besides, it's cooler here than in Connall." Luthias wiped the back of his hand against his sweaty forehead. A few grains of grit from the road scraped annoyingly across the scar above his right eye. It didn't help; nothing did. Not even the sea breezes sweeping the air of Dargon brought much relief from the heat and humidity. "I don't know," Luthias said. "There's so much to do..." "You mean you aren't entered in the Tournament?" Clifton asked incredulously. "You almost won last year!" Luthias smiled, almost sheepish. "I don't have much time for games. I've got too many responsibilities at home." "That's what Michiya said, too, and you told him to go ahead and enter," Myrande pointed out. "Besides, what duties will you have at Connall? Most of the people of the barony are coming to the city for the Tournament!" "True," Luthias sighed. "Michiya's fighting, Macdougalls is a sure bet to take the archery--" "Again," Clifton interjected. "And God only knows how many men you'll have fighting for you, Sable," Luthias finished tiredly. "And not one of them asks for you." "Someone has, haven't they?" Lauren asked, looking at her husband. "I recall you saying something to me a day or so ago about a letter..." "I had wanted to forget it," Clifton almost snapped. He opened up his desk drawer abruptly and pulled out a folded piece of fine velum. "I think you'd better see this, cousin." Luthias' mouth twisted angrily when he recognized the seal of the Baron of Shipbrook, and a red cloud of rage covered his face as he read it. "That son of a bitch!" Luthias exploded furiously. "How dare he!" Frantically, Myrande snatched the letter from the Baron of Connall. "I don't believe this," she murmured. "He threatened this in his letter to you, but this was sent before yours." "What did you tell him, Clifton?" Luthias asked, only slightly calmer than he had been. "Are you going to take Myrande's guardianship from me and give it to him?" "Are you mad?" Clifton demanded. "Do you think I'd let any woman of this Duchy marry Baron Oleran? I've already written him and told him to mind his own barony." Luthias took the letter from Myrande, read it again. "He's right that I should have found a marriage for her..." "No, he isn't," Clifton argued. "I know why your father refused to marry her off, and I agree with his reasons." Myrande stared at the Duke. "Uncle Fionn told you!" she accused, incredulous. 1 "Only because he wanted my advice," the Duke explained. "He wanted your advice?" Luthias echoed. "Well, I am the Duke." "Yes," Luthias agreed, "but you're twenty years younger than he was!" "Actually, my age made me closer to the man she was in love with, and your father wanted to know whether or not I thought something would develop," Clifton explained casually. He leaned back in his chair. Luthias glared at his seneschal. "Does everyone in the whole Duchy but me know who you're in love with? I'm the only one who can arrange your marriage, and--" Clifton grinned, amused. "Luthias, I don't think you'd want to handle this one." "I agree," Lauren advised quietly. "You're much too close--" "And you know too?!" Luthias cried, enraged. He turned toward Myrande and shoved her slightly. "Thanks a lot for trusting me, Sable." Myrande blinked once, then turned and silently left the room. The door closed quietly behind her. "Now you've gone and done it," Clifton grumbled. "And you said you had 'the touch' with women." "She doesn't keep it from you out of spite or distrust," Lauren said quietly, carefully keeping anger and accusation out of her voice. "Her reasons are just." Luthias sat again. "I don't mean to yell or hurt her," he confessed. "I want to see her happy, and she won't let me arrange it!" He slammed his fist into his open palm to emphasize the point. "She won't even tell me about it." "Never mind," Lauren soothed. "I'll go make sure she's all right. Excuse me." She touched Luthias' shoulder reassuringly, smiled at Clifton, and left his office. Clifton sighed and shook his head at his cousin. "The hell with all of this nonsense, Luthias. Go marry her yourself." "I'm getting that advice from all over." The young Baron of Connall smiled ruefully. "Roisart said the same thing in my dream last night." "Well, he's right," the Duke continued. "It would stop your constant arguing and get Shipbrook off your back." Luthias looked reluctant. "What's wrong? I thought you liked Sable. Would you mind marrying her?" "Not at all, if it were me she wanted," Luthias admitted, shrugged. "Or if she didn't care who she married. But I refuse to have her resent me because I kept her from whoever she loves." Suddenly, the Baron smiled with irony on his lips. "I'll tell you one thing, though, Clifton: if she ever steps before me again in nothing but that nightgown, I'm not responsible." Clifton lifted his eyebrows. "Responsible? Why? Was it that ugly?" Wickedly smiling, Luthias shook his head. "No. Nearly invisible." "Ah," the Duke said knowingly, relaxing in his chair. "One of those nightgowns." He smiled, thinking of his bride. Then he teased, "Why didn't you do something about it, manling? Then we wouldn't have to worry about marrying her off." "I wouldn't so dishonor her," Luthias protested, dignified. "Dishonor? I don't think any dishonor is involved." "Nor I, but she'd see it that way," Luthias sighed. "She's been saving herself, and I wouldn't deny her that privilege." A shadow crossed his eyes. "My father once...screamed at me when he thought I was fooling with Sable. He said..." What had he said? It was a long time ago, and it still shamed him. "He said if I toyed with her body, 1I'd be toying with her heart, that I'd do nothing but hurt her." "Sable's a big girl now," Clifton commented. "I also don't think any man--including you--would be able to touch her without her allowing --and wanting--it. Still, manling, you should have tried." "No, Clifton, I'm not going to try to force her to marry me. That's how she'd see it," Luthias added, seeing an objection on his cousin's face. Then, suddenly, the young Baron of Connall smiled wickedly. "Of course, if I see her like that again, I just might lose control of myself." The Duke grinned. This sounded like the old Luthias, or rather, the young one. The young Baron of Connall looked over his shoulder. "Speaking of Sable, I suppose I ought to go apologize to her. "See you later, Clifton." The Duke reached for some of his paperwork. "Staying for the tournament?" "Might as well," sighed the Baron. "Put me on the lists." He shut the door quietly. The Duke pushed the parchment away, mused silently at the situation. "I give up," Clifton muttered finally, pulling paperwork toward him. Luthias found Myrande standing in front of three tall portraits in Clifton's gallery. The long, white hall ran almost the length of the keep, and in it were hung paintings of the Dargon family, Luthias' and Clifton's ancestors. Myrande was standing before the three most recent. To her left was a grand gentleman, in grand armor, holding his helmet beneath his arm and his sword in the other hand. He was tall, dignified, solemn; his brown eyes were Clifton's eyes, Luthias' eyes. This was the Duke of Dargon, Clifton's father, Luthias' uncle, the man who had given Myrande's father his knighthood. The Baron of Connall gazed at the painting with respect. He had always admired his uncle. To Myrande's right, and Luthias', was the newest portrait, not more than seven years old. The young man in it stood, like his father to Myrande's right, with a dignified posture, but this man was surrounded by books, papers, and musical instruments as well as war. Luthias smiled at Clifton's image and thought, this is what Roisart might have been like, had he gone to the university. The center portrait held Myrande's dark eyes, however. The man in the center of the painting, a man in his thirties, perhaps, had the looks of both the Dukes of Dargon. He was seated before a desk spread with papers, and although he looked as if he were trying to concentrate, his lips were twisting into a quiet smile. He was not alone; behind the desk, a nine-year-old boy challenged a lion's head with a sword, and seated on the floor by the man's chair was another boy, a twin of the first, reading a book of fairy tales. "I hate that picture," Luthias remarked. "I know it," Sable returned laconically. "You're angry with me." "You're perceptive," she returned coolly. Luthias grimaced angrily. "I came to apologize," he snapped. "You should," Myrande returned in kind. "You know I trust you." "Then why don't you just tell me?" Luthias demanded. "I'm the one who can do something about it! Just tell me who this man is!" "No." "Why, Sable?" Luthias growled, taking her shoulders. Her onyx eyes glared at him. "Give me one reason why. One good reason." "I've given you my reasons," Sable reminded him coldly. "Not good enough. Tell me!" "I can't!" Myrande spat between her teeth. She squirmed beneath 1his hold. "I tell you, I can't. If you knew, you'd understand why I can't tell you!" "But I *don't* know," Luthias shouted, "and I *don't* understand! Don't you think I want to help you? And you don't even give me a chance!" He released her in disgust. Scornfully, he added, "I'll wager you haven't given him a chance, either, whoever he is." Myrande turned her back coldly to him, as if she didn't want to hear or see him. "By God, Myrande," Luthias exploded, "it's your own fault! You don't want him to love you--you'd rather languish on like a simpering heroine in one of Roisart's romances than give the man a chance to accept you!" "Why bother?" she asked. "I don't want his pity. Why should I tell him and watch him reject me when I already know he doesn't love me?" "How do you know? Has he told you this?" Sable was silent. Luthias wrenched her shoulders again so that she was forced to face him. She struggled, but the Baron held her fast, and while she was the more determined, Luthias' arms were stronger. He shook her once. "Has he told you?" Myrande opened her mouth, but only glared at him furiously. "No, I thought not." He released her again. For a wild, furious moment, he wanted to strike her with all his strength. He began to speak, but fell silent as his eyes met her hard stare. His eyes lost the anger and suddenly all Luthias felt was hurt--that she couldn't tell him, and that she was hurting. "Sable, damn it, if you can't tell me, at least tell him. He'd be crazy if he didn't love you. Give the man a chance." The sorrow in the young Baron's eyes and voice pierced the icy wall behind Sable's black eyes. "I can't," she said tiredly. "I can't." "Why?" Luthias coaxed softly, reaching for her hand. "For the same reason I can't tell you," she whispered. She paused and raised her eyes. Luthias felt strangely, as if she were searching for something in his face. "Luthias, I would tell you--oh, God, I want you to know--" Luthias heard her voice break, and she averted her eyes and turned away as she tried to regain control. She would not cry in front of him, Luthias knew, not if she could help it. Her hands flew to cover her face. "It's the same as always!" she cried out. Luthias reached to touch her, but for some reason, unknown to him, he withdrew his hand. "I don't have the courage," she finally choked. "Oh, Sable." Luthias put his arms around her waist and shoulder and pulled her close. She shook once beneath his arms, a silent sob. "Don't cry," he whispered. "I'm not crying," she insisted thickly. "Sable, let me do something." Beneath his hand, her head shook negatively. Luthias felt tired. "Then do something yourself. I don't want to fight you...I've got enough to fight...but I want you to be happy. I can't stand seeing you like this." "There's nothing you can do," she said sadly, her chin resting on his arm. "There's nothing anyone can do." No, Luthias denied it. There was something he could do, and by God, he would do it. Luthias slowly, gently, tightened his grip. Myrande's body snuggled against him, her form and her warmth welcome even in the obscene heat. Luthias bent toward her ear, received a wonderful view, and buried his head in her rose-scented hair to concentrate. "Forget him, Sable," the young Baron of Connall whispered. "If he's hurting you, he isn't worth it. Forget him, and--" "Luthias!" The Baron of Connall gave an inward, violent curse as he heard his cousin call him. He turned to see Clifton, Lauren, his castellan Ittosai Michiya, and two visitors approaching. Luthias 1silently swore again and reluctantly, he released Myrande. Before she stepped slightly away, the Baron saw unshed tears shining in her eyes. She blinked once, but did not cry. Luthias put his hand on her shoulder and gently squeezed it. "We'll talk later," he promised softly as the Duke and Duchess of Dargon, the Castellan of Connall, and the visitors came closer. Luthias recognized one of the men: Baron Richard Vladon, a member of the Tribunal and an old friend of his father's. Luthias politely offered his hand. "Good day, Baron Vladon." Vladon, a serious-looking, gray-haired man in his sixties, shook Luthias hand firmly. "Good day, Lord Luthias--forgive me, Baron Connall." Luthias smiled. He preferred the first title. "Luthias," the Duke of Dargon interrupted, "this is Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Royal Armies. He's come to judge the tournament. Your excellency," Clifton continued politely, "my cousin, the Baron of Connall." Luthias bowed slightly to dark-haired Knight Commander, over whom Luthias towered slightly. He had met Sir Edward once, five years ago, when he was sixteen and Edward had come to visit Sir Lucan Shipbrook, Myrande's father, a few weeks before Sir Lucan fell ill and died. As a youth he had stood in awe of the stern, reserved man with the scar across his face. But Luthias grew, learned to bear his own scars like a warrior, and learned to admire the strong, black-clad Knight Commander. Luthias extended his hand. "How do you do, your Excellency. A pleasure to meet you." "How do you do, Baron," Sir Edward returned gravely, but not unpleasantly. His grip on Luthias' hand was firm and hard, the hold of one warrior to another. "An honor and a pleasure, sir. Ah," the Knight Commander continued, smiling as Myrande turned toward him. He bowed low and pressed her small palm to his cheek. "How do you do, my lady. I believe I have the pleasure of addressing the Baroness of Connall?" Clifton glanced sharply at Myrande. She paled as she heard Sothos' words. Luthias seemed caught between smiling and frowning, but did not lose any composure. "Unfortunately, your excellency," Luthias rued, "it is not the case. My friend, ward, and seneschal, Lady Myrande Shipbrook." Sir Edward straightened. "Oh, yes, Sir Lucan's daughter! How could I forget a face like that? You are the image of your mother. A pleasure, my lady." He smiled by way of apology. "Forgive my rude assumption. I saw you in the arms of Baron Connall, and naturally, I thought--" The knight faltered and smiled sheepishly. "Things are very different in Dargon than they are in the capital." "There's no need to apologize," Myrande said. Luthias' mouth twitched; somehow her voice sounded strange. He wanted to put his arms around her again; she felt too good to let go of. After a lame moment of silence, Lady Lauren suggested, "Come, Sir Edward. My father will be pleased to see you again. He should be in the library now." Sir Edward bowed to Myrande again, nodded to Luthias, and left with the Duke, the Duchess and his cousin. Ittosai lingered. "I hear you are entering the lists, Luthias-san," Michiya commented, smiling. "I am eager to meet you." "Any objection to practicing now? The servants should have returned by now with my armor and weapons." "You want to impress Sir Edward, don't you?" Myrande asked in a low voice. Luthias smiled. "Of course. He's the greatest knight in the land." For a moment, the young Baron was wistful. "I always wanted to be just like him and Sir Lucan. He's the greatest Knight in the Kingdom." Then 1he clapped his seneschale's back. "Come join us, Sable. I want to see how good you really are with this naginata." "You may regret it," Myrande warned. Ittosai, her tutor, smiled. "But I'll join you later." "Let us go then," Michiya suggested. He bowed in the Bichurian way to the lady and left with the Baron. The atmosphere had not cooled by the day of the tournament. Luthias had barely slept fourteen hours between the time he arrived in Dargon and the day of the tournament; it was too hot, and he was plagued by bad dreams. But the little vacation from the barony and the concentration of fighting had done him good; he had been more relaxed, and he was ready for the fight when it came. The fact that Sir Edward was judging the tournament had made him nervous, though. The greatest Knight in the Kingdom, watching him, watching Ittosai, watching all the men, young and old, who were entering the tournament. Sir Edward himself, the Knight Commander. And with war coming-- That was nonsense. He and Sir Edward had discussed it over the dinner table at Clifton's home days before. The Knight Commander and Ittosai Michiya had agreed with him that Bichu and Baranur fighting was close to impossible. Bichu's navy, primitive as it was, could hardly reach Baranurian shores, and were there ever a confrontation, the encumbered Baranurians would never be able to withstand the light, quick weapons born by the Bichanese. But still the rumors--and Luthias' nightmares of horror and war--continued. The young Baron didn't like it. Despite the pressures and the ugly rumors, Luthias had enjoyed the tournament, which had taken place earlier. Macdougalls took the archery, bow down, and no one was surprised. Carrying Myrande's colors--and the struggle Luthias endured to win that privilege surpassed the tournament fighting--the Baron of Connall won the tournament by defeating his castellan in the final round. Luthias glanced around the ballroom, slightly uncomfortable. He had always hated balls, hated dancing, and now he hated wearing the baldric of the Duchy champion. He didn't deserve it, and he knew it. Ittosai had allowed him to win. Oh, Luthias didn't realize it at the time, but as soon as he struck the final blow, he knew that Ittosai had allowed it. He understood Michiya's reason for doing it, so Luthias said nothing to his castellan, but Ittosai knew that Luthias understood. He made his way through the crowds, searching for his seneschal. He supposed he should dance with her. She was clumsy, but she did dance well, and she looked stunning tonight in a gown of ruby silk. He caught sight of her, dancing with the Knight Commander, so he moved to the side of the dance floor and watched. "Luthias!" someone called. Luthias frowned, trying to place the slightly familiar voice, and turned. Facing him was a thin young man, shorter than Luthias and slighter, blond, and hazel-eyed. He was dressed in the fashionable clothes of Magnus, as was Sir Edward, and this man's clothes were also black. He bore himself confidently, and however serious his face was, he moved as a fighter. Luthias peered at him as he came forward. Then he recognized him: "Warin!" Luthias smiled. Warin Shipbrook, like his brother Tylane, had been good friends with the Connall twins and Sable since they were small. It certainly wasn't their fault their father was crazed. "When did you get back?" Luthias asked, clasping his friend's arm. "I thought you were still at the University in Magnus!" "I've graduated," the scholar admitted proudly, "and I came home with Sir Edward. I've got to learn to rule, now that I've studied all 1the laws." Warin smiled, then sighed. "Roisart would have loved the library." He paused, tried to smile again. "And it seems I'm not the only one learning to rule." Luthias shrugged, looking away. It had been months, but part of him still grieved for his father and brother. "I do what I have to." "If you need help, you know where I am." Luthias almost laughed. "As if your father would let me near you. He hates me." A cross expression triumphed over Warin's face. He kept his deep voice low. "My father and his notion of family honor. As if he had any, throwing Uncle Lucan out of the family! And marrying Myrande to Oleran!" Warin looked Luthias in the eye. "Damn it, Luthias, give her to me, if there's no one else. I could bear living with her. She's a sweet girl--" "Whom you haven't seen for five years," Luthias chuckled. "She's grown into quite a hellcat." He lost his good humor. "A stubborn, proud hellcat, in love with a man who doesn't love her--she won't accept anyone else." The young Baron threw his hands out in confusion. "It's not for lack of anyone to marry her to--*I'd* marry her. She and I would get along excellently. But she won't do it!" Warin smiled. "Just like her mother. No one but Uncle Lucan for her!" "Sir Lucan loved her back." "True," Warin agreed. "Well, when I get my hands on the fiend, I'll kill him," Luthias vowed. "She's been hurt enough in her life." "Luthias-san," Ittosai Michiya announced himself. He bowed to the Baron, then to the Baron's friend. "How do you do," he said carefully to Warin, using Baranurian manners. "I am Ittosai Michiya, Castellan to the Baron of Connall." "Lord Warin Shipbrook," he introduced himself, and bowed in the Baranurian fashion. Ittosai continued, "There was a Bichanese merchant at the market with katanas. I am in need of a new one, and I thought that you as well would like to have one." He held out a supremely crafted katana. Luthias smiled. "Thank you, Michiya. You didn't have to do that." "You well earned it today on the field, Luthias-san," the castellan cut him off. Ittosai smiled. "We shall practice together tomorrow." Small hands suddenly appeared before Warin's eyes. Luthias smiled, recognizing them. Warin removed the hands and turned. "Myrande!" he greeted his cousin, kissing her warmly on the cheek. He stepped back, inspected her. "You've grown no taller." "Nor have you," she teased testily. "But at least you're bonnier," Warin offered. "Bonnier? I'm falling apart, and he says I'm bonnier." But Myrande was smiling. "I must go," Ittosai interrupted, "for I have promised to dance with the Duchess. But these are for you, Myrande," he stated quickly, pushing two ivory sticks, tipped in silver, which were carved with Bichanese characters on the blunt end. "Thank you," Myrande said politely. She looked confused though. "They are chop sticks," Michiya explained. "In my country, they are used for eating, but the ladies also wear them in their hair. Like this," he explained. He took the ivory sticks and slipped them, silver pointed end first, into the pile of hair at the back of Myrande's head. Michiya took a step back and admired the effect of the crossed sticks. "There. You are perfect, except your eyes are too round." Myrande laughed. "Excuse me, prease," he concluded, hearing the music paus. He bowed to his lord and his company. "I must dance with the 1Duchess." Luthias took him aside as he was leaving. "Let me know how much the katana cost," Luthias asked quietly. Ittosai smiled. "I have more than enough, Luthias-san. It is a gift; besides, you give me too much gold for my services." He bowed toward the Baron slightly. "I shall see you on the later, my friend." Luthias turned back to his ward and his old friend Warin, who were trying to catch up on four years of one another's lives in less than an hour. "Do you want to dance, Sable?" the Baron of Connall asked. She smiled shyly. "I already promised Warin." Shy? Why does she look shy? It wasn't as if he had never asked to dance with her before. Come to think of it, he hadn't. "Go ahead," young Shipbrook offered easily. "No, I'll dance with you later," Luthias insisted. "I see Clifton wants to see me." He nodded to his friends and left. "Now," said Warin, taking his younger cousin's arm, "we shall have to see if your dancing has improved." Myrande laughed. "Improved? You must be joking." She stepped with him, and they began to dance. "Are you glad to be home, Warin?" The scholar considered. "I am, and I'm not. I'm glad to see everyone again, Tylane and you, Luthias, the Duke...but still, I'm having a hard time getting along with my father--" "You're not alone." "I realize this. Has he really tried to supersede your guardianship from Luthias?" Myrande nodded. "I wonder if he's insane--belittling the Baron of Connall and trying to marry his niece to Oleran. And the way he treats Tylane..." "What's he doing to Tylane?" Myrande asked quickly. She was fond of Tylane, her cousin, and had been very happy for him when his engagement to Danza Coranabo, who had been offered to Luthias, had been announced several weeks ago. "Is he disinheriting him?" "Worse. Whenever Tylane does so much as disagree with him, he threatens to refuse Danza." "How can he do that? The banns have been announced, and the dowry paid." "Tylane's only nineteen, Myrande, and my father legally can still speak for him," Warin explained, as if he didn't really like the fact. "And disinheriting him isn't a threat; Tylane will be one of the heirs to Coranabo when he marries Danza. No, disinheritance is what he uses against me." "For what?" "For anything. For disagreeing with him. He wants total control, Myrande; he wants his family to think of him as King and God." Warin made a sound of disgust and turned away. Neither mentioned the Baron of Shipbrook again; neither wanted to think about him. Luthias approached his cousin, the Duke, and Sir Edward. The Knight Commander smiled. He and Luthias had spoken much over the last few days. "Come into the study," the Knight Commander invited. Luthias nodded and walked with his cousin and the Knight Commander to Clifton's office. "Baron!" Luthias turned his head and grimaced when he saw the Baron of Shipbrook. Unlike his two congenial sons, the Baron was tall, dark-haired, and bore himself arrogantly. Luthias didn't like him and had never liked him. He found it difficult to tolerate people who insisted that their will govern the world. "What do you want, Baron?" Luthias asked, trying to keep his voice low, steady, and polite. He motioned to his oncoming manservant to wait a moment. 1 "A word with you, nothing else." Luthias' mouth quirked with annoyance. He didn't exactly wish to speak with this man, now or ever. But he was the Baron of Connall... He looked at the Duke, who nodded. "Come to the study, and speak." "I wish to discuss my niece's marriage to Baron Oleran," the Baron of Shipbrook announced as soon as the door closed. Curse him! Tactless brute, bringing this up at a ball, in front of the Knight Commander! Luthias' eyes caught the metal of the Bichanese katana at his side. It was an excellent weapon, quick and sharp, just the thing to remove this cretin's head. Fine thing, for the Duke's Advocate to be tried for murder... "We have arranged for the ceremony to take place on the twenty-fourth of Seber." "There will be no marriage," Luthias contradicted, his voice firm and low. His hands began to curl into fists. "You have no right to deny her this," Shipbrook stated guardedly. "I am her kinsman, and I know best for her. If you have your will, you will keep her as your slave for the rest of her life, but she deserves better--a home and title of her own." "I am her guardian, and I have every right to protect her," Luthias replied carefully. "I will not have her wed to Oleran." "She is of my blood. I have more right to her--" "You have NO right," Luthias seethed, his words slipping tightly between his teeth. "You gave up any rights to her and her family when you cast Sir Lucan out! Myrande is my ward, and it is I, sir, not you, who holds sway over her life." "Lucan left her to your father, boy, not to you," Shipbrook argued. "You have neither the wisdom, nor the--" "Sir Lucan left her guardianship to the Baron of Connall; I am the Baron of Connall, Shipbrook, and I shall judge what is best for Myrande." Luthias wondered fleetingly how his cousin and the Knight Commander would react if he began to strangle the Baron of Shipbrook before their eyes. "She was left to Fionn Connall--" "She was left to the *Baron* of Connall," Luthias repeated angrily. "I have seen the words, sir. Now leave!" The young Baron's hands were at his side, clenched so tightly that the entire fist was white. His eyes were wild and dangerous. "You want her dishonored, an old maid to be mocked!" "I want her alive and happy!" Luthias shouted. He wished he had more--or less--control. "You want her miserable, or dead. Get out of here, Shipbrook!" Shipbrook took a step back, seeing the fury in Luthias' eyes. Silently, he left. Luthias cursed him mentally. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and bowed his head when he saw Sir Edward. "I apologize, sir, for my outburst." "Think nothing of it, Luthias," the Knight Commander said gently. "Excuse me," the Duke said, and he brushed past Luthias on his way out. "Not a discreet man, this Baron of Shipbrook." "No, Sir Edward." "Not at all like his brother," Sothos continued. "Sir Lucan was a good man. Is it all that hard to find a suitor for his daughter?" Luthias smiled, and his fists loosened. "Not at all, Sir Edward. Her cousin, Warin Shipbrook, has offered, and I would marry her, but she doesn't want either of us." "Proud?" "And stubborn," Luthias agreed. "But I'll get around it...eventually." He didn't add that he hoped that Shipbrook would do nothing stupid before he, Luthias, could figure out how to handle 1Myrande. "Good luck to you, then, Luthias," laughed the knight. "However, I called you here for something of a different nature." Luthias sat. "What?" The Knight Commander perched himself on the edge of the desk. "I know--just as you and your Castellan say--that war with Bichu would be ludicrous. But I still sense war coming; from whence, I know not. Do you have any opinions?" "The countries to the east are too small; would Benison risk it? They've waged wars without warning before." "True, but I doubt they would be so stupid as to attack us. We're too evenly matched with them." "Of course," Luthias said. "No matter what, the army needs preparations. Did you know that your father had asked that you train beneath me?" Luthias blinked. "What? No--he never told me..." "Yes, the Duke tells me he was killed before he had the chance." Edward smiled. "I wanted him to tell you this part, but your father had intended for you to come to Magnus and become a knight beneath me. Your brother, I'm told, was to have gone to the University." "I knew Father was planning to tell Roisart that on our birthday." "I see. But he didn't live that long." Luthias nodded. "In any case, Baron Connall, I would ask that you return to Magnus with me, to become a officer in the Royal Army." Luthias leaned back in the chair and considered. "Am I to be Knighted, then?" Sir Edward smiled. "I would think so, but not yet. You're a fine fighter, Luthias, as far as that goes, one of the finest I've ever seen. But there's more to Knighthood than fighting. Honor." Sir Edward frowned. "Were you aware that your Castellan threw away his chance to win the tournament?" Luthias nodded. "Why did you allow it?" "Because I understood why he did it," Luthias explained. "Knighthood involves truth, Luthias. You won dishonestly, and you accepted the prize and honor for that victory without a word." "I would think that discretion is also a knightly quality," Luthias argued easily. "There are rumors of a Bichanese attack, Sir Edward. If Lord Ittosai won the tournament, the panic would rise. A Bichanese man better than every fighter in Dargon, better than the Duke's cousin? The people would go mad. How long do you think Ittosai would have lived, if he had won? I would rather sacrifice the truth than my friend's life," Luthias concluded firmly, his jaw tight. Ever since he was a tot training under Sir Lucan, Luthias had wanted to be like him--a great fighter, a great Knight. But if wanting to keep Ittosai alive was a fault to Knights, then he wouldn't be one. Sir Edward sighed. "You are right, Lord Baron Connall." He smiled. "I would be pleased if you would join me in Magnus. I think you would be Knighted by spring." Wild hope rushed inside Luthias. Go to Magnus--become a Knight in the spring. Go to Magnus... "My lands," he murmured. "Myrande." "What?" "I'll have to wait and see, Sir Edward," Luthias replied. "I have no one to govern my lands, and the way Baron Shipbrook is, I doubt I should leave Lady Myrande." "Bring her with you." "You said things were different there. They wouldn't understand my friendship with her." "People aren't very tolerant of...that sort of thing," Sothos agreed. "The Princess' marriage was dissolved due to that lack of tolerance. But you said you wanted to marry her." "She won't let me," Luthias rued, but he smiled slightly. "I will 1think on it, Sir Edward." A knock sounded. "Come," Sir Edward invited. Baron Vladon entered the room. Behind him stood the Baron of Winthrop and the Baron of Coranabo. "Please excuse our interruption, your excellency," Baron Coranabo apologized. "We must speak urgently with the Duke's Advocate." Sir Edward glanced at the Baron of Connall. "Should I leave?" "No, stay, Edward," Vladon advised his cousin. "It is well that we should have a Royal Official as a witness." Witness? "What is it?" Luthias asked, wary. "We have evidence," Coranabo began slowly, as if it were difficult for him. Yet his eyes were cold, not at all as if he were uncomfortable. "That there is a conspiracy to start a war with Bichu." "I know there was," Luthias replied gravely. "My father and brother died because of it." Baron Winthrop, obviously unsettled, coughed. "My boy," he addressed the Lord Baron of Connall, "this is gravely serious." Luthias grimaced. "Tell me." "There are witnesses," Coranabo continued slowly, "that say that some people of this area are plotting with Bichu against the Kingdom." "Who?" Luthias demanded. "Your Castellan," Coranabo told him, "Ittosai Michiya." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 The Game Begins by John Doucette (b.c.k.a JDOUCETTE@UPEI) A man dressed in plain grey clothing entered the bed-chamber and went to the figure sleeping peacefully in the elegant four-poster. He bent down and gently shook the slumbering figure awake. "Primus," he said with great respect tinged with fear. "Wake up, my lord." The figure turned over. "I told thee I was not to be disturbed under any circumstances," he said in a whispering voice. "Y-Yes, Primus," the servant stammered. "B-But--" "ANY circumstances, Lothan. If thee cannot carry out my most trivial commands, then I must search for another man-servant." Lothan trembled in the darkness. He knew what the Primus meant when he said he would have to search for another man-servant. None save those who were part of The Order could know the identity of the Primus. Lothan swallowed hard. "F-Forgive me, my lord. Dra'nak Valthorn has returned." At the mention of Valthorn, the Primus sat upright in bed and fixed Lothan with a piercing stare, even though the room was in near-total darkness. "If this is a contrivance to save thyself, thee art a dead man, Lothan," he said without emotion. "No, Primus! I swear it! The Dra'nak stepped through the portal only ten minutes ago!" For long seconds, Lothan could feel the unseen gaze of his master upon him. "Inform the Dra'nak that I will see him in my study in one quarter of an hour," the Primus said to his terrified servant. "Y-Yes, Primus," Lothan said, the relief plain in his voice. He bowed once and fled the room. Dressed in velvet-soft black robes, the Primus of The Order entered his private study accompanied by his ever-present guards, also members of The Order. Waiting for him was Dra'nak Valthorn, one of The Order's enforcers, the most feared men, next to the Primus, in The Order. Of the four Dra'naks, Valthorn was the most powerful, second in ability only to the Primus himself. The study was large, almost a laboratory. There were books everywhere, as well as three large tables for conducting experiments. The portion of the library closest the entrance was devoted to leisure. A small table surrounded by six chairs sat in a corner. Behind the table were book shelves containing hundreds of midnight-black bound tomes of magic. One could almost feel the magic emanating from them. Seated at the table was a man wearing the same clothes as the Primus and his guards wore. In fact, all two hundred members of The Order wore black robes. Their servants, those that had servants, wore grey. Valthorn rose and bowed to the Primus from the waist. His robes' cowl was pushed back, revealing the face of a man in his late thirties. "Cho dakh, Primus," he said in a deep voice. "Cho dakh, Valthorn," the Primus replied. "What news?" "I hath succeeded in tracking down one of the cabal's members, Primus. I was not able to determine the identity of his confederates. However, I was able to extract some information as to their purpose." "And it is?" "They intend treason, Primus. I am not certain whether they wish to secede, or whether they wish to take our Master's throne." "Hath thee uncovered any mention of Baron Myros?" the Primus asked intently. "Nay, Primus," Valthorn replied. "Hath some event occurred that 1would suggest otherwise?" "Myros hath journeyed to Magnus." "Baranur?" Valthorn said incredulously. "Yes. Baranur. Celeste hath reported to me that Myros doth undertake this journey to visit an 'old friend'. She suspects Myros of having ulterior motives. Our Master decided to make Myros Ambassador to Baranur, in order that we may more readily observe him. I hath given Celeste the task." "Celeste? Dost thou trust her?" "Trust, Valthorn? Nay, I do not trust her. But she knows what will happen to her if she betrays me," he said with the faintest trace of a smile. "What dost thou wish me to do regarding the cabal, Primus?" "Summon the Conclave," the Primus said after a moment's consideration. "This decision must not be taken lightly." "At once, Primus." The chamber where the Conclave met was hundreds of miles underground. It was a circular chamber, sixty feet in diameter. It was unlit except for an area in the center of the chamber twenty feet across. Illumination was provided by a brilliant globe of light suspended thirty feet above the floor. Contrasting sharply with the polished white marble from which the chamber was hollowed out, seven large, black stone chairs were spaced evenly about the periphery of the lighted area, facing inwards. Seated in one of these was the Primus. He was dressed, as was custom when the Conclave was in session, in his formal robes of office. Midnight black, they were inscribed with runes that glowed a silvery radiance. The cowl, normally drawn over his head so as to hide most of his features, rested on his shoulders, revealing a man whose face was marked by the passage of countless years. He kept his snowy-white hair shoulder length, for longer hair was difficult to conceal under his robes' cowl. He had been Primus for so long that his given name was but a dim memory. The Primus sat back in his chair, waiting for the other six members of the Conclave to arrive. His thoughts were on days long since fled. Days when Galicia was young. Five hundred years ago, the final victor emerged from the Consolidation Wars and proclaimed himself Emperor of Galicia. Two hundred years of bloody warfare had finally resulted in a lasting, if forced, confederation between the Galician city-states. The new Emperor, realizing that not all of his new subjects were overjoyed with their new ruler, called together all the mages that he knew were absolutely loyal to him, and created The Order of Galicia, now known as The Order. No one but the Emperor and his most trusted advisors even knew The Order existed. To head The Order he chose the one man he trusted completely, his personal magist. This mage, known as the Primus, was tasked with protecting the Emperor's person and with gathering intelligence concerning the Emperor's enemies. To accomplish this, the Primus could call on the resources of two hundred of Galicia's best mages. A fortress was constructed to house The Order, a fortress whose location was kept from the Emperor. Only those of The Order knew where it was. The fortress was warded by powerful spells; the only way in or out was by way of a teleport chamber. Other spells prevented anyone on the outside from using their art to view the happenings inside. Still other spells existed that would activate only under certain circumstances, such as combat. The Primus at the time, the very same man who was Primus at present, formed a council to help him run The Order, a council he 1called the Conclave. Realizing the need for a secure meeting place, both from physical and magical attack, he began to work on a chamber deep underground. It took him two months to hollow out space for the chamber. Another month was spent on applying various spells to the chamber to proof it against magic. Among those spells was a spell that formed a column of force that trapped the light emanating from the light sphere in the central area. The column also prevented individuals inside the lighted area from seeing out, and those outside from seeing in. Within the column itself, a permanent dispel magic spell was in effect, so that none of the Conclave members could use magic on each other. The only way to reach the chamber was by teleportation, and then only if the mage in question was a powerful one; not every mage could teleport himself the distance required to reach the chamber. The Primus was brought out of his reverie by the arrival of the first member of the Conclave. Valthorn stepped through the force-wall, turned to face the Primus, and bowed from the waist. "Cho dakh, Primus." "Cho dakh, Valthorn." Valthorn took his seat, the second from the Primus' left, and waited. He did not wait long. Within the space of the next three minutes, the other five members of the Conclave stepped into the lighted area, greeted the Primus, and took their seats. "Thee art aware," the Primus began, "of the recent happenings regarding the discovery of a cabal working against our Master. What thee art unaware of, with the exception of the Sehrvat Primus, is that Dra'nak Valthorn hath discovered the identity of, and interrogated, a member of this cabal. Unfortunately, this individual did not see fit to impart to the Dra'nak a great deal of information. He did reveal the cabal's intentions, however. They intend to commit treason. We do not know whether they wish to secede, or whether they wish to try to oust our Master." "Therefore, this assembly hath two decisions to arrive at: whether or not our Master should be informed at this early juncture, and we must decide what action we shall take with regards to the cabal. What say thee, Xavier?" Xavier, Lokhmahst of The Order, turned in his seat to face the Primus. "We must inform our Master of this at once, Primus," the sixty year-old mage said. The Primus had been afraid of this. The Lokhmahst, or loremaster, commanded great respect within The Order. "Were circumstances different, Xavier, I would say aye to thy suggestion. However, the information gathered thus far is not worthy of our Master's attention." "How so? We hath uncovered a plot to commit treason against our Master. Whether this treason is against his person, or against the state, he must be informed." "What of the rest of thee?" the Primus asked. "What art thy opinions?" "What Lokhmahst Xavier hath said hath value, Primus," Valthorn said. "However, I agree with you. There is not enough hard evidence against the cabal. If we were to inform our Master, the members of the cabal might get wind of our discoveries and conceal themselves even better than they now are." "I side with you also, Primus," said Derek, the Sehrvat Primus. The position of First Servant originally entailed being head of the Primus' household and in charge of acquiring servants for those members of The Order that wished to have servants. Over the years, the duties and responsibilities of First Servant evolved to include overseeing the hiring of mercenaries for tasks that were unworthy of a member's participation, or tasks in which The Order could not risk 1direct involvement. "What of thee?" the Primus asked the three remaining Dra'naks who had not voiced an opinion. "I support you, Primus," Dra'nak Anton replied. "Xavier," Teng answered. "You, Primus," Lenore stated. "It is decided," the Primus said. "Rest assured, Xavier, that I shall impart knowledge of the cabal to our Master the instant we hath better information." Xavier nodded slightly, acknowledging defeat gracefully. "What then, is to be our course of action?" The Primus considered for a moment. "This matter is too delicate for direct involvement." He turned slightly to face Derek. "Dost thou hath someone that could be relied upon?" Derek thought for a moment. "I believe," said the Sehrvat Primus, "I know of three that could be useful." "Excellent. Thou shalt seek these three out and hire them forthwith." "Yes, Primus." "Our business is concluded. The Conclave is disbanded. Cha loth, Ull." One by one, the Conclave bowed to the Primus, bidding him farewell in the ancient Galician all members of The Order were required to learn. Valthorn was the last to depart. "Cha loth, Primus," he said. The chamber echoed with the sound of chanting as the members of the Conclave teleported to the fortress. "This is all your fault, Tarn!" Justin said as he parried a thrust from his grey-clad attacker. "Me? What did I do?" the little thief asked plaintively as he knocked another arrow. Justin caught his attacker's slash on his shield and delivered a vicious kick to his opponent's knee, sending the luckless man crashing down the hill. He whirled on Tarn. "You just couldn't resist, could you? You simply had to let your natural tendencies run away with you, didn't you? Didn't you!?" "I didn't steal anything! Honest! I wanted to, but I didn't!" "THEN WHY ARE THEY TRYING TO KILL US, YOU LITTLE--" Justin stopped short at the sight of Tarn aiming his bow in Justin's direction. "Now wait a minute, Tarn. There's no need--" Before Justin could finish, Tarn let his arrow fly. Justin cringed as Tarn's arrow whizzed past his ear and struck something behind him. Justin turned around to see one of their assailants staring blankly up at the sky, an arrow embedded in his chest. "Would you two..(parry)..mind..(parry)..rejoining..(parry-riposte)..this debacle?" Julia asked somewhat heatedly. Just as Justin was about to re-enter the fray, the enemy retreated, leaving six of their comrades behind. "Now it's only fourteen-to-three," Justin commented. "You're just full of cheery pronouncements today, aren't you?" Julia asked. "Look," Justin said, turning to face Julia, "this wasn't MY idea!" "You're the one who suggested we take the southern route in the first place!" "I'm not the one that got the town guards upset!" "This isn't the time or place!" "I hate to interrupt," Tarn said, "but we seem to have a visitor." Justin and Julia forgot their argument and looked in the direction Tarn was pointing. A man dressed in black robes was walking calmly up 1the hill. "Damn," Julia said. "They've brought up a wizard." Tarn aimed his bow at the approaching mage. "Wait, Tarn," Justin said. "If he wanted to, he probably could have killed us without showing himself. Let's see what he wants." Reluctantly, Tarn lowered his bow. The mage stopped twenty feet from the crest. "I wish to speak with thee," he called out. "May I approach?" Justin looked to Julia for confirmation. "Not much else we can do," she said. "You may." The mage travelled the remaining distance between himself and the group on the hill-crest unhurriedly. He coldly regarded the corpses of the six slain attackers. "Fools," he said. "I must apologize for the actions of my retainers," he said to the three companions. "They were over-zealous in their pursuit of my wishes." "And just what are your wishes?" Justin asked suspiciously. "I hath a task I wish thee to perform for my Master." "And just who is your master?" Julia asked. The mage reached inside his robes and pulled out a chain with an amulet on it. He handed it to Justin without saying a word. "She asked you who your master is," Justin said, trying to control his mounting anger. "What sort of answer is this?" he demanded. "Look at the amulet." Justin looked down at the amulet in his hand. "By the gods," he said softly. "You're as white as a ghost, Justin," Julia said, the concern plain in her voice. "What is it?" Justin held up the amulet for her and Tarn to see. It bore the relief of an eagle with a crown upon its head. "The Emperor's crest!" Julia breathed. "Here's where the fun begins," Tarn said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E ||Volume 2 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 2 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 2, Issue 2 05/06/89 Cir 801 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DAG Dafydd Editorial Backtrail Michelle 17 Naia, 1013 Dragon Hunt, Part 1 Max Khaytsus 19-23 Naia, 1013 Dragon Hunt, Part 2 Max Khaytsus 20-23 Naia, 1013 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dafydd's Amber Glow First, I would like to reassure those of you who might actually look at the subscription numbers on the masthead: we did not loose over 70 readers since last issue - I cannot add. Sorry. The present circulation number is correct. Second, as I have a little more time and space, I would like to explain the dates that appear next to each story in the Table of Contents. When I took over the Dargon Project, I thought it would be a good idea to try to give the stories some kind of common reference to help the reader understand what was happening when. (This should become very useful in a few months when some very interesting things will be happening in Baranur, and you will all want to keep the stories as straight as possible...) Of course, the best way to do this would be to have all of the stories cross-reference each other - but that takes a lot more time and coordination than we as a group of authors are capable of supplying at this time. So, I decided that it would be a good idea to date each story and to tell the readers what the date was. Hence the date column in the TOC. Now, to explain what the dates mean. In Baranur, there are 12 30 day months and a 5 day (or 6 in the case of leap years) spring festival stuck in the middle. The month names and their Earth equivalents are as follows: Janis - January Vibril - February Mertz - March Firil - April Naia - May Melrin - *Spring Festival Yule - June Yuli - July Sy - August Seber - September Ober - October Nober - November Deber - December Thus, for example, the three stories in this issue are occurring in mid-to-late May, in Earth terms (more or less...). Well, that's about it for this issue. Next time (with luck, no more than a month or so away), we will continue Ms Henniquin's Trial by Fire and begin a story by a new author to the project. Feel free to send me mail if you have any questions, or mail the authors or myself with comments about the stories. And until next time I remain, Dafydd, Editor DargonZine (b.c.k.a. White@BUVM.bitnet) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Backtrail by Michelle Brothers (b.c.k.a. brothers%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu) The heavy rainstorm that had broken yesterday had begun to slack off by mid-morning a day later, spending its fury as it moved inland. A gentle rain continued to fall, however, and Teran muttered irritably as droplets splattered his face. Rain was his least favorite of Mother Natures manifestations; sun was never a problem and snow was at least easy to deal with. His horse, a large, heavyset bay, didn't seem to have the same problems with the weather that his rider did. He walked with his head held high, delicately stepping over the mud puddles in the road and prancing impatiently every time Teran stopped to dismount. Teran didn't know why he bothered trying to find Eliowy's trail anymore. Last night's rain had probably obliterated any track, always providing that she hadn't decided to take shelter along the way. If she had, he would have to go back along the road to Tench, find where Eliowy had taken refuge, and pick up her trail. Again. Eliowy had proven to be very elusive quarry, the blond man admitted grudgingly. Not at all as easy to track and capture as he had assumed at the start of the chase. She had managed to put additional time between herself and her pursuer after disembarking from Dolphins Anchor by buying a horse. Teran took a certain grim pleasure in the knowledge that the price of the beast had probably shocked the girl into a near faint. He, himself, had choked when the dealer quoted his price. Since leaving the coastal city of Foroni the chase had become almost a game; Eliowy trying to get lost enough that Teran couldn't find her and Teran trying to get close enough to Eliowy to catch her. Thus far, the 'game' had been a draw. Eliowy stayed just out of Teran's reach, but couldn't shake him off her tail. After well over six months of running after Eliowy, Teran had gained a great measure of respect f for the girl's resourcefulness. She was using tactics that he hadn't expected her to be able to come up with; like having someone leave a false trail for him while she left the city in another direction. Teran scowled at the memory. He had nearly lost Eliowy completely that time. If she hadn't gotten rid of her horse when she had...It was the one move that Teran thought was foolish on her part, although she'd probably sold the animal to pay the young man to leave her false trail. Teran thanked the gods that she hadn't paid him enough. The morning mist had cleared and the blonde man could see the battlements of a keep in the distance. Allowing his stallion to plod along without guidance, Teran pulled a carefully rolled map from one saddle bag. After a little searching, he was able to find Tench and from there he traced his path to the city he was headed for. "Dargon," said Teran wearily. "Well, I certainly hope that they have better accommodations than Tench." He stowed the map away again and slapped the horse's neck. "Let's go," and urged the animal into a cantor. A short hour later Teran found himself on the main street into Dargon. Rain had washed the streets clean and had finally slackened to a barely noticeable drizzle. He glanced around as he rode into the city, noting the people hurrying about their morning business. As was usual when presented with a new city to search, Teran was uncertain where to begin. Eliowy had become increasingly clever as to her hiding places and Teran knew he could no longer simply go to the most inexpensive inn around to get news of her. Finding an inn wouldn't be such a bad idea however, his stomach pointed out. The 1search could begin and breakfast gotten in the bargain. Trail rations did not a meal make. Teran agreed. This decided, Teran started searching for a respectable inn. Eliowy stared at the grey stone ceiling through slitted eyes and decided that this time she was in real trouble. Despite have a terrible headache, she still remembered being captured by the Lieutenant of the Guard and it didn't take much to guess that she was now in a guardhouse. Voices in the room prevented Eliowy from making an immediate escape, so she simply lay still and listened to the conversation. "I just don't understand why you brought her here, Kalen," a deep voice was saying tiredly. "Her reaction was odd, Captain," replied Kalen. Eliowy identified him as the guard she had literally run into earlier. "I didn't say much of anything to her and she took off running; like I'd caught her stealing or something." "Stolen something. Like the sword? Or the harp?" queried Kalen's captain. "Well, yes," said Kalen. "The thought had crossed my mind. I mean, the workmanship of the blade is excellent and the harp is nearly an antique. They'd be worth quite a bit on the black market." Eliowy tensed angrily, reminding herself that she was still supposed to be unconscious. The sword was one of her most treasured possessions; a gift from Teran when he finally decided that she had learned all he could teach her. And as for the harp, well. So far as Eliowy was concerned, the instrument was priceless, all that she had left of her mother. "Kalen, the instrument is too well cared for to have been stolen," said the captain patiently. "It's also not pretty enough to bring gold on the market. And as for the blade," The silky sound of a sword being drawn from a sheath rang through the room. "It is very finely crafted, I grant you, but feel how lightweight it is," Eliowy could invision her weapon being handed to Kalen. "It wouldn't be of much use for either of us, but I'll wager my next months bonus that it's perfect for her. A smith would make something like this on commission because it's useless except for the one that it was made for." "You've made your point, Captain," sighed Kalen, sliding the blade back into it's sheath. "She's not a thief and it was a mistake to bring her in." "Your thinking was good--" began the captain, only to be interrupted by the clash of steel and excited young voices clamoring outside. "What in the name of every god--" The captain swore, rushing out the door with Kalen hot on his heels. As soon as she heard the man shouting in the courtyard, Eliowy rolled off the wooden bench and hurried to the table. She pulled the baldric over her head like a sash so that the sheathed sword hung down her back and pulled her backpack closer. One swift thrust and the harp was stuffed into the bottom of the bag. Another grab and the her clothes followed in an untidy mass. She rushed the door without bothering to close the pack. And completely ignoring the silver piece laying in the middle of the table. Outside, the captain had two young men by the collars and was shaking them both vigorously while an impassive Kalen looked on. His angry voice easily reached Eliowy by the door. "You young fools can either explain to me why you drew steel on one another OR you can explain it to the Duke!" another vigorous shake 1punctuated his words. The threat had the desired effect as the two youths tried to talk over one another to make their case to the captain. Stifling a smile, Eliowy slipped around the rear of the guardhouse and paused in its shadow to close her pack and to get her bearings. The rain had slacked enough so that she was no longer worried about getting soaked, although the constant drizzle was proving to be annoying. Through the dim haze of rain Eliowy could see a small group of carts being unloaded by what seemed to be the back entrance to the Keep. There was not, however, any sign of a rear gate. The captain's voice could no longer be heard shouting and Eliowy decided that, where ever she went, moving might be a very good idea. "The fastest way out of here," thought Eliowy, eyes scanning the courtyard, "would be to go around the castle and out the front gate or over the wall. But that's the most obvious way too..." The sound of footsteps on the flagstones cut Eliowy's contemplation short. Without pausing to make a conscious decision, she headed for the group of wagons by the servants entrance. As she walked, Eliowy pulled her cloak and sword off of her back and arranged the cloth so that it hid both her weapons belt and the pack. Carrying the unwieldy mass like a box, held in front of her, the girl joined the end of the line of people entering the Keep. "Is that the last of it?" someone demanded in Eliowy's ear, the second she stepped through the doorway. "Uh, yes, ma'am!" Eliowy looked up at the speaker, a tall woman in a grey apron that looked very official. "Last load." "Well, what is it?" The woman asked the woman impatiently. "Linens." "Take them up to the sewing room, then," She looked over her shoulder at a pair of boys who were heading for a large cabinet by the fireplace. "And you two stay out of the pantry!" While the woman was occupied, Eliowy headed for the door at the far end of the room. "Girl!" Eliowy stopped dead in her tracks and turned slowly around, heart dropping to her boots. "Ma'am?" "You're new here?" "Yes, ma'am." A gentler expression covered the woman's tired face. "Get those up to the sewing room, first door on the second floor up the back staircase, and then come down and get your breakfast." "Yes, ma'am. Thank you!" Eliowy stifled her sigh of relief and hurried out of the kitchen. Once clear of the people hurrying in and out of the kitchens entrance, Eliowy slung her sword back over her shoulder and put her cloak on over it, arranging the hilt so that it stuck out under the hood. Hoping that she looked more like she belonged here, Eliowy went up the nearest staircase, so as to avoid as many people as possible. The second floor of the Keep was almost tomblike in it's silence compared to the bustle of the lower floor, additional noise being kept out by a heavy wooden door at the bottom and the top of the stairs. A long hall stretched to the left, right, and straight ahead and was hung with tapestries. Rich carpet ran down the center of each of the corridors and light let in by long, narrow windows with carved wooden shutters. Doors lined the hall directly forward. Cautiously Eliowy walked down the middle hall, knowing that it had to lead to the Keep's main entrance. Even though it was unlikely, she still did not want to risk running unawares into any of Kalen's soldiers. She stayed close to the wall, ready to dodge into a room, 1should the need arise. She came to an intersection that had small tables at each of the walls corners, all with full vases on them. Sweet perfume filled the small area and Eliowy paused to inhale the fresh fragrance. The sound of laughing voices coming towards her from the direction she was heading in broke off her reverie. Cursing herself for a fool, Eliowy ran down the left hand corridor looking for a place to hide. The sound of the voices drew closer and, panicked, Eliowy began trying doors to see if any were unlocked. Her second frantic turn of a door handle proved to be the lucky one and she breathed a prayer of thanks to the gods as she ducked inside. As quickly and as quietly as possible, she closed the door behind her and put her back to the door, only to nearly have a heart attack because the room she had chosen to hide in was occupied. She had interrupted someone in the middle of their breakfast. The man stared at her, fork poised halfway to his mouth, surprised, but not alarmed, as if he had unknown people bursting into his room all the time. Frantically, Eliowy put her finger to her lips and made shushing motions at the man as the voices she had heard out in the corridor sounded directly outside her chosen hiding place. The voices in the hall weren't clear enough for Eliowy to make out the conversation, but she kept one ear tuned to the murmuring outside and both both eyes fastened on the man at the table. He had finally put his fork down and was hiding a smile behind the act of wiping his mouth. "I don't think they'll find you in here, girl," the man said, finally able to keep a straight face, brown eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter. "I promise that I won't give you away." Eliowy's heart nearly stopped when the man spoke, but his last statement coupled the fact that he made no move to rise or shout, assured her that he would, indeed say nothing. In fact, she thought as the voices in the hall faded past her hearing, he seemed to be enjoying the entire episode immensely. "Sorry to disturb your repast," she said softly, deciding that the passage way had to be clear by now. She fumbled behind her for the door handle still keeping puzzled eyes on the man. She bobbed her head to him in thanks and slipped out the door. Clifton Dargon, Lord of Dargon Keep, leaned back in his chair and laughed, a little ruefully, at the freedom of youth. Eliowy hurried down the main staircase as fast as she could without attracting too much attention. She encountered no one on her way down but as she neared the bottom of the stairs, the everyday sounds of the Keep grew louder and people could be heard hurrying about their business. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs and trying to be invisible, Eliowy waited until there was a break in the stream of people, before slipping across the main hallway and out the door into the main yard. The wide, open courtyard spread out in front of the auburn haired girl, as she stepped out into the slowly clearing day. It was just as busy with hurrying people as the kitchen entrance and the main keep. From where she stood, Eliowy could see the main gates, heavy looking wood and iron affairs, wide open. A pair of guards stood at post, seeming to ignore the occasional cart that came through. Taking a deep breath, Eliowy started out across the courtyard. None of the people she passed payed much attention to her and she made it to the gates with no difficulties. "I'm going to make it," she thought confidently. "Just walk past 1the guards and I'm free...just a few feet more..." "Here, girl. Where do you think you're going?" Eliowy halted, heart pounding, and turned reluctantly to face the younger of the two gate guards. "Cook needs some herbs from the market," she lied hastily, trying to sound disgusted. "Decided, all of a sudden, to make something special for the evening meal." "But why are you leaving by the main gate?" pressed the guard, stepping closer. Eliowy thought frantically for a reply as the young man added, "The secondary gate is much close to the market." "I'm new here," began Eliowy, looking up at him, amber eyes guileless and a little confused. "I get my bearings better from the main gate." "But--" "Let up, Jaron," advised the other guard, coming to stand behind Eliowy. Let the poor girl get on with her errand so the cook doesn't get angry with her. Someone can show her a faster route later." "Thank you, sir," said Eliowy on the heels of his words. She ducked out of the main gate before any more protests could be raised, and ignored the younger man's command to wait. Teran leaned back in his seat and calmly surveyed the common room of Belisandra's. Late morning breakfasters lingered comfortably around scarred wooden tables and sunlight, poking abound ragged clouds brightened the room. A stout woman stood behind the bar, carefully wiping glasses while chatting amiably with the serving girl. A faint smile flickered across Teran's lips. He quietly enjoyed the wine and his few hours rest. Renewing his chase could come later, after his spirit had been refreshed. He drained his glass of its fruity wine and signalled the bar-maid for another. The inn's main door was pushed open with a breath of fresh, rain washed air and Teran's eyes were automatically drawn to the intrusion, wariness not relaxed even in such a safe seeming environment. Seeing the person framed in the doorway, Teran was glad for his ever alert vigilance, even as surprise nearly made him drop his empty wine glass. Eliowy's eyes flickered over the room, noting, Teran assumed, how many people were present, wether or not any of them might be dangerous, and where the alternate exits were in the room. It was not a skill he had taught her, but he still felt a glow of pride that she had learned it. Their eyes locked as Eliowy's gaze slid to the corner Teran had seated himself in, and the wariness in Eliowy's face melted into horror. She took a hesitant step backwards, shaking her head in denial. Teran rose slowly as she took another backwards step. "Eliowy," he said softly, all plans of grabbing her and telling her that she hadn't a chance of escaping him, fading away at the pained look in her face. The fear in Eliowy's amber eyes hardened to defiance. Her third backwards step was confidently taken and she was out the door and running, even as Teran shouted for her to wait. Eliowy ran straight down the street, trying to lose herself in the crowd, not bothering to use the dark, inviting recesses of nearby alleys to secret herself in. Lythly she dodged around people and horses and listened intently for the sounds of pursuit. Teran's pleas for her to wait faded in the distance as the voices of the people drowned him out. Certain, now, that she would again lose him, Eliowy ducked into the nearest open shop, to put herself completely out of Teran's sight. 1 The smell of dye and cloth surrounded her and the three men in front of the counter turned from their observation of a bolt of cloth held by a fourth man to stare at Eliowy as she stood in the portal. "Well," said the dark haired man at the center of the group. Sharp brown eyes studied the girl in the doorway. "It appears that you have another customer, Kelmin. Perhaps you should see to her needs first." "No need," said Eliowy hastily, as the slender man behind the counter set down the bolt of cloth and started to move out towards her. "I, uh, just stepped into the wrong shop." She glanced over her shoulder. No sign of Teran. She hadn't heard his shout going by so he either took another path or... "Are you having difficulties, my dear?" inquired the dark haired man, leaning casually against the counter. The taller of the two men at his side jerked in surprise. "Ah--" "I'll be glad to help you out of your trouble," the man continued, before she could come up with a plausible lie. "Mentis," The fourth man stepped forward briskly. "Why don't you take the young lady to my office so that we can discuss her problems at our leisure in a little more private surroundings." "Of course, my lord." He gave Eliowy the slightest of bows. "Lady, this way." He grasped her upper arm and led her outside. Completely at a loss, Eliowy didn't even thing to struggle or protest. As they disappeared down the street, the brown haired man chuckled deep in his throat. "You're going to use her to replace Kera, aren't you, Lord Liriss," said the tall man matter of factly. "Yes," The smile deepened around the corners of Liriss's lips. "She'll do nicely, don't you think, Kesrin?" "I think you're moving prematurely," retorted Kesrin. "Cril might just manage to bring Kera back. And," he added quickly, before Liriss could comment on that. "You caught the girl by surprise. She might not want to cooperate. She might not even have any skills worth utilizing." Liriss shrugged. "Every woman has skills, Kesrin. And if she doesn't accept my extremely generous offer, I'll kill her, just as I plan to kill that bitch Kera if Cril manages to bring her back to me alive. What's Dargon with one less street urchin? No one will even notice that she's gone." "Except whoever she's running from," muttered Kesrin too softly to be heard while Liriss ordered a new summer cloak from the rich red material he had been fingering. "What was that, Kesrin?" "Nothing, my lord. Shall we go talk to your new recruit?" "By all means, let's." Liriss's laughter was drowned out by the crowd as he followed the path his bodyguard and most recent captive had taken. Less than twenty feet away, a tall, blond man desperately questioned passersby as to whether or not they had seen a young red haired girl come running this way. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dragon Hunt Part 1 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a kaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu) The young mage released his most powerful spell, but it did little good. The glowing sphere engulfed the old woman and just as quickly faded. The witch hesitated a moment, recovering from the attack. The mage started backing across the clearing, looking for an escape. "No farther," the witch said, drawing a symbol on air. A tree behind the mage shook and and with a splintering sound bent, its branches gripping him, raising him into the air. "Tell them to leave my work alone!" the witch hissed and the tree threw its captive up. "Alone!" Moments passed before the witch approached the unmoving body, nudging it with her foot. There was no motion. From a pouch on her red belt she produced a handful of white powder. "Go home," she said, sprinkling it over the mage. The body disappeared from sight. Gerim glanced at the three men before him. "I am not an assassin. I refuse to kill for you." "But she has to die. You know that as well as we," one of the sitting elders answered. "We can force you," another man said. "...but we would rather not have to." "Gentlemen, I am no longer a rookie mage. I can opt for one of your positions, if I so chose," Gerim responded to the threat. "Please, don't ask me to do this." "Gerim, understand," the first wizard spoke again. "Maari has been responsible for the deaths of three dragons in the last year alone. Two others died the year before. At this rate there will be none left within the decade. It's our duty to stop her. Your duty." A negative shake of the head was the only answer. "Don't you understand?" the wizard insisted. "An inexperienced mage just can not do it. We already lost two." "No," Gerim stated again. "I refuse to kill." "You're leaving us no choice," the third man warned. "Either you go or we will order your daughter to do it instead," Nagje', the second wizard finished the threat. Gerim clenched his fists in defeat. "I never expected this of you. I will go, but I shall challenge your post when I return. Be ready." "You're one of the few strong enough to stop her," the first wizard spoke up. "Don't leave us as an enemy; do it to save Makdiar's past. Good luck, my friend." Gerim walked out of the great chamber in disgust. A cloud of dust appeared on a deserted road, quickly molding itself into a man and a horse. Swinging into the saddle, the man surveyed the region, to be certain that no one had seen him appear. Not a soul was around. "Come on," he slapped the horse's neck, "let's find Tench," and the steed obediently broke into a trot. Gerim entered the mostly empty inn lobby and approached the desk. "I'd like two adjoining rooms," he told the bald man on the other side of the desk. The man shuffled through a drawer, pulling out two keys. "One will have to be large," Gerim hurried to add. The man again shuffled through the desk again and put two new keys before him. "It costs double," he said. 1 Gerim picked up the second set of keys. "I'll take it. Put my horse in the stables. I will bring my bags in later." Gerim looked out from the window of the larger room. It was located on the corner of the inn's second story, overlooking the backs of a few houses on the north and the lightly forested fields to the east. "This'll never do," the mage considered the bright rays of the morning sun. The power of his magic always seemed inversely proportional to the brightness of the light. He spent the next few hours setting up his work space in the larger room. A table for enchantment in the far corner, a crystal ball in the other. The rest of the equipment spread here and there and a couple of black sheets on the windows. Gerim was from the old school of wizards; the days when "black and white" was not "punk and punker". He practiced a unique style of magic, wrote in a self designed script and unlike the new generation of mages, knew magic theory and its rivals. He was proud of his art and angry that some used it for fun and profit. He recalled overhearing one young mage, talking to a friend, bragging that now he can "amaze and startle his friends". Gerim's eyes burned with anger. In the days before...his days, individuality was the focus of all mages and whether working for purposes (considered) good or bad, one thing remained true - the quest for knowledge. He remembered that his own generation was also considered renegade. Could it be that magic was dying out? Weaker and looser as time went on. He let the crystal ball roll from his hand and unscientifically stop in the middle of the table, almost making a statement. The glass clouded and displayed the street outside the inn. Two armored men could be seen, dragging a third, quite possibly unconscious, across the road. "Lovely neighborhood," Gerim scowled, watching the two individuals make their deposit in the alley and leave. The crystal ball still focused on the body. "No, no! The other way!" Gerim instructed, but the image stubbornly remained on the closeup of the man. "So he's not just unconscious. He's dead." The image did not move. "So what do you want me to do? Stop them?" No response. "All right, all right," Gerim gave in. "Where did they go?" The picture changed to the two men entering a different alley. Gerim watched for a moment, then stood up. "Find me something interesting to look at by the time I get back," he instructed. The crystal ball, though efficient in all its other jobs, had one kink: every so often it would require the user to preform a task of some sort. Whether as a required duty or as a part of the magical link, Gerim did not know. The crystal ball had been a gift from his old master, a puzzle he had yet to solve before passing it down to one of his own students. He walked out into the street. Sunset was in full swing, throwing murky shadows into the street. Gerim found the proper alley and cautiously entered. Dark shadows hid the walls of buildings. He cast a spell, coating the inside of his cloak with a dim red glow and carefully stepped deeper in. "...not enough," he heard a voice about half way down the alley. "This place is crawling with vagabonds," a second voice responded. "Let's find another." 'Cutthroats? Highwaymen?' Gerim cautiously moved forward. "I think three in one night is plenty, even in a town like this," the first voice said. "I don't want to attract attention." "I've seen no evidence of guards," the second man answered. "There's a damned army camp just over the hill!" 1 Gerim smiled. An army would definitely be too much for a job like this. He stepped out into the dim light of the fire the thieves were sitting at. The two men, noticing him, eyed him, wondering how long he has been standing there and listening. Then one got up, drawing his sword. "Tonight it be four." Gerim did not move a muscle and his assailant paused before swinging. Why was this man, in view of certain death, not making a defensive stand? The sword made contact with the cloak, stopping abruptly, as if hitting solid steel. The man was so stunned, he didn't even resist Gerim taking his sword from him. The second man got up and slowly approached, drawing his weapon. "It won't be any different," Gerim warned. The man swung, making solid contact with Gerim. Again the sword stopped dead against the cloak. Gerim patiently waited as the man swung a second time, with identical results, then raised his hand. A glow of light surrounded his assailants and they disappeared. "I hope this taught you something," the wizard's voice followed the fading figures into a dark forest, echoing like the wind in the trees. Gerim bent down over a body lying in the tall grass. He recognized the young man as a guild apprentice. Removing a ring and a pendant from the body, he placed these symbols of rank and guild in his pocket. Deciding that the body, already damaged by animals and the elements need not be retrieved, got up to leave. Before him was a path, leading to the home of the witch he had been sent to challenge. He took a deep breath and continued down the pathway. He and Maari met before on a number of occasions, sometimes as friends, but more often as enemies. One particular meeting stood out in his mind, when five years past he ran into Maari in Conca, in Duurom. She was after a mystical herb that was rumored to bring youth to the aged and was more than prepared to take on a village of over a hundred, all of whom willingly died to protect their treasure. Maari got the herb and a number of subjects to use in her magic and Gerim felt pain for the scorched country side left behind. That was the first time Gerim's guild took a real interest in the old witch. It was a battle in which he lost two close friends. Sometimes Gerim believed he could strangle Maari with his bare hands, given the opportunity, but each time he remembered his old master's dying words, urging him to respect life above all other possessions. It was the turn of events and not the direct action that was to decide fate. He wondered how the two thieves he dispatched the previous evening were doing. He sent them off to the region up north, near a frontier town he heard off; a city by the name of Dargon. The thieves were sent there to die. Gerim felt that the punishment offered was enough. Perhaps the two men would change their ways after meeting a wizard, or perhaps they would be caught at their own game. Justice was usually harsh in frontier towns, even when administrated by the local law. If they died, it certainly would not be by his hand and he felt as if he definitely gave them an opportunity to change their lives in a new place. Hopefully new to them, anyway. It would be new to Gerim if he ever chose to go that far north on Cherisk. Gerim glanced at the morning sun and judging by its position, turned sharply east. His crystal ball had given him solid directions earlier in the morning and Gerim was confident he was on the right path. His confidence, however, lasted only so far as finding Maari's home. He had no idea of what to do once he got there. He stopped in mid stride and with a sigh leaned on a tree, trying to reason out his 1plans. He wasn't going to kill Maari. He knew that. Perhaps he could make a deal or trick her into a compromise. Then he remembered Conca and sadly shook his head. Maari did not listen to reason. There's no hope that she would start now. Gerim stomped around the tree, observing an unnatural bend in the trunk. He noticed a hard crack in the bark, with sap hardening in it, nature providing its own cure. He touched it, wondering what catastrophe would cause this damage to a tree easily three times his waist span around and at least five times his age. Seeing that the tree would soon die from the loss of sap it was sustaining, he cast a spell, pulling the splintered bark together. The wound lessened, hopefully giving the ancient tree a chance to survive. An animal cry not far away attracted his attention and Gerim looked up from his work. A laska stood a hundred feet away, watching him hungrily. Gerim wondered why the animal bothered to give him a warning, but wasted no time casting a ward around himself. The animal paused, still looking at him with hunger, but dared not to come any closer to the unnatural light. These large cat-like creatures were never known to be free roaming and Gerim assumed he was getting closer to Maari. No one but a witch would keep a laska around, roaming free. He confidently turned his back on the beast and continued his journey. A brown roof soon appeared through the dense cover of the leaves and moments later he came out in a small clearing, facing a mud colored hut. It took Gerim a few seconds to size up the area. The hut was weather-worn, as if it has gone unattended for months on end. The clearing was somewhat more hospitable. It was filled end to end with short green grass, still sparkling with the morning dew. A few well worn trails appeared to cross the clearing, leading to and from the woods. A large black cauldron stood supported on a structure of bricks, on the left side of the house. On the other corner of the house he saw a table with grasses and herbs laid out for drying. It took him a little longer, but Gerim finally spotted a plainly dressed old woman standing before the hut, almost blending into the background. Her hair was grey and face wrinkled. Her right arm quivered with the twitching of old age. Could this be Maari? She should have been younger after her attack on Conca. The old woman in turn eyed the newcomer with suspicion. He was tall, conservatively dressed and for some reason made her feel uneasy. "What is your business?" she finally demanded. Gerim eyed the surroundings again. This had to be Maari. Everything was her. He took the risk, drawing himself up to his full height. "I am here to give you an ultimatum, Maari. Your magic is damaging this world. It must stop." Maari's lip twitched. "Who are you?" her senile voice asked him. She still did not recognize her old enemy, although the man looked familiar. "Who are you to tell me what to do?" Gerim stepped closer to Maari. His footsteps fell sure in the moist spring grass. "I was sent..." "Marat!" the witch exclaimed, recognizing him at last. "So they finally sent a man to fight me. Well, let me tell you, I killed two sucklings and if I have to, I'll kill you." Gerim did not back down. "I was sent here to warn you. Let the dragons be and the Guild will overlook you." Maari's grey skin turned red. "You haven't learned, have you? I don't fear your Guild. I can take all of you on!" "Maari," Gerim continued calmly, "I am not here to question your talents. I am telling you to stop killing the dragons. You are upsetting the balance of nature." "Go tell your masters the answer is no!" "That answer is not acceptable," he stated again. "By killing the 1dragons you are undermining your own efforts. If not for Makdiar, then for yourself, don't kill them. At this rate they won't last a decade. Then what will you do?" "I won't need them after that," she insisted. Gerim paused. Something, somewhere clicked and it all suddenly made sense. The herb, the dragons. Maari was on a quest herself! "You're after immortality!" he accused her, taking a bold step forward. "You're after dra..." Maari's hands came up. "Let me be!" she hissed. "Let my research be!" Gerim smiled, though lacking the confidence he felt he needed. "I'll let you be. But I won't let you ruin the world I live in." He quickly turned and walked to the glen he came from, stopping a little short of the tree line. "That legend is only a myth, Maari," he hesitated before entering the cover of the trees, "and if it's true, I won't let you prove it." He entered the forest, hurrying to leave the crazy old woman behind. It wasn't only youth she wanted. The old witch was after immortality itself and she was slowly putting the magical puzzle together. Gerim rushed blindly into the forest, turning over plans in his mind, trying to think of a way to insure a swift victory, but nothing stood out as a miracle solution. Yet, he could not let the witch live; he knew that now. He stopped in a small grassy clearing, taking in the environment. His mind relaxed. He had a laboratory set up in Tench. That was enough. Maari would not do much harm in the next few days. He'd find a method to stop her soon enough. Gerim prepared to cast a spell, when from deep in the trees he heard voices. "Where are you going?" a female voice asked. Then the same voice called out. "Hey!" Gerim quickly moved through the brush to see what was up. "There!" he finally saw an armored man pointing into the knee deep grass. Stepping behind a tree, he observed a young woman, also clad in armor, following the man. Gerim was about to step out of his cover, when a muffled hiss made his hair stand on end. He glanced up, only to see the laska he encountered on the trail not long ago. The laska sat on a branch, some twenty feet above the wizard, hungrily looking down. Gerim quickly produced his pendant, stepping away from the tree. A barely audible incantation coated the ground and lower trunk with a musty green glow. The laska quickly jerked back. "If not for the trail ending, we'd miss this all together," the man's voice sounded from beyond the trees again. The wizard smiled. 'I hope you appreciate what I just did for you.' "Why does the trail keep going past here, if it leads nowhere?" the girl wondered aloud, looking in the direction from which she had come. "Perhaps Maari is a recluse," the man shrugged in response and Gerim's smile deepened. 'How will you pay me?' "Not knowing to find anything, most people would probably turn back," the man added. He was carefully studying what began seeming like a path to Gerim. "You think this leads to the place?" the girl asked. "It leads somewhere," her companion answered, finally deciding to try the path. Gerim stepped behind the tree, making a shushing noise to the laska above him, as the two travelers passed not ten yards away. 'Perhaps we'll meet again one day, so you can repay me,' the 1wizard's thoughts trailed the couple, as they disappeared in the trees. He turned to the tree and looked up at the laska. "And you... a few hours up there and you'll love ground like you never have before!" The wizards merry laughter echoed through the forest, even after he disappeared in a flash of light, leaving the bewildered animal staring at the glowing ground below. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dragon Hunt Part 2 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a kaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu) Rien paced the dark forest clearing, being careful not to make too much noise. The first three days through the forest went quietly with the exception of an encounter with a bear that the spooked horses tried to make as short as possible. Looking for a nameless witch amidst a dense forest was not the easiest affair to undertake, but it seemed much safer than facing the unknown dangers Dargon had to offer. The last time Rien had both the town guard and the town mob after him was because each thought he was a member of the other. Naturally, being alone and a lot healthier at the time, the problem was a lot easier to solve. Circling the clearing one more time, Rien made his way to the center and gently shook Kera. "Go away." Her sleepy voice sounded with a certain finality. Rien shook her again. "It will be light soon. We need to go." Kera moaned and sat up. Her hands crept up to her face and she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. "It's too dark. I can't see a thing." "You don't have to," Rien answered. "Get up." Kera's hands paused at her face. "Grow new body hair?" he smirked, pulling Kera to her feet. "Why don't you check?" she asked and with one hand unstrung the front of her tunic. Rien resisted looking down. "I think I'd better not." "I don't," Kera pulled herself to him and instantly pushed away from the cold steel armor. Rien hesitated for a moment, then turned away. "If you're not ready by the time it's light enough to travel, I am leaving without you," and with those words left to prepare the horses. A few moments later Kera approached him. "I need some help with my armor," she said solemnly. Rien assisted her with the task and they were ready to go before the sun broke the horizon. They travelled the forest path until late morning, the way they had for the last three days, then ate a late breakfast and while Rien rested in the shade of a great oak, a few hundred feet from the trail, Kera stood watch. This monotonous routine continued day after day, with Rien and Kera traveling morning and evening, when the light was passable and the heat would not burn them in their armor. Kera found Rien's habit of sleeping propped up against a tree and his uncanny timing of when to get up a bit strange, but attributed it to his being a trained warrior. This afternoon when he opened his eyes, she was sitting across from him. A fresh rabbit hung on a spit over a smoking fire, distorting the air between them. "Explain your actions this morning," Rien said. "It seemed like the thing to do," Kera answered. "Why?" Rien demanded. "Because it's a lot better than this iron trap!" Kera hit the breast plate of her armor. "I think you're confused," Rien shook his head. "And would it really be that unpleasant?" "Would it?" "No!" Kera exclaimed, instantly realizing that she was too loud. "It seemed so last night and even more so this morning," she added in 1half voice. "Look, perhaps I am confused, but I certainly know the difference between a human body and steel plating." "Give it another day," Rien said. "If you feel the same way tomorrow, we'll discuss it further." After dinner they mounted their horses and continued their search through the forest. "Tilden?" The man looked up at Cril. "Two people, two horses. Camped here maybe a day ago." "Was it them?" Tilden walked around the remains of a half covered campfire. "They were very heavy. Either large men or armored individuals." "They went pretty far off the trail to eat," Falgien, the third man, noted. "I'd guess they camped here over night," Tilden corrected his companion. "There's nothing more here," Cril said, walking across the clearing. "Let's go before that bear shows up again." Wearily the three men recalled that the bear they encountered while breaking camp two nights ago, shredded the fourth member of the group and had been stalking them ever since; day and night. They quickly returned to the trail, mounted their horses and looking back, continued their journey. "Tilden?" Cril called back a few minutes later. "Could they have been stupid enough to travel the woods instead of the trail?" "I doubt it," the man answered. "It's too dense for the horses. They wouldn't get far." "The camps are too close together," Cril said. "They are making frequent stops...or perhaps even taking two breaks a day." "If they are still in that armor, they'd have to," Falgien said. "It traps heat like an oven." "Those who made that camp fire were heavy..." Tilden reminded everyone. "Then more than likely we're gaining on them," Cril whispered almost to himself. Rien and Kera came across the old hermit Tristin and his hunting dogs mid morning, the next day. While surprised by the intrusion, the old man invited them in for breakfast and to satisfy his own curiosity. The horses, apprehensive of the four barking dogs went less willingly than they were commanded. "What brings you so deep into the forest?" Tristin asked, waiting for Rien and Kera to secure their horses to a tree. "A quest," Rien answered simply. "Young people are so brash," said the hermit. "What sort of quest?" "Perhaps you could help us," Rien said, as the hermit showed them into his cabin. "Sit, sit down," Tristin waved his arm. "I have some stew somewhere here." He momentarily left the room. "Somewhere?" Kera looked at Rien. "I'm getting the feeling he hasn't seen it himself for a month or two." Rien only smiled, saying nothing, as the hermit returned with a pot. "So what is it you want to ask me?" the old man questioned. "We're searching for an old woman, said to be a witch, who lives in these parts," Rien answered. A large grin spread on the hermit's face as he filled two bowls with stew. "A knight on a quest to kill an old hag," he laughed. "You 1are a knight?" "I am," Rien hesitated in answering, slightly displeased with the title. "But I am in search of the woman to ask her for help." The hermit placed the bowls before his guests. "Eat up, it's otter. Very fresh." Kera threw a paranoid glance from her bowl to Rien, but followed his example and picked up her spoon. "And you? A knight too?" Tristin asked Kera. "You say very little." "Only a squire," she smiled, swallowing the stew and was surprised at the taste - it wasn't bad at all. When the old man turned away, she glared at Rien. "Just a squire," she repeated. "Well, so what is it you dare come all this way to ask old Maari?" Tristin asked, missing Kera's remark. "Old Maari," Rien repeated the name, "we are told, has knowledge of how to cure a certain disease, but I'm afraid this is all I can tell you." "I quite understand," the hermit said. "She lives a ways from here, down the trail you were on. Follow it to where a second trail intersects your path and turn west, then a two day walk to a fork in the road, take the right one. Two more days will bring you to where you are headed. Perhaps only half the time on horse back." "Is there a particular mode of etiquette you recommend we practice?" "No, no, nothing special. Just be ready for anything. Being a witch, she possesses magic and some of it is black. Be sure you know her price before she assists you." Rien finished with his stew and stood up. "Thank you for your assistance, sir. We should be going now. Our time is very limited." "I wish you could stay, but I quite understand," Tristin smiled. "A pleasant change it is to see someone all the way out here. I feel bad about having to cast you out like this. Perhaps you can stop by on your return trip, if it takes you past here." "If it takes us past here," Rien promised. After another 'thank you' and 'goodbye', he and Kera took their leave. After a few minutes, Kera pulled her horse up to Rien's. "You're a real knight?" she asked. "Worse than that," Rien answered. "A landed knight." "You are?" Kera's eyes sparkled with excitement. "Where? Are you...nobility...?" "No," Rien said. "I'm not nobility. Both nobility and knighthood are status symbols I do not find of great importance. They require giving respect to people who often do not deserve it." "You'd make a hard follower for any lord." "I have no master. I do not follow a banner. What in my land is considered land ownership is treated as lordship here. When I first crossed the mountains, I had no real knowledge or understanding of the society I faced and in due time realized that here survival depends a lot more on the ability to fight and win. Naturally I apprenticed in the craft, was knighted in the field and in due time got where I am. The combination of these two make me a minor lord - a foreign dignitary. I am neither." "Your title is still 'Lord'," Kera said. "Why didn't you tell me?" "I wish you would ignore it, now that you do know," Rien said. "I prefer not attracting too much attention. It holds no value to me." "Yes, my Lord," Kera laughed. "And where did you learn to pick pockets?" she reminded him of a past event. "Same place as the real nobles?" "That I learned where I was born." "Not only are you a knight, but you used to be..." Kera started. 1 "A practical joker," Rien interrupted her. "Nothing more." "Of course," Kera said, somewhat mockingly. "And listen, it's well past your bed time." Rien looked up at the sun, higher in the sky than he has seen in the last few days of travel and turned his horse off the trail. Kera followed him until the forest path they were on was out of sight. There, in a small clearing, they made camp. "I take it you have a castle," Kera asked Rien after he secured the horses. "A small keep," he answered. "Why?" "And a lady waiting for you?" she continued. "No," Rien said. "My wife and I learned a long time ago that our life styles are too conflicting. She doesn't wait for me any longer. I haven't seen her in quite some time." Kera cast her eyes down. "I'm sorry. I thought that's what was holding you back." "It's a decision both she and I agreed on," Rien said. "You've done no harm by asking." "That still doesn't tell me why those plates are so much more comfortable for you," Kera looked up. "Perhaps I'm afraid to admit you're right." "You know I am," she answered, removing the plates of her armor. Astonished, Rien simply watched. Cril and his companions dismounted their horses at a small wooden cottage. Four dogs on long leashes barked wildly as they approached the door. Cril swung it open, startling the old man who was about to open it from the inside. "Can I help you, sir?" Tristin asked, wary of Cril's drawn sword and his two companions. Cril placed the tip of his weapon against the base of the hermit's neck and backed him into a wall. "I will give you only one chance to answer my question. I have reason to believe that two travelers, male and female, dressed in field armor, passed by here. How long ago was it and which way did they head from the crossroads up the trail?" Tristin stammered, unable to confront the danger he was in. "Now!" Cril yelled, applying pressure on his weapon. "They were here late this morning!" Tristin panicked. "They took the west path!" "Very good, old man," Cril said with a sneer, "but that was a chance too late." With a quick thrust, he shoved the sword through the hermit's throat. "The west trail!" Cril commanded his companions. "We're less than half a day behind." Rien turned over to the touch of something cold on his shoulder. Standing above him was a man with a sword, dressed in heavy leather. Behind and next to him, stood two more. "I doubt you could have caught us at a worse time," Rien said. Next to him Kera stirred and tried sitting up. "It's very nice of you to wait for us, Kera," one of the men, whom she recognized as Cril, said. "Liriss wants to see you...DEAD." Just then Rien thrust his feet out, causing the man standing over him to fall backwards and drop his sword. Grabbing the weapon, Rien rolled over, just in time to parry the second man's swing. He struck back with the sword, blade bouncing off his opponent's weapon and digging into his lower arm. The brigand jumped back, his weapon arm obviously useless. Parrying Cril's blow, Rien backed up to a tree, trying to gain a 1perspective on the field of combat. Kera, with her stiletto, was taking on the wounded man, who still tried to lead an offensive, using his off hand to wield his weapon. On the far side of the clearing was the man Rien tripped. He seemed indecisive without a weapon, torn between running and helping his friends. Instinctively Rien blocked a glint of steel aimed at his torso and counter struck. His sword broke the surface of Cril's armor, but did no real damage. In turn, Cril thrust his sword forward, leaving a scratch in Rien's side and getting the blade stuck in the tree. Rien swung his sword down, smashing it across the blade of his opponent and breaking Cril's grip on the hilt. Cril dodged a follow-up swing by moving back and fumbled with a dagger on his belt. Rien attempted another strike, but stopped when he saw Cril sinking down. Behind him stood Kera, holding her blood covered knife. A quick glance about the clearing indicated that she had won her fight and the third man had fled the battlefield. Wearily Rien dropped the sword and embraced Kera. The grey in his eyes slowly reverted to blue. "This is what I was afraid of," Rien finally said, casting Kera away. "Get dressed. We have no time to waste." Obediently Kera walked over to her bundle of clothes. "One man got away," she pointed out. "Without a weapon I doubt he will try anything. He's probably a long way from here by now." "You think there will be any more coming after us?" Rien looked up at Kera and noticing the blood on her arm, grabbed it. The wound was only superficial and he let her go. "You know Liriss better than I. Will there be more?" "Yes," Kera answered after a moment of thought. "He hates losing." "So do I," Rien said. "I am glad we took this break," Kera told Rien. "And only luck kept us alive," he answered. "It was negligence. Don't expect it to happen again soon." "Not soon?" Kera asked. "Then it will later?" Too many things had been happening for Rien to consider that. "I need to give it some thought." Kera stopped him with her bloody arm. "What's wrong? What do you need to think about? Three hours ago you looked like you were enjoying yourself." "This is wrong!" Rien said, holding Kera's bloody arm before her face. "That is wrong!" he thrust his arm out, pointing to the two dead bodies. "I see I'm the root of all your troubles!" Kera pulled her arm free. "Should I find my own way home?" "No," Rien said. "Too much has been done already. No matter where you are, there will be people after you and me. There's safety in numbers." Kera put her tunic on and started on the armor. "I honestly think you're more confused than I am." "Could very well be," Rien answered. When the two were ready, they set their assailants' horses free and mounting their own, took to the west path at the crossroads. They travelled five miles before it became too dark to go on and then stopped to make camp. As at all other night stops, no fire was lit, so not to attract unwanted attention. Rien restlessly paced the clearing, desperately hoping that for the time being, no one else was following them. The surprise he and Kera had received that afternoon was very sobering, considering that 1Dargon was a long way away. It would be wise to assume that the man who got away headed back to Dargon. With the horses no longer in his possession, the trip would take more than two weeks. If this was the only group Liriss sent, the next few days would not bring trouble. Of greatest importance now was finding the old witch, Maari, who hopefully was the same individual Taishent had mentioned. Was she going to help? More importantly, could she? Rien remembered Tristin's warning about the price. What would a witch want? Money would do no good in the forest... Rien continued pacing, wishing it were light, so he could relax his mind through hunting. Finally giving up, he sat down under a tree, sword across his lap and sat out the rest of the night with the impression of being the only one awake in the entire forest. The next day passed quietly, with Rien and Kera making their way to the fork in the road and starting on the last leg of their journey. They made good progress before darkness finally forced them to stop for the night, but excited about the nearing end of their quest, they resumed the journey well before sunrise. Halfway into the morning, the trail abruptly came to an end. It was well worn only up to a patch of grass that looked as if it had never been walked on. Rien and Kera exchanged bewildered glances and dismounted. "Maybe we took a wrong turn," Kera offered. Rien did not answer. "Maybe we went too far..." she tried again. Tying his horse to a tree, Rien walked back down the trail, examining the grass and shrubs on both sides. "There!" he finally pointed to a barely visible trail in the spring grass. "If not for the trail ending, we'd have missed this all together." "Why does the trail keep going past here, if it leads to nothing?" Kera wondered. "Perhaps Maari is a recluse," Rien suggested. "Not knowing to find anything here, most people would probably turn back." "You think this leads to the place?" Rien solidly put his foot on the fresh grass. "It leads somewhere." After a few hundred feet, the light trail once again turned to a well worn path, indicating that security was indeed the reason for the confusing trails. A while longer and a small cottage appeared in a clearing. It looked lived in, but not overly used. Rien and Kera approached the hut with caution, pausing at a wooden stand next to a wall. A large collection of herbs and dried roots were spread on it. "Look," Kera picked up a pair of gloves. "This doesn't look like leather." Rien took one of the gloves from Kera to examine it. Soft texture, much softer than leather, covered the outside and the inside consisted of short white fur. "This used to be a cat," he finally said, tossing the glove down. Kera almost dropped the glove she was holding. "Cat?" "What's so surprising?" Rien asked. "They make gloves of cow hide." "Cow hide, fine, but not cat," Kera insisted, laying down the other glove. "Cats are usually associated with daemons," Rien explained. "Thus, their coat can be assumed to be the power of a particular daemon. In this case, probably an old familiar." "Doesn't white represent purity?" Kera asked. 1 "Sometimes," Rien nodded. "That's why virgins are so often portrayed wearing white. It can also represent power, such as a bolt of lightning. Purple is another common display of strength, though it is not a common color for cats." He smiled. "Almost any attribute can be assigned to any color, if you do enough research." "What'cha two doing?" a female voice stopped Rien's explanation. Both he and Kera turned to face an old woman. "We are searching for a woman named Maari," Rien said innocently enough. "You won't find her on the table," the woman grunted. "What do you want?" "We came in search of help." "Did you now?" "Are you Maari?" Kera asked cautiously. "I am!" the old woman declared and moved to the other side of the table. She approached suspiciously, squinting. "Lift up your hair," she told Rien. He shifted uncomfortably. "Is there something wrong?" "Lift it up or leave," Maari insisted. Unwillingly Rien lifted his longer than average hair, revealing a pair of pointed ears. "Just like I thought!" Maari snapped. "An elf!" "Ljosalfar." Rien corrected with anger in his voice. "Ljosalfar, Dopkalfar. All elf to me," Maari said, pacing on the other side of the table with herbs. "If you are so knowlegable, then you should know that for me it does make a difference," Rien answered. "What sort of help do you need, Elf?" Maari ignored his statement. "A cure for lycanthropy." Maari paced the length of the table again. "That I can do." "In exchange for what?" Rien remembered Tristin's warning. "Go!" the witch looked at Kera. "Wait for me by those trees," Rien pointed to the edge of the clearing. "This won't take long." "I'm not..." Kera started to protest, but Rien's grim expression suggested for her to leave. She turned to go and Maari studied Rien until Kera was out of hearing range. "You're an elf. You have nothing of value for my type of magic, but she does." Rien glanced in Kera's direction. It was obvious what was coming. "She has a soul," the witch stressed. "I can use her life force to channel my magic!" "Her soul is not mine to give you," Rien said. "You will have to name a different price." "Any young life!" Rien set his jaw. "Don't look that way at me!" Maari warned. "I am offering you a cure. You will die without it! Only pure humans can survive lycanthropy!" "A young life..." Rien hesitated. To Maari, it might be just so easy, but he did not approve of magic such as hers. Perhaps she could be tricked. If nothing else, there was still time to stall for. "That may take time," he finally said. The old woman smiled and picked up a chalice from the table. "To seal the deal," she offered it to him. Accepting the drinking horn, Rien spilled its contents on the ground. "I seal deals with people, not daemons." Placing the chalice on the table, he extended his hand and the witch reluctantly shook it. "Now leave and bring me a dragon egg, to make you a cure. Don't come back without it!" "Dragon egg?" Rien cocked his head. 1 "Big lizards, with wings. They lay eggs." "I thought they were all dead," Rien said. "I'm sure you'll find one," Maari answered. "Your life depends on it." Gathering up some of the herbs on the table, Maari returned to the house. Rien watched her go, then picking up some blue flowers, rejoined Kera. "What's that?" she asked him. "Wolfsbane, Monkshood, Friar's Cap...depends on stem, leaf or flower. A poison, in any case." "What will you do with it?" "Fight a dragon." Kera's jaw dropped open. "Is that what she was telling you?" "She told me a lot," Rien said. "I'll tell you on the way back to the horses." Kera looked back to the cottage once more and accepted Rien's hand for the trip back. "Your ears are pointed," she suddenly reminded herself and him. "They are in most of my species." "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked. "I assumed you knew that about elves." "Rien!" He stopped, pulling his arm back. "My mother was Ljosalfar. My father human. Are you going to judge me?" "You can't help where or who you are born. No one has the right to hold that against you." Kera took his hands in hers. "I suspected something two days ago - it was hard not to notice, but...you're flesh and blood, like the rest of us." Reluctantly Rien permitted Kera to keep hold of him. "Yours isn't a typical human reaction." "I never considered myself typical," Kera said. "Did Maari agree to help us?" "She agreed," Rien answered, "but as payment she wants a subject to cast spells through. Necromancy, I assume." "Are you going to get her one?" Kera asked. "No. Life belongs to the person living it. Neither I, nor Maari, nor anyone else has the right to take another's life, except in self defence." "So she asked you for a dragon?" "That's a different story," Rien said. "She still expects a donation of life, but to cure us she wants a dragon egg. What do you know about dragons?" "They're large, breath fire and live in caves," Kera said. "Sounds like we know about the same," Rien sighed. "I wonder if Bistra wrote anything about it in his book." "We can check when we get back to the horses," Kera suggested. Rien nodded thoughtfully. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright May, 1989, DargonZine. All rights revert to the authors. These stories may not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E ||Volume 2 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 2, Issue 3 09/22/89 Cir 850 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DAG Dafydd Editorial Sons of Gateway 1: Ne'on Jon "Grimjack" Evans Vibr. 17-Fir. 7, '13 Unwelcome Encounter Carlo Samson Melrin 5, 1013 Fortunes Max Khaytsus 1 Yule, 1013 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dafydd's Amber Glow This will be very short. First, I will apologize to you loyal (and brand new) readers for the long wait between Issue 2 and Issue 3 of the second volume of DargonZine. The fault is purely mine, not our writers: my job has been rather hectic of late and I just couldn't find the time to put out an issue. Second, this is a second call and a confirmation for the DargonZine T-Shirts, which feature an artist's rendition of the Title figure of the 'Zine. All of those readers who ordered a shirt many moons ago, please get in contact with Rish again. Anyone wishing to order a shirt, please also contact Rish, who is the instigator and coordinator of this aspect of the Project. They cost $8 at last estimate, and final plans will be set two weeks after the date on this issue: if there aren't enough orders by then, he may have to scrap the idea as unfeasible at this time. Rish can be contacted at Thank you, and good reading. Dafydd, Editor DargonZine (b.c.k.a. White@BUVM.bitnet) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Sons of Gateway Part 1: Ne'on by Jon "Grimjack" Evans (b.c.k.a Kald hung his head low. He had been travelling for days in the cold of Baranur in Vibril. He didn't like the cold. He liked it even less when he discovered his trip was all for nothing. "Is there nothing you can do? This means more to him than anything else. If he can just have a chance . . ." "Kald, he failed." Marek's eyes were sympathetic. He knew how Kald felt. He had felt the same way when his son Jordan had failed. But Jordan had more than failed. Jordan was Drained. "There is nothing more I can do. He has great potential-" "Then let him try!" Kald's desperation worked loose of his morals. He placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. "You owe me . . ." The Leaf lowered his gaze. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but he should have known better. Kald always got his way. "Alright, but after this I can't help you again. IF you decide to take the offer I'm about to make." "Anything, I'll do it." Kald sensed he was rushing into this, but it was too important. His son was too important. "Hold on. Let me explain something first." Marek was very nervous; even thinking about the Draining made him flinch. "Chances are, your son will fail again. If that happens, his potential power will be drained from him. He will never work magic again. Not even the most simple magic skills will work for him. In addition, he'll be instructed by a higher mage, another Leaf most likely, and every thing he does will have to be perfect when he takes his Branch. Do you understand what that means?" "I do; and so does he." His voice trembled at the next thought. "Let him decide." Kald rose from his seat, his tired bones creaking loudly. As he strode out the door he turned, "Thank you, Marek." Ne'on couldn't believe it was happening. Sitting cross legged in the testing rooms, he contemplated the past two hours. He had arrived out of the cold Baranurian winter just in time to take the test. His father, eyes shining, was proud to have a son tested for apprenticeship. It was the first time he could ever remember his father being proud of him. "Ne'on, of Gateway Keep," the testing mage jarred him back to the present, "you have been accepted into the Nar-Enthruen, guild of apprentice mages. Congratulations, son of Kald." Ne'on was irritated by the way he was addressed. "Son of Kald," he muttered to himself. His mind filtered back to one of the myriad times in his life he wished he wasn't Kald's son. "Ne'on!" Kald's voice bellowed through the manor. His son did not join in the hunt today, and he wanted to know why. "Ne'on! Come here, you worthless sack of goat's meal!" Ne'on stumbled into the main hall of his father's home. Brushing back his long, snow-white hair and wiping the sweat off his brow with his sleeve, he stepped forward. "I am here, father," he gasped. Having run all the way from his study to the main hall in the short time Kald had been calling him was more exertion than he was accustomed to. Slightly light-headed with the effort, he wondered how he would withstand the daily oral barrage from his father. "You weren't at the hunt, today, boy. What were you doing? 1Studying?" Kald was seldom happy. He took no pleasure in being Keeper of Gateway - it was more politics than he considered necessary. The little pleasure he did get was from his weekly hunt; and today's excursion proved fruitless. Coming down hard on his sons had become second nature. 'Besides,' he thought, 'it's for their own good.' "Yes, father, I was studying." Ne'on's one pride was his familiarity with as many of the books in Gateway Keep as he could get his hands on. Cydrian had blessed him with more intelligence than his father, but an equally proportionate lack of strength. He had learned at an early age the power to be found in knowledge. "Knowledge is nothing without the strength to back your ideas!" Kald saw no use for education beyond learning to read and write. 'A sword can solve any problem' was his motto. "Strength you've been doing very little to build. When I was sixteen, I had the strength of your whole body in my right arm!" As if to prove this, he thrust his massive arm out in a fist, muscles bulging. "You've barely the strength to wield a blade, and hardly the skill to use it! Marcus says you haven't trained in days, let alone touch a quiver an-" Ne'on had had enough. "Bloodshed and barbarism are not my ways!! If you wish to kill like an animal, then do so. I prefer intelligence over strength!" Ne'on looked at himself in awe. Never before had he spoken out so blatantly against his father. Kald, however, was not quite so intrigued. "You prefer . . ." A low rumble, like an oncoming storm, was building inside Kald. "YOU prefer?! I don't care what YOU prefer!! YOU are not Keeper, here. And you shall not be. Goren is heir apparent at Gateway. YOU are to be First Warder. That means leading the men in any and all battle situations, as well as fortifying the Keep in times of war. Why should the men listen to you when they don't know they can trust you?! Why should they listen to you when they don't even know you? If it weren't for your ghost-like appearance, they wouldn't even recognize you at all!" Kald had had a long, tiring, and fruitless day. Obviously, this 'discussion' with his youngest son was proving just as rewarding. He gave up, and left his son standing alone in the large hall. 'Ghost-like,' thought Ne'on. His albino-pale skin did leave that impression, he supposed. 'The ghost of my mother, I'm told. If you had spent more time with her, and less time with this damn Keep, she might still be alive today. I wish she had died instead of you.' "Ne'on, would-be mage of the Guild!" Again, the Leaf's voice pulled him back from the past. "To be accepted into the Nar-Enthruen, you must succeed as apprentice to Qord, Leaf of the Guild. Is it your wish to do so?" "It is so." "Do you know what it means to fail the Nar-Enthruen?" The Leaf's voice was cold and foreboding. Ne'on knew he spoke about the Draining, the inevitable fate of all unfortunate apprentices. "I do." A hint of fear touched Ne'on's voice. "And do you still wish the knowledge?" A last chance to back out. Marek hoped the boy would take it. If Ne'on were to fail, Kald might become 'unreasonable', to say the least. 'More than anything', he thought. "I do!" All fear escaping in his final words, Ne'on stood firmly in his position, a great grin encompassing his face. "Welcome to the Guild, apprentice. Let's hope you survive the experience." A grim frown on his face, the mage shook Ne'on's hand and turned away. As his family congratulated him, he noticed a troubled look on his father's face. 'Why are you not proud, Father? Would that you 1could share my joy with me.' Ne'on began to feel sad for his father; but then, a voice spoke to him: "Do not trouble yourself with your father, Ne'on. He is jealous of the power you have which he can never attain! You should scorn him, for he begrudges you this moment." And Ne'on felt only bitterness toward Kald. "Ne'on," Qord's voice was soft with worry, "what do you think is the problem?" Qord was, of course, referring to Ne'on's past two months of study with the Leaf. Ne'on remembered these months well. Vibril, the month of his testing, had ended as well as its beginning. With the following Mertz, however, things had gotten much worse. He couldn't seem to concentrate correctly; and more than once he had started a fire while mixing potions, a potentially deadly mistake in the grass huts of the camp. His latest difficulty, last night's disaster involving a hog and a kitchen knife, turned out to be the worst yet. The hog was, supposedly, protected from the knife by Ne'on's spell. Instead, as Ne'on threw the knife near the hog, the hog dove straight into the knife's path, impaling itself in the head. Firil was not turning out to be a good month, starting with that catastrophe on the first. Qord thought it was a bad omen. "I do not know, Leaf Qord." The Guild mages of this section had a way of evaluating each other by tree parts. Ne'on was a Root, second lowest rank above apprentice. He had taken his "Grounding" - a test of the most simplistic skills - and passed easily. His Rooting, on the other hand, had not gone so well. He had burned more spell components for potions than any previous mage, and he might not pass his Bark at all! And failure there meant . . . "Do you know what . . . Draining is, Ne'on?" Qord's ancient visage trembled with the word. What was left of his hair shook in time with the chill running up his spine, and his eyes seemed almost to pop out. "Yes, O Leaf..." Ne'on tiredly replied. Qord had mentioned it time and time again since he fumbled his first potion. His familiarity with the word had lessened his fear of it a great deal. "No, young Root..." Qord's voice was cold and hard. He would teach this boy what the Draining was like. "You have only heard what it is . . . you do not know what it is. Let me show you. Close your eyes . . ." Ne'on closed his eyes. For a moment, he saw only blackness; then . . . He was in a large room, ornately decorated, with a large crystal on a pedestal. All around him, black-clad mages were chanting in a low, solemn voice. Up ahead, Qord lead him toward the crystal. "This is the Crystal of Strength, failed mage!" Qord's voice rang out strong and powerful in the hall. Ne'on was afraid. "Feel the Crystal, and know what it is to be Drained!!" The light of the hall grew dim as the Crystal began to glow a deep, dark purple. As Ne'on reached his hands toward the Crystal, a force pulled them closer. Instinctively, he tried to break away, but he couldn't! He was trapped! Slowly, his hands grew numb, and the Crystal began to pulse with the beat of his heart. "No.." Ne'on's voice was hoarse and stifled. The beating of his heart grew loud, and his arms were numb to his shoulders. Louder and louder, the Crystal and his heart pulsed faster and faster. He felt his head pounding - the numbness reached his chest, driving toward his heart. Desperately, he tried to pull away, each attempt useless. The noise beat louder, his pulse beat quicker - soon, it would have him! 1 "NO!!" he screamed, scrambling back against the wall. He was breathing very heavily and his heart was racing. The light of Qord's room filled his eyes as he recognized his teacher sitting across the room from him, frowning. "Your father was wrong, you were not ready for this. Damn Marek and his eternal debts! He should have known-" Qord caught himself in mid thought and hoped the boy was too frightened from the illusion to hear him. "What's that?" called Ne'on, half dazed from his experience, but still quick enough to understand. "What are you saying? My father got me in here? Not my ability?" Ne'on stared in disbelief. For the first time he could recall, his father had thought of Ne'on, and not himself. Ne'on did not hate his father, then; but, again, a voice spoke to him: "Ne'on, do not be proud of your father. Have you forgotten how he covets your talent? How he would destroy you and take your power for his own? He does not send you here for your benefit, but for his! He would consign you to this hell, rather than let you live your life in peace! But, do not be dismayed! You can overcome this obstacle and revenge yourself upon him yet! Him, and your bastard brother Goren who would rob you of your rightful fate!" And, as before, Ne'on was bitter. He hated his father, and silently swore to pass the upcoming tests, to become a powerful wizard, in order to bring about his revenge. "Your potential is great, Ne'on." Qord attempted to be soothing. He saw the hatred in Ne'on's face, the likes of which he hadn't seen in some great time. He attempted to sooth this part of Ne'on, turn it to good. "Imagine people are mountains, and magic is the wind," began Qord, his words all but bouncing off of Ne'on. He continued anyway, not knowing what else to do. "When the wind blows, it goes around the mountains. Now imagine a few mountains can let the wind pass through them, affecting it, and shaping it, as it goes through. Most of these mountains, we mages, can affect and shape magic only to a certain extent. You, however, can do more than most of us. You can shape and affect the magic to a greater extent - if only you would concentrate on what you are doing! Concentrate, Ne'on! You've got the ability! I'd hate to see it Drained..." With that, Qord stood up, brushed himself off, and retired for the evening. Ne'on was left to think alone once more. After a few minutes of bitter recollection, he left for his own room. In the morning, he would pack his horse and ride to Gateway. He promised Qord he would return, and he never went back on his word. The gentle Firil air fluttered over Ne'on, blowing his long, unkempt hair behind him. Sitting on his horse, Koros, he removed his cape so the guardsmen would recognize him. He nodded slightly as he entered, urged Koros into the main courtyard of the keep, and headed toward his father's home. In the dimming sunlight of the evening, he made out the sign to his second favorite dwelling, the River Snake's Den, where he sometimes attempted to outlast the tavern keeper's stock of ale. Sliding out of the saddle, he realized how much he wanted a flask, or two, before he met with his father. Besides, the class of people one met in the 'Den had more . . . "character" than those found in the Riverside Parlor. A class of people he would be needing in the future. Entering the main room, he signalled Mika and took his usual seat in the back of the room. After Mika delivered the ale, Luke "the acquirer" slid into the chair opposite him. Luke was one of those people Ne'on was hoping to meet here tonight; in fact, he was perfect for the job. He was looking a little less than wealthy at the moment; Ne'on decided to make the offer now. 1 "Must have been a slow winter," began Ne'on. He found insulting Luke's type of person was never profitable - intimidation was the key. Intimidation, and then an offer. "By the looks of it, you barely kept the meat on your bones. Didn't make it to Magnus, eh?" "And what of it?" Luke didn't particularly like the way the past winter had gone. He was a respectable thief; it wasn't his fault he got stuck in this rat hole for the season. If he had made it to Magnus, that would be different. Plenty of opportunities in Magnus, when you knew where to look for them, and he had connections. "What if I told you I had a permanent offer for you here? No need to go all the way to Magnus for funds..." Ne'on's voice shook a little - he tightened his grip on his mug and took a drink. He was hesitant. He knew an offer which sounded good and was eagerly offered would cost him a great deal. And yet, he wanted Luke, not a lesser mongrel. "An offer that paid well, and gave you status here at Gateway?" Luke looked around for a moment. 'Status', he thought. 'Status and money,' he thought greedily. When Ne'on said "paid well", he meant gold. "Whadda I haf ta do?" "Find me ten good swordsmen. Not common ruffians; not back-stabbing mongrels. I want men who know the blade." Ne'on didn't want to imagine the kind of men Luke would find if he hadn't added that last statement. Feigning curiosity, "Can you handle a sword?" "I can make do - killed more'n my share o' mugs." This was true. Before he had learned to steal quietly, he had killed more men than he had stolen from. "Whaddaya want wi' swordsmen? And how do I fit in th' picture? I mean, how do I benefit from it?" "These men must be loyal to their employer. They are to be my personal guard. Your part will be to lead them. I'll give you ten golds for each man you bring me. Their pay will be five golds a month. Yours will be ten a month. All I want you to do is enforce my will and guard me. Agreed?" Ne'on offered his hand a bit too quickly, and Luke knew he could get more. "I don't know...ten golds isn't very much for a personal body guard..." Luke was never one to settle for less, when he could get more. Ten gold coins a month would be comfortable living for him; but, if he could get more... "Ten, and not a copper more. There are a dozen others here I could have do this job for me." Ne'on was mildly annoyed, but he knew it was his own mistakes to which Luke was responding. "Yeah, well; maybe you could, and maybe you couldn'." Ne'on's point was well taken; unfortunately, Luke's downfall had always been his greed. "'Course, them what'll take ten don't know 'bout your previous business wi' me. Fifteen seems more 'propriate ta me . . ." "Fifteen!" Ne'on's eyes flared. Without realizing it, his hand glowed a hot red, blackening a small portion of the table. Instantly, subconsciously, Ne'on summoned the magic within him, fully intending to melt the maggot where he sat. And for a third time, the voice spoke to him: "No, Ne'on - hold your anger! Use him now. Kill him once his purpose is served!" As suddenly as he started, he stopped. This time with eyes sparkling, "I suppose my life is worth three times the amount a city guard makes. Fifteen it is, then! It's a deal." Extending his no-longer glowing hand, they sealed the deal. "Deal!" grabbed Luke, anxious for money and quite pleased with himself. "When do ya need these men?" he asked. "Four months," he said. "If I need more time, I'll let you know." Tossing a pouch of silver on the table, "Here's a downpayment. It should last you till then." He got up and left. As he walked out the door, he heard Luke call Mika for a tankard of ale. 1 Entering Winston Manor - the house of his father - he tossed his cloak to Horrace, the butler. "Send a meal and some wine up to my room," he barked. As an after thought, "And get a fire started; it's going to be cold tonight. Ignoring Horrace's humble reply, he walked through the main hall, making his way to his father's study. He knew his presence in Gateway had been reported. He would have to make a small show of affection toward his father, at least. Entering his father's chambers, he saw Kald at his desk, drinking his nightly flask of wine. 'A useful tool, that flask,' he noted with sudden inspiration. "Hello, father." As he crossed the room, Kald stood up to greet him. "Ne'on, my son! What brings you to Gateway?" Slapping his son on the shoulder, "Did you miss your old father? Come, sit by the fire. You look much older since I last saw you." Kald's eyes shone brightly, and Ne'on thought for a moment that he might not kill him after all. Then he remembered the Draining, and quickly dispelled his forgiveness. "I have recently discovered discipline in my life," was his response. Sitting down in front of the fire, he poured wine for the two of them, the red light of the fire flickering off the silver goblets. "Discipline . . . and purpose." He smiled. "Purpose, eh?" his father teased him, "what's her name? It's about time you became interested in a woman!" "It's not that, father." Seeing the disappointment in his father's eyes, "but it is something I think you'll like." Ne'on paused for a moment, letting a wry smile curl the corners of his mouth. "I want to have a keep of my own, some day. One very much like this one." "Well, tell me all about it! Perhaps I can help you!" Kald smiled, finally having something in common with his son. Ne'on laughed at the irony of it all. "Yes, father," he said. "Perhaps you can . . ." Ne'on strode toward his brother's chambers. He knew exactly how he would rid himself of both his brother and his father, and he determined to make it as painful as possible. The hallway echoed as a metal ring struck Goren's door. When Goren opened the door, he could hardly believe his eyes. "What are you doing here?" he snapped, as he returned to his seat. Taking a sip from his flask, he calmed himself. "You are supposed to be with your magical friends, not haunting this house. What's the matter, run out of stray cats to torture?" There was no love lost between the brothers. Goren had realized several years ago Ne'on's heart was filled with hatred and bitterness. He was surprised nothing had come of it, yet. "It is nice to see you, too, Goren," mocked Ne'on. "I see your wit has improved with your age." Ne'on had also come to a realization, several years ago. This was the fact Goren was everything their father loved, and everything Ne'on hated. Taller than the average man, Goren stood a full head over Ne'on. His shoulders were broader, and he rivalled even Kald in his skill with the bow. Goren also had the dark hair and eyes of their father. And, Goren was all that stood between himself and the keep. "Enough with the niceties, Ne'on. You are here for a reason. What is it?" Goren also had all the intelligence and tact of their father, as well as his stubborn attitude and hot-headed reactions. Ne'on knew this could only help him. "Why Goren!" Ne'on sarcastically feigned surprise. "What would ever possess you to think I was here for any other reason than to visit our poor, aging father?!" Ne'on took a seat next to his brother. 1"I wanted to sit and talk with him about my plans for the future. In fact, I just got back from telling him how I planned to have a keep of my own, some day." Ne'on paused for a moment, "just like this one!" "Wrong, Ne'on!" Goren flared with his realization. "You'll have to kill both father and me! Even you couldn't get away with that!" There was a moment of silence. Ne'on's visage became grim. "I don't think you understand," he spoke with a voice of ice. "I don't want you to die. I want you to live! Live to see me Keeper of Gateway, while you wallow away the days in misery knowing you could have prevented it." He drew a knife from within his robes. "Here, Goren," he offered, "take my blade. Kill me, and save our father." Goren reached for the knife, stopped, started again, and stopped again. Finally, the battle ended. "No, Ne'on." He turned away, not able to determine if he had made the right choice. "I couldn't do that, and you know it." With Goren's back to him, Ne'on took the flask from Goren's table. "Yes, brother," he sneered, hiding the flask in his robes, "I know it." "Then know this, Ne'on," warned Goren, softly, "I shall stop you from taking Gateway if I have to burn it down around you." Ne'on chuckled as he walked out of the room. "We shall see, brother. We shall see!" His laugh stayed in his brother's mind for a long time. Ne'on was about to cross a line Goren had seen drawn a long time ago. He would stop Ne'on, when the time came. Ne'on left early the next morning, riding toward the Nar-Enthruen. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Unwelcome Encounter by Carlo N. Samson Cydric Araesto stood at the rail of the trading ship _Vanguard Voyager_ and looked out over the deep green waters of the Laraka River. The mid-morning sun warmed his face, and a gentle breeze whispered through his short brown hair. For a while he watched a seagull wheel about in the clear spring sky; then a glint of something on the horizon caught his attention. Squinting and shading his eyes to get a better view, he made it out to be a small patch of shimmering haze. He stared at it for several minutes, then decided it must be a kind of mirage, similar to the illusions of water reported by desert travelers. "Cydric! There you are. Aren't you glad to be done with your chores? Brynna's been working me like a slave all morning! Pox, if I didn't know better I'd swear this was a prison ship. Sometimes I don't know why I ever became her cabin girl." The young man turned at the sound of the voice and smiled as Mandi Mercallion approached him, her mandolin slung across her back. A gust of wind disarrayed the curls of her tawny-auburn hair; with a look of annoyance, she smoothed her locks back into place. Her expression brightened as she came to stand next to Cydric. "I don't know if you should be speaking ill of the captain," he said, turning to face the girl. "Why not? She's only my cousin, and if she does anything to me I'll simply tell Uncle Quill. I'm his favorite niece, you know." "Not a very mature way to handle it, but effective." Mandi swatted him playfully. "Oh, you. Shall we get started? Where do you want to do it?" Cydric looked around the deck for a place where they would be out of the crew's way. He settled on a spot further up the starboard rail, near a stack of lashed-down crates. As they walked over to the space, Mandi asked him, "How's it going in the galley? Oddfoot didn't give you anything tiring to do this morning, did he?" "No, nothing besides the usual kitchen duty," Cydric replied. "Good," Mandi said. "I mean, if you're too tired to do it right now, we can always wait 'till we arrive home." "It's no problem. I've actually been looking forward to it all morning." They reached the place Cydric had selected. He took off his vest, while Mandi slipped the mandolin off her back. "Is there any particular position you want me in?" she asked. Cydric took out a charcoal stick and a piece of parchment from his vest. "Well, why don't you stand next to the rail, and hold the mandolin like this." Mandi moved to where he pointed, and copied the position of his arms. "This way?" "Yes, perfect. Now hold that pose." "What if I put my leg this way? Does that look better?" "That's fine. Okay, now--" "How's my hair? It hasn't gone flat, has it?" "Mandi!" "Sorry. I'll be still now," she said with a slight giggle. Cydric sat down on a crate. Using a piece of polished wood one of the crew had given him earlier as a writing surface, he began to sketch on the parchment. He outlined Mandi's figure, then quickly filled in the background. As looked out at the horizon, he noticed that the patch of distant haze had gotten somewhat larger. He didn't realize that he'd been staring at it until Mandi spoke. "What is it? Do you see something out there?" she asked, starting 1to turn. "No, nothing. Just glare, I suppose." Cydric returned to his sketching. He drew in Mandi's loose tunic and tight leggings, then worked on her face: a small, pert nose, softly blushed cheeks, an impish smile. Just then a tall, sandy-haired man swaggered up to them. "Hey, dovey, what're you doing?" "Oh pox, not you Danner," said Mandi, dropping her pose. "Why don't you leave us alone?" Ignoring Cydric, the brawny youth stepped up close to Mandi and laid a hand on her shoulder. "Leave you alone, dovey? Not me. All through my duty shift all I could think about was you. How about us going below and--" "Excuse me," Cydric said, putting down the sketch and rising. "We were in the middle of something here." Mandi shoved Danner's hand away. "That's right. Cydric was making a nice drawing of me. Now we'd like to get on with it, so please just let us be." "Oh, so he's an artist, is he?" Danner turned to face Cydric. "He hasn't been doing naked drawings of you, has he? I'd hate to think that's why I haven't seen you all week." "Of course not, you swine! And besides, if he was it wouldn't be any of your business." "Look, Danner, maybe you should go visit with someone else," said Cydric. "Go draw a seagull, sissy boy," Danner sneered. "And if I catch you with Mandi again, the only thing you'll be able to draw is breath. And barely that." Mandi interposed herself between the two young men. "Don't you threaten him! What makes you think I want to be with you, anyway?" Danner grinned. "What about that night back in Dargon? You wanted to be with me then. I couldn't get you off me until you fell asleep." "You lying mouthful of fleas! You just wish it were true. We all know how you can't get a girl--not even a queenie!" "You want me and you know it." To Cydric's surprise, Danner grabbed Mandi and roughly kissed her on the lips. "Pox!" sputtered Mandi, shoving him away. Cydric swiftly went over and took hold of Danner's shirt. "See here! Who do you think you are?" Danner looked down at Cydric and slowly grinned. "I think I'm about to split your skull." Just then Cydric remembered that Danner had once punched a hole in a keg of ale when the cork had become stuck. Releasing his hold, Cydric said, "I see the light's better on the other side of the ship, Mandi. Let's go over there, shall we?" Danner gripped Cydric by the tunic and hoisted him upward. "Ever see the birds up close, sissy boy?" Cydric tried to back away, but found that his feet no longer touched the deck. Smiling frantically, he said, "Perhaps we could settle this another way?" "How about with swords?" said a voice from near Danner's shoulder. Cydric looked over and saw with relief that it was Tyrus Kayne, First Mate of the _Voyager_, who had spoken. Pressing the point of his cutlass against Danner's side, Kayne said, "Let's be civilized about this, what say?" Danner started and let Cydric go. "We were just having a bit of fun, sir. Nothing wrong with that." "He was about to mash Cydric into pudding!" Mandi exclaimed. "Spend your offshift with your bunkmates, Danner," said Kayne. "Or you'll be swallowing the anchor cold." 1 "Aye, sir," Danner mumbled. He cast a hostile glance at Cydric, then walked away. "Now, what was all that foaming about?" Kayne asked. Mandi quickly explained Danner's intrusion. "He's at it again, is he?" Kayne said when Mandi had finished. "Acting like a snupper so the Captain'll let him out of his contract. Well, I'll have a speak with him; but meanwhile, I caution you both keep him upwind until we make port. Think you can stay out of a wrinkle for a couple of hours?" "Yes sir," Cydric said. "And--thanks." Kayne nodded. "Don't mention it. Wouldn't want a new crewman to end up as pudding." He sheathed his sword and headed astern. "Maybe we should do this another time," Cydric said when Kayne had gone. "Why? Danner won't bother us again. And even if he does, you'll be able to handle him." "I probably would have been killed if Kayne hadn't come by." "I don't think so. You were very brave, to stand up for me like that." "Well, why wouldn't I? If it wasn't for you I wouldn't be with the ship at all--getting seasick, sweating in a hot galley, being threatened by possessive sailors...." Mandi giggled and patted him on the cheek. "Yes, and I'm glad you enjoy it so!" Cydric grinned. "Now, where were we?" Mandi started to resume her pose when a long-haired crewman came up to them. "Hey-o, Cydric! Captain wants to see you--in her cabin," he said. "We're never going to get this done," sighed Mandi. "We can continue this later. I'm almost finished, anyway." Cydric carefully folded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket. He thanked the crewman, and headed for the lower deck hatchway. "Hey, I'm coming too!" Mandi said, hurrying to catch up with him. "What do you think she wants you for?" "I don't know." He looked back, but the crewman who delivered the message was engaged in a dicing game with several others. "Should I have asked?" "Better not, now," said Mandi. "They take their gaming extremely seriously." They reached the hatchway and descended the stairs to the mess room. A short, stocky man in his late fifties was wiping off the long wooden tables with a multi-colored cloth. He appeared oblivious to the pair's approach. "Hi, Oddfoot!" Mandi called. The old ship's cook made no reply. The girl walked up to him and tapped his shoulder; Oddfoot turned and smiled broadly. Mandi repeated her greeting, making a hand gesture at the same time. The cook nodded and wordlessly gestured in response. He turned to Cydric and made the same sign. "Hello Oddfoot," said Cydric, making the appropriate motions in reply. "Does the, ah, Captain want to see me?" He signed his question as he spoke. The cook frowned and signed to Mandi, who broke into a laugh. "That wasn't exactly a joke," said Cydric, puzzled. "You just asked him, 'Does a capstan wet seaweed?'" she explained. "I really must practice more," Cydric replied, slightly embarrassed. Mandi signed the correct question to the deaf cook. He nodded, and pointed to the other door out of the room. She thanked him and left with Cydric. 1 "Don't worry, he knows you're still learning the hand-speak," said Mandi as the walked down the hallway. "Couldn't the Captain just have hired a hearing person?" Mandi stopped and turned to him, hands on her hips. "I'm surprised at you, Cydric! Don't you know Oddfoot is considered the best ship's cook this side of the Valenfaer? We're lucky to have him! Anyway, what does hearing have to do with making great food?" Cydric scratched the back of his head and smiled apologetically. "I don't know what I'm talking about, do I?" "In two languages, yet!" Mandi said, shoving him playfully. They continued on. Three doors from the captain's cabin Mandi stopped. "Let's check on Scarabin," she suggested. They entered the room of Brynna's Master-at-Arms. "Hi, Scar! How're you feeling?" Mandi said to the lean, dark- skinned figure occupying the single bed. "Ah, Mandi. Cydric. Good that you stopped by," Scarabin said, his Desert accent nearly obscuring his words. He raised his head slightly, grimacing as he did so. "Now, Scar! Remember what Oddfoot said. You've got to rest. Razorworms don't die overnight, you know." Mandi gently pushed the Lashkirian back down. "How everything is, above?" he asked Cydric. "Just fine. Nothing exciting to report." "These worms in my gut, how they feed!" Scarabin muttered. "A bed is no place for a warrior. If pirates attack, the Captain will need me for battle." "Brynna wants you to get better," said Mandi. "Besides, it's not your fault. Danner's the one who put the worms in your stew." "A dog-skin rug, he is, when I have my health back!" "We hope you recover soon," said Cydric. "Relax now, and I'll bring your medicine later," said Mandi. Scarabin smiled faintly as the two left the room. They came to Brynna's cabin. Cydric knocked on the door, but received no answer. Mandi went in anyway, motioning for Cydric to follow. A large map hung on the left wall of the room; directly beneath stood a long desk and a chair. Opposite the door was a bed and on the right wall hung various objects. "I suppose she stepped out for a moment," Mandi said, turning up the lantern that was mounted next to the door. Cydric went over to the map and located the Laraka River, on the northwestern edge of the continent called Cherisk. He put his finger on the town of Shark's Cove, on the Laraka's outlet to the Valenfaer Ocean, and traced the river's path inland to Port Sevlyn, their current destination. He continued on past Gateway Keep, and stopped at the city of Magnus. He shook his head at the memory of his home there, and the events that had caused him to leave. Pushing the thoughts out of his head, he turned and examined the Captain's desk. A piece of dragon's horn scrimshaw weighted down a loose stack of papers; next to them was a large leatherbound book. Cydric tried to make out the gold-scripted title, but the words were in an unfamiliar language. "Look at this, Cydric," Mandi said, tapping him on the shoulder. He looked up to see a demon's face laughing at him through twisted, gaping jaws. "Yaah!" he said, nearly jumping out of his skin. Mandi removed the mask and giggled. "Scared you!" "Ah, no you didn't," Cydric replied, trying not to breath fast. "It's only a Melrin mask from Comarr. If we arrive early enough today we may be able to catch the festival dance." She went over and replaced the mask on the other wall. "Here's something that won't 1scare you," she said, taking down a large intricately carved wooden bow. "One of Brynna's most favorite things." "Should you be touching it, then?" Cydric said as he joined her. "She doesn't mind," Mandi replied, holding it out to him. Cydric took the bow and examined it. Lines of gold and silver traced complex patterns on the back and face. "Very nice workmanship--probably made for a prince or a king," he remarked. "Are you any good at archery?" "A little. I do better with swords." A voice from the doorway said, "That's quite all right. I'm not such a crack shot myself." Cydric and Mandi turned to see Captain Brynna Thorne enter the room. She tucked the last bite of a dried fig into her mouth and wiped her lips with a handkerchief. "You wanted to see us, Brynna?" Mandi asked as Cydric replaced the bow onto its peg. "I only asked for Cydric," she replied. "Haven't you anything else to keep you occupied?" "I won't be in your way. Really! Let me just stay." Brynna sighed and ran a hand through her slightly curled shoulder-length hair, black except for a streak of blue running down the left side, by her forehead. "Oh very well. Just don't start playing that mandolin, straight?" "Straight! I mean, right," Mandi said, laying the instrument on the bed and plopping herself beside it. Brynna sat down behind the desk and motioned for Cydric to come forward. "Pull up that stool over there and have a seat." When he had done so, she said, "We'll be docking before midday, so there won't be much more for you to do until then. I've been watching you all week, and have made my decision on whether to keep you on or not." Cydric thought back to the night in Shark's Cove when Brynna had signed him on. Noting his inexperience, she had accepted him on the condition that he could be discharged if she found his performance to be unsatisfactory. Mandi leaped up. "Yes? Well? What?" she asked excitedly. Brynna gave her a quiet-down look, then said to Cydric, "You've done tolerably well, for a landling. I think you could make it as a shipman, if that was your bent. So I'm going to let you decide your fate--I'd be glad to have you, but you may have changed your mind." Before Cydric could reply, Mandi danced over to him and put her arms around his shoulders. "Stay on with us, please! If you do it'll be most fun--Brynna's planning a voyage AROUND THE WORLD! Isn't that the most exciting thing you're ever heard in your life?" The Captain made a sound of irritation and twisted the blue streak in her hair. "Gods' breath, girl, I can't tell you anything!" "Oh!" Mandi exclaimed, putting her hand over her mouth. "Forget I said that, Cydric. It's not supposed to be known just now. Pretend you never heard it. Sorry, Bryn." "It's Captain, when we're on the ship," answered Brynna. "Sit down and be quiet, all right?" Mandi went back to the bed. "Anyway, Cydric, did you have an answer for me?" The young man paused before replying. He had been considering leaving the ship and finding other employment, but Mandi's revelation now changed his mind--a voyage around the world was exactly the kind of adventure he had been yearning for ever since he abandoned his royal heritage. He decided not to ask Brynna for details about the trip; she would no doubt tell him were he to become a regular member of the crew. "Yes," he finally said. "I've been thinking about it for some time. I want to stay." 1 "Oh goodie!" Mandi said, springing up once again and hugging Cydric. "I was hoping you would." "Very well," said Brynna, a faint smile on her lips. "Now all that remains is the standard articles of agreement--" Just then a crewman burst into the room. "Captain! Beggin' your pardon, but you'd better come on deck quick! There's somethin' you have to see." "What is it?" Brynna asked, rising from her chair. "I don't know, rightly, but master Kayne says it's real strange." Brynna, Cydric, and Mandi followed the crewman up onto the deck. "Captain! Over here," Kayne called from the starboard rail. The three made their way over to him. "What's the trouble, Kayne?" Brynna asked. "See for yourself, Captain," he replied, motioning outward. Cydric looked to where the first mate pointed. At first he saw nothing, then became aware of a large rippling air mass drifting over the surface of the water about two leagues distant. He surmised that it was the same shimmering haze he had noticed earlier. "What do you make of it?" queried Brynna. "Fog or sea-mist it isn't," the first mate replied. "But stiffed if I can say what it is. I was watching a flock of barjee birds when they just went blurry for a second. Thought I was losing my sight, but then the lookout spotted the same thing." Brynna frowned. "Peculiar. Mandi, fetch the spyglass please." The young girl hurried off, and returned a few minutes later with the requested item. Brynna studied the strange transparent rippling through the ocular for a few moments, then shook her head. "You fathom what it is, Captain? " asked Kayne. "I'm not sure. But whatever it's birth, it appears to be moving towards us." "Moving towards us?" echoed the first mate. Brynna handed him the spyglass. "Do you think it's dangerous?" Mandi asked. "Perhaps not, but I don't want to go petting the sharks," said Brynna. She strode back to the quarterdeck and ordered the helmsman to steer well clear of the shimmering mass. Cydric felt the ship lurch slightly as it came about onto its new heading. Moments later, Kayne shouted, "I think it's still with us, Captain! Looks like it's getting larger, too." Brynna dashed to the rail. The rippling entity had apparently altered it's direction to match the ship's; it was now on a direct collision course. "Damn peculiar," said Brynna. She ordered another course change, but the shimmering mass still stayed with them. "Still think it might not be dangerous?" asked Kayne. Brynna bit her lip. "Sorcerous, more likely," she murmured. She took Kayne aside and spoke to him in a low voice. Cydric tried to listen but was unable to hear what they said. A moment later, Kayne's eyebrows shot up and a look of understanding came over his face. "You fathom that's what it is?" he said aloud. "I hope I'm wrong," Brynna replied. "But we have to be ready in case I'm not. Alert the crew, then--battle readiness. Prepare the scorpion for firing." "Aye, Captain." Kayne left to carry out the orders. Cydric looked over at Mandi, who had been staring at the mass and apparently missed the exchange. He started to tell her about it when she turned and said, "You know what it looks like, Cydric? Heat waves. What if it's just a ball of heat coming towards us?" "Ball of heat, indeed," said Brynna, approaching them. "Mandi, I want you to go below and secure the cabin, then stay there. Straight?" 1 "Me?" Mandi said, eyes wide. "But Brynna--" The klaxon bell sounded, followed by Kayne's call to action stations. "You'll just be in the way up here. Cydric, take her down, would you? Go now, please." She abruptly turned on her heel and left to oversee the preparations. The deck came alive with crewmen hustling back and forth, preparing to defend the ship against its possible danger. "She must think I'm a child or something," Mandi said indignantly as they headed for the entrance to the lower deck. "She's just concerned about your safety," Cydric replied. "We don't even know what's out there, and she's acting if it was a fleet of pirates or something! It could be just a trick of the eye, you know. I've heard stories about people being lost at sea for months who've thought they saw the All Creator riding a horse backwards while eating a chunk of smoked meat." "I doubt that's what it is. In any case, you'd be safest down below." Mandi stopped and put her hands on her hips. "And what about you? You've been at sea barely a week. You ought to be down there as well." "Cydric! Come with me!" Kayne called as he dashed past. "Hellblaze, Mandi--just go, please? For my sake, if nothing else?" Cydric gently squeezed her arm. "But--oh, since you asked nice, I'll go." She started toward the lower deck hatchway, then stopped and turned. "But only until it gets exciting." Cydric waited until she had disappeared below, then hurried to join Kayne. The first mate was waiting for him at the scorpion. The large crossbowlike weapon was swivel-mounted amidships, a little forward of the main cargo hatch. "Finally getting a little action, eh Cydric?" Kayne said. "Yes, sir," the young man replied. "But shouldn't we try to understand what's out there first?" "The Captain's got a notion, and if she's right we'll all be hard up in a clinch." "Oh. Sorry sir, I didn't mean to be questioning orders." "Ah, I won't tell. But, it's better to be safe than flotsam, right? Righto. Well, let me show you how this old girl works." He turned to the three men manning the scorpion. "Line to bow, forty-five up, and hold." Two of them turned separate cranks that aligned the weapon with the bowsprit, and tilted the barrel upward. The third took a large, heavy spear from a nearby long box, dipped the head into a pot of tar, then loaded the projectile into the groove along the top of the barrel of the scorpion. "When I give the signal, all you have to do is set the spear head on fire. Then we pull back the bowstring and let her fly! And pray that it hits, of course." "I understand, sir," Cydric said. "Good. Now take these." Kayne handed him an unlit torch and a piece of flint & steel. "Be ready when the Captain gives the word." "Aye, sir," acknowledged Cydric. Kayne clapped him on the shoulder and proceed astern to join Brynna. The two crank operators started chatting amongst themselves. "So, what do you think it is?" Cydric asked the spear loader. The large bearded man shrugged and began chanting a prayer against evil. "Ah, I see. You could be very well be right," Cydric said as the man lifted his arms to the sky and begged for deliverance. Edging away, Cydric looked out again at the mysterious rippling mass. As he watched, it appeared to lose speed slightly, but continued moving 1toward the ship. A frantic shout jolted him out of his thoughts. "The wind's dying, Captain!" The crewman who had made the observation gestured up at the rigging. Cydric saw that the sails, previously full and billowing, were now flapping idly. He realized that the ship was slowing in its forward motion. The crew began muttering in consternation. The spear loader stopped his frantic praying just long enough to advise Cydric to light his torch. "Hard a-port, while we've still got headway!" called Brynna. "All hands clear for action. Stinger crew stand ready." The ship began turning in a slow arc, and soon came to drift with its port side facing the shimmering mass. Cydric got the torch lit just as Kayne returned to the scorpion. "What do you make the target distance, Flix?" the First Mate asked. "Hard to say, sir," replied the spear loader. "It's like looking for a black cat in the dark. I'd say about a league, though." "Fine," Kayne said. He took a sighting on the nearly invisible mass using an astrolabe-like device. "Okay, lads-- thirty-five marks port, down five, and hold." As the men brought the weapon to bear on the mass, Kayne turned in Brynna's direction and called, "Stinger clear and steady, Captain! Just give the word." "Very well, Kayne. Steady on." Brynna raised the spyglass to her eye. Cydric shifted the torch from hand to hand as he watched the mass of rippling waves draw closer to the ship. As it drifted nearer, the area of distortion it caused became larger and easier to see. The sky behind it appeared to writhe and undulate like a heap of restless snakes. "Close enough, I think," said Brynna, snapping the spyglass away from her face. "Fire when ready, Kayne!" The First Mate quickly took another sighting. "Port plus three, up two, and pull," he said. The men made the corrections and cranked back the bowstring. "Light up!" Cydric set the spear head afire. "And let her fly!" The spear shot away into the sky. Cydric watched as the projectile gracefully sailed through the air, curved off into the distance and shattered in a burst of flame against the shimmering mass. The crew's cheers became shouts of dismay. "Cirrangill's blood!" exclaimed Kayne. A dark patch appeared at the center of the shimmering. From it emerged a bright green globe which darted with amazing speed straight toward the _Vanguard Voyager_. Cydric quickly predicted the impact point and flung himself away from the scorpion a second before the globe struck the weapon and caused it to explode amid a shower of green flames. Bits of wood and metal rained down on the deck. Cydric lay flat on his stomach, sheltering his head from the shrapnel. When no more fell, he looked up and saw Mandi crouching before him. "Cydric! Are you all right? Did you get any splinters in you?" "What are you doing up here?" hissed Cydric, glancing quickly around. Most of the crew were still covering their faces against the blast. "The Captain will have my head if she sees you!" "Is anyone hurt?" Brynna called, brushing debris from her hair. Flix the spear loader and one of the crank operators reported injuries. She instructed them to report to Oddfoot for treatment. 1 "Better go," Cydric said. Mandi nodded and started back. She was halfway to the hatch when Brynna caught sight of her. "I thought I told you to stay below, Amanda!" the Captain said, striding toward the girl. "I heard the noise--just wanted to see what it was," Mandi hastily explained. Brynna gestured for her to be silent. "Cydric, take Mandi down again. And this time stay with her!" "Right, Captain," Cydric said. He took Mandi by the hand and led her to the lower deck hatchway. As they started to descend the stairs, Cydric looked once more at the rippling mass, now less that half a league from the ship. Suddenly the shimmering became translucent, then opaque, and finally resolved itself into the shape of a large black ship--a war galleon. Brynna smacked her palm. "I knew it! Damn him." "A ship!" gasped Mandi. "I never would've guessed. That's the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life!" The men of the _Vanguard Voyager_ babbled in amazement and fear as the galleon drew closer. Cydric saw the name "Black Swan" on the prow, and that the figurehead was the namesake bird. Long oars on either side of the ship propelled it silently through the water. "You were right, Captain," said Kayne. "It's him, by Cirrangill." Mandi tugged at Cydric's sleeve. "We'd better hide before Brynna sends us below." She pointed to some barrels near the hatchway. Cydric nodded and they both crouched down behind the casks. Peering over the barrel tops, they watched as the black ship slowly pulled up alongside the _Voyager_. On the deck of the _Black Swan_ were assembled the crew, all armed with steel. By the rail stood four men: one balding and bearded; the next, large and wearing a rusty breastplate; the third, a grey-haired gentleman wearing long black robes and holding a large crescent-shaped crystal object; the last, somewhat younger that the third man and dressed in green robes. As the _Swan_ drew alongside the _Voyager_, the black-robed man put a hand to his forehead and collapsed to the deck. Several crewman rushed to his aid and took him below. The green-garbed man smiled and retrieved the dropped crystal object, tucking it into the folds of his robe. "All hands, prepare to repel boarders!" commanded Brynna. "Ho there, Captain Thorne!" the armor-clad man called out in a deep, resonating voice. "What kind of a greeting is that, hey? What makes you think I wish violence upon you?" "Ho yourself, Commander Challion," Brynna answered, striding to the rail. "I suspected you were behind this. And why the freezing hell did you fire on my ship?" "Indeed, you fired upon me first. But I only wished to disable your weapon. I hope no one was hurt." "As if you actually cared. Now tell me straight, Challion-- what gives you the right to stop a peaceful vessel in Baranurian waters? Is piracy your profession now?"" "As you no doubt saw, Captain, I have regained the Cavarnon Shield; I was merely testing its effectiveness. And judging from your early reaction, I think it would be better used under cover of darkness." "You haven't answered my question. Is this a raid? If not, I'd very much like to get under way. Tell your mage--the conscious one, that is--to give us the wind back." Challion leaned over the rail. "I have one other objective, and I think you know what I mean." Brynna shrugged. "Do elaborate." 1 "The Codex Araltakonia, Captain Thorne. I wish to purchase it from you." Cydric turned to Mandi. "The what?" he whispered. "That book you were looking at in the cabin," she replied in hushed tones. "The one on her desk--it's supposed to be as old as the Mystics!" "Sorry. I don't have what you're looking for," Brynna replied, folding her arms. "No lies, no games, Captain! I know you acquired it back in Dargon. But I'm prepared to offer twice what you paid for it." "In truth, Commander, I never thought our paths would cross again--the dragon whale seemed rather attached to you, as I recall." "I got the better of the creature, in the end," Challion answered. Hitching his trousers up around his ample waist, he said, "Well, three times your purchase price, then. You'll be making quite a profit." "The knowledge in the Codex is beyond price. In any case, what do you want with it? You're by no means a scholar--neither are your mages." Challion rubbed his fleshy face and exhaled loudly. "My final offer--quadruple the amount you paid to acquire it! A fine trader such as yourself cannot fail to recognize a wonderful bargain such as this." "True, but I also recognize barjee squat when I hear it. And I've heard enough," said Brynna. "Spear detail, forward!" Several crewmen went over to the remains of the scorpion and picked up spears from the storage box. After dipping the points into the tar pot, they lined up alongside Brynna at the rail. Kayne lit up a torch and stood behind them. "It always comes to violence, hey Skoranji?" Challion said to the balding man. To Brynna he said, "Very well. If you do not wish to sell the book, then I am afraid I will just have to take it." "You and what battle fleet? Your men won't set foot upon this ship," Brynna shot back. The balding man spoke. "Truly now, m' dear? Be you willin' to test your pups 'gainst me bloodseekers?" "Would you be willing to bet on it, Captain Skoranji?" Brynna asked, smirking. The _Voyager_ crew laughed. Even from his vantage point Cydric could see Skoranji turn red. "Please, please, let's not bring my friend's fondness for gambling into this," said Challion. "I appeal to your reason, Captain Thorne. Give the Codex over peacefully, and we'll part on friendly terms." Brynna shook her head. "You raffenraker, do you seriously think you intimidate me?" Challion motioned to the green-robed man, who lifted his arms and spoke a short phrase. An intense green glow limned his hands, then a ball of light the same color formed and shot toward the _Vanguard Voyager_. It came to hover over Kayne, then sped downward to strike him full in the chest and knock him backwards. It then ringed his neck, and slowly the First Mate rose into the air. "Certainly not, Captain. I know better than to threaten you. But a threat to your friend is another matter," Challion said, smiling. "True men do not hide behind magic," Brynna returned coldly, gripping the rail so hard her knuckles turned white. "Let him down, Commander Challion. Now." "We are going to board your ship. If you or any of your men resists, mister Kayne will no longer have the use of his head." "First let him down, damn you. Then I'll give you the Codex." "The book first, in exchange for his life. That is your only 1option." Brynna chewed on her lower lip, then finally agreed. "I think we deserve a little more for our trouble. We'll also be taking whatever cargo you have." Behind the barrels, Mandi wrinkled her nose. "Don't sneeze!" whispered Cydric. "I..I.." Mandi closed her eyes and clamped her hand over her mouth. "Choo!" Brynna's head jerked at the sound, but she did not turn. "Now, tell your men to lay down their weapons and move as far astern as possible. It will only take a few moments for us to maneuver into boarding position," said Challion. Brynna glanced up at Kayne. The First Mate twisted slowly in the air, struggling feebly to remove the ring of magic from his neck. Sighing heavily, she ordered the crew to obey Challion's instructions. "Who is this Commander person, anyway?" Cydric whispered to Mandi. "He looks like an old, fat knight to me. And if Skoranji is the captain, why is Challion giving the orders?" "They're not high up on the list of Brynna's favorite people," Mandi replied. "Back in--" She looked up as someone sat down on the barrels. "It's the Captain," said Cydric, recognizing the silver-blue of her tunic. Mandi tapped Brynna's slim posterior. The Captain put her hands behind her back and made signs with her fingers. "She's going too fast," said Cydric as he tried to follow the gestures. " 'Cydric, shoot the mage,' " Mandi translated. " 'Use my bow and arrows. Tap twice, understand.' " "She wants me to shoot their sorcerer?" Cydric said, astonished. "I said I wasn't much good at archery. There's a good chance I might miss. What if--" Mandi tapped twice. "He understands, all right." Brynna continued signing. " 'Wait for my word,' " said Mandi. " 'Stand up to fire. Get bow now. Be ready.' " "What if I miss?" said Cydric, gripping Mandi's arm. "He'll kill Kayne! I don't know if I can do this." "You won't miss," Mandi reassured him. She tapped Brynna twice; the Captain rose and strode away. "I'll go and get everything," Mandi said. "Stay here and watch out." She quietly edged backwards toward the hatchway and carefully made her way down to the lower deck. Cydric peeped out over the barrels again. The _Black Swan_ had dropped behind the _Vanguard Voyager_ a little, and was now angling in closer. Brynna went over and tried to grab Kayne out of the air, but the mage raised his arms higher, and the First Mate floated up just beyond her reach. "Kayne will be returned to you, after we have what we came for," Challion boomed out. Mandi silently returned with the bow and a quiver of arrows. "Here. Now get ready when Brynna says." Cydric nocked an arrow and sighted on the mage. "I'm not sure if I can hit him at this range. Maybe a little closer. How far do you think she'll let them come?" Mandi did not reply. Cydric relaxed the bowstring and looked around--the girl was nowhere to be seen. "Hellblaze!" he muttered. The _Black Swan_ shipped her oars and drifted on a parallel course with the _Voyager_. "One more thing, Challion," Brynna said. 1"You have to agree to just take the cargo and leave my ship as it is. I've heard of how Skoranji's men like to torch the wrecks they scavenge." "Your position is highly unsuitable for bargaining," Challion replied, "but I will respect that. Let it not be said that I, Commander Artemus Challion, was ever ungracious to a lady." "As if a lady would ever have you!" a young voice chimed in. Cydric groaned inwardly. Mandi stood by the bowsprit, waving her arms. "Yes, you who looks like a pregnant toad. Why don't you just go home!" "Who is that?" Challion asked sharply. "My--former--cabin girl," Brynna said through clenched teeth. "Look, milord Scullion, we told you we don't want you on this ship. So make like the wind and blow!" Mandi said, making an obscene gesture. "We're all fish food," Cydric sighed. Brynna walked to the foredeck, giving Cydric a clear line of fire. "Amanda Lynn, please come over here. Now." "Now?" echoed Mandi. "NOW?" "Yes. Now!" Cydric drew back on the bowstring and prepared to stand. Just then Mandi screamed. Looking up, he saw Danner standing behind her, holding her arms back. "Hey, let me go, you pox-ridden gutter rat!" Mandi shouted, struggling. "Commander Challion! I want to make a bargain. Let me join your crew, and you can have this girl," Danner called to the other ship. "What do you think you're doing, Danner? Release her this instant," demanded Brynna. "It appears, Captain Thorne, that one of your crew is dissatisfied with his lot," Challion said. "Perhaps your reputation for running a fair ship is a trifle exaggerated?" "Let Mandi go, Danner. Immediately." Brynna ordered. "Why the freezing hell are you doing this?" "Sorry, Captain. I've told you I want out of my contract. I see this as my chance." "Ho, son! Wait until we board. Then we will talk about this, hey?" Challion turned to Skoranji. "Whenever you are ready, Captain." "Ayah, Commander," said Skoranji. He turned to his crew. "Right then, me bloodseekers! Prepare to grapple!" Cydric tensed, torn between waiting for Brynna's command to fire on the mage, and trying to save Mandi by firing on Danner instead. "Don't try to stop them, Captain Thorne," Danner warned. "Or I'll have to get a little rough with Mandi here." "Toss lines!" called Skoranji. A moment later, three rope- attached grappling hooks sailed across and anchored themselves around the _Voyager's_ rail. "You're a god-cursed disgrace, Danner," Brynna said. "I ought to shoot you right now. Do you hear me?" She spun around and shouted in Cydric's direction, "SHOOT YOU RIGHT NOW!" Gulping a quick breath of air, Cydric leaped up, drew a bead on the _Black Swan's_ magic-maker, and let the arrow fly. It sped through the air in a flash of silver, and smacked deep into the sorcerer's left eye. The man screamed, clutched at his face with both hands, staggered forward, and pitched over the rail into the river. Kayne fell to the deck as the green ring vanished from around his neck. "Battle positions!" shouted Brynna. The _Voyager_ crew surged forward, scooping up their weapons and whooping in defiance. Mandi slammed her heel hard against Danner's shin. He grunted in 1pain and loosened his grip, allowing the girl to wrench free. "Codless traitor!" she said, ramming her knee into his groin. Danner yelped and pushed her away. Cydric ran over to check on Kayne. Challion cursed as Brynna severed the grappling lines. "Are you all right, sir?" Cydric asked, helping Kayne to sit up. "Never did like wizards," the First Mate replied, rubbing his throat. Danner staggered to the rail. "Little slut!" he spat. He reached into his boot and pulled out a stiletto. Mandi's eyes widened; she turned and ran. Brynna instructed two crewmen to take Kayne below, then ordered the spear detail forward again. She retrieved the torch and re-lit it. Challion ordered the _Swan's_ oars back into the water, then directed Skoranji to prepare the ballista for a counterattack. Cydric was about to report to Brynna when Mandi came rushing over and hugged him tightly. "Thank the gods you're safe!" Cydric said, holding her close. "How'd you get away from him?" Mandi looked up. "Well, let's just say, he wasn't codless after all." Brynna handed the torch to the first spearman, who lit up his weapon and passed the flame to the next man. After the torch made it down the line and all the spears had been lit, Brynna gave the order to let fly. Several of the burning spears struck the side of the _Black Swan_. A few of them landed on the deck, and one managed to hit a sail. The fire spread quickly, forcing Challion to abandon his plans for a retaliatory strike in favor of saving his ship from the flames. Cydric and Mandi watched the action from the rail. As Skoranji dashed madly about the deck of the _Swan_ calling out orders, a breeze rippled across Cydric's cheek. At the same time the helmsman cried, "We've got the wind back, Captain!" Cydric looked up and saw the ship's sails billowing proudly once more. "Get us under way immediately!" called Brynna. As the _Vanguard Voyager_ slowly pulled away from the enkindled _Black Swan_, Cydric could see Commander Challion standing motionless at the rail, flames licking at his back. Suddenly he shouted out across the widening gap between the ships. "I will not forget this, Brynna Thorne! I cannot be defeated so easily--revenge will be mine, in the end!" Brynna came over and took the bow and arrows from Cydric. "Wrong, Challion. It ends now!" she said. She nocked an arrow and fired. It struck the Commander square in the chest, penetrating his breastplate. Challion gasped and fell back into the fire. Soon the _Vanguard Voyager_ had left the doomed _Black Swan_ behind and was sailing clear on the river. "Excellent work, everyone!" Brynna said to the crew, assembled on deck. "When we dock, there'll be a bonus in your pay. Right now, though, I think a double ration of spice ale is in order. You've all earned it!" The men cheered her, and began filing below into the mess room. "I've never had to serve the whole crew at once," Cydric said to Mandi as they joined the line. "You won't have to," Brynna said, coming over to them. "You helped save the ship. Mandi will fill in for you." "Me?" Mandi said, a look of incredulity on her face. "That's right. You almost ruined everything with your antics." "I was just trying to help," Mandi protested. "Commander Challion 1might have figured out what you were planning. I was just helping distract him. And before you say it, I had no idea Danner was there. Oh, and besides, wasn't I the one who got your message about having Cydric shoot the wizard?" "You were supposed to be in your cabin," Brynna reminded her. "I'm afraid that was my fault," Cydric admitted. Brynna sighed. "Well, since everything turned out in our favor anyway, I suppose I can overlook these things. But next time, I expect _all_ my orders to be followed. Straight?" Cydric and Mandi exchanged glances. "Straight!" they said in unison. (to be continued) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Fortunes by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a khaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu) Taishent walked quickly through the market place, prodling his young granddaughter along. "Come along, come on. I'll be late because of you." The girl ran after him, looking right and left, distracted by the multitude of vendors and people rushing about. "Aimee! Would you please move faster!" She ran to catch up to her grandfather and trailed him to an enclosed booth a half block away. A young woman met them at the door and asked them to sit down, while she announced their arrival. Taishent lowered himself in a chair, while Aimee lingered by the door, looking at people pass by. "Why is it you act like you've never been to the market?" the mage complained. "Each time I bring you here, it's the same story." The girl sat down in a chair by the door, restlessly kicking her feet, a short distance off the floor. "Dyann!" Corambis appeared at the door through which the young woman disappeared. "I was wondering if you were going to come." Taishent rose to his feet and greeted the sage. "Aimee made me late again," he complained. "I can't wait for her father to return!" "Again," Corambis smiled. "Did you enjoy the holidays?" he asked, bending down next to the girl. The girl nodded shyly and looked down at her dangling feet. "Would you like Thuna to show you around the market?" Corambis asked. Aimee nodded, still looking at her feet. "Good, good. Thuna!" he called for his assistant, getting back to his feet. The young woman entered and stopped by Corambis. "Take Aimee to the market for a few hours. Taishent and I have some business to see to..." Thuna nodded in agreement. "...and if she pick's up any more of your bad habits..." he warned in half voice. How I fear what an influence Thuna might be on Aimee," Corambis told Taishent when his assistant left with her charge. "She's such a quiet girl." "She's only quiet in public," Taishent said. "At home she's only an angel when asleep in a locked room." The two men laughed for a moment, then Corambis suggested they get to business and they entered his office. "I'm very sorry that Roisart Connall died. You've been predicting a holiday disaster for a while now," Taishent mentioned. "You know, the Connall twins stopped here for advice just a few days ago, right before the murder," Corambis said with some irony in his voice. "I read it on the Wheel and considered our last casting and warned them lightly and dismissed it all as soon as they left. I thought Fionn Connall's death was it." "I hope Luthias recovers," Taishent sighed. "The two were almost inseperable. I've never seen a place love its nobility as much." "Quite a tragedy," Corambis agreed, preparing ten wooden discs for a new casting. "Have you heard that someone killed Terell?" "Bah! Heard it and didn't feel a bit of remorse," Taishent snapped. "The only thing we had in common with him were two years in the same school. I never did like his style. I'd bet he got killed after striking a bad deal." "Don't be so negative. I'm sure some people out there consider us to be eccentric." Taishent grunted in disbelief. "Let's do the casting." "Let's," Corambis agreed. 1 After a short ceremony, the ten wooden discs were dropped on the Wheel of Life. Most of them landed on the symbols of Fox, Torch and Mistweaver. Corambis shook his head. "If the last one was bad..." The discs of Heart, Spirit and Body lay in the center, together with the red disc representing Dargon. "In the Mistweaver's grasp..." The ally lay in the clutches of the Fox and the adversary in the flames of the Torch. "Too symbolic," Taishent said. "Trouble. Trouble," Corambis verified. "Our allies won't be our allies for long and adversaries may crush us. It's very uncommon to have most land on so few symbols." "What's the bottom line?" "Do your casting first," Corambis said. The two men moved to a small makeshift table and sat down. Taishent produced a deck of cards, placed a Fate card on the table, then shuffling the deck, placed an unknown card on it. He reshuffled the deck and lay out a pattern around the two cards. Both he and Corambis bent down to scrutinize the pattern. "Look here," Taishent pointed. "Good present, tense future." Knight, Wizard and Sorrow decorated the top row. Beneath them lay Tranquility, Eagle, Water and a hidden card. "The past doesn't tell much," Taishent ignored the bottom three cards. The card covering fate was turned over to reveal the ugly face of the Jester. "Incredible," Corambis said. "I'll skip the dramatics," Taishent hurried. "I predict a conflict in Dargon sometime soon." Corambis stood up and walked over to the Wheel of Life, contemplating the challenge. "I say an external conflict, but in due time." Taishent came back to the larger table, to look at the pattern again. "I see no resolution." "The Wheel hardly ever shows the means to an end. Your casting wasn't conclusive either." Taishent recast the future row, using the method for far future. Fire, Air, Griffin. "Nothing," he said. "Conflict." Silence ruled the room for some time, while the men considered the fortunes they had cast. "You know," Corambis finally broke the silence, "we've been doing this after every equinox for for more time than I wish to account for and to what results?" "We've been right most of the time." "I hope we're wrong now," Corambis sighed. "I couldn't wish a fortune like this on anyone." "I feel guilty for making predictions like this too," Taishent said. "Let's get some air," Corambis said, sweeping all the wooden discs with his arm to the side of the table. Taishent reshuffled the cards. "May Dargon get through this with its skin intact..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright September, 1989, DargonZine. All rights revert to the authors. These stories may not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E ||Volume 2 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 2, Issue 4 09/29/89 Cir 816 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dragon Hunt 3 Max Khaytsus Naia 25-Yule 7, '13 The Knight of Stone Jon "Grimjack" Evans Yuli 11-22, 1013 Trial before Tribunal Wendy Hennequin Sy 15-22, 1013 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dragon Hunt Part 3 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a khaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu) When I was young and foolish, I sought adventure, not realizing what dangers it could bring. Once, when in my early twenties, I signed on a ship going on a foreign safari. The passengers were a mystic, a priest and two warriors, on their way to Gereon, to hunt a dragon rumored to live there. To make a story that may take a book in itself short, one of the two warriors drank the blood of the dragon and bathed his body in it, in hope of becoming invincible. He died a few weeks later, on the return trip, when a mast broke in a storm and crashed down on him. In view of this, I must dispute the myths cast upon dragons. To start with, let me assure you that a dragon is no more than a large lizard. It has not the rump of a lion, nor the forelegs of an eagle, nor the wings of a bat. A dragon is a survivor of times past, when giant lizards still walked the surface of Makdiar. As such a survivor, the dragon is in no way a supernatural or mythical combination of beasts and is completely characteristic of other lizards. Dragons are cold blooded, with scaly skin, a forked tongue and so on, as long as this describes a lizard as well, although there is one notable discrepancy to this rule. Dragons have what can be termed as wings, but from my research and single meeting with a dragon, I feel safe in stating that these are no more than strong membranes binding the extension of the spine to the body, much as the skin on a duck's webbed feet. This trait enables the dragons to fly or more accurately, glide. This leaves one more myth to be disclaimed - the dragon's ability to breath fire. If such an ability, which I will not dispute, exists, I have not witnessed it and so must dismiss it as a mythical ability of this species. Fires and treasures and great intelligence have always been attributed to dragons by legend alone. Perhaps it is some lizard's fetish for shiny objects, just as the crow's, which made its way into folklore and in order to obtain and store the treasure, these lizards were made intelligent. Fire breathing can be just another part of this same myth. The dragon's primeval element is water and all recorded have lived in damp dark caves on shores of large bodies of water or deep inside non-volcanic mountains. No magic, no mystery. A dragon is simply an animal that happened to become famous in folklore and myths. Being a nearly extinct species has contributed to the dragon's fame and fewer sightings and almost no survivors of dragon hunts are what we consider to be a romantic legend. -Bistra, head chronicler, City of Shakin, "The Realities of Myths", pages 81-85 Dead. Rien looked at the body of the hermit. Blade wound in the neck... "It was probably Cril or one of his men," Kera said. Rien fought to retain his sanity. "How long will we be leaving this bloody trail?" he looked at her. 1 "We didn't do this," Kera said. "We only killed those who were after us..." Her voice trailed off, as she realized she had killed two men. "We led them here," Rien glared at her. "We did this." He turned to leave. "Coming?" Kera looked at the dead hermit one last time and followed Rien out. "Aren't we going to bury him?" she asked. Rien paused and looked back. "No," he answered. "We don't have the time." He took two more steps and stopped again. "He did his best to help us. We have to put him to rest." "We need to release the dogs too," Kera added. "They'll starve otherwise." A few hours later Rien and Kera finished with their tasks and returned to the horses. "I was thinking of not returning to Dargon," Rien said. "It would only put us closer to Liriss. Let's go down to Tench. Hopefully that will give us a lead." "I doubt there are any dragons in Tench," Kera said. "It would be easier to find a sage or a scribe or a chronicler to point us on our way in Dargon than in Tench." "Tench is a two street town. There are no sages or scribes there," Rien stated. "Then why go there?" "For a two street town, Tench sees more traffic than Dargon can hope to. We need the people in Tench. A lot of them travel; they see things that may help. Besides, Dargon is not a very safe place for either of us right now." "Do you really consider Dargon to be such a danger?" Kera asked. "I killed Terell. Liriss is probably on a war path by now. There are plenty of other things that would be hard to deal with at a time like this. We have to got to Tench." "But if it's so small..." Kera began. "Why bother going there?" "Hope," Rien answered simply. "Lame Duck Inn?" Kera wondered out loud, stopping in mid stride. Rien bumped into her and thoughtfully looked up at the sign above the door, then guided Kera inside. Across the lobby a small man, with his back to the entrance, was flipping his way through a book. "Excuse me?" Kera approached the counter, seeing that Rien was not going to take charge. "Uh..." the man froze, holding up a page, but then turned it over and continued reading the listings. Kera struck her plated forearm against the top of the counter, making the innkeeper jump. "Yes, yes!" he spun around, startled. "One room or two?" Kera looked at the short balding man with a hint of amusement on her face before answering. "One," she ordered. Rien started to protest, but decided against it. "Right away, right away," the man mumbled, placing the book before her. "Sign in right here," he pointed to a blank line. "Boy!" he screamed into the doorway behind the counter. "Boy!" Moments later a skinny boy, with half open eyes appeared in the doorway. "Show these people to room four," the innkeeper ordered. "And take care of our horses," Kera instructed, returning the book. The boy nodded, circling the counter to the front of the lobby. "This way, please," he said with a sleepy voice. "Coming?" Kera prodeled Rien and he followed her up the stairs. "This town is even smaller than I remember," Rien commented when 1he and Kera were left alone. "It will be a miracle if we will be able to get anything accomplished here." "So will we go on to Magnus?" Kera asked. "No," Rien answered. "Not yet. It was only a passing thought when I mentioned it. Magnus has the resources to help us and I have some friends there who would be willing to help, but we don't have the time. Depending on what we learn here, we may have to return to Dargon...or to Maari. I strongly doubt that there are any dragons in Cherisk." "First time I heard you giving up," Kera commented. "First time I had my back to a wall," Rien said. "You didn't expect me to be all powerful, did you?" Kera shook her head. "No, but I've seen you take on odds I'd turn down." "Like what? Terell the 'great' alchemist? Cril and his men? Liriss' guards in the alley?" Kera nodded. "That wasn't taking on greater odds. That was fighting the way I learned it -- dirty." Rien paced the room, metal sollerets clanking unevenly against the wood floor. "If I would have stopped to think, I would have never drunk Terell's potion, chased you down an alley and I certainly would not have agreed to have sex with you in the middle of a forest. I created my problems by not thinking and had to get out of them by use of force." "Where do elves have sex?" Kera smiled. Rien looked at her sternly, then smiled back. "Ljosalfar do it in the woods. I don't know about Dopkalfar." "So what wrong with the forest?" Kera asked. "I suppose nothing," Rien answered. "Only it's not done while someone is trying to hunt them down." "And anything wrong with this room?" Rien glanced around at the old stained furniture he did not get a chance to look at before. "There's a lot of work to do and you need rest." "Won't you be resting?" Kera asked suggestively. "My rest does not depend on sleep," Rien said and Kera's smile widened. "But I do intend on finding out what this town has to offer," he added hurriedly. The innkeeper was still up, still reading his book where Kera had left it. Rien looked over his shoulder, realizing that it was a ledger, containing guest names, room numbers and lengths of stay. "Is there a tavern here?" "Down the street," the man yawned, not looking up from his work. "Thank you," Rien muttered and walked out of the inn. The town was dead quiet, with the exception of a single noisy building not far away. Rien made his way there and found the bar. A fat balding man was pouring drinks, at times missing the glasses he aimed for. Rien ordered an ale and when it was served, asked the bartender if he knew anything about dragons. The man wandered off laughing to himself. "Pay no attention to him," someone behind Rien said. "By the time it's this late, he's tasted most of what he served." "I wonder how he ever makes a profit," Rien said, turning to face a farmer standing behind him. "You wouldn't know anything about dragons...would you?" "Sorry," the farmer released an abrupt laugh. "You need a sage for that problem. I'm afraid this town is just too small." "I realize that," Rien said. "I'd even venture to say there's no such beast in this whole kingdom," the farmer added. "Why are you asking anyhow?" Rien 1hesitated answering and the farmer went on. "Want to recapture the glory of the old dragon hunts?" Rien smiled silently. "As easily as in a legend..." He returned to the Lame Duck Inn shortly before sunrise and spent the first half of the morning rereading key paragraphs of "The Realities of Myths". By the time Kera came downstairs, the inn was full with people eating breakfast. She found Rien sitting in a corner, going through his book. "You've been at it all night?" she asked. "Since sunrise," he answered. "I spent the night asking questions in the tavern, although most drunks aren't very cooperative." "Did you learn anything?" "One man recommended I find an old witch named Maari in the woods west of here," Rien smirked. "Most people couldn't even recommend that." Kera too smiled, in spite of the graveness of the situation. "What about the book?" "It's about as helpful as Maari. Bistra wrote it for reference, not practical applications." Kera shook her head in dispair. "But I have come to a decision," Rien said. "Having polled most of this town in a single night, I've decided that tomorrow morning we will leave for Magnus." "It will take too long!" Kera gasped. "You won't be leaving any time for yourself!" "I am half human," he reminded her. "I may have more time then they said. The disease may not even have as great an effect on me." "And if you don't have that time?" "Then I'll make sure you have a better chance than you've got now." Kera was about to protest, but kept quiet as two men pushed by her and sat down at a neighboring table. She hesitated talking with strangers so near and was about to ask Rien to move when one of the two new comers started talking. "If the old man wants to have a dragon, he can go hunt one down himself." Kera and Rien looked at each other in disbelief. "Excuse me," Rien leaned to face the new comers. "Did you say dragon?" One man continued sipping his drink as the other turned to look tolerantly at Rien. "Yeah. You dumb enough to go get one?" "Perhaps 'desperate' would be a better choice of words," said Rien. "Room twelve, on the corner," the man answered and returned to his companion. Rien and Kera did not waste any precious time persuing their good fortune and hurried to the specified room. Behind them the two men watched them leave, then one flipped a silver coin, catching it in mid air. "Easiest silver I made all month..." The two laughed merrily, calling for more drinks. A middle aged, grey haired man opened the door for Rien and Kera. He stood as tall as Rien, dressed in a silver and red robe with swirling patterns. "What can I do for you?" he asked with a slight accent, examining the visitors. "We heard you were interested in hunting dragons and became curious," Rien said. "Ah, it is I who is curious about your dragon fetish," the man responded. "Why don't you come in and tell me about it?" Cautiously Rien and Kera stepped into the man's room. They were surprised at the man's approach to their visit and he seemed mildly amused. 1 "Please, don't be surprised by my curiosity," the man said to Rien. "I heard you in the tavern last night and could not help but wonder what you need a dragon for." "You know where there is one?" Rien asked. "First things first," the man said. "Sit down. My story is short, but our discussion may take a while." He waited for Rien and Kera to follow his instructions before continuing. "My name is Gerim Marat, though it should mean nothing to you. I am a jeweler by trade and wizard by profession. I give advice to those who can afford it and will go out of my way for a good adventure." "So are you here for adventure or we for advice?" Rien asked. "Be courteous and introduce yourself first," Gerim suggested. Without hesitation Rien did so. In his view Gerim could be a powerful wizard and these would better be left satisfied with the way the world spins around them. Old lessons taught by wizards are certainly things to remember and keep in mind when talking to men of the trade. "Good, good," Gerim smiled. "Why don't you tell me now what you need a dragon for." "Why do you want to know?" Kera asked in a how-dare-you tone. "If I like your reason well enough," the wizard said, "I may opt to help you." "We don't really need a dragon," Rien admitted. "We need a dragon egg..." "This is the right time of the year," Gerim approved. "Providing that the dragon is in the mating mood, that is. What will you do with it if you get it?" "We were promised medicine for it." "What kind of medicine?" "Aren't you getting a little personal?" Kera lost her temper again. "Perhaps I am," the wizard agreed, "but then I did say it was to be a lengthy discussion." Rien weighed the situation. Neither thinking, nor fighting seemed appropriate here. He clasped Kera's hand in hopes that she will calm down. "The cure is for lycanthropy." Gerim nodded. "May I see your book?" Rien permitted him to take it and the wizard smiled approvingly, flipping through the pages, stopping at the bookmarks. A minute later he returned the volume. "Which of you has the disease?" Kera tried pulling her hand from Rien's grip. "Both of you. I see..." "If this is all you wanted to know," Rien began, getting up and pulling Kera up with him. "No, not yet," the wizard stopped them. "One man yesterday told you to see old Maari and you told him that she is the one who sent you. Is that right? Is she the one who wants the egg?" "She said she needs it as an ingredient," Rien answered. "Good, good," the wizard smiled. "If you return tomorrow at this time, I will have one waiting for you." "And how much will you want for your 'advice'?" "Let's just say it's my adventure," Gerim continued to smile. "Now go. I have a lot of work to do." Rien and Kera left the room, as amazed as they were entering it. "Do you think he is serious?" Kera asked when they were out of the man's hearing range. "He seemed anxious to help," Rien admitted. "I really don't know. We won't lose much if we don't leave tomorrow morning." "Do you think he's a real wizard?" Kera asked again. "We'll know tomorrow," Rien answered. 1 "How? Have you ever seen a dragon egg?" "No, but I assume it's bigger than that of a chicken. Maybe the size of a head." Kera sighed. "I hope you're right." Rien smiled at her. "Go eat breakfast and I'll see to what supplies we may need." "I'm not hungry. I'll go with you," Kera said and leaned on Rien's shoulder. "I wish this was all over. I wish I could relax." "Life was boring when it was simple," Rien put his arm around her. Gerim went into the make shift laboratory, considering what he had just done. If this couple was gullible enough, he could force them to do the job for him. If they weren't...they had to be. It would be a simple con, easy to execute and they would never be in danger...unless they knew or Maari suspected. Gerim approached the crystal ball. "Where are they?" and an image of Rien and Kera exiting the inn appeared. He listened carefully to their conversation, then got up. "They need to be tested..." "I thought you said there wasn't anything to sight see around here." "There wasn't last time I was here," Rien repeated, almost to himself. "That's a pretty big army camp, to be in the middle of nowhere," Kera said. "When's the last time you were here?" "A while back," Rien sighed. It was really before the rule of the previous king. "What's a while in your terms?" "Long enough for this to be built, it would seem..." He sat down in the lush spring grass, pulling Kera down next to himself. "I was really hoping for this to be a bit more deserted..." For the first time Kera realized just how tired and worn out Rien looked. "Why don't you go back to the inn and get some sleep," she suggested. "I can take care of the supplies we need myself." "I'm fine," Rien shook his head. "I'll get some rest tonight." "I wasn't recommending it," Kera insisted. Rien's gaze followed the people practicing in the field. "Trust me, I'm fine." Kera leaned on his shoulder and he shifted so as not to fall over. "I can tell," Kera sighed, as Rien pushed her back, forcing her to the ground. "Don't argue with me," he held her down for a moment. "I was hoping to find a quiet place to soak in the atmosphere. It's not the army camp I should be worried about distracting me -- you do the job well enough alone." Kera sat up, brushing the lose grass off her side, then lunged at Rien, pushing him down under herself. He grunted, rolled over and held her down, reducing her struggling to helpless wriggling. "Cut it out." Kera held still and Rien let her go. They lay next to each other, staring up at the blue sky. "Are you going to trust the wizard?" Kera asked after a few moments of silence. "Probably," Rien said. "Even if he wants some payment, it can't be worse than Maari's, but I want to hear what he has to say first." "What about Maari?" "I can deal with the dragon egg -- a task in itself," Rien began, "but the business of her wanting a subject to cast spells through I 1can not agree to. I wish I could come up with a good way to trick her." "But if you're against what she is doing, why not stop her from doing it?" "That wouldn't be right. If anyone could kill anyone else because they disagree with their basic beliefs, the only rule would be that the strongest rule. I don't believe in making myself an exception to that. Plenty people already do as it is." "So what are you going to do?" Rien turned over, digging his elbows into the ground. "I don't know. Burn that bridge when we get to it." They lay like that for a while longer, enjoying the morning sun without their armor, observing the army camp at the bottom of the hill. "That camp is strategically misplaced," Rien said in a matter-of-fact voice. "It would take them weeks to get to the nearest border..." Kera turned over, adjusting herself to the moving sunlight. "This is wonderful," she muttered completely out of context and Rien sat up. "What?" Kera lay still. "What?" Rien asked again, touching her shoulder. "This is wonderful without armor," Kera mumbled, shifting away from his touch. "Get up," Rien took her arm. "You're not going to fall asleep on me. We still have a lot to do today." Lazily Kera sat up and Rien helped her to her feet. "Let's go find that store." They returned to town and locating the small wooden building named Kristee & Daughter, entered. A mildly overweight woman at the counter greeted the pair and asked what she could get them. "We'd like to look around," Rien answered politely and together with Kera retreated to the shelves of merchandise. "I'll get the rations," Kera said, disappearing deeper into the store after Rien's approving nod. Rien paused at a display of equipment when suddenly he heard the woman at the counter exclaim loudly. "The money," a male voice sounded as Rien turned around. Two men, one with a sword, a second with a crossbow stood between him and the counter. The man with the crossbow motioned to Rien. "Yours too." The woman started frantically placing coins on the table. "You know you won't make it out of town," Rien pointed out. "And who's to stop us?" the man with the crossbow asked. "You?" Rien shrugged. "I doubt it. You seem too determined." "The money," the man repeated. At that time Kera showed up at the front of the store, her arms loaded with goods. "Are you just going to stand there?" she asked Rien before noticing anything wrong. She shifted uncomfortably, looking at the two armed men. "I'll wait back there..." "Your money," the man with the crossbow repeated. Rien noticed Kera balancing what she carried on one hand and immediately stepped forward, handing his money to the brigand and blocking Kera from his view. When he stepped back, Kera stood perfectly still. "You too," the man indicated to Kera, who slowly bent down, put what she carried on the floor and straitened with a sudden flick of the wrist. The crossbow went off in panic, the bolt harmlessly hitting a wall and the man who fired it sank to his knees, grasping a dagger 1stuck in his stomach. Kera pulled out another dagger. The man with the sword hesitated -- try throwing a sword at a dagger. "Take your friend and go," Rien instructed. "Or she may hack you too." The man hastily sheathed his sword and scooped some money off the counter. "Leave the money," Rien added and the man, supporting his companion beat a hasty retreat. "Oh, mercy!" the woman exclaimed, looking from Kera to Rien and back again. "How could I ever thank you? Oh... Just take what you wanted to buy and don't bother paying for it!" "That's quite all right, madam," Rien smiled. "It was our pleasure to help. No gratitude is needed." "I insist!" the woman exclaimed again. "You can't even imagine how much help you were! Now you see, normally one of the nice young men from Lord Morion's school is here to help me if I need it, but this time..." She was certainly long winded... The crystal ball grew dark as its owner stood up. His own quest would soon come to an end. "A test well passed, but you two will yet do my job for me...I wish I could help your quest as well..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 The Knight of Stone by Jon "Grimjack" Evans (b.c.k.a. v047kfz7@ubvms) Setting rays silhouette the figure of a knight on a horse, poised on a hill. The rain fell heavily from the dark grey sky, as the sun dropped behind the trees to the west. Jaryn, ankle deep in the muddy waters of the graveyard, stared at the stone monument honoring his father's life. "Here lies Sir Karl von Gruen," read the headstone, "honorable knight of his Royal Majesty, the King." Jaryn gripped the sword at his side tightly, remembering the day, four years ago, when his older brother left to avenge their father's death. "If I'm not back in a year, my brothers," he heard Mark say, "the next son must follow." That meant young Karl, our father's namesake. Jaryn pulled the grey hood of his cloak over his soaked blonde hair and turned toward the gates. That day came and went, he thought, and Karl repeated those same words to Dirk, the third son of the dead knight. Karl left with the hope of rescuing Mark and defeating our father's murderer at the same time. That year passed just as quickly as the first; and, on the second anniversary of their father's death, Dirk said to Jaryn, "Keep the family name alive. Marry before you leave in search of our honor." And then Jaryn was alone. Stepping into the stables, he called the boy to fetch his horse. By the third anniversary of Sir Karl's passing, Jaryn had not married. He still had dreams of falling in love and raising children, and he hated his father for dying at the hands of a foreigner, and he hated his brothers for not succeeding in their quest, leaving him alone without hope of a life of peace. On that day, he sank to his knees in the mud, crying before the monument of his father, hating the world for the poor lot he was given. Jaryn mounted his beast, accepted his lance, and left the stables on a journey marked for him four years before. On the fourth anniversary of his lord's demise, he left his wife and son, the last bearers of his proud family name, and entered the graveyard to mourn, one last time, his father's death. He did not expect to return. A flash of lightning captures the figure of a charging knight in a split second of daylight. Jaryn knew what must be done, and he knew where he had to do it. His enemy lies beyond the hills to the south, in the land called Caeredwyn. Jaryn was no fool, however, and knew his enemy should be expecting him. Three times before, his enemy had defeated his father's sons; and three times before, he knew they would be coming. Jaryn hid his approach not with stealth or cunning, but with a field of grey on his shield. He would not carry the family crest as did his brothers for he had adopted this new banner. The grey of the stone monument erected for his father, and the greyness which filled his life since his first brother's leaving. He spurred his mount lightly as he approached the open fields of oats filling the lands outside his father's home. The huts on the horizon belonged to his subjects, the farmers who worked day and night to produce the grain which kept them alive. What a simple life, thought Jaryn as he rode over the lands. To be alive and happy, married to the woman of your choice rather than one chosen for you, having only to plant the seed and harvest it. I wish I could be one of you, not bound by honor to defend a king you hardly know, or a father who never had time for anything but his land. To be able to grow old 1with my wife, to raise my children, and not to worry about the politics and economics of the realm. I am cursed, instead, with the wealth of previous oppressors, duty bound to tax you, and pressed to defend my family's name. Such a simple life you have. Pulling himself from his dreams of sunny days in the fields with a beautiful wife and three strong sons, he looked out toward the slowly approaching hills on the horizon. By morning he would reach them, nine days he would travel through them, and then he would meet his enemy. The stone knight's lance pointed at its target, ready to strike. Along the road through the hills, Jaryn came across a peasant with a broken cart. He looked at the man, so pitiful and old, and thought that surely there would be another passerby to help him. It was beneath Jaryn's station to help him, and he didn't want to touch the grimy fielder's cart, in any event. First able person I encounter I will send to help you, old man. And he rode past, hiding his face behind the grey steel visor of his helm. Farther along, he encountered a group of young men, healthy looking, and apparently more wealthy by the swords at their sides. He told them of the man in the road, and they laughed. It had been their work, and wasn't that a nice horse he was riding, and a fine lance and blade by his side. They didn't have to explain the situation to him, and he hastily grasped his lance, striking the first of the group. Red blood poured out of the man's throat as the lance struck into his neck. A gasp, a cry, and the man fell to the ground with a dull thud. Jaryn looked at the corpse in surprise, and shock. He's dead, he thought as he watched the blood mix with the muddy puddle at his horse's feet. Several times he was struck by the weakly swung blades of his opponents, but he never noticed. He was untouchable in his armor and his melancholy. He dropped the lance and drew forth the great blade his father had made for him when he was barely strong enough to lift it. Its weight was familiar to him, and gave him the strength to look back at his attackers. He felt little or no remorse, now, as he lopped off one man's head, and separated another's arm from its shoulder. The remaining two fled the unfeeling knight, hoping for a more favorable encounter in another territory. Jaryn wiped his blade and sheathed it. He would leave the lance for any who would take it. It was his no longer, and he thanked the thieves for ridding him of such an ignoble tool. He would face his enemy with a sword, not the cowardly weapon his enemy had used to pierce his father's throat. A shield of stone hung on the knight's arm, ready to defend its owner from the oncoming blows of the enemy. Jaryn arrived in Caeredwyn with much ado. The people did not often see strangers from other provinces, and rarely a lord. With my shield of grey, he will not realize who I am until I challenge him, thought Jaryn. He rode up to the gates of the keep, and called for permission to enter. Jaryn gained the courtyard and begged an audience with the lord of the manor. Upon seeing his enemy, he spoke. You are Kalen-Ord, the lord of this keep? My name is Jaryn von Gruen. I have come to avenge my father's death at your hands, these four years past, as well as the death of my brothers before me. I will meet you in combat of arms in the fields outside your keep when the sun is low in the sky. And Jaryn left. There was now much talk going on in the town and its surrounding villages. Once more, Jaryn looked out over the peaceful people of the land. They looked just like the peasants of his own land. They spoke 1the same language as his people. They had the same simple life his people did. Again, he longed for a simple life; more so now than before, since he knew his life would soon end. He wished to see his wife again, to hold his son in his arms once more, and to taste the wines his people made for the summer festival one last time before he died. He had had enough of this. Honor and pride had given him nothing in life, and had taken his father and three brothers from him besides. He would not fight Kalen-Ord. He would not avenge his father. He would go home, love his wife, raise his son, and rule his land. And there was Kalen-Ord, with hundreds of villagers following him, out to see their lord defend his honor. The grey stone visor hid the stoney eyes beneath the helm, the last defense for the knight of stone. Kalen-Ord drew up to Jaryn and asked him where his lance had gone. I do not use a lance, Kalen-Ord, Jaryn replied. It is the weapon which slew my father, and probably my brothers, and so I will not use it. I will not fight you, Kalen-Ord. I have changed my mind. Honor and pride have only lost me my family, and I do not wish to die. You have changed your mind? Kalen-Ord was much surprised, and slightly annoyed. I wish I could accept that, young von Gruen, but I cannot. You have challenged me in the presence of my people, dishonored me, and called me a murderer. Your brothers did so before you, and I can only hope Sir Karl did not have more children such as these. I tire of killing young souls in the name of honor, but let it be known that I never challenged them to battle. I sought to ally your father to me, those years ago, when I was fearful of more powerful lords. It was his challenge I faced, when his honor was bruised, and it has been his sons' ever since. You cannot change your mind, boy, as I cannot change the past. And so, he swung his horse around and galloped a distance. Jaryn would face the lance of Kalen-Ord with but a sword. He did not care. He hoped his son would not follow in his footsteps, as he and his brothers had followed in their's. It was decided in the first pass as Kalen-Ord's lance knocked Jaryn to the ground. The blood flowed slowly from his chest, his wound barely worth the effort to heal it. Stripping his helm from his face, he spat on his sword and flung it from him. Kalen-Ord rode to him and dismounted. My honor is satisfied, young lord. I still have no wish to kill you. You may go in peace. And Kalen-Ord, Lord of Caeredwyn, rode back to his keep, his people straggling behind. Jaryn rose to his feet and looked at his wound. It was nothing, but it would scar and remind him of this day for the rest of his life. He stripped his armor from his body and mounted his horse. He would return to the house of his father, now his house, and love his wife and hold his son and rule his lands. A grey statue of stone stood in the graveyard of his father, the figure of a knight on a charging war horse, the monument to his life. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Trial by Fire Part II Trial Before Tribunal by M. Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU) Luthias stormed into the Duke of Dargon's office as if he were the god of war. "Coranabo has accused my Castellan of conspiracy against the crown!" Clifton blinked. "You're really having a hard time of it lately, aren't you?" he joked, smiling, but the smile only adjusted the lips; it didn't glow in the Duke's eyes. The teasing didn't work. Luthias was furious. "This is serious, Clifton. There are witnesses! I have to try my own Castellan!" "Coranabo is saying that Ittosai--" "Yes, for the third time!" Luthias shouted, pounding his cousin's desk. "The Tribunal wants the trial in two days." The Duke of Dargon leaned back in his cushioned chair. "There is evidence, you said?" "Witnesses...a witness. A townsman, who overheard something at the Sy tourney..." "Credible?" "I don't believe him," Luthias revealed. "I know Michiya has too much honor to--to--" Luthias didn't even want to say it, didn't want to think it. "Yes, cousin," Clifton said carefully, "but there's a witness." "Am I to believe that scum over my own Castellan?" Suddenly, the young Baron of Connall stared at the Duke in horror. "Clifton, you don't think that--" Clifton Dargon smiled. "My dear cousin," he said, a lilt of mild mocking in his tones, "if you, practical as you are, can see all the evidence and dismiss it as nonsense, so can I. Besides," he continued, before Luthias could become much angrier, "I agree with you. Ittosai Michiya is much too honorable to do such a thing. Sit." Obligingly, Luthias sunk into a chair. "Where is Ittosai?" "In Connall. I insisted that he be released into my custody." "What does he have to say about all this?" "What do you expect? Michiya told me he was innocent, that--" What had Ittosai said exactly, and what had the witness said? Carefully, Luthias told his cousin the Duke what the witness had reported, and what the Castellan of Connall had told him. Clifton frowned. "I am more inclined to believe Michiya." "As am I." Luthias frowned. "Yet I am the one who must try to prove him guilty!" "I hate to have to fight you, cousin," Clifton sighed, "but I'm going to defend him." Clifton grimaced. "War with Bichu...but both you and Sir Edward agree that war with Bichu..." "Ittosai is falsely accused," Luthias said with conviction. "I know, manling," Clifton returned with gravity, "but you must try to prove the lies." Separating the Barony of Connall from the Barony of Coranabo was the wide river Coldwell which flowed from the mountains to Dargon, and thence to the sea. Its shore in Connall was bordered by trees, in which Roisart, Luthias, Clifton, and Myrande had established a retreat when they were younger. An archery range and a pell had been long set up for private practicing. By a bend in the river where the Connall twins and their cousin and Myrande often swam was a clearing they used for picnics and privacy. Here Luthias came to escape his own thoughts and his own barony. 1Here, by the river range, there were three things in the entire world: the pell, his arm, and his sword. And the heat: stripped to the waist, he imagined an enemy and fought. One blow, then another. A triple blow. A blow to the waist, to the head, to the right, to the left. A twisting shot that wrapped his sword to the helmet area. There was a horse coming slowly behind him. He saw it out of the corner of his eye, but did not stop. The horse was black and the rider small: Sable. Luthias smiled slightly, and continued to fight. The contact of wooden sword and wooden pell rang in the woods and beat out the rhythm of the fight. One blow, a second, two quick shots. Keep the rhythm. Strength flowed from Luthias' arm, but the power came from the movement of his body. Without moving his arm, he could twist and hit the pell and sound a ringing blow. On the helm from the right, from the left, a twisting blow that would hit from behind. Right arm. Left arm. Right leg. Left leg. Thrust. Thrust to the face. Helm right, helm left, helm thrust, helm wrap. Right leg, left leg... Finally, a soft pair of arms gently encircled his waist. The Baron of Connall smiled and allowed his tired arm to drop. Panting only slightly, he said, "I wondered how long you were going to stand there and watch me." Her hair brushed against his sweaty back. "You look beautiful when you fight, Luthias," she replied softly. The Baron of Connall laughed heartily. "You look beautiful all the time." He put his free, left hand over her arms. "Don't mock me," she warned, slightly testy, starting to draw away. "Never, Sable," he promised sincerely, patting her wrists. "So," he continued in a light, jesting tone, "did you come out here only to admire my body, or are you going to practice with me?" Luthias could almost feel his seneschal's smile. "Neither, actually," she bantered playfully. "I came here to seduce you." "Mmmm," Luthias chuckled deep in his throat with amusement and anticipation. Slowly, he reached his left arm in back of him and drew Myrande forward as he savored the idea. My father will return from the dead and kill me! Still, it reminded him of something he had been trying to tell Myrande before the tournament. He looked down at her, not relinquishing the embrace. "We must talk, Sable." "Can it wait?" she pleaded. "For what?" "For the real reason I came here. The Knight Commander's come to see you." The young Baron of Connall wasn't certain whether to feel despair or amusement. "And here I am, sweating and dirty!" Myrande patted his stomach lightly. "How do you think he got to be Knight Commander? By practicing on the pell and getting sweaty and dirty! In any case, I knew you were practicing so I brought you a change of clothes. Why don't you leap into the river to wash some of the dust off?" Luthias nodded, squeezed her waist once, then ran off toward the river. He stripped off his breeches and dived into the Coldwell. It usually was a chill river, especially as far north as Connall was, but with the recent heat wave, it was actually warm. Luthias submerged himself, then rose to see Myrande laying out his clothing on the grass. Luthias began to swim toward shore. "Give me a minute," Myrande requested. "For what?" "To give you some privacy." 1 Luthias snorted. "You've seen me like this before." "Only by accident." It was true; still, the Baron Connall's laugh echoed like a merry shout, "You come here and admire my body, and now you don't want to see it!" Myrande shook her head and made her escape. Luthias laughed again, left the water, and dressed himself. He met Myrande near the pell. Eyes closed, she was lying on the grass, resting near her steed. Luthias reached down to touch her. "Come on, sleepy." She opened her eyes and smiled. "Yes, sir." Luthias offered his hand, and, taking it, Myrande pulled herself to a sitting position. Gingerly, she felt at the chopsticks which she had placed, crossing, in the back of her head, above the dark braid. "That isn't comfortable," she chuckled. "Why wear them, then?" Luthias asked, hauling her to her feet. "Michiya advised it, with all the fuss about Shipbrook," she revealed, smiling. "I think he's afraid for me." "What good are those things going to do you?" Myrande reached back and pulled forth one of the ivory sticks for Luthias' inspection. The Baron of Connall took it and glanced at its steel-tipped point. Carefully, he pricked his finger with the tip. It was sharp as a dagger. "They're used in Bichu as weapons of last resort," Myrande explained. "Michiya wants to make certain I can defend myself at all times." "Good," Luthias approved, returning the ornament. "Michiya's a good man, and he's right: you should be ready and able to defend yourself at all times." "Do you suspect more trouble with Baron Shipbrook?" "Not really," Luthias told her, "but I still want you prepared." He smiled tiredly. "And I was going to grow up to be your Knight, Sable, to protect you from this sort of thing." Smiling, Myrande slipped her small arm around his waist. "You do," she assured him, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. "And you will be a Knight someday." The Baron grinned at her quietly. "Let's hope so, Sable. Are you ready to go?" "Of course. Where's Dragonfire?" she inquired, looking for Luthias' horse. "I walked. We'll have to ride together." He swung onto the mare's back and, without asking, lifted Myrande to sit in front of him. With one hand, he took the reins; with his left, he held his seneschal. Slowly, he started the horse. As much as he wanted to hurry, he didn't want to ride the animal too hard: it was infernally hot. He would have to make his excuses to the Knight Commander when they arrived. For a while, they rode silently. "Did Sir Edward say what he wanted to see me for?" the Baron asked his seneschal finally. She shook her head. "No. I was wondering, but I didn't ask." Luthias thought about it. "He probably wants to talk to me about Magnus." "Magnus?" "He wants me to go to Magnus to train under him. He says I'd be a Knight by the next Melrin." Suddenly, Myrande looked up at Luthias with elated admiration. "When are you leaving?" Luthias was silent a moment. He guided the horse around a few stones. "I may not go." Sable's expression snapped into concern and confusion. "What? But all your life, you've wanted--" "Do you think I'd leave you?" Luthias challenged, anger 1smoldering beneath his words. "I don't understand," Myrande answered slowly. "I'm a woman now, Luthias. You don't need to stay here and protect me--" "With Oleran--" "Michiya's been making certain that no man would ever touch me unless I allow it," Myrande retorted, her words crisp. "Besides, do you think I would ever allow you to give up your dream because of me?" After a moment of silence, Luthias said, "Sable, I don't want to leave you." "What?" Myrande asked, as if she couldn't believe what she had heard. "I don't want to leave you," Luthias repeated, and it was true. Luthias wasn't certain why, but it was true. Myrande bowed her head. "Then I'll go with you. I won't let you give up any chance for Knighthood because of me." Luthias smiled. "What would you do in Magnus?" "What do I do here?" she returned, smiling at him. "If you don't want to leave me, I'll go with you." She bowed her head again. "Truth be told, I don't want you to leave me. Now," she concluded, resuming her jocularity, "no more arguments--or excuses." Of course, if she by some miracle approved his other idea, it would be normal that she go with him to Magnus..."We'll talk later," he promised both her and himself. "We'll see." They soon arrived at the keep. Luthias tossed the reins to a stable lad. "Where's the Knight Commander?" he asked Myrande. "In the study." "When you get a break, join me there," Luthias commanded. He nodded to her once then hurried through the halls to his study. When he arrived, the Knight Commander was standing opposite the cold hearth, staring at the portrait that hung there. Sothos turned. "Baron," he greeted Luthias, stepping forward and offering his hand. Luthias shook the hand heartily. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Sir Edward," the young Baron apologized. "I was out practicing." "So Lady Myrande said." The Knight Commander smiled. "As I'm expecting war, Luthias, I can wait for a warrior who practices." Luthias returned the smile thinly. Edward gazed up at the picture, which portrayed a tall beauty with auburn hair, smiling blue eyes, and skin the color of apple blossoms. "A relative of yours?" Luthias glanced at the portrait quickly, then averted his eyes. "My mother." "I don't remember meeting her when I visited Sir Lucan all those years ago," Edward mused. "I should think not," Luthias returned, his smile strained. "She's been dead twenty-one years. My father never removed the portrait, however." Out of respect for his father, Luthias vowed he never would, either, but he didn't want to talk about his mother. "To what do I owe this visit, Sir Edward?" "You have Castellan Ittosai here in your keep, correct?" Luthias nodded. "The Tribunal allowed, at my insistence, that he be in my custody." Sir Edward sat. "Be so good as to summon him." Luthias opened the door and bellowed for one of the men-at-arms. "Bring the Castellan to the study, and treat him respectfully." "Of course, Baron," the soldier agreed, confused. Luthias smiled; despite the rumors of war and the accusations against Ittosai, the men-at-arms of Connall still respected him. "It seems your men have no suspicion of Ittosai," Edward observed. "Some do," Luthias confessed. "I'm having Macdougalls, my assistant castellan, keep an rein on them. Some have been ready to 1tear him apart ever since Yuli, when the rumors about the war started." The Knight Commander made a face. "I would suspect." There was a discreet knock on the door. Luthias opened it. A guard stood with Ittosai Michiya, who stared directly through the young Baron. "Leave us," Connall told the guard curtly. The man looked confused, but bowed spartanly and obeyed. Luthias shut the door and turned to Sir Edward. "The Knight Commander wanted to see you, Michiya." Aloof, Ittosai bowed toward Sothos. "I am wondering," Sir Edward began, his face stern, "what you think of these accusations against you, Lord Ittosai." The Bichanese Castellan's face was immobile. "They are absurd, lord Commander." "You are not guilty, then?" Again, Michiya's face did not move; he was too proud to show his emotions. Luthias, however, could tell that his Castellan was seething at the fact that anyone would question his honor. "I would not do such a dishonorable act, nor would I dishonor Luthias-sama so. I am innocent." Suddenly, Sir Edward's face relaxed. "I believe you," he revealed matter-of-factly. "And you, Luthias, what do you think?" "I know Michiya well enough to know he would do no such thing, and that he would not lie to me," Connall affirmed, his voice guarded. He didn't know what this was leading to, but he didn't like it. "He is innocent." Ittosai Michiya's mouth twitched a little towards a smile. "I think I am being used as...what is it?...a scapegoat, because people fear the war and fear my country will invade yours." "It's more than that, I think," Edward sighed. "Luthias, why would anyone bring charges against Castellan Ittosai?" "It's as he said," Luthias began. "The people are mad to see war--" "No!" Sothos interrupted quickly, "You're thinking as a lawyer, Luthias. It doesn't become you. Think as a general." Luthias' mind raced. If he were a general, why would he accuse Ittosai? "The war. They're trying to start a war with Bichu!" The Baron of Connall swore violently. "It's the same reason they killed Roisart and my father. The same God-damned merchants who hired men to kill my brother are accusing Ittosai and are trying again to start a war!" "I too came to that conclusion," Edward finished softly. "However, I didn't know that merchants were behind the plot against Lord Dargon and your father." The Knight Commander appeared deeply concerned. "You must prove this false, Luthias. A war with Bichu would be a major mistake." "The King must declare war," Luthias pointed out. "It would be easy to advise him otherwise--" "If the mob is like this, there will be no help for it." "He speaks truth," Ittosai interjected. "The King cannot control hysterical men." "And there are war-mongers in Magnus," Edward added. "You've got to find a way to expose this accusation." "You should be having this talk with Clifton," Luthias protested grimly. "I am the one who is trying to prove these jack-asses are right." "The Duke of Dargon is an intelligent and educated man," Edward said, "but he might not see the connection you did." "Don't underestimate him," Luthias laughed shortly, but the laugh was not merry. The anger that he had beaten into the pell was 1returning, fast and furious as floodwaters. "He reads books of war, too." "You must do something," Edward repeated. "The Duke will put his Duchy before principle." "He's not defending principle here," Luthias returned. "He's defending Michiya!" "Luthias-sama," Michiya began, "you truly understand, as the Duke does not--" "Don't you see?" Luthias snapped. "I am the Duke's Advocate. I can't defend you. I know they're wrong. I know this whole business is wrong. War with Bichu is wrong. But I can't do anything! I can't do anything!" Another knock sounded. "What?" Luthias demanded angrily. Myrande, in a streaked dress, poked her head just inside the study. "What do you want?" Concern laced with anger adorned her face. She paused, as if unsure which emotion should take precedence. Tact and courtesy overruled them both. "I came to ask if the Knight Commander is remaining for supper." "Please do," Luthias invited, his politeness somehow not strained by anger. But he was angry--furious!--at the Tribunal, at the mob, at the merchants, and at himself, for he had taken his anger out on Myrande. "With pleasure," Sothos accepted, smiling. The grin did funny things to his scar, Luthias thought dispassionately. The seneschal nodded and began to shut the door, but Luthias halted it with his hand. "I'm sorry, Sable," he apologized softly. "Look, we need to talk." She smiled, accepting his apology, nodded, and shut the door. And then he remembered: the trial was tomorrow. With company tonight, he would not have a chance to speak to Sable for two days. Damn! The heat still prevailed, and on the day of Ittosai Michiya's trial before the Tribunal, the sun rose an ominous scarlet. The Baron of Connall, swathed in the hue of that bloody sunrise, entered the Hall of the Tribunal within Dargon Keep in the same manner he would have approached a battlefield. He looked so fierce at the injustice and his own impotence that no one, not even Sir Edward who had come to observe, dared to say a word against the sword he had improperly worn into a court of law. Seeing his placid cousin and stoic Castellan calmed Luthias a little, but did nothing to cool his rage. There was a year of injustice behind it: his father's meaningless death, his brother's sudden murder, his new, horrible responsibilities, Sable's broken heart, and now this...this! his friend accused of conspiracy. And he had to prove it. And he knew better; he knew better! He knew, Sir Edward knew, and there was nothing either of them could do. Luthias bowed to the Tribunal, who sat up on a dais: Baron Coranabo to his right; Baron Vladon in the center; and Baron Winthrop on the left. In front of the dais was a table, behind which sat Chronicler Rish Vogel, whom Luthias knew slightly. Apparently, he was acting as Scrivener in the case. Behind Luthias were two benches, one for him and the other for the accused. Baron Vladon, as elected head of the Tribunal, spoke softly and solemnly. "We are familiar with this case," he addressed both Clifton and Luthias. "We know that Castellan Ittosai--" How they mangled his very name! "--is accused of conspiring against the King of Baranur to begin a war with Bichu. You have witnesses, Baron Connall?" Luthias nodded. "And you, your grace?" Clifton nodded once. "Advocate, begin." 1 Luthias stood. "As you have said, sir," he began, "Castellan Ittosai Michiya is accused of conspiracy against the Crown. The charge was made by one merchant called Danal. I call forth this merchant Danal to testify." A mousy man with greedy eyes slunk forward like an animal afraid of a beating. He bowed to the Barons on the Tribunal, then faced the Duke's Advocate, who glared at him with merciless eyes. "You heard a conversation," Luthias prompted, "between two men." "Yes, so please your lordship," answered the merchant. His voice was high-pitched and nervous. It grated upon Luthias' ears and increased his rage. "Between that man--" He pointed wickedly at Ittosai Michiya, who sat erect and unmoving beside the Duke, "--and another man of his country." "Who was this other?" "A merchant, who sold near my stall. I do not know his name. I saw the Castellan walk away with two swords and some chop sticks from this other merchant." Oh, Michiya, Luthias thought desperately, my katana and the sharp hair pieces for Sable. Presents, mere presents! Why couldn't you have waited? "And where is he now?" "I don't know, lordship. I haven't seen him since that day." Luthias switched his gaze to the Tribunal. "I have sent the city guards in search of this merchant. It seems that he left for Bichu that afternoon, before the ball." Baron Vladon nodded, and Luthias continued. "What did this merchant and the Castellan say?" "They spoke of Bichu," Danal whined, "and a coming invasion." "What did they say?" Luthias repeated. "I told you," the man wheezed. "They spoke of the coming invasion that Bichu plans to send." Clifton stood. Luthias looked at him, unsure. Didn't he have the floor? "I invoke the right of the Defender to interject questions when I so deem," Clifton announced, by way of explanation. Luthias nodded his permission. "Did they speak of the *rumors* concerning the invasion?" "They spoke of battle plans," Danal corrected, wringing his greedy, sweaty hands. Luthias found himself wishing to strike the man. "Of a time table. And of some men here helping them." "Did they say how they were involved?" Luthias asked. "That man--" Again, the ugly, knobby man pointed his dagger-like finger and knife-like gaze at Luthias' Castellan. "--was to open the river Coldwell to the Bichanese ships. They were then to take Dargon City and Dargon Keep." Out of the corner of his eye, Luthias saw the Knight Commander's scar twitch with displeasure. Take the Coldwell River, then Dargon and Dargon Keep? Luthias almost snorted. The Coldwell would hold no strategic value; Dargon was too well fortified to take, and the Ducal navy, headed by Clifton himself who was a good seaman by inclination, would take out any Bichanese ships as if they were toys. Luthias angrily hoped that this was a bold lie. He would hate to think that the Bichanese were that stupid. "How did you understand them?" Clifton inquired, relaxing slightly. "Did they not speak Bichanese?" "I understand Bichanese," the merchant told the Duke proudly. Rish Vogel shifted uncomfortably. Suddenly, Luthias remembered that Vogel spoke Bichanese. It would be a good test of the witness...but surely, Clifton would bring that up later. It was just the sort of angle Clifton would try. "They spoke of men here who were to help them," Danal finished. "Men in Baranur aligned with them?" Baron Winthrop burst out. "Who? I demand it!" 1 "They mentioned no names," Danal revealed, slowly, as if he were calculating something. Behind him, the Baron of Coranabo leaned forward in his seat. "But they did mention a Duke." "A Duke?" Coranabo shouted, leaping to his feet. The Baron glared at the Duke of Dargon. "No wonder you sprang to the spy's defense!" For a moment, the Duke of Dargon could do nothing but stare. "You accuse me of treason?" Clifton finally asked, his voice hoarse with astonishment. "I do," Coranabo stated firmly. Very, very slowly, Luthias turned toward Coranabo. "My lord," he began, his voice steady, but very controlled, "this is a heavy accusation you make. You need proof--" "Did not the merchant say the Duke--" "The merchant," Luthias interrupted, his fists curled so tightly that they glowed white, "said *a* Duke. Not the Duke of Dargon." Sir Edward Sothos, behind Luthias, rose. Baron Vladon spoke. "You know that when the highest noble of the Duchy is accused, Coranabo, the matter is brought before the King. The Duke's Advocate is correct. The word of a mere merchant is hardly enough to accuse the Duke of Dargon for treason before the Crown of Baranur. The Duke's Advocate will need proof of a more substantial sort to try the case, if one can be made, before King Haralan." "Very well," Coranabo replied easily. "The matter can be settled simply enough. If the Duke is involved, there will be some sort of indication in his home, will there not?" "I cannot believe this," Clifton interjected, anger and incredulity spilling over. "I am no traitor!" "Then allow us to search your keep," Coranabo argued. "If you are innocent, as you say, then the search can do no harm." Helplessly, Luthias turned to his cousin. "He's right, you know," he whispered. "And unless you allow the search, he'll bring you before the King himself." Scowling, Clifton waved his permission and turned away. Baron Vladon stood. "Bring the accused," he instructed calmly. Two city guards came forward, but did not lay a hand on either Ittosai or the Duke. Ominously, Luthias left the room, and the rest followed him to Dargon Keep. "It's all right, Lauren," Clifton said softly to his wife when they entered, but his eyes betrayed everything. One look at Luthias' smoldering eyes flooded her face with panic. "What is it?" she whispered. "Stupidity, nothing," Clifton returned as Luthias angrily ordered the search. "The trial?" Clifton closed his eyes. "Nothing--worse--where is your father? Send for him." As the Duchess did so, a soldier walked up to Luthias. "The desk in the office is locked." Luthias' mouth became taut. "Your grace," he addressed his cousin formally, "I will need the key." Clifton's eyes raged at his younger cousin, and angrily, he reached in his pocket. "I'll do it," the Duke decided, marching into the study. The Baron of Connall followed, hurt that his cousin apparently blamed this on him. What could he do about it? The Duke halted abruptly before his desk, thrust the key into its hole, and yanked the drawer open. He stepped back and threw a contemptuous look at the soldiers and the Tribunal. "There. Look if you must." Luthias frowned and turned to leave. He couldn't remain in here. His cousin's arm stopped him. "Hey, manling," Clifton whispered, 1looking where the soldiers searched, supervised by Vladon and Coranabo, "I'm sorry. This isn't your fault." "This is ridiculous," Luthias replied. "I--" "So you are innocent?" Coranabo yelled triumphantly, almost dancing to the Duke. "Kindly explain this!" He held out a large piece of parchment, heavily embossed with the Duke's seal. Concerned, Clifton took it, read it over. "I don't understand this," he muttered. "It's my hand...my signature...but I've never seen this document before in my life." Luthias frantically snatched it, read it, recognized his cousin's seal and signature as easily as the Duke himself had. And then he stared at his cousin, pain and horror in his eyes. With a heavy, worried look on her face, Myrande Shipbrook raced through her duties. Something was wrong, very wrong, and Luthias wasn't talking. Nothing new: he and Roisart had almost never spoken to her about their troubles. Yet, whatever was so wrong couldn't be left in silence. Myrande shuddered when she recalled how Luthias appeared when he returned to Connall Keep alone. His face was pale, full of shock, horror, pain, and yes, fear. The look had frightened her. She had only seen Luthias look that way once before. It was the night Roisart had died, and Luthias became Baron; he had been stunned, appalled, hurt, and terrified then, too. "My lady," Mika, her assistant called, "all is ready for the storm." Myrande nodded. She had been watching the storm come since before sunset. Lightning had started soon after, and the winds were high and hard. Myrande could hear them, even in the little keep that served the Connall family as a town house. She went to the wall and opened the window. Now, nearing midnight, the warm, rushing wind smelled of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky, cutting it cleanly. It would be a ravaging storm, no worse than the one that was laying waste to Luthias. Damn it all! What could it be? Myrande had no clue. The servants that had accompanied Luthias knew nothing. Luthias had dismounted his horse slowly, looked at her once, and went straight to his study and closed the door tightly. Myrande had called him, had knocked on the study door, but had not received an answer. Enough. Myrande gave a few final instructions to the servants. Let them finish the duties by themselves for once! Luthias needed her--now! With a swift, determined stride, she made her way to the Baron's study and tried the door. Locked. Myrande's lips tightened for a moment, then she grasped the keys which hung on her belt. Normally, she wouldn't have even thought of unlocking the door and intruding on Luthias' privacy, but this was important, and by God, what was the use of being seneschal if you couldn't use your keys? She quickly unlocked the door and shoved it open. "Go away, Sable!" Luthias called angrily from behind the desk. Myrande swayed backward a moment, his rage greeting her like a blow. The study was dark, except for a fire in the hearth, and the abrupt flares of lightning from outside. The window of the study was open, and the wind whipped the curtains and Luthias' hair mercilessly. The Baron himself was standing, tall, ominous, and half-dressed, behind his desk. In his left hand, he held a half-empty brandy decanter. The other hand held his glass. His shirt and the red tunic of his office lay flung on the floor. The look of fright, hurt, shock, and horror remained, but it was now flavored with fury. He stared at his seneschal coldly and gulped some of the amber brandy as if in defiance 1of her. Myrande almost shuddered; for the first time in her life, Luthias actually was frightening her instead of projecting safety. Determined, however, she stood her ground and shut the door behind her. "Luthias," she insisted, her words distorted by the wind, "tell me what happened." "You've got enough to worry about," he snapped, pouring himself some more liquor. He spoke clearly and held himself confidently. Luthias had always done well holding his liquor; still, drinking enhanced whatever emotions had made him want to imbibe in the first place. Myrande was afraid. "It's the same as always, isn't it?" she accused softly, slowly crossing the room. "You and Roisart, always the same. Whenever you had joy, you shared it with me willingly, but if something was wrong, you two would withdraw into yourselves and--" "We didn't want to trouble you then," Luthias snarled, slamming the brandy onto the desk. He drained his glass without flinching. "You have enough problems now. I don't need you. Leave me alone!" "No," she denied flatly. She held herself regally, although his tone whipped her and she wanted to run and hide. "What happened? Have they condemned Michiya?" Luthias laughed in a bitter, furious way. "Practically. They won't even listen, the bastards, and now Clifton!" Myrande's fear heightened. "What about Clifton?" "He's a traitor, that's what!" the Baron of Connall screamed. He lifted the brandy decanter to his lips and drained some of the honey-colored liquid. "They found the evidence in his own desk--in his own hand!" "Clifton, a traitor?" Myrande gasped finally. Outside, an explosion of lightning seared the sky. Thunder tried to mask Myrande's words. "You can't really believe that Clifton's a traitor!" "I tell you, I saw it!" Luthias raged. "I SAW it! My cousin's condemned to die, traitor or no, and Michiya with him, and I have to do it!" "What are you talking about?" She was beginning to fear that Luthias was hysterical or delirious. Lightning flared again. The rain was beginning, falling violently against the keep. "I have to try my cousin for treason in front of the King!" Luthias shouted shrilly. "I have to prove my cousin a traitor! In front of King Haralan! It isn't true!" the Baron screamed, "It can't be true! I have to prove it true! Oh, God!" he shouted, laughing bitterly at the ceiling. Lightning again, and thunder. "My only living kinsman--and I have to make him a traitor!" "Make someone else try him," Myrande suggested readily, like an arrow ready to spring at any target. The wind projected hard rain through the window. "Kingdom law, Sable!" he yelled at her, swinging the bottle, then drinking from it. "I'm the Duke's Advocate, and when the highest noble in the Duchy commits a crime, I have to try him before the King. My God, Clifton!" He drank again. Suddenly, Myrande could take it no more. She leapt forward. "You can't believe Clifton a traitor!" Thunder roared outside, and the rain whistled on the wind. "How can I believe anything else?" Luthias screamed at her. "I saw it, I SAW IT! I have to try him, see him die, become the Duke of Dargon! I have to see my last kinsman die a traitor!" He moved to drink again, but Myrande wrested the decanter from his hands. "Do you think this will help you?" Myrande yelled at him, and enraged, she flung the brandy onto the stone hearth. The glass exploded into a crystal shower; the flame flared brilliantly blue from 1the brandy. There was explosive thunder. "I can help you, Luthias, if you'd talk to me!" "You help me? You won't even let me help you," Luthias shouted, taking her by the shoulders. "What the hell am I going to do? What the hell do you think you can do?" He shook her violently. "Tell me!" "Ask the King!" Myrande managed to shout somehow. Her brain was rattling in her skull. Lightning split her eyes and blinded her. "Or reason it out. Ask the King." "What?" Luthias laughed haughtily. "The King? The King help a traitor? Help me? You're joking! And reasoning it out--I'm not Roisart! I'm a fighter, not a lawyer!" He released her abruptly. "There's nothing you could do!" he told her bitterly. Suddenly, the rage left his face, and he sank into a chair, his head in his hands. "There's nothing to be done," he whispered, choking. Myrande knelt before him and put her arms around him. The rain spattered through the window, dampening them both. "When are you leaving?" she whispered. "Tomorrow," came the muffled answer. "We sail from Dargon tomorrow, then down to the Laraka." "You should get some sleep," she said gently, stroking his hair in an effort to soothe him. She shuddered as the wind chilled her wet skin. "You'll be dead tomorrow if you don't." "What does it matter?" the Baron asked bitterly. "Come, Luthias," she cajoled. "It matters to me." She took his head between her small hands and forced him to look at her. Despair and lightning glowed in his dark eyes. "It matters to me." Wordlessly, she coaxed him to his feet and led him to his room. Again, his expression worried her; he oozed despair. "Go to sleep," she counseled, seating him on his bed. Suddenly, Luthias was clinging to her, his grip like frantic iron. "Sable, Sable, what am I going to do?" "I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know." "Sable, Sable," he cried, rocking as if to comfort himself a little. "There's going to be no one left. I'll have no one." "No," she said, pulling back to see his face. She touched his cheek tenderly. "I'm here, Luthias. I'll always be here." Myrande gently brushed some hair out of his dark eyes. "You'll always have me." "Oh, Sable," the Baron said suddenly, pulling her close, and within moments, Myrande found herself being kissed passionately. Luthias was equally surprised, though slightly distant, due to the alcohol. Still, it felt good to hold her, to kiss her, and he didn't let go, wouldn't let go, no, not ever. Luthias didn't know how long the kisses lasted, but then his hands were moving carefully, subtly--he had had much practice. Her black hair unwound beneath his hands, and it felt like velvet and smelled of roses. His hands continued to move slowly, carefully; he did not want to frighten her. One thing at a time, slowly. He felt Myrande uncertainly returning the caresses. He held her more tightly then, shifted his weight, started to lower her onto the bed-- Abruptly, she pushed him away. "You're drunk," she accused roughly, then fled the room. Luthias buried his head in his hands and tried to scream, but was silent. He had just ruined everything--with the one person he had left. Only an hour past dawn, the sunlight was so bright that Ittosai Michiya had to bow his head in order to guide his horse on the road to Dargon. The heat made his stomach queasy; that was why, the Bichurian 1mused, that neither he, nor the silent, still Luthias, nor the hurried seneschal, could eat much in the dark hours before dawn. The hot air oppressed Michiya; it was never so warm in Bichu. The sun seared his eyes. He was glad that they would soon be in Dargon and leaving for Magnus; if he were to be doomed, let it come, and come quickly. He had had quite enough of this horrid waiting. If that weren't enough, the silence was driving the Castellan mad. Luthias had barely spoken to Ittosai that morning, and what the Baron had said was brief and gruff. Myrande, who rode beside Michiya, had been hurried before they left the little keep Luthias kept just outside Dargon and had no time to talk; now, Luthias silence seemed to weigh on her as well. But enough. "If you do not like something," Michiya's uncle had once told him, "you must do something, and not wait for others to do it for you." The Castellan began softly, "Why did you come with us, Myrande?" Her head jerked toward him as if she were startled. Ittosai smiled at her in an effort to reassure her; Myrande returned the gesture, but the smile was exhausted. "Someone should be with Duchess Lauren today." Crisply, Ittosai nodded. "It is well. I have no desire for you to be alone. This business with the Baron of Shipbrook has made me uneasy." Myrande made an effort to laugh, but like her smile, her laughter was full of fatigue. "Don't worry; I can take care of myself." "Still, practice much with the naginata, and wear the chopsticks." Myrande reached back and plucked one from her hair. Michiya smiled. "Will you stay with the Duchess?" "For a few days, perhaps." "They're waiting for us," Luthias muttered suddenly, looking at Ittosai, then swiftly turning when he found Myrande's eyes upon him. An astonished Ittosai stared at his Baron, then turned to the seneschal. "Did you and Luthias-sama have a fight?" he whispered. Her eyes, concerned, stared past the Castellan at his master. "What? No," she revealed, sighing. "This trial..." "Is he ill? He did not eat his breakfast. His color is not good." Myrande compressed her lips and looked past the Castellan at the young Baron of Connall. His eyes were red, as if from weeping; his complexion was a ghastly gray. Luthias was clenching his jaw. "Yes," she answered softly, "he is sick." Eyes dark with sorrow, she turned to Michiya. "Take care of him, will you?" "I could never do that," Ittosai replied ruefully, but smiling a little. "He would never allow anyone but you to take care of him." Myrande bowed her head. "It is you who must take care of him, Myrande-san," the Castellan gently corrected as he looked ahead. "I have no hope for this trial, and--" Confused, his voice raised. "Why is the High Mage waiting for us?" "We'll find out," Luthias returned gruffly. Like Ittosai, he kept his eyes on the waiting group: the Tribunal, Winthrop, Coranabo, and Baron Vladon; Sir Edward Sothos, the Knight Commander; the Duke of Dargon and his Duchess; and, sitting calmly on his mount, Marcellon Equiville, the High Mage. Ittosai made to spur his horse ahead, but Luthias abruptly held out his arm to stop him. "Don't go ahead of me; they'll suspect you of trying to escape," the Baron winced against some unknown pain. Ittosai paused. "I do want you to know that I know you're not guilty," Myrande started softly, "and I--" "No more, Myrande," Michiya cut her off swiftly. "It is all right." "Are you ready then, Baron Connall?" Baron Vladon asked as 1Luthias and his party approached. Worried, Michiya watched as the Baron nodded painfully. "Good day, Lady Myrande. Gentlemen, pray join us." "Why are you here?" Luthias bluntly asked the High Mage. The physician turned to him, a doctor's concern evident in his expression. "Don't you think you should stay with Lauren?" Gently, the High Mage returned, "It is my right, as a noble of Baranur, to defend Clifton and Michiya. Besides," he continued wistfully, "I have been neglecting my duties as High Mage of late. It is time I return to the King." "Enough," Coranabo interrupted angrily. "We are wasting time. Let us leave. The ship is waiting." He turned to the Duke of Dargon, who was tenderly kissing his wife good-bye. "Bind the traitors." "No!" Luthias' denial rang like a clap of thunder. Coranabo turned to him sharply. The furious Baron of Connall stared him down. "They are not traitors until the King decrees," Luthias explained curtly, his color paling. "I will not allow them to be bound." "That is your decision, Advocate," Baron Vladon agreed smoothly. "If you are ready, Duke Dargon." "My horse..." Clifton began, motioning for one of his servants. "Here, take mine," Myrande offered, sliding from her mount. Clifton smiled at her briefly and threw himself into the saddle. The seneschal smiled her good-bye to Ittosai; she then turned to the young Baron. "Luthias..." He didn't turn his head. "Good-bye, Sable," he took his leave, and abruptly he spurred his horse away, leaving the sorrowful Duchess and the seneschal behind him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright September, 1989, DargonZine. All rights revert to the authors. These stories may not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E ||Volume 2 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 5 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 2, Issue 5 10/13/89 Cir 824 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DAG Dafydd Editorial Sons of Gateway 2: Magic Jon "Grimjack" Evans Naia 21-Ober 13, '13 Dragon Hunt 4 Max Khaytsus Yule 8-23, 1013 Damsel in Distress Wendy Hennequin Sy 24-27, 1013 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Dafydd's Amber Glow by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Editor DargonZine (b.c.k.a white@duvm.BitNet) Today's editorial is to let all of you readers know that DargonZine is not alone. Two other magazines of Science Fiction/Fantasy have recently come to my attention - Quanta and Athene. In a spirit of cooperation, we three editors have gotten together in the hopes of increasing the readership of each others' 'zines. Please note: we three are in no way in competition. All three magazines are free, and all three of us would be happy if each and every one of our readers received a copy of all the magazines currently available. See the end of this issue (and future issues) for more information about both Quanta and Athene. On a related note, if any of you readers know of other electronic magazines about SF/Fantasy, either Fiction or Fact 'Zines, please let me know about them, and perhaps let the editor (if you know him/her) know about DargonZine. I would love to have more reading material available to me and I'm sure that most of our readers would too. Thank you, Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Editor DargonZine ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Sons of Gateway Part 2: Magic by Jon "Grimjack" Evans (b.c.k.a. v047kfz7@ubvms) The early morning sun sparkled off the sweat pouring down Ne'on's forehead, red from the effort. Symbols flashed through his mind, mimicked by interweaving patterns of flying fingers. The final incantation, and the command: "Burn!" Ne'on concentrated on his target and a branch burst into flames. He smiled as he imagined skin of his brother's limbs blistering and burning like the twig. He was pleased with himself. Just then, a pale ghost of a human being "floated" through the wall next to him. It was Qord, astrally projecting himself to summon Ne'on. 'It is time,' Ne'on thought. "It is time," Qord said. Turning back toward his room, Qord "flew" immediately back to his body, walls and tables proving no obstacle for him. Ne'on took a quick drink of water from a glass on the table and poured the rest on the smoldering branch. Wiping his brow, he answered his master's summons. "Ne'on Winston, son of Kald, Lord Gateway," called Qord in the ritual of the test. "You are charged with a claim to the title of Bark - do you deny this claim?" Qord was a little uneasy. Ne'on had shown much improvement and discipline since his return from Gateway, and he was proud of Ne'on. However, if he failed now, he would be Drained. If Ne'on believed he needed more time for study, he could always answer "Yes". "No," Ne'on replied, tensing for the test. "Mage," smiled Qord, "prove your mettle." With that, the test began. Potions were concocted and illusions shimmered. Energy flew in all forms as every color of the spectrum flared. Spell upon spell was uttered; elixers were created and destroyed. For hours, the chambers of Qord, Leaf of the Nar-Enthruen, glowed, darkened, flared, and faded. And with the setting of the sun, the final spell was uttered. Ne'on collapsed in a pool of sweat. "You made one mistake, my son," noted Qord, shuffling through his robes. "Well, two, actually," he continued, producing two vials. He quaffed one of the elixers and extended the second to Ne'on, "First of all, you have to work a little more on definition of the images in your illusions. Second, you didn't save a strength potion for your recovery." Qord smiled. "Lucky for you, I always carry a spare!" Ne'on feebly reached for the flask, fumbled with the seal for a moment, and quickly inhaled it. Breathing in more of it than he swallowed, he choked as he felt the strength returning to his bones. "Thank you, Qord," he finally managed to say. A bit anxiously, "Well? How'd I do?" "If you had failed, Ne'on, you would already be stripped of your power. As it happens," Qord's grin grew broader, "I am proud to bestow upon you the title of Bark! "In celebration of this indubitable honor, I propose a vacation, of sorts. A trip! As you know, the Melrin festival begins in nine days. Magnus is renowned for its holiday extravaganza, and is only four days ride from here. I haven't spent Melrin in Magnus in over five years. What say we go? We can laugh, drink, celebrate . . . I've a few old friends I would like to see . . . and I'd be proud to have you with me." Qord was practically bubbling over. He was obviously very happy about Ne'on's success, and Ne'on wondered if that potion Qord had just taken didn't have more than just a strengthening herb. He supposed magicians would have knowledge of such substances. Quite pleased with 1his own success, his reply was obvious. "Why not? I could use some rest. And, speaking of rest . . ." Grunting to stand up, he bid his master goodnight. Potions that granted unusual strength usually demanded a high price in sleep for their benefits. On the morning of the twenty-fifth of Naia, Qord and Ne'on departed for Magnus. With some final instructions to Jordan, the servant, they moved their horses onto the brightly lit path of the forest. In the early morning light, the dew glistened off the leaves of the underbrush, and the shadows of the trees mixed with the moss on the ground. Around midday, they came across a terrible sight! Lying on the path in front of them was a man, half-conscious, and covered in blood. He was sprawled out on his back with his head against a tree. "Help me..." he gasped weakly, "help...me..." Qord leapt from the saddle with a speed be-lying his age and rushed to the man's side. "Ne'on, bring the potions, quickly!" Easing the man's head down to the ground, he gently probed the man's body for the wound, or wounds, robbing the man of his life. Just as Ne'on arrived with the potions, the blood soaked man raised his arm and pointed behind them. "There..." There was the sound of people crashing through the brush and a dull THUNK! as an arrow struck the man in his chest! He twitched once, and stopped. Ne'on stood still, afraid to move. "Turn around slowly, both of you. And step away from that man. Very good," he added, as Ne'on and Qord obeyed. "What have they got, Red?" "Very nice purses, Mackie!" The man they had stopped to help - the one with an arrow in his chest! - stood up and walked toward "Mackie", presumably the leader of the rogues. "Must be on their way to Magnus for Melrin, by the look of them. Well, now, they just ensured us a very nice holiday!" The band of men, seven of them all told, laughed heartily as Red withdrew the arrow from a wooden board hidden under his leather jerkin. "Next time, Mackie, use a little less force on the bow, eh? The arrow tip nipped me a bit." Ne'on's mind was racing. Qord's life and his were worthless to the thieves, and they knew it. If anything ws to be done, it would have to be now; but, he didn't know what to do! His stomach knotted and his limbs grew unsteady. His pulse beat loudly in his ears, and he began to panic. "Hold, Ne'on." Once again, the voice spoke to him. "These paltry ruffians cannot harm you. With a single thought, their crude weapons cannot touch you. And with a single motion, your enemies will flee before you." "Who are you?" Ne'on called out, no longer aware of his surroundings. The voice was not the one who answered, though. "Just simple travellers on our way to Magnus!" Red's answer brought out more jeers and laughter from the thieves. "Yeah! Collecting charity from the good people in these parts for our favourite cause: us! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!" The band was quite pleased with itself and the fun it was having, but Ne'on was oblivious to them all. 'Who are you?' he thought, this time. "A part of you that wishes to survive. Now," it continued, "protect yourself." Ne'on closed his eyes. Mystical symbols danced across his mind as the low hum of his voice summoned the magic within him. "Hey! What's he doin'?" Red called attention to Ne'on and the whole party sobered. "You idiots!" he cried. "He's a freakin' wizard! He'll kill us all! Shoot him!" In less than two seconds, six arrows 1were nocked and loosed. Too late. Ne'on's spell was finished and the arrows deflected off him. "Now, make them run." More symbols appeared as he traced runes in the air. His incantation finished the spell. Suddenly, a wall of fire burst forth between the rogues and the mages! Smoke rose in the air, and twigs crackled as they burn. "Gods! He's gonna burn us ta death! Let's get out a here!" The men dropped money, weapons, and packs in their desperate scramble to flee the burning woods. "There," spoke the voice, and a lightening bolt struck out of the clear blue sky. "And there." "And there." More than one of the thieves would be cleaning their britches this day as the last bolt struck Mackie and he fell to the ground. It would be a long time before they returned to this area. The wall of fire dispersed as quickly as it appeared. The electrically charred ground of the forest floor vanished, leaving the soil marred only by the panicked scamperings of frightened men. Mackie lay on the ground, unconscious. "Well done," praised Qord as he went to collect their belongings. "I almost believed you cast those spells for real! If it weren't for this scoundrel's breathing I might not have been able to tell the difference. You amaze me more and more, Ne'on. You'll be a great mage, one day - you're already a respectable illusionist!" "Why is Mackie unconscious?", he thought aloud. He was glad he didn't finish the thought verbally for he had meant to kill the rogue. "Well, you couldn't expect him to stay conscious, could you? After all, the mind believes the body has been struck by lightening. It shuts itself down in order to keep the body from experiencing too much pain. "Now, before he wakes up, let us be moving along." Qord repacked the rest of their belongings. "Oh, yes. I almost forgot." He removed a silver dagger from within his robes. "Here, I found it near Mackie." Ne'on took the knife, admiring it's beauty. "It's a fine blade. Very well crafted. Thank you, Qord." "Oh, no! Don't thank me. After all, you were the one who chased off those ruffians. No, no; you deserve it." And with that, they set forth once again for Magnus. The warm summer evening settled heavily on Ne'on's shoulders as he watched Qord exit yet another of Magnus' inns. By the look on his face, Ne'on knew the answer to his question before it was asked. "If we keep this up we'll be spending Melrin in a stable!" "Not very likely." Qord was tired. Four and a half days of travel took their toll on the seventy year old Leaf. "All the merchants in town brought extra horses to carry their wares. There's less room in the stables than in the inns." He laid a reassuring hand on his horse, "But don't worry, Gal, I know a place where all of us can stay." His gaze returned to Ne'on, "A gentleman whom I aided a few years back. A mystical being from another dimension fell in lust with him, poor chap. She was an atrocious sight. Didn't take rejection well, either, I'm afraid." There were fewer street lamps on this side of Magnus, but the light from the shops, houses, and taverns kept the street well lit. Up ahead, Ne'on noticed, was an inn with the standard of two unicorns in battle. The sign read: "The Fighting Unicorns", and Qord assured Ne'on they would be able to stay here. Before they could reach the inn, there was a loud crash, the sound of breaking glass, and a heavy thud! as the door swung open. 1Silhouetted against the bright light from within was a large man swinging another through the air, releasing him at the hight of the swing. The smaller man flew through the air, landing in a wagon on the other side of the street. The larger man's voice bellowed over the noise from within, "Next time you touch one of my girls like that, it'll be more than a bottle I break over your head! Now, get out of here before I lose my temper - and you lose your neck!" "I hope you don't treat all your customers like that, Sir Hawk," Qord spurred up to the light of the inn, removing his cowl as he spoke. "I do not think I could survive such a toss, at my age." "I treat 'em the way they deserve, old ma- Well! By my sword and shield!" Sir Hawk's visage turned from one of annoyance to one of great joy. "Qord, you old son of a she-wolf, how are you? And what are you doing in such a common part of the city?" Qord dismounted and grasped his friend's arm firmly. "I'm here for Melrin, of course! And, other than lack of a place to stay, I'm fine. Very well, in fact." Sir Hawk smiled. He had guessed the reason Qord had ventured so far from the nicer districts of Magnus. Thankfully, he could accommodate him. "Say no more, my friend! I have just the room for you and your companion. Come in! I'll have the boy take care of your steeds." A servant came at Sir Hawk's behest and took their mounts to the stables. Sir Hawk ordered a meal for his guests and cleared a table in the well-crowded tavern. The room was loud with song and revelry, and Sir Hawk almost had to yell to be heard above the din. "So tell me, Lord Winston: why is it you do not spend Melrin in the Royal District? I thought it was a matter of etiquette to stay with your family while you are visiting Magnus." "A matter of honor, sir," Ne'on replied. "My father and my uncle were never on good terms. Rather than inconvenience my uncle, and embarrass my father, I declined to stay there." It wasn't unknown among the nobles of Magnus that Lord Keeper Winston of Gateway Keep and his brother, Lord Winston, a minor land holder, associated with each other as little as possible. Ne'on sipped his wine. Hawk looked confused. "No, not your uncle. I meant your brother, Lord Goren." Ne'on choked on his wine, spitting a little, and drooling some onto his napkin. "My apologies, sir! But Goren is here? In Magnus?!" Ne'on instantly became nervous and defensive. What's he doing here? Does he know I'm here? Does he know WHY I'm here? What does he want? He almost betrayed his emotions to the others; but, once again, the voice, like rolling thunder, spoke to him: "Do not fear, Ne'on. Your brother could not possibly be aware of your presence here. You need not worry." Then Hawk spoke. "No need to apologize, my lord. Had I known how you would react, I would not have asked. It is I who should apologize. Let us have some more wine." Sir Hawk called one of his serving girls and ordered more wine. "I thank you, Sir Hawk, but I must be getting to bed." Ne'on stood up. "I have never been in Magnus during Melrin before, although my father often told me of it, and I wish to make an early start tomorrow morn." Ne'on made his leave of the mage and the innkeeper, and found a servant to lead him to his room. 'I'll have to go to the Fifth Quarter,' thought Ne'on, sipping his mead. It was the second day of Melrin and most of the populace was at the festival, leaving the Fighting Unicorns all but bare of customers. Ne'on had not been having a good time in Magnus. He had spent all of the previous day trying to enjoy the festival, but he was 1troubled with the knowledge of his brother's presence in Magnus. It was an added worry which he didn't need. Last night, however, Ne'on had found his solution: whoever he found to replace Luke as his Captain would have a test - find his brother and make him leave town. Finding him wouldn't be the hard part, but making him leave town would be; Goren isn't one to take threats idly, and he is fairly proficient with a sword. Just then, Ne'on noticed an argument growing louder in the room. It was coming from behind one of the curtained booths to Ne'on's right. The curtain drew apart, and a large hulk of a man walked through. A smaller man, with a black cloak about his shoulders, remained seated. "You still owe me fifty gold coins," stated the smaller man as he rose from his seat, "and I'll get it from you whether you give it . . . or I take it." The larger man stopped. He smiled an amused smile and turned around. "Well, I don't think you'll be takin' too much from me, Bart." The large man had an almost equally large sword sheathed across his back. He drew it. "So I think I'll give it to you." A faint smile could be seen on Bart's face as the lummox swung his sword through the air. Like lightning, Bart drew his own sword with his left hand, to parry the attack, while a dagger flew out of his right, solidly lodging itself in the man's chest. The giant fell loudly to the floor. Bart sheathed his sword and walked over to the corpse. Wiping his dagger on the dead man's clothes, he sheathed it and removed a purse from within the man's pockets. He tossed a gold coin to the man at the bar. "It was self-defense. You don't remember me." Bart looked around once, stared at Ne'on for a moment, and left. Ne'on hastily finished his drink and rose to make his exit. 'Apparently', he smiled, 'I won't need to go to the Fifth Quarter after all!' The sound of Goren's footsteps echoed off the walls and buildings of the street around him. The light of the street lamps were blurry and bright, so he raised his hand to block it out. Unfortunately, this was the hand which held his wine bottle, and its meeting with his head caused him to stumble about the sidewalk, narrowly side stepping the sludge-filled drainage gutters between the street and the walkway. He was drunk. He was not happy. And what he saw next made him think he was dead. In the street ahead of him was a man. The man wore a long black cloak about his shoulders, disguising much of his body, but his face was unhidden. His face was long and thin and well cleaned, his eyes were a piercing blue-grey, and his hair . . . His hair was what most struck Goren for it was long, as if it hadn't been cut in years. It was dirty blond in color, and thin, and it fell lightly about the man's shoulders. In the man's left hand was a long, sharp sword, and he was pointing it at Goren. Then the man spoke, and his voice was deep and deadly. "Certain people don't want you in Magnus, Lord Winston." His thin lips barely parted when he spoke, and a slight smile broke out on his face. "I've been instructed to tell you to leave. By tomorrow noon, on the third of Melrin, you should be out of Magnus. This is your warning." With deadly grace, the man jumped forward and lunged at Goren. Goren was too drunk to react, and his only thought was 'I'm dead' as the sword drove toward his skull. However, the blade only just cut him above the eyes, causing a lot of bleeding but doing no serious harm. Goren could not see with all the blood pouring down his face, and he tensed as he anticipated the killing blow. It never came. "This is to remember me by," the man said, and 1Goren heard soft footsteps striding away. Blackness settled on his skull. Darkness faded in and out as Goren dreamed. He dreamed of his brother, Ne'on, and the man who attacked him. Ne'on gave the man a purse of coins and a letter, and told the man to go to Gateway. The man left, darkness faded in and out, and Goren awoke, the dream fading in his memory. "He'll be alright, Lord Winston." The robed healer was hovering over Goren and speaking to someone elsewhere in the room. "More than likely, it was the wine which made him unconscious, not the wound - that was just bleeding a lot - it is nothing serious." Goren saw the healer's head and shoulders pull out of his tunnel-visioned line of sight. "The bleeding has stopped and the tissue has begun to heal. I can heal it completely, if you wish." "No, no; let it scar." The second voice was deeper and older than the healer's. And familiar. "It will teach him not to walk unguarded and inebriated through the streets of Magnus. Besides, it shouldn't take more than a week to heal, and there are others who more desperately require your services." Now Goren recognized the other voice: it belonged to Lord Cameron Winston, his uncle. "In that case," spoke the healer, as Goren's vision expanded, "I shall take my leave." The healer bowed, "Good morning, my Lords," and left. After a short while, Goren spoke. "Whe- AHEM! Where am I?" His voice was gravely from little sleep and much alcohol, and his mouth was filled with paste. When he cleared his throat he became aware of a pressure in his skull, and when he moved his head the room seemed to have to catch up with him before he could focus. "Ugh! And what have . . . I done to myself?" Cameron Winston laughed loudly at his nephew's state, and in so doing caused even greater suffering to Goren. This effected even greater laughter from Lord Winston, and Goren decided he hated his uncle. "I apologize, young Goren," Lord Winston began, "but if you saw yourself, you would laugh, too." Lord Winston calmed himself and waited for Goren to reply. "Oh . . . I don't know," spoke Goren, softly, "I might find pity on myself . . . and kill me . . ." At any other time, Lord Winston might have found this humorous; now, however, he was serious. "It seems someone already tried that for you, my nephew." Goren looked up and saw only concern in his uncle's eyes. "No . . . this was just a warning . . . Whoever did this could have killed me . . . Gods! I was sure he would! . . . but he just did this, and told me to leave Magnus." Lord Winston's confusion now added to Goren's. "And you still haven't told me where I am." "Oh! My sincerest apologies, young lord. I had forgotten you and your brother have never stayed in my home." Lord Winston extended his hand. "If you feel well enough, allow me to give you a tour of House Winston." Goren took his uncle's hand and allowed himself to be helped to his feet. In the next hour and a half, Goren was given the grand tour of House Winston. From the master bedroom to the wine cellar, Lord Winston instructed Goren on the history of the house and their family. Goren was pleased with being able to hear the history, for his father never discussed it. It was a large house, bigger than Winston Manor in Gateway Keep, yet it was one of the smallest in the Royal District of Magnus. Goren's ancestor's, it was explained to him, were not rich. However, during the Great Houses War in 97 BY, the Winston family sided with House Tallihran, King Haralan's ancestors, and became Lords as a result of their fealty. 1 Lord Winston seemed eager to answer any questions Goren asked about the family history; however, when he asked about Cameron's feelings toward his father, Lord Winston replied, "I leave that to your father to explain, if he will. It is between he and I, mostly, and I would not want that to interfere in future generations of the Winston family." Finally, Goren asked his uncle what he thought of Goren's encounter the night before. "Well, Goren," began Winston, "you have assured me it is not some young lady's father trying to frighten off suitors, so it can only mean one thing." "And what is that?" "Someone in Magnus believes you pose a threat to him or her. Now, you have two rational courses of action. First, you can stay in Magnus; I'll give you five of the House guards to protect you for the rest of your stay. Second, you can leave Magnus, in which case I should still give you those guards to protect your journey." They were in the Main Hall, again, and Goren looked at two of the guards protecting the outside entrance. "No, that won't be necessary. I-" Goren stopped. His vision wavered, and he felt weak for a moment. He grasped his uncle's shoulder to steady himself, and then it was past. "No doubt I've still to recover from last night's activities. But, as I was saying, I do not think the guards will be necessary." Goren raised his hand to stop the protests he saw building in his uncle. "Do not worry, my Lord, I have no intention of staying in Magnus. While I'd love to meet that man while I am sober, I have no doubts about his having friends. I shall leave within the hour." "Well thought, Goren." Lord Winston was surprised. He had heard of Goren's usually-rash behavior from Marcus, and his reaction toward this matter was unexpected. "I thought you would have wanted to form a search party and hunt the man down. It seems I was mistaken." "Not really." Goren looked down for a moment, then raised his head. "My first thought, when I awoke, was to grab my sword and find this man. But I was in no shape to go anywhere - and I don't believe you would have let me - so I had the opportunity to think, for a while. It seems some problems cannot be solved with a sword." Lord Winston smiled, and Goren felt proud of that smile. It was meant for him. Already, he began to feel closer to his uncle than he did to his father. "I see you've heard my brother's favorite motto," said Winston. "Heard!" Goren exclaimed, "I lived it for 23 years!" The sun had just fallen. The lamps of Magnus were being lit by men and women on carts, travelling the streets with fire and oil. It was night time. A man huddled on one side of an alleyway, his form barely visible in the darkness. Another man stood a foot away from him, speaking softly. "And how will he know who I am?" spoke the second. "Give him this letter," replied the first, producing a letter and a small sack of coins from within his robes. "And here is a retainer - I'll be there in a few more months." "Thank you, my Lord. Everything will be ready when you arrive." Fire licked the edge of the stone platform, and molten lava boiled for miles about it. Phos laughed. All was proceeding well. Control was almost effortless, and his puppet was unaware of his danger. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dragon Hunt, part 4 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a khaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu) The egg Rien held in his hands was much larger and harder than that of a chicken, but it in no way revealed itself to be that of a dragon. He carefully turned it over, hoping that somewhere there would be an indication or marking that would brand the egg uncommon, but not finding anything he looked at the wizard. Gerim smiled. "How will she know? Trust me, this is just what she needs." "What do you want for your 'advice'?" "Ah, it may have come across as advice, but for me it was just another adventure." "Sir," Rien sounded vexed, "I do not like carrying debts. Before I accept this, what is your price?" "No price," Gerim said. "Let it be my good deed to you." "You don't even know me," Rien pointed out. "We only met last morning." "I saw you in the tavern two nights ago," Gerim corrected. Actually there was also that time in the forest two weeks before... Rien still looked at him, unsure of what to do. Gerim waited, thinking what he could offer as collateral, in this unstable and lopsided business deal. "When I was your age," the wizard spoke, unconsciously bringing his hand to his ear and making Rien's gaze jerk up, "I had a friend who was poisoned by a snake bite." Rounded ear -- no evidence of elf blood. "They told me there was no cure and I watched that boy waste away in a matter of hours." Boy. In the elven tongues there is no distinction of age, just gender. "I see a similarity here and perhaps this time I can do something to help..." Gerim spread his arms out as an offering of peace. "Please, I travelled half the world in one night." "Very well," Rien finally nodded. The wizard seemed sincere. "I wish I could express my thanks. You're saving two lives, not just one." In a week and a half Rien and Kera made their way to the path where the hidden trail to Maari's house lay. Their rushed pace had taken its toll and they made camp a half day's distance from their destination, to rest and regain their strength. "I'm a little worried," Kera mentioned to Rien, over the early evening fire. "I'm anxious too," he answered. "I want to get this over with." "I keep thinking that she won't help us," Kera continued, staring into the fire. "What if she tries something?" "That's a possibility," Rien said. "Something to be aware of, but at times it's best to hope for the better." "How are we going to pay her?" Rien shook his head. "I don't know. I refuse to sentence anyone to death." "What if that means our death?" "I can make that choice for myself, but not for you." Kera moved herself to sit next to Rien. "I remember a while back you told me you saw nothing wrong with killing someone if your well being was threatened." "Nothing wrong with killing an individual who threatens my well being," Rien corrected. "I am sure we can find one," Kera smirked. "I couldn't condemn an individual to the kind of death that Maari has in mind," Rien sighed. 1 "Can you condemn yourself to lycanthropy?" "At this point I am not desperate enough to say 'no'." Kera leaned back into the grass, looking up into the darkening sky, with the first stars beginning to appear above the forest. "What day were you born on?" she asked abruptly. "A cold one," Rien smiled. "Don't be silly," Kera laughed. "When?" "Under the great oak...a green one, in unseasonably cold weather." "In Yule?" "Naia 27," Rien said. "Why didn't you tell me?" Kera sounded hurt. "Wasn't important," Rien said. "There were too many other things to worry about, particularly Maari's request." "Melrin wasn't much of a holiday either," Kera agreed. "I'll just have to surprise you sometime." Rien put his arm around Kera's shoulder and pulled her close, in an attempt to comfort her. "You remember the weather you were born in?" she asked. "Not really. My mother told me it was a little too cold for the event." "She should have had the windows closed," Kera laughed. "It was outdoors," said Rien. "Doesn't sound very private," Kera said, "but then you did say morals weren't much where you came from." "It's traditional," Rien explained. "Well, there's your Oak," Kera said, pointing up to the constellation of Valonus, materializing slowly in the almost dark sky. "When were you born?" Rien asked, sitting up and throwing some dirt on the fire. "Eighth of Janis," Kera said, sitting up as well. "I'm sure it was seasonably cold." The fire went out, leaving the clearing covered by the bright light of the almost full moon. "What happened to your parents?" Rien asked. "When I was young, Liriss told me that I was found abandoned. I stopped believing him after a while...after seeing how he deals with people. I guess my parents got in his way and he had them killed and took me." She again leaned back into the grass, admiring the moon. "Not having known them I really can't say I that miss them." Rien leaned back in the grass next to her, also looking at the moon. "Aren't you even curious..?" "I'm curious who they were, but...if they are still alive, I don't think I'd want to meet them." Rien lay quietly, staring up at the sky. "What about your parents?" Kera suddenly asked. Rien remained quiet for some time. "My mother lives in Charnelwood," he finally said. "What about your father?" Rien shifted uncomfortably on the ground. "He was killed by a Dopkalfar hunting party before I was born...before he found out I would be born." "I'm sorry," Kera whispered. "There's nothing to be sorry for," Rien answered. "In spite of how we feel, life comes and goes. We're not all friends on this planet. Some of us simply don't belong." Now it was Kera's turn to fall quiet. The two lay next to each other in the dark for a long time, then Rien heard Kera's breathing become more even. Exaustion had taken its toll. Carefully pulling his arm from under his companion, Rien relocated himself to the other side 1of the clearing. Kera woke up in the morning to the smell of a roasting rabbit. She looked around the clearing to see Rien managing a small camp fire with a rotisserie set up over it. "Why didn't you wake me up?" she asked. "You needed the rest," Rien answered without turning around. Kera shuffled around on the ground, then got up. "Let me do that," she indicated the rabbit. "I already smell it burning." Rien moved away from the camp fire. "How did you ever survive in the wilderness alone?" Kera asked, taking his place. "I don't discriminate against raw meat," Rien said, "even if cooked is better. Besides, I know that it's fresh if it's raw." "Gross," Kera mumbled. "I'd rather eat it burned." "I know," Rien smiled. "I thought the smell of burned flesh would get you up." Kera laughed and continued preparing the food. "It will all be over today, won't it?" she asked a bit later. Her voice suddenly somber and serious. "I hope so," Rien said. "One way or another." He moved to face Kera and continued. "Listen, I've been thinking. When we get to Maari's home, I don't want you to dismount. Just stay on the horse and if anything goes wrong, leave." Kera tried to protest, but Rien continued. "Don't argue. Like you said, this gets resolved today and I don't want you to get hurt. If a fight starts, if a spell is cast, go. Don't worry about me." "I'll agree to this now," Kera said, "but I may not do it when the time comes. My best chances are with you and in the end I'm sure you agree that it's purely my decision what to do in a situation like that and you certainly won't be in a position to argue if it comes to that." Rien nodded approvingly after a moment. "Well said. You've been paying attention." Kera smiled back. "I was hoping you'd like it." But in some way it appeared to Rien that the smile was false and there would be a lot more to do before all would be resolved. After breakfast they mounted their horses and in the building heat of the afternoon summer sun made their way to Maari's dwelling. They rode their horses onto the hidden path, cautiously guiding their animals through the thick grass until the roof of the witch's hut appeared in the distance. Rien stopped his horse and checked the egg one more time; a final inspection in the unlikely event that he had missed something previously. Kera stopped next to him, shifting restlessly in the saddle. "Maybe we should spend some more time preparing..." she said. Rien looked up in mid turn of the egg. His companion's voice sounded shaky. "Are you alright?" his concerned eyes focused on her. "Just a little nervous," Kera smiled awkwardly. "You look downright scared," Rien said. He replaced the egg in its pouch and moved his horse closer to Kera's. "Get down before you shake yourself from the saddle," he said, dismounting to help her. Kera half slid, half fell from the saddle and Rien helped her to a shaded patch of grass beneath a tree. "What's wrong?" he asked, gently pushing her down. Kera leaned back against the tree trunk, trying to regain her composure. "Relax," Rien took Kera's hands in his own. "I won't let Maari do anything to you..." He was beginning to understand what her problem was. 1 Kera violently shook her head in response. "Nothing will happen," he insisted again, taking Kera in his arms. It did not help. "All right," Rien said after a minute, releasing Kera and rising. "We're not going to see her. Mount up. If we push the horses, we can make it to Magnus in little over a month." Kera looked up at him, her shaking not as strong as before. She tried to smile. "I'm alright," but it didn't look convincing. "Let's talk to her," she managed to say. "Are you certain?" Rien knelt before her. She still seemed on the verge of a breakdown. Kera nodded and started to get up. Rien hurried to help her to her horse, but as Kera grabbed the saddle, she looked towards the barely visible hut among the trees and again broke into a shaking fit. "I can't," her voice shook with fear. "She'll kill me!" Rien recognised himself as part of the problem. To Maari, he was worthless, but Kera could provide exactly what the old witch wanted; a soul to experiment with. He took Kera in his arms again, holding her up against the horse. He permitted himself to realize just how much he feared and hated humans who practiced magic. He turned Kera around, his now grey eyes searching for an answer in hers. Kera held still, not understanding what the changes in her companion were. Her fear of Maari lessened, replaced by that of Rien, who suddenly thrust her away, tore the saddle bag with the egg off his horse and disappeared in the direction of Maari's hut. Kera stood still, holding onto her horse, watching Rien leave, then, her curiosity and concern winning over her fear for herself, she advanced forward, with her mount obediantly following her lead. Making his way to the clearing, Rien looked around. "I have your egg, witch!" he shouted. A moment later Maari appeared from around back. She seemed completely unprepared for his visit. "I have the egg!" he yelled again, triumphantly holding up the saddle bag. He patiently waited for her to approach before dropping the bag to the ground and drawing his sword. "Bitch!" he stammered, ready to swing. Maari answered something in anger, making an unseen force throw Rien backwards to the ground. She fell on her knees before the saddle bag, tearing it open, to get to the precious egg. It was whole. With triumph in her eyes, Maari got up, egg in her hands. "Fool," she looked at Rien's unmoving body. "There never was and never will be a cure!" She turned to leave, when the egg in her hands disloved to a glob of slime. It covered her hands and spread slowly to her body, in spite of her loud protests, as Kera watched from a cluster of trees at the edge of the clearing. As the witch transformed into a puddle of slime on the ground, Kera advanced from the trees, for a better view. Her fear was completely dominated by curiosity and when she spotted Rien's motionless body, she ran towards him, in spite of what she had just seen. "Don't touch him, girl," a pleasantly accented voice sounded above her, as Kera reached Rien's body. She looked around, startled, seeing Gerim not ten feet away. How did he get there? "Don't touch him," the wizard repeated. "I can only change the chain of events if you do what I say." Kera took two steps back, looking at Gerim in disbelief, to shocked and surprised by the turn of events to ask any questions. "He was an innocent victim of poor planning on my part," the wizard continued. "Hurry, bring me the large black book Maari has in her house." Kera bolted before the instructions were complete. She tore into the dark two room hut, tripping over a chair and winding up on the 1floor. A large black cat hissed at her from the corner and quickly disappeared into the darkness of the second room. Kera got up and looked around. Her heart beat faster, now that she realized where she was. She held onto a chair for support. Dark blinds and furniture decorated the spartan main room of the witch's dwelling. A heavy, murky smell hung in the air, making Kera think of the blocks beneath Liriss' private pier. She slowly scanned the room, fearing to walk in any further, when she came to face a human skull -- she assumed it to be human, anyway, -- which lay on the table behind which stood the chair she used for support. She jerked back in surprise, looking at the empty sockets that somehow seemed to look back. The lack of a bottom jaw made it appear as if this horrid creature had something to say. Barely forcing herself to look away from the skull's empty gaze, Kera realized that beneath it lay a thick book, covered with black leather. She cautiously stepped forward, then dashed for the book, pulling it out from under the skull, causing the relic to fall and roll on the floor and ran out as quickly as she ran in. Outside Gerim looked up from the puddle of what was left of the witch. "Ah, the book," he said, taking it from Kera. Kera watched restlessly as Gerim opened the book and started flipping through it. After a while he found what he needed and pronounced an incantation. Kera felt her back grow cold, as the spell grew to its climax. A low rumble sounded in the cloudless sky and Rien's hand twitched. Gerim closed the book and let it fall to the ground, kneeling before Rien. Kera cautiously approached, fearing that the wizard would still forbid her to come near. Noticing that, Gerim called her over, saying that it was all right. "How is he?" Kera asked with a shaky voice. "He's fine," the wizard answered. "He's lucky not to be human. Elves pay for their long lives by not having a soul. Maari could not kill him. She was no more than a necromancer." Kera took Rien's twitching hand into her own. "Give him some time," Gerim suggested. "His system will overcome the shock." He got up to leave, but turned to look back at Kera. "You two did me a great service, but I'm afraid I have nothing to repay you with. I wish you luck with your quest. May you find what you need." With those words the wizard retired into the woods. Rien's hand grasped tightly around Kera's. Epilogue Liriss stared coldly at Tilden, who stood before him. This fool had the gall to fail and return to tell of his losses. That took guts, but certainly no brains. Then again, most of his men had no where else to turn and knew no more than mercanary work. "I sent four men to bring back two people and what do I see before me?" Liriss asked after considering the trapper's story. "I see a bedraggled fighter who lost his companions, weapons and mount. I've got half a mind to send you off to the blocks." Liriss walked a wide circle around Tilden, waiting for fear to set in. The man remained motionless, but became noticably more nervous. Liriss made a second circle, smiling when behind Tilden. The feeling of power can at times be intoxicating and an offer of mercy a god-like act. "I should send you to the blocks," Liriss came to face Tilden again, "but I won't. I'll assign a real man to do your job and in the mean time you can get some simple guard work done." Tilden released his breath, which Liriss imagined he had held for 1quite some time. "Thank you, sir." The crime leader walked over to the window and looked into Dargon. "Return to your quarters. I will have your new orders sent down." Tilden left the room with another sigh of relief, permitting his master's female attendant to come back inside. The girl closed the door and waited patiently for Liriss to notice her. He finally turned, looking at her thoughtfully. "Rene, find me Kendall and have him come here." "The assassin?" she asked. "You said you didn't want to see his face again." "I don't," Liriss nodded solomnly, "but at least he's reliable." Gerim's loud footsteps sounded in the great hall of the keep. "Nagje'," his voice boomed above the loud echos. "Prepare to vacate your chair." As he approached the large table at the far end of the great hall, three gazes met his. "I told you," Gerim looked at the man in the center, "once Maari is dead, I'll be seeking a council position." "Explain to us one thing," the wizard on the left said. "The elf was dead. Why did you interfear?" "He was caught in the struggle through my intervention." "He would have gone to the witch anyway." "He would not have gone to her in anger with a dragon egg!" "Dragon egg my ass, Gerim! You brought life to a dead man!" "I reunited an elf with his spirit, a much easier task than a man with his soul!" Gerim stopped, realizing he was now shouting. "I tricked him into helping me and repaid him as best I could for the services he offered, risks he took and damages he suffered." "You broke the rules," Elaff insisted. "Whose rules?" Gerim snapped. "Rules of three hypocrites who do not follow the advice they give others? There is nothing more to discuss. Prepare for the challenge." With those words he left the keep. Rien and Kera sat by a creek, looking through the leather book that once belonged to Maari. "It's a very old script," Rien said, explaining the writing. "I've seen this on old calendars, the ones used before the current one was introduced." "I wish I could read it," Kera said. "So do I," Rien answered. "I never had the time to learn when there was an opportunity. "So if we can't read the book, then why are we trying?" Kera asked. "I was hoping there'd be pictures," Rien smiled. "Just curious of what's in it, I guess." He flipped a few more pages. "You may have heard that those who use magic keep notes on their knowledge and experiences, not just a list of spells. Look here," he pointed to the open page. "See how messy this is? I'd gamble this isn't a spell, but a memo or a description. And over here..." he flipped a few pages back. "See how neat and evenly spaced the text here is? This I can't say is a spell, but I'd guess it requires care when reading or performing." "But if you can't read it, why bother with it?" Kera asked. "It's worth something to someone," Rien said. "It may be good to us." "How?" "You probably didn't have much experience with this sort of thing, but information can at times be more precious than money." 1 "Like blackmail?" Kera asked. "It's an example," Rien nodded. "There are other types. It's like an old book, valuble beyond the price of money and sometimes life." He closed the volume with a smile. "This maybe such a book." "And you're hoping to find someone in Dargon who has use for it?" Kera asked, going back to the conversation they had before arriving at the creek. "It would do us little good in Tench," Rien said, "and Magnus is too far away at this point. Dargon should give us a safe margin of time to apply what we learned...may learn." "I heard Maari say that there was no cure," Kera said. "I guess I was out by then," Rien said. "That was foolish of me to charge out after her like that. She could have killed me just as easily." "Does your head still hurt?" Kera asked. "It's not as bad as it was," Rien smiled awkwardly, "but I'll remember it for quite some time." Kera put her arm around him sympathetically. "What if there is no cure?" "I don't believe that," he answered. "If there is a way to induce a condition, then there is a way to reverse it. There are two faces to every coin. We'll find something. Tomorrow. It's getting too late to go any further tonight. Let's make camp here." "Good, I wanted to take a swim," Kera said. "Why don't you join me?" "That's all there is," Alicia said. She and Mija stood over a dark green patch of ground, after unsuccessfully searching Maari's house. Mija sat down on the grass next to the dead patch and poked with a branch at what looked like a piece of an egg shell. He watched it crack and break under the pressure before tossing the branch away. "What are you doing?" Alicia asked. "Thinking," he shrugged. "Can you figure out what got spilled here?" Alicia sat down next to Mija, with a thoughtful look on her face. "Ever feel helpless without your notes?" she smiled. Mija shifted uncomfortably, pushing himself back, as Alicia started on a semi-familiar spell. "Certainly wasn't a normal potion," Alicia said a while later, finishing with her spell. "I never saw anything like this." Mija stood up behind her and helped her up. "Something's wrong. Maari knew we were coming. Let's inform the coven." The pair quickly disappeared in the woods. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Trial by Fire Part III Damsel in Distress by M. Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU) Myrande sat in her hot, little office and stared at the stones in the wall. She put her hand to her lips, remembering Luthias' kiss. "Are you all right about what happened between you and Luthias last night?" Lauren had asked her that morning, almost a week ago when Clifton and Luthias had left for Magnus, when neither the Duchess nor the seneschal could eat breakfast. Suprise had jolted Sable, then some slight resentment crept in. She could never manage to keep anything she felt strongly about a secret from Lauren--and this time it bothered her. "What do you mean?" Myrande hedged. "You know what I mean," Lauren replied calmly. "Nothing happened. He was drunk. He didn't know what he was doing," Myrande replied sullenly, toying with a sausage. Lauren smiled. "What makes you think that?" "He was drunk," she repeated. "He doesn't want me when he's sober. If only--" Myrande tried to finish, but there was nothing left to say. "He was so hurt," she confided to the Duchess, who leaned forward sympathetically. "I haven't seen him like that since Roisart died..." Sable could feel Luthias' pain, a hard, cold, burning lump of stone in her heart. "But he was drunk, and I pushed him away. I don't know how, I don't know if I should have, I don't even know why, but I pushed him away." Despair washed over her then, as it had consumed the Baron of Connall the night before. "Perhaps you shouldn't have rejected him," the Duchess said coldly. Myrande stared at her, confused and hurt. "Perhaps you should have let him continue. Luthias is a man of great honor, young as he is. He would have married you--" Furious, Myrande leapt to her feet, and her chair flew toward the stone wall of the keep, crashed, and tumbled noisily onto the cool floor. "I would never do such a thing!" she cried, enraged. "I would never compromise Luthias' honor to--" The Duchess of Dargon looked at her calmly and compassionately. Sable compressed her lips angrily, reached behind her for the chair, righted it, and sat. "You knew better," she accused tightly. "You know better. Why did you say that?" "So *you* would know why you pushed him away," Lauren explained gently. And Myrande did understand. She had wondered whether or not she had scornfully rejected the only opportunity she would ever have to feel Luthias' touch, to be anything like a wife to him, to have his love. Tired, sorrowful, her head lowered. The Duchess touched Myrande's hand. "It will be all right. I know." Myrande didn't question her; there were some things that the Duchess of Dargon, daughter of the High Mage, just knew. She was magical, the Duchess of Dargon was. "Do you know what this trial will bring?" Myrande finally inquired. "Only that Luthias will gain great honor by it," Lauren sighed. "Perhaps when he returns, he'll make you Duchess of Dargon." "Don't say that; it's ill luck," Myrande hushed her swiftly. "Luthias doesn't want to convict Clifton or Michiya. No more does he want to be a Duke. I don't wish to be Duchess. The only thing I want is Luthias' love." Which I shall never have, she reminded herself sternly. "What does your father think of all this?" 1 "He's consulted his crystal for days," Lauren revealed. The Duchess stared at the wall. "And he sees war and blood." War and blood. Sir Edward Sothos had told Luthias that he thought war was coming. And so the seneschal this day, a week after the Baron of Connall left her to try his cousin for treason, sent for Macdougalls, who sauntered into her office and her reverie. "Hi," said the assistant Castellan casually, seating himself without permission. He had know Myrande all her life and had been assistant Castellan under her father; he saw no reason to stand on ceremony, and Myrande knew it. "What can I do for ye, lassie?" Myrande smiled slightly at Macdougalls. He was a short, dark man, perpetually wearing a quiver of arrows and a saucy grin. "You can send to Dargon for masons and carpenters, since you won't let me out of the castle without a guard," she bantered, only half-playfully. The fact that Macdougalls did not permit her to go anywhere alone irritated her, as did the fact that Luthias had ordered it so. "In case there is a war, I want this castle ready. Besides, we're due for the maintenance." "Aye, lassie," Macdougalls agreed. His grin expanded. "These yer orders, or the lad's?" "Both, I think." But she didn't want to think of Luthias. "And when they arrive, I want you to oversee the repairs. I'm sure you know, as well as I, what needs attention." "Aye," Macdougalls agreed, "and I would say ye're on top of my list." Myrande rolled her eyes in dismissal, but the archer only laughed. "Ye've been workin' too hard, lassie. Why don't ye just go shootin'?" "Will you let me go alone?" "Nay. Lad's orders," he reminded her. "Then I'm not going," Myrande decided. "I refuse to give up my privacy. If I'm going to be surrounded, I might as well stay where I am." She paused. "Were you telling me the truth when you said that I shoot better than half the archers of the Barony?" "Aye, of course, lass," he confirmed confidently. "I wouldn't lie to ye." Myrande grimaced. "If that's so, you'd better institute a mandatory daily archery practice for all the soldiers in the castle." Macdougalls laughed loudly and irreverently. "Ye don't have to be so accurate when you fire into a whole troop, lassie!" There was a discreet knock on her door. "Come," Myrande instructed. Mika, her pretty, young assistant, crept into the office. "My lady," the girl announced, "the lord of Shipbrook is here to see you." "My cousin, Lord Warin Shipbrook?" Myrande asked. "No, my lady. It is your uncle, the Baron himself." "Oh, damn," Myrande breathed. Louder, she ordered, "Seat him in the solar, and convey my regrets that I cannot join him immediately. Assure him I shall attend him shortly." Mika nodded to the seneschal and the assistant Castellan and timidly crept away. "What would the Baron of Shipbrook want of ye?" Macdougalls wondered aloud. "He knows the lad ain't here." Sable's lips twitched with displeasure. "Yes, he knows." Myrande knew exactly what Shipbrook wanted. "He came here because the Baron is absent, Macdougalls." "I'll set a guard in there," the archer decided. "No," Myrande countermanded the order. "I don't want him to think I fear him." She rose to leave her office. "But keep an eye sharp, Macdougalls. I don't trust him." "Me neither," Macdougalls agreed as she left the room. Myrande sped upstairs to her chambers, threw off the stained 1muslin overdress and slipped into a semi-formal gown of light blue silk. She could not look the seneschal for company, and her pride would not permit her to look overworked to her uncle. She quickly unbraided her hair, brushed it, and wound it behind her head. Hastily, she reached for the two Bichanese hair ornaments Michiya had bought her. She smiled; they were beautiful--and deadly. Although topped by exquisite Bichanese artwork, the ivory sticks were tipped with a sharp silver point. Michiya had told her that often these chop sticks were used as weapons for a final defense. She finally slipped them into her ebony hair and checked her appearance in the mirror. As usual, she was dissatisfied; she was short, dark of skin, eye, and hair, and looked capable rather than ornamental. Her face was well-formed, but not striking. She glanced at her body and wished her figure were not so pronounced. Oh, to look as the Duchess of Dargon did, tall, willowy, and beautiful, with creamy skin and blue-green eyes...to be educated and magical, as Lauren was...then, perhaps, Luthias might have loved her, if she were beautiful and enchanting. But she was small and dark and practical, a seneschal and not an enchantress. She sighed and hurried from her room; no matter what she felt about her uncle, she would not shame Luthias' house. The Baron of Shipbrook, a tall, heavy-set, dark-haired man, stood as his neice entered. "You are looking well, my dear," he greeted her with a bow Myrande found artificial rather than courteous. "How are you?" "Well, thank you, your lordship," Myrande addressed him formally. Somewhat gracefully, she offered a curtsey. "And you, sir?" "I thank you, well," the Baron of Shipbrook said. He sat without invitation. "I came to inform you that I have arranged your marriage for the twenty-fourth of Seber." "I am not marrying," Myrande told him. Did the man really find it necessary to go through this again? "But, my child," Shipbrook protested in a gentle, wheedling tone full of a feigned concern, "you must marry." "The Baron of Connall says I needn't; he is my guardian, sir, not you." Shipbrook's eyes narrowed angrily. "Girl, you have no conception of the shame you bring on your family, and on yourself, by remaining unmarried. Half the Duchy thinks you Connall's whore--" All the blood drained from Myrande's face as rage exploded at the comment, but she somehow kept silent. How dare he! Whore? It was true that most of the Duchy thought her Luthias' bride --Fionn Connall, Luthias' father, had started that rumor years ago--but whore?! How dare he! When Luthias returned-- But he wasn't here now. Her words were slow, careful, and formal; she must be careful and keep her rage in check. "I am the seneschal of Connall, sir, nothing else, and you know it. My guardian, the Lord Baron, has refused permission for my marriage, has he not? When I asked him about it, he forbade me to enter into such a marriage." Remembering his absolute refusal made Sable smile. Shipbrook's lips compressed into thin, pink lines. "He wishes that you be a spinster, to be mocked by the Duchy." "That is not true," Myrande argued, wondering at the serenity of her voice. How cool and placid she sounded! "The Baron of Connall is doing his best to see I am happy." Within her, something warm lit when she remembered the arguement she and Luthias had had in Dargon before the Sy tourney. He had put his arms around her and said then that he wanted her to be happy. "Don't you want to marry Baron Oleran?" Shipbrook continued. 1Somehow, he had subdued his anger and was again employing a wheedling tone. "He is a handsome man; he's rich and owns a great deal of land in the Duchy of Northfield. Granted, he is older than you--" "I do not wish to marry," Myrande informed firmly. Her calm was wearing thin. "Oleran has only seen you once, at a distance, and he is already in love with you." Myrande supressed a desire to laugh. True, she had never met Oleran and that she was judging him by the rumors, but she could not conceive of a man of Oleran's evil reputation falling in love with anyone, let alone a dark seneschal. "I do not love him," Sable replied flatly. "And I shall not marry him. I shall not marry at all--ever!" "You must marry!" Shipbrook demanded, rising. He was tall and ominous now, his dark, surly eyes wicked. "If you refuse--" "What will you do?" Myrande challenged him. "You have no authority over me. Luthias has forbidden the match--yet you take advantage of his absence to try to convince me to disobey him. I will not marry, your lordship. And if you think you can convince me, try, but I warn you that a hundred guards will protect me if I so much as call." Shipbrook grimaced and turned away. "I suppose you will turn me out, then." "I would not think of shaming the hospitality of Lord Connall," Sable assured her uncle haughtily. "You are welcome to stay for dinner." Myrande woke slowly, woozily. In confusion, she stared at the ceiling. It was not the low, beamed ceiling in her chamber at Connall. Where was she? This was not any room in Connall Keep or Connall Castle; she would have recognized it. Perhaps she was ill. Yes, at dinner with her uncle, she remembered feeling dizzy and sick. That was the last thing she recalled. Where was she now? What had happened? "You dispatched men to intercept the Castellan's messenger?" she heard her uncle's voice say. "Yes, my lord. The man was stopped." "Good. I don't want the Baron of Connall knowing of this. Make sure of it. You may go." "Thank you, your lordship." Myrande heard a door close a moment later. "She is rather lovely, in a dark way," Myrande heard an urbane voice appraise her cooly. "Like a fairy child. She will do." Where was she?! "And the bridal price?" she heard her uncle ask. "I grant it is more usual to receive a dowry--" "One thousand, as we agreed," Oleran returned politely. "You are taking a good deal of trouble to get me my bride; I am willing to pay a good deal for her. Besides, as I told you, I need a bride to rescue my reputation." The door--where was the door? Myrande could not turn her head to see--opened and shut rapidly. "Father, what is this?" Myrande heard her cousin, Warin, demand. "How did you get Myrande here? Does Luthias know of this?" "Of course not, and he won't," Shipbrook said firmly. "Lord Oleran, I believe you know my son, Warin." "Sir," Warin acknowledged the other noble quickly. For a moment, Warin's eyes stared at Myrande's. "My God, Father, she looks like death. What did you do to her?" "I gave her a little callin. It calmed her enough to be more cooperative." 1 "Callin?!" Warin squeaked. Inside, Myrande felt like screaming. That--! He had drugged her and taken her from her home. Myrande knew of drugs; part of her duties as seneschal involved healing. Callin was used to calm people too agitated to relax alone. But its side effects included euphoria and susceptibility to suggestion. Her uncle, that--!, had probably used this power of suggestion to assure their escape from Connall, to convince Macdougalls that all was well. But would Macdougalls allow her to get away? No...they had said something about a messenger. Which her uncle had done stopped. "You drugged her?" Warin continued, outraged. "Father, she doesn't want to marry!" "I'll convince her otherwise," Myrande heard the urbane voice promise. She felt some of her hair move, then felt the point of the chop stick on her scalp. But Myrande couldn't adjust her position; she was still too drowsy. "If not, I still have plenty of callin," Shipbrook reassured Baron Oleran. "You'll have a wife yet." "You--" Warin began, but did not finish. "Father, you can't just kidnap Myrande and marry her off. Luthias--" "Is two weeks away in Magnus, attending the business of the King," Shipbrook reminded his son cooly. "Now, have you something useful to say, son, or am I to take away your birthright." There was silence for a moment, then Warin said, "I did actually come to tell you something 'useful.' There is a ship our harbor. An ambassador from the Beinison Empire, one Count Tyago, has arrived and asks hospitality." Shipbrook suddenly sounded interested in his son's words. "An ambassador from the Beinison Emperor? Where is he?" "In the great hall." Myrande heard her uncle rise. "Come, Oleran, we must greet the man civilly. An ambassador from Beinison in my house!" he concluded joyfully. "We must hold a ball in his honor. Warin, send a message to the Duchess of the ambassador's arrival, and see that you don't mention your cousin." The room went dark as the men left it, and Myrande slipped back into sleep. Myrande Shipbrook, Seneschal of Connall, woke seething when the maid came in to tend her. She rose silently, glared at girl, then regretted it. It wasn't her fault, after all. Myrande smiled sadly and allowed the maid to dress her (dress her? She was no noble lady like Lauren. Sable didn't need or want a maid to dress her). Her sky blue gown had been wrinkled by sleep, but the maid provided another of peach silk. Myrande gazed at herself in the mirror in disdain. The garment's color made her skin appear dirty. The maid brought breakfast then, but Myrande shook her head. The maid seem confused and left, but she left the tray behind. Myrande gazed at it, took a deep breath, and made a decision. Ignoring the food, Sable went to the window and gazed out. She was high in a tower, the highest tower in Shipbrook's keep. She smiled. She could see the towers of Connall. "You must eat!" her uncle raged at her a day later. "No," Myrande refused firmly. Although as furious as her relative, she refused to raise her voice and lower herself. "You'll starve yourself." "If I am kept captive." "Eat!" Shipbrook commanded. "I will not," Sable repeated. She smiled. Luthias had always called her stubborn and prideful; thank God she was. She would not 1allow this toad to win. "Oleran will not have a starved bride!" "Baron Oleran will have no bride at all," Myrande corrected him. "I refuse to marry him, sir. In the ceremony, I am asked to accept the bridegroom. It is my choice. You cannot make me marry." "I pursuaded you to leave Connall, my girl," Shipbrook threatened. "I can use my pursuasion again." "Not if I neither eat nor drink," Sable reminded him, smiling triumphantly. "How will you drug me again?" Her uncle looked shocked at the words. A knock sounded. "What?" her uncle shouted angrily. Myrande's cousin Tylane opened the door slightly. "Father, the Count of Tyago is ready for the ball. Is Myrande coming?" "No," the Baron of Shipbrook said flatly. He turned to Myrande. "I will not let you out of this room until you agree to marry the Baron Oleran." Myrande only smiled at him, and Shipbrook turned back to Tylane. "Where is your brother?" "Getting ready. He'll meet us downstairs." "Very well. I shall also join you there." Tylane nodded, cast one sympathetic, helpless look at his cousin, and disappeared behind the heavy door. Myrande stared at the door. She heard the bolt slide into place every time Shipbrook left, and she knew that there were two guards outside it. Shipbrook turned to his neice again. "You shall change your mind," he promised. He whirled and left the room. A ball tonight. Perhaps she could escape. Lauren would be invited; if only she could get a message to her. No; the servants, though sympathetic, couldn't risk it. Tylane wouldn't. Warin--perhaps he would help. But she could depend on no one but herself. As night fell, Sable went to the window again and looked out. She smiled as she saw the towers of Connall again, then she examined her own tower. Her room was over four hundred feet high (can't climb down, she decided; not enough bed covers to make a rope); the roof of the tower, which was a flat stone floor with crenolations, was only forty feet above her. Myrande pulled her head back into the room and examined the ceiling. Yes, she could see the trap door, and there were stairs along the walls leading to it. Reaching the roof wasn't a problem. She looked back out. The top of the tower was accessible from the castle walls; she had an escape route. But the walls were patrolled by Shipbrook's men and Oleran's; she would never get out alone. If she could get a guard's uniform, that might be one thing. She might be able to trick the guards and send one away, but she couldn't subdue the other one unless she chose to kill him with her Bichanese weapons. No; she would not kill. Myrande jolted as she heard the bolt slip back from the door. Perhaps Oleran had come to beat her, or Shipbrook to try to convince her to marry. Her mouth set; she would not let them win. A slim figure slipped rapidly into the dim tower room and closed the door. "Myrande!" it rasped. Myrande smiled slightly and came forward. "Warin! What is it?" Warin took her hands firmly, but the grip was also frantic and frightened. "Why aren't you eating?" her cousin demanded. "Do you know what you're doing?" "I know exactly what I'm doing," Myrande assured him. "I'm preventing your father from drugging me again. He drugged my food before; he isn't going to trick me into marrying Oleran the way he tricked me into leaving Connall." "Myrande, you must eat something," Warin reminded her, holding her hands so tightly that it hurt. "If you don't, you'll die." "I'm so glad you went to the University, Warin," Sable teased 1playfully. "I would never know these things if you didn't tell me." "I'm serious!" the frustrated Warin cried out, jerking her hands. "Myrande, you could die! Do you want to die?" "No," Myrande spat angrily, "of course I don't! Do you think I want to give up on life? But I'd rather die honorably than be tricked into a marriage and beaten by Oleran. Luthias would rather--" She stopped. Warin sighed and, defeated, he released her hands. "You're right," he conceded, sounding tired. "Luthias would rather you died like this than married to Oleran. So would I," he revealed heavily. "But I wish there were some other way." "Get me out of here," Myrande suggested. "Send someone for Luthias. Get me a guard's uniform. Anything." "I can't get you a uniform or take you from here. My father has the soldiers watching for tricks," Warin told her, collapsing onto her feather bed. "And as for messengers--Father's already killed Luthias' man that your archer castellan sent out." Young Lord Shipbrook sighed, was silent, then sat up quickly. "Myrande--if I bring you the food, will you eat it? I understand why you don't trust my father, but--" "I'll eat it," Myrande agreed. Perhaps there was a way after all! "At the ball...can you talk to the Duchess?" "My father's after me like a hawk." "He'll disinherit you if he finds out about the food." Warin smiled weakly. "I'd rather be right than rich, if it comes down to your life, Myrande." He was silent again. Myrande sat down beside him. Warin looked up at her, his hazel eyes cloudy in the dimness. "We could get married." "No," Myrande said softly, but quickly. "Why?" Myrande looked away. "Is it that man Luthias told me of, the one you're in love with?" Myrande was still, then she nodded. "Who is he? Maybe--if he knows you love him--he'll help us." Myrande laughed and turned toward her cousin. "I wouldn't doubt it!" She sobered quickly. "But it wouldn't do us any good. He's in Magnus--" "Good God!" Warin cried out, caught between laughter and shout. "You love Luthias." "Yes," Myrande admitted, sighing. "I love Luthias." "He doesn't know? You didn't tell him?" "I couldn't." "He would marry you, Myrande, if--" "For the wrong reasons," she argued. "I don't want him marrying me because he feels he should. And I don't want him pitying me, either. Let it alone, Warin." For a long while, young Lord Shipbrook didn't speak. Finally, he stood. "We'll find some way, Myrande," he promised. "Thank you," Myrande said, and Warin knocked on the bolted door to be let out. He turned back. "I'll bring something before dawn." Myrande assented, understanding. Her cousin disappeared when the door opened. She took the chop sticks from her hair, slipped them beneath her pillow, then undressed and went to sleep. Warin slipped into the ball room once the music started. His father snagged his tunic angrily. "Where were you?" the Baron of Shipbrook demanded of his elder son. "Why are you late?" "I was talking to Myrande," Warin explained defiantly. "Do you object?" "She will marry Oleran," Shipbrook insisted. "I will see to it." "I told her that," Warin lied. "She's stubborn, Father, like her mother." 1 Warin watched his father's face; it did not move, but he saw the flinch behind his eyes. Yes, that still hurt his ego, that his brother, who had no title, no wealth, and at the time, not even Knighthood, should have been preferred to him by the loveliest woman in the Duchy of her generation. Like her mother, Myrande was immobile when she loved another. "You are trying to trick me," Shipbrook accused his son in low tones. Smiling, the Baron bowed to a passing noble. "Not at all. I don't want to see Myrande caged. It would be better for her if she gave in," Warin stated, lying again. A brief thought cascaded across his brain; if Myrande conceded, would he be able to smuggle her out of the keep? His father looked him over cooly. "It is good to see you have come to your senses," his father finally told him. "Come. You must meet the Beinsison ambassador." The Baron of Shipbrook led his elder son toward his younger son, Tylane, and Tylane's betrothed, Danza Coranabo. With them was a young man who looked to be about Danza's age: fifteen. To this young man, the Baron of Shipbrook bowed. "Count Tyago," he announced himself. The young man, blond and boyish, nodded respectfully. "This is my eldest son, Warin. Warin, Count Tyago." "How do you do, sir," Warin said politely, bowing. "How do you do," replied the Count in an accent pronounced enough to be noticed but slight enough not to interfere with understanding. He held out his hand to Warin. "A pleasure to meet you." "And you, your--" What was the proper term of respect for a Count of the Beinison Empire? It was "excellency" here... "And you, Count." Warin smiled at the young man. "What brings you here to Baranur?" "The business of the Emperor," Count Tyago replied. "I am going to Magnus as an emissary from his Imperial Majesty to your King." Tyago glanced at Warin's brother. "Your father has offered to me the companionship of Lord Tylane." "You're going to Magnus?" Warin asked his brother. Tylane nodded, almost shyly. "And leaving your bride?" Warin teased. His brother blushed, as did Danza. "I would not want your son to leave his betrothed," Tyago protested. "Please stay." "I'll go in his place, Father," Warin volenteered, then cursed himself. Who would bring food to Myrande? She'd die for certain! "No," Baron Shipbrook refused with finality. "Tylane will go." Danza appeared dejected, Tylane sad. "I have given my word." The Baron looked over his shoulder and saw the entrance and announcement of the Duchess of Dargon. He grimaced. "I must attend to my other guests, sir," he said to the young Count. "Pray excuse me." Tyago bowed to him as he left, then bowed to Danza as the music started. "Would you like to dance, my lady?" Danza blushed again. "With your permission, Lord Tylane?" Tylane smiled and nodded, then whisked Danza gracefully away. Warin grabbed his brother's sleeve. "You're going to Magnus?" "Don't get any ideas," Tylane warned him in a hiss. "Father's like a falcon; he's watching every move I make. If he--" "Take a message to Luthias," Warin breathed. "Tell him what's happening. Tell him to get the hell back here before Father marries Myrande off to Oleran, before she gets beaten or raped or killed!" "I can't," Tylane swore. "If Father suspects, he'll refuse to accept Danza for me." "Would you rather have Myrande's blood on your hands?" "I won't give up Danza!" Tylane vowed angrily. He smiled as the Duchess of Dargon passed him. "Not for you, not for Myrande, and not for Luthias." 1 "You'd better," Warin threatened, snagging his brother's sleeve. "You *owe* Luthias. You told me yourself that if Luthias hadn't chosen to listen to Danza when she said she loved you and not him, she'd be married to him now and you'd have no hope!" "I won't risk losing the woman I love!" "And you are willing to risk Myrande's losing the man she loves?" "She loves no one," Tylane stated petulantly. "If she had, Fionn Connall would have married her off years ago." "She loves Luthias," Warin hissed. "Is it any wonder the late Baron held off?" Tylane looked at his brother, then looked away. "It isn't hard, Tylane," Warin cajoled. "Just tell him." Tylane looked up again, then shifted his gaze. "You owe Luthias." "Yes," breathed Tylane reluctantly, "I owe Luthias." "You'll do it?" "I'll tell him," Tylane promised, sighing. "I can't promise anything else, Warin." "It's enough," Warin assured him, and he went to dance with Pecora Winthrop. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that future by subscribing to Quanta today. 1 ** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- >> What is Athene? Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction written by the members of the online community. Athene does not restrict itself to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing with just about any interesting topic, including (but not limited to): science fiction, fantasy, religion, mystery, computers, humor, psychology, sports, politics, business >> Distribution Athene is published monthly (assuming stories come in at a reasonable rate), and comes in two formats -- ASCII and PostScript. For those who don't have access to a PostScript-compatible printer, the ASCII distribution is a text-only file much like the mail you are reading at this moment. The content of the magazine is identical across both formats. The ASCII version usually runs about 1300 lines, and the PostScript edition typically generates about twenty pages. To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to me at: Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET Please remember to indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you would prefer to receive. >> Miscellaneous Back issues can be ordered on request by sending mail to me at the above address. An index is also available upon request. Please contact me at the above address for further information concerning Athene's story submission policy. Jim McCabe Editor, Athene MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET 1------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright October, 1989, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E ||Volume 2 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 6 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 2, Issue 6 11/03/89 Cir 861 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Trial Before the King M. Wendy Hennequin Seber 5-12, 1013 Knight in Shining Armor M. Wendy Hennequin Seber 24-Ober 7, '13 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Trial by Fire Part IV Trial Before the King by M. Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU) At the sound of a warrior's scream, Sir Edward Sothos lurched awake and grabbed his sword, ready for the attack. The air was dark and not lit by moon or stars. Light streamed from a low crack. The ship, that's right; they were on the ship bound for Magnus. Luthias was having nightmares again. Edward crossed the room and gently called the Baron's name. There was a gasp as Connall woke. "You should have the High Mage make you a sleeping potion," Sothos advised. "You haven't slept well at all on this trip." Luthias stared at Edward as best he could in the dark. Luthias hadn't slept well in weeks, not since the heat wave had hit western Baranur and Luthias received the job of Duke's Advocate. That job now took him from his Barony and his ward Myrande. It brought him to this ship, which in turn would bring him to Magnus to try his cousin and his Castellan for treason. Was it any wonder he couldn't sleep? Every time he closed his eyes, visions of horror and war erupted on his eyelids. "You might as well stay awake," Edward counseled. "We'll arrive in Magnus before dawn. We'll go to see the King right away." "King Haralan accepts visitors this early?" Luthias wondered, reaching for his book, "History of the Beinison Emperors." "He's received the message by now that we were coming," Edward speculated. "And his doors are always opened to the Knight Commander and the High Mage." "Will he want to see me?" "Most likely. You are prosecuting the Duke and the Castellan." Luthias grimaced at the reminder and glanced at the locked, iron chest which contained all the physical evidence pertaining to the case. He had pored over the contents time and again with Marcellon, who was defending Clifton Dargon and Ittosai Michiya. Both had been looking for some hole in the evidence, some clue to lead them to the real traitors. There had been none, and there had been no hints from the crystal ball over which Marcellon had brooded in silence. Crystal ball indeed. As if magic could help them now. If only Roisart were here, Luthias thought for the thousandth time, he would find the hole, reason it all out, help me through this. But Roisart was dead, Myrande was in Connall, and Luthias was alone. "I'm sure it will end well, Luthias," the Knight Commander addressed him sympathetically. "Not many in this Kingdom will think Clifton Dargon a traitor." "What do they matter?" "The King hears all opinions on the case after the evidence is presented to the court. Rest assured that I will support your cousin and your castellan." Edward smiled so widely that his scar danced. "Believe me, the opinions of the Knight Commander and the High Mage won't be taken lightly. And I'm sure that Clifton's relatives will support him." "The evidence is very convincing, Sir Edward," Luthias reminded him. It had almost convinced Luthias at one point. Thank God for Sable, who had brought him back to his senses. Luthias smiled to himself. Thank God for Sable, period. Luthias glanced at the box again. All that evidence, and he wasn't convinced. Some Duke's Advocate he was, his heart not truly in his duty or his case. Let me go home, Luthias wished, looking out the porthole to see the towers of the King's castle in Magnus pierce the 1sun like a score of spears. Although Luthias had always wanted to see Magnus, now all he wanted was to return to Connall. Go home and be a baron--he had never wanted to be a baron--and stay with Sable, assuming she had forgiven the fact that he, drunk and despairing, had tried to force himself on her. He had thought much about that last night in Connall. He wished he could remember it more clearly, but the brandy had smudged the memory irrevocably. He didn't get far with Sable--thank God he remembered that much!--but he had toyed with her, as his father had strictly prohibited two years before. "If you toy with her body, you'll toy with her heart! I forbid you to touch her!" His father had actually scared him. Luthias couldn't fathom why Sable allowed it to go as far as it had; she had told him before--not in so many words--that she wanted no man but her beloved to touch her. Yet she had allowed Luthias' touch. Luthias shrugged at himself and lit a candle to read by. He hoped Sable had forgiven him. She must have, Luthias concluded; she tried to say good-bye, but he in his shame and guilt could not face her. But still, Luthias did not know for certain. All he wanted was to go home and find out. Again he wished, Let me go home. King Haralan, as Edward had predicted, admitted the party from Dargon immediately, despite the early hour. "Marcellon!" was the first person the King greeted. "How good of you to return!" Haralan exclaimed, only slightly sarcastically. Good mages are rare and difficult to find. "Good morning, Edward," the King said the Knight Commander. Edward bowed. The smile vanished. "I received your message. The Duke of Dargon is accused of treason?" The High Mage nodded gravely. "By whom?" The Baron of Coranabo came forward. "At the trial of Ittosai Michiya, the witness said the accused and a Bichanese merchant spoke of a plot by Bichu to take Dargon with the help of the Duke." "A Duke," Luthias interrupted. "Who are you, sir?" the King addressed him sternly. "I am Luthias Connall, your majesty," he replied proudly. He knelt, as his father had taught him was proper. Marcellon gestured to Luthias and added, "The Baron of Connall is the Duke's Advocate, your majesty." Slightly amused at Luthias' gesture, the King motioned Luthias to rise. "You are the Duke's Advocate?" Luthias nodded. "We shall question you, then, Baron. First, who is this Ittosai Michiya who was tried?" "He is a man who left Bichu because he won a duel of honor and was sought by the dead man's family," Luthias explained. "He has lived in Dargon for two or three years. He once worked for Lord Dargon and then went on a quest in the countryside." Luthias paused, then added, "He is now my Castellan, your majesty." The King's eyebrows rose. "Indeed. Was Castellan Ittosai found guilty by the Tribunal?" Baron Vladon stepped forward to answer. "We never came to a conclusion, your majesty. We brought the case to you, as it involved Duke Dargon." "There is evidence, Baron?" the King addressed Luthias again. Luthias nodded. "Is there anyone to defend Duke Dargon and Castellan Ittosai?" "I shall, your majesty," Marcellon replied. "The Baron of Connall has been kind enough to allow me to go over the evidence." "Very well," the King concluded. "Well, we have already summoned the nobles. Are the Duke of Dargon and Castellan here?" 1 "They are on the ship, sire," Edward told him. "I've already sent a detachment to escort them to the Keep." "Very well. We will begin this afternoon." The King nodded to Baron Vladon, Rish Vogel, Baron Coranabo, and Luthias in dismissal. The older men filed out of the room, but Luthias lingered a moment, attempting to decide. Now was the time; there would be no other chance, and he couldn't do this thing. Ask the King, Sable had said, and maybe she had been right. He turned, but was uncertain how to begin. Luckily, the King saw him. "You wish to speak, Baron Connall?" "Yes, your majesty," Luthias began after a heavy sigh. There was only one thing to do, and he would do it. "I wish for you to put Baron Coranabo or Baron Vladon in charge of the case against the Duke of Dargon and Ittosai Michiya." "Why? You are the Duke's Advocate; you know the evidence and circumstances better than they," the King argued. "That is why the Duke's Advocate is summoned as well, to try the case." "I know, your majesty, but I cannot try the Duke of Dargon or Ittosai Michiya." "Don't you understand the evidence?" the King prompted. "I knew your father, Baron Connall; you cannot be uneducated or stupid. Why--" "Because Ittosai Michiya is my friend. He has been loyal and good to me. He saved my brother's life," Luthias began, his tone desperate but his voice quiet. Beneath the words, Edward heard the screams of Luthias' nightmares. "Because the Duke of Dargon is my cousin and has been like a brother to me for as long as I can remember. He is my only living kinsman, and I--my brother is dead and so is my father. I can't do this, your majesty." The King gazed at Luthias thoughtfully, and the young Baron of Connall stared at the monarch with a mixture of calm and strength. Luthias knew he must be a sight: his well-formed face disfigured by lack of sleep and tension more than it ever had been by the slight, white scar above his right eye; his bearing a mixture of fatigue and strength; and his words a mixture of bravery and desperation. Well, he and Roisart had always been a pair of paradoxes... "You are the Duke's Advocate," the King repeated. "Go and do your duty, Baron Connall." Fire blazed beneath Luthias' brown eyes a moment; the flames quickly died, and Luthias' face turned to stone. He bowed stiffly, turned, and left without another word. The King turned to his High Mage, who raised an eyebrow, then to his Knight Commander, who was openly seething. "His only living kinsman, Haralan!" Edward protested through his teeth. "He doesn't deserve this from you!" "He is Fionn Connall's son, is he not?" the King inquired calmly. "The one whom Fionn Connall wanted you to train, the one you wish to make a Knight?" Edward nodded. "He'll be in no condition--" "I agree," Marcellon interrupted. "Unless you have an excellent reason for keeping him as prosecutor, I would remove him from the strain. It isn't an easy thing for Luthias to try men he thinks innocent, men who are like brothers to him. He's already lost one brother this year, your majesty. Through this trial he may cause the death of his cousin and friend. I'm not sure how he'll handle the stress." "If he cannot do so, he doesn't deserve Knighthood," Haralan argued casually. "Luthias will be knighted, all right," Edward argued, "but he'll never be the same." The Knight Commander turned to his King again. "Haralan, Luthias Connall is one of the finest fighters I've ever 1seen. There is a war coming; I'm certain now. Think whom you may be turning against you." Haralan smiled at the scarred Knight Commander. "I don't want a Knight who will turn on me, Edward. If he turns, he'll turn now, when I've oppressed him. I would rather know now what he's made of than wait until his loyalty is crucial." The King's face waxed thoughtful. "His loyalty is worth having. I want him to prove I have it. His loyalty for me has to come before any other." Edward shook his head. "I don't like it, Haralan." "Nor I, your majesty," Marcellon added. "He is the only living kinsman of the Duke of Dargon; Clifton's maternal cousins are all dead. If Clifton is proven guilty, Luthias will become Duke Dargon, despite the fact that Clifton has fathered an unborn child. Luthias doesn't want the Duchy--" "Still, people will expect that he does," the King argued easily. "And if Baron Connall cannot prove Dargon guilty with that motivation, people will accept the Duke's innocence more easily." The King rose. "And now, gentlemen, if you would join me for breakfast, I would be much obliged. There is much that we need to discuss." Luthias stormed through the halls of Crown Castle. How dare he! Clifton was the only person Luthias had left, the only living kinsman...oh, he had a few female cousins on his mother's side, girls he had never met, but Clifton was a brother! And Michiya, Michiya his friend and rescuer and teacher! And he would have to try him; the King so ordered. "Your first duty as a Knight is to your country, your home, and family," Sir Lucan had told Luthias long ago, in that hot summer when he, his wife, and Clifton's parents had died. "After these, you must serve the King." For the second time in his life, Luthias found himself not wishing for Knighthood. "Connall?" a soft, female voice called him, and slowly, Luthias turned. Facing him was a tall, statuesque woman of middle age, with auburn hair streaked by white. Luthias stared at her, confused and not remembering. The woman looked familiar, but he couldn't place it. The lady laughed. "I know you don't remember me; I haven't seen you since you were a small boy. You look so like your father that I recognized you. You are Luthias, are you not?" The Baron of Connall nodded. "I am your Aunt Tornia." That was it. She looked like his mother, that laughing face on the portrait in the study. She was his mother's sister, the Duchess of Asbridge. Luthias could remember when she last visited; he had been five years old, and she had brought him and his twin a box of wooden soldiers. Luthias bowed to her, unable to speak. Tornia Asbridge reached out and touched Luthias hair with maternal concern. "You don't look well, Luthias. Are you ill?" "No, Aunt Tornia," Luthias replied breathlessly. "I'm...tired, that's all." It was true; Luthias felt exhausted. Well, almost true: it wasn't all. "Are you here because of the trial of the Duke of Dargon?" the Duchess asked, taking her nephew's arm. "He is your kinsman; are you here to defend him?" Luthias' throat felt like sand. "I'm the Duke's Advocate. I must try to prove him guilty." Suddenly, the Baron of Connall stopped walking and turned to his aunt. "How did you know I was Luthias, and not Roisart?" The Duchess' blue eyes looked at him quizzically. "Your seneschal sent me a letter--on your orders, I assume--which told me of your father and brother's death." Yes, that was right; after Roisart's death, he hadn't wanted to handle all that, so Sable took care of it. Suddenly, Luthias' mind 1could only see his brother's corpse, ripped by the two bolts. "Aunt Tornia, could you take me to the Keep?" "Whatever for?" the Duchess of Asbridge asked in surprise. "The worst of noble criminals are there." "I want to see my cousin." Built four hundred years ago on the southern edge of the Royal Quarter of Magnus, the Keep stood five stories high, with six towers two stories taller. For a hundred years, it had housed the King. After that, it became home to nobles convicted of horrid crimes less hideous than treason. Now, the top of the southeast tower was prison to Clifton Dargon and Ittosai Michiya. Although exhausted, Luthias climbed the stairway while his aunt Tornia waited for him below. The guards at the door halted him. "No one's allowed, my lord. You can question them at the trial this afternoon. High Mage's orders, my lord." "I am the Duke's Advocate of Dargon," Luthias explained. "I have come to see the Duke. Surely the High Mage would allow it. It is imperative." "We can't forbid the Advocate," the second guard argued. "You want to tell the High Mage?" the first returned. "Let him in!" Marcellon's voice echoed amiably from the room beyond the guards. "Baron Connall is permitted, by order of the King." Odd, Luthias thought as the guards admitted him. He walked into the half-circle room lit by the noontime sun. Ittosai stood upon seeing his lord; Marcellon and Clifton nodded. "How are you doing, manling?" Clifton asked, trying to sound like he was teasing, but the words came out harshly, impatiently, and angrily. "You don't look very well." "The King won't take me off the case," Luthias blurted. "I'm sorry." The Duke's Advocate glanced sorrowfully at Clifton, then at his friend Michiya. "I tried. There's nothing I can do. I--" "Do what you must," Michiya told him gently, his eyes understanding. "But I know that neither of you is guilty!" "Don't say that!" Clifton snapped, abruptly standing. "I don't want you pulled into this too, Luthias. If--" The Duke of Dargon looked away to face the horror. "I want you to take care of Lauren if nothing can be done to save my life." "Clifton--" the Baron began to protest. He didn't even want to think about that possibility anymore. "He's right, Luthias," Marcellon interrupted gently. "He may die. There may be nothing I can do to convince the King and the nobles of his innocence and Lord Ittosai's. You must keep yourself free of this madness." Luthias sighed and collapsed into a chair tiredly. "I want to do something. But there's nothing--" He looked away. "And I'll have to stand by and watch you die, just as I had to watch my father die, and Roisart die. And again, there will be nothing I can do." "Hey, manling," Clifton said softly, "you can't fight the King." Well, he could, but it wouldn't be Knightly. What would Sir Lucan have done, what would Sir Edward do? "I'm sorry I have to do this." "Do the best you can, manling," Clifton advised him with a half-smile. "I want to be proud of you." Luthias tried to laugh, but it came forth a snort. With difficulty, he rose to leave. "I'll see you soon," he mumbled over his shoulder. "Take care, Luthias-sama," Michiya said as the Baron left the room. "I'm worried about him," Clifton said quietly after the door 1closed behind his cousin. "He doesn't look well, Father, and I'm not certain--" "I'll do what I can to take care of him, no matter what happens," the High Mage promised his son-in-law. "Make certain that he marries Myrande," Ittosai Michiya suggested with the tone of a command. "That will be the best for him, and she will take care of him." Clifton smiled. "I should order him, as Duke, to do that, in case we die." "I will do what I can to make certain that doesn't happen," Marcellon promised sincerely. "There is no hope for us," Michiya snapped. "You must learn to trust in God," the High Mage gently advised. "God!" spat Ittosai Michiya disdainfully. "There is no such thing as gods!" Marcellon looked at the Bichurian Castellan and raised an eyebrow. "I have been both mage and physician for thirty years," Marcellon told him. "I have seen things impossible for medicine or magic, Michiya." Ittosai laughed contemptuously. "So I have as well. I once thought I was led and protected by a god. I roamed the countryside, doing and seeing miracles. And then this--god--led me back to Dargon. And for what?" Michiya snorted with disdain. "To see a boy murdered, to see the man who was once my lord tried for treason, to be accused of a crime I have not committed, and to see Luthias-sama go mad with the strain! There is no such thing as gods!" "We shall see," the High Mage answered. Two long days. Luthias was beginning to wonder exactly how exhausted he could become before he collapsed dead. That would be nice: Fionn Connall, dead from a fall on a horse; Roisart Connall, killed by assassins; Clifton Dargon, beheaded for treason; and Luthias, dead of exhaustion from the trial. It would be the end of the family line. At least he had managed well, he thought. Marcellon had complimented his presentation of the evidence, as had Baron Vladon. Luthias presented the evidence--all the evidence--impartially, as if he didn't care one way or the other what became of the Duke of Dargon or the Castellan of Connall. Calmly, he questioned Danal the merchant. Luthias called forth Rish Vogel to prove that the man indeed could understand Bichanese (which, unfortunately, he did). Luthias presented the document to the King. Haralan reviewed it, then had the piece of refuse read aloud for all the Court to hear. The Baron of Connall questioned Barons Coranabo and Vladon, who had found the document in the Duke's office. And Luthias himself corroborated that it was indeed Clifton's handwriting. Throughout it all, Luthias was impartial as he was with such cases in his history books. Clifton was sober and agitated; Ittosai Michiya was stone calm, as if he hadn't heard a word. Marcellon seemed simply to be biding his time. Then, it was the High Mage's turn. He questioned Ittosai Michiya, who swore on all he held holy that he would never do such a thing, and that he had not. Michiya told of the swords he bought, and the chop sticks for Myrande. Clifton, on the stand, said he was surprised at the findings in his desk and also swore he knew nothing of this so-called plot. The Duke also revealed that a thief had broken into his keep a few months ago. They had found the thief where they had found the document: in the Duke's study. The High Mage questioned Luthias, too, and the Baron of Connall corroborated that he had received as a gift a katana, and that his 1seneschal, Myrande, had been given the chop sticks. Then Marcellon questioned the nobles of the duchy who had come, every single one, except Luthias. And each said that they never would have expected that Clifton Dargon would betray the Kingdom. Half of them said they didn't believe it now. Of course, Luthias was unsure of who spoke truth. He had his doubts about that slimy Danal, and he had never quite trusted the Baron of Coranabo. Oh, all had been sworn in by the Master Priest himself, but the Baron of Connall knew that oaths did not bind dishonorable men, and the King would not permit Marcellon to cast a spell that would insure that only truth was spoken. The King believed in honor, as did Luthias, but the King, Baron Connall thought, trusted too much that all people possessed it. And on the third day, the King stood. "We are soon to decide the fate and guilt--or lack of it--of the Duke of Dargon and the Castellan Ittosai Michiya." Couldn't *any*one in this Kingdom say his name right? Luthias wondered. "We will hear our nobles' opinions." The Duchess of Narragan rose. "Your royal majesty, I advise you to behead the traitors. The evidence which the Duke's Advocate has presented removes all doubt." "I doubt the Duke of Dargon is guilty," Edward Sothos replied to this. "How well do you know him?" argued Dame Martis Westbrook, one of Sir Edward's two Knight Captains. She was tall, of light brown hair, and hazel eyes. "Dame Martis is correct," said the Duke of Pyridain, the King's Royal Treasurer. "We have the evidence here before us, but we don't know the Duke of Dargon well enough to know how much credit to give his story." "True," Baron Vladon agreed. He stood. "Your majesty, Duke Dargon has been a Duke for six years. When Lek Pyle, who had the late Baron of Connall and the current Baron's brother murdered, went to trial, he spoke of a conspiracy going on for about as long as Duke Dargon has ruled. How are even we, the nobles of his Duchy, to know if he hasn't been involved all this time?" "Quite so," Coranabo interjected. "We didn't grow up with him. He spent most of his time with tutors, or at the University. And we only see him at state functions." "None of us know him well enough to judge," Dame Martis concluded. "The Baron of Connall would," Duchess Tornia Asbridge supplied, smiling. "He grew up with the Duke, and he knows Castellan Ittosai well. Tell me, Baron," Aunt Tornia began, facing her nephew, "do you think Duke Dargon committed this crime? And what of Ittosai Michiya?" Tiredly, Luthias rose. "Your grace," he addressed his aunt, then turned to the King. "Your majesty, I am a practical man. I have evidence, physical evidence, which proves the Duke of Dargon guilty. I have witnesses who have sworn oaths and have testified to the guilt of Ittosai Michiya." Luthias paused, looked King Haralan in the eye. He suddenly felt that his exhaustion had left him, and what remained was strength and certainty. "Your majesty, my cousin has not committed treason, nor has my castellan betrayed the country which has sheltered him." The collective court murmured at the confidence of his voice and of his conviction. "You sound very sure, Advocate," the King noted calmly. "You do not believe the evidence?" "No, your majesty, I do not. I believe the Duke and the Castellan." "I can understand trusting their words above that of the merchant and of Lek Pyle," the Duchess of Narragan commented, "but above 1physical proof? How can you be so sure?" "Madam," Luthias answered calmly, looking at the pretty Duchess, "I know Clifton Dargon, and I know Ittosai Michiya." "But the documents," began the Duke of Northfield. "Baron Connall, surely you can't ignore them. You yourself said that the document was in Duke Dargon's handwriting and seal." "I did," Luthias agreed. "That didn't mean that Clifton wrote it or sealed it." "You contradict yourself, sir," Martis Westbrook pointed out. "Not at all," Marcellon easily disagreed. "A forger could reproduce Duke Dargon's hand, and as the incriminating document was found locked in the Duke's desk, the criminal who broke in and might have put it there could have easily used the Duke's own seal upon it." "This is quite an impasse," the King commented, and the people in the great hall immediately quieted to hear him. "We have convincing evidence that Duke Dargon and Castellan Ittosai have indeed betrayed this country." Behind Luthias, a door opened. A herald scurried past the Duke's Advocate and the High Mage and knelt before the King. The King motioned him forward, but continued speaking. "We have equally convincing testimony and logic which prove the opposite. Therefore I order a trial by combat." There was a loud murmur. "Baron Connall," the King continued, "as Duke's Advocate, you must summon the Ducal champion to fight for the Duchy's good." "I am the Ducal champion, your majesty," Luthias announced quietly. "I see," the King said slowly. On his left, Sir Edward grimaced. "You must fight for their conviction." King Haralan turned to his High Mage. "You, with the Duke of Dargon and the Castellan of Connall, may name a champion to fight for your cause." Ittosai Michiya stood and bowed toward the ruler. "Your royal majesty," the Castellan began slowly and with dignity, "with your permission and the permission of the Court and the Duke, I will fight for our innocence." Luthias closed his eyes in despair and anger. Yet once again he would be pitted against his friend! He would have to fight for something he didn't believe in, perhaps cause Michiya's death-- But then he remembered the Sy tourney and exhaled in relief. The duel would be to the death--his own death. Ittosai could beat him, and they both knew it. Luthias was unsure that Michiya would actually kill him; however, at least Clifton and Michiya's innocence and release would be guaranteed. But, Sable...he hated the thought of dying and leaving her-- He stopped the thought swiftly and angrily. Never mind. Clifton would take care of Sable, and she would take care of herself. "When shall we fight?" Luthias inquired quietly. I'm sorry, Sable, but it has to be done. The herald whispered something in his sovereign's ear. "An ambassador has arrived from the Beinison Empire," the King announced suddenly. A buzz of curiosity rose from the crowd of nobles. An ambassador from the Emperor of Beinison? Here? "Therefore, we postpone combat to hear him. After that, there need be no delay, if you are ready, Baron Connall." Luthias nodded. "And you, Castellan Ittosai?" Michiya bowed his head with respect. "Let the ambassador come forward." Pages strenuously pulled open the heavy double doors leading into the great hall of Crown Castle. Walking nervously but with dignity came two men. One was a blond, blue-eyed boy--he can't be more than seventeen! Luthias thought in surprise--who must have been the ambassador from the Beinison Emperor Untar II. The other young man, 1Luthias knew, was not the ambassador; he was Tylane Shipbrook, Sable's cousin. The young Baron of Connall wondered what he was doing there. As Tylane passed Luthias, he gave the young Baron a pained look which injected panic in Luthias' heart. Sable! The young ambassador bowed to King Haralan, who nodded respectfully in return. "Greetings," King Haralan spoke to him. "We welcome you to our home. I am told you are the Count of Tyago?" That boy, a Count? An astonished murmur spread through the Court as quickly as the Red Plague. Why, no man Baranur could hold that authority without having reached twenty-one years! A boy, a Count? Luthias regard the younger man coolly. Well, he held himself well, for a man so young, but the Baron of Connall was certain that Count Tyago was no warrior. He stood incorrectly for that. He was a scholar, Luthias somehow knew. Something in the innocence in Tyago's face reminded Luthias of his twin, and the Baron of Connall looked away as Count Tyago spoke to the King. "I greet you, your royal majesty, in the name of his Imperial majesty, Emperor Untar," the Count began in a heavy accent. "I come bringing tidings of peace in this time of war." "War?" King Haralan questioned. "What mean you, sir? Baranur is not involved in a war." "Your royal majesty," the boy-Count began again, "his imperial majesty knows well of the danger you suffer from the heathens in Bichu." Luthias grimaced at the implication; Michiya's eyes narrowed at the insult. "The Emperor has sent me to represent him here in your royal majesty's Court, and to make an offer to you." Something was nagging at the edge of Luthias' brain, but he couldn't focus one it. Tylane sent the Baron of Connall another stricken glance. Luthias worried. "As ambassador, we welcome you," the King replied. "It is good of the Emperor to send you. What is this offer he proposes, Count Tyago?" "As you will, most likely, soon be at war, your majesty," the Count of Tyago explained innocently, "his imperial majesty, Untar, offers you a hundred thousand men, troops to protect you from Galicia and the other countries to your east when you send your men to war in Bichu." The nagging tug turned into clanging bells and war drums. Luthias darted from his chair to where Rish Vogel, the Chronicler, sat. "Does this place have a library?" he hissed at Vogel, who was here acting as Scrivener. Confused, the Chronicler nodded. "Do you know where it is?" Again, Vogel nodded. "Go there, quickly, and bring me a book--'History of the Beinison Emperors.' Now. Go!" "Why?" Rish Vogel asked, leaning toward Luthias annoyingly. "What for?" "Don't ask. Do it!" Luthias demanded, shoving the Chronicler out of his seat violently. Vogel gave Luthias the look he might have given a madman, but he scurried out of the room in obedience. Luthias stood straight, noticed Sir Edward giving him a strange stare, and returned to his own seat before the King. "That is truly a gracious offer," the King was saying as Luthias sat. Apparently, the Count Tyago had elaborated, but Luthias hadn't heard a word. Vogel had better hurry with that book! "We will indeed consider it. For now, Count Tyago, accept our thanks and our welcome. We will have rooms prepared immediately for you and your companion." "I thank you, your majesty," said the boy-Count of Tyago, bowing. "I also thank you, your majesty," his companion said, "but I have relatives in Magnus. My father, the Baron of Shipbrook, sent me to guide the Count Tyago." "He did well," the King praised Tylane's father. "Our thanks, Lord Shipbrook. Welcome to the Court." Tylane bowed in gratitude. "If 1you would be so kind, please escort the Count to the guest rooms. We will hold a feast in your honor tonight, Count Tyago. You are, of course, invited, Lord Shipbrook." Both of the young men bowed and were escorted out of the throne room. Rish Vogel collided with Tylane on the way in. The Court was making a noise which reminded Luthias of a hornets' nest. The Wasp King, coming to get us! a hysterical part of Luthias thought gleefully. "What think you, Knight Commander?" the King was saying to his advisor. "A generous offer--" Panting, Rish Vogel dropped a heavy tome on Luthias' table. Without asking permission to speak, Luthias rose. "Your royal majesty," the young Baron of Connall spoke urgently, "do not accept the offer!" The King turned toward the daring young noble. "You sound rather sure of yourself, Baron Connall," he observed, smiling slightly, as if he knew a secret. "What is the matter with it?" "It's a trick, an old one," Luthias informed him, his voice quick and concerned. "Listen, your majesty." Luthias opened the heavy book before him, flipped a few pages until he found what he needed. "'In this time, the Emperor Radnok VIII wished to take the country of Alannor. It was a great and powerful country, and to take it would involve great losses. The Emperor sent many men to the country, and with them, began a rumor that Alannor's neighbor, Jardrine, would soon attack. When Alannor sent troops to Jardrine, the Emperor offered troops to Alannor's King, to help hold the country against Jardrinian invaders. When the troops were settled, the Emperor had effectively occupied the territory.'" Satisfied, Luthias closed the book. "I've never heard of this Alannor, or Jardrine," the Duchess of Narragan protested. "No, of course not, your grace," Luthias answered her. "They were both...absorbed into the Beinison Empire centuries ago." Luthias turned his attention back to the monarch. "Your royal majesty, this is an old trick. I can cite at least eight other examples of Beinison doing this. Now they are trying to convince that Bichu will attack us. Then they'll move their troops in here and never leave." "That's preposterous!" the Baron of Coranabo protested. "We know that the Bichanese are going to invade any day. The document--" "Is probably a forgery," Marcellon finished. "Your royal majesty, if Baron Connall is correct--" "Yes, I see, High Mage. If Baron Connall is correct, then the Beinison Empire has been trying to make us believe Bichu would attack. We then would attack Bichu, and while we were there, the Beinisonians could invade us. Yes, Lord Marcellon, I understand what this means," Haralan finally answered the High Mage's unfinished question. The King turned back to Luthias. "Pray continue, Baron Connall." "Your majesty, this is ridiculous!" Coranabo interrupted. "You have seen the document." "It is forged. It means nothing," Luthias asserted scornfully. "You cannot prove it forged," Coranabo reminded the Duke's Advocate. "Baron, this is only speculation. May I remind you that as Duke's Advocate, you must prosecute this case?" "Baron Coranabo," the King spoke, and the buzzing comments of the Court ceased. "What is important is the truth. Knowledge of the truth of this matter is crucial to the Kingdom. As he has presented the evidence, it is now Baron Connall's right and duty to seek the truth." Grateful, Luthias smiled at the King, but Coranabo desperately continued, "The future of this country is an attack from Bichu! Look at the document!" "I did not write that document or order it written," Clifton 1Dargon asserted firmly. "Your majesty, it is a forgery." "Of course you protest your innocence," Coranabo scoffed. "It is true. You are a traitor. You cannot prove it a forgery." "I can prove it simply enough," Marcellon offered, standing placidly. "Your majesty?" At the King's nod, the High Mage reached out and took the document. Silence covered the Court as Marcellon whispered a spell. The document glowed. Marcellon smiled. "As Baron Connall conjectured, your majesty, a forgery." "Of course you would say that!" Coranabo shouted. "He is your daughter's husband, and you are defending him! We grieve for the effect his crimes must be having on you, but you must not--" "I am willing to accept the High Mage's word," the King interrupted quietly but very firmly. "Lord Marcellon does not lie." "What of the merchant's testimony?" Coranabo pressed urgenty. He was turning a purple shade of red. "He could be lying," Luthias argued quickly. "I suspect he is. He's a greedy snake, waiting to strike. And the merchants would profit by a war with Bichu. That's why Lek Pyle hired the assassins to kill my father and my brother." "They were hired to kill you, boy, and your cousin, and had they not bungled the affair we wouldn't be in this tangle now!" Coranabo screamed. The court gasped collectively. "What mean you, that the assassins were to kill Baron Connall and Duke Dargon?" the King demanded ominously. "That's nothing, your majesty," Luthias remarked, moving with confidence and strength toward the Baron of Coranabo. "It was revealed in Lek Pyle's trial that the assassins were to have killed the Duke of Dargon and me. However," Luthias concluded, standing menacingly directly before Coranabo, "I would like to know what he means by this 'tangle.'" "It was a slip of the tongue, nothing," Baron Coranabo supplied quickly. "I have this feeling that you are not telling the truth," Luthias answered him. If Roisart were here, he would have figured everything out by now. As it was, Luthias didn't think he was doing so badly. He thought he was beginning to see. "I have the same feeling," Marcellon agreed, standing with unhurried grace. "I can read your mind, Coranabo." "You lie!" Coranabo accused. "I do not lie," Marcellon returned. The High Mage turned toward his King. "With your permission, your majesty, I will ensure that Baron Coranabo does not lie, either." Gravely, King Haralan nodded his approval. Coranabo leapt over his table, tried to run, but Luthias caught him easily, looped his arms below Coranabo's armpits, and locked his hands behind his head. Then he lifted the Baron of Coranabo five inches off the floor. "Proceed, High Mage," Luthias invited, smiling grimly. "I do not lie!" Coranabo protested. Clifton Dargon stood. "Then why did you run?" "Be seated, Lord Dargon," the King commanded. "Be seated, my lords and ladies." Everyone except Luthias, Coranabo, and Marcellon sat. "Lord Marcellon?" The High Mage closed his eyes and murmured a chant. Luthias felt static electricity in his hair. Marcellon opened his eyes and looked directly at the Baron of Coranabo. "Now tell His Majesty and the Court," Marcellon ordered, "of your involvement with this Beinisonian plot." Coranabo opened his mouth, but closed it suddenly, as if he felt that he now could not lie, and looked away. 1 "I advise you to answer," the King ordered quietly. "The Baron of Connall looks to the strength and leverage to break your back. If you are, indeed, involved with the plot against his brother and father, I am sure I will have no problem convincing him to do it." Luthias grinned the smile of an anticipating assassin. "Oh, yes, your majesty, you would. It is too quick." He looked at Coranabo. "Did you have my father and brother killed?" When Coranabo didn't answer, Luthias shook him ungently. "Did you?" "Your father--yes. Your brother was to have lived when you and Dargon died. He would have become Duke. We could have trapped him into war," Coranabo spat defiantly. "I would have married Danza to him, and when the Beinisonians came in, I would have taken, by right of age and family, the Duchy of Dargon." "You pretentious--" Luthias hissed. "That is why you tried to marry Danza to me!" "What of this treason trial?" the King inquired calmly. "We had to get rid of Duke Dargon. He advised too much against the war with Bichu. We chanced that we could have convinced Baron Connall." Luthias wanted to squeeze his neck. "And Castellan Michiya?" "A tool," Coranabo answered defiantly. "Just to accomplish our plot." "Who," the King demanded, "is 'we?'" "I and the Beinisonians." Luthias growled. "You see, your majesty, I was right. They were planning to invade. They were trying to advise your majesty to invade Bichu, so that they could easily take the country." The Baron of Connall jostled Coranabo again. "Am I right?" Coranabo was silent for a few more jostlings. "You are right!" Coranabo screamed finally. The Court gasped. "And you would have been mine, you would have married Danza had it not been for that whore of a seneschal of yours--" Abruptly, Luthias thrust the Baron of Coranabo from his hold. Coranabo landed hard on the stone steps of the King's dais. The King motioned the guards forward, but they did not take him. Their eyes were instead on the Baron of Connall. Luthias had never burned with such white rage. His hands were clenched so tightly that Marcellon feared for the bones, and Clifton, for the first time in his life, realized just how dangerous and deadly his cousin was. Flames raged behind the Baron of Connall's eyes, and when he spoke, his words were furious and rough. "You had better thank God that you and I are in the presence of the King!" Luthias shouted. "You would have paid dearly for that insult otherwise!" Coranabo laughed malevolently. "I kill your father and brother, and nearly succeed in killing your cousin and your friend, and you worry over an insult!" "The King's justice will take care of the others," Luthias spat at him, his words hard and sharp as steel swords. "But that you dare to call a lady in my protection, my ward, my seneschal--" my Sable! "You would have paid dearly." Coranabo laughed disdainfully. "Take him," the King commanded the guards. Swiftly, the guards laid hold of the Baron and presented him to his King. "You are guilty of treason," King Haralan pronounced gravely and clearly, so that all the Court could hear. "It is our duty as King to serve justice." The King's face softened, and he smiled at the young Baron of Connall. "It would seem to us that the most just of punishments for you, Coranabo, would be to turn you over to the Baron of Connall." Luthias flashed the King a wicked, grateful grin. "However, it would hardly serve the law. We therefore strip you of your lands and sentence you to death." 1 Luthias paled, thinking of tiny Danza Coranabo and Tylane Shipbrook. "Your majesty, please wait," Luthias called out. The King, puzzled, looked at him. "His death I don't dispute," Luthias explained quickly. "He deserves that surely." The young Baron of Connall frowned. "He deserves it many times over. But his daughters are not guilty of any crime. Don't take their dowry from them, your majesty. They do not deserve any punishment." His royal majesty the King raised his eyebrows at the precocious Baron. "You speak wisely, Baron Connall. Bring us a map," he ordered an assistant. The servant promptly brought the King a map of the Duchy of Dargon. "You own the strip south of the Coldwell," King Haralan remarked to the prisoner. "We will divide your land in half," the King determined. He took a pen and drew a line along the river that separated Coranabo into two parts. Then, he crossed out the border between Connall and the southern half of Coranabo's barony. He stood straight and faced the Court. "I now pronounce that the Duke of Dargon and the Castellan Ittosai Michiya are innocent of all charges and free of the Court." Luthias closed his eyes, and his shoulders relaxed. He smiled, and put his head on his hands tiredly. Free. He had freed them. He felt weak with relief and shaky with joy. Across the aisle, Ittosai Michiya was smiling at the announcement. Clifton laughed like a boy. Marcellon sat, looking satisfied. The King turned angrily to the Baron of Coranabo. "We pronounce you guilty of treason, Coranabo. You are stripped of your title, and of your lands south of the Coldwell. You are sentenced to death." The King looked at the guards. "Release your hold, but do not allow him to escape. Baron Connall, come forward." Slowly, Luthias obeyed and knelt. Haralan looked at him benevolently. "We forced you to try this case," the King revealed. "We wanted to test you. You have surpassed the test, Lord Connall, and you have shown wisdom and control beyond your years." The King raised his eyes to behold the entire Court. "In years past, our ancestors were wont to give the title of Count to those who served them well and loyally." King Haralan unsheathed the decorative sword that hung at his side and touched each of Luthias' shoulders with it. "We pronounce you now, Luthias of Connall, in reward for your loyalty and service, Count of Connall, with the lands of your ancestors and those we have taken from Coranabo to support that title." Shaking, Luthias stared at the King with weak astonishment. Him, a Count? But the title Count was given only to those who had served the King in the highest manner. It was so rare--the last of the Counts had died two hundred years ago! And he had done nothing outstanding. He had only done what any man would have. "Rise, Count Connall," the King ordered. His legs feeling rubbery, Luthias did so. "Because of your wisdom, we also appoint you a our ambassador to Beinison, to reject their proposal and represent us in the Beinisonian Court." King Haralan then spoke directly to the new Count. "It is rare to find a man who so trusts the King's justice," Haralan remarked. "We will serve all Coranabo's other crimes by severing his head. We give you leave, Count Connall, to avenge the insult to your ward." Luthias smiled calmly and bowed his gratitude to King Haralan. He turned toward Coranabo. Sir Edward suddenly spoke softly. "Remember, Count Connall, that you may not draw a sword in the presence of your King." Luthias smiled at the Knight Commander. "I do not need one, your Excellency," the Count of Connall stated placidly, and without taking his eyes off of Edward Sothos, Luthias slammed the back of his hand 1against Coranabo's jaw. His jaw snapped loudly, and he flew fifteen feet into the waiting arms of the King's guards. "Thank you, your majesty," Luthias said, and he went to his cousin and his friend. Giddy with happiness, the new Count of Connall was drinking that evening at the feast. His cousin, the Duke of Dargon, was laughing, happy that it was over. Messengers had already been sent to the Duchess of Dargon, and to Myrande. Everything was finally all right. Sir Edward watched Count Luthias with the eyes of an older brother. Perhaps young Luthias could actually get some sleep tonight. And then, by pronouncement of the King, Luthias would return to his home and quickly leave it for Cabildo, the capital of the Beinison Empire. "You did it, Luthias-sama," Ittosai Michiya said to his lord. Michiya was grinning, ecstatic at his release, and at his appointment. The King of Baranur had honored Luthias' castellan by making him a royal emissary to Bichu. "And now, I may go home." "Yes, but you have to take that idiot Chronicler with you," Luthias pointed out jokingly. The King had mandated that Rish Vogel accompany the Ambassador to Bichu. Ittosai Michiya rolled his eyes. "You will come back?" "In the spring, when you return from Beinison," Michiya promised. "We will compete in the Melrin tournament, and perhaps, this time, I will not allow you to win." Luthias grinned and pushed on the Bichurian's arm. "Maybe I'll give you both baldrics and save us all the hassle," Clifton muttered good-naturedly. "You two are the best we've got." "The father speaks," Luthias mused, his smile lop-sided. "Watch Lauren give birth to seven full-grown Knights. Dargon will be well protected." Luthias became serious. "Clifton, will you be regent of my lands while I'm away?" "Of course." The Duke of Dargon looked into his cousin's eyes. "What do you plan to do about Myrande?" "I'm giving her a choice," Luthias announced. "Either she marries the man she loves or--" "Good evening, gentlemen," came an even greeting. The Duke of Dargon, his cousin, and Ittosai Michiya stood as the King approached. He was accompanied by the High Mage and the Knight Commander. The three man bowed to the monarch. "I see you are enjoying yourselves. You look much better, Count Connall; I am glad." "Thank you, your majesty," Luthias returned, bowing again. "You have told me, Lord Ittosai, that you will enjoy returning to Bichu," the King prompted. "Indeed, your majesty," Michiya replied, bowing and grinning. "I can now return to my family with immunity." "And how do you like your reward, lord Count?" Luthias appeared to think about it, although there was no need. "I never wanted it, your majesty. I never wanted to be Baron or Count or Ambassador. I only wanted to be a Knight." King Haralan laughed. "So does my elder son, Kalien; yet he too must bear a title. Sir Edward assures me, however, that you will be Knighted eventually." The King came forward and put a hand on Luthias' shoulder. "I must confess, Luthias, that the reward I gave you is more to my benefit than yours." The Count of Connall gave him a serious look. "You receive the land, certainly, and you will become one of the richest men in your Duchy, if you aren't already. But the title Count: it isn't that you don't deserve it, but I cannot send Beinison a nobleman of less rank than the one they sent to Baranur." Luthias nodded his understanding. It was a wise move. "And, Count Connall, 1your skill in war will make you useful to me there." Again, the Count Connall nodded. "Your knowledge and your control will make you a good ambassador, Count Connall." "He will make you proud, your majesty," the Duke of Dargon assured his King. "He has always made his lords proud." Luthias smiled gratefully at his cousin, then turned back to the King, who had not removed his hand from Luthias' shoulder. "As the rewards are as much to your benefit as mine, Luthias, is there nothing your King can give you that would be to your benefit alone? Is there something, besides the Knighthood that you must earn, that you want?" Luthias gazed at the floor and sadly shook his head. "No, your majesty. What I want you cannot give me." Haralan raised his eyebrows. "Ask. As King I have quite a bit of power." "You cannot give me the lives of my father and twin," Luthias stated flatly. "That is a bit difficult," Haralan admitted with amused ruefulness, "even for a King." "That is a bit difficult even for a mage," Edward remarked cheerfully. "Difficult for a mage?" laughed Marcellon. "That's difficult for a god!" "What else would you want?" the King pressed. "There must be something." "I want to go home," Luthias sighed, "but you cannot let me do that; you need me in Beinison." Luthias took a heavy breath. "The only other thing I want is for Sable to be happy." The King appeared confused. "Forgive me; who is Sable?" "My ward, Lady Myrande." "Ah, the seneschal whom Coranabo maligned so blithely," King Haralan said. "And to make her happy is beyond my power?" "Yes, your majesty," Luthias affirmed. "I cannot tell you how to do it. She loves someone who doesn't love her." The King appeared grim. "I think," Ittosai Michiya ventured, a knowing smile on his visage, "that I could tell you how." "Yes, your majesty," Clifton added. The Duke of Dargon apparently shared insight. "I know how." "Well, then, my lords," the King began, "if--" A rough pull tugged Luthias' face away from the King. A frantic Tylane Shipbrook stood there. "Luthias!" he cried. "Thank God I've found you!" The Count of Connall gripped Tylane's shoulders. "What is it?" Luthias inquired, the worry he had felt previously returning. Tylane's eyes were as pained as before. "What is it? What's happened?" "My father's got Myrande," Tylane began. "He took her and is going to marry her to Oleran on the twenty-fourth." All the blood seemed to disappear from Luthias' face. Luthias felt his chest go numb, and he stared like a madman at his friend. He shook Tylane's shoulder in panic and frustration. "How? I had her guarded-- My God, they'll kill her!" Sable! What would they do to her? If they-- Daydreams of rape, torture, and pain filled Luthias' mind. Wildly, he tried to put her away and listen. "Father drugged her and took her with guards. I doubt your archer Macdougalls even knew there was anything wrong." Luthias face was ashen, and his eyes were wild. Voices seemed far away and unreal--my God, Sable!--but the shoulders were warm. Again, he shook Tylane. "Drugged her? Then he'll drug her again! She'll marry Oleran and he'll--My God--!" Sable! And I am supposed to protect her! Sable! "No, she's not eating," Tylane explained. 1 "Not eating?" Luthias' voice rose to a squeak. A vision of beautiful Sable, ravaged by hunger till she was little more than a skeleton covered with skin, flashed before his eyes. He released Tylane and shot a frantic hand through his hair. "Not eating? My God, she'll starve before I can get her--she'll die--" My God, Sable dead! "No--Warin's sneaking her food," Tylane explained. "But--" Luthias had turned to Clifton and gripped his cousin's shoulders desperately. "We've got to go get her, Clifton!" "I know, I know," Clifton attempted to soothe Luthias. "We're leaving in the morning." "No, now!" Luthias demanded. "God knows what they--Oleran--my God!" he finished, his oath powerful. "My God-- Michiya," he turned to his castellan. "I will help you," Ittosai vowed. "If they have harmed her--" "Harmed her?" Luthias repeated with incredulous anger. The Count Connall's face became a fiery mask of fury. His voice became rough and ferocious. "If they hurt her," he began, seething, "if they even touch her, I'll kill them!" "So you *are* in love with her," Edward's soft chuckle interrupted the Count's tirade. Luthias turned to the Knight Commander and stared in panicked astonishment. "I had thought so, but--" "Of course I'm in love with her!" Luthias shouted. "Do you think I'd be--" As if he had been slapped, Luthias abruptly stopped and blinked. He turned slowly to Clifton and Ittosai Michiya. "Did I just say," Luthias asked deliberately, "what I think I just said?" Ittosai's grin was completely unmerciful. "Yes," he answered with simplicity and triumph. "And it's high time, too, manling," Clifton growled. "I've got to go get her," Luthias was mumbling. "I can't let them--" "I can give you her hand," the King offered. "Your majesty, I'm her guardian," Luthias reminded the King. "I don't need you to give me that. But you can give me this, your majesty: allow me to leave immediately." "Go pack your things," the King granted, and Luthias dashed off with dragging Ittosai Michiya in much the same way he would have taken Roisart. "Duke Dargon, come with me." Just as the ship was docking to take Luthias back to the Duchy of Dargon, the King summoned the new Count to a private audience. Luthias wanted to tear his hair in frustration at the delay, but he went, his walk quick and frantic. The King sat in his private chambers in a comfortable chair. Opposite him sat the High Mage and the Duke of Dargon. The Knight Commander stood nearby. Luthias bowed breathlessly and hastily. "You are ready to leave then, Count Connall?" "As soon as I can collect my cousin, Lord Ittosai, and Rish Vogel," Luthias confirmed, his voice as hurried and breathy as his movements. "I ask your majesty that you allow the High Mage to come as well." The King raised his eyebrows. "He is a physician; they may have hurt her." And Luthias grimaced. He hated thinking about that. What they could have done to her in all this time... "I have searched for her in my crystal," Marcellon told Luthias. "She is in a tower, but she is unhurt." "Still--" Luthias began. "I have no objection, Marcellon," the King cut the Count off. "Go; it will give the Count some peace of mind, and the Baron of Shipbrook and the Baron of Oleran may indeed hurt Lady Myrande." Marcellon smiled and assented with a nod. "Now," King Haralan continued, returning his attention to the anxious Count, "to business. 1I have given your cousin the Duke authority in this matter. If your ward is unhurt, the Barons of Oleran and Shipbrook are to be sent here to the Keep. If they have harmed her in any way, they are to be executed. I will not tolerate this sort of behavior in my Kingdom." Luthias nodded and wished with all his might that King would hurry. The more time they wasted--! The King smiled at him. The King seemed to be full of smiles, and Luthias wished to leave. They had to get Sable! "You love this young woman, do you not?" To expedite matters, Luthias nodded once. "Will you marry her?" "Yes, your majesty," Luthias answered confidently. Clifton grinned. Luthias followed suit. "Perhaps even if she refuses me." Clifton laughed loudly at the idea. "Very well. Take this." King Haralan offered the Count a piece of parchment. "You asked me to gain Lady Myrande's happiness. The Duke of Dargon has explained to me how this lady loves a man, unknown to him. Ask her to marry you, Count Connall. And if she refuses you, give her this paper. It will, I hope, insure the happiness you seek for her." Luthias took the parchment but gave the King a puzzled look. "It orders that she marries the man she loves." "But I don't know who--" "It's all right, manling," Clifton assured him. "I know." "Now, if you give me leave, your majesty--" Luthias began hastily. The King laughed. "I hope that you will allow this your bride to come to the War Council I have called. Duke Dargon, see if you can bring her. She must be quite a lady to have caused this much of a panic." Clifton laughed, and Edward confirmed, "A veritable Alana, your majesty." "Alana?" laughed the King. "What better consort for the war-god?" chuckled Marcellon. "She is Alana indeed." "Have you gotten her the moon-jewel, then?" the King asked Luthias, his blue eyes twinkling. "Moon-jewel?" Luthias questioned. "What are you talking about?" "It's this legend," Clifton explained. "You see, the war-god--" "A legend? You sit here telling me stories, and Sable could by dying!" "Get him out of here, Dargon," the King laughed. "God speed you. Marcellon, take care of them. And, Count Connall," Luthias, half out the door, turned. "I can give you two weeks once you reach Dargon. No more. A fortnight after you reach Dargon, I want you on a ship bound for Cabildo." "Yes, your majesty," Luthias assented, and he raced to the ship. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Trial by Fire Part V Knight in Shining Armor by M. Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU) "We'll reach Shipbrook Harbor an hour after dusk," Clifton Dargon informed his cousin as he approached. Luthias was leaning on the side of the ship, staring at the ocean. "It should only take a half an hour or so to reach Shipbrook's keep from there." "The sooner the better," his cousin replied, not taking his eyes from the calm, vibrant water. "It's been too long already." "Can't make the wind blow any faster, manling," Clifton remarked, leaning on the edge of the ship with his cousin. "Don't be flip, Clifton. She may be dead already," Luthias snapped. Angrily, he threw a bit of wood at the water. "When I think of what Oleran and Shipbrook must have done to her--" "Easy, manling," the Duke of Dargon soothed, placing a hand on Luthias' shoulder. "If she were in that much danger, Lauren would have sensed it and let Marcellon know by now. Besides, Tylane said Warin was looking out for her." "Well, knowing Shipbrook, Warin's been kicked out of the estate by now, and Sable--" "It'll all be well," Clifton assured him. "Don't worry, Luthias. We'll take care of it. And if they've hurt Sable--" The Duke of Dargon grimaced; he didn't relish the thought of Myrande's being hurt. He had grown up with her, and he cared for her as if she were his sister. "Then we'll do as the King says and execute the pair of them." "Won't bring her back," the Count of Connall pointed out, tossing another bit of wood at the silent waters. "Didn't bring Roisart back." "Don't worry," Clifton repeated. "We'll be in Shipbrook within an hour and a half. I've sent messengers to Lauren, and she and some of my forces will meet us there. We'll get Sable and you married within the week." Luthias allowed himself to smile a little. The Count of Connall was silent for a moment. "I still can't believe it." "Believe what?" "That I'm in love with her." Luthias appeared puzzled. "I know that I'm in love with her, but I don't believe it." He shook his head against the thought. "I don't feel any different about her than I ever did, than I did last week, last month, or before my father and Roisart died. It's--strange." Clifton laughed merrily. "Come on, Luthias," he choked, "you've been in love with her for years! Of course what you feel for her hasn't changed. You just finally found the right word for it." Luthias gave his cousin a sobering look. "Why are you so surprised about it, anyway? Myrande is very special; she's..." "A consort for the war-god," Luthias finished, repeating Marcellon's words. He finally looked at his cousin the Duke. "What was that legend you and the King were talking about?" "Legend?" "Something about a moon-jewel." "Oh, that," Clifton chuckled. "It's about the war-god Gow and the night-goddess Alana. They used to be worshipped here--still are, in some parts of Baranur, and in most of the Beinison Empire." The Duke turned toward his cousin and lounged against the side of the ship. "The war-god fell in love with the night-goddess, and to woo her, he slew this terrible monster, and brought the night-goddess back the treasure: the moon, as a jewel to wear around her neck, and the stars, as a mantle for her hair." 1 "Moon-jewel," Luthias repeated, slightly contemptuous. He flung another piece of wood into the water. "I probably won't even have time to get her a betrothal ring." Clifton smiled. "It won't matter to Myrande; believe me, Luthias." Luthias gazed seriously at his cousin. "Come on, manling," the Duke invited, putting his arm around Luthias' tired shoulders, "we've got a damsel to rescue." Luthias smiled slightly, tossed the last bit of wood into the river, and followed his cousin to their cabin below. Myrande opened her eyes as Warin Shipbrook entered her room at the top of the highest tower in Shipbrook Keep. She had been sleeping much lately. She had never been so lazy--or sleepy--in her life. It came of having only one meal a day, the one Warin brought her before dawn each morning. She sat as her cousin approached, reached for a brush, and began to stroke her hair with it. "I didn't mean to wake you," Warin apologized as he approached. Myrande smiled him serenely; the nap had done her good. "Father wants you to prepare for the wedding." He looked away, then abruptly set the goblet he had brought on the table. "Here is some wine." "Did your father send it?" Myrande asked, struggling with a snarl in her dark locks. "I wouldn't have brought it if he did," Warin answered scornfully. He stared at his cousin's ebony eyes. "I don't know if you're thirsty, but you may want it anyway." The snag in her hair finally loosed itself. Myrande resumed the rhythmic brushing. "Why?" she asked. "I don't want to be drunk for this, Warin." "You want to have your wits about you when you marry Oleran?" Warin wondered. "Yes. In the ceremony, I am asked to accept the bridegroom," Myrande explained patiently. "If I don't accept Oleran, there's no way I can be married to him." "This won't make you drunk," Warin rushed. "It will make you dead." Myrande stared at him, shocked. "You want me to kill myself? You've been risking your inheritance for weeks to keep me alive!" "I thought Luthias would have come by now," Warin retorted. "It seems he has more important things to do." "Luthias does what he has to," Myrande retorted, her black eyes snapping at the insult. "If he could be here, he would be here." She tossed her head proudly. "He will come to get me as soon as he can." "Well, he isn't here, and I think he'd rather see you dead than married to that monster Oleran." "Maybe so," Myrande returned calmly, still brushing her hair. "And, barring no other solution, I would rather be dead than married to a man who will beat me and rape me." Myrande rose, set the brush on a table, and faced Warin. "But I won't kill myself. Luthias has lost too many people already. The Duke of Dargon and Ittosai Michiya may be dead by now. I'll be the only person he has left." "Your life will be hell," Warin warned her seriously. "You should see what Oleran does to the horses and the servants!" "Better my life is hell than Luthias'," Myrande said firmly. She went to the mirror, picked up the brush again, and began to pile her hair on the back of her head. "Luthias will overturn the marriage, assuming I can somehow be tricked into accepting Oleran. If I'm dead--" Myrande remembered how Luthias had been when Roisart died. If she were dead, would he then love her? There was no way to know, and no way she would leave Luthias. She had promised, on that night when he had kissed her and she had pushed him away, that she would always 1be there for him. Married or single, she would be. "Take it away, and let me dress," Myrande ordered Warin gently. Stiffly, Warin bowed and took the wine away. As the door shut, Myrande slipped the chop sticks into her hair. Alarm bells were clattering as Luthias, Count of Connall, Clifton, Duke of Dargon, the High Mage Marcellon, and Ittosai Michiya arrived on horseback at Shipbrook Keep. Luthias was armed, as was Michiya; the Duke had said that he didn't expect a fight, but the two warriors thought it best to be prepared. Michiya had even brought a crossbow. Luthias and Michiya were different than the other men. Marcellon was serene, if somewhat amused; Clifton seemed grim but placid. The men-at-arms that had come from Dargon were grim, as was their Duke, but they were somewhat jovial about it, as if the rescue of Lady Myrande Shipbrook were nothing but an excuse to celebrate at a later time. But Luthias was insanely worried and furiously angry and deeply frightened. Ittosai was also worried and as hell-bent as Luthias on revenge if Myrande had been hurt. Riding to Shipbrook Keep, Luthias had idly wondered aloud, a bent smile on his face, "Are you in love with her too, Michiya?" Ittosai looked away, as if the matter were beneath him. "Do not be silly." Then they arrived, and the warning bells clanged to announce them. Frightened guards of Shipbrook Keep saw the force coming and hastily shut the main gate. "Surround the walls," Clifton ordered. "Leave the largest detachment here at the gates with myself and the Count of Connall." The Duke of Dargon turned to his cousin. "Here goes, manling." "Hurry it up, Clifton," Luthias snapped. "They were supposed to marry her to Oleran today! If the beast has touched her--" "Easy, Luthias," Marcellon ordered with stern equanimity. "All will be well." "Who comes?" bellowed a man from the top of the walls. "The Duke of Dargon," Clifton shouted his answer, "and the Count of Connall. I demand to speak with the Baron of Shipbrook and the Baron of Oleran!" "I will fetch them, your grace," the man promised. "Hurry!" Luthias screamed at him. "We could break the gates," Michiya was suggesting. "Do we have a...how do you say it?...a battering tree?" "Ram," Luthias corrected. "It would work, but we'd have to fight our way through." "I am not afraid," the Bichurian said. "Nor I," Luthias assured him, "but it wouldn't be practical. It would take too much time to find Sable. By that time, they'd have her out of the castle." "True," Michiya agreed. "Why do you come, Duke Dargon?" Shipbrook's voice echoed from the walls. He appeared as a shadow above the gate. Two other shadows, a slight one and a heavier one, stood with him. Next to Clifton, Marcellon murmured a spell, and a great light shone on the top of the walls. Shipbrook, Warin, and--Luthias assumed--the muscular Baron Oleran, shielded their eyes. "You are not invited to my niece's wedding." Luthias was about to shout something defiant, but Clifton held up his hand. "Quiet, and let me handle this." The Duke focused on the Baron of Shipbrook. "Open your gates and allow us to take Lady Myrande away." "I have a right to marry my nice to Oleran," Shipbrook returned. 1"I am her kinsman--" "I advise you not to resist," Dargon shouted angrily. He waved the sealed parchment that Haralan had given him. "I have orders from the King for your arrest and Oleran's." "On what charge?" Shipbrook asked pompously. "Kidnaping, for one," Luthias shouted. He stared at Shipbrook, his eyes burning. Suddenly, he realized that Oleran was no longer there. "If you resist," Clifton continued, "you will be put to death. Allow us entrance!" "Never!" "I am quite serious, Shipbrook," Clifton emphasized. "I will have you put to death if you do not allow us entrance peacefully." "You cannot enter by force," Shipbrook challenged. "Would you like to see us do it?" Luthias countered. "You have my ward, Shipbrook; you have no claim on her. If you do not return her to me, I am quite prepared to take her from you." "You have no right to trespass on my grounds," Shipbrook returned, his voice veiling a warning that scared no one. "I--" Suddenly, he turned to Warin and shoved him away. "Let them in? You're no son of mine! Get away from me!" Warin stood still for a moment, then walked away, anger evident in his step. Shipbrook turned back to his unexpected guests. "You may also leave." "You defy the King's justice?" Clifton asked haughtily. "I'll defy anything opposed to my family's honor!" "Fool," Clifton muttered to his father-in-law. He shouted to Shipbrook, "We will force ourselves in, then." Again, he turned to Marcellon. "Can you open the gates?" "Line up the men," Marcellon commanded, "and give me room. I'll take care of it." The men-at-arms shifted back and drew their weapons. Luthias and Ittosai dismounted and placed themselves at the very front with Clifton. Michiya loaded and cocked his crossbow; Luthias drew his sword. In front of the soldiers, Marcellon raised his arms. The doors slowly opened, as if affected by the spell that Marcellon was about to cast. Puzzled, Marcellon lowered his arms slowly. "Even I am not that good," he muttered. He turned to Clifton and his army. "They are letting us in!" Without further words, Luthias sprinted into the gates. Warin was waiting with the gate key. "You opened it?" Clifton asked, not far behind his cousin. Warin gave the key to the Duke. "He is a fool," young Shipbrook admitted, "but I have no wish to see him dead. He is, after all, my father." Luthias snatched Warin's arms roughly. "Where's Sable?" "In the tower," Warin explained swiftly, casting a hurried look over his shoulder at five of Shipbrook Keep's towers. Furious at the ambiguity, Luthias shook him. "Which one?" he hollered. "Where is she?" "The center one!" Luthias released him abruptly and sprinted toward the high, center tower which bordered on the courtyard which the Ducal forces were quickly filling. Michiya rushed with his lord, and Warin hurried to follow. "The highest room!" Warin shouted as Luthias threw open the door. Without even acknowledging the direction, Luthias began to fly up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. It was too important not to waste any time. Those monsters-- Slightly less frantic as Luthias, Michiya followed slightly more slowly; his legs were shorter than tall Luthias'. Warin, who was in poorer shape than the warriors, 1accompanied them as best he could. Luthias was bolting, the wind in his ears. He didn't truly see where he was going. All he knew was that he was going to the highest room. Sable would be there. The young Count strained to hear the sound of Myrande's voice. Was she dead? What if she were hurt? Where was Oleran? Oh, God, if she is hurt--if they have--Sable! Luthias collided with the door. It was bolted from the outside, and it had a heavy lock on it. With a bestial cry, Luthias threw the bolt off the door and tried to open it. Locked. The Count of Connall grimaced briefly, then threw his shoulder against the door. It didn't budge. He battered it again, feeling no pain in his shoulder. The door remained solid and unmoved. Well, damn it, he'd break the thing into splinters before he allowed them to hurt Sable! With obstinate determination, Luthias threw himself against the door. It better move! "Luthias-sama!" Michiya's voice called him. It didn't register in Luthias' ears. He assaulted the stubborn door again. Ittosai grabbed the Count's arms. "What are you doing?" "I'm breaking the God-damned door down!" Luthias screamed. "Get out of my way!" "It is too slow," the Bichurian complained. "Stand aside; I know a better way." Luthias, blind with fury and purpose, somehow managed to move aside. Michiya backed up two or three steps on the landing and made himself ready. "Wait!" Warin called, a dozen steps below. "I have the--" With a Bichanese war cry, the Castellan of Connall raged forward and landed a solid, powerful kick directly beneath the lock. The door flew open. Without waiting, Luthias barreled through the door, thinking wildly that he would have to have Michiya teach him that trick. Ittosai nearly stepped on Luthias' heels in his haste to follow the Count. "Key," Warin finished weakly. Luthias found himself in the top tower room, a round, stone room with a canopied bed and some tables and a fireplace. Across the room was a stone staircase leading to the flat, round ceiling of the room. Being dragged up the staircase by an irate Oleran was-- "Sable!" Luthias screamed, rushing forward with his sword drawn. She turned and stared at him, her black eyes wide, and then she smiled at his very presence. Oleran saw the grin and hit Myrande hard across the temple with the pommel of a very large dagger which he held in his free hand. Myrande made no sound, but Luthias saw a trickle of blood flow, like a tear, down her cheek. "Oleran, you son of a bitch!" Luthias screamed. Sword in his right hand, Luthias dashed across the round room to the stairs and proceeded to take them four at a time. He saw Oleran yank Sable through a trap door, then it slammed shut, almost hitting Luthias' head. Without thought, he pushed through to the roof of the tower and rushed forward to make an end to Oleran. "I suggest that you stop where you are, your Excellency," Oleran's urbane voice greeted him. Luthias, for some unknown reason, stopped in mid-step and slid until he was still. Oleran stood on the edge of the roof by the waist-high crenolations. He held that large dagger's point at Myrande's breast. "Thank you, your Excellency. I am sure that neither you nor I wish Lady Myrande harmed. But I assure you, your Excellency, that I will do just that if you come any closer." Luthias stared at the man: Oleran was tall, muscular, and handsome, despite the fact that he more than twice Luthias' age. His left arm held Sable's waist securely; the right hand confidently held the dangerous dagger. Uncertain of what action to take, Luthias kept 1his body still as his brother Roisart's, but he did not release the sword. Behind him, the trap door crashed open, but Luthias did not look to see who came. "Now, sir," Baron Oleran continued, "you will make it possible for me to leave here with Lady Myrande." Luthias opened his mouth to make a scornful reply, but Oleran added, "And I do suggest that you order your Bichanese friend to lower his crossbow. By the time the bolt reaches me, your Excellency, Lady Myrande will be dead." Without turning or removing his eyes from Oleran's, Luthias held out his hand. Luthias felt Michiya lower the crossbow behind him. Luthias took a step closer; Oleran pressed the point; a drop of blood appeared on Myrande's blue dress. Luthias halted. Oleran removed the dagger and pointed it at the Count. "Better, your Excellency," Oleran praised, smiling. "And now--" Myrande suddenly collapsed double over Oleran's left arm. Angry, the Baron slammed his dagger's pommel into the back of her neck. "Stand! What do you think you're doing, woman?" the enraged Baron demanded. Myrande appeared to retch. "I'm afraid of heights," she cried pitifully, putting her hands over her dark hair as if she were panicked by the altitude. Nervously, she played with the piled tresses. Heights? Luthias thought wildly. "You will, your Excellency," Oleran was saying, holding Myrande twice as securely, "procure for us horses--" "Let's see who can climb highest," an eight-year-old girl named Myrande had once challenged the twins. She had climbed the tallest trees in Connall. Sable, afraid of heights? Behind Luthias, Michiya smiled. Fast as a whirlwind, Myrande turned, buried one of the Bichanese chopsticks two inches deep in Oleran's right side, and pushed herself away from him. "You bitch!" Oleran screamed, raising his dagger to murder her. Luthias dove for his ward, caught her in his arms, and twirled away, putting himself between Sable and the dagger. Myrande screamed his name. There was a burning in his back, and Luthias heard the crossbow snap with deadly finality. Oleran cried out once. Luthias held Sable tight, and she clutched him desperately. She was warm, alive, all right. Oh, God, she was all right. All right. Luthias buried his head in her loose hair and whispered, "Marry me." Then he cursed himself. Damn it, he should have been more romantic, more like Roisart, moonlight and roses, something. He could have done better for her. Sable deserved better. But she didn't seem to mind. "When?" she whispered back. Luthias tried to laugh, but it left him as a shaky pant. "Next week," he cried, "next month, tomorrow, I don't care. Soon." "Tonight?" Again, Luthias attempted laughter, but it came out like sobs. "A little too soon, Sable." He held her away from him a little, smiled. She smiled back, but she was pale and uncertain. He felt her unconsciously move her hand up and down on his back. "You deserve better." Gingerly, Michiya approached, the crossbow empty and relaxed now that it had done its work. "Myrande," he began, "Luthias-sama, are you all right?" "Fine, Michiya," Luthias answered. The Count Connall remembered, belatedly, that there was an enemy to contend with. Luthias scanned the roof. "Oleran--?" Ittosai grinned like a child. "I shot him in the neck. He went right over the edge. If he was not killed by the bolt--" Suddenly, Myrande gasped and jumped backwards, putting a hand 1over her mouth. "Sable, what's wrong?" Luthias asked. Then he felt the pain of the wound on the right side of his lower back. Warm blood dribbled on his skin. Ittosai and Myrande sprang to look at the wound. While Myrande inspected her betrothed's injury, Michiya retrieved the dagger which had clattered to the stones unheard. "It cannot be deep," Michiya reported, scrutinizing the blade. "It has blood only on the edge." "No, it's not deep," Sable confirmed. She reached into her gown's pocket and produced a handkerchief. She folded it and applied pressure to the slash. "Don't fuss, Sable," Luthias requested briskly. "I'm all right." He was better than he had been in weeks. He reached back, put an arm around her, then held out his hand to his friend. "Thanks, Michiya." The Bichurian smiled and took it. "Do not thank me, Luthias-sama. What is it you say...that is what friends are for." Somehow (Luthias was never sure how, and quite sure he didn't want to know) Marcellon got the Count Connall and his bride, the Duke of Dargon, the former Baron of Shipbrook, and Ittosai Michiya back to Dargon Keep in less than an hour. There the High Mage examined Luthias' back and Myrande's bruises. He turned Myrande over to his daughter and sent Luthias to bed with a sleeping potion. "You need the sleep," the High Mage told him. "You haven't slept well in weeks, and there is much to be done in this fortnight, Count Connall." The High Mage grinned, rejoicing in using the young man's earned title. Luthias went to the guest bedroom in Dargon Keep dutifully, but he did not take the potion. There was too much to think about. For a while, he stared at the fireplace, holding the document the King had given him. Finally, he stood and walked to Myrande's room. He boldly knocked on the hard door. "Who's there?" Sable's voice, muffled, inquired. "Luthias." "Come." The Count of Connall opened the door quietly and entered the room. Her dark hair glowing from the light in the fireplace, Myrande waited for him, her arms hugging her knees. She was wearing a nightgown that was obviously intended for the tall Duchess of Dargon; the cuffs fell past Myrande's thumbs, and the bodice draped lower than it should have. Gently, Luthias approached her and sat on the bed. "I hope I didn't wake you," he began. "No, I couldn't sleep," Myrande confessed tiredly. "I'm not sure I want to." She paused, stared at the flames. "I've never hurt anyone before." "You were marvelous," Luthias praised her. "You were wonderful. I'm proud of you--and so is Michiya. You should have heard him bragging to Marcellon." "How is your back?" Sable asked, touching his arm lightly. "Nothing serious," Luthias related. "Oleran just sliced the skin a little." The Count Connall shrugged. "Marcellon wasn't worried. He just bandaged it. There won't be a scar." "You and your scars!" Myrande laughed, touching the (now) small, white one above his right eye. "You're so vain!" She stopped laughing, touched his cheek. "I'm glad you came, Luthias. I didn't want to be alone tonight." Luthias took her hand and pressed it to his cheek in the manner of the Court. "I need to talk to you, Sable." Myrande smiled. "You've been saying that since before the Sy tournament." She withdrew her hand. "What's wrong?" Unsure how to begin, Luthias looked away. He was silent for a long moment; then, he reached out and took her hands. They were very 1small. "Sable," he started, "I don't know why you want to marry me...I don't know why you agreed to it." "Because I want to," she explained, happy but confused. "I want to marry you." "Look, Sable," he began again, "I want you to be happy. Here." He handed her the parchment, heavy with the King's seal. Myrande inspected it dubiously. "What is it?" "It's an order from the King," Luthias told her quietly, not looking her in the eye. "I--it's an order--look, Sable, I don't want you to be trapped into a marriage you don't want. That royal decree says that the man you love must marry you. I--" God, why was it so hard to tell her he loved her? "I won't have you unhappy." For a moment, Sable stared at him with confusion and astonishment. "I thought...you knew," she said slowly, incredulously. "I thought...when you asked me to marry you...I thought you knew..." "Know what?" Luthias demanded, looking her in the eye. There was pain in his face, but it was the brave pain of a lover willing to let his beloved go free. "All I know is that I love you--" There. He said it. "--but I also know that you're in love with someone else, and--" "No!" she interrupted him with abrupt finality. Luthias shut his mouth mid-word. "There is no one else." "What?" asked Luthias, gazing at her as if she had lost her mind. "There is no one else," she repeated, gripping his forearm. "There never was anyone *else*. Only you." Myrande stopped suddenly, timidly reached out to touch his face. Her hand dropped. "Always...you." "*What?*" Luthias squeaked. Unbelieving, he snatched the paper from her and read the neat, formal words: "...We decree by Our Royal Hand and Seal that Our vassal, Luthias, Count of Connall, take in marriage Our subject, Lady Myrande Shipbrook, on account of their great love...." He stared at the paper, then at his bride. "It was me?" he questioned. "Me? But, Sable..." "You," she confirmed. "I love you, Luthias." "But...all these years...four years, Sable! And I never--" Suddenly, he was flooded with memories of exactly what he had done those four years that Myrande had loved him silently. "The women--I was with so many other--" "I know," Myrande reminded him without bitterness or judgment in her voice. "I mixed the contraceptive potions, remember?" "And my temper," Luthias continued, astonished. "I drink when...Sable, you love me?" "It isn't hard," Myrande told him, smiling. "You're a good man, Luthias, and I don't mind your faults." He snorted in contempt. "Besides, I have my faults, too." "What faults?" Luthias made a dubious sound. "You're perfect." (Hadn't Clifton said that about Lauren once....?) "Well, for one," Myrande chanted as if it were a litany, "I'm proud." "Oh, yes," Luthias agreed with utter and complete sincerity. "And stubborn." "Don't I know it!" Luthias concurred. "And I have one fault I know you never wanted in a wife." "What's that?" Luthias wondered, rolling the decree. "Virginity." Luthias let the paper drop and stared at her, stunned for an extended moment. Then, suddenly, he began to laugh. Chuckling, Myrande watched as the Count laughed, the sound of wedding bells, until tears of mirth rolled down his cheeks, until he released all the ills of the summer, until the halls of Dargon Keep rang with the homecoming of the Count of Connall. 1 Still laughing, Luthias finally gripped his bride's shoulders gently. "Ah, Sable, Sable," he laughed breathlessly, kissing her firmly on the mouth, "may I be able to cure all your faults as easily!" The Duke of Dargon was anxiously pacing the vestry adjoining the chapel in Dargon Keep. He stopped suddenly and glared at his cousin. "You could at least have the decency to be nervous!" Clifton exploded at the seated, composed Count of Connall. "But I don't have anything to be nervous about!" Luthias protested, laughing. "You're getting married," the Duke growled, resuming his rounds. "Most people consider that enough to be nervous about." Ittosai Michiya, leaning against a chair, chuckled and expanded upon the Duke's concern, although his voice showed that he was too jovial to share it. "After all, Luthias-sama, you're going to be spending the rest of your life with her." "But I've spent all but six months of my life with her already," Luthias countered. "It's been fine so far." The young Count shook his head. "I don't understand what all the fuss is about, anyway. I don't know why you and Lauren feel you have to throw this huge wedding, not to mention the feast and the ball. I don't want it; Sable doesn't want it." "She deserves the fuss," Clifton grumbled. "Besides, it wouldn't be right if she wasn't married off properly. You have to admit that." "Granted," Luthias acknowledged, "but did we need to have something this big?" "You are a Count, manling," the Duke reminded him. "We have to do things properly. That means inviting half the Kingdom." "And receiving gifts from them," Luthias finished, rolling his eyes. His town keep, two hours from Dargon Keep, was filled to the ceilings with wedding gifts. "Anything interesting?" Clifton wondered. "Lord Winston of Gateway sent me some beautiful silver arrows," Luthias told him, admiration for the weapons in his voice. "He sent Sable a silver jewel box. And we have this fine, Freothold tapestry from a Lord and Lady Thorne." "Who are they?" Ittosai Michiya wondered, feeling for the wedding rings in his pocket. He was acting as Luthias' second in the ceremony, and he took the privilege very seriously. "I do not know them." "Neither do I," Luthias admitted. He paused. "The King sent us a gift as well: our own house in Magnus." "He's being very generous to you," Clifton remarked. "And to Sable. He sent home with me twenty ells of indigo silk for her wedding gown." The Duke of Dargon grinned. "I think he wanted to make up for the fact that she has to give you up so quickly." "It didn't work," Luthias laughed. Myrande had been quite unhappy when she discovered that her husband-to-be would be leaving her fourteen days after his return to the Duchy. "Sable's ready to rip him apart." "Why do you not take her with you?" inquired Michiya practically. "I don't trust the Beinisonians," Luthias replied frankly. Michiya grimaced, but nodded. He had as little reason as Luthias to trust the Beinison Empire. Then he grinned. "This reminds me," the Bichurian began, "that I have not yet given you a gift." The Castellan of Connall reached behind him and tossed Luthias a book. With a sly grin on his face, Michiya explained, "It is a pillow book." "A pillow book?" Luthias echoed dubiously. He opened the tome and read a few lines. His jaw dropped, and he threw the book back to his Castellan with somewhat mock indignance. "What are you giving me this 1for? I don't need it! I'm not some amateur like Clifton!" "What is it?" the Duke asked. Wordlessly, Ittosai Michiya handed Dargon the book. Clifton opened it randomly, read a few words, then blushed a fine shade a purple. "Who are you calling amateur?" he demanded gruffly, shutting the tome quietly. "My wife is pregnant, isn't she?" "Accidents happen," Luthias quipped, smiling. He looked at his still pacing cousin, who scowled at him. "How soon, Clifton? Can we get this performance over with?" "As soon as Lauren comes," Clifton assured him. The Duke stopped mid-step. "You do have a wedding gift for her, don't you?" "Of course." Luthias didn't know much about weddings, but he did know that bride and groom received gifts from each other. He handed Clifton an old, velvet box. The Duke opened it and smiled at the sapphire necklace, broach, ring, hair pieces, and bracelets. "I helped your father pick these," Clifton said. Although he had only been four at the time, Clifton Dargon could still remember his uncle Fionn's wedding. "They matched your mother's eyes perfectly." Dargon closed the musty box and handed them to the bridegroom. "They'll look well on Sable." There was a quiet knock on the door. "Clifton," the Duchess called him, "you have a bride to give away." Clifton smiled. Since Luthias, as bridegroom, was in no position to give his ward in marriage, his Duke had pre-empted him by reason of rank and kinship. "Let's go, manling." The Count and his Castellan left the vestry and walked onto the sanctuary. "What do we do now?" Michiya wondered as Luthias nodded to the High Priest of the Duchy of Dargon. "Wait," Luthias answered, handing his second the jewels. Then he leaned close and whispered, "Did you get the horse ready?" The Castellan nodded, and only then did Luthias take the time to look at the chapel. The high stone walls were decorated with "all manner of sentimental stupidity," as Luthias had called it earlier. Evergreen branches, to represent long life, adorned the walls and the altar. Blazing torches, symbols of passion, burned brightly in the wall sconces. Apples and bread, representing fertility and security, were piled on the altar. Rose petals and autumn flowers were spread in the aisle framed by the guests to soften the bride's steps into marriage. Sentimental refuse, Luthias groaned internally. Roisart would love it. Soon, Luthias heard the sounds of harps and singing announcing his Sable's approach. At a nod from the High Priest, Luthias began to walk the aisle toward the door. He glanced from side to side at the guests; although they had invited the entire Duchy, Luthias had not expected so many people to come. His Aunt Tornia, Duchess of Asbridge, had sailed from Magnus for the occasion. The Duchess of Narragan and Dame Martis Westbrook had come with her. Luthias almost sighed, wishing briefly that Marcellon and Sir Edward could be here. Edward couldn't leave the King, not with a possible war on the way, and Marcellon, for the same reason, returned to Magnus and his duties as High Mage soon after Myrande had been rescued. There were other guests missing, too, a pair of kinsmen...and Luthias missed them most sorely of all. Slowly, the heavy doors of the chapel opened when Luthias and Ittosai arrived. Behind them was the bridal procession: Bartol, the Ducal bard, Lauren, and finally, surrounded by minstrels, Clifton and Luthias' sable bride. Her well-fitting wedding gown was of the indigo silk the King had sent; her ebony hair, left mostly loose, was bedecked with sapphire ribbons. Her onyx eyes were glowing softly, and she smiled shyly at 1Luthias, who returned the expression. My God, she is beautiful. Clearly, and without warning, the Duke of Dargon spoke the ritual words: "Count of Connall, I give my kinswoman unto thee for thy wife." "My lord," Luthias answered, "I thank thee." Confidently, Luthias held out his hand. Myrande wordlessly put her small hand into his. They turned and traveled the aisle, Myrande's full skirt and train reaping rose petals. Michiya and Lauren followed. The High Priest welcomed them by offering them his hands. The couple knelt. "May the blessings of the Almighty God be upon you, Count of Connall and Lady Myrande, upon the day of your marriage." He made a sign of blessing above them, then helped them to their feet. "Count of Connall, Lady Myrande: do you both come here of your own volition?" "I do," Luthias and Myrande answered. Luthias cast a glance at the pompous priest; Myrande rolled her eyes, and Luthias somehow managed to stifle his laughter. "Do you both seek the blessings of God and of the Church?" the priest continued in a ritual voice. "I do," answered the bride and groom. This was taking too long, Luthias thought. Couldn't that priest move any faster? "Then you must both ask, each the other, to accept you," the priest instructed. He didn't have to talk through his nose, Luthias thought. He saw Sable biting her lip; she was stifling chuckles, too. Luthias compressed his mouth. He knew he had to be serious. And then the priest said something that surprised the Count Connall: "If any here can give cause why the Count of Connall and Lady Myrande should not pledge themselves to each other, let him speak now, or speak never!" So that was why Clifton wouldn't let him bring his sword! Luthias tensed. If anyone tried to stop this-- But no one spoke, and Luthias realized that it was his turn--finally!--to recite the ritual. He had memorized it hastily, and hoped he wouldn't forget anything. "My lady Myrande," he began slowly. Please, don't let me forget the words. "I ask thee to accept me as thy husband, as the man I am. I am a man imperfect and faulted, yet this I will promise thee: I will be a faithful and true husband to thee until God takes one of us to Himself. With myself, I offer thee this gift." Luthias hated that part; it seemed like he was trying to bribe Myrande. But he handed her the sapphires. She opened the box, recognized the jewels, and smiled. "Wilt thou take me, Myrande?" "I will," she answered, smiling. Luthias felt like laughing with joy, but it was his bride's turn to speak. "My lord Luthias, Count Connall, I ask thee to accept me as the wife, as the woman I am. I am a woman imperfect and faulted, yet this I will promise thee: I will be to thee a faithful and true wife until God takes one of us to Himself." Myrande reached out a hand; Lauren put a silk-wrapped package into it. Sable offered Luthias her gift. "With myself, I offer thee this gift." Luthias undid the ribbons; it was a well-done portrait, the size of his palm, of Sable in her wedding gown. He smiled and handed the portrait to Ittosai. "Wilt thou take me, Luthias?" "I will," he said firmly. Luthias was damned if he was allowing argument on this. The High Priest raised his hands ceremoniously. "May God the Almighty bless and sanctify this union and keep them faithful and true, one unto the other, until the day when He brings them unto Himself." The High Priest relaxed his arms and looked expectantly at Michiya. "The rings!" Lauren whispered hastily. Ittosai jumped, properly 1embarrassed, and handed the priest the two golden bands. The priest made a blessing sign over them. "May these rings, symbols of your pledges, keep you one unto the other. Confirm your troth." As was custom, Luthias picked Myrande's ring from the priest's palm. "With this ring," he recited, "I thee wed." It would just be his luck, Luthias thought, to forget the words now. "This golden ring to thee I give. With my body, I thee worship, and with my goods, I thee endow." He touched ring to her thumb, her forefinger, her middle finger, then finally slid the golden band onto her fourth finger. "So be it." Her voice strong, Myrande took his ring from the priest and recited the words, repeating the ritual. She touched each of his fingers, then put the ring on him. It gleamed like her eyes. "So be it," she finished, smiling at him. Luthias squeezed her hand. "Do you, Lauren, Duchess of Dargon, and you, Ittosai of Michiya" Damn it, *no* one could say his name right! "witness this union?" "I do," replied the Duchess and the Castellan. "You are now in the eyes of God and the Kingdom husband and wife," the High Priest finished authoritatively. He looked at Luthias with irate expectancy. Luthias gave him an amused look. "Kiss her, stupid!" the Duke of Dargon called without any trace of dignity. Luthias laughed like a boy, leaned forward, and kissed his wife firmly on the lips. As was custom, he suddenly took Myrande's hand and dashed from the chapel in the symbolic attempt as escaping the feast to be alone. With a cheer, the wedding guests followed in a confused fashion. Luthias was pulling his Countess along at a terrific rate. Myrande was laughing like a girl. "You're supposed let them catch us, you know," she playfully chided her husband. "Like hell," Luthias responded. "Run!" Myrande's eyes widened admiringly at Luthias' audacity, grabbed her endless skirts, and ran. Luthias pulled her around the corner, pushed on a loose brick, and yanked her into the secret passage. "Now, let's hope that Roisart and I were the only ones who ever found this," the Count breathed, grinning at his bride. "Let's get out of here, Sable." Expertly, Connall led his wife through the dark passage, which led eventually to the garden. There, near the exit, was Dragonfire. "Thanks, Michiya," Luthias breathed. Abruptly, he took Myrande's waist and lifted her onto the horse. He gracefully placed himself behind her, took the reins, and galloped out of the courtyard. Sable leaned against Luthias and laughed. "I don't believe you did this!" The Count put one strong arm around her waist. "I don't like that bedding ceremony." He paused. "I don't want anyone undressing you but me." "Well," laughed Lady Connall. She shivered in the cool autumn air and leaned against Luthias for warmth. "Do you mind missing the feast?" Luthias asked her suddenly. "Not one bit." Myrande twisted and kissed him. "I only have you for a week more; I want as much time as I can get." Luthias glanced behind him for pursuit; there was none. He reigned Dragonfire and kissed Sable deeply. She pulled away, her arms around his neck. "And now, my lord," she began, "where do we go from here? The keep?" "No," the Count Connall denied firmly. "That's the first place they'll look." He steered Dragonfire into the woods. "We're going to 1Warin's town house, outside the city." His wife stared at him. Luthias grinned. "Warin, Michiya, and I arranged this days ago. Don't worry." "I'm not worried. I trust you." "We'll go back tomorrow," Luthias told her. "I have some things left to arrange with the trip and with the incorporation of Coranabo's lands." He looked at her. "You'll be regent as soon as you turn twenty-one." "Whatever you like. How long will it take us to get to Warin's house?" Myrande wondered after a pause. Luthias grinned. "Afraid to be out after dark, Sable?" "Not with you," she returned the banter. "I won't let the ghosts get you," he promised playfully. Sable laughed merrily. "Why should I be afraid of ghosts? They're only dead people. What dead person would want to harm me?" "Oleran?" "Inconsequential," Myrande asserted. "There are too many dead people who would want to protect me." "Like whom?" "My father and mother. Roisart. Your father." "Father..." Luthias echoed, halting the horse. He stared into the darkness, thinking something he had not allowed himself to ponder before the wedding. Myrande gently touched his jaw. "What is it?" "My father wouldn't approve of this, Sable." She stared at him quizzically. "Approve of what?" "Our marriage." Luthias looked away. "He told me to stay away from you, not to toy with you..." Myrande looked as if she suddenly understood something. "And that's why you never..." She smiled, turned his face toward her. "Luthias, he was only trying to protect me. He wasn't sure you were ready to love me as I loved you. He..." Sable shrugged. "He told me to wait for you. He planned on us marrying, eventually. He was hoping for it." Luthias met her eyes. "Really?" "Truly. I wouldn't deceive you." The Count kissed his wife, then pulled away and looked at her mutely. "Let's go," she whispered. "I only have a little time with you left." "I'll be back to dance with you at the Melrin Ball," Luthias vowed, starting the horse forward slowly. Sable leaned tiredly against him. "You're beautiful, Sable," Luthias told her, watching her in the moonlight. "Watch where you're going," she returned harshly. Luthias halted Dragonfire abruptly and put his arms around his wife. "Easy, Sable," he soothed her, "I won't be gone for long." Myrande held his arms as if she never wanted to let go. "I'm ambassador, Sable. No one's going to hurt me." Myrande's eyes were hard. "If you believed that, you'd take me with you." Luthias cursed internally. Sable knew him too well, always had. The Count turned his wife to face him. "Listen, Sable. Nothing is going to keep me from returning to you. Do you hear me? Nothing. No one." He then repeated, "I'll be back to dance with you at the Melrin Ball." "Even as a ghost?" she tried to play, but her voice sounded choked. "Don't be silly," Luthias quipped. "Ghosts don't dance." Myrande smiled, and the Count hugged her tightly. "Better?" he inquired. "I still don't want you to go," she said. "But there's no help for it, I suppose." 1 "No," Luthias agreed, "and there's no use staying out here all night in the chill when we should be home in bed." Sable laughed gratefully and kissed her husband. "As you wish, your Excellency. I would not think to dispute you." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. 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Jim McCabe Editor, Athene MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET 1------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright November, 1989, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E ||Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 1 01/26/90 Cir 934 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Conflict of Interest I John Doucette Ober 31-Nober 1, '13 DargonZine Index (Vols 1 & 2) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Conflict of Interest, Part I by John Doucette Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur 30 Ober, 1013 B.Y. The column of horsemen rode south towards the city, having crossed the river the previous day. The soldiers' spirits had risen upon leaving behind the seemingly endless mountains for the forest and grasslands that were so much like western Galicia. Then they remembered that for all that it looked like Galicia, this was a foreign country and they would answer with their lives if anything happened to the ambassador or his party. Their smiles and grins and good-natured banter were replaced with grim looks and wary, watchful attention to all that took place around them. The peasants working the fields around Magnus looked up in surprise, and not a little fear, at the strange horsemen heading towards the Crown City. Granted, fifty or so horsemen were no great threat, but the crest they bore and the standard they flew were not those of Baranur or King Haralan, and that was sufficient cause for worry in and of itself. The peasants were not the only ones who noticed the column making its way south. A detachment of cavalry was riding north from Magnus to investigate. Jordaan saw them approaching and barked an order to his troops. The Galician horsemen formed a protective cordon around their charges while Jordaan himself rode to inform his liege of the approaching Baranurian cavalry. "My lord," he said, "a small force approaches from the city." "I should hope so," Myros replied. "We are strangers in this land, after all. Halt the column here. We'll wait for them to come to us." "Yes, my lord." Jordaan galloped to the front of the column and gave the order. A single note sounded on a bugle and the column halted. Baron Myros and Sir Grange Rarrack, one of Myros' oldest and most trusted advisors, rode forward and waited for the Baranurian horsemen to arrive. The Baranurian leftenant halted his twenty men line-abreast one hundred yards from the strangers. The leftenant was no herald, but garrison duty in Magnus does expose one to a large number of foreigners. In all his five years in the Crown City, he had never seen a standard resembling the one these strangers flew. "Well, I'd best get this over with," he said to himself and rode forward. When he got to within twenty yards of the strangers, he stopped and called out, "Who are you and what is your business in Baranur?" The old man leaned towards whom the leftenant assumed was the leader and said something inaudible. Translating, the leftenant thought. After receiving a reply, the old man spoke in accented Baranurian, "May I present His Lordship, Baron Myros, Ambassador of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Nyrull of Galicia. His Imperial Majesty has heard much of the Kingdom of Baranur and desires relations with His Royal Majesty, King Haralan." Galicia? the leftenant thought. I've never heard of such a place. Oh well, not my problem. "Welcome to Baranur, Ambassador. If you will permit, my men and I will escort you and your party to Crown Castle." The old man again leaned over and translated. "His Lordship shall be most honoured," the old man replied. The leftenant turned to his squadron and barked out commands. "Squadron! Squadron will turn to the right in column of two's. Right turn!" The squadron sharply executed their officer's command, backs ramrod straight, eyes looking straight to the front, their thoughts 1focused only on their next command. The Royal Horse Guard would have been hard-pressed to emulate them. "Squadron! At the trot! Right wheel! Forward!" The leftenant brought his squadron onto the road leading south and led the Galician embassy towards Magnus' outer fortifications. Magnus had originally occupied only the west bank of the Laraka River. Due to its increasing prosperity, Magnus attracted new citizens like a magnet. In time, Magnus' population had doubled to 20,000, making for crowded living conditions. The tide of immigrants showed no sign of stopping, so the decision was made to expand to the Laraka's east bank. A wall, similar to the wall around Magnus' Royal District but not as massive, was constructed to protect Magnus' New District, which was designed to house 10,000 people. In time, New District was filled to capacity and a second district was constructed. When that was filled to capacity, another was built. All told, Magnus housed 50,000 souls, 20,000 in the Royal District where Crown Castle, the Bardic College and the homes of the nobility were located, 30,000 in the New Districts, home of the infamous Fifth Quarter. Myros was impressed with the Royal District's fortifications. For a minor power, Baranur had done well in fortifying its capital. Of course, the Imperial capital's defenses far out-shone Magnus', but Myros would still not relish attempting to reduce Magnus. The walls protecting the Royal District stretched for leagues around the perimeter of the city's west bank. The fifty feet high, twenty feet wide walls were adorned every hundred yards with fifty feet diameter, eighty feet high round towers. Each gate was protected by a barbican consisting of two forty feet diameter, sixty feet high round towers. The gatehouse at each gate was twenty feet wide, thirty feet long and twenty feet high and was set into the wall itself. Access to the gatehouse was barred by two ten feet wide, twenty feet high, five feet thick reinforced oak doors. Once past the oak doors, anyone wishing to gain entry had to pass through the gatehouse, its walls lined with arrow slits, its ceiling with murder holes. If the person wanting to gain entry was hostile, an iron portcullis could be dropped down to block exit into the city. Myros and his party passed through the massive gates of Northgate. There were three other gates in addition to Northgate; Eastgate, Westgate, and Southgate. Eastgate and Westgate both provided access to the Merchant's Quarter; Eastgate opened onto the waterfront and Kheva's Bridge. Kheva's Bridge joined the Royal District with the New District across the river. The Bridge was named after the engineer who supervised its construction over a millenium ago. Northgate, Eastgate, and Westgate all saw a great deal of traffic. Southgate was not witness to the volume of traffic that flowed through its sister Gates however. Southgate was for military use only, as it gave direct access to Crown Castle. It differed from the other Gates in one other way. Southgate was more heavily defended. If an invader managed to breach the Outer Gate, there was an Inner Gate that remained to be forced. Southgate had never fallen to an enemy, not even after King Caeron's army was crushed by Insurrectionist forces during the Great Houses War of 97-98 B.Y. Jordaan felt uneasy passing through the gatehouse knowing that at least twenty archers were manning the arrow slits and murder holes ready to fill the passage with death. Myros' party emerged into the daylight of Magnus' Royal District. Apparent chaos reigned. Everywhere, people were shouting and jostling with one another. It was market day. Every manner of item was up for sale. Animals, cloth, jewelry, food of every description traded hands in the large open marketplace. The Galician embassy threaded its 1way slowly through the throng, aided by its Baranurian escort. They made their way slowly out of the marketplace, gradually working their way through the Merchant's Quarter. This Quarter, one of two in the Royal District, housed the wealthier merchants and lower classes of nobles. It was also the site of three large markets that saw a never-ending stream of goods, even in the dead of winter. The column began making its way uphill, a sign that they were about to enter the second Quarter in the Royal District, the King's Quarter. Ahead, they could see Crown Castle, its battlements and snow-capped towers dominating the Royal District. The famed College of Bards could be glimpsed above the rooftops of the elegant houses of the middle and upper-class nobles. Celeste stiffened slightly when she caught sight of the College. Those within could pose a threat to her mission. She must be careful to avoid bringing undue attention to herself. Her attention was drawn from the College to Crown Castle. More fortress than castle, its many walls and towers were situated on the hill that dominated Magnus' landscape. The complex of fortifications that was Crown Castle occupied an area roughly three quarters of a league north-south and one half league east-west. It was almost a city unto itself. To reach the King's Keep and the Inner Courtyard, one had to pass through three gates in walls that dwarfed the Royal District's outer defenses. The first wall was sixty feet high and twenty feet wide and boasted sixty feet diameter, eighty feet high round towers every fifty yards. The barbican defending the gate consisted of two sixty feet high, forty feet square towers and a twenty feet wide, sixty feet long gatehouse thirty feet high. There were massive bronze gates at either end of the gatehouse, each door ten feet high and fifteen feet wide. An iron portcullis could be dropped at either end as well. The second wall was thirty feet farther up the hill and was even more massive than the first. The wall was eighty feet high and thirty feet wide. Instead of towers, this wall had fifty feet square bastions every one hundred yards equipped with light catapults. The gate in the second wall was one hundred yards east of the gate in the first wall. The gate was not defended by a barbican. Instead, the gate was incorporated into a sixty feet square keep eighty feet high. The outer gates themselves were bronze; twenty feet high, twenty feet wide. There were also two lesser gates inside the keep; ten feet high, ten feet wide oaken doors. Unlike the Gates on the outer fortifications and the gate through the first wall, this gate had no portcullis. On the outer fortifications between the second and third wall was Southgate. The third and final wall barring access to the King's Keep and the Inner Courtyard was on the summit, one hundred feet farther up the hill. The wall was one hundred twenty feet high and fifty feet wide. It had one gate situated in the middle of the wall, placing it one hundred yards west of the second wall's gate and in line with the first wall's gate. Of the seven gates in the Royal District, the gate through the third wall of Crown Castle was the most formidable, even more so than Southgate. Unlike the other gates, this gate was not made of oak or bronze, nor did it have a gatehouse or keep defending it. This gate was made of stone and was, in fact, part of the wall itself. Each door of the gate was forty feet high and twenty feet wide and opened onto a passage with the same dimensions through the wall that ended in a similar gate. Each gate was operated by huge winches. If the gates were to be closed against siege, they would not be barred as is common with most gates. Instead, a mechanism would be tripped that would prevent the gates from swinging on their massive hinges. Shut tight 1thus, the only way to gain entrance to the Inner Courtyard was to go through the gates. Not an easy task. Once into the Inner Courtyard, one would then have access to the King's Keep. The name was misleading, however. The King's Keep was not one building, but a group of fortified buildings, the most prominent of which was the original keep upon which the Castle grew. Each building was connected so that once inside any given structure, one never need see daylight in one's travels throughout the King's Keep. But perhaps the most unusual aspect of the Inner Courtyard was the series of buildings to the west of the King's Keep known as Barracks Row. There were fifteen two-story buildings in three groups of five along the west portion of the inner wall. Each building was the headquarters for one of the fifteen Regiments that made up the Magnus Garrison. There was nothing unusual about that. What was unusual was that the barracks for the soldiers were located under the buildings. Fifteen thousand men lived in an underground complex that stretched throughout the hill upon which Crown Castle was constructed. The underground quarters came complete with recreational, eating and medical facilities as well as stables for the cavalry. There were dozens of entrances to the King's Keep to allow a rapid deployment of men and horses from their barracks. About half of the garrison was on duty at any given time with the rest engaged in the off-duty activities for which soldiers are well-known no matter what sovereign they serve. The Ambassador and his party were escorted through Crown Castle's defenses and taken to the King's Keep. The embassy was given several rooms in the Diplomatic Wing where other embassies were quartered. They were given time to settle in and then Myros, his wife, Jordaan, and Rarrack were taken by Coridan to an audience with the King. King Haralan and Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Royal Armies and Haralan's close friend, were in Haralan's study discussing matters related to the recent trial of Duke Dargon on charges of treason. The Duke had been framed by elements within Baranur supported by Beinison. The scheme to start a war between Baranur and Bichu nearly worked. If not for the Count (then Baron) of Connall's belief that his cousin was innocent, Baranurian and Bichanese would be slaughtering each other due to foreign meddling. When it was learned that Beinison was behind the plot, a large group of nobles called for war. Thus far, cooler heads had prevailed. However, those who did not share Duke Dargon's views on war, or the lack thereof, had been clamoring for action. In response, the King called a Council to begin the first week in Nober. Already, several nobles had arrived with more expected within the next few days. For Coridan, the Falcon Herald, Ober was a very busy time. And with the probability that the Council would last all winter, it looked like Coridan would have to wait a very long time before he could relax. As Haralan put it to Edward earlier that day, "What with my birthday only three days ago and now this Council, it's a wonder Coridan doesn't go mad!" "Since you chose to see me wearing full uniform, can I assume the news you bring is not good?" Haralan asked. "Yes, Sire. As you are aware, I've asked certain merchant houses to instruct their caravan captains to keep their eyes and ears open during their journeys in Beinison. The first reports have just come in." "And?" "There is evidence of increased military activity within Beinison. I can't say with total assurance that it is directed against us, however--" 1 "However, you think we should be on our guard." "Yes, Your Royal Majesty. In light of the discovery of Beinison's interference in our affairs, the Beinisonians will be forced to act. I can't see them doing anything until spring, but one never knows." "What is it you want done?" "First, we should put the Royal Army on an increased state of readiness. Second, we have to give serious thought to whom we shall have as field commanders." "The first is easily enough accomplished. Who do you have in mind for the second?" "Jan is out on an inspection tour now. I told her to single out those officers that have potential. If war comes, I want to promote those officers to major commands, even if it means promoting them over the heads of more senior, more noble officers." "Isn't that somewhat drastic, Edward?" "Perhaps, my friend, but consider this. These promotions are only going to affect the Royal Army, not household troops. And if war does come, it will be life or death for Baranur. We can't afford to have incompetent commanders." "We don't know that war WILL come, Edward." "Maybe so, but one of the first things my father taught me was that a soldier must prepare for the worst possible case. If it doesn't come to pass, so much the better. But if it does, at least you have an even chance." "Very well. Now, are there any nobles that seem promising?" "Quite a few. I'd like to put Duke Dargon in command of the Navy. He is more familiar with naval warfare than I. As for the Army, there is one in particular that I'd like to have. Lord...Morion I believe his name is. Is something wrong?" "I don't think you should count on Morion. He prefers to administer his own lands and not become involved with the King's tasks. Remember when Kyle Bluesword and his bandits were raiding in the south? I had to send Coridan to Morion to get him to agree to help." "He's the one Commander Rian spoke of?" "The same." "Then he'll make a valuable commander. If he refuses, why don't you just order him? You are the King, after all." "I can't. You see, my uncle gave Morion's lands to him as a reward for personal service to the Crown. Morion holds fealty to no one. My father re-affirmed the dispensation and I confirmed it: it is irrevocable. I can only ask, not order." "You can't be serious!? You are! I know I've been in Baranur long enough to know the customs, but by Nehru, Haralan! This Morion's lands are in effect a separate country! How could you have allowed this to happen!?" "I didn't 'allow' anything, Edward. Understand. Morion was granted his status for extraordinary loyalty to my uncle. Unless there was good reason, my father and I could not have refused to confirm his status. Lord Morion has served Baranur well. He deserves his reward." Haralan paused, trying to think of some way to explain the situation from Edward's viewpoint. "Edward," he said, hoping he had found the right words, "this is not Galicia. The attitudes are not the same here. You are accustomed to Imperium, with all the benefits and obligations that go with it. That's part of your Galician heritage and you should be proud of it." Haralan paused briefly before continuing. "Don't forget that Baranur is a younger nation. We don't have the legacy of history that Galicia does. Galicia has had six hundred years that we here in Baranur haven't. That in itself goes a long way toward explaining the 1differences between us." Edward persisted. "I just find it hard to accept the idea of a noble owning independent landholds inside Baranur." "Lord Morion's lands are NOT independent," Haralan said with frustration. "He depends on Baranur just as much now as when my uncle ruled. Call it semi-autonomy. It's not such a bad thing, Edward. Morion may not help me with some matters, but I think we can count on him to support Baranur IF war comes." "Yes, Sire." Edward sounded unconvinced. Haralan decided to change the subject. "Now, who else did you have in mind?" Edward sighed. "I would have liked to give Luthias a command, but you sent him to Beinison." "Don't you think he's rather young?" "Granted," Edward conceded, "he is young. But he has talent, Haralan. He reminds me--" "He reminds you of you at his age?" Edward smiled sheepishly, a rare occurrence for Edward. "Yes, he does. I don't think he's ready for a major command. What I'd planned was to give him the Cavalry Wing. Luthias likes freedom of action. The cavalry would have given him that." "If he were here." "Yes, if he were here. Still, if he makes it back before the war starts I think we should consider him." "Alright. Who else?" "I can't think of anyone else off the top of my head. Give me a day to go through my records?" "Done. There, that's finished. I don't know about you, but I'm famished." "And I as well. Why don't we go down to the kitchen and see what we can scare up?" "Excellent idea," Haralan said humorously. "Where do you ever get them?" "I'm gifted, Your Royal Majesty," Edward replied in the same tone. "Gifted my eye!" Haralan said in mock anger. "I ought to--" At that moment, Coridan, the Falcon Herald, entered the study. "Forgive me for disturbing you, Sire," the young man said. "An embassy has arrived from Galicia. Shall I show them in?" Edward turned and went to the window, suddenly overcome with emotion. Haralan glanced briefly at his friend, knowing something of what Edward must be thinking. Edward hardly needed a reminder of his exile from his homeland. He turned to Coridan. "Yes," he said. "By all means, show them in." Coridan bowed slightly then turned and went to the door. He opened it and announced the embassy. "His Lordship, Baron Corneilious Myros, Ambassador of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Nyrull of Galicia. Her Ladyship, Baroness Elaine Myros. Sir Grange Rarrack, Advisor to His Lordship. Captain Jordaan, Captain of the Guard to His Lordship." "Welcome to Baranur, Ambassador," Haralan said. "I'm sure that--" "Myros!" Edward shouted in Galician, his gaze fixed upon the Ambassador. "Edward?!" Elaine burst out. The shock on her face was plain for all to see. "Temper, temper, Edward," Myros replied. "Is that any way to talk to the Baron of Alphoria?" "Edward!" Haralan said forcefully. "What is the meaning of this?" Haralan asked. The King's guards were getting nervous. So was Jordaan. Edward paid no attention to Haralan's query. All his attention was focused on Myros. "You lie!" he nearly shouted. "My father is 1Baron of Alphoria!" "Not any more. He was tried and executed for treason a year ago. Duke Markin gave me your father's lands as a reward for loyal service. I don't know why someone didn't reveal your father sooner. How's that saying go? Like father, like son?" "Corneilious!" Myros' wife said, a hint of outrage in her voice. "How can you say that?" "Because it's the truth, Elaine," Myros replied. Edward went white with rage. "GET OUT!" he roared. "GET OUT BEFORE I KILL YOU!!!" His hand flashed to the hilt of his bastard sword. Jordaan leapt in front of his liege, sword drawn. Edward and the King's guards drew steel immediately. Myros moved Elaine out of harm's way but did nothing more. He stood his ground, his calm exterior hiding his uneasiness. Haralan interposed himself between the two would-be combatants. Edward had taught Haralan enough Galician to get by, but the accents and the rapidity with which Edward and Myros were speaking meant all he knew was that Edward and Myros appeared to be enemies and that he had to calm the situation down before it got out of hand. "Enough the both of you!" Haralan said in passable Galician. "Sheath your weapons! Now!" Jordaan looked to his lord and Myros nodded his assent. Jordaan reluctantly sheathed his sword, but remained in a protective position. The King's guards relaxed visibly. "You too, Edward," Haralan said, returning to Baranurian. He could barely hear Rarrack translating in the background. "I cannot," Edward answered, also returning to Baranurian. "My family and my honour have been insulted. That is something I cannot ignore." "Edward," Haralan said coldly, "as your sovereign I order you to sheath your sword. If you do not comply, I shall have you arrested for treason." Edward looked his friend imploringly in the eyes, a pained expression on his face. The look he got back told him that he was talking to his King, not his friend. Slowly, he complied with his sovereign's wishes. "Sir Edward," Haralan said, speaking formally, "your actions today were inexcusable. Go to your quarters and remain there for the duration of this day." Edward bowed stiffly and walked mechanically out of the King's study. After he had gone, Rarrack, translating for Myros, said, "That's all? He isn't to be punished further?" Haralan turned to face Myros and said, "Ambassador, I know enough Galician to know that Edward was not entirely to blame. As I see it, you were as much to blame as he." Haralan held up a hand to cut off Myros' protest. "Whatever the reason for this conflict, it is between you and Sir Edward. When you came in here today, you came as Ambassador and you insulted the Knight Commander of my Armies. See that it does not happen again. The audience is ended. You may leave." With that, Haralan turned his back on Myros. Coridan led the Ambassador and his party out of the study and showed them to their quarters. Haralan stood gazing out the window for long hours. As his mind re-played his dressing-down of Edward, Haralan's thoughts drifted back to the day he met the man who was to become one of his closest friends... ...Haralan parried a thrust meant for his throat and slashed clumsily at his attacker. The eight remaining bandits had formed a semi-circle about their target. The four knights comprising Haralan's 1bodyguard lay contorted in death about the man they had given their lives to protect. Nine bandits lay on the ground also, having paid the price for their attempt to ambush Haralan and his party. The King of Baranur estimated his chances of surviving as somewhere between slim and non-existent. He was bleeding from a score of wounds and knew that he would be unconscious from blood loss in a short time. From the looks on their faces, his assailants had come to the same conclusion. The bandit on the right, bigger and stronger than the rest, signalled with his saber and the rest moved in. Haralan braced himself against a tree and prepared to sell himself dearly. One of the eight moved in from the left, wielding a double-bladed battle axe. Haralan saw the swing coming and did his best to parry it. He succeeded, but at the cost of losing his sword. The bandit, grinning, raised his axe. He never brought it down. A iron-tipped crossbow bolt made of black teak punched through the back of the man's skull. He fell without a sound. As they were turning to face their unknown foe, another bandit fell, a black crossbow bolt in his heart. A man dressed in black and armoured in chainmail charged out of the forest on a warhorse, yelling a battle-cry in a foreign language. The suddenness of his attack surprised the six assailants. Haralan's unknown benefactor opened the throat of a third bandit with his bastard sword before any of them could react. While Haralan struggled to reach his sword, the five remaining bandits surrounded his would-be rescuer. Whomever he was, he didn't seem concerned. His horse reared, striking out with its front hooves. Brains splattered everywhere as the horse's hooves connected with a bandit's skull. The horse's rider used the momentum of his mount to put extra force behind his downward swing. The result was that a fourth bandit lost that portion of his sword-arm below the elbow. While he was staring dumbly at the bloody stump that was his arm, he was dispatched with a thrust to the chest. The bandits' leader rushed at his enemy from the flank, hoping to catch him unawares. He almost succeeded. At the last moment, however, the unknown rider turned, taking the blow upon his left arm. Ignoring the blood flowing from the deep gash, he delivered a stroke that nearly hacked the bandit's arm off. The three unwounded attackers, seeing their leader seriously wounded, fled. The rider let them go. He bandaged his arm and then got down off his horse and came over to Haralan. To Haralan, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. How strange, he thought, then collapsed. When he awoke, he found his benefactor watching him anxiously. The man's helm was removed, revealing dark black hair with beard to match and deep brown eyes. He also had a scar that ran from his above his right eye down to his right cheek. Obviously he had seen his fair share of combat. "Thank you," Haralan said. He tried to get up and was abruptly halted by intense pain coming from just about every part of his body. The stranger said something in a foreign tongue that Haralan wasn't familiar with. He's not from Baranur, Haralan thought. I'd best be careful until I know more about him. "I'm afraid I don't understand." The man frowned in concentration. "Who you are?" he said in Merctalk, a hodgepodge of several different languages that was common among mercenaries. Haralan had learned the language as a boy from listening in on his father's conversations with some of the mercenary officers serving in the Army. When Arenth finally found out, young Haralan couldn't sit down for a week. "Sir Haralan I be," he replied, not wanting this stranger to know 1who he was until the time was right. "Who you are?" "Sir Edward," the man replied. "You travel able?" he asked. "Little, yes," Haralan answered. "Village that direction is," Haralan said, pointing in the direction of Dyunill, a small village to the northeast. "How far?" "Fifteen leagues it is." "Rest you till tomorrow. Morning, take you there I will." "Grateful I am." Sir Edward nodded and offered his hand to Haralan. Haralan shook it, closed his eyes and slept, determined to convince this man to journey to Magnus with him... ...That was almost six years ago. Edward had indeed proved to be a true and caring friend and a loyal subject. I've never seen him this way, Haralan thought. He's usually very reserved in public. Whatever this is, it must be serious. It's getting late. I should go see him. We must get this out in the open. Edward sat in the dining area of his quarters, staring into the fireplace, lost in memories of the past. The events of the day had shaken him, particularly the news of his father's death. A large snifter of brandy sat untouched on the table beside him. A knocking at the door brought him out of his reverie. "I don't want to be disturbed," Edward said to his unknown caller. "It's me, Edward. I want to talk to you." "Come," Edward said. He rose from his chair and faced the door, bowing as the King entered. "Forgive me, Sire. I wasn't aware it was you." "There's no need for formality, Edward," Haralan said. "I come as your friend, not as your King." "You want an explanation about what happened today," Edward stated. "Yes I do. Edward, we've known each other for close to six years now, and not once have I ever seen you act like this. What's wrong?" "It is...personal, Haralan," Edward replied. "I'd rather not talk about it." "I told you that I come as your friend. As your friend, I want to know. I want to help you." "And for that I am grateful, believe me. It's just that--" "Edward," Haralan interrupted, "I had hoped I wouldn't have to resort to this, but I have no choice." Edward looked his friend in the eyes. "What do you mean?" he asked. "As your King, I must know. If this conflict between you and the Galician ambassador is going to ruin any chance I have of reaching an agreement with him, I have to know why. Please, Edward," he said indicating the chairs by the table. Edward sighed. "You are right, of course." Edward took a seat opposite Haralan. "Do you remember what I told you of how I came to be here?" he asked. "You were exiled from Galicia for killing some noble's son in a duel, wasn't it?" "That's most of it," Edward replied, looking down at his hands. "I didn't tell you everything, Haralan," he said. The King sat back in his chair. "Go on." "When I was seventeen, my father sent me off to Count Janos as a squire." Edward's eyes lost all focus and he even smiled a little, lost in the days of his youth. "How proud I was. Janos had trained 1some of the best knights in the Empire. If I impressed him, there was a chance I might have been recommended for service in the Imperial Guard! Only the best serve in The Legion. It was my dream." "I spent the next five years trying to bring myself up to his standards. I was beginning to think I would never become a knight when Janos gave me a gift for my twenty-second birthday. He said that I was ready, that my training was over, that I was now a knight! I was speechless. He smiled and told me to get some rest, and that we would talk the next day. Then I realized that I would soon be leaving. I might never see Janos or his daughter again. I wanted very much to see both of them. You see," he said, looking at Haralan, "I was very much in love with his daughter." "She did not love you?" Haralan gently asked. "I wasn't sure. I never had the courage to speak to her of my feelings. Not even when Duke Markin's son Giles began courting her. When I received my knighthood, I knew I had to act or I would lose her forever. So, that night I told her I loved her." Edward paused in his recollections. His expression was grim and he radiated tenseness. Edward rose from his chair and began pacing back and forth. "It was then that Giles came into the garden. He'd overheard me and challenged me to a duel then and there. I refused. I could see that Giles was in no condition to fight. I suppose he thought Elaine was about to declare her love for me, and simply couldn't accept that possibility. He was too agitated to be a worthy opponent. That's what I thought, anyway." Haralan had wanted to ask Edward several questions during his recounting, but thought better of it. Edward seemed to need to talk about his experience, to get it out in the open. Edward stopped pacing and went to the window. A storm was coming on. "Giles called me a coward," he continued, gazing out onto the courtyard below, "and attacked. I had no choice but to defend myself. He was quite good, actually. He almost had me twice before I struck him. The duel should have been over. Even though Giles only had a superficial cut, blood had been drawn and I was the victor." Edward sighed. "But Giles would not yield. He came at me like a madman. I didn't want to kill him, damn it! I just wanted to disarm him!" Edward stopped, calming himself. "Giles rushed at me, and before I could halt my attack, he had impaled himself on my blade. Elaine screamed and within moments, her father and his guards had arrived. I told Count Janos the full story and surrendered myself for judgement. "My trial began in Rhylon, the capital, two weeks later. Janos defended me, risking reprisal from Duke Markin, Janos' liege-lord. The Duke wanted my head on the block, but Janos pointed out that it was Giles who was responsible for his own death. Janos said I should be acquitted of any wrong-doing. "Markin wouldn't hear of it. He DEMANDED that I be executed. Clearly, I was in the right, but the Emperor couldn't risk antagonizing a powerful noble such as Markin. And so, I was exiled," he said bitterly. "I was given twenty days to leave Galicia. The next morning, we rode out, bound for Janos' castle. We arrived two weeks later. My parents were waiting. So was Elaine. What followed was the most difficult thing I have ever had to do. "As soon as we rode through the gate, the verdict was plain for all to see." Edward paused for a moment, remembering the pain he felt. "In Galicia, if a knight is convicted of any offense he must wear black whenever he dons his armour. I still wear black today, even in Baranur. "Janos and I rode over to my parents while a servant went to fetch my belongings. Mother and Elaine were crying," he said softly. 1"I said good-bye to both of them. Mother didn't take the news well, as I expected." Edward stopped and drew in a shuddering breath. "But Elaine. She's a strong woman. I hadn't seen her like that since the night her mother died," he said in a pain-filled voice. "She kept insisting it was all her fault. I told her that was nonsense. I am an adult. I'm responsible for my own actions. I said that if I had to be exiled, there was nothing I would rather be exiled for than fighting for her love and affection. "I made her promise not to hold herself responsible. She agreed and then her father led her away to calm her down. I was appreciative. I couldn't bear to see her that way. "Lastly, I said good-bye to Father. I...couldn't look him in the eyes. I was sure he was about to disown me." Edward paused, momentarily overcome. "Do you know what he did?" he continued, speaking reverently. "He gave me his sword. He didn't say anything, just unbuckled it and gave it to me. "Emperor Nyrull presented Father that sword himself! Father had had it for thirty years, Haralan, thirty years! It was his most prized possession. I looked up at him, not knowing what to say." Edward turned from the window, tears streaming down his cheeks. "He was crying! My father, the strongest, bravest man I ever knew, was crying." Haralan, his own eyes watering, went to Edward, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I--I'm sorry, Edward. I didn't know it would be so painful for you. I had no right to put you through this." "Yes you did," Edward said, trying hard to regain his composure. "You are my King as well as my friend." He blinked back his tears, and drew himself up to his full five feet ten inches. "And as King and friend, it is time you learned everything about me." Four hours later, Edward had almost finished filling in the gaps of Haralan's knowledge of Edward's past. Edward had explained to Haralan why he had become a mercenary, for lack of a better word, when he could as easily have sworn allegiance to any number of more than willing nobles. His conviction had weighed heavily upon him. The fact that he could never go home, and that he would never again see his loved ones was a painful burden. Edward felt empty inside when he began his wanderings. Edward went from war to war, from skirmish to skirmish, unconsciously looking to re-establish a place for himself. In the three years during which he was a mercenary, his fighting abilities improved remarkably. As his reputation built, he was offered higher and higher positions. He rose from being just another wandering knight temporarily in someone's service, to becoming one that any noble would gladly have command his troops. In time, he came to be known as 'The Wanderer'. Many a noble learned to fear that name. "Where does Myros fit in all of this?" Haralan asked. "He and I were opposing commanders in the infighting so prevalent in Alnor. I was in the service of the Duke of Valencia. Myros was in service to the Duchess of Dreknor. We had been maneuvering for weeks, Myros trying to catch and destroy my force, myself trying to find a place to fight on my terms." "And did you succeed?" "In a way, yes. But then so did Myros. I had found a location where the terrain was clearly in my advantage. Unfortunately, Myros found me before I had time to prepare. I remember that day as if it were yesterday..." ...Edward stood on the grassy knoll, surveying his troops' dispositions. He'd anchored his left flank to the forest surrounding the clearing, and moved his front rank up to the stream that ran 1through the center of the meadow. His right flank he anchored to the knoll. I wish I had more time, he thought. He turned to Justarius, his second-in-command. "Well, what do you think?" he asked. "I would have preferred more time," the grizzled veteran replied, unconsciously echoing Edward's thoughts, "but all things considered we've done all we can." "All we have to worry about now is the enemy." "Aye. That and the fact that all we've got in those woods are pickets." Edward sighed. He and Justarius had argued about this until early in the morning. "Justarius, you know we can barely cover what frontage we have. I don't like it any more than you, but a thousand men can only do so much." "I know, sir, I know. At least we still have a reserve." "If only it wasn't so small. Oh well, time for--" "Listen!" Justarius said. "Do you hear that?" he asked. "What? I don't--" Edward stopped in mid-sentence, cocking his head to one side. "Wait. Now I do." He stood quietly still for several seconds, trying to determine what the sound was. Finally, he gave up. "What is it?" he asked his second-in-command. "An army," he said matter-of-factly. "How can you tell? I can't even make that out," Edward said, indicating the direction the sound was coming from. "I've campaigned for thirty years, sir," Justarius replied somewhat defensively. "I've heard a good deal more armies on the march than you. And believe me, that's an army." He paused. "There," he said. "You can feel it now." He was right. Edward could feel the dull pounding of the drums as well as hear it. And it was growing louder. "Aye," Justarius said, again voicing Edward's thoughts. "It's a good bet they've found us." As if on cue, rank upon rank of Dreknoran soldiers emerged from the tree line at the opposite end of the clearing, sunlight glinting off armour and weapons. The clearing reverberated to the sound a thousand drums beating out a cadence. "Nehru's Blood!" Edward exclaimed. He had to shout to be heard. "They outnumber us at least three to one! Perhaps more!" "You didn't think this was going to be easy, did you, sir?" Justarius adjusted his sword belt and loosened his sword in its scabbard. "I'd best get down there." "Good luck, my friend." "Thanks," Justarius replied. "I'll need it." He hurried off down the slope, bellowing commands to his men. "Move you lazy louts! What do you worthless whoresons think this is, a picnic? Close up the distance between the ranks! Look alive, look alive!" The Dreknoran commander arrayed his force in line-of-battle about halfway to the stream. The force of the drums set teeth chattering and made weapons and armour vibrate. Then, quite suddenly, the drums stopped. Everywhere, ears rang, protesting the punishment they had been forced to endure. Edward surveyed his line, looking for that one small mistake that could spell disaster. Hard as he tried, he couldn't find one. That did not comfort him though. He had a thousand men to face three thousand, perhaps more. And of his thousand, he had pulled a tenth out of his battle-line to form a small reserve which he stationed on the reverse slope of the knoll, hidden from view. Then Edward had no more time to study his dispositions, for the enemy was on the move, marching slowly toward his line, their spears like a moving forest. Edward moved his line up to the edge of the stream's bank, and prepared to receive the enemy. He didn't have to wait long. 1 The Dreknorans charged the last hundred and twenty yards. Had it not been for the fact that the heavily armoured spearmen had to struggle through knee-deep water, Edward's line might well have broken. Edward's troops, the best Valencia could field, were not as heavily armoured as their Dreknoran counterparts. In the first minutes of battle, the Valencians took a heavy toll of the Dreknorans as they floundered in the water. Eventually, however, the Dreknorans' numbers began to tell. Several Valencians in the center fell at the same time, opening a gap in the front rank. Raising a great shout, the Dreknorans poured into the breach. Justarius led a Quarter against the Dreknoran line in a desperate counter-attack. Justarius slowed, but could not halt, the Dreknoran advance. The buglers trumpeted an alarm and in response, two Quarters of the third rank moved forward to deal with the growing Dreknoran wedge. The situation on the left was not going well for the Valencians either. Edward's line had been pushed back from the stream, and was sagging badly. Every available Quarter on the left had already been committed. Edward was forced to take two Quarters from the right flank and send them to reinforce the left. The right flank was the only place the Valencians held their ground. The Dreknoran spearmen lumbering up the slope of the knoll were easily dispatched. Edward judged the overall situation, while not pleasant, was much better than it could have been. He was confident that if he could shore up the sagging left, he might be able to inflict enough casualties on the Dreknorans to force them to retire. In the center, Justarius finally managed to contain the Dreknoran break-through, and was in the process of slowly reducing it, when the buglers' trumpets sounded in high alarm. A badly decimated Quarter on the left, desperately trying to hold back the Dreknorans' inexorable advance, finally succumbed to the overwhelming numbers of the enemy. The Dreknorans poured through the hole and fell upon the other Quarters. All but one of the nine Quarters on the left simply disintegrated, attacked from in front and behind. The voice of doom whispered in Edward's ear as he led the four Quarters of the reserve towards his shattered left, shouting to what remained of his front lines to form circle. Somehow, Edward's small force held off the Dreknorans long enough for him to build a shaky all-around defense. The Dreknorans gave no quarter. They attacked from all sides, but the Valencian troops showed their mettle. Their ring contracted, but wouldn't break. Edward side-stepped a spear thrust at him, and neatly hacked off the Dreknoran's arm at the elbow. Another Dreknoran rushed him. Edward tried to side-step this one's thrust as well, but tripped over the body of the soldier he had slain only moments ago. The Dreknoran paused, lifting his spear. Edward prepared for the end, but it never came. Just as he was about to finish Edward off, the enemy soldier was struck from behind. The spear fell out of his nerveless fingers as he toppled backwards. "Are you alright, sir?" Justarius asked with concern. "Fine," Edward said somewhat shakily. "Thanks. I owe you my life." "Think nothing of it, sir," Justarius replied. "After all," he said with a grin, "if you died, I'd be left in charge of this mess." Edward smiled. "Wouldn't want that, now, would we?" "No, sir," Justarius agreed. "Dreknor can't have had this many troops," Edward said. "She must 1have gotten help from somewhere," he commented. "We'll worry about that later," Justarius said. "If we get out of this bloody mess, that is." Edward nodded in solemn agreement. "Time to get back at it," Justarius said and was gone. The Valencian circle was now so compressed that the Valencians were fighting almost back-to-back. Of his thousand men, Edward thought it a miracle if there were two hundred still alive. Edward could see no hope of surviving. He decided that, at the very least, he would kill the Dreknoran commander. Or die trying. He made his way to Justarius and told him his plan. Justarius didn't even flinch. Long years of campaigning had hardened him and prepared him for anything. Fate had other ideas. Before they could implement Edward's plan, the inevitable happened. The Dreknorans shattered a portion of the Valencian line and in they came. Edward barely had time to return Justarius' hand-shake before the enemy was upon them. Edward and Justarius fought back-to-back against the Dreknoran tide. Edward deflected a thrust with his sword, and killed his opponent with his riposte. A second Dreknoran attacked him. Edward parried the Dreknoran's thrust, then pursued him as he backpedaled for his life. The luckless Dreknoran tripped over a body and Edward finished him. Edward paused for a moment to catch his breath and to assess things. Everywhere, the battle had degenerated into individual combats. Valencians and Dreknorans intermingled in their efforts to kill one another. Edward looked around for Justarius. They had been separated when Edward had pursued the second enemy soldier that attacked him. Edward finally located the man he had come to think of as a dear and close friend fighting a one-sided duel with an opponent whom Edward assumed was the Dreknorans' commander. Justarius was bleeding profusely from several wounds. Edward went to the aid of his friend, but was blocked by two enemy soldiers. He feinted towards the first Dreknoran's mid-section. The Dreknoran tried to parry Edward's thrust, but Edward's actual target was his opponent's throat. The Dreknoran staggered backwards, vainly trying to stem the blood gushing from his wound. The second enemy soldier succeeded in disarming Edward. Thinking quickly, Edward grasped his shield in both hands and beat the Dreknoran to death with it. Edward retrieved his sword just in time to see Justarius fall, mortally wounded. "NO!" Edward screamed. He threw himself at his opposite number, letting the battle-rage take him. Edward put everything he had into attack, giving no thought to defense. His opponent was hard-pressed to defend himself against Edward's wild onslaught. Edward landed several blows, but at a price. A particularly vicious swing that the Dreknoran barely managed to avoid left Edward vulnerable. The enemy commander lashed out blindly and struck Edward a hard blow to his helm that sent it flying, staggering Edward. The Dreknoran aimed a downward slash at Edward's head. Edward lurched backwards just far enough to avoid being killed, but not enough to avoid being struck. The Dreknoran's sword cut diagonally across Edward's face from the right portion of his forehead to his left cheek. Edward fell, unconscious. This last was the final straw. The sight of their commander falling, coupled with the enormous casualties they had suffered, was too much. The seventy-five or so remaining Valencians surrendered. The Dreknoran commander called for a physician to attend to Edward. The physician slapped a bandage on Edward's wound and gave him 1something to bring him around. "Will he live?" the Dreknoran commander asked the physician. The physician shrugged. "The next few days will tell. If infection doesn't set in, he should survive." "Good," the enemy commander replied. "Ah," the Dreknoran said at Edward's groan, "you're awake." Edward sat up groggily, every movement painful. Through the pain-clouded vision of his right eye, he recognized the figure of the Dreknoran commander. "Who are you?" he asked. "Corneilious Myros," he replied. "Captain of the Guard to Her Grace, the Duchess of Dreknor," he said formally. "And who might you be?" he inquired "I want your real name, not that alias you go by." "Sir Edward Sothos," Edward replied. "Well, Sir Edward, you've been causing quite a stir lately. You'll bring a fine ransom." "What of my men?" "We can't afford to take prisoners," Myros replied. He gestured to two of his men. "Take him away." "No! You can't!" "I can and I will. We've wasted enough time. Take him!" Edward's guards led him away, his weak struggles nothing more than a nuisance. He felt himself sliding towards unconsciousness. The last thing he heard before the blackness took him was the dying screams of his men... ..."I swore vengeance on Myros for what he did that day." "So long as he is Ambassador, I must ask you not to do anything. Can you do that?" "I'll try. For Baranur's sake, I'll try." Haralan smiled. "Good." As he turned to go, he noticed the first streaks of daylight breaking through the clouds. "Morning already," he commented. "I apologize," Edward said. "I shouldn't have kept you so long." "Nonsense. We both needed our discussion. Now, I think the both of us should get some sleep." "I couldn't agree more, Sire," Edward said with conviction. Duke Markin's castle, New Valencia, Duchy Valencia, Galician Empire 1 Nober, 1200 G.Y. (1013 B.Y.) Garog pulled his cloak tighter about him in a vain attempt to keep out the rain. Just my luck, he thought. As if drawing guard duty tonight, of all nights, isn't bad enough. He sighed. Time for another round. He left the minimal shelter of the doorway and proceeded on his sentry-go of the battlements of Duke Markin's castle. He paused before one of the many braziers positioned along the battlements. Their normal function was to allow the pots of oil to be easily lit. This night, they performed a second role; they allowed the sentries a modicum of comfort against the chilling rain. Garog glanced to his left and saw two other sentries trying to warm themselves by another brazier ten yards away. He chuckled and continued on his rounds. He got no more than ten feet before he stiffened in shock. "Two?!" he said aloud. There's supposed to be only one! He turned to see the other two sentries moving towards him in such a manner that told him they had to have weapons drawn. Garog drew his sword and was about to sound the alarm when something slammed into him from behind, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to his knees. There was a dull throbbing pain in his back. He tried to rise, to 1defend himself, but his strength was fading. He just couldn't seem to summon the effort necessary. He tried to cry out but he couldn't get his lungs to work right. The two people he had mistaken for sentries were no more than five feet away. He willed his sword arm to rise, but nothing happened. Again something struck him from behind. He felt his lifeblood well up and choke him. He toppled forward, blood flowing down his front. His last conscious thought was that he was going to be in big trouble. Then everything went black. Tarn bent over and wiped his dagger clean on the guard's back. "The poison usually takes effect a lot sooner than that." "I just wish there was a better way than this," Julia said. "As do I," Justin said with regret. "But I can see no other choice. Help me move him, Tarn." Tarn replaced his dagger in its scabbard and helped Justin carry the dead guard's body through the tower door the guard had been sheltering in only moments ago. The two hid the guard's body amongst some crates of crossbow bolts and then exited the tower. "I think I can see the shed from here," Julia said as Tarn and Justin rejoined her. "Where?" Justin asked. "Over there," she replied, pointing to a large two-story structure with dozens of lighted windows in the middle of the outer courtyard. "That's the inn." "No, not there. Just to the right. You can barely make it out." "I think I see it now," Justin said. "It's so hard to tell with this rain." "Now all we need is a way down." "I believe I can solve that problem," Tarn said. "There're steps on the other side of the tower leading down to the courtyard." "Good," Justin said. "Let's go." The three companions made their way cautiously down the steps to avoid being seen. Once at the base of the wall, they paused while studying the sentries' pattern. "The next time the closest sentry comes to a brazier," Tarn whispered, "we'll go." Justin and Julia nodded their assent. Tarn was intently watching the vague shape of the nearest sentry when a flash of lightning illuminated the courtyard. The three sentries in view were clearly visible for several brief seconds. In those seconds, Tarn saw that the nearest sentry was warming himself over a brazier. "Go!" The trio sprinted across the muddy ground toward the black shape of the equipment shed next to the inn. Tarn, in his leather cuirass, made it to the shed with no great difficulty. In their heavier armour, Justin and Julia found the going more difficult. When they were about three quarters of the way to the shed, the courtyard was again illuminated by the lightning dancing in the night sky. Justin and Julia were both quite visible, and both expected the alarm to be raised immediately. But it was not. Providence, luck, Fate, call it what you will, was with them, for the thunder that followed the lightning masked the clinking of their armour. The sentries, intent on trying to see outside the walls, never heard the sounds that would have caused them to look down into the courtyard and see the two intruders. Tarn picked the lock with ease, and soon all three companions were inside the equipment shed. Tarn lit a torch, revealing the contents of the shed. The shed, perhaps thirty feet square, was piled high with saddles, saddlebags, and the usual equipment that travelers own. From the look of some of the items in the shed, the owners were very well-off. Tarn sighed contentedly. "No, Tarn," Justin said. "Don't even think it. 1 "Can't a man have any pleasure? I mean if this Duke Markin is a traitor, the Emperor won't mind if we 'acquire' a few souvenirs, now, would he?" "Perhaps later," Julia said. "Right now, let's concentrate on finding the entrance to the passage that wizard told us about." "You know," Tarn replied, "you two have got to get out more. Gamble, carouse, that sort of thing." "Tarn," Justin said while checking the walls for the entrance, "stop yapping and start looking." "Okay, okay. Some people." Tarn started checking the southern wall for the entrance, or rather the mechanism that would open the entrance. Justin and Julia were doing the same for the east and west walls respectively. After about an hour of painstaking search, nothing was found and the trio were getting frustrated. "The mage said the mechanism was located in here," Justin said. "So where is it?" "We've checked all four walls," Julia said. "Maybe this isn't the right shed?" "No, it's the right shed," Tarn replied. "The wizard specifically said the equipment shed next to the inn." "Well where is the mechanism then? It's certainly not in the ceiling and we've checked all the walls." "The walls yes, but not the floor!" Julia said triumphantly. "Where do we start?" Justin asked. "The first thing we do is check under these piles of equipment. If it was somewhere else, we would have stepped on it by now," Tarn answered. The three began carefully moving equipment and checking the floor for something, anything. Tarn was checking the northwest corner when he noticed an impression in the floor about the size of a hand. Tarn applied pressure to it and the impression sank about three inches. An audible 'click' was heard, and a portion of the floor near the center of the shed dropped away to reveal a shaft fitted with iron rungs leading down into darkness. "Shall we?" Justin asked. "You first," Tarn said. "Thanks." "Don't mention it," Tarn said cheerfully. Justin leading the way, the companions descended about thirty feet. There the shaft ended. The trio found themselves in an ancient passage about ten feet wide and fifteen feet high. The air was stale and the floor covered in a thick layer of dust centuries old. "There's the lever," Julia said, pointing to a bronze lever five feet to the right of the shaft. She walked over to it and pulled. All three very clearly heard the entrance to the shaft closing. "After seven hundred years it still works," Tarn said with awe. "Let's go," Justin said and led off down the passageway, lighting the torches on the wall as he went. Two hundred feet later, Justin stood in front of a wall with another bronze lever next to it. Justin passed his torch to Tarn and drew his sword. "Now!" Tarn pulled down on the lever and the wall slowly slid aside revealing a storage area piled high with crates and barrels. The three adventurers moved into the room. While Justin and Julia conducted a brief inspection, Tarn went to a section of wall to the left of the secret entrance and twisted a certain stone. The secret door slid back to become a nondescript portion of the room's west wall. "Tarn," Justin called. "Is the entrance closed?" "Yes." "Good. We found another storage room to the east, and there's a door over here on the north." 1 "Is the hallway outside lit?" "I think so," Julia responded. "I can leave the torch then," Tarn commented. He extinguished the torch and threw it in a corner. Given the amount of items stored in the room, the torch wouldn't be found unless someone conducted a deliberate search. Justin opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. The corridor was ten feet wide with a fifteen-foot arched ceiling. There were sconces bearing lit torches every ten feet of the corridor's thirty-foot length. "That's more like it," Justin said. "Julia, you watch the rear. Tarn, you stay in the middle." Justin leading, the trio made their way to the intersection at the end of the corridor. "Which way?" Justin asked. "East or west?" "One way is just as good as the other," Julia answered. "East, then," Justin said. The three walked carefully down the east corridor, Julia turning around and walking backwards every few feet. All three were getting nervous. They had penetrated the castle some time ago, and had not encountered any guards thus far. The corridor turned south, leading to a narrow stairway going up about thirty feet. A small oak door at the top of the stairs had Duke Markin's crest carved on its face. "At least we're heading in the right direction," Tarn said. Justin carefully opened the door and surveyed what was beyond. "There's another corridor that ends in a door," he reported to his comrades. "How long is the corridor?" Tarn asked. "About fifty...sixty feet. No other doors, either." "Okay, let's go. But be careful. I don't like this." Sword drawn, Justin proceeded down the bare stone corridor. He halted ten feet from the door and let Tarn ply his trade. Tarn handed his bow and sword belt to Julia so that nothing would interfere with his task. He advanced cautiously on the door, eyes scanning the floor for trip wires or pressure plates. Finding none, he began examining the door itself, making sure to leave the handle for last. He ran his hands gently along the edge of the door, checking for some mechanism that might trigger a trap, if there was one. He found nothing. Lastly, he checked the handle. As far as he could tell, nothing was amiss. He turned to Justin. "As well as I'm able to tell," he said, "there's nothing wrong with the door." "Okay, we'll go through," Justin said. Julia handed Tarn his weapons and Tarn took up a position behind and to the right of Justin. Julia again watched the rear. "Everybody ready?" Justin asked. Receiving nods of assent, he opened the door. The corridor continued beyond the door for ten feet before opening into a larger area. The beginnings of a large staircase could be seen. "It looks like a hall of some kind," Julia said. "Could be the entrance hall," Tarn suggested. "If it is, it's bound to be well-guarded," Justin said. Justin paused for a moment, considering possible courses of action. "We'll proceed," he said a few minutes later. "Julia and I will handle the guards closest to us. Tarn, you take out any guards out of our reach." Julia moved to stand beside Justin while Tarn moved back. At Justin's signal, the three of them rushed into the hall. It was indeed an entrance hall, though not the main entrance hall. There were four guards in view, all armoured in chainmail and all carrying sword and shield. One guard was posted at the top of the staircase next to a large alarm-gong. Two guards were posted near double doors to the west. The fourth guard was posted near the entrance the companions came through. Justin and Julia fell upon the startled guard before anyone knew 1what was happening and cut him down. Tarn loosed his shaft at the guard on the staircase. The luckless guard was half-way to the alarm when the arrow punctured his armour and found his heart. He staggered for a moment, then tumbled down the staircase. Justin and Julia were both running at the two remaining guards, who were also charging at Justin and Julia. Julia and her opponent met in the middle of the hall. Julia swung at the guard's temple, but he parried easily. He countered with a low swing intended to disembowel, but Julia deflected it with her shield. Julia lunged, drawing her opponent out of position and unable to do anything as her sword swung upward and found the guard's throat. Justin found his man to be a tougher, more experienced fighter than his fellow guardsman. The two thrust and parried, neither able to find an opening. The fight was ended when Tarn, having managed to get around behind the guard without being noticed, buried his short sword in the guard's back. "Let's get moving!" Justin said. "Shouldn't we hide the bodies?" Julia asked. "No time," Justin replied. "The stairs?" Tarn inquired. "Sounds good," Justin answered. He led the way cautiously up the staircase. Another corridor, this one decorated with expensive tapestries, led south for twenty feet before turning east. After following the corridor for a hundred feet, the companions came to a four-way intersection. After only a moment's hesitation, they continued east down a hallway with three oak doors. "Shouldn't we investigate?" Tarn asked hopefully. "Tarn," Julia said, "I know it's hard for you to curb your 'curiosity', but we're here to obtain information on a ring of traitors. The best way to do that is to find Duke Markin's rooms." "And how do you know that any one of these three doors isn't Markin's?" "I think it's safe to assume that Markin's quarters will be guarded," Justin said in response. "Oh really?" Tarn said as they rounded a corner. "Just because you think that his quarters will be guarded doesn't mean--" Tarn stopped short, nearly running into two of Markin's soldiers standing guard at a reinforced oak door. Everyone froze for several seconds, surprised at encountering each other. Tarn was the first to break the spell. His hand flashed like lightning toward his dagger. In one fluid motion, he threw the dagger at the nearest guard and drew his short sword. The dagger thudded home under the guard's chin strap. He fell, blood spurting around the dagger's hilt. Tarn rushed the remaining guard. The guard was just beginning to draw his own weapon when Tarn slammed his short sword into the guard, thrusting upward under the rib-cage. The guard's body slid to the floor without a sound. "You were saying?" Justin said as Tarn recovered his dagger. "Okay so maybe Markin's rooms were guarded after all. If you consider two guards as 'guarded'." Tarn walked over to the door and opened it. Or tried to, at any rate. "Craanor's Coins!" he said, referring to a previous Emperor whose 'gold' coins were so worthless that the mere mention of them came to be a curse. "It's locked!" "Can you pick it?" Julia asked. "We'll soon see," Tarn replied. He pulled a set of lockpicks from his pack and set to work trying to pick the lock while Julia and Justin stood guard. Ten minutes later, an increasingly irritable Tarn was starting to swear at the lock. Justin tapped him on the shoulder. "Don't bother 1me! I'm thinking," Tarn snapped. Justin again tapped Tarn on the shoulder. "What?!" "I think this might help," Justin said, handing a key-ring he had gotten off one of the guards' bodies to the thief. "Well why didn't you give me that sooner?" Tarn asked angrily. "Never mind," he said, cutting off Justin's response. Tarn turned back to the door and began trying keys. On the fifth try, he was rewarded with a click as the lock opened. Justin moved forward and kicked the door open, Tarn covering him with his bow. "Nobody home," Justin stated. "Go in then," Julia said somewhat anxiously. "We're kind of exposed out here." The three entered the room and shut the door behind them. Tarn lit a torch, revealing the room's details. It was a large room, roughly thirty feet by forty feet. From the exquisite furniture, it was obvious that this room was a reception area. Two doors, one on the south wall, one on the east, led from the room. The companions crossed the room to the east door. Tarn grasped the knob and twisted. As he feared, it was locked. He reached for the key-ring and went to work. As soon as he applied pressure to the door, it swung open. Whomever had locked it had failed to shut it properly before leaving. Tarn stepped back, allowing Justin and Julia to enter the room. This new room appeared to be a study. A fireplace was set against the north wall, a desk in front and to the side of it. The walls were lined with books, approximately one hundred in total. A table with four expensive looking chairs sat in the middle of the room. "What we're looking for has got to be somewhere in this room," Julia stated. "We'll each take a wall," Justin said. "But remember, be sure to put everything back in its exact place." The three friends began going through every book in the study. An hour went by fruitlessly. Justin pulled another book from its shelf and began examining it. It was then he noticed the oddity in the wall behind the shelf. "Julia! Tarn! Come here. I think I've found something." "What is it?" Julia asked. "Help me move this shelf," Justin replied. All three wrestled with the shelf for several minutes before managing to move it away from the wall. What the shelf had been concealing was a ten-foot by ten-foot stone door with no handles or other similar accoutrements. "Well?" Tarn asked. "What do we do?" "I don't know," Justin responded. "Why don't we try pushing it?" Julia asked. "Might as well," Justin said. All three leaned on the door, pushing with all their might. Slowly, reluctantly, the massive door began to move. The door came to rest against the north wall of a small corridor extending ten feet east where it opened into a twenty-foot by twenty-foot room completely bare of furnishings. Or almost bare. In the center of the room stood a stone pedestal, a small wooden chest sitting on top. Tarn slowly and carefully entered the room, stepping over the ankle-level trip-wire strung across the entrance. He moved cautiously toward the pedestal, eyes intently scanning the floor for anything out of the ordinary. Five feet from the pedestal he noticed an almost imperceptible change in the stone tiles on the floor. The tiles immediately in front of the pedestal lacked the rough texture evident in the floor thus far. Tarn bent down to examine the tiles in question. The "tiles" were not tiles at all. They were very cleverly disguised pressure plates. Tarn began examining the floor more closely 1in order to determine just how large an area the pressure plates covered. After ten tense minutes of study, he moved back to the entrance where Justin and Julia were calmly waiting in the corridor. "The floor is covered with pressure plates," he told his two companions, "but there is a way to avoid them. Stay within five feet of the south wall and you should have no trouble." Tarn turned and led the way into the room, being careful to stay near the southern wall. The trio made their way along the perimeter of the room until they came to a position on the east wall directly opposite the pedestal. Tarn briefly examined the floor. The pressure plates apparently did not cover the area behind the pedestal, allowing access to it. "Nicely done," Tarn murmured to himself. Instructing Justin and Julia to remain where they were, Tarn proceeded to the pedestal where he began examining the chest. The chest was made of teak, a rare wood, rarer still in western Galicia. There were two locks on the chest, one of which was obviously false. The trick was, which one? And more importantly, what would happen if the wrong lock were opened? Tarn pondered the problem for many minutes. He reasoned that the correct lock was the lock facing the entrance, not the lock facing him now. Unfortunately, there was no way to test his hypothesis without opening a lock. If he guessed wrong, the consequences could be deadly. Taking a deep breath, Tarn leaned over the chest and inserted his lockpick in the lock. Silently sending a prayer to the gods, Tarn twisted the lockpick clockwise. An audible click sounded throughout the chamber. Tarn tensed, waiting for the trap to spring. When nothing happened, he opened his eyes and gently lifted the lid of the chest. Inside were three gold scroll cases approximately one foot in length. "We've found it!" Tarn exclaimed. Justin and Julia came forward, intent on examining what Tarn had found. "GOLD scroll cases?" Julia asked incredulously. "I think this is what we were sent to find," Justin said. "We should take them and get out of here," Tarn suggested. "We'll read them later when we're in safer surroundings." Justin nodded his assent. Tarn handed him a scroll case, grunting with the effort. Justin stepped back and carefully began making his way out of the chamber. Julia took possession of the second case and followed Justin. Tarn lifted the final case out of the chest and set it on the floor next to the pedestal. As he closed the chest's lid, he noticed that his two friends were almost out of the room. He picked up the scroll case and started to follow them. He was almost to the east wall when he heard it. A grating sound like stone on stone could be heard behind him. Apprehension seized him as he turned to face the pedestal. It was sinking into the floor. "Craanor's Coins!" Whoever designed this chamber did their work well. Tarn hadn't even suspected anything like this. "Run!" he shouted to his comrades. "The pedestal's sinking!" Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur 1 Nober, 1013 B.Y. Commander Jan Courymwen ("Coury" to her friends), personal aide to Sir Edward Sothos, strode through the halls of Crown Castle. She had just arrived in Magnus that morning after completing an inspection tour of the Southern Marches. Her weary body cried out for rest but she had a preliminary report to make. The guards on duty outside her office came to attention upon seeing her round the corner. She acknowledged their salute with a nod and went in. Seated behind her desk was Captain Daniel Moore, 1temporarily filling in for Jan while she was away. Moore looked up as the door opened, a harsh comment for not knocking on the tip of his tongue. When he saw who it was, his expression changed remarkably. He got up from his chair and came around the desk, his frown turning to a warm smile as he greeted his friend. "Coury! You're back!" "Just barely," she said with a tired smile. She removed her helm, allowing her fiery red hair to flow freely over her shoulders. "Is he in?" she asked, referring to Edward. "Yes he is," Moore replied. Jan started for the door to Edward's office. "Coury, wait." Jan stopped and turned to face her friend. "Yes, Dan, what is it?" she asked. Then she noticed something in his eyes. "What's wrong?" "Coury," he began hesitantly, "there was an...incident...yesterday afternoon involving Sir Edward." "What kind of incident? Is Edward alright?" An icy-cold ball materialized in her stomach at the thought that Edward might be injured. "He's fine," Moore reassured her. "An embassy arrived yesterday." "So? What has that got to do with anything? Embassies arrive in Magnus all the time." "This embassy is from Galicia." Jan was silent. Both she and Moore knew that Edward came from Galicia and that he left under less-than-ideal circumstances. "Why are they here?" Moore shrugged. "Who knows? What I do know is this: for some reason, Sir Edward threatened to kill the Ambassador. He almost attacked him." Jan's jaw dropped. For a moment, she couldn't speak. When she finally regained her composure all she could manage was a startled, "What!?" "You heard me," Moore said. "His Royal Majesty confined Edward to his quarters for the rest of the day. Last night, the King went to Edward's quarters and the two of them stayed up all night discussing things. Edward came in two hours ago with instructions for me to pass on to General Wainwright. Edward said he has some things to finish up and then he's going to go to his quarters and get some rest." "Thanks for telling me, Dan. Well, I have a report to deliver." With that, she turned and knocked on the door to Edward's office. Receiving assent, she opened the door and entered. "Jan!" Edward said, pleasantly surprised. "It appears this day won't be a total waste after all. How did the inspection go?" "Better than I'd hoped, Your Excellency," she said, taking a seat. "My main concern is Pyridain. King's General Tegran, in my opinion, is not capable of commanding our forces there in the event of hostilities. We do, however, have several good regimental commanders in Pyridain. One or two may be capable of handling the duchy." "Good. You look tired, Jan. Get some rest. We'll finish your report later." "If you don't mind my saying so, so do you, Edward." "Yes. Well, it was a long night." "Dan told me what happened, Edward," she said. She leaned over and touched him lightly on the arm. "If you need someone to talk to, don't hesitate to call on me." "Thank you, Jan. I always could count on you." "Part of being a friend. I suppose I should go. We both need the rest." She stood and went to the door. "I'll have a complete report ready for tomorrow." "Good night. Or perhaps I should say good morning?" 1 Jan smiled briefly, then left. Duke Markin's castle, New Valencia, Duchy Valencia, Galcian Empire 1 Nober, 1200 G.Y. (1013 B.Y.) "Run!" Tarn shouted. "The pedestal's sinking!" Justin and Julia didn't ask questions, they just ran. They stopped outside Markin's quarters to wait for Tarn. Tarn came running through the door and collided with his friends. "What are you waiting for?" he practically screamed. "You!" Justin shouted back. Just then, a gong sounded. All three friends took one look at each other and fled down the corridor. Stormhaven, exact location unknown, Galician Empire 1 Nober, 1200 G.Y. (1013 B.Y.) Sehrvat Primus Derek entered the Primus' private study. The Primus was seated at a table with his back to Derek. He appeared engrossed in a large book lying on the table in front of him. Derek approached the Primus silently, cowl drawn over his head. "Thou hath some matter to bring to my attention, Sehrvat Primus?" "Yes, Primus," Derek replied uneasily. The man's awareness of his surroundings was uncanny! Derek thought. "The three adventurers hired to investigate the cabal hath succeeded in penetrating Markin's stronghold, Primus. They hath succeeded in obtaining the information we seek and even now are attempting to effect an escape." "Excellent," the Primus replied without stopping his perusal of the tome. "Thou art dismissed, Derek," the Primus said in a neutral voice. "Cha loth, Primus," Derek said. He bowed once to the Primus' back then turned and exited the room. After Derek had gone, the Primus stopped reading long enough to address one of his guards. "Go to Markin's stronghold and assist our agents in making their escape. If their situation proveth untenable, thou art to eliminate them. Take care that thou doth not reveal The Order's involvement in this affair." The silent black-robed figure nodded its head in almost imperceptible acknowledgement then vanished on the words of a teleport spell. The Primus went back to his reading as if the entire incident had not occurred. Duke Markin's castle, New Valencia, Duchy Valencia, Galician Empire 1 Nober, 1200 G.Y. (1013 B.Y.) Justin, Julia, and Tarn pounded down the long corner. They could hear sounds of pursuit coming from the direction of Markin's quarters. "If we can reach the entrance hall far enough ahead of them," Justin panted, "we should be able to lose them." "I hope so," Julia commented. "There're far too many for us to fight." "We won't have to," Tarn said. "The hall is just up ahead." The trio rounded the corner that led to the entrance hall at a dead run. A startled guard began drawing his weapon while at the same time shouting for the three to halt. Justin never paused, nor did he try to draw his own weapon. He simply hurtled forward, slamming the guard into the alarm-gong at the top of the stairs. The three companions ran past the dazed guard and down the stairs. That's when they noticed four other guards near the bottom of the staircase. Halfway down the stairs, Justin leaped for the nearest guard on 1the left. The two collided with a great clangor of metal-on-metal. The guard lay on his stomach, unconscious. Justin wasn't much better off. He tried to use his left arm to raise himself, but stopped abruptly when pain lanced through his shoulder. Giving a strangled cry of agony, he fell back to the floor. The three guards still active were rushing up the stairs to meet Tarn and Julia. Tarn removed his longbow from his back and hastily loosed a shaft at the right guard. His target saw what was coming, however, and brought his shield up at the last moment, harmlessly deflecting the arrow from its intended path. Tarn notched his last arrow, took careful aim, and with his target only eight feet away, let fly. The arrow covered the distance in a fraction of a second. The guard literally never saw it coming. It struck the guard in the left eye, sending him crashing down the staircase. His comrade, following behind, tripped over the body and tumbled to the bottom as well. Julia threw her shield at her opponent, sending his blade flying from his nerveless hands. She drew her sword and thrust it through the back of the guard's throat before he had time to bring his shield up. He died without a sound. Julia rushed down the staircase and went to Justin. He was conscious, though in great pain from his dislocated shoulder. Julia gently helped him to his feet, taking great care not to move his left arm. She was so intent on helping Justin that she never saw the guard behind her. The guard had finally managed to wrestle the dead body of his comrade off him. Burning with rage, he leaped to his feet and focused his fury on his nearest opponent. The fact that his opponent was a woman didn't matter. The fact that she had her back to him only increased his satisfaction. He approached Julia, raising his blade to strike. Tarn shouted a warning, but Julia couldn't do anything with the burden she was carrying. She tried to interpose her body between Justin and the guard, knowing she was about to die. Tarn knew he was too far away to use his sword. He reached for an arrow, remembering too late he had used his last one to dispatch this guard's comrade. In desperation, Tarn drew his dagger and balanced it for throwing. It was a difficult throw and Tarn wasn't at all certain he could hit a vital spot at this distance. Silently saying a quick prayer, he threw the dagger, aiming for the guard's neck. Just as he was releasing the dagger, however, he slipped on a step, throwing his aim off. The dagger hurtled through the air and struck the guard on his left knee-cap, lodging between it and the joint. The guard let out an enormous bellow of pain and dropped to the floor, clutching his ruined knee. Tarn could hear the sounds of many running armoured feet. "They're coming!" he said to Julia. "Hurry!" "What about our shields?" "Leave them! We have no time!" Tarn opened the northern door for Julia as she helped the still-dazed Justin down the corridor. Just before he closed the door, Tarn saw the first of their pursuers arrive at the top of the staircase. Reaching the small oak door at the end of the corridor, Tarn took charge of Justin, thus freeing his more combat-oriented companion to practice her trade as the need arose. The three continued down the narrow stairs and moved as quickly as possible toward the store-room and the secret passage. As yet, their pursuers hadn't deduced where the quarry had gone; there were two possible directions the trio could have taken. According to what their employer had said, Markin was unaware of the secret passage's existence. Therefore, the companions 1could expect a slight reprieve before the chase resumed. Finally they arrived at the store-room. What had taken twenty minutes before took an hour due to Justin's condition. Fortunately, Justin had, by this time, recovered his faculties. He was still in no condition to fight, be he no longer needed assistance walking. "I think we can relax now," Julia said. "It should take them about ten to twenty minutes before they discover we didn't take the double doors. Figure another twenty to thirty to make it down here. We should be gone long before then." "We'd better be," Justin said, struggling to keep the pain from his voice. Tarn walked over to the west wall and twisted the stone that would open the secret entrance. A portion of the wall to his left slid back. The torches the trio lit in the passage were still burning, illuminating the seven hundred year-old corridor meant as an escape route for the original builder of the castle. The three made their way down the passage, going as fast as Justin could manage. Tarn paused at the entrance only long enough to pull the bronze lever that would shut the door. The companions reached the shaft at the end of the passage. The pain in Justin's shoulder had grown worse. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, the only outward sign of his struggle to control the pain his injury was causing. "Justin, can you climb?" a concerned Julia asked. "I'll have to, won't I?" he answered in clipped tones, fighting to keep the pain from his voice. Julia reached out and put her hand on his uninjured shoulder in a show of support for her friend. "Tarn," she queried, "why don't you open the trap door?" "It already is," Tarn replied in a grim voice. "It can't be! We closed it! I'm sure!" "Take a look for yourself," he said, standing by the ladder. Julia came over to the ladder and looked up. There, thirty feet above, was an unmistakable circle of light where the trap door should have been. "Gods! They must have discovered the passage." "We certainly can't go this way," Tarn stated. "What other choice do we have?" Justin commented from behind them. He walked over to join his friends. "I don't know about you, but if I'm going to die, I'd much rather die up there in battle than down here like a starving rat." With that, he reached out with his good arm and began hauling himself up the ladder. Julia and Tarn hesitated for a moment and then followed. Justin climbed steadily, painfully toward the circle of light, fully expecting to die. He paused to regain his strength ten feet from the top. The effort of climbing with one arm was beginning to tax his endurance. Just a little farther, he thought, and then it'll all be over. He resumed his climb, all thoughts focused on reaching the flickering light above. As he neared the top, he forced his injured arm to adjust the dagger on his belt so that he could more easily reach it with his functioning arm. He was only a few inches from the top now. He paused again, this time in preparation for exiting the shaft. He gripped the top rung with his good arm and, hauling mightily, vaulted out of the shaft. He landed on his stomach but quickly rolled to a crouch beside the hole, his dagger out of its scabbard and ready to throw. "Greetings," said a voice from the shadows. Justin whirled, his arm coming down in one quick motion. The dagger flashed toward the sound of the voice. A word was spoken and the dagger seemingly deflected off air. A figure attired in black 1robes strode out of the shadows toward Justin and the now-emerging Julia. "What are you doing here?" Justin asked. "It is my task to see that thee and thy companions successfully escape from this stronghold," the figure replied in the same archaic form of Galician that the wizard that hired them spoke. Only this wizard was not the same one who hired them. "Who are you?" Julia asked. "That is none of thy concern." He paused, not speaking until Tarn had emerged from the shaft. "I shalt take thee to the Sehrvat Primus," he stated. He spoke the words of a teleport spell and all four vanished. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction written by the members of the online community. Athene is not limited to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing with just about any interesting topic. The magazine is published monthly, and comes in two formats -- ASCII and PostScript. The content is identical across both formats, but the PostScript version is designed for printing on laser printers while the ASCII edition can be read online as well as printed. To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to: Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET Please indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you prefer to to receive. Back issues, an index, and submission information are also available upon request. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that future by subscribing to Quanta today. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright January, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E ||Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 3 02/16/90 Cir 964 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Materia Medica I Max Khaytsus Ye. 3 - Yi 19, 1013 Sons of Gateway III: Death Jon Evans Yi. 7 - No. 2, 1013 When the War-God Weeps M. Wendy Hennequin 26 Deber, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Materia Medica Part 1 by Max Khaytsus Liriss looked out the window at the people rushing about the street. It was late afternoon and the traffic of midday shoppers and travellers filled Dargon's streets as always. He sipped at the wine from the glass in his hand, wondering how to deal with the problems that surround his life. Rebellious workers were becoming the norm, rather than exception and he worried greatly about how to get order reinstated in his ranks. Ever since Kera left without being brought back, it seemed that discipline had become lax and the activities of the men centered more and more around pleasure, instead of work. Liriss turned around at the sound of the door opening. "Kendall," he hurried to greet the man walking in. Kendall nodded in acknowledgement and pulling up a chair sat down, knowing full well that Liriss would consider it rude. "What do you want?" Kendall was quite right in his assumption and Liriss stood in the middle of the room, staring at him for a long moment, before returning to the window. He took another sip from the glass, wondering just how much he should try the assassin's patience, then sat down at his desk. "Do you remember Kera?" Liriss asked. "Quite well. She was popular among your men for a time." That time, a little over a year before, Kendall did another job for Liriss, one that forced Liriss to swear that he would never hire this man again, but as circumstances would have it, the town guard forgot the incident and the need for reliability once again exceeded cautious instincts. "A little under two months ago she joined forces with a man who has caused me much grief," Liriss said. "I'd like to arrange a termination." "My fee hasn't changed," Kendall hinted. Liriss pulled a pouch from a desk drawer and tossed it to Kendall. "Take a look at the coins. Kera stole these from the man before joining him." Kendall drew the strings on the pouch open and poured the coins into his hand. "Very old. Expensive. He could certainly buy her." "At least two centuries old," Liriss said, ignoring the remark. Kendall was a professional assassin and as such he could often get away with comments that would cost a mere worker a good flogging. Of course even Liriss believed that there was a limit of what a man in his employ, no matter how temporary, could get away with and this temporary hire was approaching it fast. "Kera stole fifty-seven from that fellow," Liriss continued. "I am sure these five will more than cover your fee..." "They are sufficient," Kendall answered, returning the coins to the pouch. "Give me a description of the man." Liriss nodded. "I got one from the survivor of a party of four I sent after them." His gaze became hard. Tilden was a reliable man, but a bad job forced him to snap. He hardly deserved the punishment, but failure should be discouraged in a business such as this. "The guy is about six foot, blond with grey eyes. Somewhat muscular." "That's all you know? Where?" Liriss honestly didn't know. "They were headed out of town, towards Tench, but that was almost two months ago." Kendall stood up. "I'll let you know." Liriss stood up as well. "Kill him, bring Kera back alive," he gave his final instruction and Kendall stopped. 1 "No. I am not a chaperon. Once the money is down, they're both dead." "Whatever," Liriss slumped back in his chair as the assassin left. It wasn't really that important to get Kera back alive, but for the sake of self indulgence, Liriss wanted to kill her himself. Maybe kill her, maybe not. There might still be a use for her... "...Maari's death does not trouble me," the old warlock Natay was saying. "I don't know anyone whom she could call a friend and I doubt she knew anyone well. What I see as a problem is that strangers may know our secrets." An old woman on his right whispered in his ear and he nodded. "My judgement," Natay continued, "is that the book must be located and returned and those who took it, killed." He stood up, casting one last glance around the table, challenging the members of the coven to comment, then, when the room remained silent long enough to assure that there would be no descent, disappeared through a doorway at the back of the room. Other members of the coven started getting up, quietly talking among themselves and leaving. "Mija, Alicia," the old woman, Tsazia, called. The two young witches approached. "I will instruct you on executing your job. Be prepared to go tomorrow morning." Mija and Alicia waited for the room to empty, then sat down at the table again. "So much for that job Maari had for us," Mija said. "My heart wasn't set on it anyhow," Alicia answered. "I could never stand the way she looked at me. Come tomorrow we'll be hunting people for her." "That's stupid," Mija said. "We're going to be killing people not for killing Maari and not for stealing, but because we suspect they may know something, which is down right stupid! Most people can't even read!" "Maari always wrote in Old Script," Alicia added. "I doubt too many people can read that. Maybe a few mages and scholars... Maybe we won't have to kill..." "We'll have to kill," Mija reassured her. "You know how it works." The two fell silent as Tsazia returned and placed a sack on the table. "What are you sitting around for?" she asked. "I told you we're leaving in the morning. Go get ready!" "Didn't I tell you not to come here?" Taishent demanded of Rien. "You did," Rien admitted, "but that does not lessen my necessity of speaking with you." Taishent stepped outside and closed the door behind him. "I don't want my granddaughter exposed to either your disease or the people looking for your friend. Go or I'll call the town guard." "Sir, I don't think that anything you or the town guard will do to me can be worse than what I've been through this past month." "Why are you so stubborn?" the old wizard shook his head. "What is it you want?" Rien looked about and although the street was almost deserted, said, "You might want to step inside for that." Taishent shook his head. "I don't think so." "Very well," Rien produced a thick black leather covered book and handed it over. The mage looked at the cover, then opened it to the first page. The book instantly snapped shut. "Where did you get this? Do you know what it is?" Rien nodded. "A shadow book," he said, not changing his tone. Taishent looked about. "Step inside for a minute." 1 Rien calmly followed the old man into the house. "Where did you get it?" "That old woman you sent me to find. She wasn't very friendly," Rien said. "So you killed her?" "No. Someone who had a much older conflict with her did that." "Do you know what this is worth?" "I can imagine," Rien said. "A cure most definately." "So you came back to me?" "I came to you," Rien said, "because it's written in Old Script, something my education did not provide. I want to trade the contents for a translation." Taishent thought for a while. "All right, it's worth the risks. Leave the book here, come back in a week." With a slight hesitation, Rien thanked the mage and left. It was somewhat of a risk to leave the book behind, but it was no more of a risk that he took with Terell and at this point promptness was of great importance. As he walked down the street, a small dark shape jumped off the roof and followed him in silent flight. "Rumor has it Liriss brought in an out of town sword for you and your friend," Ellis whispered to Kera. "He's been nosing around the market place, asking questions. Lot's of people are willing to sell you, if only they knew where you are. Most have no more to go on than a bad description." "I was hoping to learn more," Kera said. "Who is he? Where does he stay?" "Sorry," Ellis responded. "He asks a lot of questions, but keeps a low profile. I don't think anyone has really seen him. Each time it's a different person that asks." "What else's new in Dargon?" Ellis shrugged. "The Duke got married to some girl from Magnus just a few days ago. Luthias Connall was made Baron...have you heard about the war?" Kera shook her head. "There are rumors of a Bichuese invasion by the end of the year. Everyone's ready to panic. Everyone except Simon, that is. He said they'd be crazy to come this far. There's plenty of good pickings elsewhere." "An invasion..." Kera repeated. "Don't worry about it," Ellis hurried to say. "I don't think anyone's coming before winter." "Like there aren't enough problems as it is," Kera sighed. She glanced around to make sure no one was too close. "I don't know where I'll be in the mean time, but keep your ears open, huh? I'll try to stop by again soon." "No problem," Ellis answered. "There's plenty of talk on the streets." "Great," Kera smiled. "I really appreciate what you're doing. See ya." She turned away from the cart and quickly disappeared in the crowd. As a city of over ten thousand souls, Dargon had plenty of crowds to assist people in need with escaping the unwanted attention of others. As the crowd thined out towards the edge of the market place, Kera took a side street off Traders' Avenue and made her way down back alleys to the docks. She spied a crowd gathering as a large ship made its way into port and stopped to watch. The ship swung around wildly in the heavy current at the mouth of the Coldwell and to the cheers of the sailors on shore, neared the dock. In the moment of anticipation of watching the ship dock, Kera was 1startled by a hand landing on her shoulder and throwing her to the ground at the mouth of the alley. The hood of her cloak fell back, completely revealing her face. Above her stood a muscular sailor, smiling, holding up a belaying pin. "Don't reach for anything," he said, noticing the dagger in her belt. "Keep those arms spread out." He reached down to grab hold of the dagger and brought it up with a jerk, without releasing it from the belt. The blade cut completely through the belt and the sailor's smile became vicious. "So what would you be good for? Or should I just turn you over to someone?" The dagger went flying across the alley and Kera pushed herself back, a little closer to the wall. She still had a second dagger at her side, currently hidden by the folds of the cloak. "I think you've got the wrong person," Kera said, knowing full well this man knew she was bluffing. Even in Dargon accusations like this would not happen so casually. "No, I'm pretty sure it's you they're looking for, bitch. You think the town guard or Liriss would pay more for you?" the sailor continued asking. "Suppose someone offers more than either of them?" Rien's voice sounded from behind the sailor. Kera was grabbed by the waist band of her pants and remainder of the belt and shoved up against the wall. "I don't think you could afford it," the sailor eyed Rien. Rien flashed a few gold coins. "How much would it take to make you forget you ever saw her?" The grip on Kera increased as the sailor eyed the coins. She quickly pulled the second dagger from beneath the cloak and planted it squarely in his side. With a scream the sailor brought his staff around to strike at Kera, only to have it blocked by Rien's arm. With a twist of the staff, the sailor's arm was forced back down. Kera, in the meantime, pushed the dagger forward, cutting almost a quarter circle on the sailor's body, before pulling it out. Another strike at his arm convinced the man to let go of her as he sank to the ground. "How much do you think you're worth to the town guard?" Rien knelt before the sailor. "That's what I thought," he said, watching the man's face contort in pain. "Here," he tossed a coin. "Give this to the healer if you manage to make it to one." Rien got up and pushing Kera ahead of himself, hurried down the alley. "We're not splitting up in this town again." As they ran down the alley, a small black creature jumped down on the dying sailor and picked up the gold coin. The seaman stared in horror at the grotesque little man with wings standing before him, then fell to the ground, gasping from the loss of blood. "What do you think?" Kera spun about, showing off her new belt to Rien. "We're in more trouble than a few coins could take care of." "Relax! No one saw us!" "It's not that we may have been seen. We have a bigger problem. This town looks to have a bounty out on you." Both fell silent as they approached the store clerk to pay for the belt. The man eyed Kera suspiciously while making change, but said nothing. "I found out Liriss brought in an out of town assassin to kill me," Kera said as they left the counter. "He's been asking around about me. Bad strategy, I'd say." 1 "Is it?" Rien asked. "Looks like the whole town is on the lookout for you. If he is being paid to make sure the job is done, the best thing for him to do is spread the news, then lean back and wait for a return of the information on where you are." "There isn't anything we can do then," Kera said. "Sooner or later someone is going to recognize me again." "We have to keep you hidden," Rien agreed. "Perhaps there is also a way to lure the assassin out into the open..." "Pardon me," Taishent pushed his way between Thuna and an apparently potential costumer into Corambis' market place booth. "Hey! Wait your turn, geeb!" the girl shouted after him, but the door slammed shut before the girl could follow. "Old geezer...!" she started on a lengthy string of explicatives, making the customer retreat to the street. "You'll never believe what I have!" Taishent said to Corambis breathlessly inside the small casting room. "What?" Corambis stood up, surprised at the intrusion. "You didn't pick up another orb from that crazy old gypsy, did you?" "No, no! Look!" Taishent unwrapped a large cloth bundle, pulling out a thick leather tome. Corambis picked up the volume and carefully opened it to the first page. "Esch ed aur. Er ols, er kalt," he read. "Where did you get this?" His stern gaze focused on Taishent. "That young man who was bit by the wolfling I found brought it to me. Do you realize what we could learn?" Corambis thought for a moment, mumbling "the risk...the risk..." then, putting the book on the table, went to the door. "Thuna, make sure no one disturbs us. I'm closing shop for the day." "If we keep this up, I might as well wear a sack over my head," Kera complained to Rien. "Why don't we just go to the city guard and tell them there's an assassin after me?" "Announcing this to the guard would only disclose your location," Rien said. "If this assassin is as good as you said, he is waiting for us to seek outside help as well." Kera sighed, staring at the plate of food before her. "I'm not really hungry. Let's go do something." "Like what?" Rien asked. "You're not planning to spend a whole week at this inn, are you?" "Is there something else we need to do?" "I've done things more exiting than eat wrapped in a cloak." "Don't think I'm comfortable," Rien said. "And I haven't heard any better ideas. "We can go look for the assassin," Kera suggested. Rien shook his head. "That would only call more attention to us and alert him." "I don't want to spend another evening watching you stare out the window," Kera protested. "I was meditating," Rien explained. "The assassin is waiting for someone to announce that you have been caught. I could do it, but I expect he is looking for me as well." "Then why don't we go upstairs, relax, have some fun and forget about all this?" Kera asked. Rien smiled, but caught himself. "I already told you; not when someone is hunting us." Kera smiled too, remembering the episode in the forest. "We're in an inn that has locks on the doors," she laughed. "No," Rien said sternly. "I am not willing to take a risk like that." He turned to face the common room door and froze looking at a 1man who was looking at him. "Oh, not now..." The man, dressed in chain armor and carrying a sword at his side, started towards the table and Kera pulled out her dagger. "Put that away," Rien said as the man approached. The warrior was young, clean shaven and noticeably both excited and in a hurry. "My Lord," he saluted Rien and handed him a parchment. "The seal is broken," Rien noted, unrolling the paper and staring at the man sternly. "I am sorry, my Lord," the man answered. "It was to be delivered to you before the first of Melrin, but because I was unable to find you, I was forced to read it to see how urgent it was." Rien did not respond. He read the message, then returned it to the messenger. "Can you find someone else to take care of this? There is no indication of urgency." "I was told to deliver this to you specifically, sir." "You indicated you were willing to deliver this to someone else if you ran out of time," Rien said. "Take it to Sharks' Cove -- the trip should take about a month." "Are you sure, my Lord?" the courier asked. "Positive," Rien nodded. "I came here on vacation and haven't had much rest yet. I shall forward a message as soon as I am ready to resume my duties." The courier bowed and hastily departed. "You want to tell me what's going on?" Kera asked. "Not really," Rien said and Kera frowned. "My work caught up to me in an inopportune time." "What do you do?" Kera asked. "Even a lord makes a living somehow." Rien sighed, beginning to tell a story which would not reveal much. In the rafters above him the little black man with wings bent forward to hear better and somewhere across town three witches watched a pair of water filled cups displaying the common room of the inn. "See the cheek bones?" Tsazia asked. "The straight forehead? He is elven." "He looks normal to me," Alicia said. "I don't see the difference." "Neither do I," Mija said. "I think he looks as human as anyone." The old witch shook her head in disappointment at her students' blindness. "It may be a good idea to take him alive so you can examine him closely. You watch. I'll begin the preparations." Back at the inn Kera looked at Rien with a confused expression on her face. "You're a mercenary? Bounty hunter?" "Not really," Rien said after some thought. "I don't have the authority to transport criminals. I have to deal with them through other means." "Like what?" "Kill them, give them something new to worry about so they keep out of the way. Even set them up to be arrested. Any means to keep the peace." Kera still looked confused. "But that's what the town guard is for. Why would someone do something like that? Most people are just happy with their money and take care of problems when they affect them. I can't imagine anyone paying for something like this." "As you can see," Rien answered, "someone does invest money into it. To be more precise, my employer found it would cost him less in the long run to invest money in troubleshooters and practice preventative measures rather than wait for the problems to mature." "Who do you work for?" Kera asked. "I can't tell you, but you can easily eliminate all the people 1who would not be able to afford my services." Kera was, again, dissatisfied with the answer. "If you're done playing with your food," Rein prompted her, "I'm more than ready to go." Alicia tapped one of the cups to disturb the image of Rien and Kera walking upstairs in the inn. "Go find the two old mages," she instructed. The view in the two cups dropped down and concentrated on a partially open shutter high above the bar. The window quickly neared and bright blue sky and white clouds rapidly came into view. "Let's get the book back tonight," Mija said. "We can kill the mages and have only the elf left to worry about. I want to see just how different these creatures are." "What about the girl?" Alicia asked. "I don't know. Kill her, experiment on her. Whatever Tsazia says." "You know," Alicia said after some time of watching the running image in the cups, "I never killed anyone. I've watched it done, but I've never done it..." Mija looked away from the image in the water as well. "I did only once. Just don't think about it. Treat it like sacrificing an animal. As a matter of fact, it's just a sacrifice without a ceremony..." "I have problems sacrificing animals too. They all look so cute." "But you've done it." "I didn't like it." Mija thought for a moment. "If you start on a job and whoever you are going to kill knows you will kill them, they will retaliate and only one side will survive. Does that make it easier?" Alicia nodded, although deep down inside it still felt wrong. In the two cups an enclosed booth in the market place became an obvious destination as it rapidly grew in dimensions. The dark creature swooped over the wooden shingled roof and catching itself on the edge tried forcing itself inside through a narrow crack between the roof and the wall. "Bah! How do you expect to finish this in a week?" Corambis looked at Taishent. The old mage looked up from the book. "If we work quickly and..." "Fifty years and your handwriting hasn't gotten any better!" Corambis grumbled. "Do you want to read mine or Maari's?" Taishent asked. "Yours," Corambis answered after shuffling some notes before him. "I've been working on reading it for too many years to give up now." The two men returned to work in silence as their uninvited guest made his way along a fold in the cloth that protected the booth from rain and settled comfortably by the main beam. Another few minutes of silence and Corambis spoke "What's `laht'?" "I think it's seaweed," Taishent said. "Indeed," Corambis acknowledged. "Seaweed soup?" "What?" Taishent looked up. "You tell me. You copied it. Two quarts water, pinch of garlic, four carrots, laht, two live mice, pinch of ginsing..." Taishent madly flipped a few pages back as Corambis went on, "...birch bark, poplar leaves..." "Sorry," Corambis interrupted him. "Four carrots, half pound of potatoes, beet juice...that must be the soup." He turned the page. "Then here it talks about flying potions. Water parsnip, sweet root, cinquefoil, laht, two live mice, pinch of ginsing, poplar leaves and 1250 drams of cannabis Indica. Boil for half an hour and drink immediately." Corambis frowned. "The mice too?" "Doesn't say," Taishent answered. "This sounds pretty bad, you know." "It's bound to make one crawl before flying," Corambis noted. "If Thuna gets out of hand again, I may have her try it." Silence fell in the room again. The two men continued to work and their uninvited guest to watch. The view of his eyes still appeared in the two cups of water as the witches studied their targets. "They're learning far too much," Mija said. "Let's go dispatch them now." "No," Alicia stopped him. "Not in broad daylight in the middle of the market. It will keep." Secretly she hoped it would keep much longer. Kera lay horizontally across the bed, staring at Rien as he undressed. "You sure you won't change your mind?" she asked. "Positive," he answered, laying his tunic and pants across a chair. "Don't you have any will power?" "Sure," she said. "I can go all night long." Rien sat down on the bed. "That's fine. I intend to rest. I suggest you do the same." Kera got up and started removing her clothing. "Are you sure?" she asked again. "Positive," Rien repeated himself. "What's gotten into you, anyway?" "What if there is nothing in that book to help us? Maari said there was no cure..." "Then we'll have to work on an alternative. A little quicker and more to the point." "What about whoever you work for?" Kera asked. "Aren't you supposed to be a good investment?" "We don't have the time to reach Magnus," Rien said. "We never did. Besides, in Magnus solving this problem would be a lot easier due to the sheer number of doctors and sages." "But shouldn't your employer at least know?" "He is aware that I can die at any time because of the dangers involved in my job. My profession is filled with risks." With a sigh Kera finished undressing and got into bed. "At least you're warm," she said, blowing out the candle. Rien picked up a pillow and muffled his companion. "I don't want to hear it," his voice sounded in the dark. It was a little past midnight when the two young witches made their way to the market place. They observed a dim light from the cracks in Corambis' booth, indicating that work was still going on. "I was worried we'd be too late," Mija said. "Let's hurry and get this over with." He produced a pearl from a leather pouch on his belt. "This is one expensive spell. I hope it works." He started walking down the street, when Alicia grabbed his arm and pulled him into the bushes. "Wha...?" Mija begun to say as her hand clamped over his mouth. She pointed in the direction of the booth, not twenty yards away. Before it now stood a half dozen armored men. Lieutenant Kalen Darklen looked at the shimmering light dancing on the ground through a crack in the wall. "This is strange," he commented to the guard next to him. "Come along. You four wait here." Kalen and his men started their shift a short while before, and as usual, having taken the road from the main gate up Traders' Avenue, 1they were planning to check out the market place and proceed down to the docks. For the last few days, due to unrest in the local crime organization and an outpouring of bloody, sometimes viciously killed corpses, the patrols were raised from three or four people to a minimum of six. Kalen and his assistant made their way to the entrance of the booth and knocked. After a second, louder knock, the door was opened by Corambis. "Yes?" he looked at the Lieutenant of the Guard. "I regret to say, sir, I am unable to make a casting for you at this hour, but if you come back during the day..." A smile spread on Kalen's face. "I was checking to make sure everything was all right, sir," he explained. "It's very late." "Well, yes, yes," Corambis said. "We," he gestured to someone inside, "we're working late. Everything is just fine," and began closing the door. "May I offer you an escort home?" Kalen asked, stopping Corambis from shutting the door completely. "I'd prefer not to have people to worry about this close to the docks at night." "Dyann," Corambis called inside, "this young man wants me to close up the shop for the night." There was a shuffling of papers before the response. "Let's call it a night. I was beginning to fall asleep anyway." "I'll leave two men to escort you home," Kalen said. "I am sorry for the intrusion." Off in the bushes Mija released an aggravated growl. "Damn them!" "Be glad we came late," Alicia whispered. "We could have been caught." As Mija got up to return to their inn, she let out a sigh of relief -- there would be no blood spilled tonight. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Sons of Gateway Part 3: Death by Jon "Grimjack" Evans (b.c.k.a. v047kfz7@ubvms) The summer sun shone brightly on the clearing in the woods. The four huts of the Nar-Enthruen, Qord's, Ne'on's, Jordan's, and the horses' stable, radiated the green of summer grass. Qord smiled. He always enjoyed the sight of new-weaved roofs in the summer. "Jordan's been keeping up with the chores," he said. "So I see," said Ne'on, frowning while he shaded his eyes from the sun. "I suppose it's time we returned to ours." Much happened in the following months. Ne'on's power and skill grew as the voice held more and more sway over him. It grew to the point where Ne'on almost could not distinguish his own thoughts from those of, he believed, his darker side. In Yuli, "Ne'on" decided poison was the best way to kill Kald. He chose oberum for its quick, yet painful, results. Also, he found it amusing to employ a drug of the same name as the month he intended to use it. Come Sy, Ne'on was tested for his "Branch". This time, it was an illusory battle between Qord and himself. The battle raged for an hour and Ne'on glimpsed several moments when he could have triumphed. However, these opportunities lacked a certain something Ne'on was looking for, a certain . . . malice. Finally, Ne'on found his victory. Qord conjured a halberd and flew it toward Ne'on to put him off guard for Qord's next attack. Instead , Ne'on increased the halberd's speed until it was just upon him. At the last instant, Ne'on teleported the polearm from directly in front of himself to directly behind Qord, striking him brutally in the spine. Qord collapsed into unconsciousness. By mid-Seber, the south-western winds began to blow, and the forest floor was covered with leaves, acorns, and twigs. Ne'on had collected the oberum, but he was unsure of its exact effects, or the time required for it to work. He decided to test it. Not on Qord, he rationalized, for Qord still had much to teach him. It would have to be Jordan, and it would have to look natural. It was, and it did. Late one night, Ne'on snuck into Jordan's room and "fed" him the root. For a few moments, Jordan experienced great pain, then shuddered and died. Ne'on thanked the gods Jordan was mute from his Draining, for no normal human could help but scream from the pain Jordan had evidently experienced, then "cleaned up" Jordan's quarters for Qord to discover the next morning. It is truly a crime, the way people can die of natural causes in the prime of their life... At sunrise, on the twentieth day of Ober, in the one thousand thirteenth Year of Baranur, two men awoke at exactly the same time. One was an ambitious young student of the arts arcane with visions of power and conquest; the other was a master of those same arts, having studied under the single most powerful mage since the Fretheod Empire. One of them was deeply troubled. He had just had a dream; a very disturbing dream. An old friend had been ferociously murdered by a being of pure evil. If this dream was another vision . . . His countenance changed from one of distress to one of strict concentration. He must remember the dream. Hurling the heavy blankets aside, he stepped out of the bed and 1onto the warm, carpeted floor. Sitting with his legs folded under him, he tried, once more, to recall the dream. Images flickered and flashed across his mind's eye: scenes of grass huts, fire, and death. "Qord," he murmured. "My crystal ball." Ne'on awoke quickly, feeling none of the morning drowsiness which usually accompanied the cold winter's dawn. Of course, the first snow had yet to fall, but it wouldn't be long before Lady Winter solved that problem. He looked about his meager hut and re-checked, mentally, everything which was packed. Today he would leave for Gateway. Gnawing on a slab of day-old bread, he pulled his robes about him and stepped out to the well for some water. After quenching his thirst, he filled the nearest bucket with the ice cold water and entered Qord's hut. 'Nothing like a cold wash to wake you up in the morning,' he thought, and dumped the contents of the bucket all over his slumbering instructor. "AAAHHHHH!!" Qord's scream echoed through the trees as the old mage leapt to his feet, eyes bulging, soaked to the gills. "Hppht! Wha- What in Rise'er's Feast was that for, boy? Do you realize it's winter? Hellfire! I could catch my death of cold! Fetch me a dry blanket before I freeze!" "No." Qord's eyes bulged even farther out of his head, if that was possible. With a thought and a gesture, Ne'on silenced the disbelief of the old mage. Surprized by the audacity of his pupil, Qord attempted to dispell the bond of silence only to find himself further bound by rings of force emanating from Ne'on's hands. "Master," Ne'on sneered, "I come seeking the answer to a question. If one wizard defeats another in mystical battle, the first is obviously more powerful than the second, yes?" Ne'on's face was a mask of bitterness and contempt. He had learned all Qord could teach him and more, and now it was time to be rid of the eccentric fool. At the moment, Qord could not speak, but he was not sure if it was from Ne'on's spell or his own fright. Before him stood Ne'on, more powerful, more evil, than Qord had ever dreamed, hell-bent on causing some nastiness to Qord's being. In answer to Ne'on's question, he nodded: yes. "So I supposed. Which means," continued Ne'on, his chest beginning to swell with power lust, "after I slaughter you, I'll have passed my Leaf!" Ne'on grinned. Red flames licked the edges of Ne'on's hands as he reached for Qord. "You're going to be much more fun than Jordan. Much more." The image faded with his disbelief. He slouched; his lips grew taught and his eyes closed tight. A lone tear wet the cheek of Marcellon Equiville. The hard ground crunched under Koros' hooves as he bore Ne'on home. The farmlands about the keep were stark and barren, pale grey with frosted flora. The first snow had yet to fall, but the cool, crisp air bit harshly with the wind at the river's edge. Where the Laraka turned west from its northward flow, joined by its tributary from the mountains to the east, stood Gateway, the stone manor of the Winstons. For the second time in only half a year, Ne'on entered the house of his father. This time, he would not be leaving so soon. "Welcome home, Lord Winston," one of the guards greeted Ne'on as he entered the first gate. "I'll take your horse from here, if you like." "No, I do not like!" Ne'on's reply caught the sentry off guard, and now he stood there, unsure of what to do next. "No one touches 1this horse besides me. Do you understand? No one." "I- I-I-I-I'm sorry, milord," stammered the shaking guard. "I- I didn't mean-" "Enough! Stop your quibbling, you over grown river weasel." The guard fell silent and lowered his head, fearful of his lord's anger; he had spent the last several months working hard trying to get off the night shift, and he wasn't looking forward to returning to it. A thought danced across Ne'on's mind. This time, he spoke gentler, more aloof. "Actually, there is one thing you could do for me." The guard raised his head, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. "Yes, milord. Anything! I-" "Do you know where Luke McLeod is stationed, at the moment?" "Sergeant McLeod? Yes, milord! He-" Again he was cut off by Ne'on. "Tell him to gather his men and join me in my study. I'll expect him before dinner." Ne'on spurred Koros on to the inner keep as the guard raced off with his assignment. His grey stone room was almost as large as his father's; but, with much less trappings, it looked more expansive. A desk, bed, closet, and a large bookcase on the west wall was all he needed. The rest of the room was bare, and easily accommodated the twelve men when they arrived. Luke stood in front, the other eleven behind him. Ne'on walked about the men, inspecting them while he thought. It was time to be rid of Luke. Bartholemew was ready to take his place, and he served only Ne'on. He had his guard; soon, he would have his title. Ne'on stood face to face with Luke, the men at Luke's back. "Turn about and look at the men, Luke." As he did so, Ne'on quietly drew his knife from its sheath. Speaking to the group, "take a good look at Luke, men. Do you desire his position?" Ne'on's hand raised the blade behind Luke's back, ready to strike. "Now, watch." Ne'on's hand fell, the setting sun glinting red off steel. Luke fell in a pool of red, struck just above the neckline of his chain armor. Ne'on shut his eyes and summoned the power within him. A black cloud emitted from his mouth and nostrils and settled over the corpse. As it absorbed the blood and flesh and bone of what used to be Luke, it turned from black, to maroon, to a deep red. Ne'on raised his arms and the cloud came to him, settling on him, and seeping into his skin. Then, it was gone. "Obey me," spoke Ne'on, his green eyes glinting with malice, "and you'll not share his fate." "My lord!" The page's cry rang through the empty stone corridor, easily reaching Goren as he stepped out of his room. Sprinting forward, Thomas reached his lord before Goren finished turning the key in the lock. "Lord Goren, Lord Keeper says to hurry or you'll be hunting for your dinner." Goren answered the boy's statement with a look of surprise. "My apologies, my lord. Such was I instructed to tell you." Goren smiled and looked down at the boy. Thomas was Marcus Ridgewater's son in every respect. Only thirteen, he knew enough to treat his elders with respect without fearing to speak on his own accord. Nor did he count on his father's influence to lighten his duties; he worked as hard, if not harder, than the rest of the young servants in the keep. Soon, he would begin training as a guardsman in hopes of one day assuming the responsibilities of Castellan, like his father before him. "Hunt for my own dinner? I hunted for THIS one. Inform my father my arrival shall be swift. I have only just discovered where the flask he gave me for my fourteenth birthday was hiding all these months, and 1I intend to drink from it this evening." With a quick "Yes, milord.", Thomas was off and running. Down the hall and to the right, through the iron reinforced doors, into the main hall, and narrowly missing Sylvia, the serving woman. He informed Kald of Goren's reply, but was not himself dismissed. Tonight, Lord Keeper Winston had a surprise for him. "Thomas, my boy," Kald began, his huge grin forcing its way out from behind his thick black beard, "I want you to sit down and eat with us, tonight. Your father and I have been talking, and we're not entirely satisfied with the quality of the work you've been doing. We think you might be slacking off, a bit - maybe relying on your father's position to help you through the ranks?" Thomas looked up at the Keeper of Gateway in utter disbelief. "Oh, no, my lord! I would never- I didn't- what do you mean?" This time it was Marcus, Thomas' father, who spoke to Thomas from his seat at the hall table. "We mean, Thomas, you haven't been accepting enough responsibility around here. Personally, I thought you should be sent to one of the farms in the area to work for a few months. That would teach you discipline and build a few muscles on those arms of yours, as well! However, my Lord Winston has other ideas." "Aye! I've always believed fighting was the best way to build strength, and there's nothing like a few years in the town guard to build discipline! Seeing as you're fourteen, now, I can recommend you for a position in the guard. Starting tomorrow, you'll be eating, sleeping, and training with your sword." Thomas had been very excited when he heard he would begin his training. Then it occurred to him he wasn't fourteen, and his tone changed from one of excitement to one of disappointment. He lowered his eyes. "But my lord, - father - I'm only thirteen!" A heavy sigh escaped his chest as he lowered his head. "I can't believe..." "Only thirteen!" Kald's voice raged through the hall. "Marcus! You said he was fourteen! No one - absolutely no one! - begins training as a guard before their fourteenth birthday! Now what are we going to do?!" Kald's smile began to show through his mock anger; he quickly pulled his flask to his mouth to hide his amusement. After he regained his composure, he looked squarely at the boy. "Ah, the trouble you put me in. Gateway is going to need more officers in its town guard, and I can't wait another year. Unfortunately, there's no other boys good enough to begin training, now. What do you think, Marcus? Shall we make an exception?" Thomas' eyes pleaded with his father, but Marcus played his part better than Kald. "I don't know, Kald... I couldn't be responsible for the boy, at his age... on the other hand, Gateway does need him... well, alright! Just don't come yelling to me when he arrests his own captain!" Thomas let out a shriek of joy as the two men laughed. Calling Sylvia to them, they had a place set for Thomas at Marcus' side. Marcus sat two seats to the right of Kald, and Goren arrived to sit between the two. Ne'on sat at Kald's left, lost in his own thoughts. As Goren performed the ritual to Osiniana, Thomas looked from his father, to Goren, to Kald, and settled his gaze on Ne'on. There was something different about Ne'on; but, whether it was his longer white hair or his wisened green eyes, Thomas could not tell. His father called for a toast, then, and everyone reached for their flasks. Goren sat at the dinner table and stared at the food on his plate. It was good meat, taken off an eight point buck he had spent half of yesterday tracking. He hated to kill the aelofin, but his father had decreed there would be fresh meat tonight, so Goren found 1himself trudging through yesterday morning's grass with his bow and quiver. It wasn't easy. This late in the winter, it was difficult even to stumble across old tracks, let alone fresh ones. But Goren knew how and where to look, and it was no accident he spotted the small pack of wolves following the trail of a large dinner. The difficult part came when he had to convince the wolves to search for other prey. He was not unkind, however, and had brought along the carcasses of several small animals he had picked up along the way. Unfortunately, he soon discovered the wolves thought him an easier target than the deer, and he was forced to kill the three of them. He hoped their fresh meat would serve the purpose of some other hungry hunters. Looking up from his plate, he watched Sylvia pour red wine into his old flask. Nine years he had drunk from that flask, excluding the past few months where it lay hidden beneath... what? He couldn't remember. He had just found it today, after all these months, and now he couldn't remember. Well, no matter. Tonight was a night for celebration, for his father and for Thomas, if not for his mischievous brother who sat opposite Goren, lost in his own world. Ne'on seemed to sense Goren's eyes on him and slowly raised his own. There was something different about them, now; something fascinating. Goren lost his awareness of the people around him, something inside him screamed but he couldn't hear. He heard someone call for a toast - was that Marcus? - but he didn't move; he just looked deeper and deeper into Ne'on's eyes... "Welcome, Goren Winston," spoke a deep voice, "I have waited some small time for this moment." Goren blinked and looked about himself. He was stunned; not by the blank, frozen faces of his father and friends, nor the ghastly red shade which flushed his brother's cheeks, giving him color for the first time in his life, but by his new environment. The table was standing - how? - on a monstrous slab of black rock, darker than the deepest woods, which floated impossibly on a sea of flames, the heat licking at the edges, crumbling the stone away piece by piece, the stone somehow reconstructing itself where the flames retreated. "What the- where?" "Home, my lord," the voice sneered, and Goren saw that it came from Ne'on. "This is Cintralu. Or rather, it was, until I was born. I have brought you here to show you the fate of your world because it please me to do so. It pleases me also to inform you of your father's impending death." A smile broke out on Ne'on's face - it was unlike any human smile Goren had ever seen, more as the smiles of the hungry wolves he had slain while tracking the deer. Goren looked at Kald's frozen form and studied him, noting his father's extended arm, hand reaching toward its destiny. "Yes, young fool. You have seen the way. I once vowed to slay Kald Winston while you stood helplessly by- aargh!" Ne'on twitched violently, his head bowing to the table. Gasps of breath escaped his lungs; he looked up at Goren, pitifully. "Goren," spoke Ne'on, his voice no longer deep and thunderous, but painful, faint. "Goren, you must stop him... stop me, befo- no." Again, a violent jerk racked Ne'on's body. His jaws clenched tight, his teeth ground. A dribble of blood touched the corner of Ne'on's mouth; and when he spoke again, it was the first voice which addressed him. "No, Goren Winston. I do not believe I shall give you the opportunity." The world swirled around him again, his disorientation lasting only long enough to find him back at the dining hall, his father 1reaching for the flask. Goren knew what he must do. "Wait!" Everyone stopped reaching and stared at Goren, looking slightly confused and unsure of himself. He was breathing very quickly and his usually dark skin had turned pale beneath his two day beard. He glanced around for a moment to make sure of his surroundings and then he spoke, "Father, I have a proposition to make - one only for our family. I mean you no discourtesy, Castellan, but I would like this toast to apply strictly to my family. May I, father?" Kald stared expressionlessly at Goren. Goren knew he need not make such a scene simply for a common dinner toast, and Kald could not fathom the reason Goren placed such importance on its immediate action. Indeed, the entire group viewed Goren with an air of uncertainty. However, this was Kald's eldest son, and heir, and no matter how extraordinarily he behaved, Goren would get his wish. "If you wish it, Goren, then do so," he replied. Goren continued, a weight visibly lifted from his shoulders. "Thank you, my lord." Raising his cup, he smiled pleasantly at his father, then nervously over his brother. "Father, brother, for the first time in many moons we are together, again." The words came sluggishly from his mouth, stumbling out like a newborn pony attempting to stand for the first time. "Let us remain together always, no matter how far apart we may be." He reached out and traded cups first with Kald, then with Ne'on, so that each might have given their cups to the the person on their left. "To make show of our unity, let us drink from one another's cups; I from Ne'on's, Ne'on from father's, and father from mine." He held aloft his brother's flask and smiled a sad smile. "To Life!" he cried, and they drank. Kald bolted upright out of his chair, his face red and bulging. He grasped desperately for his throat, seeking to confine some inner pain with the strength of his hands. He stared confusedly, pitifully, at Goren and gasped, "Why?" His breath gone, he collapsed face down upon the table; Goren's flask dropped loosely from his hand. Goren stood by, shocked with the others, watching the quick, yet obviously painful expiration of his father. For a moment no one moved, then everyone reacted at once. Sylvia screamed, dropping the tray she was serving, as Goren, Ne'on, Marcus, and Thomas pushed each other out of the way to reach Kald. Several guards burst into the room: ten men and their captain. "Haven't you done enough already?" Ne'on, who had reached Kald first, shoved Goren away. "Keep away from him. I may yet be able to save him." As Ne'on began conjuring a spell, Goren stood behind him, stammering. "No, don't touch him," Goren cried, lunging forward just as Ne'on finished. Marcus grabbed Goren, restraining him. Ne'on looked down with eyes full of sadness. "Too late," he murmured. Looking up at Goren, the true hatred in his eyes struck deep. "Your poisoned cup killed him. And your interference has just betrayed you, murderer." Marcus released Goren and stepped back. "Thomas, go to your room," he said, his voice think and heavy. "None of your lip now, boy... go." When Thomas had left, Marcus stared at Goren. "Goren... what reason...?" But there was no reply, only the cold, hard face of the man he had loved for so many years staring back at him. Goren stared at Ne'on, still unable to believe his father's death. His vision began to close in, to cloud with water, but he refused to cry. His mind went numb. He stared at Ne'on's cold, pale face, his triumphant green eyes, and never resisted when he heard Ne'on's command: "Guards, take him away." Goren didn't even notice the long blonde 1hair of the captain as they removed him from the hall. Ne'on's eyes stayed with him all the way to the cell, and when he finally spoke, several hours later, his words were unheard: "They're green." "My Lord Keeper Winston," began Bartholemew, and Ne'on smiled again at the minor pleasure it gave him to hear the phrase. Only three days had he been ruling Gateway, and with protests from no one. His brother still stared at the four corners of his dungeon cell; and Marcus, having lost his oldest, best friend at the hands of one whom he considered his son, stood behind Ne'on simply because he knew not what else to do. It was bound to stop sometime, however, and Ne'on knew it. "My Lord Keeper," Bart repeated, fully aware of his lord's ability to lose himself in thought. This time, Ne'on replied by raising his head and barely glancing in Bart's direction. Bartholemew handed Ne'on a long dry parchment, rolled up and sealed with wax. "A message from Lord Equiville, of Magnus," he informed Ne'on. Ne'on took the scroll, unsealed it, and read it. It read thus: "My Lord Keeper Winston, of Gateway Keep, greetings from Lord Marcellon Equiville. It is with heavy heart I must inform you of your son Ne'on's treachery - the murder of Qord, Leaf of the Nar-Enthruen - and request your immediate assistance in confining Ne'on Winston until a trial of his peers can be arranged. In light of recent circumstances at court, of which no doubt you have become aware, it may be some time before the royal duchy can send forth its tribunal. It is the will of His Royal Majesty that you respond promptly to this request, and fulfill His wishes with all your ability. Respectfully, Lord Marcellon Equiville" Below his name was the symbol of a cup, horizontally crossed with a single line. It was identical to the seal which had held the parchment together. Ne'on stared blankly at the stiff, rolled sheet in his hands. "And who is this lord Equiville? What might he have to do with me?" These were more personal thoughts than questions, but Marcus offered up an answer that would be sufficient for public curiosity. "Marcellon Equiville is the King's High Magician, or Wizard, or whatever you call yourselves. If he's askin' ya ta come study under him, forget it. You've got responsibilities here." Marcus folded his arms under his chest resolutely, adding, "Squirmin' waste of time, if ya ask me." Ne'on stared at the wall with deep concentration. "I think you are right, Castellan. Captain Clay, summon the scribe." Bart repeated the command to a younger guard, who then left in a hurry. "I don't see why you just don't write your own reply, Ne'on. Your mother taught you how to read and write, didn't she?" Marcus' expression was quizzical, but soon turned to embarrassment when Ne'on stared back at him, painfully remembering his mother's death in a boating accident when he was just a few years old. "Castellan," Ne'on replied in his most haughty voice, "need I remind you to whom you are speaking? In this hall, I am Lord Keeper Winston; not your best friend's son, but your superior. And it was Goren," he added, "the treacherous dog who poisoned my father, your 1aforementioned best friend, whom my mother taught to read and write, not I." "Kald's Scribe, my lord." The guard's voice rang out. The scribe stumbled forward, quills, inks, waxes, parchments, and scroll cases filling his arms, and bowed before Ne'on. When Ne'on nodded his head, the scribe stood and took a seat next to Ne'on. Ne'on studied the scribe carefully, as he did all people. "'Kald's Scribe?'" The small, thin man nodded his agreement. "Why hasn't your name been changed? Captain, why hasn't his name been changed?" Bartholemew merely shrugged his shoulders, and Marcus answered Ne'on's question. "My lord," Marcus struggled with the phrase. "his title shall always be 'Kald's Scribe.' Your father decreed it so when he founded Gateway. All the best scribes who live in our domain shall be addressed so for years to come, as will Kald's Healer, Kald's Blacksmith, Kald's-" "Enough, Castellan." I believe I understand." Ne'on looked hard at the scribe. "Your first duty then, after I compose my reply to this Equiville person, shall be to formally rename each of the employees who's title begins with 'Kald's-'. I wish them to be named 'The Ruler's... whatever.'" Ne'on looked through the scribe for a moment, then continued. "As far as that letter is concerned, take this down. 'My Lord Equiville, of Magnus, Lord Keeper Winston sends greetings. Thank you for your message. We are already aware of the situation, and Kald's son is now sitting in our deepest dungeon, preventing him from harming anyone further.'" At this, Marcus turned away. He still had great trouble believing Goren was guilty, but there was only proof against him. "'Unfortunately, my father was murdered brutally before we could stop him. Please notify milord Cameron Winston, my uncle, of Kald's death. His ashes have been scattered to the wind, as per his request. Sincerely, Lord Keeper Winston.'" Marcus excused himself and left the room, leaving Ne'on and Bartholemew laughing to themselves. The scribe, once finished, excused himself to send out the message. Ne'on's smile grew broader, his eyes a little greener. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 When the War-God Weeps by M. Wendy Hennequin Prologue "Where's the Duke?" Myrande demanded, her face ashen. The blue ball room of Dargon Keep was in chaos; the body of Roisart Connall lay in state across the room, where dancers would have rather stepped. Next to Roisart's corpse was a golden box inlaid with jewels. The Countess of Connall felt tears on her cheeks. That box contained Luthias' head. Myrande was tired; she had ridden in haste from Connall when she heard the news that the twin lords of Connall had been murdered at the Melrin Ball. She would see Roisart and Luthias--oh, God, Luthias dead!--buried this before the next sunset. "Here, Sable," said Clifton, Duke of Dargon. He reached out to hold her. His wife, Lauren, stood by his side. She put a hand on Myrande's shoulder in an effort to comfort her. "How did it happen?" she asked incoherently, clinging to Clifton as if he were her only link to life. "I don't know. When we looked, Luthias' head was cut clean off." "Myrande, quickly!" the Countess of Connall heard someone call her. Suddenly, it became Marcellon's voice. "Your husband still lives!" Myrande hastily severed Clifton's embrace and followed the voice of the High Mage, Marcellon. She found herself in a white-washed room. She was seated next to a large, four-poster bed. Sir Edward, the Knight Commander of the Royal Armies, stood at the foot of the bed, looking gravely concerned. The shocked Duke of Pyridain, whom she had met once or twice at the war council, stood across from her. In her bed lay her husband, as she had never before seen him: haggard, bearded, and pale as death. But he was breathing, shallow noisy breaths. He was breathing! "But the Count of Connall--" the Duke of Pyridain began, his voice incredulous at the miricle. "Is he going to be all right, Marcellon?" she heard Sir Edward say, as if he were quite a distance from her and as if he had spoken underwater. "Will he live?" Myrande awoke. She stared into the darkness of the room in her townhouse in Magnus where she had been sleeping, then abruptly sobbed. Her husband, she knew, was dead, and the only chance of her seeing him alive again was in her dreams. I spread the maps before the Duke of Pyridain and Marcellon. "These are the fortifications, your excellency," the Duke explained to me, pointing. "Beyond them are farms, a few villages." "They'll be in danger once Beinison invades," Marcellon murmered, running his finger along the lines of the fortifications. "We should do something about that." "I have some of my men out training the militia," I assured the High Mage. "I've set every blacksmith for miles to making swords and armor. We'll see if we can't get some better defenses, however. This Duchy will be the first attacked." "Indeed, your excellency," Pyridain agreed sadly. I felt for him, that his home would be the first place ravaged by this war. No, second: Connall was the first, losing father and sons, making orphans and widows before the war even started. "My castle shall of course be difficult to take, but the countryside..." 1 "I shall do all I can," I promised. "The army under my command here should suffice until spring. We don't expect an attack until then." Marcellon laughed at me, the wisdom of a teacher in his tones. "We did not expect many things that Beinison has already done. Expect everything, Edward. It is better to be disappointed than suprised." "As you say, old man," I replied, and Marcellon laughed again. Although old enough to have been my father, the High Mage appeared close to my own age. "A winter attack? It would be extremely difficult, but it is possible," I conceded. "I shall send out scouts when they arrive next week." One of my younger squires burst into the room without so much as a knock. "Courtesy!" I shouted at him angrily. "Knock on a closed door, sirrah. Knights do not burst into closed rooms." "Your pardon, Sir Edward," the boy apologized. "A sick man has just arrived at the castle--" "In this storm?" I challenged, motioning to a window shaking with wind and sprayed with driven snow. "Aye, Sir Edward. He's very ill, and we need the High Mage. He's half-frozen and speaks like a madman." "Bring him to the guest room," Pyridain ordered. "The High Mage will see him there." "I shall go fetch my things," Marcellon promised, rising. "And start water heating. He'll be cold," the Royal Physician surmised dryly, listening to the high winds of the blizzard. "Who is he?" I asked my squire as the High Mage rushed from the room. "I do not know him, my lord. But even in his madness, he speaks as an educated man." "Our language?" "Yes, my lord." "A noble?" Pyridain speculated. "He would have to be one of your barons, then," I replied. "One of my barons?" echoed the Duke. "In such a blizzard?" He looked toward a window, where snow whirled as if caught in some mad dance. "It would be terrible news, then, to warrant sending a nobleman out on this day." Terrible news, indeed. I thought about what Marcellon had just said about winter attacks. "We'd best go see him, your grace." I followed Pyridain through the chilly halls of his castle. The corridors twisted like heat-crazed snakes; no enemy would find his way easily in this keep! Finally, I caught sight of Marcellon slipping into a room. Pyridain motioned me toward the heavy door. I was greeted by a mumbling voice, hauntingly familiar, and I saw Marcellon slowly set his leather bag on a bedside table. He looked at me, and in his eyes was a rare thing: absolute suprise. The High Mage glanced at the servants and my squires, who had brought the water. "Send them away," he ordered me. I am first and most a soldier; I know a command when I hear one. Marcellon's voice had forbidden arguement or question. I jerked my head toward the door, and my squires bowed and removed themselves. After a gesture from Pyridain, the servants did the same. "Edward," Marcellon called me, his voice odd as he sat slowly next to the patient, "come here and see him." The Duke of Pyridian and I approached the bed. At the foot, I caught glimpse of the man. He seemed tall, though it was difficult to tell with the blankets, and thin, although he could have been quite muscular if he hadn't been underweight. His face was gaunt and bearded, his skin grey, and his hair dark with a hint of red racing through it. Abruptly, he opened his eyes and stared, unseeing, at me. 1 I gasped and took a step backwards. I knew this man; I knew his face. I had last seen it lifeless and disembodied. "Luthias?" I breathed, staring at first at the man who would have been my squire, then at my friend the High Mage. It was impossible that he could be alive! Impossible that he could be alive like this! But then, the gods granted miricles, and I was glad to see him. Luthias was a brilliant fighter--a good strategist. When I first saw Luthias, so long ago when I visited Lucan Shipbrook, I knew Luthias was going to be invaluable to the army. For that--and for what he could have been--I regretted his death--or what I thought was his death. But he was here, alive, and I needed brilliant fighters. Pyridain went around the other side of the bed. "I recognize him," he muttered at Marcellon, who was, like me, gazing at the man. "Did I meet him at the War Council?" "I believe you met him at Duke Dargon's trail," Marcellon confirmed. "He is the Count of Connall." "The Count Connall?" Pyridain denied incredulously. Marcellon was staring at young Luthias. He held up his hand, as if to quiet the Duke. "But the Count Connall--" I knew what he was thinking; the Count Connall's head had been sent back to the King in a golden box. I knew, for Marcellon had told me, that head was false, but I had never suspected that Luthias somehow had lived. Still, alive he was, and I needed him. "Is he going to be all right, Marcellon? Will he live?" "Damn it! I cannot reach her!" Marcellon exploded abruptly. "Who?" Pyridain demanded. "Myrande." At Duke Pyridain's confusion, the High Mage explained, "The Countess. She surely has a right to know that her husband is still alive." "How?" Pyridain made his second demand. "I saw that head." "Yes, and I knew it to be a fake," Marcellon revealed to him. The High Mage reached out and felt the Count's sweaty forehead. "This is Luthias, the Count of Connall, and he is alive." He reached for Luthias' thin hand and searched for his pulse. "Quick and thready. Not good." Marcellon continued his examination, looked up, and asked me, "What's that in the corner?" "His clothes, I suspect," I answered, looking myself at the haphazard pile that I supposed my squires had created. "Search them. Perhaps--" I nodded and began. "There is no reason for this," Marcellon was muttering. "He has no fever. There are no chills. He does not have the Plague or the ague or..." "Could it be something rare?" the Duke suggested. "I have only eliminated the Red Plague," Marcellon told him. Then suddenly: "Good God!" I turned from the ragged pile to look. In order to listen to Luthias' breathing, I suppose, Marcellon had pulled the blankets from his chest. A den of serpents, burn scars, squirmed on Luthias' chest. I grimaced, but shrugged. "If you think they didn't torture him, you're an old fool." Marcellon frowned, but nodded and continued his examination. "Yes," the mage muttered. "I should have known. I had hoped...but then, I know that Empire. They are not a gentle people." I returned to the clothes, dirty and frozen with snow. "Look," I said, holding up the cloak. "It's a Beinison soldier's." "He had to escape somehow," Marcellon returned briskly, without pausing in his examination. "I do not like this. It looks to be a reaction, but I can find no reason for it. He isn't injured--" A heavy pouch dropped onto my feet as I held Luthias' too small tunic high. From it seeped some blue powder. "Marcellon," I spat 1angrily, "perhaps I have found your reason." The High Mage whirled; I lifted the bag. "Could this be ardon?" Marcellon ripped the leather pouch from me and opened it. "It is ardon!" he cried. "He's withdrawing." I scowled and marched toward the fireplace. I hadn't known Luthias Connall long, but I thought I had known him better than that. Ardon robbed one of control over mind and body. Luthias surely knew this. Why a warrior of his calibur and his sense of honor would indulge in taking ardon I didn't know, nor could I comprehend if I knew it. I needed him. And yet he does this! I heard Marcellon mutter something, and my hair stood on end. As if he had heard my thoughts--and sometimes, Marcellon could--the High Mage said, "Don't hold him responsible, Edward. Luthias would never take ardon of his own will. And this," he indicated the bulging bag, "is magicked. There is no way he can cease taking this and live." Marcellon frowned, but his face seemed more confused than displeased. "There is only one living being besides me who has the power and the knowledge to do this." "Styles?" Duke Pyridain asked, naming Marcellon's teacher. "Styles is long dead," Marcellon corrected. "It was he who taught me..." The High Mage sighed heavily. "It was he who taught my fellow apprentice, Mon-Taerleor." "The Beinisonian High Mage," I accused. Marcellon put a little of the ardon on his finger. "The same. My friend, Alexander Mon-Taerleor." Gently, he put his finger in Luthias' mouth. "Easy," he soothed the Count quietly. "Easy. You will live." The Duke of Pyridian was shaking his head. "What is happening to our young men?" he asked sorrowfully. "First, my son and Princess Lysanda. Now, the young Count." I clenched my jaw. I agreed with Marcellon: Luthias Connall would never take ardon--magicked ardon at that!--of his own volition. But what had happened to Cydric Ariosto was Cydric's--and Lysanda's--own doing. They did not deserve to be compared. Marcellon glanced at the Duke. "The Count Connall will need hot food, broth if we have it, and quickly. Would you see to it, your grace?" The Duke looked confused, but nodded and left the room. Marcellon watched the Duke leave, then he answered my questioning face. "I do not want strangers here when Luthias awakes." "There is nothing we can do to free Luthias from the ardon? Marcellon," I coaxed, squatting next to him, "I need him. I need him to be a Knight. The war--" The High Mage looked at me sadly. "Edward, there is nothing." I snorted with contempt. "You cannot make me think that the great wizard Styles would teach you how to make this poison and not teach you to cure it!" "That is exactly what he did," Marcellon returned curtly. He grinned with a trace of bitterness. "I suspect he was keeping the cure to himself, in case he ever needed to use it on me or Mon-Taerleor." "There must be a way." "If there is, I do not know it." The bed shook as Luthias coughed. I stood. Marcellon turned to his patient. The Count Connall slowly opened his eyes and stared into the face of the High Mage. "Marcellon?" I knew that Marcellon smiled at him, although I couldn't see it. Luthias looked at me. "Sir Edward." "I am here," I replied, although that much was obvious. "Where are we? Magnus?" the Count Connall asked weakly, closing his eyes. "No, Pyridain," I told him. "You are in the Duke's castle." "Thank God," he groaned. "I'd die if Sable saw me like this, with 1the--" He abruptly turned to Marcellon, and his eyes were angry and accusing. "You gave it to me, didn't you!" he screamed. "You bastard!" And the young Count began coughing again. "I saved your life," Marcellon snapped. "I would be better off dead!" "Don't say that!" I admonished him quickly. "Never say that." "It's true," Luthias argued bitterly. "Do you know what they have done to me? Do you know what I have done? Do you know what they did to me in Beinison?" "That's a good place to begin," placid Marcellon tried to calm him. "Tell us. What happened when you arrived in Cabildo?" "They threw me into prison. They took Sable's portrait." Marcellon shot a concerned glance at me. I had an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. A man with the power of Mon- Taerleor, a man who would torture another with a magicked drug, in possesion of a portrait of Lady Myrande? Marcellon composed his face instantly and quipped, "What a novel way to receive an ambassador. How long did they torture you?" Luthias looked away. "You're so certain they did?" "I saw the scars," Marcellon answered, his voice level. "How long did they torture you before giving you the ardon?" "Ardon?" Luthias asked mildly, looking the High Mage in the eye. "So that's what it is. I had wondered." The Count of Connall sighed deeply. "They tortured me a few weeks, perhaps...I'm not sure. I lost the time in the prison." A shadow filled his eyes. "And then they put the blue spice in my food. It drove me mad, and I knew I would die without it." "Unfortunate," Marcellon muttered. Luthias looked sad and scared and stunned, then he abruptly stared at me. "Sir Edward," he began urgently, "They were questioning me about the fortifications along the Laraka River. I didn't break under the torture. Of that I can give you my word. But the blue spice--the ardon--I was going mad--I don't remember what I told them, whether it was fact or fiction, but I told them anything to get the blue spice." The Laraka? Damn! That means-- And Luthias finished my thoughts: "They're probably planning to come down the river into Magnus." "I'll send Sir Ailean," I promised, swallowing. Beinison would attack Shark's Cove and send ships down the Laraka! The High Mage had been right: expect the unexpected. Now we would have two lines to fight: one in Quinnat, one here in Pyridain. Luthias turned his face from me. "I am sorry, Sir Edward." "There was nothing you could have done, Luthias," I tried to comfort him. Something in his eyes made me think that nothing, no one, could console the young Count. "I don't know how I managed to get out of there," Luthias continued, shaking his head. "I don't remember very much at all." His jaw twitched, and he dully held out his hands. "There was a man...I murdered him...for his gold...and the ardon." He stared blankly at his hands, hands that had murdered. "My wedding ring is gone," he noted without feeling. "I wonder what happened." "Luthias," I choked. This man was to have been a Knight! In its truest sense, Luthias Connall would have been a Knight. And now this! Marcellon closed his eyes. "And there was a woman, later," the Count of Connall continued. "I don't remember her name, nor her face. But if I didn't--she kept the ardon away until I did, until I couldn't help it." The High Mage's eyes snapped opened angrily. "There's a name for that, you know," he snarled, fury in his voice. 1 Luthias didn't face him. "I know: adultery," he supplied, his voice hollow and devoid of interest. "No," Marcellon corrected crisply, "I'd call it rape." The young, sick Count looked at the wizard with shock in his eyes, and then he continued. "I don't remember what happened after I managed to leave her." Connall sighed. "I remember running." "You're safe now," I assured him, taking a step closer. "We'll take you back to the King, back to Myrande--" "What? Sable? No!" he cried out. "Go back to her? Go back?" He stared at me, bewildered and pained. "My God, Edward! I've betrayed my country, betrayed my wife--Oh, God--oh, God-- why didn't I die?" Luthias screamed finally, burying his head in his hands. "Why didn't I die?" I could stay no longer. I am a warrior, bred and raised, and I have seen death more times than I can remember. I know death; I have watched my friends butchered and bleeding in battle, and when they finally expired, there has been rejoicing in the heavens to receive their valiant spirits. But when a man such as Luthias, a man young and brave and honorable, is trapped in a living death such as this, even the war-god would weep. Epilogue Marcellon watched Sir Edward quietly leave, then he reached out to young Connall. "Easy," whispered the High Mage. "All is not yet lost." Luthias slowly lifted his head. He coldly demanded, "How can you say that?" "I can enchant the ardon. I can keep you alive." Luthias leaned back on the bed. "I need it, then, to stay alive?" Marcellon looked at the bare white wall. "That woman told me if I stopped taking the blue spice I would die. I hoped that she was lying." It was several moments before the High Mage returned his gaze to Luthias. "She spoke truth," Marcellon admitted heavily. "There is no cure?" Luthias asked. "None that I know. But I will search for one." Luthias sighed once, then looked in the wizard's eyes. "Then promise me something, Marcellon." "What do you want?" the physician inquired compassionately. The young Count took a deep breath. "If after a fortnight you cannot find a cure for me, I want..." Luthias closed his eyes, unable to face the High Mage, and took a deep breath. "I want you to give me poison." "Poison?" Marcellon leapt from the bed. "You wish to kill yourself? What about the war? What about Myrande?" "How can I face Sable after what I've done?" Luthias countered. "How could I ever face the King? God only knows what I've told the Beinisonians! No, Marcellon, I'd rather die than live like this. And Sable deserves much better than me." Luthias stared into space. "If you only knew what it was like, Marcellon, to be like this. I don't know when my mind will leave me, when I'll do something I would never even consider doing when I'm sane. I'll murder...I'll..." Connall faced the High Mage. "I'm not...I'll never be a Knight now. How could Sir Edward ever knight me? How can I be a decent husband for Sable? I can't even control myself anymore, Marcellon." The High Mage took a deep breath and exhaled it through his nose. "All right," he conceded. "I do not believe in keeping people in pain. No more can I let you live in hell." 1 "A fortnight, then." "A fortnight," Marcellon confirmed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. 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Athene is not limited to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing with just about any interesting topic. The magazine is published monthly, and comes in two formats -- ASCII and PostScript. The content is identical across both formats, but the PostScript version is designed for printing on laser printers while the ASCII edition can be read online as well as printed. To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to: Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET Please indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you prefer to to receive. Back issues, an index, and submission information are also available upon request. 1------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright February, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 4 03/09/90 Cir 966 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Materia Medica II Max Khaytsus Yuli 19-21, 1013 Some Snatch of Honor M. Wendy Hennequin 13 Janis, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Materia Medica Part 2 by Max Khaytsus Kera rolled out of bed with a long yawn and looked around the room. Rien sat at the small table by the window, reading `The Realities of Myths'. "It's about time," he looked over. "It's almost noon." "Being jailed isn't as harsh a reality when I'm sleeping," Kera said. She walked over to the table and sat down on the second chair. "How many times have you read that book now?" "Thrice," Rien said. "And I learned something new every time." "Doesn't look like any of it is of much use to us." "It's not," Rien said. "Most of it is disputed facts disputed once again." "We've been locked up in this inn for two days now. Let's do something." "It's dangerous out there." "I know," Kera said, "but I can't take much more of this. I need to see different walls." "All right," Rien said after a moment of thought. He wasn't used to this much indoor living either. "I'll make you a deal. Instead of eating here we'll go outside of Dargon, hunt and eat there." Kera's eyes brightened. "Let's go!" "Get dressed," Rien stopped her. "I don't think we need the attention." "I was going to anyway!" she stuck her tongue out at him. "There's a rabbit," Kera pointed to a patch of dark grass off the path. Rien turned his horse to look. "Yes, it is," he said, spotting the rabbit. "Aren't you going to shoot it?" Kera asked. "No. I got you a bow so you could do it." "Rien!" "It was your idea to become my apprentice. How do you expect me to teach you if you don't do anything?" Kera pulled out her bow, strung it and took aim at the rabbit. "Loosen up your arm," Rien instructed, "and don't pull back so far. It's only a rabbit. It won't take much to kill it." Kera loosened up and reaimed. "It's moving around," she complained. "Should I ask it to hold still?" "Please," Kera said. "Just shoot it!" The arrow passed well to the left of the rabbit and stuck in the ground. The startled animal darted off into the bushes. "It was too far anyway," Kera said. "Now what?" "You retrieve the arrow and either track your prey or go find another." "There's a guy at the market who sells rabbits," Kera said. "You find it in the forest and you kill it." "Can I do it my way?" Kera asked. "Go ahead," Rien answered, "but you'll have to learn the bow anyway." Kera jumped off her horse and started examining the bushes. Ten minutes later she found what she was looking for and returned to Rien. "If there's anything there, I'll have it in a minute." Rien nodded in anticipation and loaded his crossbow. "Just in 1case," he smiled. Kera got the flint and steel off her horse, scooped up some dry moss and returned to the bush. She cut off some branches for easier access, spread the moss at the entrance to the burrow and lit it. A moment later thick smoke descended into the hole. "What if there's more than one exit?" Rien asked. "Then it will get away. It happens sometimes." "Do you know why?" Kera shrugged. "Just the way it is, I guess. Some rabbits are smarter than others." "Rabbits don't dig their own burrows," Rien said. "If they find an abandoned one, they tend to move in and depending on what creature built it, there may be multiple exits." Kera brushed the smoldering moss aside and prepared for her catch. "All I know is that when they live in burrows they leave scratch marks in the ground, looking for roots." "Good method," Rien said. Kera proceeded to kneel by the hole a while longer and finally swung her dagger, then triumphantly produced a rabbit. "Very nice," Rien approved. Kera was about to pick up her dagger as a second grey shape appeared at the opening and darted for freedom. She lunged after it, falling across the first rabbit, but managed to grab a leg of the escaping animal. A high pitched squeak indicated the catch. "Two," Kera stood up, holding a rabbit by its ears in each hand. "You can cook them." "I am sure I can, but I prefer mine raw and yours might get burned in the fire." "That's not fair." "Is it fair to ask my apprentice to prepare the catch?" Rien asked. "I don't think I want to answer that question," Kera said. "I suppose I'll do it. Are you sure you want yours raw?" "I'll take it cooked this time," Rien said. Kera placed her catch on the ground and started laying a fire pit when Rien suddenly jerked his horse to the side and fired his crossbow into a tree. A small black creature fell to the ground. Drawing his long knife and dismounting, Rien approached with Kera behind him. On the ground lay what appeared to be a cross between a bat and a man, no more than four inches tall. A large round hole gaped in its wing and part of its side was torn open. "I thought I saw something like this yesterday at the inn," he said, scooping up the creature. "Is it dead?" Kera asked. "I imagine so," Rien said. "See why so much force shouldn't be used?" Kera nodded. "What is it?" "I don't know. An enchanted creature, I'd imagine." He pulled open a small pouch he got off the horse and placed the body inside, securely drawing the strings closed. "Go make lunch," he reminded Kera. She looked back at the two rabbits by the fire. "I'm not sure I'm all that hungry any more..." "What happened?" Tsazia demanded of Mija. "The imp was killed," he said in a low voice. "How?" "The elf," he feared to raise his eyes. "The elf shot it." The old witch calmly turned to leave. "Get the book back tonight. 1I will personally see to the elf tomorrow." * * * Rien knocked on the door frame to Corambis' shop and a young dark-haired girl hurried to meet him. "Master Corambis will not be doing readings today," she said. "I was told I might find Dyann Taishent here today," Rien explained. "I'm sorry, sir, but I was told to permit absolutely no disturbances." She stepped directly in front of Rien to block his path. "I got the horses secured!" Kera's voice sounded outside and a moment later she appeared behind Rien, wrapped in a cloak. "Kera?" the brown haired girl asked, trying to look around Rien. "Hi Thuna!" Kera answered and Rien used the distraction to step aside. The two girls embraced as long lost friends and Rien used the opportunity to sneak in through the second door. "What happened to you?" Thuna asked Kera. "The whole town's looking for you! Liriss' guards stopped by to ask about you three times already! If Corambis knew, he'd throw me out on my rump!" She turned to look around the room. "Where'd that man go?" "He's inside," Kera said. "He needs to talk to Taishent badly." "Who is he?" Thuna asked. "My lord and master," Kera said sarcastically, because he did not seem to be that at all times. "I got caught stealing from him and he made me his apprentice instead of turning me in." That was pretty much the whole story. "Are you saying you got lucky or it would have been better in jail?" Kera smiled. "He's not all bad. A little demanding at times, but has a better heart than Liriss." "Did you know Liriss hired some guy to kill you?" Thuna asked. "I heard," Kera admitted. "Hopefully we'll be leaving town soon." "What are they doing in there anyway?" Thuna asked. "Corambis and Taishent have been working on something for three days solid now." "Rien, the guy I'm apprenticed to, hired them to translate an old book," Kera said. "I'm not too clear on it. It's some magical work. What about you? How did you come around to work for this old geezer?" "He saved my life last year," Thuna said. "I was working the corner of Thockmarr Street and Red Avenue, near the marketplace, when this really disgusting geeb comes up to me wanting to roll. I said fine, but then he wanted me to do some completely sickening things to him, so I told him to scrazz off, but he got mad and pulled a blade. He would've cut me bad if Corambis hadn't come by and torched him off. After the man scrazzed, Corambis didn't want to just leave me on the streets, so he offered to hire me as his assistant -- and here I am. He also got me a job at Belisandra's in exchange for room and board. It's really not all bad working here; the pay is good, even if there is less excitement." "Thuna!" Corambis looked up as Rien shut the door behind himself. "Can I help you, sir?" Taishent looked up as well. "Why do you make my life miserable?" he complained. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," Rien answered, ignoring Taishent's remark. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I need a consultation with you. I am under the impression that this creature has been following me around..." and with those words, he dumped the contents of the leather pouch onto the Wheel of Life. The two old men stood up to look at the dead form on the table. "Defenately a conjured thing," Taishent said. 1 "Probably someone's familiar," Corambis added. They broke into an exchange of magical jargon which Rien did not fully comprehend, then turned to face him. "It probably belongs to one of the witches in Maari's coven," Taishent said. "Could it be Maari's?" Rien asked. "No, no," Corambis said. "Familiars are released upon the conjurer's death. If it was actively watching you, it still belongs to someone." "That means the witches want the book," Rien said. It was half statement and half question. "Probably," the two men answered in tandem. "Then I feel I should offer my services for your protection," Rien said. "Most defenately not!" Taishent exclaimed. "You're far too dangerous to have around!" It was an insult, but it was also true. Trouble found Rien at least as often as he found it. He thought for a moment, then placed two gold coins on the table. "I want you to hire guards for protection. Your success is very important to me. Good day." The last was said very dryly and he left the room before the men could respond. "Kera," he called out. "Let's go." Kera sat up on the bed with a loud scream. Next to her Rien stirred at the noise. "What?" Kera sat with her hands covering her face, shaking and when Rien touched her, he realized she was in cold sweat. "What is it?" he asked again. "I can see," Kera whispered. "Everything is red or black, but I can see." She broke into quiet sobbing. "It's all right," Rien said, pulling her close. "We'll go see Taishent in the morning." "No...let's go now...please." Rien did not move. The development of night vision in Kera was an indication that the disease was steadily progressing and there wouldn't be much time. There were maybe a few more weeks until physical transformations would become obvious to observers...maybe even days. He thought that he himself had little time and a feeling of helplessness began to set in. "Rien?" Kera tried to break his embrace. "Can you see me as clearly as I see you?" He nodded. "I imagine so." "And all the furniture in the room?" He nodded again. "I'm scared," Kera whispered and embraced him. "My night vision is natural," Rien said, knowing all too well it would make things worse. "I see things in darker shades of their natural color." He released Kera and got up to light a candle. Kera tried to follow him, but when the candle was lit, she gasped and covered her eyes. "I am sorry," Rien was startled. "I didn't realize light would hurt you." He returned with her to the bed and sat down. After a few seconds Kera removed her hands from her face and looked around the room. "How does it look?" Rien asked. "It's normal," Kera sighed and turned to face him. "Your eyes are grey," Rien said, looking her in the face. Kera's eyes watered and she placed her head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry," Rien stroked her hair, trying to stop her sobbing. After a 1while Kera relaxed. "Can we see Taishent tonight?" she asked. "Come on," Rien answered, getting up. "Get dressed." Taishent grumbled loudly, going to unlock the door. He pulled his robe tightly around himself before pulling open the bolt. What sane man would disturb him at this hour of the night? To his surprise, he was faced with a young couple as he opened the door. His angry expression dissolved in confusion. "We heard you have a shadow book in your possession," the young man stated, not waiting for a greeting. "We are ready to offer you a high price fo it." "Do you realize what time of the night it is?" Taishent asked gruffly. "Yes, we do, but our business is urgent," Alicia responded. A stiletto flashed in her companion's hand. "It's urgent enough that we shall bypass payment," he finished for her. "Let's have the book, old man," Alicia said producing a dagger of her own. She didn't intend to use it, but it would be good for appearances' sake. As Mija stepped forward, an arrow hit him in his forearm, pinning it to the door frame. Taishent used the distraction to disappear inside. Mija, ignoring the pain of the puncture, with his free hand, pulled out the pearl he intended to use the night before and flung it into the darkness of the street. He had no way of knowing the location the arrow came from, but in this darkness the archer could not be too far away. Mija hoped that between his estimate and the radius of the spell's effect the problem would be solved. A bright blue globe quickly filled the middle of the street and exploded, filling the air with crackling noise and an overabundance of light. In the flash both Alicia and Mija saw Rien, with a bow, standing by the wall of Taishent's house. The power of the explosion threw him against the wall, the half readied arrow flying off, harmlessly falling on the ground. Alicia, forgetting that she did not intend to kill anyone ran down to where she saw Rien stumble, to challenge him and perhaps, if luck would have it, dispatch him before he had a chance to get up. Mija attempted to remove his arm and arrow from the door frame, but at that time Taishent stepped back out, drawing a heavy old sword from its sheath, one that he probably used as a young man. Expertly holding the heavy weapon, he warned the young warlock not to stir. Alicia, in the meantime, stumbled down the street, realizing that she had no way of identifying her target in this darkness and more importantly, probably would not be able to kill him if she could find him, stopped in mid-stride. A noise behind her warned her to turn, but before she could, a sword dug into her side. Alicia grabbed for the wall, to prevent herself from falling, crying out "Wait!" as she had no intention to fight, but the sword struck her a second time, making her drop her dagger and crumble to the ground. Hearing the scream, Mija again struggled against the arrow holding him, but was hit with the flat of Taishent's blade. It took the old wizard some effort, but he again readied his weapon and Mija relaxed. Footsteps could be heard in the alley and a moment later Rien and Kera appeared in the light cast from Taishent's half open door. Rien had his bow in hand and Kera was wiping blood off her sword with a rag. "Murderer!" Mija lashed out, startling Taishent and tearing his arm off the arrow's shaft, as he charged at Kera. Rien took the initiative of Mija's charge and stepping forward, reduced the young man to an unconscious heap with two deft swings. 1 "Do you want to kill him?" Kera asked, pausing in the act of putting the rag away. "No," Rien said, stepping over the body. Kera remained watching Mija while Rien went up to Taishent. "For once I can't say I am disappointed to see you," the mage uttered. "What where they after?" Rien asked and then assuming the obvious, quickly added, "the book?" Taishent nodded. "I asked you to hire protection," Rien said. "Yes, yes," Taishent answered, "but what good is a mere guard against magic? You were lucky not to get caught in that explosion." "A mere guard is better than nothing," Rien pointed out. "It's all beside the point now," Taishent said. "Why are you here this late?" "The disease is progressing. Kera can now see in the dark..." "And you?" "I haven't noticed any changes..." Rien said and paused. Perhaps after all this time the old mage had a right to know the truth. "I am half elven," Rien finally decided to go on. "No one knows how it will effect me." "Elven?" Taishent echoed. "Ljosalfar?" Rien nodded. Very few people knew there were two races in the species and even fewer cared, even though their individual members were very different. "Well, your case is certainly a special one," Taishent said, "but you are still a carrier. Come back tomorrow at sunset. I may have news for you then." Rien nodded a silent thanks and turned to leave. "And please take that young man to the guard house," Taishent added. "I shall stop by there tomorrow morning and give my report." "What could he tell us tomorrow that he has not come up with in the last two months?" Kera asked. "I don't know," Rien shrugged. "Apparently he believes he will be able to help..." The pair were walking down one of the streets of Dargon, not bothering to cover themselves with their cloaks. The darkness and absence of people permitted them a certain freedom they hadn't had for almost a week and even with the hunting trip the day before, this was a luxury that forced them to slow their pace a number of times. "Let's go this way," Kera pointed to a street leading in the direction away from the inn. Rien stopped, looking down both streets, then nodded and took the street Kera suggested. Although they were on their way from the guard station to the inn, some freedom and fresh air could do no more than good. At the guard house the guards hassled Rien somewhat over the unconscious body he brought in and asked to be held until Taishent would stop by in the morning, but just then one of the night patrols, headed by Lieutenant Darklen, stopped by and after a discussion of the events of the night, Darklen took down Rien's name and where he was staying and said that he would visit Taishent personally in the morning. During all this time Kera nervously paced up and down the street a block over, jumping at the slightest noise, fearing to encounter one of Liriss' men or a city guard and for that matter, anyone else who might, by chance take this particular street at this hour of the night. After what seemed like a half night of pacing, Kera finally decided to sit down by the wall and wait. She knew that Rien would be 1questioned as to what he was doing with an unconscious, injured person in the middle of the night and why exactly he would want his captive held by the guards, but the amount of time it was taking was beginning to worry her more and more. She spent her time sitting there thinking about the girl she killed. It struck Kera as the only thing to do at the time it was happening, but on the way to the guard house Rien asked her why she didn't stop when the girl she was attacking called out a yield. Kera explained that she continued attacking because her opponent did not drop her weapon and backing off could force her to lose the advantage. Yet, in spite of this seemingly sound explanation, Kera now wondered if there was something else. At the time of the attack, Kera thought she felt something different. It was a feeling of great anger and wanting to see her opponent crippled on the ground. She now wondered if this has some relation to the disease and the change in her vision. The whole thought of turning into a four legged beast forced her to break into sobbing again. The development of night vision was the factor that had finally made her realize just how real this was. Just then something unexpectedly took hold of her shoulder and Kera let out a yelp loud enough to have Rien jump back. Kera looked up and recognizing her companion smiled through her tears. "Sorry. You startled me." "Are you all right?" Rien bent down in front of Kera. She tried to pull herself together. "Don't say `yes'," Rien added. "I won't believe you." "I'm scared," Kera said. "It's stupid. I know I won't die, but I'm scared. I don't want to go to the inn. I'm afraid that if I go to sleep, I'll change..." "You won't," Rien put his arm around her. "Nothing more will happen. We'll go see Taishent tomorrow and I'm sure he'll give us a good lead." "You don't believe that any more than I do!" Kera insisted. "He's a foolish old man. I bet you he hasn't cast anything in years. He even had to get that old sword to fight with today." "Perhaps," Rien said, "but if we don't have hope, what use is it for us to fight?" "Didn't you tell me a while back to always expect the worst and leave the good things to be pleasant surprises?" Kera asked. "Sort of makes me a hypocrite, doesn't it?" Rien asked with a smile and Kera laughed. "And I'll do it more often if it provokes reactions like this one." He helped her up and they left in the direction of the inn, both enjoying the night air. "How could Taishent help us?" Kera asked again. "I don't know," Rien said. "Your guess is probably as good as mine. I've come to learn early on that those who understand magic are usually more able than they appear and if a real need arises, they will be able to do what needs to be done." "You think he was holding out on us?" Kera asked. "Could be," Rien answered. "Maybe he was. He should certainly have a reason to be grateful now." They turned off the street they had taken at the docks and walked up onto an empty pier. Off to the east a red line was cracking along the horizon and the couple stood watching it for a few minutes. "Come," Rien finally said. "It will be light soon." Kera stood frozen for a moment longer, then reluctantly followed Rien. "Do we have a few more minutes?" she asked, catching up. "Why?" Rien asked. "I have something to show you." "All right, but let's hurry." 1 Kera led Rien a few blocks down along the docks, then stopped at an empty pier. "We need to go down," she said. Together they made their way down a narrow, creaking set of stairs that were in desperate need of repair. It was going to low tide and the sand of the beach was still wet and swamp-like, making Rien glad they had not worn their armor. Kera guided him beneath the pier to a spot where large rocks could be seen emerging from the water. Something was lying on one of the further ones, just barely sticking out above the lowering water level. Rien and Kera waded into the cold water until it reached almost to their waists. The shape on the rock was a human body, securely chained down and gagged. The man was dead. "What a way to die..." Rien sighed. "How did you know he would be here? Who is he?" "I never saw him before," Kera said. "I didn't even know he would be here. This pier belongs to Liriss. These are the blocks. When Liriss wants to dispose of someone slowly, he has them tied down here at low tide and a few hours later they're dead. I just thought you'd want to see it. Thuna told me something was happening and Liriss was purging his staff. He must be very upset." "Thanks for the warning," Rien nodded. "It's certainly something to be aware of. Come, now. We need to get back to the inn." Taishent opened the door almost immediately after the first knock and stepped outside. "I found someone who may be able to help you and is willing to try," Taishent said to Rien and Kera. "Corambis used to be King Haralan's personal astrologer and has worked with Marcellon Equiville, the High Mage of Baranur..." Rien begun to say something, but decided to keep his mouth shut. "...we went to see him today," Taishent continued. "Marcellon's daughter, Lauren, married the Duke two weeks ago, you see, so he is currently in Dargon. Anyhow, he said he is willing to see what he can do." Rien remained speechless for a bit longer. "Where? When?" he asked with great anticipation. Taishent could not help but smile at the reaction. "He is expecting you tomorrow morning at the Connall Keep east of here. Take the River Road some five leagues along the Coldwell, then turn east for a league or so more. The road will lead you directly there." Rien and Kera remained silent and Taishent chuckled again. "Marcellon is not only a wizard. He is also a physician and a good one at that. If anyone can help you, I am sure he can." "I'd like to thank you whether this works out or not," Rien said finally. Taishent nodded. "I expect to be done with the book by the end of the week. You may pick up the translation then." "Hopefully by then I shall not need it..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Some Snatch of Honor by M. Wendy Hennequin For a moment, Luthias stared into the cup, wondering if his death or his life lurked within. He glanced up at the High Mage's blank face, and without further hesitation, Luthias quaffed the purplish wine. Then, he and the High Mage waited. Luthias had changed in the two weeks since he had returned to Baranur. He had arrived in Pyridain haggard and ill; Marcellon cured his winter sickness, and the good food that the Duke sent to him had brought Luthias near to his normal weight. Practicing with heavy wooden weapons, Luthias had regained much of his strength. Two signs only remained to mark the Count's stay in the Beinison Empire: the addiction to ardon, for which Marcellon hopefully had just given him a curative, and the beard. Luthias had not wanted to retain the straggly beard, grown in the hectic, half-remembered days when he had been running. Soon after Marcellon cured his winter sickness, Luthias began to shave it off, but he found a long knife scar, running along the jawline, from beneath his left ear to his chin. The Count, resigned, settled for trimming the beard neatly, and later he was glad; it made him look older. After a minute or so, the Count of Connall wondered, "How soon will I be affected, Marcellon?" Luthias was discomforted by the stare that Marcellon gave him. "It should work immediately." "Then I'm cured of the ardon addiction?" Hope began to seep into Luthias' heart after a hard fortnight. The young Count had found it hard to hope when his body was irrevocably addicted to a magicked drug. He would have stopped taking it alone, he would have even allowed himself to be restrained, but the lack of ardon would kill him. Now, at last, he would be free. Marcellon had promised him a cure or death. The High Mage found it necessary to swallow twice before answering. "You should be dead by now," he muttered, shocked. "The poison was immediate. I've never known a case where a man has drunk ardonatus and lived!" Ardonatus? Now Luthias stared. He had taken ardonatus, a lethal, magical concoction derived from the same spice that he was addicted to, and he lived? "Ardonatus?" the Count questioned indredulously. "You're sure?" "I'm certain," the High Mage answered, fascinated. "I made it. There is can be no doubt. You are immune to ardonatus." Fury flooded the world of the Count Connall, and he, enraged, hurled the golden goblet against the stone wall of Pyridain Castle. "Those bastards!" the young Count screamed. "They've robbed me of my life, and now of my death as well!" "You're immune to ardonatus," Marcellon repeated incredulously. "You cannot be immune to ardonatus." "I'm alive, aren't I?" Luthias yelled irrationally. "Perhaps there is a cure to this," the High Mage was murmering. "This should not be happening. No one is immune to ardonatus. Let me have some time..." "Time?" Luthias echoed furiously. "Marcellon, I thought you said you didn't like your patients to live in Hell!" The High Mage's eyes focused abruptly. "I don't," he snapped. "But this is extrodinary, Luthias. If you are immune--if there are no effects--how do you feel?" the physician finished unexpectedly. The Count blinked. "I don't feel any different, if that's what 1you're asking." "Never," Marcellon repeated, "has any man taken ardonatus and lived to speak of it!" "Well," Luthias quipped, "there's always a first." "This is important!" the mage emphasized. "Immunity to ardonatus...incredible!" Luthias replied, "This is insane. It's never going to end, is it? I'm living in Hell and I can't even die!" "That's the definition of Hell," Marcellon told him, chuckling. "This isn't funny," the Count snapped. "I can't die--" "You can die any time you wish," the High Mage's voice dropped to a deadly, quiet level as he corrected the young nobleman. "Take a sword and put it through your heart. But I won't keep your death a secret, not if it comes about in that way." "You were willing to poison me," Luthias argued. "That was before I thought you had a chance," Marcellon retorted. "You have one now, perhaps." "There's no cure," the Count reminded the mage hotly. "You told me so yourself." "I told you I did not know of one," the Royal Physician corrected. "I didn't. I still know no cure. But you are immune to ardonatus, Luthias. That means something." The High Mage's voice became coldly calm. "Now, you may take the cowards' way and kill yourself if you wish, but I am going back to my laboratories and find out what is happening to you." Luthias' mouth twitched angrily. "Do you really want death, Luthias, son?" "I want this to stop," the Count spat thickly. "I want to be freed. I won't be a slave, Marcellon! I won't!" "Easy," the High Mage counseled. "Let me try." "Do I have a choice?" Luthias rued rhetorically. "I won't give you more poison, if that's what you're asking," Marcellon decided. "Take a knife to your heart." The young Count smiled ruefully. "Sir Edward has suspected I might harm myself. He hasn't let me near any edged weapons since I arrived." Luthias came close to laughing. "He won't allow me near high towers alone, either." Marcellon smiled at the wisdom of his colleague. Edward was a shrewd man. "Come with me, my boy. Let me see what I can do for this." The older man held out his hand to the despairing younger one, who would have taken it, had his attention not been stolen by the slamming door. The youngest of Sir Edward's squires rushed into the cold room and slid to a stop. "Thanks be to God I have found you!" the boy exclaimed with breathless drama. "Please, your Excellencies, come quickly." "What's wrong?" Luthias asked sternly, immediately on the alert. "Oh, your Excellency, the Beinisonians are in Pyridain!" Marcellon's eyebrows rose with appreciative curiosity. Luthias expelled a word that the squire was too young to hear. Blushing, he escaped the room with urgency which equaled his entrance. "It seems we must attend the Knight Commander," Marcellon observed mildly. Luthias had already left the room. "Come on!" he urged as he sped toward the Duke of Pyridain's office, which had been made into a war room. "What's happening?" Connall demanded as he opened the door. Marcellon, serene but concerned, stood behind him. "They're here?" "Twenty Beinisonians," the tall Knight Commander supplied. "Perhaps more. The scout just returned." "Through this storm?" asked the mage. 1 "How close?" the warrior inquired. Sir Edward solemnly shook his head. "Very close." The Knight Commander frowned. "I was not prepared for this," he admitted, sitting. "Marcellon, you warned me to expect the unexpected." "You should have expected it," Luthias said without blame or rebuke. "The Beinison Empire is trained to attack at any time of the year; they've staged winter invasions before." "Have they?" Edward smiled. "My history is not the finest." "When are we repelling them?" "As soon as I can assemble the army," Edward answered the younger warrior. "As soon as possible." "That will take a day and a half," Luthias surmised. The Knight Commander considered the problem. Finally, he nodded. "At least that," he confirmed Luthias' guess. "A day and a half--after the snow storm stops and if the snow is shallow enough to mobilize without blazing trails." "Where are they?" young Connall demanded, pulling the map toward him. "Show me, Sir Edward." Silently, the Knight Commander indicated a nearby area. "That's damn close," the Count concluded. The young man gave the Knight Commander of the Royal Armies a serious look. "You don't have a day and a half. After the storm, they'll be here at the castle within a half a day." "As usual," Sir Edward admitted after a moment's thought, "you're right, Luthias." "Can you delay them somehow?" Marcellon suggested. "If nothing else, I can--" "Not unless it's absolutely necessary," Sir Edward cut him off. "Using magic is unchivalrous, and I won't allow you to do so unless there is no other solution." "In this case, there is another way," Luthias assured the High Mage. "Send a distraction. Send a single fighter there." "It won't delay them much, not one fighter," the Knight protested. "It will be enough," Luthias argued, "if the fighter is any good." "A squad perhaps--" "Perhaps nothing," the Count of Connall interjected. "One man will be enough. You can't risk an entire squad, Sir Edward. You're here in Pyridain. You won't receive any reinforcements until spring. One man is all you can risk." Omninously, the Knight Commander rose to face the younger man. "I will not order a lone man to his death, Luthias. And I will not--nay, cannot--ask any fighter to--" "You needn't ask anyone," Luthias told him, his stance and his voice becoming serious and firm. "I'll go." "I won't allow it!" Sir Edward declared violently. "No, Luthias. I need you too much." "You don't need me," the Count opposed him. "I'm an addict, Sir Edward. I'm of no use to you. Let me go." Edward took Connall by the shoulders. "You'll die," Edward predicted, fear in his voice. "I won't be made to tell Lady Sable that I allowed you--" "Don't tell her anything," Luthias commanded. "Let Sable think I died quickly in Beinison. I will die; that's fine, Sir Edward, but this way, at least, I'll die with some snatch of honor, like a man, not a beast. Let me go." "Let him go," Marcellon pleaded softly. "You cannot win, Edward." "The ardon will have you in fits by the time you fight," Sothos made one more effort to deter him. "All the better," Luthias, with bitter joy, assured him. "I'll be 1fiercer. Let me go, Edward." With regrets, the Knight Commander agreed, "As soon as the storm ends." Tired by the short ride (how his father the great horseman would be ashamed of him!), Luthias neared the end of the woods. Soon, he would reach his destination and fight, he hoped. Fight? Luthias smiled; it was almost a joke. How could he fight, wearing old armor, and bearing a battered shield and bent sword? Knowing that he would soon die and that the Beinisonians would loot his body, Luthias would accept nothing else. Yet he would fight, and fight his best, before he died, old armor or no. Through the trunks of the bare trees, he could see a farmstead with a weathered barn and an old house. Near the barn were at least a score of horses. Unless there was some sort of meeting, this was the place. These were the men that he would have to delay. Luthias was suprised by how easily he could remember what Sir Edward had told him about the force. Usually the ardon had him in fits by now. Well, maybe Marcellon had slipped some in his food, to keep him going during the past few days. "There will be about twenty or twenty-five men," the Knight Commander had told him. "They are led by a personage of some importance; he has an elaborate device on his shield." Luthias didn't see the man or his shield. He didn't see anyone, anything, except the horses. How odd, the Count of Connall thought. They must be hiding. Carefully, Luthias edged his horse forward. Like a strike of lightning, a girl's scream split the dawn. Luthias reined the horse, listened frantically as another scream issued, then spurred his horse toward the barn. With old grace, Luthias leapt from the horse, and with old strength, he threw open the door to the barn. Oh, yes, indeed, this was the place! Inside, twenty men were abusing a girl of perhaps ten years (an old voice called within him, Sable!), and one was threatening an older boy with a pitchfork. Luthias evaluated instantly and acted. He plucked the pitchfork from the brute threatening the boy, swung it, and contacted. The man fell. Luthias set the pitchfork on the floor, leaned it toward the boy, and let it fall. The boy caught it, and Luthias instinctively turned his attention toward the screaming girl. There was a crash behind him. Although Luthias looked, he had his sword out and flashing by instinct. He kicked a man in leather armor, wounded another, and saw a man in a blue tabbard enter the barn. Luthias paid him no attention, and continued his defense of the girl. "Get back, you animals!" the man shouted in strong Beinisonian. "What sort of men are you, attacking children? Have you no honor? Get back!" Amazingly, the men went back. The armored man turned to him. Luthias could see him clearly now: he was a dark-haired man, with blue eyes and a moustache, about thirty years of age. Over his mail, he wore a sky-blue tabbard of silk belted with leather. On the belt hung a jeweled sword of fine quality and a silver drinking horn. Draped over his shoulders, the man wore a silver chain, the universal symbol of Knighthood, from which hung a silver star--the symbol of the Beinisonian order of Knights. "Well done," the man began in Beinisonian. "I see you have taken my lessons--" He paused, reached out and raised Luthias' face shield. "You are not my squire," the Knight concluded. He peered at Luthias' face. "Who are you?" he demanded sternly. "Why are you here?" "I am not important, sir," Luthias answered carefully but respectfully. "The girl--" Luthias stopped, kicked the brute he had 1killed off her, and bent to examine her. No! The head was bent in an impossible direction. Her legs were covered with blood. Luthias pounded the floor in frustration. "We were too late," concluded the Knight behind him. The boy rushed over, sobbing, toward the girl. Luthias reached out and closed her eyes. "I'm sorry, kid," Luthias breathed. "I tried." The Knight was boxing a man's ears as Luthias stood. "You bastards! Can't you barbarians leave even children alone?" "We were sent here to get information. The general didn't say--" "I command!" the Knight reminded him harshly, delivering another blow. "You are under my orders, and while you remain under my command, you will comport yourselves with some honor. Do you understand?" The man looked away sullenly. "Yes, your lordship." "Go back to your business," the Knight ordered, then he turned back to Luthias. "Now, you, sir, answer my questions. Who are you, and why are you here?" At a loss for a moment, Luthias found himself staring at the man's silver chain. Suddenly, he smiled. "I challenge you, Sir Knight. I am here to stop you. You are invading my homeland. I challenge you to a duel." The men around the Knight laughed wickedly as the boy sobbed behind Luthias. Poor boy. Luthias knew what it was to loose a sibling. The laughter continued. Luthias stood straight and proud. "Let us kill him, Lordship," the leader of the rabble chuckled. "He's only a boy, little older than your squire. By the Masked God, we'll teach him to interefere with his Imperial Majesty's troops!" "Silence!" the Knight commanded angrily. "He has challenged me as a Knight; as a Knight, I alone will answer. Do not interefere with me!" Calmly, the man turned back to Luthias. "To the death?" Luthias nodded. "As you wish, sir. I only ask that your men leave my country, should I win." "That is fair," the Knight agreed. "I accept. Call Rience," he commanded. One of the men ducked out of the barn. "Rience is my squire. He will ensure that my word is kept." The Knight stepped forward and offered Luthias his hand. "It is unchivalrous to fight one who is unknown. I am Sir Lawrence of the Silver Horn." Luthias took his hand and bowed slightly. "I am Luthias Connall." "I noticed that you do not wear the badge of Knighthood." "I am not yet Knighted," Luthias informed him, "but I give you my word to behave as one." "I will accept that," Sir Lawrence said. "Now, sir, break your fast with me. I do not fight well on an empty stomach." "Thank you, Sir Lawrence," Luthias replied graciously, "but no. You know as well as I that eating right before combat enhances the injuries and makes them harder to cure." "You are right, Luthias Connall," Lawrence admitted. "Come out to the yard. If you are agreeable, we shall begin immediately." "Very well, sir." Luthias moved to sheath his sword. Lawrence's hand suddenly stopped him. "You will fight me with that?" he asked disdainfully. Luthias again looked at the pitiful sword. It was bent, rusted, almost dull. "It is what I have, sir." "Rience!" Sir Lawrence bellowed. A young man with dark, curly hair entered the barn. He looked enough like Sir Lawrence to be a brother. "Fetch my silver sword." Lawrence smiled at Connall. "If we are to fight as equals, you will, at least, have a decent weapon. Come now, Lord Connall." Luthias followed Sir Lawrence silently to the field before the house. Rience, whom Luthias supposed was one of Sir Lawrence's 1brothers, rushed forward with a well-made sword. With a brief, polite bow, the boy offered the weapon to Luthias. Luthias granted the boy a brief smile and inspected the weapon. Warily, the Count of Connall swung the sword and tested its balance. It cut the air smoothly, and it balanced perfectly. The sharp, steel blade, beautiful in the cloudly winter light, gleamed with care. The workmanship, Luthias judged, was excellent, and the taste of the artisan was superb, for the only ornamentation on the weapon was delicate etching in the silver hilt. "It is a fine weapon," Luthias declared his admiration. "I thank you." The Beinisonian Knight paused. "Are you ready then?" Luthias nodded and pulled down his face shield. "I am, sir. Begin." With graceful ferocity, Sir Lawrence of the Silver Horn leapt toward Luthias, his long, jeweled sword flashing with death. For a wild moment, Luthias' mind panicked; it had been so long since he had fought against an actual person of his own calibur...since Sy, since he fought Michiya. This time, Luthias thought, he would not be allowed to win. But despite his doubts, Sir Lucan's training was still in his arm and in his heart, and Luthias, without thought, blocked Sir Lawrence's blow and struck his own. The Knight of the Star jerked backwards as Luthias' attack struck. For a moment, Sir Lawrence paused, staring at the drop of blood on the muddy, slushy snow. "First blood to you, Lord Connall," the Knight of the Star said with surprise. "I had not expected a man not yet a Knighted to strike so well." "Have at you," Luthias replied, and struck again. But Sir Lawrence knew this time whom he was fighting, and the jeweled long sword raced to meet Luthias' wrapped blow. The Knight of the Star twisted and struck over the old, battered shield. Luthias retreated as his shield dropped with the force of the blow. His shoulder, just at the joint of the arm, stung. Luthias spared it a glance. The plate protecting the shoulder was shattered, and his flesh was cut, not deeply. "Recover your armor," Sir Lawrence allowed politely, but he stood ready to fight. "I have nothing to repair it with," Luthias confessed. Within his helm, the Count of Connall smiled. "I simply shall have to prevent you from hitting me again, Sir Lawrence. Lay on." Lawrence raised his sword to strike. Luthias readied himself to block with sword and shield. They moved toward each other-- A crashing sound, like wooden thunder, shattered Luthias' concentration. Instinctively, he stepped back, as did Lawrence. The dull boom sounded again, and Luthias' head jerked toward the sound. The boy from the barn was beating the structure with a pitchfork. Luthias stared a moment, then saw a man in the loft above the sorrowful boy. "What in the name of Gow--" Sir Lawrence started. And then Luthias understood. The man-at-arms in the loft--crossbow--And even as Luthias' shield was instinctively rising, he thought, my God, Roi, we'll even die the same way. And the bolt impaled itself in the shield and halted. Unable to think, Luthias stared at it. "That dishonorable whoreson!" Sir Lawrence was cursing. "Followers of Amante in my own--" He whirled. "Rience! Bring him here! By Gow, I'll teach him to interfere with a Knight's combat!" "He shot me," Luthias, stunned and staring, stated. "He shot me." "Aye, that son of Erida," Sir Lawrence muttered. "Dishonorable whoreson. Interefering--I apologize, Luthias Connall. I did not order 1or condone this." "He shot me," Luthias said again. They shot Roisart, too. Roisart died. How did he escape? "You are white as the Moon-Jewel," Sir Lawrence noted. "Are you all right?" "Fine," Luthias assured his opponent quickly. The Count of Connall shook his head to clear it of the memories. He took a deep breath and explained, "My twin brother was murdered by crossbowmen--" Anger crept into his voice. "Assasins hired by your Emperor's spies!" "I am vowed to say nothing against the Emperor," Sir Lawrence replied, but he was scowling. "Let me say that the Knights of the Star have no truck with activities of that sort." Luthias calmed. "I know." And he did; Luthias was well acquainted with the honorable reputation of the Knights of the Star. Rience, the young squire, the boy from the barn, and several of the men at arms then came forward, dragging the struggling crossbow man. They threw him into the slushy snow in front of his lord. The archer looked at the knight defiantly. Sir Lawrence was not a man to be defied, however. "How dare you," the Beinisonian Knight began ominously. "How dare you interfere with my combat? This is my fight, mine alone!" "The Masked God teaches us to win by any means," the crossbow man reminded his lord. "Fortunately," Sir Lawrence of the Silver Horn answered loftily, "I am a follower of Gow." Without warning, the Knight swung his sword hand and hit his man-at-arms with the hilt of his weapon. The man's temple began to erupt blood. "Take him away," Sir Lawrence ordered angrily. "I'll deal with him later, and be warned: the next of you to try something of this nature shall pay with his life!" The Knight of the Star turned back to his enemy. "Remind me never to cross you," Luthias breathed, but he smiled. Sir Lawrence returned the gesture and hefted his swords. "May Sanar help you if you do," laughed the Knight. "Lay on." Luthias delivered a quick blow to the head. Sir Lawrence blocked with speed bordering on panic. Without pause, Luthias swung his sword again, this time at the Knight's arm. Sir Lawrence dodged and moved to strike, but found himself blocking Luthias' next attack instead, a blow aimed at the left leg. Connall couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. He was in the rhythm again, the heartbeat of fighting that Sir Lucan and his uncle Clifton had instilled in him since he could walk. Luthias was blind to everything, except the focus of the battle, except the rhythm of the combat. It had been so long since he had fought, since he had so naturally delivered blow after blow after blow, as if it were a graceful, well-remembered dance. For the first time in months, Luthias felt good. With energy and skill, he contined the blows. Sir Lawrence was slowing, and it was no wonder; the Knight of the Star had had a longer ride than Luthias and he hadn't yet eaten. Lawrence stepped back and paused a moment, resting. Luthias waited, refusing to fight a tired opponent. When Lawrence nodded, the Count of Connall attacked again. Lawrence blocked the blow, but it was too strong. The Knight fell in the snow, his sword flying away. Luthias nodded to the squire Rience, who ran and fetched the blade and brought it to his master. "Are you ready?" Luthias asked courteously. "Begin," Sir Lawrence answered. Luthias struck again, furiously, like the god of war. Lawrence parried brilliantly, but again, the blow was too strong. Luthias quickly followed with a wrap to the head, which rang on Sir Lawrence's 1strong helm, but did not cut it. Lawrence wavered, then collapsed to his knees. Luthias quickly held the sword in front of Sir Lawrence's eyes. He could rise any moment. Sir Lawrence did not move. Luthias relaxed slightly. "Do you yield, Sir Lawrence of the Silver Horn?" Mutely, Lawrence held out his sword in defeat. Luthias looked at the heirloom incredulously. "I will not take your sword, sir. Stand." Confused, Sir Lawrence rose. "My life is forfeit to you, Lord Connall. That was the term of our combat." "I don't want your life," Luthias told him. "I want your men out of my country. You promised me that, should I conquer. I have. You are an honorable man, and you will keep your word. I have what I want." Luthias smiled and raised his face shield. "I won't kill an honorable enemy without need, sir. Return to your home." Sir Lawrence of the Silver Horn doffed his helm and stared at the Count of Connall. "Whoever your teacher was, he trained you well in the ways of fighting--and in the Knightly Code." Sir Lawrence offered Luthias his hand. "Would to Gow we weren't enemies, Luthias Connall; this day, you would have your Knighthood from me." Luthias smile grew, and content calm flooded his eyes. "I have never been so honored, Sir Lawrence," he said, and he shook the Knight's hand. "I believe, Sir Lawrence, that I can fufill that office." Luthias whirled to see Sir Edward and the High Mage, surrounded by troops, on the edge of the woods. When had they arrived? Luthias wondered. Still suprised, Luthias watched as the Knight Commander, who had spoken, dismounted and approached the Knight and Luthias. Marcellon followed him. "Honor given by an enemy is a high complement, one that Luthias has well earned. Count Connall, kneel." Confused, Luthias knelt in the snow. Edward unsheathed his sword. "I, Edward Sothos--" Panic struck Luthias hard when he realized what Sir Edward was intending, and he instantly reached out and snatched Edward's wrist. "Sir Edward," he protested desperately, "you can't! You know what I need!" How could the Knight Commander make a drug addict a Knight? He would be weak, unpredicatable... "You no longer need it," the High Mage announced, smiling. At Luthias' confused stare, he explained, "The drink I gave you...I cured you. By accident, I cured you." "I don't believe it." Luthias scorned the very idea. Ardonatus, curing addiction? The Mage was mad. "How long since the last time, then?" Marcellon inquired. Luthias thought about it. Too long. He released Edward's hand. He was cured. Good God. Oh, Sable, I'm going to be a Knight. I'm coming home. "I, Edward Sothos," continued the Knight Commander, "Knight of Baranur, have been called upon to convey upon Luthias of Connall the office of Knighthood. Who asks this charge for him?" Edward inquired in the ritual, then stopped uncertainly. It was tradition for the master of the candidate to answer, or the father, or the noble. Luthias saw Marcellon open his mouth, but behind him, Sir Lawrence answered, "I so ask." "You know him worthy?" Edward continued. "I so know." "So be it. I, Edward Sothos, Knight of Baranur, charge you, Luthias of Connall, to take up the office of Knighthood. Do you accept the charge, with all its honors and obligations?" "I so accept," Luthias replied, his voice strong and confident. He had known the ceremony by heart for years. "Do you vow to protect and serve your homeland, your lady, and 1your King?" "I so vow," Luthias replied steadily, but his body began to shake. He was tired, and his knees were cold from kneeling in the snow. "Do you vow to be in and above all things, a Knight, a follower of Chivalry and Honor?" "I so vow." "How do you so vow?" "Upon my honor, my sword, and my life." "Then I, Edward Sothos, Knight of Baranur, with this silver chain do convey upon you, Luthias of Connall, that office." Again, the Knight Commander paused, for he did not have the symbol of Knighthood to give to Luthias. Marcellon smiled, held out his hands, and murmered something. A fine silver chain appeared on his wrists. The Knight Commander smiled, took it, and placed it on the Count's broad shoulders. Then Sir Edward lightly struck Luthias' cheek with the flat of his blade. "Let that be your last unrequited blow." Edward sheathed his sword. "Rise, Sir Luthias, Count Connall." Sir Luthias did so, laughing. "I am proud of you," the Knight Commander said, and that was all. The Count of Connall turned to his opponent and held out his hand. "Return now, Sir Lawrence. You will have safe passage out of the country. You have my word, as a Knight." Sir Lawrence of the Silver Horn grinned. "Thank you, Sir Luthias. May you and I live to laugh about this someday." "I'll treat you to a drink," Luthias promised. "I drink to you now," Lawrence announced, taking his silver drinking horn from his belt. He put it to his lips, drained it, then offered it to Luthias. The Count Connall took it uncertainly and drank. He found the horn full of sweet, hot liquid that made him feel better immediately. "Thank you," Luthias said, returning the silver horn. He suddenly remembered the fine, etched sword he had been allowed to use. He offered it. "Again, thank you." Sir Lawrence took it from him, but did not sheathe it or hand it to his squire. "This sword was given to me by my master when I was made a Knight," he told Luthias. "Today I took the place of your master; today you became a Knight." He held out the sword to Luthias. "I have had no student more worthy than you." "I am deeply honored," Luthias accepted. Sir Lawrence bowed. "Let us ride!" he ordered his men. They grumbled, but mounted. Rience brought his master his steed. Sir Lawrence mounted and rode around his men to organize them. He paused when he faced the south, then turned and drew his jeweled sword. Quickly, he saluted Sir Edward and Sir Luthias. Both returned the salute, and the invaders charged back into Beinison. Epilogue Luthias watched the Beinisonians leave with satisfaction. "Well," he said, "that's settled." "Indeed," Sir Edward answered, smiling. "Welcome back to life, Luthias. Well done." "Thank you." "No more talk about abandoning your wife," ordered the Knight Commander. "No more talk about abandoning the country and the King. We all need you, as you have so aptly proven." "Yes, Sir Edward," Luthias agreed, chuckling at Edward's mock-scolding. "I'm back to--" Luthias felt a tap on his upper arm where his armor had shattered. He turned to see the boy from the barn, 1the boy who had warned him about the crossbowman. With an earnest look that Luthias didn't understand, the lad put his hand over his heart, touched his lips, then extended the hand. Confused, Luthias frowned. The boy made an abrupt, frustrated face, then pointed toward the barn and began to swing his arms and point to his legs. Luthias didn't understand the pantomime, but the boy was obviously not playing a game. Unwilling to hurt the lad's feelings, Luthias nodded. The boy's expression became anguished. Once again, he placed his hands over his heart and then offered them to the Count Connall. His voice wry, the High Mage interrupted gently, "He is trying to thank you, Luthias." Luthias sent the mage an angry look; it always annoyed Luthias that Marcellon pointed out mysteries as if they should be obvious. Then the Knight turned to the boy and remembered the ugly scene in the barn. The boy had a familiar grief in his eyes. "You are welcome," Luthias replied to the gestures as if the lad had spoken. "I am truly sorry about your sister...she was your sister?" The boy nodded. "Had I arrived a few moments sooner, I might have been able to save her..." Luthias looked down, ashamed for a moment, and caught sight of the ugly crossbow bolt protruding nastily from his battered shield. His heart wrenched. "But I couldn't save Roisart, either." The boy withdrew, as if sensing the Count's sorrow, but after a moment, he approached the Knight again. Luthias watched him curiously. Abruptly, the boy touched the Count's chain of Knighthood, then laid his hand on his own chest where a similar chain might fall. For once, Luthias needed no interpretation, and he smiled. Turning to Sir Edward, the Count of Connall wondered, "Since I am now a Knight, I will have need of a squire, won't I, Sir Edward?" "At least one," the Knight Commander confirmed. Sir Luthias returned his attention to the eager lad. "Will you become my squire?" the Count wondered, his eyes certain of the answer. In reply, the boy nodded violently enough to decapitate himself. Marcellon had never seen Edward so suprised. "You can't make this boy your squire! He isn't of noble descent; he isn't even close! He's a farmer's son, Luthias!" The Count of Connall gave the Knight Commander an astonished look. "What difference does that make?" Sir Luthias argued. "I know 'noble" sons who are dishonorable cowards. This 'farmer's son' was brave enough to try to rescue his sister from twenty armed men--alone! That in itself shows this boy's worthiness. Social class has nothing to do with it!" The Knight Commander frowned mightily. "I understand your point, Sir Luthias, but it is still unheard of to make a peasant a Knight. He will have to be Knighted someday if you allow him to become your squire." "That is the general idea," Marcellon agreed with a dry smile. "Look, Sir Edward, he's already displayed knightly qualities," Luthias reminded the Knight Commander. "He tried to rescue and defend a lady. He faced the danger with bravery." Edward still maintained the awful frown. "Look, Sir Edward, I'd rather Knight a peasant with a noble heart than a coward with a noble name." "Again," Sir Edward admitted with resignation, "you have a point. I'm not certain I approve, but I can't stop you. To a degree, I even agree with you." "So," Luthias began, returning his attention to the boy, "would you like to squire to me?" The boy grinned joyously and nodded enthusiastically. "Good. We'll have the ceremony later this week." 1Count Connall grimaced. "But I can't keep calling you 'boy,' though." Not even in my head. "What is your name?" With a sudden feeling of stupidity, Luthias winced at his own question. The boy couldn't talk, or else he would have warned of the crossbowman verbally. And he probably couldn't write, either; he was, after all, a peasant. Well, he would be a gentleman, a Knight, someday, and he would have to be literate. And he would have to have a name. The announcement, "His name is Derrio," saved Luthias from further embarassment. Behind the dumb lad stood the farmer, whom Luthias presumed was the boy's father. "Is it true?" the man asked the Count and the Knight Commander. "Is there a war coming?" "It is already here," Sir Edward answered with a grim nod. "The Beinison men that were here were an advance scouting force sent to find the locations of our forces. As it appears, they will invade through this area. Your farm is no longer safe." "Let us leave this place," a pale woman at his side suggested. Tears flooded her eyes. "I no longer have a desire to stay." The farmer paused. "Could your armies use another archer, my lord Knight? I may not be as good as your regulars, but I have won the region's archery contests for the last two years. My wife could cook or care for the wounded." Kindly, the Knight Commander smiled. "We can always use archers." Sir Edward glanced at the woman who lowered her eyes. Luthias laughed. "And a cook, a real cook, would probably boost moral more than anything else!" With unusual nervousness, Marcellon glanced over his shoulder at rising, dark clouds. "Come. We should be getting back to Pyridain. Another storm is coming." The High Mage approached Derrio slowly and looked at him oddly. "And I find myself curious as to why this boy is unable to talk." "Let's go," Sir Luthias began, but his new squire dashed away. "What--" "Be patient," Marcellon advised, mounting his steed. "He will return." Luthias shrugged his large shoulders, a feat and a half in rusted armor. "My horse," he suddenly muttered, and quickly, he recovered the beast from behind the barn. By the time he returned, Sir Edward and Marcellon had remounted, and the boy, holding a miniature harp, had reappeared. The boy looked around. "Your parents will join us later," the High Mage assured him, and Derrio nodded. Marcellon reached out and gently touched the harp's tiny strings. "A goodly instrument," Marcellon muttered. "Your sister would approve." Derrio smiled, then proferred the intrument for Luthias' approval. Lacking Marcellon's insight, the Knight could only nod and smile. "Is there anything else you want to bring?" Derrio considered briefly, then shook his head. "Let's go then, squire. We have work to do." The boy smiled; Luthias swung him onto the horse; and with the Baranurian army, they rode back to Pyridain. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction written by the members of the online community. Athene is not limited to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing with just about any interesting topic. The magazine is published monthly, and comes in two formats -- ASCII and PostScript. The content is identical across both formats, but the PostScript version is designed for printing on laser printers while the ASCII edition can be read online as well as printed. To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to: Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET Please indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you prefer to to receive. Back issues, an index, and submission information are also available upon request. 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that future by subscribing to Quanta today. 1------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright March, 1989, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 5 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 5 03/23/90 Cir 971 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Two Bits and a Silver I Michelle Brothers Yuli 17, 1013 Materia Medica III Max Khaytsus and Michelle Brothers Yuli 22-23, 1013 Be Careful What You Wish For Bill Erdley Janis 13, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Two Bits and a Silver Part 1 by Michelle Brothers The street-lamp lighters had just emerged to begin doing their jobs when Eliowy slipped out from behind the glass-blowers shop on Atelier Street. The purse she had just lifted was heavy in her hand but would just barely cover the amount she was supposed to bring in for the night. The purse was heavy not just from the weight of the coins within, but the girl had no time to address the feelings of regret she had in taking the coins from their owner. At the moment keeping her own skin intact was of more importance than the moral considerations involved. Eliowy hurried down the street as quickly as she could without it being obvious that she was in a hurry. She was supposed to have her day's wages, if they could be called that, in by sunset, and already the burnished disk of the summer sun was sinking below the horizon. She was running a little late because she had been trying, over the course of the last few weeks to steal enough extra money so that she could buy a horse to facilitate her escape from Dargon and, incidentally, Liriss. Eliowy picked up her pace. The memory of her tall, hulking boss made her slightly sick. The deal that he had offered her at first hadn't seemed too bad. He had set her up in a boarding house until, according to him, she could get back on her feet. This would have been fine, except that she hadn't really needed any help but she wasn't able to convince him of that. He had insisted. Not seeing any immediate harm in it, Eliowy accepted. A few days later, just as she was about to tell Liriss `thank you very much, but I have to be going', the man had suggested that she might like to repay him for his kindness in putting her up for a time. Eliowy hadn't been able to refuse. It took her a few weeks to realize that she wasn't getting any closer to paying Liriss off. He still paid for her room and board and just a week ago had purchased her a new tunic and cloak for winter. Frightened at the implications of this, Eliowy had given him more money, in hopes of erasing the debt faster. This plan backfired when she was unable to produce the same amount the next night. Liriss had warned her in a low, cold voice that if she didn't bring in the full required donation the next night, he would turn her over to his guards for a night to teach her a lesson. He had added, in a much gentler, honey sweet voice, that there was no place in Dargon that she could hide that he couldn't find her, so she'd better not even think about trying to run out on him. Eliowy had left that interview profoundly disturbed. She believed everything that Liriss told her, less one. She believed that he could find her in Dargon, but doubted that his reach extened much further than that. Besides, she had out run and out-foxed Teran for the last ten months: Liriss, a man she had never seen to leave his office, should be much less of a challenge. The next night she brought him the exact amount that she was supposed to and saved the difference in a small ceramic jar to put towards a horse. The thought of her old mentor made Eliowy walk a little faster yet. According to Liriss, he had left Dargon two days after Eliowy had been taken into the crime lord's `care'. Whether this was true or not, she didn't know, but she did know that sooner or later Teran would make his way back to Dargon and if she was still here by then, he would find her. She had to put as much distance between both Teran and 1Liriss as possible as soon as possible. Full night had fallen and the last of the merchants had left the market square leaving only the rats and other night prowlers out when Eliowy arrived at the building that housed Liriss's office. The building was a three story affair made of wood and solid red bricks. Windows were scattered all about the face of the building along the wall that had the best view of the market place. Liriss, Eliowy had learned, was a great people watcher. The auburn-haired girl shuddered as she climbed the stairs to his office because lately that watching had included her. The door that let her out onto the third floor opened on silent hinges and Eliowy walked the distance down the hallway slowly. Liriss was still having her deliver her daily take to him directly, instead of giving it to one of his lieutenants as the other girls did. She wasn't quite sure why, although the intimidation factor probably had something to do with it. She opened the office door. Liriss's latest secretary, the third in the last month, was seated at the small desk set to one side of the entrace to the crimelord's inner sanctum, carefully applying a pale green powder to her eyelids. She looked up as Eliowy closed the door. "You're late," she observed quietly. "He's waiting for you. Go on in." And she turned back to peering in the polished bronze mirror, wielding her eyebrush with care. Eliowy swallowed and stepped up to the last door. She composed herself, knocked sharply, and entered. As usual, Liriss was standing with his back to the door holding a glass of some dark liquor, staring out his prized picture window. He turned slightly as Eliowy entered. She stopped a few feet from the polished oak desk he stood behind, leaving the door open at her back. "You," he said flatly, returning his gaze to the window, "are late." "I have the money," responded Eliowy promptly, to change the topic. She had gotten a lecture, not too long ago, about the hazards of being late with one's required payment. The alternatives to being prompt that Liriss had chosen to mention had not been pleasant. Eliowy had mentally prepared her lines of defense for the next time she was late, because she knew there would be a next time, and wanted to avoid the consequences. Dodging the question was the first line. "That does not alleviate the fact that you are bring it in late," snapped Liriss, turning to face Eliowy fully, brown eyes blazing angrily. "I brought in a little extra," added Eliowy quickly. "I got lucky today." Second line -- bribery. "You know the penalty for delivering payments late," Liriss continued, as though Eliowy hadn't spoken. "You were warned once before--" "I had to out run the guard!" Last line of defense. Lying or honesty. Whichever sounded the best at the time, coupled with prayer. Liriss stopped talking abruptly and the glare in his eyes became darker. Eliowy forced herself not to cringe under his gaze. "You had to out run the guard," he repeated. With deceptive casualness he set his glass down on the desk. "Just how is it that you're earning this money, young lady, that you should need to run from the guard?" Eliowy swallowed hard, not liking the look in the man's eyes. "Pickpocketing," she said. "How else should I get it?" She couldn't understand the look of utter disbelief that covered Liriss's features. How else was she supposed to earn the money he wanted? Granted, he could, like Teran, disapprove of stealing, but it wasn't 1as though she had many options. No one would hire her for honest labor and she really doubted that Liriss cared that she was thieving. The look on his face was one of surprise, not disapproval. "Pickpocketing. How else could you earn it!" said Liriss in a brittle voice. "Since you don't seem to know, I think tonight will be very--" "Sir!" Liriss turned with a black look to the open door to face his first lieutenant, Kesrin, who held one of his employees by one arm. "My Lord," said Kesrin with a significant look, silently reminding him that he had other business to deal with that evening. He had been Liriss's second lieutenant until the disappearance of Cril over two months ago, and was allowed a certain amount of familiarity. "Kesrin," Liriss acknowledged him with a sharp nod and turned back to the young woman before his desk. "Eliowy, you may go. Do not be late again, or you will be visiting the barracks. Am I clear?" "Yes sir!" Eliowy didn't bother to question her luck. She ducked out the door. Liriss took a deep breath and forced his temper down. He could deal with the girl and her education later. This was just a little more important. "Come in, Kesrin. Tilden." Kesrin closed the door with a brief glance out, and shoved Tilden into a position before the desk while Liriss seated himself. The crime lord took a swallow from his glass, narrowly studying the man before him. Tilden stared at the desktop. "Rumor has it, Tilden, that you've been complaining about my work policies," said Liriss after a suitable interval of time had passed. "According to some of my men, you seem to have this quaint idea that you deserve better than you've been getting from me. Is this correct?" After being the sole survivor of a party of men sent out to bring back Kera, a thief in Liriss's employ, and returning without her, Tilden had been removed from his cushy position as one of the crime boss's scouts and put to work as simple guard, watching one of his gambling establishments. Tilden was a little upset about his new position. "I'm the best damn scout you've got, Liriss," said the man hotly, looking up. "I shouldn't be doing a job that you've got muscle for!" "I see," said Liriss, sounding regretful, "I wish that you had expressed your displeasure to me earlier, Tilden. Then I wouldn't have to deal with the seeds of discontent that you have sown among my troops." Tilden shifted uncomfortably and Liriss took another sip of wine. "Kesrin, take Tilden here to the blocks--" "NO!" "--I have no use for disloyal and incompetent men in my ranks." Tilden lunged suddenly for Liriss's throat but was caught and pinioned by Kesrin before his hands made it halfway across the table. Carefully, almost gently, Kesrin knocked him out. "And when you're done with that, Kesrin," added Liriss. "See what you can do about whipping the men back into shape. I don't want to have to make any more examples of this sort." "Of course, Lord Liriss," Kesrin pulled open the door. "And I'll send Hollis in to you." "You do that," said Liriss, distractedly. He stared out his window for a long while before designing to notice the woman standing there, crafting plans to tighten his grip on his people to make future repetitions of the month's incidents unlikely. People failing in their assigned tasks and having deserters did not make for a smooth running 1operation. Liriss hated it when things didn't run smoothly. With a sharp gesture, he beconed Hollis to his side. "Don't do this to me, Kesrin! Kesrin, you can't do this. Let me go! Please, you can't just leave me here to die, Kesrin!" Tilden struggled futilely against the chains being locked around his wrists and ankles. His voice raised to a paniced scream. "You can't just leave me!" "Yes, I can, Tilden," said Kesrin calmly. He stood a few feet away, holding a torch, and watching calmly as the guards manacled the ex-scout to the granite slab that Liriss used for his executions. "You were warned. You did not heed that warning." "Let me go, Kesrin," repeated Tilden frantically as the men left his side. They walked quickly away as the scout jerked frantically against the chains. "You hate him as much as I do. Let me go and we'll kill him together!" "No," said Kesrin, just loud enough to be heard over the pounding of the waves. "You cannot hate him as much as I do." He stared past the block to the narrow stairs that the guards were slowly climbing. "I will deal with my Lord Liriss. When the time comes." His cool reguard refocused on Tilden's sweaty, spray covered face. "Goodbye, Tilden. May you gain wisdom in your next incarnation." And he turned and walked away, feet splashing softly in the rising tide. "Kesssrriiinnn....!" Two torches were left burning in salt encrusted brackets on the handrail of the stairs that led to Lord Liriss's private execution grounds. The light reflected eerily off of the slowly rising water, turning the sea foam to silver. Liriss's lieutenant, Kesrin, had been gone for some time when Eliowy made her way down the slippery stairs. The water had risen to almost thigh level as she waded out. As she splashed towards him, Tilden jerked in his bonds. "Did you come back to gloat, Kesrin?" he demanded, in a voice cracked raw from screaming. "Or is it you, `Great Lord Liriss', to see if your oh so faithful servant did his job properly!" "Neither, actually," said Eliowy. "And if you hold still, I'll try and get your wrists free." "Rescue! You're here to rescue me!" Tilden's hoarse voice dropped to a whisper of desperate hope, unwilling to question his luck. "Did you get the keys?" "No. I have to pick the lock. Now hold still." Tilden held, while Eliowy swore softly to herself. Before she left Rubel, she had been in the process of learning to pick locks, under the friendly tutelage of her friends the twins, Piper and Skeeter. The two were first rate cutpurses who had developed their lockpicking skills for those rare times when one or the other of them was caught. They had just started to teach her the dubious art when she left. As a result, progress was slow. By the time Eliowy had the scout's ankles free, the ocean had crept up to her thighs. "Hurry," hissed Tilden. "I'm doing my best," retorted Eliowy. "Why are you doing this?" asked Tilden abruptly, as Eliowy fumbled with the lock. Each wave, as it came, nearly lifted her off of her feet, making the effort to pick the locks that much more difficult. "Because," said Eliowy, shaking sea water out of her face. "No one deserves to die like this. And I owe you one. Your timely arrival saved me from..." Eliowy broke off, then began again. "I followed Kesrin out and when I figured out what he planned to do, I had to go 1find a lockpick. That's what took me so long. Sorry." `I can't believe it,' thought Tilden in shock. `Liriss hired someone with a conscience. And when I'm done with him, he won't be able to corrupt any more young people like her again!' "It's all right," he said to Eliowy, forcing himself to calm down. "You're here and that's something." Eliowy didn't reply. After what seemed like an eternity to Tilden she said, "Jerk your arm. I think I got it far enough." Tilden yanked on the chain and felt resistance; he pulled harder and fell to one side, almost off the block, as his arm came abruptly free. "Give me the lockpick," he ordered. Eliowy handed it to him; little more than stiff wire twisted and curved to try and strengthen it. Tilden didn't bother to comment. He was able to unlock the last manacle with deft ease. "Let's go," he said, levering himself up, off of the slab. Together they waded over to the wooden staircase that led to the top of Liriss's private pier. "Can you think of anyplace I can hole up?" asked Tilden as they climbed. "I can't exactly go back to the guards barracks and they know all of my hideouts." "I think I know a place where you can stay," said Eliowy, after a pause. "You plan to take on Liriss, don't you?" she added, knowing that that was the only reason the man would need a place within Dargon city limits to hide. "I plan to make him pay for trying to kill me," replied Tilden, eyes gleaming with hate. "That man has lived far too long and ruined too many lives..." He continued ranting about Liriss and Kesrin, laying out in detail the plans he had for each. Eliowy said nothing else as she led the man to one of the places she had staked out as a potential hiding place for herself. While she agreed with Tilden that the crimelord had to go, she didn't want to get involved with trying to assassinate him. After she got the scout to safety, she planned to leave him. He could take care of himself and the time to leave Dargon was running out fast for her. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Materia Medica Part 3 Max Khaytsus and Michelle Brothers A ten foot grey stone wall came into view, appearing suddenly in the green of the forest, after the bend in the road. The gate to the courtyard was open and Rien and Kera were able to simply ride in. They did not go unnoticed, however. A lone guard looked up from his restless pacing and after straightening his tabard, quickly approached. "Is this the Connall residence?" Rien asked as the man strode up to him. "Yes, it is, sir," said the man politely. "May I help you?" "High Mage Marcellon Equiville should be expecting me," Rien said. The guard seemed to be taken aback for a moment. "Your name?" "Rien Keegan. I was sent by Dyann Taishent." "If you'll wait, sir, I'll go see if the High Mage is available," the guard responded and turned smartly and headed towards the main house. Another guard appeared to replace him in the courtyard before he made it inside. "Well rehearsed," Rien commented to Kera as they dismounted. They remained standing next to each other, holding onto the horse's reins and looking over the noble's estate. The stone wall went on for a good fifty yards, forcing the road outside to turn deeper into the forest, while inside a large courtyard with trees and green, well cared for shrubbery led up to a two story stone house. Other than the single man at the gate, there were no other guards or servants visible. The first guard reappeared at the house's front door with a young, dark haired woman who could not be much older than Kera. They were speaking quickly to each other as they walked over to Rien and his edgy apprentice. "Good morning," the woman said, inclining her head politely. "I am Myrande Shipbrook, the senechal of Connall Keep. I understand that you are here to see the High Mage." "We were told he would be expecting us," Rien answered. "I am Rien Keegan and this is my apprentice, Kera." "Please follow me," Myrande said, smiling. "Marcellon will see you in the Baron's study. Sergeant, please see to their horses." Leaving their mounts, Rien and Kera followed Myrande into the house where they were taken down a corridor and asked to wait for the wizard in a large room. It was the Baron's study, filled with books and decorated with weapons on the walls. By the window stood a large desk, with a disorganized stack of papers on top. An ink well and a nearly new quill stood beside the untidy stack of pages and a large padded chair sat behind the desk, turned to face out the window behind the desk. Four other comfortable looking chairs were scattered about the room. "High Mage Marcellon will be with you in just a few minutes," said the senechal, walking to the door. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. I will send for refreshments." And she stepped out, closing the door behind her. Rien walked over to the bookshelf to take a look at the titles. Most dealt with war and weaponry, but there were quite a few on tactics, law, and a couple of histories as well. 1 "Rien, I'm sick of these wizards and witches," Kera said, prowling the room. He turned around. "We seem to be lacking alternatives. What troubles you more? The disease or the people who can cure it?" Kera sighed and sat down. "They both bother me, but look at how much more trouble looking for a cure caused..." "Are you saying you'd rather have the disease take its course?" "Damn it, Rien! This is all my fault!" "Is it?" Rien asked. "How could it be?" Kera burst into tears. "I led you down that alley! I stabbed you..." Rien embraced her. "You did not lead me. I followed...and you wounded me in self defense. That dog could have been anywhere, as could I..." He stroked her hair back. "We got into the trouble looking for a cure. We have to look for it together. It's not something magical that will find us on its own. I don't want you feeling guilty or thinking that it's all your fault, because it's not." Kera didn't reply, merely buried her head in Rien's shoulder and shook. Marcellon and Myrande stood outside the study door, patiently waiting for the sounds inside to stop. "How could I go in there right now?" Marcellon asked no one in particular. "Can you imagine what they are going through?" "I don't even know why they came here," Myrande answered. "What?" Marcellon snapped around. "I said I don't know why they are here in the first place," Myrande said again. "Come along," Marcellon said, leading Myrande down the corridor, away from the door. "The two mages who came to see me yesterday sent them over. This couple was attacked by a dog diseased with lycanthropy...or perhaps a man diseased with it." "You mean like werewolves?" Myrande asked, eyes wide. "My Lady Myrande," Marcellon smiled kindly. "Werewolves are only a myth. This is a real disease that, over the course of time, makes severe alterations on the diseased body. I have a book on the subject. I may have brought it with me from Magnus..." "Are they dangerous?" Myrande asked. "Maybe I should have a guard posted." "Unless they bite someone they are not dangerous," said Marcellon, the seriousness of his tone belaying the lightness of his words. "I doubt that there will be any problems." When the door opened and Marcellon walked in, Rien and Kera stood with their arms around each other by the window. "I am sorry to intrude," he said, not expecting to walk in on something like this. The pair separated. "I am Marcellon Equiville." "I'm sorry, sir," Rien answered. "It was not proper on our part." "It's quite all right," the wizard replied, smiling. "I understand your situation." Once again Rien introduced himself and Kera and Marcellon invited them to sit down, after taking a seat behind the desk. "I will be more than happy to see what I can do for you," he went on after everyone had seated themselves. "I am not very familiar with the disease, but I am a doctor and from what I understand, you have never approached a physician." "No, sir, we have not," Rien said, "but it was your reputation as a wizard that made the final choice for us." Marcellon smiled good naturedly. "It is a much stronger reputation, I agree, but I intend to be a doctor. Magic does not solve 1all the world's problems." "Before you agree to help us," Rien said, "I'd like to discuss the matter of the fee." "I will not charge you any money," Marcellon said. "I have more than I know what to do with as it is. I simply request that you, at some future time, perform a task for me that I will require to be done." "I've taken that path before--" Rien began warily, but was interrupted by Marcellon. "I can guarantee that it will in no way compromise your morals." Rien paused to think. "You do realize that we need two cures?" "Yes." "And that I am Ljosalfar?" "Yes," the wizard said again. "The price I named accounted for all that." Rien looked at Kera, expecting approval or at least some sort of comment but she said nothing. Realizing that it was to be his decision entirely, he turned after a long pause and nodded to Marcellon. "I accept." "Good," Marcellon said. "Myrande will give you rooms here as I will need you around while I do my work. We can begin right after lunch." Rien walked into the room Marcellon converted into a small laboratory. Kera sat on a chair, holding a cloth compress against her arm. Next to her stood Myrande and Marcellon. The wizard was cleaning the side of a small glass tube filled with blood. "This is good," the wizard said, handing the vial to Myrande. The senechal took the glass over to another table as he turned to Rien. "Have a seat," he said. "You're next." He returned his attention to Kera, as Rien pulled up a chair, and removing the cloth on Kera's arm, cast a quick spell. "Go wash the blood off. It will be fine." Kera got up, looking suspiciously at her arm and went over to a basin of water and began washing the blood off. "Now, you," Marcellon walked over to Rien. "Elves are naturally nocturnal, is that correct?" "Yes." Rien's expression darkened at the use of the slang term for Ljosalfar. "Then you haven't noticed any changes in your vision?" continued Marcellon, oblivious to the change in expression. "No." "Any other changes?" Marcellon asked. "I'm afraid not," Rien said. "Nothing to be afraid about," Marcellon answered, selecting a sharp instrument off of the array on the table. "It could be a sign that your organism is putting up a good fight or that you are immune. We'll see." He looked at Rien's arm and frowned. "Someone had drawn blood before and not too many months ago," he said, indicating the lattice of thin scars below the inside of his elbow. "Yes," Rien said with distaste. "I expect that you will be more sparing with my blood than the other was." He smiled crookedly to take the sting out of his words. By this time Myrande finished with the task that she had been occupied with and came back, holding a clean, empty vial which Marcellon took from her. "I wish I could tell you this won't hurt," said Marcellon, "but purposely desecrating flesh almost always tends to be painful. Are you ready?" Rien nodded and Marcellon made a small incision in his forearm. Blood slowly dripped into the waiting vial. "There," the wizard said after a short while and removed the 1container, moving quickly over to the table where Myrande had taken the first vial. Myrande quickly took his place and instructed Rien on how to hold the cloth compress to stop the bleeding until Marcellon could heal the wound, then went over to the wizard to help with the collected sample. Kera came over to Rien and sat down in a chair next to his. "I was hoping you'd be squeamish," she sighed and he playfully swatted her. "You're hoping for the wrong things," was his quick retort. Marcellon came back. "Let me see your arm," he told Kera. She stretched it out, palm up to display that there was no trace of the incision, not even a scar. "Good," Marcellon approved his own work and turned to Rien. "Let me see yours." Rien stretched his arm out, removing the compress. The bleeding had stopped, but a bloodied cut remained. Marcellon examined it and cast his healing spell again. He looked over the arm again and then said, "this is the first time I've cast anything on a member of your species. It's good to know that magic is a universal doctor." "You had doubts about the spell working?" Rien asked. "Small ones," Marcellon admitted, "but it appears as if nature makes us all of the same dough. Go ahead and wash up." After cleaning his arm, Rien came over to the table where the others stood. In the middle was a deep dish with ice chips and water in which stood the two vials of blood. Around the dish stood other vials and jars and medical instruments, neatly arranged by category and size. Myrande was quietly preparing a solution while Marcellon chatted with Kera. He turned as Rien approached. "What now?" Rien asked. "Now I study the blood," Marcellon answered. "Actually I will only study Kera's for now, as I am vastly more familiar with human physiology. You're free for the rest of the day. I will see you two at dinner." And the mage turned away and, picking up an empty vial, moved purposefully towards the other end of the table. Kera pulled at her new tunic, trying to settle the stiff fabric around her shoulders to her satisfaction. It was a deep shade of red, decorated on the hem and collar with gold thread, and quite becoming on her. Kera couldn't stand it. Dressing up to have dinner wasn't her idea of a good time, no matter who the hosts were. The fact that they were nobility just made the situation worse. Frowning into the polished brass mirror, she tugged again at her collar. She turned at a knock on the door. "Come in." "Are you ready?" Rien asked through the door. "Yeah. Come on in." Rien stepped into the room and looked Kera over. She was a contrast to him, with his dark blue and silver trimmed tunic and blond hair. He nodded approvingly. "You look nice," he complimented. "I don't like this," declared Kera, pulling at the front of her tunic to emphasize her point. Rien shrugged. "You don't wear travel clothes when you dine with the Baron." He looked narrowly at her. "Be glad I'm not having you wear a skirt." Kera shuddered at the thought and Rien smiled faintly. "Now, if you're ready to go?" Kera sighed, nodded, and followed Rien out into the hall. They had been given rooms in Connall Keep proper, along the outside wall so that their windows over-looked the main courtyard and gave a wonderful 1view of the forest over the wall. Despite the simplicity of the furnishings, Kera found herself a little in awe of the place. They turned into the main hallway and walked down the main staircase. At the foot of the steps, Rien paused, trying to remember the directions he had been given to get to the dining hall. After a moment he moved off to the right. A short walk brought them to the doors that led to the smaller of the Keep's two meeting halls. Two guards, in the livery of House Connall pulled the doors open as they approached. "You look nice, too," said Kera suddenly. "What?" Rien turned his attention from studying the tapestry decked hall to his apprentice. "I said `you look nice, too'," repeated Kera. Her eyes darted nervously to the table in the middle of the room where four people sat talking. The hall was lit with many candles and a large fire was lit in the hearth behind the table and the added illumination made their shadows dance eerily. Kera grinned weakly up at Rien who smiled reassuringly. "Welcome to Connall Keep," declared a tall dark haired man from the head of the table. He rose and bowed slightly. "I am Baron Luthias Connall. This is my Senechal, Myrande," he indicated a dark haired woman seated to his left. "We met earlier today," said Rien, inclining his head in the woman's direction. "A pleasure to see you again, Lady." Myrande smiled at him and Luthias continued his introductions. "Ittosai Michaya, my Castellan," a black haired man with narrow brown eyes to his right, "and I believe that you already know Marcellon." The red robed wizard smiled and inclined his head from his place at the foot of the table. Rien bowed politely and Kera quickly, if a little awkwardly followed his example. "I am Rien Keegan, and this is my apprentice, Kera." Kera bowed again as the senechal smiled at her. "Have a seat," said Luthias, gesturing to the empty chairs, "and we'll start dinner." Rien gestured for Kera to sit next to Myrande while he seated himself next to Ittosai. After they had settled themselves, servants brought out the first course of dinner, a hearty soup. "You are here, I understand," said Luthias, after everyone had had a chance to begin their meal, "seeking the cure to a disease that you have." "Yes," confirmed Rien. "We managed to contract an illness that is rather difficult to cure and were directed here by a mage who thought that Lord Marcellon might be able to help us." "I'm certain that I can help you," said Marcellon. "Besides, you present me with a rare opportunity. I've never had a chance to study an elf before." He smiled, taking some of the clinicalness out of the statement. "You mean that elves aren't a myth?" said Luthias vaguely surprised. "I've heard the stories but..." "Not the last time I checked," smiled Rien. Kera concentrated on her soup, hiding a smile. "Pardon," said Ittosai in a strangely accented voice. "But I am unfamiliar with the term. What is an `elf'?" "A pointy eared human," said Kera. Rien shot her an icy glare from across the table. "Except for culture, there are few other differences between ljosalfar," he emphasized the name, "and humans. Your social structure is much more rigid than ours is," said Rien to Ittosai reluctantly. He 1disliked casually discussing his heritage. "My apprentice is correct, however. Our ears are somewhat pointed." He did not offer to show them and no one asked. "Where do you come from?" Kera asked Ittosai suddenly. Everyone's attention shifted abruptly back to her and she suddenly wished that she had kept her mouth shut, but she pressed on. "You don't look quite like anyone I've ever seen in Dargon before. Sir." She didn't feel it was polite to mention his accent. Ittosai smiled, his dark eyes sparkling. "You are correct. I am not from here," he said. "I am from Bichu, it is an island in the ocean of Valenfaer." Kera's eyes widened a little as the rumors she had heard about a Bichuese invasion gained a bit more credibility because of his presence. A servant appeared at her elbow, distracting her from further questions. The soup dishes were removed and replaced with the main course, a roasted fowl with vegetables that was finer than anything Kera had ever tasted. Finer, even, than what Liriss was accustomed to having. The thought of Liriss almost ruined her appetite, so Kera concentrated on the conversation to get the thought of the crime lord and his assassin out of her mind. "What sort of business are you in, Rien?" Myrande was inquiring. "I am an adventurer, Lady," replied Rien. Kera looked sharply at him as he continued. "I am still young. I want to see the world before I settle down to a trade." "Ah, the restlessness of youth," said Marcellon with a sigh. Again Kera's attention was distracted. Youth indeed! The mage looked no older than a thirty year old man and Kera knew that Rien, who looked younger than Marcellon, was at least fifty, if not older. "There is much to see in the world," continued the wizard, "and so little time to see it in." `You're telling me,' thought Kera ruefully, thinking about the disease coursing through her veins. Time was short and if the old man couldn't cure them...Kera's musings were interrupted by Myrande asking her: "And how did you meet Rien, Kera?" "By accident, my Lady," returned Kera promptly, and, taking her cue from Rien, did some hasty adjusting of the facts. "He saved my life in an alley and I offered to...keep him company after that. It does get kind of lonely adventuring alone. He's teaching me sword-craft so I don't end up in that sort of situation again." "You're a swordsman?" Luthias asked Rien eagerly, laying down a bone from dinner. "Yes, Lord," said Rien carefully. "I have some skill with the weapon. Every adventurer should, don't you agree?" "Of course," supported Luthias immediately. "It's a skill every man should have." Ittosai nodded in agreement. "Would you be interested in a sparring match tomorrow?" "No, Luthias," said Marcellon, as Rien cast about for a suitable reply. "I don't want you beating on my patients. I need him in one piece tomorrow." "There is no honor in taking on an opponent who is not at his best," said Ittosai quietly. "Perhaps some other time, Lord Luthias," Rien said, graciously inclining his head. "Yes, some other time," sighed Luthias. Myrande also sighed and the sound almost seemed to say `men!'. "Lady Myrande," said Rien, looking over at the woman. "You are the senechal of this house. Are you a doctor as well?" "I am simply helping Marcellon," replied Myrande with a smile. "And I have some experience with mixing potions." An unreadable glance 1was exchanged between her and Luthias. Rien nodded and concentrated on finishing his meal. Again servants appeared to clear away the plates and dessert was served. There was little discussion during this last course and what was said was limited to sincere compliments to the cook's skills. Kera was surprised to learn that the the dessert confection was an imitation of a Bichuese delicacy. As the last dished were cleared away, Marcellon turned to Rien. "I would appreciate it, Rien, if you and your apprentice," he smiled over at Kera, "would stay around the keep for the next few days. I may need you for tests at odd hours." "That won't be a problem, Lord Marcellon," said Rien. "I will need to go back to the inn, however, to pick up the rest of our belongings if we are going to be staying here." "There's no problem with that. Now, if you will all excuse me," he pushed his chair back. "I'm going to retire to my laboratory to begin my research." Everyone rose, paid their respects to each other, and went their separate ways. Kera followed Rien out of the hall. "Why didn't you agree to fight Lord Luthias after we're cured?" she asked as they climbed the stairs to Rien's room. "Other than not being positive about being cured?" said Rien. "It's considered bad form to beat your host in a fight." "Are you so sure that you'd win, then?" "I am not sure, but I have many more years of experience than he," said Rien, opening the door and pulling his cloak off of the chair he had tossed it on. "The odds are in my favor to win." "Just how old are you?" asked Kera curiously as Rien swirled the cloak around his shoulders. "Wouldn't you like to know," said Rien. Kera glared at him. "I am going for a walk. I will be back later this evening. You stay out of trouble, understand?" "Of course I'll stay out of trouble," Kera replied, offended. "Where are you going?" "For a walk. I will be back soon." "Where? We're in the middle of a forest!" "Precisely." And Rien walked back into the hall and down the corridor with Kera trailing after him, muttering unkind phrases at his back. The following morning Rien went directly north from the Connall Keep, wanting to enter Dargon from a point where he would not be particularly noticeable. After over two hours of travel through the forest he reached the ocean, about ten leagues west of the city. He turned east, the horse slowly trudging through loose sand which began a few feet past the edge of the forest, creating a few yards of beach before being swallowed by the sea. The horse slowed its pace on the new terrain and Rien relaxed, enjoying the ride and the crisp ocean air. To one side, as far as the eye could see, a broad leaf forest slowly turned into evergreens and on the other side the ocean ran off into the distance, somewhere meeting with the horizon and becoming one with the sky. After another hour of gentle riding, the forest thined out, giving way to cultivated fields and harder, open ground. Rien guided the horse off the sand and nudged it into a trot, towards the line of buildings visible a league or so ahead. By the time he reached town, the red disk of the sun was hanging low over the ocean. Rien dismounted, leading his horse up to the pier, deciding to walk the rest of the way, both so he could watch the sunset and give darkness a chance to cover the city. 1 Daily life on the docks was coming to a stand still and the transition to the night-life was beginning. Loading conducted on the few ships currently in port had been halted long before sunset and now crews were lighting lanterns to illuminate the decks before they retired to the ale-houses for the night. Rien paused at the pier that Kera showed him a few days before. A ship was now docked at it and a lone guard patrolled on deck. Leaving his horse, Rien came closer to examine the vessel. It wasn't a small craft. A good sixty feet long, but nothing to compare to the one hundred foot giant about a league back. Rien circled forward to read the ship's name, out of curiosity. Large red letters spelled out _Ocean_Lady_ across the bow. Nothing unusual about that, despite what he knew about the owner of the ship. He was about to turn back when he heard a commotion from beneath the pier, followed by a splash. Noting that the guard was now on the far side of the ship, Rien went down the stairs beneath the pier. Two men with swords stood with their backs to him, facing an unarmed young woman. From their stances it wasn't difficult to deduce that they meant nothing good for her. Rien was about to rush them, when he noticed a third man getting up in front of him. The other two were backing the girl into deeper water. Not giving the situation a second thought, Rien kicked the man getting up and, drawing his sword, advanced after the other two. One of the men turned to the sound of his companion falling back into the water and decided to change the subject of his attack. His swing was parried by Rien and the man's companion became aware of the new opponent as the sound of their swords clashing echoed underneath the pier. The girl, now waist deep in the water and no longer facing an armed opponent, stopped backing into the ocean. Rien parried two more swings, before trying to disarm one of his opponents. The swords met with a loud clank, locking together for a moment. In the dim light the soldier observed Rien's eyes change color and involuntarily took half a step back. Rien took the opportunity to groin him and shove him into the water. So much for chivalry. Ducking the swing of the other man, who was finally able to get close enough to engage him, Rien made a half turn and swung back, catching his opponent on the arm. The man's sword went flying into the water with a dull splash, next to the girl. She hesitated, wondering whether or not to pick it up, then deciding against it, ran out of the water past the two fighting men. Rien's opponent produced a stiletto to continue his fight, but it was knocked from his grasp with a quick slash from Rien's blade. With another swing Rien finished the man and turned back to the one who was again raising himself from the water. A quick, deadly thrust caught him in the chest and the man submerged one more time. Rien waited patiently, knee deep in the rising water. Neither of the men rose again. The first one, the one Rien kicked, was lying face down in the water, not far from the shore line. Rien resheathed his blade, ready to leave, when another man appeared on the stairs. He was wearing chain mail and carried his sword in hand. Rien recognized him as the guard from the _Ocean_Lady_. The guard looked around, spotting Rien and the body in shallow water. "You! Who are you?" Rien backed up to one of the rocks sticking out of the water and climbed up. The guard entered the water, sword at the ready and Rien stood up. "I asked you a question!" the guard barked. Rien remained silent, attempting to lure the guard deeper into the water. In spite of chain mail not being excellent armor, it was a lot more than what Rien had to depend on and some compensation was 1needed. As soon as the guard waded into hip deep water, the padding under his armor started absorbing water. Rien jumped one stone back, out of the guard's reach and drew his sword again. Seeing that his armor was weighing him down, the guard was about to retreat, but Rien's drawing of his sword was an open challenge he could not turn his back on. He proceeded further into the water after Rien, taking a swing when he was close enough. Rien parried and swung at the guard's torso, changing his attack at the last moment. The guard tried to parry the attack, but the feint caught him off guard and Rien's sword impacted at the base of his neck, cutting half way through the chain and flesh. The guard dropped his sword and spasmodically grabbed at Rien, missing his target and sinking into the water. Rien stayed perched on the rock. It was dark now and only the splashing of the waves disturbed the night. Four people killed to save a girl from...what? Rien tried to reconstruct the scene in which he entered. Back on the pier he had heard a commotion and a splash. The girl had probably attempted to escape and in the process of doing so, knocked one of the men to the ground. By the time Rien made it down, the two other men had the girl cornered. It all made sense, except for who the girl was. Her amber eyes reminded him of someone he once met, but he could not place the person or the event. And why was she here? Perhaps Kera would be able to identify the girl and her conflict with Liriss, but that would have to be solved at a later time. With two leaps Rien made it to the first of the stone pillars and jumped off into the water to return to the pier. The only thing that could happen here now would be for someone to find the bodies and Rien did not want to wait around for that. He returned to the pier only to find that someone had appropriated his horse. He wasn't too concerned about the loss of the animal itself, but the loss of transportation annoyed him greatly. It upset Rien enough to want to rough up the first person in sight, but luckily no one was around and by the time Rien finally saw a person wandering the streets, he was sufficiently cooled off. It took him three times longer than it should have to get to the inn, but he finally arrived, with his temper more or less intact. At the inn, as he made his way to the stairs, the inn keeper came up to him. "Sir, a woman stopped by yesterday evening asking about you. She didn't want to leave a message, but I thought I'd mention it to you anyway." "A woman?" Rien asked, wondering who in the world it could be. He knew few people in Dargon and to his recollection, an old woman wasn't one of his acquaintances. "An elderly lady, on the plump side, with grey hair," the man answered. "She didn't say what she wanted?" "No, sir. Just asked if you were in and then left." "Thank you for letting me know," Rien said. He dug into his purse and produced a few coins. "See if you can find me a good horse by tomorrow morning. I am willing to pay for promptness and inconvenience." Promising he'd try, the inn keeper returned to his place behind the bar and Rien went up to his room. He took out the key and put it in the lock. He met resistance when he tried to turn it. He applied a little more pressure but neither the key nor the door budged. Removing the key, Rien examined it and the lock. For the first time in a week there was a problem with the door. He reinserted the key and forced it about in the lock before turning it. The locking mechanism clicked and he pushed the door open. The first thing that caught Rien's eye when he lit a candle was a 1crescent, sloppily drawn in red on the opposite wall. He glanced around the room, but nothing else appeared out of order. Rien approached the wall to get a closer look at the design. The symbol seemed to be painted in blood. He went back to the corridor, to call in the maid who had been lighting candles while he was fumbling with the lock, but she was no longer there. Rien looked both ways in the corridor, then turned back to the room. To his surprise, the wall was clean. Closing the door, Rien approached the wall again and examined it closely. There was no trace of anything ever having been spilled or written there. Rien sat down on the bed, wondering exactly what he saw...or as it stood, what he thought he saw. Footsteps behind him alerted Rien that he was not alone and he looked quickly over his shoulder, but the room was empty. Somewhat shaken by the apparent failure of his senses, Rien blew out the candle and sat down in the middle of the bed, trying to free his mind from all that seemed to be cluttering it, but found he was unable to concentrate. Rien opened his eyes. The candle was still burning, but by the time he made it over to the table, the room was once again dark. He sat on the edge of the bed, wondering what could have caused this madness. Madness...was lycanthropy finally taking its toll? Rien looked at his hands. They were covered with short grey fur. "No..." He dropped back onto the bed, ignoring the phantoms around him and forced his mind to go blank. The world descended into darkness. It was nearly midnight when Myrande made her final rounds of Connall Keep. Luthias had long since retired, but Myrande felt it was her duty to see that everything was settled for the night before she sought her bed. Ordinarily there was nothing that needed her attention at this late hour, so when she entered the minor dining hall seeing a small figure seated on a bench in front of the banked fire was a surprise. As she advanced further into the room, the figure resolved itself into the young woman who was guesting in the Keep with the man who had sought Marcellon. Myrande moved around the dining table, her soft leather shoes making almost no sound against the well worn stone floor. She sat on the edge of the bench, on the side opposite of Kera, before the girl realized that Myrande was there. Kera's reaction to what seemed to be the sudden appearance of a stranger was to make a grab for her dagger. It took her a second to realize that Myrande was not a threat. Silently she berated herself. Myrande should not have been able to sneak up on her like that. Being with Rien so much must be causing her to lose her edge. "I'm sorry, my Lady," she mumbled, releasing the dagger. "I didn't realize that it was you." "It's all right," said Myrande softly. She paused for a moment then said, "it's late. I would have expected you to be asleep by now." Kera shrugged noncommittally, staring into the dying fire. "I'm not really tired," she said. Myrande waited patiently. "He's not back yet," said Kera abruptly, turning to face Connall's senechal. "It's almost midnight. He should have been back by now and I'm afraid that something's happened to him." "Rien?" Kera nodded. Fear lurked in the back of her dark grey eyes. Fear that Liriss, or one of his men, or the assassin had gotten him. Fear that the disease had taken an unexpected turn in him. Fear that he might simply have left her. Myrande slid further down the bench to sit next to her. 1 "You're very worried about him, aren't you," she said gently. Kera nodded again. "Have you known him long?" "Not very long," replied Kera. "But...he's different. Different from all of the other men that I know." Myrande smiled knowingly and allowed her to keep talking. "He's the only person who's ever treated me like a human being and I never really gave him much reason to. I haven't known him for very long, but I think he's pretty special and yes, I am worried." Her gaze challenged Myrande to laugh or refute anything that she had said. Instead of ridiculing her, the dark haired woman nodded in understanding and smiled. "I do understand. I feel pretty much the same way about...someone, too." she said softly. "What if something happened to him," cried Kera, sudden tears coursing down her cheeks. "He could be dead in some alley for all I know or the disease could have..." she choked on expressing the last thought. Myrande wrapped her arms around Kera's shoulders and let her cry herself out. They talked a little, after that, about love and life and death, then Myrande led Kera back up to her assigned room, reassuring her that if Rien wasn't back by morning, a search party would be sent out. She retired to her own room, hoping that he would make it back by the next day. There were enough problems right now, without adding yet another one to the list. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Be Careful What You Wish For... by Bill Erdley All I was supposed to do was feed the horses. It was my turn to do the barnwork chores. Telia smirked at me as I got up from the breakfast table. Last week she had done the barn work; this week she was helping Mother with the house chores. It was cold and wet outside; it had been snowing all night, and that made the upcoming trip to the barn look even worse. I don't think I would have minded so much if she wouldn't have made a face at me as I took my cape from the hook. She stuck her tongue out at me, and I replied with the same. As usual, I was the one who was caught by my father, who clouted me in the head and yelled and promised more punishment if I didn't tend to my chores "right this minute." As I made a hasty exit from the house into the cold morning air, I vowed that someday, very soon, she'd get what was she had coming to her. Just because she's seen five summers less than my fifteen, Mother and Father treat her like a queen and me like a slave. It's not fair. The snow that had fallen the night before had mixed with enough rain to make the ground a slushy, sloppy mess. It was too warm for the snow to stay frozen for long, and between the snow, the puddles and the mud, my feet felt frozen by the time I reached the barn. One of these days, when no one else is around, I'll get her good. I grabbed the old, wooden pitchfork and started cleaning the one empty stall in the barn. Father still hadn't replaced the gelding that had broken it's foreleg in the fields last year, but I didn't care. With an empty stall to move horses into, I didn't have to clean a stall that was occupied by a huge, smelly beast. I should take some of these horse cookies and put them in Telia's bed. That'd get her. As I pushed the first stall's waste out the barn's back door into the pit, I thought I saw a couple of horses at the edge of the woods. They were probably neighbors headed to our house, to talk to Father or to invite themselves in for some of Ma's elderberry pie. I went back into the barn and closed the door. They'll stop and I'll have to take care of their horses. They'll be all wet and need to be brushed down and bedded in the empty stall. I'll smell like a horse for days. I transferred Steos, our stallion, into the bare stall. I began to clean the now empty stall, moving as fast as I could, so that I could be done before those stupid neighbors arrived. Several field mice, who probably came in to get out of the rain, scurried quickly away when I disturbed their home in the straw. I finished the stall quickly, and pushed the refuse to the back door of the barn. When I opened the door, I could see that the horses were closer, and more! There weren't a couple of horses; there were at least twenty or more! I stood there and watched for a moment, but they were still too far away to see anything, so I pushed the dirty straw into the pit and 1went back into the barn. There had been rumors of war spreading among the farmers in the area, but Father always answered the neighbors' fearful musings with "There ain't nothin' here worth fightin' for, so calm yourselves." I moved the old mare, Yonda, into the clean stall and moved Seh, the other mare, out of her stall. I put a halter on her and tethered her to a barn post. Now I could clean both stalls at the same time. If Father came out and saw the mare out of her stall, I would get a whipping, but I hoped that the weather would keep him in the house. I desperately wanted to get the stalls cleaned and the horses fed before the men and the horses got here. Maybe they are soldiers heading for a battle, dressed in armor and carrying huge swords and crossbows and pikes. Maybe they will stay the night, and tell us stories of storming castles and skirmish lines. That way I won't have to sit and listen to Telia practice on her stupid harp. She sounds like a wounded cat when she sings, and her harp playing is horrible. She'll never become a bard like Mother and Father say she will. When I was pushing the last of the dirty straw to the back door, I thought I heard the sound of horses. The travellers must have arrived more quickly than I had hoped. I kicked open the door and pushed the straw out toward the pit. As the manure fell into the open hole, I saw the knight for the first time. I knew he was a knight, dressed in his magnificent armor. His shield hung from the saddle, as did his sword and scabbard. A second horse held a smaller man, also armored, but by his face I could tell that he was younger. A third horse was ridden by an ugly man, who had thick black hair and a scowling face. The rest of the horses were still a good distance from the barn. My eyes were drawn back to the knight. A real knight! Father used to tell us stories about knights. Telia didn't pay much attention, but I did. Father used to say how knights were chosen by the king to defend him and his people against evil wherever it was found. He said that knights were the greatest fighters in the land; that they fought with flashing swords and shining armor, and that the best knights were chosen to defend the king himself! I want to run up and beg to see his sword and his armor and plead with him to tell stories, but that wouldn't be polite. Oh, admit it, you're scared of him... The young man saw me first, turned toward the knight and spoke. The knight immediately looked in my direction and, raising his hand, brought the men to a stop. Then he and the young man turned their horses and rode toward me. "Boy," the knight spoke as he reigned his horse to a stop in front of me, "I would speak to your father. Take me to him." His voice rang with authority. It almost felt like his voice had the power to control my very actions. It was thick with an accent that I had never heard before. I found myself leading his horse around the barn by the bridle, followed by the younger man. I turned to look back at the knight, and saw him sitting straight in his saddle, looking directly forward. The youth was looking around, as if he were watching 1for something to jump out from behind every tree and building. I don't know what he expected to find, since our closest neighbors were a long ways off, and Mother, Father, and Telia were all in the house. I held the horse's halter while the knight dismounted, assisted by the youth that I finally realized must be his squire. Father said that squires were knights-in-training and that they had to do all the chores for the knight and that I could never be a squire because I hated chores so much. The squire helped straighten the knight's tabbard once the knight was on the ground, then accompanied him to the door of the house . The knight turned before he knocked and looked right at me: "You had better return to your chores, son. I wouldn't want your Father to be angry with me for taking you away from them." I turned and ran back toward the barn. I don't know why I ran; it was as if my legs just decided that they had seen enough and really wanted to get away from there. I looked back before entering the barn, the knight had already gone into the house. I stood there at the barn door, looking toward the house, straining to hear what was being said. The house is too far way for you to hear anything, you dummy! Besides, he's a knight. What use would he have for you? You can't even talk! When you live way out here, away from other people, it's easy to forget that you're not like other people. Mother and Father and Telia are used to seeing what I wanted to say in my gestures. When I made the trip into town with Father a while back, people laughed when they realized that I couldn't talk. They acted like I was a dunce and made fun of me. So I just don't go into town anymore. They wouldn't dare laugh if I was a knight. They would stand and admire my armor and my sword and my horse. It wouldn't matter that I couldn't talk. I could just imagine myself on the knight's horse, riding into battle beside my squire and fighting the enemy, swords flashing and armor shining in the sun. The battlefield would be filled with the shouts of victory as we fought our way from one end to the other, dispatching our foes with ease. Other knights and their squires would be fighting, too; and soon all of the enemy would be gone and we would triumphantly ride into the city, to the cheers and admiration of all of the people... "Derrio, come here! Now!" My Father stood at the door and shouted at me. Great. There's a knight in the house and my Father is standing outside the door and yelling at me like a little child! I ran back across the yard, thinking that perhaps the knight needed something and that I was to run and get it for him. "Derrio, go out to the barn and move the horses into the lower pen. Then make sure that each stall is bedded with fresh straw. After you've done that, make sure that the loft ladder is up so that the men in there can use the loft to rest. Go!" Boy, does he look scared! Why is he so 1 afraid of the knight? Seeing the fear in his face made me run all the faster back to the barn. I can't remember ever seeing his eyes so big or hearing his voice shake so much. That knight must have said something that really frightened him. I wonder what he said... Maybe he needs another squire. Maybe he just told Father that he is going to take me along with him and that Father would have to manage the farm on his own. I heard men inside the barn even before I managed to open the door. I guessed that they must be the men that I saw far behind the knight, near the woods. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but it didn't matter. All of a sudden I was scared; I mean REALLY scared. I couldn't figure out why, but I knew that I didn't really want to be anywhere near them. Father's orders were clear, though, so I knew that I had to go in, no matter what I wanted to do or how I felt. So in I went... The men were scattered all over the barn and many had already taken to the loft. Most of them were busy taking off their armor, but there were several by each door and a couple were in Steos' stall, checking him over like I had seen Father do when the horse threw a shoe. The two by the front door watched me as I went past them and headed for the stalls. I quickly untied Seh from where I had left her tethered, then opened Yonda's stall and led her out. I grabbed Seh's halter as I passed her and led them both toward the front door. The men that were there opened the door for me without saying a word, and soon I had both of the horses in the lower corral. I turned and was surprised to see two other men leading Steos out of the barn. They turned to come toward me, but I pointed toward the upper pen. Putting the stallion in with the mares was just asking for trouble, so I decided to put Steos in the other pen. As I closed the gate, I nodded to the men in thanks, but they ignored me and went back into the barn. Rude. And mean-looking. These men give me the creeps. Boy, I wish Telia were out here doing this instead of me. These guys would scare her silly. That would serve her right for making fun of me this morning at breakfast. I re-entered the barn and headed for the loft ladder. I still had to throw straw into the stalls, so I grabbed the pitchfork on my way. It wasn't until I was heaving straw into the empty stalls that I realized how much these men stank! They were all in the process of removing their armor, and with each piece that came off, the stench got worse. I never thought that men could smell worse than horses, but these men... "Derrio, Mother and Father want you to hurry an' get done so you can come into the house." Telia's voice seemed a little higher than usual, like she was scared. Good. "And Father said to make sure that you put Steos in the upper pen and not in the lower pen with Seh and Yonda or they'll be fighting all day." Great. Now he'll think that I put Steos in 1 the upper stall because he told me to instead of remembering it myself. Why doesn't he ever let me do things myself?! I heard several of the men start to laugh and one of them said something about "having some fun with the young lady." Tickle her. She hates that. Oh, if these smelly, ugly men start tickling her... Telia screamed. I may not like my sister very much sometimes, and I've made her scream myself plenty of times; but I can tell the difference between an "I don't like this" scream of displeasure and a scream of sheer terror. I ran to the edge of the loft and saw several of the men around her, and one was reaching under her skirt! She was screaming and trying to get away, but two other men were holding her down. Hey! What are you doing!? Leave her alone! I ran for the loft ladder. I still had the pitchfork in my hand, so I couldn't climb down very fast. I jumped the last few rungs and ran toward the men. I heard one of the men still in the loft yell something, but I was too busy running and hoping I could get my sister out of there before they could catch me. I turned the pitchfork around so that the prongs curved up; that way it wouldn't stick the man that I hit. I ran right toward the kneeling man, looking right at the back of his head. You will be first. When I swung, he moved forward slightly, so that I hit him in the back instead of in the head. He groaned and slumped sideways, falling into another of the kneeling men. I raised the fork and turned toward another man. Suddenly the fork was torn out of my hands. The ugly man that I had seen riding the horse earlier had run up beside me and grabbed it. He clouted me in the head with his fist and sent me sprawling. Telia screamed harder. Telia! I tried to get up but the ugly man swung the fork at me and hit me in the legs. Both legs buckled and felt like they were on fire. A man knelt over Telia and yelled at her, shaking his fist. Telia, get out of here! I rolled over but I couldn't stand because my right leg had cramped. The ugly man swung the fork again and hit me in the back. The man hit Telia across the face with his hand. Leave her alone, you bastard!! I was trying to crawl backwards, but I found that I was against a stall and I couldn't go anywhere. 1 The man hit Telia again, harder this time, and she stopped screaming. Come on, Telia, fight! FIGHT AND SCREAM!!! The ugly man raised the fork again, then a hand came from behind him and grabbed it. He looked and saw another man, in horribly dented and tarnished armor, take the fork away from the ugly man and hit him once with it, hard. The ugly man fell to the floor groaning and holding his head. The armored man turned toward me, but I couldn't see his face because of his helm. He dropped the fork toward me, then turned and ran toward Telia. The barn door flew open and the Knight came in, sword drawn. As soon as he saw the men around Telia, he sheathed his sword and ran toward them. The armor-clad man who had saved me from a beating ran towards Telia also, and got there first. One of the kneeling men saw the Knight coming and tried to stand, but the man that saved me kicked him away from Telia while he swung his sword at the man who had hit my sister. The knight roared something in a language that I couldn't understand. All of the men, including the one that helped me, stopped instantly. I wanted to get back to my feet, to run over and help Telia, but my legs still felt numb and didn't seem to want to do what I wanted them to do. Come on, legs. I've got to get to Telia! I finally managed to get back to my feet, and I staggered over to where Telia lay. The armored man pushed the dead man off Telia and knelt beside her, but I managed to squeeze past him. Her head was twisted all wrong! She was lying on her back. Her skirt had been torn away and there was blood all over her legs and on the ground. The armored man slid his hand over her face, then stood back and I knelt beside her. "I'm sorry, kid," the man said as I lifted her head into my lap. You're sorry?! YOU'RE sorry! They've killed her! She's dead and they've killed her! Kill them all! KILL THEM ALL! I'm sorry, Telia. I didn't mean it. I didn't want them to hurt you. I didn't want this to happen. Why did you come in here? Why? Why did Father have to send you out here? It's not fair. Damn them ALL! I didn't really want you to get hurt. I wished for it but I didn't mean it. WHY DID I WISH FOR IT AT ALL?!? IT'S ALL MY FAULT!! I knelt there and cried, not knowing or caring what went on around me. Nothing else mattered except the fact that I had, somehow, caused my sister's death by the stupid wishes that I had made. I was finally drawn from my self-pity by a hand on my shoulder. I looked around and saw my Father kneeling beside me. "Derrio, I will take her into the house." That was all he said. I could tell that he was almost crying himself, and for once I was glad that I couldn't speak; it saved me from having to say something to him. I rose and removed my cloak, draping it over Telia's body as Father picked her up. He walked to the door, then out into the yard, but I couldn't follow. 1 How can I face them? It was what I said; those things that I wished for caused Telia to die. I never wanted her to get hurt. I didn't want her to die. I was angry and I thought some mean things and I wanted for revenge. Now she's dead and I'm to blame. And they will know; Mother and Father will know the minute that they look at me. They can always tell my thoughts, even when I try to hide them. They will take one look at my face and they will know. How can I face them? What am I going to do?.... Many different thoughts ran through my head as I wandered around aimlessly in the strangely deserted barn. I could run out the back of the barn and into the woods and as far away from here as I can go..., but where would I go? I could jump off of the loft or out of the upper window..., but Mother and Father have already lost one child today. My mind ran wild with possibilities, each too scary or noo hard or too stupid to consider. At the end of it all, I realized that the only thing that I could do was to go and confront them; tell them that it was my fault. They will hate me. Mother will scream and cry and Father will stand there and quietly tell me to leave and never come back. As I walked toward the door, one of the knight's men came back into the barn. He ran past me without looking at me at all, and went directly to the ladder. I stepped through the door and headed for the house. It was then that I saw the knight and the armored man that saved me. They were standing in the yard, swords drawn, facing each other. They are going to fight each other! I stopped dead in my tracks. They were the two that had tried to save Telia. Now they were going to fight!? It didn't make sense. I heard the loft door open and I looked up. The man that had passed me must have opened it, but I couldn't see him, standing where I was almost directly beneath the door. I stepped back into the barn and walked into the first stall so I could see him. He appeared to be bending over, tugging at something. He turned back toward the window and I saw that he held a crossbow! He meant to shoot someone! The knight!! Or the other one! Damn this stupid tongue! How can I warn them? If I try to run out there I'll be too late! I saw the pitchfork lying near the stall where the armored man had dropped it. I ran and grabbed it, then ran for the door. Once outside, I saw the two fighting. They couldn't know about the man in the loft. I turned and hit the barn with the fork, again and again. When I finally stopped to look, the armored man was lowering his shield, which now had a crossbow bolt imbedded in it! The knight was pointing to the barn and shouting. Several men came running toward the 1barn. I stepped out of the way, hoping that they were coming for the man in the loft and not for me. I was right, for they ran past me and into the barn. Very soon they emerged, dragging the man from the loft with them. They took him to the knight, who slapped the man's face, spoke to him, then waved his hand in dismissal. The crossbowman was dragged to one side and thrown to the ground, his captors standing beside him. He didn't even try to get up. The knight and the other man resumed their fighting. I didn't understand why they were fighting, but I knew that they were serious. Several times I saw the second man falter, but he recovered each time. Then I saw the knight almost fall in the mud, but he recovered, too. I was so enthralled by the battle that I almost missed the movement out of the corner of my eye. Looking past the house, I saw something moving just inside the forest's edge. When I looked harder, I saw that there were men all along the forest border. Several men on horseback emerged and galloped toward the house. I had tried to warn the two armored men, but several of the other men grabbed me and held me back. I tried to tell the other men, but they were too interested in the fight before them. Then again, so was I. I turned back toward the fighting men and saw that they were no longer fighting. Much to my amazement, it was the man in the tarnished armor that was standing over the knight, who was kneeling on a muddy patch of ground. The knight held out his sword to the mysterious man, who shook his head. The knight stood and removed his helm as his opponent removed his own. I had gotten close enough to hear what was being said... "... You promised me that, should I conquer. I have. You are an honorable man, and you will keep your word." I looked for the first time at the speaker, the man who had saved me. His face was drawn and haggard and his hair was disheveled by the helm; he was almost as sorry a sight as the tarnished armor that he wore. The voice, however, was strong and rich; like the knight's -- a voice of authority. "I have what I want. I won't kill an honorable enemy without need, sir. Return to your home." The knight stared at the man who had just defeated him and spoke: "Whoever your teacher was, he trained you well in the ways of fighting; and in the Knightly Code. Would to God we weren't enemies, Luthias Connall; this day, you would have your Knighthood from me." The knight offered his hand to the man named "Luthias Connall." Luthias' smile grew, and content calm flooded his eyes. "I have never been so honored, Sir Lawrence," he said, and he shook the Knight's hand. "I believe, Sir Lawrence, that I can fulfill that office." A mighty voice boomed from behind me. I turned to see ANOTHER knight, who was dismounting from his horse. He was accompanied by an older man, much too old to be a squire, climbing down from a horse as well. "Honor given by an enemy is a high compliment, one that Luthias has well earned. Count Connall, kneel." A COUNT!! Knights and Counts?! What is going on here? Count Connall knelt in the mud, and the knight who had just arrived walked over to him, drew his sword, and spoke: "I, Edward Sothos...." Luthias lunged forward and grabbed the speaking man's arm. "Sir Edward, you can't! You know what I need!" There was a desperate look in Luthias' eyes, one which I have seen in the eyes of frightened 1animals. There was so much going on here that I didn't understand. "You no longer need it." The older man, who now walked past me to stand near Sir Edward, spoke for the first time. His voice is strange; soft and soothing, yet there is something about it that was out of the ordinary. I couldn't quite figure out what it was. "The drink I gave you... I cured you. By accident, I cured you." The look on Luthias' face changed to a look of confusion. "I don't believe it." "How long since the last time, then?" The older man, who wore red robes, was smiling. Luthias' face changed. He eyes went blank for a moment, like he was trying to remember something. Then his eyes slowly widened and a smile took over his face. The knight named Sothos began once again, as if taking the smile on Luthias' face as a cue. "I, Edward Sothos, Knight of Baranur, have been called upon to convey upon Luthias of Connall the office of Knighthood..." A Knighting Ceremony!! This is a real knighting ceremony, just like father described! "Who asks this charge for him?" The red-robed man started to speak, but the other knight spoke first. "I so ask." This seemed to surprise Luthias. "You know him worthy?" Sir Edward asked. "I so know." "So be it. I, Edward Sothos, Knight of Baranur, charge you, Luthias of Connall, to take up the office of Knighthood. Do you accept the charge, with all its honors and obligations?" "I so accept," Luthias answered, his voice now stronger and more confident. "Do you vow to protect and serve your homeland, your lady, and your King?" "I so vow." "Do you vow to be in and above all things, a Knight, a follower of Chivalry and Honor?" "I so vow." "How do you so vow?" "Upon my honor, my sword, and my life." "Then I, Edward Sothos, Knight of Baranur, with this silver chain do convey upon you, Luthias of Connall, that office." Sir Edward turned toward the older man, who mumbled something, then handed the knight a silver chain. Edward turned back toward Luthias and draped the chain across Luthias' shoulders. He then slapped Luthias on the cheek with the flat of his sword. "Let that be your last unrequited blow." Sheathing his sword, Sir Edward spoke loudly, for all to hear. "Rise, Sir Luthias, Count Connall." Sir Luthias began laughing as he got to his feet. In a quieter voice, Sir Edward said "I am proud of you." Strange. I know that there are enemies here, but at this moment, I can't tell who is friend and who is foe. Sir Luthias turned toward the knight that he had been fighting only moments before. "Return now, Sir Lawrence. You will have safe passage out of the country. You have my word, as a Knight." Sir Lawrence grinned. "Thank you, Sir Luthias. May you and I live to laugh about this someday." 1 "I'll treat you to a drink," Sir Luthias said. "I drink to you now," Sir Lawrence answered, taking a silver horn from his belt. Without putting anything into it, he raised it and pretended to drink. When he was finished, he held the horn out to Sir Luthias, who repeated the action. I wonder what is meant by this ritual; or even if it is a ritual? "Thank you," Sir Luthias said, handing the horn back to Sir Lawrence. He hesitated, then held out his sword to Sir Lawrence. "Again, thank you." Sir Lawrence took it from him. "This sword was given to me by my master when I was made a Knight. Today I took the place of your master; today you became a Knight." He held out the sword to Luthias. "I have had no student more worthy than you." "I am deeply honored." Luthias took the sword from Lawrence once again. Sir Lawrence bowed to the other two knights and the old man, then turned to the main group of men that had come with him. "Let us ride!" Lawrence's squire brought the knight his horse. Sir Lawrence mounted and rode around his men, shouting orders to hasten their progress. When they appeared to be ready to leave, Lawrence turned back toward the other two knights, who still stood near the muddy patch of ground where the duel took place. He drew his sword and saluted Edward and Luthias, who returned the gesture. While Sir Lawrence gathered his men, I stood near the older man who had arrived with Sir Edward. He was dressed in robes, much like the local Vicar, but he smiled at me when he noticed that I was looking at him, which is something that the Vicar would never do. His gaze felt strange, though, like he was looking inside me. I turned toward Luthias, who was watching the departure of Sir Lawrence and his men. How can I thank him for saving me and for trying to save Telia? He is a stranger. He will not understand me. I felt compelled to speak, yet I knew that the only sounds that would come from my mouth would be groans and grunts. I approached the two knights and caught Luthias' attention. Thank you. I put my hand over my heart, touched my lips, then extended my hand toward him. Mother had taught me a few symbols that could, hopefully, be understood by others. He looked at me questioningly. I knew it. He doesn't understand! I pointed toward the barn. I swung my arms as if I were swinging the pitchfork, then pointed to my legs. He looked at the barn, then back at me. He nodded, but the confused look remained in his eyes. How can I make you understand. You saved me! You tried to save Telia! I clasped both hands over my heart, then extended them toward him 1once again. "He is trying to thank you, Luthias." The older man's words startled me, but I nodded and made the signs once again. "You are welcome. I am truly sorry about your sister. Had I only arrived a few moments sooner, I might have been able to save her...." An old, haunting look crossed his face. "But I couldn't save Roisart, either." Your eyes are so sad. Are you going to cry for my sister, even though you didn't know her? I wish I could be like you. I hesitated for a moment, then knew what I wanted more than anything else in the world. I wanted to become a knight; a knight like Luthias. Perhaps by becoming a knight, I could clear my conscience of my sister's death. I approached Luthias and reached toward him. He didn't back away. I touched the chain upon his chest, the chain that had been placed on his shoulders by Sir Edward, then I touched my own chest, tracing a line where the chain would fall across it. Please. Teach me. Show me how to become a knight. Please. Luthias seemed to understand immediately. He smiled; a warm and genuine smile which told of compassion and kindness and, strangely enough, of sorrow. He turned, grinning, to Sir Edward. "Since I am now a knight, I will have need of a squire, won't I?" "At least one," Sir Edward replied. Sir Luthias turned toward me. "Will you become my squire?" Sir Edward's eyes seemed ready to fall from their sockets. "Luthias, you cannot make this boy your squire! He is not of noble descent; he is just a farmer's son. "What difference does that make?" Luthias argued. "I know 'noble' sons who are dishonorable cowards. This 'farmer's son' was brave enough to try to rescue his sister from twenty armed men -- alone! This display of bravery by itself is an indication of this lad's worthiness. Social class has nothing to do with it." Sir Edward frowned. "I see your point, Luthias, but still, it is quite rare to make a peasant into a Knight. You do realize that he will have to be Knighted someday if he becomes your squire." "That is the general idea," the robed man observed dryly. "He's already displayed Knightly qualities," Sir Luthias reminded Sir Edward. "He tried to rescue a lady and defend her. He bravely faced the danger." He paused. "Look, Edward, I'd rather Knight a peasant with a noble heart than a coward with a noble name." "Again, you have a point," Sir Edward admitted. "I'm not certain I approve, but I can't stop you. To a point, I even agree with you." "So," Sir Luthias began, "would you like to squire to me?" Yes! YES! I'll learn, I promise. I'll do all of the chores that you ask me to do, and I won't complain. Thank you! THANK YOU! "We'll have the ceremony later this week. I cannot keep calling you 'boy', though. What is your name?" Then he winced, remembering that I couldn't talk. "His name is Derrio." My father's voice startled me, although I should have seen Mother and him approaching. "Is it true? Is there a war coming?" 1 The grim Sir Edward nodded. "It is already here. The Beinison men that were here were an advance scouting force sent to find the locations of our forces. As it appears, they will invade through this area, so your farm is no longer safe." "Let us leave this place," my mother said to my father, holding back the tears that must be for Telia. "I no longer have a desire to stay." "Could your armies use another archer?" Father's voice wavered slightly. "I may not be a good as your regulars, but I have won the county's archery contest for the last two years in a row. And my wife could cook and care for the wounded." Sir Edward smiled. "We can always use archers." He then looked at mother, who stood looking at the ground. Sir Luthias laughed loudly. "And a cook, a REAL cook, would probably boost morale more than anything else!" The robed man looked over his shoulder. "Come. We should be getting back to Pyridain. Another storm is coming." He approached me. "And I find myself curious as to why this boy is unable to talk." I suddenly remembered Sir Lawrence's silver horn. He wore that horn like a symbol; something that set him apart from the rest of the knights. I broke and ran for the house. I knew what I needed to do. I burst into the house and headed straight for Telia's room. When I entered, I saw Telia on the bed. She was lying there, under the quilts, as if she were asleep. On the other side of the room I saw what I had come for. Her tiny harp stood on a table by itself. I picked it up carefully. This was the first time I had ever held it. You will never sing again, little harp. The fingers that coaxed you to play are gone. Your strings are silent, angry over what has happened. No, you will never sing again, but you will speak. You will speak to me every night when I lay you aside before I sleep. You will remind me of what has happened here, and of what I have done. You will remind me when I forget about her. Her voice is stilled forever, so now I must be that voice. And I will speak for you, Telia; I promise you. I will speak through my actions; through my deeds and through my presence. One day, I will be a knight, and on that day, this harp will become my symbol. It will become a symbol of ... of ..." I had run out of words, but not tears. I watched as a tear ran slowly down one of the strings of the little harp. I knew that it was one of mine, but for that moment, the harp wept. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction written by the members of the online community. Athene is not limited to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing with just about any interesting topic. The magazine is published monthly, and comes in two formats -- ASCII and PostScript. The content is identical across both formats, but the PostScript version is designed for printing on laser printers while the ASCII edition can be read online as well as printed. To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to: Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET Please indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you prefer to to receive. Back issues, an index, and submission information are also available upon request. 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that future by subscribing to Quanta today. 1------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright March, 1989, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 6 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 6 05/04/90 Cir 984 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DAG Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Editor Materia Medica IV Max Khaytsus and Michelle Brothers Yuli 24-30, 1013 Hunting of the Red Tiger I Wendy Hennequin Neber 1013 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dafydd's Amber Glow by Ye Olde Editor, Dafydd Cyhoeddwr (b.c.k.a. This editorial will be brief. I just wanted to make you all aware that there is (finally!) a source for back issues of DargonZine other than myself. I had wanted to test out the access method before telling you all about it, and just received the results of that test today. In the interest of getting an issue out (it has been over a month, after all), I decided not to put a lengthy description about this here - look for a longer DAG next issue (out next Friday, if everything goes well) which will describe everything you need to know about this archive service (or at least as much as I know). If you are really anxious to know, you can send me a mail message at either the above address or the one in the copyright notice at the end (they are equivalent in every respect) about it and I will send you the updated DargonZine Info file which has this information in it. Thanks for waiting and Enjoy! Dafydd Cyhoeddwr P.S. Wish me happy birthday - I break three decades on Sunday! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Materia Medica Part 4 by Max Khaytsus and Michelle Brothers "I just don't understand why he didn't come back last night," repeated Kera for the fifth time since they had started out from Connall Keep, less than two hours ago. "Or at least send a message. If he was going to be late he would have sent a messenger back...wouldn't he?" The nagging feeling that something dire had happened crept into her worried commentary. "I am certain he is all right," said Ittosai patiently, also for the fifth time. "Merely detained." Dawn had just broken when Kera went to Myrande to tell her that Rien hadn't made it back during the night, declaring her intention to go after him as soon as her horse was saddled. Sable had managed to convince her to wait long enough to have Ittosai go with her as both a companion and an escort in case of trouble. Not for the first time, Myrande thanked god that the Castellan rose early. As the pair came within sight of Dargon's walls, Kera pulled the hood of her heavy cloak up so that her face was hidden in its shadowy folds. Ittosai gave her a questioning look. "There are some people in Dargon who would be happy to know I'm back," Kera explained evasively. "I don't have the time to be making social calls." Hiding a faint smile, Ittosai inclined his head in understanding. A few minutes later they rode through the main gates of Dargon. Kera was able to get them to the inn that she and Rien had stayed at in record time. With the strong, comforting presense of Ittosai, she felt safe enough to take a few short-cuts and her companion did not feel the need to ask how she knew the routes, for which the thief gave silent thanks. "Have you seen my companion?" Kera demanded breathlessly of the innkeeper, as soon as she was inside the inn, while Ittosai tethered the horses. The man started and looked quickly up from the ledger he was leafing through. "Your companion, miss?" he said, looking at her blankly. "He was supposed to be here last night," continued Kera. "To pick up our belongings. We were staying in room three," she added when the man continued to look questioningly at her. "Ah, yes, that gentleman. Taller than him," the innkeep waved a hand at Ittosai as he was coming through the door to join Kera. "Blond, slender, long blue cloak?" Kera nodded eagerly. "Showed up yesterday evening with plans to move out. Asked me to get him a horse and went upstairs, but never came back down. I managed to find him a good horse, too," he hinted, but before he finished, Kera was halfway up the stairs with Ittosai hot on her heels. The door to the room she and Rien had shared was closed, but when Kera tried to push it open, it was unlocked. Suspicious, because the caution she and her mentor habitually practiced included locking doors, Kera pushed the door open. Behind her, Ittosai loosened his sword in its scabbard, anticipating trouble. The door opened with a low groan. Light peeked through the cracks in the shutters and Kera took a second to allow her eyes to adjust to the dimness before cautiously entering the room. She glanced hastily around, seeking intruders 1before her gaze was caught by a figure lying sprawled on the bed. With a soft curse, Kera stepped over and rolled the body onto it's back. Rien's hand, the fingertips stained a dull red, flopped over the edge of the mattress. "How is he?" asked Ittosai softly as Kera checked to see if he was breathing. "Alive," she replied after a moment. She shook Rien, in an attempt to revive him, but got no reaction. She tried again, harder, with the same result. "He's alive," Kera repeated grimly. "But not much else. We should get him back to Marcellon as soon as we can." She pulled her pouch off of her belt and offered it to Ittosai. "Would you please pay for the room and that horse? I'll get him ready to go." Ittosai accepted the money with a slight bow and a look of gentle sympathy and disappeared down the hall. Kera stared at Rien's immobile form and bit her lip to keep the tears back. `This is hardly the time to be losing control,' she thought to herself firmly. `You said you'd get him ready, so do it.' She gathered their possessions together first and carefully tied them into as compact bundles as she could, hoping that Rien would wake up while she worked. Yet, when she finished, he still hadn't stirred at all. With a sigh, Kera grabbed Rien's arm to attempt to haul him upright so that when it came time to carry him downstairs, he would be easier to pick up. With a great deal of effort, she was able to get him upright -- Rien was not nearly so light as he appeared -- and then dropped him as a low scraping noise caused her to turn quickly, reaching for her daggers. Rien hit the rough wood floor with a loud crash, Kera's attempt at grabbing him coming too late. Ittosai, who had startled Kera with his return, ducked inside and joined her at her mentor's side. Rien's eyelids flickered and he slowly opened them to look up at the pair. "Rien...Rien! Are you all right?" Kera asked, helping him into a sitting position from behind. "I'm fine," Rien said after a moment. He put a hand to the back of his head, where it had hit the floor. "Or rather, I will be in a bit." His glance was caught by the red on his fingertips and he studied them curiously as Kera let loose a flood of questions. "Why didn't you send back a message?" she demanded. "Who knocked you out? Why couldn't I wake you up, what happened to your horse and are you sure you're all right?" Ittosai simply knelt opposite him and observed him quietly, prepared to offer Kera a hand should Rien collapse again. "I didn't send a message because I hadn't planned on being late," Rien said sharply, pulling his gaze away from his fingers. "That's a foolish question to ask." Kera flushed and Rien continued. "Someone stole my horse, just after I got into town," he said slowly. "I'm sure I'll recall the circumstances later. Did the innkeep find me another horse?" he asked suddenly, as though just remembering that he had made the request. Ittosai nodded. "It is a fine animal," he said. "Light cavalry. I have paid for it and your room." He offered Kera back her pouch and she absently took it back. `Cavalry?' Rien thought. `I just wanted a horse...' "Thank you, Castellan," he said aloud. Ittosai bowed and Rien looked down at his hands again. "You couldn't wake me, Kera, because I forced myself into a jashch," -- she wondered how he managed to get all those sounds out without damaging his tongue -- "it's a trance like state that isolates me from normal bodily control. I assume I was poisoned," he said, looking up once again. "My senses failed me completely." "Are you all right? Who would do something like that? Where did 1it happen?" Kera burst into a string of questions again. "I told you already, I'm fine. I don't know who did it or where or how. It just happened." "Could it...could it have been the disease?" asked Kera, swallowing hard. "Possibly," Rien said, frowning. "I'm not sure..." He looked back to his hand. "I'm sure this is somehow involved," he indicated the red stain. "We need to return to Lord Marcellon," said Ittosai decisively. "He will know. Are you well enough to travel?" "Yes." "Then let's get moving!" declared Kera, grabbing the bundles that contained her's and Rien's possessions. She headed for the door. With Ittosai's help, Rien walked out of the inn and mounted his newly purchased horse. They left for Connall Keep immediately. "That was indeed nightshade," Marcellon said putting away the beakers after pouring out the solutions he used. "You say your race is immune to the effects of the plant?" Rien nodded. "They are. I am surprised it had this effect on me." "Have you tried it before? Was there a reaction?" "No, I never tried it before," Rien said. "At least not to my knowledge and not deliberately." "But you are half human..." Marcellon stroked his chin absently, staring at nothing in particular. "You could have a different reaction to it, especially now that you have the disease to worry about. This is the most positive proof that some changes have taken place. Do your people respond to it as a narcotic?" "No. It's a simple forest grass." "None the less," the wizard went on, "it was nightshade and it did affect you as a hallucinogen." "At least it's not the disease," Kera sighed. She had been seriously concerned the entire morning, even after Marcellon assured her that it could not be the disease, and only now was beginning to relax. "Young lady," Marcellon looked over at her. "What happened today stressed the one factor which we all should be concerned about. Rien is neither human, nor Ljosalfar. In him the disease may take any course imaginable. For all I know, he may display more symptoms tomorrow morning than you will in the next month. He is one of a kind. There is no precedent for what we are dealing with." Kera shuddered at the images the wizard invoked with his words, as he turned back to Rien. Visions of Rien mutating into a wolfling were fore-most in her mind as the wizard continued talking with her mentor. "This still leave the question of who poisoned you." "Over all, I see Dargon as a friendly town..." "Any people in town who may for some reason dislike you?" Marcellon persisted. "None that I could think of, sir," Rien answered. "Even the men you rescued Kera from?" Damn, he had a good memory! "I would imagine they are still in custody of the guard. Penalties for armed assault are stiff...and I doubt they had the knowledge to make the poison or the money to purchase it." "Very well," Marcellon nodded. "One last question. You said you forced yourself to pass out. Could you elaborate on that?" Rien gave the question some thought. To him it was something natural, but equating it to human norms would be a difficult task. "Sometimes after sustaining injuries humans go into shock," he said 1finally. "This reflex is triggered by pain or perhaps loss of blood. Jashch is similar to that. It protects from unwanted sensations, but it can be triggered by a conscious effort. It is in a way opposite of going into shock. The action is controlled at the start, but while humans recover on their own, I would have to be `removed' from the condition forcibly." Kera lowered her eyes as Marcellon looked at her. "And you dropped him. On his head." She nodded. "It was an accident..." "Otherwise I would probably still be unconscious," Rien said, feeling the lump on the back of his head, and grinning as Kera flushed a deeper shade of red. "The condition isn't permanent, is it?" the wizard asked. "There must be other ways to regain consciousness." "Hunger would have woken me up," Rien said, "but that could take a while." "Very well," Marcellon stood up. "That satisfies all of my curiosity for the moment. Let me return to my work and I shall see both of you at dinner." Rien and Kera stood up as well. "By the way," Marcellon stopped them before they reached the door. "Rien, an old friend of mine, someone I attended the University in Magnus with, will be stopping by here in a day or two. He is an archivist. I am sure he would be interested in meeting with you. Would you object?" "Not at all," Rien answered and promptly left with Kera. "I hope his friend isn't as strange as he is," Rien said as they walked down the hall. "He asks far too many questions." "You lied to him, you know," Kera said. "You said you didn't have enemies in town." "Morality from you? Is profession of thievery becoming moral?" Rien jested. "I did not lie. I stretched the truth, emphasized some misleading facts, but it was not a lie. He suspected someone from Dargon attempted to poison me. I believe it was someone from outside of Dargon." "Huh?" "I told him it was not an individual from Dargon who did this." "You know who it was?" "No, but I suspect. The innkeeper told me an elderly woman came around asking for me. The lock to the room was jammed. Marcellon established beyond doubt that the poison was administered through the hand." He displayed for Kera the still visible red stain. "I assume that the old woman, very likely a witch from Maari's coven, came around and set up the `trap' for me, most likely expecting the poison to kill me. It would have to be left on a surface that I would be guaranteed to touch...such as the door. The lock was probably jammed so that my exposure would increase." "Very convincing," Kera said. "So, as you can see, I did not lie. I simply did not tell him the whole truth. If he or the Baron were to learn the truth about Liriss or Maari, our position could become compromised. In either case, this convinced me that Dargon is far too dangerous for us. The sooner we can leave, the better it will be." "Could it have been Liriss's assassin?" "I doubt Liriss would hire someone's grandmother to kill us," Rien smiled. "Usually grandmothers are self-motivated." A laugh escaped from Kera's mouth. "I would imagine that the assassin is looking for us in Tench by now. He will track us here eventually, but we will be gone by the time he figures out where we went...I hope." 1 They walked in silence to the door of one of the rooms given to them, considering all the dangers that waited to present themselves, then Rien turned to Kera once again. "I do have a question for you about Liriss. When I made it to Dargon yesterday, I went by the docks, including Liriss's pier. Three men were trying to drown a girl there. She was your age, perhaps a bit younger. About five foot, light frame, light brown hair, amber eyes... She's the reason my horse was stolen. I stopped to help her out and I think she took it. Does that sound familiar?" "Sorry. I never had a horse stolen like that." Kera grinned. "And no one I know is into horse theft. It's too hard to get rid of the goods." Rien glared down at her. "It's not funny. Do you know the girl?" Kera shook her head. "I was the youngest one. His ward, in fact," she added bitterly. Rien continued, not really hearing the last part of Kera's comment. "I've seen those eyes before..." "I'm very glad that you were willing to make this record with me, Rien. It will be invaluable for future generations. Perhaps we will even stop fearing your people because of this." Rish Vogel made himself comfortable in the Baron's chair and, placing an ink well with a goose quill on the desk, pulled out a long rolled up sheet of parchment. Rien watched as the old chronicaler set everything up, opening pots of ink, pulling out extra pens from a small box engraved with the quill and scroll of the Archivist Guild, laying out a blotter and a large pile of clean parchment. Vogel came across as a man completely dedicated to his profession; perhaps so much so that he seemed to forget everything else, although he never forgot information that applied to his craft. He even, to Rien's mind, dressed like a historian should -- long brown robe with the crumbs of his last meal clinging to the front, worn belt with additional quills, a jar of ink and several small rolls of parchment dangling from it. Rien had asked the reason for the extra equipment and had been told flatly that after being caught without paper and having to record a very important event on a napkin in wine, Rish had vowed to never be caught without proper tools again. Hanging the items from his belt was his way of making sure that they were on hand at all times. Rien found this to be highly amusing. He had agreed to the interview only because he believed in the chronicler's desire to have the unknown recorded for later generations of people. And he hoped, like Rish, that this information would someday lead to friendly contact between the two races. "Now," Rish dipped the quill in the ink well and poised his hand over the page. "Your name?" "Could we set a few `house rules' first?" Rien remained motionless in the middle of the room. Rish looked up, without actually moving his head, then jotted down a few words. The chronicaler was actually writing every word! Rien frowned. "If you insist," Rish said, "but I intend on making this an accurate record." "First of all, this record is for your and the Duke's reference. No one else is to see it." Rish nodded and set his pen to the paper again. "You will not use my name or make any specific descriptions that relate directly to me. After today, you do not know me. Nor will I make any specific references to names, places, or dates to protect my 1tribe." Rish mouthed the last few words as finished writing them and looked up. "Understood. How old are you?" Rien hesitated. That was a very personal question, but it was not something that could compromise him in the long run. The bookish chronicaler was not breaking `the rules' and was still getting as much information as he could. Rien could see why Rish was able to make such complete records -- he knew which questions to ask. Still, Rien temporized. "Over a century," was all he permitted the historian to write down. Rish began writing again. "I understand that your people are immortal," he said, his pen scratching over the paper, recording his own question. "We are not immortal," Rien said. "Not in the true sense of the word, anyway. We do have long lifespans and in our recorded history no Ljosalfar has died of old age, but we do die." Rien's voice was somber. "We suffer from disease and accidents just like humans. And we can be slain just as easily." Rish paused to dip the quill in to the ink again. "How do you live?" "I personally?" Rish looked up, irritated that Rien could not handle a simple question. "How does the society function?" "We function as a tribe with a central leader, but each individual, once they come of age, has a voice in making the decisions that effect the tribe as a whole. For example, the leader might settle a dispute between two people, but if there is a question of whether the tribe should move elsewhere to winter, it is discussed by everyone." Rien drew a deep breath and continued as the chronicaler finished writing his last sentence. "We don't have a money based economy. Barter is the usual method of distributing goods and skills. There are no social classes. Everyone helps to take care of everyone else and no one goes hungry. We have no crime and--" "No crime?" Rish interrupted Rien, looking up sharply. From years of ingrained habit he used the opportunity to get more ink on his pen. "There are very few of my race left," Rien said. "We can't afford to hurt each other. There are plenty of outsiders who do that for us." "No crime at all," Rish repeated musingly, jotting down a quick notation on the bottom of the page so that he could cross-reference the statement with other records at a later date. "Practically none," Rien conceded. "There are recorded cases of individuals being cast out, but they are few and far between, and none of them recent. The idea of consciously stealing from your sister or harming your brother is as foreign to us as the concept of lack of crime is to you." Rish pulled the ink well closer, not quite satisfied with the response, but knowing that he would get nothing else on the subject. "From what you said, I assume your tribe is very closely knit...?" "Yes." "Were you cast out?" That hit a sensitive nerve. "No," Rien said, forcing himself not to snap. "My father was human. I wanted to explore his world." Rish kept scribbling along, not noticing Rien's discomfort. "`Keegan' is a human name. Was that the surname of your father?" Rien did not answer and the chronicaler looked up. "I am sorry." he said, looking a little abashed. "We did have an agreement..." He was about to say something else, but Rien spoke. "It's the name of the man who trained me. He recommended I take it as two names are expected in your society. I was honored by his offer, so I accepted the name." 1 Rish nodded and bent his head to the page again. "Can you tell me the early history of your people? And do sit down. This won't go any faster if you stand!" Kera sat up in bed with a ear piercing scream. She was in cold sweat and out of instinct she tried to dodge the arms reaching for her. She slammed into Rien who was lying next to her, to avoid being grabbed. "A dream..." she muttered to herself, realizing no one was after her. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder and wiped the sweat from her face. It was chilly in the room, cooler than usual for the summer and Kera pulled the blanket up. It was strange, she thought, that Rien hadn't responded when she hit him. Usually he was more alert than that... She turned to look at her companion, expecting to find him still asleep, but instead found herself staring into unfamiliar eyes. Next to her lay a beast -- she could think of no better word to describe it -- with grey-white fur, extended dog-like jaws and large ears at the top of the skull. The jaws were partially open, displaying rows of snow-white teeth, four of which stood prominently at the front, each half the length of her index finger. The creature stared hungrily into her eyes and she realized that one of its hands was clamped tightly around her wrist. Kera tried to pull her arm back, but the creature prevented her from withdrawing. Instead the grip tightened further and, using her for leverage, it sat up. Kera tried to scream, but her voice refused to obey her. Instead of a shout, a small whimpering noise escaped her throat. The creature's lips pulled back in a viscous smile, tongue lolling out of it's mouth. "Let me go..." she managed to whisper. The creature responded by forcing her onto her back, its strength so great that Kera found herself unable to struggle effectively against it. "You will be like me," she heard Rien's voice, issuing from the creature's throat without accompanying jaw movement. "You will be like me," she heard again and this time the mouth moved, the voice a rough parody of Rien's usually gentle voice. She felt its fur against her chest as it moved to loom over her. "No..." she screamed, fear finally forcing the words out. "Like me..." the phrase was repeated again, the words distorted, barely recognizable. The claws on the arms that held her dug deep into her wrists, piercing the skin and bringing up trickles of blood, even as her hands went numb. "I don't want to be like you!" Kera shouted out at the top of her lungs, twisting beneath the heavy body with a last burst of strength. "Be like who?" the form above her asked. The voice was strict and concerned -- Rien's. "Like you!" she shouted again and continued to struggle. She felt cold and wet and angry at being restrained, but above all lurked the fear of the creature above her. She bit into the arm holding her right wrist and it was released immediately. Her next thought was to punch up and she did. The figure over her swayed from the blow and she continued to hit at it, to drive it away. "I don't want to be like you!" "Stop it!" Rien's voice sounded again, this time a lot closer and a hand locked around her free wrist once more. "Kera! Wake up!" She stopped the struggle long enough to look up. Rien was leaning over her, holding on to her arms. "It's only a dream. Relax." He pulled her up to a sitting position and cradled her protectively. "It's going to be all right." 1 Kera stared to cry softly. "I wouldn't want you to be like me," she heard him say. "You'd be boring." The door burst open and two guards rushed in. One held a readied sword and the other a burning torch. "Let go of her!" the first man ordered Rien. "She had a nightmare," Rien responded, drawing one of the sheets around Kera's shoulders. She was cold, covered with sweat and shaking from the dream she just had and on top of all that, clammy. It was the last that Rien objected to the most, as he held her. "Let go of her," the guard repeated, not sure what to believe. "I want to hear that she is fine from her." Rien sat up straight, holding onto Kera's shoulders. She was still sobbing. "Are you all right?" he asked softly. "I'm fine," she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. "Really, I am," she finished, turning to face the two guards. "We'll be in the hall if you need anything," said the man with the torch while the other glared at Rien and they stepped back outside, pulling the door closed. Rien turned back to Kera who was still shivering. "Are you sure that you're all right?" he asked, holding her by the shoulders and staring intently into her eyes. "I'll be fine," Kera replied. She wiped the last of the tears from her cheeks. "It was just a nightmare...I dreamed...I dreamed that you had changed into a..." She choked on the last part of the sentence and Rien pulled her close again. "It's all right," he said, stroking her hair. "I haven't changed into anything yet and Marcellon will find a cure so see that I don't, ever." "I hope he can," whispered Kera. Rien held her until she finally fell asleep, and stared at the wall for a long time afterwards. "Sir Keegan? The High Mage wishes to see you right away." The summons came right after a quick knock on the partially open door to Baron Connall's study. Rien frowned. Rish must have already let it slip that he was a knight. At least he hadn't tell the chronicler much more than that. He closed the book he was reading and stood up. "Thank you. I will be right there." The guard left the room and Rien got up to replace the book on the shelf. Baron Connall, it seemed, was very preoccupied with the `art' of war, but then again so were most other Humans. For some reason the society was more interested in perfecting methods of fighting, claiming all the while that those preparations did more to insure peace than any other occupation. It struck Rien as a hypocritical view, but how could one argue that a whole race was misinformed? Rien made his way to Marcellon's laboratory. The wizard was talking with Myrande and Kera and there was some sense of excitement about. Rien closed the door and came up to the group. He noticed Kera trying to hold back a smile. "I believe that I have solved it," Marcellon told Rien and Kera's smile finally burst free. "You did it?" Rien asked, just to make sure he heard it right, in spite of Kera's expression indicating the question was useless. "You found a cure?" "I believe I did," Marcellon said again. "Believe," he re-emphasized the word as Rein started to develop a smile much like his apprentice's. "Kera is still capable of seeing in the dark, but 1there is no other evidence of the disease in her body. The change appears to be a permanent physical alteration, but just in case it decides to reverse itself, I would like to observe her for a few more days." Kera jumped off the stool she was sitting on with a laugh and embraced Rien, eyes shining. "Ah!" Marcellon grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her back. "Stay away from him. He's still sick. I want to be positive that you don't become ill again through contact with him." Reluctantly Kera returned to the stool, the happy sparkle still in her eyes. Rien found her good humor to be contagious and was still smiling as Marcellon turned back to him. "Now," said the wizard, leaning up against the table's edge. "I have a good idea what the cure is. We will definitely know tomorrow if it is a hundred percent effective. Meanwhile I would like to begin on you." The High Mage began his work. Kera remained in her seat, watching the now familiar procedure, until Marcellon told her to leave the laboratory, as contests were the only spectator activity of which he approved. Annoyed, Kera left the laboratory and wandered around the public areas of the keep, trying to find something to do. After five days in the laboratory, wistfully thinking of all the things she would like to do, she had no idea of what should actually be done with the free time she suddenly gained. If nothing else, she could use the time productively, Kera decided finally. She went up to her room and unpacked the bow that Rien had purchased for her a week ago. Going to the stables Kera told the servant she was going for a ride and, after saddling her horse, left the keep. She followed the road as it passed by the keep's wall, turning south-west, then took the road that turned sharply north, heading towards the coast line. In an hour the evergreens gave way to a broad leaf forest and Kera turned off the road to a small side trail. She dismounted a fair distance from the trail, strung her bow and, after securing the horse, went in search of game. The day was warm and sunny and Kera had no problems finding something to shoot at. She spotted a fat magpie perched on a tree branch and after a moment of aiming, released the arrow. The missile passed just over the bird, crashing into the leaves in the upper branches and finally fell back to the ground. The bird took the hint at the first sign of trouble and flew away. Retrieving the arrow with a muttered curse, Kera went further down the path, hoping the next shot she took would be more effective. Scrambling up a small hill, she sat down and looked around the forest. It was filled with life. Up above birds flew back and forth at the tops of the trees, but Kera would not even dare shooting one in mid-flight. She spotted a squirrel and took aim, but immediately began to feel sorry for the little animal, peacefully nibbling on some forest fruit. What if she were to get lucky and hit it? She sighed and replaced the arrow she held in the quiver on her back. The squirrel happily snapped its tail and kept on eating. Kera smiled at it and climbed down the other side of the hill. The slope here was much rockier and steeper and it took Kera much longer to go the same distance to the forest floor. The woods here took a darker appearance, the broad leafed trees once again merging with pines. Kera looked around. On a second glance the forest wasn't all that different. The birds were still high above in the trees and a pair of squirrels chased each other around a particularly large stump. Kera wandered a little deeper into the forest. One pine had a 1natural discoloration that looked like a rabbit and Kera drew another arrow, thinking that an inanimate target would be as good as a live one. She drew the string back to her ear, as Rien had taught her and let the arrow fly. Missing its intended target, the arrow struck a tree a few feet back. Kera threw the bow down in anger and marched over the the tree to get the arrow back. Rien ordered these arrows after they returned to Dargon a week ago. They were normal except for the fletching that permitted the arrow to fly straighter and different color rings painted around the shaft, each two finger breadth apart. The arrow was stuck in the trunk up to the third ring and Kera quickly realized that the arrow was stuck in there for good, at least as far as her strength was concerned. She kicked the tree and stomped off in anger. After some time of pacing Kera once again picked up the bow and tried shooting the tree again. This time the arrow lodged itself just above the target and did not go in far enough to get stuck. Kera practiced for an hour longer and finally felt competent enough to shoot at reasonably large, stationary target. She returned to her horse and continued north, towards the Akmeron Ocean, in search of large game. By mid-afternoon she reached the north shore without seeing anything larger than a raccoon. It was as if the whole forest knew she was ready to shoot and was avoiding her. Broadleaf trees gave way to pale yellow sand and crisp waves making their way towards shore. A faint hint of salt permeated the air, distinct from the cool, earthy smells of the wood. She hopped off the horse and lead it west along the sandy shore. At first the animal complained at its hooves sinking into the sand, but soon got used to it and followed her obediently. Off in the distance Kera noticed a man on top of a horse coming towards her. She slowed her pace, moving closer to the water line to give him room to pass. As they got closer, she got the dreadful feeling that she knew the man approaching her and drew up the hood of the cloak, hoping she was not recognized. As the two got closer, the man jumped off his horse and approached Kera. "Haven't seen you in a long while," he greeted. "Yeah, a long while," Kera stopped, her fears of discovery realized. The man left his horse behind and walked over to her. "Where have you been for the last two months?" "Tench." "Kera, don't give me that look. Liriss is really mad about you!" Kera did not expect any less. "That's his problem, isn't it?" "You're going to come back with me and tell him that yourself." "Keep dreaming, Garold," said Kera coldly. "I'm not going to do anything to further your career!" "You're coming back with me, whether you want to or not! Even if I have to knock you cold." Garold grabbed Kera's arms. Kera jerked an arm free and punched Garold in the chest. He did not even flinch, but backhanded her as she tried to pull her other arm free and permitted her to fall back into the water. Kera stood up, wet and angry. In her hand she held a dagger. Garold grabbed her arm and twisted until Kera dropped her weapon, then started trying to pull her tunic up. "Before we go..." Kera struggled more furiously, forcing Garold to use both hands to hold her still and preventing him from doing anything more with her clothing. "What's the matter? It's not like we haven't done this before." He dragged Kera back to the bank and shoved her down. As he leaned over her, a glimmer of steel shone in Kera's hand and sharp pain engulfed his arm. Kera rolled out of the way as Garold hit the sand in 1anger and bolted for her horse. Garold got up slowly, his left arm dripping blood and drew his sword. "You're dead, bitch! Liriss will take you either way." As Liriss' thug advanced Kera grabbed the bow and off her horse -- she had kept the bow strung, since she was hunting and did not want to take the time to restring it each time an animal appeared -- notched an arrow, and drew back the string. "Stay back!" she ordered, aiming at his chest. "Or I'll kill you!" Garold either did not hear her or was so taken with his anger that he did not even pause at her words and Kera released the arrow. It struck its target in the stomach and he gasped, bending forward, as if the wind had been knocked out of him. Kera quickly prepared another arrow and as soon as Garold moved forward again, fired. This arrow took him square in the chest. His legs buckled and he sank to his knees. Kera hesitated with the next arrow. Garold tried to speak, but blood foamed at his lips and he collapsed forward, the two arrow shafts breaking beneath him. Afraid that the man hadn't been alone, Kera looked up and down the beach and, not seeing anyone, quickly remounted and encouraged her horse towards the forest. The animal started out at a lazy walk and Kera kicked it as hard as she could with her heels. "Faster!" The horse lunged into the forest, leaving behind the body, with its blood being slowly washed away by the tide. The sun was just sinking below the horizon when Kera galloped through the gates to Connall Keep, eyes straining behind in fear of pursuit. She nearly jerked the horse around and bolted when the gate guards came out to see what the racket was, but managed a bright smile and a wave as they realized who she was and called polite greetings. Shivering with a combination of chill and fear, Kera guided the horse to the main stable doors and dismounted. As she gathered the reins to lead the animal inside to rub down, voices floated out into the courtyard. "..prentice indeed. If'n he's a knight, she should be a squire, not an apprentice," The rough voice of the stable master was easily identifiable. Kera froze where she stood, unable to stop listening. "Bet he jus' gives the title t' make it sound good, and t' make her believe she's more'n just a bedwarmer." Kera flushed angrily at the implication the man made, but decided that a confrontation would be a bad idea. Drawing her daggers on a servant of a baron could be almost as dangerous as leaving Liriss's employ. The thief glanced sharply around the courtyard, expecting to see yet another of her former master's men lurking about. Feeling far too exposed outside, she called for a stablehand to come deal with her horse and ducked off towards the main keep before the child made it out of the stable to follow her orders. Praying that she would meet no one until tomorrow, she pulled open the keep door and nearly ran Myrande down on her way inside. Only luck prevented Kera from going for her remaining dagger. "Kera!" exclaimed the senechal in surprise. "I was just looking for you. Dinner's ready and -- my goodness! What happened to you? Your shirt's all bloody!" Her dark eyes lingered on the deep maroon stains on the other woman's tunic. "I decided to go out hunting," began Kera, honestly enough, trying very hard to sound normal. "After being cooped up with High Mage Marcellon in his laboratory for so long, I needed to get out. I tried to shoot a rabbit while I was out and it wasn't quite dead when I picked it up." She pulled at the shirt ruefully, hoping that the lie didn't sound as transparent as she thought it did. "This was the result. Ruined a perfectly good tunic because of the darned creature 1and couldn't even bring it back in with me to show for the trouble." Myrande smiled sympathetically. "Go ahead and change then," she said. "I'll have them hold dinner and send someone to clean the shirt." "I don't feel very hungry, my lady," said Kera quickly. "I think I'll just go to bed. If you don't object." "No, I don't mind. I'll see you in the morning then. Goodnight," and she continued out into the courtyard. Kera breathed a sigh of relief and hurried up to her room, bolting the door behind her as soon as she got inside. "I'm simply not sure," said Marcellon, setting the half filled vial down on the table in annoyance and looking over at Rien and Kera. "I wish I could tell you something more definite, but I can't. The infection appears to have been halted, but there are still traces of it in Kera's body. Another day, at least, will be required to be absolutely positive that she will not relapse." Kera sighed deeply and Rien's eyes narrowed in concern. "I don't believe that there is any chance of reinfection," continued the mage. "If you two wish to associate, you may. But don't DO anything, understand?" He looked sharply from one patient to the other. At any other time, an admonition like that would have brought an amused smile to Rien's lips and a giggle from Kera, but now their only response was, "Understood." "Good," harumped Marcellon. "Now go, Kera. I need to continue my treatment of Rien. Come by again tomorrow morning and we'll see if the disease is cleared from your body." "All right," said Kera. She gave Rien's hand a squeeze and slipped out the door. Resignedly, Rien seated himself on the stool that Marcellon indicated with a preemetory gesture. Two days later, Rien found Kera in the courtyard, stretched out on the grass with a cup of mead and a book. "I hope this isn't the way you spent the last two days," he smiled, sitting down beside her. "You're just jealous that I've been able to do this while you were cooped up with the mage," Kera retorted with an answering grin. "Not that it took a long time," she added pensively. "I expected that it would take weeks and weeks to get cured, but it didn't. We had better luck in this one place in a shorter amount of time than all of the months of travelling combined." "Sometimes it works out that way," said Rien with a slight smile. "Our luck's finally turned." "Gods I'm glad of that," said Kera forcefully. "We deserve some good luck for a change." They traded the mead back and forth a few more times, watching a pair of birds fly in dizzy circles in the sunlight. "I was wondering if you want to leave tonight or tomorrow morning," said Rien abruptly. Kera sat up, surprised. "You're cured?" "According to the High Mage himself." Kera embraced him with a strength he didn't think she had. "I'm glad it's over, but how can he know so quickly? He didn't pronounce me healthy until last night." "I was his second patient," Rien said. "He already knew the disease and the cure." "Where do you want to go?" Kera asked. "Not Dargon. I want to take care of matters that were brought to my attention two weeks ago." "The messenger? What was it all about?" 1 "Have a seat," Rien indicated. "Two months ago a brigand showed up in the Duchy of Quinnat. I was asked to go there and remedy the problem. That's really all there is to it." Kera offered him the cup and he took a sip. "Can't the local constable handle it?" she asked. "I'm afraid not," Rien said, returning the cup. "The local constable, it is reported, made a very valiant effort before dying. It's really not his job to control renegade knights in the first place." "So you're going to do it?" "That's why the job was offered to me," Rien said. "I really would like to leave right now," Kera said, tactfully refraining from commenting about his confidance. "This place is too stuffy for me. Everyone is always so proper." "Lady Myrande," Rien said, using a stiff and somber tone of voice on purpose, "has asked us to stay for a special dinner tonight, as we are finally able to return to a normal life in society now." "I guess since she asked, we should stay," Kera agreed. Over the last week and a half she had gotten to know Myrande rather well and could not personally object to such a request. "We can leave in the evening, I suppose. It would be safer to travel by night anyway." "Safer?" Rien asked. "Who'd be able to see us? I guess since I am stuck with being able to see in the dark, I might as well make the most of it." Rien embraced her and they both fell back in the grass. "Tonight it is." "Dinner was just wonderful," Kera said with a smile. "I have never eaten this well before in my life." Myrande smiled back at her as they walked out of the hall, towards the outer doors. "It's too bad that you can't stay longer," said Luthias. "Yes, well...Rien thinks it's about time we leave," replied Kera, stealing a glance behind her. "So..." "Are you sure that leaving at night is a wise?" asked Myrande. "Travelling it night isn't the safest way to go." "Between the pair of us, Rien and I should be able to spot anyone or anything coming at us before it sees us," Kera reassured. "We'll be all right. Really." "And are you certain that you have enough supplies?" "Yes, my lady," said Kera patiently. "What you've provided was more than generous and we plan to supplement it with our road kill anyway, so I'm sure we'll be fine." Rien and Marcellon slowly followed everyone down the main corridor of the keep. "I am positive the disease has been cured," the wizard was telling his patient, "but should you suspect that you still have it or that any side effects appear, seek me immediately. I expect to be here for a few more months. If you will be unable to locate me, my daughter, Lauren, the Duke's wife, will be able to direct you." "That's very kind of you, sir. And about our arrangement...?" "Don't bother with our agreement," Marcellon answered. "When I will need you, I will find you. I suspect you will outlive me as it is." "And..." Rien began, but Marcellon interrupted him again, as if reading his mind. "I have promised you and I never go back on my word. Your morals will not be compromised." They caught up to the others waiting for them under the entry arch to the great hall. "...welcome here, Kera," Myrande was saying as Rien and Marcellon 1joined them. "That goes for you also, Sir Keegan. Should you ever travel back to Dargon in your adventuring, please come by." "Yes," seconded Luthias. "And perhaps next time you and I can have that bout I mentioned." "Perhaps, lord," said Rien noncommittally. "I would like to thank you for your hospitality. I and my apprentice greatly appreciate it." He inclined his head respectfully to Luthias and Myrande and Kera followed with a quick bow to each. The pair smiled. "Good journey to you," said Myrande as they stepped outside. "I certainly hope it will be," muttered Kera, and they headed for the stables. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Hunting of the Red Tiger Part 1 by M. Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a. Donegal na Valenfaer had never thought he'd live to be bored in the Port of the Sun, but it had happened. He told Captain Fynystere this, and the captain laughed. "Well, after seven years of wintering, anything would pale," Fynystere supposed, "even a city on the coast of Duparyn." The captain considered. "I once thought as you did--that there were so many things to do in the Port of the Sun that I could never do it all. But I did," Fynystere concluded with a smile, and Donegal shouted his laughter. "Richard's borrowing my sailboat for a trip to the Isles of the Sun; why don't you ask if you can go along with him?" And so Donegal had sought Richard just Richard, a shipmate who had served--and wintered--with Captain Fynystere nearly twice as long as Donegal had. After quickly scouring the house, the surgeon found the man he sought in a work shed set up to make and repair arrows. This was hardly surprising. Richard was the Eclipse's bowmaster, or chief archer; besides expertly shooting a long bow, he manned the huge crossbow and tended the hellfire in battle. Richard looked up at Donegal and smiled when the surgeon entered. "Come in," the archer invited amiably. "I'm almost done." Donegal watched Richard glue an arrowhead onto a shaft, reflecting as he did so how different he and the archer were. Oh, they were about the same height and build, and they were both reasonably good-looking, but there was no other likeness. Richard was bright as Braigh, his skin bronzed and his hair gilded by sea and sun, and his eyes as blue as the water he sailed. As for Donegal, the surgeon doubted that even the night goddess could have been as dark as he was. His curly hair was raven black; his eyes were a deep, warm ebony; and his skin was the color of the smooth, dark chocolates with which his former master, the kind leech, had often treated him when he was a child. Night and day, Fynystere called them sometimes, night and day. And Donegal laughed. Richard looked at the surgeon, smiled through his neat beard, and continued repairing arrows. "The captain says you're sailing to the Isles," Donegal began, leaning comfortably against a wall. "Want some company?" "Certainly," Richard accepted quickly, picking up a half-dozen newly mended arrows and depositing them in his quiver. "I'll probably be in need of your skill, Donegal." "What're you doing?" the surgeon wondered eagerly, standing straight. "I am going to do something I've wanted to do for thirteen years." Richard lifted his long bow from a shelf behind him. "I am going to hunt the Lowenrote." Now Donegal had heard of the Red Tiger--or Lowenrote, as the Sun People called him--that roamed and ravaged the Isles of the Sun, but he had never thought anyone would be crazy enough to chase the beast down. Well, Richard was strange, all right, but he wasn't boring. So despite the madness of the scheme, Donegal sailed at dawn to the island of Grian with Richard. The trip was calm and quiet--for which Donegal offered brief thanks to Moire--and by mid-day, Richard pulled the sailboat onto the beach. After several determined attempts, the archer and the surgeon managed to yank the small ship past the high tide line, and then took the extra precaution of tying the boat to a stout palm tree. That done, Richard leaned past the sail for his bow and quiver, and Donegal 1recovered his Bichanese sword, his knife, and his surgical pouch. "How long're we going to be here?" Donegal wondered as Richard strung his bow. "I don't know," Richard answered simply. He reached beyond the surgeon for a small bundle. Unwrapping it, he put a piece of flint into a pouch, hung his spying glass on his belt, and slipped two large wine skins' baldrics over his shoulders. "We'll leave tomorrow noon at latest." "I don't know," Donegal hedged, hefting a small backpack containing some food, cloaks, and extra medical supplies. Well, Richard couldn't very well carry it with that quiver on his back. "I hear they sacrifice people here." "That's over in the Siopi Islands," Richard corrected swiftly. "We'll leave before nightfall, if you like," the archer offered, but Donegal could tell that Richard would prefer to stay and hunt the Red Tiger. Well, that's what they were here to do, and as Richard reached for his short sword and knife, Donegal asked him, "Where do we start, Rich?" The archer straightened and smiled as he placed the weapons in their sheaths. "I honestly don't know--" Suddenly, Richard stared and grabbed the surgeon's arm. "There! Look!" Donegal whirled and caught a brief glimpse of blurred, fiery red on the dark, tropical green. "It's the Lowenrote," Richard concluded, sprinting toward it. "Come on, Donegal!" And slightly surprised, the surgeon followed the gold streak that was Richard's long hair. Donegal could hear the swiftness of the chase, the crashing of the brush, and the cry that could only belong to a creature of such ferocity as the Red Tiger. The surgeon followed the haphazard trail of broken brush and broken noise that Richard had left in his wake with confident speed. Oh, Richard was strong enough, stronger than Donegal on any day of the year, and that was his nature; but Donegal was swifter by far, the best runner and the quickest, most limber fighter on the Eclipse. Within moments, the surgeon compacted violently with the archer, whose drawn shot sprung, spoilt, from the long bow. Over Richard's shoulder, Donegal could see the Lowenrote rear its head and cry out, as if laughing, in triumph and invitation. Donegal heard Richard speak a foul word--yeah, he and Donegal knew them all--and then, the archer drew another colorful arrow. Laughing, the Red Tiger sprang into the jungle. Without hesitation, Richard relaxed his draw and raced after it, and Donegal effortlessly ran after him. "Let me track," Donegal begged. "I'm faster." "I have the bow," Richard reminded him through slight panting. "And I can't shoot," Donegal finished. It was something that the surgeon considered a fault. Yes, once they returned to the Port of the Sun, Donegal would ask Richard to teach him to shoot a bow. They stumbled through the jungle, always just in sight of the scarlet flash that was the Lowenrote. Only once did they lose sight of the animal, and then, suddenly, there is was, twenty yards ahead of them, as if it had waited for them. Richard paused, drew his readied arrow, aimed, and-- The arrow followed the Red Tiger into the dense jungle. Richard cursed again, and Donegal followed his companion and the beast. The tiger suddenly and conveniently chose a broken, well-used path. Donegal had slight misgivings; the People of the Sun weren't all that far from barbarians. Richard sprinted without concern, and Donegal knew that running a cleared path would be easier for Richard 1anyway, so the surgeon left his fear in the jungle and followed. And abruptly, the pathway stopped. Well, not exactly stopped, Donegal amended hastily, just veered right and left instead of straight. A quick glance assured Donegal that the Red Tiger was nowhere nearby. "What now, Rich?" Donegal wondered. The archer grimaced, then reached for the spy glass on his belt. Gently, Richard took both ends and pulled; the six inch tube expanded to twelve inches. Richard put it up to his eye and glanced down both trails. "Nothing," he concluded with disgust. "What *does* that thing do?" Donegal asked, reaching for it. Richard looked over at him abruptly. "Seven years on a pirate ship, and you've never looked through one, Donegal?" The surgeon smiled brightly but shook his head. Richard handed the contraption to him. "Here." Slightly dubious, Donegal took the thing and held it up to his eye. Richard's beard became gigantic. "By Sanar," Donegal swore with a smile. "It makes things bigger." "No, it only makes them appear so," Richard explained. "Marcellon told me that it has something to do with the shape of the glass inside." "Who's Marcellon?" Donegal inquired automatically, gaily examining treetops and the far edges of the paths through the spying glass. "An old friend," Richard replied evenly. Abashed, Donegal quickly looked away. He had just broken one of the two sacred rules of the Eclipse: "Ask no questions." (The other was, "Tell no lies.") Whatever happened before a man came aboard, the captain had explained to Donegal when he signed on seven years ago, was that man's business, and his alone. Anyone might disclose his history--Donegal's, for instance, was well-known--but, as a point of honor, the entire crew, Fynystere included, avoided interrogations. "Sorry, Rich," the surgeon mumbled, handing back the spy glass. Richard smiled and clapped his friend's shoulder. "Let's go catch a tiger," the archer suggested, and Donegal knew that Richard had forgiven him, if, indeed, the man had taken offense in the first place. "Lead on," Donegal agreed. Richard looked left and right, considering, when both he and Donegal were startled by voices. Richard again raised the spying glass and looked toward the jungle directly in front of him. The archer stepped forward, parted the growth in front of him, and peered through the glass again. "There you are," he said with satisfaction, and he handed the glass to Donegal and pointed. "There she is." Donegal took the spying glass and gazed at the indicated spot. Graceful and patient, the half-hidden Lowenrote stood across a huge clearing filled with about a hundred People of the Sun, twenty-five sailors, a great pile of palm nuts, palm fruits, and filled botas. "We'd better go around, Rich," Donegal advised as he handed the archer the device. Richard folded it and replaced it on his belt. "I hear the Sun People worship the Red Tiger as some sort of god, and I don't think they'll take kindly to us hunting it." "You're right," Richard concurred, lowering his voice. He readied another arrow and turned to the left footpath. "Let's go, and quietly, Donegal." Listening to the Sun People's chatter, Donegal nodded and followed silently. Someone replied--no, translated, for he said, "The chief demands two iron swords for the fruit and oil." All feeling left Donegal's limbs, and he stopped dead. "Rich!" he choked. 1 "What? What is it?" came the quick, concerned reply. When Donegal couldn't answer, Richard turned back and joined him. "What is it?" the archer asked again. "We have to leave," Donegal finally managed to rasp. The leader of the sailors gave into the demand for two swords. "Beinisonian," Richard realized, listening. "Don't worry, Donegal. They haven't seen us." "If we go after that tiger, they will," the surgeon, terrified, pointed out. "They'll take me back. I won't go back, Rich." "You've covered the brand," Richard reasoned, indicating the bright, Bichanese band that covered Donegal's forehead. "They won't have any idea you were a slave, unless," the bowmaster continued, another thought dawning, "there's some other sign. Were all slaves like you?" "Like me?" Donegal questioned, confused out of his fright. "I don't know--curly-haired, maybe, or dark-skinnned." Donegal, with much effort, managed to curtail his urge to laugh. "Do you think my skin-tone matters to the Beinisons, Rich? They'll enslave anyone--dark as me or light as you, tall, short, men, women, children, Stevenics, criminals, whatever. If slavery was as plain as the skin on my face, do you think they'd bother to *brand* us?" Richard bowed his head. "Sorry." He raised his head to peer through the trees. "Then you should be safe." "I'll never be safe, and I'm not going back," Donegal insisted. "I won't risk it." "And how much will you ask for the twenty girls?" Donegal heard the Beinisonian ask. "I can assure them all good marriages, for there are few women in our land." Donegal gasped and parted the bush in front of him. "No," he breathed. But there they were, twenty lovely, half-dressed young women, excited and eager to be sold. "He's a liar," Donegal said, more to himself than Richard. "He's buying them as slaves." "What do you mean, he's a liar?" Richard demanded. Richard, as far as Donegal knew, only understood his native Baranurian, which was also the language of communication aboard the Eclipse, and a little Bichanese. "What's going on?" "Twelve pounds of gold, and twelve pounds of silver," said the interpreter. "More than that we will not ask, for you have promised them honorable marriages." "That's a lie," Donegal protested in whispers. "He won't marry them off; he'll sell them as slaves. Rich," he began suddenly, grasping his friend's arms, "we've got to stop them!" "What?" Richard ejaculated, looking at Donegal as if he were a madman. "Stop them?" "They're buying those girls," Donegal explained hastily, indicating the women. "They'll sell them as slaves. We've got to stop them!" "Stop them!" Richard, shocked, echoed. "Donegal, they are twenty; we are two. We can't do anything. Let's hunt the Lowenrote." "Rich, listen!" Donegal commanded, pounding the soft, fertile earth. "I know what it's like. They'll take those girls, and they'll brand them, burn slavery into their foreheads so they can never be free--And then they take them across the ocean--no beating or rape, of course, for it lessens the value--but half of them won't survive the journey. Then, in Beinison, they'll be sold like animals--then beaten and raped and--" "I thought you were treated kindly," Richard argued seriously. "*I* was. Millions weren't. But I know how bad it is, Rich; I saw it. I talked to them. I helped my master treat beaten and raped 1slaves. Many *died*, Rich. We've got to stop them!" "You can't stop it," Richard insisted. Donegal opened his mouth. "No, hear me out. We know there are twenty, and probably more aboard their ship--wherever that is. And even if we could stop these men, there will be more coming, Donegal, always more coming. We can't stop Beinison." Donegal frowned. "Let's go hunt." The surgeon scowled at his friend. "Go ahead," he sneered. "Go and chase your cat, Rich. I'm going to do something about this." Donegal rose and dashed the way they had come. After a few minutes, he crouched behind the brush and listened. "Done," said the interpreter. "Very well," the sailor replied. "Tell the girls to prepare themselves. We'll leave soon. Mon-Arnor, take the oil, nuts, and fruit to the ship. I'll follow after the feast with the--the brides." Nervously, Donegal drew his knife and pondered. What to do, how to do it... There was a rustling to his left; with all his swift reflexes, Donegal whirled and presented the knife boldly. He heard a tear, and Richard, his blousy shirt ripped, collapsed onto his backside. "Damnation!" "What, did the cat come this way?" Donegal snapped. "Don't be an ass, Donegal. You'll never do this alone." Richard sat up and squinted through the trees. "What happened? Some of them are leaving." "Yeah, they're taking palm fruits and palm nuts and oil to the ship. The women will follow after they eat, with some of the sailors." "Looks like five are staying behind. Good." Richard rose. "Well, let's go," Richard directed expectantly. Donegal stared at him. "Donegal, trust me. The best bet is to let those fifteen return to their ship and then sink it before the women and the other five get there. We can pick off the others later. Otherwise, it will be too messy--and the women will be killed." Donegal was still confused. "Trust me," Richard repeated, holding out a hand to help the surgeon to his feet. "Believe me, Donegal. I was trained to run military campaigns. And," the Baranurian added, his blue eyes twinkling like a sunny sea, "I have a wonderful idea." Desperately wondering why Richard had been so trained, Donegal rose. "Lead on." Richard nodded and began to follow the circular footpath around the clearing. "We'll come to their outlet eventually," Richard whispered. "We'll follow them to their ship." "Then what?" Donegal rasped, crouching close to the archer. Before answering, Richard unfolded his spy glass and carefully peered through it at the Beinisonian slavers. "They're taking a path not far from this one; look, Donegal." He handed the spying glass to the surgeon, who dutifully raised it. Fifteen Beinisonians, hefting the oil-filled botas and fruit-filled sacks, were making their way along an eastward path. "We've got to get ahead of them." "I thought you said to follow them." "It'll be easier if you get there first. How well do you swim, Donegal?" "Better than some fish; I use to live on a river." "Underwater?" "Yeah, some." "Good. I have an idea for disposing of most of these men at once." "Let's hear it." "No time," Richard countermanded. He reached across his shoulders and divested himself of one of the wine skins. Handing it to the physician, he instructed, "Take this, and get ahead of them. Swim up 1to their ship, and..." The archer grinned. "You'll know what to do." "What is it?" Donegal wondered, sniffing the packet. He nearly dropped the bota when he smelled the sulfur and pitch. "Hellfire?" Donegal smiled wickedly. Hellfire was just the thing they needed. But.. "What did you bring hellfire on a hunting trip for?" "I had-- We don't have time for this," Richard reminded him, rummaging in the backpack that Donegal wore. He retrieved something and put it in his belt purse. "You know what to do. I'll meet you at the beach. And be careful that no one sees you." Donegal nodded once and stealthily ran toward the path. As Richard had conjectured, it wasn't far, and Donegal, after a quick look either way and a hurried prayer to the Masked God, sprinted out upon it. After a five minute run--thank the Masked God that the clearing wasn't far from the coastal beach and that the captain's sailboat was in another cove!--, Donegal came to the edge of a deserted beach. Hiding behind a funny-looking plant, Donegal observed a long boat resting upon the tranquil sand. In the calm lagoon was anchored a small ship--forty man, Donegal guessed with a grimace--with Beinisonian flags and markings. Behind the bush, the surgeon shrugged out of the backpack and removed the surgical pack from his belt. He took off his high boots and his shirt and used them to cover the pack and the pouch. He secured the skin of hellfire over his shoulder, checked his katana and knife, and snuck silently to the water. Without waiting--every second he could be observed, killed, or worse--Donegal slid lengthwise into the shallow lagoon. He smiled, for the lagoon was as warm and soothing as a bath, and stroked quietly toward the ship. While taking a breath, Donegal heard the first of the men coming close to the beach. They were singing a bawdy song and having, Donegal suspected, the time of their lives. Well, the surgeon thought grimly, they had better enjoy the time while they had it. Once the hellfire was in place, the Beinisonians' pleasures would be over. But he would have to move quickly, lest they see him. Keeping his strokes as quiet as possible, Donegal approached the ship's bow. For a moment, he paused, unsure; on the Eclipse, they spread the hellfire on the water with small catapults, not swimmers. A little on the ship, then a ring of hellfire, Donegal decided after the short consideration. And best to start here at the bow, he reasoned, before they get to the beach and can see me. And if I stay reasonably close to the ship, its curves should hide me from those on board. Donegal chose what he deemed a good spot and began treading water with his legs. With his arms thus free, it was easy to open the wine skin and begin pressing the jelly-like hellfire onto the bow of the ship and then onto surface of the water. Watching the greasy hellfire float, Donegal remembered how he and Richard had discovered the stuff five years ago. They had been looking for some way to fuel the Eclipse's lamps; the pirates had run out of oil on the latest attack, when they had used it to ignite the victims' ship. So Donegal, who knew a little about alchemy from his medical training, and Richard, who knew a little about alchemy from Sanar knows where, volunteered to try to make something to tide the ship over until they reached port. The surgeon and the archer started mixing all manner of flammable stuff--exotic oils, the yellow sand which Richard called sulfur, incense, tar, pitch, potatoes, wine, ink, whatever they could find. They found that an excellent, bright, long burning fuel could be made of a neutral jelly- grease, sulphur, pitch, and a few other--now secret--ingredients. 1 The hellfire had burned so brightly, Donegal recalled, continuing his deployment, and had kept the ship so well and economically lit that the captain insisted upon buying the ingredients for the yet-unnamed hellfire instead of oil when they reached port. While testing the second batch, Donegal accidentally splattered some in a filled bucket, and he and Richard realized how extraordinary their invention was. Soon the Eclipse became the most famous--and feared--ship on the Valenfaer Ocean. Donegal finished his circle of death by placing some hellfire on the slaver ship's stern for good measure. Pleased, the surgeon looked toward shore and frowned; the Beinisonians had arrived. Donegal cursed internally. He couldn't stay by the ship; only Sanar knew where they would bring the long boat. If he struck for shore now, they might see him, and that would be his undoing. The Beinisonians would hardly think Donegal a native--a Man of the Sun, in Bichanese clothes?--and if they removed the headband-- No, he would kill himself--and some of them--first. And if he couldn't, well, then Richard and the hellfire would take care of it. The Beinisonians pushed the long boat into the balmy water and rowed toward their mother ship. Without thinking, Donegal sank himself and swam away from the slaving vessel. It will be a long swim, especially as he was taking an indirect path to avoid the long boat. A shot of panic seared Donegal like lightning. He hadn't swum beneath the waves in so long-- But Donegal had mastered water and fear as a child, and he refused to let them conquer him now. Was he not Donegal, the surgeon, the pirate, and the runner? A brief lack of air could hardly vanquish him. Determined and again secure, Donegal pulled himself toward the shores of Grian. He reached the shore only a little short of breath. Am I not Donegal, he repeated, laughing silently at himself, the runner and the pirate? Aye, and a good thing too. Richard, though strong, could hardly survive so long beneath the waves. Satisfied, Donegal pulled himself onto a shady spot of the sand, and after only a brief glance at the Beinisonians, he dashed behind the funny-looking plant and recovered the rest of his belongings. Richard would be coming soon, and Donegal would have to be ready to dispose of the rest of the slavers once Richard had disposed of their vessel. Donegal idly replaced his boots on his feet and carefully watched the Beinisonians. The long boat, which had just reached its destination, was filled to its capacity, but a large, somewhat sloppy, pile of palm fruit, palm nuts, and oil skins still dominated the lagoon's shady beach. Four trips at least, the surgeon decided. He and Richard had plenty of time. "Donegal," a whisper rasped behind him. Donegal waved the archer forward. Richard crawled out of the jungle to sit beside him. "All ready?" The surgeon grinned. "Whenever you are." Richard took out his spy glass and watched the long boat. "How far away is the hellfire circle?" "Not more than ten feet, and I put some on the bow and stern." "I can see it. Good job." The Baranurian archer lowered the spying glass and considered. "Ten feet...we'll wait for them to start the return trip," Richard decided, "which is just as well." He reached into his quiver and pulled out five arrows swathed in Donegal's best bandages. The surgeon grimaced at the ill use of his medical supplies, but Richard sent him an ironic glance that silenced the leech's protests and handed his friend a piece of flint. "When I give the word, light the arrow." 1 "Just like on board," Donegal finished, grinning. He drew his sword and experimented upon it with the flint. The water on the steel prevented a spark. The surgeon frowned and dried the blade with his shirt. "We've been through this a thousand times, Rich; I know the routine." "They have a sweet little cargo there," Richard remarked, glancing again through the spy glass at the sailors unloading the fruit, nuts, and oil. "It'll be a shame to torch it." "Better it burns than the women." Richard nodded, but didn't lower the spying glass. "Freedom never comes cheaply," he agreed; then abruptly, a shadow of pain crossed his face. "I'm still paying for mine." Then the archer set the spy glass on the sand and readied an arrow. "Get ready," he warned, watching. He stood, looked over the distance once more, drew the arrow, and aimed. "Now." Donegal struck the flint against the katana, and an eager spark leapt to the loose end of the maligned bandage. Richard allowed himself a fractioned second to check his aim and let the shaft fly. With eerie beauty, the blazing arrow soared across the sky like a lazy comet and landed upon the bow of the ship. Another flaming shaft followed it closely and struck the water just as the long boat pulled ten feet from her mother ship. The lagoon, the long boat, and the ship erupted into demonic, blue- white flame. "Good shot!" Donegal declared, elated with the inferno and the screams of the damned. Well was their concoction named hellfire. "Get back," Richard warned sharply as he readied another arrow. "There'll be stragglers." "They won't make it through the hellfire," Donegal protested, but he drew his Bichanese sword anyway. "Don't count on it," Richard advised. "It's been done before." The Baranurian archer smiled with sinister glee. "But it won't be easy or painless; freedom never comes cheaply." Donegal chuckled. "If Jilana wills, they won't be able to buy it at all." "I'm so glad I was raised to believe in one God," the archer muttered. "I'd never keep track of so many." "But monotheism is so dull," Donegal reminded him with a grin. "Don't make me laugh," Richard commanded sternly. "I'm trying to concentrate." Richard often was like that, Donegal noted with a smile, joking one moment and ordering people around the next. Yet Richard commanded well, Donegal admitted. Perhaps, since he had been trained for military strategy, Richard had also been trained in leadership. In any case, the leech obeyed. "Take my spying glass," the Baranurian said, "and look at the water. Is anyone swimming toward shore? Check all directions." Once again, Donegal did as he Richard bade him. "Two, coming from the long boat. I doubt anyone made it off the mother ship alive--no, wait. Two more, heading toward us!" Richard squinted. "Four! Damnation!" Re-aiming, he let his arrow loose. The archer re-loaded his bow without waiting for the scream that confirmed his accuracy, and he shot again. Richard immediately loaded his bow. Donegal concentrated his spying glass on the ones heading toward Richard and himself; those two were, after all, the immediate danger. No, not two, one; a slick of blood was rapidly forming on the lagoon's surface. "Got him, Rich!" Donegal cried as Richard fired the second arrow. In the spying glass, Richard's arrow was seemingly swallowed by the other. "Right in the throat!" Donegal exulted gleefully. "Well 1done!" "Two on shore!" Richard cried, turning. He drew another arrow and shot. Donegal whirled to the pile of tropical produce. Two were indeed on shore; they were badly burned, but well-armed. One, whose arm had been nicked and bloodied by Richard's swift arrow, had a mean-looking cutlass; the other had a bow and-- "Get down!" the physician screamed, collapsing heavily onto the sand. But Donegal heard the shot release--or was it Rich's shaft?--and heard it dully contact with a tree. A dull twang sounded; Richard's arrow had misfired, and he cursed. Brandishing his Bichurian sword, Donegal shouted a Highlander war-cry learned from the mate, Cedric of Gallows' Lane, and charged the intruders. Aye, intruders, for they had invaded this peaceful isle to take advantage of its serenity. Donegal? He only came with Richard to hunt the Lowenrote, but Erida could take his soul and devour his body before he would just allow these serpents to destroy this island's women. The Beinisonian archer clumsily prepared a new arrow, and Donegal didn't bother to suppress a contemptuous grin. Richard would have had another shot off by now--why *didn't* Rich have another shot off by now? Donegal dived at the archer, spoiling his shot and breaking his shaft. One swift stab--right to the heart, Donegal thought--and it would be over for this one. The archer twisted with a bestial cry, and Donegal managed to plunge the tip of the katana in the man's stomach. The leech withdrew the blade, held it high-- "Donegal!" Richard shouted with alarm. The katana fell, and the surgeon heard an arrow make a *thunking* sound behind him as it penetrated the swordsman's flesh. A *thump* followed as the dead man hit the ground. The now-harmless cutlass fell simultaneously off Donegal's back. The archer's blood spurted onto Donegal's chest. And Richard was beside him, helping him up. "You were almost dead," the Baranurian explained. "He had the cutlass ready for you." Swiftly waxing angry, Richard violently jostled his friend. "Damn you, don't do stupid things like that! I could have picked them off where we were, but I couldn't risk shooting you!" The archer took a deep breath and smiled. "You stupid surgeon. Are you all right?" Donegal nodded. "You?" "That arrow sailed right past my ear; God protects archers, I guess," Richard laughed. He retrieved the cutlass from the sand and inspected it. "A very nice blade," he complimented the corpse and slipped the blade into his belt. "Thank you." He took his hunting knife from its sheath and began cutting his arrow from the swordsman's flesh. "Would you please run back to our little niche and get our things? We're going to need the spying glass. I want to see if anyone got off of that ship." "I think we got them all, Rich," the leech speculated, but he returned to the funny-looking plant anyway. Quickly, Donegal slung the backpack over his shoulder, slipped the surgical pouch onto his belt, tied his shirt around his waist, and retrieved the spying glass. Polishing it gently on his shirt, he returned to Richard. "Can't be wasting arrows." Richard sighed as Donegal approached. He looked seriously at his friend as he cleaned the bloodied head and replaced the shaft in his quiver. "We still have much work to do." "Aye, that we do," Donegal agreed, offering Richard the glass. The archer took the spying glass from his friend and examined the blazing ship. It was a glorious sight, Donegal decided, and he laughed. The purifying blue-white flames of the hellfire were awesome 1and beautiful, aye, an apt agent of just death and essential purgation. Donegal, satisfied, turned to Richard. "Yes, we got them all," the Baranurian declared, folding the spying glass. Snatching his bow, he rose and smiled at his old friend as he hung the device on his belt. "Shall we get the rest, Donegal?" "Let's," grinned the leech. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that future by subscribing to Quanta today. 1 ** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction written by the members of the online community. Athene is not limited to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing with just about any interesting topic. The magazine is published monthly, and comes in two formats -- ASCII and PostScript. The content is identical across both formats, but the PostScript version is designed for printing on laser printers while the ASCII edition can be read online as well as printed. To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to: Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET Please indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you prefer to to receive. Back issues, an index, and submission information are also available upon request. 1------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright May, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd All rights revert to the authors. These stories may not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 7 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 7 05/11/90 Cir 970 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DAG Dafydd Editorial The Bronze Horseman I Max Khaytsus Sy 10-Seber 22, '13 Hunting of the Red Tiger II M. Wendy Hennequin Neber 1013 A Night Off the Town M. Wendy Hennequin 15 Mertz, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dafydd's Amber Glow by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr (b.c.k.a. Okay, here is, as promised, the scoop on the DargonZine back issue archives: Back issues of DargonZine are available from the Archive Server run by Mark Seiffert. DargonZine has its own section of the Archive in the directory called other/digest/DargonZine, with each volume having a separate sub-directory for it's issues. There are two auxillary files available from the DargonZine directory: the file "index" lists the file names and the descriptions of what is in the files; and the "list" file is a Unix-style ls-lR file of the files available. Back issues are requested from the machine "Archive@mgse" (which may have to be translated to "archive%mgse@rex.cs.tulane.edu" from some machines) by sending it mail. An example of the commands required to get the help file, the index and list files, Volume 1 Issue 1, and Volume2 Issue 1 of the magazine is below: - cut here ---------------------------------------------------------- help send other/digest/DargonZine/list send other/digest/DargonZine/index send other/digest/DargonZine/vol01/issue01 send other/digest/DargonZine/vol02/issue01 - cut here ---------------------------------------------------------- The files are also available for anonymous uucp at 504-467-1069, 2400 baud, login 'archive' in the directory "/archive/other/digest/DargonZine/". Callers at 300 or 1200 baud will have to send a break. If you have any problems or questions, please contact Mark at "archivea@mgse" (or "archivea%mgse@rex.cs.tulane.edu" - Mark is the administrator of the Archive and I have little to no knowledge of just how it works. Please be sure to send your mail files to the right place: questions/problems to archivea@mgse, requests for files to archive@mgse. Thank you, and thanks to Mark for the service and for much of the above explanation. The above presented documentation is right out of the DargonZine Info file, and, as noted, was culled from the documentation that Mark provides for his Server. As I said last issue, I have tested the Server and it works. However, it seems to only accept one command at a time. So, if you want multiple issues, it would seem that you have to send multiple mail messages to the machine. But that's no bad thing - it will help distribute the load on the network if you don't request all 13 back issues at once anyway! I just have two more things to make note of. Its probably a little late for this (should have been in the last issue), but I would like to remind those students who receive DargonZine and who are leaving school for the summer to unsubscribe (just send me a message -its that easy) to save the bandwidth it will take to send your account an issue of DargonZine and have it bounce because your account is no longer active. When you return in the fall, just send me another message and I'll resubscribe you, and you can get the issues you missed from Mark's Archive Server! Thank you for the consideration. And, lastly, there are a few addresses out there that seem to be reachable from the ListServ network that distributes this magazine, but not from my personal account. I would like to reassure these people, most particularly Cathy Newberry (who is the only account I am sure I cannot reach by mail - but there must be others), that I am not ignoring their requests for further information. Cathy, I tried to send you back issues, and this week the DargonZine Info file so you could get them yourself. But, no matter what I tried (and that wasn't as much as it could have been maybe, but I'm no mailer-daemon), our Mailer refused to believe that your node exists. I'm terribly sorry that I couldn't respond directly to your requests, but I did try. Fortunately, I know that the issues make it to you, so above is the back issue information. Thank you and enjoy DargonZine. Dafydd, Editor DargonZine ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 The Bronze Horseman Part 1 by Max Khaytsus A brigand with a large gap between his teeth handed the lance to the young knight on his horse. "He's giving you a chance to die fighting, but if you win, the rest of us will kill you." He smiled savagely. "You went after the wrong people, boy." The knight backhanded the brigand and brought the lance up over the saddle. "I see I killed the wrong three. Get out of my way or I'll skewer you." Another brigand drew his sword. "You be careful what you say or you may have to fight without a tongue." The knight lowered the tip of his lance to point at the speaker. "If I die here today, more will come. Your kind will _not_ rule this land." He thrust the lance forward, hitting the brigand in the chest hard enough to knock him over. "If I die today, I will do so for a good cause and people will remember my name." "Now, now, Sir Arvel," someone said behind the knight and he turned to face a man dressed in full plate made of bronze, sitting atop a night black mount. "Enough of this bragging," the rider went on. "I am giving you this chance because you did earn the chain you wear and I wish to remove it from you the same way you earned it -- in combat." "Quinn," Arvel answered, "killing me won't make your life easier. You are still an outlaw." "Until I am removed by a tribunal, you will refer to me as Sir Garwood Quinn." "Baron Bankroft already revoked your knighthood!" "Baron Bankroft is dead!" Arvel glared at the man in the bronze armor. "Are the peasants ready?" Quinn asked one of his men. "They are all in the field, Sir." "Good. If you will, Sir Arvel," Quinn turned to his opponent. "My men will escort you to your starting position." The gap-toothed brigand took the reins of the horse and lead it away. Quinn kicked his horse to a gallop, going to the other side of the meadow. Arvel's horse was led to a red marker on the edge of the field and turned to face in Sir Garwood's direction. The brigand walked away and Arvel raised his head to the sky in a silent prayer. As the first horn sounded, he leveled his lance. On the second he kicked the horse into a trot. Across the field Sir Garwood did the same. The two horses gained speed on their charges and the knights collided with a clash. Arvel's shield received a great dent in its face. He was not sure if it could take another hit like that, but he suspected he did at least as much damage to Quinn. He turned his horse and looked to find Quinn. The renegade knight adjusted his shield and charged back. Arvel shifted his weight in the saddle and urged his own horse forward. Once again the two knights collided, but this time Arvel fell from his saddle to the ground and Quinn rode back. He dismounted and knelt beside the fallen man. "See how combat before the gods works?" he asked and took the chain of knighthood into his hand. Arvel gasped at the force with which the chain was torn off. "You're no knight," Quinn declared and slit the fallen man's throat. Rien embraced Kera one last time and whispered "Have a safe journey," in her ear. Kera pressed harder against him. "I'll miss 1you." After a minute or so they released each other and Kera remounted her horse. Rien watched her ride away until she reached the curve in the road, where she turned back and waved. He waved back and soon she disappeared from sight. Rien got back on his horse and kicked it into motion. There was a month long trip ahead of him to do a job that should have been taken care of months ago. It was to bring to justice, one way or another, Sir Garwood Quinn, one of the knights of Baron Bankroft, or rather the late Baron Bankroft, who was murdered in cold blood by the said renegade a few days before the Melrin festival. Quinn, in his festive, pre-holiday spirit, took a few of his men and went out to pillage and plunder his baron's lands and set up camp somewhere near the village of Phedra, after permanently releaving the local constable. That was the report Rien received three weeks ago at the inn, telling of something that took place almost two months before that. Now Rien's task was to find the renegade knight in the lands he's been despoiling and one way or another to take care of him and his dozen or so men. Of course by the time Rien arrived, it would be well over three months since the initial event and in that time anything could have happened. The problem might have already been resolved by the local authorities, which was doubtful, as any organized process in the Duchy of Quinnat would be unlikely at best. On the other hand, the problem also had had a chance to grow, which was the more likely event. Rien only hoped it had not grown too much. He sent Kera to Sharks' Cove specifically for that reason -- what he was about to do was going to be very dangerous. She would be much safer on the road than in a fight. She was to go to Armand and take a boat to Sharks' Cove to deliver his message that said he had finally gotten around to the job. The note also requested his horse and equipment and a mount for Kera. Rien had initially left his horse and gear behind to assure his co-workers that he would indeed take a break this time. All he ended up proving was that he did not need anything extra to run into more problems. The vacation became nothing more than a disorganized job, but no one would ever hear about that. Rien was more restless than Kera showed herself to be in their week long stay at the inn in Dargon, but he controlled it better than she. Being forced to "relax" and do nothing was sheer torture for him. Instead of dying of boredom, Rien managed to obtain an obligation to the High Mage (who hopefully still knew nothing of the troubleshooters), get a witches coven upset with him (upset enough to try and kill him), anger the provincial Dargon mob (which hired an assassin to hunt him down) and on top of that, get himself an apprentice! Apprentice for what? He worked alone! His association with Kera made him wonder about their relationship now that he was finally alone and had the chance to think. Was it because he felt sorry for her? Was it because he felt responsible for the disease? And why has their relationship turned sexual of all things? She didn't even have a drop of elven blood. His mate...ex-mate was at least an elf. One thing was for sure, Kera lead the type of lifestyle he lead. Despite this tie between them there was still a problem. He was more than seven times her age and would easily live to see ten times that amount. She, at best, would live to the end of the century. In fifteen or twenty years she would be on the decline, no longer as strong or as agile...and twenty years past that, the same would start happening to her mind. Rien was not happy about human mortality. It was the cause of the initial conflict between his people and the human race. In a matter of two centuries, a few millenia ago, elves almost became an extinct race because of their inability to die a natural death. They were virtual pacifists back then, permitting themselves to be 1slaughtered almost to the last. To date, Rien knew of only four tribes in existence, all living in the same place, Wildwood, in the valley of the Windbourne mountains, or Charnelwood -- Darkling Forest -- as the superstitious humans in the area preferred to call it. Two of the tribes were Ljosalfar. The one he was from and another, of which his ex-mate was a member. The other two were Dopkalfar and Rien knew little of them. He could find them if he wanted to, but there was never a reason to. The Dopkalfar were the ones who insisted that the human lust for elven blood should be repaid in kind and it was this desire to survive that almost singlehandedly saved the entire race. It was this desire that separated the two groups into the broken race they now were. One remained peaceful and the other became warriors. The conflict lay in the issue of revenge and question of superiority. Did a more civilized race have the right to condemn another? For the most part Ljosalfar strongly believed that they should not fight a war and should simply be ready to leave if the humans ever come again. The philosophy of the Dopkalfar was to be ready at all times to take on the challenge of a war and win. There were naturally all sides to the issue in each of the tribes and this was a source of great debates for many centuries. To Rien it was all ancient history, now no more than a racial conflict he believed to be wrong. There were less than two hundred elves that he knew existed and their growth was stunted by humans on the outside and internal conflicts at home. If Ljosalfar and Dopkalfar ever met for reasons other than to decide their future, it was to have as big a fight as they could, although no elf ever died by another elf's hand. There were some human tribes in the mountains and in the forest that did not hate elves and some that even revered them, but on the whole, Makdiar was now a human world and the elves could no longer lay any claim. Rien left his tribe to see the world his father was from, the world no elf had visited for over two millenia. Most in the tribe were against it, but Rien managed to convince a good portion of them that it would be good to know where they stood in the minds of the humans and that he, of mixed heritage, was the best person to find out. To his surprise, he learned that his species was a thing of legends and most, save scholars and mages, did not realize that these legends were often based on facts. Elves were as forgotten as the empires that rose to defeat them. During his time in the human dominated places, Rien learned that humans feared things they did not understand and often tended to rid themselves of these inconveniences any way they could. Maari and Terell were both in this category, but many others were not. Perhaps because time erased the memories of the wars, perhaps because now people were more tolerant. Those like Marcellon and Taishent and Connall, who had no problems with what he was. And neither did Kera, a fact that, oddly enough, pleased him. On his fourth day in Dargon, just three days after they came to an uneasy truce, she saved his life. Perhaps she realized he was not human then, perhaps not. She certainly had the opportunity, but more importantly, she had no reason in the world to save a man who could just as easily have turned her over to the town guard. She could have abandoned him or killed him or given him to Liriss, but instead killed for him and remained at his side. That was the type of people who could live peacefully side by side with elves and that's why he developed respect for her... Rien could not tell if that was the reason for the growth of their physical relationship and did not assume that he would find out 1soon. For now he was glad she had decided to stay with him and more so that she agreed not to face the dangers he expected to encounter. Their plan was, that since Kera would reach Sharks' Cove a lot quicker by ship, she would pick up the equipment and travel on to Phedra, a week long journey, where she would meet up with him again. By then he would have had a good week to take care of the job...or not. Rien caught sight of Phedra in early morning. It lay in a shallow valley, backed by a forest on one side and open to farming fields on the other. In spite of the hour, there was no evidence of life either in the village or in the fields. Rien stopped his horse on the hillside and scanned the area. The village appeared well cared for, but still empty. The fields were also in good shape, but like the town, there were no indications of life. Rien encouraged his horse forward. Up ahead on his left he noticed some motion behind a large bush, whose leaves were beginning to turn brown from lack of water. Unhooking his foot from the stirrup, Rien placed it on the arc of the crossbow, which hung off the saddle to his right. He bent down and grabbing hold of one of the two strings, pulled it back. Not an action that should be done while riding, but better than not being prepared at all. Rien looked ahead again. The bush was still. Across from it was an old tree with branches extending over the road with too many leaves to betray anyone hiding in it. The horse was now about twenty feet away from the tree. At the current rate he would be passing under it in a few moments. Rien looked at the crossbow, but it was impossible to place a bolt in it, not only because of lack of cover, but also because it was pointing straight down and would not hold the missile. Rien grumbled silently for a second and with his left hand undid the strap binding the hilt of his sword. He was passing under the first branches of the tree and looked up just in time to see a net falling onto him. The horse stopped and with a yell someone leaped down. Rien caught the man with his long dagger in mid-air and his assailant landed on the ground with a thud, the weapon lost somewhere under him. Rien was also in a bad position. The horse would not move while the net was around it and he could not draw his sword to cut himself out. As he considered his situation, an arrow from behind the bush penetrated his leg with enough force to secure it to the horse's body. The animal reared up in surprise and pain, breaking the arrow and throwing Rien off, as a second arrow hit it in the shoulder, right were Rien's head had been a moment before. The net caught on the horse and the saddle and Rien more slid than fell to the ground. He grabbed the dagger on the ground and cut the net open. When he finally struggled free, he encountered a man with a drawn sword. The first swing would have surely made contact with his head, except he timely realized that his left leg could no longer support him and collapsed to his knees. The sword went barely over his head and he hit the swordsman with his dagger. The man staggered back and Rien awkwardly drew his sword. His eyes were now silver-grey with anger, matching the color of the steel. Before the brigand could recover for the next attack, Rien swung, slicing his opponent's stomach open. The brigand dropped his weapon and collapsed on top of it, a pool of blood spreading under him. Rien staggered up, the pain in his leg becoming unbearable, but went on to face the two new challengers who appeared from beyond the bush. He parried both their strikes, then attacked one man's weapon, sending it to the ground. The second man swung at Rien, connecting loosely with his side. Rien returned the favor, but instead of pulling 1his sword back, forced it forward. Panicing, the brigand dropped his weapon and tried grabbing his sword, but Rien pulled it back, leaving bloody streaks on the man's hands. Rien turned on his second opponent, again knocking his sword to the ground. The brigand tried punching him, but Rien swung again, cutting his forearm off. The man stared in shock and horror and Rien put the sword through him for the last time. When Rien turned to face the last man, the brigand was sitting on the ground, nursing his hands and side, the sword laying a few feet away, where it had landed. The brigand yielded and Rien put his own weapon away. He leaned on his horse, still covered by the net, for support. A dark pool of red appeared where he stood and his leg was soaked with blood from the calf down. He pulled out a dagger from the saddle bag to cut the net off when hoof beats sounded up ahead on the road. Rien looked up. Riding towards him were three men. The one in the lead rode a black stallion and wore bronze plate armor. The other two rode at his sides and were dressed in chain. Each man wielded a cocked and loaded crossbow. They stopped less than twenty feet away from Rien and the man in the middle surveyed the scene with calculated interest. The brigand sitting on the ground rose, holding on to his injured side. His effort was rewarded with a crossbow bolt in his chest and collapsed to the ground, probably dead. "Is this your doing?" the man asked in an aristocratic voice. Rien nodded, studying the man silently. He believed himself to be speaking with Sir Garwood Quinn. "Those were my men," Quinn motioned to the four bodies. "I think it'd be best if you joined them..." A new bolt was inserted into the crossbow. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Hunting of the Red Tiger Part II by M. Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a Donegal na Valenfaer laughed as he watched the Beinisonian slave ship burn blue with hellfire. "Well, that wasn't so hard. The Beinisonians aren't as tough as they think they are. We've had more trouble pirating some rowboats." "Getting the others will be more difficult," Richard warned him sternly. "Those girls they bought will be in the way." He gazed at the blazing Beinisonian ship and frowned. "You know, it'll be much more difficult for me to pick them off. Here we had nothing to be careful of." "Don't worry, Rich," Donegal reassured him cheerfully. "I'll stab a few in the back, slit a few throats...it'll be easy." "Has anyone ever told you that you're too optimistic?" "You've told me a dozen times." "Why doesn't it sink in?" "Because I'm too optimistic, Rich," Donegal answered innocently. "You're also a pain," Richard growled playfully, making his way to the path the Beinisonians had taken. "Let's get moving, Donegal. Maybe we can catch them at supper." "Did you bring any poison?" the leech wondered, only half-jokingly. The archer abruptly stopped and turned to his friend. "Poison? Why would I bring poison on a hunting trip?" "Hey, why would you bring hellfire?" Donegal countered with a knowing smile. Richard flushed slightly, but he returned the smile and continued down the path. "Last time I was here," the archer explained, "I had a little trouble with the Sun People. A young lady and I were enjoying ourselves, and a few of the men became rather irate." Richard chuckled softly. "Luckily, I had a little hellfire on me; my sword couldn't have fought their spears." "Sounds like a close call." "It was worth it. She was a fine woman." Richard retrieved the spying glass from his belt and surveyed the path in front of them. "All clear ahead," he reported in a low voice. He crouched. "Still, we're getting pretty close. Can you hear them?" Donegal listened; music and laughter floated merrily through the jungle. "Maybe we can get them now, while they least expect it." Richard shrugged at the possibility and crept along the path. When they neared the clearing, Donegal stepped into the shadows at the edge of the brush; seeing him, Richard did the same. The volume of the music grew. Finally halting, Richard parted the underbrush and motioned Donegal to join him. The archer was grimacing. About two hundred People of the Sun--men, women, and at least fifty children--filled the clearing. Despite the carnival atmosphere--large groups were dancing, and a huge carcass cooked over a spit--each man bore a spear, and some also had strung bows set carefully beside them. A few even had iron swords. In a moment, Donegal, too, was frowning. So much for getting them out while they were off their guard. Richard reached for the spying glass and unfolded it. "Do you see the Beinisonians?" the archer rasped. Donegal quickly scanned the jubilant tribe while Richard meticulously searched with the spy glass. "There they are." The surgeon pointed to four men; three were Beinisonians, and one was an 1older, elaborately dressed Sun Man. "At least three of them. Weren't there five?" "That's what I thought." Richard compressed the glass and attached it to his belt. Turning his back on the festival, he said, "We have some time to kill. It'll be a while before that beast is cooked fully." "Do the People of the Sun eat their meat fully cooked?" Richard made a face. "Raw meat? Don't make me sick." He rose. "Want to search for the other..." His voice trailed off, and he stared over Donegal's shoulder. The leech whirled. Calmly and patiently standing, not ten feet from them, was the Red Tiger. "Or," Richard continued softly, "we could go hunting a different animal." Slowly, he rose and drew an arrow from his quiver. The Lowenrote waited. Donegal began to stand. Richard placed the arrow on the bow. The surgeon straightened. Richard drew the arrow back. And the Red Tiger leapt, laughing, into the jungle. "Let's go!" Richard urged, and in a split second, he crashed after the animal. Donegal rolled his eyes, sent a brief prayer to Gow, and plunged into the jungle after his friend. Once again, he collided with Richard abruptly. Richard raised his hand swiftly and sharply to still Donegal's question. It didn't matter; Donegal understood what was happening in a matter of moments. While the Lowenrote stood patiently--no, expectantly--on the other end of the small clearing, two men--two Beinisonians--were chasing two desperately frightened native women. The farther man reached out to snatch his prey-- And fell to the moist ground, an arrow in his neck. The second, running past Donegal, paused as he heard his companion's cry. Donegal leapt upon him, forcing him to the ground, and in a moment, the surgeon had buried his knife in the Beinisonian's back. When he rose, Richard was slitting the other man's throat for security's sake. The women--and the Red Tiger--were gone. "Well," Richard began softly, "it won't be long now. When those girls return to the party, one of two things will happen. Either they'll tell how they were nearly raped, and the Sun People will slaughter the other three Beinisonians, or they'll tell how these two were killed, and we'll have an entire tribe on us." Richard turned to his friend. "Well, Donegal, which do you think?" The surgeon grinned. "I think we may be in for it, Rich." The Baranurian smiled ironically. "You're probably right." He loaded an arrow. "You know, it might be best if we took off and left this island right now. The Beinisonians can't come after us, and they certainly can't take those women any place." Donegal glared at his friend. "We started this, Rich, and we're going to finish it," the surgeon commanded. Richard raised an eyebrow at Donegal's tone of voice, but he said nothing. Donegal saw this and grinned gratefully. "Besides, Rich, it's much more fun this way." "That's a fact," Richard agreed good-naturedly. He stepped back into the brush. "Well, in any case, they'll likely bring the entire tribe on us. We're going to need surprise on our side, Donegal. We don't have much else." The archer took two more steps backwards, and then Donegal could not see him at all. Donegal glanced about the clearing and quickly moved to the shadiest spot he could find. He hid the backpack under a nearby bush, carelessly flung his white shirt into the jungle--let them look in the wrong spot!-- and hid himself in the shadows. Donegal smiled wickedly. No one would spot him in the murky shade. 1 "The band!" Richard hissed, and Donegal remembered and panicked. Remove his headband? But that bright red and yellow band hid the mark of slavery! If the Beinisonians saw it-- No, he wouldn't--couldn't--risk it. "You stupid ass!" Richard's voice harshly mocked the surgeon's hesitation. "Why don't you just wear a target on your head?" Donegal scowled, furious at Richard for stupidity that was the surgeon's own. With a growled oath, Donegal reached for the Bichanese band and hurled it from him with a vengeance. A crash sounded nearby. "A black angel and a golden one?" scoffed a voice in drunken accents. "The woman has had too much wine!" A couple of loud guffaws seconded the opinion. Another Beinison voice said, only half-jestingly, "Don't be so sure of your mocking. This is the year of the Incarnations. It could be Braigh and Alana, you know, and I wouldn't want to anger them!" The laughs became louder. "Don't be silly," a third voice ordered. "They were probably just attacked by some jungle animals; that Lowenrote that we hear of might well be the golden angel--or demon--the women spoke of." "Exactly," the first of the voices agreed. A heavy-set, half-drunken man parted the vegetation on the north side of the clearing. "The women had too much to drink." "I don't think so," the third voice argued, stepping into the clearing. This man was younger and cheerful, and reminded Donegal in some ways of himself. "Look there." He pointed to the man Richard had slaughtered. "Angels don't use bows. And look there." He indicated the discarded shirt. The first retrieved it while the owner of the second voice, a strong- looking man with a scar across his bare chest, entered the clearing. "It's a shirt," the heavy-set slaver said. "They weren't lying." "Exactly. An angel wouldn't leave a shirt be--" the youngest man started, but the arrow that went through his eye stole his final word. The heavy man jumped backwards; the strong man burst into the jungle in pursuit of whoever shot his friend. And that, Donegal decided, leaves one for me. Screaming the Highlander war cry, Donegal leapt onto the heavy man's back and slammed the knife into his back. The heavy man yelled his pain, and, cursing, he threw Donegal to the ground. Turning, the enraged man, the blade still in his flesh, now leapt for the surgeon. Donegal swiftly rolled to the right, and the husky Beinisonian fell onto the ground. Quick as levin, Donegal drew his Bichanese sword and stabbed again. Again, the man let out a roar more bestial than the Lowenrote's. He sprung to his feet--how can a man that big leap like a deer? Donegal wondered--and charged the leech. Donegal lowered his sword instantly, and, thank Gow, at the right moment. The heavy man impaled himself. Donegal stared, disgusted, at the surprised corpse. After a few minutes, the surgeon mentally shook himself out of his stupor and slid the heavy man from his sword, lest the weight damage the blade. Sighing in relief, Donegal wiped his blade on some nearby vegetation. It was over, aye, and they were successful. All the Beinisonians dead, thanks to him and Richard. Richard! The jungle was silent. "Rich!" Donegal shouted, frantic. "Rich!" The jungle was silent. "*Rich!*" Donegal cried. If he had gotten his best friend killed in this stupid crusade, Donegal would never forgive himself. 1 "Don't get excited," the Baranurian counseled drying, stepping out of the jungle behind the surgeon. "I'm all right." Donegal turned. The statement was true, to a point; Richard was well and whole, but a nasty cut decorated the archer's chest. "Let me take a look at that," Donegal ordered. "Are you all right?" Richard wondered as Donegal scrutinized the wound. "It's just a scratch; don't worry." "You're right, Rich. It isn't bad." But Donegal went to the backpack anyway and returned with some gauze and whisky. "Did you get him?" Donegal asked as he cleaned his friend's wound. "Yes. The arrow hit him right in the heart. The blood was incredible." "How'd you get this, then?" the confused surgeon asked. "You're not going to believe this," Richard warned, "but a tree branch leapt out in front of me, and--" "There's some weird things on this island," Donegal admitted as he finished his task. He capped the whisky flask and looked at his friend. "Now what?" "Well, now that we've finished with the Beinisonians, I thought we might go hunting the tiger," Richard suggested. Donegal, suddenly weary, sank to the ground, but he found himself unable to protest. After Richard had helped him, it seemed to Donegal that he would be unfair or ungrateful to refuse to help Richard. "But I'm tired, too," Richard added, smiling calmly at his old friend. "What do you say we go back to Port of the Sun? We can come back next week; I'm sure that no one will kill the Lowenrote between now and then." "Sounds great," Donegal agreed with all the tired enthusiasm he could muster. He slowly rose, donned his shirt and backpack, and retrieved his knife from the back of the heavy man he had killed. He stared at the corpse for a moment, then said, "Let's take care of one thing first." He bent and severed the head from the body. "What are you doing?" Richard asked, appalled. "Why are you doing it?" "I think the Sun People have a right to know why these--men--aren't coming back," Donegal explained gruffly. "And I'm going to make sure they don't make the same mistake again." Decapitating the Beinisonians took several minutes; Richard consented to return and bring back the head of the young man he had killed. That done, Donegal took the heads by their hair and carried the gruesome bouquet to the celebrating Sun People. Richard thought the surgeon was crazy and told him so, but he followed anyway, to "make sure you don't get yourself killed." So Donegal marched like a conqueror into the clearing; Richard, beside him, carried himself like a grim guard. Within moments, the music died. Fearful questions filled the clearing a moment later. "Where is the interpreter?" Donegal loudly demanded in Beinisonian. The older man with the profusion of feathers and shells decorating his person came forward. Beside him stood a younger man, who spoke. "I am the interpreter. The chief wishes to know why you have done this. Why have you dishonored our tribe by robbing our women of honorable marriage?" "No!" Donegal shouted angrily. "I have saved them from slavery. They weren't going to marry the women; they were going to sell them!" The interpreter turned to the chief and spoke. The chief replied, and the interpreter said, "Why do you suspect this?" "I have seen it!" He pointed to the ugly brand on his forehead, the most dominant feature on his face when he did not choose to cover it. "This was the first thing they would do--burn slavery into their 1faces and into their brains! I, too, was a slave there, and I saw the injustice--the beatings--the rapes--the whippings--the torture! I know! These snakes tricked you! Your women would have been made slaves, sold like animals, made prisoners until they died!" The young man paled and relayed this to the older man. The older man considered. A young woman timidly approached the older man and spoke. The old man muttered something to the interpreter, who again spoke. "If this is so, dark one, you and your companion have done us a great service." "I am not lying," Donegal assured him stubbornly. "I would not make up something so horrible." "We must then give the women to you, since you not only have won them fairly from their purchasers, but since you have also saved them from this misery." Confused, Donegal turned to the archer. Switching to Baranurian, the tongue spoken aboard the Eclipse, Donegal said, "They want us to take the women." Richard half-smiled and considered. "Not a bad deal." "What are we going to do with them?" "Use your imagination," Richard suggested, laughing. "But unfortunately, we can't do it. I can't handle more than five or six at a time, and we'd never get them all in the sailboat, anyway." Donegal looked at the interpreter and shook his head. "We didn't fight for their freedom to take it away again. Let them stay here with you." The interpreter relayed this to his elder, who spoke, and some men came forward bearing bars of gold and silver. The interpreter told the visitors, "You must take something for the deed." Donegal eyed the metals for a moment, then shook his head. "I did this to save them from what I escaped. I want no gold." He turned to Richard and switched once more to the Baranurian tongue. "Do you want some of that?" "For what?" the archer inquired. "For saving the girls." "I didn't do it for money, Donegal." The surgeon smiled gratefully at his friend, then turned back to the chief and the interpreter. "We want nothing," Donegal concluded, but then the aroma of the cooking meat assaulted him. "Except," he continued, "for a piece of meat and a drink of water to refresh us." The interpreter spoke, and two women came forward with meat and drink for the visitors. Donegal spoke their thanks and began to eat timorously. Richard sniffed the meat and started to eat ravenously. "Sun buffalo!" he cheered. He took a long draught of water. "Best meat in this part of the world!" Donegal took a larger bite and found he agreed with the archer; the meat was rather tasty. The Sun People returned to their dancing, singing, and feasting as the visitors ate. "It's nice to see them happy again," Donegal sighed contentedly. He turned to the Baranurian. "Sorry we didn't catch your tiger, Rich." "As I said, the Lowenrote will be here next week." Richard wiped his hands on his leggings, took another draught of water, and retrieved his bow. "We'd better be leaving if we want to reach Port of the Sun at a reasonable hour. Let's go, Donegal." Donegal nodded and faced the chief. "Thank you," the surgeon said. "Good-bye." The chief seemed to understand without the interpreter. He smiled. Donegal waved farewell and followed Richard along the eastward path. "This is the one the Lowenrote led us to," Richard commented. "It 1should come out on the beach, and then we'll just follow it until we reach the sailboat." "Whatever." Donegal smiled tiredly. "What a day." "You do seem to bring excitement wherever you go," Richard teased with a grin. "I've gotten into more scrapes with you..." "Hey," the leech protested good-naturedly, "of course it was exciting. I only came with you because I was bored!" "Bored?" Richard laughed. "Well, that's what you get for seeking adventure, Donegal." "And don't blame me for all those brawls I seem to get into," Donegal continued hotly, glaring jestingly at the archer. "I don't start them." "No, you usually just--holy Stevene!" Richard screamed in a shocked tone which Donegal had never before heard the archer use. "Donegal, look-- " Instinctively, the surgeon dropped, and a knife whizzed over his head. He looked up to see three demons, charred, ugly beings straight from the fires of hell, attacking Richard with fists and blades. Two more of the appalling creatures were running toward him. "Gow!" Donegal screamed for aid and drew his katana. The horrifying man-shape jumped back and circled. The other skirted behind Donegal. "Don't call for his help," the one behind the surgeon taunted him sinisterly. "Gow rarely helps those who use Amante's methods." And the devil leapt onto Donegal's back. The surgeon dropped and rolled, thus pinning the creature under him. But there was the other, coming at him with a short sword. Donegal lifted his legs and kicked as the one underneath him tried to stab him from behind. Again, Donegal rolled a little, pinning one of the ugly thing's knife arm. "Rich!" the surgeon called for his only aid. His only answer was loud crack and a cry of pain. "Rich!" The pinned thing was pummelling Donegal with his free fist; the other charged again. Frantically, Donegal swung his katana. The charger leapt backwards and stumbled. The pinned one was moving, trying to roll. Again, the free one charged. The pinned one sought to roll. In a stroke of inspiration, Donegal stopped fighting and rolled with the monster he had pinned. The thing screamed as its companion buried his short sword in him. The other cursed and took the name of Sanar in vain. Donegal slid from under the body, dragged his Bichanese blade with him, and attacked the fiend facing him. The short sword, Donegal knew, would be no match for his katana, if he were a great fighter. But he wasn't; the dead beast had been right to say Donegal followed Amante's methods. No, Donegal couldn't win a straight fight; he had to strike from behind, use surprise. Well, he was a pirate, after all, not a Knight of the Star. Still, his blade cut his opponent's arm. "Rich!" Donegal called. He couldn't spare a look; the grotesque thing came at him again. What were these things? Donegal managed to leap away from the intended blow and deliver one of his own. He whirled to face his attacker again. From here, he could see Richard. The archer was lying on the ground and using his left hand to wield the cutlass. The bow was nowhere in sight, but one of the demons, an arrow in its belly, lay dead near Richard's feet. With another stroke, Richard killed one of his opponents. "Well done!" Donegal encouraged, sidestepping another attack and aiming a blow at his antagonist's head. Good Sanar, what *were* these ugly, burned things? A blade--Richard's blade--flashed past Donegal's astonished eyes. The surgeon stumbled and fell. The attacker came forward and held his 1sword's point at Donegal's throat. "And now, slave," said the Beinisonian, "you will die." "Rich!" Donegal called, praying for a miracle. "Your friend can't help you," the man-thing laughed cruelly. "Look, slave." Without moving his head, Donegal glanced aside. Another charred being held his blade at Richard's throat. Damn! "Now, slave, say prayers that Sanar will save your soul," snickered the monster, "thought I doubt that slaves--" Giving a bestial roar, a red blur flew over the creature's head. He looked up; Donegal buried his katana in the burnt thing's gut. It fell; Donegal turned to help his friend-- But the other creature was engaged, its throat locked in the teeth of the Red Tiger. Donegal sprinted to Richard's side, lifted the archer's head. "Are you all right?" the surgeon breathed, watching the Lowenrote rend the attacker with teeth and claws. "My arm," Richard answered, his voice stiff with pain. Donegal gently probed Richard's right forearm. "Broken." "Tell me something I don't know," Richard snapped. "Hey," Donegal began, "don't--" The Lowenrote tossed its victim away with a sudden movement. Carefully, deliberately, it approached the men it had saved. "Run!" Richard rasped, shoving Donegal away with his good arm. "She'd catch me, but if she's busy, she'll never catch up with you. Go!" Donegal stood; often the commands in Richard's voice were too powerful to be disobeyed. But the surgeon was still, unsure. The Red Tiger trotted to the pair and paused. Donegal's limbs froze although Richard again was shouting at him to leave. Gingerly, the Lowenrote approached the paralyzed surgeon and began to rub its head against the back of Donegal's hand, much as a pet cat would. Donegal wondered if he would die of the shock. Then the tiger approached Richard and nuzzled the archer's neck. "I'll be damned," Richard said, reaching out and petting the beast. "She wants to be friends. Hello." Donegal was finally able to move; he blinked, then ordered, "Stay put, Rich. I'm going to find something to splint that arm to, and then we'll leave." "Use my bow," Richard suggested, gesturing with his left hand. "It's broken. I'm glad I didn't bring my best one. You like that, don't you?" the archer added, scratching the Lowenrote behind its ears. "You're a good kitty." "I didn't know you liked animals," Donegal laughed, retrieving the bow and its string. He patted the Red Tiger's nose as he approached. He gently reached for Richard's broken arm. "I've always like--damn, that hurts!" "Well, it's going to," Donegal reminded him practically. "I'll set it when we reach Port of the Sun. I don't have everything I need here." Quickly, the surgeon finished the job and offered Richard a hand up. "Let's get going." "I'm with you." Richard stroked the Lowenrote's head, and the tiger purred. "I guess I won't be hunting you anymore. Let's go." Silently, Donegal led the way through the jungle path. After a few minutes, he turned to say something to Richard, but stated instead, "That tiger's following us." Richard turned to the beast. "Go away," the archer commanded gently. "Go on." With a resolute tilt of the head, the tiger nuzzled Richard's leg and trotted after him and Donegal when they moved on. "I don't think it's going," Donegal observed, looking over his 1shoulder. "What are we going to do ?" "Take her with us, I suppose," Richard guessed. He sighed. "I'm not fighting with her." "But a tiger?" Donegal protested. "On the Eclipse?" Richard, his pain still evident, tried to smile. "Hasn't Captain Fynystere been saying we need a cat aboard?" It was near the next dawn when Richard, Donegal, and the Lowenrote--whom Richard gave the original name of Kitty--finally returned to Captain Fynystere's house in Port of the Sun. They had had a hell of a time returning; it was difficult to maneuver the sailboat with only three arms. But luckily, the break had been clean and easy to splint and set. Unfortunately, Donegal rued, it would be six or eight weeks before Richard could teach him to shoot a bow. "You two look like you've been through a battle," Fynystere observed cheerfully when the pair joined him for breakfast. Then he saw the Red Tigress. Fynystere looked briefly nervous, but calmed when Kitty approached him gently and nuzzled his hand. "So I see you got your tiger, Richard." Richard looked at Donegal and smiled. The surgeon grinned back. "Yes, Captain," Donegal answered, "and we managed to hunt us a whole pack of wolves, too." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 A Night off the Town by M. Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a "Homesick?" a gentle voice wondered, causing the red-soaked paintbrush to fly from Gaoel Fynystere's steady hand to the newly cleaned deck. The captain of the Eclipse whirled and stared into the serenely amused face of his bowmaster. Richard just Richard smiled. "It's a nice painting," the archer commented, gazing critically at the nearly complete representation of the night-shrouded city of Dargon. Only the Regehr, the red north-pointing star which would crown the port city like a glowing ruby, remained uncolored. "You're back early," the captain finally noted, retrieving his paintbrush. "Is something wrong, Richard?" The bowmaster squatted beside his old friend. "Plenty, but it will keep, Gaoel. It can't touch us here off the town." "Nothing can touch us," the captain noted smugly, cleaning the brush so that he could complete the painting. Fynystere dipped the brush, smiling wickedly as he thought of the Eclipse's reputation. Not only could no one touch the Eclipse or her crew, but no one would dare. "Nothing but our own souls," Richard replied, sighing. "It is a beautiful painting, Gaoel." "It's a beautiful night." Fynystere looked fondly at the moon-shadowed city with a thousand flickering eyes, with a mantle of stars such as Alana the Night Goddess, the figurehead of the Eclipse, would wear. Fynystere dabbed the Regehr above Dargon with blood-red color. "Mind telling me why you're back so early on a beautiful night like this?" "You know I don't raise living and dead on shore leave like Donegal and Cedric do." "But you generally like Dargon," the captain pointed out, delicately touching the canvas. "I do like Dargon," Richard confirmed. "Are you almost done, Gaoel?" Fynystere smiled at Richard's abrupt change in subject; it was typical of the bowmaster. "Aye, just." Fynystere washed the brush in a cup of seawater. Richard rose and lifted the painting. "She'll hang beside the Eclipse," Fynystere decided aloud. He folded the easel and closed the small chest full of paints. "Luen, take the watch!" Fynystere bellowed, and he turned to the archer. "Well, Rich, if you aren't going to drink on shore, you'll drink with me." "Aye, captain." Fynystere led the way in the dark to his cabin below. Richard opened the door for his friend, and the captain, after gently setting the paint chest in the corner, lit the hellfire lamp. Richard set the painting against the wall and took the spare seat. "Drink, Rich?" "I'll pour," the bowmaster offered, taking a folded paper out of a pouch. "You read." Fynystere took the letter eagerly, broke his family's seal, and scanned the neat handwriting anxiously. He frowned. "Xandra's still missing," he announced, anger and frustration in his voice. "Gaoel," Richard said gently, pouring the whiskey, "I don't think you'll ever see your sister again." "If she's dead, I'll kill that God-damned Duke!" "That will only get you killed," Richard noted, and as usual, his logic was irrefutable. "Here, drink." Fynystere took the goblet absently. "It always amazes me that you only blame the Duke of Dargon. Your sister did participate, you know." 1 "Aye, but Xandra didn't refuse to acknowledge the child or cut the Duke off from her. Damn that ass! He's probably the one who scared her out of Dargon in the first place. If it weren't for Fionn Connall, the Duke might have had her killed." "Clifton Dargon? Hardly," Richard laughed. "I know Dargon has an overblown sense of honor, but it isn't *that* extreme." Fynystere started to grunt, but he forgot the sound in the words of the letter. "My God!" When Richard failed to speak, the captain looked at him concern in his eyes. "Rich, there's war! Beinison's attacked us!" "I know," Richard said calmly. "I heard at the Rogue and Quiver, and while I was waiting for your letter, I went to Belisandra's to find out what I could about it. It's rather interesting." "Interesting?" Fynystere scoffed, kicking a chair toward him and sitting firmly in it. "War is always interesting," Richard returned mildly. "Not when you're in it!" "I beg to differ," Richard replied with formality that was only half-mocking. "We war against ships, and I've never heard you declare it boring." "This isn't the same." "Perhaps," Richard acknowledged. Fynystere took the drink Richard had poured him and scowled at the bowmaster. "So, you went to Belisandra's. Why?" Richard nodded. "As I suspected, some of the Duke's men and Connall archers were there." The bowmaster frowned. "They knew the entire romance. It's rather complicated, but the end of it is that Beinison has executed the Count of Connall and attacked Pyridain." "They killed Fionn Connall?" the captain screeched, thinking of the man who had protected his sister, who had helped Gaoel escape the city after he had clouted Connall's brother, the Duke. "No, they killed Luthias Connall," Richard clarified. "Fionn Connall and his other son--Roisart, I think his name was--were murdered last Melrin." "Murdered?" Fynystere let his breath out in a low whistle. "Sweet Randiriel. And now what?" "Well," Richard began, taking a deep breath and raising his cup to his mouth, "the Knight Commander is fighting them off in Pyridain, and this duchy's getting ready for an attack on the Laraka River." "The Laraka? What for?" Richard swallowed his liquor and stared at his captain in disbelief. "Gaoel, come on! They're after Magnus! The Laraka's Magnus' lifeline." Fynystere pondered the information. "I suppose you're right, Rich, but you would know better than I." Richard laughed and set the goblet aside. "Would I?" "You are from Magnus, after all." Richard leaned forward suddenly. "What makes you think that?" This time, Fynystere was laughing. "Wake up, Rich! Every time you open your mouth, you announce that you're from Magnus! You have one of the most pronounced Magnus accents I've ever heard!" "I don't have an accent. *You* have an accent." The captain wiped his eyes and caught his breath, but when he looked at his bowmaster, he was still smiling. "Enough, Richard: I have the accent, but you are still from Magnus." The archer folded his lips. "Yes," he agreed stiffly. Fynystere burst into laughter once more. "Calm down, Rich. It's the only thing I've found out about you in thirteen years." The bowmaster sighed and agreed. "You keep your secrets more close than any man I've ever known." Richard gave his captain a serious look. 1"Well, what about the war? When do they expect the attack on Shark's Cove? How is it faring in Pyridain?" "They expect the Shark's Cove attack to arrive in Yule, and despite the morale of the House Dargon troops and the Connall archers, it isn't going well in Pyridain at all." "Yule?!" Fynystere slammed the goblet on a small table. "Yule?! Sanar and Stevene, what the hell are they thinking of? Yule? It isn't that far! And besides, from the south--the seas are fairly calm--Naia, Rich, Melrin at the latest!" The captain exploded to his feet and stared wildly at Richard. "You say it's bad in Pyridain?" The bowmaster nodded once. "How bad?" The bowmaster shrugged and looked at his old friend mildly. "I don't have numbers." Fynystere punched a wall. "Damn you by all the gods, Richard! Will we win?" Richard settled into his chair calmly. "God knows. No one here does." Fynystere snatched the discarded, fallen letter, opened it, read it, and again looked at Richard wildly. "That's it, Richard. I have to do something." Richard was silent. The captain of the Eclipse crossed the room nervously. He came to his trunk and threw it open. "Not much here," he assessed nervously. "It's enough." He shut the chest soundly. "They may not think me much of a captain, but I'll be better than the incompetent whoreson who thinks that the Beinison navy won't be here till bloody Yule!" Suddenly, the captain whirled. Still and silent, Richard watched him placidly. "What's wrong with you? Aren't you even concerned? Rich, you own half this ship, and I'm leaving!" Richard smiled slightly. "Why are you leaving, Gaoel?" "My *country's* under attack, you jack-ass! Do you think I can leave my people here, my family, to get butchered by Beinisonian curs?" "Do you think you will help them by leaving the Eclipse?" "Curse you!" Fynystere screamed. "Of course I will! I'll join the Royal Navy, and they'll make me a captain. I won't let those heathen Beinisonians touch my land." The captain scowled at his guest. "You're not even concerned that I'm leaving." "Nay, I'm not," Richard confirmed quietly, "because you're not going." "I tell you--" "Sit down and listen," Richard ordered, and without really knowing why, Fynystere obeyed. There were times when one obeyed Richard, rank notwithstanding. "You are not going back to Dargon, Gaoel. You can't." "Why can't I?" "We'll put aside the fact for the moment that Clifton Dargon will have you killed on sight," Richard began calmly, "but Dargon's Admiral of the Fleet. Do you think you have a chance of a commission?" "What? But he's a Knight!" "I know," Richard agreed wryly. "It's very strange." "I wouldn't go to Dargon." "Fine," Richard concurred for sake of the arguement. "And what would you do on one ship? How could you protect your family? You couldn't. You'd go where they tell you, do what they tell you. You're likely to get killed. The Beinisonian Navy is nothing to laugh at, and you know it." "Of course I know it," the captain responded contemptuously. "But I'll have hellfire--" The bowmaster's eyes burned as blue and hot as the hellfire he 1invented. "You will *not* have hellfire!" Richard thundered, and there was no room for arguement in his voice. "Hellfire is mine and Donegal's, and by my God and all of his, it will *not leave this ship!*" Fynystere frowned, greatly displeased. "I can't just do nothing!" "I'm not saying that you should do nothing. But the fact remains, Gaoel: you hurt your family and your kingdom more by leaving the Eclipse than by staying with her." "What are you suggesting I do then?" the captain asked with angry stiffness. Richard leaned forward, his face serious. "Gaoel, this is the most powerful ship a-sail. You know that. We have a fine crew, and we have hellfire. We can sink anything Beinison has afloat, and we can afford to leave the Baranurian navy alone." "A personal crusade?" "Why not?" Richard countered, smiling again and leaning back. "If we still go after the merchant ships, the crew will be content." "I don't think the Beinisons aboard will like this, Richard," the captain muttered, reaching for his drink, but internally, Fynystere was relieved. Despite the fact that Clifton Dargon had deserved that blow to the face in his court for deserting Xandra, Fynystere truly had no wish to deal with him again. Richard abruptly threw back his blond head and laughed loudly. "Gaoel, are you jesting with me? 'The Beinisonians aboard won't like this'? Donegal, whom they enslaved? Albar, whom they branded for worshiping Cephas Stevene instead of Gow and Sanar? Use your sense, man!" Fynystere thought about and smiled; Richard was, again, right. The captain sat back thoughtfully. "So," Fynystere said, "we leave the Baranurian navy alone and sink anything belonging to Beinison. It might work; it might help." He looked at his bowmaster earnestly. "Do you really think it would work?" "I think it's the best we can do, you and I." Fynystere laughed and poured himself more liquor. "You're right, Rich. You always are." The captain quaffed his drink, then looked searchingly at his old friend. "How did you know?" "Know what?" Richard wondered. "Know what I'd do, and how to talk me out of it." "Well, I know you," Richard explained uncertainly, "and as for my talking you out of it--well, I'd already had the arguement once tonight." "Really? With who?" Fynystere asked, avid curiousity shining from his eyes. "With myself." The bowmaster sighed as if he had a world oppressing his soul. "I realized I'd do my family--and my country--more harm than good if I returned." "Hmm." For lack of any better action, Fynystere buried his nose in his cup. As much as he wanted more information, Fynystere didn't dare break his own rules and question Richard about his past. "I couldn't leave the Eclipse anyway," Richard breathed, settling into the comfortable chair. "It's like home to me, and I have no other--and no one else." "You mentioned family," Fynystere reminded him. "A brother," Richard confirmed, "and if he were in danger--" The bowmaster stopped, clouds in his blue eyes. "You'd leave?" "Leave?" The archer gave a short, barking laugh. "I'd take the Eclipse with me. Believe me, Gaoel, I'd need all the help I could get. But as it is, I think he's well protected." "Hmm," the captain muttered again. "Here, Rich, have another 1drink." The captain tossed the skin to Richard, who caught it deftly. "And tell me one more thing about tonight before we drink ourselves senseless, Richard." "What's that?" "How did you know that the Dargon House troops and the Connall archers would be at Belisandra's Tavern?" "It's a popular retreat of both companies when they're in town," Richard hedged as dexterously as he caught the skin. "Aye, and how'd you find that out?" the captain demanded, his hazel eyes sparkling. The bowmaster looked away. "Come on, Rich, or by J'mirg--" "Ask no questions, Gaoel," Richard threatened. A dim sun dawned in Fynystere's clouded consciousness. "You were in Dargon before you joined us." "Aye." Richard inhaled heavily and took another drink. "I trained as an archer in Connall." The archer suddenly smiled. "Those days are gone with your merchanting, Gaoel. Let's drink." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction written by the members of the online community. Athene is not limited to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing with just about any interesting topic. The magazine is published monthly, and comes in two formats -- ASCII and PostScript. The content is identical across both formats, but the PostScript version is designed for printing on laser printers while the ASCII edition can be read online as well as printed. To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to: Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET Please indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you prefer to to receive. Back issues, an index, and submission information are also available upon request. 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that future by subscribing to Quanta today. 1------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright May 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd All rights revert to the authors. These stories may not be reproduced or redistributed save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 8 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 8 05/18/90 Cir 965 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Campaign for the Laraka I John Doucette 10 Naia-1 Yule, '14 My Father's Curse M. Wendy Hennequin 18 Naia, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Campaign for the Laraka: Part I An Unpleasant Surprise by John Doucette Castle Pentamorlo, Duchy Dargon, Baranur 10 Naia, 1014 B.Y. "You're right, Kimme, I don't understand," Morion said. "I am not sure I fully understand either, my love," the Araf commented. "All I know is what I saw in the vision. I do not know why this vision came to me. But I do know I must find the cause. And I must know which ending is to be." "But do you have to go now?" Morion asked, coming to sit on the bed beside the woman who so recently came into his life. "Yes," she said, stroking his cheek. "But, Kimme, there is a war! I have to leave for Shark's Cove tomorrow to meet with this Sir Ailean. I'd feel much more at ease knowing you were here, safe. Kimme, I have to see to the preparations for leaving. If you leave today, we won't have time to say good-bye properly." Kimmentari smiled. "Then I shall have to delay my departure." "I'll go and hurry my students along. The faster things get done, the faster I can get back. Then we can...discuss things." Morion quickly kissed Kimmentari and then departed. When he left the room, Kimme shuddered. She'd felt the nightmare coming on all the while they were talking and it had taken all her control not to let anything show. Haltingly, she crossed the room to the door and barely succeeded in locking it with her shaking hands before the nightmare came in full force. Kimmentari collapsed in a heap as the now-familiar scene danced and swam in her sight. Once more, the gore-splattered room was revealed in all its horror. Once more, the cries of innocents echoed in Kimmentari's ears. Once more, she threw back her head and screamed a silent scream as a face of pure evil turned to stare into hers. Once more, she heard the silent promise on the dead lips. And then, mercifully, the darkness welled up and she drifted into unconsciousness. Castle Pentamorlo, Duchy Dargon, Baranur 11 Naia, 1014 B.Y. "Kimme, please?" Morion asked as he prepared to mount his horse. Kimmentari laughed, a musical-sounding laugh. "My love, no. I shall be fine." "But what about the--" "The hoftanau will not take me while you are gone. It may not take me at all." "But you said that when one of your race falls in love with...with a..." Morion searched for the correct expression. "Fast-liver," Kimmentari supplied. "A fast-liver. That the fire-love comes over you. And that it's usually fatal." "True," the blue-skinned, ruby-eyed Araf said. "But in the Dance I saw that our strands continued after the Dance was done. That may mean the hoftanau will not take me." "I would still feel better if you remained here." "No. I must find out the meaning of this vision." Morion put his hands on her shoulders. "Can't you tell me what it is?" "I can't remember it clearly," she lied. "Perhaps this journey will help me determine what the vision means and which of the two endings is destined to come to pass." "You're sure?" "Yes." Just as Morion was about to continue the conversation, a man wearing an unimaginably polished breastplate interrupted. "Sair," he said, back ramrod-straight, "tha Battalion is ready tae march." "Thank you, Colour Sergeant. Start them off. I'll be along presently." The Colour Sergeant saluted, did an about-turn, and marched away. Morion turned to Kimmentari. He made to speak, but she silenced him with a finger. "You must go," she said. Morion gathered her in his arms and kissed her lovingly. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he said as he mounted his steed. "Be careful," she said anxiously. "I intend to be, Kimme." Morion paused, unsure what to say. He and Kimme stared at each other for a long time. Finally, Morion leaned over and kissed his lover a long, thorough kiss. "I love you," he said. "I know," Kimme replied, smiling. "I love you also." "I know. Good-bye." Morion put his helm on and rode out the gate after his men. He was riding to war. Kimmentari watched him go, the ache in her heart painfully present even before he rode out of sight. She turned to go to the room she and Morion shared to finish packing for her journey to Dargon City. She had just entered the room when the waking nightmare came again. This time, however, she saw a man dressed in black running down corridors filled with death and the dead and she saw the same man enter the room where cowered the innocents caught up in the struggle for power. Except this time, the man in black rescued those in the room. As had happened many times over the months just past, the nightmare had had two endings; one for ill, one for good. Just what part she had to play, only Thyerin knew. And He wasn't telling. War galley HUNTRESS, flagship Beinisonian Expeditionary Force Valenfaer Ocean, 150 leagues southwest of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 2 Melrin, 1014 B.Y. Field Marshal Joachim Vasquez leaned on the railing near the bow of the HUNTRESS and gazed out over the moonlit sea at the vessels carrying the thirty-five thousand soldiers under his command. One hundred forty transports, escorted by one hundred warships, fully half of Beinison's complement of men-of-war, sailed slowly north. In the morning, the armada would split, fifteen thousand men and twenty escorts continuing north to Dargon, the remaining twenty thousand men and eighty warships diverting to Shark's Cove at the mouth of the Laraka River, Magnus' lifeline. The war was now in its sixth month. The offensive begun by Beinison in early Naia was showing results even the most optimistic strategists had only dreamed of. After only two weeks of fighting, the Baranurian front in Pyridain collapsed. Even now, Beinisonian forces were racing north, hoping to reach Pyridain City before the demoralized enemy was able to mount an effective defense. Vasquez was unaware of the success of the main offensive. His force had set sail as soon as the weather allowed. Vasquez was not overly concerned about the success or failure of the main attack anyway. If things went as planned, or even moderately so, Vasquez would be in Magnus inside three weeks. His thoughts were interrupted by a young Marine. "Pardon the interruption, sir," the young man said. "General Collanti sends his complements and asks you join him in the Admiral's quarters, sir." "Good," the tall, black-haired man replied. "See to it we are not disturbed unless there is an emergency." The Marine saluted and stepped aside to allow the Field Marshal to take the lead. Vasquez made his way below deck to Fleet Admiral Grieg Talens' cabin. Although Talens and Vasquez shared joint command of the B.E.F., until Vasquez and his troops were ashore, Talens held authority due to his thirty years of experience at sea. In three days, Talens would put Vasquez and the B.E.F.'s Main Body ashore at Shark's Cove, whereupon it would be his task to ensure the lines of supply and communication remained open to what would then be known as the Shark's Cove Staging Area. Talens' subordinate, Commodore Alexi Tormana, would have the responsibility of seeing the B.E.F.'s Northern Force safely to Dargon, upon which his post-landing task would then be identical to that of his commander. Vasquez entered the warm, spacious, brightly lit cabin due one of Admiral Talens' rank and experience. Seven men were waiting for Vasquez's arrival. Admiral Talens, Commodore Tormana and their deputies, Captains Danridge and Gromiko respectively, represented the Navy. General Collanti, Vasquez's second-in-command, Collanti's aide and deputy Colonel Jackson, and Vasquez's aide and new deputy, Colonel Conti, represented the Army. "Now that you're here, Vasquez, we can get down to business," Talens remarked. Collanti stiffened at the tone Talens had taken in addressing Vasquez. He was about to make an oral protest when Vasquez waved the comment aside. There had always been bad blood between the Army and the Navy, but the current venture was too important for Vasquez to risk offending the man who would be his lifeline once ashore. There was another reason Vasquez chose to disregard the comment. In the four weeks spent aboard ship, Vasquez and Talens had grown to respect each other's abilities. Though neither had developed a liking for the other, neither had they developed a dislike. Both recognized a soldier when they saw one. Still, that didn't mean the Army-Navy rivalry had to be put on hold. "Good evening, gentlemen," Vasquez said as he strode to the chart table covered not by naval charts, but by a map of the northwestern part of Baranur. "You all know the general outline for the invasion," Vasquez said, dispensing with preliminaries. "Now, I shall outline the specifics." Vasquez picked up a pointer and began his briefing. "In three days, Main Body will commence landing here," he said, indicating a spot on the map, "at Shark's Cove. Once Shark's Cove is secure, Main Body will advance down the Laraka, laying siege to Port Sevlyn. Shark's Cove and Port Sevlyn will each be garrisoned by a Regiment. In addition, two Regiments will hold the border with Kiliaen." "After securing Port Sevlyn," he continued, "Main Body will advance on Gateway Keep in the Royal Duchy. That, gentlemen, is Phase One. It should take no longer than sixteen days." There was stunned silence around the table. The Army officers were shocked; Gateway Keep was four hundred thirty leagues from Shark's Cove. A long way to go in sixteen days through hostile territory. They were not confident the task could be completed. The Navy officers, for their part, considered the scheme to be that much more proof of the Army's incompetence. Vasquez let the silence continue a little longer, enjoying the reaction from his officers. Never one to let pleasure intrude on duty, he continued with the briefing. "General Collanti and Northern Force will land at Dargon in thirty-seven days' time." "Enrico," he said, speaking directly to his long-time friend and former deputy, "your task is to seize and hold all of Duchy Dargon. The details I leave to you with one exception: you must subdue Lord Morion's holding at Tench. One more thing, Enrico. You'll have to hold Dargon on your own. Expect no help from me. I simply don't have the men." "Don't worry, sir," Collanti said in his booming voice. "We'll hold." "I'm sure you will, Enrico. To continue, Phase Two will be the siege of Magnus itself. After taking Gateway Keep, I will pause for three days before advancing on the enemy's capital." Vasquez paused to gather his thoughts. Once ready, he continued, looking each of those assembled in the eyes as he spoke. "Phase Two is vital to the entire operation. Magnus is the key to Baranur." "If we succeed," he said, hitting the map with the pointer for emphasis, "the war is over. If we fail, Baranur has a chance to recover. Questions?" he asked. Seeing none, he said, "Then you had best get to your ships. Tomorrow, we begin a new era for Beinison." Shandayma Bay shore, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y. Sir Ailean of Bivar, Knight Captain of the Northern Marches, watched in grim silence the column of thick black smoke that marked the grave of the last of the war galleys from Baranur's Laraka River Flotilla. Scout vessels had spotted the armada two days ago, somewhat earlier than expected, and Sir Ailean had immediately moved his troops to the most likely landing point. The fact that he guessed correctly was small consolation. Ailean had five thousand five hundred to oppose four times that if the scouts' reports were accurate. From what he saw, the scouts were indeed accurate. Too damned accurate. "Why couldn't they overestimate just this once?" he asked to no one in particular. Ailean was nervous. The young man with the pale blue eyes and honey-blond hair had only recently been knighted after serving as squire to Sir Edward Sothos for two years. Ailean had found his former master to be a stern, but fair, teacher and disciplinarian. He deeply admired Sir Edward but was afraid that the older warrior never really liked him. He had desperately wanted Edward to like him. And then, just three months previous, Ailean had received his Knighthood and appointment to the position of Knight Captain of the Northern Marches on the recommendation of Sir Edward. When Ailean heard that the Knight Commander had pushed for Ailean's appointment, he was overjoyed. He vowed then and there that he would give his former teacher no cause for disappointment. Now, here he stood facing a very real enemy for the first time and he felt fear at the sight of the armada anchored off-shore. He knew that all he could do was hurt the enemy, delay him until the Knight Commander could find the men to reinforce him. Ailean moved his line closer to the water's edge. Already, the enemy transports had released their boats and the first wave of Beinisonian troops were headed for shore. Ailean could do little more than watch as the Beinisonian light infantry disembarked and fought their way through the waist-deep water; Ailean had no archers, and of his infantry, three Regiments were heavy infantry and the other two were medium infantry. Lord Morion's Battalion, in reserve, was composed of the best of his current and former students. While a group of Morion's students was equipped as light infantry, their numbers were far too few for Ailean to commit them to engaging their Beinisonian opposites. The Beinisonian officers shouted and cajoled their men into formation in knee-deep water perhaps twenty yards from the armoured ranks of their enemy. These were some of Beinison's finest, elite soldiers hardened to the ways of war. At a shouted signal they charged, splashing through the water towards their enemy, screaming at the top of their lungs. They collided with the Baranurian line, sabre against longsword, leather cuirass against chainmail and scalemail. The Baranurians outnumbered the Beinisonians five-to-four. More importantly, the Baranurians far out-classed their opponents both in terms of weaponry and weight of armour. However, most of the Baranurian troops had never seen combat before and the Beinisonians fought like men possessed. The inexperienced Baranurians began taking a step backward here, two there as they fought to defend themselves from the foe. Ailean saw what was happening and sent runners with instructions to hold the line, to stand fast, to drive the enemy back. Ailean saw and heard his Captains and Sergeants hitting, shoving, shouting, and cursing the men into immobility. The bodies began piling up all along the beach as Baranurian and Beinisonian struggled to kill one another. And always there were the shouts of the sergeants, "Close up! Close up!", as they ordered men up from the rear ranks to replace those in the front who had fallen. The Beinisonians had succeeded in pushing the Baranurians back ten yards and were forcing the flanks, where the two forces were more evenly matched in terms of armour, back even farther. While his centre was holding firm, Ailean knew that if he could not bring the situation on the flanks under control he would be forced to pull back even more than he already had to avoid encirclement, thus allowing the enemy to bring heavier troops ashore. And that, he knew, would spell his force's doom. Ailean wracked his brain for a solution as the battle raged on, but he saw no way to prevent catastrophe. Perhaps, he thought, if I threw Lord Morion's Battalion in to reinforce the centre, I could split them. Possible, he thought. But do I have the time? He looked towards his flanks for the answer. The left flank had finally managed to hold the enemy advance and was even pushing them back slightly. The right flank, however, had fallen back even more and was now bent back thirty more yards from the water's edge. And then, in a flash of inspiration, Ailean saw his chance. The very success of the Beinisonians on the right flank was also their greatest danger. In pressing their advantage, they too were now forty yards from the water's edge. Being outnumbered, they could not afford to hold back a reserve. If Ailean could take his reserves into the gap between the Beinisonians and the water's edge, he could roll up their left flank and fall upon their centre. Throughout history, it has long been taught that the last general to commit his reserves usually wins the battle, all other things being equal. Sir Ailean of Bivar was about to prove that maxim once more. Shandayma Bay shore, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y. Lord Morion side-stepped the Beinisonian's downward swing and countered with a cut to the throat. Ailean's plan to attack the enemy in the flank had worked beautifully. Ailean and Morion had taken the five hundred men and women of the reserve Battalion and led them north to the assistance of the hard-pressed 1st Regiment of the Pyridain Borderers. By the time Ailean and Morion had arrived, the Borderers had been pushed back sixty yards from the water's edge. The Knight Captain led Morion's Battalion against the enemy without delay. Unable to stand assault from two directions at once, the Beinisonians retreated rapidly south. Ailean now had the enemy compressed into a horseshoe perimeter that was quickly shrinking. Light troops, no matter how good, simply can not stand toe-to-toe with heavy infantry and slug it out. Of the one thousand bodies littering the beach, eight hundred were Beinisonian. And of those eight hundred, two hundred had been wounded but had drowned before the tide went out. "On! On!" Morion shouted, exhorting his students forward. "Press on! Drive them hard!" Two Beinisonian soldiers ran at Morion. One stumbled and fell in the wet sand but the other kept on coming. Morion turned his enemy's thrust with his shield and aimed a slash at his opponent's unarmoured head. The Beinisonian parried with his sabre and dropped into a fencer's crouch. Morion thrust towards his adversary's abdomen and was met by his opponent's parry. The combatants' blades never met, for Morion's initial thrust was a feint. His real thrust was aimed at the Beinisonian's left side. His blade slid deep between his opponent's ribs and the man crumpled. Whether he was dead or not, Morion couldn't be sure because the second Beinisonian had regained his footing and was after Morion once more after finishing one of Morion's students. Morion immediately saw this one would prove a tougher opponent due to the fact that his enemy was left-handed, making Morion's shield useless, even a hindrance. He threw it aside and leaped at his opponent. Though Morion was wearing much heavier armour than the Beinisonian, his enemy didn't hesitate about grappling hand-to-hand. Both mens' swords had met at the guards and each had the other's wrist locked in a grip of desperate strength. Morion pushed and strained, trying to gain enough leverage to throw the younger man off balance. His opponent was strong, stronger than his size would indicate. The wet sand under Morion's right foot shifted and he fell. The Beinisonian was thrown off balance as well although he managed to keep his footing. Morion struggled to his knees and grasped his sword just as the Beinisonian reached him. Morion caught a glint of sunlight off his opponent's upraised sabre and knew he had time for one last act. Desperation lending him strength, Morion stabbed upwards. His sword bit deep into his adversary's neck, severing the carotid artery. The Beinisonian fell, his lifeblood rapidly soaking into the sand. Morion stood, retrieved his shield and rested for a moment while drinking from his canteen. He looked around; the battle was going well for Baranur. The Beinisonian pocket had shrunk even further. The only thing preventing the Baranurians from enveloping their enemy was the water. Morion sensed that one more good hard push and the Beinisonians were finished. He replaced his canteen on his belt and was about to re-enter the fray when someone pounded him on the right shoulder. Morion whipped around, sword poised to strike. It was Ailean. Seeing the grim expression on Ailean's face, Morion asked, "What is it? What's wrong?" Ailean started to say something then stopped and turned, pointing out to sea. A black line of boats was approaching, each packed to the gunwales with troops. Morion could see the tell-tale flashes of sunlight that meant the the oncoming Beinisonians were armoured in something more substantial than boiled leather. "By all the gods!" Morion exclaimed. "They're sending in their heavy infantry! They're not waiting to clear the beach!" "Yes," Ailean said tightly. "It is the end." "We're going to have to work fast if we want to extricate the bulk of our force," Morion commented. "Yes you will," Ailean said in agreement. Morion turned his head sharply to look at the young knight. "What did you mean by that?" "Sir Edward personally entrusted me with stopping the Beinisonian attack on Shark's Cove. At all costs," Ailean said, gazing at the oncoming enemy. "But he couldn't have known the size of the force that you would be facing." "It matters little. We both know what the phrase 'at all costs' means." "Ailean, they outnumber us five-to-one! We've hurt them. It's time to fall back and delay them as long as possible." "I agree." "Well what is this talk of me taking command?" "You'll need a rear-guard," Ailean said in a business-like tone. "The Borderers should be sufficient. That would leave you with the better part of three-and-a-half Regiments." "You don't stand a chance!" Ailean turned to speak. When he did, it was with determination in his eyes and a note of finality in his voice. "I swore to His Excellency--on my honour--that I would not fail him. Do you understand, Lord Morion? The fact that I have failed means my honour--or my life--is forfeit. My honour means more to me than life itself. And so, I shall die to preserve it." "Ailean, don't be a fool!" "Lord Morion, you placed yourself under my command when I explained to you the gravity of the situation. Do you now wish to revoke your pledge?" "No. Neither do I wish to see you dead." "It's decided, Morion. The longer you delay lessens the chance of escape." Morion stared at Ailean for long moments. Then, uttering a curse, he left the knight and began the difficult task of executing a fighting withdrawal, perhaps the most difficult of maneuvers a commander has to oversee. War galley HUNTRESS, flagship Beinisonian Expeditionary Force Shandayma Bay, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y. "Well, Vasquez," Fleet Admiral Talens asked in irritation, "what are they doing?" Vasquez lowered the spyglass he'd borrowed and said, "They've spotted the second wave. They're retreating." He slammed the object shut. "We have them! I'm going ashore. Colonel Conti, see to it the rest of the force is landed." "Yes, sir." A boat was put over the side and Vasquez and a six-man bodyguard headed for the beach as fast as the oarsmen could row. Vasquez intended to personally oversee this battle to its conclusion. He had the chance to capture six Colours in one battle. That would be an achievement no other Field Marshal could rival. Vasquez was intently studying the battle's flow. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. The Baranurians were succeeding in making their withdrawal, outnumbered as they were. Whoever their commander is, thought Vasquez, he is a worthy opponent. "I look forward to our meeting," he said aloud. Shandayma Bay shore, 16 leagues north of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y. Morion was slowly disengaging the three Regiments of heavy infantry. He split his own Battalion into two groups, one to cover each flank. The troops were holding up well, considering this was their first battle for most. Morion was increasingly dissatisfied with the speed of the withdrawal. Ailean had something less than two thousand men to try and hold close to twenty-five hundred at bay with another four thousand about to land. Morion estimated he had another twenty minutes, at best, to get his troops away from the fighting. Morion's force was about halfway to the dunes. He turned his attention from his soldiers to the battle still underway. Ailean had been forced back but by some miracle was keeping the enemy at bay. But at what great cost. Half his men were dead or wounded and those still able to fight were trying to hold a frontage that five times their number had difficulty holding earlier that morning. And that was against the enemy's light infantry. When the Beinisonian heavy infantry landed, Ailean's force would be overwhelmed in seconds. Morion knew he had to act quickly or he would not even have his twenty minutes. He called the Commanders of his three Regiments to him and briefly explained what he had in mind. There was shocked disbelief. Morion's plan was dangerous and if things went awry, there would be no hope of putting up even a token resistance. But as one Commander put it, "We'd just be buying ourselves a few minutes more if we don't." A few minutes later, Morion, now seated on his horse, was ready to implement his plan. Trumpets blew, drums sounded, and all three Regiments changed from line-of-battle to line-of-march. To be attacked now would spell disaster. At a signal from Morion, the Colours were unfurled and the signal given to force-march. All three Regiments moved off at a trot, the fastest pace they could manage in the sand. Morion drove them mercilessly, seemingly uncaring about the difficulties the quickness of the pace and the heat of the sun presented to the men and women under his command. Once they were past the dunes and onto better footing, he ordered the pace stepped up even further. When he'd put a league between his force and the enemy, he slowed the pace to a walk. Riding to his senior Commander he said, "Keep them headed toward Port Sevlyn. I'm going back to see how Sir Ailean fares." He galloped back to the beach as fast as his horse could make it. He arrived just in time to witness the battle's final moments. By this time, the enemy had landed his second wave and surrounded the remnants of Ailean's force. Morion looked down on the scene with a mixture of pride and grief. Pride that both Regiment's Colours, King's and Regimental, still flew. Grief that less than fifty men warded them. As he watched, the enemy's commander came forward and asked Ailean to surrender. Ailean refused. Again the Beinisonian asked, almost pleaded, with Ailean to surrender. "Why waste your life? I shall have the Colours with or without your surrender." Again Ailean refused. "So be it," the enemy commander replied and slowly walked back to his own lines. The end was swift. The Beinisonians charged Ailean's group and it was over in minutes. Ailean was among the last to fall, preserving the Colours and his honour to the very last. "Damn you, Ailean," Morion cursed softly. "Damn you and your Code of Conduct. And damn you, Sir Edward, for accepting his pledge. Look what it's brought." Morion turned his horse and made his way back to his troops. He knew he could not stop the Beinisonians with his small force. He probably couldn't even delay them. But he must try, for Baranur was lost if he didn't. Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 5 Melrin, 1014 B.Y. The Melrin festival's going quite well considering there's a war on, the "owner" of The Tipsy Dragon tavern thought. Adrea Rainer was watching the tavern while her fellow trouble shooter (for lack of a better word) Rien was off on business elsewhere. At thirty, the blond-haired, brown-eyed thief still had not lost her touch. She could pilfer your coin-purse while standing right in front of you and you would never be the wiser. Her five-foot eight-inch frame held her well-muscled one hundred thirty pounds with ease. There were not many that made the mistake of antagonizing her that got away without a scar or three for their troubles. Adrea had been going non-stop since early this morning. On a normal day, she'd be lucky to get ten customers before night-fall. Now, late afternoon, The Tipsy Dragon was full to capacity and she was hard-pressed to keep up. She was returning yet-again for a round of ale when a street urchin who worked for Gaius Caligula burst wild-eyed into the tavern. "The Beinisonians have landed!" he shouted. "They're at the north end o' town!" The patrons panicked, trampling each other in their haste to reach the door. Adrea vaulted across the bar just in time and watched as the tide of humanity flowed out the door. She could hear screams almost immediately. Obviously, the Beinisonians had moved faster than the boy had said. Outside, she could hear the looting begin. She threw off the apron she was wearing and ran to her room downstairs in the basement sub-levels, taking the steps three at a time. She had prepared for this. Before he had left, Rien had told her to be ready to move at a moment's notice in case the Cove should be attacked. Adrea had scoffed at the notion. Shark's Cove was so far north of the Beinison-Baranur border that the thought of Beinisonian soldiers running through the streets had been laughable. Adrea burst into her room and quickly dressed in clothing more suited for travel. Next, she began shoving her belongings into her pack: food, extra clothing, everything disappeared into the backpack. She secreted a throwing dagger in her right boot. Two more disappeared up her sleeves. She began buckling on her shortsword but thought better of it. Wearing a weapon so openly would surely attract the attention of any soldiers she might run into on the streets. Reluctantly, she stowed the sword away in her backpack; her daggers would have to serve. She ran up to the common room and was about to leave The Tipsy Dragon when she heard a woman scream just outside. She stopped, thinking quickly. Obviously she couldn't leave just now, at least not by the door. Her only other alternative was to try leaping from an upstairs window. Adrea was on her way when the door to the tavern burst open. Adrea turned and saw a young woman, perhaps eighteen, being pursued by six soldiers. The woman's dress was ripped and she had bruises on her face. Apparently, she had escaped before the soldiers could overly harm her. She flung a chair at one of her tormentors but to no avail. The six caught her and forced her to the floor. Adrea, at the back of the room near the stairs, went un-noticed throughout the entire event. She stood rooted to the spot, uncertain of what to do. The sensible thing to do would be to run immediately, before the soldiers noticed her. But that was not in Adrea Rainer's character. She could not abandon an innocent to such a fate. She crept closer to the soldiers, who by now were taking their turns with their victim. Adrea closed to within ten feet and drew both daggers from her sleeves. She stood and was noticed at once by a soldier just finishing with the now-unresisting woman lying naked on the floor. Adrea threw both daggers in quick succession, both finding their marks. The soldier who noticed her fell backward, a dagger sprouting from his throat. A second Beinisonian collapsed with a dagger protruding from his back. One of the remaining four shouted something in a language Adrea wasn't familiar with but could guess the meaning of. Adrea quickly drew her last dagger and settled into a fighting stance. She expected the four to rush her without regard for tactics but they surprised her, fanning out in a semi-circle. At a given command, all four rushed her at once. Adrea swept her dagger in an arc before her and succeeded in delivering a deep gash to one of her attacker's arms. Before she could capitalize on her accomplishment, she was grabbed roughly from behind in a massive embrace. She struggled but could not loosen the hold on her. The soldier she had slashed came to stand in front of her, his hand clasped tightly to his wound. He looked her in the eyes for a moment before nodding to one of his companions who reached down and wrested the dagger from Adrea's hand. The wounded Beinisonian said something--evidently a crude remark--and the others laughed. Adrea spit in his face. Surprisingly, he did nothing except take Adrea's dagger from one of the other soldiers. The wounded man said something in a low voice, turned and walked over to the young woman sobbing on the floor, the dagger hidden from her sight. He knelt between her legs and Adrea heard her begging, pleading with the man not to rape her again. The wounded soldier slowly brought the dagger into view. The woman screamed at the sight of it and began struggling against her assailant. The soldier brought the blade down. Adrea heard a sickeningly wet sound and saw the woman's struggling legs go limp except for a slight twitching as her life gushed from her severed carotid artery. The soldier stood and indifferently tossed the dagger aside. He nodded and Adrea was forced to the floor. She kicked and flailed her arms but there were too many of them. Her tunic was ripped open, exposing her breasts. She tried to resist but she was held fast. Her trousers were hauled roughly off her and she felt the cold metal of a steel gauntlet touch her thighs. Looking around in desperation for something, anything, to use as a weapon, she spied a heavy spitoon within arms reach. She wrestled one arm free and grabbed the spitoon. She swung with all her strength and felt it connect with the body on top of her, sending her attacker to the ground. Adrea ran for the stairs, hoping to reach a room upstairs so she could escape from a window. She had just reached the stairs when she felt something heavy hit her between the shoulder-blades, sending her sprawling. Rough hands dragged her to the middle of the room and the partially stunned trouble shooter was held down and violated repeatedly. After they were through, Adrea was hauled upright and held in a standing position in front of the wounded soldier, now sporting a cut on his scalp. He said something but Adrea was aware only that she could feel a soreness between her legs. The Beinisonian slapped her and again spoke, this time much harsher. He saw she was still unaware of him and made a noise of disappointment. He drew his own dagger and held it in front of Adrea's face. Still, Adrea did not respond. Deeming that there was no more pleasure to be had from her, the Beinisonian quickly and efficiently disemboweled her. Adrea collapsed immediately, unable even to scream the pain was so intense. The four soldiers expertly looted Adrea's belongings and left their hacking, naked victim to die slowly in unbearable agony. Across the street, the boy who had shouted his warning to those in The Tipsy Dragon turned from the ghastly sight the tavern's open door afforded him and retched against a wall. Laraka River, 10 leagues southeast of Shark's Cove, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 1 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Lord Morion sat his horse seemingly ignoring the rain pouring from the sky. Two thousand eight hundred men and women marched slowly southeast along the riverbank. The rain, and the occasional bolt of lightning, served to lower their already-low morale. Most of the survivors of the previous day's battle were numb with shock. They had seen friends die or horribly wounded and what was worse, they had lost. The few veterans among them tried to keep up their comrades' morale, but the veterans themselves were in a somber mood. Not because of the deaths--they had seen plenty of death during their service--but because they knew the odds they faced. Most wore the expression of soldiers that were going to die and knew it. Morion rode at the head of the column. He was aware of what his soldiers were thinking; he had had those same thoughts himself many times in the past. He was tempted to agree with his veterans. Port Sevlyn was only six days away and had a militia. Morion discarded the city immediately. He had too few men and Port Sevlyn was too large for him to adequately defend. The only other option was Gateway Keep in the Royal Duchy. Gateway was built for the very purpose Morion required; to stop an invader from reaching Magnus. "Yes," he said aloud. "Gateway. For good or ill, we'll make our stand at Gateway." Morion turned in the saddle and surveyed his men. They may look beaten now, he thought, but they'll do. They'll do. He faced forward once more and settled in the saddle for the long, tense march to Gateway. The Beinisonians would be close behind him all the way. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 My Father's Curse by Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a The King was laughing when Marcellon, Sir Edward, and I walked into his private audience chamber. There was a chess board set up in the corner; the red king was lying prostrate in the center of the board, defeated. Fine thing, for a King to be laughing and playing chess in the middle of the war. But I am a Knight, and as Sir Lucan and my uncle Sir Clifton Dargon taught me, I held my peace. King Haralan turned from his other advisors when he saw us enter. "Greetings, Mage," the King began, slowing his mirth. "Greetings, Edward. Welcome, and welcome to you, Sir Knight." I bowed my acknoledgement. "What think you?" Marcellon advanced and helped himself to a goblet of wine from a tray. Marcellon's often bold before the King, bolder than anyone, even me, and I'm fairly forward, King or no King. "What think I? Of what, your majesty?" "That I take a Queen--that I take the Countess of Connall to wive." Marcellon swallowed the wine quickly to avoid choking. Sir Edward stared. I smiled and bowed to the King again. "Your majesty shows excellent taste in women," I complimented. "The Countess of Connall would make a fine queen. It's too bad your majesty won't be able to do it." The King raised his eyebrows. Sir Edward stared at me unbelievingly. Marcellon shot me a friendly glance of admiration. The Master Priest, who stood behind the King, scowled at my boldness. The King recovered first, blinked, and spoke to me. "You think her difficult to court, Sir Knight? In that, I would agree." "That's true, your majesty," I answered, smiling. And don't I know it! "That's the least of your problems, sire, if you want to marry Lady Myrande," Marcellon interrupted. "For one thing, you'll never get the Church to agree to it." "You overstep your bounds, I think, Mage," the Master Priest replied scornfully. "The Church would do nothing to stop such a marriage. It could bring only good. Although the Countess is far below the King in station--the mere daughter of a Knight--" I frowned. Sir Edward scowled. "--she is well-liked and capable. She would make an excellent guardian of the Princes Sadron and Kalien should the King fall in battle." Sir Edward finally found his tongue. "You're not going to fight, are you, Haralan?" he burst out. "Don't be a fool." "No more than I must," the King promised. "I am no great warrior." "Besides," the Master Priest continued as if he had not been interrupted, "there is no reason to prohibit such a marriage." Marcellon looked at me and I at him. "Forgive my boldness, your holiness," Marcellon began, his voice deferential, "but I believe the Stevene stictly forbade adultery and bigamy." "So he did, Mage," the Master Priest answered darkly. "But no such impediment exists here." King Haralan gave Marcellon an odd look. "I don't understand you, Marcellon," the King admitted softly. "I am a widower, and the Countess is a widow." "Not while I'm still breathing!" I ejected finally. Marcellon and Sir Edward had wanted me to keep quiet, to see how long it took before the King realized who I was. But the hell with it. I wasn't letting him think he could marry Sable while I'm still alive. And if he didn't recognize me now, he was really dense. The King stared at me in disbelief, much as Sir Edward had a few moments ago. "Count Connall," he finally breathed. "My God." He became a little calmer, and began again. "Greetings and welcome, Sir Luthias, Count of Connall. Forgive my rude assumptions, but I did not recognize you with that beard--and the rest of your body--attatched to your head." "I hold no grudges," I admitted graciously. I can be gracious, sometimes, if I want, and King Haralan didn't deserve my wrath. He did, after all, think I was dead, and he does, after all, have good taste in women. "And we are glad to see," King Haralan continued, switching from Normal Person to Royal Pompous mode, "that you are so difficult to suprise." "What's so suprising?" I returned. "I admire my wife, too." The King laughed. "This," the Master Priest said contemptuously to King Haralan, "is the Count of Connall?" "He is," Sir Edward answered for the King. "Apparently, the Beinisonains didn't kill him, but rather tortured him." "I don't want to talk about it," I said. "If your majesty still wishes to marry with the Countess, I will arrange the divorce." I glared at the Master Priest. What a--! "Over my dead body!" I shouted at him. Then I took two steps forward and pointed at him angrily. "Better yet, over yours!" Marcellon gave the Master Priest a cool look. "The Stevene allowed for divorce only in extreme cases," the High Mage reminded him. I knew that, somewhere. But theology was one of Roisart's hobbies. I like history better. Marcellon continued in his dry way, "You would do well not to abuse your power." "Is that a threat?" demanded the Master Priest. "If need be. You are not the only one with power, your holiness." "We would recommend that you worry more about the Count Connall's threat," the King said light-heartedly. I gave him a wicked grin. Sometimes King Haralan and I understand each other, which is strange, for we are so different. But then, Roisart and I understood each other perfectly--sometimes, I think Roisart understood me better than I understand myself--and we, too, were very different. "The Count Connall threatened your very life, Master Priest, and in the matter of the Countess, he rarely stays his hand." The King paused and waved a herald forward. "The Countess Connall cannot be far; summon her to my presence immediately." "And the Bichanese lords with her, your majesty?" "Bring them," commanded the King. King Haralan looked at me and Sir Edward. "The gracious Emperor of Bichu has sent us thirty knights--what do they call them?" "Samurais," I offered. "Just so. The Emperor has sent us thrity samurais--" As usual, no one in the Kingdom can manage a correct Bichanese pronunciation! "--to aid us in the war against the Beinison Empire. Among them is your Castellan, Count Connall; do you require him for the war?" I nodded and began to thank the King. Michiya was just the man I wanted for my chief aide and advisor. He is one of the few men I know whose military knowledge I completely respect and whose military prowess I would fear, if we were enemies. But that Master Priest began again--damn him! "The Count Connall would not be so foolhardy as to raise his hand against me, a holy Priest of the Stevene." I was going to say something about how the Stevene hated hypocrisy, but instead I turned to the King. "Your majesty, I believe we have settled the matter of my wife. Would your majesty grant me the favor of requiring the Master Priest to shut his damn mouth? As a 'mere knight,' I have not the rank to do so." "I do," Marcellon volunteered. "Shut up, Jehan." The Master Priest scowled, and Marcellon offered his sweetest, most innocent smile. "The matter is closed," the King proclaimed. "We will not marry the Countess; indeed, we had only meant it as a jest, although we admire Lady Sable greatly. Now, your holiness, be so good as to hold your tongue. We have other matters to discuss." "Tell me about the Bichanese, Haralan," Sir Edward requested, sitting. "You said there are thirty. Who leads them?" "A very respectable man of perhaps Marcellon's age named Kirinagi." Somehow I knew that Michiya would pronounce that name differently. "He is very knowledgeable and very capable. His second, I gather, is Ittosai Michiya's brother, whose name I don't recall." "Ito," one of the advisors said. "Ittosai Ito. An odd Bichanese. He has blue eyes." I vaguely recalled Michiya once telling me about an older brother named Ito, but I had other things on my mind. How far had Sable gone? Would she recognize me? Did she still-- "Speaking, as we were, of generals, Haralan, would you approve my appointment for General of the Cavalry?" Edward asked. "I have chosen Sir Luthias, Count Connall." "I approve completely. The post is yours, Sir Luthias." "Thank you, sire," I said automatically, but I was watching the door for Sable. "How are matters in Pyridain?" And Marcellon and Sir Edward started in on it, the whole romance, from start to finish. In the middle, the door slammed open, and I heard Sable's voice in the hall beyond: "Your majesty will forgive me if I speak candidly and say that this had better be good!" King Haralan whirled. I knew Sable would never speak that way to the King. And then she came in, leaning heavily on Michiya's arm and on another man, a tall Bichanese with blue eyes. I suppose he was Ito, but I didn't care. Right then, I fell against a wall, terrified. Sable was pregnant. God, no, I prayed. I didn't mean it. I wouldn't kill a Master Priest, God. Don't take her from me. No, don't take her. You took Roisart and Father--before that Mama-Aunt and Sir Lucan and Uncle Clifton--not her, God, not her too! *"I lost her, Lucan; she's gone, and there's no remedy for it!" "I understand." "How can you understand? How dare you? Your wife lives; Morwyn's alive, and so is Sable! How do you know what it is to lose your wife to your sons?"* The King was standing. Sable was panting; she was pale, and her dress was soaked from the waist down. Marcellon was at her side in a second. "When did the water break?" "Just now." "Are you in pain?" "I have been, all day, but I didn't realize it was labor." "You?" Marcellon laughed. I wanted to be with her, to hold her before she died, but I couldn't move. "You, the midwife, Lady Sable?" "I've never been in labor before," she snapped. Then she smiled a little, till pain erased it. "I'm glad to see you, Marcellon, and you, too, Sir Edward." I stared at her. No greeting for me?! I hadn't been gone that long! But I couldn't speak, couldn't tell her, couldn't move... Sable finally looked at me, but I don't know whom she saw standing there. "I regret I'll not be able to get to know you, Sir Knight. Your majesty--" "*Sable!*" I finally screamed, but that was all I could do. And she looked at me again, frightened and pale, and fainted right into the arms of the big, blue-eyed Bichanese. Now I could move. Marcellon was beside her, and Michiya and his brother were propping her up. I knelt beside her. "Don't let her die," I begged, taking her hand. "Don't let her die." "What nonsense are you talking?" Marcellon wondered, half-interested. "Your majesty, excuse us. I will see to Lady Sable." The King consented, and Marcellon turned to Michiya. "Lords Ittosai, help me move her." "I can carry my own wife," I snapped, lifting her. She was awkward to manage, so pregnant...oh, God, don't let her die. But she was going to die. She was going to die. And it was my fault. "Luthias-sama," Michiya was saying excitedly, "they told me you were dead!" "I'm much better," I grumbled, shifting Sable. "Where do you want me to take her?" I asked Marcellon. "You do not look much better than a dead man," the tall blue-eyed Bichanese said. "Let me take her," Michiya offered. "No." I turned to Marcellon. "Where?" "This way," said the mage, and I followed. "Can I stay with her?" I asked, barely aware of Michiya and Ito following me. The High Mage nearly stopped dead and stared and smiled. "You wish to stay with her? You're more unusual than I thought!" "Do you think I'd let her die alone?" I shouted. "Die? What are you talking about? Hurry," Marcellon continued without waiting for my answer. "We've got to put her to bed. Gentlemen, return to Sir Edward." *A little boy was sneaking through the halls. It was past his bedtime, and he would be punished by Mama-Aunt if he were caught. It was harder tonight; he was tired, for today had been his fourth birthday, but he persevered. He must once again thank his father for the gifts: a new sword, of real iron just like Sir Lucan's, and his very own pony! And he crept, alone in his nightshirt, to his father's study. His bare feet made no noise on the cool stone.* Michiya spoke quickly in Bichanese to his brother; Ito replied. "I shall stay with Luthias-sama," Michiya announced, and marched beside me. I was glad he was there. God, if only Roisart were here! If only Father-- Damn it, it was *his* fault, not mine! I didn't do it! I didn't mean to do it-- But deep down, I knew it was my fault. I've always known. And now, I was being punished. Marcellon opened a heavy door and ushered me inside. I put Sable on the soft bed. Marcellon spoke to Michiya, but I don't know what he said; Sable was stirring, and she cried out in pain. "Easy," I soothed, brushing her hair. "Luthias," she breathed, "you're alive." Normally, I would have given her a sarcastic or funny answer, but I choked. Maybe Beinison took the humor out of me. "I'm sorry," I finally managed. "I'm sorry, Sable. It's my fault. I never meant for this to happen. I didn't want you to be--" When had this happened? I thought I was careful. I thought-- It didn't matter. She was pregnant, she was dying, and it was my fault. It was all my fault. "That first night," she breathed. "Everything was so confused." She smiled, touched the chain across my shoulders. "When were you Knighted?" She was dying, and she wanted to know about my Knighthood? "Sable," I began, but I couldn't finish. What was I going to tell her? What could I tell her? What did it matter? She was going to die! "I'm glad you're home," she whispered, then pain crossed her face, and she shouted. "Do you want an anestetic?" Marcellon offered, coming to her bedside with a cloth. I took it in one hand and wiped her forehead. With the other hand, I searched for hers and grasped it. Sable shook her head. "It won't be long." And she cried out again. How could someone be in this much pain and not die? *The Baron drank from the blue decanter and whirled on his castellan. "Do you know how it feels?" the Baron demanded wildly. "How can you? How can you know how it feels? Morwyn lives still; my Julia's dead!" The Baron turned toward the portrait of his dead wife and sobbed. "Oh, Julie..." The castellan approached gently and put a hand on the Baron's shoulder, but the Baron furiously pushed him away. "I don't want your sympathy; you have none." "You're drunk, Fionn. Go to bed," the castellan suggested mildly. "What does it matter? What does anything matter?" The castellan turned away and shook his head. He stared at the door, helpless. "What can matter after your sons murder your wife? God, I hate them--I curse them! May they feel the same wound--may the women they love die bearing their children!" The castellan's eyes widened. Swiftly turning, he struck the Baron angrily. "For God's sake, hold your tongue!" he shouted. The Baron toppled, and the castellan turned to the door. But the little boy had fled.* Sable held my hand tightly. I thought she was going to break it. How long had this been going on? It seemed like hours. Yet Marcellon was calm--she was dying and Marcellon was calm!--as if everything were all under control. What did he know? Damn the Mage! Or maybe he didn't understand, but that's very strange for Marcellon, who knows mysteries as if they're obvious. Sable cried out again. "Push," Marcellon commanded gently, and Sable's face twisted with the effort. She cried again, but Marcellon said, "Push, Sable. I can see the head." And that, I knew, would be the end. *The little boy leapt into his bed and pulled the covers over him. Unable to be strong any longer, he sobbed into his pillow. Suddenly, there was a voice at his side. "Luke?" Little arms went around him. "Luke, what's wrong? Don't cry." He couldn't tell him; no, he wouldn't burden his brother. The little boy would bear the secret, the hate, the guilt--and the curse--alone. But still he sobbed till dawn in his brother's arms.* There was a baby in the room, a crying baby, but Sable still breathed--and she was still in pain. I stared. Marcellon was smiling. "Another push, Sable, and we're through." "It shouldn't be...this bad," she panted. "There's another child here," Marcellon explained. "There are twins." Oh, God, she really is going to die! Just as Roisart and I had killed our mother, my sons would kill theirs! Oh, God, please! Marcellon gave me a strange look. Then he looked at Sable again and produced another screaming child. "Now just the afterbirth," Marcellon encouraged. I remember wondering what the hell *that* was. And Sable, in less pain--she was dying for certain--pushed again, I suppose, and it was over. And she still breathed. She smiled at me and squeezed my hand--gently, thank God; it was sore as hell--and I stared at her. She was alive. I couldn't believe it. She must be dying peacefully, gradually, so painlessly that she must not even realize it. Thank God for that; at least she would die in peace. And Marcellon came forward, bearing two bundled lumps. "Would your excellencies deign to view your perfectly healthy children?" he asked gaily, putting them on the bed next to Sable. I stared at the Mage in disbelief, then looked at the babies as Marcellon moved away to wash his hands. "They're so small," I said. Then I felt stupid. Sable whacked me playfully. If I hadn't known she was dying, I would have thought she was getting better. "Newborns generally are, dullard," she laughed breathlessly. "Especially twins." Then she looked at me seriously. "Roisart and Luthias?" "What?" I asked. "Names." "Fionn, not Luthias." "Lauren and Clifton called their little boy Fionn." "All right," I conceded dully, "Roisart and Luthias." "That," said the approaching High Mage, drying his hands, "would be highly inappropriate." "Inappropriate?" Sable asked. "Inappropriate to name my children after their father and uncle?" Marcellon, in that annoying way of his, raised an eyebrow. "They're girls," he explained simply. And I felt even stupider. "Julia?" Sable suggested, looking at me. "Fine," I said without fighting. Perhaps calling my daughter after her would free me of her death. "The other...Morwyn?" She nodded and smiled, and I knew that she was glad to name our daughter after Mama-Aunt. "After your mothers?" Marcellon questioned, and I nodded. "Very good. If you don't mind, I'll take the babes to be blessed by the priests." "By the Master Priest?" Sable asked sleepily, snuggling toward me. "Don't be ridiculous," Marcellon answered dryly. "His breath would wilt the poor children." Sable smiled. "I shall return shortly." I kissed Sable swiftly, then rose. I caught Marcellon's sleeve. "How much longer?" I asked in whispers. "Longer?" "Until she dies." Marcellon gave me a very strange look. "Your wife is fine, Luthias," he soothed, putting a hand on my arm. "It was an easy labor." *That* was easy? "She was never in any danger of death. She will live for many years. Don't be alarmed." "She's not going to die?" I asked incredulously. But that couldn't be...any woman I cared for... "Of course not," Marcellon returned with slight irritation. "Go back to your wife, Sir Luthias, if you like; she will sleep for a while, however." "Sleep? After that?" "They don't call it labor for nothing, manling," Marcellon scoffed, using Clifton's horrid nickname for me. His eyes were smiling, though. "Go on, Luthias. It's all right." I stood rooted, staring at the door as Marcellon closed it, until I heard Sable call me. I turned. "Are you all right?" she asked, holding out her hand. I came to her and took it. "Me? I'm fine. You're the one who was in the pain. Sable, how are you?" "Wonderful," she told me. I sat in the chair beside her bed. "Are you all right, Luthias? I thought sometimes that you felt the pain more than I did." She'd never know how much. I touched her face, and then I kissed her. "It's all right, Sable." She had said she was wonderful; she was going to live, Marcellon had said. It was going to be all right. Seeing the change in my face, she sighed, closed her eyes, and slept. And I laid my head down beside hers, thanking God that my father had not cursed me after all. *The Baron drew his little son onto his knee, but the normally exuberant boy trembled and looked away fearfully. "Don't be afraid," the Baron said soothingly. "It's all right." The boy would not answer. The Baron held his son close. "I didn't mean what I said last night, my son," the Baron whispered, rocking the boy. "Grown-ups...when we hurt, sometimes we say crazy things, and they hurt others...I never meant to hurt you, my son." Uncertain, the boy withdrew slightly and looked questioningly at his father. The Baron saddened at the pain on the little boy's face. "I love you, my strong son," he said, holding the boy close. "I would do anything to spare you pain--I would give anything to be certain that you never feel the pain I felt when your mother died. I love you and your brother; please believe that, my son, and believe that nothing you did hurt her and nothing I said was true." And the boy sobbed and held his father tightly. "It's all right," the Baron whispered. "Don't cry, Luthias." The Baron held his boy at a small distance. "You believe me?" The boy nodded. "I would never curse you, nor would I ever hate or hurt you." The boy nodded again and gulped his tears. "Now come," invited the Baron, offering his hand. "Let's go riding."* ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ************ *** *********** **** **** ********* *** **** *********** **** ** *** ** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ** ***** *** *** *** *** **** *** **** ****** *** ******** ****** ******** **** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** **** ******* *** *** *** *** *** *** ** *** *** **** ********* ***** **** **** ********* **** *** **** *** *** **** ** *** *** ------------------- **** *** ****** ***** The Online Magazine *********** ****** ***** of Amateur Creative Writing ************ --------------------------- Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction written by the members of the online community. Athene is not limited to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing with just about any interesting topic. The magazine is published monthly, and comes in two formats -- ASCII and PostScript. The content is identical across both formats, but the PostScript version is designed for printing on laser printers while the ASCII edition can be read online as well as printed. To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to: Jim McCabe MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET Please indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you prefer to to receive. Back issues, an index, and submission information are also available upon request. 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that future by subscribing to Quanta today. 1------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright May, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 9 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 9 07/27/90 Cir 963 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Reluctant Revelation Carlo Samson Mel 5-Ye 2, 1013 The Bronze Horseman II Max Khaytsus Se 25-Ob 5, 1013 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Reluctant Revelation by Carlo N. Samson The trading ship _Vanguard Voyager_ sailed smoothly through the calm green waters of the Laraka River. Cydric Araesto and Mandi Mercallion stood at the rail, watching the town of Port Sevlyn slowly come into view along the left bank. "At long last," Cydric remarked. "It'll be great to get back on solid ground again." Mandi clapped her hands excitedly. "Party!" she exclaimed. "Where?" Cydric looked at her quizzically. "What party are you talking about?" "The one that Uncle Quill and the Lord Mayor of Port Sevlyn always throw for Brynna whenever she gets back from a voyage," Mandi replied. "Long voyages I mean, like when she got back from Bichu, but after they hear about how we gave Challion and his pirates a good thumping I'm sure they'll have one for her--probably not tonight but for sure tomorrow night, or the next night at the very least. I've just got to get a new dress!" Cydric stretched and leaned against the rail. "I'm sure you'll have a nice time. Myself, I just want to get to a decent tavern. I haven't had a good Lederian since we left Shark's Cove." "You'll have a nice time too," Mandi said. "The Lord Mayor stocks plenty of Lederian." "Is the whole crew invited to this party?" Cydric inquired. "Truthfully, no." Mandi twisted a strand of her tawny-auburn hair. "Well, except for Kayne and Scarabin, they're always invited. But since you did help save the ship I'm absolutely sure Brynna will invite you as well. She owes you that much." "It's not necessary. I'm not all that fond of parties anyway." Mandi's jaw popped open in surprise at his comment. "Why on Makdiar not? There's food, music, dancing--it'll be fun! Don't tell me you wouldn't want to go." "I've been to enough of them to know what goes on. I'd rather spend my evenings engaged in more meaningful activity." "Really? I didn't know scribe's sons got invited to the Mayor's mansion very often." Cydric started to reply, but decided to let the remark pass. He didn't want to start any conversation that would lead him to reveal his true past. To change the subject, he pointed out towards the docks. "Say, isn't that a Navy ship over there?" Mandi snapped her fingers. "I know what it is. You're worried about showing up without a date! I can take care of that for you. I know lots of girls who'd--" Cydric put his hand over her mouth. "Mandi, even on the wild chance that I did get invited, there's nothing you could say or do that would make me go." Light chamber music mixed with the sound of many simultaneous conversations filled the spacious feast hall of the Lord Mayor's mansion. "It was very kind of you to invite me to this celebration," Cydric said to Brynna Thorne. The twenty-seven-year-old captain of the _Vanguard Voyager_ nodded and tipped her wine glass. "Quite welcome, Cydric," she replied. "Mandi convinced me that double the usual voyage pay wasn't enough of a reward." Cydric made to protest that it was more that enough, but the silver-haired gentleman standing next to Brynna clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Now, now, Brynn. You can't put a price on bravery such as his." 1 "Thank you, Lord Thorne," Cydric replied, "but I didn't do all that much. The bow was enchanted; anyone could have made the shot." Lord Quillien Thorne shook his head. "The dweomer is such that it makes good archers even better. You underrate your own skill. Myself, I think you're a fine addition to my daughter's crew." A large brown-bearded man in rich maroon robes approached them, accompanied by a tall woman in similarly elegant dress. "Quillien! Brynna!" the man called. "You'll be pleased to know that Captain Hellriegel has just captured the last of the _Black Swan's_ crew--even that Danner fellow. The messenger was just here." "Excellent news," said Lord Thorne, looking to Brynna for her reaction. "That's wonderful! Thank you, Lord Mayor," Brynna said. "The Navy's certainly done their job. I'll have to send him a note of thanks before he leaves." "They ought to be the ones thanking you," said the woman, who was the Lord Mayor's wife. "All those months spent chasing down Challion and Skoranji and their mangy lot--then look who brings them in!" Brynna smiled. "You're too kind, milady. Some of the credit, though, belongs to Cydric here." Suddenly feeling uncomfortable, Cydric said, "I think I'll go and tell Mandi that Danner's been captured. She was concerned that he might come back for her. If you'll excuse me?" "Enjoy yourself," said the Lord Mayor. Cydric nodded to everyone, then took his leave. He spotted Mandi by the musicians and made his way over. "Did you have a nice chat with Brynna and Uncle Quill?" Mandi asked. Cydric answered affirmatively, then told her about Danner's capture. "That's such a relief!" Mandi exclaimed. "Not that I was really worried, though." She tugged at the side of her black evening dress. "Oh, while you were talking some of my friends arrived. Let's go, I'll introduce you." Moments later, Cydric and Mandi arrived at a table where four young people were seated. "Everyone," Mandi said, "This is Cydric, the one I was telling you about. Say hi!" A well-dressed young man with almond-brown hair stood up and gripped forearms with Cydric. "The name's Kifton, I'm the Lord Mayor's son. Sorry I wasn't here to meet you at first--the meeting with my personal treasurer ran a little long." The next to greet Cydric was a meek-looking youth and an ample- bosomed flaxen-haired young woman. Mandi introduced them as Garrett and Tassy Covington. She mentioned that Garrett was studying to become a healer, and that Tassy was one of her best friends. "I sure hope you're planning to tell us about your adventure on board the ship," Garrett said. "It must have been enormously exciting." The last person at the table was a slender young lady in a midnight-blue satin ball dress. Her cinnamon-brown hair was twisted in a long loose braid that lay across her shoulder; in her left hand she held a small white lace fan. "Cydric," Mandi said, "this is Rayna Silverwood. She'll be your date for tonight." Cydric looked at the girl and immediately felt his blood turn to ice. No, it's not possible, he thought. Damn! Of all the girls in Baranur....He felt Mandi nudge him slightly. "Ah, I am very pleased to meet you," he said woodenly, taking Rayna's outstretched hand and quickly pressing it to his cheek. Rayna flashed the barest hint of a smile. Her pale blue eyes locked with Cydric's for a moment, then her gaze flitted to the tabletop. "I-I'm pleased as well," she replied, a hint of confusion in 1her voice. She stole another glance at Cydric as she began fanning herself. Mandi stared at the two of them, puzzled by Cydric's reaction. She knew that Rayna was somewhat of a shy girl, but she expected more enthusiasm from Cydric. It couldn't be that Rayna was unattractive--she and Jannis had spent hours getting her ready for the party. The look on Cydric's face was one of shock, surprise, and dismay--like he'd seen someone he never hoped to see again. "Mandi! Have you seen Jannis?" Tassy asked. Mandi turned and motioned to the arched entrance to the gardens at the back of the feast hall. "Last I saw, she was with the Baron Fianchetti's son." "Brynna's little sister certainly is popular, isn't she?" Kiff said, grinning. Mandi shot him a disapproving look. "You know what I mean," he hastily amended. From the front of the room came the Lord Mayor's voice. "The feast will begin shortly," he announced. "I would ask that everyone please be seated now." The guests gradually left the dance floor and made their way to the banquet tables that were set up around the hall. Cydric hesitantly sat down next to Rayna, while Mandi took a seat next to Kiff. "I thought Kayne and Scarabin were supposed to be here," Cydric said to Mandi. "I haven't seen them since we left the ship yesterday." Mandi started to make a cutting reply, but decided to speak to him later on in private. For the mean time, she would act as if everything was fine. "Don't you remember?" she replied. "Scarabin's at the healer's getting cured of his razorworms, and Kayne went off to see some woman. This is the first time they've missed one of our parties." "What about Brynna's mother--your Aunt Rolanda?" "Someone challenged her to a game of King's Key. She's probably out on the terrace beating the pox out of him." A serving girl came by and filled their goblets with wine. After taking a sip Kiff said, "So Cydric, you seem to be the hero of the day around here. Why don't you tell us all about the pirating incident of a couple days ago?" "Yes, please do," Rayna said. Cydric drank a bit of wine, not acknowledging Rayna's words. After the liquid had cleared his throat he proceeded to relate the events of the day before last. The group let him talk uninterrupted; when he was finished, Tassy asked, "So who exactly is Commander Challion? I think I heard the name somewhere before." Kifton, in the process of drinking, looked over the rim of his goblet and set it down. "Hah! Now there's a good story." He wiped his lips, then spoke. "Challion used to be Knight Captain of the Southern Marches about five years ago. My cousin was in the Army at the time; he told me that one night old Captain Challion had a bit too much fine wine, then went out and tried to have his way with a peasant's daughter. Hah! Obviously, the Army kicked him out. They say that Challion used to brag about how one day he'd become Knight Commander, so after his discharge the troops gave him that title to mock him." "Serves him right, I think," Garrett said. "But then, how did he become a pirate?" Kifton shrugged, then looked at Mandi. "You ever hear anything about that?" Mandi cocked her head in thought. "Yes, but bits and pieces, mostly. They say that he was at the Abyssment in Shark's Cove once, and met up with Captain Skoranji--who owns the _Black Swan_, by the way. Well, Challion supposedly played high-stakes paquaratti with Skoranji and it ended up that Challion won the ship, but since he didn't know spit about sailing he made a deal with Skoranji that they go into scavenging treasure from wrecked ships and split whatever they 1found evenly, but Brynna said that she once ran across them off Cape Perpetual where they were searching for a sunken ship that was carrying gold that the pirate Soloman Banshee supposedly stole from the vaults of the Beinison Emperor and--" Kifton reached over and put his hand over Mandi's mouth. "I think he understands now." Mandi sputtered and pushed his hand away. "Pox! Why are people always doing that to me?" She glared briefly at Kifton, then delivered the same look to Cydric. A middle-aged woman in elegant dress swept past their table. Suddenly stopping in mid-stride, she backtracked and spoke to the group. "Greetings everyone, having a good time? Hello there Cydric, nice to see you again. You've met Lord Silverwood's daughter, I see. Getting along, are you?" "Ah--glad to see you too, Lady Thorne," Cydric replied. Mandi's temper sparked as she saw the hurt look in Rayna's eyes when Cydric didn't answer the question. Not now, she told herself. I'll get him later. "Where's Jannis?" asked Tassy. "Seems like she vanished all of a sudden." "Oh, she's out by the stables--showing off her horse to the Fianchetti boy," Rolanda Thorne replied. "He's rather a geeby type, if you ask me, but don't tell the Baroness I said that!" She grinned widely. "But he's harmless, and at least Jannis likes him. I told them to come in, so they'll be here soon. Well, enjoy yourselves, all. Dakka-zee, as the Bandalusians say!" She tousled Mandi's hair, gathered up her voluminous dress and hurried off. A bell sounded, followed by Lord Thorne's voice. He stood behind the table at the front of the feast hall; Lady Thorne took the chair to his left, and to her left Brynna was already seated. The Lord Mayor sat to Thorne's right, and next to him sat his wife Miriyan. "Thank you all for being here," Lord Thorne said. "Once again my daughter Brynna has proved herself a worthy sea captain, and made her family and friends all very proud of her. Before we begin the feast, there is something we would like to do for her. Corbin?" The Lord Mayor stood. "I've known Brynna ever since she was a child, and she was never one to believe the limits other people set upon her. Three years ago she set sail on her maiden voyage in spite of all those who said a woman couldn't command a ship, and her reputation has grown with each succeeding journey." He went on to describe her past voyages and accomplishments, then signalled to a servant who handed him a carved wooden box. He went over to Brynna and motioned for her to stand. Brynna looked confused for a moment, then got up at the urging of her mother, who also rose from her seat. The Lord Mayor continued, "It is with great pleasure that I present to you, Captain Brynna Thorne, this symbol of Port Sevlyn's highest honor." He opened the box to reveal an eight-pointed silver medallion inlaid with the likeness of Cirrangill, God of the Seas. Brynna smiled broadly and thanked the Lord Mayor amid loud applause from the guests. Lady Thorne lifted the medallion out of the case and looped the attached ribbon around Brynna's neck. Lady Thorne hugged her, as did her father. The Lord Mayor and his wife extended their congratulations as well. "Got her totally by surprise!" Mandi exclaimed. Brynna looked down at the medallion that hung against her chest, then up at the still-applauding crowd. She waited until the ovation had died down before speaking. "This is, this is certainly an unexpected honor," she said, her hand going to the blue streak in her long dark hair. "I'm not usually at a loss for words...." She made a 1brief speech in which she expressed her appreciation for all the support her friends and family had given her over the years, and mentioned that her crew also deserved recognition for their loyal and faithful service. She was making her closing remarks when Lady Thorne broke in. "Wait a moment! That's not the only surprise we have for you," she said. "Okay, Jannis, bring him in!" Through the back entrance to the feast hall came a tall well- muscled man in a gray uniform, accompanied by a slim young girl. The man strode up to the Lord Mayor's table and bowed, while the girl sat down with Cydric and the others. Lady Thorne smiled widely. "Everyone, may I present Captain Xane Hellriegel, of the Royal Navy ship _Storm Challenger_. Dakka-zee, Captain, so nice that you could attend!" Captain Hellriegel thanked his hosts and smiled at Brynna, who stood open-mouthed in surprise. "Greetings, Captain Thorne," he said. "Very glad to see you again." "Now now now, none of this 'captain' business, please," said Lady Thorne. "This is a celebration--first names only!" She leaned close to Brynna and whispered, "Don't just stand there gaping like a fish! Say something to the man, lest he think you're a statue." Brynna cast her mother a dark look, then turned to Captain Hellriegel. "So nice that you could attend," she said. "Please do have a seat, Xane," said Lady Thorne. "Next to Brynna, if you would." Mandi shook her head. "Pox, Jannis, I thought you were giving Fianchetti Junior a tour of the stables. Don't tell me you were outside with _him_ all this time!" Jannis Thorne grinned at Mandi from the opposite end of the table. "I certainly was, sure as snow! Are you jealous?" "Oooh, I could poke your eyes out!" "Thank you," Jannis said with a laugh, tossing back her golden hair. "Hah! What's to be jealous of?" said Kifton, putting his arm around Mandi. "Those Navy fish-kissers don't make a tenth of what I could get from a caravan contract. I could spend in a day what he makes in six months!" "Oooh, I'm not the only one jealous around here!" said Mandi, elbowing Kifton in the ribs. "You always bring up your money whenever you feel threatened, don't you?" "I do not," said Kifton. "Do so!" "You want to bet on that?" "Just as I thought." "He's just a fish-kisser! There's nothing special about what he does." Mandi thrust his arm away from her. "What he does is the same thing that Brynna does! Are you saying that being a ship captain is nothing special?" "That's not what I meant," Kifton said defensively. "What I meant was...simply that...uh...." "Forget it, Kiff," said Jannis. "You're in deep enough as it is." "So Jan," Tassy said, "Whatever happened to young Fianchetti? Was he impressed by El-Johan?" Jannis giggled. "About that! Soon as we stepped into the stables, he started sneezing like a thunderstorm. He never said that he was allergic to horses. It got so bad he decided to go home. And a good thing too, for just then Mother came over with Captain Hellriegel and asked me to keep him company until she called. He told me all kinds of fascinating stories--he's a very interesting man, a perfect match for 1Brynna." "You mean Captain Thorne isn't married?" asked Cydric. "Not yet," replied Jannis, "but not for long, if my mother has her way." "I was about to send a messenger to inform you that we'd captured all of the _Black Swan's_ crew," said Captain Hellriegel, "but it was such a fine day I decided to deliver the message myself. I was halfway to the doors when Lady Thorne intercepted me and invited me to the celebration. What I didn't expect was that I'd have to make that surprise entrance." "Yes," said Brynna, "Mother always manages to surprise everyone." "I'm afraid Corbin and I are also partly responsible," said the Lord Mayor's wife. "Rolanda coaxed us into going along with it." "So tell us, Captain, what's the word from Magnus?" asked the Lord Mayor. "Is there any truth to the rumors of an invasion from Bichu?" "There's plenty of speculation, yes, but I personally don't believe it," Hellriegel replied. "For one thing, it's highly doubtful that the Bichanese--" Lady Thorne clapped her hands. "Please please! You men, all you talk about these days is war. Let's discuss more pleasant things. This is a celebration, after all." "How right you are, Rolanda," said Miriyan. "The subject is growing rather tiresome. I doubt we'll see any major war in our lifetimes." Lord Thorne drained the last of his wine and signalled for a refill. To Captain Hellriegel he said, "It's extremely fortunate that you decided to replenish your water supplies at Port Sevlyn. Otherwise, those pirates might be causing trouble in town right now." "They won't be troubling anyone for a long time to come," Hellriegel replied. "We're taking the ship in tow, and the whole crew is safely in the brig--except for the oarsmen. We had to find a mage to disperse them." "So it is true," said the Lord Mayor. "Skoranji _did_ have undead among his crew. I didn't think it possible." "How gruesome," said Miriyan, shuddering. Lady Thorne started to speak, but her husband cut her off. "We're not discussing war, Rolanda," he said. "I meant anything that dealt with death on a mass scale," Lady Thorne snapped. "That reminds me," said the Lord Mayor's wife, "the first course should have been served by now. I'll have to see what the problem is." She excused herself and left the table. In keeping with Lady Thorne's topic limitations, the men began talking of less gruesome things such as the state of Lord Thorne's trading business. "The Land's Rim is doing quite well," Quillien said. "I've added spell-protection to the vaults, plus installed a secret exit--might come in useful if the Bichanese invade." The group laughed. "In addition," continued Lord Thorne, "the items that Brynna brought back from her last expedition have sold extremely well; I can now afford to either add a new room to the house, or buy another ship." The Lord Mayor shook his head. "I've a better idea, Quillien--build a summer home in the Catswoods. Duke Quinnat and I were thinking of some kind of joint project...." Lady Thorne suddenly looked at her daughter. "Brynna dear, you've been unusually quiet. Feel free to join in at any time." "I need to get a breath of air," Brynna said. "Please excuse me." She stood up abruptly and hurried out through the back of the feast 1hall. "...so as soon as we'd docked, Captain Thorne went over to the _Storm Challenger_ to tell them about the battle and have them pick up the survivors," Cydric was saying. "I did see her talking briefly to Captain Hellriegel--something he said seemed to irritate her, and she left the ship in a hurry." "She didn't mention anything about that to me," Jannis said. Just then, Brynna rushed past them out of the room. Lady Thorne followed not a moment behind. "Not again," sighed Jannis. "Cydric," Mandi said, "did you know that Rayna's father supplies almost all of the pottery that's used in the towns along the Laraka?" "Really," Cydric said. "I didn't know that." "It's true," Rayna said. "He owns three shops here in Port Sevlyn and two in Magnus. Have you ever seen how pottery is made?" "Ah, no, but I'm sure it's fascinating." Cydric turned back to Jannis. "What do you mean 'not again'?" Mandi made a tiny sound of frustration. "Mother and Brynna--they always seem to get into an argument whenever Brynna gets back from a voyage," Jannis explained. "And it's usually about the same thing." Mandi said, "Cydric, could I see you for a moment--in private?" "Hold it, what do you want to see him alone for?" Kifton said suspiciously. "It's about--his horse," Mandi said quickly. "He had to leave it behind in Shark's Cove when he joined the ship. I promised him I'd let him ride mine when we got home." "But now? They're about to serve the food!" "Well, it'll be dark soon. He can't very well ride around at night--it's so hard to see things! Honestly, Kiff, think before you speak." Mandi got up and indicated for Cydric to do the same. Cydric looked confused. "Ah, Mandi--" "Once around the pond, isn't that what you said? Well let's go then, come on!" She went around to Cydric and surreptitiously pinched him. "Ow! Owv course. Pardon us." Cydric followed Mandi out into the garden. Brynna and Lady Thorne were there, having a discussion near the rose bushes. Mandi led Cydric away from the house and over to the stables. "What is this about, Mandi?" Cydric demanded. "I ought to--I ought to poke _your_ eyes out!" seethed Mandi. "I'm not going take it anymore!" "Calm down and tell me what you mean." "Oh, you don't know what I mean--I'll tell you what I mean! You have been utterly, totally, and completely rude to Rayna! You hardly spoke to her--you barely even looked at her! I'm not going to sit by and let you treat one of my dearest friends this way! Oh, I could just scream! Rayna's a bit shy, and I thought you'd be at least nice to her. Her mother died recently, and she needs someone she can talk to. I just can't believe how you've behaved towards her! For your sake, you'd better have a reason for it!" Cydric stood stunned for a moment, taken aback by Mandi's tirade. He gulped, quickly weighing the consequences of telling her the truth or compounding the little lies he'd already told. "Well? I'm waiting," said Mandi. "I had no idea her mother was dead," Cydric said cautiously. "You should've told me." "I didn't think I needed to. I thought you'd be at least polite. Is there a reason that you weren't, or did you suddenly become a 1scrud- sucker overnight?" "Yes, there was a reason. But I don't need any abuse." "Sorry. Do you feel like telling me?" Cydric looked away and began to pace. He turned the question over and over in his mind. Would it do more harm than good to tell her? Was it really that much of a secret? Would it be so bad if he did tell? He debated within himself for several minutes. Finally he made his decision. "All right, I'll tell you." "Brynna! Slow down! You can't just walk out of the party--you're the guest of honor! What's the matter?" Lady Thorne hurried to catch up with her daughter. Brynna stopped and spun to face her mother. "Was it truly necessary to invite him?" "Him? Xane? Well, why shouldn't I have? After all, he is a captain like yourself. I imagine you two have lots of things in common." "You may as well have invited every other ship captain currently in dock, for that matter." "Oh Brynna, please. He's come to apologize for whatever it was that he said to you. Not many men would do that! And besides, I do believe that he's never been married before, either." Brynna exhaled loudly and crossed her arms. "Gods' breath, that's exactly what I thought. You never change, mother." "I don't understand...." Lady Thorne stopped speaking as Cydric and Mandi came out of the house and headed past them toward the stables. Brynna waited until they were out of earshot, then said, "I suppose I'll have just to say it plainly: I want you to stop throwing men at me in the hopes that I'll marry one of them! It's becoming extremely annoying to return home and find you waiting with the 'catch of the day', as it were. Haven't I said enough times that marriage isn't important to me right now?" "But Brynna dear, you're almost thirty. It's--" "Age again. Mother, I don't want to talk about. Straight?" Lady Thorne shook her head. "I just--I don't know what more to say. How can I convince you? You can't go rambling around the world for the rest of your life. Someday you'll have to settle down." There was the sound of someone coming down the paved garden path. Both women turned to see Captain Hellriegel approaching them. "I'll leave you alone," said Lady Thorne. "But this is your chance --remember what I've said. Be nice to him, now!" She nodded to Hellriegel as she headed up the path back to the house. "I don't think he likes me," Rayna sighed, rapidly fanning herself. "That's not true," Jannis said, trying to sound reassuring. "Cydric's probably just trying to work up the courage to--" "Hah! Just be serious for a moment," Kiff interjected. "The man killed a sorcerer with nothing but an arrow. I think he's got courage enough. More likely he'd prefer someone more--" He suddenly realized that Rayna was sadly staring at him. "Uh, what I meant was, someone who's not so...well, let's just say...." "Kiff," Jannis said. "What?" Jannis made an obscene gesture to him. Kiff sputtered in indignation. Tassy giggled. Garrett looked over at Kiff and shook his head. "Perhaps I should be going now," Rayna said. She started to get up, but Jannis gently pushed her back down. "No, you don't have to 1leave. I think that's what Mandi's talking to him about out there. I did notice that he was somewhat cool towards you." "Cool!" Kiff snorted. "Dead of winter was more like it. His look alone could've frozen water! I mean, frostbite...." Jannis coughed loudly. "One more word Kiff, and I'll tell Mandi about Corinne." "Hah! Who?" Jannis took out a handkerchief and impressed her lips upon it. She held up the cloth to display the red blotch left by her lip stain. "The girl Mandi will think this belongs to, that's who." "Hah! You wouldn't," Kiff said, his tone sobering. Jannis smiled sweetly. Rayna folded up her fan. "I think I really should leave. I'm not feeling all that well anyway." "But Rayna--" Jannis looked to Tassy for help. "Tell your mother it was a lovely party." Rayna got up and began to walk away. "Ah--you should at least have dinner!" Tassy called. "It would be a shame, almost an insult really, to walk out before the meal's been served." Rayna paused, then returned to the table. "I do suppose that's true." She sat back down. "But why do you think Cydric was acting that way?" "Maybe he's got another girl," Kiff mumbled. "Kifton!" Jannis and Tassy said together. "Is anything wrong?" Captain Hellriegel asked. "Just a little family disagreement. Nothing to be concerned about," Brynna replied. "Why did you run out here, though? You seemed a little upset." "As I said, nothing to be concerned about." Brynna turned away and peered closely at a nearby rose. Hellriegel nodded and clasped his hands behind his back. After a moment he said, "Congratulations on the medal. It's an honor well deserved." "Indeed," Brynna replied without turning around. Hellriegel let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn't expect this to be easy," he muttered to himself. Brynna straightened up and faced him. "I think I'll be getting back to the party now. Do please excuse me." She started to walk past him. Hellriegel grasped her arm. "Brynna--Captain Thorne, please wait. I--" Brynna glared at him until he released her. "Don't you have to get under way soon? Your prisoners must be anxious to get to trial." "About what I said the other day. I'm sorry." "So mother was right. You did come to apologize." "Listen, Captain--I can't excuse what I said to you that day. It was wholly obnoxious, it was entirely uncalled for, it was--" "Typically male?" Brynna finished. "All right, that too. There's no way under Kisil-Doon I can take back what I said. All I can say is, I wish I'd never said it." Brynna nibbled her lower lip, but said nothing. Captain Hellriegel let his hands drop to his sides. "That's all I really came here for. I suppose I should get back to my ship now. Goodbye, Captain." He slowly turned and started up the path. "Captain," Brynna called after a moment. Hellriegel stopped and faced her. "Would you have said similar things to a...a non-female ship captain?" 1 Hellriegel grinned. "Definitely not. I'd have said something much worse!" Brynna strode up to him. In a softer tone she said, "If I might ask a small favor?" "Of course, anything." "I have some business to take care of in Magnus, and since you're already going there...." "My cabin is yours--if you want it, that is." Brynna smiled slightly. "We'll see." "This wouldn't have anything to do with the Codex Araltakonia--the book that Challion wanted so badly--would it now?" "It might," said Brynna. "If I could have an hour to get ready?" "Take all the time you need." Cydric sat down against a tree. "You may be surprised at what I'm about to tell you, and for you to fully understand I'm going to have to start at the very beginning." Mandi plopped down in front of him, legs crossed underneath her. "I'm listening." "You also have to promise not to say anything until I've finished." "Yes! Now get on with it." Cydric sighed, then proceeded to tell her the truth. He told her that instead of being a scribe's son like he initially claimed, he was in fact the son of Khysar Araesto, who was the King's Royal Treasurer and Duke of Pyridain. He told her of his long-standing desire for adventure, of his love for the King's niece Lysanda, and of the Dreamrealm adventure he had shared with the Sage of Dargon. He then gave an account of how he was forced to marry Lysanda after he learned of her pregnancy, and of how the resulting scandal caused the dissolution of their marriage. "...so that's why I decided to leave Magnus, and how I ended up in Shark's Cove. But when you introduced me to Rayna, I couldn't believe it--she looked exactly like Lysanda. Same hair, eyes, lips...they could almost be twins. And everything that I was feeling after she left with the baby--it all came flooding back to me. I thought I'd forgotten her, about what she said...I was afraid that I might take it all out on Rayna. So I tried to say as little as possible. Damned unfair of me I know, but..." He shrugged. "I don't blame you if you're still angry." Mandi sat silent for a moment, digesting all he had revealed to her. "Pox," she said at length. "When you said you had a reason...I thought it was her looks, or her dress--I had no idea I'd be getting a full confession!" "I felt I needed to tell you the entire truth. It was becoming too difficult to keep my lies straight." "I'm glad you trust me enough to tell me all this," Mandi said, placing her hand on his knee. "But you actually lived in the same castle with the King! That is the most amazing thing I've--" "Are you still upset about how I acted towards Rayna?" "Well--well of course I am. I know what's she's feeling; my mother's dead, too." Mandi traced a circle in the dirt. "It happened when I was a child, though. I never got along with my stepmother-- that's why I ran away and came up here to join Brynna." She looked up and shook Cydric's leg. "But Rayna's a completely different person from Lysanda. Just because they look the same--that means nothing. Rayna may be a little shy, but she's warm and caring, a really good friend. She would never do anything to hurt anyone, and right now she needs someone that won't leave her after a single night. Do you understand what I mean? She deserves a honest chance. Will you give 1her at least that much?" Cydric slowly nodded. "You're right. I suppose I do owe her that. Should I apologize?" Mandi stood up and dusted herself off. "How about if the two of you go out to a tavern together? You can start all over without being distracted." "Sounds like a good idea. Help me up, would you?" He stretched out his hand. Mandi reached for him, but withdrew her hand at the last moment. "That was extremely humorous," Cydric said, getting up on his own. Mandi giggled. Cydric frowned. "Is that a leafhopper?" he said, putting his finger on her shoulder. "What!" Mandi said, quickly turning her head. Cydric flipped his palm over and lightly slapped her cheek. "Oooh!" Mandi exclaimed. "Now we're even. Shall we go?" Cydric grinned. "You have to tell Brynna, you know." "Oh," Cydric said. The first course was served shortly after everyone had returned to the house. Garrett frowned down suspiciously at his plate. "Is this it?" he asked. The dish consisted of a slab of cooked beef in between two thick slices of bread. Kifton said, "It's a recipe Mother learned about from a bard who came through here a few weeks ago. He said it's very popular down in the southeastern duchy where it originated. In fact, it's named after the Duke himself." "What Duke is it named after?" Tassy asked. Kifton thought. "Leftwich," he said. "A Leftwich," Mandi repeated. She took a small bite. "It's good," she said. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 The Bronze Horseman, Part 2 by Max Khaytsus Kera gratefully accepted the sailor's outstretched hand and jumped down onto the pier. After a few weeks at sea, it was a pleasant change to stand on ground that did not rock beneath her feet. "I hope you had a good voyage, miss," the sailor told her. "Actually that was my first time," Kera smiled. "The constant rocking was...well, a pain." "Never been on a ship before?" the sailor asked with a smile. "I have, but only for a few hours at a time," admitted Kera. "Never had to sleep on one before." "That was a relatively calm trip," the sailor said. "You picked a good time to travel." "Calm?" Kera exclaimed. "What about that storm last week?" "That wasn't a storm," the sailor laughed. "A month or two more and storms like that will be common out there." "You below!" someone yelled from the ship. "Get a move on! We need to unload cargo before nightfall!" "Better go," the sailor sighed. "Gotta make room for new cargo. Enjoy your stay here, miss." "Thank you," Kera called as the sailor rushed off. She walked up the pier to the dock and stopped, looking both ways. A board-walk much larger than the one at Dargon stretched both ways as far as she could see. Rien said that The Tipsy Dragon, the bar she was to deliver his message to, was on the north shore of the Laraka, about a league from the docks. She turned right, adjusting her pack, and went towards the river. Kera wished she had her horse, but as Rien predicted, she had to sell the animal in Armand. The ship's captain refused to put up with the horse on a three week journey and there wasn't the time to travel by land. She dreaded having to sell the horse, as it had been her constant companion for the last few months, but there was no other choice and Rien promised her she would be provided a replacement in Sharks' Cove. After some walking Kera came to the end of the dock at the north end of the Laraka river delta. On the island ahead of her rose a large stone castle that caught her eye. It wasn't as tall or magnificent as Dargon Keep, but a single silver tipped spire pointing up into the sky over barely visible stone walls covered by a multitude of trees forced her to stop and look. Never having been more than two hours beyond the gates of the city of Dargon, Kera found everything to be a wondrous sight, even the ship she sailed in on. This castle, the second she had seen in all her life, was easily one of such wonders and she remained on the board-walk admiring it for a long time. She had heard the sailors on the ship talking about this castle, Quirin Keep, and about its owner, Baron Morgen Roderick, whose reputation matched that of Sharks' Cove, the so called "hind end of Baranur". Kera finally turned to the road leading upriver, deeper into the city and began looking for her destination. There were many beggars wandering the docks and a lot of drunken men slept by the walls of the buildings near the pier. The other people, who Kera imagined to be a little more respectable, were not as friendly as the folk in Dargon. When she asked for directions, most simply ignored her as they wandered by and those who did stop to shrug their shoulders did not even dare to smile. The entire atmosphere of the city was rude and impersonal. One young man even walked up and pinched her behind. She turned around and whopped him one so hard that he slunk away with a 1bloody nose and a fat lip. Then for a whole block people got out of her way, which kept her immensely amused. By late afternoon Kera found a two story building facing the river with the words "The Tipsy Dragon" painted across a sign board on the front, right below an overweight dragon reclining lazily on the letters. The crowd in this part of town appeared to be a little wealthier, better dressed and somewhat more friendly. After a brief hesitation Kera entered the tavern. Inside it was murky and loud, but Kera was surprised to see that no drunk people slept on the tables and, on the whole, it was a lot cleaner than most places in Dargon. A large bouncer looked down at Kera. He must have been over seven feet tall! She must have missed him because he blended in with the furniture so well. Everything appeared a little imposing. Feeling a little self conscious, Kera slipped by him into the large main room. Three musicians played on a raised platform in the far corner and a young woman sang in front of them. Kera tried to catch the words to the song, but realized they were in a foreign language. She wasn't that far from Dargon, was she? In either case, both the melody and the words were pleasant to the ear. Finding a seat at the bar, Kera sat down. The bartender was off at the other end of the bar and she took the time to look around a bit. Perhaps the bar's most prominent feature was a kite shield hanging up above the center stand, with a large crimson dragon sprawled out on his back, obviously drunk and just having released a belch in a puff of circular white smoke, painted on the shield's face. Kera almost giggled at the sight. "What can I get you?" the bartender walked over to Kera. He was young, maybe a little older than she, with good muscle tone and a deep tan from being in the sun. Definitely not the typical overweight and balding barkeep with a dirty apron. "Mead," Kera said and he walked off. She wondered how to best follow Rien's directions without making a fool of herself. The bartender came back and placed a glass before her. "I'm carrying a message," she said. The man looked up. "For whom?" "I am carrying a message," Kera repeated. The man frowned and looked around the room. "When the singer is done, talk to her." Kera nodded and picked up her drink. When the bartender walked away, she turned to watch the group on stage. The three musicians, all men, were dressed uniformly. At first Kera thought it to be frivolous, but then realizing that by dressing this way the men would make themselves more recognizable, she saw the logic. The girl singing was commonly dressed, if a little like the merchant class, which could afford better garb. She was slightly taller than Kera, dark eyed with blond hair. Kera was wondering why she has to deal with a musician, when the singer finished her song and bowed. The patrons began cheering and even the bartender clapped his hands. Someone yelled for her to sing again and the majority of the tavern began cheering her on. The young woman raised her hands into the air to silence the mob and when it was quiet, started speaking in a slightly accented voice. "Let me take a break and I will sing again later in the evening." "You're just trying to keep us here so we buy more drinks!" someone yelled and the patrons broke into laughter. The young woman got off the stage and went to the bar. The bartender walked over to her and placed a glass with dark blue syrupy liquid before her. As Kera watched, they chatted with each other for a while, then 1the bartender pointed in Kera's direction. After a few more words he left and the singer walked over and sat down by Kera. Up close she looked a little older than Kera had initially thought. Maybe thirty or so. "I am told you brought a message," the woman said. "Are you one of the new couriers?" Kera shook her head. "I feel like one, but I'm not." "Who is it from?" "Sir Keegan," Kera answered. The woman looked puzzled. "Rien?" Kera nodded. "I didn't know what you called him here." "May I see it?" Kera picked up her pack off the floor and pulling the rolled up sheet out, cautiously handed it over. Noticing the apprehension, the woman put the parchment on the bar and reached her hand out to Kera. "I am Adrea Rainer. I'm in the same line of work as Rien and for the time being in charge here." "I'm Kera. Rien apprenticed me." Adrea laughed. "So he finally broke down and took one. Have you had dinner yet?" Kera shook her head. "Good," Adrea said. "You can keep me company. Brice!" she called to the bartender. "Serve us dinner." She picked up the message and asked Kera to follow her to a corner table, where she read it. "I'm afraid he's a little late going after Sir Garwood Quinn," Adrea said. "We sent a man up two weeks ago. I expect Rien will run into him." "He couldn't make it earlier," Kera said. "There were a few problems." Brice came over with a tray and served dinner to the two women. "It tastes better than it looks," he said and left. "Problems?" Adrea asked, ignoring the bartender. "I can't comment on them," Kera said. "I don't know if Rien wants this known." Silence ruled the table for a few moments, then Adrea spoke again. "How long have you been with him?" "We met in Dargon before Melrin," Kera said. "How did his vacation go?" "I didn't find it very relaxing," Kera said, "but he claims it was a break from the normal routine." "First one he took in three years," Adrea said. "He tends to get into trouble just for the adventure of it." "Life with him isn't boring," Kera agreed. "I wish he hadn't sent me here for his stuff. I can't begin to tell you how many times I got sea sick on that boat." "First time?" "No. I've been on boats before, but never for three weeks straight." "A few more times and you'll get used to it," Adrea promised. "A few more times and I'll develop a phobia," Kera smiled. "I'm just glad I'm not going back the same way." "When do you want to get going?" "As soon as I can, I suppose. How long will it take to put everything together?" "An hour or so," Adrea said. "We weren't expecting you." Kera nodded. She was surprised at the short amount of time, but did not give it away. "That will be fine." "Why don't you spend the night here?" Adrea offered. "After that boat ride you may need the rest." Kera thought about it for a moment. "I suppose a night won't make 1that big a difference. Why not." "Good," Adrea approved. "I'll show you to your room after dinner." Silence took hold for a little longer, then Adrea pointed to Kera's pack. "Is that all of your gear?" "I sold my horse and armor in Armand," Kera said. "Neither one had much room or purpose on the ship." Not true, really. The horse could have served as company at least as good as some of the sailors and the armor could have been packed neatly under something to be out of the way, but available if necessary. "A horse is no problem," Adrea answered thoughtfully, "but we'll have to measure you for armor. What's your height...?" Brice returned to the table. "Adrea?" "We're not done yet," she looked up. "The couriers are back," he said. "Damn!" she moved her plate aside and stood up. "One of these days I'll get out on the streets again and you can handle the messes." "That's what happens when you have children," he answered. "Get back to the bar," Adrea shooed him away. She turned and looked at Kera's confused expression. "I'm the senior member present. I deal with all problems. You want to come along?" Kera nodded and got up, following Adrea to a room behind the bar where two men waited for them. She recognized one as the courier who delivered the message to Rien in Dargon, but he did not seem to know her. Perhaps the cloak had protected her better than she thought. He handed Adrea a rolled up sheet and she sat down to read it, after tearing the seal. "This just proves Bichu can't go to war!" she finally said. She wrote her response under the message and resealed the letter. "Take this back. I want to know who and where!" The two men left. "They don't get to sleep over?" Kera asked with a smile. "I guess I'm running them a bit ragged," Adrea admitted, "but there are all these rumors and no trace of their source." "What makes you think that Bichu does not want to go to war?" "Lack of a fleet. They need to get here to attack us." "I met a Bichuese man up in Dargon," Kera said. "He was very nice." "In Dargon?" Adrea asked. "He is Baron Connall's Castellan," Kera said. "He came here because of a family feud at home." Adrea scribbled a note on a sheet and folded it. "I'll have this checked. He may know something useful. Let's go finish dinner." The two women returned to the dining room. "Do you know Rien well?" Kera asked suddenly when they sat down. "I suppose," Adrea answered. "We've worked together for a while now." "Can you tell me about him? He doesn't talk about himself much..." "That's a sensitive one," Adrea said. "What do you already know? You know where he is from?" "Charnelwood," Kera said. "He told me about his parents also." "Good," Adrea nodded. "I wouldn't be telling you much if you did not know this. It's the most sensitive part of him." "I understand why he has so much to hide..." "Well, let's see," Adrea began, "he wanted to find out what the real world is all about. His people avoided outside contact for centuries. A long time ago, according to histories...what we now call myths, the world was quite different. Our scholar could tell you a lot more about those. I'll introduce you to him this evening. Rien's tribe has been secluded from everything since before Baranur became a 1country. "From what I understand, his father was one of the very few contacts they made with the outside world. How and why, I don't know, but obviously one thing led to another and Rien was born. I don't know how his tribe treats him, but he definitely feels he is an outsider to them and above all, doesn't talk much about it." "What about his name? It doesn't sound elven. Was it his father's?" "What do you consider elven," Adrea asked. Kera honestly could not answer. "I meant it sounds human," she said. "It is, but it's not his father's. Have you ever heard of Sir Gaelan Keegan?" Kera shook her head. "I'm not surprised. He doesn't talk much about that either. I didn't know about it until I saw it in a book and brought it up," Adrea said. "I don't know why that man never became a hero. Judging by his biography, he should have. A century ago Sir Gaelan Keegan, a baron in the Duchy of Arvalia, together with a dozen of his knights defeated the mob lead by Duke Silas Wolfric's brother, to take the duchy back...and didn't lose any of his men in the overnight victory. Of course that was also the only thing he did in his lifetime." Kera continued staring blankly, not understanding the relevance." "Rien was there," Adrea emphasized. "He was Sir Gaelan Keegan's squire. Gaelan took him to help him learn how to fit in. That's where he got the name." Kera felt herself turn pale, forgetting her question dealt with Rien's name. "How old is he?" "I don't know," Adrea said. "He was about fifty back then. That would make him a hundred and fifty now." Kera gasped. "Are you all right?" Adrea asked. "I didn't realize he was that old," Kera said. "Elves tend to do that..." Adrea smiled. "Or, as he puts it, `Ljosalfar do; I don't know about the Dopkalfar'." They both laughed at the expression and quickly finished dinner. Adrea then sang a bit more for the customers and after, took Kera to the back room and down a flight of stairs. "This is where our people stay," Adrea said, showing Kera into one of the rooms on the floor. "We try to keep our staff in the dark, underground. Regular customers stay on the top floor." Kera dropped her pack on the bed and looked around the room. It was large, larger than the one in the Connall Keep. Candles mounted in special brackets on the walls kept the room well lit and there was a distinct lack of windows, which made the room look gloomy in spite of the plentiful lighting. "I've never slept underground before," Kera noted. "I promise you won't get sea sick," Adrea smiled. The bottom level of the tavern was occupied by a small library, a relaxation area and a laboratory. They were all brightly lit, but it was not obvious by what. There were candles on walls and tables, but none were lit and none cast shadows. Kera spun around, looking at the floor, searching for her shadow, but it was not there. "Magic," Adrea explained. "Come, I'll introduce you to the force behind it." "Force?" Kera asked, hurrying to catch up. Adrea opened the laboratory door and walked in with Kera behind her. The room was as big as the rest of the level. It was filled with counters and shelves along the wall and tables in the center. On one of the tables was an assortment of vials and beakers and other various 1equipment, most of which Kera could not identify if her life depended on it. Most of the glassware was filled with different colored liquids, some boiling over into other dishes, others standing aside. It took Kera a while to see the blond haired man in his late thirties sitting across from the door, watching a glass with some liquid heating over a flame. "Deven?" Adrea called to him and he raised his hand in response, without looking up. "Hold on." He had a distinct foreign accent. "Let me show you around," Adrea sighed. "He gets so much into his work he forgets to eat. He tends to sleep here too..." Adrea took Kera around the lab, mentioning equipment and trying to explain the setups. Most of the information went right over Kera's head. Noticing that, Adrea assured her that a year ago she knew next to nothing about magic as well. Finally the liquid Deven was watching changed color and he turned to the two women. "It's supper time," Adrea told him. "I already ate," he answered. "That was lunch," Adrea reminded him. "This," she pointed to Kera, "is Rien's trainee, Kera. Kera, meet our resident wizard, Deven. We'd all be lost without him, but he'd be twice as lost without us." "A pleasure to meet you," Deven said, taking Kera's hand. "Will you be staying a while?" "Just overnight," Kera said. "I came by to pick up some equipment." "That's good," he mumbled. "Is Rien here?" "He's up in Phedra," Adrea answered. "Oh...." the mage said, looking over his shoulder. "It's nice meeting you..." he told Kera and went back to the tables. "Did I offend him?" Kera asked Adrea. "Don't worry. He probably just remembered something. He'll remember about you later in the evening." "I have a book I need to give him." "What book?" Adrea asked. "From the Ducal library in Dargon. Rien wanted it copied if there are no copies here. He told me it goes to `the guy who can't remember his name'." "Sounds like you found him," Adrea smirked. She led Kera from the laboratory to the library. "Let's see if we have a copy. What is it called? Who wrote it?" "Realities of Myths by Bistra." Adrea started scanning the shelves. A lot of the books were in foreign languages. Most looked new, but well used. "No," Adrea finally said. "Doesn't look like we have it. What is it about?" "Uh..." Kera hesitated. "It talks about magic and mythology." Adrea pulled a thick tome from the shelf and started flipping her way through it. "It's not listed," she finally said. "We don't have it. I never even heard of it. What did Rien need a mythology book for?" "It's not exactly mythology," Kera said. "It explains how mythological and unnatural things fit in the natural world." "You sound like Rien." Kera smiled, a little embarrassed. "That's how he explained it to me when he started looking for it." It wasn't an answer to the question asked and she thought about it a little longer. Adrea seemed to know Rien pretty well. "Rien got lycanthropy when he was in Dargon and wanted the book to obtain more information about it...he's fine now," she added quickly. Adrea looked thoughtful. "Tell me about it." 1 Over the next hour Kera told Adrea the story of what happened...most of what happened, since she felt some parts, including her meeting with Rien and their relationship should remain private. Adrea was very understanding and it made Kera feel better for being honest. After their talk Adrea went to check on her daughter and Kera got the book and returned to the laboratory. Deven was back watching the transparent liquid bubbling over a flame. If Kera had not seen him move when Adrea introduced them, she would have sworn he was frozen to the bench. She remained standing in the doorway until Deven looked up. He must have been more alert than he appeared. "Come in," he said. "What can I do for you?" Kera showed him the book. "Rien told me to ask you to make a copy of this if you don't have one." Deven examined the book. "Never heard of it. Did you check in the library?" "Adrea did. She didn't find it." "Then we probably don't have it," he said. "Let's go copy it." "Now?" Kera asked. "I heard it takes months for a scribe to copy a book!" "And that's precisely the reason my father never made much money," Deven said. "Magic is an art form of many applications." As Kera watched, Deven got a clay box and a long stemmed yellow-green plant and after placing the box on the book, on which he lay the plant, he cast a spell. Before Kera's eyes the plant turned into a book identical to the one at the bottom of the stack. The box between the two books glowed a dim red. "What is it?" Kera asked when Deven finished. "A scribe's hand," he answered as if miscellaneous body parts were an everyday occurrence to him. Kera took a deliberate step back, but he did not seem to notice. "This will only last for a day or so," Deven went on. He found a bottle of ink and a small green gem and spent the next hour trying to crush the gem into powder and then, mixing it with the ink, made it into a paste. All this time he kept asking Kera about the book and her education and discussing what she knew, though he spoke very little about himself. By the time the paste was ready, Kera understood what Adrea meant when she said she learned a lot about magic in the last year. The paste, which there turned out to be quite a lot of, was molded around the new book and Deven cast another spell. The box stopped glowing and the paste disappeared. Deven proudly held up the two books. "Even the true owner wouldn't know which is which. Give this one to Adrea to send back. I will catalog the other." Kera thanked him and retreated upstairs. Deven was an interesting person to listen to, but after an hour of listening to theories of crystal stability and how to make octopus ink into real ink, Kera had a headache she felt may outlive her. "Is Deven still working?" Adrea asked when Kera made it to the bar. "He was making a copy of the book." "Is he done? Well, never mind. He wouldn't let you go if he wasn't." Kera smiled and handed Adrea the book to be delivered. "This needs to be returned." "Who does it go to?" "Rish Vogel, a chronicaler in the Duchy of Dargon," Kera said. "It's from the Duke's library. That's the only place there was a copy 1in the whole city." "I take it neither the Duke, nor this Vogel know it's missing?" "They might by now," Kera said. "I didn't think they'd just let us borrow it." "You should ask Deven about some of his stories," Adrea laughed. "He used to be a book thief." "With spells like that?" Kera asked, surprised. "He created the spells after the College of Bards caught him. That's the one he'll talk your ear off with. I'll have the book sent to Dargon as soon as there is a courier available," Adrea said. "Now I'd better go beat Deven over the head. One of these days I should let him alone, just to see how long it takes him to realize that he's hungry. He's bound to notice it sooner or later...I hope." Kera remained on her stool, watching the band play. There were more customers now than before. Brice served her a drink and after an exchange of pleasantries left to help the other patrons. After a while Kera began getting bored. There wasn't all that much to do at the tavern. The people here were for the most part middle aged and cultured; a crowd Kera could not fit in with. She nursed her drink a while longer and then went outside. A crescent moon shone above the bay off to the west and Kera wandered down the street towards the harbor. Within a few blocks the buildings became rundown and a lack of street light, artificial as it was, became apparent. Kera noticed a person sleeping by the wall of a building and edged by carefully, so as not to disturb anything. For the most part the streets were empty, but appeared more dangerous than the ones in Dargon, even if there was an assassin looking for her there. A patrol passed by Kera and she could have sworn that at least two of the three guards were drunk. They stumbled on, past her, not even noticing she was there. Even in Dargon the guards, who suspected Kera was a criminal, would greet her in the streets. Sharks' Cove was dirty and foreign and impersonal. Kera turned off the cobblestone street and made her way down to the river. During her voyage at sea Kera learned that her newly gained night sight made it possible for her to see fish swimming under the water at night, but it was not the case here. The water was murky and dirty and although it ran very fast, it had a stagnant smell to it. Kera sat down on shore, looking into the water. She wanted to put her feet in it, but decided against it. The beach was dark and quiet. On the shore across from her, at least a half league distant, Kera noted flickering lights and a dark massive structure. It was the Quirin Keep. She watched the lights a little longer. One, high above the structure appeared and disappeared every few seconds. It must have been a guard patrolling up at the top of the tower. After some time Kera got up and started walking along the beach. For some reason Sharks' Cove felt wrong and uncomfortable. She could not wait to leave this city. After a while Kera heard a commotion and edging carefully ahead saw two people fighting in the dark. Her initial instinct was to stop them...or join the fight herself -- she was never exactly sure of this impulse, but after a few moments of thought decided not to interfear. There was no reason for her to get into trouble in a town where she would only spend the night and making a resolution not to provoke anyone, returned to The Tipsy Dragon. In the morning, after breakfast, Adrea took Kera out back to the stables to give her the equipment and the horses. The night before Kera was measured for armor after she returned to the inn and while there was no plate that fit her perfectly, Enneth, the large man who was standing at the door the previous day, found a suit of chainmail 1for Kera overnight. The two horses, as Kera found out, were thundersteeds. Large, heavy animals with hairy feet. Kera had to stand on her toes to see over their backs. "Rien takes a lot of ribbing from us about his horse," Adrea said, pointing to one of the mounts. "A knight on a mare. Her name is Kelsey, by the way. But she's better behaved than most knights I've met." Kera walked around the horse, looking it over. On the left side of the saddle hung a kite shield covered by a cloth. Kera lifted it up to reveal the coat of arms -- a white oak on a dim blue background. She smiled at the sight of the symbol Rien had told her about. "It's covered so he won't advertise," Adrea said. "I don't think he uses it much anyway. His lance has been lying about back here for the last two and a half years, gathering dust." "He's not much of a knight, is he?" Kera asked. "I don't think he understands knighthood," Adrea answered. "Or maybe he doesn't want to understand it. He really has a point when he says that there is no reason to give an opponent the advantage of equal footing." Kera walked over to the horse given to her. It was also female, a few inches shorter, but tall enough to force her on her toes to see the top of the saddle. "If you're trying to be inobvious, why are you using thundersteeds?" "We don't normally," Adrea said. "Most are riding horses and light war horses, depending on what sort of jobs we do. Most couriers use lighter horses that won't stand a chance in a fight, but can outrun almost any beast. Rien tends to push his horse to the limit, along with himself, so he uses one that can take the strain and you'll need one to keep up." Kera paused a moment longer, looking over the animals. "I guess I'd best get going," she said finally. "Provisions and money are in your saddlebags. Rien's gear is on Kelsey," Adrea quickly finished the inventory. "Will you need anything else?" "Good weather and decent directions," Kera smiled. Adrea fished around in Kelsey's saddlebag and pulled out a rolled up scroll. "One map. You'll have to request the weather from a higher source." Kera took the map and got up on her horse, glad that she was not wearing plate when having to climb. "Any messages?" "Just tell him `welcome back'." Kera took Kelsey's reigns and looped them around a protrusion on her horse's saddle. This way she could control both animals. "Does this one," she pointed to the horse she sat on, "have a name?" "Not really. You can have the honor of naming her." Having heard that Garwood Quinn was still settled in Phedra, Kera decided to enter the village with caution. The farmers a few leagues south of her destination warned her that all roads were guarded and the only traffic on them has been a group of Quinn's men returning from a raid. There was no evidence of any adventurers, or anyone else, leaving Phedra, although a number went there to claim the reward. As yet there has been no evidence that anyone had succeeded. With all this in mind, Kera secured the horses in a wooded grove away from the road, in the hills south of the village to avoid detection. She also left her chain armor, sword and bow behind. If Rien was in Phedra, he may need help and she may need to stay inobvious. Being inconspicuous was the trait of the thieving profession which she knew so well. 1 After some time of fighting her way through the brush and tall stalks of grain, Kera spotted an elderly man checking the crops. She was about to duck back into the growth, when he spotted her. "Hey! What are you doing in there?" She froze as he made his way to her. "Stop trampling the wheat! Get out on the path. What are you doing in there?" Kera looked the farmer over. He was probably in his fifties, shaggy, tired looking and most importantly, unarmed. With a sigh of relief Kera stepped out of the crop to face the farmer. "What are you doing here, girl?" he asked again. "I was on my way to Phedra," Kera answered. "On your way to Phedra?" the man echoed. "Now that's a foolhardy thing to do. If Sir Quinn sees you, you'll never leave, young and pretty as you are." "I am looking for a friend of mine," Kera said. "He should be waiting for me in Phedra." "No one has friends in Phedra any more," the villager said. "It all belongs to Quinn. If your friend was smart, he avoided Phedra. I recommend you do that too. Don't go to Phedra. It's not safe." "Maybe you've seen him," Kera got an idea. "He's blond, about this tall," her hand rose to the six foot level, "on a light war horse? He should have been here about a week or two ago." The man thought for a moment, as if trying to remember the multitude of travellers that passed by. "No one like that, miss. Not a commoner. There was a knight like that, though." "A knight?" Kera snapped. She knew Rien disliked knighthood, but a knight riding into town would be much more impressive. "When? Where did he go?" The farmer shook his head. "A little over two weeks, miss, but he didn't go anywhere. Sir Quinn challenged him to a joust...and he lost. Everyone Sir Quinn challenges looses." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that future by subscribing to Quanta today. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright July, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 10 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 10 08/03/90 Cir 957 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Ghosts of the Past Max Khaytsus Nober 15, 1013 and Janis 16-17, 993 Campaign for the Laraka II John Deucette & Yule 6-12, 1014 Carlo Samson ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Ghosts of the Past by Max Khaytsus "Sir!" a young guardsman ran into Captain Koren's office. Captain Koren and Lieutenant Kalen Darklen exchanged a look of irritation. "Did they ever teach you the polite way to deal with a closed door, soldier?" Lieutenant Darklen stood up. The guard quickly straightened himself out -- it was obvious he had run a long way -- saluted his two superiors and asked for permission to speak. Kalen sat back down. "I want you to take a night shift for the next two weeks," he said. "Perhaps I can inspire some manners in you by keeping you near by. Hopefully you will remember that you should knock before entering. You will start tonight." "My current shift ends at sunset, Sir," the young guard protested. "When I was your age," Captain Koren finally spoke, "and Dargon was half the size it is now...and there was twice as much crime, we had a shortage of guards and an abundance of criminals. I remember moving into the guard house to supplement man power day and night. Now report before I decide to give you a years worth of night shifts!" Kalen hid a smile as the guard straightened out into exemplary posture of attention. "Sir, after last week's fire by the docks, the old building was completely torn down and yesterday the men rebuilding it started digging up the old foundation to put in a new one..." The passive `so what?' expression on his superiors' faces made the guardsman hurry up with his report. "This morning one of the workers stopped the patrol I was with and showed us what they found. There were skeletons under the foundation...and this..." He stepped forward and handed Koren a metal pin. Turning the pin in his hands, Koren stood up. "Kalen, have you ever seen this before?" He handed it to his friend. Kalen took the pin and examined it. "It's the same as the plaque in the entry way." "Do you know what it is?" Koren asked the guardsman. "No, Sir. I recall hearing a noble once lived in this building, before it was given to the town guard. I assumed that the pin belonged to a noble... maybe one of those bodies." "This building," Koren said, "belonged to the Ducal General, Sir Connall Dargon, brother to Duke Anton Dargon. He gave it to the town guard when he was awarded the Barony of Connall in 889, as at that time it stood taller than most buildings and was made of stone. "The pin and the plaque are symbols that the town guard once used. They were changed over to the new ones on New Years Day, in the year 1000." "But wasn't Fionn Connall the brother of Clifton Dargon the second?" the guardsman asked. "Wasn't he the one awarded the Barony of Connall?" Koren sighed, disappointment deep within him. "And after your patrol tomorrow, I want you to go down to the hall of records and find out the history of the Barony, now County of Connall. I will be expecting your written report in two days. If I feel it lacks quality, we will discuss this further, understood?" "Yes, Sir," the guard answered, no longer willing to talk or argue. His mouth has gotten him into more than enough trouble for one day. "That body has to be at least fourteen years old," Lieutenant 1Darklen said when the Captain of the Guard looked back to him. "I'd like to take a look." Both men stood up and followed the young guard out of the office. "You don't have to go, Kalen," Koren said, remembering Kalen had been taking the night shift ever since the trouble with the provincial Mob began. "You've been up for a while..." "I am curious," the Lieutenant said. "Sounds like an old case." Koren chuckled. "Then get my horse ready. I will be right there." He stopped by a desk in the lobby. "Where is Lieutenant Shevlin?" he asked the guardsman sitting there. "He left on patrol a while back, Sir," the man answered. "He is patrolling the market." "And Lieutenant Milnor?" "She hasn't come in yet, Sir." Koren thought for a moment. "If either of them shows up, have them meet me at the tavern that burned down last week." "Yes, Sir," the guardsman nodded. "Oh, and has there been any word on finding that crazy mage, what's his name?" "Cefn an'Derrin," the guardsman said. "Lieutenant Shevlin filed a report yesterday. The owner said he was paid enough to rebuild and is not interested in charging anyone." "Listen to what I say, not to the owner," Koren answered. "If he's spotted in this town again, I want enough men watching him to make the King's personal guard look like a cadet convention! I don't want crazies running around my city, setting fires to seedy joints. Next thing you know, they'll be burning down the keep!" "We didn't touch anything, Captain," the work foreman said, taking Koren directly to the skeletal remains. "We couldn't. Your men told everyone to leave and remained in the pit. I hope you can finish this soon. The fresh lumber will be brought tomorrow and we're already a day behind schedule." "Stop rambling, Tarnak," Kalen told the foreman. The group came up on a narrow wooden stair leading into a ten foot pit. "You'd better go first," the foreman said. "They drew steel on me when I tried it." Kalen tested his footing on the stairs and went down first. He was met by two guards who saluted him and remained at attention until Captain Koren stepped down. "Which way?" he asked, brushing the dust from the stairs off his uniform. "Right this way, Sir," one of the guardsmen pointed to the opposite wall. "Lead on," Koren told him. "When was this building built?" Kalen asked the foreman as he edged past the remaining guard on the stairs. "I don't exactly know," the man said. "Depending on who built it, there should be records in the town library or in the archivist's possession in the keep. Judging by the design and condition, I'd say about twenty years ago." "That sounds right for what the Captain was saying." Koren and the two guardsmen with him reached the shallow pit first. It was some ten feet across and three deep. In it lay two skeletons. Koren hopped down into the hole and started looking around. The other four men stood on the edge waiting. "What was this?" Kalen asked. The construction foreman shrugged. "A grave, no doubt. This all was covered over by the foundation. It's not even necessary for the building. Wood a good foot deep was used to cover this over, to take 1the weight. Whoever laid it knew there were bodies under here." "Kalen!" Koren called out of the pit. "I want a doctor to look at these skeletons and a mage too." Kalen gave an order to one of the men and jumped down into the pit after his Captain. "What did you find?" he asked. "Nothing," Koren shook his head. "Tarnak says whoever built this building knew the people were under it," Kalen reported. "I hope they were already dead." "I hope so too, Lieutenant, but we may never find out. Right now I want to check when this tavern was built, by whom and if any disappearances are recorded for that time. Guards in particular." "Tarnak guesses it was built twenty years ago," Kalen said. "Did many guards disappear back then?" "No more than now," Koren said. "Maybe one or two a year. It happens. This is a dangerous line of work we're in." Kalen knelt next to his superior, studying one of the bodies. "Did you find something?" "Look at the forearms on this one," Koren pointed. Kalen took a closer look. "His hands were cut off!" "So we've got two dead men, one quite possibly a guard, buried under a building twenty years ago. Which one had the pin?" Koren called up to the guard on the edge. "Neither one of them really had it," the man said, jumping down into the pit to show Koren where the pin was found, but at that time a woman in a uniform similar to Kalen's appeared at the edge of the pit. "Captain Koren," she called down. "I was told to drop by here before going on patrol." "Ah, Lieutenant Milnor," Koren looked up. "Are you with your men?" "They're up on the street waiting for me." "Do you have a medic among them?" "Yes, Sir. Is someone hurt?" "Everyone's fine. I just want him to take a look at these bodies." Ilona Milnor looked down the side of the pit, seeing how to get down best without getting her uniform dirty. Kalen hurried to her aid. "Right here," he said, reaching up. The woman accepted his hands and jumped down. "Get Moor for me," she told the guard in the pit. The guard nodded and after telling Koren where the pin was found, climbed out and ran off. "What happened here?" Ilona asked, looking at the two skeletons. Kalen quickly told her the story of the mornings events while Captain Koren examined the area again. "Anything?" the two younger officers joined their superior. "Nothing," he shook his head. "The clothing is too old to tell us much," he said, pointing to a mostly decayed rag lying by a wall. Kalen attempted to pick it up, but the cloth crumbled into dust at his touch. Beneath it he scooped up a few rusty buttons and handed one to Koren. The Captain again shook his head. "Upper class, definitely. I wonder which of these bodies it belonged to..." There was sound of running footsteps and two guardsmen appeared at the side of the pit. Jumping down, they saluted the officers and awaited instructions. "Moor, I want you to take a look at those bodies and make a report before they are moved," Koren ordered. "Urone, go find records for when this place was built and by who." The two men started at their respective tasks. Koren thoughtfully looked on as the medic examined the remains. He turned over in his 1hands the broken forearms of one body, all along shaking his head, then took a closer look at the skull. "Sir?" Kalen put his hand on Koren's shoulder. "Uh? Yes?" The man turned around. "What is it?" "Just the way you looked, Sir," Kalen said. "Oh, it's nothing," Koren sighed. "I was just wondering if that was someone I knew once. It will be twenty-five years this winter since I first came here, you know. All those boys who never came back home from their patrols..." "It's a dangerous job," Kalen said. "You said it yourself. It could happen to any of us." "That it could," Koren sighed again and went over to the medic. Behind him Kalen felt Ilona wrap her arms around his torso. "It scares the hell out of me when he starts eulogizing like that," she whispered. Kalen turned and put his arms around her. "Don't let it get to you. Let's go see what they're doing." "I don't know about this skull," Moor was saying to Koren. "It's missing teeth, but I don't know if they fell out or got knocked out. I don't even feel competent enough to guess..." Kalen knelt by the second skeleton before Moor got to it. This one did not appear to have any broken bones and the teeth seemed to be all in place. "I can tell you this one is male," Moor went on. "Or rather used to be..." He turned to the second body and looked up at Lieutenant Milnor. "A lot of help I am," he smiled. "I already sent for a doctor," Koren said, "but you may as well take a look first. One learns to take initiative in this job." Moor got back to work and Ilona bent down next to Kalen to better see what was being done. She leaned with her hands on the ground to keep her balance and immediately brought them back up. "Oh!" Everyone looked at her as she picked something up from the ground. It was a finger bone with a silver ring still around it. She removed the ring, turned it over in her hand and gave it to the Captain. He examined it, turning it over; a silver ring with a crimson red stone and small letters engraved on the side. It struck him as very familiar and then a deep pain made it obvious what it was. He turned away from the others, kneeling on the ground, tears building in his eyes. There was only one person that skeleton could have been. Kalen and Ilona exchanged a look of confusion, then Kalen got up. "Captain? Are you all right?" Adrunian Koren wiped his eyes and brushed back his grey hair. It was not fitting for his men to see the Captain of the Guard this way. He turned. "I am fine," he said. "Lieutenant Milnor, resume your patrol. Darklen, go home. Get some rest. The Duke doesn't like having to pay extra." He walked over to the other side of the pit and started pacing. Ilona stood up and walked over to Kalen. Moor got back to examining the skeletons, pretending he did not see the exchange. "Go ahead," Kalen told Ilona. "I'll make sure he is fine before I leave." She kissed him quickly and he helped her out of the pit. "I'll come for you after your shift." Ilona Milnor left in the direction of a lone guard pacing by the staircase. Kalen turned and leaned against the edge of the pit. His relationship with Ilona was more than professional, but Koren never seemed to mind that. Kalen even suspected at one time that Koren promoted her because he did not want stories of a Lieutenant seeing a mere guard. Ilona, of course, proved competent in her position and 1affair between equals wasn't enough for others to gossip about. Kalen watched as his Captain measured the pit back and forth, wondering what that ring Ilona found was. Could it have belonged to a lady Koren loved? He couldn't recall any useful stories about the Captain's past and saying a quick prayer to the Goddess Randiriel for Ilona's safety, walked over to Koren. "Sir?" Koren looked over. "Didn't I tell you to go home?" "Yes, Sir," Kalen said, "but I was wondering if you had breakfast yet." Koren shook his head. "I eat over paperwork." "So that's where the stains on my reports come from..." Koren smiled grimly. "Would you care to join me for breakfast?" The Captain grumbled for a bit, but with some more convincing on Kalen's part, finally accepted the offer and they went to a small tavern a couple of blocks away. "Kalen, I know what you're trying to do and I am very grateful," Koren said after placing his order. Kalen ordered as well. "Do you wish to talk about it, Sir?" "Just Adrunian," Koren said. "We're not on duty." He fell silent for a moment, then started talking again. "Let me tell you a story..." *** Deanir knocked on the boss' door and entered. Seadon Rohden followed him in. "Lord Rohert," Deanir said, bowing to his uncle, "the shipment just left." Jaipena Rohert, a grey haired man in his sixties, looked up from the book he was reading. "Any trouble?" "One sailor said he would report us to the town guard when he found out what the cargo was," Seadon reported. "The Captain promised to throw him overboard when they get far enough out at sea." "Fine, fine," Rohert said, laying the book down. "Now I want you two to put together the group to raid the caravan leaving tomorrow. Deanir, I want you to make sure Seadon knows his way around. We'll be doing this a lot now." The two men bowed again and left. "How big is the caravan?" Seadon asked outside in the corridor. "Twenty wagons at last count and still hiring guards. I had Liriss sign up on it. He'll keep us informed until we're ready." "Can we do it in one day?" "No. We have to be ready in a few hours. I was thinking of ambushing them." "I don't think we'll make it," Seadon groaned. "Do you want me to sign on as well just in case?" "No, no. That's all right. "One man is fine. I'd rather put together the party that will ambush them. I'll start gathering the people right away. I want you to find Liriss and see how the caravan is doing. Meet me after sunset at the Hungry Shark. Alone." The caravan grouped in a large camp just outside the town gates. People ran back and forth in preparation for the next day's departure. There were at least two dozen wagons standing around, together with at least that many tents. A few armed men wandered among them. Making his way between the wagons, Seadon spotted Liriss sitting by a small fire with two other men. A fat pig hung on the spit over the flame and periodically one or the other of the men would poke it with a stick and then turn it over. Seadon hesitated as to whether he 1should approach Liriss with other people around, but soon decided it would be less obvious if he would call him aside, rather than simply stand by a wagon, having people walking by stop and look at him. "Liriss?" he called out, approaching the fire. The young man turned to look behind him, then recognizing Seadon said a couple of words to his companions and got up. Seadon waited a few feet away, not wanting to let the other men have a close look at him. "New plans?" Liriss asked him. "No. Just getting last minute information," Seadon answered. "We're still leaving at day break," Liriss said. "We're supposed to have twenty-eight wagons by then and about forty guards." "Forty?" Seadon asked. "Rohert only has twenty-two men total!" "Well, I told you last week he's too old for this line of work," Liriss motioned. "Things aren't how they were when he was our age." "In this town you either work with him or against him and the town guard is after you either way." "I want him to retire," Liriss said. "Even if I have to convince him myself. I think I can turn this business around, make a big profit." "That's between the two of you," Seadon shrugged. "My only concern is how we're going to take forty men." "I've been working on that," Liriss smiled. "The two I was talking to are all ready on our side." "Rohert won't like you adding people to the take." "They're not taking anything." "So what did you promise them?" "A piece of the action," Liriss smiled, taking the hilt of his sword. He pulled it up from the scabbard, "and this is the action." He slammed the sword back down. "They'll be of use." "We'll need more than two men," Seadon said, "providing they stay with us long enough." "I also took the liberty of obtaining some poison for the guards," Liriss said. "We will need no more than a dozen men." "Poison?" Seadon asked. "For forty guards and all the merchants and travelers?" "Just enough for the guards on the night watch. We only need to catch the caravan off guard for Rohert's attack to work." "All right then. Make sure you're on duty tomorrow night. I'll tell Deanir your plan." "Good. I'll be ready." Seadon scanned the caravan. There'd be more to take on than Liriss thought. "See you tomorrow night." The two men walked off in different directions, Liriss putting together his plans and Seadon pondering how to stop them. Poison was a new twist. He slowly walked through the city gates, looking at the two guardsmen patrolling along the road. Seadon walked over to the side of the road and slowed his pace. One of the two guardsmen started down the road towards him. Seadon smiled to himself. "Your place at midnight," he whispered as the guard passed by him. Seadon made it to the designated meeting later than he should have. He spent the evening at the tavern, discussing the plans with Deanir and later dodged back and forth across town, trying to lose the spies following him around. Seadon Rohden was not a criminal. Just the opposite, he was a town guard. A new one -- only three weeks on the job -- but none the less, a guard. He came to Dargon when a childhood friend, Glenn Aposhyan, known here as Adrunian Koren, sent for him a message saying 1that new guardsmen were needed at this frontier town, to which he had come some five years before. Seadon, a mere two years younger than his friend, spent his early years working as a mercenary for hire and guard for a week. It was just the experience needed to become a town guard, particularly now, when crime was on the rise and people needed to fight it were looking for easier, quicker ways to make money. When the Captain of the Guard heard that a trustworthy man, unknown in Dargon, was available for hire, it was arranged that a guard would meet Seadon in Tench, brief him and leave everything else to fall in as a lucky `coincidence'. And so Seadon embarked on a month long journey, first to Tench and then to Dargon, where he would join the criminal underworld and aid the town guard. It all went well, except that a few days before reaching town, his wife, Nadya, gave birth to their first child, a baby girl. Seadon almost turned back to Tench, willing to forget his new job and duty, but was reminded by his wife that what he was doing was more important and she and the girl would manage. This appeal to his sense of duty convinced Seadon to go on to Dargon, but he could not stop cursing himself for agreeing to the job when he had a family to think about. Having set up his wife and daughter in a boarding house in an area that happened to be safe, but cheap, Seadon started his job, at first by watching the market and the docks and later following people he thought were the individuals associated with the local underworld. On his fourth day in Dargon, Seadon made contact with a man named Liriss, a professional cutthroat in his mid twenties, who, by chance, failed at his attempt to relieve a merchant of his gold and was nearly apprehended by a pair of guards. With a lot of luck and careful timing, Seadon aided Liriss in his escape and having made this friend, was soon pulled into the world of the underground. By this time he had done a couple of jobs for the organization and reflected well in the eyes of Jaipena Rohert, an elderly man who appeared to be everyone's grandfather on the surface, but on the inside was the undisputed boss and practically owner of Dargon's underworld. Of course Seadon's successes were insured by the town guard. One or twice each week he would meet with a Lieutenant or even the Captain of the Guard and make a full report, including plans and projections. They were all very small, up to now. This was going to be the job in which Rohert and his men were to fail miserably. The planned raid on the caravan was just the large event that the Captain had been waiting for and now, being able to plan for it was going to make all the difference in the world. The next two days were to deliver the blow that was going to destroy large scale crime in Dargon. Seadon walked past the door he was to enter, throwing a careful glance back. With the street seemingly empty, he turned back to the building and knocked twice. The door was opened by a plump elderly woman who quickly ushered him in and rebolted the door. Inside were four guardsmen, including Adrunian Koren and the Captain of the Guard, a dignified woman in her late forties with lightly greying hair. "Where you followed?" she asked Seadon as soon as he was inside. "I don't think so," he answered. "Deanir has been sending men to follow me all week, but I think it's sheer jealousy. He wants to impress his uncle with his good work." "Is that how you make a report?" Adrunian mocked him. Seadon straightened out to stand at attention and repeated what he said, appending a "Ma'am" on the end. 1 The Captain smiled. Formality was not her concern for the moment. She indicated a chair. "Take a seat." One of the guards helped the old woman out of the room. She was there only to make it look normal for passers by outside. Seadon sat down at the desk next to Adrunian and the Captain sat opposite to them. The other two guardsmen remained standing. "What happened? Are they getting ready?" Seadon shifted in his seat. "The caravan is to be attacked on its first night out. The plan is to poison the guards and kill those sleeping." "How many men are involved?" "A dozen. Most of them are on their way already. I am to leave first thing tomorrow morning. They gave me the night to make an excuse to my wife. They don't know she knows." "Good. I'll have the caravan master informed tomorrow," Captain Byer said. "Anything else?" Seadon shook his head. "A dozen men is about half of Rohert's resources. If you take them, you'll probably take him...or hurt him enough to stop him, in the least." "All right. You did well. Go along with their plan until you know we're present. Try not to kill anyone." "Yes, Ma'am," Seadon answered. "Dismissed, soldier," the Captain said and got up. Seadon and Adrunian got up as well. "Almost over," Seadon smiled. "We'll have a lot to talk about when it is," Adrunian said. "Five years is a long time to catch up on." "And this time you won't drink me under the table," Seadon laughed. "I've learned to hold the liquor well." Adrunian chuckled himself. "It's hard to believe you already have a daughter. You'll have to age quicker now. Be more responsible." "I wish I could be home more often," Seadon sighed. "I feel like I'm hurting them by doing this." "You best go then," Adrunian told his friend. "You'll be away for a few days." Seadon looked over to Captain Byer talking to the two guards. She nodded her consent for him to leave and he went to the door. "Give my greetings to Nadya," Adrunian slapped Seadon on the back. "See you at the raid." *** Captain Koren took a lengthy sip from the glass. "That was the last time I saw him." "And you never found out what happened?" Kalen asked. "We suspected," the Captain said, "searched, asked questions... Rohert's nephew had a problem with new people. He was paranoid as hell. I guess Seadon was followed that night after all... Strange thing is we never heard of Deanir again either. He must have been frightened off by the raid." Kalen nodded. He had no way to comfort his friend's deep wound. "I'm sorry, Sir." "Don't call me `sir' in here, Kalen. I chose to have breakfast with a friend, not a subordinate." Kalen hid a smile by taking a swallow from his glass. "So you're sure it's him?" Koran dug into his pocket and pulled out the ring he found on one of the bodies. "This is Seadon's wedding band. It's identical to the one Nadya wore...she was found floating in the ocean a few days after the raid. Her ring is in my office." "Maybe we'll learn what happened now that we found the bodies," 1Kalen said. "We need to identify the other one." "I hope so," the Captain said. "I want you to reopen the case, Kalen. I want their killer and I want to know what happened to their daughter." "I'll get on it as soon as we get back to the guard house," Kalen said. "No you won't," Koren repocketed the ring. "I wasted your entire morning. Go home and get some rest. I'll leave you instructions for the evening." "Yes, Sir," Kalen answered mockingly. He handed the money for the meal to a passing bar maid and the two men left the tavern. As they passed a table near their own, the man sitting there studiously looked down at his half finished meal, then got up, paid and quickly left. "So they finally found them," Liriss smirked to Kesrin. "I'm glad you told me. The town guard is so slow these days, you almost forget they're out to get you." "Just doing my job, Lord," Kesrin answered. "It sounded like a story you might want to know...but obviously you already do." The crime lord leaned back in his chair, a crooked smile frozen on his face. "Let me tell you, Kesrin, I am that story. It was the high point of my first few years on the streets. "After my parents died, I was left to mingle with the slime in the alleys, until one of Rohert's men made the yearly urchin collection. Those that could be used were left, myself included; the rest were sold or drowned -- no one seemed to mind back then and Rohert considered it a public service -- you couldn't get away with it these days. The guards keep a firm inventory of the urchins now. "After some time of picking pockets and picking locks and climbing through open windows, I gained a position of trust and some power and started seeing things I did not like. Rohert was soft. It was like a mouse doing the cat's job. He lost money and people right and left and his nephew, Deanir, a remarkably ambitious fellow of my years was just waiting for the family business to fall into his hands. "I never believed the old man had what it took to control crime and his little heir was far too greedy to expect reasonable improvement..." *** Deanir paced the room in a nervous frenzy, waiting for his uncle to appear. It was the middle of the night, a day before the biggest job and he just caught a spy in their ranks. It would be hard to top a night like this. "My Lord," a man entered, "we have the prisoner's wife downstairs. Do you want them together?" "No, but make sure that they know we have both of them. Cooperative prisoners are easier to deal with. Let them know they have a lot to lose." As the man turned to leave, Rohert entered through a door across the room. "You hold on there, Bradan," he stopped the guard and turned to Deanir. "What happened?" "Seadon Rohden is a spy, uncle," the young man answered, doing his best to appear relaxed. "I had him followed to a meeting with the town guard." "Really?" Rohert paused thinking. "Bring Liriss here. I want to know just how this man made it in." "He is with the caravan, uncle. He will lose his job." "Good. If he loses this one, it will go much worse on him. They'll be short handed, so they will hire on someone else without 1checking him out. Go now! No. You go, Bradan. I need to speak with you, Deanir." Liriss nodded grimly to the information Bradan revealed to him. The old man was weak, but better not to be crossed. "We have to make our move tonight," he finally said, having heard all there was to hear. "Take care of Deanir, then have one of the men loyal to Rohert take my place with the caravan. The town guard can help me take control." "What about Rohert?" Bradan asked. Liriss smiled. "By morning Dargon will be mine." The two men soon reached the building Rohert made his base in and went in different directions, each thinking of how best to accomplish his task and gain the rewards that a job well done would bring. Liriss reached his target first. He found Rohert in his office, sitting in his chair, seemingly asleep. `This is too good to be true,' flashed through Liriss' mind. He spotted Rohert's eating dagger lying on the table and picked it up. He contemplated the irony of dying by one's own tools but as he made it to the other side of the table, the old man's eyes opened. "You should not leave these unattended, Lord," Liriss handed the weapon to his superior. Rohert eyed him, took the dagger, but did not say a word. "I was told you wanted to see me," Liriss went on. "Did something happen?" "Rohden contacted the town guard." "Are you sure?" Liriss was surprised at his own surprise. He knew the facts. It has been quite a surprise when he heard it himself for the first time from Bradan and that he was able to duplicate that reaction pleased him. "Why don't you tell me a little more about him?" the old man went on, ignoring the counter question. "He helped me avoid the town guard," Liriss said. "I took him to a bar, bought drinks. We talked. He told me he was new in town and looking for a job. I arranged a meeting between him and Deanir. He's got a wife and daughter. That's about it." "Did you check on him before arranging that meeting?" Rohert asked, replacing the eating dagger on the table. "No, Sir," Liriss said. "I always thought it was the job of the man doing the hiring. Besides, he was in town for only a few days. There was no one to ask." Rohert got up. "And so it is. Rohden is from out of town. He did not have a rep. Now he does." "How do you want to handle it?" Liriss asked, realizing Rohert had no ill plans for him, but it was too late to change his plan. Another opportunity may not come any time soon. Rohert went over to the window overlooking the market. It was the window Liriss would get to know well in the years to come. "We can't take the caravan if the guards know..." Liriss picked up the dagger off the table and walked over to the window as well. "What about the men you sent out yesterday?" "Send someone out to intercept them," Rohert sighed and turned. The dagger in Liriss' hand found it's way to the old man's stomach. "Didn't I tell you not to leave this lying around?" he grinned. Having sent a man to take Liriss' place, Bradan made his way to Deanir' personal quarters. In just a few hours these luxurious apartments would be his very own. The verdict on the current master was all ready out. It was time for a change of ownership. As he knocked a young woman opened the door. "Can I help you?" Bradan drew his sword. "Guess." He followed the woman inside, 1only to find Deanir undressed and in bed. The coward gave up so easily that there was not even a story left to tell to the grandchildren. Everything simply fell into place. *** "And that's all there is," Liriss finished telling the story. "Rohden was obviously working for someone, though he did not admit it. He was a strong man. Didn't even crack when we tortured his wife. I finally had him buried alive under a building. I'm sure his character made a solid foundation." A partial smile escaped Kesrin's lips. "What about the other one, Sir?" "The other isn't even worth a mention," Liriss said. For some reason his voice had a pleasant, self gratified tone. "Deanir got on my nerves so much over those few years that I had him beaten until he was purple all over, cut his hands off personally and buried him with Rohden. Let it be said they died in the same war. "I had to let Bradan go after some time as well. He grew obnoxiously greedy after a few years. Acted just like Tilden." Kesrin smiled. "Whatever works, right?" "That's right," Liriss said. "Drowned Rohden's wife and kept their girl. My revenge..." He stopped, thinking about the little girl that grew up in his care. She was a good girl when she was young... "Do you know who the girl is?" he asked Kesrin. "No," the man shook his head. The story which Liriss told him was a good twenty years old and he had no clue which of the twenty year olds working for him it could be. Liriss had a talent for finding people, even with the town guard watching his every move. "Kera," Liriss intoned, his voice sounding like breaking glass. "I made a mistake at the start...but I will have it fixed." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Campaign for the Laraka: Part II The Juggernaught Unleashed by John Doucette and Carlo N. Samson Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 6 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Lord Morion leaned against the hearth, every muscle in his weary body crying out for rest. When he was first ushered into the Lord Mayor's study, he'd been offered wine and a chair by a very industrious servant. Morion declined rather harshly (the poor servant had yet to recover from his fright) for he knew that if he stopped for so much as a few minutes, he would succumb to sleep. "Where is that man?" Morion said aloud. He adjusted his armour for the tenth time in as many minutes in a vain attempt to stop its chafing. He'd been wearing it ever since the battle on the beach north of Shark's Cove on the last day of Melrin that saw Sir Ailean of Bivar, Knight Captain of the Northern Marches, and two thousand Baranurian soldiers die with another seven hundred wounded in a futile effort to repel the Beinison Empire's amphibious landing there. Morion was now in command of the twenty-eight hundred survivors he'd led away from the battle at Ailean's order. Morion had been ruthlessly driving his men and women towards Gateway Keep in the Royal Duchy. It was there he intended to make a final stand. Being outnumbered nine-to-one, all he could hope to do was delay the enemy long enough for Sir Edward Sothos, the Knight Commander, to gather what forces he could and prepare Magnus for a siege. Morion knew his chances of substantially hampering the enemy's progress were slim, but he must try. Magnus lies one hundred twenty-six leagues beyond Gateway Keep, less than a three-day forced march. If Morion failed, Baranur was lost. The door to the study opened and the Lord Mayor of Port Sevlyn stepped through to greet his guest. "I apologize for keeping you waiting so long, Lord Morion. Urgent matters required my attention." "What matters?" Morion snapped. "I hardly think that tone is warranted, my Lord. I was seeing to the Militia's organization." "I'm sorry, Lord Mayor. It's been a long and disappointing week." "So your messenger told us," the Lord Mayor said as he crossed the room to his desk. "Won't you be seated, my Lord?" "Not to seem ungrateful, but no. I fear if I sat in that chair I would be asleep in moments. Sleep is a luxury I can't afford." The Lord Mayor nodded in sympathy. "I understand." He paused for a moment, clearly reluctant to bring up the next point of discussion. "When will they arrive?" 'They' referring to the Beinisonian army coming up the Laraka. "My scouts say three days," Morion said tonelessly. "Perhaps more, perhaps less." "Three--but we can't be ready that soon! I'll have to order the gates shut now! We won't be able to bring in the food or livestock from the surrounding farms! Those supplies were necessary to feed your men. Still, better to have the sheep in the house causing a stink than outside feeding the wolves, as they say. We'll just have to tighten our belts more than anticipated. I suppose we could try getting supplies in by riverboat at night. What do you think, my Lord?" Morion had crossed to the study's only window. He stood there with his back to the Lord Mayor, looking down on the plaza. There was much activity, none of it to do with buying and selling goods. People were running this way and that with no apparent purpose other than 1panic. There were a few who did not panic. The soldiers of the Militia were one group. Morion saw a squad from the Regiment based in Port Sevlyn tramp hurriedly past on their way to the town's walls, hands clutching tightly at longswords or busy adjusting straps on their leather armour. The other group that was immediately visible was a group of perhaps twenty people energetically loading supplies onto carts. Morion could see a grey-haired merchant, and a wealthy one at that, directing the chaos with grim efficiency. A man who knows the storm is coming and is trying to get what he can to safety, Morion thought. Morion had become so lost in his own thoughts that he failed to notice the Lord Mayor speaking to him. "What was that, Lord Mayor? I'm afraid I've got a great many things on my mind." "Perfectly understandable. I asked your Lordship's opinion on bringing supplies in by riverboat at night." "I don't think you will be needing extra supplies." "Not need extra--? We must have more supplies, my Lord. There simply isn't enough to feed the population and the increased garrison." Morion turned from the window to face the Lord Mayor. "There will be no increased garrison, Lord Mayor," Morion said, the fatigue and stress of the past six days evident in his voice. "I only stopped here as long as I have to ask you to order the Militia to come with me." The Lord Mayor's face went grim. "You mean to abandon us to the enemy?" he asked with barely suppressed anger. "You forget who you speak to." "Forgive me, my Lord," the Lord Mayor said with great sarcasm. "It was my understanding the Royal Army existed to protect Baranur's citizens from harm." "There are reasons for my actions. Not that I am accountable to you or anyone save myself. But I do not want it said that I callously left the people of Port Sevlyn to the mercy of the Beinisonians. You will listen to my reasons, Lord Mayor, in silence." Morion explained the situation to the Lord Mayor. Port Sevlyn was simply too large for Morion to adequately defend with the force under his command. There was nothing else to do but retreat to Gateway Keep. "You give us to the enemy as you would meat to a pack of wolves!" the Lord Mayor shouted. "Yes!" Morion shouted back. "I need time and I'm willing to sacrifice Port Sevlyn to get it!" "How dare you!" the Lord Mayor practically screamed. "The King will hear of your actions. Then let us see how long you keep your head on your shoulders!" "If I can't delay that army long enough there will BE no King!" Morion forcibly quieted himself. "All of Baranur is at stake, Lord Mayor," he said in a normal tone of voice. "What happens in the next few days will mean the difference between a chance for survival and no chance at all. I don't expect unquestioning obedience from you. You're not a soldier and I know such a sacrifice is alien to you. Give me the Militia and surrender the city. The Beinisonians might be delayed half a day figuring out what to do with you. At least it will be something." The Lord Mayor of Port Sevlyn looked down at his hands for long moments. When he spoke, he did so quietly and Morion was forced to strain to hear him. "You are right when you say I am not a soldier. From the time of my youth I was being prepared for the day when I would assume the title of Lord Mayor. For most of my adult life, Port Sevlyn has been my world. Now it is threatened and I can do nothing about it and that makes me angry. You have reminded me of my higher duty to my sovereign. It has been too long since I lived up to that 1obligation." "I am considered an honourable and just man by most," he said and then added with a smile: "Even if I drive a hard bargain at times." He looked up at Morion. The look in his eyes was one of resignation. "I will do what you ask of me. The Militia will stay here. We shall hold the enemy as long as we can. And now, if you will excuse me, my Lord, I have preparations to make." So saying, the Lord Mayor rose and left the study. Morion turned back to the window and gazed out upon the doomed city. The merchant was still there, over-seeing his own preparations. He'd been joined by two women, one of the same age as he with a regal beauty that went beyond physical appearance, the other a much younger vision of the elder. Morion watched the man as he pleaded with his wife and daughter. He won't leave until his life's work is safe and they won't leave without him, Morion thought. Finally, after many minutes of sometimes heated discussion, mother and daughter left for the docks after tearfully embracing husband and father. The man looked after them until they were out of sight and then threw himself into his preparations once more. "I hope you succeed. I wish you luck." Morion put his helm on, adjusted his sword and again unsuccessfully tried to relieve the chafing his armour was giving him. "You knew this was coming, Sir Edward. You sent too few men to Ailean. The responsibility for this death and suffering is yours. When next we meet, there will be a reckoning." Morion turned from the window and stalked out of the study. Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur 6 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Sir Edward Sothos was having a most peculiar dream. He dreamed he was in a castle in a kingdom called Baranur and that a very annoying person was pounding on his door. Wait a moment, he thought, that's no dream. "Come!" The door opened and torch-light streamed in, silhouetting a tall slender figure. "Edward," the figure said, "a messenger has arrived from Lord Morion." "All well and good, Jan," Edward said, forgetting in his half-awake state to address his friend by her nickname, "but is that any reason to wake me from the first sound sleep I've had in two weeks?" "Sir, I assure you this is important." Edward sighed. Another night's sleep ruined. "Well come in then. And light a lamp, will you?" Jan closed the door and stumbled over to the table near Edward's bed. After a few minutes of fumbling, she managed to light the small battered lamp Edward kept as a momento of his days as a wandering knight. Edward squinted slightly, his eyes not yet adjusted to the light. What he saw made his eyes open wide. Jan was dressed in a nightgown that did a barely adequate job of concealing her. "What's the emergency?" Edward asked. "A messenger has just arrived from Lord Morion, sir," Jan said tightly. "Lord Morion?" Edward repeated, a sense of dread coming over him. "Sir Ailean is dead, sir," she said in a subdued voice. "Dead?" "Yes, sir. Lord Morion reports that the Beinisonians landed approximately twenty thousand men. Ailean stayed behind with a rear-guard to give Morion time to extricate the bulk of Ailean's force. His Lordship also informs you that both Regiments of the 1Pyridain Borderers are no more." Jan paused for a moment, reading the last of the message. "Sixteen thousand Beinisonians are marching down the Laraka. Heading for Magnus." "What!?" Edward flung the bedclothes off him and just as quickly reclaimed them. The shock of hearing of his former squire's death made him forget he wasn't wearing anything. Jan, blushing furiously, quickly turned around. "Commander," Edward said with embarrassment, "perhaps you should return to your own quarters so that both of us might more appropriately attire ourselves." Jan blushed even more furiously than before as she realized what she was wearing. "Yes, sir," she said and then fled the room, her face the colour of her hair. Several minutes later, Edward had just put on his robe when a nock sounded at his door. "Come!" The door opened and Jan entered the room, this time attired in a heavy gown she had picked up years ago during her first and last visit to Dargon City. "Much less distracting, Coury," he commented, causing Jan to blush slightly. Edward frowned. Jan's been acting strange lately. We'll have to talk later. Edward retrieved Morion's message from the table and sat in a chair while quickly scanning it. "Nehru's Blood," he cursed softly. "What have I done?" "Sir?" Jan asked, confused. She sat next to Edward. "Have I missed something?" Edward smiled ruefully, the expression softening his scar's effect. "When Marcellon and I 'found' Luthias in Pyridain, Luthias told us that he was tortured for information regarding the Laraka's defenses. He said Beinison was planning a large invasion of the Laraka. Just how large he wasn't sure. I notified Sir Ailean, may he know The Reaper's Acceptance, and instructed him to prepare a reception for the Beinisonians." "I never thought they would attack so soon. I was certain they would wait until the storm season was safely past. Just as I thought they wouldn't attack until spring." "Surely you can't mean you blame yourself?" "I am the Knight Commander. Ultimately, EVERY act the Royal Army undertakes is my responsibility. But in this case...in this case, I waited too long before ordering the Militia to join Ailean. And now we face the greatest crisis of the war thus far." Jan didn't argue with Edward's answer; it was in accordance with everything her instructors taught her at the Royal Academy. "What are your orders, sir?" "Send a messenger after Luthias," Edward said after only a moment's pause. "Order the General to turn 'round and make for Magnus with all haste." Edward stood and walked over to a cabinet. He opened it and sorted through the various maps until he found the one he wanted. "Here, Coury. Hold this up against the wall, would you?" Stretching her arms wide, Jan held the map up while Edward poured over it. Lost in thought, Edward did not become aware of the intimate nature of their stance for several minutes. When he did, he quickly disengaged himself and put the map away. "Hmmm. Yes. Well. Send a runner to General Wainwright are you getting all this?" "Yes, sir," Jan replied. "Sorry, sir." "Send a runner to General Wainwright. Have him put the garrison on alert. And wake the King." "Now?" "Yes. Now. If the situation becomes any worse, I may have to ask for the Edict. Go. We don't have much time." 1 "At once, Your Excellency." Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Lord Morion galloped to the front of the column stalled before the entrance to Gateway Keep. He'd given instructions for his force to enter the small fortification situated on the fork of the Laraka where its mountain tributary joined the larger body of water while he scouted the surrounding terrain. He'd just finished the two-hour-long reconnaisance and was looking forward to a hot meal and a warm bed for the first time in many days. The sight that greeted him now was not one to gladden his heart or soften his anger. "What's the delay, Commander?" Morion called as he reigned sharply in. "The Castellan refuses to open the gate, my Lord," the senior Regimental Commander replied. "Refuses to--have you told him who we are?" "Yes, my Lord. He says he has orders from the Lord Keeper not to let us in." "Ho, Castellan!" Morion shouted up at the wall. "Open this gate!" "Who's that?" a man called from the battlements. "Lord Morion of Pentamorlo. Now open this damned gate before I break it down!" "I cannot, my Lord. The Lord Keeper has decreed you are not to be allowed admittance." "In the name of His Royal Majesty," Morion said through clenched teeth, "I ORDER you! OPEN THE GATE!" Morion could see indecision on the Castellan's face. The man turned and sent a runner off to the gods knew where. After several increasingly tense and angry minutes of waiting, a young man dressed in robes appeared on the wall next to the Castellan. "What seems to be the problem, Lord Morion?" the green-eyed man asked in a neutral tone. "My men and I require entrance and this fool won't open the gate!" "Then what is the problem? Castellan Ridgewater is following my orders. I do not want you inside Gateway's walls nor on my lands. Take your force and leave." "Perhaps you do not understand the gravity of the situation," Morion said, trying hard to remain calm. "There is a large Beinisonian force headed upriver and they shall surely attack Gateway. Let us in and perhaps we can hold out long enough for reinforcements to arrive." "Gateway has no need of your assistance, Lord Morion, we are quite capable of defending ourselves. If His Majesty scolds you for not being here, feel free to inform him I acted on my own authority." Morion straightened somewhat in his saddle. "Lord Keeper, you are defying the King's order! If you force me to, I will storm the gate." "I highly doubt that, my Lord. I believe your force would be more concerned with their own safety," Ne'on said. His nostrils flared and he seemed to swell with power. In an instant, the ground under Morion's men turned to molten lava and men and women screamed as the searing-hot liquid ate at armour and flesh. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the lava ceased to exist. "Don't you agree?" Ne'on added, as the panic among the assembled Regiments subsided. The white-robed Keeper with the ghostly appearance spoke inaudibly to the Castellan, and left the wall for his own quarters. Morion cursed in rage. He could not fight magic as powerful as this. Nine days he had driven the two thousand eight hundred men and women under his command at a brutal pace in order to reach Gateway 1Keep ahead of the enemy. And now, all that effort, all that hardship was for naught. Not knowing what else to do, Morion ordered the senior Commander to turn the men around and make camp on the south bank by the ford they'd crossed over the Laraka's tributary. The Beinisonian juggernaught was coming and Morion's last hope had been snatched away. When the enemy arrived, he and the men and women who followed him would die. "I wish you were here, Kimme. Just to see your face once more." Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y. The Main Body of the Beinisonian Expeditionary Force flowed over the fields and meadows towards its destination: Port Sevlyn. The Lord Mayor stood on the battlements and watched them come, rank after rank after endless rank, the morning sun glinting off weapons and armour. An unstoppable juggernaught that wanted Port Sevlyn for its own. "But I shall deny you this city for as long as I am able," the Lord Mayor said aloud. "You will find us an expensive morsel." The men and women of the Militia Regiment head-quartered in Port Sevlyn watched the enemy come as well. All were frightened. Most had never even trained together, at least not in Regimental strength. They were light infantry, their armour and weapons their own. Their tunics were the only pieces of equipment the Royal Army supplied. They faced an enemy who outnumbered them thirteen-to-one and far out-classed them in terms of armour. An enemy who knew war because it was their profession. For all their shortcomings, for all their lack of professionalism, one very important thing could be said of the Militia. They didn't run. That said something about the depth of feeling each had for their homes and family. Joachim Vasquez lowered the spyglass. They can't have more than one thousand men, he thought. And light infantry, to boot. This should be easy. "So why do I have this feeling?" "Sir?" Colonel Conti asked. "Nothing, Colonel. Merely thinking out loud." Vasquez sat his horse for several moments more, staring at Port Sevlyn's walls. Perhaps they'll listen to reason. "Colonel Conti, get us two shields. We're going to parley with them." "My Lord Mayor!" the Commander of the Militia called out. "Two riders approach under shield of truce!" The Lord Mayor hurried back up to the walls he had so recently left. The Beinisonian army had halted it's advance half a league from the city. Detachments were making their way around Port Sevlyn to the north. The city would be completely surrounded in an hour. Two riders bearing white-painted shields rode unhurriedly toward the walls. The rider on the left wore a scarlet cape. That and the gilding on his breastplate suggested he was a high-ranking officer. The second rider, from his appearance, was only slightly inferior to the first. The two stopped just inside earshot. The higher-ranking of the two shouted in barely adequate Baranurian, "I am Field Marshal Joachim Vasquez, commander of this army. Who commands Port Sevlyn?" "I do. Lord Mayor of Port Sevlyn." "Your Worship, will you surrender the city to me?" "I think not." "Many will die needlessly. I greatly outnumber you. Should you force me to attack, I will still take Port Sevlyn. The only difference will be the number of young men on both sides who will perish." 1 "If you want my city, Field Marshal, you must pay the price. I assure you it will not be cheap!" "You will not reconsider?" "I had thought my meaning plain. Or are you hard of hearing?" "So be it!" Vasquez wrenched his horse's reins around and rode back to his troops. Within minutes, the enemy were on the move. Vasquez had committed perhaps the most grievous sin an officer could make; he let his emotions get the better of him. Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Conn Alrod stepped back from the wall as the grappling hook sailed over the battlements and securely lodged itself. The rope went taught with tension. Conn stepped forward and looked down. Two soldiers were climbing up the rope. Conn shook his head in wonder at their state of mind. He allowed them to get halfway to the top before cutting the rope free of the grappling hook. The two tumbled to their deaths. A ladder clattered against the wall not two feet from where Conn stood. He ran to the nearest basket of rocks and man-handled it over to the ladder. Grunting with the effort, he strained and pushed, finally managing to wrestle it to the top of the battlement. With one last push, he sent sent it over. He was rewarded by the screams of the Beinisonians climbing the ladder. Conn heard a scrabbling sound to his right. A Beinisonian appeared, gripping the rope of another grappling hook. Conn couldn't deal with the enemy soldier because more were approaching the top of the ladder. Cursing in frustration, Conn heaved with all his might, trying to push the ladder away. No success. The first Beinisonian was almost to the top. A soldier of Conn's Company had engaged the Beinisonian on the rope, who by this time had gained the battlements. A second enemy soldier had already appeared. The first Beinisonian cut down his opponent with ease. Conn suppressed an oath. The dead soldier had celebrated her nineteenth birthday only days before. A third Beinisonian appeared on the rope. Conn glanced to his left and saw the first of the enemy soldiers on the ladder reach the top. Conn did the only thing he could. He ran. "There! We've gained a foothold!" Field Marshal Vasquez exclaimed. "Attacking prematurely has caught them off-guard." "I hope so, sir," Colonel Conti replied. "I hope so." The Beinisonian wedge was growing alarmingly. Unless it was contained, and soon, the siege of Port Sevlyn would end very quickly. Conn shouted frantically for his Senior Sergeant to gather every available man. "Hurry, Patrick!" Five Baranurians were trying and failing to hold the wedge. The Sergeant came running with a squad at his back. He'd had to seriously deplete the number of men defending the rest of the Company's frontage to gather this many. Conn drew his sword. "Musn't keep them waiting, eh, Patrick?" "No, sir," the big Sergeant agreed, a wide grin on his face. Conn turned to his men. Filling his lungs with air, he shouted, "At them, lads! Charge!" Conn threw his band at the wedge with a fury born of desperation. He lost his sense of time. Everything seemed covered in a red haze. All Conn knew was that he had to reach the ladder and push it away. He hacked and stabbed blindly into the struggling mass of Beinisonians, Patrick Havercamp beside him, 1grinning fiercely all the while. A sword was thrust at Conn's face. He beat it aside and struck at his attacker. He felt the blade bite but could not take the time to see if his opponent was dead or merely wounded. A body fell at his feet. He stepped over it, concerned only with reaching his goal. A Beinisonian appeared in front of him. Conn thrust his sword into his enemy's abdomen, twisting his wrist to turn the stroke into a killing one. Conn ripped his sword free and suddenly, he was at the ladder. A Beinisonian reached the top of the ladder and stopped, surprised, when he saw not a friend waiting but a foe. He died, Conn's blood-smeared blade in his throat. Confronted with his goal, Conn came back to himself. He sheathed his sword and bent to the task of pushing the ladder away from the wall. His back was wide open to attack, but he trusted Patrick to ward him as he had done in the past. Conn summoned all his strength and still the ladder wouldn't budge. He pushed until his face went red and the veins stood out on his neck and still nothing. He was about to give up and look for an alternate method when suddenly the ladder moved, seemingly on its own. It was then Conn became aware that Patrick was beside him helping to push the ladder away. Conn also noticed the sounds of battle had diminished somewhat. "We did it, sir." Conn sat against the battlements, chest heaving as he took much needed air into his lungs. "Yes we did," Conn gasped out. When his breathing was under better control, he heaved himself to his feet. "What's the bill, Patrick?" "Ten, sir." "Damn! Damn damn damn!" "Captain Alrod!" a voice called from the right. "They're on the wall again!" Cursing fate, the Commander, the gods, Conn gathered the ten survivors and led them against the new Beinisonian wedge. It was going to be a long day. Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Lord Quillien Thorne sat heavily in his favorite chair. He said nothing for several minutes, causing his family to worry. "We won't be leaving," he announced to startled gasps. "The Beinisonians control the river. Any attempt to leave by ship would be suicide. We'll just have to wait out the storm." There was a long moment of silence. The concern on the faces of his wife Rolanda and his daughter Jannis was plain to see. "Quillien," Rolanda asked softly, "will the city hold?" Lord Thorne shook his head gravely. "There's not much chance of a successful resistance. The enemy is too strong; it's only a matter of time." "But we can't just stay here," Jannis said. "What will we do?" "The only thing we can do," Lord Thorne replied. "Hide in the vault until this is over." "And pray that it will be over soon," Rolanda said. "It's only a matter of time," Commander Karellan said to his assembled Company commanders. The six Captains and four Senior Sergeants took the news calmly. They had known what the Commander had told them since before the battle began. "We lost two hundred men today. Among them four Captains and six Sergeants. And that was against perhaps a third of the enemy's force. We'll lose a great many 1more tomorrow. I know the situation is hopeless, but you must impress upon the men the importance of continued resistance. It is vital we give Lord Morion the time he needs to prepare at Gateway. Nothing else matters." Karellan sat. "Dismissed." Main Body camp outside Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Joachim Vasquez was not a happy man. He had lost eight hundred men dead or wounded in the day's fighting. And the worst of it, he thought bitterly, is that my stupidity is to blame. "I should have waited until the city was surrounded before I attacked." Colonel Conti refrained from commenting. "The scouts report no sign of enemy activity in the countryside, sir. They don't even seem to be making an attempt to relieve the garrison." "These Baranurians are more ruthless than I thought. They know we must take Port Sevlyn. We can't afford to leave a threat to our supply line unmolested." "Then why didn't they reinforce the garrison?" "Simple, Colonel. They're setting up defenses further along our route of march. They need time. And they are quite willing to sacrifice one of their cities to do it." Vasquez looked Conti full in the face. "We may be in for a longer war than we expected." Vasquez stood and began pacing back and forth in the small confines of his tent. He had a most difficult decision to make. The strain was evident on his face. Finally, after many minutes of agonized indecision, Vasquez had reconciled his warring emotions. "Colonel," he said, voice grim, "we must make an example of Port Sevlyn. As much as I detest this order, I must give it to you. The Baranurians must be shown the price of resisting us." "What do you mean, sir?" Conti asked, a cold sensation creeping up his spine. "When the city falls, the survivors of the garrison and half the populace are to be put to the sword." Conti closed his eyes. "May Sanar forgive us," Vasquez whispered. Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur 9 Yule, 1014 B.Y. "With all due respect, Sire, this is not the time for this discussion." "It is the only time for this discussion, Edward. If Lord Morion's report is accurate, the Beinisonians will have reached Port Sevlyn by now. For all we know, the city may be in enemy hands as we speak." "Exactly my point! If Port Sevlyn has fallen, Connall won't be able to reach Gateway in time to prevent it falling as well. And if Gateway goes, the enemy will be knocking at Magnus' gates next." "Yes. Which is why we will discuss this now. While we still have time." "Yes, Sire." Edward took a seat in the War Room, formerly used to house last Nober's Council sessions. Haralan occupied the seat next to Edward, his long-time friend and advisor. "Edward," Haralan began, "this is personal. That's why I wanted us to be alone. You and Commander Courymwen have been seeing quite a lot of each other lately, haven't you?" "What do you mean?" Edward asked even though he had a fair idea 1of what Haralan was getting at. "People--important people--have taken notice of you and Commander Courymwen's `visits' to some of the taverns and inns in Magnus. There has been talk. I see you understand the situation. These people have suggested that your mind isn't on the war." "That's absurd! Have I not embraced Baranur as my homeland? Did I not reject my birthright in Galicia? What more must I do to prove I am no outsider?" "Easy, Edward. This is me. I know you are loyal to Baranur. But there are powerful nobles who would like to see you gone and their candidate in your place. Edward, they may be able to turn your friendship with your aide into the kind of rumors that destroyed my niece's marriage. If they succeed, you could well lose all respectability as Knight Commander. When that happens, you cease to become an asset. Indeed, you become a liability." "Is Your Royal Majesty ordering me to terminate my friendship with Commander Courymwen?" Edward asked formally. "That would be my last resort. But I will so order if I am forced to," Haralan said with regret. "May I be dismissed, Your Royal Majesty?" Haralan sighed. "Yes. You may" --the sound of a door slamming interrupted Haralan in mid-sentence-- "go." Haralan sighed once more. "This is a problem I can do without." Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 10 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Conn woke to a perfectly sunny day. He'd had a difficult time sleeping. Lying on hard stone, in leather armour, was not terribly conducive to a good night's rest. He groaned and wearily hauled himself to his feet. He turned to look out over the battlements. The camp fires of the enemy ringed Port Sevlyn. Just over twelve thousand men were stirring, preparing to once again throw themselves at the hopelessly outnumbered defenders. Patrick came over and silently offered his commander and friend some cheese and half a loaf of bread. Conn ate his breakfast in silence, staring at the bodies piled up at the base of the wall. "Today or tomorrow, Patrick." "Yes, sir." "I wish I knew if Fayonna was safe." "Yes, sir." Suddenly, Conn stiffened. He turned to order the stand to, but Patrick was already off. He'd seen Conn's reaction and had guessed its cause. The Beinisonians had finished breakfast and now they wanted to play. Main Body camp outside Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 10 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Vasquez's heavy infantry Regiments marched out one hour after dawn. Conti had passed on the order to make an example out of Port Sevlyn. The men of the Regiments that had suffered during the previous day's unsuccessful attack were eager for revenge. The remainder of the soldiers accepted their orders because they had been trained to. Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 10 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Conn delivered a backhand chop to the throat of his adversary that sent the Beinisonian staggering back, his life pouring out onto 1Port Sevlyn's walls. The Beinisonians had attacked with their entire force, twelve thousand men. The eight hundred or so defenders were hard pressed to hold them. But by some miracle, hold them they did. It was already past noon and the third assault on the walls was well underway. Conn had been fighting for seven hours. To him, it seemed like an eternity. The enemy had established fighting wedges at several points along the wall. Conn and the other Company commanders spent virtually all their time and energy leading their small reserves against a wedge whenever one was started. All Conn knew was what was in front of him. And that was the five or so survivors of the newest wedge on his Company's section of wall. "Forward!" Conn snarled and led his fifteen men and women against the five enemy. His blade seemed a part of him, an extension of his hand. He reached out towards an enemy soldier, felt resistance, and then his arm was red up to the elbow. "Well struck!" Patrick said. Conn hadn't even been fully aware of what he'd done. It was as if his body was on automatic. He looked around, leaning on the battlements to give his weary, aching body some kind of reprieve. Through a strength born of sheer desperation, the men and women of the 2nd Quinnat Militia Regiment were keeping the Beinisonian invaders from gaining a lasting foothold on the walls. But at what great cost. Many a young Baranurian lay sprawled in death. Many more were grievously wounded. Trumpets sounded to the north, east, and west; three notes rising in successive octaves. The Beinisonians withdrew from the walls, formed their Regiments into line-of-march, and slowly proceeded to their encampments surrounding Port Sevlyn, the setting sun casting shadows over the battlefield. Port Sevlyn had survived another day. Gortholde's Hall, East Quarter, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur 10 Yule, 1014 B.Y. A large group of soldiers from the Huscarl Regiment known as Magnus' Maniacs had cleared a space in the centre of the common room and were heavily involved in a drinking contest that could only be described as monumental. Thunderous cheers issued from the group periodically as the contest neared its zenith. None of the other patrons of the tavern seemed to take notice; it was best not to attract the Maniacs' attention unless you could fight well, drink large quantities of ale, and had a somewhat warped sense of humour. Even then it was usually better for all concerned if you were involved with them for as brief a time as possible. Seated in a shadowy corner away from the rest of the patrons was a man wearing a black tunic over a battered suit of chainmail armour. A very expensive-looking amulet hung from a chain about his neck. A tankard sat untouched on the table in front of the dark-haired man. Incredibly, the man was asleep, completely oblivious to the noise surrounding him. A tall, red-haired young woman wearing the blue-and-gold uniform of The King's Own over a suit of chainmail entered the tavern. She nodded a greeting to the proprietor as she walked over to the bar to speak to him. Gortholde was an aging, retired warrior who had gambled his life's savings to buy the tavern. The gamble had paid off handsomely and now Gortholde was well-off, if not wealthy. Most of his customers were soldiers. Gortholde had a soft spot for those who served in the Royal Army. Any soldier who frequented his establishment could expect good drink for low prices. Gortholde's Hall was THE spot for off-duty 1soldiers to relax and unwind after a day's work. Gortholde stiffened to almost-attention as he answered the red-haired woman's questions; she wore a Commander's uniform and old habits do die hard. He pointed in the direction of the black-clad man. The woman thanked him and proceeded to thread her way through the revelers, tankard of ale in hand. She pulled up a chair and sat facing the dark-haired man. Only then did she realize he was asleep. Smiling and shaking her head, she rose and went around the table to waken him. "Edward," she said shaking his shoulder, "wake up." Edward Sothos woke with a start. "What? Oh. Coury, it's you," he said with relief. Jan laughed. "Of course it's me." She returned to her seat. "So. What do you need to say to me that can't be said at the Castle?" "Gods, I'm tired." "You look it. Why don't we go back? You need sleep. This can wait 'till tomorrow, can't it?" "No. I have to check on the supply situation and brief the King and his advisors tomorrow. That will keep me busy all day and most of the night." "All right then. So?" "We've known each other for...three years now?" "Four last month." "Four years. You're...twenty-four, aren't you?" "Last Janis," Jan replied. "Twenty-four and a Commander already. That is quite an accomplishment for one so young." "Edward, I'm only eight years younger than you are." "Not 'till Yule seventeen." "Okay, so you won't turn thirty-one for another week. Edward, I don't see where all this is going." "You are a good officer and I won't--I can't--do anything to harm your chance for success." "What do you mean?" "Jan, there's been talk," Edward said quietly. "Talk?" Jan repeated, feeling wary. Edward called her Jan only when he was discussing something serious. "About us. Certain people have noticed we've been spending time together recently. There has been gossip that...that we--" "That we've been sleeping together???" she asked, astonished. "Yes," Edward said, face lowered. "I'm sorry, Jan. It seems that some nobles would prefer another Knight Commander and they are willing to go to great lengths to discredit me. You were caught in the middle. I am to blame." "But surely no one would believe these...rumors?" "They have reached the King's ears. He pointed out that truth has nothing to do with this situation. If this developes further, a scandal such as that surrounding Lysanda's marriage could ensue." "You'd be stripped of your office!" Jan said hoarsely. "That isn't what I'm concerned about." "What then?" "You. I won't have your reputation sullied in this manner." "What will you do? What can you do?" Edward stared at the cold fireplace. "If we were in Galicia, my course of action would be clear." "What?" "It doesn't matter. This is not Galicia." "I want to know. What would you do if this was Galicia?" Edward turned his head to look his friend straight in the eyes. "Marry you." 1 Jan nearly dropped her ale. She sat back, too dumbfounded to speak. "As I said, this is not Galicia, so the whole idea is moot. I shall handle matters." Edward rose. "We should go back now." "I think I'll stay here a while," she said slowly and carefully. "Are you certain?" "Yes," she said looking up at Edward. "Go get some sleep." "Good night, Coury." "Good night." Jan remained sitting in the dark corner long after Edward had left, her ale untouched. Edward's statement left her with a great deal of confused emotions and thoughts to reconcile. Jan stayed until Gortholde locked up. She went to sleep hours later in her quarters, nothing resolved. Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur 11 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Edward stood in front of the wall-map of Baranur in the War Room. He faced the assembled nobles and began his briefing. "My lords, the situation in the south is grave. The line from the Westbrook-Pyridain border south to the sea has been completely shattered." Edward paused as gasps of astonishment raced through the room. "The Beinisonians attacked with seventy thousand men, according to the reports. I must point out, however, that many of the despatches arriving from the field are confused. Any organization that once existed is now gone. "Just how bad is it?" a minor scion of House Tallirhan asked. "The only organized force in the Southern Marches is comprised of what little forces are in Duchy Westbrook. The remaining Royal Army forces are running north and west. Lord Kinsley has informed me of his intention to deny Pyridain City to the enemy to the last. He has the Duchy's Household troops and the remnants of the Assault Brigade. The three Regiments fled to the city when the main line broke. In addition, I have relieved King's General Tegran of his command in Pyridain and placed all troops under Lord Kinsley's orders." Again Edward paused, waiting for the storm to break. His wait was a short one. "How dare you!" Lord Ethros of House Northfield shouted at the scarred warrior. "General Tegran is one of the Kingdom's best soldiers. You have not the right to relieve him! Just who do you think you are, outlander?" "I," Edward replied in a cold voice, "am Knight Commander of the Royal Armies. Tegran is a soldier of that Army and thus subject to my authority. He was a good warrior once and is now a good administrator. Administrators will not win this war. Any man who does not perform is useless to me and a boon to the enemy." "You are not a native of Baranur! A Baranurian would know how to honour brave soldiers. A Baranurian would--" The King interrupted violently, slamming his hand on the table. "Enough! Sir Edward is not far enough below your station for you to speak to him so, Lord Ethros! Bickering such as this will get us nowhere and will only serve to aid the enemy. Sit down and be silent!" Haralan turned to Edward. "Continue, Sir Edward." Edward bowed slightly. "The major calamity occurred here," Edward said, indicating a spot on the map eight leagues from the Baranur-Beinison border, "at Oron's Crossroads. Best estimates indicate an enemy force twenty to thirty thousand strong engaged our main concentration north of the crossroads. Our forces numbered nineteen thousand five hundred; fifteen thousand Royal Army and Southern March Militia and four thousand five hundred House forces." "The battle was an even struggle until Dame Martis ordered a 1withdrawal to a more defensible position. It was at that point that some nobles refused to comply. Their vainglory would not permit them to follow orders. The result was that the Royal Army units began a withdrawal while a significant portion of the House units did not. As Nehru would have it, the centre of the battle-line was composed largely of House units. The enemy seized upon our confusion and sent his cavalry into the breach. The centre disintegrated and the flanks were left isolated and exposed. Very few Regiments survived to conduct something even approximating an orderly retreat." "What's the butcher's bill, sir?" King's General Wainwright asked. Edward took a deep breath and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion. "The Combined Host of Baranur has suffered eleven thousand dead, wounded or captured. The 8th and 10th Baranurian Regulars, 16th and 19th Baranurian Archers, and 1st Pyridain Militia have been wiped out to the last man and their Colours taken. In addition, the forces of Houses Equiville, Bivar, Redcrosse, and Othuldane are gone." Only two men remained unaffected during Edward's recitation of the casualties suffered; General Wainwright because he was an old soldier and had seen much during his long and illustrious career, the Duke of Quinnat because his mind was on matters closer to home. "Dame Martis gathered what she could and retreated into Duchy Westbrook. All told, seven Regiments moved into Westbrook. Most are well-off. The 4th Pyridain Militia is little better than an expanded Company and has been attached to the 3rd Pyridain Militia to make up for that Regiment's losses. The 2nd Pyridain Militia has been destroyed. Their remnants have been attached to the 1st Baranurian Rangers. The officers of the Regiments not involved in the battle seem, for the most part, unable or unwilling to halt their units and face the enemy. I trust in the ability of the various King's Generals to bring such action to a halt, but the process will take some time. Rumors have spread word that the defeat was worse than the men are being told and the mens' morale has fallen sharply. Rebuilding it will take some time." "Aside from the forces under Dame Martis and Duke Araesto's son, what force have we to oppose the Beinisonians?" the King asked. "The Equiville and Leftwich Militias and a very few Royal Army Regiments." "Good God!" Wainwright exclaimed. "We may yet need the gods' assistance before this war has run its course." At that moment, the great double doors opened and a slightly nervous Daniel Moore entered and slammed to attention. "What is it, Captain?" Edward asked with a slight trace of concern in his voice. "Sir, the sentries at Southgate report a sizeable force approaching the city." "How large?" "Regimental strength, sir. Eight hundred to a thousand men, sir." "How could they have slipped so large a force this far north un-noticed?" "It's got to be the vanguard of a larger force, sir," Wainwright commented, "otherwise the 6th would have dealt with them." "The 6th--Nehru's Blood! That's who they are! I must have forgotten to inform the garrison Commanders in the confusion over the landings on the Laraka." "Speaking of which," Lord Ethros said, the scorn in his voice apparent, "what exactly IS the situation?" Edward ignored Ethros' tone. "Your Grace?" he inquired of Duke Quinnat. "Would it please Your Grace to make your report?" Quinnat looked at Edward with tired eyes. When he spoke, his 1voice betrayed weary exhaustion overlying the pain of seeing his lands occupied. "No, Sir Edward, it would not please me." He sighed. "But I shall do so. My Ducal Guard and I made a wide sweep to the north of Shark's Cove. A Regiment garrisons the town and there are two more on the border with Kiliaen. The Beinisonians are using the town as a staging area for their Navy as well as the invasion. I had not the force to attempt an attack so I journeyed to Port Sevlyn. It is under siege. By how many men, I do not know; we ran into a Battalion of light infantry, skirmishers. We clashed briefly and I was forced to retreat further east before swinging south to Magnus. I lost one hundred and fifty good men that had been serving me for years. I could gain no other intelligence regarding the enemy." "Nor have I," Edward commented, resuming control of the briefing. "The last report I have is from Lord Morion five days ago. He states that he expected sixteen thousand men to march on Magnus. Given Duke Quinnat's observations, we can approximate the force besieging Port Sevlyn at thirteen-to-fourteen thousand. The garrison numbers one Militia Light Infantry Regiment. I believe we can assume that the city has fallen and that Gateway shall come under attack very soon." "Why would they not attack the Crown City directly?" the young lord of House Tallirhan asked. "Because Gateway is too large a threat to leave in their rear, my Lord", Wainwright responded. "Even were they to besiege it, Gateway's catapults would make the river a death-trap for any ship trying to sail to Magnus. Indeed, that is the only reason Beinisonian warships are not anchored off Kheva's Bridge." "What have we that could stop them?" Ethros asked. "Lord Morion has taken the survivors Sir Ailean's command to Gateway. He has the better part of three Regiments. I have ordered Count Connall to return to Magnus at once. Upon his arrival, he will be made Knight Captain of the Northern Marches and sent north with the Hussars. The Huscarls, Militia, and Legion of Death shall remain in the city as a safeguard should the Beinisonians by-pass Gateway and attempt to take the city by storm. That concludes the briefing, my Lords." "Thank you, Knight Commander," Haralan said. "Sire," Edward said, "the 6th Regulars shall arrive shortly. May I suggest a parade? The 6th have fought the Beinisonians well and I think they deserve the accolade." "Very well. We shall meet you at the Warrior's Way in two hours?" "That would be fine, Your Royal Majesty. Captain Moore?" Moore, who had been standing unobtrusively behind his commander since bringing the news of the 6th's arrival, snapped to attention. "Sir?" "Have Commander Courymwen turn out the garrison for a formal parade to take place in two hours. I expect both of you to be present." "Sir!" "Off with you, then." Moore saluted and left. Haralan stood and those assembled stood with him. "Good day, gentlemen," he said and departed, the rest bowing to their sovereign. The nobles left to conduct their personal business leaving Edward and Wainwright alone. "What, Artemus?" "You're pushing yourself too hard. I wasn't going to say anything, but I must now. You've got to get some sleep." "Sleep? Sleep?! Artemus, how can I sleep?" Edward turned and pointed at the wall-map. "Look at it, Artemus! The Beinisonians are pouring across the southern frontier and I've got nothing to throw at 1them except some Militia units. And up north, they've landed twenty thousand men on the Laraka. For all intents and purposes, Duchy Quinnat is under Beinisonian rule. And if that wasn't bad enough, Magnus is cut off from the sea. I don't know how long the overland trade routes will be able to handle the city's needs. And you tell me to sleep?" "Edward, you must sleep. If you don't, you won't be much use to anyone. I've watched you since you assumed your post four years ago. You're good. Very good. But I sometimes wonder if you were cut out for all this. It seems to me that you would much rather be a simple knight serving your lord than responsible for warding an entire Kingdom." "There is some truth to that," Edward admitted. "There are times that I long for simpler duties and responsibilities. All my life, my only dream was to serve the Emperor as a Knight of the Imperium. I suppose that has something to do with it. But that doesn't mean I don't want this as well. I'm not just serving my King, Artemus. Haralan is my closest and dearest friend. As long as he wants me as Knight Commander, I shall gladly fill that role." Edward paused for a moment and went to stand in front of the huge map. "Artemus," he said, gazing intently at the huge depiction of Baranur, "the Kingdom is in grave danger and I don't know that I can save it." He turned. "I shall die, if need be, to save my friend's lands, but just between the two of us...we're going to lose this war." Edward turned back to the map. "And there's not a blessed thing I can do to stop it." Wainwright sat his horse, back ramrod straight, his eyes raking over the massed ranks of the 6th Baranurian Regulars as the grey-haired veterans paraded through Southgate. The Warrior's Way was lined with troops. The King's Own in their blue-and-gold dress uniforms; The Royal Horse Guard, their dark blue dress tunics giving them an arrogant air; the three Huscarl Regiments in their white tunics, battle-axes gleaming; the four Militia Regiments standing out in their scarlet uniforms. All stood rigidly to attention as the eight hundred and thirty-seven members of the 6th marched by. The Regulars halted. Speeches were given. The Knight Commander spoke of the unmatched quality of the 6th and the often over-looked benefits experience can bring. King Haralan spoke of the admiration all Baranur had for the brave soldiers of the 6th who alone had fought the Beinisonians to a bloody stand-still before they were forced to withdraw. Wainwright watched Edward all through the proceedings. Just before they had left the War Room, Wainwright had managed to persuade Edward to get some rest immediately after the parade. The knight's revelation to Wainwright that he felt the war lost was probably just the result of a much delayed, much needed slumber. Wainwright prayed that was the cause. As a Baranurian, Wainwright refused to accept the notion that his Kingdom might be conquered. As a soldier, he was forced to admit the situation looked desperate. Everything hinged upon events taking place on the Laraka. If Gateway Keep fell, the Beinisonians could lay siege to Magnus, thus cutting the capital off from the rest of the Kingdom. And that would mean the death of Baranur. The speeches were concluded. The 6th resumed its march, turning right and passing through the huge gate in the final wall barring access to the King's Keep. As Wainwright passed through the massive gate, his thoughts drifted north. Western wall, Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 11 Yule, 1014 B.Y. 1 Conn paced back and forth on Port Sevlyn's western wall. He glanced for the fifth time at the little group huddled at the base of the wall near a small inn. Patrick saw his commander's glance and gave him a gesture of reassurance. Conn waved back, secure in the knowledge that Patrick had Conn's Company ready to move at a moment's notice. My Company, he thought sadly. Conn's Company had diminished frightfully since the siege began. There were scare one score left out of the hundred Conn had led into battle two days previously. Most of the 1st Quinnat Militia's companies were in the same state. Commander Karellan had placed Conn in command of the west wall and given him one third of the Regiment's remaining strength to defend it. He'd done the same with the two other surviving Captains. All told, three hundred exhausted men and women warded Quinnat's capital. They were pitifully few compared to the horde encamped on the plains before the city. Port Sevlyn had been a city untouched by the ravages of the world. One might have said there was a slight touch of innocence to the place. No longer. War had come to Port Sevlyn and left its brutal mark. On the walls and the fields near the base of the walls lay one thousand three hundred corpses, Baranurian and Beinisonian. The blood of Port Sevlyn's children stained her battlements and towers. The city, and its inhabitants, would never be the same again. Conn was growing irritable. It was late afternoon and still the enemy had not come. He couldn't understand why the Beinisonians had not attacked. Strangely, he felt himself growing angry that they did not come. The gut-wrenching fear as a grappling hook thudded home and the odd joy of battle seemed so much a part of him now that he almost wished the enemy would attack. Conn caught a sign of movement from the enemy camp. The Beinisonian Regiments were on the move again. They marched slowly, almost sedately, toward the city. Each Regiment was drawn up in three tightly packed ranks. And waving from stout poles of polished oak flew each Regiments' Colours, the very heart and soul of a Regiment. Guarding the Colours were each Regiments' best warriors. Conn counted the Colours of four Regiments coming at his section of wall. The day's work was about to begin. Patrick Havercamp hacked and slashed at the enemy, his face a mixture of anger and worry. His friend, Conn Alrod, was somewhere ahead and in trouble. When the Beinisonians had gained the battlements in two places, Patrick had known it was time to commit the small reserve Conn had placed under the Sergeant's command. Now, Patrick and his men were attempting to push the second wedge back and link up with the small group of soldiers, led by Captain Alrod, who were valiantly struggling against twice their number some twenty yards distant. A Beinisonian lunged at the Sergeant. Patrick side-stepped neatly and slammed his knee into the man's groin. The Beinisonian doubled over more from surprise than real pain, but the result was the same. Patrick grabbed the Beinisonian's chin-strap and roughly bent his head back. A quick jerk of Patrick's sword and the man's life poured out his severed jugular. "Keep at the scum, lads!" Patrick shouted at his men as he tipped one enemy soldier over the battlements to fall screaming to the ground below. Patrick scanned the scene of battle and caught a brief glance of his friend. He was about to shout encouragement when he saw Conn go down. Fear and rage chased each other across Patrick's face. He and Conn had been friends since childhood. When Conn's wife Fayonna gave 1birth, Patrick became the boy's godfather. Patrick had always protected his friend from danger during their youth and the tendency naturally extended into adulthood. Roaring like an enraged bear, the big Sergeant launched himself toward his friend. He hewed his way through the enemy ranks as a farmer harvests grain. Some few Beinisonians tried to stop him but he beat them down and ripped their life away as if they didn't exist. Their comrades, terrified of this seemingly unstoppable gore-splattered apparition unleashed in their midst, broke and ran. Those following behind the Sergeant raised a mighty cheer and surged forward. There was not a single Beinisonian left alive on the wall within the space of five minutes. Patrick knelt beside his friend and gently, carefully removed Conn's helmet. Patrick gave a heartfelt sigh. The wound that had felled his Captain was superficial. Patrick leaned over and ripped a strip of cloth off a dead Beinisonian's tunic and used it to bind his friend's wound. "Conn," Patrick called. Nothing. "Conn," he called more forcefully. Conn groaned and stirred. "Who's there?" he called in a voice groggy with pain. "It's me, sir. Patrick." "I can't see," he said. He reached for his eyes but the Sergeant restrained him. "Nothing to worry about, sir. Just a little blood, is all. Be still and I'll clean it off." Patrick wiped the blood off his friend's face, making Conn flinch when Patrick came too close to the cut on Conn's scalp. "Sorry, sir." Conn waved Patrick's apology aside. "Help me stand." Patrick lifted Conn to his feet with a gentleness surprising for a man his size. "Thanks." "You all right, sir?" Patrick asked with concern. "Just let me get my strength, Sergeant." Conn rested against Patrick's bulk, letting the throbbing of his head wound slowly lessen. After a minute or two, he pushed himself away from Patrick. "Okay, Patrick. Let's get back to work." Patrick grinned. "Yes, sir!" Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 11 Yule, 1014 B.Y. "Sit, Captain, sit," Commander Karellan told Conn. "How's the wound?" he asked not unkindly. "Fine, sir," Conn lied. He felt as if someone was taking a sledgehammer to his head. "Good," Karellan said then lapsed into silence. That can't be the only reason he called me here tonight, Conn thought. "Sir?" "Yes?" "Was there something specific you wanted to speak to me about?" Karellan sighed. "Yes, Captain, there is." Karellan paused again. When next he spoke, he looked at a set of figures on a scrap of paper. "The casualty count's just come in. One hundred twenty-three effectives including one Senior Sergeant, one Captain and myself." He looked up at Conn. "Not a very formidable force, is it Alrod?" "Enough to give those bastards something to remember, sir!" "That's the whole point, isn't it? Make them pay in blood for this city." "It's not going to be pretty when they take the city, is it, sir?" "No, Captain, it's not." Karellan ran his fingers through his 1greying hair. "We can't hold the walls any longer. Come daybreak, we'll pull the men back and wait for the enemy to come." The Commander rubbed his eyes in a vain attempt to banish some of his weariness. "Alrod, I'm charging you with holding the gate." "But if we abandon the walls--?" "What use is there holding the gate? As long as we hold the gate, and the keep for that matter, we make it that much more difficult for the enemy to move through the city. They'll be forced to spend the time to destroy us." "Yes, sir," Conn replied without much enthusiasm. "Take Sergeant Havercamp and forty good men and hold the gate, Conn. Hold it as long as you can and when you think you can't hold any longer, hold some more." "Where will you be, sir?" "The Lord Mayor and I and the rest of the garrison will barricade ourselves in the keep. We may not last long, but we cannot disgrace the Duke by giving his home to the invaders without a fight. That's all," he said, rising from his chair. He gripped Conn's hand in a firm hold. "Good luck, Captain." "And to you, sir." Rolanda Thorne looked up as her husband came through the door. "Well, Quillien?" "The news is not good," he said, putting his cloak away. "As I expected. You'd best have Jannis come in and hear this." Lady Thorne went to get their daughter. The look on her husband's face and the tone of his voice frightened her more than she cared to admit. "Would it be all right if Tassy and Garrett stayed with us?" Jannis asked after her father had explained the situation as explained to him by the Lord Mayor. "I thought they'd left town, but I heard from Rayna that they were still here." "Of course they can stay with us," said Lady Thorne. "Rayna too, if she wants." "Okay. I'll go over right now and tell them." "Be careful, Jannis," Lord Thorne warned. "Take your dagger along." "But the invaders haven't gotten into the city yet, Father," Jannis replied. "These are dangerous times," said Lord Thorne. "Do it anyway." "Just a moment," said Rolanda. She went over to a display cabinet and took an object off one of the shelves. "Take this." "Your sundagger?" Jannis asked, accepting the enchanted blade from her mother. "When Brynna gave me this I never thought I'd need it," said Lady Thorne. She instructed her daughter on how to invoke the magic of the dagger; Jannis listened carefully, then left. Lady Thorne watched her from the window, wishing that they all were someplace far away from the conflict. Main Body camp outside Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 12 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Vasquez stood outside his tent gazing at the pre-dawn sky. Storm clouds loomed and a chill wind was blowing from the north. A fitting omen for today's work, Vasquez thought. Today would be the last day, of that he was certain. Vasquez had lost four hundred more men yesterday and he knew the defenders had paid dearly also. He expected 1no more than two hundred would face his Regiments when the attack went in. And then would the soldiers of the Beinisonian Emperor take their revenge on those sheltering behind Port Sevlyn's walls. The young Field Marshal splashed his face with cold water and returned to his tent to finish drafting the report he must send the Emperor on his reasons for giving the order to destroy Port Sevlyn. As he set pen to paper, he could hear the shouts of the Sergeants calling the men from their slumber. The final day of the siege had begun. Main gate, north wall Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 12 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Patrick gently shook his Captain awake. "It's morning, sir. Time for breakfast." Conn sat up slowly and carefully. The pain from his scalp wound had lessened only slightly during the night. "What's the fare this morning?" "Campaign rations, I'm afraid, sir." "Well, I suppose it's better than nothing at all." "Only just, sir." Conn bit a chunk off the slab of thrice-baked bread and washed it down with a large mouthful of water. "Have you checked the men?" he asked his friend. "I have, sir. They're scared, the lot of them, but they'll do fine when the time comes, sir. They know this will be the end of it and there's a few wondering what the enemy's going to do once they're over the walls." "Well, let's hope that Vasquez character rides tight reign on his troops." "From your lips to God's ears, sir." "Right, Patrick," Conn said, getting to his feet. "Let's see if we can get an inspection done before they hit us." Conn and Patrick walked throughout the barbican, talking to the men and women, reassuring them that they would fight bravely and well and reminding them that every second's delay did harm to the enemy. They were on the wall between the two towers of the barbican when the Beinisonians began to move. "Okay, Patrick," Conn said turning to the Sergeant, "down you go." "But, sir! Don't you think I should stay with you?" "No, Sergeant. I need a good man to hold the gatehouse. That's the weakest part of the barbican." "Yes, sir." Patrick drew himself erect and threw his life-long friend a salute with parade-ground precision and then hurried down to the gatehouse. Conn surveyed the enemy formations closing on the walls. From his observations, he guessed that no more than one Regiment would attack the gate. He laughed at the thought. He was so used to fighting off three and four Regiments at once that one Regiment of a thousand men hardly seemed worth noticing. War can be absurd at times, he thought. Main gate, north wall Port Sevlyn, Duchy Quinnat, Baranur 12 Yule, 1014 B.Y. "You five! Come with me!" Conn said, leading half the men he'd put on the wall between the two twenty-foot diameter round towers on either side of the gatehouse down to the gatehouse itself. With only forty men to defend two towers, a twenty-foot section of wall, and a thirty by twenty-foot gatehouse, all of which were collectively named a barbican, Conn could do nothing but divide his men evenly, ten men to each area. The towers were holding for the moment and no one as yet 1had thought to assault the wall, preferring to try and batter down the stout gate below the battlements. The gatehouse, on the other hand, was in serious trouble. The enemy had scaled the walls in three score places and were pouring into the city. The Regiment assigned to wrest the gate away from its defenders had completely surrounded the barbican and was concentrating its efforts on the gatehouse. The eleven defenders were barely holding only because those clamoring to gain entrance outside the walls were being thwarted by the iron-reinforced oak gate, thus allowing the commander of the gatehouse to use his entire force against those Beinisonians who had scaled the wall and were slowly forcing the portcullis. Even allowing for the confined spaces of the gatehouse, eleven could not hold out long against one hundred. Conn led his five into the gatehouse. The enemy had forced the portcullis halfway up and were getting through in larger and larger numbers. Four of the defenders were down. The remaining seven were being slowly pushed back towards the gate. "Follow me!" Conn shouted and led his men into the fray to bolster the defenders. "Patrick! To me!" Patrick cut down his opponent and joined his Captain. "Nice of you to join us, sir!" "Can't let you have all the fun!" Conn shouted over the smithy's din of combat. Conn's head was pounding in time with the blows of the battering ram being used on the gate. "What's it like topside?" "We're holding. Barely, but holding." Commander Karellan backhanded one Beinisonian with his gauntlet, sending the man staggering with blood flowing from his broken nose. A second enemy soldier rushed the disarmed Militia Commander, hoping for a quick kill and the prestige of defeating the enemy leader. Karellan backed up and quickly ripped his cloak from his plate armour and wrapped it around his right arm as a makeshift shield. The Beinisonian charged, his sword sweeping in a gleaming arc towards the ex-Royal Army officer. Karellan brought his cloak up to meet the attack. The Beinisonian's sword cut into the thick cloth and Karellan quickly entangled his enemy's sword in the now-useless cloak. Before the Beinisonian could recover and free his sword, Karellan grabbed the man by the back of the neck and rammed his opponent's face down into his knee. The enemy soldier fell, stunned. Karellan raised his foot and smashed his boot down on the unconscious man's neck, killing him instantly. He looked around and saw the man whose nose he'd broken coming after him. Karellan put his shoulder down and charged. He collided with the man's chest, the momentum of the charge carrying both men to the edge of the keep's battlements. The Beinisonian scrabbled at the stone trying to keep from falling. Karellan recovered first. He planted his hand on the man's chest and shoved, sending him to his death below. He stepped back from the battlements' edge and picked up a sword discarded in the fighting. Not quite what he would have preferred, but it would serve. Karellan allowed himself a minute of rest before re-joining the fray. His vantage point afforded him an unobstructed view of the gate. From the keep, it looked as if the barbican was being buried in ants. "That's it then," he said to no one in particular. "Get back, Patrick!" Conn shouted. Conn had been forced to pull his men out of the towers and off the wall in order to hold the gatehouse. Thirty-one men and women, most of them still in their 1teens, were formed into two fighting wedges, one wedge struggling against the Beinisonians forcing their way past the now-upraised portcullis, the other preparing to receive the enemy on the other side of the battered gate being held closed only by Patrick Havercamp's strength and the gods' help. The Sergeant turned and ran to the dubious safety of the huddled group of defenders. Seconds later, the beam holding the gate shut gave way with a sharp crack and the enemy poured into the gatehouse shouting a victory paean. Patrick yelled defiance back at his enemy and led his group against the foe. The Beinisonians far outnumbered the defenders, but in the confined space of the gatehouse, superiority of numbers meant nothing. For several moments, the Baranurians in their leather armour pushed the enemy steadily backward, the bodies piling up at their feet. But it could not last. The defenders took casualties as well, and the Beinisonians had many more men to lose. Weight of armour and years of experience soon began to take their toll. Now, more and more of those falling were Baranurian. Finally, the enemy had compressed the defenders into a small circle in the centre of the gatehouse. Combat ceased as a figure in splendidly gilded armour and wearing a scarlet cape fastened by a platinum clasp strode through the gate. The man, only a few years older than Conn, made his way to the forefront of his troops. He gazed for several seconds at the defiant group of Baranurians. His eyes locked with Conn's and the expression in them was one of sincere regret and remorse. Slowly, silently, the man raised his sword in solemn salute and in that instant, Conn knew that no prisoners would be taken. Conn returned the salute and sent his Fayonna a silent farewell. The man shouted a command in a foreign language and the packed mass of Beinisonians surged forward. One by one the defenders fell until only Conn Alrod and Patrick Havercamp still stood, fighting back-to-back as they had so often done during their shared childhood. Conn hacked and chopped and lunged at the enemy. Facing such overwhelming numbers in such a small space, he could not help but connect. Two men fell dead at his feet and another reeled away clutching his arm before the first of the enemy blades struck. He felt a sharp stab of pain as an enemy sword bit at his leg. Conn delivered an attack that was parried and before he could recover, a second blade had lanced through the ribs on his right side. A third blade stabbed upward into his face and Conn fell to his knees, the pain unbearable. A fourth stroke severed his head from his body, ending his pain and his life. Patrick felt his friend go down and knew his own time was at hand. Thus far, he was untouched, a pile of bodies strewn about him. With his friend gone, the enemy now came at him from all directions. The big Sergeant flailed about with his sword , but to no avail. He fell across Conn's dead body, pierced in three places. With the fall of the gate, the way was now open for the bulk of the enemy force to enter the city. Regiment after Regiment streamed through the bloody human wreckage of the gatehouse and fanned out throughout the city. No mercy would be shown to the inhabitants. Where initially this had been due to orders, now the cause was revenge. Men whose bloodlust had been fired by seeing their friends butchered and bleeding for three days were turned loose on an unsuspecting city. Their orders were to put half the populace to the sword; their officers would have a difficult time ensuring the blood-letting did not go further. The Regiment battling for control of the keep in the city's 1centre had cleared the battlements of the enemy and its soldiers were stalking the few remaining defenders through the keep's corridors. Within the space of half an hour, the last defender had been dragged out kicking and screaming and then executed. Quillien Thorne heard the screams issuing from the direction of the city's gate and the realization of what was happening struck him like a thunderbolt. He ran throughout the house shouting for everyone to go immediately to the wine cellar. Once certain that everybody had gone down to the cellar, Lord Thorne followed. "What is it Quillien?" Lady Thorne asked with some alarm. "What's wrong?" "A massacre! The Beinisonians have begun killing people!" "Killing people?" Jannis gasped. "Why--what for?" "Oh gods," muttered Garrett, clenching his fists nervously. "Pack of animals, all of them. I should've been a warrior instead of a healer...." His wife Tassy drew close to him and laid her head against his chest. Rayna turned pale and brought her white lace fan up in front of her face, as if to shield herself from the horrors of the situation. "We'll be safe in the vault until the worst has passed," Lord Thorne said. He crossed the room to a certain wine rack, reached up and removed the fifth bottle of Blue Royal from the left. He then pushed in on the section of wall revealed by removing the bottle. There was a click and Lord Thorne slid the panel upwards. The wine rack moved aside to reveal a door on which was set a silver handle pointing up. Lord Thorne grasped the handle and turned it clockwise through 270 degrees. Next, he pushed in on the handle and the door slid silently back, allowing access to the extensive vaults in which Lord Thorne had hidden the possessions of his merchant house, the Lands' Rim, when he first learned of the landing at Shark's Cove twelve days' previously. Lord Thorne ushered the group into the entrance-room of the vaults and closed the door. In the cellar, the wine rack slid back into place. No indication remained that anyone had even been in the cellar. Inside the vault, Lord Thorne organized the group and had them make the entrance-room ready for their stay. The room was thirty-feet square and had doors on three walls; the wall through which they had just entered the room and on the walls to the right and left of the exit door respectively. On the wall opposite the entrance to the cellar was a mosaic depicting a lone sailor about to cast a harpoon at an onrushing dragon whale. Mounted above the cellar door was a stuffed shark's head. Lord Thorne glanced at the head and was satisfied; the eyes were glowing white, indicating the secondary magical defense was inactive and it was safe to leave the room at any time. When the room was presentable, Lord Thorne spoke to his charges. "I know you are all frightened. We are safe here, they will not find us. We shall wait for a time and then leave Port Sevlyn." "Then where will we go?" asked Tassy. "Magnus. The King must know of what has transpired here. Now get some rest, all of you. When we leave, we must move quickly." As he himself made ready to rest, he considered just what burden Fate had given him; he and his wife had to shepherd this group of young--oh how young they were!--people through an occupied city and two hundred-plus leagues of possibly enemy-held and very hostile territory. He was glad that his son Brannon and his daughter- in-law Caramina had already left Port Sevlyn on the _Sun Hawk_, his fastest trading vessel. His other ship, the _Royal Trader_, was on a routine cargo run to Magnus; he was certain that when her captain heard the news of the invasion he 1would take the ship and its crew to safety. His thoughts then turned to his oldest daughter Brynna and his young niece Mandi, both of whom had left on an expedition to the south about a year ago. He hadn't received word from Brynna in months; he prayed that her quest was successful, and that her ship wasn't anywhere near Beinison waters. He knew he could count on his wife and daughter during the rough times ahead, but of the others he wasn't completely certain. Rayna was almost the complete opposite of Mandi--quiet, shy, and reserved, although she had begun to become more open ever since she met Cydric, a young man on Brynna's crew. Of Tassy and her husband Garrett he had no idea how they would perform. There were so many details to worry about. One problem at a time, he thought. One problem at a time. Several hours later, the group was well-rested and ready for the start of their long trek. Lord Thorne walked over to the mosaic of the sailor, reached out and pressed the thumbnail of the man's left hand. The sound of stone grating on stone issued from the wall and a small section swung back to reveal a narrow passage leading to the stables. Thorne lifted a torch from its sconce and proceeded down the passage, the rest of the group following behind. The passage sloped gradually upwards and after a short time, the group came to the entrance to the stables. Thorne opened the secret door and motioned the rest of his party out of the passage. They were immediately assaulted by heat and smoke and the sounds of terrified screams. "It's worse than I thought," Lord Thorne said. "We'll have to be very careful." Cautiously, he opened the stable door. The scene before him was one of horror. A vast column of thick black smoke rose from Port Sevlyn's northern district. The invaders had fired the poorer section of the city and seemed to be driving the inhabitants before them. The screams and the fire were drawing ever closer. The stench of burning flesh filled the air. "We'll try and skirt the eastern edge of the fire," Thorne told the group. "Perhaps in the confusion we can reach the gate unmolested." The six quickly set off down the street, hoping to avoid a confrontation. They were remarkably successful, twice having avoided large groups of Beinisonians with bloodied swords. They had just turned north for the gate when disaster struck. The group was proceeding up a narrow street when four soldiers appeared from an alley and quite literally almost ran into Lord Thorne and his party. From the look of their armour and weapons, it was obvious what the four Beinisonians had been doing in the alley. One of the men said something Thorne couldn't recognize. The tone, however, was quite clear: "Kill them." Another objected, indicating Jannis, Tassy, and Rayna. The first seemed to consider his comrade's comment and then said something that made all four laugh. During all this, Lord Thorne had attempted to talk his way out of the predicament. "Good sirs," he said, knowing they couldn't understand his words but hoping his tone would make his meaning plain. "Perhaps we can come to an understanding? I have gold and will pay quite well were you to forget you saw us." The Beinisonians paid no attention, however. The prospect of having three young women outweighed any attempt to try and negotiate with the old man before them. The flash point occurred when a soldier grabbed Tassy. Garrett saw the soldier grin wickedly at his wife and immediately threw aside everything his training as a healer had taught him about respecting human life. He launched himself at his wife's assailant, and the two tumbled to the ground. The other three soldiers were just as stunned as everyone else 1and they took a moment to recover from their disbelief and go to the aid of their comrade. A soldier was raising his sword to strike Garrett's head from his shoulders when an intense flash of light sent all three soldiers staggering, their eyes blinded by the bright light. Lady Thorne put her sundagger away and stepped away from the still-struggling figures on the ground. Despite the Beinisonian's armour, or perhaps because of it, Garrett worked his way into an advantageous position and had gotten a strong hold on his adversary. The Beinisonian struggled, but to no avail. Garrett violently and repeatedly smashed the soldier's head into the ground; the Beinisonian eventually stopped resisting and went limp. "Run!" Lord Thorne shouted. "Quickly! Before they recover!" The group ran hard for several minutes then slowed to a quick jog. Before long, they came in sight of the gate. Soldiers formed a protective cordon that would prevent anyone from entering or leaving unless the commander at the gate wished it. Thorne brought the group to a halt and quickly moved them out of sight of the detachment at the gate. "What do we do now, Father?" Jannis asked. "Perhaps we can bluff our way through." "But how?" Lady Thorne asked. Rayna spoke for the first time. "Why not pass ourselves off as pilgrims?" Thorne looked at the young woman with admiration. "That just might work. We'll do it. All right, everyone, pay attention. We're going to follow Rayna's suggestion. Let me do all the talking and don't lose your heads." The last comment had been directed at Garrett. Lord Thorne calmly led the group out onto the street and proceeded toward the gate. They were stopped by the soldiers guarding the gate. One of them sent for his commander and made it clear to Thorne and his party they were to wait and not to do anything out of the ordinary. Thorne waited with growing anxiety. Now was the moment of truth. An officer dressed in impressively gilded armour and wearing a scarlet cape walked over to the group flanked by two guards. He spoke briefly with the soldiers who stopped the group and then asked several questions of Lord Thorne in perfectly fluent Baranurian. Lord Thorne grew more and more worried, for it was evident that the officer either did not believe Thorne's answers or took offense with followers of Stevene. The questions were becoming harder to deal with and Thorne knew his party was lost. Just then, the officer questioning the group was called away. A second officer with gilding even more impressive than the first, and whose cape was fastened with a platinum clasp, had called the first officer to him and the two were now involved in a low discussion. "What's the problem, Colonel?" Vasquez asked. "They say they are heretics, followers of Stevene on a holy pilgrimmage," Conti replied. "And?" "And...they are heretics, sir. That alone condemns them." "Are you saying they should be killed?" "No. sir. You know my feeling regarding that subject. But should we not refuse them permission to leave the city?" "Are they who they claim?" "Hard to tell, sir. It is possible they are who they say, but I find it too much of a coincidence they should be starting a pilgrimmage now." "Yes, Colonel. I agree." Vasquez studied the group. From their look, he was quite sure they were lying. "I'll handle this, Conti." 1Vasquez turned and regarded the spectacle of the flaming city before him. "Colonel," he said, "the killing has gone on long enough. Round up a Regiment or two and bring order to this madness." Gow be praised, Conti thought. "What of the fire?" "Contain it and let it burn itself out. Have the Regiment assigned to the garrison handle that aspect, Colonel. I want to be organized and on the march by dawn tomorrow." "Yes, sir." Conti saluted and departed to carry out his orders. Vasquez walked over to the group waiting patiently beyond the cordon. He could see the nervousness on the old man's face. "Go." The old man's eyes narrowed slightly; clearly he was suspicious of Vasquez's intentions. "Go," Vasquez said again, not unkindly. "Thank you, Honored Sir," Thorne said, carefully hiding his immense relief. "May Stevene smile upon you." Vasquez watched the group make their way through the blood-spattered gatehouse and out into the countryside. "Sanar walk with you," he said quietly. He watched them for several more minutes and then turned to go about his business. Port Sevlyn had cost him one thousand nine hundred dead or seriously wounded. With the detachment of a Regiment to garrison the city, Vasquez would have just under eleven thousand men to complete the march on Magnus. There was much to be done by morning. To the southeast of Port Sevlyn, the soldiers of the Light Regiments of the B.E.F. turned from their vigilant watch to the south to watch the black smoke from the dying city climb ever higher into the sky. The men stared at the marker of Port Sevlyn's funeral pyre until the Sergeants rather harshly reminded the men of their duty. The men shrugged and turned to the south once more, keeping watch for the Regiments of the enemy that weren't coming. At least, not in their direction. Not immediately. Lord Thorne and party made their way east throughout the remainder of the day, the smoke behind them sending a clear and unmistakable message to all who could see it; the juggernaught was unleashed like a wolf among lambs and the wolf was hungry. The campaign for the Laraka was beginning to heat up. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 QQQQQ tt QQ QQ tttttt QQ QQ uu uu aaaa nnnn tt aaaa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQ QQ uu uu aa aa nn nn tt aa aa QQQQQQ uuu aaaaa nn nn tt aaaaa QQQ ______________________________________ A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion ______________________________________ Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction. Published monthly, each issue contains short fiction, articles and editorials by authors around the world and across the net. Quanta publishes in two formats: straight ascii and PostScript* for PostScript compatible printers. To subscribe to Quanta, or just to get more info, send mail to: da1n@andrew.cmu.edu da1n@andrew.bitnet Quanta is a relatively new magazine but is growing fast, with over two hundred subscribers to date from seven different countries. Electronic publishing is the way of the future. Become part of that future by subscribing to Quanta today. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright August, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 3 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 11 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 11 11/15/90 Cir 1057 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DAG Yours Truly Editorial The Bronze Horseman III Max Khaytsus Ober 5-7, 1013 Understanding Bill Erdley Yule, 1014 Opus Interruptus Wendy Hennequin Melrin 4-5, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dafydd's Amber Glow by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Editor First, I hope that I haven't lost any of you loyal readers by waiting so long to get this issue out. We have lots of material now, so there should be lots of reading material coming your way between now and the end of the year, which should make up for the long dry spell since August. Next, I would like to officially welcome a new author, Bill Erdley, to the published fold. I'm sure he never thought he'd see this story in print - he only submitted it to me an eon ago! But here it is, and I'm sure you all will like it. It presents a different perspective on the little war we're having, and does so very effectively. Lastly, for those of you who haven't heard, the Archive at MGSE is no longer functioning for a variety of unavoidable reasons. What this means is that the back-issues of DargonZine are no longer available in an automated way. When the Archive accepted DargonZine as part of its service, I archived all of the back-issues to tape (I needed the space desperately!). So, while I do still have access to them, I do not have them on hand at all times. Consequently, if anyone wants back-issues of DargonZine from now until someone else volunteers to house and distribute them (a veiled plea!), they will have to send their requests to me and I will put them in a queue. When I have enough requests and enough time, I will send them all out at once - it is unlikely that this will be any more frequent than once a month (sorry). Now, on with the stories..... ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 The Bronze Horseman Part 3 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. "He's not dead!" Kera looked defiantly at the farmer. "He can't be!" "I saw it with my own eyes, Miss. They jousted and then Sir Quinn cut his throat. He's not the first one either. Knights and bounty hunters from all over have been coming to collect the reward on his head." "No!" "Trust me, Miss, he's dead. I can take you to his grave, if you want." "All right," Kera said. Seeing Rien's grave would not help her, but maybe it would let her know one way or the other for certain. If what the farmer said was true, she would finish the job Rien started. Quinn would become the target of her revenge. "Miss? Miss?" Kera looked up, a single tear coursing down her cheek. "Are you all right? I'm sorry about your friend. Sir Quinn is a renegade, you know. Come, it's not safe here. Those brigands are always on the lookout for new blood." Kera felt another tear run down her cheek and tried to hide it. Rien was all she'd ever had, the only one who ever cared and now she was on her own. "I'm fine," she wiped her eyes. "Show me the grave." "This way," the farmer led her towards the cluster of huts at the edge of the field and she followed blindly. Nothing seemed to matter, not even as she realized that this might be a trap. She could not imagine what to do next. It was as if all control and ability to make decisions suddenly escaped her. "It's right here," the farmer stopped short of a cleared patch of land, not far from the edge of the road leading to the village. It contained seven wooden markers, representing the men Quinn killed. "Your friend is on the edge there," the farmer pointed. "He was the last killed." Kera walked over and sank to her knees. `And yet another knight lies buried here, slain by Sir Garwood Quinn on 20 Seber 1013,' read the marker. This time Kera forced herself not to cry and made a decision. She was going to get revenge, no matter what stood in her way. "They're coming, Miss! You'd better hide!" She heard the frantic words of the farmer and turned. On the road at the edge of the village were three mounted men. As the farmer began to run, the one in the middle pointed at him and one of his companions charged after the running man, drawing his sword on the charge. The other two rode slowly up to Kera and she gasped. The one who appeared to be in charge was Rien. "You're not from this village," Rien declared. "What is your business here?" "I-I..." Kera stuttered and saw Rien wink. "I was looking for someone..." "One of them, perhaps?" he pointed at the graves. "This one, I think..." Kera pointed to the last grave. "It's not marked." "But it is marked," Rien insisted. "Some fool knight who lost to Sir Quinn. He got all the honors he deserved." At that moment the brigand who had charged off into the field after the farmer came riding back alone. "I struck him down, but he's still alive. He's from the village." 1 "Get the village healer to take care of him and I want him brought to me when he can talk," Rien said and the man rode off towards the village. "I hope your find was satisfactory, as you won't have much satisfaction from now on." Rien winked again. "Come here, wench." Kera walked over to him and he pulled her up on his horse and quickly removed the two daggers in her belt. Kera was suddenly too scared to move. "Here," Rien handed the blades to his companion. "Remain here. I will send someone to replace me, so you may complete the patrol." "Yes, Sir," the man answered and Rien galloped off. A safe distance away Rien slowed his horse. Kera still could not move. She did not know what happened to Rien, what he was after or even who was buried in the grave. More than anything else, she wanted to embrace Rien, but could not permit herself to do so. "I am glad you're here," she finally heard Rien's voice and felt his arm tighten around her waist. "It's a lot worse than I thought. Quinn is holed up here as if he was born in this place. He has plenty of men, too. I managed to become his lieutenant after killing the man who originally held the job, but I needed you. When I kill him, this place won't be safe for anyone. We'll need to be together. For now I need you to pretend you'd rather be anywhere else but here." "I love you," Kera said almost inaudibly and Rien realized that she was crying. The horse came to a dead stop and Rien's grip on Kera's waist tightened. "No. Not here and not now. Please." Kera nodded through her tears and Rien kicked the horse into motion again. "Did you get everything at Sharks' Cove?" "It's a few leagues out of town," Kera answered. "I tied the horses to a tree away from the road." "Good," Rien approved. "I'll check on them in the morning." They rode through the village which appeared to be deserted. Rien stopped the horse before the largest building in sight and helped Kera down, then jumped off himself. Kera noticed that he had a limp, but he pushed her ahead of himself before she could say anything. The building was a tavern and an inn. Inside four men lounged around drinking and a bartender stood behind the bar. Kera noticed there was a metal chain around his neck which led up to the rafters. Rien kicked the chair out from one of the drunker looking men. "How often do I have to keep telling you not to drink if you can't hold your booze?" The man groaned, rising his hands to his head and Rien, having picked up a half full goblet off the table, threw it at the man. "Go get Quinn and clean up this mess when you get back!" The man stumbled up to his feet and staggered off as the other three straightened themselves out. Rien shoved Kera into a chair and picking up the jug on the table took a few deep swallows from it, then sat down himself. A few moments later a tall dark haired man dressed in a fashionable red tunic and grey pants came down the stairs. Rien immediately stood back up. "And what have you brought me this time, Sir Keegan?" the man looked over at Kera. "With all due respect, Sir Quinn," Rien answered, "I brought her for myself. You told me I might select a woman for my own." "So I did," the man kept appraising Kera, "but you said none in the village suited your interest." "None did, Sir, but she is not from the village. She came looking for one of the knights you jousted. I request her for my own." Quinn thought for a moment. "Having found her, you may have her for tonight, Sir Keegan, but I want her tomorrow and then I shall 1decide. She is rather young. The rest of the men might appreciate her as well. They need something new." "As you wish, Lord," Rien answered. "It's always as I wish, Sir Keegan," Quin laughed and went over to the bar. "Give me a drink, man!" The man Rien kicked out of his chair came back to clean up the floor. "After you're done here, go take up my patrol with Kritner and Breault," Rien told him. "Kritner will be in charge." "Right away, Sir," the man answered. Rien took Kera by her arm and led her up the stairs, showing her into a luxurious room. "Sit," he let go of her and locked the door. Kera sat down on the bed. The way Rien acted reminded her too much of the men working for Liriss. She noticed him doing everything he said he was against and it was beginning to frighten her more and more. "Are you all right?" he finally asked her. "Fine," Kera answered, wiping the tears off her cheeks. Rien knelt in front of her. "You sure?" "Why are you limping?" Kera asked. "I got hurt proving to Quinn I'm as good as any four of his men," Rien said. "It's fine now. I ride most of the time anyway." He and Kera embraced and remained that way for a long time. It was dark in the room by the time they let go of each other. "How are your eyes?" Rien asked. "As good as ever," Kera said. "I think my sense of smell improved too." "It's not the disease?" "No, no. That's all passed. I guess I was so concerned, I just didn't notice the change at first. How are you?" Rien smiled. "A little worse for wear, but fine. I am glad you're back," and he embraced her again. This time they let each other go a lot sooner. "Are you hungry?" Rien asked and without waiting for an answer went to the door. "Let me get us some food." He put the key in the lock and remained motionless for a moment. "What's wrong?" Kera asked. Rien waited a moment longer, then turned to Kera. "Scream." "What?" "Just scream." Kera did and her yell was followed by laughter from the corridor. She smiled and screamed again and Rien pushed a chair so it fell over with a thud. More laughter could be heard outside and Kera bit down on her lip to prevent herself from doing the same. Rien placed his index finger to his lips and made a shushing sound, then quickly unlocked the door and stepped out. "What are you doing here?" Kera heard Rien demanding. "Talking, Sir," someone answered. "Not at my door!" "Yes, Sir." "Bring dinner for me and my friend and then get lost." Kera heard footsteps hurrying away and Rien stepped back into the room, holding a candle. He was smiling. "I have a well earned reputation." Kera smiled also, in spite of being concerned over how Rien was acting. The nagging thoughts of how he could have earned that reputation were shoved to the back of her mind, where she would not have to think about it. Rien placed the candle in a stand on the table and returned to Kera. "Give me your cloak." Kera fumbled with the strings at her neck and handed it to him. 1 Rien turned it over, shook it, then carelessly tossed it on the floor in the middle of the room. He then bent down and unlaced Kera's tunic, pulling it partially off of one shoulder. "What are you doing?" she asked him, but instead of answering, Rien kissed her and roughed up her hair. A knock sounded at the door, "Yes?" Rien stood up and turned, one hand resting possessively on Kera's shoulder. The door opened and a man walked in carrying a tray. He stepped over the cloak on the floor to place the food on the table, then stepped back and threw a quick glance over at Kera, who lowered her eyes. "Will there be anything else, Sir?" he asked Rien. "When's your patrol?" "Midnight, Sir." "Stay away from my door." The man bowed and quickly retreated from the room, pulling the door closed after himself. Rien hurried to relock it. "Come," Rien called to Kera and she came over to the table. "You can fix your tunic now," he motioned. "I was hoping I would be removing it later," she answered cautiously. Rien smirked. "As you wish. I won't make you sleep dressed." Kera hurried through dinner, even though it was much better than the trail rations she had been enduring for the last couple of weeks. She found herself thinking of the things she saw and heard. Listening to Rien she understood that he did his best to fit in with the rest of the cut-throats around, but the environment greatly reminded her of Liriss' organization, something she thought was well behind her. "How did you join them?" Kera asked when she finished eating. "Here?" Rien asked and she nodded. "I was ambushed on the road. I realized it was an ambush, but there was nothing I could do when I was attacked, other than be ready. So I got hurt, but I did win the fight." Kera smiled. Somehow she'd expected that. "That's when Quinn showed up," Rien went on. "He had a couple of his men with him and all had crossbows, so I decided to talk my way out of a conflict...or rather into a job. A couple of praises of his skill and fame and a boast or two about my own abilities got me challenged to a sword fight. Quinn's pretty good, but I let him win anyway. Told him I'm a knight. "That got him interested enough to keep me around and a week ago I arranged for a mishap to take his lieutenant. Being the only other knight around, Quinn gave the position to me." "Why haven't you killed him yet?" Kera asked. "Sounds like you've had plenty of opportunities." "He has men," Rien said, "and I cannot outfight all of them should they learn that I either attempted or succeeded in the assassination. I also promised you I would meet you here. I don't expect to stay long now. Just a few days so I can finish the job." There was some commotion and Rien got up to look out the window. He saw two men pushing another one around in the dark. "The guards must have gotten a hold of another villager," he sighed. Kera took a look too after putting out the candle. "Aren't you going to stop them before they kill him?" "No. There are only so many good things that I can do and not have anyone wonder," Rien said. "Don't worry, they won't kill him. There are so few villagers left that Quinn will have their heads if they do." "Rien," Kera said, "Quinn told you he wants to bed me tomorrow." "He won't," Rien promised and put his arms around Kera. "Tell me about your trip. What happened in Sharks' Cove?" 1 Kera woke up alone, realizing that her arms had fallen asleep and to her surprise found that both her hands were tightly tied behind her back. She struggled against the rope, which was looped somewhere beneath the bed, but could not break or loosen it. With difficulty she sat up on the bed and looked around. Her clothing was still scattered on the floor, but Rien's were gone, as were the dishes on the table. She tried to bend over, to see what the rope was attached to, but it was too short to give her that much freedom of movement. She kicked at the floor in anger and threw herself back on the bed. "Son of a ...!" She couldn't think of a good derogatory word for an elf. `What am I going to do? Run away?' She rolled over to look at the window a few feet away. All she could see was a clear sky and a ray of sunlight filling the room. It must be late morning. Kera tossed a bit longer, making herself comfortable. It made sense to her that a prisoner could not roam free, but couldn't Rien just lock her in or at least tie her more comfortably? She wondered if the door was unlocked and maneuvered herself under the blanket. `He wouldn't dare...' The street was reasonably quiet and occasionally voices and footsteps could be heard in the corridor. After what seemed like an eternity of staring at the same spot on the wall, Kera decided that her only course of action was to wait and, anyhow, the bed was the most comfortable place in the room and she could not get free of the rope anyway. It was well past noon when Kera heard a key click in the lock and quickly slid further under the blanket. Rien walked in. She glared at him. "I'm sorry," Rien shut the door and walked over. He sat down and untied the rope. Kera felt like strangling him, but instead placed her arms in front of herself and dropped her head in them. "Why?" "If you are to appear as my captive, it has to be full time." "Who's going to see me?" "Quinn has keys to all doors. Most other men could pick the lock." "And you were going to leave me tied up for them?!" Rien stroked her back. "If you were free to roam about, could you pick it?" "Why didn't you warn me?" "I didn't think of it last night and did not want to wake you up this morning. You tend to sleep late, so you would have been spared most of the anxiety." Kera sighed. "If you keep this up long enough, I'll forgive you." Rien smiled and continued running his fingers along her spine. "How long?" "Long," she answered and brushed the blanket back. Rien looked up to avoid meeting Kera's gaze and then moved behind her, so she would not see him. "I moved the horses to a box canyon on the other side of the hills to the south," Rien said after a while. "It's secluded and has good grass." Kera moaned in response. "Are you paying attention?" "Uh-huh." "I left one of the healing potions we took from Terell on your horse. I am leaving another one in the room so you can be close to it. The third is on my riding horse here. I've got the poison here too. You'll administer it to Quinn tonight." Kera turned over and Rien pulled his arms back. "What do you mean I'll administer it?" She looked down at his hands. "Keep going, I 1haven't forgiven you yet." "Quinn wants to see you tonight," Rien reminded her. "You will have the opportunity. I will be taking care of his men." He reached out towards Kera and a second later she jumped up with a burst of laughter. "Cut it out!" "That sounded pretty final," Rien said. "I guess I'm done." Kera covered her stomach with her arms. "How are we going to do that?" "You will take..." A knock on the door interrupted Rien. He looked at Kera, then stood up. She instinctively took the rope and placed her hands behind her back. "Come," Rien turned to the door. The guard whom Kera met in the field the day before entered. "The old man is conscious, but the healer says he is not to be moved." Rien folded his arms and the man took the opportunity to steal a glance at Kera. "Prepare my horse. I will be there shortly." The guard bowed and left. Rien turned to Kera and she fell back on the bed. "I hate this," she sighed. Rien sat down on the edge of the bed. "I have to leave. You will add the poison to Quinn's drink tonight. I will take care of as many men as I can. We'll leave during the night." Kera looked up at him. His eyes were a nondescript blue-grey. "I have to tie you." She turned over, placing her hands on her back and closed her eyes to hide the pain. Rien secured her hands and left without a word, locking the door after himself. Rien and Breault dismounted on the neat lawn in front of the healer's hut. The healer, Sherestha, a plump old woman, scornfully muttered that these two could not walk the fifty yards from the tavern to her house. "How is he?" Rien asked. "He'll die if he's lucky," the woman answered. Rien took the healing potion from the saddle bag and went inside. The old farmer lay on his stomach on a pile of blankets and skins. Across his back were leaves and herbs covering a foot long gash. Rien knelt down next to him. "He is not conscious," the woman said. "He's too old." Rien stood up and handed her the potion. "Make him drink it." "What is this?" Sherestha asked. "Does it matter? He'll die if he's lucky." Breault chuckled and the woman glared at him. "What is this?" "It will heal the wound," Rien said. The healer opened the vial and smelled the contents, then turned the wounded man on his side and began pouring the liquid into his mouth. The smile on Breault's face diminished as the wound started healing over. He looked at Rien. "Come, we need to talk, Breault." They walked out back with Rien saying no more. "Why are you healing him?" Breault finally asked. "What good is he to us?" "Are you questioning my authority?" Breault drew himself to his full six-four height. "Yes, Sir 1Keegan, I am." Rien calmly walked past him. "Don't you think I know better?" "I think something is wrong." Rien stopped. "Like what?" "There's something wrong with you." Rien remained with his back to Breault, but his hand all ready held the hilt of his long dagger. "Like what, Breault?" "You like life," the man made the accusation and started after Rien. "I've never seen you take it." Rien waited for Breault to be directly behind him, then turned, putting the dagger in his stomach. "Don't you like life, Breault? Given the choice, do you want to live?" He held the man still and forced it up under his rib cage. "I am taking a life, Breault. Do you like it?" Red foam began appearing at the brigand's mouth and he started slipping down. Rien let the body drop to the ground. "Now you've seen it all." He wiped the blade on the dead man's tunic and returned to the house after stopping by his horse. He noticed the wound on the farmer's back was almost gone and the old woman was looking it over. "He will never be able to repay you," she looked up. "You will," Rien said. "What do you want of me?" Rien held up the dark green stalk he had retrieved from his saddle bag. "This is Wolfbane. I want you to make me the strongest poison you can with it." "Why?" the woman asked. "I will free this village of its plague," he answered. "You alone?" "Mostly." "What's in it for you?" "Peace of mind. Revenge." "For what?" "One of the graves out there belongs to a friend. My lover is a prisoner at the tavern. Is that reason enough? ...And," he added more carefully, as if the healer was one of Quinn's people, "I just killed a man for trying to stop me." The old woman took the stalk from Rien's hands and carefully studied him. "I will help you," she said finally. Kera lay on her back, staring at the wooden planks in the ceiling when she heard a key turn in the lock. `About time,' she thought to herself and turned over. The door creaked open and Garwood Quinn walked in. Kera's eyes immediately snapped shut and she pretended to be asleep. She heard Quinn walk up to her and immediately wished she was better covered by the blanket. He stood over her for a bit, then walked away. A chair was shoved aside and the shutters on the window were pushed open. Quinn came back to the bed and kicked it solidly with this boot. Kera bolted upright, looking at him with startled eyes. The knight smiled and she looked down. "Has Sir Keegan been a gentleman with you?" Quinn laughed. Kera didn't answer. Quinn grabbed her chin and forced her to face him. "Well?" Tears formed in her eyes. "He wasn't!" Quinn laughed with delight. "Well, I won't be either!" Kera tried to pull her head back, but Quinn tightened his grip on her jaw until she screamed in pain. "So you can talk..." Kera continued looking at him emptily. It was the only thing she 1could do. Quinn pushed her down and untied the rope from the bed, retying the lose end around her neck. "Come on," he pulled the rope. "My room's bigger." Kera resisted and Quinn jerked hard on the rope, making her fall to the floor. The loop around her neck tightened and constrained her breathing and as she began to to cough, Quinn stepped on the rope near her neck. In her coughing fit, Kera tightened the loop more and started gasping for air. Quinn lazily bent down and loosened the loop, then pulled her up. "See what can happen if you don't follow my lead?" He checked the knots at her neck and hands and then pushed Kera ahead of himself to the door. By the time they reached it, he was all ready ahead of her and pulling her by the rope. "You make this good and I may even let you enjoy yourself." In the corridor they were stopped by a guard. "Sir Quinn, a wagon was just brought to the inn. The men say they have prisoners." Quinn looked at the guard with annoyance in his eyes, then shoved Kera into him. "Take her to my room and keep her there." Rien returned near dusk, his vial refilled with a potent poison. He watched the off duty men roll two barrels into the bar from a wagon in the street. He asked where it had come from and was told that a merchant and his daughter were captured and were currently being questioned by Quinn. The wagon was being unloaded at his order. The two casks contained wine. Rien proceeded upstairs to his room only to find the door unlocked and the room empty. He scanned the area for any signs of struggle. There were none and he returned to the corridor where he saw a guard standing by Quinn's door. "Where is the girl who was in my room?" "Here," the man said. "Sir Quinn asked me to guard her." "Did she try to escape?" "I don't know, Sir. I was only told to bring her here and guard her." Rien opened the door and walked in. The guard followed him. Kera sat inside in a chair, her hands still tied behind her and a rope around her neck. "She looks nice, Sir," the guard smiled lecherously and Kera glared up at him. "Did anyone hurt you?" Rien asked. Kera shook her head. "How long ago did Quinn leave?" Rien asked the guard. "Not long. Shortly after sunset, when the wagon was brought. He went to talk to the prisoners." "Good," Rien said. As the guard turned back to gawk at Kera, Rien forced his dagger into the man's back and carefully lowered him to the floor. "Are you sure you're all right?" Rien asked Kera again, cutting her loose with the bloody knife. "They didn't do anything to you?" "I'm fine, really. He didn't have the time." Rien helped Kera up and put his free arm around her. "Return to my room and get dressed. Come down in a bit. Be ready for a fight." He picked up an empty glass and walked out with Kera. She took a turn down the side corridor to Rien's room and he proceeded to the top of the stairs. Below he saw Quinn's collection of thugs and cutthroats gathering together for dinner. Behind the bar he noticed the two barrels that were brought in from the wagon. He smiled and poured the poison the healer made for him into the empty glass and proceeded down the stairs. 1 A few of the men greeted him on his way to the bar and he responded in kind. "Where's Quinn?" he asked the barman. "There," he was directed to the back room. "Make my dinner," Rien ordered and the man left, the chain clanking up above him as he walked. Rien went around the bar to the barrels, opened one with a mallet and dumped the poison in. The men in the common room quieted down hearing the bang and looked over. Some even came up. A couple more hits and Rien removed all the portions of the splintered lid. "A little good fortune that we can all share in!" he announced. "Help yourselves." The men cheered and Rien, picking up a pitcher and scooping up some of the dark red liquid, left. Making his way past the mob that gathered around the barrel, Rien stopped in the corridor before the back room door and and emptied the vial of poison he obtained from Terell into the pitcher. He opened the door and entered. A guard stepped out of his way and Quinn, sitting with his back to the door looked over his shoulder. Across from Quinn sat a middle aged man and a girl not yet out of her teens. "Good, Sir Keegan. I am glad you could join us. You should see how this fool is trying to make a deal!" Rien smiled and placed the pitcher before Quinn. "Compliments of our guest." Quinn released a laugh as Rien reached up to a shelf to get a goblet. "Get me two," Quinn instructed. Rien placed both glasses before the knight and remained standing behind him. Quinn poured wine into both goblets and moved one to the man across from him. "Let me remind you I have you, your property and your daughter. Offer me something I don't all ready have, otherwise you wanting to go free is merely wishful thinking. Drink a little of my wine. Let it not be said I am not a hospitable man." Rien looked down. There was no way to stop the merchant from poisoning himself. Quinn was about to have his last taste of wine. "No matter how badly I want my daughter and myself to to be free, I can give you nothing more than what you've all ready taken from me. I will not drink stolen wine!" The goblet bounced to the floor with a pronounced clank. Rien looked at Quinn, whose eyebrows went up. "Then why did you ask me to make a deal, you old fool?" The man did not respond and Quinn took a swallow from his goblet. "I will let my men practice with you tonight and your daughter can try and stay alive with me." He turned back to Rien. "That bitch of yours is in my room. You may have her back." Rien nodded. "May the gods strike you down for what you are doing!" the merchant exclaimed, glaring at the three rogues. "If they haven't yet, I doubt they will. Worry about yourself for now," Quinn said, taking a second, larger swallow from the goblet. "And tomorrow your worries may be over." Deep inside Rien smiled at the irony of the merchant's statement. If he identified Terell's poison correctly, Quinn would not have a pleasant death. Quinn coughed as he put the goblet down and again turned to Rien. "Good wine. Have the men break open a barrel." "All ready have, Sir. I knew you'd be in a good mood." As he spoke, Rien noticed Quinn's face beginning to redden and his arm was curled under his stomach. Quinn struggled to get up, holding onto the table, trying to maintain his facing. A look of horror spread on his face. "Let them go, Rien..." and with those words Quinn collapsed to the floor. Blood 1flowed out of his open mouth. "Get a healer!" Rien turned to the startled guard and the man made for the door, impaling himself on Rien's long dagger. Rien pushed the dying man down on top of Quinn. He waited for a moment for the man to die, then looked up at the merchant who was as white as a sheet. "In a few minutes you will leave by this door and turn left down the corridor. The passage leads to the stables out back. There will be no guards. Take your horses and wagon, nothing else, and go. The left fork of the road is not guarded." Not giving the merchant a chance to recover from his death sentence and its subsequent favorable resolution, Rien left the room, proceeding to the stables. He killed the man standing guard in the doorway and then another one outside the barn door. He took a little more time to compensate the merchant with some of Quinn's lootings and after dumping a bag in the wagon bed, circled around the building to the front entrance. The first thing to catch his attention were the two guards lying at the door. `The healer's poison must be quick,' he thought, walking past them. Inside a good half of the men were sprawled out on the floor and furniture and another dozen or so were merrily drinking away. "Look!" Rien noticed someone get up behind the bar. "Seli is dead!" The man pulled the bartender up and shoved him over the bar, collapsing after him. Neither got up. Rien remained at the door, watching as two or three other men quietly passed out in front of him. There was a commotion upstairs. A male voice said something and a moment later a body hit the railing and broke through, falling into the common room. The man had a deep wound in his chest. Kera appeared at the top of the stairs looking down. Besides her clothing she wore Quinn's red cloak and scabbard. A bloodied sword was in her hands. She looked around the common room, surprised that no one had reacted and, after spotting Rien, went down stairs. As Kera passed one of the tables, a man at it got up, took one step towards her and collapsed. She stood in awe, looking at Rien. "What did you do?" Rien shrugged. "I asked the village healer to make me the strongest poison she could with a stalk of Wolfbane I took from Maari. Wolfbane, also known as Monk's Hood, is an aphrodisiac and hallucinogen in small quantities, but too much of it will burn a person out...or make them go mad. She must have added something else. They don't even realize what's happening to them." Another man fell out of his chair as Kera stepped over the one that had fallen in front of her. "I didn't ask for a lecture. What about Quinn?" "I gave him the poison I took from Terell's shop. He's dead too." Only three of Quinn's men remained upright and it was obvious they would not last long. Nineteen other bodies lay on the floor. A job well done...if well could in any way be associated with death. "Come," Rien took Kera's hand. "There are still patrols out there. We'd better leave." "Shouldn't they be killed too?" "There are less than ten men total, all back alley thugs. The villagers can take care of them if they don't flee on their own." Distant thunder rolled through the skies as they stepped outside the tavern. Rien walked past the stables towards the forest. "Aren't we taking the horses? It looks like it will rain," Kera stopped him, "and what about all your stuff?" "We have horses waiting," Rien answered. "They are more powerful than anything here and they carry equipment. I have no use for looted treasure. The villagers need it more." 1 Kera tossed the cloak she wore to the ground. "Red is too obvious in the moonlight," she said. "And it's not my color." She started unstrapping the sword when Rien stopped her. "It's a good blade. Keep it." It was well into the night when Rien and Kera reached the hilly area southwest of Phedra. Their target was a cluster of boulders with a small pass between them. On the other side, in a box in canyon, waited their two horses and escape from the remaining guards. "I take it you didn't bring them through here," Kera said, looking over a passage so narrow that even she would not fit through. "I went all the way around," Rien answered. "Climbing over to the pass will save us three leagues of hiking. We'll have to climb some twenty feet, though. There is a lip in the cliff face up there." "What's another three leagues after the last ten?" sighed Kera. She grabbed a hold of some rocks and started climbing. Rien followed her. "Do you smell smoke?" Kera asked when near the top. Below her Rien took his time to finish the climb before answering. "I've been smelling it for a while. If there was wind, we could tell where it's coming from." The step-like formation in the face of the cliff was about two feet across, wide enough to stand on, but not much more. Rien leaned back on the wall. "Can you see the village?" "Right there," Kera pointed into the darkness. "It's not very clear." "I'm impressed," Rien nodded. "Much superior to other people." "Do I look better with grey or brown eyes?" Kera asked. "Excuse me?" "You did notice that my eyes changed color?" "Of course! I told you they did." "So which is better?" "For what?" "My appearance!" "I'm partial to grey." "Took you long enough." Rien laughed and Kera took a step towards him. "If we weren't on a cliff right now, I'd give you a shove you'd remember for a while." "If you give me one here, I promise you I will remember it for a while as well. At least on the way down." Rien took Kera's arm. "Come on. This slopes up. Watch your step." They made their way up the ledge into the crack in the hill side and continued at a leisurely pace for some time. They were passing an overhang which was level with the top of the hill on the other side when a loud sound of splintering wood disturbed the night and rocks started falling from above. The thunder that has been at the horizon for the duration of their walk, sounded overhead and a brilliant flash of lighting split the sky. Kera jumped back and fell against the wall. One stone managed to bounce off her shoulder and a mass of pebbles sprayed over her back. When it was all over, she stirred and got up. Rien lay a few feet up ahead. He must have taken the brunt of the landslide. Kera made her way to him. He was alive, but unconscious. The top of the hill was no more than twenty feet away. While thinking of what to do next, Kera heard running footsteps and went up, in hope of finding help, but instead encountered two men with swords, one of which promptly took a swing at her and missed. She backed down the slope, dodged his second attack and then swung at him with her sword. Those late night practice sessions with Rien must have 1helped, as the man was knocked off balance and fell past her, off the cliff. His fading scream made Kera realize how dangerous it was for her to remain on the ledge and she hurried to level ground. The second man, apparently wiser for not taking the same risk, held a torch in one hand and a sword in the other, patiently waiting for her to come up. His first swing was with the torch and Kera instinctively jumped back, stumbling and landing on her back. With horror she realized that her head was over the edge of a fifty foot drop. The man advanced with the torch ahead of him before Kera had a chance to react. She could not move with it almost directly in her face. "Drop the sword," the man told her and when she hesitated, brought the flame closer in. Kera smelled singing hair and immediately let the weapon go. The man kicked it aside. "Now get up. Slowly." Kera did so and took a step back when the man motioned her to do so, but when he bent down to pick up the sword, she gave the torch a kick and it flew out of his hand and over the edge. Darkness descended on the small plateau. The man blindly swung his sword, but Kera had no problems avoiding the blow and remained crouched on the ground. Without light and a cloudy sky, her opponent was practically helpless and expected her to be just as lost, but was surprised by getting a dagger in his side. He swung in the proper direction, but was again too high. Kera remained silent, watching him trying to hear her. After a while the man apparently gave up and Kera was able to put her dagger into his knee. He sank to the ground, but swung again anyway, missing Kera completely. With another thrust she finished him off and went to check on Rien. Thunder and lightning made themselves known once again and a light rain began to fall. Kera found Rien still unconscious, laying where she left him. She took the time to examine him now. It was difficult in the rain, without light -- everything was red or black or both -- but it was enough to determine his condition. The most obvious wound was in his side. It was dirty and bloody and the clothing was torn. Kera, not quite sure of what to do, decided to move him to the level area up above, instead of continuing on the thin ledge. It was amazing that neither one of them had fallen off it in the first place. While trying to move Rien, Kera found what looked like remains of a mechanism that could have caused the rock slide, but it was of little importance now. She struggled to get Rien up top and he groaned from pain in spite of being unconscious. Locating the brigand's camp, a small cave in the rocks, sheltered from the storm, Kera dragged Rien in and placed him on an even slab of rock towards the back of the cavern. There was a small fire to keep warm and she tore off a few strips of her tunic to make a bandage. It was only then that Kera noticed that her own shoulder was bloody where it had been hit. After washing Rien's wounds, Kera bandaged them. She suspected that his ribs were broken, but not being a doctor, not only did she not know how to make sure, but also how to treat it. She then took care of her own shoulder and looked over the cave. It was bare, except for the fire and two packs in the corner. Searching them she found nothing more than basic equipment. It looked like the two men had only been beginning to set up camp. Kera returned to the cliff to pick up her sword and then looked around to see if the men brought horses. Not finding anything, Kera paused on the cliff overlooking the canyon. Through the rain she could tell it was a good mile wide and at least three long. Kera did not know where to begin looking for their own mounts and the only healing potion she could use was somewhere out there. She spent a long time 1looking down into the darkness, waiting for a glimmer of something other than trees. Finally giving up, Kera returned to the cave to take shelter for the night. Maybe Rien would wake up by morning and tell her where to look. She checked the dressing on Rien's side one more time before settling down to sleep. He was definitely weaker and this time did not even groan when she moved him. His breathing was shallow. The lesion was still oozing blood with no indication of stopping; the area around the wound was hot. Kera made the bandage as tight as she could, knowing it would probably do more damage to the broken ribs, but preferring that to having Rien bleed to death. Upon completion of the task, Kera made herself comfortable against the wall of the cave, leaning slightly back on the step-like rock formation and wishing for Rien's condition to improve by morning, finally fell asleep. Kera opened her eyes and was nearly blinded by the bright lights around her. She blinked several times at the light that was as bright as day and after a minute her eyes adjusted to the brightness. She sat in a soft chair with arm rests in a large, brightly lit room. She looked up to see where the light was coming from, but saw nothing more than a uniformly glowing ceiling. In front of her sat a box, about a foot square, with a glossy black surface that reflected the ceiling, facing her. Kera reached out to touch it, but as soon as her hand made contact, the box made a noise and lit up with an orange glow. Strange symbols appeared on the smooth surface. Startled, Kera jumped up and the chair she was sitting in swivelled and rolled back. For the first time she noticed that ten feet away, to her right, sat a young black-haired man. The clothing he was wearing Kera could not recognize as having ever seen before. He wore faded blue pants and a sky-blue tunic carefully tucked into them. She gasped and he looked up at her, no less surprised. Next to him was a box identical to the one Kera had touched -- she now noticed there were quite a few of them set in rows about the room. The young man simply stared at her for a minute, not quite sure what to say. The box next to him flickered a couple of times, but he did not look at it. Kera straightened out as the rolling chair bumped against a table on the other side of the room. The box on that table lit up like the first. "Where am I?" Kera asked, concerned about all the magic going off around her so freely. "En..." the young man began to say with what appeared to be reflex, making Kera believe it was a question he heard often. He picked up a frame from a pile of papers and put it on his face. It looked to be made of thin strips of metal, twisted to hold two round pieced of glass in place in front of his eyes. A wider piece of metal connected the two pieces at the bridge of his nose and two pieces extended from the other side to hook over his ears. The man eyed Kera from head to toe and she stood there looking back at him, doing the same. "Kera?" he finally asked, taking a quick glance at his box. Kera nodded and took an unsure step back. She felt for her dagger, but remembered she was sleeping before and did not have it on her. It was on the ground in the cave, where she had placed it after cutting bandages for Rien. "Rien?!" she spun around, realizing he was not there. "Calm down!" the young man finally stood up. "He's fine." "He's not fine!" Kera fired back, no longer concerned for herself. "He's alone in a cave, unconscious and bleeding! Maybe dying!" The young man again glanced at the box next to him. "Trust me. He 1will be fine," he said, not without compassion. Kera noticed that he had a slight accent that made his words softer. "Please, sit down. I need to know how you got here." Kera did not care one bit how she ended up in the room. All she wanted was to be back with Rien, but realizing that this man seemed to know both her and her companion, she sat down in the chair nearest to her. Just like the first one she sat in, this one was soft, swivelled and moved freely on the floor. "I don't bite," Kera's host smiled and indicated to a chair next to his own. Kera changed seats, but not to the one he pointed to. She sat down one chair away, just in case she would need to move. That seemed to satisfy him and he sat back down, again looking at his box. Kera looked at the desk at which she was now sitting. On it was yet another of those boxes, but the glossy front of it was not lit. A rectangular pad with emphasized squares sat before it. Each of the squares had a different symbol on it. On this desk, like on some of the others, lay a pile papers, scattered around in disarray. Kera picked one sheet up. It was very smooth and thin -- nothing like the parchment she had ever seen. On it were uniform proper letters which did not appear to be written by hand. Kera stealthily picked up a palm sized glossy item on the table to examine it. "You were asleep," the young man said. Kera was not sure if it was a question or a statement or even an order. He still looked into the glow of the box. The door across the room opened and a slender woman with long brown hair walked in. "I got it!" she declared in a joyful voice, holding up sheets of parchment similar to those on the tables. She stopped at the door, looking at Kera. She wore a white blouse neatly tucked into a narrow grey skirt that went down to her knees and a pink belt with a butterfly buckle. The shoes on her feet were elevated so that she stood balanced on her toes. Kera could not believe that someone would ever wear clothing so impractical for everyday activities. "Stay there," the man said to the woman, holding up his arm. "I don't know what's happened." The woman remained standing by the door and the man turned back to his box. He quickly pressed different locations on the rectangular pad before the box and took one more look at Kera, then he turned back and deliberately pressed one of the right hand squares. Darkness so dark that Kera could no longer see at all descended on the room. Her back hurting from where a sharp rock pressed into it forced Kera to leap up from the "steps" she was sleeping on. She looked about the cavern she was in. The fire was almost out and her night vision began supplementing her normal sight. She noticed Rien lying on the ground not far away. However much time passed, he has not moved. Kera sat down next to him, realizing that she held something in her hand. It was the little glossy object she picked up in the brightly lit room that she believed to have been a dream. It was a thin, smooth rectangular bar, made of some material she had never seen before. A slender chain was attached to one side, ending with a silver ring. At the other end was a strange golden symbol that Kera later realized to be overlapping runic letters. A long red line ran almost the full length of the item. It was crossed by many small black lines. Down both sides of the red line were more symbols, all in black. Kera turned the strange item over. On the back side a circle was cut away in the square. In it floated a glowing arrow and in time Kera realized that no matter how it was turned, level with the ground, the arrow always pointed in the same direction. She put it away and took another look at Rien. His condition had 1not improved. Kera lay down next to him and after some tossing and turning, fell asleep again. Kera awoke to Rien trying to turn over. She held him down for a moment, stroking his hair and he relaxed. She again examined the condition of his wounds and was surprised to find that the cut was beginning to heal over and what she originally thought were broken ribs was only a severe bruise. Satisfied with her diagnoses, Kera started making breakfast from the supplies the men she killed had, waiting for Rien to wake up. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Understanding by Bill Erdley As I sit here under this tree and watch my friends die, I think of how nice a day this is. It's a fine day to just sit and watch the hawks circle lazily through the sky, occasionally dodging an errant arrow. The clouds seem oblivious to the carnage happening below them. The grass, on the other hand, gets to see it all; the blood, the horror, the death. The grass doesn't understand ... I was one of the first to fall during the first rush. I was holding my shield a little too high, and I caught an arrow in my right leg just above the knee. As I stopped to remove it, I took another arrow in the side. I fell and crawled out of the way of my comrades, who continued the attack. I had fallen near the tree, so my crawl was not a long one, but it was most painful. The arrow in my leg snapped off when I fell, but the leg is almost numb, so I don't notice. I removed the arrow from my side, but it was high enough to catch a lung. Already I am coughing blood, and the wound continues to ooze through the rags that I hold over it. The rags are soaked. Even the grass beneath the tree knows the taste of blood ... ... but the tree won't understand. This is a fine day for sitting, and for thinking. How many of us know what we are fighting for? How many know who we are fighting against? We fight for no good reason, except that we are told to fight. Those that we fight could as easily be our neighbors as our enemies. Yet we hack and slash and kill those that we have no reason to hate; fighting and killing and dying for the whims of some noble. I watch a man who I had met last night crash to the ground with a cry ... ... but the ground can't understand. The battle is going badly for us, and I watch my friends fall one by one. They are proud men; strong men; brave men who would fight until they could fight no more. But they could be proud at home, with their families, watching a new child take it's first step. They could be strong in the fields growing crops or strong in the shops making horse shoes or plow blades or axe heads. They could be brave facing a storm without shelter, or protecting a neighbor from a wild animal. But they are here; these proud, brave, strong men. They are here to die beneath a sky which has only now begun to weep for them ... ... but even the sky doesn't understand. The ground is cool and the grass feels soft, under the tree beneath the sky. The battle is almost over, and the outcome assured; we have lost. I need no longer watch, for I have seen all that needs to be seen. A warm breeze blows across my face toward the carnage of the battlefield. I can smell the scent of wild flowers in the wind and it makes me smile. I can feel the wetness on my cheeks which must have 1come from tears, but I don't remember crying. I think of my wife, who waits for my return. I think of my children, playing in a field like the one before me used to be. I think of the nobles who demanded that this war be fought. I think of the men whose blood now colors the meadow. Darkness begins to fall in the middle of the day as I think ... ... And I don't understand, either. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Opus Interruptus by Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a. Relaxed at last, Marcellon walked barefoot beside a woman along the shore in Dargon. The sand was warm and the water cool, and the sea air soothed the High Mage's mind, overwrought with conferences with the King, War Councils, nursing the ill and wounded flocking from Pyridain, and all manner of interruptions which dissolved his visions as if they were powdered sugar in a child's drink. Marcellon turned to the woman beside him and smiled. She had started appearing to him about a year ago, when the High Mage had first met Luthias Connall and his twin. Perhaps that explained why she looked as if she could have been related; her coloring was the same, and so was the shape of her eyes. She also bore some resemblance to Lady Sable: they were of a height, and while they were not cut from the same cloth, neither could either outshine the other's own kind of beauty. She soothed Marcellon's heart. She always seemed to know what troubled him, and although the woman seldom spoke of the High Mage's anxieties, she calmed them by her presence, for Marcellon had the most certain feeling that this woman had everything under control. He had never seen her on the shore of Dargon before. Once, he saw her in a meadow, on a moonlit night, with a tall, blond man who reminded Marcellon of Richard. Another time, she sat with a man quite like Clifton. Once, the High Mage envisioned her on an archery field, shooting arrows. Marcellon pictured her many times in a moving, red room, small and uncomfortable. Thus, he called her the Wanderer. "Who will be hurt in the war?" Marcellon asked her suddenly. "The King will be wounded in the last battle," the Wanderer began calmly without looking at him. The High Mage smiled. Of course she would know; the Wanderer always seemed to know things, even things that managed to evade Marcellon's crystal. That question had nagged the magician all day, but interrupted constantly, Marcellon could find no answers. He should have known the Wanderer would tell him. She continued, "Ittosai Michiya, too, will be wounded." The Wanderer halted and looked up at her companion. "Clifton will receive a severe wound soon, and you must do something, or he will die." Clifton? Marcellon's heart froze. His daughter's husband would die? "What should I do?" "That answer will come to you soon enough," the Wanderer entoned calmly. "I do not need to tell you everything." "What of Luthias Connall?" That made the Wanderer smile. "Has he not suffered yet enough?" "That is not an answer," Marcellon chided guardedly. "Do not worry about Luthias. Be concerned instead about Lauren and Clifton. Clifton's wound is certain; his death is not. And if Lauren goes to the battle--" A bang--thunder?--sounded, and Marcellon jolted awake to stare furiously at the door. Cephas Stevene, could he not even *sleep* without interruption? "What?" Marcellon screamed violently, and the knocking stopped. Damn it, hadn't he given the servants strict orders to let him sleep? For God's sake, he'd been up all night at the War Council--so many stupid, mundane things that Haralan and Sir Edward and the various military and noble personel could have handled by themselves, but no, the King wanted Marcellon's wisdom or visions or moral support. God knew, but Marcellon was certain that he instructed his servants that 1he was absolutely not to be disturbed until at least noon. *They* had been doing it to him all week--they, the indescribable, ever-present *they*--the King, Sir Edward, the sick ones, the desperate, the dying, everyone and anyone--and never was it worse than it was now. *They* had stolen the Wanderer's warning from him. His only daughter was in danger if she went to the battle...or maybe Clifton could only be saved if she went to the battle. Marcellon didn't know, thanks to *them.* "Well," Marcellon seethed, rolling out of the couch and seizing the door handle, "which one of *you* is it this time?" He threw open the door and was surprised to see Luthias Connall there. The High Mage relented a little. Luthias had been at the previous evening's War Council--and had distinguished himself with his knowledge of strategy and tactics--and if Luthias was willing to disturb Marcellon this early in the morning after being up all night at War Council, there was a good reason. Marcellon looked the young man over. Luthias Connall was a tall, handsome, strong man with the gait and bearing of a warrior- -usually. Today, he held his shoulders straight with great effort, but Marcellon felt defeat oozing from young Sir Luthias, as if he fighting a battle he knew he could not win. The Count was tired, haggard, haunted, anxious--just as he had been during Duke Dargon's trial months ago. Hell, Marcellon thought, staring, he hadn't even been this bad after Mon-Taerleor and his cohorts in Beinison had finished with him. "Sit before you collapse," Marcellon ordered with the brisk authority of a healer. "What is it, Luthias, son?" "I need a sleeping potion," the Knight stated with his usual directness. Marcellon practically shrieked, "You fool! And you woke me for that? Stole the chance to save my daughter and her husband for that?" The High Mage subdued his frustration, however. If Luthias had come to him, something truly needed fixing beyond the power of a sleeping potion. "Why not have you wife make you one?" The Count of Connall scowled through his beard. "Oh, she'll make one for me, all right, but not for her." His eyes pleading, Luthias faced the magician. "If she doesn't get some sleep, it'll kill us both." Marcellon sat on the edge of his barely rumpled bed. "What's wrong that she's not sleeping? Is it the babes? I thought you had a wet nurse." "We do. It's not the girls, Marcellon. It's me." Marcellon fought to hide a smile. "Most men would enjoy a woman who couldn't get enough, manling." Worried as he was, young Luthias still--still!--rose for the teasing. "You--!" he began, but he finished with a pillow tossed expertly at Marcellon's head. The High Mage murmered a word, and the feather missle dropped inches from his face. Luthias was sputtering. "You--you know better--I mean Sable isn't--I mean she is--damn you, magician." The last was uttered in half-hearty exasperation, so Marcellon didn't take it seriously. Oh, young Luthias Connall had reason enough to hate users of magic after what the Beinisonian butchers had done to him, but the Knight reserved no ire or prejudice for Marcellon or his daughter Lauren. These two he trusted. "And don't call me manling," Luthias finished. Marcellon chuckled at the displeasure in the Count's brown eyes. The High Mage held no fear of Luthias in his heart, just as the Count harbored no awe of him. "Come, Luthias," Marcellon encouraged gently, "what's wrong with Myrande that she isn't sleeping?" The Knight's expression questioned the mage's tone. "You're not 1angry with me any more?" Marcellon waved the question away with his hand, much as he had dismissed the pillow. He could search the crystal later for a warning for Lauren and salvation for Clifton. "I know as well as you that your Lady Sable won't take a sleeping potion without being tricked. What is it, Luthias, son?" "She's worried about me," the Count explained. "She's afraid I'll die in the war." Marcellon considered this. "That isn't an unreasonable fear. How soon do you ride out with the cavalry, General?" "The King promised me I wouldn't ride until after the Melrin Ball. I can't believe he's still celebrating at a time like this." Marcellon understood it, however. The celebrations gave the message that all was normal, all would be right again. Without those assurances, the populace would fall apart. "He has his reasons, but I'm certain he won't make you attend." "Oh, I'm going," Luthias countered, half-laughing. Marcellon frowned mightily. Damn Haralan! One of these days he was going to push Luthias Connall too far. First, Clifton's trial, then Beinison, now, Haralan was going to force Luthias to attend the same ball at which his brother had been murdered a year ago. Luthias laughed outright. "Of my own accord, Marcellon, believe it or not. I promised Sable when I left for Beinison that I'd be back to dance with her at the Melrin Ball. I keep my promises. Besides," the Count concluded, his eyes merry, "if I stayed home, Roisart would taunt me from his tomb, 'Just another excuse not to go dancing, eh, twin?'" Well, something was getting better, the High Mage noted with satisfaction. Marcellon had never heard Luthias joke about his dead brother. "Anyway, you'd better give me the potion. Between her nightmares and mine, no one in the house is getting any sleep." "Your nightmares?" Marcellon sometimes dreamed them too, houses or miles away; those dreams of torture, longing, flight, cold, fear, and murder were incredibly powerful. Marcellon never dared ask if they were real. He didn't want to know. "The same ones?" "Mostly." "What are the new ones?" Luthias considered. "I'm tied to a horse. The ocean's in front of me, filled with a thousand ships--ours and theirs. There's a battle--I move with it, but I can't get to the ships. I can see Clifton's ship. It's hit by something, and I see Clifton fall, and the sea turns to blood." "Blood," Marcellon whispered. Clifton would be wounded and bleed to death. Oh, granted Luthias Connall was no mage, and his talent for magic was recessive, but the Knight's dreams occasionally took a prophetic turn. Roisart had been more powerful; if only he had lived, Marcellon groaned to himself. He could have used the help. Then he saw in his mind a young man of medium height with jet- black hair and hazel eyes. His face was Luthias', but the expression it wore was closer to Roisart's face. *Roisart-Talador,* Marcellon thought, and Luthias was before him once more. The High Mage blinked the image away. "Marcellon?" "Clifton is going to be wounded and bleed to death," the wizard explained, rising, for there was no time to lose. He glanced out his window and raised both eyebrows. It was past noon, at least two hours. He might be able to do it today, on an off chance, if he had help. "If I can make him a ring--" Luthias shook his head. "What good is a ring going to do him?" 1 "I can enchant it so that he will never loose enough blood to die." At the Count's look of disbelief, the magician laughed. "I am not High Mage because I lack power. Still," Marcellon mused, "I cannot do it alone. Send your wife to me. Part of the process includes making potions, and she has experience in that area." "What about the sleeping potion?" Marcellon's mind raced. "We have only until sunset to complete this," he told the Knight. "The process must all be completed between dawn and sunset." "Why not wait till tomorrow? You'll have more time." Tomorrow? But who knew when the battle would be? That was one thing that frequently enfuriated the mage. He often knew what would happen, but seldom knew when. Besides, a feeling of urgency was pushing him. "I must do it today. I need your wife, Luthias." "What about the sleeping potion?" Luthias asked again. "I'll give something to her before I bring her home," the mage promised, distracted. "I must make that ring. I cannot allow my daughter's husband to die!" He moved to his cabinet and pulled a lever. A concealed door opened; Marcellon did not make access to his laboratory easy. From the cabinet he took a few of the move mundane of his needs: oil, sulphur, and acacia. "I wonder," Luthias said behind him, startling the mage out of his preparations, "if having a sword like that would be unKnightly." Marcellon turned slowly. "I don't think so," the mage answered, uncertain why Luthias had asked. "I learned this spell from watching the Old Enchanter in my crystal. He enchanted a King's scabbard with this spell, and the King was a Knight and a great leader of Knights. Why?" Marcellon finally confronted him, remembering the Wanderer's words. "Do you want your sword enchanted? You don't need it. I don't need to worry about you, Luthias." "Oh, I'm willing to put my faith in my training," Luthias confessed, a little of his normal confidence seeping into his smile. "But if I had a sword that would keep me from bleeding to death--or better yet the sword hilt, for any blade can break--I bet Sable would feel much better." Marcellon smiled as he realized the logic behind the suggestion. "Send your wife, my friend," he invited. "Have her bring the sword you will use in battle." The Countess of Connall entered, and Marcellon ached to see her. She was a beauty, normally, but the worry had worn her out. Quelling sudden fury that both Luthias and Myrande were being forced into old age without having reached their twenty-second year, the High Mage smiled. "Welcome. Come in." Uncertainly, Myrande stepped forward and offered a swathed burden. "Luthias said we would need this, but I have no idea for what. What's this all about, Marcellon?" Marcellon unwrapped the shroud and smiled at the sword within it. "Luthias intends to use this sword in battle?" The Countess grinned. "Why not? It has excellent balance, and Carrerra steel is the best in the world. Beinison does know how to make its swords." The High Mage raised his eyebrow. "And when did you become a weapons' expert, Lady Sable?" In response, the Countess gave him an arch look. King Haralan had been right when he said that Myrande would have made an excellent Queen. "Being a Knight's daughter--and another Knight's wife--I've manage to glean a few facts." She paused and relaxed her imperial expression. "Even if this weren't the best sword that Luthias owns, he 1would still use it. It isn't every man who wins the respect and tribute of an enemy, let alone a Knight of the Star." "It was quite a battle," Marcellon agreed. "Luthias fought excellently." "I figured Sir Edward knighted him for a reason." Marcellon rolled his eyes in mock-agony. "You're developing my own sense of humor. Come," he commanded, offering her hand. "We have much work to do." A knock on the door halted the mage mid-step. "Good God, who is it this time?" Marcellon forced between clenched teeth. Myrande, trained from birth as seneschal and hostess, turned back and opened the door. King Haralan stood behind it, attempting to blink away his bewilderment. "Your majesty," Marcellon greeted him icily, but he supposed he must speak to the man. Haralan was, after all, the King. "Good day, Countess," the King spoke finally, taking Myrande's hand to his cheek. He looked over her head at the High Mage, who gave him a cold, furious stare. "Your sevants did tell me not to interrupt you, Marcellon, but there is something I must know. Can we not speak privately?" Without taking his glare off the King's eyes, Marcellon said, "Lady Sable, will you go into my garden and pick seven large valley lilies? We will need them." "As you wish," she answered, ducking out the room's sudden chill. "With all due respect, your majesty, speak quickly," Marcellon ordered, turning away. "I have much work to do. There are reasons I asked to not be interrupted." "I am sorry," Haralan apologized mildly, and Marcellon felt himself relenting. Still, he was furious. He was sick of the interruptions. "I only need one question answered, and I will leave. I quite understand the need to work uninterrupted." Suddenly Marcellon saw a collage of images of Haralan, trying to see his sons or catch a nap, trying to write proclamations or pray for guidance. He was interrupted each time. He hadn't seen his two young sons in a week. He hadn't slept for as long. The High Mage sighed heavily. Kings' burdens were heavy, too. "What is it, your majesty?" "Is my brother still alive and well?" Marcellon looked up quickly and saw the pain in the King's eyes. "Of course. If anything had happened to him, I would have told you." Haralan's blue eyes calmed like the sea after a storm. The High Mage smiled at the King's relief. "The worst he's suffered since he left us is a few broken bones." Haralan managed a weak smile. "That puts him ahead of you and I, my friend. Thank you." As he turned to go, Marcellon said softly, "He misses you, too, Haralan." The King turned sorrowfully, nodded once, then asked, "When is the last time you saw him?" The High Mage smiled. "A few days ago." Marcellon called up the memory, then searched for the vision. Ah, there was the younger prince, in his usual place, with his two friends. "You see him now?" Marcellon nodded. "He is well and quite merry. He is singing." "That's like him," the King acknowledged. He turned to go, then paused. "If a King may ask..." The mage rolled his eyes. "What now, your majesty?" "What is of such importance that you instruct your servants to deter even the King?" Marcellon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Haralan's occasionally pompous attitude always annoyed him. Still, the High Mage answered, "Preserving the life of your fleet admiral." 1 "Is he in danger?" Haralan's eyes were wide and worried. Maracellon could feel the cold terror that gripped the King's heart. Good and skilled--not to mention loyal--officers were difficult to come by these days. "Be easy, sire," Marcellon assured him softly, coming close enough to touch the King's shoulder. "I believe the Duke of Dargon to be in great danger, yes, but as long as I can have an uninterrupted day's work, I may be able to prevent his death." And Lauren's too, Marcellon added. What about that battle? "Be assured I will do my part to get you that uninterrupted day," the King promised, reassured. "Work well, Marcellon, and thank you." Myrande opened the door the instant the King touched the opposite one, but she didn't enter until Haralan had left. "Don't worry. I didn't hear anything but the last bit. I don't know, and I don't want to." Marcellon smiled tiredly and took the lilies from her hand. "War isn't my talent." "No, but making potions is," Marcellon agreed, examining the lilies closely. Yes, they would do well. "That is why I asked you here." "What potions? What are we doing?" Marcellon led her into his laboratory, put the valley lilies on the table, and began pulling ingredients from shelves. "We are enchanting a ring for Clifton and your husband's sword hilt so that they will never lose enough blood to die as long as they wear them- -or wield or touch them." Without turning, Marcellon could feel the Countess' relief like a long-pined-for breeze. She took a step closer to the table and started scanning the bottles and boxes which Marcellon had selected. "Hematite, coral, beth root, acacia, garlic, thyme, fox tail, amaranth...We're making a clotting salve and an anti- hemoragging potion?" "Triple batches, and that is only the first, longest, and most tedious step," Marcellon instructed her, fetching the mortar and pestle and two glass cauldrons. "After that is done, I must magick them so that they will be permanent. I must cast other spells to make them both work together and yet others to have their effects work by touch and not absorption or digestion." Myrande started shredding the valley lilies. Marcellon was glad he did not have to lesson her on how to make the potions he sought. "How do we get the sword and the ring to do these things, Marcellon?" "That is the most difficult part," Marcellon sighed, grinding hematite in the mortar. "The final spell, and the one that is the most exhausting and exacting--and therefore the one that I'll most likely have to cast many times to make it work--transfers the powers of the potions to the sword and the ring." In another mortar, Marcellon began crushing red coral. "And we have only until dusk." "If we can't make it work today, we'll try again tomorrow," Myrande promised, sprinkling the valley lily strings into a glass cauldron and adding the oil. "I'd rather finish today," Marcellon grumbled. "I do not know when Clifton will be wounded, but I know that if he doesn't have this ring, he will die." Myrande shuddered and reached for the cloves. "In that case," she agreed, grinding them in the mortar, slowly, "we had better get to work." Marcellon raised his hands over the clotting salve and began to chant softly. The words were old, soothing, like a long- known prayer. The mage felt heat in his fingers and knew that his hands had started to glow. Between two fingers, he crushed a diamond. 1 There was a flash, and Marcellon opened his eyes. "Done." Myrande looked from the High Mage to the caudron of salve, then back. "How do you do that? Can you teach me? If I could make potions that would never spoil--" Marcellon chuckled gently at her eagerness. "You may indeed have a talent for it, Lady Sable. According to Rish Vogel, we have a common ancestor ten or twelve generations back. However, we don't have the time now for it. Perhaps after the war." Myrande studied both cauldrons carefully. "How do you know that the spells worked?" Marcellon blinked at the question. He had never thought about it before. "I...just know. I can feel it." The mage wished he had time to show her how to feel such things, but Marcellon felt rushed still. "Come, we have much to do. Move the hemoraging potion toward me." Showing greater strength than her size suggested, Myrande lifted the glass pot--with effort, the mage noted--and, grimacing, she set it beside him. The High Mage stretched his hand over the salve and then over the potion. "Bring me a piece of coral and another of hematite, each as big as your thumbnail. When I hold my hands open, put one in each." The Countess of Connall scurried toward the counter. Beginning in a whisper and increasing toward a shout, Marcellon chanted again, the ancient words in the ancient tongue, praying for both mixtures to work together. He turned his hands over and felt Myrande place the stones on his palms. The wizard held them out, offered them to God on High, raised his voice-- And gasped as if struck. Marcellon dropped to his knees and covered his ears at the force of the fear. There was fury, too, from another source, just as criplling. The power left him, and he could feel Myrande's arms around him. "What is it? Are you well?" The High Mage took deep breaths. "Something is very wrong," he gasped. "Call for dinner. We may as well eat now. Sir Edward is coming." Although Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Royal Baranurian Armies, hid his emotions almost professionally, Marcellon could sense the fright--he might have named it panic had it been in any other man--clanging like tuneless bell. "What happened?" Marcellon demanded as he motioned Sir Edward to a chair. The Knight Commander sat heavily after greeting the Countess formally but tiredly. "Your excellency--" he adressed her. Marcellon dismissed his fear of her overhearing with a jerk of the hand. "You know as well as I that Lady Myrande can be trusted," he snapped. "What is it? Say it, Edward." The Galician Knight took a deep breath. "The King has gone mad--or Sir Luthias has. I'm not sure." Cold, steel bands snapped around Marcellon's heart like a trap. That was all they needed! "What happened?" the High Mage demanded again. If Edward didn't spit it out, and quickly, Marcellon decided to read his mind. This avoiding the question-- "The King," Sir Edward revealed finally, but slowly, "said something to me about..." The Knight Commander paused to search for words. "About bringing back his brother to be Captain General of the Archers." Marcellon's jaw dropped. He stood and clapped his hand to his forehead. He should have known when Haralan had asked, he berated himself silently. "Steward!" the High Mage bellowed. The cowed servant stuck his head timidly through the door. "Summon the King and the Count of Connall to my presence *immediately!*" As the servant whisked himself from the house, the magician 1turned to his friend. "Don't worry, Edward. The King isn't mad. What exactly did he say?" Sir Edward frowned mightily. "I don't remember exactly, but I thought it sounded like a wish, especially as both King Haralan's brothers are dead." Marcellon nodded grimly. "As is well known," he concurred, but the falsehood tickled his heart unpleasantly. His hasty, mental accusation of Haralan also bothered the High Mage; he knew Haralan better than to think the King foolish enough to try to bring his brother home. Next to the Knight Commander, the Countess of Connall frowned. The High Mage raised an eyebrow. "What is it, Myrande?" She sighed. "I can't believe he--the young prince--is dead." "Believe it," Marcellon confirmed with a nod, though he smiled internally at Myrande's calling a man more than ten years her senior "the young prince." Where the hell was Haralan? "Who did he tell this, Edward? It is imperative." Sir Edward took a moment to remember. "Myself, Sir Luthias, Ittosai Michiya and Ito, Sarah Verde, and Coury." Marcellon breathed his relief. Those few could be trusted to keep quiet. "Good. Luthias will need no such instruction, but the others must be made to hold their tongues. And as soon as he and the King arrive, I hope there will be no need for him to speak of it any more at all." "I have already spoken to Captain Verde and to Coury. Answer me this, old man: if Haralan's brother is dead, why is Sir Luthias upset?" "I'd like an answer to that myself," Marcellon interrupted, glaring at the unopened door. Where was Luthias? Where was the King? "Luthias doesn't think Prince Richard is dead," Myrande supplied easily. She stared out the window at the near-setting sun. After a moment, she turned back to the High Mage and the Knight Commander. "When my father came to Uncle Fionn with the news that Prince Richard had been declared dead, we were all appalled. Luthias finally asked my father how he had died. Then Uncle Fionn laughed and told us that Prince Richard probably was still alive, and that he was only declared dead so that King Haralan could take the throne." Marcellon fought cringing. That was too near the truth. Well, leave it to Fionn Connall not to miss a trick. And damn Myrande for her excellent memory. She couldn't have been more than eight or nine at the time of Richard's "death." "I see," the Knight Commander said slowly. Then his eyes widened, and this time Marcellon saw the fear plainly. "Nehru's blood, no wonder Luthias exploded! If Haralan could bring his brother back--" The High Mage raised his hand, and Sir Edward ceased. "I'm sure Sir Luthias merely misunderstood him." "What did my husband do to the King?" Myrande asked quietly, her voice testy. Marcellon smiled at her willingness to defend Luthias even if he had done treason. Marcellon's own wife had been like that. Sir Edward patted her hand. "Nothing of great insult or injury, my lady. He merely roared, 'Why don't you just *give* the country to Beinison?' and marched off with his castellan." Marcellon pictured the entire situation without benefit of his powers: Haralan's announcement, Luthias' explosion and departure, Edward's cautioning the ladies to keep this quiet, and his quick journey to the High Mage's house. "Well, that's like our Sir Luthias." "And he's right," Sir Edward concluded. "Or he would be, if Prince Richard were still alive. As I understand the inheritance laws of this country, the chosen child becomes heir. If Haralan's brother were alive, then Haralan's right to rule would be uncertain." 1 "True," Marcellon agreed. "But we needn't worry." The High Mage took a deep breath. "I may never get that ring done," he muttered. He faced the Knight Commander again. "I'll clear the matter, Edward. Don't worry, but keep quiet." "Thank you," a relieved Sir Edward exhaled as he rose with dignity. "Good afternoon." He moved toward the door, then turned. "Lady Countess, you have an excellent memory." The Knight Commander's scar danced as he smiled. "Do you perhaps remember when we first met?" The Countess of Connall gave him a smug grin. "It was the Melrin six years ago. You had come to judge the tournament and to visit my father." Sir Edward bowed, and Marcellon saw the Knight Commander's pleasure in his face. "I don't recall who won that tournament." "My father did," Myrande reminded him, tilting her chin proudly. "He was a good Knight," Sir Edward declared. There was no higher praise from the Knight Commander, as Marcellon knew well. Edward's smile wrinkled near his eyes. "I do remember, however, that that particular tourney was Luthias' first. I turned to Sir Lucan--" Myrande warmed at the mention of her father. "--and said, 'I do not want to meet your squire when he reaches twenty-one.' It is still not a pleasant thought." Sir Edward paused and squinted. "As I recall, Luthias took third place in that tournament." "That's because there were no bloody Bichanese!" Myrande rose as if she had been shot from a bow. Luthias, obviously in pain, stumbled through the door, supported on one side by his chief aide, Ittosai Michiya, and on the other by Michya's older brother, Ito. All three wore armor, but Luthias' breastplate hung in three pieces. Derrio, nervous and anxious, followed behind. Myrande rushed to help. "Lay him down," she instructed quickly. "No, on the floor," she corrected as Michiya and Ito moved toward the couch. "Your excellency, do you think you should attend him?" Sir Edward protested, horrified. The Countess laughed. "This isn't the first time I've put him back together." Marcellon entered the fray. "What have you done to yourself this time, manling?" He clucked mildly when the Count gave him an acidic stare. Luthias would not still be in a temper if he were seriously hurt. "Broken rib, I think," the young Count groaned as the Bichanese gently rested him on the floor. Myrande dropped to the floor at his side. "I was sparring with Ito." "And I thought you were saving yourself for Beinison," Marcellon quipped, moving to the Count's left and kneeling on the floor beside him. He reached out his hand and probed Luthias' chest gently. "They've had their chance already," Myrande snapped, looking coldly at the wizard. "My armor exploded," Luthias told them, glancing from his wife on one side to Marcellon on the other. "And Ito hit me again. It's on Sable's side, Marcellon." "I did not see it until after I struck the blow," Ito apologized, his Baranurian still somewhat halting. "It's no wonder," Luthias agreed, groaning as his wife found the injured bone. "Stevene, you Bichanese move like lightning." Myrande snatched a knife from her belt and sliced Luthias' undershirt open. Ugly purple-brown bruises decorated the Knight's strong chest. The High Mage quickly whispered a spell, and Luthias' armor fell off. Marcellon tossed the plates to the Knight Commander, who shook his head grimly as he inspected it. "I'm glad you're on our side, sir," Edward told Ito quite 1sincerely. The Knight Commander touched the crushed plate in wonder. "I would not like to be your enemy." The samurai bowed, and Sir Edward looked at his officer. "I doubt it can be repaired, Sir Luthias." "That's all right. It was pretty old." The Count tried to take a deep breath but found he couldn't. "Stevene, what I wouldn't give for Bichanese armor. You can move like the wind in that stuff." "And it does not...explode, as you say," Ito added. "So you will have your birthday present early," Michiya dropped casually. "It will be ready in two days' time, anyway." Despite the pain, Luthias grinned at the prospect of new armor. Marcellon chuckled at the boyish expression then laid his hand on the broken ribs and whispered a spell. Luthias sat up almost immediately. "I like you, Marcellon. Last time a broke a rib, I couldn't fight for two months." "You broke more than one this time," Marcellon informed him, "but I certainly couldn't keep you off the battlefield for two months in times like these." The Royal Physician and High Mage ignored the Countess' glare and continued his prescription. "Two days, Luthias. No fighting." The young Count nodded, and his lady wife helped him to his feet. "You may, however, be fitted for your birthday gift and dance at the Melrin Ball." Luthias grinned and turned to Ito. "Rematch, next week." The Bichanese turned to his brother, who translated the first word. Ito bowed. "Very well." "What were you doing fighting with the Bichanese, anyway?" Myrande wondered as her husband put an arm around her. Marcellon smiled at them, wistfully remembering such times with his wife. He quickly supressed the ache. "I have a lot to learn from them, Sable," Luthias explained easily. "Besides, I needed some way to work that frustration off." The young Count scowled. "God, King Haralan's crazy. How can he even think of bringing Prince Richard back?" "Luthias, wouldn't you bring back Roisart if you could?" Marcellon asked gently, and the Count looked away, his expression amguished. Marcellon hated to bring up a painful subject--it had been a year, less a day, that Roisart had been murdered--but he knew no better way to make the young Knight understand his King. "That's all the King meant." "Why is it that you do not want this Prince to return?" Ittosai Michiya, confused, asked Luthias. "Is he an evil man?" "No, he's great," Luthias told him, grinning. Marcellon had a quick vision of young Richard playing with Luthias and Roisart, and smiled too. "He used to teach me strategy by playing toy soldiers with me." Funny, that's how I taught Richard, Marcellon remembered. "He used to climb trees with us and everything. But," the Count darkly concluded, "he was supposed to be King." "He didn't want to be King any more than you wanted to be Baron," Marcellon admonished Luthias sternly. "Yet King Arneth chose him as heir over King Haralan," Luthias reminded the Mage. "Why?" Ittosai Michiya asked. "Is not Haralan a good King?" "Certainly, and a better one than Richard would have been, but Richard was his father's favorite," Marcellon said, pacing. Where *was* Haralan? God, if he didn't get here and allow Marcellon to dismiss these people, he'd never get that ring done! "You are saying that there would be problems if this prince returns?" Ito said, his face stern with concentration. "There will be no problems. The Prince is dead," Sir Edward stated. "You wished to see me, Marcellon?" the King asked mildly as he 1walked blythely into the nest of the Wasp King. The High Mage took a step forward, but Luthias, holding Myrande with one arm, beat him. "I'm glad to see you, Sir Luthias. I wished to speak with you." "I bet," Luthias spat angrily. Sir Edward sent his Knight a stern look, which Marcellon knew the Count ignored deliberately. "How soon are you starting the civil war, your majesty?" The King looked from his Cavalry General to the High Mage. "Is he well?" "I believe Sir Luthias has misunderstood a remark your majesty made about bringing back your brother Richard," Marcellon told him slowly, his blue-green eyes steadily holding the King's. Suddenly white-lipped, King Haralan inspected Sir Luthias' furious face. "I merely wished I could bring him back. I would think you would understand me, Sir Luthias, as you have lost a brother, too." Luthias' anger evaporated into shock and confusion. "You mean he's really dead?" he gasped. Haralan glanced at Marcellon, who returned the gaze steadily and nodded. Shifting his eyes back to Sir Luthias, the King laughed hollowly, and Marcellon saw the King's jaw shake. "Marcellon swore it. Are you calling him a liar?" "No, of course not," Luthias reassured him quickly. "But sire, I thought--" "Yes," Marcellon interrupted, then he caught the King's eye. "Baron Fionn Connall thought perhaps our declaring Richard dead was a political ploy to put you on the throne." Haralan groaned and put his head in his hands. Marcellon felt his despair--and the fear, too. If Fionn Connall had seen, how many others had? "Luthias, I can no more bring my brother back than you can bring back yours!" the King cried. He seized his tall Knight's shoulders. "Can't you believe that?" Luthias lowered his eyes. Marcellon sensed the young man's shame. "Forgive me, your majesty." "Sir Luthias," Haralan said slowly, breathing deeply, "if somehow I could bring my brother back and I was planning on doing it, I hope you would explode and prevent me. I realize what would happen if..." The King looked toward Marcellon. "We all know what would happen." "I certainly hope that you would not be so rude about it," Sir Edward scolded his Knight harshly. "Courtesy is the virtue of a Knight, Sir Luthias." "And advising the King is the duty of a Knight," King Haralan added softly. "Don't be so hard on him, Sir Edward. I understand the anger he feels." The King watched Sir Luthias sorrowfully. "I, too, have lost much of my family and would not sit still for someone increasing the danger. Besides, Sir Luthias has realized his mistake and apologized, and I accept that." With effort, the King smiled. "Come, Edward, and you, too, Sir Luthias. We have much to do." Haralan scanned the room. "And no one is to speak of this." "Understood, your majesty," Ittosai Michiya said, then he quickly translated for his brother, who nodded. Derrio covered his mouth. "I'll see you later, Sable." Luthias kissed his wife on the mouth. "How are the sword and ring coming?" the younger Knight asked. "The ring!" Marcellon breathed. "Shoo!" he commanded, waving his hands nervously at the King, the Knight Commander, the Count of Connall, his squire, and the two, dignified samurais. "I have much to do. And Haralan, issue a proclamation if you have to, but I can't deal with any more interruptions, unless you want you Fleet Admiral dead!" The King smiled and turned toward the door. "Good day, Countess." Haralan motioned to her husband. "Attend me, General." "As you wish, your majesty," Luthias agreed soberly. 1 Marcellon heard them no more, and he didn't notice when his assistant fairly shoved the Knight Commander out of the room and slammed and bolted to door. There wasn't time to waste. The sun would be setting in an hour. Such an hour. Marcellon had to cast the spell binding the two mixtures thrice before it took. Then he boiled the mixed potion and salve over a heavy fire, too hot for this day, but necessary. Plunging his hands into the scalding compound, the High Mage cried the spell in a loud, pained voice. The enchantment sealed over the mixture immediately, God be praised, for Marcellon couldn't cast that spell more than once a day. The damage to his hands couldn't heal more quickly. The High Mage cast a quick look out the window. A half hour to sunset, perhaps, and the most difficult spell left to do. Myrande stood patiently, awaiting his orders like a dutiful seneschal. "Bring the burning yellow sand and oil," Marcellon requested as gently as he could. He hands burned, and he whispered a spell to speed the healing. Myrande retrieved the two substances from a nearby worktable. Marcellon nodded toward the combined potions. When the Countess placed the two beakers near the cauldron, Marcellon reached out and dipped a hand in each. Almost absently, he sprinkled the sulphur and the oil over the potion. "How does it work?" Myrande asked, watching with avid, unconcealed curiousity. The High Mage chuckled despite his scalded hands. "It would take years of training for you to be able to understand, Lady Sable." Myrande considered his words, then inquired, "How do we make it work, then?" "Lay Luthias' sword and the silver ring on the table," Marcellon commanded. While she did so, he explained, "When the mixture cools, we will dip the sword hilt and the ring in it, then set them afire. When I say the spell, the fire and the potions will be absorbed, and we will be done." Marcellon grimaced at the difficulty of this seemingly simple process and added, "If it takes." "Why wouldn't it?" "It's a very difficult spell, Lady Myrande," the wizard tried to enlighten her. "Spells are...fixed, and if one syllable is off, one bit of rhythm a fraction late, the spell won't work. Like..." Marcellon's mind searched for something she could easily understand. "Like leaving a potion to boil overlong, or underlong." Myrande nodded thoughtfully and looked out the window. "Not much time," she commented. Turning back to Marcellon, the Countess wondered, "If necessary, could we finish tomorrow?" "We'll have to begin at the beginning again," Marcellon told her, finishing the delicate mixing. "Give me the ring and the sword." Myrande handed both objects to him and watched the High Mage with blatant curiosity. Carefully, for his hands still burned most wretchedly, Marcellon dipped the silver ring and the sword hilt into the mixture of the clotting salve, the hemoragging potion, the sulphur, and the oil. After one last glance to make certain that the objects were well covered, Marcellon uttered a single word. Both ring and hilt erupted in flames. "So far, we do well," sighed the mage. He raised his arms and closed his eyes. When he began murmering, Marcellon felt his body shiver, as it should. He felt power flow down his arms, and the hot, white light burned his hands. Marcellon felt the great release when the light left his fingers like harnessed lightning and struck the ring and the sword. Marcellon opened his eyes and watched them burn. If all went well, the fire at any moment would be sucked into the silver. 1 The ring and sword hilt burned. "Damn," Marcellon whispered. He scrutinized the worktable. "I said the spell rightly..." When his eyes fell on the cauldron, the High Mage reached out and touched the side. Too warm. He hadn't let the mixture cool enough. Then Marcellon laughed at himself. In his anxiety, he hadn't let the mixture cool at all. The magician turned to his assistant and smiled ruefully. "I suppose patience is not one of my virtues today," he sighed. Marcellon marched toward the window and yanked the curtain back. Twenty minutes, perhaps, until the sun set for the day. "How much does it need cool?" Lady Myrande wondered, placing her hand cautiously on the side of the cauldron. "We haven't much time." "We'll wait a few minutes, then try again," the High Mage decided as he wearily fell into a chair. "I have no wish to repeat this on the morrow, Lady Sable. Although," Marcellon continued, his eyes dancing, "I doubt we could have more...ah...interesting problems than we had today." Myrande chuckled. "Don't tempt fate." She handed him a goblet of wine. "What if we don't get it done?" "We'll do it again tomorrow," Marcellon promised her. She sounded so worried, as if Luthias would be killed before her eyes if he didn't have the sword by this evening. The High Mage could hardly blame her. Roisart had been murdered in a peaceful ballroom, a year from tomorrow. Still, Marcellon didn't want to wait until tomorrow any more than the Countess did. Clifton's life was in danger; he, too, could die at any time. And Lauren-- The High Mage grimaced as he thought of his daughter. Marcellon, now that he knew of its existence, felt the danger surrounding Lauren like a stench-filled fog. Lauren, if she goes to battle...what if she goes to battle? "I'm glad to know Prince Richard is still alive," Myrande began calmly. Marcellon started out of his thoughts and stared at the Countess, who was gazing at the setting sun. After a moment's consideration, the High Mage answered, "After all that, you think him still alive?" The Countess turned slowly and smiled regally. "Why not? He is. He must be." Marcellon stared at her sharply and quickly reached for Myrande's thoughts. 'If Prince Richard were dead, you would have said so,' Marcellon caught. "I did say so," Marcellon protested, although he knew she was right. "Sir *Edward* said so," Myrande corrected him smoothly, "but you didn't, and neither did the King. Besides, there's no other explanation for your anger and the King's fear." She read people too well, that one, Marcellon concluded. The winter in court had taught her much; Myrande had learned how to read eyes and faces and tones when words could not be trusted--too often the case at court. Still, the High Mage realized acknowledging her assessment was too dangerous. "Myrande," the High Mage sighed heavily, for he hated to lie, "Prince Richard is dead. He has been dead nearly fourteen years. I swore it on the Word of God. Would I be forsworn?" She doubted then; Marcellon felt it. Myrande knew well that Marcellon never lied--almost never, the Mage reminded himself. But she only doubted--and only for a moment. Myrande still believed Richard lived. By not pronouncing him dead at the very first, the High Mage realized that he had convinced stubborn Sable that Richard still lived. Oh, Myrande would say nothing more--in her 1thoughts, Marcellon gleaned the Myrande's realization of the futility of fighting the High Mage--but still she believed. Damn her, she was as stubborn as Lauren when Lauren magically knew something. Lauren--What would happen to Lauren? The mage sprung from the chair impatiently. As soon as this was done, he would search his crystal, day and night if necessary, and send a warning to his daughter when he sent her husband the ring. But the ring must be finished. As for Lady Sable, let her believe what she wishes, so long as she remains silent. There was no time to worry about it now. Marcellon knew without looking that barely a quarter hour of sunlight remained. "Come," Marcellon half-invited, half-ordered his assistant, "Bring the ring and the sword to me, Myrande." Marcellon took them from her and dipped them carefully. He immersed the objects in the carefully concocted mixture a second time to be sure of their coating. Once again, he placed them on the worktable and set them on fire with a word. Marcellon lifted his hands in spell and prayer and closed his eyes. Marcellon's body quaked gently as the power of the earth and the air flowed through his body and gathered at his hands into hot, white lighting, pure and powerful. The power began to elongate, lightning waiting to strike-- Lightning in a dark forest, covered with clouds--great wind and fire--blood on the ground--Lauren stood within in, calling out words of horror and magic. And the lightning coursed through Lauren, fell on her from a stormy sky and fled from her in many directions to sear as many trees. Lauren screamed with the pain of a banshee, but she didn't release or banish the lightning as Marcellon had taught her. Seven trees were sinking into the earth that spawned them, and more were burning. The lightning grew brighter, and Lauren glowed with its power. One more levin-strike, and it split a great oak in half. Lauren screamed--Marcellon heard himself scream her name--and his daughter collapsed on a high cliff amidst the cries of children. "Is Lauren all right?" Lady Myrande was asking anxiously. Marcellon sensed her arms around him, but the Countess seemed so far away. The High Mage tried to open his eyes, but the room swung dizzily. "Marcellon? Are you all right?" "Lauren," the High Mage murmered, clutching his head miserably. "Oh, my baby." "Marcellon, the spell," Myrande reminded him. The mage was beginning to feel cold stone beneath him. "It didn't work." "Lauren," Marcellon groaned. She had to stay out of the battles. He had to warn her. Without opening his eyes to the swaying room, the High Mage climbed to a standing position. "Lauren," he croaked. "I have to warn Lauren." "Marcellon, the spell!" Myrande insisted. "There's no time!" "I can't let her die," Marcellon mumbled, stumbling blindly in no coherent direction. The mage suddenly felt someone supporting him. "Myrande, my daughter....the lightning..." "We'll warn her," she promised. "I tell you, we'll warn her. But Clifton and Luthias--Marcellon, cast the spell!" That's right--Clifton and Luthias--but Lauren--and Marcellon feared to call the lightning again, lest it kill his daughter. Lauren! Lauren! "The sun is setting!" he heard Lady Sable scream. "Marcellon! The spell! Clifton will die! You told me Clifton will die!" Clifton--yes--Clifton, too, must be saved, for Lauren, for the King. But the lightning-- No, Marcellon knew his spell did not--would not--hurt his own 1daughter. Not his spell, no. But I must warn her! the High Mage thought, but even as he did so, he raised his arms and created the spark that set the sword and ring afire. I must dip them, he thought dazedly, but they burned as if newly immersed in the potions. Slowly, breathlessly, the High Mage murmered the words that set the magic in motion, that called power from the earth and from the air, and the lightning gathered at his hands. Marcellon knew when the lightning struck, and as the fire was pulled into the sword hilt and the ring, the High Mage collapsed. Marcellon did not raise his head from the table when Luthias entered the sitting room well after dark. Marcellon knew it was Luthias; he had had plenty of time to aquaint himself with the rhythm and sound of Luthias' walk on the ships bound to and from Magnus and in the long winter months in Pyridain. Marcellon even knew when the young Knight bent to kiss his wife, fast asleep as a kitten on Marcellon's plush couch. The High Mage sighed; he had often bestowed such a caress on his own, sleeping wife when the King's business kept him late. Ah, Eliza, my sweet Eliza... Marcellon heard the young Count pause before a side table, and the High Mage would have smiled if he had the energy. "You may take it. It is finished." With effort, Marcellon opened his eyes to see the Knight, satisfied, slip the sword into its scabbard. "It will serve you well." "Clifton's ring?" "It is on his hand as we speak." That spell, the one that transported the little ring and the warning, finally exhausted Marcellon so that even lifting his head from the table where he wrote his daughter was nigh impossible. "I could not wait for a messenger. I saw Lauren's death." "Lauren's?" Luthias questioned. "Maybe you should make her a ring." "It would not help. She will not die of wounds. I have warned her to stay away from battle..." "Marcellon." And the High Mage knew the time had come. He had known that for some time the questions that plagued Luthias Connall, and Marcellon had known that sooner or later, the young Knight would confront him. Without waiting for the question to be asked, Marcellon answered it. "I did foresee your father's death. I knew he would be thrown from a horse, and I did warn him, Luthias. To his credit, your father believed me. Still, there was no way...the drug Manus used on Dragonfire worked through the poor horse's food. There was no way to detect its administration until it struck, and when it was over, well..." "And my brother? You were at the ball, Marcellon. Didn't you--" "My visions are imperfect, son. Some are plain, others like dreams...and they only function if there is no change. I never foresaw your brother's death." Marcellon grasped a breath with tired lungs. "I saw yours." "Mine?" The Count sounded surprised. "But I didn't die." "I tell you, I see things that will happen if nothing changes," Marcellon repeated. "I saw, as if in a dream, your brother invested as Duke of Dargon, and he asked me what he should do now. But something happened--he saw the assassins, I guess--and he died, not you." "Why didn't you save him?" Luthias demanded, his voice grieved. "Marcellon--" "I could not have saved him," Marcellon admitted heavily. "I have great skill in medicine and magic--but not even I can bring back the 1dead. The poison they used on Roisart was immediate, like ardonatus. Roisart was dead before he fell to the floor at your feet. He was dead when you reached him, Luthias. I was farther away. There was nothing I could have done." "Nothing," Luthias whispered. After a long silence, the Knight said, "It is past midnight, and it's a year he's been dead." Marcellon heard the young man shift toward him. "Do you ever stop missing the dead, Marcellon?" "No." Tired grief flooded Marcellon's consciousness. "It has been six years since my wife died, and there are still nights I wake, expecting her beside me and grieving to remember her gone." Marcellon wearily turned his head and looked at the Count of Connall. "Do you not miss Sir Lucan still and your uncle Clifton?" The Knight nodded glumly. "And your brother and father...thank God your wife lives still, Luthias, son." "She won't be hurt in the war, will she?" The thought startled Marcellon; he had never even considered it. "I don't know. Now take your wife home, and drink a sleeping potion that you both might sleep uninterrupted. And if I can do the same, I'll tell you tomorrow." Marcellon listened as the Count of Connall took two steps toward his wife; again, the young man paused. "I hate to ask, Marcellon, but what about me?" The High Mage managed a coughing chuckle. "Sir Luthias, they have sent assassins for you. They have imprisoned you. They have tortured you and drugged you. They sent a Knight of the Star against you- -a high-ranking one at that--and you defeated him. I don't think Beinison possesses anything that can kill you. You seem to be under the protection of God Himself." "Well, I'm grateful," the young Knight admitted, chuckling also. In a more serious tone, Luthias continued, "And I am grateful for what you have given me, Marcellon. You saved my life once, and now you're preserving--" Before the words were finished, the mage's eyes slid closed, and he snored softly. Smiling, the Knight silently lifted the mage and carried him to his bed in the next room. "Rest well, Marcellon." Then Luthias took his sleeping wife, who cuddled to him as if she were one of their newly born daughters, home. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ****** **** ** ** ** **** ** ** ** **** **** ** ** ** ***** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ***** ** ** *** **** ** Quanta is the electronically distributed journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy. As such, each issue contains fiction by amateur authors as well as articles, reviews etc... Quanta is published in two formats, Ascii and PostScript* (for PostScript compatible laser-printers). Submissions should be sent to quanta@andrew.cmu.edu. Requests to be added to the distribution list should be sent to one of the following depending on which version of the magazine you'd like to receive. quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.cmu.edu quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.cmu.edu or quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.BITNET quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.BITNET Send mail only- no interactive messages or files please. Note that if you subscribe with a letter sent over BITNET, you will have the magazine sent to you as a file over BITNET, whereas if you subscribe with a letter sent over the Internet, the magazine will be sent to you by mail. Note that all issues are available from the anonymous FTP server fed.expres.cs.cmu.edu (128.2.209.58). If you can access this server and would therefore only want to be notified when a new issues has been released, please specify this in your request. Quanta now reaches an international audience of over 1000 subscribers. It is produced bi-monthly by Daniel Appelquist (da1n+@andrew.cmu.edu). * PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems Incorporated. 1------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright November, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 4 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 4, Issue 1 04/05/91 Cir 1127 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Slavers Max Khaytsus Nober 18-20, 1013 Sons of Gateway 4: Marcus Jon Evans N 4, '13-Ja 28, '14 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Slavers by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. Rien and Kera led their horses into the stalls at the back of The Tipsy Dragon. "Where do I put her?" Kera asked, looking around uncertainly. "Towards the back," Rien said. "This town isn't safe for man or beast." "Then Sina should be just fine," Kera declared, laughing. "She's neither." After settling their horses for the night, Rien and Kera went into the tavern. "I forgot to ask," Rien said. "How do you find Sharks' Cove?" "I don't like it. The people are so unfriendly...everyone in Dargon was nice...even to me." Rien smirked. "As a rule, the larger the city, the more impersonal it is. There are quite a few that are better at it than Dargon." He paused at the bar, surveying the room. Brice was the only one of the staff in the room that Kera recognized. He was behind the counter, serving drinks and chatting with customers. "Come on," Rien pulled on Kera's arm. They went down to the bar and sat down at the far end, away from the rest of the patrons. A moment later Brice came over. "It's about time!" he exclaimed, gripping forearms with Rien. "Did everything go well?" "Quinn's dead," Rien said. "So's Arvel. Quinn killed him in a joust before I got there." "Better inform his family," Brice sighed. "I thought he was a little young to be sent out there." "I sent a message to his father and to Lord Tomich from Port Sevlyn," Rien said. "I took Kera there to show her the store." Brice nodded. "Glad to see you training someone. We need new blood." Kera threw a puzzled look at him, but said nothing. "When is your rotation out of here?" Rien asked. "Next month. Deber first." "And Enneth?" "As soon as your friend," Brice gestured at Kera with a grin, "tries her plate on." "Who was supposed to replace him?" Rien asked. "Arvel, but he thought he might go to Phedra since he came here early." Rien dropped his head into his hands. "Send a message to..." "Hey, barkeep!" someone yelled from the other side of the room. "How long do I have to wait here?" "Go on," Rien said. "I'll take care of it." "You took me on as `new blood'?" Kera asked when Brice left. "That's what you'll become if you decide to stay," warned Rien, putting his arm around her shoulders. "It's not that bad a job if you know what you're doing." "Better benefits?" "Pays better than Liriss." "How would you know what he pays?" "Educated guess." "Well, I suppose..." Kera smiled, stretching the words on purpose. "You really want to try this?" Rien asked. "Why not? It's just a job, right?" "Good. I'm glad you think that way," Rien said with a smile. "Let's go. I'll sign you up and make your hanging around legitimate." They both got up and went to the back room. Rien rifled through the desk and a cabinet and finally turned to Kera. "I used to know where everything was," he complained. She smiled ironically. "Could be they don't trust you..." "Are you sure you want to do this?" Rien asked. "I don't want to give you the wrong idea. This really is dangerous work. People die, sometimes horribly." "Understand where I was before," Kera pointed out. "I could die there just as easily -- a disgrunted traveller turning his sword on me or another thief eliminating competition...or even the town guard having an `accident'. At least here I would be taking these risks for a good cause..." "Are you sure?" Rien asked again, looking intently at her. "Look, you can't even begin to imagine what went through my mind when I was told you were killed. I had plenty of time to wonder about this type of a lifestyle since then. I'm willing to take the risk." "All right," Rien said, "but you will have to wait until someone tells me where everything's been moved to." Brice stuck his head through the door. "You two want to eat?" "Yes," Rien answered. "We'll be right there," then turning to Kera, added, "Let's drop our gear off downstairs first." The rest of the evening passed quietly. Rien spent a lot of time talking with people he had not seen in months -- comparing notes, discussing events and making plans. From listening in, Kera understood that he was of some authority here and perhaps that authority reached well beyond this place. Before going to bed she tried on the plate armor Enneth made for her. To her surprise, not only did it fit perfectly, but it was also comfortable. "My father was a tailor," Enneth said, chuckling at her confusion. "He always said no one had to come to him for a fitting twice. His secret was not to use his arm to make measurements, but something exact and solid." Kera retired before midnight. Rien was still busy talking and the group seemed very familiar with each other and Kera felt as if she was intruding. She tossed and turned for a long time, unable to fall asleep. The conversation she had with Rien shortly after their arrival still fresh on her mind. In truth, she was not half as confident about her choice as she made Rien believe she was, but it was her only excuse for staying. Not that she believed he'd make her leave. "So do you feel homesick yet?" Rien asked Kera the next morning when he was showing her around the city. "Sort of," she admitted. "I always thought Dargon was a dirty town, but looking at this..." Rien surveyed the dock in both directions. Trash lay about as common as the wooden walk of the docks, which were in a bad state of disrepair, with an occasional sleeping drunk mixed in here and there -- a sight he saw many times. "If you think this is bad, wait until you see Magnus..." "We're going to Magnus?" Kera asked, her eyes sparkling. "Not now, but I'm sure you'll get there sooner or later. We travel to all the `exotic' places." Kera smiled. "It's quite a change, being able to travel all of a sudden. I never left Dargon before, you know...just a quick trip to the woods or out to sea once in a while... That first night we spent in the forest, I was scared stiff! Now it's starting to get interesting. I just hope I don't get over it." "You won't," Rien assured her. "Every place on Makdiar is different." "And have you been everywhere yet?" Rien almost let a smile slip out, but successfully hid it behind a smug expression. "No," he said. "The world is much bigger than you think," and with those words, tapped Kera on her nose. "So where have you been?" "Well...I've been to Dargon," he grinned ear to ear. "Help!" a female shriek pierced the usual low rumble of the docks. Rien turned in time to see a young woman jerk free from a burly sailor and start running towards the buildings at the other side of the dock. The sailor ran after her, followed by another man. Their path would take all of them past Rien and Kera. "Get her out of here," Rien ordered Kera, making a snap decision, and stepped forward just after the girl ran by. The sailor, hot on her heels, collided with him. Both fell to the ground and the second man chasing the girl tripped over the pair and fell down as well. Rien regained his feet at the same time as the sailor. The girl being chased was gone and Rien got just a glimpse of Kera turning down another pier. The sailor, barely recovered from the collision, was not paying attention to Rien, scanning the docks up and down the boardwalk for a sign of the girl who had escaped him. "Watch where you're going!" Rien shouted and punched him in the gut, to keep him occupied. The sailor turned a light shade of pink and sank to his knees. A small crowd was now gathering and Rien turned to the other man getting up. "You!" he pointed, but the man took off through the crowd, after his target. Rien decided to let him go. By the time he could get through all the sight-seers, Kera would have plenty of time to make her escape. A new group of sailors was coming up from the pier and Rien pulled up the man that he hit by the shirt front. "Let go of him!" one of the sailors ordered, rolling up a loose sleeve on his arm. "What's going on here?" another voice sounded from behind Rien and the crowd parted to let a pair of city guards through. Rien still held the gasping sailor. "If he can't walk on land, keep him in the water!" Rien told the man's assembled companions contemptuously and gave the sailor a shove in their general direction. One of the guardsmen folded his arms and stared at Rien. "You from around here, kid?" Rien gritted his teeth. Kid indeed! "Yeah! What's it to you, old timer?" Two could play the game. "Get lost," the other guard told him and pushed through to the grouped sailors. "You boys been docked here long?" Rien smiled to himself. The guards did not normally pick on the locals, just the visitors. It was one of the many things that gave Sharks' Cove its reputation (and some say it's name). "Well, boys?" the guard asked again as the sailors shuffled before him. Antagonizing the local guard was not a good prospect at any port, but particularly in Sharks' Cove. The man who tripped over Rien pushed his way back through the crowd and surveyed the scene. He was empty handed and angry. "You, men, get back to work!" he barked and they obeyed. "What do you want?" he asked the guards. "I want to know how long your boys are going to be starting fights on my streets!" one of the guards snapped at him. "We'll be gone by morning," the man said and walked past the guard. "Now you just wait there!" the guardsman ordered and followed him. The man turned around, visibly agitated. "This is a private pier. Get off it or I'll have the men shoot you where you stand!" Rien smiled to himself and slid out through the crowd. It would be too long a confrontation to observe and he chose to disappear before anyone recalled his part in the initial incident. When he returned to The Tipsy Dragon, he found Kera, Adrea and the girl from the pier talking in the back room. As he entered, they all stopped and looked at him. "Everything go well?" he asked Kera. "No one saw us," she said, assured. Rien took a seat at the table. "Don't let me interrupt." "You're not," Adrea said. "We just sat down." "Good," Rien said. "First of all," Adrea started, looking at the girl across the table, "my name is Adrea. This is Rien," she pointed in one direction, "and Kera," she pointed in the other. "I am called Deneen," the young woman answered her. She looked slightly older than Kera, blond hair, brown eyes. Her tunic was torn on the shoulder from where the sailor had grabbed her and a purple bruise highlighted her left cheekbone. "I wish I could repay you for what you did..." "Can you tell us what happened?" Adrea asked. She could not help but be concerned over what she saw. Deneen's face paled a bit. "Nothing. I just ran into a little trouble." "Why were they chasing you?" Adrea insisted. "Sailors," she said too quickly. "I guess they've been out at sea for too long." "Is that why your clothing is torn?" The girl looked down at her tunic. "Yeah...I guess." "And the bruise?" Adrea asked, indicating her swollen cheek. "I was hit." "You couldn't have gotten it today. It's all ready turned purple." "I was hit at home," Deneen corrected herself. "Are you from around here?" Rien asked. The girl nodded after a moment. "A village up north." "We would prefer you tell us the truth," Rien stated. "There are no villages to the north or is it in the marsh?" "We didn't save you so we could hurt you," Adrea interjected. "We want to help. Please, tell us what happened." Deneen wiped a tear from her cheek. "I was with them for a while. I..." Her voice cracked. "I can't..." "We want to help," Adrea repeated, laying a gentle hand on her arm. "What happened? Were you kidnapped?" Deneen nodded, but still did not look at Adrea. "Were they holding you for ransom?" The girl shrugged. "My family isn't rich...and there were many others." Adrea shot a questioning look at Rien. `Slavers?' She did not need to say it aloud. Her expression said it all. She'd dealt with them before. Rien's features darkened and he got up. They took care of a runner the year before. "They said it's a private pier..." was all he said. "Get Deneen something to eat," Adrea asked Kera as Rien hurried downstairs. "I'm not hungry..." "Then bring some refreshments. No alcohol." When Kera left, Adrea turned back to the girl. "Where are you from?" "Port Sevlyn." "Do you know where you were going?" "No..." "How long were you on that ship?" "A week, I guess. I don't know." Adrea thought for a moment. "How many others were there?" "About fifty, I think." "Do you know the size of the crew?" Rien asked from the stairs. He returned to the table holding a ledger and sat down. "No," Deneen answered. "They told the town guard that they would leave by morning," Rien told Adrea. "I'll try to make sure that they don't. According to this, that whole block was sold a year ago to Gerald Roderick, Baron Morgan's brother...and the previous owner was Gaius Caligula himself." Adrea sighed. "So much for it being simple coincidence." "Was anyone removed from the ship?" Rien asked, looking over at Deneen. "No. We just got here this morning." "Were there any plans to?" "I don't know." "How did you get away then," Adrea asked. "Not everyone was chained," Deneen answered. "I guess they will be by now." Kera returned from the bar room carrying a tray with drinks and placing it on the table, sat down. "Thank you," Adrea smiled to her. "Did any of the names I mentioned sound familiar?" Rien asked. "Just Baron Morgan, but I guess everyone in Quinnat knows him," the girl said. "What about `Abyssment' or `Quirin'?" "Sorry." Rien got up and paced a bit. "Kera, I want you to get some rest. I'll have a job for you this evening." "I want to go to the Abyssment tonight," Adrea said. "You have an eight month old daughter to worry about," Rien answered. "I will go with Brice. You can watch the store." "Rien! She's old enough for me to get back to work! You don't expect me to spend the rest of my life here, do you?" "When I need you to risk your life, I will ask you," Rien answered bluntly. "Until then I want you to follow my lead." He closed the book, looking at Adrea. The statement came across very harsh. "I know you've been here a while and I know you want to get back to work, but if something happens to you out there, I'll be the one responsible. Just a few more months, please?" "If you see anyone, go in the water," Rien instructed Kera. "In that?" she peered into the murky Laraka. "I might be more willing to commit murder." "Watch yourself," Rien said one last time and dove into the cold water. Kera watched him swim noiselessly down stream to the pier with the slaver ship, then turned to watch the shore. She wondered how crazy a man had to be to jump into an ice filled river in the middle of winter. Some people just have this thing for pain. She scanned the street, trying to forget what Rien was doing. The thought alone sent shivers up her spine. Just like the docks in Dargon at night, there was no sign of life here. Rien let the current carry him down to the ship a half block away. There were some lights up on the deck, but no evidence of people, only two guards at the tip of the pier, intensely watching the area of the docks. He caught himself on the hull of the ship and carefully maneuvered underneath the pier. The oars of the ship were out of the water, folded against the hull, like some giant wooden bird. Releasing his grip on the supports, Rien swam back to the ship and around to the front, fighting the current on the way back. Keeping close to the ship made it a little easier. The oars on the opposite side were folded up as well, but one of the two steering oars at the aft of the ship was not retracted and hung over the rushing water. Rien positioned himself under it and hoping it was secured up on deck, did his best to jump up to grab it. It took him two tries, but he finally managed to force himself out of the water far enough to grab hold of the oar. The cold wind almost made him let go and drop back into the water, but clenching his teeth, he pulled himself up and moved, hand over hand, to the rear of the ship. He looked at the deck of the vessel and not seeing anyone, swung over the railing. After a few moments of waiting, Rien drew his dagger -- the only weapon he had on him -- and made his way to the mizzen mast. All of the mizzen sails were down and the ties were secured to a set of marked hooks on the mast. He found the one that held the main rope support and put the dagger through it, twisting it around once. With any luck this would weaken the rope enough to snap under the full weight of the sail. A noise on deck made Rien turn around quickly. A sailor obviously far gone with drink, made his way up the gang plank and spotting Rien, headed fo him. "Gooth rum," the sailor said, his speech slurred and a wave of alcohol made its way past Rien. "Appears so," Rien took a step back in disgust. "Wan' zome?" the sailor held up an empty bottle. Rien shook his head. "Suit yourswelf," the sailor coughed and started walking away. "Hey, wait," Rien stopped him. He couldn't afford witnesses. The sailor turned back with a dejected look on his face. "Let me see that," Rien pointed to the bottle. The sailor put it behind his back. "No. Is mine." "Great," Rien muttered under his breath. "Please?" The sailor took a step back and Rien instantly realized something was wrong. "I don't know you," the man declared and Rien smiled innocently. "RUNAWAY!" the sailor bellowed at the top of his lungs and Rien heard hurried movement on the pier. He charged at the sailor, using his body weight to knock the man against the starboard railing and, breaking through, they both fell into the rushing water of the Laraka. Kera stretched out on the empty pier, looking up into the dark winter sky. The bright constellation of Perantu, the falcon, hung almost directly above her, the talons reaching towards the ocean. The pier was dry and small ledges on the sides prevented wind from blowing across it. She was not concerned about being surprised by anybody. Her senses improved vastly during the time she had lycanthropy and she felt she could rely on them as much as most animals relied on theirs. When Rien told her to get some rest so she would be ready to do some work at night, she did not even think he meant for her to spend her time guarding an empty pier. Even Liriss was better at finding interesting things for her to do. At least it would be worth it to see Rien all wet in this weather. Sounds of splintering wood and a splash in the water made Kera look over to the ship. She saw a few shapes appear on deck, rushing about, looking into the water, but not much more. It was almost obvious that Rien had been seen, but got away. Kera glanced back to the roadway at the foot of the pier and, not seeing anyone, made herself comfortable with her head propped up on her arms, to watch the commotion on the neighboring dock. The people there gathered in a group, one in the middle, standing on something that made him two feet taller. He swung his arms out to the river, then pointed to shore. People started splintering away from the group. Kera sighed and continued watching. Whatever Rien had done must have gotten them very upset. The man in the middle of the group jumped down and disappeared on the far side of the ship, as did the men remaining with him. Some splashing noises diverted Kera's attention again and a moment later two hands grabbed the the edge of the pier not far from her. Rien pulled himself up. "What did you do?" Kera asked. "I was surprised," Rien said. "You?" "The man was drunk. I didn't think he would be a problem. Come, we best leave before the guards decide to search here." "Dry yourself off, first," Kera instructed. "You won't get any sympathy from me if you catch a cold." Rien grabbed her arm and yanked her after himself. "I won't ask for any." A few blocks away from the pier they stopped in an alley and Rien accepted the towel from Kera. "They won't be able to set their sails. When that man showed up I was hoping he was too drunk to recognize me for a stranger, but he wasn't as far gone as I had hoped," Rien said, drying his hair. He then took the bag of dry clothes Kera held out to him and started changing. "Hopefully the crew will realize he was drunk and no slaves are missing and leave it at that. He thought I was a slave..." Kera sighed. "What if he figures out you're not a slave? He won't stay drunk forever. He'll tell them you were an intruder committing sabotage." "He won't realize it. He's dead." "You killed him?" "We fell in the water. When I surfaced, he wasn't there. I suspect he was too drunk to swim." "So what now?" "You go back. I need to know what's happening. I am going to the Abyssment. Brice should be there by now." Kera nodded, unsure of her task and Rien dumped the wet clothes in a pile of trash. He then turned to her and took her by her shoulders. "Be careful. I don't want to be pulling you out of the river, understand?" "I've trailed people before. I know how it's done." "Be careful," Rien said again, embracing her. He disappeared down the street. Kera looked up and down the alley after he left, then took the long way around to get back to the docks. Her greatest concern was dodging the crew of the ship that was searching the streets and hopefully to stay out of the way of the town guard, which as yet did not know her and with any luck, would have no reason to make the acquaintance. Rien paused at the entrance to the Abyssment. The bar was busy with customers; much busier than The Tipsy Dragon on the best of nights. He made his way past a group of people arguing in the doorway and located the table where Brice sat. "Roderick's at the bar," Rien said, sitting down. "I know. He's been here a while," Brice said. "The man next to him," Rien went on, "is the one from the ship. He was the one chasing Deneen." "He just got here a few minutes before you came in. Roderick appears to have been waiting for him. He turned away a wench when that man came in." "I damaged his ship," Rien said. "He'll be sorry he left it. It will have to stay in port through tomorrow." "We may need more than a day." "Can I get ya some'ing?" a bar girl came up to the table. "Milk?" Rien grinned. She gave him a blank look and Rien said; "Akvavit." Still puzzled, the woman left to get his drink. "Look," Brice nudged Rien, "they're going up." Rien looked towards the bar. Roderick and his companion were now at the foot of the stairs, giving some instructions to one of the workers. After a few short exchanges they went upstairs. "I'll check it out," Rien said, but Brice stopped him. "Let me do it. I get paid to do this. You're paid to cause trouble." Rien smiled and sat back down. "I'll make sure the bar maid doesn't take anything." "Thanks. That drink cost me a fortune." Brice slid out and disappeared up the stairs after the two men. Rien accepted his drink from the bar girl and settled back to watch the room. The beverage was too strong for his liking and although he could not complain about his alcohol tolerance, he preferred drinks that did not distort their flavor with the amount of alcohol they contained. The Abyssment, owned by Gaius Caligula, the resident crime boss of the city, was the largest tavern in Sharks' Cove and was very popular with the local youth and shady population. If something was happening somewhere in Sharks' Cove or one of the neighboring areas, it was a good bet that the information, if not the people responsible for the act, would be available in the Abyssment that same night. Most of the events were directly supervised by Caligula himself. Lord Gerald Roderick, the brother of Baron Morgan Roderick, was rumored to have many dealings with Gaius Caligula, but because of the political sensitivity of the issue, it was hardly ever discussed in public and often "over-looked" by authorities. All these threads linked the ship at the northern docks to the underworld of Sharks' Cove, so gathering information at the Abyssment was a sure bet and as it usually does, it seemed to have been the right guess. "You look pretty bored," a female voice said near Rien and he snapped out of his trance-like train of thought. A tall, dark haired woman stood almost directly in front of him. "Mind some company?" Rien gestured for her to sit down. "You alone?" she asked. "Not any more," Rien smiled. "You?" "I was. The idiot who brought me here dumped me for some tramp." "Better find out about those types early in the relationship," Rien said, not unsympathetically. The woman nodded, sipping her drink. "You come here often?" Having observed Roderick and his companion enter a room, Brice climbed out the window at the end of the hall and made his way from window ledge to balcony to window ledge, until he found the balcony of the room where the private meeting was taking place. Making himself comfortable under the window, conveniently cracked, to let air (and voices) circulate, he proceeded to listen in on the conversation. "...flat fee!" Brice caught the conclusion of Roderick's angry statement. "We had an agreement," another, more controlled voice replied. "You will pay me what they are worth, not what you pay for the substandard merchandise you deal in," Roderick spoke again. "My lord," the other man insisted, "you are selling me harlots. Experienced, but used merchandise." "Pleasure slaves, Isom, are better if they are experienced." "And willing!" Brice shifted a little to be more comfortable, still listening to the two hagglers inside. "When have you heard of a willing slave?!" Roderick lost his cool. "It costs me a lot of money to kidnap people off the streets. I can't afford a loss." "You old fart, who do you think you're dealing with?" A loud slam made Brice sit upright. It came from inside, but he looked down into the alley just to be sure it was quiet there. No one was to be seen. "You do that again and I'll personally make sure your head is cut off and tossed into the bay!" Roderick said again. "Thirty marks for the six," the other man said. "Not a bronze more." "You're going to go out there and sell them for over fifty and you expect me to take thirty? Forty marks!" "Thirty-five." "Thirty-eight...No. Don't go. Thirty-three." "Bring them to the warehouse tonight." Brice heard footsteps, followed by the door slamming, then a deep sigh and someone pacing the room. The meeting was over. "So you just travel around," the woman said to Rien. Her name, he learned from their lengthy conversation, was Jenye. "Sounds exiting." "Actually it's boring as hell," he answered. "And the pay is bad. You'd think mercenaries get paid well, but that's an old wives tale." Jenye laughed. "You know, you don't look much like a mercenary." "Do any of us look like our chosen paths in life?" Rien chuckled. "My last doctor was rolling over sixty, acting under thirty and had a beard that would look better on a goat and now you're telling me you're a physician too." Jenye burst out laughing. "You know, that sounds just like somebody I know in Magnus." Rien cracked a smile. "So what do I look like?" Jenye placed her chin in her hand and studied Rien intensely. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Brice at the bar looking at him as well. Brice pointed to the exit and Rien responded with a signal, not removing his attention from his companion, who did not appear to notice the exchange. Brice left the room. "You look..." Jenye began slowly, carefully studying Rien, "...like an artisan...an artist, maybe...or an entertainer..." "I suppose that's better than the last evaluation I received. The town guard mistook me for a bounty hunter...of course the body I carried in with me could have led them down the garden path." Rien glanced around the bar. There were plenty of people present, although it was well into the night. "I'd best be going," he stood up. "It will be a long day tomorrow." "So soon?" Jenye asked. "You haven't even touched your drink." Rien glanced down at the Akvavit. "It's far too strong for me. I prefer to keep on my toes, not my back." "It all depends on what you're doing," Jenye said seductively and Rien's eyebrows shot up. "It does indeed, doesn't it?" "Why don't you look me up sometime soon?" Jenye offered Rien her hand. "I visit here at times." "I just might," Rien said and left after a quick good night. Jenye watched him go, then finished her drink. One of the Abyssment's bouncers appeared at her side. "Get up," he pulled her to her feet. "Let's go." His strong arm shoved her forward. "Hey! I can walk!" "Then walk." "What's going on?" "Lord Roderick wants to see you." "You know her?" Brice asked when Rien came out of the Abyssment. "No. She came up and asked for company not long after you left. Made me look less conspicuous sitting there. Why?" "I saw her talking to the man Roderick and Isom were talking to," Brice answered. "Isom?" "The other man. The one you said was with the ship. That's what Roderick called him." Rien frowned. "She could have been there for reasons she neglected to mention...perhaps I should take her up on her offer." "Her offer?" "I was under the impression she wanted to see me again. Doesn't matter now. What did you find out?" "Isom is a slave trader. Roderick sold him half a dozen slaves for thirty-three marks." "Thirty-three? Sounds like he got taken. Were the slaves up there?" "No. Roderick is supposed to deliver them tonight. I don't know where they are held, but they are to be sold at some warehouse. I guess somewhere along the docks." "That doesn't give us much time," Rien said. "I don't want them on that ship and I don't want the ship leaving town." "They could be in any of a countless number of places," Brice said. "Or," Rien turned to face him, "if they need to be near by and secure..?" "Roderick's townhouse," Brice picked up, "or Quirin." Rien turned to look at the silver tipped spire, visible over the roofs of the buildings, pointing up to the sky, somewhere in the middle of the Laraka delta. "Morgan is involved?" "I wouldn't be surprised if the Baron was involved, but he is out of town and Gerald always has access to the keep." "Why don't I take the keep and you check on the townhouse?" Rien offered. "You must love that river." Rien grinned. "Remind me to tell you what happened before I got here." Quirin Keep, built by Duke Vezakis over three hundred years ago was the original fortification for entrance to the Laraka. Since that time it was sieged, modified, abandoned and rebuilt a number of times. Currently it was nothing more than the residence of the local baron, Morgan Roderick, who liked nothing more than a large moat between him and his subjects. Most of the responsibility for Laraka's defense now fell to Gateway Keep, set a few hundred leagues upstream where Vodyanoy joined the Laraka. None-the-less, Quirin was still a fortified castle, with guards and defenses and trying to swim there in the middle of a cold winter night was far from an easy task. Rien patiently watched the small island a half league, or half fathom, as any sailor worth his weight in ale would say, away for any sign of motion, but it did not appear as if any guards were braver than the weather. Rien undressed and after hiding his clothes under the pier, went into the water. For a second time this day he wondered about his masochistic tendencies in this weather. Taking a deep breath, he dove into the cold water and swam towards the island visible up ahead. It took Rien a while to reach his destination, fighting against the current that threatened to drag him out into the ocean. Sharks' Cove was after all named for the hungry fish that visited the Shandayma Bay as much as for the people who lived there. He made it to the shore of Quirin and dropped on the sand, letting it absorb some of the water, so the cold wind coming in from the ocean would not be as noticeable. After a few long moments Rien pulled himself to his feet and moved up the slope to the road he knew existed above. In one direction the road led to a pier where Rien previously spotted a ship. In the other direction was the castle itself. Rien stood indecisively at the edge of the road, wondering if it would be better for him to check the ship, which could leave any minute, if it indeed was to ferry the prisoners to the mainland tonight or the castle, where better information could be obtained. Finally he decided to check the ship first. If there were prisoners on the island, his best chances lay in making sure the boat did not leave with them aboard. Keeping to the trees at the side of the road, Rien started out east, to the island's small port. A single ship stood docked, with a small compliment of guards and sailors sitting around a comfortable campfire on shore. Rien patiently watched them from the trees. The forest around the pier was cleared out and Rien could not get close enough to hear the conversation, although it was obvious they were not guarding anyone. After some time Rien saw one of the guards get up, pick up his equipment and after a few more words to his companions, start towards the road to the castle. A hundred feet into the woods, Rien confronted the man and with a single hit from behind, knocked him to the ground. Dragging the stunned man down the incline to the river, Rien splashed some cold water on him, to bring him around, and asked about the slaves. Still a little dazed, the guard eyed Rien. "Aren't you cold like that?" Rien backhanded him. "Where are the slaves being kept?" "I don't know what you're talking..." Rien submerged the man's head in the water. He had no evidence that the man knew, but a strong suspicion existed. A little persuasion could go a long way. "Know what I'm talking about now?" Rien pulled the man back up and immediately shoved him back under. People who had the chance to think things over usually made better long term decisions. Rien pulled the man up again. "Well? Know the ones I mean?" The guard started coughing and Rien pushed him down for a split second and brought him back up. "Once more and you stay under for good." "The castle..." the guard continued coughing and Rien punched him in the face, knocking him out again. If the kidnapped people were in the castle, which was becoming more and more probable, Rien did not have the means to get them off the island. For that matter, he had no idea what to do himself. Deciding to accept challenges as they came along -- hopefully one at a time -- he changed into the guard's clothes and took the road in the direction of Quirin Keep. Brice held still on top of the broad stone wall of Gerald Roderick's villa as a guard walked down the street. `Paranoid,' Brice thought and slid down the other side into the garden. The house was set some distance into the garden and some of the lights were still lit. Brice stealthily slipped over to the building and knelt by the wall. It was not the first time he'd been sneaking around Lord Roderick's property. The Baron's brother was suspected of a number of criminal doings in the past and Brice had kept track of him on a number of occasions. Making sure that no guards were in sight, Brice climbed up a tree by the house, moved hand over hand towards the roof and jumped down onto it. A couple of sudden voices made him get down while people passed by the side of the house. The men were discussing horses in the stables. He peered over the edge, watched them go by, then moved in the opposite direction. The lights in the small two story house behind Roderick's residence that was used to house staff were still on. In particular, the barred window on the second floor, which was reserved for people Roderick did not want to leave, was what Brice was after. He got up to look into it from where he was. Inside he spotted at least two women. Brice sat back down with a sigh of relief. He had found them. Now he could either stay and see what happened or sneak out and find Rien. He decided to stay. That way he would be present at the sale and perhaps be able to interfear. Dressed in the armor of the guard he knocked out, Rien freely entered Quirin Keep. Everything was quiet, as would be expected in the middle of the night. He made his way past a sentry beginning to fall asleep in the entrance hall. A bright fire burned in the giant chamber which the hall opened into. At the far end Rien observed a twin staircase, starting at a common point and splitting right and left as it spiraled to a second story balcony. He traced the outline of the second floor with his eyes, making sure no guards were present. Everything was clear and starting with the first door on the right, Rien proceeded with his investigation. He found the back stairs in a small corridor a few rooms deeper into the castle. Once again, there were no guards or people present and he quickly made his way down to the lower level. This level was dark and cold and smelled of stagnant water, probably because it stood not much higher than the water level around the island. None the less, the floor was dry and clean and after a good hour of looking around, Rien was satisfied that there were no prisoners here. Rien made his way back up by a different stairway. It led to the kitchen, where for the second time this night Rien encountered a drunk. "Have some," the bearded man slammed the bottle on the table. Rien recognized him as the dozing sentry he passed on his way into the castle. Accepting the man's offer, Rien sat down at the table. It would certainly be tougher to throw this one into the water to cover an escape. "Lonely work, sentry duty," Rien said. The guard nodded. "You new around here?" "I was hired over from the town guard a few days back." "Were you now...which part?" "Northern strip." "Ah. I was working the docks a few years back." Rien smiled. It was a safe topic. "Messy area. I'm afraid we always kept as far from there as our patrols could take us." "Not my problem any more," the guard shrugged. "Roderick hired me a few years back. Cleaner, safer, better pay." "The Baron?" "Oh, no. His brother. You?" Rien shrugged. "Some big fellow with a scar." There was one in every outfit. "The one with the front teeth missing?" the guard asked. "Yeah, he thinks he's the next best thing to the king." "How'd you get here?" Rien asked. "Regular staff shuffling, they say." "So that slave bit is only a rumor?" The guard looked drunk enough for a change of topic. The guard eyed Rien suspiciously. "What slaves?" Rien leaned back comfortably, self assured. "You know...there are rumors in the streets." "What sorts of rumors?" the guard's eyes narrowed. "That the Baron's brother is keeping slaves in Quirin." Rien's companion roared with laughter. "He's too chicken to endanger Morgan. Morgan keeps the sling away from Gerald's ass." "At the townhouse then?" Rien asked. "Right!" the guard slammed his mug down on the table and continued laughing. Rien waited patiently. "You're serious?" "Yeah," the guard went on. "Why do you think I was put here? He doesn't want me to know!" And with that he broke into more laughter. "Mustn't be your day," Rien said and slammed the almost empty bottle against his head. The guard slumped down across the table and Rien quickly got up to leave. He had lost a lot of time following a false lead and now he had to make it up. With any luck Brice would be on top of it. Rien briskly walked out of the kitchen, down the hall and to the exit. "Halt!" a guard rushed into his path. Rien almost drew the sword. "Where are you going?" "I'm returning to the dock." "I didn't see you come in," the guard said belligerently. "I came in over an hour ago," retorted Rien, determined to bluff the situation out -- one trace of his passing in the kitchen was enough. The guard stepped aside with a muttered curse and Rien hurried out. He quickly made it to the beach, disrobed and entered the cold water. A half hour later he was at the north shore of the Laraka, getting dressed again. Brice watched carefully from the roof as six guards removed as many people from the servants' building and led them to an enclosed wagon. Each of the four women and two men were gagged and their legs bound (their arms were all ready tied behind them) before they were deposited in the wagon. Then two guards got inside, one took control of the horses and the wagon was rolled around to the front of the main building. Brice watched the procedure carefully, memorizing each face, each movement. He did not feel himself capable of challenging six armed guards, not to mention all who would be within ear shot of a struggle, but instead, when the wagon rolled past his position on the roof, he rolled over the edge and onto the canvas cover over the wagon, the top of which was almost level with the sloped roof of the building. He held still for a few moments, waiting to see if a sword was going to surface near him or a crossbow bolt tear through the heavy fabric, but none did. He successfully made it on board for the ride. It did not take long. As the wagon stopped, heavy footsteps sounded on the wooden walk at the side of the building, followed by Gerald Roderick's voice. "Is everything ready?" "Yes, sir," the driver answered. "We're ready to go as soon as you are." Brice raised his head to look around. He could just see the top of the teamster's head sticking out mere inches above the top of the wagon. Somewhere to the side people walked by. Someone got into the wagon and someone got out. Brice put his head back down, releasing a deep breath. He should have checked how high the teamster was sitting before he got on for a ride. It could have been a costly mistake. "Bring me my horse," Roderick called to someone. "You, meet me at the warehouse. You two, go with him." Brice pressed himself closer to the wagon as it moved on. By the time it reached the gate to the street, two mounted guards joined the wagon. Once it was outside, Roderick and a third guard joined the growing caravan. One man took point, with Roderick a little behind him and the other two men rode behind the wagon. All Brice could do now was hold on for the ride and pray that the rear guard did not notice him. Kera watched the tall thin man, who had chased Deneen when she first encountered him, pass her on the boardwalk of the pier. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed him turn and look after her. She focused her attention behind her as the man fell out of her line of vision. She feared he would follow her, do something, but all her instincts and training told her not to make any sudden moves and not to act as if she feared him. She continued walking ahead, not changing her pace, not turning to look, but all her attention was concentrated behind her, trying to detect unnatural movement or sounds. The man did nothing to alert Kera and she did not turn back to avoid seeming suspicious or concerned. By the time she made it to the corner and looked back, the man had turned down the pier where his ship was docked. She turned down the pier she was at and making it to the end, climbed up on a crate and made herself comfortable to watch. The slaver ship appeared in the distance, a dark shadow a block away. After a minute a group of people appeared on the deck and after some shuffling around, left the ship. They turned north when they got off the pier and started walking away from her. Hopping off the crates noiselessly, Kera followed the small squad. After a few blocks the group turned down a side street and by the time she got there, they were gone. Kera cautiously walked down the alley, looking right and left, examining the road for any trails. Behind her she heard horses and a wagon and throwing a single glance back, hurried on ahead. She collided head on with a man dressed in light armor who appeared from nowhere. She was grabbed and forced up against a wall by a doorway as two mounted men, followed by a wagon, rode up behind them. "Lord Isom!" the man holding Kera called through the doorway. The tall thin man stepped out. "Good," he muttered, looking at the wagon, then turned to Kera. "This is the third time we meet today. I consider it twice too many for a coincidence. Who are you?" "I..." Kera paused as a well dressed man dismounted his horse and came over. "Well?" Isom asked again. "I...I was just walking," Kera said. "Really now? Walking every place I go?" "Who is she?" th other man demanded. "Don't worry about her, Roderick. She will be leaving with me at sunrise. She obviously wanted to see the ship." Kera tried struggling, but the guards held her tight. She kicked him and for a moment he lost his grip on her, but another took his place. "Take her inside," Isom ordered and went in. "Bring the ones in the back of the wagon, too," Roderick ordered. From his position on top of the wagon, Brice was able to observe the six prisoners brought into the building, leaving behind the teamster and a guard. The two men exchanged a few words about the work and the late hour, then the guard announced that in the course of the trip, the mead he drank before had travelled its course and he needed to have it pass on. [Original text censored for a mature audience.] He wandered down the alley and the driver leaned back against the wagon. Taking his cue, Brice crawled up the top of the wagon to the front, then dropped a loose loop of rope, hanging off a hook next to the driver, around the man's neck and gave him a shove. The length of the rope broke the driver's fall and he was able to regain his feet on the ground, but Brice quickly pulled it back up, choking the man. A minute later he let the body dangle to the ground and took his seat. Releasing the reins leading to the two horses and picking up the whip that was left on the bench, Brice jumped to the ground. By now the guard was returning and Brice snapped the whip behind the horses as hard as he could. The animals instinctively pulled forward, away from the sound, wanting to avoid getting hit. In their charge they knocked over the guard and the wagon rolled over him with a soft squish, dragging the teamster behind. Readying the whip again, Brice stepped through the door. He was not sure how he would deal with the half dozen men he knew were inside, but he knew Kera would help and hoped that the prisoners would do the same. Rien observed the action taking place beneath him. Both Gerald Roderick and Isom were in the room, along with ten guards, six prisoners and Kera. He had the gut feeling that she would get into trouble when leaving her to watch the docks, but at least nothing serious had happened yet. With any luck, nothing would. "Very good, very good..." Isom walked around the bound people, looking them over. He would stop at one or the other, poke at them, study their faces, their builds. Each time he would smile a satisfied, self pleased grin and go on. "Perhaps we can do business again, soon." He turned to Gerald. "Pay him." Out of the corner of his eye Rien noticed the door crack open and Brice slip in. He smiled to himself. The odds had just improved. "If you don't mind, I'd like to count this," the nobleman said, accepting a pouch from one of Isom's guards. "By all means." Gerald Roderick poured the gold coins into his hand and started counting off the thirty-three Marks due him. Isom used the time to walk over to Kera and to examine her. He took hold of her head under her chin and turned her to face him. "I will go a lot easier with you if you tell me who you are and why you were following me. Who do you work for?" Kera pulled free from his grasp and turned away. She could not move more than that because of the two guards holding her. "One less. Doesn't matter. Tie her," Isom told the two guards. "They're all here," Roderick said, finally done counting. "The slaves are yours." "There is one more matter," Isom said. "The runaway." "I am doing everything in my power," Roderick stated. "If she is to be found, my men will find her." "They'd better," Isom growled. He produced five more gold coins and gave them to Roderick. "Thirty-eight Marks for your cooperation." Roderick pocketed the money. "No trouble." "Take them out," Isom instructed the guards. Rien moved swiftly along the ceiling beam and jumped down on the two guards attempting to tie Kera's hands. He landed with both feet on one man's shoulders, forcing him to the ground. Jumping off the fallen body, Rien swung his sword at the other man, cutting deep into his chest. The element of surprise was now lost. With a roar four guards charged for him. Rien backed over the first man he attacked, to stand next to Kera and readied for the assault. He noticed that Kera had picked up the fallen guard's sword, a loose rope still tangled around her left wrist. Brice stepped out of the shadows behind the guards. One man was staring up at the ceiling, expecting someone else to drop down. Not wanting to disappoint the soldier, nor spoil the surprise, Brice struck with the whip, silently looping it around the guard's neck. The man screamed a silent scream, grabbing at the end of the whip caught around his neck. Brice yanked him back and stabbed him with his dagger. As the man was falling, Brice had re-wrapped the whip around the legs of a guard by Isom and pulled him over. One of the other guards responded, but tripped over the struggling man. On the other side of the room, Rien knocked over two men with a low swing of his sword. Kera met the charge of the other two, barely remaining on her feet, and a second later Rien came up on the other side of the two and struck one down. The other, disoriented by attacks from the front and behind, stepped directly into Kera's swing. The remaining four men on the ground surrendered, but both Roderick and Isom were gone. "I've got them," Brice went for the door, but one of the men immediately clambered to his feet and challenged him. Brice threw the whip, tangling it around the guard's legs. As the man fell back to the floor, Brice made it into the alley, but it was empty. He came back inside to see Rien cutting the ropes binding one of the prisoner's hands. "They got away." Rien looked back, annoyed, but said nothing. Angry words would not change the situation. He looked down at the men they had fought, sitting on the floor. Seven of the ten were alive, but two were unconscious from their wounds. "Leave your weapons and go," he ordered and five men quickly got up and left. Rien picked up a dagger from one of the guards and handed it to the woman he'd cut loose. "Free the others. The man who was selling you is Lord Gerald Roderick. The man who was purchasing you is Lord Isom. Report them to the town guard." He turned to Brice and Kera. "Let's go." "Wait! Who are you?" one of the people called out. Brice looked at the woman with a sheepish grin. "We're the ones who rescued you." Outside the warehouse Rien paused, looking at the dead guard lying in the street, wheel marks forming an impression in his chest and torso. "What happened here?" "The driver must have lost control of the horses," Brice grinned. "Good thing it worked to our advantage." Rien looked over at Kera. "I assume you're all right. If you want to get some rest, go on to the inn. I want to check on the ship." "Rest? After all this? You're kidding! I couldn't sleep if I wanted to!" "Let's go then. It's getting light." The three started west, towards the docks along the bay. "I see you finally learned the whip," Rien said to Brice. "I finally convinced Deven to teach me...but I don't think he's seen the light of day since then. How was the castle?" "I doubt Morgan is involved in his brother's doings. Gerald even rotated some staff he didn't want involved with his activities to Quirin." "How did you get here then?" "I went back to the Abyssment to have a word with Jenye, the woman you thought was spying on me," Rien said. "She was. She sent me here." "She just up and told you?" "Not quite. I had to get tough." "You beat up a woman?" Kera asked. "Not in the Abyssment," Brice laughed. "Not that anyone would notice," Rien retorted. "I simply put a little fear of me into her. She was reasonably cooperative when she thought I could do more harm than the people she worked for." "I wasn't expecting you to show up," Brice said. "Nice to see you're still resourceful." "Was there anyone else that Roderick was holding?" "Not that I could tell. From his yapping on the ride over, this appears to be a market he hasn't had a chance to exploit yet. I hope this helps him make up his mind our way." Rien nodded. "Hope we can stop that ship." "How do you expect to stop it?" Kera asked. "When I snuck on board, I damaged some equipment. If they don't notice it when they put up the sails, one may tear when the rope snaps." "But what if they don't come back to repair it? Can't they do that out at sea?" "They could, but they shouldn't. I'm more concerned that they've all ready found the torn rope and replaced it. All we can do right now is hope it works out." "With any luck," Brice added, "those people will report their ordeal to the town guard soon. If not, we'll have to find some other way to get those guards on board." By this time they were walking along the docks, towards the pier where the ship was docked. "Where are you going after your rotation is up?" Rien asked Brice. He shrugged. "If nothing comes up, I thought I'd go by Magnus and then down south. It's getting too cold for my taste out here. And that reminds me, how was your swim?" A smile appeared on Rien's face. "I'm not paid nearly enough to do this three times in one night." As they walked on, he told of his adventures on the slaver ship and on the isle of Quirin. It was not long before they reached their destination. The ship was pushing off from the pier when it came into their sight and Kera suggested they watch from an empty pier near by. Watching from piers was something she did a lot of lately, she added souly. The ship maneuvered out to sea on oars alone. "Why aren't they raising sail?" Rien wondered aloud. "The tide is going out and the winds look favorable." "I think we lost this one," Brice said. "Best find out their destination and see if they can be stopped there." Rien nodded grimly. The ship was a good half league out, when a couple of sails on the fore mast were put up and then the ones in the rear. Rien held his breath in anticipation, wanting to see his plan work. A long minute later a few of the sails were snapped up by the wind and fell, dangling aimlessly in the breeze. Other sails started to be lowered one by one, when a cross beam on the mizzen mast tilted, fell to the deck and slipped off into the water, taking a few of the oars with it. A sheet of canvas remained dangling loosely over the starboard side. "I guess they're coming back now," Rien said, tension gone from his voice. "Just how much damage did you do?" Brice asked. Rien shrugged his shoulders. "I just weakened the rope. I don't know what they tangled it in." The following day Rien and Kera saw Deneen off. They got her passage on a barge going up to Port Sevlyn. The rest of the people captured by the slavers were taken off the ship by the town guard who appeared on the pier en masse soon after the crippled ship docked. The sailors surrendered peacefully after a few heated words with the troop lieutenant and were all taken into custody. Surprisingly, Isom was not on the ship and Rien never got close enough to the group to find out why. On the whole it did not matter. The slaver had lost his ship, his crew and his cargo. It would take him a long time to recover the loss, if he ever could, but somehow Rien felt that Lord Isom was not one to give up easily, if at all. "What do you think happened to him?" Kera asked Rien after Deneen waved for the last time. "Isom? I'd imagine he had a different way of getting to his destination or perhaps didn't need to go...I doubt we scared him out of business." "So what now?" Rien scanned the dock area. Everything appeared as it had the morning before. People rushed about on errands, ships were being unloaded on the piers and the customary drunks littered the sides of the walks along the buildings. "Looks like nothing here has changed," he sighed. "Not that it ever does. Is there anything you want to do?" "We were sight-seeing yesterday," Kera offered. They mounted their horses and started up river. "I suppose I can show you the Abyssment. It's given me countless hours of pleasure watching the drunks and the winos." "Really?" "No place like Sharks' Cove," Rien smiled. His expression suddenly became serious as he spotted a familiar face in the crowd. A young girl with auburn hair and amber eyes, that stood out at a distance, rode towards him on the horse he took to Dargon almost a year ago. Something inside him said `Eelail', but instead he raised his arm and shouted at the girl: "You! You stole my horse!" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Sons of Gateway ---- -- ------ Part 4: Marcus by Jon "Grimjack" Evans "This place is colder than death," Ne'on muttered, as he and Captain Bartholemew Clay walked the parapets above Gateway Keep. The moisture from their breath hung lightly in the air in front of them, before dissipating like small clouds on a hot summer day. Captain Clay clasped his black cloak tightly around his chest and looked at his lord in wonder. Ne'on refused to wear any- thing more than his white robes and golden belt, to which was strapped a fine silver dagger - of Galician origin, Clay guessed. Ne'on's entire left arm contrasted the rest of his clothes by its black dye, and the midnight black glove he wore on his hand. Ne'on's Black Arm, Bartholemew mused, and frowned for not having noticed it before. "Aren't you used to the weather by now, my lord?" Ne'on responded to the question with a confused gaze, and Clay reinforced his thought. "You have lived here all your life, have you not?" Captain Clay often wondered why his employer did not wear more protective clothing; for warmth alone, if for no other reason. "I'm more concerned with Marcus' knowledge, than my clothes, Captain. And my robes provide ample warmth to sustain life in my body, for now." Clay didn't remember having asked the question, but its being answered didn't surprise him. Ne'on had a habit of answering some questions before they were asked. Ne'on stopped by a fortification in the wall, and looked out over the partially frozen Laraka. His father had built Gateway like any other keep of the day; but, without enough funds, he made things considerably smaller. He thought his father had been a small man. "What does Marcus know about this 'High Mage', or whatever his title? What is there to know about him? Is he just a dealer in the arts? No;" he answered his own question, "otherwise, how would he have known of Qord?" "My lord, if I may," Clay began, and Ne'on turned to him with such a cold gaze he reached to gather more of his cloak about him. The cold air is increasingly bitter, he thought. "Please, my lord," Ne'on mocked, "what is it you wish to tell me?" Bartholemew felt no anger at his lord for this remark; he held no respect for titles of other men unless they were deserved. This thought warmed him, and gave him the strength to return Ne'on's stare. "As I was about to say, I spoke with Marcus concerning this 'Marcellon' yesterday." Upon hearing this, Ne'on's gaze became more attentive, his jaw a little less hard. Clay noticed the signs, and continued. "Not only is he an accomplished wizard, but his mind has powers no ordinary man can lay claim to. There's a word for it..." Bart's eyes scanned the sky, as if searching for his answer in the clouds above. "Psychic," Ne'on stated. "That could be a problem." Once again, his gaze fell onto the crystallizing river, the snow hanging over the banks as if grasping hold for life, the occasional rabbit darting out from a snow covered bush nearby. "Unless I blind him." Ne'on's spirits rose, and Bartholemew was almost afraid to ask what he meant. It is nothing new, he thought, merely a substitution for other, simpler, forms of sacrifice. Ne'on repeated this thought to himself continuously as he removed the rabbit from the small cage he had set in his private study. Rather than waste additional spell components which he could not spare - he was already using his only piece of crysthalum, which was hard to find, and harder still to polish correctly - he had to substitute the life energy of the small animal. The light of the bronze chandelier was all that lit the room his father had once filled with bows, swords, and trophies of the hunt. At least his use of the animal was for more than the sheer joy of killing. The small, pink nose twitched nervously, the ears flicked back and forth, as if the creature sensed its impending death. It struggled for freedom as Ne'on unsheathed his silver dagger and lay it down within the pentagram he had drawn on the floor. He felt himself cut off from the rest of the world as he sat within its bounds, as if his breath were being restrained, but he disregarded that as fancy, imagination. Taking from his pocket the small blue stone, he remembered how it had come from a larger slab he had found outside Qord's hut in the Nar-Enthruen. He had had to cut that stone many times, making sure the piece was shaped correctly, the edges not too sharp, before he finally came up with this piece. Strong enough to pass the magic, he thought, without shattering before the spell was completed. Opening the leather-bound tome he had acquired from the remainder of Qord's possessions, he turned to the appropriate page and began reciting a chant far older than the walls of Gateway; or any other castle in Baranur, for that matter. The stone glowed with a thick luminescence which expanded to form a small hemisphere, encircling the outer points of the pentagram. The spell was cast. All that remained was to expand it to the proper dimensions. Retrieving his dagger, he held the rabbit directly above the trans- mitter and slit its small throat, delicately and quickly. The blood poured freely over the gem-stone, and over the floor below, caking and drying almost instantly as the magic absorbed its energy. The blue hemisphere expanded rapidly, fading in proportion to its size, until it had completely surrounded the entire keep with a near-invisible aura. The Garthian Blind has been cast, and no spell or psychic probe will pass through, he thought. Unfortunately, this includes my own magic. Also unfortunate, he continued, looking down at the chrysthalum, is the loss of the component. I shall have to acquire another piece before I open the gate. A stone above the door to the room glowed faintly for a moment, until Ne'on acknowledged its signal. Stepping out of the pentagram, he took a deep breath and opened the door to greet whoever was outside the room. It was, he should have known, Captain Clay. "What is it?" Ne'on asked of his Captain as he turned from the door and walked backed to the table. He had some cleaning up to do, and there was little, he thought, that required his complete attention. He frowned lightly again when he saw the empty cage, and avoided it in his cleaning. "More men have arrived for service in the Black Arm, Lord Keeper." Clay cast his gaze lightly about the room, settling on the bloody rabbit. "Taking up fine cuisine?" "Don't be glib, Clay; it doesn't become you." Returning his tome to the table, he flipped through the pages as if searching for a spell. "Do you have anything of worth to tell me, or do you just like to play in my laboratory?" "You mentioned something of a desire to have a ceremony held for the new recruits..." Bartholemew looked at Ne'on, but received no confirmation. "I have planned the occasion, and wish to confirm its date." "Where did they come from?" Ne'on closed the tome and reached for the small decanter on the edge of the table. Lederian red wine is best at room temperature. "How do you know they are trust worthy? Would you like a glass," he offered, indicating the bottle. "No, thank you." Bartholemew never drank wine, the head it left him with was too slow to keep up with his normally fast paced line of work. "And," he continued, "we don't know we can trust them. Not all of them, in any case. I commissioned some acquaintances - five of them - to find me eight men each. We have fifty new recruits." Ne'on almost betrayed a sign of surprise, when he heard that. "From whence, then, came the other ten?" "It seems," Clay explained, "that the word is out. Your Black Arm is the elite guard, in Gateway. We have ten men from the populace, the oldest around forty five, and the youngest, seventeen. Our captains of the guard are beginning to worry about their status." "Tell them not to worry." Ne'on stroked his thin chin lightly with his left hand, as his gaze seemed to settle on the mountains to the east. "Let these be the last of the Black Arm. Let it further be known that if someone wishes to be a member of the Arm, he must challenge one of the existing members for their position." Ne'on smiled, having always believed in the survival of the fittest. His mental fitness, he thought, would allow him to survive for many hundreds of years. "And make sure the present members of the Arm receive the best training available. I want you to take a personal interest in it." "I hardly think that will be necessary," replied the captain. "The guards here are all specialists with the bow. I don't think they would know what to do with a good sword fighter, in close quarters." "Unfortunately for you," Ne'on riposted, "I don't pay you to think. Do as I say, and remember who put you where you are." Bartholemew remembered. He remembered well. "Yes, my lord." Flames burning, crisping, dying, red skull rising, dripping, bloodied, blackened, burned, hardened, hot, dark, blackness engulfing... he's coming... The crystal sphere glowed faintly, clouded, and revealed nothing. Marcellon stared at the ball, dissapointed. Could he have drained himself so completely, in this last week, his own powers were failing him? He had been taxed to some extent, he knew, when the head of Count Connall had arrived at court without the rest of his body; however, he should still be able to use the ball uninhibited. When the messenger had arrived from Gateway, two hours ago, he was relieved to be informed of Ne'on's capture. As he was reading it, however, the parchment seemed to burn in his hands, and he dropped it to the floor, to the confusion of the messenger. When Marcellon had looked at it again, it was whole. He dismissed it as stress, a fancy of his over-worked mind. Finally, when the messenger had left, he closed the door and saw the image of a white haired youth, rising out of a pit of flaming lava, fire dripping down off a red colored skull. He knew something was amiss in Gateway. He tried once more, concentrating on the dry parchment to give him a connection to the keep. Once more, the ball revealed nothing. Then he noticed it: the ball was glowing, he was making the connection. Fool! He was tired! Something was blocking his probe, making him believe he couldn't establish contact. The illusion works best that is not all illusion. Some type of blanking spell was cast on Gateway - probably a Blind. He tried harder, concentrating, this time, on the white haired head of the Winston child. The images came cloudy, but they were there: Ne'on Winston sat on the seat of Gateway Keep. But where was Goren? Ah, this image was sharper. Goren Winston lay in a huddle, barely conscious, in a dungeon cell. The purple-black color around his eyes and the swollen lips betrayed how the guards had treated him. Obviously, this situation demanded outside help. He let the images cloud, and fade. He frowned; with the war coming, he couldn't go to Gateway on his own. Jordan had died in the same camp as Qord, some months ago. His father was a mage of some worth, if he remembered correctly. What was his name... Marek? Marek would be hearing from the High Mage. ...reaching, opening, grasping, red liquid, sweet, glass, round, smooth, cold, biting, dropping, staring, pain, pang, hurt, hand on chest, he stares, accusing, despairing, questioning, shocked, alone... Marcus looked over the grey mermilons to the Vodyanoy river below the battlements. Where its brother, the Laraka, joined in its eastward flow, was an outcropping of rock, a ledge which overlooked the joining of the waters. On a rare day in Nober, one could see ice worms eating through the frozen waters to feast on the dead moss against the rock. The ice worms had plenty to feed on this year, he thought. Watching the giant water bucket lower from the top of the northern parapet to the cold waters, he looked about the outer perimeter of the keep, worried about a possible fire. Fires are the only reason they used the bucket, in times of peace, except to practice the drill. He was relieved when he saw no clouds of black smoke rising into the air. At least the Arm hadn't burned another cart in the market place. Since the Black Arm had been officially named the personal guard of the Keeper, several months ago, their reputation had not improved. In Nober, they had stopped paying for their drinks at the Riverside Tavern, the more prestigious of the two taverns in Gateway. When Marcus had brought this fact to light in Ne'on's presence, Ne'on decided that his men needed some fringe benefits, and decreed that the Arm would not have to pay for its drinks at the Tavern. This annoyed Marcus to no end; there was already a feeling of apathy between the regular guard and the Black Arm, and the tavern keeper was no lover of Winston blood, that day. One day, Marcus had all but seen one of its members burn down the cart of one of Gateway's merchants. The merchant tried to press charges, and Marcus was willing to give him his full support; but, Ne'on said no proof meant no sentence, and the merchant was forced to swallow his losses. That was one less merchant Gateway would see in the winter months, when supplies were low enough already. At last, Marcus seemed to find some respite. At the end of Deber, the first month of the new year, Ne'on had sent some fifty of his men to parts unknown. Ne'on claimed they were looking for a rock of some sort, a spell component for some all important plan he had. Marcus hoped Ne'on knew what he was doing. There was war in the air, Bichu or no Bichu, and he knew those slanty eyed foreigners would sail right down the Laraka, taking Magnus in one bloody day. With only nine members of the Black Arm left in Gateway, aside from that shifty eyed captain, Marcus thought he had little left to worry about, for the time being. When the others return, he thought, Rise'er's feast will begin anew. Marcus' silent thoughts were slowly interrupted as he heard the soft footfall of leather on stone. Looking up to his left, he spied a small man dressed in chain mail which was too large for his size, and a helmet which had to be pushed back so that the eyes behind it could see. The sword at the man's side dragged lightly against the ground, its length only slightly longer than the man's legs. Marcus wondered why the man didn't carry a short sword, instead, when he heard the cherubic voice of his son cry out from under the helmet, which had fallen back over the boys eyes. "Castellan Ridgewater, sir!" Thomas had been training for only three months now, and already he had begun to wear the armor of Gateway. Thomas stood as much at attention as he could, given the over sized armor he was wearing, and the weight of the blade at his side. He had originally been meant to start his training with a smaller blade; however, he knew his father used a broad sword, and he was determined to be his father's equal, as circumstances allowed. "Report, soldier," the Castellan replied, resulting in a bright smile from Thomas. "Request permission to speak freely, sir!" Marcus looked questioningly at his son. He thought he knew what was coming next: the other boys training in the guard were planning to spend a night in the forest to the south-west of Gateway, where they hoped to do some winter trapping. "Permission granted, Thomas." "I just came to tell you I'm dropping out of the regular training stuff." Marcus looked with great astonishment at his son, standing in front of him with his oversized attire. Then he noticed the Black Band on Thomas' left arm. "I just spoke with Lord Keeper Winston, and he says he needs to train young minds like myself for future pla... placements in the Black Arm!" The boy's enthusiasm scared Marcus; he had no idea what he was getting into. The steel reinforced doors burst open on the main hall, as Marcus strode through them with anger in his eyes. "Ne'on," he yelled at the top of his voice, his face red and his eyes bulging. Keeper or no Keeper, he had some explaining to do. No son of his was going to train for the Black Arm, he would make sure of that. "Ne'on," he cried, again. "What is it, Castellan Ridgewater?" Ne'on's smooth, carrying voice lilted through the room from behind a parchment he was reading. Not removing his gaze from the letter, he continued, "And, please, for the sake of formality, remember to address me in the proper tone, when we are in the reception hall." "To Rise'er with 'proper tone', Ne'on. What are you doing with my son?" Marcus stormed up the room, stopping directly in front of the Keeper. His fists were clenched in rage, and his sword ached to be wielded. "My lord Castellan," Ne'on began with a lackadaisical air, "you seem very upset. As far as Thomas is concerned, he is being personally trained by Captain Clay for private duty. I'm sure that, in a few months, he will be a fine addition to the Arm. I thought I might start up a youth program for keeping the urchins in line, what with the upcoming war. I offered to put him in charge, as their sargent, once he was properly trained." "My son," Marcus trembled, "is no pup to be trained under that dog, Clay. I do not want him in your children's group, and I will not have him joining any part of your Black Arm." Ne'on lowered the parchment he had been reading, and looked directly at the man in front of him. "He will be very sad to hear you are against his rising in the ranks, Castellan. However, I think you will find him working with me, in any case. He seemed quite exhilarated when I told him my plan." Marcus quickly grabbed the hilt of his sword, and took a step towards his lord. "Keep your distance, Castellan." The voice came from behind the door Marcus had bashed open when he entered the room. Marcus turned around, slowly, to see four men in silver chain and black tunics, all wielding short swords and pointing them at him. "Come now, gentlemen," Ne'on interposed. He rose from his seat and walked towards the men, a half smile of pleasure on his face. "There's no need for aggression. Marcus, my old friend," Ne'on placed his left arm over the Castellan's shoulders, "perhaps you need a rest. You've been through a lot, these past months, what with my father's untimely demise at my brother's hands. You haven't had a vacation in years, since your wife's unfortunate death during childbirth. Why don't you travel? Go on a hunting trip? Take some time off to get yourself together?" Ne'on started walking the man towards the door as he spoke to him, and now they were at the entrance to the hall. "How does that sound to you?" Ne'on's voice was smooth, and soft, and penetrated Marcus' anger easily. Marcus felt acquiescent as he listened to Ne'on's words. "Perhaps you're right, Lord Keeper." A confused look came over him. "I am tired. Very tired. Maybe I should take a small vacation." Ne'on began to smile, and Marcus continued. "I'll think about it. I'm terribly sorry for the mess I made..." "Do not worry, Marcus, old friend. I shall take care of everything." Ne'on gave a small pat on the Castellan's back, and Ridgewater exited the room considerably quieter than he entered. After Ne'on closed the door, he looked at his guards. "Starting tomorrow, Castellan Ridgewater is to be followed where ever he goes. I want a complete and detailed account of what he does, who he talks to, and how he handles each and every situation. He is an old man; it would be a terrible shame if he were to have an accident," he added to himself. ...hand grasping tight, taught, red, mad, tunic tearing, digging, flesh torn by fingers, dirty, brown, skin peeling, blood slowly dripping, reaching, lifting, pain, blood, death... The stone hallway echoed the sound of hard leather boots scraping against the floor. Marcus turned the corner and descended the spiral stone staircase, dug from the rock on which Gateway was founded, and muttered again that it was too small for a boy to climb through. Once Marcus had seen to his present problems, he would make sure the underground works of Gateway were properly renovated. At the bottom of the stair was a strong wooden door, a foot thick, which had no key holes, just large bars on either side, and a small window to speak through. Marcus rapped loudly on the door, and a dark face looked out from the other side. "Let me in, Kraig," he growled, and lifted the bar on his side. He heard the grunt of the small man behind the door, and pushed it open. "Good evenin', Castell'n, what brings ya round this time o' night?" Kraig's unshaven face, dark skin, and bleary eyes made him an unpleasant sight in the flickering orange torch light, and his own smell was almost comparable to the fetid aroma that filled the chamber. Marcus decided not to stay here any longer than necessary. "Ne'on's been changing every squirmin' thing else in Gateway, has he changed anything down here?" Marcus knew there was no change, but he wanted to make sure the other guards were still down here, as well. "Aye, the Lord Keeper's been busy, of late. But, there's still just the three o' us. Jess and Dalia are back in th' other room, sleepin'." "Wake them," Marcus commanded him, "and bring them here, quickly." When Kraig had left the room, Marcus unlocked the door which led to the pens, rows of cages only four feet high and four feet deep. The scum of the river were held there, as far as Marcus was concerned. Thieves, small-time pirates, murderers; they all found their way to this area of the dungeon, if the Castellan was able to catch them. He could think of a few men he'd like to see there, right now. Dalia, a tall, red-haired woman with brown eyes, and Jess, a dark- skinned man like his brother, Kraig, entered the room with the guard. "Here they are, Castell'n. What d'ya need o' us?" The three tired, run down, out of luck guards were at the bottom of the river, as far as their ability was concerned, which is why Ridgewater had assigned them this shift. Almost nothing could go wrong down here, where light of day and fresh air were as uncommon as good men. Marcus wasn't sure how he should handle his situation. The first half of his mission had been easy. He always took a ride around the perimeter of the keep before sunset, and dropping a packed bundle on the ice under the dock by the northern ford was as easy as catching rats in the kitchens. Now, however, he had to depend on the reliability and discretion of guards who had no reason to love him, and little reason not to betray him. The snow crunched softly under his boots, the wind bit lightly on his unshaven face. The cloak he had was warm, but when the sun had set completely in the west, he knew he had better have shelter and a warm fire. His body was in pain, his teeth bared, and his head on fire. Sliding down the gentle slope of snow and ice, he dug into the snow under the dock for the package Marcus had told him would be there. His lips accuse you, his eyes betray you, his soul is burning in Gil-Pazulirken. His bare hands digging into the soft snow, the cold creeping up his sleeves, he felt the harsh skin of a dead aelo wrapped with cord made from a horses tail. The cold dampness on his knees felt warmer as his skin numbed; he knew it was getting late. If he didn't find shelter soon, something away from Gateway and his treacherous brother, they wouldn't be finding him until the Mertz thaw. That's it, die; let go. Join your father in the feast of Rise'er. He'll be glad to eat the flesh from your bones, to revenge himself upon you, murderer. Opening the bundle, he gazed at what the castellan had left for him: a tinder box, a piece of curved glass, a chunk of salted meat, some dried fruit, six arrows, and his father's bow. He picked up this last item and tried to string it. How dare you? Kill your father and take his own possessions? Better to destroy them, than keep them for one such as you. Try as he might, he was too weak to bend the bow; he needed food and water, and rest. But where would he go? He knew the wind would bite deep and harsh, as soon as he stepped out from beneath the dock. How would he even manage a fire, and with what wood? Better you freeze here, beneath the dock your father built with his own hands, like the wolves on the other side of the river. At that thought, he looked across the water, about seventy feet at this spot, and saw the small pack of wolves huddling together where the dock rested against the embankment. Marcus hadn't chosen this spot randomly, he knew how the winds blew in Janis. Gathering the bundle together, he pushed up to the top of the slope, still under the dock, and dug away the snow, which was less deep, there. Removing the bow and arrows from the skin, he snapped the arrows in half, and piled them with some rotting wood from the underside of the dock. He would have to wait until the fire was started before he could burn the bow. Removing the tinderbox, he made the best use of the wood he possibly could, until the light of dawn should wake him. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright April 1991, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 4 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 2 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 4, Issue 2 06/03/91 Cir 1129 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Two Bits and a Silver II Michelle Brothers Sy 20, 1013 Blood on Oron's Crossroads Wendy Hennequin Naia 12, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Two Bits and a Sliver Part 2 by Michelle Brothers (b.c.k.a. Teran glared angrily down at the open gate of Dargon. Two months wasted on a wild goose chase and he was finally back where he started. The trail was probably cold by now; Eliowy wouldn't be foolish enough to stay in the city and that left Teran further behind her than he'd been the entire chase. He'd spend a fruitless two months searching for his charge up and down the road to Tench on the chance advice of a person on the street. The information--that the boy had seen someone answering Eliowy's description leaving by the main gate and heading towards Tench--had been completely wrong and Teran strongly suspected that it had been a plant, although where Eliowy had gotten the bribe money and the time to talk to the boy was a mystery. Dusk was deepening into night, so Teran kicked his horse into a trot so he could make it into the city before the gates closed. While Dargon did have a smaller, secondary entrance that remained accessible though the night, the graveyard watch asked too many questions for Teran's comfort. The gate loomed in the road and Teran urged his mount to a faster gait, eager to be off the road, it only for one night. He deserved a warm bed and good food before taking up his search again. As he drew closer, Teran could make out a figure on horseback, riding quickly down the main street, cloak streaming behind. The gate guards stepped hurriedly aside as the rider charged through the gates. Teran pulled the bay off the road. Horse and rider plunged past, and Teran caught a glimpse of bright auburn hair in the last of the light. Swallowing a shout, he pulled the bay around and sent him charging after. `This is getting to be a habit,' thought Eliowy in annoyance as she charged over the wet sands and towards the stairs leading up to Liriss' private pier. Behind her the sounds of combat rose soft as a whisper over the beat of the rising surf. The guards who dragged her here were being occupied by a lone man, who, for no reason that Eliowy could see, had come to her rescue. One of the guards was currently having a drink of seawater and the other two were learning the finer points of losing a sword fight. In an unoccupied corner of her mind, Eliowy was almost sorry that she couldn't stay and help get rid of Liriss' minions, but getting out of Dargon was much more important right now. She'd openly defied Liriss and her life wasn't worth the time it would take for him to kill her any more. She had until dawn; Liriss shouldn't learn of her escape until then. The stairs creaked loudly above the beat of the waves and the soft, tinkling clash of bladework. Slick with spray, the banister imparted a splinter to Eliowy as she tried to keep her balance in her hurried charge. Her arrival at the top of the stairs was ungraceful; she tripped on the topmost stair while looking back to see about pursuit. Loud footsteps on the pier sent Eliowy scrambling for the dubious cover of a small pile of shipping crates. A man, clad in chainmail, hurried past and down the stairs without sparing a glance to Eliowy's hiding place. Shouts echoed up the steep walk, followed by more of the tinny sounds of steel on steel. Creeping to the edge of the stairs, Eliowy could just see the pier guard engaging her rescuer in the gathering gloom. There was no sign of Liriss' thugs. The fight entered the water and Eliowy drew back from her vantage point. In a few short minutes the fight would be over and by then she'd have to be well away. Better start running. The question was, where to go. Liriss' connections within the city were so extensive that there was no place she could hide from him for long. Going to Tench was too obvious...hiking along the beach might be an idea... She slipped away from the boxes, mind working furiously on coming up with escape route that might be successful against a powerful mounted enemy. A soft, disgruntled whinny drew Eliowy to the one thing that had kept her in Dargon for so long. A horse lipped idley at the worn railing. For the first time since arriving in Dargon Eliowy felt in charge of her situation. `A quick stop at the house to get my stuff and I can be out of the city and Liriss' reach by dawn,' she thought as she pushed herself to her feet and advanced towards the animal. A faded blue horse blanket was secured to its back by a well worn saddle. Empty saddlebags hung on either side of the horse's rump and a crossbow with a quiver of quarrels dangled from a snaffle on the right side. "Good horse," said Eliowy softly, patting the horse's neck. Gratified by the attention, the animal nuzzled the top of the girl's head. Beneath them, under the pier, the sounds of combat could no longer be heard. "Good boy. I'm really sorry, but I need you more than your owner does, so be cooperative..." Eliowy swung into the saddle and with a clatter sent the animal careening down the pier. Dust was churned up and illuminated by the passing street lanterns and the last shreds of dusk sunlight. Buildings flashed past as Eliowy guided her mount through the main streets that were less familiar to her than Dargon's back pathways and alleys. Few people were abroad, even this early in the evening. The gang wars kept people indoors as sunset drew near because in the dark, it didn't matter whose side you were on. Fear made her tense and she gripped the leather reins in sweaty hands as she urged the horse into a full trot, wanting to be gone as quickly as possible. The brightly lit front and balcony of the house where Eliowy had been staying came into view. Pulling the horse to a stop beneath a sign depicting a blonde woman holding a sheet to her breast, she flung herself out of the saddle and hurried up the main steps. Warm colors decorated the main room where half a dozen women lounged on couches and chairs. Pastel drapes and exotic tapestries covered the walls and candles brightened the room. A welcoming chorus followed the girl up the main staircase. Eliowy had not had much contact with the dezins of the house she was staying in. She was usually out on the streets when they had free time and she'd been advised by the proprietress not to bother the women in the evening. Eliowy usually spent her nights practicing sword work in her room, limiting her contact with the women to quick `hello's, `goodbye's and compliments on some particularly pretty piece of frippery. She knew that her housemates were whores, but pretended not to notice and for their part, the prostitutes never asked why the girl didn't share their profession when she obviously lived in the house. Liriss had known that she wasn't practicing prostitution to provide him with his required fee, but said nothing, assuming that it would only be a matter of time before the girl couldn't make enough picking pockets to pay him and resorted to the better paying profession of lady for hire. Eliowy's room was at the end of the hall on the second floor and the heavy door swung partially shut as she ducked into its dubious sanctuary. Like the rest of the house, the room was lavishly decorated. Tapestries hung on the walls and a deep, double doored window with a window seat let in moonlight across from the main entrance. A large four poster bed dominated the left hand wall and a wooden wardrobe covered the right. Thick rugs hid the floor. Light was provided by a pair of lanterns placed on either side of the bed's headboard. The house's only servant always seemed to have them lit before Eliowy returned from her day on the streets and today was no exception. Warm yellow light pooled across the floor in a steady stream. Eliowy headed for the wardrobe first. Pulling open the doors, she grabbed her worn pack from the cupbord's bottom. From pegs she pulled her old travel clothes and threw them on the bed, followed by the new pieces that Liriss purchased for her. They might remind her of his foulness, but they'd keep her warm during her trek away from Dargon. Winter was just around the corner and leaving now as a sure way to get caught in the first autumn storms. After the last piece of clothing was pulled from the wardrobe, Eliowy went to the bed. From underneath the wooden frame she pulled out her sword and scabbard and flung it on top of her clothes. Digging a little yielded her harp. Well worn goldenwood glowed in the light and the strings, made of costly spun wire, glinted like bits of moonfire. Sadly, Eliowy stood and wrapped the instrument in her old cloak, placing it deep in the bottom of the pack. She'd had to sell the harp's case months ago for a little bit of coin that fed her for less than a week; true value of the case should have put her up in the best hotel for a month, but desperation and hunger led her to accept the first reasonable offer she came across. Guilt was still fresh and Eliowy was glad that her mother wasn't alive to hear her pitiful excuses. Clothes were piled on top of the instrument to give it added protection. She would detune the strings as soon as she was clear of the city to keep them from snapping in the cold; the cloak wouldn't be enough to protect it once full winter set in. She pulled the drawstrings of the pack tightly shut then buckled on her sword belt and spare dagger. The sword itself was drawn a second later at the sound of the door shutting completely. "Tilden!" Eliowy lowered the sword point at the sight of the hollow eyed ex-scout. "I told you to leave me alone." "You're not usually this late," commented Tilden, leaning against the door and surreptitiously engaging the lock. "And you rode in from the direction of the docks. What happened?" "Liriss tried to kill me," said Eliowy, surprised at how easily the words came out. And how willing she was to talk about it. The shock of nearly fulfilling the crimelord's death sentence hadn't quite worn off. "I was late again last night and he said...he said I needed to learn a lesson. He was going to...he tried to..." She choked on the last few words, the realization that he was going to use her finally sinking in. Tilden closed the gap between them and gently pulled the sword from Eliowy's limp hand. He put a comforting arm around her shoulders. Eliowy didn't notice. "I always carry a dagger," she continued, after a moment, staring blankly at the open wardrobe door and seeing again Liriss' enraged eyes glaring at her from across the room. "So when he grabbed me...I cut him..." Tilden bit his tongue to refrain from commenting on this foolish audacity. No employee, in all the years that the scout had worked for Liriss, had dared to pull a weapon on Dargon's crimelord, let alone take one to his flesh. That he hadn't outright killed the girl was surprising; that she was still alive at all to tell about the incident was a minor miracle. Tilden listened in fascination as she continued the tale, eyes staring blank and fearful at the door as she re-lived the incident. The wood paneling of the wall was smooth against her right palm, the looped wire grip of her knife warming slowly in her left. Light glinted off the blade's edge, staining the steel a dull, burnished orange. Despite the tremors running through her body, her weapon arm and dagger remained steady. "You'll never get away with this, Eliowy," said her target icily, large hand pressed firmly against the long cut on his chest. Though shallow, the wound dripped blood steadily and clashed with the rich gold of his shirt. "Don't bet on that," said Eliowy. She took the final step that brought her to the door. Fear, oozing out of her sub-conscious into her body, had not yet reached her mind and even as she shook in terror, she eyed the man calmly. As she glanced over her shoulder to locate the door handle, Liriss lunged for her, only to freeze again when she turned back to face him. "Just stay back," Eliowy warned, treatening with the bloodied knife. Pulling the door open, she sidestepped into the opening. "If you take one more step," she said as Liriss moved again, "I'll kill you." "I'll see that you die slowly and painfully for this!" "Not if you can't find me." Both knew this was no idle statement. Eliowy was very experienced at running and hiding and Liriss knew that if he couldn't get a tail on her immediately after she left him, she was as good as lost. The same skills that kept the town guard off her back and had kept her safe through months of running cross country would keep her from falling to Liriss' underlings. Eliowy stepped carefully backwards into the outer office. Liriss followed, eyes glittering angrily. His need to do something almost over-rode the threat her knife offered and, as Eliowy glanced behind herself to spot the outer door, he lunged for her. The knife opened a foot long slice in Liriss' gut as Eliowy brought the blade around to defend herself. With a bellowed cry of pain, the crimelord fell to his knees, gasping, arms clutching his stomach, trying to stop the blood. Little crimson trails crawled down the dagger and across Eliowy's hand to disappear into the embroidered cuff of her red tunic. She stared at her attacker for an instant, before turning and bolting. The door crashed back on its hinges just as Liriss collapsed to the floor. "I ran into Kesrin in the hall," added Eliowy into the pause that followed. Tilden said nothing, astounded that she'd been able to hurt his former boss so easily. "And he brought me back to Liriss' office. Liriss...wasn't in any condition to give orders so Kesrin sent for guards to take me down to the blocks..." Her voice trembled at the thought of how close she had come to dying in the rising tide. "You're lucky to be alive," said Tilden, squeezing her shoulders gently. "The guards let you go?" "No...some man rescued me. I...didn't think it wise to stay around and see if he won or not..." The image of the blonde haired man fighting with the two guards rose before her eyes again. He had won. He wouldn't have attacked the guards if he didn't think he had a chance. Which raised the question of why he had rescued her at all. Eliowy dismissed the question immediately. She didn't have time to worry about the reasons behind the fortuitous rescue. She had to take care of herself. If he survived the battle and she ever saw him again, she would thank him properly. But until then, there were more important things to worry about. Eliowy realized that Tilden's arm was wrapped possessively about her shoulders and glared at him. "I said that I didn't want to deal with you again, Tilden." she said, annoyance pushing aside her fear. She ducked under his arm to get away from him. "What Liriss did to you was terrible," continued the former scout, catching hold of her collar as Eliowy tried to duck away. "He deserved what you did to him. More than what you did. I asked for your help before and you said no. Now you have a reason. Help me to kill Liriss!" The wild, almost mad light that Eliowy was used to seeing in Tilden's eyes grew brighter. His sanity seemed to slip away as his need to kill the crimelord took over. He shook her as she stared at him. "Help me! You must help me kill him!" "Let go!" Eliowy tried to yank out of his grip and did nothing more than pull the cloth of her tunic tight around her throat. She grasped at her dagger. "If you won't help me willingly," threatened Tilden, pulling her close. "I'll just use you as bait. To lure that creeping slime to me. I don't need your cooperation. Just your body." Eliowy could feel his hot breath on her neck as she reached around and stabbed him in the arm with her knife. With a loud scream of surprised pain, Tilden jerked away. Eliowy slashed him across the throat as she turned to face him fully. Tiny red bubbles formed at the corner of Tilden's mouth. His hand reached towards his neck in confused surprise as he slid to his knees making no other sound. Eliowy stared at him in fascinated horror as he slumped to his side. She'd never dreamed when Teran first started teaching her bladework that she would ever be able to kill someone. Too many times on this paniced escape she'd proven herself wrong. Tears of regret and fear filled the girl's eyes and she started shaking again. Heavy pounding on the door brought her to her senses. "Eliowy? Is everything all right in there? Eliowy!" The voice of Madame Tillipanary rang faintly through the heavy wooden portal. "Open the door, Eliowy! What's happened?" "Oh, no..." Eliowy looked away from the door. Calm settled over her and she sheathed the knife after cleaning the point on the hem of Tilden's dirty shirt. She pulled on her cloak and pack, then stepped to the window. The pounding became more insistent. Eliowy pulled open the shutters of the double window. Stepping out onto the balcony, she knelt down and let herself carefully over the edge, leaving fingerprints, red from Tilden's blood, on the sill. Sergent Coressa DaVrice let her patrol down Layman Street, keeping eyes wide open for things in the alleys and shadows. Layman Street and the area around it within a quarter mile of the dock were not the best place to be caught daydreaming in. Her troop of six had drawn night duty for the last three weeks and the territory had steadily been getting worse as each week passed. They carried shields, heavy swords and wore full corslets in this part of town these days. It seemed that the local crimelord was consolidating his position and the gang warfare had been bitter recently. The upper eschelons of the town guard were even sure who was behind the trouble, but they couldn't prove anything, so the street fighting continued. Except where the guard could stop it. "This is absolutely the last time I put the companies duty up as stake in a card game and win!" DaVrice muttered to herself as they passed in front of the most profitable brothel in town. A horse in full riding gear was tethered out front. This struck Coressa as odd because the _Lucky Lady_ also had one of the better stables in the area and client's transportation usually received the same good treatment as the client themselves. She was about to comment on this to her second when he stepped up beside her. "Um...Sergent?" "Yes, Caisy?" He was supposed to be guarding the rear and shouldn't have come forward without orders. Not that she minded much, but if the Lieutenant should happen by... "Looks like there's someone hanging from the second story window of the _Lady_," Caisy informed her, pointing. Sure enough, when DaVrice looked, there was a slender shadow dangling over the balcony's edge. "You there!" she called, motioning the three of the four guards directly behind her to get underneath the window. "Stay where you are!" Who would be leaving the _Lucky Lady_ by anything but the front door, DaVrice wondered as she led the rest of the patrol through the invitingly cracked door. Not a thief. The _Lady_ hadn't been robbed since it opened ten years ago, despite the amount of wealth rumored to be held inside. It couldn't be a `client' either--if one started harassing the employees he left by the front door, usually with a new set of bruises. The _Lady_ was strict about screening visitors. The cloaked form resolved itself into a slender female in the light of the soldier's lantern as they clustered beneath the balcony. She let go at the same time as the sound of splintering wood echoed down the nearly deserted street. A scream from inside marked the person landing on the nearest guard. They both tumbled to the ground in an untidy heap. Eliowy rolled free of the unconscious guard's body as one of his companions grabbed for her. She dodged the ill-timed snatch and ploughed into the other one, shoving him aside. He stumbled and fell over his fallen partner, while the first one made another grab for the girl. She just missed catching ahold of the trailing cloak as Eliowy ran for her stolen horse. Grabbing the reins, she was missed again as she swung into the saddle. Curses erupted and the guard made a try for the bridle. Eliowy ran her down, goading the horse into a trot, then a canter, and finally a dead run. Whistles and more shouts caught on the wind and followed her as she headed towards Main Street. "...scream so naturally I rushed right up," Madame Tillipanary was saying when Kalen Darklen arrived on the second floor of the _Lucky Lady_. Her well manicured fingers clasped and unclasped nervously in her pale green wrap. "The door was locked and when I knocked and called, there was no answer." "So you had one of your bouncers break the door in," Sergent DaVrice said. She inclined her head to Kalen as he stepped up beside her, but kept her attention focused on the woman before her. "Bernail, yes. The safety of both my girls and my clients is of great importance to me, you understand." Madame Tillipanary looked from the guard sergent to the lieutenant earnestly. "Anyway, HE was lying on the floor when we got in. And the windows were open." "We arrived upstairs a minute after he took the door out," DaVrice directed the comment to Kalen. "Just about the time our prime suspect jumped. Roji, Paone, and Liat let her escape. I sent them to try and warn the gate guards," she added at Kalen's frown. "Tell me about our suspect," said Kalen, folding his arms. He was easy-going, but letting a possible murderer slip right through your fingers was one good way to make him angry. "Female, sir, but that's as far as I got. Madame?" DaVrice and Kalen turned their attention back to Tillipanary. The sheet clad woman who had been whispering to her stepped hastily back and the madame's expression abruptly smoothed. "The child's name is Eliowy K'rill," Tillipanary said. "She's not one of my girls. A friend of mine asked me to keep an eye on her, so I gave her one of my empty rooms." Kalen glanced at DaVrice. Both could guess who the woman's "friend" was and why he wanted the girl looked after at a brothel. "She's not very tall," the madame continued, not seeming to notice the exchange of glances. "She was pretty, but not a great beauty. Fair, oval face, auburn hair and curious golden eyes." Kalen gave the woman a startled look. "Are you sure about that?" he demanded. "The eyes and the hair?" "Yes, Lieutenant, I'm sure," said Tillipanary, puzzled. Under the questioning look she studied the guard closely. "She was always such a nice, polite child. She didn't seem capable of this..." She gestured vaguely at Tilden's sheet shrouded body. "Be that as it may," muttered Kalen. "Sergent, organize another squad of six. Search the city for this Eliowy K'rill and inform the other patrols to keep an active look out. Suspicion of theft and murder." "Yes, sir!" DaVrice saluted crisply and led the remnant of her squad down the carpeted stairs. "Only suspicion...?" Madame Tillipanary's voice trailed off questioningly as the guards disappeared from sight. "There is always the possibility that this was self-defense," said Kalen neutrally. One time luck, two times coincidance, three times a charge. Kalen didn't think this incident was just a coincidance. Red hair was rare enough along the coasts to be notable. And those eyes... "Until I have a chance to question the girl, we can't be positive. If you think of anything else, Madam, please report it to the Guard." "Of course, Lieutenant," said Madame Tillipanary agreeably. "I'm sure that you'll want to investigate further, and there is the matter of the body," the woman averted her painted eyes. "So I'll have his hallway closed off. It's accessible by the back stairs. If you would please use those, I would greatly appreciate it. To avoid the customers, you understand." "Of course," said Kalen dryly. "I'll have someone come to deal with the body tonight. Good evening." The last thing Kalen saw as he left the room was the same sheet clad prostitute whispering frantically in her madame's ear and the look of pleased speculation on Tillipanary's face. Madame Tillipanary hurried through the chill autumn night, wind pulling at her heavily embroidered cloak. She kept one hand on the dagger belted around her waist, in case one of the punks thought she might be a target. With the gang wars in full swing, being Liriss' employee was no longer a guarantee of safe passage along the night streets. She arrived at the steps of Liriss' town house without incident. Two personal guards, older men who had been with the crimelord almost as long as Tillipanary herself, nodded to her as she hurried up the stairs and pulled open the door. Of all the people who worked for Liriss, the madame was the only one besides his lieutenant who was permitted access to him at any time. A gust of wind pushed the woman inside and set the expensive beeswax candles dancing in their suspended chandelier. Shadows capered around the sparsely furnished room, hiding doors to the left and right. A staircase crawled up the far wall. Her delicate slippers made no sound on the hardwood floor as Tillipanary made her way towards the stairs. Picking up her disaphorus skirts, she started up the steep walk, only to be stopped on the landing by Kesrin, Liriss' lieutenant. "May I help you, madam?" he inquired politely, blocking her way to the second floor. Sharp hazel eyes studied the woman out of a neutral expression. "I must speak to Lord Liriss immediately," declared Tillipanary. She'd considered Kesrin a nuisance since the day he'd risen to prominence from obscurity eight years ago and she'd never bothered to hide the fact. She was certain that his careful, precise manners hid something and it frustrated the madame that she hadn't yet been able to figure out what. "Get out of my way, Kesrin. This can't wait." She tried to step past him again only to have him interfear once more. "Lord Liriss isn't seeing anyone this evening, madame," said Kesrin firmly, catching the woman's elbow. "You can tell me, if it is so important and I'll see to it that my Lord hears of it." "Let me go," Tillipanary ordered coldly. "I'll tell Liriss and no one else." "He's not seeing anyone this evening," Kesrin repeated, tightening his grip on her arm when she tried to pull away. "He'll see me." "He's indisposed." "Don't feed me that line," snapped Tillipanary. "He takes his girls in his office, not his home. And if you do not let go of me this instant--" "My Lord Mardos." A new voice rolled through the argument, followed by a tall, slender man in well cared for physician's robes. "Lord Liriss is resting comfortably. I've bandaged the wounds and left a jar of medicine for the pain by his bed. Mix a spoonful with water or wine if he needs it. And don't let him up until the end of next week, at least." The spate of instructions preceded him down the stairs as he joined them on the landing. "My Lady." He nodded politely to Tillipanary. "Thank you, Doctor," said Kesrin calmly, while beside him the madame paled. "Your fee will be delivered to you in the morning." The doctor bowed. "Then I bid you good evening, my Lord, my Lady," and he swept down the stairs. Tillipanary waited until the door boomed shut before turning on Kesrin. "What in the name of the Red Garter of Randiriel is going on!" "Lord Liriss was attacked this evening," said Kesrin after considering the slender woman for a long moment. "By the girl he sent to stay with you." "Eliowy," breathed the madame. She shook off the chill feeling of dread and explained softly; "She killed Tilden tonight just after sundown. The City Guard got involved..." "That's not possible!" Kesrin burst out, his unflappable poise cracking for once. "I sent her to the blocks tonight. Just BEFORE sundown. She's supposed to be dead!" "Well she's not!" Tillipanary hissed, her expression going cold. "You'd better plan on doing something about your lapse, Kesrin. Lord Liriss will not be pleased to hear that she's escaped." Despite her concern about Liriss, the madame spared enough emotion to feel pleased that her hated rival was in a very dangerous situation. "I will deal with it," responded Kesrin just as coldly, his poised manners and neutral expression back in place. "Thank you for bringing me this information. I'll mention to Lord Liriss that you dropped by." "I appreciate that," Tillipanary said, voice too sweet. "I'll drop by tomorrow to see Liriss. He'd best be alive tomorrow." She pulled away from Kesrin and made her way back down the steps, solitiously accompanied by the lieutenant. `Of course Liriss will be alive tomorrow,' he thought, escorting the madame to the door. Despite all the years of planning, it was still too soon to move and until the time was right, he had a part to play. As Tillipanary disappeared into the blowy autumn night, Kesrin turned to one of the door guards. "Find me the assassin, Kendall," he ordered. "And I want him here yesterday." Pale, early morning sunlight gilded the grass and leaves and reflected in bright sparkles from the stream beside the road. A cloud of dust settled gently back to the ground, eddying in mini-whirlwinds as Eliowy led her horse towards the thick trickle of water. Sweat dribbled down the beast's coat, cutting narrow tracks in the foam. "Sorry, boy," she said softly, patting the horse's shoulder as he wearily bent his head to drink. "But we needed to put lots of distance between us and Dargon." The horse didn't react, greedily filling his stomach with the cold water. Eliowy scratched his ears, wondering if the creature's original owner had survived the pier-side fight. In a way she hoped he had. Someone that kind didn't deserve to die in a battle with cutthroats. But at the same time, she hoped he hadn't. Someone that kind also didn't deserve to have his mount stolen. "As soon as you're rested," she added, "we're leaving. We're still too close to the city for comfort." She pulled the horse away from the water so he wouldn't drink himself sick, and tied him to a nearby bush so that he could browse. After quenching her own thirst, she settled by the stream's edge, planning to rest until the horse had eaten enough to continue on. Good, paranoid intentions fell by the wayside as weariness combined with the unusually warm autumn sun caught up with Eliowy and she drifted off into much needed sleep. A shadow across her face, blocking the sun's heat brought Eliowy abruptly out of an uneasy doze. She opened her eyes and had her bleary sight filled by a horse's nose. "How did you get loose," she mumbled, sitting up and reaching for the reins. She froze, seeing someone else's hands on the smooth straps. "Oh no..." "Good afternoon, Eliowy," Teran said quietly, sitting stiffly in the saddle. The bay twitched its ears restlessly. The blue of his tunic matched the rich blue of the sky and Eliowy found her attention caught by the embroidery at its neck; tracing the interlocking patterns with her vision meant she didn't have to meet her teacher's azure-blue gaze. She climbed to her feet, eyes still fixed on Teran's throat. "Good afternoon to you," responded the girl, more out of habit than politeness. She backed up a step, towards where her horse was tethered. Teran didn't move. She took another step back and still the man didn't shift. Eliowy took one more step, turned to bolt for her horse and froze. It wasn't there. She whirled back to face Teran, eyes wild. His expression hadn't altered. With casual deliberance he swung out of the saddle to the ground. Eliowy twitched, but stood her ground. There was no way to escape; she couldn't out-run him and she wouldn't return home with him. Fear crawled into her throat, drying it instantly, leaving behind the bitter taste of panic. The desire to be left alone overwhelmed her. A hand crept to the hilt of her sword. The sword that was a gift from the same man she contemplated using it on. Something caught her back before she could do more than bare an inch of the blade. Perhaps the memory of the man beating her around the practice yard or of him giving her the blade on her last birthday penetrated her paniced mind. Either way, she allowed the sword to slide back into its sheath. And still Teran did not move. Eliowy didn't pause long enough to wonder why he'd done nothing. Cloak swirling in a self-created wind, she turned to run. She made it away only so far as the edge of the stream before Teran caught her by the trailing cloak. And found the cloth loose in his hands when Eliowy pulled the clasp open. He reached again and grabbed the girl's collar, pulling her close before she could slip out of that too. Eliowy's tiny wrists nearly disappeared in the blonde man's grip and she tugged uselessly against his strength. Fury penetrated her panic and she slammed her heel down on his foot, hard. Teran grunted in pain, drawing his leg back, but did not loosen his grip. A second later he thrust her away from him when she bit him in the wrist. "You're not taking me back," Eliowy informed him firmly, suddenly calm. Amber eyes blazed like a torch, at odds with the level declaration. This time the sword did clear the sheath, glinting with the same fire that burned in her eyes. "I refuse to go. Just leave me alone." "Eliowy, we need to talk," said Teran quietly, gaze flickering between her face and the sword. "But not with blades. Put it away." "As soon as you go," Eliowy replied, slipping into a guard position. The leather wrapped hilt felt warm in the palm of her hand and as she extended the blade, sparks seemed to glint on its edge. Teran drew up short. His eyes narrowed as he studied the girl. Then he nodded sharply. "So be it, then." And he drew his own weapon, matching Eliowy's stance almost exactly. Surprise flickered though Eliowy's eyes, but she didn't hesitate when he came at her. The parry was automatic and strong. As their blades connected the crash echoed through the air, followed by a gentle whoosh and a white hot explosion. The force blew the combatants away from one another and withered the grass into crumbling grey ash around them. A shocked silence spread away from the stream on the summer-hot wind that followed the blast. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Blood on Oron's Crossroads 12 Naia, 1014 by Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a. I. Martis Westbrook, Knight Captain of the Southern Marche I wasn't sure what happened. No--I knew--I *saw*--but even as the Beinison army thundered into our ranks and the troops of Houses Bivar and Redcrosse and Othuldane and Equiville fell like heavy hail, I could not believe. I gave the order to retreat. I gave the order to *retreat*! "Fall back!" Caedmon, beside me, shouted. I heard him--he stood not yard from me, defending me as I stood stock still in shock. No one else heard. "Fall back!" "Sound retreat again!" I screamed at the bugler and the drummer. "Retreat!" I moved my sword arm and prepared to defend myself again as I watched--I stared--as the Fist of the Emperor and with its incredible Cavalry demolished the House troops. The idiots *charged*. They actually charged! I gave the order to retreat. What did they hope to gain by sailing headlong into the Emperor's strongest troops? They knew we were outnumbered and that the best we had to gain today was a stalemate and escape. Why did they charge? Next to me, the bugler played the notes of retreat once more; I heard other buglers throughout the army picking up the music and repeating the call. But retreating was no longer enough; I had to stop the Beinson charge. "Order the Assault Brigade and the Archers forward," I shouted. What I was doing was horrible; the Archers could hardly last ten minutes against the Fist of the Emperor. Beside me, Caedmon's sword flashed and rang. I should have married him this morning. "One of us may die today," Caedmon had said softly, touching my mouse- brown hair. Looking at the Beinison Knight coming towards me, I thought Caedmon had been right. He was a big man, six feet, broad, and his armor heavy. I lunged forward without waiting. Unexpectedly, my sword sliced through a weak spot in his armor and he fell. "So much for Beinison armor!" Caedmon called gleefully as he dispatched his opponent. Blood spattered his Knight's chain as he removed his sword from the corpse. "Let's get out of her, Martis." But I couldn't move. I saw the men of House Othuldane, House Redcrosse, and House Bivar being slaughtered like pigs in their stupid charge, and the Fist of the Emperor pounded the Archers like wheat in a hurricane. The Assault Brigade fought, bleeding and dying. In a moment, Beinison would overrun us all. "Martis!" Caedmon screamed, and the retreat sounded again on drum and horn. The ranks behind me were in chaos; men and women ran screaming into the hills behind Oron's Crossroads or the woods beside us. I could see part of the Fist chasing them into the woods and hear the screams of the Rangers as they fell. The only piece of sanity on the field was the incoherent voice of Lord Kinseley--praise Stevene there were *some* loyal commanders left to me-- rallying the House Troops. "Dear God," I whispered. "Cephas Stevene, save us." The Fist kept coming and coming. The troops were done for. Good God. I had lost--lost! Those damn fools! Their charge was killing them--killing us! The Fist poured over them like heavy rain, and I watched as blood splattered on the new grass and brains spilled out of heads. The shouts deafened me; I knew that the drums and horns were sounding retreat, but I couldn't hear, I couldn't move, I almost couldn't see. "Martis!" Caedmon screamed. Oh, God, I loved him, and I knew I would never see him tomorrow. One of us was going to die. "Martis, let's go!" A fine Knight would I be, a fine Knight Captain, to be running from the field while the Fist of the Emperor pounded my troops and slaughtered them like pigs. But Caedmon was right; we had to leave. It would be enough for the King to loose these troops today; he didn't need to loose the Knight Captain, too. So I moved, finally. I took my sword and turned with Caedmon toward the woods. We would have to go through them, back to Westbrook. Perhaps we could regroup and stop this madness... Perhaps we could, with more troops--troops who followed orders! Two of the soldiers of the Fist stepped between Caedmon and me and the woods. My sword flashed; Caedmon raised his blade. I struck, and the blow rang like thunder. But he was quick, both hands holding weapons, and it was all I could do to keep his blows from raining on me. I twisted and threw a blow from my waist and hip and arm, as Sir Edward had taught me. It contacted, shocking my arm, but the blow glanced off his armor. "Damn!" I muttered. I heard Caedmon exchanging blows with the other one, and I could hear him grunting. Caedmon, forgive me. I should have married you this morning. The man before me raised his arms to strike again. I could hear the chaos behind me, and I cried internally for those dying, but I could not turn and watch the horror. I stepped forward instead and jammed my shield against Fist-soldier's right arm. I pushed my armored knee against his groin. He stumbled; I lunged; he died. "Caedmon!" I cried. He was still fighting, and I regretted my weakness. Good God, don't let me distract him. God, save him. Save me. Save us all. The man was bigger than Caedmon; he was huge. *All* the soldiers in the Fist of the Emperor seemed huge. Beinison was huge. God, how could we keep them out of Baranur? No one has ever defeated the Beinison Empire. I stepped forward to help Caedmon. We had to defeat this man; we had to leave, flee to the woods and then to Pyridain. Somehow--how? I didn't know; I only knew I had to leave. Oh, Caedmon! There was suddenly a Knight of the Star ahead of me--a giant, hulking man, left handed. Caedmon cried out as a blow rang on his helm. I couldn't look to see if he was hurt; the Knight of the Star charged me. I raised my shield. His first blow nearly felled me by its sheer force. I staggered and shook my head to clear it. Oh, God, I was a dead woman. Yes, the dead woman who led the troops to slaughter (I could hear them now: If only we had a *man* to lead them!), who ruined Baranur. The bards would destroy me nightly. But the Knight waited patiently for me to recover. When I rose, I saluted him for his courtesy and his honor. Not every Knight practices his chivalry on the battlefield. He raised his sword, his strong left hand against my strong right. We charged. Our shields collided like two strong ships; I shuddered from the impact. My sword sailed high over his, aimed at his head-- I screamed as his steel sword tore through my upper arm. Something made a horrible, ugly, grating noise. My shoulder wrenched; the pain convinced me that my arm had left its place in my shoulder. I stumbled, slipped on the bloody grass, and fell, the Knight's sword still gone through my arm beside the bone. I couldn't move my arm. I couldn't move my arm! Oh, God, I'll never fight again! Then I realized that death--at best--was staring me straight in the eyes and I was foolish enough to be mourning a wounded arm. "Forgive me, lady," the giant rumbled, stepping closer. He pulled the sword from me smoothly, but the pain increased, and my blood gushed from my arm and reddened the scarlet ground. "We have been ordered to take no prisoners." The Knight of the Star raised his sword. "Caedmon!" I cried. I should have married him this morning. The Knight of the Star fell. Caedmon grabbed me with his right arm, and with his left, he retrieved his sword from the neck of the giant Knight. "And don't you dare lecture me," Caedmon snapped, pulling me roughly toward the woods. "I know it was unchivalrous." I shivered within my armor; my sweat was cold. Lecture him? I was so relieved I couldn't speak. "Caedmon," I whispered weakly. I was still bleeding. My God, I'll never make it out of these woods alive. "Go. Run." I tripped on a protruding root. "I'll never make it. Save yourself." I could see his blue eyes beneath his helm, and they were angry. "I didn't betray my Knightly code to leave you to die," he retorted. "I won't leave you to die, love." I loved him too, with all my heart. "I can't hold you back." "Stop talking nonsense and run!" I stumbled along, Caedmon half pulling me. My blood pounded in my ears; the trees flew by in a blur. I staggered over the bodies of dead rangers; the Fist was in the woods, slaying archers like helpless birds. I heard other people running, crashing into the woods, hurricane winds driven by the Fist of the Emperor. My foot was yanked, and my face suddenly hit the ground. My arm throbbed protest at the abrupt jolt, and I bled. Caedmon was pulling me upright. Dazed, I sat. "Your foot's caught," Caedmon informed me. I looked dully; I felt exhausted. But he was right; my steel boot was pinned beneath a root. Weakly, I tried to remove it; then, using my one good arm hindered by my shield, I pulled. My foot would not budge. How marvelous. First, a paralyzed sword arm to keep me from fighting, and now a paralyzed foot to keep me from fleeing. I was dead. The Fist was coming. Caedmon raised his sword. He was going to kill me. "Stop!" a voice behind him cried. Caedmon whirled; I looked past him at another Knight of the Star. He wore a blue tunic over his plate armor, and at his belt hung a silver horn. He advanced. Caedmon looked back at me, then again at the Knight of the Star. "Sir," Caedmon said, "will you give me single combat?" "I will," the man answered, his voice strong. Caedmon went forward, his sword drawn. He struck the first blow. I should have married him this morning. II. Lawrence Fanez of the Silver Horn, Knight of the Star I was, I confess, a little sorry when the Baranurian line broke. I am a loyal man; I have given my vow to the Emperor, and I fight here for his victory. Still, I hate to see another Knight so defeated, for the Knight Captain of Baranur had commanded wisely and had only lost by the treason of her own troops. "Charge!" Untar bellowed at the Fist of the Emperor. He has a loud voice for one so young. Beside him, the Fist screamed their victory call, and Mon-Taerleor began chanting. I seethed. "Your majesty," I begged, cutting my way forward, "let the High Mage stop his spells. We are winning; we do not need them." For once, the young Emperor saw my reason. "Yes, stop," he commanded Mon-Taerleor, and the chanting ceased. Although he stood behind me, I could feel the wizard's gaze burning into me. Let him gaze. Let him be angered and chagrined. It is little enough after what he has done. "They're going into the woods!" the Knight Commander called. "Your majesty, shall we follow?" I stopped my butchering. Yes, butchering, for the Baranurian troops were helpless. I looked; my uncle, the Knight Commander, nodded at me in approval as I waited for the Emperor's order. Gow, let us give chase, I prayed. This slaughter is not honorable. My Lord, let me have a Knight's combat this day. "Yes, Sir Horace, follow," the Emperor decided. I saluted him gratefully; I was ill with fighting a war on Amante's terms, and gladly I ran to the woods. "Sir Lawrence!" the Emperor stopped me. I slid on the blood, but paused. When I looked at him, he ordered, "Take no prisoners!" He looked at mine uncle. "No prisoners! Sir Horace, no prisoners!" The buglers picked up the call: give chase, and take no prisoners. I sprinted into the woods. Archers littered the ground like storm-torn leaves. I stepped around them, leapt over them, looking for my battle. May Gow grant me battle, a Knight's battle. I am weary of the Masked God's slaughter. The noise in the woods was deafening, like the cries of my own brain. I ran, not knowing whom I sought, trusting Gow to lead me to honorable victory. The moon was rising over the trees. The moon, My Lady Alanna's jewel, given her by Gow: I will let My Lady lead me. I fight for her now, now that Liadan is dead. Yes, Alanna is My Lady; her I will follow. So I ran eastward, listening. A branch crashed in front of me; I sprinted. I heard a man speaking in Baranurian, but the words were muffled. I entered a clearing. His sword was above his head, ready to slay a helpless Knight whose foot was trapped. That I would not allow, be he Baranurian or Beinisonian. "Stop!" I cried in Beinison, and then in Baranurian. The man turned. He was a Baranurian; he wore no Star on his chain. The helpless one twisted to see me too, but could not move much because of the trapped foot and the horrible wound in the right arm. The mobile Knight looked at the caught one, then at me. "Sir," he asked politely, and I admired his courage and courtesy in speaking to me at all, "will you give me single combat?" A Knight's battle! Gow guide my arm. "I will," I answered gladly, and I stepped forward to meet him. I allowed him, out of courtesy, to strike the first blow; I knew that he would be tired. The blow hit my shield, rattling me without pain. I struck back, but he deflected my blow with blade and shield. I struck again, but missed when the other Knight moved. He stumbled on a dead archer and fell. I paused for him to rise; I will not strike a fallen man. The Baranurian looked up at me with eyes as blue as mine own and nodded his thanks for my gesture. I switched my father's blade to my left hand and offered the Knight assistance. He took the hand and rose. "I ask a boon," the Knight said softly. "What do you wish?" I wondered. What boon could I grant an enemy? How, will all loyalty to the Emperor and all honor to my country, could I grant this man a boon? "I ask that if I am defeated that you kill me, and quickly," the Knight asked softly. He looked back at the wounded one. "I have heard what the Beinisonians do to prisoners." "Have no fear, sir," I answered him in his own language. "I have been ordered not to take anyone prisoner." "Then have at you!" he cried, attacking. I sidestepped, and the blow rang on my arm, stinging me below my armor. I felt the dent press into my muscle; I would have a bruise there tomorrow if I lived so long. I readjusted my shield with a shake of my elbow and whirled my sword above my head. The other Knight caught it and pushed it away. I smiled. An honorable, skillful enemy whom I could fight like a man and not slaughter like a beast. Gow be praised and thanked that if I were to kill or to die, I should do so as a Knight and not a butcher. I struck my blow still smiling. His armor sang with my soul in the joy of the fight. His blade danced forward at mine helm, and I ducked and hit his leg in recompense. He withdrew his hand to ready it; I lunged forward but pierced only his quick shield. "I hold," the Knight said. He held his shield toward me, and I reached for the blade and withdrew it. "I thank you." Then I struck. The blow thundered in the suddenly quiet forest. His blade on my shield sounded like drums. We were dancing again, and the battle sang in our blood. His blows fell like hard hail; I fought without thinking. My sword struck his arm, his helm, his chest, his leg. He battled me valiantly and struck me back. He raised his blow to counter my high-flying sword; I flicked my wrist, and the blade hit the back of his helm. The Knight tried to hit me, but his sword slid down my shield like melting snow. I pushed it away and thrusted. A woman suddenly screamed--the other Knight was a woman!--and I knew the sound--the cry my heart had made when Liadan lay dying in mine arms--and I suddenly knew what I had done. My blood ran cold. I killed her beloved before her. I had committed the crime of the man I most hated, the one who plunged a dagger into Liadan's back, who murdered her in her wedding gown, who served the Emperor as High Mage and was immune to all justice-- I was hateful in mine own eyes. Slowly, I turned, and I was shaking in mine armor at the horror of it all. She--the other Knight--good Gow, the Knight Captain!--spat curses at me as I approached. I did not blame her, nor do I now. Have I not cursed Mon-Taerleor in such a way? Her foot was caught beneath a root, and now I understood why the man had raised his sword: to cut the wood and free the foot. The Knight Captain stared defiantly at me as I lifted my sword and let it fall. She scrambled to her feet and faced me belligerently. Her arm bled like a flood. I knew she could not fight me. "Go," I said. Hazel-green eyes stared out at me angrily. "Do you know who I am?" "I know, Dame Captain." I took the horn off my belt and thought of healing potions. The silver horn immediately filled with one. I handed it to her. "Drink; it will help you." The Knight Captain fearlessly downed the potion and flung the horn back toward me. It bounced on the gory moss, and as much as my heart tore to see Liadan's gift so carelessly handled, I did not move, but stared only at the Knight Captain steadily. Her hazel eyes glared like enraged fire. "Why didn't you kill me?" she demanded. I blinked, shocked. "I will not slay a wounded enemy." I looked at her arm; the potion was already helping to heal it, and it had ceased bleeding. "You are too hurt to fight adequately; I cannot, in all honor, combat you." "And yet you tell me to go," she seethed furiously, her words dripping like poison from a wounded adder's tooth. "You will not even capture me?" Suddenly, I smiled, vindicated. "Yea, Dame Captain, go," I invited, almost ready to laugh. "I have been ordered to take no prisoners." Something in her broke; her eyes were no longer jewel-hard. I heard a sob catch in her throat, and she turned suddenly and ran. "Gow guide your arm next time," I wished softly, "and Sanar walk with you." I turned to go. I looked toward the dead Knight whom I had killed; I had no more wish to fight today. He had died quickly, as he had wished. I stooped to close his eyes, then pulled back as I saw the moon glow in them. I knelt, put my blade before me, and rested my helm on its hilt. "To you, My Lady of the Night, I dedicate my deeds of arms and honor. Grant me your blessing to act, with My Lord your husband, as your Knight." I fell silent after the ritual prayer, and said one from mine heart. "I give you also, My Lady, my deed of mercy, and beseech mercy of My Lord Gow that her vengeance fall not hard upon me, for I knew not he was her lover." But let my hand fall hard on Mon-Taerleor for murdering mine! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ****** **** ** ** ** **** ** ** ** **** **** ** ** ** ***** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ***** ** ** *** **** ** Quanta is the electronically distributed journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy. As such, each issue contains fiction by amateur authors as well as articles, reviews etc... Quanta is published in two formats, Ascii and PostScript* (for PostScript compatible laser-printers). Submissions should be sent to quanta@andrew.cmu.edu. Requests to be added to the distribution list should be sent to one of the following depending on which version of the magazine you'd like to receive. quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.cmu.edu quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.cmu.edu or quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.BITNET quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.BITNET Send mail only- no interactive messages or files please. Note that if you subscribe with a letter sent over BITNET, you will have the magazine sent to you as a file over BITNET, whereas if you subscribe with a letter sent over the Internet, the magazine will be sent to you by mail. Note that all issues are available from the anonymous FTP server fed.expres.cs.cmu.edu (128.2.209.58). If you can access this server and would therefore only want to be notified when a new issues has been released, please specify this in your request. Quanta now reaches an international audience of over 1000 subscribers. It is produced bi-monthly by Daniel Appelquist (da1n+@andrew.cmu.edu). * PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems Incorporated. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright June, 1991, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 4 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 4, Issue 3 06/06/91 Cir 1102 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ What are Little Girls...? Bryan Maloney Yuli 3-4, 1014 Pact Max Khaytsus Yuli 10-11, 1014 Fortunes 2 Max Khaytsus Yuli 15, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 What are Little Girls Made of? by Bryan Maloney (b.c.k.a. Aimee held her breath when she heard more crashing from outside. Were the Be-innyson soldiers coming again? She wished that she was in the castle with Daddy and Grandfather. She closed her eyes and wished harder, so hard that she could feel her fingernails digging into her hands. She opened her eyes and saw she was still in Grandfather's shop. Wishing never worked by itself-- you had to go and make it work for even the littlest things. She'd been here since yesterday, when the Be-innyson soldiers started throwing rocks at the city walls. She'd been taken to Old Town with the other children and put near the castle--but she had left something very important behind. When Grandfather picked her up and put her in the wagon to Old Town her puppy Karl had jumped out of her arms and run into Grandfather's home. Grandfather told her that he'd make sure to bring Karl if he had to go to Old Town too. Then she'd heard that the Be-innysons had made holes in the New Town wall and were coming in. She was smart enough to know that Grandfather would be too busy to find Karl, so she sneaked out--it was easy enough with so many children around--to find Karl. When she got to Grandfather's, Karl was there--but Grandfather wasn't. The puppy was upstairs in Grandfather's rooms. He had tipped over a jug of Grandfather's awful, bitter drink and was lapping at it. Aimee had to laugh at the way the puppy staggered and yelped--like Grandfather did during the Melrin festival. Aimee had gathered the puppy in her arms and was about to leave when she heard marching, clanking feet. She ran to a rope hanging over a table and pulled her feet up, dangling with one hand while the other held Karl. Slowly, the stairs to the attic came down, and Aimee climbed them. She sat on a projecting board she had fastened to the stairs (when Grandfather was away once) and pushed them closed. Then she pulled the rope up through its hole. She carefully made her way around the holes in the floor to the attic window. There she lay down to watch the street. Soldiers were coming from her left. They marched in straight rows, making a terrible noise. She could tell that they weren't Dargon's soldiers. They had square shields and carried an ugly banner with a big metal bird on top of it. They had to be Be-innysons! Aimee was nervous, but not really scared. She'd remembered hearing Grandfather tell Goodman Corambis that the attic had been made by smuggil-ers to hide in and see down below. (The next day she sneaked into the attic to see. Grandfather was right--she could see everything through the holes in the floor. Best of all, Grandfather couldn't see her. The ceiling was built very high with rough logs and painted to make the holes look like parts of a pattern.) Then she saw Thomas Redcap. He had been sleeping in a doorway. Thomas was always drunk and he smelled bad, so Aimee stayed away from him. But nobody ever did anything to him because he never hurt anyone. Two of the soldiers had picked him up and were shaking him awake. Thomas woke up and the head soldier--did Be-innysons have captains?--said something to him. Aimee suppressed a laugh--Be-innysons were stupid people! Everybody knew that Thomas couldn't say his own name just after he woke up. Thomas just stared at the soldier. When the soldier started to yell, Thomas tried to run. The soldier took his sword and stabbed Thomas in the back. Thomas kept trying to run, but the soldier kept stabbing him. Finally, Thomas fell down and the soldier stabbed him in the neck. Aimee started shaking--these were terrible men! They were demons like Mother Clariss the Priestess had told her about! She watched the men pick up Thomas and toss him in the gutter. Some of them actually laughed! Then the captain shouted something Aimee didn't understand and the men went into buildings. Aimee froze, clutching Karl. Three of them had come into Grandfather's place! If they would kill harmless old Thomas Redcap, what would they do to her? She inched over to a smaller peephole and looked into the rooms below. Karl squirmed and whimpered. "Be quiet, Karl!" she whispered. Karl tried to lick her face. He began to wriggle more, and Aimee was afraid that he would start to bark. She couldn't let him go--he might fall into one of the larger holes and start to yowl. What could she do? Karl then belched, softly. Aimee grimaced. he smelled just like Daddy and Grandfather did at the Melrin festival--of course! Grandfather kept some of his jugs up here in the winter so they would be cold when he drank them. Maybe he'd forgot to take some down this spring. Aimee looked around until she spied a pile of earthen jugs. "Will you be quiet if I give you a drink?" Aimee whispered as she crawled over to the jugs. The clay stopper was fastened with wax, and she had to dig at it with her fingernails. Karl, smelling the beverage, was whining in anticipation. Aimee pulled the stopper out and poured some of the brown contents into a depression on the floor. Karl lapped fast and furious. Aimee then went back to the peephole. The soldiers had come up the stairs from the public rooms and were searching Grandfather's rooms, turning over everything that could move. Aimee was glad that the table was heavy oak, or she would have to jump from the bottom of the stairs when she left. Finally, one of the soldiers found Grandfather's jugs he kept by the table. They laughed and stuffed them into their packs. Then they left. Aimee went back to the attic window and looked at the street. The soldiers were gathering together. The captain yelled something and they went back into lines and marched away. After they were out of sight, Aimee went to the board nailed to the stairs and lowered them. Then she scampered down and went immediately to a cupboard that had been ripped open. She ran her fingers on the top of the bottom shelf, along the outside rim, until she found a catch. She pulled the catch and a small door on the opposite wall swung ajar. This was another thing made by smuggil-ers, according to Grandfather. She ran to the secret cupboard and looked--it was there. Grandfather had once been a soldier, and he had kept a few souvineers. One was a big greatsword, too heavy for Aimee to lift. Another was a decorated crossbow that Grandfather had gotten as a gift for helping in some battle or another. The greatsword was gone--Grandfather took it with him probably, but the crossbow was still there, hidden with Grandfather's other treasures. She knew that she couldn't wield it, but she would still feel safer if she had it with her. She grabbed the weapon and a handful of silver-inlaid bolts and ran back into the attic, withdrawing the stairs behind her. "I know what I'll do." She thought, "I'll wait here until I see some Dargon soldiers march by, and then I'll come down and tell them I'm Aimee Taishent and they'll take me to the castle because Daddy's in the guard." She lay down by the attic window and watched the street. After a while, Karl staggered next to her and collapsed in a heap. "Did you have enough?" Aimee whispered. Karl emitted an enormous belch and went to sleep. "Karl, you smell worse than Thomas Redcap." Then she remembered--Thomas lay on the street, dead, holes poked into his body by the Be-innysons. Softly, Aimee began to cry. The tears flowed smoothly down her cheeks until they dripped on the floor. Then she began to sob, trembling. Her throat started hurting, but still she cried. Her head started hurting--still she cried. Aimee wept until after sundown. Then she slept. She woke the next morning to the sounds of battle. She looked out the attic window to see a mob fleeing down the street. Behind them were more Be- innysons. They were hitting people, not even chasing them. Just running over them and killing them. Aimee suddenly felt terribly guilty. "I'll never knock over another anthill. I promise." She whispered. "Just please, Bright Cahleyna, don't let the soldiers come in here." The mob passed and the soldiers followed them, not stopping to look in any buildings. Aimee breathed a sigh of relief. How long would it be before the Dargon soldiers came by? Would they ever? There were so many Be-innysons, what if they won? Would they come and kill her like they did Thomas Redcap? She started to cry again. She stopped when she heard Karl whining. The puppy was lying on his belly, forepaws over his ears, eyes tightly shut. "It serves you right, Karl." Aimee whispered. "Now you'll remember how awful that stuff is to drink." Aimee then realized how terribly hungry and thirsty she was. She also needed to go outside--badly. But the Be-innysons were out there! She looked around until she saw some old junk in a corner. Maybe there was a chamber pot in the pile! Desperately, she climbed into the castoffs and began to dig. The pile was huge--Grandfather never threw anything out. She began to tunnel into the heap, which nearly touched the roof. "There's my toy cart!" Aimee stated. Karl stood at Aimee's exclamation and dragged himself to the pile. He whimpered at his mistress. "Karl, I was going to pull you around in this, but a wheel fell off. Grandfather said he would fix it, but I guess he just lost it in this mess. I'll make him put it together when he comes back." Aimee stopped digging. Would Grandfather come back? Would anyone? She started to cry, but her sobbing breaths reminded her of a lower call. She quested further into the heap. Finally, she caught at glimpse of glazed clay. Tossing small bits of junk aside, she found a cracked chamber pot. After she relieved herself, she had a terrible thought--"How do I get rid of this?" she asked herself. Aimee decided that she would have to leave it here until she could think of something. She was still thirsty, though. Aimee grit her teeth and picked up a jug. She pried it open and took a drink. Yak! It was even more awful than she remembered. But it helped her throat, so she drank more. She put the stopper on the jug and sat down next to the attic window, watching the street for Dargon soldiers. Karl wobbled over and lay down beside her. Aimee picked him up. "Karl, I wish you were a great knight like the old Duke Clifton, then you'd put me on your horse and we'd ride straight to the castle. And if any Be- innyson soldiers tried to stop us, you'd take your sword and kill them." Aimee thought about the Be-innysons; she thought about Thomas Redcap; she thought about the people running away, killed like ants; and a strange feeling started inside her. It was cold, but somehow comforting. The more she felt it, the better she felt. "I hate you, Be-innysons." she said, and for the first time in her life, she knew what that meant. Aimee watch the street until she had to relieve herself again. She went over to the chamber pot--it stank. Aimee sighed, there was no helping it. Grandfather would understand about the smell. She walked to the chimney and unlatched a metal door. Grandfather had put it in himself so he wouldn't have to hire a sweep to clean the flue and he wouldn't have to go on the roof to clean it himself. The special bendy brush Grandfather used was on the floor beside the chimney. She opened the door and poured the contents of the chamber pot down the chimney. Grandfather kept the flue closed unless he had a fire, so she knew it wouldn't splatter in the fireplace and give her away. She would have to remember to warn him before he opened the flue next time. Again she relieved herself and emptied the pot. That was when she heard the crash. She crept to a peephole and looked down. A Be-innyson soldier had chased an older girl into the building and up the stairs to the rooms below. He had a terrible grin on his face. He grabbed the girl and threw her onto the floor. Then he ripped her skirts and petticoats off and opened his codpiece. Aimee immediately knew that the man wanted to sex (or s-e-x, as Grandfather always said around her. She was six already--she'd heard what grownups did! Anyway, she'd seen Karl get born.), but the girl didn't want to--the soldier was going to hurt her! A flame started in Aimee's heart and crept up her throat. She was going to stop him! He was a Be-innyson, and all they ever did was hurt people. She didn't care how big he was or what weapons he had. Aimee Taishent was going to stop him! She scampered to the attic window--no one was on the street. At least it was only him. The girl had started screaming. Aimee went to a peephole and looked down. She saw the man forcing the girl onto the floor. Desperate, Aimee caught the crossbow on a nail jutting from a pillar and pulled back the string with both hands. "Please, Father Ol, keep the string from breaking." Aimee pulled, leaning away from the crossbow. The string dug into her fingers, feeling like a knife. Finally, the catch clicked--the bow was cocked. Her fingers hurt too much to move--there was already a purple line across them--but she forced herself to drop the bolt into its slot, like she had seen the guards do in practice. Then she started running toward the stairs. On her way, a flash caught her eye. The soldier was right under one of the larger holes in the floor--Grandfather called them murder holes. It was very big, Aimee had almost caught her foot in it. She looked down and saw the soldier's back, right below her. She carefully aimed into the hole and and gasped as the bolt slid out of the crossbow and through the hole below. You had to hold the bow straight! She'd heard Daddy tell that to his men, but had forgotten. She remembered now. Aimee heard the soldier shout and then a crash. What would he do? He couldn't get to the stairs, she knew that, but what would he do? She looked down through the hole. The soldier wasn't there, but the girl was. Her head bled and she lay in a ball, quaking. Where was the soldier? Aimee ran to another murder hole and looked down--no soldier! Had she scared him away? She ran to the stairs to lower them, but stopped dead as she saw them come down by themselves. Frozen with fear, she watched as the Be- innyson soldier came up the stairs, holding a pole-arm with a hook upon it. He smiled at Aimee and approached her, weapon held low. Aimee stared at the soldier as he walked toward her. He was talking, saying something she couldn't understand. When he had cleared half the distance between them, Karl charged the foreigner with a squeaking snarl. The soldier batted the pup aside with his polearm. As soon as Karl took to the air, yelping, Aimee awoke. The soldier wanted to hurt her! She ran around the soldier, trying to make for the stairs, but he just turned and swung his polearm in front of her. She tried to duck around the weapon, but the soldier just stepped and hit her with the haft. She fell over, bruised, and heard the soldier laugh. She looked up and saw him heft his weapon, then he swung it. The blade descended upon her like a foot upon a beetle. Aimee tensed herself for the blow, her last, when she heard a thump beside her. The soldier had missed! Was he too drunk to hit her? She looked at him and her hopes died as she heard him start to laugh. He aimed another blow at her, missing by inches. He was playing with her-- just like boys played with rats! Aimee scrambled backwards on all fours; the soldier advanced, smirking. He said something in his own tongue and laughed. Aimee still went back. The soldier stopped to watch her. Finally, Aimee hit something--it was the junk heap. She started to climb into it and froze as the soldier yelled and charged toward her, weapon lowered. Desperate, she grabbed at the pile below her. Her hands came up with a piece of wood. It was the shaft from Grandfather's old cloak tree. She had broken it last year by swinging from it and knocking it over. Grandfather was so mad he didn't even spank her--he just told Daddy! She pulled up the piece of wood and held the end before her--the top with a pointed bit. It wasn't long enough! The soldier's weapon was easily twice as long. And she couldn't even pick it up besides, the other end was tightly wedged in the pile. "I'm sorry, Daddy." she whispered. At that moment, the soldier discovered one of the murder holes. His right foot came down exactly upon a larger one and went in. The bones of his ankle ground against each other and cracked. Yet the momentum of his charge was too great to be halted by this minor setback. Instead, his body flew the last few yards through the air and landed upon Aimee. His polearm entered the pile, headfirst, catching Aimee's skirts upon the hook. Aimee opened her eyes. Above her lay the soldier. Why wasn't he doing anything? Then she noticed that her hands were warm. She looked down to wher she had been holding up the end of the cloak tree and gasped when she saw it go into the soldier. She looked up at the young man. He was a youth, with a light mustache beginning to form. Aimee noticed that his hair was reddish and looked very soft. He was motionless, breath coming in ragged gasps. Tears poured from his eyes. Aimee watched the final spasm shake the soldier before he stopped breathing. Then she looked at his face. He had the same look that Thomas Redcap did when the soldiers cut him down. Aimee went limp on the pile, sobbing. She was as bad as the Be-innysons! She thought that killing the soldier would make her feel better, but it didn't. She felt awful, even worse than the time she had been throwing stones to knock down apples and accidentally hit a squirrel. She dragged herself out of the pile, tearing her skirt on the hook. Sobbing, she ran down the stairs. More than anything she had to get away--she'd killed somebody. That was the worst thing you could do! Grandfather had taught her that Ol and Cahleyna valued all life, and now she had killed someone. She had to hide--go where no one could find her. She ran for the stairs to the street level when she collided with a soft form. "Where did you come from?" Aimee heard someone say. Aimee looked up and saw the face of the girl. Unable to speak, Aimee pointed up. "You say you came from heaven?" The girl's eyes were wide. "Were you an angel sent by Cephas Stevene to rescue me?" "No." Aimee was finally able to say. "I came from the attic. I tried to shoot the bolt at him and he--" Aimee burst again into tears. "I killed him!" The girl held Aimee tighter. "It's all right, honey. He was going to hurt me, and you only wanted to stop him." Aimee felt a hand on her chin, lifting her face. "I am Marta, what's your name?" "Aimee, Aimee Taishent." Aimee said. "Are you related to the mage?" "He's my grandfather!" "No wonder you're so brave. Living around magic must be very exciting. I bet you can even read." Marta smiled and stroked Aimee's hair. "It's not all that exciting." Aimee said, "Usually he just sits and studies, except when he has a customer, but I can read." "Where is your Grandfather?" "He's in Old Town. He went there when the Be-innysons--when they--when--" Aimee began crying again. "It's all right, honey. One way or another, it will be over soon." Aimee and Marta embraced, each comforting the other. After a time, Aimee snuffed and said, "Go into the attic, it's not safe to be down here." "What about you?" Marta asked. "I'll be right behind you." Aimee said. Yesterday she had been so scared that she forgot Grandfather's secret stash. It was where he kept all the wonderful things he wasn't supposed to eat at his age. She crawled under the table and pushed a knothole--smuggil-ers had to be the most fun people. A small trapdoor pushed up and Aimee lifted it. Underneath were pickled sweetmeats and fish salted so heavy it crackled. There were also some pickled plums from Bichu. Aimee liked these, even if they burned on the way down and made her feel funny. She put it all on the table and closed the trap door. Then she climbed on the table and put the lot in her torn skirt. After she climbed into the attic she sat the food on the floor and raised the stairs. As she finished pulling up the stairs, she remembered--the soldier was up here! She couldn't turn around, she might see him. Aimee stood, trembling, and stared at the stairs. "It's all right, Aimee, I covered him." Aimee turned around. Marta had covered him with the blanket she had taken from Grandfather's bed to cover herself up. She was trying to pull her ruined skirts around her. "Wait, Marta." Aimee lowered the stairs and ran down. For once she was glad that Grandfather got cold. Sometimes she hated how he always had two blankets--it made sleeping with him too hot. She pulled the other blanked out from under the bed and brought it into the attic. When she returned, Marta had already started on the sweetmeats. "I haven't eaten since before yesterday." she said. "Neither did I." Aimee replied. "I'll get something to drink." She walked to the jugs and got one. The two began to feast, only pausing to drink the over-warm beer. When they had finished eating, Aimee went to the attic window. "What are you looking for?" Marta asked. "I'm waiting for Dargon soldiers." "Oh." Marta sat, quietly. After a time, Aimee looked back at Marta. The older girl was sitting, rocking back and forth. Tears flowed down her cheeks and throat. Her body shook with silent sobs. Aimee ran over to her. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Aimee put her arms around Marta. "That man--he wanted to..." Marta put her head down. "I could see that, but I stopped him." Aimee was puzzled. He hadn't been able to hurt Marta, but Marta still seemed hurt. "I know you stopped him, and he didn't hurt my body, but he hurt my heart." Marta wiped her face. "He scared me and tried to do something terrible." Marta began sobbing. "He broke the Third Law of your Stevene, didn't he, Marta?" "What do you know about that, Aimee? They don't teach the Third Law to little girls." "I can read. Mother Clariss is a Priestess for Stevene and she used to come around and talk to me before Grandfather chased her away. One time I sneaked one of her books out of her pouch. I kept it up here until Grandfather found it. He was so mad--I don't know why." "Perhaps your Grandfather is pagan...mine was." "I don't know about that, but he made me pray all day to Ol for that." Marta looked Aimee in the eyes, "Then you worship Ol?..." "Of course I do. Grandfather tells me all about him." Marta took Aimee on her lap. "Despise not the pagan, for they may still be good of heart." she whispered. "What did you say?" asked Aimee. "Just a little prayer of thanks that you were here, Aimee--What were you saying about the Third Law?" Marta dried her eyes. "Well, I think it goes: 'The sexyoual act is a sacrament. It is a holy gift of pleasure...' that means good feeling, you know." "Yes, I know, Aimee." Marta smiled, faintly. "Go on." "...'a holy gift of pleasure from God. He who violates this gift shall burn, but she who is violated...' Why did Seefas Stevene say 'she' there, anyway?" Marta sighed, "I think he had some idea what things are like in the real world." "Okay, anyway: '...she who is violated is as pure as before, by My Holy Word. Let none gainsay...' That means disagree. '...this decree." "Thank you Aimee." Marta hugged the young girl. "Do you want to pray, Marta?" "I would like that." Marta recited the Plea to Stevene and the Creed of Mercy. Aimee listened to the alian phrases. Stevene people prayed strangely, all full of begging and pleading. Praying to Cahleyna and Ol was much easier. You just thanked them for the good things and asked them to help with the bad things. When Marta was done Aimee looked into her eyes. They were brown and dark, just like Karl's fur--Karl! Where was he? She looked around the attic and then, to her horror heard, at the same time, Karl barking from below and a roar, like the parade at Melrin Festival, coming down the street. "I've got to get Karl!" Aimee cried as she ran to the stairs. "No, Aimee, the battle's come this way." Marta grabbed Aimee and held her tight. "Anyway, you've already proven that the Stevene looks after brave little girls and foolish puppies very well." "Are you sure?" "Yes." Marta lied. The two sat by the attic window to watch, fearfully. "They're coming." Marta whispered. Around the corner came a Beinison legion, banner torn, shields broken, ranks ragged. Behind them was a veritable mob of an army. Here a soldier in fine armor hacked at a Beinison shield; there three street toughs pelted a lone Beinison with cudgels. Old men threw rocks; young men wielded spears. It was a rabble, but it drove the foreigners back. Behind this line were ranks of ill-matched soldiery. Dargon personal guard mixing with town militia. Noblemen marching alongside common thugs. The two girls watched the foreigners get pushed down the street, almost as if the stones of the city had risen against them. Then there was quiet. "Do you think we should go out?" Aimee asked. "We ought to wait for our soldiers to look for us. Things could change." Aimee nodded, and the two waited, breathlessly. Hours later, after sundown, the girls heard noise from below. "She's got to be here!" They heard a man yell, "It's the only place she'd go!" Aimee ran to the stairs and lowered them as fast as she could. "Aimee, stop, it could be a trick!" Marta called. Aimee, heedless, ran down the stairs, one word on her lips. "Daddy!" She ran into her father's arms. "I guess we found her, Lieutenant." a soldier in sergeant's livery said. "Anything else you want?" "No, thank you sergeant." Jerid Taishent replied. "You can go now." "Right!" The sergeant saluted. "All right, you crowmeat, we've got Beinison cowards to mop up! Move yer asses!" The soldiers left at a trot. Marta walked down the stairs, blanket wrapped around her. Jerid looked up at the sound of her. The first thing he saw were her eyes. Somehow he couldn't look away. "Who is this, Aimee?" Taishent asked. Marta blushed and pulled at the blanket. "That's Marta, Daddy." Aimee said. "Some man tried to hurt her so I killed him." Jerid winced at his daughter's words. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir," the Sergeant had returned, "but we'll be needin' ye to help wi' the moppin' up." "I'll be right there," Jerid said. He put Aimee down. "You stay here until Grandfather or I come for you. Will you do that? Don't come out of the attic unless you actually see one of us." "I'll wait right here." Aimee said, seriously. "Karl!" Aimee dived under the bed and retrieved the wriggling puppy. "You'd better stay with me, or some Be-innyson will come along and cut you into gloves." As Jerid left the shop, his sergeant approached him. "Me 'n the men," he said, "would like to say that we're sore happy that ye lost none o' yer family." "Sergeant," Jerid replied, "Thank you--and the men--for that, but you're wrong." Tears frosted his eyes. "My little girl died today." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Pact by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. Kalen stood on a wharf at the north end of the town of Dargon, looking into the darkening ocean. The sun, setting to the west, was a red disc half engulfed by the water. Menacing red shadows fell across the port and the city walls as a fresh reminder of the Beinisonian invasion only a month ago. He paced, looking at the havoc raised by the fighting. The piers were ruined, torn apart so that the Baranurian fleet had no place to dock after the battle was won. A large, hundred foot, merchant ship was almost completely submerged in the water not far away. It had been in port when the Beinison ships arrived and minutes later it was deck deep in the water. Now the hull was half buried in the sand and the tides were slowly dismantling the ship. There was nothing to salvage. The city walls were battered as well. The solid stone was cracked and chipped and in one place the stone wall had all but crumbled to dust. A creaking of the wooden walk alerted Kalen to turn. He noted a dark shape walking towards him from the eastern end of the docks, almost completely hidden by the dark. Two days ago Kalen received an anonymous note asking him to meet the sender here. The missive was brief and cryptic and could not be traced, but the lieutenant felt that it was something important. Ilona insisted that he not go or to at least bring guards, but the note explicitly told him to come alone, so he did. The shadow approached and Kalen recognized it for one of Liriss' henchmen. He wondered again if it was a trap or a set-up, but the man he was meeting was not armed. Kalen likewise had not brought his sword, but his eating dagger could always be used as a last resort weapon, as it has done a few times in the past. Kesrin Mardos stopped a few feet from Lieutenant Kalen Darklen, carefully studying the acting Captain of the Guard. He was carrying a heavy proposition, ready to create a life-long associate or a life-long foe. "What did you want?" Kalen asked. "What my Lord wanted," Kesrin answered without emotion. "What did the rat send you for now?" Kesrin suppressed a smile. He would have to use that line later. He often thought of Liriss as a rat, himself -- the same moustache, grown recently, unkempt hair ever since the Beinison invasion, and a growing need to be the master of all he could, whether it served a purpose or not. Like a dog on a stack of hay, will not eat it and won't let a horse near. "The rat," Kesrin spoke in a dry voice, it was all he could do to contain his amusement, "asked me to deliver you a proposition." "Which is?" Kalen was just as dry. There was nothing pleasant about being propositioned by a gangster in the middle of the night on a dark pier with no weapons or guards in sight. It would be like making a deal with the death god, J'Mirg, or Amante, or Nehru, or Balen-Ruk, or whatever all those religions called him, and hoping to come out ahead. Kalen was not sure where he got all that religion, but these were all one and the same. In this case Liriss. "He wishes to hire you." "For what?!" Kalen exclaimed, realizing he had begun to drift. Working on both sides of the fence was just what he needed. "For information! Control!" "No," Kalen shook his head, the grim darkness agreeing with him. "That's absurd. That's against the law." "Hear me out," Kesrin said calmly. What was Kalen expecting? Information about a whore-house to close down? "We are ready to do things for you. We can make you the Captain of the Guard..." "You're not the only one," Kalen interrupted. "But we can do it now! We know you want it." "I'll wait until Captain Koren retires," Kalen said. He knew he was the logical choice for the position as soon a the present captain would become tired of the job, something he did not expect to happen for years. During the Beinisonian invasion of Dargon, Captain Koren was severely wounded and for the last month had been in the care of Duke Dargon's personal physician, Elizabeth of the Pass. He was not expected to be up and about for at least another month more and Kalen held his job by default, pending Adrunian Koren's improvements under the care of the physician. "I'll wait until he is ready to step down on his own," Kalen repeated. "You will naturally be provided with inside information on our competition, to aid you in their apprehension," Kesrin continued. "You don't understand..." Kalen started, but Kesrin did not yield. "We will also pay you the exact same salary as the Duke. Think about it! Double the money for one job!" "What would you want from me in return?" Kalen asked cautiously. "Nothing that you'd have to work hard for. Just ignore what Lord Liriss does and make sure his competition stays out of the way..." A rather simple job, Kalen thought to himself, but still not worth doing. Money is not everything. There was also a certain part of living that's involved in life and to live well morality must be upheld. "I can't say I'm interested," he answered. "There are others..." Kesrin let the threat trail off. "Not others that can make captain," Kalen returned. "Not if you're alive," Kesrin agreed. "If I had my sword, I'd take you in," Kalen said through his teeth. Kesrin smiled. "What for? Being outside the city gates after dark? Curfew was lifted a fortnight ago. Or are you upset over being threatened? It's only your word against mine...and you're the acting Captain of the Guard." It was not certain if that last was being used in a mocking way. "If I had my sword," Kalen corrected himself, "I'd run you through." He turned, walking away from Liriss' right hand man. There was nothing to talk about and nothing to fight with...or for. If not Kesrin, then another. It never stopped. It was better to keep known criminals where they were, in order to track them with ease. Kesrin grabbed Kalen's shoulder and spun him around. The Lieutenant cringed from the pain that shot down his arm. "If we don't hear from you by tomorrow night, we will assume you made up your mind. We'll make the same deal with someone else. You are neither the first, nor the last." Kalen grabbed Kesrin's collar, violently yanking him up, but not being able to lift him off the ground in this manner. His shoulder screamed out in pain again. "Who else, you bastard? Who are you paying off?" Kesrin broke the grasp on his tunic. "Lieutenant Shevlin was working for us. He died an honorable death. Make sure you don't wind up just another body on the street! You have until tomorrow!" Lieutenant Kalen Darklen watched Kesrin return into the darkness. He wanted to follow, but the danger of that was hundreds of times greater than the meeting itself. He watched the man disappear into the darkness, then slowly walked back through the hole in the fortification to return home. Although the darkness had only settled, the streets of the city were all ready empty and quiet. The winding street that Kalen chose took him to the deserted market place. He stood at the opening to the alley, studying the square, wondering about the proposition Kesrin presented. Kalen could not imagine that Lieutenant Shevlin, a man he worked so closely with for a number of years, could be a turn-coat, but he had no evidence either way. Shevlin always did his job and did it well -- he was Kalen's main competition for the position of Captain of the Guard -- he was one of the most efficient officers in the guard, being offered twice to switch to the Duke's personal guard. Yet, Kalen had wondered in the past about how Shevlin could afford to buy some of the things he had on a lieutenant's pay. Either way, he died in the invasion. No answers would come from him. Kalen wondered if he should accept the offer extended to him, to go in under cover, to watch the criminal underworld and then strike when least expected, but then he remembered the price he would have to pay -- Adrunian Koren's life -- and eventually his own. It was too steep. A pair of lanterns appeared on the other side of the square. They were carried by six men -- a patrol. With a sigh Kalen decided to return home. * * * Ilona Milnor paced back and forth in her small rented apartment. She had warned Kalen not to go to the meeting, but he stubbornly insisted. When she said she was going to go with him, he made her swear that she would wait for him to return. Now she was angry she made that promise. It could have been a trap and she just let him walk off. She walked over to the table on which she had placed her sword and belt and started putting them on, but then unstrapped the buckle and returned the belt and weapon to the table. She had lost count of the number of times she went through this procedure this evening. Kalen was an ambitious officer. He became a lieutenant after only five years of service and at the age of twenty-nine was all ready, the best candidate for the position of Captain of the Guard. He almost got that that job, not to long ago. Captain Koren was gravely wounded in the invasion and there was some doubt as to weather or not the Captain would make it. Kalen was one of the few who said he would. He confided in Ilona that he was afraid of taking the Captain's place, that there was still so much he needed to learn and do before he could admit to himself that he could take care of the town. For now, while Captain Koren was still recovering from his injuries, Kalen was getting some of the experience he claimed he lacked and in the last month he had done an amazing job of running the city on his own. Ilona once again went over to the table, contemplating the sword. If Kalen was not back in a few more minutes, she would go after him. The thought of this made her chuckle. She had been thinking about going all evening and accumulated two or three hours worth of these "few more minutes" intervals. This was it. She put the sword-belt on, got the sword and went out. The air outside was cooler, though it was very humid. Ilona looked up and down the street. The way the street was situated, Kalen could return from either direction. She hesitated, not wanting to miss him because of lack of patience and an over active imagination. Kalen always complained that she was not patient enough. As she stood there, contemplating what to do, someone appeared up the street, walking towards her. Ilona immediately recognized the person as Kalen. She hurried towards him, meeting him half way. She immediately spotted the red stain on his left shoulder. "What happened to you?" "It was Kesrin. He wanted to talk," Kalen answered, not quite grasping the question. Ilona gently touched Kalen's bloody shoulder. "You fought?" Kalen shook his head. "Kesrin grabbed me to prevent me from leaving. It's not his fault -- he didn't know." "Let's go inside," Ilona suggested, taking Kalen's right arm. "I'll take a look at it." They slowly walked back to her apartment, with Ilona thinking of a good way to get her message, perhaps plea, across to her lover. His shoulder was injured during the Beinison invasion in Yule and he stubbornly refused to let anyone know about it until they wound up in bed a few days later. It was not a life threatening injury, but it would not heal without the proper care and rest. Instead, Kalen felt the absolute need -- that misplaced loyalty of his -- to coordinate and supervise guard activities until Captain Koren was ready to resume his duties, ignoring his own needs in the process. Inside Ilona sat Kalen down on the bed and helped him remove his tunic. The scab on his shoulder was freshly torn and a trickle of blood ran down his chest. She soaked a clean rag in a basin of water and began cleaning the wound. "This is the second time this week," she noted. Kalen grunted in agreement. It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic or not. "I want you to make me a promise..." "I'm very bad with commitments." He tried to smile, but only gritted his teeth as Ilona ran the rag directly across the wound. "It won't heal unless you rest," she said as Kalen jerked back. Kalen took Ilona's hands into his. "This town won't stop running just because I'm sick." Ilona looked into his eyes with a pleading expression. "It does not have to. I can do the job. So can Lieutenant Azyn." "You don't understand," Kalen sighed. "Before the invasion there were four of us to help Koren. You telling me two people and less than half the regular staff can do the job?" Ilona picked up the rag, washed out the blood and returned to Kalen. "We don't have a choice, do we?" "We do. I'm here. I can do the work." "Kalen, everything is returning to normal. The people are beginning to rebuild. The looting has stopped. The Duke's personal forces are out on the streets along side the town guard..." "...a ship was stolen three days ago," Kalen interrupted her, "a warehouse was burned to cover a robbery, we have dozens of urchins holding citizens up in the night and I was propositioned by the mob. We need people now more than ever!" "Kalen! You're making it worse. That wound is turning into an ulcer!" Kalen lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "I wish I could say there was a choice, but now there's a new problem..." "They propositioned you?" Ilona asked, Kalen's words finally catching up with her. She expected anything from the mob, but a blatant offer from the them to pay off a public official was too much. Kalen's expression was as grim as ever. "Kesrin told me they will match what I am getting paid if I help them out now and again." "Help them out?" Ilona picked up the strips of bandages and started wrapping them around Kalen's shoulder. "In addition to the money, they will insure my standing in the guard, provide leads on other criminal dealings and the like...all they want is free run of the city." Ilona shuddered. "They can't be serious. What did you say?" "I said `no'. What else could I tell them?" Ilona put her arm around Kalen and pulled him to his side, to face her. "Please stop trying to be a hero. Let the wound heal." Kalen put his arms around her, pulling her closer and hiding his face in her long light brown hair. "I wish I could..." * * * The following morning Ilona left for work at sunrise, leaving Kalen asleep. It was late when they finished talking last night and he spent the night with her. She hoped that he would sleep well into his shift, but knew it to be an impossibility. The day went normally; at least as normal as any this week. Shortly before lunch she took a patrol on a quick tour of the market place. This was the area of town that suffered the most damage during the invasion. What could be easily carried off was and over half of what remained was burned to the ground. Then, a week after the Beinisonian forces were fought off, a mob of people raided the merchants restoring their businesses and destroyed what was left. The town guard, all ready reduced to half strength, was helpless to do anything and the looting extended into the rest of the city. It was not until a week later, when the remainder of the Duke's forces were able to place a greater effort into restoring the Ducal Capital, that peace was restored to the city. Duke Clifton Dargon, who was placed in charge of King Haralan's navy, left for Sharks' Cove where the Beinison invasion was in full swing. Most of his troops either went with him or were sent on to other areas of the duchy. Only fifty or sixty men remained in the town, in addition to the sixty-two members of the guard. Dargon no longer needed to be defended against invasions. Any damage that could be done to the city was all ready inflicted. Besides, Duke Dargon's flotilla was to engage the ships that posed the greatest danger to the city. Any infantry troop would have to first take two other duchies and then most of Dargon, in order to reach the city. A temporary guard station was set up in the middle of the market place. In spite of the damage inflicted on the market, it was the first part of town to be almost completely rebuilt and return to normal. Ilona spotted Lieutenant Jerid Taishent of the Duke's personal guard and after telling her troop to spread out and look around, proceeded towards him. Jerid was the only man of any rank from the Duke's troops still in the city. The rest, together with Bartol, their chief, had either left with the Duke or with the troops distributed to keep peace in the duchy. "Are the natives restless today?" Ilona called out to Jerid. He turned to her from watching the mobs pass by. "They are well behaved. We arrested three or four since sunrise. What about your side of town?" Sometimes all sides seemed like here. "All right for now. Someone threw a dead rat through the Guard House window, but little more." "No trouble?" Rats were common these days. "None that I heard off yet." "Are you planning on staying here?" "In town or the market place?" Ilona smiled. "The market place," Jerid grinned back. Ilona shook her head. "Just looking around to see that everything is all right. You're not here because of those arrests, are you?" "I stopped by to pick up a present for my daughter," Jerid said. "This war business is a little much for her." "You go on, then. I intended to stay here through lunch." Jerid saluted Ilona and called over to one of the men at the guard post, "Ryal, get that package and let's go!" One of the men picked up a sizable package and followed his commander. Ilona returned the salute as Jerid left. She looked at the market place, studying the people and their wares. Merchants and shoppers alike looked tired and worn out, much as they had the first days after the invasion, but the bruises and injuries they wore a month ago were now mostly gone. The merchandise also looked better and better every day. New merchants came daily from the villages in the south, unaffected by the war, and a few caravans from Tench have also delivered their wares. Yet, in spite of all this progress, Ilona knew that all was not as well as it would seem. The economy was dragging along and the prices were very high. The local merchants could not compete with those who travelled to Dargon. Many lost their homes, capital and stock. All had lost family and friends. Ilona sighed, knowing how lucky she was that Kalen was merely wounded. During the invasion she, herself, was put in charge of the castle defense -- the last line of defense. Someone, somewhere decided that since she was the only female lieutenant in the duchy, she should be as far away from the fighting as possible, behind the castle walls, waiting, just in case she was needed. And she was needed indeed. Needed to tend the wounded when they were brought in. Ilona was angry at the way she was treated, simply because she was a woman. She was trained as well as any in the guard and quite likely, better than most. But then, being behind the castle walls, she was safe, not injured, not violated. It was something Kalen did not have to worry about and there were plenty of things to worry him where he was. Looking around the market place she noticed the old sage, Corambis, talking to a few people on the corner. His was one of the few local businesses that did not suffer the after effects of the invasion. As soon as his booth was rebuilt, he started seeing customers, all seeking advice for what to do next. Ilona hesitated a moment, then, seeing the people leaving, hurried to Corambis. The sage waited for her to approach, then smiled. "Good day, Miss." "Good day, Sage," Ilona returned the greeting. "Is there a reading I can do for you?" Cormabis asked. "I..." Ilona shuddered. She should have thought first. "There is something I need advice on, but I can not discuss it." The sage smiled. "State secrets are the most fleeting ones of all. Come with me. I will only ask what I must." Ilona obediently followed the old sage into his booth. `I must be crazy!' she thought. `If he doesn't sell me out, I'll get killed pulling this stunt!' The sage absentmindedly held the door to the casting room open for Ilona to come in. "My assistant is out helping a friend of mine, a doctor, so I have to make do on my own. Please, be seated." Ilona took a seat at the table sporting the wheel of life. It was so new that it reflected what little light there was in the darkened room. "From my daughter," Corambis said proudly, taking a seat across from Ilona. "She had a wood-crafter make it as soon as she heard I lost the old one." "A good gesture," Ilona muttered. "You're a lucky man to have a daughter like that." "Lucky, yes," the sage agreed, "but she had it made of pure oak. Now I fear it favors the Valonus, but never mind that," Corambis smiled, pride still on his face. He gave her the velvet pouch with the casting chips inside. "Hold this while you tell me your woes." Ilona accepted the bag. "I don't know where to begin. Some new information has reached us in the Guard and I want to act on it. Lieutenant Darklen may missunderstand...and if Captain Koren were around, he would tell me to keep out of it as well, but I think I can do a lot of good by acting on it." "Give me that," Corambis took the bag from Ilona. "You don't need a fortune told. You need to do some soul searching. It's a good thing I do both." Ilona smiled, in spite of herself. "Now," the sage continued, "don't think yours is a one of a kind problem. We all have to make hard decisions. You must do what you feel is right." "But what if I'm doing something I shouldn't be?" "Like what? Taking advice from someone who knows nothing of the problem? What makes me more qualified than you? That I tell fortunes? Lieutenant, in true honesty, this is a case of the blind leading the blind." "But what if I'm wrong?" Corambis shook his head in dispair. "Do you know the problem?" "Of course!" "And you know how you want to solve it?" "Yes." "And you believe yourself to be on the right track?" "Yes!" "Then why are you here wasting my time and your money?" Ilona blushed lightly in the dim light. "Two years in this position and I still don't have the confidence I need," she sighed an offered the sage his fee. Corambis sternly pushed the money back. "If you're wrong, pay me later. If not, come back and tell me about it." "I will, sir," Ilona promised and left the sage in his booth. At least now she knew she was crazy. Corambis was right. She was wasting time. She was not assertive enough, not confident of her abilities -- she knew what she had to do. She should just do it and accept the results as they come. Ilona again scanned the market place, walking from one booth to another. The crowd had been steadily growing all morning, now being so thick, it was hard to see more than two booths away. Ilona fought her way through the crowd to an intersection in the rows, where the crowd was not as congested. "Simon!" She stopped across from the old sailor and his stew cart. The monkey jumped with a scream and pulled out a spoon. "Yes, Lieutenant Milnor?" "How about some stew?" "Which will it be?" he asked. "Sun-sweet," Ilona answered. "I'm in a particularly vile mood just now." She took the spoon from Skeebo and gave him the coins for the stew. "Here you are," Simon handed a steaming bowl to Ilona. "If you feel bad enough, then even this will taste good going down." "Is it true that only you and Guiseppi have been able to finish a bowl of this?" Ilona asked, carefully sipping the spicy stew. "What do you think?" Simon asked. "I think it's a tall tale." "Actually it is," Simon laughed. "I only poured myself half a bowl and Guiseppi never had taste." "Then I'll just have to be the first to do it," Ilona said. "I'll see you later." "Ah! But it won't be legitimate if I don't see you do it, Lieutenant," Simon said and Skeebo took hold of her belt. She petted the monkey until it let go. "I'm with the Guard, Simon. You know we don't lie," she told him and went back into the crowd. Behind her the old sailor sadly shook his head. Not all were pure and innocent and not all were as honest and reliable as one might expect. * * * Ilona felt a little better as she ate the burning stew. She was determined to finish the spicy concoction and then go through with her chosen assignment. If Kalen was not going to take the opportunity, she was ready to do it on her own. Looking about the market place, she noticed a young boy carefully crawling between the feet of the people gathered around a merchant's table. As soon as he was on his feet, he started running and she, dropping the bowl of Simon's finest, leapt after him. It was not long before the crowd got too thick to continue and after a bit of struggling and dodging, Ilona grabbed hold of the boy and pulled him up to his tip-toes by his ear. The boy was young, no older than eight, skinny and by the looks of him, homeless. "So what did you get?" she asked him, leading him out of the crowd. The boy did not answer. "Ten Bits for that ear!" somebody next to Ilona proclaimed. She looked over her shoulder to see a man in his twenties, looking anxiously at her. The boy jerked hard, but she still firmly held his ear and he cried out in pain. "If he does it again, I'll give it to you for free." "You're not going to arrest a child, are you?" "Are you planning to adopt him?" The young man reached into his purse. "Five Silver?" "Are you trying to buy a human being?" "I wish to take care of his fine." "So he can rob another merchant to pay you back," Ilona's eyes narrowed. "Tell your boss I wish to have a word with him about a deal he was making yesterday. I know someone who is looking for a job..." "I am not leaving without the boy," the man declared, seemingly missing what she said. Ilona pushed the child to him. "Tell Liriss he has until sunset." * * * Kalen stared at the ceiling, studying the crack that ran almost directly above him, dividing the ceiling of Captain Koren's office evenly in half. A sheet of parchment appeared in his line of vision, held by Ilona. "That's it." Kalen thumbed through the sheets. "A bit sketchy. There's more paper than report. You could fit it all on a page or two." "I've got a lot on my mind," she said. "Like what?" "Like you not getting enough rest." "That's not your problem," Kalen said. "I know my limits." "I won't argue with you," Ilona answered. "You all ready know what I think." "I know," Kalen nodded. "Just tolerate me, please." "I'd better go." Kalen got up. "I'll walk you out." Ilona put her arm around his waist and her head on his shoulder as they walked through the guard house. Kalen returned the gesture with his good arm. "Do you want an escort?" "I'll be fine," she said, hoping he would not insist. He did not. At the large double doors they exchanged one final embrace and Ilona hurried off into the darkness. She was worried about what she was going to do, but the thoughts of what it might produce in the long run helped relax her fears. More importantly, she believed that if Kalen was not involved, he would not be compromised as the acting Captain of the Guard. The darkness hid Ilona's figure, draped in a black cloak, as she made her way to the oldest part of town, just a few blocks from Dargon Keep and stopped in the shadows of a building. When her eyes adjusted to the added darkness of the alley, she spotted a tall muscular man, also robed in black, walking in her direction. Releasing the strap holding her sword, Ilona started towards the figure. The man stopped a few feet from her and she recognized him as Kesrin, Liriss' lieutenant. "What do you want?" he asked. "I wanted to meet with someone of authority," she answered, trying to provoke him on purpose. Kesrin did not appear to be affected by her statement. "Tell me first." Ilona did not like the sound of that, but if it was the only way she could get to see Liriss... She told him all she had to; perhaps a little more colorful than it really was, but it was plenty to convince him to get her a meeting with Liriss. Kesrin considered deeply if he should, but in the end decided it was better not to come back empty handed and took Ilona down the narrow winding streets of the old portion of the city. It was obvious he took the long way and Ilona was pretty sure she saw someone trailing them, probably to make sure that she was not being followed. Finally Kesrin stopped at what appeared to be a random door and opened it without knocking. Ilona followed him in. Inside, at the end of a long corridor, was a small room, furnished with a single table and two chairs. It was dirty, with a musty smell and plenty of dark stains, some appearing to be blood. The walls and the ceiling were rough and in bad shape. "Wait here," Kesrin said once she was inside and left her alone. Ilona sat in one of the chairs, looking at the single greasy candle burning in the middle of the table. It cast little light and there were no windows, not that having any would provide more light on a night as dark as this. There were some noises in the corridor and Ilona looked at the door, noticing deep cuts in its surface, as if it had been attacked with an axe. As she watched, the door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man in his forties walked in. His eyes looked tired and the hair at his temples was beginning to turn grey. The last year must have been a hard one for him. As Ilona studied Liriss, he took the opportunity to study her. This was not their first meeting. They last saw each other a little over a year ago, in the spring of 1013, at a celebration thrown by one of the local merchants on his daughter's wedding. Both were guests, on neutral ground, unable to confront each other, but this was different. Liriss tossed back his cloak, making sure that Ilona knew that he was armed. "It's been a long time, Lieutenant," he greeted her. Ilona rose from the chair, politely greeting the crime lord. "Not so very long, Liriss." "Please be seated," he indicated to her. Instead, Ilona moved away from the table. "I will be more comfortable standing up." Liriss nodded. "Up to you." Uneasy silence set in for a moment before he continued. "If you are here to let me know that Lieutenant Darklen is not interested in my offer, I all ready knew that at sunset." Ilona faced Liriss, her face a calm mask. There was no reason to stall. They both knew why she was here and there was no turning back. "I did not come here for him. I came here for myself. I want the job." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Fortunes 2 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. Corambis stood over the large table with the Wheel of Life, scratching his head. "Thuna! Thuna, bring me a pebble from the outside," he called out. Something crashed with a thud in the outer room, but he ignored it, pressing his hand down on the velvet table. It tilted. "By Kurin's beard! Expert craftsman my ..." Another loud crash outside drowned out the sage's words. "What's going on out there, Thuna?" he shouted. The door opened and Dyann Taishent stepped into the casting room, holding his hand in the air before him. "What is she doing?" Corambis demanded. "I'm not sure," Taishent looked back out the door, "but she told me to give you these," he dropped some pebbles on the table. Corambis shook his head. "...and she asked me to tell you to stuff them in your ..." Another loud crash in the other room cut him off and Thuna shrieked. "That does it!" Corambis snapped and went over to the door. "Thuna, what are you doing?" His assistant jumped into the casting room and slammed the door shut after herself. Her dark brown hair was a mess and in her hand she held a broken stick. "You have a mouse, Sir," she whispered, trying to maintain dignity. "A mouse," Corambis said flatly. "Well...a rat...maybe two..." "Then chase it out, girl! Get the broom and chase it out!" "I can't, Sir. It ate the broom." She handed him the stick she was holding. Sharp grooves of tooth marks marred it on one side and it was splintered from being hit on the other. "In the name of Ol!" Corambis cursed. "Three weeks and we all ready have rats! Here," he handed her some coins. "Go get me a cat." "I don't think a cat will solve it, Sir," Thuna muttered. "Get me something," Corambis ordered and opened the door. Thuna peeked out cautiously, then retrieved the remains of the broom from the sage and ran out. Corambis sat down holding his head. "Rats all ready. It was fine when I had the grain merchant next door..." Dyann Taishent sat down across from Corambis. "If you're too busy to do a casting today, maybe we can sip some cider and then chase the rats around..." Corambis let out a laugh. "Here, give me a hand." He scooped up the pebbles on the table and pointed to one of the corners. "Press down on that." Taishent put both of his hands on the edge and tilted the table, while the sage fumbled at the opposing leg, stuffing the pebbles beneath it. "There," Corambis finally got up. "Stable for now." "Rats?" "I wish. Trissa got some wood cutter to make me this. All the legs are of a different length. Twenty years bringing her up and she gets me a casting table made of oak." Taishent chuckled. "How does it cast?" Corambis shrugged. "Madam Labin asked me to cast for her pregnancy. According to my casting, she will have a puppy." Taishent's mouth dropped open. "What did you tell her?" "I said she will have a healthy baby...if a little on the hairy side. I will have to call her back for a second casting..." "Do you still want to do a casting with the table acting up like that?" "Of course," the sage said. "But we best do it under the influence." He got up and took a jug and two glasses from the corner. "At least the rats haven't gotten to this." "Jerid has been raiding my house every few days," Taishent sighed. "He took all the cider and just two days ago carried off a package of kavaliculi. Told me I was too old to eat all that." Corambis filled the two glasses and handed one to Taishent. "Live good while you live." "I've got a new hiding spot," Taishent winked. "I'll be picking up some pickled meats this evening." "Now," Corambis produced a bag of chips. "The casting." He chanted the incantation, naming Baranur as the recipient and let the nine blue and one red chips fall to the wheel carved in the table. The ally discs slipped to Pyrale, the torch. The adversary markers landed on Kafarn, the ship. The other discs landed in random areas, some rolling out to the outer rim of the wheel, where the major power elemental symbols took form. The red disc representing Baranur danced around the table for a time and finally came to rest on Aurus, the mistweaver. "Be better off chasing rats," Taishent muttered. "Allys in water, enemies in fire..." Corambis said. "That's a new one..." "Only the body is on Valonus," Taishent pointed to the oak symbol. "Usually all of them are there," Corambis sighed. Taishent quickly unwrapped his deck of cards and placed the Fate card on the table with the wheel. He shuffled the deck, said the incantation and placed another card on Fate, face down. After a second shuffling and casting, he laid a pattern on the surface. The top row held Sword, Wizard and Moon, the one below it contained Sorrow, Air and Fortress. "If I did not know any better, I'd say we're at war," Taishent smirked with sarcasm and turned over the hidden card on Fate. "The Jester again!" Corambis exclaimed. "That's the fourth time!" "Fifth," Taishent corrected. "I first cast him last summer." "Indeed you did," the sage agreed. "This makes it five times consecutively." "I guess we got it all right last summer," Taishent said, sitting back down. "The unrest of the mob, the actions of that coven, the Duke's trial...the war..." "Do the far future," Corambis prompted. Taishent recast the cards and laid out the last row -- Water, Knight and Fire. Corambis fumbled to refill their glasses with cider. "Why water and fire?" he wondered. "Both of us..." "Clifton Dargon's fleet?" Taishent guessed. "But why the fire?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ****** **** ** ** ** **** ** ** ** **** **** ** ** ** ***** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ***** ** ** *** **** ** Quanta is the electronically distributed journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy. As such, each issue contains fiction by amateur authors as well as articles, reviews etc... Quanta is published in two formats, Ascii and PostScript* (for PostScript compatible laser-printers). Submissions should be sent to quanta@andrew.cmu.edu. Requests to be added to the distribution list should be sent to one of the following depending on which version of the magazine you'd like to receive. quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.cmu.edu quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.cmu.edu or quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.BITNET quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.BITNET Send mail only- no interactive messages or files please. 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It is produced bi-monthly by Daniel Appelquist (da1n+@andrew.cmu.edu). * PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems Incorporated. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright June, 1991, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 4 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 4, Issue 4 12/17/91 Cir 1215 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ The Changeling Never Known, Parts I and II Wendy Hennequin Yule 1, 1014 Pact II Max Khaytsus Yuli 12-13, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 The Changeling Never Known * Part I * by Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a Richard just Richard ducked into the Sword and Serpent Tavern, and, putting his back against the wall, he searched the dim room. Luckily, the dusky room matched the exterior twilight, and Richard needed no time for his eyes to adjust. He kept his hand on his cutlass all the same. Eel Harbor, on the shores of Duchy Northfield, was a dangerous place at night. "Richard!" a voice called out, and Richard cursed himself although the voice was a known and friendly one. The bowmaster hated to be seen before he himself had seen. "Richard, come over and have a drink. Dinner's on the way." After another moment's quick survey, Richard located Captain Gaoel Fynystere of the Eclipse sitting in a corner table--the one Richard would have chosen himself, in fact. It was hardly visible from the doorway. Satisfied, Richard approached, then paused hostilely as he saw the other man at the table. After a moment, Richard resumed his approach slowly, carefully observing the stranger as he came closer. The man was tall and elegantly slim in the dimness, and he held beside him a large, lumpy object which Richard could not identify at the distance. Another step and the object became a plump lute, and the glowing lamp on the table glittered suddenly on a metal chain hung with pendants. Two more paces showed the man's face in the lamplight: handsome, dark, perhaps Richard's age. Not taking his eyes off the stranger's dark, pleasant ones, Richard sat in the chair Fynystere kicked to him, and observed final details: the colors and cut of the stranger's clothes, the designs on the medallions, and the other side of his face. The clothes were well made of fairly expensive and comfortable silk--the cloth Richard preferred for his own clothes, but Richard's plain white blouse and close-cut breeches were not exquisitely embroidered with gold and silver threads. The stranger's taste was excellent; his suit was elegant, colorful but not gaudy, and would look at home here in a tavern or in a nobleman's hall. Still, Richard felt wary, as he did with all strangers, and so he looked at the medallions to see what they could tell him. The first, a badge denoting the second-highest rank in the Baranurian Bardic College surprised him; Richard doubted that the seedy port town of Eel's Harbor ever sheltered a bard of such high rank before. The second medallion, a gold coin depicting King Haralan's head, seemed inconsequential to Richard, for he was familiar with the practice of bards wearing their first coins as trophies. The third medallion, however, intrigued him: it was a gold executioner's hood. The stranger smiled at him, and then Richard saw, with wonder, the unusual jagged scar, perhaps a burn, perhaps a cut, on the stranger's face. Richard shook his head to clear sudden, disturbed feelings from it--there was no reason for them--and smiled back. "Richard," Fynystere began, and Richard could tell that the captain had already been in his cups, "this is Matteo." A bard with no other name? Richard wondered. "Matteo, my bowmaster, Richard just Richard." "Pleased to know you, Bowmaster," Matteo said, and Richard knew Matteo was from Magnus by his accent. Of course, Richard chided himself; the Bardic College was in Magnus, and many bards came from there. Praying that Matteo had never seen him in Magnus, Richard answered formally, "And I you, sir. Tell me, what does a bard of such high skill as yourself do in Eel Harbor in a dump like this?" "Ask no questions, Rich," Fynystere growled one of the most important rules of the Eclipse. "Do our rules apply off board, captain?" Richard wondered amiably. "Do you want me to start asking *you* questions?" Fynystere snapped pointedly, and Richard felt a chill in his heart. His secrets were deep and dangerous, and the bowmaster guarded them jealously as a dragon. If he were asked--if anyone knew-- But Matteo laughed, and his eyes were shrewd. "I'm a bard; I'll tell freely. I was at the battle of Oron's Crossroads, sir. The Beinisons weren't gentle with Lady Martis' army." Richard abruptly suspected two things: the man was no bard, and he was a liar. No bard of such high distinction would mistake a Royal Officer's rank and refer to a Knight Captain as merely "Lady." As for the scar-- "Damn well healed for two months," Richard muttered. Matteo laughed, "Yes, and I have a good mage-healer, Hrina, to thank for it. Trained by Marcellon Equiville himself--have you heard of him, sir? The High Mage and Royal Physician. Hrina has been attendant on Lady Martis and myself since we were together in Magnus--I an aspirant to the Bardic College, Lady Martis an aspirant to Knighthood, and Hrina a student of the High Mage." That explained the scar and the familiarity with Dame Captain Westbrook, but Richard still wondered about some things. "Is it true, as I hear," Richard began carefully, "that Dame Captain Westbrook may never fight again?" Matteo nodded sadly. "My poor lady," he rued, sighing. "A wound in the upper arm, Bowmaster, and a bad one. By the time my lady arrived back in Pyridain, Hrina could do but little for her." Richard found that odd, and odd too that such an old friend as Matteo claimed to be would leave Dame Captain Westbrook at such a time. "It's a long way from Pyridain," Richard commented. "Indeed," Matteo agreed, sipping from his goblet. "I work my way north to Magnus, but my business I cannot tell." Richard nodded, satisfied. The man probably bore some sort of message from Dame Martis to Magnus--probably to the Knight Commander or the King. Still, Richard felt unjustifiably uneasy. Something--Richard couldn't tell what--bothered him about the way the man spoke. "I hear you sing, Bowmaster," Matteo continued. "Your captain has told me you have even written songs." Something was wrong with his accent. Oh, it sounded like Magnus' voice, but something wasn't quite right about it. Perhaps he grew up somewhere else first, Richard reasoned. More to keep the bard talking than anything else, Richard replied casually, "Oh, Bron of Beggar's End writes the songs. I merely clean them up." "Clean them up," the captain grumbled, reaching for his grog. "Clean them up. Why should you clean them up, Rich? A song can never be too bawdy." "I meant fixing the rhythm," Richard explained, rolling his eyes in exasperation. He looked back at Matteo. "Bron has all the metrical skill of a blacksmith." "You would think," Matteo replied smiling, "that seamen would take to rhythm naturally, what with knowing the tides and the rocking of the ship and all." "Not Bron. He's about as much a poet as Donegal," Richard replied, relaxing a little. "Your leech, I believe?" Matteo wondered. "The same," Fynystere belched. "Where is that whoreson, anyhow, Rich? Wasn't he to meet us here for dinner? And where is that damn cat of yours?" Richard smiled at the reference to the Red Tiger, Richard and Donegal's pet and the Eclipse's mascot. "Damn cat" was what Fynystere called her when in a good mood. "Donegal and Cedric--the mate--" he added for Matteo's benefit, "--are off somewhere getting wild, as usual. Kitty insisted on keeping an eye on them." "Kitty? Your lady?" Matteo wondered. "You could call her that, I guess." "A lady on a pirate ship," Matteo chuckled, pulling his lute out. The strap touched the medallions and moved them. Matteo plucked a string and adjusted its pin slightly. "I should put that into a song. Where did you find her, Bowmaster, this lady who dares sail with pirates?" "The Islands of the Sun," Richard answered, staring at the executioner's hood medal to shake his preoccupation with the man's accent. "She wouldn't let us leave her." "Tell me about her," Matteo said. "What does she look like?" "I'll tell," Richard promised, leaning closer for a better look at the pendants, "if you'll tell me where you got that medal." "What, the coin or the hood?" Matteo wondered. "Surely you know where I got the Bardic Medal." "Of course," Richard retorted, and his voice was sharper than he had intended. The man's not-quite Magnus accent grated on him inexplicably. "I meant the hood." "The hood was given to me by the Lord Executioner of Welspeare," Matteo explained as he tuned another string. "I've been thinking of melting it into a ring. It's rather gruesome." Richard couldn't argue with that. "And the coin I earned when singing for the Duchess of Narragan." Matteo reached for it with his right hand and held it out for Richard's inspection. "A gold sovereign, and my first performance before a noble, too." Richard knew that no bard whose singing was worth less than a sovereign even earned the right to perform before a noble. He said nothing, however, and stared at King Haralan's head, stamped rigidly into the gold. Matteo noticed Richard's gaze and picked up the sovereign. He looked down at the King's head, then at Richard. "Tell me, fellow-Magnan, does it look like the King? I've never seen him." He lived long enough in Magnus to go to the Bardic College and acquire the city's accent, but had never seen the King? Richard's stomach tightened. Something was wrong with this man, definitely. It didn't make sense: Matteo had lived in Magnus long enough to acquire--perhaps *learn*?--Magnus' accent, but had never seen the King, who appeared in parades and pageants and law courts? Richard carefully kept his eyes calm despite the sudden quake in his heart and replied, "I really don't know. I haven't been to Magnus in fourteen years. King Arneth was still alive then, and King Haralan was a young man." Matteo again turned to coin so he could view the face. "I always wondered if this is what he looked like," the bard mused. "I should like to know a King when I see him." The food came then, and Matteo returned to tuning the lute. The captain perked up slightly. "Where is that bloody Donegal?" Richard rose smoothly and stilled his nervousness sternly. "I'll go look for him, Captain." Suddenly, Matteo's eyes widened in horror, and Richard felt a hand on his shoulder. Before Richard could attack, Donegal's voice said, "Sit down." Richard nearly jumped despite the friendly voice. Why was he so edgy? "'Evenin', Captain," the leech greeted with his normal cheerful casualness. Suddenly, Donegal's voice changed. "Good evening, sir." Richard's hands tightened when Donegal's tone did. The Red Tiger nudged beneath Richard's palm but growled softly instead of purring. Suddenly, Richard wanted very badly to leave. "What *is* that--that--" Matteo gasped, and Richard's mood improved spitefully at the bard's fear. Let *him* be uncomfortable! "Damn cat," said Fynystere. "Hey, Rich," Donegal began, and Richard could tell without looking that Donegal's usual cheerfulness was now being feigned. "Hey, Rich, you've *got* to see this wench across the street. She's just the kind you like--big and--" "Let's go," Richard agreed quickly, and he left the tavern without turning. "See you later, Captain," Donegal ended the conversation, and Richard heard in the leech's voice that he was under strict control. "Something's wrong with that bard," Richard muttered when they had crossed the street. "Something's wrong." "You're damn right," Donegal breathed, and Richard, for the first time that evening, looked at his good friend. Donegal's white eyes were wide and wild in his dark face. "I don't know who the hell he's after, but I can't risk being in there with him. If he knew I was a slave--" Richard shook his head. "What are you babbling about? There's no slavery in Baranur." "He'd drag me back to Beinison--" "He's from Magnus," Richard corrected the leech, then, after a moment, he corrected himself: "He says he's from Magnus, but I don't believe it." After a moment of silence, Donegal asked quietly, "How did you know, Rich?" "Something about his accent isn't right." "He's not from Magnus, Rich." Richard rubbed his arms; the midsummer night had suddenly chilled. "How do you know?" "Did you see that scar on his cheek? The hood medal he wears?" "Aye." The bowmaster shivered, afraid of the answer to his next question. "What are they, Donegal?" "They're the signs of the Masked God, Rich. That so-called Magnus bard is a priest of Amante the Masked God. He's an assassin." * Part II * When Donegal na Valenfaer returned to the tavern with the skittish Red Tiger, he found only Captain Fynystere, more than half-drunk and half- asleep, at the corner table. Ignoring the astonished stares and frightened murmurs of the patrons, Donegal turned and searched the common room quickly. That so-called bard, thank Sanar, was gone. Heaving a grateful sigh, the leech slid into the corner beside the captain, and the Red Tiger settled peacefully at his feet. A pretty wench smiled at Donegal and motioned to an ale mug. Donegal nodded and began to feel much better. "Hey, Captain," he jostled Fynystere, "having fun, sir?" Fynystere groaned, lifted his dangling head, and gazed blearily at his leech. "Oh, Donegal," the captain slurred, "you're back. You missed dinner. Matteo sings like an angel." "Who?" "The Magnus bard. Richard really liked him," Fynystere continued, sliding forward to rest his head on his hands. "He took him back to the ship." "He *what*?" Donegal practically flew out of the chair and ran for the door. Kitty, the Red Tiger, sped at his heels. Richard took that bard back to the ship?! "He's an assassin," Donegal had told Richard when they stood outside the tavern two hours ago. "All the Masked God's priests are assassins, torturers, executioners, something. And he's important, Rich." "What the hell is a Beinison priest doing here?" Richard had wondered, his face pale and his breath short. "Going to kill someone, I suppose," Donegal had shrugged. The leech hadn't really cared; all Donegal wanted to do was get away from that "bard" as soon as possible. "Who?" Donegal had been surprised at the question. "How the hell should I know?" More surprising than the demand were the sudden, violent hands on Donegal's shoulders. Richard shook him once. "Think, damn you," the bowmaster hissed, murder in his voice. "Who could he be here to get? You said he's important. What did you mean?" Donegal struggled beneath Richard's large, hard hands. "Gold's the highest rank in their priesthood. That executioner's hood is their symbol, and it was gold." Richard was silent a moment, but his strong fingers dug into Donegal's flesh. "So he wouldn't be here to kill just anybody?" "I guess not, but Rich--" "My God," Richard abruptly breathed. "Oh, my God." Donegal had never seen the bowmaster so frightened, and they had faced death--and worse--together so many times that-- But Richard's blue eyes held terror, and his face was corpse-grey. Donegal couldn't swear to it, but he thought the strong archer was shaking. "What is it, Rich?" Richard didn't answer. Face stony, Richard turned slowly in the darkness and began to move away as if sleepwalking. "Don't worry, Donegal. We won't let him take you." "Wait, Rich--" "Bowmaster?" Donegal shrank into the darkness as soon as he heard the voice; he did not want that disguised priest to see him. Richard turned to the so-called bard. "Where is your friend? I've never seen his like, except among the Beinison slaves." The final word had sent Donegal fleeing into the night, and Donegal had not seen Richard since then. But he must have returned to the tavern; Captain Fynystere had said that Richard had taken the "bard" back to the Eclipse-- Donegal groaned internally and quickened his already-sprinting pace. Sanar guard him, Donegal prayed. Alanna, guard him on your ship. The Red Tiger rushed ahead impatiently, and Donegal increased his speed with great effort. What am I doing? he wondered at himself. That priest could haul me back to Beinison-- And hurl Richard into the grave. The Red Tiger leapt easily onto the gang plank, turned expectantly, and waited for Donegal. "Go!" he breathed, panting slightly. "Find him." The Red Tiger seemed to nod before she sped away. Donegal tried to breathe deeply enough to shout, "Watch!" The word came out less impressively than Donegal wished, but Morise of Equiville, the boatswain, heard. "Ev'nin', leech," Morise greeted him casually. "Th' law on yir back?" "Richard!" Donegal huffed, trying to slow and calm his breathing and his pounding heart. "Where is Richard?" "Th' bowmaster's b'low decks with a bard ir sech," Morise supplied readily. "'E sings richt purty--" Donegal dashed for the stairs and fell down them noisily in his haste. "Rich!" Donegal rasped, throwing open the door to the officers' shared cabin. Empty, dark space stared back at him. Donegal grabbed the lintels for support. "Whaire's th' fir', Donegal?" Donegal sprang into the air at Morise's words. "What's wrong wi' yir?" Donegal closed his eyes tightly. Richard could be in that dark room, dead on the floor. How would he know? How could he know without lighting the lamp--and giving that false bard time to leap out at him? Donegal took a deep breath and tried to think. How could he know where that false bard and Richard were? "Where's the bowmaster?" he panted again. "Morise--" "Cap'n's cab'n, I think," Morise obliged, staring at Donegal as if he were mad. "What's in yir, boy?" Donegal turned with all the energy he had left and stumbled down the hall to the captain's quarters. Impatiently swinging her tail, the Red Tiger waited at the captain's door. Donegal swallowed and attempted normal breathing. He failed miserably. "Has the bard left yet?" "No' yet." Thank Sanar. Maybe there was time left to save Richard. Donegal staggered the last few feet and collapsed beside the Red Tiger, who continued to scratch the captain's door impatiently. The bard's sudden, low laugh chilled Donegal's blood, and he shivered. "Am I?" he said with a voice pleasantly evil. "Do you think I don't know the marks of the Masked God's priests?" Richard challenged with even confidence, and Donegal released a momentous, grateful sigh. "I'm no stranger to Beinison. I've seen your like before." "Come, be logical," the pseudo-bard soothed, and Donegal shook. "Why would a Beinison priest be here in Northfield--in an enemy country, for Stevene's sake?" Donegal reached for the doorknob as Richard emitted a careful laugh. "Do you think using the Stevene's name will fool me? Or that it will distract me?" Richard returned, his voice suddenly filled with an inexplicable power which made Donegal shiver in responsive awe. "I know what you are, and I can guess why you're here." Donegal turned the doorknob silently. Locked. Damn you, Richard! Didn't the man have better sense? "Why am I here?" the bard demanded, his voice sinking into the frigid tones of the Masked God's priests. "Tell me, O bowmaster." "Where are the keys?" Donegal hissed to Morise, who drew closer. "We've got to unlock this door." "None but the cap'n has keys," Morise whispered loudly. Angry at his noise, Donegal chopped the air to silence him. "We can't get in." "There's got to be another set," Donegal argued. "Rich got in there somehow, and we've got to go in after him." "And what, pray, makes you think that?" the fake bard laughed coldly. "You revealed it through your carelessness," Richard answered, his voice still flowing with that new might. "It does not matter." The bard chuckled sinisterly. Before he could speak, Morise interrupted, "How're yir gonna get in thaire?" Donegal looked at Morise, and his mind raced. "Porthole. Isn't there a porthole?" "Ne'er go through it, Donegal," Morise objected. "T' small." Richard's voice raised suddenly without losing its control. "You will not kill the--" "Oooooh--" someone bellowed, and Donegal whirled to see the drunken captain sway into the hallway. Donegal motioned sharply for Fynystere's silence, but the captain ignored him. "Ooooh," he began again, then started to sing a drunken, bawdy ballad with deafening tunelessness. "Then you will die!" the bard shrieked. Something crashed. Donegal heard Richard cry out. The Red Tiger roared in angry helplessness. Donegal sprang to his feet and rushed at the captain. "Give me the keys!" Donegal screamed. "Give me the keys!" The captain staggered without hurry, singing his ditty merrily. "Ooooh," he started the refrain again. Glass shattered. Something thudded against the wall. The bard snarled. Richard howled in pain, his power gone. "Give me the keys!" Donegal shrieked, taking hold of Fynystere's shoulders and shaking him. Fynystere fumbled in both pockets. The Red Tiger pawed the door anxiously. Something crashed again. "Rich!" Donegal called desperately. The bard laughed. Another thud. Fynystere fished the iron key ring from somewhere. A heavy object slid across the floor in the room beyond. Donegal's shaking hands searched the keys. Above decks, men were running and calling. The world thundered in Donegal's ears. He shoved the key into the quivering lock and turned it. The Red Tiger lunged into the room, distracting the knife-wielding, gory bard who spun and smiled through the blood like a dragon. The blade rose. Donegal charged into the false bard's embrace and cried out as they both fell. Metal clattered on the floor. The Red Tiger leapt and roared at the bard who reached for the knife. The bard shouted a curse. Suddenly, without willing it, Donegal rolled onto his back. The bard cried out, and blood spurted by Donegal's eyes. Gleaming metal danced on the edge of Donegal's eyesight. He reached--it was warm and slid in his hand-- and when it hit home, Donegal's wrist wrenched painfully. The bard collapsed onto Donegal's chest. Magic hands appeared from nowhere to haul the bard off Donegal's body. The surgeon rolled toward the Red Tiger, who stood protectively between the bard's corpse and Richard's bloody body. "Rich!" Donegal croaked. The bowmaster was still. Despairing, Donegal staggered to his feet but crashed when he slipped on the blood. Feebly, the leech crawled to his friend and tried to rip away the gory shirt. Even with it obscuring Richard's chest, Donegal knew there were at least two wounds. By magic, Donegal's medical bag appeared on his lap, and voices buzzed around his head as he drew out his tools-- "--Did you see Kitty? She nearly bit his hand clean off!" "--Wonder what the bowmaster was doing?" "--Ain't no bard can fight like that!" One voice was Morise's. "Stow th' trash, and we'll heave it t'morrir when we set sail. Can't be lettin' 'm know we's killed a bard." "Water!" Donegal demanded. He was barely conscious of the gentle, thin hands of Luen Half-Elven, the youngest of the crew, setting a small cauldron and a pile of clean bandages near him. Richard's wounds were deep and dangerous, and Donegal could see nothing else. Luen's slender fingers sponged away the blood so Donegal could see, and the frantic surgeon groaned for his friend's life. Blood gushed from wounds. He tried to thread the needle with a quaking hand. Richard cried out when Luen touched him, and Donegal started, losing the needle completely. "My brother," the bowmaster moaned, thrashing. "My brother." "Hold him down!" Donegal shouted, and several disembodied arms appeared to hold Richard still. Luen handed Donegal a threaded needle, and Donegal stitched. Richard screamed his pain, but was held still. Horror-struck and numb, Donegal stitched. And then it was done. Richard lay still on the floor, breathing shallowly as his patched chest rose and fell. There was nothing Donegal could do but wait and pray and hope. Trembling, Donegal fell against a wall and finally allowed himself to think. "Rich, you're a stupid ass," he choked. "Attack a Masked God's priest." "Dead?" Richard gasped, and Donegal jumped. Sweat peppered the bowmaster's forehead and streaked his bloody hair, but he turned to Donegal. "Dead?" Donegal pulled himself to Richard's side. "He's dead," the surgeon answered, cradling his friend's head. Unexpectedly, tears spilled from Richard's blue eyes as they closed, relieved. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" "My brother," the bowmaster murmured, relaxing beneath Donegal's hands. Richard's eyes opened again. "His necklace...the King's head...his necklace..." "What's he talking about?" Luen asked, sliding toward them. Donegal wasn't too certain himself. "Go tell Morise I want the necklace that...bard was wearing. Now," Donegal snapped when the boy didn't move. As Luen left, Donegal looked back at Richard. "You're a god-damned fool, Rich." Richard shook his head weakly. "My brother..." "And you may die for it," Donegal finished, his voice rising. Balancing Richard's head on his leg, the leech scrambled for bandages and began to wrap the wounds. "I told you he was an assassin. Why--" "My brother," Richard croaked. "He said...something he said...he was going to kill my brother." Donegal laughed nervously and tucked the bandage to keep it fastened securely. "Your brother? You've got to be kidding. That priest was of the highest rank--" Donegal laughed again, frightened by the unthinkable, and asked thoughtlessly, "Is your brother so important?" Richard closed his eyes and nodded weakly. "Essential." Donegal shuddered. Who was Richard's brother, that a High Priest of the Masked God was sent to deal with him? Good Sanar, who was Richard then? "Promise me." Startled out of his fright, Donegal looked down into Richard's pained blue eyes. "Promise me." "Anything, Rich," Donegal vowed, watching blood seep through the bandages despite the fine stitching. "If I die--" "You won't die," Donegal asserted stubbornly, suddenly unwilling to face the fact. Before Richard could answer, Luen rushed in again, panting, and gave Donegal the necklace with the three pendants, which the surgeon gave immediately to Richard. "Go get me the healing potions," Donegal ordered sternly, "quick!" If Donegal could get enough healing potions into him--special healing that the old leech his master had taught him--he could avoid a fever, increase the healing, and give Richard a better chance at life. "And a sleeping potion?" Luen wondered, pausing at the door. Donegal nodded. Richard might need one, in his pain. But when Donegal looked down at his old friend, Richard was already asleep, the coin on the "bard"'s necklace clutched to his heart. In the hallway, Fynystere snored. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Pact part 2 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. "You did what?" Kalen demanded, shocked. Without waiting for a more complete explanation, he jumped out of bed and started dressing. He had had a bad feeling brewing in his stomach ever since his meeting with Kesrin. When Ilona told him the news of her evening trip, those fears came to life. Ilona stared at him from the bed, full of surprise. Where was the execution? Kalen had never reacted this way to her personal investigations before, but something was wrong now and there was genuine fear in his eyes. "What's wrong?" Ilona asked. Kalen looked at Ilona, jamming his tunic in his pants. Obviously his intentions did not include neatness. "Damn." But he did not look angry. He never really looked angry and Ilona could not recall any rumors to that effect. None the less, something was absolutely wrong. "Get dressed and go to the guard house," Kalen told her. "I want two men watching Koren at all times." "What? What does he have to do with this?" Kalen pulled Ilona out of bed and held her by her shoulders. His voice was low and a bit excited. "I didn't agree to work for Liriss because a part of the deal was to have me replace the Captain. The only way for me to achieve the position is to kill him. Liriss agreed to your proposal just because you're so close to me. If he puts me in charge now, the effect will be the same. Now get dressed!" His voice rose only at the end. Ilona started dressing, too concerned about what could happen to think about what she had done. Kalen strapped on his belt and grabbed his sword. "Where are you going?" "The castle. I need to be sure nothing's happened yet." He kissed her quickly, missing her lips, but not making a second try in his rush to leave. Ilona was dressed and ready only moments after Kalen had left. She grabbed her scabbard and made for the door, strapping the weapon on as she hurried out. Only now did she realize the consequences of the decision she had made, but now she was committed, as was everyone else. It was not the decision she would have made if Kalen had told her everything, but what was done was done. Hopefully they could turn this seeming mistake to their advantage. If they could dismantle just a small part of the underground, it would be worth the risk. Under normal circumstances if the Captain was killed or even hurt due to her actions, she would have resigned and faced any legal charges that would have been levied, but in this case she did not have the luxury of giving up. That made her even more determined to see everything through and to make the people responsible pay. Jerid Taishent tensely paced the office of Duke Clifton Dargon's leading general, Captain Lansing Bartol. The Duke was off leading King Haralan's fleet against the Beinison flotilla that, just a month before, had attacked the town of Dargon, hoping to secure the Coldwell as an access point deep into Baranurian lands, where it could easily resupply the army moving up the Laraka towards Gateway. Captain Bartol himself was currently off in the southern portion of the duchy raising troops for the King's army, now struggling against the invading forces on the Laraka. With Captain Bartol gone, and all the other Ducal lieutenants out in various parts of the Duchy helping with the recruiting, Jerid was in charge of the castle and all the troops that were within his reach. The office was one of the luxuries of carrying such a responsibility. There were certainly better things to do in the middle of the night than pace an office, but something had happened. A page woke him up not long ago, saying that a man was caught committing a crime in the keep itself. There was more, but Jerid was not in a condition to listen to long sentences and the boy did not look awake enough to be making them. All that was made clear was that the crime was serious and Jerid's presence was required. Now Jerid waited for the man to be brought to him to be questioned, and Jerid did not know what questions to ask. A knock sounded on the door and a second later three guards entered. It took Jerid a moment to realize that the hands of the one in the middle were tied. "Guralnik," he said to the only man he recognized. With the war on, the staff was mixed right and left and these days it was perfectly normal for him to not recognize a good half of the men. Guralnik stepped forward, his scabbard clanking against the metal greaves on his outer leg. "Sir, we caught this man trying to break into Captain Koren's room. He put up a fight when we first stopped him. And he had these on him," Guralnik offered Jerid items he confiscated from the prisoner. "Is he a member of the Guard?" Jerid asked. The last thing he needed now was a break in. Worse yet, all he needed was one of his own men trying to kill the town's war hero. "He was hired last week," Guralnik said, casting his eyes down. The man was a new recruit. Jerid accepted the lockpick and the vial filled with green liquid from Guralnik and examined them closely. "Thank you, Sergeant. When she wakes up, have Elizabeth examine the potion. Have her come see me...and send a message to Lieutenant Darklen or whoever is on duty." "Yes, Sir," Guralnik barked. "Have him sit down," Jerid motioned to the tied man. The two guards brought him to a chair and forced him into it. Jerid took the time to place the vial on the desk and returned to the prisoner. "What were you after?" he asked. The man did not respond, blankly staring at the wall. Jerid stepped between the man and the crack he was focusing on. "I asked you what you were doing." Again there was no answer. "Lock him up," Jerid ordered. He was not about to torture anybody, particularly with as little information as he had. He was not much for torture anyhow and the Duke had a set policy on dealing with prisoners anyway. Watching the guards lead the man out, Jerid retreated to the corner of the room and considered looking the man's name up in the file, but he neither had the name, nor any idea of where the file would be. Keeping files up to date was the least of his concerns these days and men and their records were hardly ever in the same place at the same time. There was another knock at the door. "Enter." It opened and Kalen Darklen walked in, a guard on his heels. "Am I to assume my man covered a league both ways in under ten minutes?" Jerid asked. He knew the answer. "Can we talk alone?" Kalen asked. "Leave us," Jerid told the guard. "Is the room secured?" Kalen asked when the man left. Whatever brought him here must have weighted heavily on his mind. Ordinarily this question was left for war councils and strategic planning sessions. "Better than the Duke's personal quarters," Jerid said. "All the spiders report in at midnight." Kalen's expression remained grim. "I just spoke with Sergeant Guralnik. He told me what happened. I don't want the prisoner to have contact with anybody. I'll have him picked up in the morning and interrogated by my men." "Hey, hey! Slow down. I've got him locked up. He's got the whole cell block to himself. Why are you here in the middle of the night?" Kalen paced nervously for a moment, than sat down in a chair. "Yesterda y...night before last, I received a proposition from Liriss to join the underworld. In exchange for my loyalty Captain Koren would be killed and I would get his position. Shevlin..." Kalen stopped, wondering if Jerid Taishent was on the take. Anyone, anywhere... "...Shevlin was working for them before he was killed." He was not going to say a word about Ilona's involvement just yet, in order to keep it safe. At least this way she would not be killed for telling him what she had done if Jerid was bringing in extra pay from Liriss. "I had a bad feeling they might try to give me some incentive to accept anyway." Jerid nodded and picked up the vial he placed on the table. "The man had this with him. I'll have the healer test it as soon as she's up." "What about security?" "The door's locked. There are guards making rounds in the corridors and there are bars on the window," Jerid did his best to relieve Kalen's fears. There really was no reason to be worried. No one was going to get to Captain Koren, particularly the man who already tried it once. "Who has the keys?" "I do, the castellan has one and Elizabeth has a spare." "Do you object if I put my own guards here?" "I'll be surprised if you can spare them, but I don't object," Jerid answered. "So be it. Can you hold that man in isolation until morning?" "Yes." "I'll be back then." Jerid watched Kalen leave, then closed the drawer with the files, never having found the right one. He picked up the confiscated vial and left the office, locking the door after himself. He could understand Kalen's fears. The mob was not something to be trifled with. Liriss was a criminal with little respect for law and life and could cover his tracks well. Having left the vial for the Duke's personal physician to examine, Jerid returned to his quarters, checking up on Aimee along the way -- she was no longer staying with his father -- and went back to bed. Ilona walked into the guard house and directly up to the guard at the desk. The station was almost deserted, the way it had been for some time. The casualties taken during the Beinison invasion reduced the available force by half and the recruiting efforts of a backward town out on the frontier were no match to what the Baranurian army was offering. "Yes, Ma'am?" the guard asked, surprised to see her at such a late -- or was it early -- hour. "I need two guards." The guard sputtered. "Everyone's on patrol, Lieutenant." Ilona looked around in disbelief. She knew they were short on staff, but not having anyone available at all... For an emergency, no less. This emergency in particular. The door to a back office opened and Sergeant Cepero came out, talking to a young woman in a guard uniform. "You!" Ilona pointed to the woman, "and you," to the guard at the desk. "You're going with me." Sergeant Cepero opened his mouth, apparently trying to say something and not managing. "Isn't it a little late?" he finally said. "What are you doing?" "Lieutenant Darklen needs two people immediately. He'll explain when he gets here," Ilona said. She realized that she was pulling the last of the staff when regulations required that a minimum of four people be on duty at the guard house at all times. But that regulation was made for desperate situations just like this and when it came down to worrying about other emergencies and the Captain's life, it was obvious which would take presidence. Both the young woman -- Ilona guessed that she was not much older than eighteen -- and the other guard watched her in confusion, torn between which of their superiors to follow: the one trying to obey regulations or the one with the rank to ignore them. Cepero challenged Ilona. "This is highly unusual. Coming here in the middle of the night, pulling guards, and neither you, nor Darklen on duty." Ilona took a piece of parchment off the table the guard sat at and scribbled on it. It was some document, but she did not care. "Here. The highest priority I can authorize," she handed the paper to Cepero. He could not disobey. He whispered something to the young woman, too quiet for Ilona to hear and she announced she was ready to go. "My sister's youngest," Cepero explained. "Don't get her into any trouble." "Let's go," Ilona said and the two guards followed her out from under the Sergeant's reluctant stare. Kalen met Ilona and the two guards at the castle gate and gave them their orders. He realized they were young and inexperienced, but they were all that was currently available and due to their age, more than likely not asso ciated with Liriss. He would select additional people he could trust during the night and have them posted by morning. On the way home neither Kalen, nor Ilona said anything, each thinking their own thoughts, planning out what they were to do next. The die had been cast and it was obvious to Kalen that he was committed to seeing this business through. He wanted, desperately, to do something about Kesrin's offer when it was first made, but the threat to Captain Koren's life held him back. He was glad that someone made the difficult decision for him, permitting him to challenge the crime that was running rampant in the city. He wished it had not been Ilona who forced his hand, but in a way it was his own fault; he had not told her all that happened, so she acted on what little she knew, just as he would have. His task now was to keep the Captain alive and with a shortage of manpower it would perhaps be the hardest of all jobs. Ilona, next to him, could not help but feel a little worried over what she had done. It was her duty to find out what was going on, not to act on information impulsively. She had not thought about the consequences. None the less, it was done and she felt she had only herself to blame. She considered returning to Liriss and telling him to forget it, but that was bound to do little more than aggravate him and perhaps make matters worse. She glanced at Kalen, but he was oblivious to the world, a thoughtful expression spread on his face. This was not the time to bother him with questions. "It's still dark," Kalen said suddenly. "Yes," Ilona agreed. "It's just been a few hours..." "Kalen, are you all right?" she grabbed hold of his arm, but then remembering his wound, released him. He did not react to what she knew was painful. "Get Taishent. Bring him to Captain Koren's room. I have an idea." Ilona watched him run off, back towards the castle, then shook her head and followed him in. Kalen was almost out of breath by the time he made it to the room where his Captain was recovering from his wounds. There were four guards present; the two members of the town guard that Ilona brought with her and two castle guards. They stopped talking and turned to face him, his own subordinates at attention, the other two, in the middle of their rounds, simply watching. "You," he called the young woman wearing the insignia of the town guard, "find the physician and bring her here. Wake her up if you have to. The rest of you, bring the assassin and make sure no one knows that you're doing so." They all rushed off. Kalen felt his shoulder, realizing that the wound had once again come open and started bleeding. He held his hand over it for a moment, thankful that there was no pain yet and then took out his dagger and a long thin metal bar. Using the two he bent at the door and attempted to pick the lock. It required some doing in the darkened corridor, but he finally succeeded. It took Kalen some determination to push the door open, but when he did, he had made up his mind to go through with his plan, no matter how dangerous. He hoped that the things he would now do could be justified by a satisfactory resolution in the days to come. "What the hell are you doing?" he heard Jerid's voice behind him. "Can't I even get some sleep around here without trouble cropping up?" "Step inside," Kalen said and let Jerid and Ilona walk past him. His behavior was strange, but not as strange as it was going to get. Captain Adrunian Koren lay in the large bed, faintly illuminated by the dim torch light coming in from the corridor. His chest moved rhythmically up and down, but there was no sign of him being awake. In fact, Kalen did not expect him to be alert for at least a few more days, as the healer's treatment required the use of some drugs that would concentrate all his bodily energies on regenerating his health. Kalen lit a candle and closed the door. "I'm going to give Liriss exactly what he wants," he said, placing the candle into a tray on the table. "What? You can't be serious!" Kalen had come to the decision to trust Jerid. Jerid, the son of the mage Dyann Taishent, had to be trustworthy based on the fact who his father was. There was simply no way that affiliation with Dargon's crime lord would go unnoticed by the mage and knowing Dyann as well as he did, Kalen had no doubt that Jerid could be trusted. There was no way he could be involved. "Liriss wants to kill Captain Koren to put me in charge," Kalen said. "Then he can use Ilona to manipulate me. He extended her the same offer he did to me and I thought it might be worth while to have her play along. I had the guards get the assassin. When they bring him in here, play along with what I do and let me do all the talking. I'm going to try to convince him we already work for Liriss." "He'll never fall for it," Ilona protested. "We'll see. We're not losing anything for trying." Kalen started pacing back and forth. "Jerid, you'll have to make me the Acting Captain of the Guard because both the Duke and Captain Bartol are out. Ilona will have to play along with Liriss and maybe we'll get him this time. Him and all his men." "You're already the Acting Captain," Jerid protested. "Yes, but that's in light of the real Captain's pending recovery. I need..." Footsteps in the corridor made Kalen stop speaking. There was a knock at the door. Jerid, closest to it, opened it, letting two castle guards bring the assassin in. "Leave us," Jerid said and the two men left the room. "That was stupid of you," Kalen walked up to the assassin. "Look at him," he gestured to the Captain lying on the bed. "He's as good as dead. I have the city and Taishent commands the Ducal lands. What the hell are you people doing?" Kalen emphasized his words by giving the man a push with his good arm. The assassin's eyes grew wide with surprise. "Where the hell did you get the idea that you needed to kill him?" Kalen continued. "If he dies now, and by poison, no less, that'll point the finger of blame right at me. You're compromising the whole deal, not to mention my life!" "I..." "Who told you to do this?" "Uh..." Kalen grabbed the man by the neck and slammed him into the nearest wall. "Who?! Kesrin? Ovink? Cissell?" "Lord Liriss. He ordered the death!" "Liriss? That rat told me not to kill Koren until he's well and can be had by a mugger!" "It was him, I swear!" With lightning speed Kalen pulled his dagger and thrust it into the assassin's chest. Jerid grabbed Kalen's arm and spun him around as the assassin collapsed to the floor. "What the hell are you doing?" His own dagger was out, flat of the blade against Kalen's cheek. Ilona, who had bent down to check if the man was still alive, stood up, unsure whose side to take. "If he lives, they'll know he failed and I need him to succeed," Kalen let out a sigh. His shoulder wound started to throb and he knew he could not fight Jerid. "This way we can say he was successful and was himself killed by the guards." "He's dead," Ilona announced. "No need to discuss what we do if he's alive." "But Captain Koren is alive," Jerid argued. "Word will get out." "There are catacombs under the castle, aren't there?" Jerid replaced his dagger and stepped away from Kalen. "Of course, but they're sealed off. A few months ago that crazy mage Cefn and that guard that used to work for you broke in there..." "I remember her," Ilona said. "Je'lanthra'en. She came up from Magnus, trained with Sir Morion before joining the guard." "And then she and the mage disappeared after starting that big fire on the wharf," Jerid added. Kalen nodded grimly. "Of course!" Jerid exclaimed. "We can hide the Captain in the catacombs." "And there are only four guards who know the truth, so we can put them on duty there," Kalen added. "I've sent for Elizabeth. She'll also need to know." "I don't know about pulling that many guards," Jerid protested. "We'll need the guards now that the Guild is after the Captain and these four already know the situation, or at least part of it." "For now," Jerid agreed reluctantly. "And have the Captain moved before sunrise, so no one knows." "What are you going to do?" Kalen paused. Everything would have to be done to appear normal. "Ilona and I will spend the night together, just like we intended to in the first place." Kalen and Ilona left the castle soon after leaving the final instructions for the physician. The trap was set, now waiting to see its prey. "Should I contact Liriss again?" Ilona asked. "No need. He'll come to you. Just don't be surprised that the Captain was killed and agree to provide information in exchange for information from them." Kalen slid his arm around her waist. "And above all, be careful and no heroics. We're not losing anything by trying this. Let's keep it that way." "I'll check with you before all my heroics," Ilona smiled. "You do that. If we do this wrong, it could get worse than the war. In this one we won't know who's on which side." "It'll be all right," Ilona assured him. "I know," he agreed, but to himself he wondered how crazy his idea was and how many people would get killed if he went wrong. But at the same time he felt it was a risk that needed to be taken. Liriss had long been getting out of hand. Just before the war started, the mob became restless. The upper class started taking a beating from the criminals; known brigands and street thieves were found dead in groups; at least one body was fished out of the sea each morning; two or three shops burned every month. It was as if there was a territorial conflict and it was spilling out all over the city. If nothing else, Kalen was sure of one thing, this had to stop, or there would not be much of a city for the Duke to return to. Kalen again squeezed Ilona's waist tightly with his good arm. "Just be careful." "You already said that," she looked at him. "I meant it. You're the closest thing I have to a family." "And you still don't want to get married?" "If we get married, people will expect children and I'm not ready for that. Not during a war, of all times." The knocking at the door grew more insistent as Kalen hurriedly pulled his pants on. Ilona sat up in bed, arms folded, watching him stumble about, a faint smile on her face. Kalen grabbed her clothes off the chair and tossed them at her. "Get moving." He rushed to the front room, tunic in hands, and pulled open the door. "Yes?" It was still night outside and a town guard, breathing heavily and sweating hard from a long run, stood at the door. "Sir, Captain Koren has been killed!" "What?" The shocked reaction was easy. For just one horrible instant Kalen believed that he had made a mistake and another killer succeeded where the first had failed. He pulled himself together as the guard repeated the report. "Captain Koren was killed in his sleep by an assassin. Lieutenant Taishent sent word just minutes ago." Kalen started pulling the tunic he had in his hands over his head, careful of his shoulder wound. "Who did it?" "I don't know, Sir. The messenger didn't say." "Does Sergeant Cepero know?" "No, Sir. He's out on patrol at the south gate." Ilona appeared behind Kalen. "What's happened?" She did not need to pretend to be sleepy, tired as she was. "Something's happened to the Captain," Kalen said. "I have to go to the castle. You get to the guard house and keep everything quiet until we know for sure." Concern was all over Ilona's face. "Just do it," Kalen stepped around her. He picked up his belt and sword off the table. "Stay there until I come or send word." He paused long enough to sloppily kiss her on the cheek and rushed off. Ilona looked at the guard waiting for her and sighed. "I'll get my blade." Kalen took the castle stairs three and four at a time, rushing to Captain Bartol's office, which was currently being used by Jerid Taishent. He burst in, almost without knocking, practically running down the Duke's new physician. Elizabeth of the Pass was a tall blond woman in her late thirties. She folded her arms and glared at Kalen, not moving out of his way. "If you get hurt tonight, Lieutenant," she said in an icy tone, "it may just be by my hand." Obviously she did not approve of what he and Jerid were doing. Kalen side-stepped her, only to come face to face with Rish Vogel, who hurried out of his way. The old chronicler was a problem Kalen never considered, but now, if played right, Rish could become the only, and the most credible, witness he would ever need. "What's happened?" Kalen demanded, finally getting to see his castle counterpart. Jerid was calm. "A few hours ago an assassin made his way into Captain Koren's room and killed him. A passing guard caught the assassin and killed him in a struggle." "Wasn't the door locked? Where was the door guard?" Kalen demanded, hoping Jerid was ready for an improvised interrogation. Everything had to look and sound right. "The lock was picked and there was no guard. Just the one man assigned to the floor." "One man?" Kalen bellowed. "Adrunian Koren is the highest law we have in town and you put one man on the floor?!" "I know!" Jerid shouted back. "I know and I'll have to explain all of this to the Duke when he gets back. We're stretched so thin now that I couldn't even afford that one man." His voice dropped off as he finished. Kalen scowled. "Look, it happened! We just have to deal with it now, no matter how we feel about it. I'm ready to take the blame, but we have to solve this first." Something clanked and both men looked over at Rish who sat at the desk, busily scribbling away on a sheet of parchment, a tipped over bottle of ink by his hand, spilling dark liquid on the surface of the table and staining his arm and sleeve. Jerid took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "You're already the acting guard captain. We'll hold a ceremony to reaffirmed it this afternoon. Clifton will have to make a final ruling when he returns." Kalen sank down into a chair, rubbing his face as if trying to convince himself this was not a dream. He looked up at Elizabeth. "Is he...?" The physician was not much of an actress, but she nodded grimly. "He was poisoned. I couldn't save him. The assassin died from a stab wound to the chest." "I want to know who that man was working for," Kalen warned Jerid. "I already have men working on it," Jerid answered. Kalen sat in what officially used to be Captain Koren's office, studying the roster of guards and what what they admitted about their pasts. He was hoping to find some tell-tale event or slip-up that would indicate shady character, but half way through the stack he still had not found any real evidence of false documentation. Everything available was consistent and true, as far as he could determine. Tossing the latest file to be examined on the floor, Kalen leaned back in his chair. He had been at it all day, trying to find any problem people under his command, like the one that attempted to kill the Captain. Instead he was rewarded with eight hours of lost time and a splitting headache. Shortly after noon he was reaffirmed as the Captain of the Town Guard, in view of Captain Koren's untimely demise and pending Clifton Dargon's final appointment of him to the post. It was a small, semi-official gathering, since he was already the Acting Captain of the Town Guard due to his superior's war injuries. A few minor nobles and bureaucrats were invited to be witnesses. A priest helped Jerid, the highest ranking representative of the Duke's personal guard, to conduct the ceremony. By the time Kalen returned to the guard house, the city was buzzing with the news of Captain Koren's death. The plan was slowly coming together, but the trap was yet to be set off. For now he only hoped the secret could be kept and Ilona would not run into too much danger. Rish Vogel fumbled with the large key ring he had stolen from the castellan who had fallen asleep in a large chair in the great hall right after dinner. It was a simple matter to slip it off his belt. There were literally dozens of different keys on the ring and Rish hurried to open the door before the guard would pass this way again. It took a dozen or so attempts, but Rish was finally rewarded with the sound of the turning tumblers and the screech of the opening bolt. Pocketing the keys, Rish stepped into the room where just a day ago the now dead Captain of the Town Guard slept. He never knew the man personally, but had met once or twice in official capacity, with the large, powerfully built soldier with silver-grey hair and a bushy walrus mustache that made it seem as if he was always smiling, even in times of crisis. Adrunian Koren had been with the town guard for almost twenty-five years, in which time he progressed from a rookie guardsman to the Captain of the town militia and one of the closest aides to Lord Clifton Dargon. His death was a strong blow to the city, especially after his successful defense against the Beinison fleet. This was as large an event as the deaths of Fionn and Roisart Connall just a year ago and very bad for morale during the war. The chronicaller pushed the door shut behind himself and studied the room from where he was. It was large and bright from beams of the setting sun. The bed remained unmade, a chair lay overturned on the floor and in a corner was a pool of dried blood. Rish pretended he was the assassin. He walked from the door to the bed, poured the vial of poison into the sleeping man's mouth and made him swallow. The physician Elizabeth said it would require a few minutes to take effect. Would the assassin stay? Rish decided he would. So the assassin stayed. Rish took a few deep breaths to time himself, all the while looking around. The chair and the blood stain were at opposite ends of the room. Was there a struggle? Satisfied that his victim was dead, Rish walked to where the overturned chair lay by the window. Was this a way out? Had the assassin thought to use the window to leave unnoticed and tripped over the chair? The window opened to the courtyard. Not a way to escape during day or night, with guards and keep residents passing in and out. And there was no trace of a struggle. All other furniture and decorations seemed to be in their proper places. A ceramic vase stood peacefully on the window table right next to the chair. So why was the chair overturned? The old chronicler got down on the floor to look for drops of blood. None. Just the big puddle in the opposite corner. Rish scratched his head. Something was missing. He lit a candle to compensate for the settling darkness, although he knew Jerid ordered nothing to be disturbed, and pulling out his quill and a roll of parchment, sat down at the table in the room to record his findings. Ilona Milnor stood on the second floor balcony of the guard house, looking into the darkness of the street below. The night was cloudy and dark, dark enough that she could not see the ground below the balcony. The air was calm and heavy, just like before a violent summer thunderstorm. She pulled her cloak tightly around herself, trying to ward the chilly night air away. The night before she visited Liriss to make the deal and now had her doubts about it. Liriss acted promptly on his plans to put Kalen in charge and now her heart was heavy with even more doubts than before. Would the next attempt be made on Kalen? She saw a young boy walk down the street and was about to yell to him about violating the curfew, but seeing him head for the guard house door did not. She watched him until he disappeared below the balcony and then seeing the light from the opened door decided to go down. She met a guard half way down the stairs, on the landing between floors. "This was just delivered for you, Lieutenant," he offered her a fist sized box of plain wood. "By whom?" She took it. "A young boy." Ilona pushed past the guard down the stairs and ran to the door. The boy was gone and the street was empty in both directions. She waited until a flash of lightning illuminated the street, then walked back to the door, where the guardsman waited. "I can go look for him," the man offered. "Don't bother," she sighed. "The intent was obviously for him not to meet me. I'll be upstairs." Ilona did not open the box until she was in Captain Koren's office with the door firmly closed behind her. Only after sitting down did she permit herse lf to lift the case's lid. In it, settled in a velvet lined cradle, lay a sparkling g em, clear even in the dim candle light. As she took it out, a note fell to the floor. It read: 'You're well on your way. Liriss.' ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright November, 1991, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 5 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 5, Issue 1 03/20/92 Cir 1155 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Sonnet to the Bichanese Wendy Hennequin Yule 4, 1014 Lessons Wendy Hennequin Yule 8, 1014 Dummy Bill Erdley Yule 10, 1014 Pact III Max Khaytsus Yuli 14, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Sonnet to the Bichanese by Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a. I looked up from the poem I was struggling to write as I heard someone enter, and then I lowered my eyes to keep from staring. A Bichanese man, one of the samurai the Emperor of Bichu had sent to the King by the looks of his weapons, stood in my cubicle, confused. After an awkward moment in which he searched my tiny, dank cell with his eyes and I didn't dare raise mine, I asked meekly, "May I help you, my lord?" "Please," he began courteously, to me of all people, and Bichu and Dargon flavored his words, "I think I am lost. They said I should seek the bastard to translate and transcribe my order, but I do not see him." My heart seethed. Oh, I didn't mind that the masters had sent this Bichanese lord to me--I am, after all, the only translator of Bichanese in the city--but they could have sent him to seek *Fionna*. I kept my face docile, though, as I had long practiced. This samurai hadn't insulted me, and thus I should not insult him with my anger. Even if he had been the one to throw my bastard birth in my face, I would not show him my wrath. Oh, they can all tolerate-- barely--a meek, gentle, unthreatening bastard, but an angry one who fights for her own justice, never. At least, that is the way of things in Magnus. My mother should have stayed in Dargon where she belonged, where bastards and unwed mothers are truly tolerated and never shunned. I'll be very glad when I have enough money to go there myself and leave Magnus behind me. I beckoned the samurai without looking at him. "Come in, my lord. I am--" I hesitated to name myself bastard, though it is true. There are others enough who so call me. "I am the person you seek." The samurai advanced, and when I stole a glance, I saw he was smiling, but his eyes were bewildered. "I do not understand. You are no despicable man." "Despicable man? What do you mean, my lord?" "My--" He paused and pondered. "My liege-lord calls despicable men bastards. He has never used that name for a woman." I tried not to laugh. For the first time in my life, I actually wanted to laugh at the word "bastard." "The word does not mean despicable man, my lord, though no doubt your liege-lord so uses it. Many people do so." The Bichanese considered this. "What does the word mean, then?" Somehow, I courageously looked the samurai in the face. He was a good-looking man, and his slanted, hazel-brown eyes were serious, and gentle. I was able to continue looking directly at him as I answered, "It means an illegitimate child." He shook his head, still confused. "A child conceived or born while his parents were unmarried, my lord." The samurai thought for a moment, then, as I lowered my eyes to avoid offending with my direct gaze, he asked, "This is an insult here, to have unmarried parents?" I nodded glumly and looked away, for my eyes had flooded. I had much better control usually. "Why? Luthias-sama--my liege-lord the Count of Connall- -he says such things often happen in this country, without blame from law or church." "Not in Magnus," I told him bitterly, blinking away tears. He cares about a bastard, I thought. "The new religions competing with the Stevene have made our priests very strict." "And people insult you with your birth?" "In my case, it cannot be considered an insult," I managed, gulping down my sobs. I am a bastard, I have always been a bastard, and I must survive despite it. Oh, God, I wish people would just accept me despite it! "It is true. My parents were not married, my lord. I don't even know my father's name." "Do they also taunt your mother?" My mother. My face warmed with indignation. Only her mistreatment burned me more than mine. "They did, my lord. God rest her, she's dead of the Red Plague these six years." "But they still call you names, although you were not at fault?" I turned toward the samurai and tried to smile. "Is it not like that in Bichu? I understood that the Bichanese honor code was quite strict." The Bichanese returned my smile warmly, and mine drew strength from his. "No, in Bichu, it is enough to know one's mother." He began to search my face curiously, and I ducked my head. "What is your name? They did not tell me." Of course, they hadn't. "The bastard" is all they ever call me. "My name is Fionna." "I am Ittosai Michiya." While I wondered why the name was familiar, he seized my hand suddenly and pressed it to his cheek. I, astonished, could not move. He sat on the unsteady stool next to my table, and when he looked at me, his smile collapsed. "Did I not do it rightly? Is that not how a man greets a lady here?" "I'm not a lady, my lord," I sputtered, trying to yank my fingers from his. "I'm a bastard!" Ittosai Michiya's hand tightened on my fingers, and he laughed. "I cannot catch it, can I?" Completely without my guard, I laughed too. "You'd never tell from how the people of Magnus treat me." I stared at him. This Bichanese, a foreigner, made me forget myself and laugh. I do not remember the last time I laughed. When he let go of my fingers, I held the hand out. "What have you brought me, my lord?" The samurai gave it to me without looking at it. "My liege- lord needs two copies, one in Baranurian for the King and another in Bichanese for General Kirinagi." I unrolled it and stared. After several minutes of concentrated scrutiny, I managed only to make out Connall's signature. Comparing it to the rest of the document, I surmised the hurried Count had scrawled the words out himself, hastily and impatiently. But then, from what I had heard of the Count of Connall, his hurry might well be expected and excused. Keeping my eyes on the illegible scratches, I said quietly, "Do you know what it says?" "Yes, of course. Luthias-sama told me as he was writing it." "Please tell me." When Ittosai Michiya didn't answer, I looked at him through my eyelashes. He wore a bewildered expression again. "Can you not read as well as write and translate?" I have never been bold, but I looked at this samurai and smiled. "Only when the writing is legible, my lord. Your liege the Count Connall is a great warrior and a fine general from all reports, but he'd never make a scribe." The Bichanese chuckled. "I am not surprised." "What does it say, my lord?" He took a deep breath. "It is a request to General Kirinagi for my official transfer. I go to war tomorrow with the Count of Connall and the cavalry." Ittosai Michiya, I remembered suddenly. No wonder the name had been familiar; last autumn, he had been tried for treason. I had thought, however, that he was Connall's castellan. Why would he need a transfer? The obvious answer came: protocol. I drew a paper toward me. "I shall have to make my own wording, but I have done such things before," I assured him. "Wait--I am not interrupting other work?" Ittosai Michiya tapped my poem. "No, my lord. That is..." I wondered how to explain, and looking at the very bad poem, I decided not to. If only I were a great poet, people might accept me, but I was not one. "It can wait," I told the samurai, dipping a pen and beginning the Baranurian order. Translating from Baranurian to Bichanese was easier than writing the original order in the foreign characters. "You are part of the cavalry?" "Yes. My leige-lord is its general, and I am his aide." His voice held great pride when he spoke of his lord and his position with him. "We ride for Pyridain to held the Knight Captain, Dame Mar..." "Martis Westbrook," I supplied. Although the master scribes rarely let me work on recent chronicles and the other scribes scarcely ever spoke with me, I had overheard conversations. There had been a great battle in Pyridain recently, at some village called Oron's Crossroads. Baranur had lost, and the Beinison army had all but slaughtered Dame Captain Westbrook's troops. I glanced up at this samurai who treated me not only as a human, but as a lady, and my stomach tightened. Pyridain? He could well die. "Yes, Dame Martis Westbrook shall be our chief general. Luthias-sama shall be one of her advisors." His eyes searched mine curiously. "Why do you look at me like that?" "I--The fighting in Pyridain is dangerous, my lord." The samurai bowed in the Bichanese way. "That is the way of the sword, and I am prepared for death as I strive for life." I shuddered. Ittosai Michiya laughed. "Do not think that I wish to die, Fionna. If I do, I shall...what is the expression here? I shall pay hell, for I promised the Countess that I would see her husband safely home." That made me laugh, and I returned to my work. As I wrote my neat letters, the samurai held my incomplete and incompetent poem to the one small candle that tried to light my cell. I graciously offered, though embarrassment squeezed my stomach, "You may read it if you wish." "I cannot read your language." Ittosai Michiya returned the work to my desk and reached for one of the books on my desk. I continued writing, quickly and neatly. "Did you do this?" I smiled warmly at the awe in his voice and glanced from my current work to see what he held. I recognized the bright gold and blue illumination of a Fretheod work I had finished translating yesterday for the University. "Yes, my lord. I did that." "You do beautiful work." I actually blushed. I don't believe I had ever blushed before. "I--thank you, my lord." "Despite their insults, they allow you beautiful things to work with." "Not usually," I muttered, not meaning for him to hear. "What do you mean?" I blushed more deeply, this time with shame at my words. "I am the only scribe here who knows the Fretheod tongue, my lord, and that, and the money from the University, are why they allowed me those beautiful things to work with. Usually, I receive the last, plainest work." "They are fools." I said nothing, for I agreed. I continued my work diligently. The samurai kept patiently silent. "You are not married?" he suddenly inquired. I laughed again, but my merriment was bitter. My tongue wished to tell him that no Magnus man would lower himself to marry a bastard or even to come near her and speak with her. For this, I dared not speak at all. The samurai had sharp wits. "They think they can catch your bastardness? They will not have you?" His tone demanded an honest answer. "That is the case, my lord." "They, too, are fools, and below you." Astonished, I squeaked, "Below *me?* Below a bastard?" "Any man who cannot appreciate beauty and talent is certainly unworthy of a woman such as you." I actually stared at him in acute shock. He could not be serious. He smiled at me gently and chuckled at what must have been my completely horrified expression. Since there was nothing I could say to his comment, I continued working as the samurai flipped through the book, pausing occasionally. When I finished the order in Baranurian and pushed it aside, Ittosai Michiya again pulled my poem toward himself. "Why are there no drawings?" "It is only the first draft of a poem, my lord." I had heard that great poets' words flowed from them; mine were forced, and they were far from good. The samurai studied them as I searched my little box for a brush with which to write the Bichanese characters. A pen would never render them correctly. "What does it say?" he interrupted me. "I--it is a very bad poem, my lord," I stumbled. Ittosai Michiya passed the paper to me. "Please read it to me." I took the paper and set it aside. "It is not a good poem, my lord," I repeated. "I--I would be ashamed to have you hear it." "Why?" he demanded, and I turned away. For all that I wished I were a great poet, I knew that my words were hardly worthy for a member of the nobility. I am no great poet. Perhaps someday I shall be, but not yet. "Why, Fionna?" "It is very bad," I repeated, and I found it harder to ignore this foreigner's gentleness than all my countrymen's scorn. "I would not have you think badly of me." "Of you? You have written poetry?" Because he sounded pleased, I looked at him, and Ittosai Michiya was smiling. "Please, read it to me. I too write poetry. I would like you hear your poem." "But it is so bad!" I protested. I knew how horrid, forced, and mismetered the words on that page were. "Please," the samurai said again, covering my hand gently with his. So I read the incomplete verse softly before I turned anxiously away to dip the brush and translate Luthias Connall's order into Bichanese characters. Ittosai Michiya did not speak, and I knew why. That poem was so bad. "I do not know the Baranurian forms of poetry," the samurai ventured as I began the second vertical line of Bichanese. "Is that in keeping with them?" "It isn't," I admitted. "I am working very hard, but I can't make the words fit." "It is not the words," he told me. "It is the poem itself. How can something as ignoble and horrible as this jail they give to you be made into a beautiful poem?" Shocked, I stared at him. "You may be right," I mused softly, and then I returned to my work. "Don't the Bichanese write of very common things?" "Yes, but of things of nature and of beauty--a frog, a tree. They do not write of squalor and oppression," he concluded scornfully, glaring at his surroundings. "How can this place be worthy of poetry?" "But I wish to be a great poet someday, and I will never be a great poet if I do not write." "That is true." I handed the samurai the brush. "Please, my lord, write your name in Bichanese." He scrawled the fanciful characters only slightly more neatly than his liege lord had scribbled my alphabet, but Ittosai Michiya's writing was at least readable. I copied his name onto the order and continued. "It is true that you will not be a great poet if you never write," the samurai was saying as I translated, "but it is also true that you will never be a great poet as you are now. A great poet writes of great things. Nothing great shall happen to you here." "I have nowhere else to go," I protested, turning toward him. "I am an orphan, my lord, and alone. I have no money. If I had money, I would go to Dargon and seek my mother's kin, and even if I did not find them, I would be accepted, for in Dargon, they follow the Stevene's teachings more closely. But as it is--" "Please, Fionna," Ittosai Michiya soothed, taking my hands despite the fact that I painted his palm black, "I do not mean to upset you. You will be a great poet, but you must leave. You are too fine for this place." I yanked my hands from him and quickly finished the order while trying hard to forget Ittosai Michiya's presence. Forbidding my own tears, I handed the samurai the order in the two languages. "They are finished, my lord." "You are angry with me?" The pain in his voice required me to look him in the face. "No, my lord," I admitted as my heart melted before the anguish in his eyes. I tried to smile, and the tears oozed into my eyes. How could he think me angry with him? How could I be angry with the one person who showed me kindness, who treated me as a human instead of a leper? I offered him my hand in friendship, for I had nothing else to give. "I will not forget you." Ittosai Michiya smiled then and took my hand. I should not have been surprised when he placed my hand on his cheek once more. Still holding my hand, he gazed at me with such a look on his face, as if I were a princess in a tower, a beautiful lady worthy of a legend. "If only you and I had met earlier," he said, and his voice was thick. Ittosai Michiya was a man worthy of a legend; of that, I was certain. I stepped closer. He kissed me quickly, and before I could recover from my shock, the samurai released both my hands. "Forgive me. I must go." I can speak only a few words in the Bichanese tongue, but I managed, "Sionara, Michiya." He smiled at me bravely, a smile that gave hope as well as absorbed it, and then Ittosai Michiya was gone. I faced my lonely, dark desk and sighed. Once, only once, a man looked at me with kindness and caring, and he went to war. I felt as if I would never see him again. When the tears threatened, my body weakened, and I put a hand on the desk for support. A paper in a place where I kept none moved beneath my hand. I lifted it and gasped when I realized that it was sprinkled with Bichanese characters. For a moment, I thought that perhaps Ittosai Michiya had forgotten the orders he had come to get. My stomach wrenched at the thought of going to the Royal Quarter to deliver them; if the common people were such snobs to me, what would the 'nobility' be like? Then again, Ittosai Michiya was a noble man, and the characters on the paper were in his hand. "I will return for you," the pretty lines promised. Following them was a short haiku poem, from which all beauty would be lost if the tiny lines were translated, but they spoke of my eyes. Resolved, I folded the paper gently and put it in my little box with my pens. I gathered my one bottle of ink. "I will return for you," Ittosai Michiya had written, but he would not find me in this place. I had no doubt he would be pleased. "Greats poets write of great things," the samurai had said, and I knew he was right. There were great things happening, great men living, and I would go and see the war and watch Sir Luthias of Connall and Sir Edward Sothos--and perhaps Ittosai Michiya--become great heroes. And I would write great epics and songs. Nothing so wonderful would ever happen here. I lifted my pen box and the one, lonely bottle of ink and paused. One great thing had happened to me here. Hurried, I sat one last time at the unbalanced table, and for once, the words flowed easily, and from my heart. Thou saids't, "Had thou and I met earlier--" And finished not, nor needed to; thy look So sad, profound, thy meaning did confer Far better than the words in any book. Thou saids't thou knews't regret; now I too know Thy prophet's vision, wondrous to the eye As roses risen from the Deber snow, But wrongly timed, were choked by cold to die. But still the roots beneath the snow await The spring and summer, time enough to bloom When winter's done; do not regret the fate Which might delay, but not forever doom. And I rejoice, that I have lived to see A living man who looked that way at me. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Lessons by Wendy Hennequin (b.c.k.a. "It is not your place to lesson my squires in courtesy!" Sir Ongis roared, "forgetting" the honorific that courtesy, custom, and his superior's rank and title demanded. Sir Luthias, Count of Connall, Knight Captain of the Northern Marche, glared at his officer coldly. "You are wrong, sir." The younger Knight's jaw was as tight as his clenched fists, but he managed to quote his wife's father, Sir Lucan Shipbrook, who had taught Luthias himself the ways of chivalry. "'It is the duty of a Knight to correct the behavior of all those who aspire to the chain.'" Sir Ongis' eyes narrowed. "My squires behave as I teach them." That much was obvious. "As does my squire," Luthias replied, keeping his voice even with great effort. "I taught him to give a curt reply to anyone churlish enough to taunt him." The other Knight snorted, his contempt for Luthias obvious. "So your idea of a 'curt reply' is a blow to the mouth?" Luthias' fists relaxed as he thought of what Marcellon might say to this buffoon, and the young Knight had to conceal a smile as he said it. "My squire is mute, sir. He can only speak with his hands." "You--!" Ongis growled, taking a step closer to Sir Luthias and putting a hand on his sword's hilt. Behind the Knight, Luthias' chief aide, Captain Ittosai Michiya, silently grasped his katana's handle. "I should teach you a lesson in how to respect your betters!" "At your leisure, sir," Luthias invited coolly, keeping his temper in check. He had had more infuriating foes than this. "I look forward to thrashing you as thoroughly as my squire thrashes yours." When Ongis took another step toward him, Luthias looked over the idiot's shoulder at his Castellan. "Shall I have you escorted to your pavilion?" The Bichanese offered a smile and a bow, as if he would enjoy such a piece of work. When the older Knight didn't move, the young Knight Captain walked to the fireside and contemplated the battle plans he had drawn in the dirt. Sir Ongis seethed. After a moment, Luthias added, "Dismissed." Out of the corner of his eye, the Count saw Ongis stalk toward his bright pavilion. Michiya smiled, and Luthias returned it. The Bichanese released his katana and approached. "A year ago, you would not have had such an easy time keeping your temper." Sir Luthias chuckled and clapped his aide's shoulder. "A Bichanese friend of mine has shown me the advantage of control." As a pleasant flush covered Michiya's round face, a dark shadow, angry and painful, floated through Luthias' eyes. "The training I got in Beinison helped greatly also." The castellan set his mouth. "A harsh lesson, that." Then Ittosai Michiya smiled again. "It is good to see that the fool does not anger you much." Luthias flashed a smile, bright as the fire and quite as dangerous. "Oh, I am angry, Michiya, and I'd love to drive that craven, pompous son of a whore into the ground, but I haven't got the time to worry about him." The Knight Captain waved his hand over his crude sketches. "I have more important matters to deal with." Michiya nodded and squatted over the pictures. "You are still certain that the Beinison army goes to Magnus, Luthias-sama?" Luthias' certainty knotted his heart. The Beinisons flowed toward Magnus as steadily as the Laraka river flowed from it. "They won't get there," Luthias vowed, his eyes hard. "If I have to die for it, Michiya, they won't get there." The Bichanese looked at his leige-lord seriously and said, "You may have to." Luthias gaze was serious and sincere. "If that's what it takes, I'm willing." Michiya smiled like a sunrise. "I hope it will not come to that. I promised Myrande that I would bring you home safely." Luthias actually laughed. "I wonder how many people promised her that." The King and Sir Edward knew they could hardly make such promises, but everyone else seemed to think themselves qualified to reassure Myrande that her husband would return from war alive and safe. Marcellon's promise rested in the sword on Luthias' hip. Michiya's promise danced in his merry eyes. Luthias' vow burned in his heart: *Sable, I'll come home to you.* Their last night before he left raced into his mind, recalling the Count's most urgent reason for halting Beinison's progress--his beautiful wife. "We have to protect Magnus, down to the last man." "Yes," Michiya agreed with a nod. "There is much at stake there, but do not worry about Myrande and the children. Marcellon put protections on his house, he said." Luthias laughed shortly. "If she consents to stay in it." "Still, she has protection," Michiya reminded him. "But Fionna..." "Who?" "Fionna," Michiya repeated. "Who?" To Luthias' surprise, his castellan looked away. "A...woman of Magnus. She is a scribe." A scribe? "Friend of yours?" Luthias wondered, scribbling in the dirt. "Yes. I--I think I love her." When Luthias' jaw dropped, Ittosai grinned up at his lord, and his openness disarmed any teasing words Luthias might have been preparing. "That is something that I learned from you: how to love a woman." The young Knight couldn't decide whether to be repulsed or amused. "You'd better find another teacher. I think I've pretty well botched it." His friend shook his head. "No, Luthias-sama, you always loved Myrande well, even when you did not know you loved her." Luthias saw about as much sense in that statement as in Ongis' behavior. Luthias needed to return to concepts that he better understood. "What do you think?" the Knight Captain asked, indicating his diagram with the stick he had used to draw it. Ittosai Michiya again surveyed the plan. "Well done." "If it rains tonight, we might have a little trouble. Mud could--" Sir Luthias looked at the figure entering the glow of the campfire as noiselessly as a ghost. For that--and his mute tongue--the other squires had named him the Silent. "Come here, Derrio." The Knight inspected his squire sternly, noting the blood, the dirt, and the bruises. "Brawling with Ongis' squires again?" Derrio hung his head, but managed to nod. Luthias waited a moment before asking, "Did you win?" The boy grinned. "Good. Now come over here and look at the plan for tomorrow." As the boy settled near the sketch, Luthias used his stick as a pointer and explained, "We'll meet Beinison here, and after a while, we'll retreat into this meadow. The archers will be hidden in the trees around the field. The troops will split into four parts--one to protect the archers on each side, and the last to seal off the meadow--and the archers will open fire." Derrio studied the plan intensely, then looked, astonished, at his Knight. The squire cupped his hands, then sprang them together. "Yes, of course, it's a trap," Luthias agreed. The Knight laughed at Derrio's appalled expression. "What's wrong? Don't you think it will work?" Derrio shook his head. He pointed an accusing finger at the Knight Captain, another at the battle plans, then shook his head. "Unlike me?" Luthias didn't understand his squire at all. The young Count had been trained in strategy for most of his life. "What do you mean?" Disgusted and stern, Derrio motioned reproachfully at the trap, then made a fist, with the protruding thumb pointing toward the ground. Luthias stared. The down-pointing thumb was Derrio's signal for "bad" or "evil." "It's not evil," Luthias argued. "This is war, Derrio. I'm trying to save lives." Derrio jabbed a furious digit toward the plan and drew the same finger across his neck. Luthias had to admit it. "Yes, it will kill many, too, but that's the purpose." The squire actually snarled. Again, he signaled that Luthias' plan was unworthy and evil. Luthias seized his patience desperately. Roisart, Luthias' year-dead brother, had never quite grasped the concept, either. Now, the Knight Captain found himself once again in the frustrating position of trying to explain war to an idealist. "This isn't a matter of good and evil, Derrio," the Count of Connall attempted. "This is war." Derrio shook his head angrily, and Luthias rolled his eyes. This was all he needed, Roisart's idealism combined with Sable's obstinancy. Again, the squire pointed at the sketches, then his Knight, then disapproved once more. Luthias hurled his drawing stick into the fire in frustration. "You can't judge me by my battle plans!" Luthias cried. "A man's conduct in *peace* makes him good or evil, Derrio, not his conduct in war. The only moral decision in war is whether or not to start one. After that, it's survival--kill or be killed, and end as quickly as you can." Derrio blinked, astonished once more. Slowly, the squire indicated the sketch and held out his hands, palms up, as if he were weighing something. Luthias smiled. "Of course, it's fair. There are no rules in war." Confusion suddenly rushed onto silent Derrio's face. Slowly, he pointed at his Knight, drew his hand across his chest where a Knight's chain might fall, then made an odd gesture near his waist. When Luthias shook his head--he had yet to understand all of Derrio's signs--, the squire tipped his head back as if drinking from his curled hand. When Luthias shook his head once more, Derrio grabbed a small stick and wrote in uncertain letters, "Lawrence." "Oh." Luthias recalled the battle against that noble Knight of the Star, who had gifted Luthias with the sword he now wore at his side. "That wasn't the same." Derrio shook his head in utter bewilderment. "Single combat does have rules. It's not the same as war." Derrio again shook his head, and Luthias tried to think of a way to make him understand. "You used to wrestle Sir Edward's squires, didn't you?" Derrio nodded, uncertain. "You were...playing a game of sorts, and there were rules. With Ongis' squires, though, you're just trying to beat them into the ground." Derrio nodded again, still not understanding. "When you wrestle Sir Edward's squires, it's like a Knight's single combat. You fight by rules. Thrashing Ongis' boys is like a war--the object is to win, and win fast." Derrio considered this. After a moment, he pointed to Luthias, to the name "Lawrence" scrawled in the dust, then made a gesture of killing. He looked at Luthias questioningly, and the Knight nodded. "Yes. I would have killed Sir Lawrence if I had to, Derrio, but I would have done it under the rules of chivalry." Derrio pointed to the name, then at the battle plans, and again his look questioned Luthias. "If he's there tomorrow, he'll die by the bow, the same as the rest, if all goes well." Derrio opened his mouth, pointed at Sir Lawrence's name, then made a gesture, same as the sign for evil, except that the thumb pointed toward the sky. "He is a good man," Luthias agreed, "but if I were in his trap, he would let me die, too. This is war, Derrio, and we all do what we must." Derrio tapped his chest with both hands and shook his head. Luthias smiled sadly. "You'll learn." Luthias gazed down at his hands; once feeble and trembling, they had murdered; strong and steady, they had killed. "Believe me, Derrio; you'll learn. We all do." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dummy by Bill Erdley (b.c.k.a. "Hey, dummy! Watch where you are walking!" The angry voice startled him out of his daydream. He had been thinking about the marches, and about the war, and especially about *her*; and he wasn't paying attention to where he was going. The man that he stumbled into stopped only long enough to issue the insult, then he trudged off to his own business. But his words stayed behind. 'Hey dummy, watch where you are going.' It rang in his mind as he crawled into his bedroll for the night. 'Hey dummy!' He was so tired of hearing that word. 'Dummy.' He drifted off to sleep thinking about the time that he had spent with Luthias after he had left the farm. They first went to Pyridain City, then they travelled on to Magnus. It was there that he had taken to exploring the city when he had the time, which, between his training, his schooling, and his chores, wasn't much. He did, however, discover several places that he liked: the marketplace, the liveries, and the docks. He liked the docks most of all. Coming to the city was the first time he had ever seen that much water in one place, so he was facinated by it: the ships, the sailors, the cargoes, the waves, the smells. On one such trip, he was walking back to the castle where he was staying when he heard the frightened squeal of a horse. Turning down an alley, he saw the horse rearing back onto its hind legs, eyes wild and nostrils flaring. On the ground in front of the horse was a large snake. He quickly ran down the alley and dispatched the snake with a piece of wood that he found on the ground. He then slowly approached the horse, and carefully reached for the reins. The horse's eyes were still wide with fright, but his motions were smooth and relaxed, and his manner non-threatening, so he was able to reach the reins without a problem. He stroked the nose of the horse carefully, then worked his way to the neck and shoulders. As the horse quieted, he thought to look for the rider. She lay face down in a pile of refuse, one of the many such piles cluttering the alleyway. Holding the reins of the horse low and tugging gently, he turned it in the narrow passage and guided it back to the trash heap. He carefully rolled the body over. She appeared to be older than he, but smaller in stature. Her long brown hair was woven into a thick braid, which was tied at the bottom with a jet black ribbon. She had a nasty gash on her chin and a bruise under one eye that was already beginning to swell. He picked her up and, as gently as he could, draped her across the horse's back. As he led the horse back to the keep, he wondered what the she was doing in the alley in the first place; and what a small girl was doing with such a large animal. He stopped several times to check on her; she remained unconsious, although the bleeding from the cut on her chin seemed to be slowing. He reached the compound and walked the horse directly to the stables where Lasran, the stableboy, was busy cleaning the stalls. Lasran, seeing the body draped over the saddle, immediately ran off to find help. Soon two men, guards by their appearance, appeared and lifted the small form from the horse. As they hurried into the main building, he heard one of them say "...gives me the creeps. He must be some kind of dummy, 'cause he never says anything..." The snake was huge, with six heads and fangs that oozed venom. The horse faced away from him, and it's young rider was oblivious to the danger. "Look out!" he screamed, but the voice was only in his head. The snake slithered closer to the horse and began to raise its head. Even now it was even with the horse rider's head. He tried to run toward the horse, but several guards appeared and grabbed his shoulders. "Call to her, dummy. Tell her that the snake is coming." The guards began to laugh. He tried to pull away, but they held him fast. He tried to cry out, but his voice was only a wish. The snake now towered over both horse and rider, and it's mouth opened as it prepared to strike. "Come on, dummy! It's up to you! You'd better say something..." The guards were laughing and poking him. He looked at them. They had no ears! The snake struck, and the rider tumbled from the horse. Rolling over and over, she came to rest at his feet. As her face came into focus, he recognized the face of his sister! Through her tears, she whispered, "Why didn't you warn me, you dummy." Then she died. He bolted upright, so drenched in his own sweat that he was chilled instantly in the cold night air. His heart raced and he breathed in short, gasping heaves. Just a dream. It was all just a dream. Remembering the incident caused a flood of memories to wash over him as he tried to go back to sleep. He remembered at sneaking out at night; and how he had learned to limit his visits to only an hour or two, since losing more sleep than that made too tired the next morning. Most of the time she would meet him at a place that they had aggreed on the night before. She spent many nights showing him the city... "Hi, Derrio." Hi. "Where would you like to go tonight?" Water. Boat. "To the docks? That's a bad place to be at night." Why. "It's dangerous. There are thieves and ruffians and drunkards there at night." I. Afraid. Not. "I know, but let's go somewhere else. I know. Some of my friends like to go down to an old, abandoned house and tell scary stories in the dark. Like to go?" Yes. Yes. "Ok, follow me." As they ran, he thought about how much he liked her, and about how much he wanted to tell her, but "hand speak" didn't seem to be very romantic. Once in the old house, he saw a dozen or so people sitting around a lighted candle. "Hi, all. This is Derrio." Her voice echoed from the bare walls of the empty room. "Hi, Derrio." "Come in and join us." "Yes. We have lots of room." "Newbees tell the first story" "Derrio tells the first tale." I. Talk. Not. I. Listen. You. "What's wrong." "What are you doing?" "He's a witch casting a spell!" "Ha ha ha. Look at him, thrashing around like a dummy... "STOP IT!! He can't talk! That doesn't mean that he's an idiot!" "Easy, Risa. We didn't mean any harm. Here, you and Derrio sit over here and I'll start the first story..." "Hey, Dummy!" "Dummy, dummy, dummy." The children's chant echoed over and over, until the voices of the small group sounded like the cries of a mob. "Dummy, dummy, dummy." Louder and louder the voices grew, until the sound was like a physical presence in his head, pounding this way and that, looking for an escape but finding none. "Dummy, dummy, dummy." The pain of the voices was intensifying. His head felt ready to explode. He opened my mouth to scream, to free this monsterous beast from its prison within his brain... Nothing came out. "Dummy, dummy, dummy." "Dummy, Dummy, Dummy!" "DUMMY, DUMMY, DUMMY!!" The sound that he made as he flew from his bedroll was loud enough to wake most of those around him. Luthias and Michiya found themselves standing, swords drawn, before they were consious enough to realize that there was no danger. Then, realizing that it was only a child's nightmare, they crawled back into their bedrolls. But the youth stood still. And shook. The nightmares were getting worse. He had to find some way to clear his mind so that he could get some sleep; but it drifted back to Risa. Her smile. Her face. Her hair. Risa... His courage was at a peak. It had been a day off from his studies, his sparring with Luthias had gone well, and he had finished his chores early. Tonight is the night. He washed and dressed as quickly as he could. Then he ran out of the compound and into the city streets as fast as his feet would go. Only when he approached her house did he slow and stop. Her parents. How could he reach her without seeing her parents? If they saw him, they would talk to him. What would they think when he didn't talk back? The door opened and a lady stepped out, looking straight at him. "Derrio?" Are you Derrio?" Yes. "Come. Risa is expecting you." He moved forward hesitantly. "Come, now. Don't be afraid. You needn't be shy about your not being able to talk. From what Risa has told us, you talk very well; you just use your hands instead of your mouth." He froze! They know! Oh no, now what do I do?! They know! "Come on in, son, before I find it necessary to come out there and drag you in. I'll make you a deal. I won't mind that you talk with your hands if you don't mind that I talk with my mouth." A hint of a smile snuck onto his face. Some of his confidence returned as he entered the house. After dinner he found himself sitting in a small room with Risa and her mother. "So you came here from the farm." Yes. "And your parents?" Father. Archer. Army. Mother. Cook. Army. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Risa's face held a look of horror as she tried to stop her mother's question. No. "Oh, dear. I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?!" Risa jumped in quickly. "Mom, don't ask him about..." Wait. No. Fear. Sister. Dead. Bad. Man. Far. Army. Kill. Sister. "Oh. I'm sorry, Derrio." No. Sadness. "Well, I must excuse myself. There are lots of chores to be done tonight. I'll leave you to yourselves." I. Help. "No, Derrio. I can handle them. You sit and visit." The woman got up and walked quickly out of the room. I. Ask. You. Question. Risa smiled. "Of course you can ask me a question." He rose from his chair and knelt before her. Marry. I. She smiled and spoke his language. Yes. They embraced for a long moment. Her long brown hair smelled of smoke from the fireplace as he ran his fingers through it. Finally she broke the embrace and spoke. "I must tell my mother. I'll return in a moment..." Then she ran out of the room. Yes. She said 'yes!' Just wait until I tell everyone! She said that she would marry me! She said... "NO!!! I WILL NOT ALLOW IT!!!" Risa's mother's voice pierced the silence. "RISA, I SAID NO!! I WILL NOT HAVE YOU MARRYING HIM!! YOU KNOW WHAT HE IS!! HOW CAN YOU EVEN THINK IT!! I WILL NOT HAVE MY DAUGHTER MARRYING A..." The rest was lost to him as he burst from the house. But he had heard enough to be able to fill in the missing word. Dummy. 'I will not have my daughter marrying a dummy.' He ran as fast as he could through the streets by the docks. It was late and the normal dock traffic was missing. There were only a few drunks to witness his flight. Tears streamed from his eyes and he ran blindly on, navigating by instinct more than sight. Dummy. Dummy, dummy, dummy. 'He must be some kind of dummy 'cause he never says anything...' 'Ha ha ha. Look at him, thrashing around like a dummy...' 'I will not have my daughter marrying a dummy...' Dummy, Dummy, Dummy... WHAM! The impact made his head spin. He tumbled to the rough cobblestones and slid to a halt. "HEY!! You should watch where you're going, lad. There are some who would see your head roll for such an act." He looked up to see a man dressed in a dark cloak sitting beside him on the road. The man reached over and took him by the arm. "Now, would you like to tell me what you are running from?" No. "Are you running from the town guard, perhaps?" No. "Is someone chasing you, then?" No. "Well, next time you wish to run from no one, try not to run into anyone, OK." Yes. "Why don't you talk?" He looked into the eyes of the stranger, and for the first time the man could see the tears within. "Can I help you?" The man's voice was soft and filled with compassion and gentleness, but Derrio heard it as pity. He pulled away violently from the man's grasp and ran away, leaving the man sitting there, shaking his head. "Aw, poor little dummy. What's the matter, dummy? Why do you run? Are you being chased?" He turns from the cloaked man to look behind him. From everywhere on the docks, people approach. People without ears. "Dummy..." Their words are mere whispers, but the meaning tears into his soul. "Dummy..." They come from everywhere, young and old, men and women and children. All without ears. All murmuring the same thing... "Dummy, dummy, dummy..." The cloaked man still holds his arm, and he can't seem to pull away. Here come the guards, earless and chanting... "Dummy, dummy, dummy..." Behind him are Risa's friends, laughing... "Dummy, Dummy, Dummy..." Risa's mother is before him now... "DUMMY, DUMMY, DUMMY..." He looks to his captor, who looks with pity and says "Poor little dummy. Who will help you? Where can you turn? Can there be any place to hide for a dummy...?" "Dummy, Dummy, Dummy..." "DUMMY, DUMMY, DUMMY..." "DUMMY!!!" He wakes with a start and cries out, but the sound resembles the wail of a beast more than the cry of a man. The voice of a dummy. He sits there and weeps. Between the memories and the nightmares, the night had not been a restful one for the squire. The morning brought the remembrance of the previous day's marches, and the realization that this day would bring more. Derrio was finishing his morning chores when the man from the night before walked by. He noticed Derrio and smiled, "I see the dummy has mastered the art of standing still, now if he could only...AWK! The man suddenly found the point of Derrio's sword at his throat! With his free hand, Derrio signed violently. I! NOT! DUMMY! The man tried to step sideways to avoid the sword tip, but Derrio rapped him on the side of the head with the flat of the sword, cutting his scalp slightly. I! NOT! DUMMY! "Hey... Look, kid. I don't know what has you so mad, but whatever it is, I'm sorry. Ok?" I! NOT! DUMMY! "Derrio!" The boy froze at his Knight's voice, but did not remove the sword. He heard Sir Luthias' footsteps approach, but did not turn. "Put down the sword, Derrio," Sir Luthias said, his voice deathly stern. "I don't care what he said--" The Knight Captain glared at the cloaked man. "--but a Knight *never* draws steel on someone who is unarmed." Derrio's hand wavered. "Am I clear, Derrio?" Slowly, so slowly, Derrio lowered and sheathed his sword. He. Speak. I. Dummy. He. Laugh. Sir Luthias frowned. "I see." He turned to the cloaked man. "Who the hell are you, anyway?" The cloaked man mumbled something. "Isn't Beinison enough for you? Do you have to make enemies of your commander's squire?" Sir Luthias asked in that death-calm voice. "Your squire, Sir Captain? But he's--" "Well trained. I agree. His draw has gotten amazingly quick, lately, and if I hadn't said something, you would be dead right now." "But he's--" "Honorable, too. Like any honorable man, he does not like to be insulted." "But he's a dummy!" the man finally got out. "An idiot, Sir Captain!" "He is *silent*!" Sir Luthias roared. "My father used to say there was wisdom in silence. Dismissed." The cloaked man slunk away. Thank. You. Sir Luthias smiled. "It is one of my duties as your Knight, Derrio, to protect you. That man was a mage, and he could have killed you." He. Say. I. Dummy. "I know." Sir Luthias paused. "Now, about drawing your blade on him--" Sorry. Angry. "I know," Sir Luthias said again. "But that doesn't excuse you. You can't control what you feel--nobody can--but you've got to control how you act. Your action was wrong, Derrio." The boy hung his head. "When I drew steel on an unarmed man, Sir Lucan took my sword for a month." Derrio's eyes panicked. Then: You. Draw. Sword? Sir Luthias smiled, then sobered quickly. "Now, I can't do that to you in a war zone. But what I am going to do is give you additional chores to do. We'll talk further about this later." Sadly, Derrio nodded. Shortly after the midday meal, a small group of horsemen approached. Luthias and Derrio stood as the horsemen rode to a stop and dismounted. "Sir Luthias, this needs your immediate attention." The leader of the group handed Luthias a sealed letter. Luthias accepted it. As he opened it, another of the horsemen approached Derrio. "A young lady asked if I would give this to the squire of Sir Luthias of Connall. Are you said squire?" He held out a small package. Yes. Derrio took the package and looked it over. Attached was a letter, which he opened and tried to read. He could only understand a few of the words. As patiently as possible, he waited until Luthias finished reading his letter and spoke a few commands to the horsemen. As they turned and rode away, Derrio handed his letter to Luthias. Read. Please. Derrio, Please forgive my mother for saying those terrible things. We have spoken long about this, and I understand her fear. My father was a member of the militia. He died at Oron's Crossroads. My mother didn't want me to have to know the same kind of pain that she has known. She said 'I will not have my daughter marry a warrior', but I asked her if she would keep her daughter from marrying a knight! You will be a knight someday, Derrio. I know it in the bottom of my heart. When you return, I will marry you, with or without my mother's blessing! I wait for thee, my knight to be. Be safe and be well. Risa He carefully opened the package. Inside he found a thick braid of dark brown hair, carefully woven into a small loop and decorated with a jet black ribbon. He gingerly removed it from it's wrappings and, with trembling fingers, placed it in the small pouch which he carried at his side; the pouch which contained his only other treasure in the world. A small harp. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Pact Part 3 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. Ilona had no intentions of showing the note or the gem she received during the night to Kalen. Not knowing if he was still at her apartment, she carefully pushed open the door and stepped inside. The door had the bad tendency to squeak when it was opened or closed slowly and she tried to minimize the sound, but there was still a loud squeak as the door shut. "Shhh..." Ilona jumped at the sound of Kalen's voice. He sat in a chair by the desk next to the window, looking outside. That desk, a heavy old wooden monster, had been a gift from Captain Koren just a few months before, when new furniture was purchased for his office. "I thought you were supposed to be at work by now," Ilona said. Kalen put his index finger to his lips. "Tara's sleeping," he whispered. "We were up half the night talking." Ilona took a seat by Kalen. She had spent a big part of the afternoon of the previous day with Tara n'ha Sansela, Captain Koren's niece, talking about her uncle's death, trying to comfort her. She turned the young woman over to Kalen when she had to go to her shift and hoped the problem would be solved by the time she returned. Something in Kalen's manner told her there were still things to do. "How is she doing?" Ilona asked. "She cried herself to sleep," Kalen sighed. "I wish we could tell her, but it would only expose her to unnecessary risks. You know how much she'll want to see him." "Did you get any sleep?" "A little," Kalen motioned to a pillow and blanket in one of the corner chairs. "She got me thinking. What if the assassin hadn't been stopped?" "He was," Ilona said, half promising and half hoping. She did not want to think about the alternative. Kalen nodded, but did not speak. "You best go. I'll watch Tara." "All right," Kalen agreed. He kissed Ilona and left after gathering his equipment. Ilona removed her own sword and weapon belt and hung the dark blue guard tabard on the back of a chair. It had been a long day and she felt it would last much longer. It was barely noon now. She took out the gem sent to her during the night. It was a clear white crystal, two fingers wide, carefully cut into a flat oval shape. Definitely expensive. In fact, more expensive than she could afford on her lieutenant's pay. It could be made into a nice piece of jewelry and for a moment she considered keeping it. She knew she could not, simply because of who had given it to her. Besides, it was probably stolen. She would have to check the reports and return it as soon as this case was over, but it was nice to dream. The note that came with the gem ominously predicted the direction of Ilona's career for the duration of her tenure as one of Liriss' people. She understood that, with time, the rewards would become smaller and demands of the job would increase. For now Liriss was simply luring her into his trap, to get her in deep enough so that she would be unable to leave or tell anyone else. She was glad that Kalen and Jerid already knew. They would help keep her from falling into that trap; the same one too many innocent people had been drawn into. Putting everything in the desk, Ilona took a peek in the other room, where Tara was sleeping. The Captain's niece was in bed, buried deep under the blankets. At least she was resting. The things that had happened were the worst for her. About a year ago her own father and mother were killed by bandits down in the village of Myridon, in the Duchy of Narragan. She had spent weeks finding her way up to Dargon in hopes of locating Adrunian Koren, her long lost uncle. It was a big, happy reunion when they had finally met and Captain Koren had thrown a two day long celebration. Koren's own wife, Talei, died in child birth many years ago and the child died not long after. When Tara came into his life, he once again had a family and uncle and niece hit it off immediately. The injuries the Captain received during the invasion of Dargon threw Tara into a panic. She was helping with the wounded at the castle with Ilona when Adrunian Koren was brought in. It took hours to calm her then, while only the skills of the Duke's physician, Elizabeth, kept Koren alive. Now it was different. Everyone had to believe Koren was dead. Unfortunately this included Tara. In the girl's mind she was once again all alone, just like in the fall a year ago when her parents were killed. This did not make the conspirators feel any better. With a sigh Ilona returned to the main room and made herself comfortable under the blanket in the corner. She had been up for a long time, since the day she went to speak with Liriss, and two sleepless nights finally caught up with her. She fell asleep as soon as she was settled comfortably. Having knocked twice without receiving an answer, Kesrin opened the door and entered Liriss' office. The crime lord stood by the window, sipping wine from a goblet, thoughtfully looking at the events taking place in the street below. "My Lord?" Kesrin said cautiously. Liriss did not answer, unblinking eyes still focused on the market street below. Kesrin coughed. "My Lord?" he said louder this time. Liriss turned his head to look at his lieutenant, a scowl on his face. "I knocked twice, my Lord," Kesrin explained. "You didn't answer either time. I thought something was wrong." "Sit down, Kesrin," Liriss said harshly. He had no time or patience to be disturbed and his temper has been running hot all morning, ever since the news from the streets reached his ears. He started pacing as Kesrin sat down, passing behind his lieutenant twice and making him cringe. "I want to know who killed Adrunian Koren," he finally said. "Sir?" Kesrin felt sweat forming on his forehead. "Word on the street is that you sent a man." "I did not send a man!" Liriss bellowed. "I would have told you to send a man! I want to know who did!" "Sir?" "Stop saying that! Get off your ass and find the man who set me up!" "Yes, my Lord," Kesrin hurried to his feet. He had never seen the crime boss so furious and even if he could not provide the man responsible, his best option was to get out of Liriss' office while he still had the chance. He would see immediately to finding a culprit or a fall guy. Liriss watched his lieutenant retreat, then slammed the goblet down on the table. Red wine slopped onto the rich oak table top, quickly forming into bubbles of liquid. "Damn them all!" Rish halted at the far end of the corridor, watching Captain Bartol's office door, where Kalen had disappeared as the chronicler was making his way to see Jerid Taishent. Now he paced back and forth, waiting for his chance to see the castle lieutenant and ask a few questions about the assassin's methods and the investigation. Quite some time had passed while Kalen and Jerid talked and Rish once again had the chance to evaluate his research. It seemed strange that he was faced with so many stumbling blocks while trying to make a simple historical record. It was as if information was being withheld from him on purpose. Everyone claimed not to be familiar with the facts. Rish found this to be highly disturbing. The door down the corridor opened and Kalen stepped out. He was about to close the door behind him, when he stopped to listen. Rish listened, too, but could hear nothing coming from the office. "Okay, I'll do that," Kalen agreed. "And don't tell Elizabeth anything. I don't need her on my case again. It's bad enough Ilona knows. She won't let me hear the end of it, but at least she's not threatening me." Something more came from the office. "No, not at all," Kalen spoke again. "A wound's a wound, right? You just keep your end up here and give me a yell if there's a problem." He closed the door and turned, finally spotting Rish. "Uh, good afternoon..." Rish forced himself to smile. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant." "Stalking the castle again?" Kalen asked carefully. "No, I'm just waiting for Lieutenant Taishent to become available." The forced smile remained frozen in place. "He's in the office," Kalen hurried to say. "Have a good day." Before Rish had a chance to answer, Kalen was off. Rish watched him go, a bit puzzled and concerned if what he had just overheard was a conspiracy. If it was, his own life could be in danger now. He hesitated at the door, wondering if he should knock or not, when suddenly it was pulled opened from the inside. Rish stepped back as Jerid Taishent came face to face with him. "Rish... Is there something I can do for you?" Jerid asked. He was obviously unprepared for this meeting. "I, uh..." Rish had already decided that he would not do anything to cast suspicion on himself, but had no idea what he should say. "Ah... I came to tell you somebody stole my ink." "Your ink?" "My ink." The story was still not complete. "I have a box of ink." Rish paused for a moment, trying to organize his thoughts, then went on. "There were still fourteen full bottles there. This," he held up the bottle dangling on a rope off his belt, "is almost empty and someone took my box. If it were the quills or the parchment, I wouldn't mind so much, but ink is so expensive, there will certainly be questions." "I have an errand to run now, Rish," Jerid said. "Can I get back to you later this evening?" "Of course," Rish said agreeably. He needed the time to hide his ink. Ilona woke to the sound of splashing water. She rolled over, realizing she was on the floor. The sounds came from the adjoining room, probably Tara washing up. Ilona sat up with the pillow between her back and the wall. She was still tired and sleepy, but it was late afternoon and there was no reason to lounge around. There was work to be done. She pushed herself up, letting the pillow and blanket fall down around her. "Tara?" Ilona stepped into the other room. Tara stood at the basin of water, wiping her face with a towel. "How did you sleep?" Ilona asked. "Well, thank you. I hope I'm not imposing on you..." "No, not at all," Ilona said. "I'm glad to have you here." "I'd like to go back to my uncle's house," Tara said. "Boxter and Zed have been alone all day. I need to check on them and feed them." "Do you want me to go with you?" Ilona offered. "I'd like to be alone," Tara admitted. Ilona could see the red and a faint trace of tears in the teenager's eyes. "Tara..." "I'll be fine," the girl said with a catch in her voice. "I should be getting used to this now." "Oh, sit down," Ilona said, putting a comforting arm around Tara's shoulder. "I don't think we ever finished yesterday and I don't know what garbage Kalen filled your head with." "He was very nice, really. I don't want the two of you to have problems because of me." "We won't have problems," Ilona snapped, "Now sit down!" Tara sat on the edge of the bed. Ilona brought over a chair and sat down across from her. "Look, I wish I could make you believe that I understand how you feel. I lost my parents many years ago and I know what it's like to be alone, and I'm sure it doesn't get easier the second time around..." "I'm fine, really," Tara insisted again, wiping tears from her cheeks. "You don't need to worry." "All right," Ilona agreed, not really believing the Captain's niece. "But promise that if you ever need to talk, you'll come to me." "I promise." "All right, then," Ilona still did not believe Tara was well, but she was not about to force herself on the girl. In due time when Tara would be ready, the truth would be told, but until then she would have to suffer along with the rest of the city. "I'm going to the market now," Ilona said. "Be sure you're here for dinner...and I suppose you can bring Boxter over and keep him in the stables. I'm not sure about having a shivaree prowl the house, though." Tara remained after Ilona left and looked out the window for a long time. She was once again on her own, having lost her family, but this time there was no one else she could go to. This time she would have to learn to be self sufficient. A heavy hand fell on Ilona's shoulder as she made her way through the crowded market and although the touch was gentle, she jumped and grabbed for her sword. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Cormabis laughed. "I meant no harm." Ilona took a deep breath, looking at the smiling elderly man. "It's all right. I'm just a bit jumpy today. What can I do for you, Sage?" "Nothing for me, thank you, but I was wondering how you were doing. I heard about the Captain." In spite of herself, Ilona followed Corambis down the market street towards his booth. "It's my fault, Corambis. You gave me good advice, but I made the wrong decision." "Did you?" the Sage asked. "Or did uncontrollable events overcome you?" Ilona kept silent while they walked past a cloth dealer's stand where a crowd had assembled. "What uncontrollable events?" "Did you hire the assassin to do the job? Did you encourage him?" Corambis' eyes grew bright, almost seeing inside her soul. "Whatever you did, the assassin was not your direct doing." "How do you know that?" Ilona challenged him. "How do you know I didn't hire him to do that?" "Because I know you, Ilona Milnor," Corambis laughed, "just like I knew Dane Milnor and you are every bit your father's daughter." "Am I really that predictable?" "You?" Corambis continued walking in silence, a thoughtful expression on his face. "To an old Sage like me, you are. You wouldn't trust a crook as far as you could spit a mouse and neither did your father." "I can't spit a mouse all that far," Ilona smiled. "Take my advice," Corambis went on. "Bad things happen, but you have to be strong and prepared. I'm sure your father wouldn't give up, and neither should you." "But my father was a merchant!" "Even merchants can have strong character," Corambis insisted, "as do their daughters who want revenge." For a long time Ilona could not answer. "He..." She was not sure what she wanted to say. "It's been over two decades! You don't really think that's what I'm after?" "Only you can answer why you joined the guard, but I know you've hated Liriss since the day you learned what really happened to your parents." Ilona paused to think about what Corambis had said. She always had a hidden desire to bring Liriss' empire down, but that was also a part of her duty in the Guard. It was her job and she started to wonder if that was why she chose this line of work in the first place. "No one doubts the need to rid the city of crime," Corambis continued before Ilona had a chance to justify herself, "but it will have to be a gradual process. Don't let your haste interfear with your progress. Adrunian Koren will always live right here," Corambis touched his finger over her heart, "he knew the risks. Now you must do your job." And with those words Corambis shuffled into his booth, which they had now reached, leaving Ilona outside to ponder his wisdom. Tara brought Boxter, her horse, under the overhang that served as the stables. She secured him to a rail by the wall, making sure there was plenty of hay, and returned to the street where Zed, her pet shivaree sat waitin g for her, cleaning out the fur on his side. "Come along, Zed," Tara called and the animal quickly got up. She patted the shivaree as it brushed past her leg on the way to Ilona Milnor's apartment. Boxter and Zed have been alone at her uncle Glenn's house, where she had lived since coming to Dargon a year ago, for an entire day, ever since she went to visit her uncle at the castle. Tara had not been able to speak with her uncle, the Captain of the Guard, for a month now, since the castle doctor had put him to sleep with her medicines, but she would come every day anyhow and sit by his side for an hour or two and talk to him. The physician always said that the Captain could not hear the words in his trance, but Tara believed otherwise and continued her daily visits, until the previous day, when Lieutenants Milnor and Taishent told her that during the night someone had assassinated her uncle. She had cried at the loss, remembering of another loss less than a year ago, when her parents had been killed by bandits and she had to travel to Dargon to meet her uncle, whom she had never seen. Passing through the trading village of Tench, Tara had encountered a young woman by the name of Lana who looked very much like herself and who tried to kill Tara, believing she was being impersonated and her reputation destroyed. Tara fled Tench with a few cuts and bruises, together with Zed and Boxter. Zed saved her life, coming to her rescue just as her twin was about to deliver the killing blow. Zed lost his right ear in that fight, but mauled her attacker in his frenzy. Lana was left alive and as she staggered off, dripping blood, promised Tara she would come back to kill her. At first those words scared Tara, but after a few weeks in Dargon Tara relaxed in the safety of her uncle's home and even began to doubt that Lana survived her injuries, let alone that she could find Tara in Dargon, so many leagues away. It has now been almost ten months since Tara came to Dargon to live with her uncle Adrunian Koren. They both liked each other and lived well as a family. Her uncle taught her to fight and to read, although she was still having many problems with both. Then the war came and he was grievously injured. If not for a young mage trapped in Dargon during the war, her uncle would have died on the battle field. Tara paniced at first, when her uncle was brought to the castle. She was helping treat the wounded in the Dargon Keep while the Beinison fleet pushed wave after wave of soldiers into the city, but she was never really prepared for what she saw. The castle physician got to him immediately and eased his wounds, although he was still far from being in good shape. Now, just when it seemed everything would be fine, he was killed, without even the chance to defend himself. Tara wiped the tears that had formed in her eyes and reached down to hug Zed who kept circling her with anticipation. "You're all I've got left," she sobbed. Zed pressed his wet nose against her cheek and a grumble came from his throat. "It'll be all right," Tara assured him through her sobs, stroking his short light brown fur. She opened the door and went into Ilona's apartment. The shivaree followed her in, carefully sniffing the floor and the furniture. Tara watched him look around, knowing full well that he should not stay here for long, but she let him prowl around for the time being. She did not want to stay long here either. No more than another night, until she could prove to herself and the Lieutenant that she could go on alone. Then she would go back to her uncle's house and live there. She was his only living relative and knew he would want it no other way. Then she would have to find a job. She could possibly get on as a guard or maybe helping in one of the stores at the market or working at the Duke's castle. "We're going to have to go soon, Zed, if I'm to be back by dinner," Tara said. The shivaree trotted over to her and tried to climb into her lap. "Oh, Zed, you're getting so fat," she complained, gently pushing him down. "City living's too good for you. I'll have to start taking you to the forest more often." He slipped under the chair Tara was sitting on and reappeared under the table. After a moment she heard him licking something. "What did you find?" Tara looked down. Zed sat with his rear to her, licking at something by the wall. Tara pushed him aside. "What are you doing, you trouble maker?" When he looked over at her, she snatched a feather quill from under his paws. It probably smelled like a bird before. Now it was all wet with shivaree spit. As Tara got back in the chair, drying the wet pen, Zed stuck his head out from under the table and licked his chops. Having wiped the quill on her tunic, Tara opened the top drawer and put it there, so Zed could not get to it again. She moved aside a narrow strip of paper and put the quill on a small simple wooden box. She was about to put the paper on top of that, when some writing on the strip caught her attention. She looked at it, careful to make out the letters. "You're well on your way," the note said and it was signed, "Liriss." At first Tara dropped the paper -- she knew who Liriss was -- but then picked it up and read it again, ignoring Zed's nuzzling at her. There was no doubt that what she read was right. Quickly Tara started searching through the drawer. The only thing there that obviously did not fit was a large gem stone in the box the note had lain on. Tara heard how expensive these gems were and that lieutenants could not afford them. Even her uncle, with his pay, would probably have to stop and think twice if he could afford to buy something like that. "Come on, Zed," Tara got up. She put both the gem and the note in her pocket and hurried for the door. Lieutenant Milnor was working for Liriss, which meant Lieutenant Darklen probably worked for him, too. She knew they were very close. Tara closed the door after herself and Zed. The only safe place now was the castle where Jerid Taishent stayed. She had to tell him what she learned. "Come on, Zed," Tara encouraged the shivaree and he bounced down the street after her. Corambis shuffled the chips from his casting on the table. "By Kurin's beard! Twice!" He gathered the chips in their pouch and shook it. "Of all the things to cast!" He tossed the bag in a box in the corner and went looking for the other, older one he had. "Trissa, my girl, how could you get me an oak casting table?" He found the old leather pouch and checked its contents. Everything was there, all ten chips. Before casting, the old sage walked to the door leading to the waiting room and pushed it open. "Thuna?" His assistant entered the room. "Has Madam Labin come by?" "Not yet," Thuna said. "I'll let you know as soon as she does." "Did you tell her to come for noon?" the Sage did not stop his questioning. "Yes, I did." "Well, rush her in here as soon as she comes!" he shook his head and absentmindedly closed the door on Thuna. "Now, as for you..." Corambis looked at the casting table. The wheel, appearing as a giant eye, almost seemed to look back at him. Corambis chanted in incantation, then read another one for the chips in the pouch he held. After a minute he was satisfied that the ceremony was conducted correctly and emptied the bag on the wheel. The chips unceremoniously slid back to the positions he had seen before. "Saren's own curse," Corambis muttered again. "Why does it never change? Koren is dead!" Jerid Taishent knocked on the door of his father's house and waited. A few moments passed before the door opened to reveal Dyann, the town mage. The old wizard wore a common blue robe with a silk belt tied tightly around his waist. "Jerid!" the mage exclaimed, then coughed into his fist. "What brings you here?" "You do," Jerid came in. "I do?" Dyann asked, confused. "I must be getting old, son. Just how did I bring you here?" "Come on, Dad, you know what I want." "I'm just a humble mage. I don't read minds." "Dad, I want you to come stay at the castle with Aimee and me." Dyann frowned. "I'm a mage and I still have my work to do," he snapped. "Just the few days that I lost last month cost me three months of work. I have experiments and enchantments going on. I can't afford the time!" "Dad..." "If that's all you're here for, go away. I'm busy." "Well," Jerid hesitated, "I'd also like some advice." Dyann rubbed his hands together. "Fatherly advice or should I get my cards?" "Fatherly advice, Dad. I don't believe in that card none sense." "Now, don't start that again. You've seen what I do." "Dad, you've spent all my childhood trying to teach me and nothing came of it. I think I've earned the right to be skeptical." Dyann put his hand on his son's back and walked him to the kitchen where a meal was set out on the table. "You, my boy, inherited all of your mother's bad traits..." "I'm happy with them," Jerid interrupted. "Bring Aimee to live here with me and I'll teach her. She has it in her blood. By the time she's your age, she'll be one of the best." "I'm thirty-five, Dad. I don't want you torturing her for the next thirty years." "Oh, Jerid, where did I ever go wrong with you?" "I think it happened when you told me to be who I want to be." Dyann started setting another place at the table. "I hope you haven't been telling this sort of silliness to Aimee, have you?" "Yes, I have, Dad." Dyann shook his head, pouring soup into a bowl. "Do you know that during the war she left a chamber pot in the chimney to the big room?" "A chamber pot?" Jerid asked. "A chamber pot and a filled one, at that." He put the bowl before Jerid and sat down. "She must've put it there during the invasion, but since it's summer, the vent was sealed. I opened it up yesterday to get a big fire going to cook a potion. You should've seen the mess." Jerid smiled. "Sounds like she's experimenting." "It was all so old and dry and decayed that I almost set the attic on fire," Dyann drew a deep breath. "I'll talk to her about it," Jerid promised. Dyann nodded. "Now, what did you want to talk to me about?" "I wanted you to know what's going on with me, Dad. And what work I'm involved in and what you can expect..." Sitting in the great hall of Dargon Keep waiting for the sergeant to return, Tara was beginning to have second thoughts about coming to see Jerid Taishent. He did, after all, live in the castle where the murder took place and it would be next to impossible for him not to be involved in some capacity if outsiders had gained access to her uncle. She wanted to get up and leave and pretend that nothing had happened, but she did not have that luxury. If she left for no reason, that could make the Lieutenant suspicious. Tara did not know Jerid very well. She had only met him a few times at official functions. She could not begin to guess at what kind of a person he was, although he did seem like a nice man. She did know Kalen Darklen and Ilona Milnor, or at least she thought she did, before she found clues of Ilona's association with Liriss. Both the gem and the note now lay in Tara's pocket, waiting to be shown to the castle guard lieutenant. But now that she developed new doubts about his honesty, Tara did not know what to do. `Maybe if I ask him about the funeral,' Tara thought to herself. `Certainly they can't have the body just lying around for days doing nothing.' But for the longest time neither the sergeant, nor Lieutenant Taishent came down the stairs. Just when Tara got up to leave, the sergeant who met her at the door returned. "Lady, I can't seem to find the Lieutenant anywhere. Perhaps if you left him a message, or maybe I can help you with something..." Tara shook her head with relief. "Thank you, no. I'll come back tomorrow." "Very well," the sergeant bowed and escorted her to the Keep doors. Tara left the building, heading for a post in the yard where she left had Zed tied on a leash. Seeing her, the shivaree got up and started pulling on the rope. "Missed me, did you?" Tara played with her furry friend. She bent down to untie the rope and heard an elderly voice behind her. "Miss, you're the niece of Captain Koren, are you not?" Rish Vogel asked, looking more at the shivaree than at the young woman. Tara turned to look at the old chronicler, still holding onto the rope. She knew who he was, but little about him and it surprised her that he had come to talk to her. The chronicaler's eccentricities were widely known and she really did not want to spend the time talking to him now about what has happened to her uncle. She was still having a lot of problems dealing with it herself and did not need others to spoil her mood for her. "Yes, I am," she answered politely as Rish came closer. "And you're staying with Lieutenant Milnor?" the old chronicler went on. "Yes..." He was now so close that she could hear him whisper, which is what he did. "Have you noticed anything strange?" "What?" "About the Lieutenant, I mean." "Uh..." "I think your uncle was killed by his own guards," Rish rumbled on. "Why?" Tara interrupted him. "I don't know why!" "No, I mean what makes you think it was the guards?" "I saw his room after the murder. Everything looked wrong." Rish stopped and looked around to make sure they were alone and no one was trying to listen in. "And the lieutenants are hiding things. It's been a day and a half and no one has seen the body yet and they're not talking about what they're doing about it. No one even knows where it is. And..." he looked around again, "the guard who killed the assassin is missing. The room was cleaned, but I don't think they searched for clues." That was enough to convince Tara that Rish was on her side. She looked around as well, then took the note and the gem from her pocket and handed them to Rish. "I found these in Lieutenant Milnor's desk." Rish read the note, then examined the gem. His hands shook. "This is it...this is the proof," he muttered. Tara took a step back, backing into the post the shivaree had been tied to. She was not sure where Zed himself had gone. Rish suddenly grabbed Tara's hands and put the evidence in them. "Thank you, thank you," he rushed off. "Wait!" Tara hurried after him, returning the gem and the note to her pocket before anyone else had seen them. "What?" Rish looked back at her impatiently. "What am I supposed to do? I can't stay with Lieutenant Milnor!" "You can and you must!" Rish insisted. "Go back and put those things where you found them and don't tell anyone. I'll take care of everything." "But I can't stay with Ilona Milnor!" Tara went on. "If she killed my uncle, I can't stay with her!" Rish looked around, hoping no one heard the young woman's outburst. "If she hasn't killed you yet and doesn't suspect you know, she'll have no reason to harm you. Now go back and do what I say!" Tara watched Rish hurry back to the castle, his long brown robe tangling at his feet. Zed was back, rubbing against Tara's legs and she bent down and hugged him. "You'll protect me, right?" The shivaree nuzzled her cheek and ear and snorted. Rish hurried into his small cubicle of a room and locked the door behind him. He had his mystery, his clues and now his proof. Now he just needed a miracle to get it all resolved. Taking a pen and a sheet of parchment out of his desk, Rish started writing furiously. If it was the last thing he did, he would bring order back to the town of Dargon. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright March, 1992, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 5 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 2 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 5, Issue 2 09/24/92 Cir 1192 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Sons of Gateway 5: Goren Jon Evans Janis 29 - Vibril 27, 1014 Pact IV Max Khaytsus Yuli 15, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Sons of Gateway, Part 5: Goren by Jon Evans (b.c.k.a. "Saren and Nehru be damned," cried Goren, as he dove through the snow towards the wood line of the forest. The riders were closing quickly, even with the snow to slow the horses, but his own feet weren't as light in the high drifts as he had hoped. "Finally, the suffering end you deserve," he said to no one. "Payback is a bitch, isn't it?" Bark splintered on the tree next to him, a quarrel burying its head into the wood. "Why in the name of Ol did I burn the bow?" Strangely, he answered himself: "Because it wasn't yours, usurper." In the woods, Goren knew the snow would be lighter. He had hunted here many times, in his youth as well as recently, and he knew the paths that would be hard to follow on a horse. There were times when he came hunting on his own, and he had missed the aelo with his first arrow. They aren't fierce animals, but when they're attacked, they know how to hurt the men that hunt them down. Another bolt, landing quietly and dangerously close in the snow, brought him out of these thoughts, and he hurried down a little used path towards a cabin his family had used for years. There would be weapons there, perhaps, and at least a place to defend himself from his attackers. He didn't know who these men were, or why they were chasing him down, and he didn't much care. All he cared about was staying alive. "Do you really think you deserve to live," he asked himself, "after you murdered your father in cold blood? Let the hand that serves the poison be cut off." Running through the woods, the horses losing ground slowly, he toppled over a mound of snow into a bank he hadn't remembered. The horses were too far behind to have seen him fall - he was safe, for the moment. He rested. "Haven't spent much time in the winter woods, have you?" Goren whirled to see another rider, wearing the same white armor of his followers. "Just because you're out of sight, doesn't mean we can't follow your trail." The man released his blade from its scabbard with the sharp, crisp scratch of steel on steel. Goren stood up, waist-deep in the snow covered gully, and turned to flee. Behind him stood three more riders, swords drawn and dismounted from their steeds, staring down at him from the bank of the pit. "Now you'll meet the suffering end you deserve," Goren said. The four were mildly amused, as the leader walked his horse closer to Winston. "I rather think you're wrong," the leader replied, pulling his blade back to swing. "No, wait! I didn't mean-" Blackness engulfed Goren as he landed in the cold, soft snow. "He burned the bow." Marcus stared silently, sadly, at the remains of a small fire someone had reported seeing under the dock at the south ford, two days past. Marcus had known who it was, and took his time investigating. The curved wood was charred beyond definite description, but Marcus knew no rotted plank would take that shape, and the blackened remains of six arrow heads were only just below the surface of the soot, when he scraped through it with his knife. "What idiocy has taken the boy? Bad enough I had to hit him... never had to take steps with Goren before... couldn't stop babbling... squirmin' mess, that boy is..." Marcus mounted his horse once more, noting the lack of tracks anywhere near the area. No one fords the Laraka in the winter, and the ripping wind covered well any traces Goren had left behind. Riding the rest of his nightly rounds, he thought he should have gone with Goren, but decided against it. "Who'd be left to take care of Kald's home, with Ne'on running the place? And besides, I'd probably have to kill the men following me, instead of just avoiding their opportunities. Ne'on needs a lesson in subtilty..." As the Castellan of Gateway trotted his horse away from the area, three dark figures crawled slowly over the ridge behind him, contrasting the white landscape with their black clothes and arms. They had been following him for the past day and a half. They had no idea that he had been keeping track of them, as well. Soft warmth, in the form of bear skins and female flesh, awoke Goren from his fevered haze. He had been sick with the Red Skull, his benefactors told him, and they were glad he was alive. Looking around him, he saw he was in a tent some twenty feet square, with about ten other men and women. He was also in chains, as were the others. "Where am I?" he asked of the woman looking down at him. He quickly thought of his clothes and checked to see if he was decent. He was; but not in the clothes with which he had left Gateway. As if sensing his thoughts, the woman - or girl, for she couldn't be older than 17 summers - blushed shyly, and began to answer, when she was interrupted by another voice. "Hell," it stated plainly, in a tone that was at once ancient and young, rough and gentle. Goren looked to see a woman of not more than five heads tall, with the eyes of an angel lined with more years than she had lived. "You can go, now, Vercona; the man appears to be well. Although I'd take it easy from now on, if I were you." This last was directed at Goren. "I'm not dead, and I can think of worse places to awaken than in the presence of beautiful women, so I think you might be mistaken." Goren looked around. The general populace didn't think the jest was very funny, and the woman wasn't smiling much, either. "Then perhaps you should stay here: women come and go every day, and the food isn't half bad. You have to pay dearly for it, though; or you will, as soon as you've been sold." With a cold stare, she added. "If you decide to live through the next two weeks, I'll be in the corner. Happy attitudes and light jokes aren't going to do you very much good." Goren decided he didn't like this woman. A white clothed figure, sitting tall in the saddle, rode his pale horse through the snow covered woods 100 leagues North West of Magnus. His mount's light, muffled hoofs echoed softly through the nearby trees causing small clouds of billowy white snow to fall gently to the cottony masses below. Pausing briefly, he reached down to his left boot, covered with the grey-white fur of winter wolves, and adjusted his stirrup. The howling wind passing through the trees blew open his light blue cloak, revealing his heavy suede protective vest beneath, and the short cropped blonde hair around the fair complexion and pale blue eyes common to most northerners. Pulling the cloak securely around his body, he huddled against the sharp wind biting through his too-thin clothing, and muttered a prayer to Stevene as he spurred his horse into a walk. "Stevene, keep her safe and whole, let her not feel the cold sting of winter, and may the Communers find more need for her in this life than myself." A light figure almost seemed to blend into the gentle snow of the plains as it emerged from the northern edge of the woods less than fifty leagues from Gateway Keep. "Fine," he said, turning from the exit of the tent and sitting down on a red silk pillow. The pillow was soft, but it did little to comfort him from the frustration at his failure, especially with everyone in the tent staring at him with the mixed feelings of pessimistic knowledge and disappointment. "Goren," the angelic voice sighed, and he felt a firm hand grasp his shoulder, "I've tried everything already. You know that. You are feeling panic, now, and you have to let it go." Rho looked to the opening of the tent. "It's not strong magic, but it's enough." "I hate magic," he muttered, looking around him at the other trapped souls. "Even more, I hate being confined!" He stood up again, and began walking toward the flaps. "I'm going to break this damn force if I have to spend the rest of my life doing it." Rho grabbed him and spun him around. "You may well do that. That field doesn't wear down. It's there. Now sit down, and calm down, or I'll knock you down." She was tired of this stubborn man who wouldn't listen. She was tired of his ranting and raving. She was tired of his childish tirades. She didn't understand how a man could seem so rational, and act so immature. And, most of all, she was tired of being locked up, too. His words had struck a chord in her, but she wasn't going to allow them to disturb her thinking. Goren was tired, too. This woman had been demanding since the moment he met her. Who did she think she was, treating him like this? He was the Keeper of Gateway. He was the nephew of a respected, if minor, House of Magnus. And, she was a woman. "Get out of my way," he said, teeth clenched. "Sit down," she said coolly. He reached to move her. There was a blur of movement, the blunt sound of flesh hitting flesh, a gasp of air, and Goren flew several feet backward, landing not too softly on a pile of silk and pillows. Goren lay doubled over, his breath short and infrequent. "Don't come to me again unless you're in the mood to take orders." Hanlar moved his large bulk back into the trees, a narrow beam of energy burning a thin branch off the tree beside him. The trees were safe, he thought, just out of their distance. His commanding officer looked at him dazedly from behind the large boulder he was using for cover. They all looked at him, asking how they were expected to succeed where a man his size had failed. The cold winter snow mixed in with the dirt they were forced to sleep in, covering them all with a muddy complexion. They had quarreled on the way here, the poor travelling conditions and their bad temperaments mixing to aggravate their situation. Some of them had broken bones from fights, cuts where the fights had gotten out of control. Two of them were asked to leave the group. Ne'on would have to deal with them, if they lived to make it back. "Why didn't you keep going?" The commander looked desperate. He was only 21 years old, and most of his troops had more experience than he. Experience in what, Hanlar wondered. Most of these "troops", as Ne'on called his Black Arm, were cut-throats and thieves, muggers, men who hadn't worked an honest day in their lives, unless it was to stake out a prospective target. Their commanding officer was a man known in the Keep and the surrounding area. It had been a politically wise choice for Ne'on to put him in charge. It had been a tactically stupid move. He didn't want the position. He had joined the Arm for the sake of making some extra money for his family. Ne'on knew this, and asked if he would like to make even more. Needing it, he jumped at the chance. He hadn't known what he was doing. "Keep goin'?" Hanlar looked at his captain in amazement. "Are ye crazed, boy? Them wizards jist took out all me men, an' me near wi' 'em. 'Ow would you like to be chargin' out there, eh?" "If I weren't the commanding officer, and in charge of bringing this damn precious stone back, I would be out there!" Damn this corporal, thought sergeant Howen, he shouldn't dare speak to me that way. As soon as this is over, I will discipline him. "Well, then, mister commandin' officer," Hanlar's face wrinkled with the sarcasm, "maybe you'd best be findin' a way tha' what's left of this troop kin git along into this devil's hole wi' out yuir help, eh?" "I'm working on it, corporal." The sergeant stared back at the cave entrance, wondering how he could fight the cold, his men, and the magicians holding Ne'on's stone, and still stay alive in the process. "I'm working on it." Marcus glanced behind him slowly, letting the men following him know he was turing, and giving them time to hide themselves. In the time it took for them to get out of his field of vision - one had jumped behind the rain barrel, he noted by the barrel's slight movement, and the other had stepped into the River Snake's Den - he was able to duck down the alley to the side before they could see where he had gone. It shouldn't take them long to figure it out, he thought, glancing at the snow on the ground. Looking down the alley, he noticed the back door to the fabric store, and made his way towards it. He wasn't sure if these men were still Ne'on's guard, or some of the ruffians the winter weather, and Ne'on's new policies, had attracted to Gateway. Before he could get to the door, he heard their muffled footfalls behind him. He turned, and saw the two men following him. They weren't dressed like men of the Arm, being clad mostly in winter hides and light cloaks. They paused, noting the exposed position in which both parties stood. "You're either thinking you should run away now," Marcus said to them, unclipping his sword belt, "while you're still out of the dungeons..." Marcus drew his sword slowly, letting it's scrape against the scabbard be heard quite plainly by the two men. "..or that it's time to draw your weapons, and face this keep's Castellan with steel." Pulling the cloak off his shoulders, he twirled it around his left forearm and hand, resulting in an effective defensive weapon against two opponents. "Me... I've already made my decision." The two men paused, looking at each other doubtfully. They're judging each other's value, Marcus thought. After two seconds, they turned and ran. The Castellan let them go. "They're getting brave," he mused. "Sooner or later, if those were Ne'on's men, they're going to have to do something." The tent was wrapped in a silence broken only by the sounds of deep slumber, and a body navigating across the pillows and sleeping forms. He crept closer in the darkness, making little noise and disturbing no one despite the sparse light cast by the hanging oil lamp. He didn't need to see where she lay sleeping; he knew as if by instinct. As he drew closer to her, he reached his hand to her, and gently touched her. "Rho," he whispered, not intending to wake her if she was truly asleep. "What is it, Goren," she replied. Her voice was clear and smooth - she had been awake for some time. "I, uh..." He wasn't expecting her to be awake. It would have been much easier if she was actually asleep. He knew he had intended to say something to her, on his way over, but now he fumbled for the words. He had a respect for her which he felt for few people. She had been able to knock him across the room. And, of course, she was beautiful. "I just wanted... I was stubborn... What I'm trying to say-" "Goren, forget it." Rho turned to her left side, resting her head up on her left hand. She looked at him seriously, gauging him, determining his value at what she had planned. She decided. "Can you fight? I mean, not hand to hand, but with weapons?" "Can't everyone?" "No, Goren, not everyone can. And I don't mean just carry them and know how to hold them - any mother's son can do that. I mean, if it comes down to it, could I count on your sword arm?" Goren smiled. "No." Rho gave him a dissapointed look, but he stopped her before she could reply. "You'd get your head chopped off, if you had to rely on my sword arm. But, give me a bow and I can show you some magic." He tried not to sound too proud of his next statement, but he wanted to impress her. "I won the Keep's Silver Arrow the last five years in a row. Of course, Marcus and my father weren't competing, but..." At the thought of his father, he became quiet and sober. For the first time in over a fortnight, he remembered his father laying on the ground, twisted in pain. Rho's voice brought him back. "Good," she said. "Gather all the clothing you can, we're leaving here tonight." Throwing off the blankets she was resting under, she stood up fully clothed, and removed a bundle from beneath her pillows. Goren ran for his own possessions, waking several people in the process as he stumbled over their sleeping forms. A flickering yellow light began emanating from outside the tent near Rho's bed. It grew brighter, turned orange, and darkened. Suddenly, the tent material peeled away under the heat of the red-orange flames. The inhabitants of the tent were in chaos, shouting their surprise and fear, as a white-clad warrior entered the tent. "Come on!" Rho called, grabbing the bundle and running through the opening. Goren ran close behind, clasping a bundle of his own close to his chest. Sorya waited in the gathered silence, her brothers and sisters of the order huddling about the rocky entrance to their habitat. Her light green robe, signifying her status as Leaf, stood out among the browns and greys - the Branches and Barks - of the rest of the group. The cold winter wind did not reach into the cave, whose enchanted opening permitted only gentle breezes to pass through. Sorya lowered her blonde-capped head and rubbed the short bristles of her hair with her left hand... for luck, she smiled. Glancing up, her keen brown eyes sensed something in the distance. Her jaw set. "Prepare," Sorya's soft, raspy voice called out. "No, wait..." Haren, one of the Barks, called. "I don't think it's an offensive attack. Not a direct one..." Haren was the sensitive of the group. He could feel things of this nature, sometimes, but Sorya wanted to be sure. Any mistake, and the Crystal might be forfeit. No one was going to take it while she was acting leader of the Nar-Enthruen. "Explain," she commanded. "It's movement, that's all. Not necessarily an attack, but... part of one." "Where to?" He was nervous, she noted. So was she. These men, from out of no where, had staged an attack on the Guild. Normal men, without even a magician to help them discover the illusion cast over the cave's entrance. Another effect of the Crystal, she noted. She wondered if it was losing its power. "I can't say... around... I don't know." He dropped his head, shamefully, wishing he could have told the group. It would have been a great deal of help. "Look!" In front of the cave, about thirty yards away, stood a large man, looking battered and tired from the siege. The leader of the last group that had attacked the cave, Sorya noted. As he stepped forward, he drew his sword, intending to attack. Easily defeated, she thought. "Karin," she called, and the Bark stepped out of the cave to meet him. The worst aspect of the Crystal, Sorya thought, was that no magic within fifty feet of it was functional, unless it was a powerful conglomeration of magi, and that only happened during a Draining. Karin stepped out of the cave, and greeted her combatant with a nod. She expected to have little time to cast her spell before he swung his great sword in her direction - her first spell would have to be a protective one. She called on the magic, feeling it enter her, shaping its form about her. Sharp pain, in the form of an arrow, entered her side. A warmth spread about her left hip, and she could feel wetness running down her legs. The energy she was summoning began slipping away, she could feel the spell dissipating. Concentrate, damnit, she thought, focusing her mind once again. A new warmth, pleasurable, gathered at her side, and she glanced over to see Haren sitting next to her, his hands glowing a light blue as they touched her wound, the arrow easing out slowly and painlessly. Another shaft flew through the air, striking the ground next to her. She knew she had to finish the spell, but there were so many distractions. Haren, run back inside,she thought. He was risking his life to save hers; there was no way he could have covered himself with a protective spell before he began healing her. Another idea occurred to her, and she began expanding the spell to include him. It would take only a moment longer... Hanlar's long sword came down on her shoulder blade with a note of finality, splitting her torso half way. Karin cried faintly, and slumped onto the magus sitting next to her. Haren looked up, surprised, and shouted something incomprehensible to Hanlar, and Hanlar was sent sprawling backward, a gash opening in his chest. Two more arrows were fired, and these hit their mark. Haren slumped forward over the body of his dead friend. "Gods, it worked!" Sergeant Howen ran forward, his troops staring at him in wonder. "Corporal, get up here, we've got a man down, and I'm not losing any more men. McCullen! Braddock! Hold your positions! If another one of those robed freaks comes out of that cave, I want it looking like my grandmother's pin cushion!" The sudden victory where defeat had seemed so imminent struck the men dumb, but they followed the new strength they saw in their leader. They didn't like him, they had thought he was weak, but he showed them that a good plan could go a long way. As one of the men began bandaging Hanlar, Hanlar looked up at his commander, twisted his craggy face into an exaggerated wink of his left eye, and slumped back down. "Will he be alright, corporal?" Howen was worried. Out of all the men he had the dubious pleasure to lead, this man was his favorite. He wasn't particularly nice to the sergeant, but he treated him fairly, and gave him a chance when most of the troops would not have. "'E'll be fine, comman'er. Jist a bit o' a scrape... 'e's 'ad worse, I can tell you that." The corporal continued wrapping the bandage around Hanlar's newly exposed chest, the blood already beginning to coagulate. "Well, just make sure that wound is kept clean. And keep him warm, I'm not losing anyone for any reason." Howen turned to the rest of his gathered troop. "The rest of you, form ranks, two rows, bows in the back, swords up front. We're going into that cave and bring out that bloody stone." "Sorya, they're coming! How are we going to stop them?" The young Bark, new to magic itself let alone battle, cried desperately to Sorya. They all look desperate, she thought. "They killed Karin and Haren, Sorya. How can we stop their arrows if we can't even cast any spells? There's only twelve of us left!" Twelve of us and twenty of them, Sorya thought, looking at the massed robes around her. Twelve hysterical, panicking beginners, against twenty trained men. She thought about the cave, their advantages, what few weapons they had, and the men who were coming towards the entrance. She began to feel the uneasy turning in her stomach which precluded her own panic, and had to force herself not to lose control. If she lost command of herself, the entire group would be cut down like lambs for the slaughter. Then she thought of a chance. "Twelve will be enough," she announced to the robed figures around her. "They can't fire their arrows into the illusion covering the cave, and the few magical traps on the path should slow them down a bit. Falen, take two men and go to the chamber. I want you to bring the Crystal up here." Her words echoed off the walls, taking time to sink into the minds of the magi around her. Falen rose, picked two Barks nearest him, and left. The others still looked at her, wondering. They didn't understand. "You all know the Crystal can be used to drain latent ability from... incompetent... students. Well, there's another function of the Crystal that isn't discussed very often-" A scream filled the cavern as a man crumbled to the ground outside the cave. About twenty feet from the entrance, the center man in the front line grasped at where his left leg used to be, a small, fiery explosion burning it completely from his hip. The advancing men halted, looking about them carefully. Someone hesitantly stepped up to help the now unconscious soldier whose wound - mercifully - had cauterized with the injury. A few others began to back away, until a yell from their commanding officer stopped them. Sorya wished that he had been the one to suffer the injury - the entire assault might have been halted right there. "As I was saying, there is another function." Falen and the two Barks arrived with the large stone, its mass being carried by the three of them between two large, wooden poles. The purple, oblong stone pulsed slightly, slowly, in the presence of the magi. "That function is to drain life." There was a subtle change in the expressions of the massed magicians; the change from confused wonder to fearful awe. One of them spoke the thoughts of all the young, inexperienced magi, "We can't manage the Crystal.. it's too powerful... there's not many of us here..." The time they had left was drawing short. The men had begun advancing, again, this time prodding the ground in front of them with spears, branches, anything they could find to trigger the traps without being caught in them. They would be entering the cave in another minute, and then the slaughter would begin. Sorya realized there was a second time constraint: the Crystal was pulsing slightly faster, a little brighter, it's dweomer causing it to drink the plentiful magic potential gathered in the room so close to it. The incantation must begin immediately. "I tell you, twelve will be enough! Am I not a Leaf of the Nar- Enthruen? Do I not know of what I speak? Or would you wait for the soldiers to cut you to pieces? Look outside, and tell me we are still not enough to use the Crystal." The magi glanced about themselves, saw the first man coming near to entering the cave, and quickly formed a circle around the Crystal. Sorya stepped into her place, and began the spell. "Are we sure this is the exact entrance?" The corporal next to Howen looked at him with the question. The entrance was difficult to detect, at best, with the illusion cast over the cave. It was only Ne'on's instructions that had allowed them to find the cave in the first place. The closer you got to it, somehow, the more defined the illusion appeared. "I'm sure, damnit, now let's get in there. We don't know what else they might have planned for us, and we're running low on man power." He yelled loudly to his men to pick up their spirits, "Let's go, men! Give these demon wizards a piece of steel to take with them to Risseer!" As they passed through the illusion, they could see the cave entirely, including the circle of magi around a huge, purple stone. They charged, fearing the possible attack by the conclave, but no wizards turned to meet their steel. Suddenly, a man screamed out in pain, and dropped to the ground. Then, another man fell, and another, writhing in agony for a moment, and laying still. "Magic!" cried one of the men. And the charge stopped yet again. The bowmen worked their way forward and nocked their arrows. "Aim, and fire at will," Howen commanded, and the arrows flew out, striking their targets. A feeling of sickness came over Howen; his insides started turning, and a pain crawled up his left arm, working towards his heart. "Get the green-robed one," he gasped, clutching at his chest. Several other men also stopped their attack, clutching at their chests. One fell to the ground, dead. More arrows flew through the air, some striking their targets, most missing completely. There were only six more standing, damnit, Howen thought. And thirteen of us. The odds are still in our favor. Blackness closed in around his vision, his heart rate jumping faster. The green robe called something out, and another man collapsed behind him. Still, he fought the desire to give up, to let the life spill out of him; he had something to live for, a job to finish, a family to support. Another magus felt the bite of an arrow and the men of the Arm closed with their enemy. Swords were drawn, steel bit into cloth, and screams reached Howen's ears as he felt Celine's tranquil pull. Another cry, the sound of rusted metal hitting stone, feet moving around him. Someone gasped for air. Air began making its way into his own lungs. His heart beat slowly, steadily. His vision cleared, and when he focussed, he saw several silhouettes leaning over him. "Is he dead?" one asked. Then he heard a familiar voice - a voice he was growing to love - the voice of Hanlar. "He's lookin' you square in the face, lad, and ye think he's dead?" Hands reached out to grasp him, and pull him up, and he saw the green robed magus laying in a pool of blood by the stone, Hanlar's own sword sticking out of the woman's chest like a monument. Nehru forgive us, he thought, we were fighting women. "We'll take some time 'ere, lads, to rest. We'll not be goin' any- where, for a scant bit 'o time." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Pact, part IV by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. The only instruction in the letter that Ilona Milnor followed was to come alone and that was only because she had plenty of confidence in herself. She ignored the lines about not carrying weapons or light. She needed those, especially in the middle of the night around the docks, outside the protective city wall. She received her instructions to come here just after she reported for duty at sunset. She had no idea who the note was from, but it was delivered by a young blond woman, perhaps in her early twenties. She was obviously upper class and very polite. "Who is this from?" Ilona asked, re-folding the message. "I can't say," the woman answered, as if she did not know herself. "And who are you?" The woman shrugged. "I'm just a messenger." "That's not how I do business," Ilona warned her. "Then you'll have to adjust." "I could have you locked up," the lieutenant threatened. She had no patience for games. "Aren't we past the time when they killed the bearer of bad news?" the woman continued in her calm voice. "I told you, it came into my hands with intent of being passed into yours. Take it and follow the instructions." With those words she turned and walked out of the guard house. Ilona could have had her arrested, but the woman was right. The days of killing the messenger were long gone. Besides, she was obviously a member of the local mob and Ilona did not want to be the one to cast the first stone. It seemed she was on her way to being one of the organization's members and the means to that end seemed more important. If she were to succeed in infiltrating the mob, a lot more than one criminal would be her prize. Ilona shone the light of the lantern down the length of the docks, watching for movement and examining the rebuilding of the piers. Large portions of the dock were covered with fresh wood, while other sections were completely torn down. Most remained in the same bad condition that the war had left them in. There were two large merchant ships that had come in over the last few days to sell their wares in town, braving their way past the enemy fleet and the pirates. She shuddered to think how many others failed to make it through. The ocean floor must have been littered with greedy merchants wanting to make a profit on the war. Since most of the pier markers were lost in the fighting and the subsequent fires, Ilona had to count the piers before locating the proper one. Like the rest, it appeared to have been damaged in the fighting and was patched up in some places. She shone the lantern down the pier, then at the small clipper ship docked at it. By some miracle, some of the ships in Dargon's harbor managed to survive. Many were only lightly damaged and repair and raising work had started the same day the Beinison fleet moved on. "I told you no lights!" a harsh male voice floated down from above and Ilona shone her light up to the deck of the ship. Liriss, the crime lord of Dargon stood on deck, dressed in a black cloak, shielding his eyes from the light. "Come up here." Ilona made her way to the boarding plank and walked up on deck. Liriss was alone as far as she could tell. "Kill the light," he asked in a quiet voice. "Please." Ilona did so. She never imagined he could be polite. "Please, sit down," Liriss told her, standing before her nervously. He was not armed and there did not seem to be a weapon near by. "Why am I here?" Ilona asked. "Your first assignment." She sat on the second step of the ladder leading to the upper deck. "What do you need?" "Your help. You're one of the very few I can trust." "Me?" She was ready for anything but that. "Yes, you. Not even any of my lieutenants. Not one of the three. You see, I was framed. I never gave the order to have your Captain killed and I'm already being blamed..." He did not often let his speech trail, but he was obviously deep in thought. "What?" Ilona stood up. She was even worse prepared to hear that. "I never gave the order," Liriss repeated. "Someone else did and used my name. I suspect that one of my aides did this." "But the man said you ordered it. I was there!" She bit her lip, realizing she had given vital information away. In the official story, the assassin was killed long before she ever arrived at the castle. "And that note from you..." she hurried to mask her slip. "Note? What note?" "The note you sent last night, with the gem." "I never sent you a gem," Liriss protested. "I wouldn't dare leave evidence like that around. And I sent no note. What did it say? I must see it!" "It said `You're well on your way,' and was signed by you." "You must believe me," Liriss insisted. "I didn't send you anything and I did not order Koren's death." "Kesrin told Kalen that Koren's death was a part of the deal," Ilona said. She intended to corner the rat. "For Darklen, not for you! I would have told you up front! I can't afford the risk so soon after trying to make this deal with Darklen. Besides, Koren was too well guarded for me to send my men on a suicide mission. I have too few people now as it is. I would wait until he was home, alone, before acting." "You expect me to believe that?" "Yes! You must!" Liriss took a deep breath. "I did NOT have him killed. You have access to Darklen and that's all I need for now. I've learned to be patient rising to where I am. And believe me that I sent no gem. If I wanted to pay you off, it would have been done with Rand gold, just like the Duke pays." "Liriss, you're a thief, a liar, and a murderer. Why should I believe you?" "You have to." He shifted uncomfortably. "You must believe me. You're an outsider to my organization. You're one of the very few I can trust. Help me and I'll help you." "How?" she sighed. The song was not going to change. "You must prove that someone is trying to set me up. And you must find that person. I know that he or she is one of my people. If you find out who it is, I will gladly give them up to you, along with any evidence you will need to put them away." "All right," Ilona sighed, "but you must tell me everything you know." * * * It has been a whole month since Aimee Taishent moved to the Duke's castle to live with her father, Jerid, who worked for the Duke. The Duke and all his soldiers were gone, even Captain Bartol, who always told wonderful stories, and her father was in charge of the whole castle. But he was also very busy and could not spend any time with her. Once Aimee snuck away and went to her grandfather's house in the new part of the city, beyond the old city's walls. There were other kids where her grandfather lived and he always talked about magic and showed her interesting things. But then two castle guards came looking for her and took her home. Her father was furious. He said he did not want her going outside the castle alone any more and told her stories about bad Beinisons and that they were still out in the new city, stealing little children and that is why so many of her friends were gone. She cried and cried, until he took her into the city to show her that the Beinisons had gone far away, but told her not to go alone anywhere anyway. And then the guards would not let her out of the castle by herself. Her father bought her some new toys that she could play with, but all alone she could not keep her interest in the games. Aimee had prowled the entire castle by now. She had been in all the corridors and halls and in many of the rooms. She checked the kitchen and the stables and the gardens. She had even been in all three spires of the keep and up on the wall that went around the castle. All the buildings on the other side looked small and the people even smaller. But a month was more than enough time to see all of that and Aimee was once again getting bored. She had been sulking around the castle all morning when she found a large wooden door that had always been locked in the past, slightly ajar. She peeked through the crack and saw a long hallway with flickering torches and stairs at the other end. Aimee wondered if she should get her puppy, Karl, from the kitchen, where he was begging and stealing scraps from the cook, but decided that he would bark and make too much noise and instead pulled the heavy door open and went inside. Behind the door the corridor smelled like the ditch out by the docks and remembering the loud and rough sailors she had seen, Aimee thought about going back, but at the same time she desperately wanted to see what was at the bottom of the stairs, behind the door that has been locked for the last month. The stairs were narrow and dark because the row of torches ended in the corridor above, but light shone in from the bottom of the stairs. Aimee carefully made her way down to where there was more light. The walls here looked grayer and were much older, dusty and cracked and the ceiling had arches and was rounded, unlike the ceilings in the castle. There were many doors and cross passages everywhere Aimee looked, but the torches marked a single path, twisting and turning in the maze. Before Aimee could go too far, she heard running footsteps behind her and hid in a dark corridor. A moment later a castle guard, carrying something in his hands, ran by, his sword loudly bouncing up and down on his belt. As soon as he was out of sight, Aimee turned and ran back up the stairs. To her dismay, the heavy oak door was locked. * * * Rish hid his hands in the folds of his robe, glad that he managed to get all three letters off by different messengers. He had spent the entire morning out at the market, taking his time, making sure no one knew what he was doing. He was charged an exorbitant price for two of the messages, due to their destination and the course of the war, but he knew the people taking them were reliable and the messages would arrive in less than a month. The third message was not going very far and Rish expected to get the most use out of it. He made his way down one of the keep's main corridors, trying not to look as satisfied as he felt. "Good morning, Lord Chronicler," a maid greeted him. "Good morning," Rish smiled back. He felt as if the weight of the world was lifted off his shoulders as the letters left his hands and felt more personable than usual as a result. "You have not seen Sir Taishent's young daughter, by chance?" "Of course not," Rish muttered. The child was always lost. "The girl has been missing all morning." "I..." Rish began when an armored man ran into the hall. "Hildy!" "Excuse me, Lord Chronicler," the maid hurried towards the soldier. Rish proceeded out of the hall, thinking about the Lieutenant's young daughter. She was a curious child, always underfoot. Once she saw him writing and asked for a bottle of ink, which he gave her. By the following day she had stained half the castle. He heard back from Jerid Taishent about that. Heard so much in fact, that he was not going to give Aimee anything ever again. To this day, almost a full month later, the servants still found ink stains here and there and had to spend hours scrubbing them away. And the ink bottle was still missing, the girl claiming she had lost it. He hoped she had not gotten into any trouble or found the ink bottles he stashed away in the the library behind the old books on the far shelves. For now, if he were to see her, he would bring her to someone's attention, but he would not go searching for her on his own. He had plenty of things to do and being as busy as he was with his research into Captain Koren's death, he had neglected to maintain the detailed records he usually made. * * * "Shut up!" Kalen shouted at the youth. "I don't want to hear it!" The young man fell silent. "Now," Kalen went on to one of the guards, "you throw him in a cell and keep him there and you find that merchant and ask what's missing. If it matches, bring him here to talk to me. If not, tell him to go home and wait. Now get out of here, all of you!" "But I didn't do anything!" the boy wailed again as the guard turned him to lead him away. "Shut up!" Kalen shouted again. "If I hear your voice one more time, you're not getting out of that cell until you're forty!" The teen fell silent with a whimper and the guard led him away to the back of the guard house. "Rough day?" Jerid asked from the doorway. "Yeah," Kalen sighed, turning, "but if that brat was just a year older, I'd backhand him so hard... Just look at me, threatening violence on kids..." "If he stole something, the least he deserves is a good whipping," Jerid noted. "You know me. I'd just as soon let their parents thrash them. Come on, we can talk in my office now." Jerid nodded. "You know what this is about?" "I have a good idea. Some of your men dropped by this morning." They walked up the stairs and into Captain Koren's office, shutting the door so they would not be disturbed. Jerid paused at the door for a moment, looking about the room. It has been months since he stood here talking with Adrunian Koren. The normally spotless office was a mess with papers and boxes and a pair of crates of merchandise in the corner. "What happened?" Kalen asked. Jerid had to force himself away from looking at the mess around the room. "Aimee's missing. I saw her at breakfast, but she didn't show up for lunch and her mutt has spent the whole morning in the kitchen. The staff has been searching for her all day. No one saw her leave the castle. My father hasn't seen her. No one." "No one..?" Jerid shook his head. "The cook, the castellan, the physician. She hadn't even gone to the stables today." "Do you think she was kidnapped?" "What else is there to think?" Jerid said bitterly, "but why would someone go to all this trouble and how would they ever get her out of the castle?" "Would Liriss try to use her to blackmail you?" "What for? I'm not the one who deals with the grief he causes." "I don't know," Kalen said. "It's just a thought." "I'd rather someone kidnapped her than anything else," Jerid admitted. "If they took her, she'll be okay. I'm worried about the alternatives." "Do you need more people to look?" Kalen asked. He had none to spare, but he would gladly give some up for a task such as this. "I just want you and your people to watch out for her. She probably just wandered off on her own like she always does, but I want to be sure. I'm amazed the guards didn't see her leave the castle." "I'll let Ilona and Caisy know," Kalen promised, "and we'll let you know if we find anything. Aimee will be fine." * * * Unable to open the dungeon door, Aimee followed the lit corridor to where the guard disappeared. She reasoned that it was only a guard and she should not have gotten scared just because it was her first time down here. Her father would probably yell at her for coming here, but at least the guard would let her out. She followed the lit torches to another staircase and down again, deeper into the dungeon. The walls became darker and the passages narrower. The shadows from the torch light cast frightening shapes on the walls. Aimee lost her courage many times, but each time she would remind herself that there are no such things as monsters, just like her father told her when tucking her in after nightmares. Shadows were just dark spots made by things standing in front of the light. She made it very far into the dungeon before she could hear voices. "The chiurgeon's due soon," a man said somewhere up ahead and Aimee carefully crept forward. "Should I hide the mead?" a second voice laughed. "After begging the cook for some?" yet a third male voice queried. Aimee crawled up to a doorway and peered inside. In the room sat three men and a woman. Two wore blue jackets that identified them as city guards. The other two wore the Duke's crest, making them a part of the castle guard. They all sat around an old wooden table, playing cards. Every so often one or another would take a sip from their goblet. "You know, Elizabeth is really pesky," the blond man with his back to Aimee said. "She always complains that we're doing something wrong. At least old Griswald let us be." "He sold out, Tesky," the man on his right said. This one seemed to be in charge. He was older and wore sergeant insignia and spoke with a deep, strong voice. "And now we've got the war because of him," the last man said. "It wasn't just him," the sergeant corrected. "It was all the greedy people willing to sell out to Beinison." They finished the hand and moved something about on the table. "I'll hide this," Tesky got a jug and got up. Aimee shrank back as he turned around, but he did not notice her. "Let's go check on the Great One, Altura," the sergeant said to the woman. "Arellano, see that the torches are still burning." They all got up and left in different directions. Aimee hid in an alcove as Arellano passed by, followed by the man who took the jug. Sergeant Guralnik and Altura went into an adjoining chamber. Aimee held her breath until the two men that passed her were out of sight, then snuck into the room where the four guards had sat. The cards were still lying on the table, with some coins and mugs and two daggers. In the corner across from the second door lay sleeping bags, packs, weapon belts and some food. Feeling hungry, Aimee picked up a piece of dried meat, a large slice of cheese and a skin of water. She retreated into the corridor without checking what was in the next room and hid the meal up the corridor, then waited for the guards to pass back, nibbling on the cheese that she had stolen. Aimee had no idea what the guards were doing here or why the Duke's physician was coming to visit them or who the `Great One' was. All this became an interesting mystery she felt she needed to solve. She picked contentedly at the cheese, waiting for her opportunity to arise. "...be fine," voices sounded in the corridor again. "Two or three days and we'll be out of here. I doubt there's a reason to be hiding for weeks. It's not like we killed the Duke or anything." Aimee hid in the shadows of her room as the two men passed by. She wondered what they were talking about. Hiding? Killing? "Well, I want to see my wife before I become a part of this place," the other man complained. "I'm already beginning to forget what she looks like." They entered the lit room and Aimee snuck out into the corridor, still holding the cheese, and listened in at the door. "We'll need to replace the torches at the bottom of the stairs in an hour or so," Arellano reported. "Get 'em when Elizabeth leaves," the sergeant said. A chair creaked. Footsteps. "What happened here?" someone complained. "Where?" Altura asked. More footsteps. Aimee peeked in. "Damn rats!" the man who carried the jug examined the pack that held the food. "Put it up on the chair, Tesky," the sergeant told him. "We can live with these rats. It's the ones up above that I worry about." Arellano dug into his pack and pulled out a slingshot. "Just wait 'till I see one!" Aimee shrank back from the door in fear, realizing that the slingshot was really meant for her. * * * "My Lord?" a man bowed before Kesrin. "I have news for you." "What is it?" Kesrin asked without turning to look. People had been having news for him all morning long and he now wanted some time to think about the unrest in the ranks of the mob. "A letter, Sir. It was carried by that merchant who refused to pay for protection. The boys and I got him outside of the town wall just after lunch. He was leaving a day early." "Let me see it," Kesrin put out his hand. The scroll was handed to him. "Did you break the seal?" "No, my Lord, of course not! It was broken by the merchant." Kesrin's eyes narrowed and the brigand took a fearful step back. "You have read it?" "Uh... Yes, my Lord. I read it to see if it was important." Kesrin unrolled the parchment and slowly read it, not dismissing the man. "I didn't tell anyone else, Sir. I was the only one sorting the loot." Lines appeared in Kesrin's brow as he read on, but he did not respond to the man. "And, of course, I thought you might want to bring this to Lord Liriss' attention yourself, Sir," the brigand went on. "You did well, Misgen," Kesrin said. "Remember not to discuss this with anyone. Come, we'll show this to Liriss together." They walked out the door and down the corridor leading to the stairs side by side. As they approached the stairs, Kesrin drew his dagger and sank it into Misgen's back. "Are you sure you're the only one who saw the letter?" he demanded. "Yes," the brigand gasped. "I was the only one." "My Lord won't appreciate others knowing his grief," Kesrin said, twisting the blade and pulling it out. He let the man fall down the stairs with a second thrust and continued on his way up. * * * Aimee recognized the sound of the physician's soft sandals long before the woman appeared in the hallway. Aimee hid while Elizabeth passed by, then carefully followed her down the corridor towards the room where the guards were staying. Maybe now that the physician had come down, she would hear why the guards were playing cards in the dungeon and who the `Great One' was. Waiting for the physician to show, Aimee ate some of the food she had stolen and thought about what she might tell her father about where she had been. She probably should have told the guards that she got locked in by accident and asked to be let out instead of sneaking around, and spying on them. It was an honest mistake on her part after all, but having heard the guards talking, Aimee's curiosity grew and she wondered about just who was in the next room and why he would not come out. Now that the physician was here, she could just wait and see and then sneak out before the others finished talking and simply tell her father that she was out on the castle wall and forgot to come back to eat lunch. Elizabeth entered the room where the guards were sitting and greetings were exchanged, then she asked how `he' is and one of the men said `he' was the same as they had left him. "Some doctor you are," Elizabeth frowned and continued into the next room. "Told you," Tesky said to the sergeant, who smiled joyfully. "At least she means well." Arellano picked up his slingshot off the table and followed the physician. "Better watch her, lest the rats get her." "Just shoot her once," Tesky followed him in. A moment later Sergeant Guralnik and Altura went in after them. Aimee waited a while, making sure none of them were coming back, then entered the room and went to the doorway through which all five disappeared. She could hear muffled talking as she reached the door, then saw the backs of the people before her. They were all looking at something, but she could not tell what. A moment later one of the guards moved and Aimee realized that lying on a bed was a large man. The man's hand slipped off the cot and swung limply down to the floor. Aimee's eyes grew wide and she bit her lip. The man was not moving! He was dead! Then the physician also stepped away from the bed, revealing the man's face and Aimee instantly recognized Captain Koren, the Captain of the Dargon Town Guard. She heard the servants talking the past few days about his murder and now, having finally seen his body, she knew that these guards and the doctor were involved. Trying to be as quiet as possible, Aimee backed out of the room and into one of the unlit corridors of the underground maze, hoping no one realized that she was there and what she had seen. * * * "My Lord?" Kesrin entered Liriss' office almost without knocking. "I said I didn't want to be disturbed!" Liriss snapped. "My Lord, this information is of great importance," Kesrin forced himself to remain pleasant, always his most difficult task when dealing with his boss. He had no idea that Liriss was troubled to start with, but he was not sorry to interrupt. "Let me have it," Liriss ordered sharply. Kesrin delivered the rolled up parchment into the crime lord's grasp, then stepped back expectantly. "Now leave." "My Lord?" "Leave and close the door behind you!" "Of course, my Lord," Kesrin smiled uneasily and backed out of the room. If Liriss was in a bad mood now, it was bound to get worse as soon as he read the letter and violent mood swings often caused violent reactions. As he stepped out into the hall, Kesrin made hasty plans to find something to do in the city, to avoid being underfoot. He shut the door firmly behind himself and went. As the door closed, Liriss examined the roll Kesrin had given him. What could be so important that he would have to be disturbed? Usually Kesrin was bright enough not to disobey a direct order. He unrolled the scroll and read. My Dear Captain Bartol, I write you this letter in fear for my life and the future of the Duchy of Dargon and our Lord Clifton's rule. Three days ago Captain Adrunian Koren was found dead in his room, poisoned by an assassin. Action was taken immediately to find out who sent his killer, but as time went on, I began to notice severe inconsistencies in the stories told and the actions taken. Please consider the following factors that have forced me to write you this dispatch and plea for immediate assistance. When I personally had a chance to examine the room where the Captain was resting, I found that the supposed struggle that took place between the guard and the assassin could not possibly have left the room in the fine condition in which I found it. More surprisingly, having locked myself in the room, I had learned that no one outside the door was able to hear me or see the light of the candle that I had lit. Based on this, I refuse to believe that a guard making rounds found the assassin in the room by accident. You see, the only keys were held by your aide, Lieutenant Jerid Taishent, the Physician, Elizabeth of the Pass, and the castle Castellan Molinar. A guard would be unable to enter this room, locked from the inside, by any legitimate means. Even more astonishingly yet, the guard that apprehended the assassin was reassigned the following day and made unavailable to my inquires. In addition, while the body of the assassin has been returned to his family, the body of Captain Koren has effectively disappeared. The final factor in my decision to write to you was information delivered to my attention by Tara n'ha Sansela, the Captain's niece. In the possession of Lieutenant Ilona Milnor, of the Town Guard, she had found a valuable gem stone together with a note from the crime lord of the city's underground, thanking her for her work and making a promise of things yet to come. In the past three days I have also noticed a newly developed comradery between Town Guard Lieutenants Ilona Milnor and Kalen Darklen and your own aide, Lieutenant Jerid Taishent. The three of them have been instrumental in blocking information and dragging out the facts of the investigation. I believe that their involvement with the assassination goes much further than it first appears and sincerely believe the Ducal seat to be in jeopardy. Once again, I beg you to return to the capital to relieve the developing problems. < Signed, > Your humble servant, Rish Vogel, Dargon archivist, chronicler and historian "Damn them!" Liriss slammed his fist on the table, flinging the scroll across the room. The silver wine goblet that stood on his desk tipped over, spilling the rich red wine on the table. "The bitch tricked me!" He shoved his chair back, furious. Then, after a moment, a calm smile spread across his face. "Just as well. It always works out in the end." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ****** **** ** ** ** **** ** ** ** **** **** ** ** ** ***** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ***** ** ** *** **** ** Quanta is the electronically distributed journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy. As such, each issue contains fiction by amateur authors as well as articles, reviews etc... Quanta is published in two formats, Ascii and PostScript* (for PostScript compatible laser-printers). Submissions should be sent to quanta@andrew.cmu.edu. Requests to be added to the distribution list should be sent to one of the following depending on which version of the magazine you'd like to receive. quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.cmu.edu quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.cmu.edu or quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.BITNET quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.BITNET Send mail only- no interactive messages or files please. Note that if you subscribe with a letter sent over BITNET, you will have the magazine sent to you as a file over BITNET, whereas if you subscribe with a letter sent over the Internet, the magazine will be sent to you by mail. Note that all issues are available from the anonymous FTP server fed.expres.cs.cmu.edu (128.2.209.58). If you can access this server and would therefore only want to be notified when a new issues has been released, please specify this in your request. Quanta now reaches an international audience of over 1000 subscribers. It is produced bi-monthly by Daniel Appelquist (da1n+@andrew.cmu.edu). * PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems Incorporated. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright September, 1992, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 5 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 5, Issue 3 10/02/92 Cir 1130 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Pact V Max Khaytsus Yuli 15-17, 1014 To Be Continued Michelle Brothers ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Pact Part 5 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. Many hours passed before Aimee gathered herself and forced herself to look for a way out. Her father always taught her that she should never be afraid and running to hide in the darkness was the wrong thing to do. Of course neither did she want to let anyone here know she had seen them and Captain Koren and that she knew that they killed him. At first she ran back up the stairs to the heavy oak door and tried to get out, but the door was locked and banging on it did not help. Aimee then went back to the base of the second set of stairs, to hide in the maze of rooms and corridors, not far from the guards. She was afraid of them, but she was more afraid of the dark, far reaching tunnels. At least she would not get lost if she hid near the guards. Aimee wandered up and down the passages, looking into rooms, but never letting the lit corridor fall out of her sight. She heard the physician leave and cowered in the corner of a side corridor, afraid to breathe, while a pair of guards replaced the dying torches along the corridor. After they had all left, she again checked the corridor and her stash of stolen food, to make sure nothing had happened to it, but she was still afraid of going to look in the room where the guards watched Captain Koren's body. She was very tired now and, taking her food, Aimee retreated to one of the rooms in a dark corridor and fell asleep in a corner, wishing she had a blanket or a sheet to wrap herself in on the cold stone floor. Kalen closed the door to Captain Koren's office and took a seat in the chair before the desk. Across from him sat Ilona Milnor, surrounded by piles of paper. "It's my shift," he said when she looked up. She nodded. "We need to talk." They had not seen each other for almost a full day now, ever since the last shift change between them. There was a lot of work to be done, perhaps too much. In the last day alone there were two murders, one of a man suspected of being an employee of Liriss and another of a now dead merchant who ventured out a day before the rest of his caravan was due to leave. His two horses, wagon, goods and even clothes had disappeared and his body was simply left to lie in the road, not a quarter league from the guard gate. There was also the usual rash of fights and thefts and a priest who showed up early in the morning, saying he had found a dead rat floating in his pool of golden water. Above all, Aimee Taishent was still missing and after so much time, foul play was suspected. The guards, who were already on extra long shifts, were forced to spend more time looking for the girl. Jerid himself had not slept at all and did nothing but continue to question people who had seen her and dispatching guards to check all possible leads. Ilona brushed her hair back, looking through the papers on the desk. "It's been a busy day," she then got up and walked over to Kalen. "You look like you haven't slept." "I did," he answered, "a little. Sergeant Griebel and I searched the outside of the town wall earlier." "Kalen! That's a couple of leagues!" "I know," he agreed, "but Jerid will kill himself if we don't help. I also spoke with Dyann and he has an idea that he said he'll try tonight." Ilona sat down in Kalen's lap and put her arms around him. "I don't think Aimee was kidnapped." "What?" Kalen tried to look at her, but Ilona did not release the embrace. "I saw Liriss last night," she said, "right after I transferred the shift to Caisy. Liriss asked me to help him. He said he suspects one of his lieutenants of trying to ruin him, by setting him up. He claims he never gave the order to kill Koren, nor did he send the note or the gem." "Do you believe him?" Kalen asked, again putting his arms around Ilona. "I don't know...he was surprised when I mentioned the gem and the note. I think there might be something here." "But if that's true, all it means is that he didn't kidnap Aimee. Someone else could have." "I just have the gut feeling that she wasn't kidnapped," Ilona said. "Other things would have happened by now if she had been..." "Who would be setting Liriss up?" Kalen tried a different approach to the problem. "Just about any living being in Dargon. It's not like he's well liked." "I'd suspect there's someone on his side," Kalen said. "He can't be so desperate as to run to us!" "Well, a woman delivered the message to me," Ilona said. "I guess she's one of his whores, so Madam Tillipanary is probably still with him. I would guess Kesrin is also loyal, even though Liriss doesn't want to believe that." "You're probably right," Kalen said. "Maybe we can use this to our advantage." "How?" Ilona asked. "I'm in good with Liriss. I'd rather not have to start this over." "If we could only bring them all down..." Kalen thought out loud. Ilona hugged him tightly. "What if we help him now...?" "I knew I saw him here," the maid smiled, picking Karl up from where he slept in the alcove by the heavy oak door leading down into the castle dungeons. She brushed off the dust the puppy managed to pick up off the spotlessly clean floor and handed him to Dyann Taishent. "Thank you, my girl," the mage accepted the puppy. "I sure hope you find your granddaughter, sir," the maid bowed and left to resume her duties. Dyann looked Karl, who licked his nose, over and took him to the kitchen where Corambis and Thuna were preparing for the enchantment. It was late already, but Aimee had gone missing for well over a day and Dyann was not going to lose more time while the guards beat all the bushes around town. Although it was almost midnight, there were still people in the kitchen, cleaning up from the previous day, preparing things for the next. "Blast it, woman," Corambis snapped. "I know it's late and you just washed it, but I want that pot!" "Sage, I warn you," the elderly matron declared, "if I come down tomorrow and the pot is dirty, I'll have your hide!" "You will be more than welcome to try," Corambis said, taking the clay pot from the woman. "Thuna, get me those herbs and some water." Dyann submerged Karl in a prepared bath while looking at the exchange and smiled. "Goodness, what are you doing to that dog?" the cook exclaimed, having finished with Corambis. "We shall be cooking him, madam," the sage snapped and held the clay pot out for Thuna to fill with water. "You will do no such thing!" the woman declared. She looked around, then picked up a large roller and looked menacingly at the two men. "I will not have the two of you cooking dogs in my kitchen!" "Relax, madam," Dyann said firmly. "The dog will not be harmed. He is the subject of our enchantment to find my granddaughter." With those words he wrapped Karl in a towel to dry him off. The puppy struggled, but soon settled down to the rubbing and scratching he received and produced a yawn. "Here are the herbs," Thuna put a bag before Corambis. "Very good," the sage approved. "Dyann?" "Thuna, would you hold Karl?" the mage asked and as soon as she took the dog from him, stepped past the cook to help Corambis with the preparations. "Be careful not to let him leave the towel," he added as Thuna adjusted Karl in the bundle. The two elderly men carefully measured a batch of herbs, mixed them in a clay pot with some water, then filtered the brew into a shallow dish and offered it to Karl, who started lapping at the liquid. "Am I glad I'm not a dog!" Corambis sniffed the pot with the wet herbs. Dyann also took a sniff. "We made it a little strong." "So much the better," Corambis muttered. "It will make the dog more sensitive." The two men waited until Karl finished the brew and stopped licking the dish. Dyann took out a tunic Aimee had left lying on the floor of her room and let the puppy sniff it. Karl was already very familiar with Aimee's scent, but the tunic and the potion were used to reinforce the smell and make him more sensitive. Dyann took the dog from Thuna and went into the corridor. "Wash the equipment," Corambis instructed Thuna and followed his friend out. Dyann put Karl on the ground and the two men stood over him, looking down. "Karl, go find Aimee," Dyann finally said. The puppy looked up at him and yawned. "Karl!" Dyann warned. He rubbed the tunic in Karl's face again and gave him a push. "Go find Aimee!" Karl stood up, but did not budge. "He's not a bloodhound," Corambis sighed, "and he's too young to understand what we want." "He's stubborn just like Aimee," Dyann said, slapping the dog's behind. "Get going!" Karl let out a yelp and took off down the corridor, quickly outdistancing the two elderly men. "Well, now you've done it," Corambis sighed. "He'll find her and lose us." The two men hurried down the corridor after the puppy. After some twists and turns they reached the great hall and stood there, looking puzzled. "Which way?" the mage muttered to himself. Corambis pointed in the direction of the exit. "He might have ran out." "Or back to the kitchen," Dyann pointed down the great hall, where it forked. "Let's check with the guards first," Corambis suggested and the two men went to the castle entrance to question the men. The two sleepy soldiers on duty could do little more than shrug. If there was a puppy that ran out past them, they had not seen it. "...but the gates are closed," one of the men assured Dyann. "The dog won't be able to leave the castle." "Great," the mage worded and the two men went back inside. "We should have tagged him," Corambis said, "or at least found some rope to put him on." Dyann nodded. "Let's check the kitchen and if he's not there, we'll get some torches and look outside." "Let's do that," Corambis agreed. The two men walked up the steps leading out of the great hall when the maid who had helped Dyann find Karl earlier stopped them. "Sirs, did that lazy mutt help?" Dyann shook his head. "That lazy mutt ran off soon after you found him." "Oh, sir, I'm sorry," the woman apologized. "I had sincerely hopped you'd be able to find the girl. The puppy I just saw sleeping by the dungeon door, just like earlier. He probably just found a cool spot on the stone, where the draft is." "Who is it?" Ilona asked over the sound of the rapid knocking on the door of her apartment. "Ovink," a male voice coughed. "Lord Liriss wishes to see you." It was a voice familiar to Ilona -- she had brought him in for questioning a number of times -- but it was also the middle of the night. "Do you realize how late it is?" she asked. "Yes, but I was told not to return alone." "All right, then. Wait." Ilona quickly dressed, strapped on her belt and sword and left a note on her table for Kalen. It read: `Ovink came for me. I will return by mid-day.' She folded the note and left it on the desk, right under the ink bottle. "All right, let's go," Ilona opened the door. Instantly two men rushed in, knocking her off balance. They wrestled her down to the floor and tied her arms behind her. From the other room Ilona could hear sounds of a struggle and Tara yelling something at the men. "Let her go!" Ilona struggled against her attackers, forcing one man to lose his grip on her. She swung her legs, knocking him off balance and he crashed down to the floor. Ovink appeared above Ilona, holding a dagger. "I'd hate to have to cut you prematurely, Lieutenant," he smiled viciously in warning. Ovink was well known for his bad temper and sadistic streak, in contrast to Cissell's cool arrogance and Kesrin's politeness. She stopped struggling as he brought the knife a little closer to her neck and his smile deepened. "Good. Tie her legs." The dagger did not leave Ilona's neck. It slid slowly up to her jaw and then along it to the back of her head. The blade left behind a cold trail that Ilona could not identify -- was it blood or just her imagination? The men continued to fumble with the rope and Ilona did not dare breath so long as Ovink stood over her. "That's a good soldier," the brigand chuckled, getting up and hiding the dagger before Ilona could see if it was stained with blood. She could still feel the lingering chill on her jaw and neck. A drop ran down her throat and dripped off to the floor. Sweat or blood? She could not tell by Ovink's reaction, but guessed that it had to be sweat. If he drew blood, he would do more than just stand and watch the men tie her. "What do you want?" Ilona asked. "Why did Liriss send you?" "To be honest," Ovink's smile grew wider, "Liriss didn't send me. You see, Liriss needs your help. On the other hand, many of us want to see him hang...and you're a good device to get the wind blowing." Two more men brought out Tara, tied and wide eyed. "Let her go, Ovink," Ilona insisted. "She's just a girl." "Don't worry about her," the cutthroat fingered his dagger. "She won't be joining you. She's young enough to get a good price on the market. Perhaps even in Beinison, as soon as they win the war." Ilona kicked her tied legs at him, but did not have the reach to hit. "Take her to the blocks," Ovink ordered. "And take the girl to the pits." One of the men stuffed a rag into Ilona's mouth, managing to avoid getting bit. A bag was placed over her head and she was wrapped in a blanket. There was little Ilona could do in the way of struggling against two full grown men while tied and blind and for the time being had to accept her fate of being loaded onto a wagon. She was glad that she left the note for Kalen and that she directed it at Ovink, not Liriss. If need be, it would save a lot of time and perhaps her life. She hoped she would live through Ovink's plans, anyway. "Where's Aimee?" Dyann demanded of Karl. The puppy lay stretched out on the floor by the heavy oak door leading to the old castle dungeon, his black eyes looking up at the mage. "I know you know what I want!" Karl buried his face under his paw. "Oh, for Sevelin's sake!" Dyann stood up. "This will never work!" "We'll find her," Corambis assured Dyann. "We just have to use better methods." "What better methods?" the mage grumbled. "This was the best one!" "Well," Corambis thought, "you know, I did a casting yesterday while waiting for Madam Labin to come for her second casting and the future showed no change. I did the same casting on Clifton and again on Koren. I had Clifton on fire and Koren on water. And that's wrong!" "That could be interpreted either way," Dyann said. "It's easy going for Koren -- he's dead now -- and Clifton's in the middle of a war." "But that's now, not down the road!" Corambis protested. "For all we know the war will last years," Dyann retorted. "That's not a problem with castings." "But that's wrong," Corambis stressed. "You know how the table works." "It has a mind of its own, you said so yourself." "Through three castings?" "Well..." Dyann scratched his head. "It could be a minor mana shift." "In Dargon? Goodness, no," Corambis said. "There hasn't been one for ages, not since the Fretheod ruled!" "Then we're probably due for one." "That and Stevene's return," the sage grumbled. "I tell you there's nothing wrong with the casting. What's wrong is that something's going on that we don't know about." "Perhaps," Dyann agreed, "but what worries me now is that the potion didn't work. We made it together. It wasn't wrong." "Well, we had a clay pot," Corambis said. "If it was made of red clay..." "It wasn't," Dyann interrupted. "You yourself looked. It was brown as mud." "What then? What are we missing?" "We're becoming senile, my friend," Dyann laughed. "Indeed," Corambis said. Dyann shook his head, "and when looking for Aimee of all people!" "Come," Corambis pulled his friend away from the puppy. "Let's try something else. Let's try some real magic." Tara fought the ropes that bound her hands. If she could only free them, she could untie her feet and run. The window of this room was on the second floor, but it overlooked the docks and that meant that she could be helped by the sailors. She hoped she could be helped, anyway. The rope that bound her delicate hands was coarse and thick, good for holding a large man or an animal, but not enough to hold someone as small as she. At the same time, the rope was extremely tough, scratching her hands and making it hard for her to work herself free. She had no idea what she would do if she could get away from the men that kidnapped her. Run to Rish? Tara knew she could only trust him in this war between the mob and the town guard, but could she really safely stay in the castle? Obviously the mob's infiltration of the guard was great and one would have to believe that the inverse was true as well, but who could be trusted? More importantly, why had the mob turned on one of their own? When being transported, bound and gagged, Tara heard one of the men say that Ilona was no longer something that Liriss could afford to be gentle with and that she was a weight he should no longer have to carry, whatever that meant. It sounded like she did something he did not like and would now have to pay for it. Tara always liked Ilona, since that day she met her when she had finally found her uncle. It was she who would go shopping with Tara and talk to her about things Uncle Glenn tried to avoid. What did Ilona do to make Liriss so upset? Whatever it was, it had to be the right thing. She always said how much she wanted to rid Dargon of crime. Tara struggled with the rope more furiously than before. If Ilona were to die before she could go for help, it would be her fault. She did not want to see anything happen to the Lieutenant, no matter what she had done. Tara ground her teeth into the leather gag securely tied in her mouth as one coarse loop of rope slipped off her hand. `One more,' she thought, `one more loop and I'm free.' It was obvious to Tara why she was taken. She was a witness to Ilona's kidnapping, but having had a chance to sort things out in her head, Tara could not believe that Ilona had sold out to Liriss. Why then did she plead for Tara's release and did not once ask to be released herself? What good would it do her if Tara could identify her as a member of the mob? Perhaps Rish was right when he said not to trust anybody, but Tara could not bring herself to believe that such a good friend was responsible for the death of her uncle. With one last effort, Tara pulled her right hand out of the ropes and having brushed the lose coils off her left arm, proceeded to untie her legs. She still did not know where she would go. All she knew was that Rish was suspicious of everyone and that Ilona knew more than she let on, but there were others in town who might be able to help. Lieutenants Darklen and Taishent could be helpful, as could her uncle's neighbors, Doctor Savitt or Madam Labin. They were of noble birth and could not possibly be involved in any sort of crime. The rope on her legs was off and Tara was quick to remove the gag. It skipped across the room and hit the opposite wall with a wet squishing noise. The dirty window, covered with soot and tar on the edges where it was sealed against the elements, was very small, but not too small for Tara. She looked out through the torn waxed paper for the sailors she had seen before, when first brought into the room. She carefully tore away more of the paper covering the window and looked down. All that was in her line of sight was a sleeping drunk, up against the wall of the building. Tara hesitated, then tore the remaining paper off and started climbing through the window. Just then she heard the sound of a key being inserted into the lock. Leaning back in his chair, Kesrin set his jaw, listening to Ovink tell his story. He was contemplating his new plan, made when Liriss received the intercepted note from the chronicler to the Captain of the Ducal forces. Kesrin's ascent to the top had started, but it would have to be a slow process, one step at a time. Ovink was going to be today's step. "...so I thought we'd keep the girl for the next time Lord Isom is in town... If you don't mind, of course, my Lord," Ovink finished his report. "That will be fine," Kesrin approved. "Liriss will be happy with the extra profit." Ovink smiled. "Yes, Sir. I'll bet he will." Ovink appeared so happy with his success, that Kesrin had no doubt the man would not see the wool being pulled over his eyes. "You did the right thing by bringing the girl. I had hopped we could take the Lieutenant alone, but it's just as well. Her death will give us an entrance and we can put the girl to good use as well. Just be sure to have her out of here tomorrow. By tomorrow night this place will be filled with guardsmen." Ovink's smile changed to a laugh. "I like your idea." Kesrin chuckled as well. He told Ovink that a dead member of the town guard, and especially a high ranking member, would be a strong incentive for the authorities to take action -- her home was already filled with clues that would lead the guard to Liriss -- things like the gem and the note. What he neglected to mention was that Ovink would not have the time to leave town. "Everything is set now. Tomorrow take the girl and your men and take a trip to Tench to sell her. I shall abandon Liriss for a few days myself and soon we will all be a step closer to the top." "With your leave, Sir," Ovink stood up, "I will begin the preparations." "Just be sure to leave by way of the pier first thing tomorrow," Kesrin reminded him. "I don't want the guard to stop you if you go through the main gate." Ilona stirred as cold water licked at her side. She had been well aware of her unfavorable position, chained to a large rock sticking out of the water under a pier, with a gag in her mouth. She tried struggling against the chains, but they were far too strong for her to escape. At first she believed she was only being held here, but the incoming tide made her acutely aware of the danger of drowning. Now, as the water level slowly rose, a lot of things started to make sense. All those unexplained drownings, sometimes one or two every night, made sense. People whom everyone knew could swim well being fished out of the ocean early in the morning as sailors loaded and unloaded their ships along the docks. At times the dead men and women had unexplained bruises on their wrists and ankles. Now those could be explained as well. Ilona wondered if she would live long enough to tell others about this method of execution, or if she would die when the tide came in. She tried working on the gag, hoping that she would be able to call out for help, but she had little hope of that working. The gag was tied tightly around her head and refused to budge. Besides, she was probably right beneath Liriss' personal pier. No one would come, even if they heard. Perhaps if Liriss came down, Ilona mused, but she knew it was a slim chance. He had no reason to be here. When he killed people, he more than likely sent others to do it for him. No one at all would find her tonight and by tomorrow it would be far too late. As the door to the room she was in opened, Tara exerted the last bit of effort, knowing full well that once she is out through the window, her only path would be an uncontrolled downward plunge. "Stop!" she heard a male voice shout. She increased her efforts. A second later she was falling to the ground, not far from the sleeping drunk she saw previously. She wished it had been the drunk she had fallen on -- that way the landing would have been much softer. "You! Stop her!" Tara heard the same voice from above her and looked around. Except for the drunk, she was alone in the street. "Get up!" She looked at the man yelling down at the drunk. "Shut up and do it yourself, you bastard!" She slowly got up off the ground, holding on to her skinned arm. Blood dripped to the ground. To her surprise, the brigand started climbing out the window. Tara slowly backed away, watching him, then picked up a rock and threw it at the man. It hit the wall, but was close enough to make him take notice and give what he was doing a second thought. Tara turned and bolted. As Ovink left, Kesrin took out his dagger and balanced it on his desk, the tip of the blade cutting into the fine wood grain. Soon he would not need this desk anyway -- his fist came down hard on the hilt, making the blade sink into the wood -- he would soon be using Liriss' office. Kesrin stood up and walked over to the window. The view. It would also change. Instead of seeing the docks and the dirty sailors burning tar and frying fish, he would look out at the market place. One step at a time. Today Ovink, tomorrow Liriss. In a month he would be no less than the undisputed lord of the city. Lord of all that his window would let him see and finally, after so many years, his heart could finally rest for having kept the promise he made years ago. "Stop!" he suddenly heard Ovink's voice come through the window, followed by a dull thud of something falling onto the boardwalk outside. Kesrin stepped closer to the window and looked down. A teenage girl lay on the ground by the wall of the building, not far from a sleeping bum. She clutched her arm as if she had hurt it in a fall. "You! Stop her!" Ovink appeared in a window of the second floor. "Get up!" Kesrin chuckled sadly. This was a man Liriss trusted to do his work? "Shut up and do it yourself, you bastard!" the girl yelled back, getting up to her feet. Kesrin suspected she was Captain Koren's niece. She looked around, picked up a rock and threw it at the wall of the building, then, with another moment of hesitation, turned and ran down the boardwalk. Another moment passed and a crashing sound signified Ovink falling out the window. The man quickly got up and, limping, ran after the girl. With a soft chuckle Kesrin turned from the window and walked out of the room. The plan was slowly coming together. Now the last step needed to be set into motion. Ilona desperately fought the chain cuffs that held her arms and legs to the stone block now submerged in the water. In the course of the last hour the level of the ocean had risen high enough to cover the rock completely and the water continued to rise. She knew it would cover her soon as well. The shackles on her refused to come off as they had for countless other people who must have died here in the last few years. They were too well made and too strong to even think about tearing them free. Ilona looked up at the wooden walk of the pier above her, where occasionally a person or two would walk by. She wanted to yell for help, but the gag in her mouth would only make her choke on her own spit. Nothing. There was nothing she could do, but at the same time she refused to wait to let death come and take her. She had always fought and this time would be no exception. Uneven splashing of water alerted Ilona. The noises sounded like someone walking towards her, disturbing the rhythmic motion of the waves. She tried to raise her head to look, but a strong wave forced her back down, making her swallow the salty ocean water. A shadow paused over her, looking. Waiting. Ilona blinked to clear the ocean water from her eyes. Kesrin. He looked somber and tired, as a man ten years his senior. "You know, it's strange what twists fate puts on our lives," he sighed. "Just yesterday I wanted you dead, out of my way. I would've killed you with my own bare hands, if necessary, because you were bad for my business, but now I have to come to you for help." Ilona continued to look at him, listening, unable to speak and well aware of the quickly rising level of the tide. Another wave passed over her head and lifted Kesrin off his feet. "Something changed last night," he sighed. "I realized my life was in danger and I could do little to help myself. What I want..." he paced to the other side of the rock in the stomach deep water, "...what I need is for you to help me. In exchange I will let you go and give you evidence against Liriss. Is that fair?" Ilona had little choice now. She was willing to promise almost anything, including this. She nodded. "Good," Kesrin said. "You already know it was Liriss who ordered Koren's death. It was Ovink who kidnapped you on his orders. Ovink will be heading out of town early tomorrow by the East Gate, taking some men and Koren's niece to sell to slave traders in Tench. If you capture him, he'll sell his own mother, not just Liriss." With those words Kesrin took a chain with a key from around his neck and placed it in Ilona's hand, leaving her to fend for herself. "Don't forget I did this for you when the day of reckoning comes." He disappeared from sight, leaving behind the sound of splashing water as he waded towards the stairs. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 "Can you see anything ahead?" the merchant called up to the lanky guard in the lead. His voice fell dead amid the damp moss and still water. "Do you see the castle? Ragan?" "No, Burgamy, I can't see the castle yet," Ragan replied with exaggerated patience. It wouldn't do to aggravate the man who was paying him, no matter what he thought of the heavy-set fool. "Be careful," he warned after a minute. "There's a fallen tree in the path. Goddam swamp." The sound of dull splashing in the thin veneer of water fell dead amid the dangling vines and moss. The usual tenants of the marshy area were silent as the intruders noisily made their way through. Ragan led his horse around the green and brown obstacle, leather armor creaking softly over his cursing. Behind him, rich vermillion cloak dragging in the scummy water, paced Burgamy. He paused briefly and glanced over his shoulder at his companions. "Are you all right, Sister Moya?" he asked solicitiously as a woman, clad in what surely used to be a white robe, appeared out of the ragged mist. He offered a plump fingered hand to assist her forward. "I am well, thank you, Burgamy," replied Moya, avoiding the merchant's grasp. She paused to allow her mount, also white, to steady its footing, then continued around the tree. Burgamy made a disappointed sound deep in his throat and turned to follow. "She won't have you, merchant," laughed a voice from behind him. A rakish figure in gaudy red and blue appeared beside him, a globe of bright green trailing along like a puppy behind. "You know how those *devout* Stevenic women are. You won't see her outside of chapel, let alone out of her robes." "Silence, juggler. I didn't ask your opinion." "That's High Mage Tagir to you," admonished the mage cheerfully. "Coming, oh great Sir Knight?" he called over his shoulder as the merchant moved off after Moya. "Coming, High Mage," a voice, followed by a large man clad in a remarkably shiny breast plate and a green surcoat. He was the only traveller not leading a horse. He paused beside Tagir. "Move it, boy." Bringing up the rear was a fourteen or fifteen year old boy, leading a heavy horse, a pony, and two mules. His worn tunic bore the same crest that blazoned the shield slung over the knight's back. "Yes, Sir Ceneham." Gindar, the squire, picked his sodden feet up a little faster. The motly party had been tracking around this swamp for days in search of a lost keep that Burgamy claimed was filled with treasure. The merchant had hired his companions for half of whatever treasure was found, to be divided among the five as they chose. Following a few obscure references in a an old diary he'd found, they made their way into the marshy tracts upriver of Quiron Keep. Each had their own reasons for coming, be they honor, adventure, or holy quest. Burgamy didn't much care why they were there, only that they followed his orders and abided by their half of the agreement. There hadn't been any difficulties as yet. "I've hit solid ground," declared Ragan out of the mist. "And the fog clears up once you get here." "About damned time," Burgamy muttered. "Can you see the keep?" He laboriously climbed the little rise that elevated him a few feet above the water line to stand beside the thin man. Behind them, the rest of the party straggled up. Ragan pointed to a large, shadowy lump in the growing dusk. "That looks to be it." Burgamy's hungry eyes devoured every curve in the indicated direction before turning reluctantly back to his companions. "Since it will soon be too dark to investigate, we'll camp here for the night." The squire promptly dropped the reins of the animals he was leading and stared pulling dry fire wood out of the oiled canvas pack on one of the mules. Ragan's muttered "First intellegent order he's given all week," was lost in the general bustle to set up camp before sunset. Following traditions set from the first day of their journey, the squire laid out the fire, and went to tend the horses. The fire was always lit by Tagir, as the wood was too damp to respond easily to normal flames. Ragan staked out a perimeter while Burgamy and Sir Ceneham rested by the dancing fire. Sister Moya had taken care of providing fresh drinking water, since their own stores ran out a few days ago. She carried an iron pot down to the edge of the swamp and collected as much water as she could. Bringing it back to camp, she knelt beside the fire, leaning over the pot. "We have drinking water yet, Sister?" demanded Sir Ceneham a few minutes later, coming closer and looming over the woman. "In God's time, Sir Knight," replied Moya placidly, not stopping her prayers. "I just wish God would hurry," muttered the man, pacing away, around the fire and back behind the priestess. Realizing that his glaring was having no effect, Ceneham went over to harass his squire. This too was a ritual, and no one bothered to take notice any more. The boy took the berating in stoic silence. When you're finished with this, do that. When you finish with that, polish my armor, and make sure there's not a single speck of rust on it. Since coming into the swamp, rust was Ceneham's biggest concern. By the time he'd finished his list of orders, the water was already being made into soup. The ruins were silent. A coat of dampened dust layered everything and tainted sunlight crept down the holes in the ceiling through the remains of the second floor. The musty scent of wet stones mingled with the smell of rotting plants. Torchlight caused the shadows to dance against the worn stone floor and unsteady walls. "This way," said Sir Ceneham, voice rolling out from beneath the heavy torch. The sound of cascading chainmail echoed slightly in the crumbling hall. He'd decided that since there might be wild creatures holed up in the keep's remains, that he should be better armored, so he could better protect the party. He cut an impressive figure in the full armor; it was the first time he was able to wear the entire suit on this little expedition without the fear of sinking into the muck and was enjoying preening in front of the group. No one paid him much attention. "Are you certain, Sir Ceneham?" was the return query from behind the light. Burgamy, with Tagir at his side, moved up next to the knight. "Quite certain," was the sharp reply. Because his back was to the merchant, Burgamy couldn't see the look of contempt on his face. "I've walked through many hallways in many keeps. This one is no different." "Unless they changed the floor plans from the last time you were here," teased Tagir, his magelight making him look faintly sinister. "If you get lost, call. I'll be happy to help you out." "Thank you, magician," said Sir Ceneham through clentched teeth. He had to force himself to be polite to the cocksure mage. Considering the man could kill him with a single spell or two, it was well worth the effort. "Can we get on with this?" Burgamy demanded peevishly. "Where's the rest of the party?" "Listening to you argue," said Ragan bitingly. "If there's anything around, it's sure to know where we are." "We haven't seen a living creature since we crossed the drawbridge," scoffed Ceneham. "And that includes the gods cursed insects." "Except that squirrel Gindar tossed rocks at," observed Tagir. "Don't swear, Sir Knight," said Moya softly. She held her robe a few inches off the keep floor out of habit, despite the fact that the hem was nearly black with mud. "Taking the Lord's name in vain isn't necessary." "I'll decide what's necessary, Sister. Where's my damned squire?" While Gindar rejoined the party from gathering more rocks, Ragan and Tagir started investigating deeper down the corridor. They found a door which Ragan was busily investigating when the rest of the party joined them. "There seems to have been a trap set on the lock," he observed professionally, pulling a bit of metal out of his pouch. "Opening the door sets the trigger off. Somebody was obviously paranoid about his privacy. It's a pretty good lock to have lasted all this time." "Just how old is it?" asked Tagir, curiously peering over his shoulder. "How should I know? It's not new, that much I can tell you. Now, if someone will push the door open, this should keep the mechanism from triggering." "Be careful. There might be something dangerous in there," whimpered Gindar. Moya put a comforting hand on his shoulder. Cautiously, torch held high, sword drawn in in his other hand, Ceneham kicked the door open. The worn wood crashed back on its green brass hinges. Silence rolled in after the echo and torchlight illuminated the damp, dusty bedroom. Off in a corner a pair of bright black eyes watched the group enter. "Well, there's your dangerous monster," laughed Tagir, pointing. The creature twitched its bushy tail and cocked its head to one side for a better view. "A gods be damned squirrel!" swore the knight angrily. He brandished his sword in the animal's general direction. The squirrel sat up on its hind legs and stuffed another seed into its mouth. "Oh, allow me to deal with it," Tagir said gleefully, making a few slight gestures. "Wouldn't want you to strain yourself on something so deadly." A thin jet of fire leapt out from the mage's finger towards the squirrel. With a surprised noise, the animal jumped and bolted for the door, past the kneeling Ragan. The mage laughed again, and beneath his half helm Ceneham smiled grimly. His squire giggled. Burgamy started to search the room while Sister Moya looked on disapprovingly. The merchant was soon joined by Ceneham and his squire in ransacking the remains of the room. Ever helpful, Tagir lit his light and centered himself so that he could illuminate every corner. Sister Moya waited patiently for them to finish. It didn't take long. Four pieces of tarnished jewelry and a pile of dead moths later they grouped back together by the white clad woman. "This was a bit of a disappointment," commented Tagir. "I wonder why the former occupant wasted so much time on a trap for such paltry remains." He glanced casually about the room as though trying to determine something of the former occupant from the wreackage. "Let's try and find the real treasure," Burgamy said, pocketing the dirty bits of gold. "We'll divide this later." "Yes, we will," growled Ceneham darkly as the merchant walked out past the still kneeling Ragan. "Come on, man," he added, slapping the mercenary on the shoulder as he went by. Ragan fell flat when Ceneham touched him. Moya stifled a surprised scream. "Oh, yuk," added the squire. A short, thick bolt protruded from the back of Ragan's neck. Quickly pulling herself together, Moya stepped up to the body. "High Mage Tagir, if you please." Obligingly the magician allowed his light to fall over the wound, turning the blood a sickly shade of purple. The rest of the party grouped around the priestess as she probed around the bolt with skillful fingers. "There is nothing I can do for him," she pronounced finally. "I assume that the trap he discovered was set off, as there was no indication of someone about to shoot him. The wound was poisoned as soon as he was hit. Even if I could have gotten to him immediately, I don't think I could have negated the poison." The party was silent while the nun prayed over the body, then Burgamy shrugged. "Means a larger share of the treasure for the rest of you. Let's go." Moya's head snapped around at the merchant's statement, real anger in her usually peaceful eyes. The rest of the group walked out of the room before she could say anything. Rather than be left alone in the darkness, she completed her prayers and rose to leave. "Oh, Lord, this is a difficult path You have set for me to follow. But follow it I shall, and bite my tongue about my companions, because I need them to complete Your holy task, to Your everlasting glory. Go in peace Ragan." Making a gesture of blessing and another of reverence, she followed the ragged company down the hall. Several hours later they grouped together in the crumbling main hall. Shafts of afternoon sunlight dribbled through the ceiling that used to be the second story floor. No sounds beyond that which the party made themselves could be heard. Pickings had been lean throughout the first floor. A few pieces of old fashioned jewelry in questionable condition and a small pile of coins were all they had found for many hours of searching. The second floor was in ruins and the likelyhood of finding anything of value there without a full salvage company was unlikely. Ragged bits of what might have once been tapestries were piled on the floor and the furniture, not particularly stable to begin with but salvageable as antiques, had been all but dismantled by the searchers. Burgamy was not happy. "If you're trying to find the main treasury," said Ceneham after the merchant finished his stream of complaints, "then it's probably down with the cellars and the dungeons. "Underground?" squeaked the squire. "Where else, you twit?" Ceneham cuffed the boy, sending him into a little heap on the moss covered flagstones. "What's the matter? You afraid of the dark?" "No, my lord," Gindar mumbled. Tagir helped the boy up. He'd shut off his light several hours ago, pleading fatigue, and now carried a torch just like everyone else. "We can give the place a cursory look at least," said Tagir. "There's enough light for that. We can investigate further if we find something." "That sounds like a satisfactory course of action," said Burgamy. "All right, Sir Knight, lead the way." Ceneham moved off and everyone fell in behind, the squire taking up the rear. The passage that led down to the cellars was in better repair than the rest of the first floor. Dust covered the stairs, where wind couldn't reach and largish rocks were scattered around like pebbles, but the walls were intact and the steps solid. The unsteady torchlight caused fungi and moss to glow an eerie pink. As they rounded the final corner into a small antechamber, a pile of rubble taller than the mage loomed up to block their path. Apparently part of the roof had given way years ago, choking the corridor with dust and dropping the impressive pile in the path. Ceneham looked a little annoyed and the squire turned pale. "And how do you propose we get past that?" Burgamy demanded, glaring at the knight and the mage. "This was your idea." Although ostesibly in charge of the party, the merchant was more than willing to let someone else make the decisions so he could pass the blame of failures off later. Ceneham glared back. "Allow me," said Tagir, stepping forward with a flourish of cloak. He pushed past the knight and the merchant and made a show of rolling up his excessively full sleeves. Muttering softly, the mage made a few obscure gestures and started shifting the rubble aside, into smaller bundles than the amount should have been able to fit into. The rest of the party stepped as much aside as possible to allow him room to work. A pair of heavy, jagged boulders became visible as the smaller loose debris was cleared away. Tagir ended his first spell and took a deep breath. Moya observed him closely, out of professional curiosity. "I'll have to shift the rock straight up to get it out of the way," he declared. "You'll all have to move into the hall on the other side, so I'll have someplace to put it." "But how will we get back out?" asked Gindar, white faced. "There will be room enough to move around the boulders once I shift them away from one another," said the mage smugly. "Now stand back, but be ready to run through after I move it." He began to gesture and mutter again. After a long pause one of the stones shuddered and began to rise. To get it clear of the intended walkway, Tagir had to levitate the rock over his own head, which he did with agonizing slowness. He nodded significantly to the party as the boulder reached the designated threshold and watched as they passed, one by one beyond him. Turning his his attention to the place he wanted to put his rock in, he prepared to muster more power to do it. Then his eyes went wide as he spotted something on the stairs. It smiled at him, winked, then flickered into something else. And in that brief instant of Tagir's shock, he lost control of the spell. The rock landed with heavy finality, tiny plumes of dust rising to the ceiling. The mage's four companions stared in silent horror and shock. Moya fell slowly to her knees and started offering the prayer for the dead. "What do you think went wrong?" whispered Burgamy, staring, a little glassy eyed at the dusty stone. "Perhaps it got too heavy," Ceneham said. "He did indicate it would be difficult." He didn't sound very confident. Both men knew that keeping the rock in the air was well within Tagir's powers. "The damned squirrel is back," declared the squire abruptly. The two men looked to where the boy pointed. Atop the boulder that had crushed Tagir, the dark brown squirrel stared down at them. Its tail twitched and it turned, vanishing into the shadows. Ceneham cuffed his squire again . "It wasn't important," he said sharply. "I think it would be a good idea to go back up and camp for the rest of the day," offered Burgamy hesitantly. To his surprise the knight nodded in agreement. Ceneham touched the nun's arm with uncharateristic gentleness to get her attention and repeated the suggestion. Sister Moya started, looked up, then stood. "I think open air would be a good idea," she said quietly. "And I feel the need for purification." Strangely, the knight made none of his usual caustic remarks. The four made their way back up the narrow stairway and into the over-grown courtyard. By unspoken agreement, no one wanted to shelter in the great hall. Their horses and pack mules were still tethered by the remains of the fire. "If nothing else," commented Burgamy while Moya purified more water for the evening meal and the squire polished Ceneham's armor, "you'll get a larger share of the treasure." Moya actually stopped in the middle of her prayers and turned to glare at the merchant. "That is the second time that you have said that," she said angrily. "There are two men dead and all you can think of is gold?" "Sister, I don't know why you came along, but the others were just treasure hunters and adventure addicts," said Burgamy frankly, looking steadily at Moya's face for the first time during the journey. "They knew the risks, just like they knew the rewards, so save your recriminations for the sinners and your pity for the masses. Ragan and Tagir knew full well what they were getting into and don't deserve your sympathy." "And do you feel the same way, Sir Knight?" Moya turned to Ceneham, trying with only moderate success to hide her horror at the merchant's coldness. Ceneham looked up from peering over his squire's shoulder. "I agree with the merchant, Sister," he said calmly. "They were seasoned professionals. They knew the potential consequences. Save your worry and your prayers for the people who can benefit from them." Moya stared at the two men for a minute more before turning back to her pot of marsh water. Anger smoldered in her eyes. She hadn't been prepared for such callousness when she undertook her holy journey and joined with these companions. Some of Moya's faith faltered as she listened to the camp sounds and knelt beside the pot. It took longer then usual to get fresh water that night. With two of their party members dead, it was necessary for everyone, including Burgamy and Sister Moya, to take a turn on guard. Gindar woke the merchant just after moon rise for the second watch. At the knight's insistence, he carried the squire's short sword for defense, and Ceneham's shield was leaned against a log so it could be banged in case of an emergency. Barely an hour had passed and already Burgamy was bored and sleepy. Resolutely he started wandering around the perimeter of the camp with a torch trying to stay awake. He allowed his mind to wander a little with thoughts of himself, Sister Moya, a few common objects he kept around his shop in town, and the wonderful things they could do together. As he made another circle around the tiny camp a motion by a boulder caught his distracted attention. Burgamy stopped in mid-fantasy and mid-turn, gripping the short sword a little tighter in his sweaty palm. "Who's there?" he demanded hoarsely. As far as he had seen, none of his companions had gotten up or even moved since the start of his watch. There was a soft rustling of dry tipped marsh grass and a woman stepped around the shadowed rock. She was tall and slender, wearing nothing except the mane of red-brown hair that spilled over her forehead and down her back. Pale moonlight silvered her limbs from behind and the torches flickering yellow glow caused shadows to dance on her taut stomach and breasts. Her eyes were fathomless black in the uncertain light. She smiled at the merchant, revealing long, even teeth in the yellow torchlight. "How did you get here?" Burgamy asked, cautiously moving closer. He wondered if he had dozed off during his watch after all and was having a better dream than chaste Moya could ever provide. The woman's smile deepened and she slipped around the rock with a ripple of heavy hair. "Hey! Come back here!" Abruptly more confidant, Burgamy followed the elusive figure back into the first floor ruins. They found Burgamy's body laying in the middle of the great hall, stark naked, without a mark on him. His clothing was nowhere to be found and no reason could be found for him to have come out to the great hall. Sister Moya dropped her cloak over the body then blessed the dead man while the squire triumphantly declared; "I told you I woke him up. I didn't shirk my duty!" "Silence, boy," growled Ceneham, adding another bruise to the morning's set. Gindar accepted the cuff silently, and glared at the knight after he turned away. "We'll need to bury him," said Moya finally, gathering up her skirts and standing. "We don't have the time," Ceneham told her. "We need to find out what killed him." "We can't just leave him here!" "We don't have a choice, Sister. And you didn't seem to have a problem with leaving High Mage Tagir or Ragan, so I don't see the trouble now." Ceneham turned away. "Now come on, if you're coming. I want to check out that corridor where we lost the mage. The last thing we need is something trying to kill us before we can finish our business here." He marched off, calling for his squire to come help him with his armor. In the silence of the great hall, Moya again knelt and settled herself to pray. "Highest," she whispered softly. "I have erred. I did not do my duty by my companions and thereby to You in their hour of need. I beg Your forgiveness. Whatever they were in life, they are Yours now, either cleansed or damned. Aid me then, in granting a last bit of decency to their bodies, along with my prayers for their souls." A soft white glow grew around Moya after a few seconds, then spread towards the body of Burgamy. It touched it and leapt away, dividing itself to go to the lower level and Tagir's resting place and along the wall to where Ragan lay. For an instant the glow became incandescent, then it faded, leaving behind only Moya's dingy white cloak. The priestess opened her eyes and sighed deeply with fatigue. Only rarely did she try spells of such complexity, for just this reason. She spent a few more minutes in contemplation and prayer before getting up to join her companions. The dust had settled in little swirls around the rock that had killed Tagir and the footprints from yesterday were wiped clean away. Ceneham strode past without so much as a glance down, but Moya made a gesture of blessing and warding and the squire went pale again. They edged past the offset boulders and down another short flight of stairs to a heavy door. Time, in conjunction with the damp had warped the wood and turned the brass binding a sickly shade of green. Cobwebs choked the corners of the frame and the ancient keyhole. Ceneham made a quick survey of the barrier, then held his torch back for the squire to take. With several powerful thrusts of his mailed shoulder, the door bent back on its hinges, then fell to the cobbled floor with a dull boom, ripping the now useless crossbow trap out of the wall. Stale, musky air whispered up the corridor. Gindar jumped at the quick succession of sounds, and Moya winced. The knight took the torch back and stepped over the ruined planks into the cellar. Pale torchfire trebled as Moya and the squire joined Ceneham, reflecting off dank walls covered in something flourescent and yellow. The mold gathered the light and aided in brightening the dim chamber. Chests were stacked along the walls, with tatterd, moldy bolts of cloth leaning against them. Something long and wide lay in the center of the room, covered in oiled canvas. Gindar gasped softly. "I'd say that we found the treasury," rumbled Ceneham, flipping open one of the tattered lids. Leather bags, some with holes worn in them, lay piled inside, and bits of gold and silver glinted through in the wan light. "I thought we were looking for what killed Burgamy," said Moya sharply. "You thought wrong, sister." Ceneham's voice was harsh. "He's dead, just like the others. If what came after him comes after us, I'll kill it. But until then, it's stupid to go looking for trouble." He turned back to opening the chests. Gindar joined him, raising his torch high. Furious, Moya glared at the knight's back, then turned and marched out of the cellar. He was a lost cause, and she was worldly enough to realize this, but she didn't have to stay in his company. Ceneham didn't acknowledge the nun's leave-taking except to note absently that there was a little less light to see by. He considered the holy woman to be little more than a nuisince, useful only because with her on the expedition they would neither starve, nor die of wounds taken in combat. As a result of the sudden lessening of light and his slight preoccupation, Ceneham misjudged the composition of the next thing he picked up. The little box shattered in his hand as he grasped it like one of the heavy leather bags. Marsh nuts scattered over the damp floor. "Ridiculous!" Ceneham stared at his fistful of splinters and nuts. "Who the hell is stupid enough to keep nuts in boxes! Boy!" "Sir?" Gindar appeared by his elbow, trying hard to conceal a smile. "Leave that torch and go get some more. And that lantern the mage toted about with him. And make sure that damned nun didn't stray." The knight dusted his hands off and his feet crunched on shells as he wandered around the cellar searching idly. Gindar quickly found two rusty scones to deposit the torches in, then hurried back up the stairs and into open air. His relief was indescribable. He didn't like the way the shadows moved in that cellar. He'd never really liked cellars in general, but this one was worse than any of the others he'd been in. He trotted through the remains of the great hall and back out to the campsite where Moya knelt in prayer. The torch she had been carrying was stuck in the ground beside her, burning fitfully. "Run off, indeed," sniffed the squire to himself. "She can't run off any more than I can." In her case, she didn't have the survival skills, in his, Ceneham would find him, no matter where he ran to and make him wish he'd died. "Soon," Gindar thought, grabbing a handful of unlit torches, then turning to root though the dead mage's packs. "Soon, I'll know everything he does and I'll be able to do more than run." But until that mythical time, he would follow and obey to the best of his ability. Arms filled with the lit and unlit torches and the battered metal lantern, Gindar made his reluctant way back down to the cellar. Moya was started out of her meditative prayer by the squire's paniced screaming, echoing from the guts of the keep. She started up, stood uncertainly for a second trying to place the disturbance, then ran into the great hall. Gindar nearly ran her down in his haste to escape the crumbling walls. In his panic, he didn't recognize the hands that reached out to try and halt his headlong flight. He struggled wildly as Moya pulled him around and forced his back to a crumbling wall. "What is it?" she demanded, giving the boy a brisk shake. "What's happened?" It took a sharp slap to get anything coherent out of the boy. "C--C--Ceneham!" he stuttered out finally. "He's dead! Ripped to pieces!" "Lord above grant us mercy," breathed Moya. For a second she wondered what could have been big enough to kill the knight, but silent enough not to disturb her or the squire. Keeping a firm hand on Gindar's skinny wrists, she pulled him back down to the cellar, repeating like a litany that "God will protect us...God *will* protect us..." Sir Ceneham was indeed dead, although he was not, as Gindar had said, ripped to pieces. His breast plate was rent open, not with the clean cuts of a sword, but by four jagged gashes, as though some other-planer creature had tried seeking his heart. Beneath his helm, Ceneham's face was twisted into a mixture of fear and surprise. His heavy sword lay in a far corner of the cellar--in two pieces. The only other thing in the room besides Moya, the squire, the piles of boxes, and the cloth wrapped bundle was a squirrel busily stuffing marsh nuts into its mouth. There weren't any signs of a struggle. Gindar whimpered from where Moya had left him by the door, then, with a strangled sob, bolted back up the stairs. Moya jumped after him, clentching her will against the sickness in her stomach. The thought uppermost in her mind was that the boy could not survive alone. And neither could she. "Wait!" she shouted after the squire. "If we separate were doomed!" But Gindar, frightened and sickened beyond hearing, didn't even slow down. Doggedly Moya followed him through the great hall and past their camp. She hiked up her robes as he charged blindly off into the swamp, continuing to call after him to wait. Branches and vines tangled in her way, and the smell of rotting leaves was kicked up more strongly for the pairs passing. Strangely, no animals were disturbed by their charging blindly through the undergrowth. Moya lost the squire briefly in the growing mist, and only found him again after he shouted in surprise. She reoriented herself in the general direction the sound had emanated from, and ran after. She came upon him suddenly. Moya stumbled to a halt, then scrambled back a few steps as her worn boots began sinking into black mud. Gindar floundered in a mud pit, his paniced thrashing only drawing him deeper under the sticky mud. His screaming was all but incoherent from terror. Moya cast about for something to throw the boy, calling platitudes all the while, but by the time she turned up with a branch long enough to reach him, Gindar's head was beneath the mud's slick surface. A hand grasped briefly, futilely at the knobby root Moya extended, but despite the nun's impassioned encouragement, he was never able to catch hold. The last of Sister Moya's companions sank out of sight, without so much as a bubble to show where he'd gone under. For several long minutes the nun stared at the patch of mud that now looked no more dangerous than any other patch of cleared ground. Then she dropped the root and went to her knees. "How could You do this to me, oh Lord," she moaned, rocking back and forth without even realizing it. "How could You do this to Your faithful, on Your holy quest? How? Was I unworthy? How? Why? How did I fail You? How?" Moya kept repeating this, and variations until it was nearly dark. Night sounds and something hitting the back of her head finally roused her to partial reality. She coughed, voice raw from her prayers and tears, then jerked as another nut bounced off her arm and landed in the moss beside her. Bemused, the nun stumbled to her feet. "Must get back to camp..." she mumbled. "Complete holy service...keep vow...at the keep..." And she tottered off, deeper into the dusky, glowing swamp. To Be Continued by Michelle Brothers ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ****** **** ** ** ** **** ** ** ** **** **** ** ** ** ***** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ***** ** ** *** **** ** Quanta is the electronically distributed journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy. As such, each issue contains fiction by amateur authors as well as articles, reviews etc... Quanta is published in two formats, Ascii and PostScript* (for PostScript compatible laser-printers). Submissions should be sent to quanta@andrew.cmu.edu. Requests to be added to the distribution list should be sent to one of the following depending on which version of the magazine you'd like to receive. quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.cmu.edu quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.cmu.edu or quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.BITNET quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.BITNET Send mail only- no interactive messages or files please. Note that if you subscribe with a letter sent over BITNET, you will have the magazine sent to you as a file over BITNET, whereas if you subscribe with a letter sent over the Internet, the magazine will be sent to you by mail. Note that all issues are available from the anonymous FTP server fed.expres.cs.cmu.edu (128.2.209.58). If you can access this server and would therefore only want to be notified when a new issues has been released, please specify this in your request. Quanta now reaches an international audience of over 1000 subscribers. It is produced bi-monthly by Daniel Appelquist (da1n+@andrew.cmu.edu). * PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems Incorporated. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright October, 1992, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 5 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 5, Issue 4 10/15/92 Cir 1130 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Archives at FTP.EFF.ORG (192.88.144.4) in pub/journals/DargonZine -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Pact VI Max Khaytsus Yuli 17-19, 1014 Beginnings Max Khaytsus and Michelle Brothers Mertz - Sy 5, 1015 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Pact part 6 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. "Sergeant, sergeant!" a female voice echoed down the corridors of the catacombs beneath Dargon Keep. Aimee, looking around the maze she was in, turned and bolted. Did someone see her? What happened? She ran into the first dark doorway she saw and hid in the corner of the room. "Sergeant!" The female guard ran past Aimee's room without slowing down. Aimee made herself as small as she could, hoping the woman would not come back and find her. Long moments passed with Aimee not moving from her hiding place, not even daring to breathe, then she heard more footsteps as people ran back down the corridor. "Are you sure?" she heard the Sergeant's voice. "Sure seemed like he was. And just like Elizabeth said, too," Altura answered. "I didn't wait around to see. Arellano is still there in case something happens." "You best go get the physician, then," the sergeant answered. Through the doorway to the room she was hiding in, Aimee saw the female guard hurry towards the stairs leading out of the dungeon. The sergeant's heavy footsteps could be heard heading in the other direction. As soon as all was quiet, Aimee snuck up to the open doorway and looked into the corridor. She desperately wanted to leave the dungeon, thinking Altura would leave open the door into the castle hallways, but instead, impulsively, turned the other way, heading in the wrong direction, wanting to see what had happened that Elizabeth had to be called. Keeping as quiet as she could, Aimee carefully snuck down the corridor after Sergeant Guralnik, towards the room where Captain Koren's body lay resting. Dyann Taishent angrily slung a handful of mud into a clay jar on the table before him. The vessel shifted away from him, making the cooks in the kitchen turn and look. "Careful, careful," Corambis tutted. "You know what will happen if Madam Sepagary sees you treat her dishes that way." "I'll seal her mouth shut with clay if she so much as thinks of opening it!" Dyann snapped. Thuna, watching the two men work and helping them when they needed something, let out a laugh. "What is it, girl?" Corambis asked. His assistant had been unusually quiet all morning, after the failure the night before. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can just imagine Madam Sepagary serving the Duke with her mouth full of clay." Corambis and Dyann both chuckled at that, but the mage's laugh quickly disappeared, replaced by a grim expression. "Don't worry, we'll find her," Corambis assured him. "This has never failed before." "Last time we did this, it blew the top off old Sweeny's tower!" "That was his own fault," Corambis said. "Anyone who keeps so much dung around and plays with fire is asking for it to happen." A laugh escaped Dyann's lips. "Oh, that expression on his face!" Corambis also laughed. "But then the other spell never failed either," he added thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about that," the mage admitted. "And are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Corambis asked. Dyann nodded. "That would explain the mutt's new habits...let's take a look before we start blowing doors off hinges." "Well, at least one door," Corambis said. "Thuna, repack the ash and the spirits of hart's horn. We'll be back soon." Long before Aimee could get her courage up to enter the room where the guards were, she heard hurried footsteps in the corridor behind her and darted into the room across from the one she was looking in. From across the corridor, she could still hear the guards talking quietly in the second room, now overshadowed by the approaching footsteps and female voices. "...Lieutenant Taishent both know, but I want to be sure first," the physician said. "He didn't say anything," Altura answered, "but we really didn't wait. Sergeant Guralnik bid me to find you immediately." Aimee watched the two women enter the room and disappear inside. She waited for a while, then not seeing anyone exit, snuck into the room to see what was happening. "...healed over pretty well," the physician commented, "but I don't want you going anywhere. A few more days of rest will have you solidly on your feet." Aimee carefully snuck up to the doorway and peeked in. The guards were once again gathered around the Captain's bed. "There will be a scar," the physician went on, "but I can give you some salve to clear that up. It won't disappear, though. That was a pretty big gash." "A soldier isn't a soldier without scars, doctor," Sergeant Guralnik said. "Well, I don't know about you or the Captain here," Elizabeth said, "but I know most women prefer men whole." She looked down again. "It's really up to you. I'm just offering you what I think to be a good solution." Who was she talking to? Aimee edged forward a little more, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Why am I in the catacombs?" a weak, but deep voice sounded. It was the voice of Captain Adrunian Koren! Aimee gasped, realizing as she did so that she had given her presence away. The four guards and the physician turned towards her and between them she spotted Captain Koren's face, eyes open, looking at her. Aimee took a step back, tripping over something at her feet and falling over backwards. A loud yip sounded as she fell to the floor. "I tell you that door has been closed for over a year!" the keep castellan declared, hands on his hips. "The Duke ordered it locked ever since that thief broke into the vault!" "Open that door now, you tub of lard, or I'll give you a hex free of charge!" Dyann demanded of the large man. "`Tub o' lard'? You old windbag! I'll show you a tub of lard!" The castellan stepped forward, pushing the old mage back with his huge stomach. "Castellan," Corambis pushed the two arguing men apart. "Castellan, if you don't open this door for us, we'll take it by force and then instead of replacing the key on your belt, you'll be replacing the door on its hinges. Do what will be right for all of us." The castellan grumbled. "Please," Corambis insisted. "We just need to look around. We'll be quick." Karl darted out of the way with a yelp as Aimee fell over him and quickly scrambled up to her feet. The six people in the other room stared at the girl with astonishment. None of them expected her to be here and for a moment, no one knew what to do. The girl quickly scrambled up and disappeared from site. "After her!" Guralnik was the first to recover and the three younger guards charged out of the room, after the girl they knew to be lost. Her seeing Captain Koren mattered in that no one was to know he was alive and she could ruin the entire plan of eliminating crime from Dargon. "What is going on?" Koren groaned, trying to sit up. "Don't exert yourself, Captain," Elizabeth forced him to lay back down. "Sir, there's been a lot that happened in the last month..." "The war? How's the war?" "Dargon is safe, Sir. We ran them all off! The Duke even chased them." For a moment Koren smiled. "And the Southern Marches? The eastern boarder?" "Captain, you need to rest!" Elizabeth cut in, stopping Guralnik from revealing the bad news. "Perhaps it would be better if one of your own men briefed you, or perhaps Lieutenant Taishent," the sergeant caught on. Koren nodded. "Did Darklen make it?" "Yes, Sir." "And Azin? Shevlin? Milnor?" "Lieutenant Milnor is all right, Sir," Guralnik said, "Lieutenant Azin is with the Duke's forces...Lieutenant Shevlin..." He glanced at the physician, but went on. "Lieutenant Shevlin held the West Gate to the last man. I'm sorry, Sir. He didn't live to see us drive the enemy away." Koren nodded with a sigh, his expression grim. "And Lansing Bartol?" "He's well." "Have Kalen come see me if you refuse to let me get up," Koren told Elizabeth. "I'll pass on the message," the physician said, not having the intention of saying anything to the lieutenant for at least a few days. "Send for me if you need anything." "Before you go," Koren added, preventing Elizabeth from leaving, "tell me why that girl was being chased." The castellan fumbled with his keys until finding the right one and inserted it in the lock. "Just to show you no one ever goes here," he complained, twisting the key in the door. "Why, even I haven't set foot in here since winter and the only other key's in the Duke's study. Look!" The door swung open to reveal a corridor lit with torches, alternating on the opposing walls. The dust was disturbed with a well defined trail. "No one, eh?" Dyann snapped. "I knew that mutt kept coming here for a reason!" The castellan angrily removed a torch from its sconce and hurried down the corridor. "We'll just see who's been here!" Aimee ran down the lit corridor as quickly as she could manage, with Karl right on her heels, jumping and barking loudly. Behind them Aimee could hear the running feet of the guards. She did not even think to run into one of the dark rooms or side tunnels. Not only could she get lost there, but Karl's insistent barking would only help the guards find her faster. She did not know what she would do upon reaching the heavy oak door, or if it would even be open, but she could always kick and scream and maybe someone on the other side would hear her and tell her father. Aimee breathlessly scrambled up the stairs, almost tripping over Karl. She could hear the guards not far behind her. She darted out of the corridor, now running after the puppy, looking for a place to hide. As she turned the corner, she spotted three men, her grandfather, one of his friends and the castle castellan. All three stood astonished, looking at her. "Grandfather!" she wheezed, breathless from her run and dashed to hide behind him. Right on her heels the three guards turned the corner. The old mage held his granddaughter behind him and took a confident step forward. "What do you want from my granddaughter?" His words boomed in the corridor. "You know," Ilona said to Captain Koren, "you and Kalen are equally pig headed! Like you came from the same mold!" Their wait for the others to arrive was taking longer than either of the two expected and Ilona decided to use this as an opportunity to take care of some unfinished business. The guard captain laughed. "How so, Lieutenant?" "Kalen was injured in the war," she told him, "and now he doesn't want to take the time to let that damn wound heal!" Koren laughed. "I remember just over ten years ago bandits set up camp four or five leagues south of town and were exerting a road toll from caravans and travellers. Kalen was just a rookie then. Captain Tamar Armstrong was the head of the guard -- it was a few years before he went to serve as a general in the King's army -- and he sent me and some men, including Kalen, to break that band up..." The Captain fell silent as Elizabeth walked into the room, followed by Kalen and Jerid. "Didn't I tell you to stay in bed?" she demanded. "I've stayed in that bed for a month!" Koren snapped. "Wounds heal better when they know they need to heal." "I'll have a sleeping potion mixed in with your food next time you eat," the physician threatened. "Kalen," Koren ignored the physician, "have you ever told Ilona of your first great adventure?" "When I was two?" Kalen looked a bit shocked that the Captain would remember a story told at a party where everyone had a little too much to drink. He fought back a slight flush that covered his face. "No, in the guard!" "I haven't, Sir," he wiped his brow with his sleeve. "Well, do and get those wounds tended to." "Wounds?" Elizabeth turned to Kalen. "Don't you touch me," he warned her. "Did you two get everything straightened out?" Koren asked Jerid. "We did, Sir," he said. "Aimee found the door open, wandered in and got locked in here. I should have thought to check the catacombs. That is just like her." Koren chuckled. "I can understand her fright when she saw me not moving. I'd have run, too, if I were her age." "All's well that ends well," Jerid said. "Next time, I hope, she'll be smarter than going where she shouldn't be. That scare was so bad for her, I won't even punish her for being irresponsible...even though I should." "Good," Koren approved. "Now, about Liriss." Everyone pulled up a chair and sat down around the Captain, ready to plan. "Jerid, I want you to extend your patrols to the docks. I don't want a single ship to leave before we're finished." "You can be sure of that, Sir," the castle Lieutenant answered. "You, Ilona," Koren went on, "I want you to secure the market place when Kalen takes Liriss' hold. That way we'll cut off the best way out of town." "Sir, if I may, I'd rather be there as it happens. With your permission, I'd like to have Caisy do that job." Koren thoughtfully twisted his mustache. "Let's get back to that in a moment. Kalen, I want that building surrounded and broken into. Use all the force you can. This is an excuse to kill criminals without having to answer for it. Anyone who doesn't yield when told doesn't get a second chance, clear?" "Yes, Sir." "And since Kesrin is willing to turn evidence, try to take him alive, but if that doesn't happen, I won't be too concerned. "Elizabeth, I'll need to rely on you to doctor my people. We simply don't have the manpower to do everything. I'll need my medics in the raid itself. I want you and what physicians and healers you can scrounge up to be ready and close by. Stay with the patrols and they'll bring you in when it's time." Kalen looked at Elizabeth, expecting her to protest the plan, but she did not say a word. In a way, Kalen hoped that he could avoid a mass slaughter and he knew that in an ideal situation, his captain would have wanted the same, but he also realized how understaffed they were and how important it was to end the criminal reign over the city. Perhaps Elizabeth knew it as well and held her tongue for that reason alone. "Now," Koren turned back to Ilona, who waited for his decision. He had no doubts that she was among the best officers he ever had, but he needed to hear her reasons and push her a little, to see if she was willing to push back. "Ilona, any reasons?" Ilona did not answer for a few moments, putting her thoughts together. "Captain, I'm a Dargon town guard," she said. "I want to be there because that's my job. That's what I signed on to do. I'm here to protect, not be protected. Isn't it enough you barred me from fighting in the war?" "Your efforts were important where they were applied," he said. "Elizabeth tells me you were invaluable." "But you put me in the keep so that I wouldn't be hurt in the fighting!" Koren smiled. "Yes, I did. It was both for you and Kalen. One of you worried was enough. I couldn't afford to have both of your performances affected." "Then overlook that I'm a woman this time," Ilona asked. Koren shifted in his bed. "I understand you're on the take with Liriss?" "Of course," the Lieutenant smiled back. "He's been sending me jewelry." A few of the gathered laughed. "Kalen, how injured are you?" the Captain asked his second in command, ignoring the laughter. "I'm fine, Sir." "Fine like me?" Kalen did not answer. "I want you to take charge of the market square," Koren decided. "Ilona will lead the raid. And after you're done, I want you to see Elizabeth. I may be as stubborn as a mule when it comes to my own health, but I'm smart enough not to risk my best people needlessly." Ilona waited patiently until all of the twenty people in the raiding party gathered in the alley. They had surprised two brigands here and took them prisoner with minimal resistance. Now they lay on the ground, tied, waiting until the raid was completed, to be transported to the guard house. It would be a great success if the rest of the raid went as smoothly. Looking around in the darkening alley, Ilona wondered if she should wait until it was completely dark, but not wanting to waste too much time. Each minute she and the guards were here was a risk that they would be noticed from inside the building. The sergeants slowly gathered around her, waiting for instructions. "Caisy," Ilona turned to the man next to her, "first floor, straight through. Hold the rear stairs and the exits. Tess," she turned to the tall red-headed sergeant that could put fear into most men she fought. "Second floor. No risks. As soon as you're done, back Caisy." "Yes, Ma'am." "Garay, Streed and DaVrice, you're with me. Go easy on Kesrin, but bring everyone in. The third floor is the only place I prefer prisoners to bodies. Everyone clear?" All the guards nodded. Ilona signaled for Caisy to begin and two of the Sergeant's men quickly broke down the door. Caisy led his small group in, followed by Tess' larger unit. "Go," Ilona nodded to the three guards remaining with her. They went in and, drawing her sword, Ilona followed. The building was dark inside, not yet lit to accommodate the the setting of the sun. The first floor corridor was mostly empty, although sounds of a fight could be heard from further down, where it took a turn. Caisy and his men secured a good half of the building's first floor and were now working at the other end of the corridor. Ahead of Ilona, her team's heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Not wanting to let opportunity slip by, Ilona quickly followed them up the stairs. As she passed the murky second floor, she heard someone yell "archer", but there were already plenty of people on this floor to take care of the problem and she had a job to do one floor up. Hoping that the alarm would be taken care of by the men assigned to the floor, Ilona continued up the stairs. The instant the outside door cracked and swung open, Caisy followed his men into the building. They both paused to fight the two brigand guards at the door and he ran past them, towards the stairs. The flood of men that followed through the doorway carried the fight after him and the two brigands were quickly overpowered and thrown behind the stairs. Caisy himself ran deeper into the building, looking for other inhabitants. At the stairs he found another man, wearing studded leather decorated with metal, a sailor's cap and a wild glean in his eyes. "Yield!" Caisy ordered. Wearing the dark blue tunic of the town guard he did not feel the need to declare himself. Instead of surrendering, the brigand drew his sword and leapt over the banister. Caisy backed up, blocking the first strike with his sword. The man's attack was so determined that he quickly found himself on the defensive. Two more blocks and a parry later had him five yards further down the hallway. "Damn you!" he swung his blade across the corridor, making the man pause his advance to avoid getting hit. Behind him Caisy could hear a battle cry and someone's rushing feet. He decided to risk facing the new opponent, hoping that his own men, now moving up the corridor, would take care of the crazed brigand from the stairs. He turned, bending down, swinging his sword at knee level. It impacted with the new opponent, changing the war cry to a yell of pain. Instead of attacking, the brigand simply collapsed over Caisy. "The door!" Caisy indicated to the other alley doorway to the two guards that caught up to him. Another armed man rushed at them from the back stairs. The corridor was not wide enough for the three men to fight together. Tess followed her men up the stairs, knowing full well that at least three or four of her people were still in the entry corridor, helping Caisy's men. This was a large reduction in strength, but it was a necessary loss. No part of the building they had been in could be left unsecured. She made it to the top of the stairs to find her men already engaged in combat. With a quick and precise thrust of her sword, Tess cut deep in the side of one of Liriss' henchmen and proceeded on without stopping. The second floor corridor was clear, but there were plenty of rooms to worry about. Tess opened the first door she came to and stepped inside. She ducked under the fist of the man who met her and quickly pulled the door shut, catching the thug in between it and the frame. As he screamed, she hit him with the flat of her blade and shoved him back in to the room. Two other men rushed at her, but only one at a time could fight successfully through the doorway. Tess met the first one with her sword as her own men rushed down the corridor behind her. She blocked the first swing of the sword with hers, then followed through and cut deep into his shoulder. "Yield!" He did. His companion also tossed his sword down, having seen what had happened to his friends. "Get out here," Tess ordered, stepping back. The three men came out into the corridor. "Face down, on the floor!" A yell made everyone look up as a half dozen men charged down the corridor, holding a bench sideways, knocking everyone over, sweeping them backwards off their feet. The bench slammed into the three men Tess challenged, then into her. She lost her sword as she slammed into the wall and the next thing she knew, she had a set of hands around her throat and a heavy body on top of hers. "You son of a bitch!" she yelled at the man and grabbing hold of his shoulders, slammed him sideways into the wall. The man's head impacted the fine grain wall with a crack. It took three full thrusts to get him to let go of her neck and by that time she was covered with his blood, dripping down on her from the injuries to his skull. Tess shoved the unconscious body off her and got up, only to see the man she wounded earlier holding her sword. "Poetic, isn't it?" he turned the blade, wet with blood. "Not for you," Tess drew her long dagger, preparing for an unbalanced fight. "Archer!" someone further down the corridor yelled and as if on cue, the brigand with her sword fell over, an arrow shaft in his back. Tess also dropped down, hoping it was only one archer and that he did not have many arrows. She could see pretty far down the corridor, but not far enough to distinguish what was going on at the other end. As she looked, she again heard a rush of running feet and rolled out of the way, towards the wall, as the men with the bench charged in the other direction. There were only four of them now and with her dagger, Tess managed to put a deep cut in the leg of the man on her side. He stumbled, ham strung, and fell forward, pulling the bench down with him. The bench end ground against the wall and the whole column of men went tumbling down. Tess quickly grabbed her sword off the floor and got up, only to have another arrow whiz by her ear. That made her back up, carefully looking down the corridor where her men were fighting in small groups. Three of the men that carried the bench got up off the floor, two of them drawing their swords and the third bent down to get his off the floor. As she prepared for fighting two men, one of them staggered forward and fell, with an arrow in his back. His companion spun around to see what was happening, giving Tess a perfect opportunity for a strike. She did not let it go to waste. Having heard someone yell "archer", Caisy rushed up the back stairs, leaving his men to secure the first floor. Two of them were wounded, one unable to continue to fight, but the battle there was almost over. On the landing, Caisy stopped just short of being hit by a sword. He was at a great disadvantage, having to fight a man towering half his height over him, but that was the luck of the draw and the disadvantage of being lower down on the stairs. Yells of combat could be heard both above and below as he blocked the vicious swings of the blade of the man on the landing. One hard blow forced Caisy to fall back three steps, but as his attacker followed him down, Caisy lunged at his feet, making the man lose his balance and tumble down over him. The way was clear and deciding to let the five guards downstairs deal with the swordsman, Caisy rushed up to the landing and up the second flight of stairs. In the growing darkness of the second floor, Caisy could see men fighting down the corridor and an archer in the foreground, letting an arrow lose from his long bow. The man was dressed in a light tunic reaching down to his knees and had no sword. "Put it down!" Caisy ordered as the archer drew another arrow, but instead of complying, the man tried to catch the arrow's notch on the string of the bow. Caisy swung his sword, not wanting to become the archer's new target, but the man was barely at the tip of the sword's reach. The weapon hit the bow, shearing through the narrowest part of the weapon and breaking the string, making the shattered bow snap out with a loud crack. The archer screamed in pain as the broken string cut through the flesh of his unprotected forearm and the bow twisted in his hand like a writhing snake. The arrow, barely caught on the torn string, jumped off the bow and stuck in the wall not far away from Caisy. Ilona made her way up the stairs on the heels of Sergeant Streed. An unconscious guard already lay at the top of the landing. The first set of doors on each side of the corridor was open. Sounds of crashing furniture could be heard from the door on the left side. "Help him," Ilona pointed Streed to the room, not sure if Garay or DaVrice was in there. As Streed disappeared in the room, Ilona made her way down the corridor to the end of the building overlooking the market place. The central room on the far wall was suspected of being Liriss' headquarters and pausing only long enough to ready her sword, Ilona burst in through the door. The first room was empty. It was richly decorated with rugs and pieces of art. On one wall stood a luxurious sofa with soft pillows scattered at its base. Across from it stood a large cabinet displaying bottles of liquor and spirits. Not wanting to waste the time exploring the room, Ilona rushed to the next door and burst through into an office with a large window showing the last of the setting sun's light over the town wall a half league away. At the desk in the center of the room sat Liriss, facing Ilona, full of surprise. It took Ilona a moment to notice the young woman who had brought her Liriss' message a few days prior, standing in the shadows at the wall to her left. "What is this?" Liriss asked, surprise evident in his voice. "It's a raid, rat." "You can't do this!" he got up, then calming himself, added, "you have to believe what I told you three days ago. I'm not responsible for Koren's death!" "What about two kidnappings?" "What kidnappings?!" "Do you know what the sad thing is?" Ilona asked. "I actually believe that for the first time in your miserable life you're telling the truth. You usually gloat over your victories, but ever since the war started, you've been running like a scared rat. You're free to go, assuming you can get out of this building. If not, that's your luck." Ilona paused, thinking about the young woman. Should she be arrested or let go? "You..." It would make more sense to let her go. That way there would be no witnesses to her releasing Liriss, to make a bargain to be set free. "You have to let her go!" Liriss hurried to say. "I'll turn myself in if I must, but you have to let her go!" "Who is she?" Ilona asked. "Please!" Ilona knew that she had little time herself. "Go, both of you, but next time you won't get off this easily!" Without waiting for Liriss to respond, Ilona rushed out of the room, knowing full well that her people would be looking for her. In the long hallway she found Garay guarding two men and a woman. "Lieutenant, are you all right?" he hurried to ask. "Fine. What's happening?" "The first floor is secured and the second is being cleaned up. Sergeant Caisy sent three men to give us a hand here." One of the doors slammed open and one of the guardsmen shoved a beat up man out. Ilona hurried to finish the sweep of the floor. Captain Adrunian Koren sat in bed in his second floor castle room, twisting his mustache, watching Kalen pace before him. The news from yesterday's raid was both good and bad. Four guards dead, a dozen wounded, three of them badly enough that they would be off duty for as long as a month, but that was nothing to compare to what had happened to Liriss' men. "The whole corridor," Kalen repeated himself. "It wasn't like this even in the invasion... Wall to wall blood. The men said that before I got there, you couldn't put a foot down without being ankle deep in blood..." "How many?" Koren asked, his voice a mere whisper. "It's hard to say. You had to see it... We took thirty-three alive, about half were whores who refused to fight. Half a dozen were barely children. "The men pretty much fought with all they had. I understand some went after our people with furniture or whatever they could lift. One man attacked Caisy swinging part of a dead body..." Koren shook his head. "How sad we've come to this..." "I'd guess there were two or three dozen dead total," Kalen went on. "We took them by complete surprise. There was no way they could mass an organized defense." "I wish I could give everyone some time off to get over this," Koren said, "but getting over our own losses will be hard enough. I can't afford to let anyone take time off now." Kalen nodded. "And Liriss?" "I'm sorry, Sir. It was my fault. We could have arrested him for trying to bribe me." "Kesrin, not Liriss," Koren reminded the Lieutenant. "He protected himself well." "Either way," Kalen answered. "I should have arrested him for what has been happening." "You told me you didn't think he was responsible," Koren said thoughtfully. "Not after his meetings with Ilona, but he's still guilty of a lot that happened before this." "But that's the..." there was a knock on the door "...thing. Come in," Koren shifted in bed. "If we could prove it without overstepping our bounds, this wouldn't be a problem." The door opened and Ilona Milnor came in. "I just feel guilty that he would charge on that horse right past me and I couldn't lift a finger. Wouldn't." Kalen glanced at Ilona. "I should've been smart enough to have a few men with horses." Ilona looked down, avoiding his eyes. "What's done is done," Koren said. "He's not our only problem. Kesrin's with him because we made a deal and one's as good as the other. Hopefully this will put them out of business for a few months at least." "Do you really believe that?" Kalen asked. "No," the Captain sighed. "If not them, someone else will come. It never stops." "Kesrin gave us a statement before we let him go at noon," Ilona injected. "What he claims happened was Ovink found out about Liriss' attempts to bribe Kalen and ordered your death, Sir. He wanted to start a war between us and Liriss and lay low until we won. Then he would set up his own shop..." "His one error was that he underestimated Kesrin," Koren said, "but that's the way things go in a nest of wasps. I don't suppose it will take Liriss and Kesrin too long to rebuild." "Especially considering the number of men that escaped," Ilona added. "Tess said they were jumping out of windows, afraid they'd get killed whether they surrendered or not." "They'll need time to get over the scare," Koren said confidently, "and to lick their wounds. And we need time to take care of ours. But we'll be ready next time and you'll have horses, right Kalen?" Lieutenant Kalen Darklen smiled. "Yes, Sir, I will." "Well, then," Koren turned to Ilona. "What did you come here for?" "To ask you how you were and if you needed anything." "I feel like a tired old bull that needs to get back on his feet!" Koren's voice boomed. "Keep that guard house in shape! I'll be coming home soon." "And Tara, Sir?" "Better than I understand she was. I saw her this morning. She's been through quite a scare." "If you don't mind, Sir, I'll ask her to stay with me until Elizabeth lets you go." "That will be fine, Lieutenant. And thank you." "My pleasure, Sir. One more thing..?" "What is it?" "About replacements for Lieutenants Shevlin and Azin. I was wondering if I could give you a recommendation." Ilona glanced cautiously at Kalen as she said that and he nodded his approval. "Who did you have in mind?" the Captain asked. "Sergeant Caisy. He did a fine job handling the extra shift over the last month. And Tess, if Azin decides to stay with the Duke. If anyone, it was she who made last night a success." "Tess? The Lederian? She studied with Lord Morion, didn't she?" "Yes, Sir. The whole town knows that by now." "Get me their service records and we'll take a look," Koren agreed. "I best go, Sir," Kalen said. "My shift starts soon." "Go, nothing. You need to see Elizabeth," Koren ordered. "Don't think I've forgotten. Have Tess do your job today. We'll see how she does." "Yes, Sir," Kalen sighed. "And you make sure he gets there," Koren told Ilona. "Dismissed." "You let him escape, didn't you?" Kalen asked Ilona once they left the Captain's room. "You mean Liriss?" she asked. "Yes, Liriss." "Yes. Are you angry?" Kalen put his arm around Ilona. "No. I don't think he was guilty either, but he still needs to be punished for his past." "We'll get him," Ilona said confidently. "We will," Kalen agreed. "You know that woman I told you about, the one who delivered the message to me in the guard house?" "Uh-huh." "I saw her again in Liriss' office when I let him go," Ilona said. "While I contemplated whether or not to let her go, he offered himself for her!" "Liriss?" Kalen asked in disbelief. "Liriss." "I wonder who she is..." "So do I," Ilona said. "You didn't see her in the market square, did you? She wore a light colored skirt and a green tunic." "I may have...I wasn't really watching for unarmed women at the time." Ilona sighed. "I hope we find out some day. It struck me that she was very important to him." They soon reached the physician's quarters and Kalen hesitantly knocked on the door. "Don't look so intense," Ilona mocked him. "It won't hurt a bit." The market square was once again busy, oblivious to the raid that took place there the night before. Shoppers rushed about from booth to booth, haggling for the best deals. Shop keepers waved their arms and yelled, expressing the quality of the products and the unbeatable price they had to offer. "And you can let this lay around for months," the merchant explained to Dyann as he paid out the money. "It will be good at least through Deber." "I'm not buying it to let it lie around," the mage said. "When I buy food, it's to eat it." "After you buy it, do with it what you will," the merchant snapped and turned to the next customer, no longer having to worry about making the sale. The mage sighed and walked across the crowded street to Corambis' booth where Madam Labin was still telling him how appreciative she was of his services. "And thank you again, Sage," she said yet again. Dyann heard that exact phrase before he left to buy the pickled sweet meats he was not supposed to eat. "My pleasure," Cormabis answered with what appeared to be an exasperated smile and a forced pleasant voice. "And don't forget that I need to see you again in a few days. No later than the end of the month, so you be sure to have your assistant stop by my house and remind me." "Of course, Madam," Corambis' smile did not fade as he spoke. "Well, actually you'd better have her drop by tomorrow," the woman went on. "My maid made this wonderful new cake that I'd like you to see. It tastes just heavenly, but it's..." she looked around "...a Beinison recipe and I'm just not sure if that's good or bad." She crossed herself. "I'm sorry Cephas. So you must tell me before I try it again, with the war on and everything." "I'll have Thuna stop by tomorrow," Corambis promised. "Thank you again, Sage," Madam Labin repeated. "I'm always glad to help out," he released a deep breath. "And I also want you do a reading for my sister. She will be going to Asbridge early next month and you must help her plan for the weather. I hear the rains are due to be stronger this year than last and I want her to be ready. She just doesn't believe me when I tell her!" "Of course. Just have her stop by and I'll be more than happy to help." "That's just so kind of you," Madam Labin went on. "You know, I was told that..." "Excuse me," Dyann rushed up to them. "We need to talk. Would you please excuse us, Madam?" "Well, if you need..." Madam Labin began, but Dyann had already pulled Corambis aside. "Well, how rude!" she exclaimed. "I'll kill that woman," Corambis confined in his friend. "I swear, she'll not last long if she continues to visit me." Dyann laughed. "That's why I don't sell my advice." "Did you hear about the raid?" Corambis asked. "Every word of it, from Jerid. Just look at that empty building now. I hope they tear it down!" Corambis looked north to the old three story structure. "If they don't, we can. Get Sweeny and Arbogast and some others..." "We're all in our sixties," Dyann reminded Corambis. "Well, yes, but..." "I wanted to talk to you about Adrunian Koren," Dyann said. "Yes," Corambis' eyes lit up. "I told you that casting didn't lie!" "Which still leaves us with a problem," Dyann pointed out. "If the casting was right, what's going to happen to Lord Dargon?" Corambis scratched his head. "I wish I knew what that damn casting meant..." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Beginnings by Michelle Brothers and Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. Mertz, 1015 Pristine sails rose stark and white against the sullen sky, flapping slightly in a salt encrusted breeze. Dull sunlight raised bright patches on the ship's worn wooden railing. Nicks and cuts caused by sword strokes and grappling hooks caught and pooled shadows like the blood that had so recently washed the vessel's deck. Tarilane sat on a barrel filled with fresh water and sadly noted the still present marks of war; a pale stain on the deck that salt water could not scour away, carefully mended rents in the otherwise perfect sails, and the swords that the sailors still wore. She touched the hilt of her own blade reflectively. The war was over, but the peace was tenuous at best. Shakin had not been directly involved in the Beinison/Baranurian conflict. Located to the southeast of Beinison, the huge country had simply never felt the need to conquer the intervening territories to gain control of the independent state. That Shakin also produced the best alchemists and physicians on the continent and could deny their services to anyone, made the decision to let them alone easier. Leaving them autonomous was easier than being denied medical aid sometime in the uncertain future. The Shakinian crown, held jointly by the Royal Consorts, having no interest in land acquisition, had remained neutral, as they had throughout the war torn centuries. This was not to say that they did not take part in the latest squabble between the two powers. Healers and alchemists were in high demand by both sides, and since past attempts to limit enemy access to Shakinian healing resulted in the complete withdrawal of all support, both sides were allowed to bargain for these services. If it had no other exportable resources, Shakin's highly skilled physicians and herb mixers more than made up for the lack. The country itself had remained physically apart from the war, being on the wrong side of Beinison to experience the devastation directly, until their neighbor, Kimerron, a tribal country Beinison did not consider worth their time to subdue, decided that it needed more land. Thinking their large neighbor was busy with other games, Kimerron attacked from behind, making deep incursions into Beinosian territory. After recovering from the shock of the unexpected bite, the tip of one of Beinison's many fingered army crushed the raiders. Tarilane had spent most of her life in Sahni, Shakin's capitol, learning the alchemist's trade. The skirmish right on her country's border provided her with plenty of opportunities to practice her lessons--both healing and sword. Because her master, Derimiahn, was one of the most skilled alchemists of his time, he was in great demand by the crown to assist the physicians in easing the pain of the refugees and in providing components to the royal mages. He was a gentle man, who refused to use even one of the many titles the Consorts had conferred upon him during his life, but at the command of his royal cousins, travelled to the front to represent them with his art. Tarilane, his second eldest apprentice, had the honor of accompanying him, while the eldest apprentice attended the shop and the youngsters. Together, master and student labored beside healers, trying to save the lives and limbs of the young victims and beside the mages to provide ingredients to fuel protective spells. Tarilane learned more in the months spent building potions for the healers and mages than she ever could have during the normal course of her studies. They had returned to Sahni a bare two weeks ago and five days after the homecoming, Tarilane found herself on her way to the nearest port, Derimiahn's last words echoing emptily in her ears. "You have learned all that I can teach you, Tari. I release you from the rest of your apprenticeship before you watch the walls of this shop grow too small around your spirit." He placed a hand on her head in almost fatherly benediction. "Know that you have pleased me and show great promise. You will do well." And he left her. Tarilane found herself standing alone in her cramped cubicle, watching the dividing curtain-wall rippling in her master's wake. She did not follow; could not have thought of anything to do or say if she had. She took her leave of the other apprentices at the night meal, which Derimiahn was conspicuously absent from, and spent hours talking with Shauvandier, the senior apprentice, plotting a destination. The youngesters helped out by packing her few belongings while Tarilane and Shaw pored over a worn map. The single, barely full bag waited by the front door with the tiny, hastily gathered pile of parting-gifts--Sonshallan, the next oldest apprentice gave her his first blown potion bottle, a lopsided affair that would barely stand upright. Castellei, next in line, gave her a writing pen, with soft apologies that he could not afford ink or a case yet, and Shaem, the youngest, gave her her favorite string of blue beads. Later she would find the green scarf Shaw had stashed in his herb storage chest for the last few months in the top of her pack; his final gift to her. Much later, after the children were tucked away in bed, Tarilane shared a glass of mead with Shauvandier before the dying fire. "Is there anything else you need?" he asked softly, watching the firelight play across Tarilane's features, catching in her pale brown hair. "Courage," she quipped back with a faint smile that faded immediately. "Seriously, Shaw, it's like leaving home for the first time. Except this _is_ the first time. I don't remember living any place but here. I'm really scared." "You'll do fine, little sister." Shauvandier pulled her into a gentle embrace. "Master's right to send you off...I've watched you prowl the house and watch the road like you wonder what's at the end. You'll do fine. You're good, practical, everything that it takes. Don't worry so much. And don't forget to keep a sense of humor," he added, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her a little. "You get too serious sometimes." Tarilane chuckled softly, unable to deny the accusation. She could be very intense when working, to the exclusion of the gentler emotions. "You always know the right things to say, Shaw. You're like the brother I never had." They sat in companionable silence after that, until Shauvandier shooed Tarilane off to bed. As she drifted into sleep, Tarilane remembered their ill-fated attempt to deepen their friendship into something more personal. They had just gotten themselves comfortable on the bed when Derimiahn pulled the dividing curtain aside. He said nothing for what seemed like the longest time, then pulled it shut again. They had parted as soon as his footsteps disappeared down the stairs, the ardor of the moment chilled. After that, they never felt quite right about the quick kisses and stolen caresses, even though the Master never said a word about the incident. The decision to keep the relationship platonic was made not long after, and neither one could say they regretted the decision. Tarilane recalled all of this with a faint flush, and chided herself for getting lost in memories. The present was what she had to worry about now, not the elusive past. Salt breeze cooled the burning in her cheeks, catching the scarf that had been Shauvandier's final gift to her and causing it to dance. The loneliness she had been able to hold at bay during the journey to the coast rolled over her with the slap of the water against the hull. "Lady?" The sea roughened voice shattered her mood like waves breaking on rocks. Tarilane was glad for the interruption; she had had enough of remembering. She slipped off the keg and turned to face the First Mate, noting the cutlass belted to his side. Pirates and warships still roamed the sea, not realizing that the war was over. Or perhaps not caring. "Yes? What did the captain say about the job?" "Cap'n says, if'n y' kin cook, y' kin have passin'," the Mate said. "With th' clear understand'n that y' pull y'r own weight. We won' coddle y'. This ain't no easy job. Fact `tis, we lost our last cook t' pirates." He folded his arms, waiting for her to politely decline. He either did not see or did not believe the sword attached to her waist. Tarilane laughed. "Sir, I spent six months near to the war border and I don't wear this--" she patted the hilt of the broad sword "--because it's pretty. Sometimes it was the only thing that stood between my Master and those who would have stolen what we would have given freely. I'll be fine. And I'm a darned good cook." "Hope so, f'r y'r sake," said the Mate doubtfully. "'Cause we'll put y' over th' side if'n y' can't cook. I'll show y' where y'r t' sleep." Tarilane grinned and followed him towards the galley. * * * * * Sy 5, 1015 "I really hate this," muttered Darion, just loud enough to be heard by the youth he rode beside. The clop of the horses hooves on the cobblestones effectively prevented the whisper from traveling much farther. He hunched a little in his dark tunic and studied the houses and businesses. "What?" replied his companion with a mocking grin. "Coming out in daylight or riding?" "Bodyguarding," Darion snapped, careful that his voice did not carry over the steady beat of the horse's hooves. "I don't like doing this. You do. I'm not a fighter." Ranth chucked, remembering their last bar fight, a few nights ago. They had gotten into a brawl with a pair of burly sailors out of Lediria over a dice game and Darion had taken quite a beating, serving more as a distraction than an actual participant. "Gotta step out of the shadows sometime, my friend," Ranth advised. "You can't spend the rest of your life creeping down alleys. Come to mention, you have been doing a lot of midnight prowling lately. What's been up?" Darion opened his mouth to respond, but the man they were following interrupted harshly. "Pipe down, you two," he ordered, without looking back. "Yes, my lord," Darion and Ranth said in chorus. The man did glance back at this, and glared, one hand on the heavy, peace-bound dagger at his hip. He hated when his proteges did this, and they knew it. The knife promised what would happen to them if they did it again. Darion and Ranth traded glances as he turned back to study the heavily trafficed avenue. Lord Silvas was in a poor mood today, and they did not know what had caused it. Deciding that being silent on the matter would greatly increase their life span, they made no further comments. Lord Silvas was not a man to be trifled with. A high ranking member of Comarr's booming Thieves Guild, he had taken the pair in when they were just runny nosed urchins on the streets. To Ranth, the larger of the two boys, he gave an education in combat and arms. For someone of his age, just over eighteen years, he was quite handy with any weapon that came into reach. He would make a fine guard or mercenary in the not so distant future. Darion was taught the art of spying. Tall, slender and agile he could sneak into and out of places with ease, and, unlike his partner, Darion was literate, so that he would know exactly what parchments to acquire on his regular trips into Ciara's merchant quarter. Since the day Silvas picked them up, Ranth and Darion were a team. They did everything together, from their first drink, to their first theft. Though not exactly a kind master, Silvas did teach them the necessary skills to survive on Comarr's seedier side, as well as other cities. Buildings grew up around the little group as they rode deeper into the Ciara's business district. The air filled with the sounds of hurrying people and street haukers; mingled scents of new bread and garbage drifted out from taverns and inns. Above it all, a faded blue sky reflected the smoke from the many chimnies, confusing the true white clouds. Lord Silvas pulled to a halt before a dry-goods shop and dismounted. His bodyguards followed suit. Darion's gaze scuttled restlessly along the avenue, marking the people who passed, the dusty goods in the store's display window, an odd mark burnt into the shop's door jamb, and the bar across the street. He nudged Ranth, who was keeping an eye out for obvious threats, and motioned quickly at the building across the street. Ranth wiped his answering smile off his face as Lord Silvas turned to them. "Keep an eye on the horses," he ordered. "I have some business to attend to. I will return shortly." "Yes, my lord," Ranth and Darion acknowledged, careful to not do it in chorus this time. Silvas disappeared into the shop in a swirl of cloak. "Hot out, isn't it," Ranth said, after a pause, eyeing the bar. When Silvas said `shortly' that usually meant long enough for a drink. "Sure is," agreed Darion, as he watched a gaily painted carriage rumble past. "Could stand for a drink to cut the dust." "Same here. So long as you're buying. It's your turn." "Since when?" Ranth glared at his friend. "I bought the rounds last night!" "Yeah, you did," confirmed Darion. "But I paid Olivia for you last night, because you'd drunk all your silver. You owe me at least a drink for that, if not more." "You did?" Ranth looked confused. "Sure did." "Did I have a good time?" "I assume so. I had to carry you home." "Oh." Ranth studied the stitching on his horse's tack. "In that case, I'll buy you a drink." "Or three," laughed Darion. "Let's go." Leaving the horses tethered in front of the shop, the pair trotted across the cobbled street and into the Silver Platter. The interior was well lit for a tavern, and much cleaner than the ones Darion and Ranth were used to frequentinging. The smell of alcohol was strong in the air, but the floor and tables were clean and the patrons fairly well dressed. Ranth looked a little out of place in his battered corslet, but, as usual, that did not bother him in the least. They walked up to the bar, noting that the place was doing steady business despite the earliness of the hour. Finding a space was easily done; Ranth squeezed his bulk between a half drunk merchant and a tipsy youth. He pounded his palm on the counter a little. "Two glasses of ale," he called over the high pitched babble of the common room when the woman behind the bar turned in his general direction. Two battered mugs appeared a second later and passed into Ranth's possessions after an exchange of coin. "You know," commented Darion as they sipped at the frothy glasses in a corner. "I'm broke. I spent my last copper on that spice cake this morning." "Then I guess it's time to earn another stipend," said Ranth, swallowing a great mouthful of ale. "Picked out a bird yet?" "The scarlet jay you stood next to at the bar," Darion replied, nodding in that direction. "He's paid in silver twice and doesn't show any sign of leaving." "All right. I'll distract him, you pluck him." Darion disappeared into the crowd, while Ranth shouldered his way through the bodies to the bar. In the process he tipped the remainder of his drink all over the front of the red clad man's fancy tunic. "`Ey! Wash it, y' clunsy oav!" The man rounded on his attacker, slopping rich purple wine out of his glass as he turned. "So sorry, my lord!" apologized Ranth, brushing futilely at the spreading brown stain, causing more wine to spill. He glanced quickly down and saw that the purse was gone and Darion was no where in sight. Ranth set out to extricate himself from the situation. "Terribly sorry. Let me buy you a drink to make up for the trouble." "I don' wan' a drinth," slurred the merchant, weaving around, trying to orient himself on the youth. "`Y damned bashterd!" And he cut loose with a wide roundhouse swing that missed Ranth entirely, but ploughed satisfyingly into the next nearest person. Ranth ducked away into the crowd as the merchant swung again and the cry of `fight' rocked the rafters. Darion sauntered back across the street, casually tucking the stitched leather pouch into his pocket. He leaned against the flank of his horse and watched the entry to the Silver Platter. The sound of a soft crash drifted across the bustling street and he winced a little. A soft rustle behind him caused him to turn quickly. "Ready to go, my lord?" he asked, seeing Silvas stepping out of the shop. Darion's sharp eyes noted the dagger at his side was no longer peace bound and he filed the scrap of information away to contemplate later. "Where's Ranth?" Silvas asked sharply, straightening the sleeves of his dark tunic, baleful gaze pinned on Darion. "He--had to go to the alley," lied Darion quickly. Not original, but better than telling the lord that they had left his horse unattended so they could both get drinks. A loud crash sounded from across the street and the youth forced himself not to turn to look. The stool flew out the splintered shutters of the Silver Platter and skidded to a halt in the middle of the street, nearly tripping a horse. "Then he can catch up," Silvas decided, mounting. "Let's go." Darion did look back to the bar at that statement and Silvas turned his glare onto him. "Are you worried that Ranth can't handle his business on his own?" he asked bitingly. "Or did he go somewhere else." "Uh, no, my lord." Darion mounted quickly and fell into position behind his master without another backwards glance. Ranth was perfectly able to take care of himself, Darion reminded himself. He was a natural with most weapons and could hold his own in either a formal fight or a brawl. Better than Darion could, in fact. Hard on the heels of this thought came the clatter of hooves and Ranth pounded up to his place beside his partner. "Have fun?" asked Darion in undertone. "Yeah. Took a right cross for you." "Everything come out all right?" asked Silvas caustically, without looking back at the pair. "Yes, my lord!" Ranth responded quickly. "What did you tell him?" he demanded quietly of his friend. "Nothing terrible," grinned Darion. "Stick close, though. He's in a mood again." "Figures." "I'll give you your cut when we get back," Darion added after a second. "Good." "Any other stops, my lord?" asked Darion when his master turned to glare at the pair of them. The innocent look on his face fooled no one. "No. Now shut up." * * * * * Tarilane clutched the straps of her bag and surveyed the streets and buildings past the bustling pier. Like the port city Karine of Shakin, Ciara was busy, filled with people ignoring one another, hurrying about their business. Salt air mingled with the smell of tar and fish, smell she had gotten used to during her time aboard ship. Dappled afternoon sunlight speckled the sky and a stiff breeze caused her cloak to flap sharply. Reflexively her fingers reached up to make sure the dark green scarf around her neck had not blown away. The scents from Shauvandier's herb chest still clung to the silky fabric and Tarilane felt the now familiar tug of loneliness and homesickness. She sighed and made her way off the pier. Letting herself sink into depression was hardly the way to achieve anything constructive. She set her mind to working out her upcoming problems. She needed to find a place to stay first, so that she could start to make serious plans. Tarilane wanted to open a shop of her own--an apothecary. She had grown up in Master Derimiahn's shop--could not remember living any place else, in fact. He claimed that he found her sitting on his doorstep one day, a precocious two year old, with no way of telling where she had come from. He had kept her because it was more trouble to try and take her into town, than to simply raise her. At least, so he said. Tarilane always suspected there was more to it than that, but had never been able to find anything else out, and eventually, it did not much matter any more. After sixteen years surrounded by the work, she realized that she did not want to live or labor anywhere else. Watching Derimiahn mix potions was one of the earliest childhood memories she had. As she grew older, Tarilane was allowed to join the Master and his apprentices, never less than five, usually seven or eight in all, on their forays to gather wood and herbs. At the age of nine, she was officially apprenticed and started learning to identify plants in all seasons, learned how to blow the little glass bottles that would eventually contain the concoctions they made; learned to prepare the condiments that mages would eventually use to produce miracles--the liquid and powder magic that was the trademark of the alchemist, that mages could not work wonders without. She spent tedious hours learning to read, write, and figure, keeping the shop's tally-books current and accurate. Long hours spent learning, before she was ever allowed to create anything. Since the day she had made her first simple potion, Tarilane realized that she wanted nothing more than to have an apothecary of her own, and her Master, seeing the drive and the talent, taught her everything he could. Now, freed from the onerous duties of an apprentice and ready to pass through journeyman to master, she did not know how to proceed. `Inheriting a shop would have been easier,' Tarilane sighed to herself. `But no use in wishing for what I haven't got, so I'd better make the best of what I have. Enough silver and coppers to put a roof over my head for a few days, at least, and the food the Captain gave to me should last about as long.' One clean set of clothes, the heavy cloak around her shoulders, the pack, and her parting gifts were the sum total of her possessions. Hardly enough to open a shop with, not that she would even consider selling them. `I'll start looking for a job tomorrow...' The scuffle of Tarilane's salt encrusted boots was lost in the general bustle of the street traffic. * * * * * Lord Silvas' residence was well suited to his high rank in the underground and to his front as a wealthy merchant. A six foot stone wall surrounded the house and the small, tree filled garden secluded him from the outside world. Traps were hidden in the green expanses, just in case a guild member got greedy. The house itself was only two stories tall and constructed of grey stones a little darker than the wall. Gates kept out any curious passers-by. Inside, the house was subdued rather than ostentatious. Nothing spoke of overt wealth, but everything had the stamp of quality. There were a few extravagances. Glass window panes replaced dull common shutters and heavy velvet drapes concealed the interior from all outside viewers. Rugs, in the few places Silvas was willing to have them, were plush and colorful. Ranth and Darion sat in the fanciest room in the house, the front room, usually used for receiving guests. Pictures and tapestries covered the walls and the furniture was deep and comfortable. Sprawled in velvet covered chairs they played cards with their latest pickings as stakes. Ranth flipped a well worn card at his partner and waited. Darion studied it, then compared it to the others in his hand. "Well?" Ranth said impatiently. "Well what?" "What's your bet?" "I'm thinking about it." Ranth waited, tapping his toes against the heavy rugs on the floor. "Young masters." The quiet voice caused both youths to jump. "Lord Silvas requests your presence in his study immediately." A slender woman stood in the doorway, in the black gown Silvas had all his house staff wear. Ranth and Darion were positive the woman worked for the Guild, but so far had not been able to prove it. Her manner was ever that of a well trained servant, and they always seemed to be too busy to follow her when she had her day off. She waited patiently by the door while the pair redivided the pot and made a show of reshuffling their hands back into the deck. Ranth pocketed the deck as they followed her into the hall. Lord Silvas was seated in a comfortable chair, taking advantage of the late afternoon sunlight to read a letter that had arrived while he was out. He looked up as Ranth and Darion entered the room and arranged themselves before him. "You've learned quite a bit in the last few years," he said, closing the letter with a low rustle. He studied the pair for a minute before continuing. "Now it is time for you to practice what you've learned on your own. I want both of you out of the house by sunset tonight." Darion and Ranth stared at him in shocked silence. "You're kicking us out?" asked Ranth. "Isn't this a little sudden?" said Darion at the same instant. Silvas looked amused, the faint smile smoothing the worry lines around his eyes for just an instant. "Yes, I'm kicking you out." He directed his first comment to Ranth. "And no, it isn't sudden. You're both capable of taking care of yourselves and I don't want to deal with you any more." "We'll do fine," said Ranth confidently. "I don't doubt it. And I'll be checking to make sure that you only take what's yours, so..." Silvas let the sentence trail off threatingly, dark eyes piercing the two youths. After a moment he found his place in his letter again and started reading. Ranth and Darion recognized a dismissal when they saw one and headed for the door, trading uneasy glances. "Don't forget to watch your backs out there." Lord Silvas' voice followed them out into the hallway. "The Guild will contact you when you have proven yourselves." When Darion glanced back, the man was still busy with his letter. The pair climbed the stairs to their room in silence, with the black clad servant trailing after them. Packing was a five minute affair; Lord Silvas had not encouraged having many possessions. Darion had leather armor that he had purchased just a month ago, a short sword, and some daggers, plus an extra set of clothing and his lockpicks. Ranth carried a full broad sword and a battered metal corslet that provided better than adequate protection. Both weapon and mail were highly polished, for if Ranth had any loves, it was that of weapons and combat. He too had a spare set of clothes, and each carried a pack, where they were able to stash several days worth of food when they thought the servant was not looking. They found themselves staring at each other as the front gate was shut firmly behind them. "We never did find out if she works for the Guild," commented Darion irrelevantly, watching the woman make her way back inside. He turned back to his partner. "So what do we do now? I feel like I've just been stabbed in the back." "We always knew this would happen," countered Ranth. "Just not this soon..." He sounded less confident than he looked. "Why did he say `The Guild will contact you when you've proven yourselves'?" Darion wondered aloud. "The Guild's always eager to make up the money they spent on training people as soon as possible." "He probably just forgot," Ranth said, looking up and down the street. Darion turned to look back at the house through the heavy gates. "He didn't forget. He _doesn't_ forget. You know that." "Ah, forget it," Ranth pulled his friend away from the gate. "We've got things to do. Tomorrow's the first day of the rest of our lives." "So what do we do today?" asked Darion. "We go get drunk. Then we find a place to stay." "Sounds good to me." * * * * * The Sailor's Rest Inn was not exactly on the wharf. It was well over five blocks away from the port, in fact, the scent of the sea and fish barely tainting the air. The worn sign had a sailor in classic pirate costume laying in a hammock painted on it and was nailed just above the front door. Inside, the common room was large, lit by ship's lanterns giving the place a ship-like atmosphere. Tarilane found the place after wandering around the city streets for several hours. It was the cleanest places she had run across all day, and with night falling, the young woman decided that it would do for the night. Bargaining with the innkeeper brought the price down to something reasonable and Tarilane had gotten dinner in the bargain. She sat beside one of the greasy windows overlooking the street, picking at the fish stew she had been served. At least the bread was almost fresh and the ale was not bad, and was cheaper than the mead she wanted to buy. Tarilane watched the people coming and going from the inn as she slowly finished her meal. Lower ranking ship's officers, rather than rough sailors made up a good part of the crowd, along with lesser merchants and people who could not afford a better place, but would not go to a cheaper one. People like herself. Ordinarily she had no interest in watching people, but in a strange city keeping track of the patrons gave her an odd sense of security. And it beat thinking about what she was going to do tomorrow. As she watched, an armed man entered the inn, followed by a heavily painted woman, and a second later by two youths about Tarilane's own age. All four stopped briefly at the bar to get drinks, then the woman wandered off into the crowd. The man stayed at the bar and the youths commandeered a table as close to a corner as they could get. Tarilane's attention wandered to the next arriving people and to the last few bites of fish stew still left in her bowl. Out of the corner of his eye Darion kept a close watch on the shifting humanity that surged past the edge of their table. The location was not far enough out of the press of bodies as he would have liked, but it afforded a reasonable view of the room, and Ranth could always watch his back. His eyes skipped over the people, and settled on a young woman seated near the front window of the inn. She was reasonably good looking, so when she stood and made her way past the table, he smiled up at her, hoping to gain company for the night. She did not seem to notice. Ranth laughed at him when he swore. "That's twice," he grinned, taking a large swallow of beer. "You're going to bed lonely tonight." "Not a chance," retorted Darion. He took a long pull from his mug and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. This was the pairs second tavern for the evening, and both were more than a little tipsy. Darion poured himself another mugful of beer and set the jug down in the middle of the table. "Hey, leave me some!" Ranth snatched the pitcher back. He refilled his own mug, managing not to spill to much of the dark brown liquid. "We'll need to get a job tomorrow," Darion advised as they slowly went about emptying their glasses again. "Want to check with the Guild?" "Nah. Let's try something different for a change," said Ranth. "Like what?" "Caravan guarding?" "You trying to get me killed?" Ranth chuckled, then hiccuped. "Let's talk about it in the morning, when you're sober enough to listen to reason. We should find a place to stay for the night. And before you ask, no, we can't afford to stay here." "Think one of your so called friends'll put us up for the night?" Darion's eyes gleamed in the flickering lantern light and his red cheeks took on a burnished orange glow. "We can always ask. Let's go." Ranth lumbered to his feet, followed by Darion. While not quite drunk, both were sufficiently inebriated that they did not walk quite straight. As they passed one of the barmaids, Darion tripped over a crack in the floor boards and stumbled into her. "Hey, beautiful," Darion smiled at her, helping her to steady herself. "Want to get off your feet for an hour or two?" Ranth had to help Darion steady himself after the maid's slap knocked him sideways. "What'd I say?" "I'd say you're going home lonely," snickered Ranth. "Thanks a lot," muttered Darion. "I don't feel so bad though. You don't have anyone either." "I've got you and I haven't even been trying." They stepped out into the warm summer night. The air was still and almost as hot as the interior of the inn itself. The street was quiet and empty, with street lanterns shedding pale light over the cobblestones. Out of habit each checked a direction for potentially dangerous oncoming traffic. "Let's stop at the alley," said Darion abruptly. "You should have gone before we left." Ranth veered to the left and into the dark alley-way. "Bet I can hit higher on the wall than you can." "No way!" retorted Darion, following him in. "Not a chance. And no hands this time," he added, unfastening his breeches. "You've got to be joking!" "Don't think you can do it? Silver says you can't. There. Just try and beat that!" "No problem. Hah! You owe me a silver." "No way! That is not--" Darion cut himself off abruptly and held up a hand so that Ranth would not jump in. "What?" hissed his friend. "Listen!" "To what?" "Shhh!" Darion cocked a hand to his ear, exaggerating the order for his friend to keep his ears open. Ranth cocked his head to one side and concentrated. He heard the soft chatter of children's voices just seconds before the pack burst out of the shadows to mob them. Shouts bounced off the walls as the group divided and attacked each of the young men with sticks, rocks, daggers, and their little bare hands. Surrounded on all sides by raggedly dressed urchins, neither was able to get an arm free enough to successfully defend himself. Someone yelled in triumph as Darion stumbled. Tarilane opened her eyes to the dark beamed ceiling, the voices from her uneasy dreams solidifying into reality and drifting through her window. Annoyed, she pulled open the shutters to give the little brats a piece of her mind, just in time to see one of the youths from the tavern bowled over by a pile of children. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 ** ****** **** ** ** ** **** ** ** ** **** **** ** ** ** ***** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ***** ** ** *** **** ** Quanta is the electronically distributed journal of Science Fiction and Fantasy. As such, each issue contains fiction by amateur authors as well as articles, reviews etc... Quanta is published in two formats, Ascii and PostScript* (for PostScript compatible laser-printers). Submissions should be sent to quanta@andrew.cmu.edu. Requests to be added to the distribution list should be sent to one of the following depending on which version of the magazine you'd like to receive. quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.cmu.edu quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.cmu.edu or quanta+requests-postscript@andrew.BITNET quanta+requests-ascii@andrew.BITNET Send mail only- no interactive messages or files please. Note that if you subscribe with a letter sent over BITNET, you will have the magazine sent to you as a file over BITNET, whereas if you subscribe with a letter sent over the Internet, the magazine will be sent to you by mail. Note that all issues are available from the anonymous FTP server fed.expres.cs.cmu.edu (128.2.209.58). If you can access this server and would therefore only want to be notified when a new issues has been released, please specify this in your request. Quanta now reaches an international audience of over 1000 subscribers. It is produced bi-monthly by Daniel Appelquist (da1n+@andrew.cmu.edu). * PostScript is a registered trademark of Adobe Systems Incorporated. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright October, 1992, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 6 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 6, Issue 1 05/27/93 Cir 1220 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Archives at FTP.EFF.ORG (192.88.144.4) in pub/journals/DargonZine -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Place Unto Wrath Max Khaytsus Yule 12-18, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Place Unto Wrath by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. "We've been through this before," Rien said with a sigh. "He's only a Baron. There's nothing to be worried about." "Yes, but you deal with nobility every day." "No I don't," Rien protested. "Maybe once every few days..." "That doesn't help me any," Kera answered. "Just act normal. You did fine with Count Connall." "I saw him three times during our entire stay and he got stranger every time." "Really?" Rien asked. "What makes you say that?" "Isn't it obvious? He's into swords and archers and duels and contests. He even challenged you to a match! I bet you he won't live to see thirty!" "It's only a hobby. He didn't appear suicidal to me. Besides, he's dead already," Rien said, referring to the news he had heard of the young Count's head being delivered to the Crown Castle by the Beinison ambassador. "See, what did I tell you?" Kera laughed. The news of the count's death during his diplomatic mission to Beinison reached them a few weeks back while they were still in Sharks' Cove and even in that city, contaminated by crime and corruption to its core, the mood of the people turned dark at this signal of the coming war. Rien laughed as well, although there was nothing funny about Count Connall's death. It was a way to relieve tension, as the war had already began. "I don't consider the Beinisons cutting his head off to be a hobby. Those are the fortunes of war." Kera fell silent for some time and the horses continued down the road. After they left Sharks' Cove in Firil, Rien decided to go to the Duchy of Arvalia to see some old friends, while waiting for the war between Baranur and Beinison to take a definite turn. They were out on the road now for almost two months and according to Rien, less than a days ride from Valdasly Keep, their destination. It appeared that Rien had known Baron ReVell Dower, the man whose lands they now travelled, for a long time, but as always, he neglected to give all the details. "Who do you think will win the war?" Kera asked. Rien remained silent for a while. "Will it make a difference?" "Well, sure. You can be out of a job." "You assume that Haralan Tallirhan pays for what I do..." "Well, even if he doesn't, if the Beinisons win, we will all be subject to their control." "Being subject to someone's control is a relative thing," Rien said. "You're subject to Baranurian control now. A king is a king, a bureaucrat a bureaucrat. What's the difference?" "But in Beinison there's no freedom. They practice slavery..." "Not the Evil Empire story again," Rien sighed. "Don't you think they view Baranur the same way?" "How?" "Well, how'd you like to visit Sharks' Cove not knowing anyone there? This is a perfect example of a population out of control and the government not doing anything to fix it. Many say that your odds of getting killed in Sharks' Cove are better than anywhere else on this side of Cherisk. And if a murder takes place out in the streets, the town guard will simply dump the body into the bay unless someone steps forward to claim it and pays them to investigate. Is that how a town guard is to function? What about Nistak in the south of..." "You support them?" Kera asked, shocked. "Beinison? Not at all. I don't support either side. I simply made the point that each side has an opinion which is equally valid. Morality always stood on shaky ground. Who is to say I am more moral than those I fight?" "You still haven't answered my question." "Who I think will win the war?" Rien fell silent once again. "I don't know. Wars are unpredictable. Sometimes one man can change the tide of a battle and like I told you, it makes little difference should Baranur lose. Untar won't be able to enslave two million people. He may make an example of a town here or there, but for the most part life will go on as it always has." "Is there someone you want to win?" "I would prefer Baranur to keep its lands. No change is the easiest change to deal with. Do you have an opinion?" "I want Baranur to win. It's my home." "An understandable choice," Rien nodded. "I'd rather there was no war," Kera sighed. That was something Rien could agree with as well. War, no matter for what reason, brought more pain and harm in the long run. If he could, he would try to stop it, but he had not the power to do so. The war was on. Many cities in the east had fallen and before a victor could be declared, many more would fall, perhaps on both sides. All he could do now was go home and make sure that his own tribe would be ready, should the events come to the worst. "It's too late for hoping," he sighed. "Just wish for a favorable outcome now." They rode in silence for a while longer, stopping at the crest of the hill over which the road passed. Ahead of them spread a green valley with a small village at the foot of the hills and a stronghold a few leagues across the valley, on the side of the mountain. "The keep was built almost two centuries ago," Rien said. "Back then this was the frontier with barbarian tribes coming down from the west and the north. All sorts of things that became legends over the years." "You mean like you?" Rien smirked and looked back into the valley. "Even me." He examined the dense forest to the south. It covered the valley uniformly, a vast dark green venerable mass, reaching as far as the eye could see. "That's Charnelwood. The name means `Darkling Forest'." Kera reached out to touch Rien. "I'd rather live in a house." He put his arm around her, in spite of the awkwardness of doing this on horseback. "It's my home -- I was born here." "Why is it called that?" Kera asked. "The forest?" He looked at her. "Charnelwood?" "Darkling Forest?" Rien took a deep breath. "Legend says that demons roam these lands. Sometimes people will go into the forest and never come back. Some come back years later, as if only a few days in their lives had passed. Locals say that they can hear the demons at night and some even claim to see them." "You're kidding, right?" Kera said. "I'm not. No one ever walks on the south side of the road. Just look at it. See the way the grass is barely worn there? A generation ago this road was a good ten yards closer to the edge of the forest. To the locals, the legends of demons are very real." Kera shivered and locked her arms around Rien even tighter. They remained quiet for a time, watching over the valley, then Rien raised his arm and pointed off into the distance. "Do you see that mountain with the flat top?" "The big one?" "The same. That's Mount Voldronnai, the only volcano this side of Magnus. It has been dormant for over a century now." "Looks just like any other mountain. Why don't we come back when it's doing something?" Rien smiled and kicked Kelsey into motion. "Could be a long wait. Volcanos have been known to sleep for centuries." "Then we definitely shouldn't wait," Kera guided Hasina after him. "I've got things to do... Rien, I still don't know what to say to the Baron..." "Just act normal." "What's normal?" "Cut it out or I'll leave you in the village." Kera sighed. "I'll just keep quiet and out of sight." Two hours later, in late afternoon, they rode into Valdasly Keep on the side of the mountain. Rien and Kera dismounted as a guard approached them. "Please inform his Lordship Baron Dower that Sir Keegan requests an audience," Rien told the guard before he had the chance to speak. The guard froze in place for a moment, considering his options -- Rien was not dressed as knight normally would -- then quickly returned to the keep. "Must be new here," Rien shrugged to Kera. "He forgot to bow." "Huh?" "He didn't recognize the name," Rien explained. "The name Dower was changed by marriage. The original name was Keegan." "So now you want them to bow to you?" "It'd be nice," Rien smirked. "After all that stuff you said about ego..." "Got to have fun at someone's expense." "Like mine?" "You have little amusement value." "Then I guess I'll be sleeping in a different room tonight." "I'll have them not give you blankets." "And you think that will bring me to you?" "I certainly hope so." "My price is higher than that of a blanket." "That's good. You do more than just lie around." Kera embraced him with a laugh. "What are you going to pay me?" "I am not paying you. The League will pay you as soon as the war is over." "Does it matter which side wins?" Kera's expression suddenly became serious. "I don't think so. It depends on who gets killed, but in the long run I suppose it will..." Kera sighed. "I don't know why I keep starting to talk about the war. It scares me like there's no tomorrow." Rien nodded. "Not thinking about it won't make it go away, either." "Neither will thinking about it," she said. "Rien!" a voice called to them and they turned to see a tall man in his early forties approaching with the guard. "ReVell," Rien smiled and gripped forearms with the man. "It's been a while." "It has indeed," the man answered, then glanced over at the guard, standing behind him, watching the exchange. "It's all right, Crane. Sir Keegan is an old friend." The guard bowed politely and returned to his post by the wall of the keep. "ReVell, this is Kera, my apprentice," Rien introduced his companion. "Kera, meet Baron ReVell Dower." They exchanged greetings and then all three went inside the keep, leaving a servant to deal with the horses. "What's this with a knight having an apprentice? What ever happened to squires?" ReVell asked in the great hall of the keep. "This world has too many squires and knights," Rien said with a sigh. "Enough to justify having a war to reduce the number..." "Now, Rien..." "Well, it's true, isn't it? Untar thinks he has enough. Haralan thinks he has enough. They fight." ReVell shook his head. "You know that's not how it works." "We never agreed in our philosophy on politics," Rien said. "No, we did not," ReVell agreed, "but that still doesn't explain why you have an apprentice instead of a squire." His voice was strict, as if questioning a child. Rien looked back at Kera who was walking quietly behind them. "She is not a combatant. She will do better with a normal life." "With you?" Rien threw a sideways glance at ReVell and the Baron laughed. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "I made an assumption." "No, no," Rien sighed. "You're quite right..." They all ascended the staircase in silence and ReVell told one of the servants to show Rien and Kera to their rooms, adding to Rien that spring and summer had become tourist season with every other soldier in Arvalia coming to Valdasly for training. "The castle is almost full, the barracks are almost full. I had to order an extra building built so the soldiers won't sleep in the barn, not that the cavalry minds..." When the servant was ready to show Rien and Kera to their rooms, the Baron left. "I will be at the Arena," he told Rien. "Come down when you're settled. We have much to talk about." Rien and Kera followed the servant down the corridor to their rooms, set next door to each other. Both faced south, towards the great green forest that stretched across the valley. Rien paused at the window, looking out at Charnelwood. Kera stood behind him, but did not want to disturb him. "So is the Baron that bad?" Rien suddenly turned. Kera shook her head. "He didn't do more than greet me." "I'll take that as a `no'." "Why were you two arguing over whether I should be a squire or an apprentice?" "The Baron is a soldier first and foremost. He feels the best defense is a strong offense. You will hear a lot about the war from him." "It doesn't sound like you two are very good friends," Kera said. "We learned to respect each other's quirks," Rien answered, putting his saddlebag on a chair. "I don't remind him of the harm that war does and he doesn't comment on how I treat knighthood. Are you hungry?" Kera shook her head. "I'll make it to dinner." "Then let me show you around," Rien said. They walked around the castle for a while, Rien describing the significance of paintings, busts, weapons and armor setup in various rooms and corridors, then they went outside. "You sound as if you live there," Kera noted to Rein. "I did, for a while," he answered. "Obviously I still visit. Let me show you the Arena as well." "The Arena?" Kera asked, hearing the term for the second time. "A lot of people are trained here for the Duke's troops. The Baron's military influence extends over the entire Duchy. He himself became a knight at a relatively young age. Perhaps that's the reason he's so deeply involved with warfare." "So you didn't find Count Connall very strange?" "Not so much strange as frightening. I am concerned that someone so young would worship warfare." As they turned the corner on the west side of the building, a large field revealed itself. It was partitioned with small fences and men, alone and in groups, practiced in different areas. "How did you come to know the Baron if you two are so different?" Kera asked. "His father introduced us." "So he knows you're not..." "He does," Rien answered calmly. "But his son does not." A group of a dozen men in armor ran by, heading for the field and Rien pointed to a platform stretching parallel to the keep at the edge of the Arena. "Up there. You'll see better from above." Kera climbed up the narrow ladder leading onto the platform with Rien directly behind her. They walked quietly down the platform, watching the action in the Arena. Below them two heavily armored men entered one of the fenced off areas and drew their swords. Kera watched their match in awe until one knocked the other off balance and the fight ended. "Rien?" "Hmmm?" he continued looking at the men below. "What if I want to become a knight?" He turned his head. "Why?" "I've been thinking about what the Baron said." "I meant, what do you expect to gain by it?" "A silly title, I guess." "Silly is right," Rien turned back as the two men prepared for a second match. "I'm serious, Rien. I want to learn." "To fight? You don't need a title for that." "Why are you against it?" "I don't think this is something you need." Kera's eyes blazed with anger. "I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions!" Her exclamation was loudly punctuated by the restarting of the fight below. "The decision is as much for me as it is for yourself," Rien said. "I will not have a squire for the wrong reason." "Then how do you want me to convince you?" Rien had to think about the answer he would give. He was very much against Kera's wish to be a knight, but at the same time, did not want to be unreasonable. She deserved a chance to explain herself and some time to deal with and think about what she needed and what she thought she wanted. "By sunset tomorrow I want you to give me a good reason for me to take you as a squire." Kera thought for a moment. "I can give you one right now." "If it's not good, I won't give you a second chance." "It's good," Kera said, her voice growing more confident as she spoke. "I want to become a knight because I want to be somebody. Because most great women became great because of the men they stood by! Because I don't know who my parents are and had to grow up in the streets! I am a commoner with no way to progress in this damn chauvinistic society, other than by an ability to fight!" "Quite true," Rien nodded. "I am not finished!" Kera yelled at him, but did not go on. "Well, continue," Rien prompted her. "I apologize." "I was going to call you a few choice names," Kera sighed. "I guess I'm not ready..." "You do realize there are not a lot of women who choose this path. That attaches a certain stigma to those who do." "I know," Kera nodded. "I'm willing to face that." Footsteps sounded on the platform and Rien glanced over his shoulder. "We'll discuss this later," he told Kera, straightening up. "Sir Keegan!" the visitor's voice boomed. "I've heard of your sudden arrival! What brings you here?" "Sir Brand!" Rien greeted the man. Kera watched them for a minute, then went further down the platform, watching the field and wondering about her choice. She could tell by Rien's eyes that he had an answer before she was halfway through her reasons. She turned to look back at the two men, wondering what that decision was. The choice that she made was rash and impulsive, but she also believed in everything she said and that at this point it was one of the few paths open to her. Rien remained busy the rest of the afternoon and Kera spent her time watching the men practice in the field. They met again shortly before dinner, but before they could talk, Baron Dower walked over to them. He eyed Rien critically, examining his plain clothes -- a well worn tunic, pants and dusty boots. "What is this?" Rien turned, watching the Baron as the man walked around him. "You look like a peasant! This will never do, Rien. You're my knight, back home for the first time in two years and look at yourself! You look like a commoner. A landed knight!" He scolded Rien as one would a little boy caught making trouble. "I want you to change into armor, chain in the very least, sword, cape, crest, everything! And don't bother showing up for dinner before that." "Yes, Sir," Rien muttered as the Baron left, looking after him, clearly unhappy, but not hostile. "Is that how I have to talk to you to get anywhere with you?" Kera's voice reminded Rien of her presence. "You learn to make sacrifices for family," Rien sighed. "Come on. You may as well look civil, too." At dinner, after they changed, Kera managed to spend only a few minutes with Rien before a group of men dragged him off to the far end of the table. She talked some with the people who sat by her, all the while looking to the far end of the table, where Rien sat with Baron Dower and other decorated men. She was both angry that they were separated, but glad she had the opportunity to be alone and think. A lot of the discussion was about the war and the battle plans of Baranur and the cities that had fallen in the east. Kera hurriedly finished her meal and went up to her room. Before long there was a knock at the door and Rien entered. She looked at him, trying not to betray what she was feeling. Somehow she could not get over the bitterness of their last talk. She wanted to achieve something during her life and he was blocking her ability to do so. "I'm sorry about dinner," Rien said, sitting down. "I couldn't say `no'." Kera shrugged. "I understand." She tried to, any way. Rien nodded. "About what we discussed earlier today..." Kera looked up and challenged his gaze. She wanted him to make the decision for her. She knew he was right when he said that women do not often become knights and that it would not be an easy path, but she did want to take it, in spite of the fear and difficulties it held for her. Rien stood back up to pace, as he often did at times like these. "Do you realize what you asked for?" "I think so." "Do you understand the restrictions? The limitations? The duties?" "I know it won't be easy." "In training to become a knight you'll have to learn more than combat. Arts and philosophy are equally important. You will have to understand specific virtues and carry rigid codes of honor and morality." "Do you do all of that?" Rien paused. "I'd like to think of myself as an honorable, moral person. By the standards under which I grew up, anyway." "What about the way you killed Sir Quinn?" "There's no honor among thieves," Rien said without hesitation. "This too is a part of the morality. `Thou shalt be everywhere and always the champion of the Right and Good against Injustice and Evil'," he quoted the Baranurian code of knights. "Sometimes you have to let evil be your good, so your tasks are achieved, and not worry about how you reached your goal until later, when you are judged for your actions. Is this something you can live with? Not being able to turn down a plea for help? Not having the privilege to overlook a wrong?" "If I don't try, I'll never know." Rien turned to look out the window at the darkness outside. He felt he was being defensive explaining why he did what he did. He was not the one on trial here. Kera was. It was a decision about her that needed to be made. He knew what he wanted. He feared what he thought was right. He was no knight, although he held the title. He would have acted differently if he believed in the code. He would have done what Arvel had done upon encountering Quinn, but he chose to handle the situation differently -- not by honor, but by cunning. He quickly turned, grabbing hold of Kera's arm and pulled her to himself, embracing and kissing her, much to her surprise. She resisted at first, then put her arms around him, feeling his arms under her tunic. Was this a sign of acceptance? In her arousal she tried removing Rien's tunic, but he pushed her away. "You can't do this if you're a squire." Kera took a few steps back in frustration. Her shocked expression changed to barely visible tears. "Why are you trying to scare me off?" "Because I want you to understand what it is you asked for. It's not a romantic dream or a game. You can never go back. As a squire you'll receive less respect from knights than from a commoner. As a woman you may receive none." "But if I make it!" "You'll still be a woman knight, never quite as good as a man, never the image of the legend!" "The Baron doesn't seem to have the problem!" "The Baron knows that the value of a soldier is above the value of the soldier's gender! He doesn't care who holds the sword so long as they can fight. And fight on his side!" "Then why can't you have the same respect for me?" "Because I don't want you to make a mistake. I didn't become a knight because I wanted to. I became one because it was a necessity. You don't have to live the same life." "But I want to!" Rien sighed. He had no doubt that she did, but he feared what that meant both to her and to him. They were already from different worlds. This would only serve to make them more different. "I'll ask ReVell to find you a sponsor tomorrow." "What about you?" "I'm personally involved." "But you just said it would have to stop." "I don't think I could remain objective." "I think you can," Kera protested. She wanted to be a knight, but she did not want to lose Rien in the process. He saved her from Liriss, something she wanted to happen for years. He took her in and protected her and helped her and taught her new things. She wanted to continue to learn and she wanted him to teach her. Rien studied Kera. "I'm glad you believe in me, but..." "No, wait. What are you afraid of? Getting the urge to sleep with me? What about when I become a knight? Would you sleep with a woman knight?" The question had been forced. "Is our sleeping together normal?" "Why isn't it? Men and women who're attracted to one another do it all the time!" Rien lowered his head. "Kera, I'll outlive you by centuries. In twenty or thirty years, when your hair is grey, I will look every bit as I do now." Tears appeared in her eyes. "Don't you think I know that?" "We're from different worlds. What kind of a life can we have together? How could this have gone as far as it did?" Kera sat down. "That night in the forest, after we left Dargon, I wasn't really interested in you...I just wanted the sex." "And after you got it?" "I don't know. I was tired of all the damn pity and sympathy I was getting from you. I guess all I needed was a little spark to fall in love with you." Rien did not move, still standing by the window where he had stopped. "I can't permit myself to admit that I care. I'll only end up hurting you in a relationship such as this." Kera turned away from Rien, but she did not try to hide her pain from him. She could hear the pain in his voice and agreed with every word he said, but could not bring herself to face the reality of the situation. Were she giving advice to someone else, she would urge them to forget it and live their own life, but coming to the same decision for herself was almost impossible. She turned back to Rien, not wanting this to be the last day of their involvement. "Can you just turn around and walk away as if this never happened?" "No," Rien shook his head. He did not need the time to think. He knew the problem well. "I know better, but I can't." At least he was being honest. "Then what do you want to do?" "I'd be lying if I said I knew." "Then why don't you take me as your squire and we'll see what to do next..." "I don't like temporary solutions," Rien said. "I'm willing to listen to more lasting ones." "I don't have any. None that I want to use." "Then why not do it this way and see how it goes?" "Because it'll only get harder." "I know," she answered. "I don't expect it to be simple." She got up and approached him. "It's going to hurt us both sooner or later, but I don't want it to be today." Rien studied Kera for a moment longer. "I'll talk with ReVell. We can have the ceremony tomorrow." Kera put her arms around him. "Thank you." Rien returned the embrace. "Don't thank me yet. You may come to hate me for this." She turned him and pushed him down on the bed, kissing him again. He did not resist. "One last time," Kera pulled at his tunic. * * * "I just don't understand you," ReVell Dower complained to Rien. "I'm afraid I don't understand myself either," Rien answered. "I find these days that I surprise myself more often than those around me." The two men stepped into the court yard of castle, from the archway leading to the great hall, among the dispersing crowd of people. Rien stopped abruptly and looked back at Kera, standing at the far end of the room. She smiled and he let a ghost of a smile come across his face. It was official now. She was his squire. He quickly turned and hurried after the Baron. "It wasn't because of what I said yesterday, was it?" ReVell asked, glancing sideways. "Not really," Rien answered, "but I think it hurried the process along." "I'm glad you agreed with me," ReVell said. "It's unseemly to have a knight followed around by an apprentice. People talk." "I know," Rien sighed. "They did. This was the only viable option." "Are you glad you did it?" "I don't know. Only time will tell." "Rien, there's one more thing..." The Baron paused, uncomfortable. "This is rather hard for me to say and I realize I have no business bringing it up, but according to my servants you and Kera slept in your room last night." Rien looked away. "Look, I can only deal with one problem at a time. Don't you think I know what the problems are?" "I think you should think about your position and how you're using it. Now, if one knight took another's squire to bed, I would look the other way, but your own squire? Do you realize the magnitude of a scandal you can cause?" "I know. I'm working on it. It's not just me." ReVell shook his head. "I ordered my people not to discuss it. Please don't give them a reason to." "I won't," Rien promised. "`Thou shalt never lie and shalt remain faithful to thy pledged word.'" "I won't do anything to embarrass you or myself here." "All right." The two men continued walking along the castle wall. "Rien, I must talk to you about the war. The Duke has charged me with building and leading the forces he is to contribute to King Haralan's army in Leftwich and Bivar. I know your skills. I want to assign you a detachment." "Please don't ask me, I won't accept," Rien said. "`Thou shalt make war against thine enemies without cessation'," the Baron reminded him. "The Beinison aren't my enemies. Those who attack my people are." "`Thou shalt love and uphold the country in which thou wast born.'" "My country is the forest south of here," Rien said. "You know the country those words words represent is Baranur. They always have, to all who have sworn the oath. `Thou shalt not recoil before thine enemy.'" "Stop quoting the pledge to me," Rien said, realizing he did the same thing to Kera the night before. "The entire staff has been told to stand down. We were all told to leave and stay out of it. I hear some people even went to Duurom to pass the time." "Everyone?" ReVell asked, just to be sure. "Some couriers are still on, but it won't last much longer. We can't be expected to keep order in time of war." "So you're here just to visit home?" ReVell said, with some disappointment in his voice. "Just like I told you yesterday. I'm here to restore old ties and make sure my home will be safe." ReVell glanced around and together with Rien moved further from the castle. "Flint Venture is due in any day now. I wanted to ask him to talk with the tribes, find out what we can count on. I pray to any deity that will listen that the war never come this far, but if it does, I want to know that everyone is ready for it. Perhaps it would be better if you talked to them." "That's what I'm here for," Rien said in a low voice. "I'll have to arrange everything tonight. I want to be ready by the time Flint arrives." Flint Venture was somewhat of a local legend, a commoner hero who one day picked up a sword to right all wrongs that bandits and looters caused in the mountains. With time he attracted a band of men much like himself and restored order to the wilderness roads where town guards and constables did not travel and the Ducal Guard did not often pass. In time he met and became an unofficial liaison between the forest elves and those few outsiders who knew of the tribe's existence. He and his people now guarded the region for a good decade and in that time came to be friends with the secrets that Charnelwood hid. "Rien?" ReVell yanked his companion's arm. "Pay attention." "Sorry. I was thinking what can be done if the war comes to Arvalia. I understand Pyridain and Westbrook have already fallen." "That's why it's so critical that I gather the men for Duke Glavenford," ReVell stressed. "He wants the troops backing the heavy infantry in Leftwich in two months!" "Glavenford? Jastrik's cousin? The short one?" "The same. Duke Jastrik was killed a few months ago. Haven't you heard?" "No. Who was it? Did they catch the killer?" "I don't know," ReVell admitted. "Last I heard, it was being `handled'." Rien nodded at the news, not really giving it much thought. "Let's hope it doesn't come to having to defend Arvalia, but if it does, we'll be ready. I'll leave now and let you know what the decision is." "Very well. I will see you at dinner, then." "I doubt I'll make it back," Rien said. "I may have to spend the night in the forest." * * * As the lunch time ceremony ended, Kera waited patiently for Sir Bonhan to come for her. She watched Rien and Baron Dower go off to talk in the court yard, deeply occupied in their discussion. Rien turned at the doorway and looked in her direction. Kera smiled and noticed a trace of a smile on his face, but he then turned and walked out of the great hall after the Baron. She looked about the chamber, studying the faces of the people around her. Someone greeted her. Another person congratulated her on her new status. Finally a stout muscular man to who she was introduced early in the morning walked up to her. "Follow me, Kera." She did. This was Sir Bonhan, the man in charge of the Arena outside. Rien introduced them at breakfast and told Kera that she will spend the week under his supervision in the fields. Sir Bonhan was in charge of all the squires and men-at-arms and even the knights who used the Arena. "I want to see how well you can use a sword before I assign you to a group," Sir Bonhan said as they left the building. He led Kera into the Arena and selecting a fenced off area, drew his sword. "Are you ready?" Kera drew the sword she had worn to the ceremony, as Rien had instructed she do. It was the sword that had belonged to Garwood Quinn, which she took upon their escape from Phedra. A fine blade of good quality metal, probably a family heirloom. "Are you ready?" Sir Bonhan repeated. Kera nodded and Sir Bonhan instantly swung his weapon. There was barely any time to parry the attack. The force of the vibration descended into her arms, almost making her lose her grip on the hilt. She took a step back and blocked the next swing with a little more confidence. It was not as simple an attack, but the blow was weaker. This continued for a few more moments until the knight finally growled, "Swing back, you coward!" She did and soon the match became a more even give and take. After a few minutes Kera was instructed to stop. She did and replaced the sword in its scabbard. Sir Bonhan did the same. "Not bad," the knight commented, "but it's not good either. You'll need to do more than be able to beat a peasant if you want to be a knight. You stand like a girl and you swing like a girl. And there's no muscle in your strike." Kera was about to comment, but bit her tongue, thinking it would be better not to anger the knight. Sir Bonhan might have been shorter than she, but he was as wide as he was tall, all muscle by the looks of his arms and he was obviously an expert with the sword. "Yes, Sir," she sighed. "Come along. I'll show you who you'll practice with." As they passed the elevated platform along the edge of the field, Kera noticed Rien standing up above, watching. Sir Bonhan stopped and she stopped behind him. Rien, seeing this, stepped over the railing and jumped down, landing solidly on his feet. Sir Bonhan headed for Rien and Kera stood, waiting in uncertainty. What would a good squire do in a situation such as this? Wait or follow? She chose to wait. "How did she do?" Rien asked in a quiet voice when the knight approached him. He did not want Kera to hear. "Rather well, I must say. She has some of your style. Have you been teaching her?" Rien nodded, maintaining his expression. "We've been practicing off and on." "I'll put her with the intermediate group," Sir Bonhan said, straightening his belt. "But she still has a way to go." "Thank you," Rien answered. "I didn't want to think I did a bad job, but I'd still prefer someone like you to train her." "It will be a pleasure, Sir Keegan." Rien turned to Kera who was watching them with curiosity. "I have to leave on business for a while. I should be back tomorrow evening. Stay with your training." "Yes, Sir," Kera answered. She wanted to do more -- ask what the business was, where. Perhaps even offer to go with him, but she had to fit the mold of a perfect squire, to live up to what she said she wanted to be. She was there to listen, not question. Kera spent the day in the field with a group of students, being trained to endure the requirements of combat. At first she feared that she would be clumsier than her seemingly skilled peers, but in time realized that she was not among the worst in the group. Yet, in spite of this, she faced some humiliation, being the only woman in the group and as far as she could tell, in the whole field, but even then she did her best to stand up to bullies which tried to poke fun at her. The training session lasted until dinner, by which time Kera was too tired to worry about the sword in her hands. She ate dinner, ignoring the usual roar around the table and retreated to her room as quickly as possible. Tired and aching from the workout, she immediately went to bed, wondering about the business Rien had to take care off and what she had gotten herself into. She was not sure how long she could last at these practices or how long the practices themselves would last. * * * Kera opened her eyes to bright sunlight falling on her from the open shutters. Her arms and legs were sore and her back hurt and she suspected she knew what had caused all this pain. Getting up with a groan, she washed, got dressed and went downstairs to eat. It was about an hour past sunrise, but practice was not to start until after lunch. She sat down at the long dining table in the great hall, across from the kitchen, with her meal and after rubbing her stiff shoulder, started on the food. Unlike lunch and dinner, breakfast was an informal meal, not held to a rigid time schedule and people drifted in and out at irregular intervals. One of the men Kera saw in the Arena the day before sat down next to her with his breakfast. "Good morning," he smiled. "I hope you don't mind me joining you." "Good morning," Kera answered. She tried smiling, but even the muscles in her jaws ached, perhaps because of all the scowling she did the day before. "Kiyan Kanne," he introduced himself, "Sir Hyde's squire." "I'm Kera," she managed to squeeze out a smile. "I'm with Sir Keegan." "I know. I saw the ceremony yesterday. Congratulations." "Don't congratulate me just yet. I don't know what I've gotten myself into." "Tough day yesterday?" Kera nodded, attacking her breakfast. "Swinging that sword lunch through diner is not something I've done before." "It'll get better," Kiyan assured her. "It was the same for me when I started training. You'll build the endurance you need." "Are the sessions always lunch through dinner?" Kera asked. "They've been that way for the last two months," he answered. "Sir Bonhan tortures his own squires in the mornings. I guess he doesn't want any interruptions." Kera smiled. "Tortures?" Kiyan smiled as well. "I can't think of a better word. He has them get up at the crack of dawn and suffer out in the Arena. Then in the afternoon they torture us." "Really? I thought that man was a knight!" "I'm sure he's closer to being one than either of us," Kiyan said. Kera spent the remainder of the morning with Kiyan, discussing the training and the Arena and the knights. After lunch she returned to the Arena for the rest of the afternoon. The practice did not go any smoother, but Kera was better prepared and when one of the bullies tried to show that a woman should not be using a sword, Kiyan tried to stop him and ended up starting a fight. Sir Bonhan was not pleased when he heard of these happenings and made a general announcement to the students that this sort of behavior will not be tolerated. Men-at-arms or squire, those who went beyond the requirements of their training would be severely disciplined. After that, the day went a lot smoother. At dinner the war with Beinison was the topic of the day, something that Kera did not find pleasant to listen to. The latest word was that Pyridain and Westbrook were completely overrun, some talk of a flotilla heading for the Laraka. Casualties sounded like numbers from the King's treasury. She sighed, trying to pay more attention to her soup than the knight at the other end of the table. If Kiyan were around, Kera thought, she could try talking to him about something else, but for the first time during the day he was conspicuously missing. When dinner was over, Kera went outside. The atmosphere around the table had gotten her completely depressed and she was hoping that a stroll outside would make her feel better. She took a seat on a fallen tree trunk outside the keep's walls, looking at the forest in the valley beyond the rolling foothills. All was dark and calm. She strained her sight to see down the hill, hoping for a glimpse of Rien. Soft footsteps sounded behind Kera and she turned to see Kiyan. "Beautiful, isn't it?" she asked turning back to the darkness. "It's cooler than it's been the last few nights," he answered. Kera instantly remembered that her own vision was much better than that of the people around her. If he was lucky, Kiyan could barely see ten or twenty yards ahead of himself. "It beats fighting out in the sun," Kera added. "You didn't go to dinner?" "No. Sir Hyde didn't approve of my being in a fight today. He had me eat alone." "I wanted to thank you for helping me out in the Arena today," Kera said. "I'm sorry if that caused problems." "No, not at all," Kiyan hurried to say. "It was the least I could do. And Sir Hyde just told me to chase skirts on my own time." Kera did not answer, not sure what to say. Was he implying something? "So why would Sir Keegan want a female squire?" Kiyan asked after an uncomfortably long stretch of silence. "Why did Sir Hyde want a male squire?" Kera asked. "This is going to sound very bad," Kiyan started, "but men are the ones who are supposed to fight." "You're right, it sounds bad," Kera said. "Why shouldn't women fight? They work in the fields side by side with men, work in markets. One for one, we're quicker, have better balance and our tempers don't need work. I once knew a criminal who would only hire women to thief for him." "What about physical strength?" "Oh...I think it's fine for a man to be a labourer," Kera laughed. "I've always been taught that men are supposed to protect women, care for them," Kiyan explained. "I don't see why. I've been taking care of myself since an early age. I think I did just fine..." She wanted to say more, but feared her past life may interfere with her future and left it at that. "So why do you want to be a knight? There's a war on!" "Because it's out there, it's something to do. Because I don't want to be just another woman." "Hmmm... And to think I just did it for fortune and glory." "Are you getting any?" Kera asked. "I think I'll have to go to war for that," Kiyan answered. "What do you think about the war? It's the topic of the day, it seems." "Have you ever had the feeling that if you get a good nights rest, all your problems will solve themselves?" Kera asked. "That's how I feel about the war." "I want to go to war," Kiyan admitted. "It's selfish, but I want to be a hero." "But what if you get killed?" "Then I'll know I've tried...well, not me. I won't be around, but others will and that'll be enough." "I don't understand you..." "Me or my wanting to do something great?" "Both," Kera sighed. "I guess that puts us on equal footing," Kiyan said. "I don't understand why you want to be a knight. You're a pretty young woman. You can probably have any man you want. Why wield a sword and fight?" Kera looked away. "Sometimes it's really tough for me to understand why I do the things I do, much less try to explain them to others. I just don't want to be dependent on someone else. I spent a large part of my life that way and I don't want to live that way again." "I guess that makes sense," Kiyan agreed. Kera got up, dragging her cloak after her. "I'd better get some rest before tomorrow." She could not concentrate on worrying about Rien with Kiyan present and she still had all the aches and pains from the practice and feared that she would feel even worse when she woke up in the morning. "I'll walk you in," Kiyan offered. "Sure," Kera nodded. "Are all the men here training for the war?" "Just about. A lot are being trained for the regiments Duke Glavenford will be sending to Leftwich and Bivar next month...if they're still around." They crossed the court yard and entered the keep. "Does Sir Keegan have any plans for the war?" Kiyan asked. "Not that I know of," Kera said. "I hope he doesn't want to join in." "If he doesn't, it'll give me that much more room to be heroic," Kiyan smiled. They reached Kera's room. "Thanks for walking me in," she said. "My pleasure," Kiyan answered. "Not a lot of women I can do this with around here." "Glad I could help." Kiyan leaned forward to kiss her, but Kera pulled away, surprised it took her so long to react. "I'm sorry, I can't," she said. "No, it's my own fault," he hurried to say, taking a few steps back. "I assumed I could get away with it. Still friends?" "Still friends," Kera agreed. "Good night." Kera sprawled out on the bed, wondering if she acted correctly. She was not sure what to expect from Rien anymore, but did not want to tempt fate. If she were to have a choice, she would choose to remain with him. She got up to look out the window, which was barely level with the wall, but not facing in the right direction. Kiyan was a nice young man. Someone she could see herself with, but could he give her what Rien had given her? Perhaps if she got a good nights rest, things would indeed appear clearer in the morning. With a sigh Kera returned to her bed and quickly fell asleep. * * * Kera woke up in the morning to someone shaking her awake. She grabbed the arm with one hand, thinking to pull her dagger with the other, but she had left the daggers packed away, it having been a year since she last slept with them. "You're a little jumpy," Rien sat down on the edge of her bed. "A simple `good morning' would've been better," Kera relaxed. Her last two days had been very difficult, having to put up with a lot of men trying to prove their superiority to her, half of whom she could take down on a bad day. She was tired and jumpy and was not expecting Rien to show up in her room. It was still dark outside. "I tried that," he answered. "Did you wait up for me last night?" "No. I was too tired to stay up." "Is Sir Bonhan running you hard?" "Yes." She looked around. By the looks of the sky outside the window, it was still a while before sunrise. "Go away. It's still dark." "It'll be light within the hour. Get up." "Unlike you, I need to sleep," Kera complained, but sat up in bed, tossing her legs over the edge. "I'll wait outside," Rien stood up. "Wait. I don't mind if you stay." He walked over to the window and looked out. "How was your trip?" "All right. I'll have to go again in a day or two." Rien could hear Kera getting out of bed and the floor boards squeak under her feet. "Why am I getting up now?" "Because I told you to." "Rien!" He turned to her, then looked away while she put on her tunic. "To run down to the village." "What for?" "Exercise." "I get plenty of exercise already." "You need conditioning." Kera remained quiet for a while. Rien continued to look out the window. He felt uncomfortable in his new position as her knight. He never liked the hierarchy of command and the status levels that were placed on society. Kera was never subordinate to him before. Having it be this way now was unnerving. "Rien?" "Yes?" "Why did you look away a moment ago?" "I'm waiting for you to dress." "But why aren't you looking at me? It's not like you've never seen me naked before." "You're my squire." "That doesn't change it! Look at me!" He turned reluctantly. Kera stood dressed by the bed, arms folded over her chest. "Well?" "Let's go. I want to get to the village and back before breakfast." Kera did not move for a moment, still expecting him to give her an answer, but when he opened the door and stepped out, she sighed and followed him. "The village is five leagues away," she pointed out, catching up to Rien. "You're healthy. You'll make it." He walked to the stairs without stopping to wait. "How did your training go?" Kera wondered if she should answer. "What's troubling you?" Rien glanced over at her. "The war. It's not going well." Kera sighed. "Will you be joining?" "Not unless it comes this far." "That's not it, is it?" "I'm also uncomfortable with you being my squire." "You weren't uncomfortable when you held me captive in Phedra." "Kera, you're making this harder than it has to be." "I'm sorry," she said without hesitation. She was pushing him to act the way he always did and he was not going to comply. "How was your training?" Rien asked again. "Pretty good, I guess. I win as often as I get beaten." "I'll help you practice as soon as I have the time to do so." "Thanks." They walked out of the keep and across the court yard. "Is it safe to go by the forest at night?" Kera paused at the gates as the two guards at it shifted sleepily. "With me, sure," Rien smiled. "Are you ready? Let's see how much endurance you have." "You know how much endurance I have," Kera smiled seductively. "Kera." "All right, I'm ready." They ran west, down the road into the valley where the village lay cradled between the Skywall Mountains of Arvalia. It started to get light soon after their departure and by the time they made two leagues, it was almost completely light, although the sun had not yet risen over the mountains. The road was the same one by which they arrived three days ago and Kera was already somewhat familiar with the forest on the south side. While it was still dark, the forest appeared as a giant black mass, trees barely distinguishable from the ground and the sky. But with daylight Kera cautiously crossed to the south edge of the road and ran there. Rien paced her during the entire run, careful to keep to her pace, at times purposely slowing down to force her to do the same, in order not to tire out too soon. The run was easy, down hill the entire way to the village, and he was confident that in her condition Kera could easily make the five leagues. When she crossed the road to run closer to the edge of Charnelwood, Rien glanced at her, then suppressing a smile, also crossed to the south side, a few yards closer to the legends of the demons and spirits that populated the forest. The sun was above the hills by the time they made it to the village. They slowed to a walk before passing the first hut at the edge of the village, both breathing hard. Kera wanted to sit down to catch her breath and shake some sweat off, but noticed a well directly ahead of them and followed Rien. "How did I do?" she asked Rien between gasps. He smiled at her, a happy smile, not the concerned look he had when she first saw him today. "All right." Kera smiled also. "Don't drink too much," Rien cautioned her at the well. "We're not running back, are we? If you make me run back," Kera's breathing was beginning to return to normal, "I'll never forgive you. I'd rather be tortured." "Really?" Rien asked, the smile still on his face. He sat down with his back against the well, face wet with the water he splashed on himself. "You wouldn't!" "I won't. I should remember this is your first day and you ran quite a distance." Kera slid down next to him, catching her breath. First day. He did not think she could keep it up for more than one, did he? "Are you doing all right?" Rien looked over. "Uh-huh," Kera exhaled. "Why do you want me to run?" Rien pulled himself up and planted his back firmly against the well. "Fighting will build your muscles, help you develop some agility, teach you to use a sword, but it won't make you last in combat. Running builds endurance, helps you reach extremes." "Right." "Sir Bonham won't have you run. He hates running. Short as he is, almost anyone can outrun him and he hates that. But if you go out early enough, you'll see him and his squires running around the Arena. He knows what good it does." Kera remained silent for a few minutes longer, until Rien asked her again how she was. "You tell me," she answered. "You're not the best long distance runner I know," Rien said, "but most people can't run five leagues, either. Even down hill." Kera smiled, but looked away. "I don't think I could've done it before I met you." "City dwellers usually can't." "Do you want me to run back?" Rien looked at her. "Do you want to?" Kera shook her head. "I don't think I could make it up hill, especially after just running this distance." A woman with a large clay pot approached the well and stopped, looking at the pair. "Good morning to you, madam," Rien smiled. The woman suspiciously walked around to the other side of the well and proceeded to fill her pot there. Kera snickered, but said nothing. "We'll increase the distance gradually," Rien said. "How gradually?" "Not tomorrow. I want to see you run the same distance tomorrow." Kera sighed. "You don't mean every morning, do you?" Rien nodded. "Every morning." "I haven't seen you run every morning," she said. "I haven't had much opportunity. It's time I started, too." The woman finished getting the water and walked back to her hut, suspiciously glancing over her shoulder at the couple sitting by the well. "She doesn't like us much," Kera noted. "She doesn't know we're from Valdasly," Rien said. "The Keep is very respected here. Because it's a garrison, there's little trouble that happens on this road. If not Flint, then ReVell himself has the bandits removed." "Who's Flint?" Kera asked. "Flint Venture is hard to explain," Rien answered. "He lives up in the hills somewhere and sends regular patrols to watch the region. He and his men are self appointed guardians of the villages near here. No one really knows why Flint chose to do what he does, but he's been doing it for a while and everyone knows of him. Maybe he'll stop by the keep and I'll introduce you." "This is a strange place," Kera sighed. "Stranger than Dargon?" Rien got up. "Much stranger. Demons, guardians, knights, volcanos." Rien laughed. "Arvalia's a busy place." Kera got to her feet and drank some more water from the well. "We're not going to run, right?" she asked as an after thought. "We won't," Rien promised. "Come on. It's time we started back." They started down the road, quietly at first, then Kera asked Rien about his trip and the one he was expecting to take in a few days. "I informed my tribe about the war," Rien said. "Should it ever come this far, Baranur doesn't know about the life in the forest. They will have to fight for their own land." "Will you fight with them?" Rien nodded. "Remember I told you I was a landed knight? These are my lands," he pointed to the forest south of the road. "It's where I was born and I have to defend it." "I heard the servants talking about the demons and evil spirits in the forest," Kera remembered. "Sounded just like what you said." Rien smiled. "The tribes like to cause trouble to keep the natives restless. You see, many years ago, long before either of us was born, even before there was a Baranur, there were wars between your kind and my kind. Since then most Eelail chose seclusion as a method of maintaining safety. By playing tricks on the natives, making them believe the forest is haunted, we can set aside a part of this world for ourselves." "Why did they fight?" Kera asked. "I don't think anyone really knows anymore," Rien said. "Many say that back in the days of the Fretheod the two races first met at Wudamund, a Fretheod garrison, and the wars began. No one knows why. I heard stories that a fortune teller predicted that when Wudamund falls, so will the Empire and King Althweil believed it and was too scared of the Eelail to let them alone. Others say that the Eelail knew of the legend and wanted to tempt fate and bring Fretheod down to its knees. It's up to you what you believe, but the Eelail were defeated and fled and within the century the Empire crumbled as well." "What do you think happened?" Kera asked again. "I don't know. And I don't think there's any one old enough to remember, even among my people." "What about Eliowy and Teran?" "My people broke into many tribes, all over the world. I guess Rubel has one of the many tribes. The tribes in Charnelwood have stayed very secluded over the centuries. I'm the first to leave. There's been no other contact with human civilization." "But you're half human," Kera protested. "Don't you ever stop asking questions?" Rien asked. "No." He sighed and took a look at the forest. The trees swayed in the light wind and shook their leaves. He knew that the forest watched him, felt himself watched. It was a bond that he could never break, no matter were he went. Kera, too, looked into the forest. "It's a creepy place," she commented. "It gets so dark in there, so quickly." "I wouldn't be surprised if no human stepped off the south edge of this road in the last decade," Rien said. "Certainly no local villager." Kera hopped off the road into the dark green grass at the edge of the forest. "I'll be the first," she laughed. Rien followed her off the road. "Be careful. Trackers have been known to get lost mere feet from the edge of the woods." "Rien, is that a fairy ring?" Kera asked, looking down. He glanced down at the dark patch of grass in which Kera stood, surrounded by clusters of mushrooms. "...you demi-puppets that by moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, where of the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime is to make midnight mushrumps, that rejoice to hear the solemn curfew..." "Oh, didn't...uh, what's his name?" Rien put his finger to Kera's lips, shushing her. Oh, well done! I commend your pains, And everyone shall share i' th' gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Kera smiled. "You're good." "I only quote what was written almost a five hundred years ago for the Bardic College in Magnus," Rien replied. "What keeps the curious away is that same superstition." Kera suddenly grabbed hold of him and pulled him close, kissing him. Rien resisted for a moment, but then gave in. "What was that for?" "I missed you." "Just don't let anyone else see you missing me like that." "Yes, my Lord," Kera laughed. Rien guided her out of the fairy ring and they walked back to the road. "What about the fairy rings?" Kera asked as they moved on. "How do they happen?" "Nature has a lot of secrets," Rien explained. "We don't make them, if that's what you mean." "Is it true what they say about what happens to you if you step in one?" Kera asked. "So many questions," Rien looked at her. "They just mark our territory and keep the superstitious away. We have other means for keeping the non-fearful at a distance." They returned to the keep midmorning, the road being predominantly up hill, and had breakfast, not having a chance to see each other again until dinner. * * * The following morning Kera was ready when Rien came to her door. She knew he would want her to run and did all she could to insure being awake in time for his arrival. Rien paused, a little surprised that she was waiting for him. "You're up early this morning." He knew well of her tendency to sleep late. "I want you to take my wanting to become a knight seriously," Kera answered. "And how long will that want last?" "Until I become one or until I no longer have the desire." "And what if next month I find you lounging around in bed when there's work to be done?" "Then I'll no longer be your squire." Rien studied Kera carefully. There was no light and she could just see the glint of his eyes in the dark, watching her. She wondered who could see whom better, if he could detect the flush building in her face, hear the fear in her voice. "Do you realize what you're saying?" Rien asked. His tone remained the same, as if he was blind to all that she felt. "I'm not going to give you cause to be upset with me," Kera said. "I will do all that you expect." He turned to the door. "I know one of us will be sorry this ever happened. I just wish I knew which one." Kera caught up to Rien in the corridor. "What do you mean by that?" He shook his head. "It won't be easy for you to get where you want to go. And I'm not the easiest man to get you there." "I think you'll do fine." He smiled at her, a faint trace barely detectable in the dark. "I appreciate your confidence, but I fear you may come to hate me long before you get where you want to be." Kera took his hand into hers. "I don't think I will." * * * It was shortly before dinner when Rien informed Kera that he would be leaving again in the evening. He could not promise when he would be back this time and she did not press for him to make a commitment. She would stay busy here, training in the Arena, running, doing whatever else was required of her while he was gone. They said their goodbyes soon after dinner and Kera watched Rien, the Baron and another man, who appeared mid-day, select two guards and ride away from the keep on the road towards the forest. She stood in the great hall arch, watching them ride out of the keep, thinking back to the discussion she had with Rien earlier in the day. "I want you to run every morning," he told her, "whether or not I'm here, whether or not I can do it with you." "For how long?" "Until I tell you otherwise." "Will you be back soon?" He did not answer for a while. "I don't know. A council was called. All four tribes together, for the first time in ages. I don't know." "You keep abandoning me," Kera reproached him. "There's a war on out there," Rien explained. "I may not want to fight in it, but if the circumstances force me, I may have no choice. I have to make this choice much in the same way you made the one to become a squire and eventually a knight. It's a form of survival for both of us." She wondered through dinner what he meant when he said that. Why was it survival? Why was it the same for both of them? He did not have to fight. He could always leave, go where there is no war ... and then it began to make sense. He made the choice to take his own choice away. He would stay no matter what, just like she told him she would do all she could to become a knight. They both had the choice to walk away and forget the difficulties they would be forced to face and both decided to confront what may prove to be an extremely difficult path. It was a decision not to give up. Not giving it another thought, Kera charged down the steps into the court yard and to the stables where Hasina was being held. Practically knocking over a stable boy, Kera leapt on the thundersteed and yanked the rope holding the horse off its hook. "Come on," she prompted the mare, not even bothering to take the time to saddle her, and charged out of the castle after Rien and the men with him. It took some time for Kera to catch up to the five individuals ahead of her, on the road towards the village, and when she did, two were dismounted, preparing to enter the forest. She ran Hasina off the road and stood in the tall grass, watching from a distance. She wanted to talk to Rien, but this was obviously neither the time, nor the place. After some time, she saw Rien slap Kelsey's side and the horse wandered off. The other man preparing to go, the one who came that afternoon, lead his horse beside himself as they entered the forest. Baron Dower and his two guards waited for a while, the Baron pointing to something in the forest while talking to the guards, then they all rode in the direction of the village. Kera waited in the field, watching the forest and wondering what it contained that had to be so jealously guarded. Were the Eelail so different from humans that wars had to be fought? What did Rien's people think of the outside world and whose side would they take if the war came to Arvalia? She could not help but wonder how Rien's own birth came to be. Something howled in the forest, a long, drawn out eerie sound that carried in the wind and echoed through the hills. Kera, shivered, scanning the edge of the forest, looking for what it was that made the noise. She felt Hasina tense under her, also cautious of the sound. Only the swaying branches of trees greeted her, waving as wind blew through them. Uneasy, Kera turned Hasina and kicked her into motion, guiding her out on to the road and bringing her to a full gallop, wanting to leave behind the portion of the forest that produced the scream, having no wish to meet whatever had made it. Kera returned to the keep shortly after sunset, worried about Rien and not having had a chance to talk to him before he had gone into the forest. She wondered who that man with him was and where the Baron and his guards were headed. In the stables Kera dismounted Hasina and led her back to her place. "You have an easy life, right?" she asked. "I can handle her, Miss," the stable boy came out of nowhere. Kera looked at him, maybe eight or nine, skinny, with a dirty face. He looked like a boy, not like the children that Liriss collected, the sickly starved urchins no longer caring about their lives, doing whatever it took to survive through the day. She wondered how she had come to be his ward, who her real parents were. Did they work for him? Where they important to him? Why had he kept her? From the earliest memories she had, she had been with him. "Miss? It is my job," the boy said, again asking to help with the horse. "I believe you," Kera said, "but I'd like to groom her myself tonight. Thank you." After the boy wandered away, Kera found a brush and a bucket of water. "Maybe you'll accept help from someone more your age?" she heard a familiar voice, but did not turn. Kera laughed. "I'll do it myself, if you don't mind." She turned Hasina and tossed some more hay in the stable before her. "But I don't mind if you stay and talk." "I think I will," Kiyan Kanne came closer and leaned on the wooden inside wall. "I thought that was you I saw on this beast." "Hasina's not a beast," Kera said. "She just has no manners." "Yours?" "Sir Keegan's. He likes fat horses." "A thundersteed's more than a fat horse," Kiyan said. "You often ride bareback?" "Not really. Not on Hasina, certainly. Today was the first time. I just needed to get out fast. She's rather hard to control without a saddle." "I can imagine. The smaller horses are better for that." He bent down and moved the water bucket closer to Kera, as Hasina shifted away. "Thanks." "I missed you the last couple of days." "I was busy with Sir Keegan," Kera lied. She still was not sure what to do about Kiyan. "Listen, about two nights ago..." Kera looked at Kiyan. "I'm not angry, really." He smiled, a slight flush in his cheeks. "I was wondering if there was someone else." "Not really," Kera sighed. "Not anymore." "What happened?" "I became a squire." She really did not want to explain the details of her current situation. "He didn't like your choice?" "Something like that. It made all the difference to him." "And you can't let go?" "No." Kiyan put his hand on Kera's arm, drawing her attention. "I like you, Kera. I'm just asking for a chance." She shook her head. "I can't. Not now." A tear rolled down her cheek. "I hate what he's doing to me, but I must be patient. I don't want to lose him." Kiyan wiped the tear with his hand. "Don't overlook those around you in your struggle." "I wish things were different," Kera said. "I like you, too. You were one of the few to accept me here, rather than pressure me for my choice. It's good to have a friend like you." "Come outside," Kiyan said. "I think we're disturbing the horses." He lead Kera out of the stables, his arm around her shoulders. "It'll be fine, really." "What will?" "I don't know. Whatever it is you want. I just have this feeling you were born lucky." "I don't know," Kera said. She certainly did not feel lucky having lived the childhood that she had. * * * That night Kera had a hard time falling asleep. She wondered if she was making the right choice and if she would regret making it a year or two down the road. She liked Kiyan, his easy going personality, his willingness to talk and help forget, his ability to just listen. She felt that if it were him she had met just over a year ago in Dargon, she could have had a life with him just as easily as with Rien. When she first met Rien, it took her a while to realize that he was reaching out to her, giving her a chance to leave Liriss. He did not need her. He simply wanted to help. If she had a chance to relive that part of her life, she would act differently towards him, knowing what she now knew. Back then she did not realize how much trust he put in her and understood it only when they were caught in the store robbery in Tench. Tench. Before she met Rien, Kera had not been further than a day or two out of Dargon. Now, in less then a year, she had gone through four duchies, some of them more than once. She had a life of adventure with him, a chance to see and experience what so few others could. She knew Kiyan could not give her a lot of that, at least not until well after he would become a knight. She did like Kiyan. He was her age, full of life and adventure, wanting to change the world by himself. Keeping in mind what Rien said to her a few days before, she knew she needed to make a decision that would effect her the rest of her life and she was not sure what the right choice was. The sky started to turn light without Kera getting any sleep. She sat up on the bed as a rooster crowed outside, remembering her promise to Rien. No matter what, she intended to go through with that, to become a knight. She ran the five leagues as she promised, in the large meadow northwest of the keep. She did not want to go near the forest alone, particularly when it was still partially dark outside. She felt the running come easier as she went on. It took longer for her to lose her breath, her feet felt firmer on the ground as she ran, but she still had not noticed any effects on her training in the Arena. Having finished sufficiently early, Kera went to have breakfast while only a few of the keep's inhabitants were up. She did not want to see Kiyan so early in the day, having spent the entire night thinking about him and knowing that he tended to sleep late, finished all her chores in the keep early and again left for the meadow where she ran. She wanted to relax for a while, to forget her troubles, maybe even take a swim in the near by creek. Anything to forget what troubled her overnight. There were no plans for the afternoon as yet. Sir Bonhan cancelled the day's practice the day before, in favor of pitting two of the three regiments present against each other. She would not participate, but could attend and watch. She knew Kiyan to be a member of the Fourth Arvalian Militia and that they were one of the two regiments to participate in the mock battle. * * * Baron Dower stood on the Arena platform, arms folded, watching the two regiments clash in the practice field below. The dull clanking sound of padded weapons against metal armor, stomping of feet, yelling and grunting, all carried a long way. "The Fourth is losing ground," Sir Bonhan commented. "They didn't reinforce the middle." ReVell nodded, watching the growing bend in the line. A hand reached out past the Baron and placed a stack of coins on the railing before Sir Bonhan. "What's that for?" "Ten silver the Fourth will win," Sir Hardin said. Sir Bonhan thoughtfully looked over at the old knight. "You have much faith in your squires. Ten silver it is." ReVell picked up one of the shiny coins. Shapkan silver. "Been to the market again, Clev?" "Nothing like a new shield to put the sun in the eye of the enemy. So they may see the strength of the Stevene." Sir Bonhan grunted. "Why be scared of a dead man?" He slammed his fist on the railing, causing the coins to fall to the ground. "Scare them with Nehru, Saren, J'mirg, Da'athra'a, even their own Amante, Gow, Erida!" "You cracked the rail again," ReVell noted. "I'll bring you a new one from Tasantil!" ReVell looked back into the field. The Fourth Arvalian Militia regiment now suffered a deep bow in the middle of the line as the First pushed on. "How soon will the troops be ready?" "They were ready before Melrin." "I mean completely ready," he said. "I deem them fit to back any regular light or medium infantry or archer regiment." "We must be ready to march as soon as the word is given." "Even now, my Liege," Sir Bonhan answered. A smile crossed ReVell's face. "Soon." The Fourth pushed an offensive against the left flank of the First, catching them by surprise, crushing the men trying to force their way to the middle of the line. They hooked around the edge, rushing in on the rear of the regiment. Sir Bonhan leaned forward, watching closely. "Cormack, take note!" "Yes, Sir!" a voice sounded from further down the crowded platform. The hook tightened. "They made a mistake." "It's exercises like this that teach us best," Sir Hardin said. "Let them make all the mistakes they will right here. The First pressed too hard. They wanted to break the middle. Now they'll know to guard their flanks." The battle was in its last leg. "They both have good form, gentlemen," ReVell said as the fighting stopped. "My compliments." "There's still work to be done," Sir Hardin said. "They'll be moving against a real army next time." "Cormack, get all the company officers to gather in the library. No dinner until we sort this out!" Sir Bonhan barked. "Don't be too rough on them," the Baron advised. "It was a good trial." "It won't be a trial against the Beinison army." Two men on horseback, the Senior Captains of the regiments, rode up to the platform and saluted the knights on it. "Gather your Captains in the library," Sir Bonhan called down. "Well, let's go, gentlemen," ReVell said. "It was a good show, but I don't intend to sit through dinner in the library." The mass of observers slowly emptied from the platform, everyone talking about the combat at the same time, hurrying to take care of their postponed or neglected duties. The men in the Arena separated out into groups, rubbing their bumps and bruises, thankful that at least this time their weapons were simple padded sticks. "How did you like it, Kera?" ReVell asked as he passed by her. "I've never seen anything like it, Sir!" "For your sake, girl, glad as I am you wish to be a knight, I hope you never see real battle." "I wish Sir Keegan could've seen it," she said. She knew he would be willing to give detailed explanations, answer questions she did not want to ask the Baron himself. "I'm sure he's seen many like it," the Baron said. "Even the real ones." "Will you be going to war?" Kera asked. "I have to. I'm the Militia Captain for Arvalia. Where the militia goes, they go because I lead them." "Have you been in a war before?" He laughed. "Never in one this big. The largest troop I lead into battle in the past has been a single regiment. This will be a learning experience for all of us." They stopped in the court yard, before the archway into the keep, where two soldiers supported a third man in dirty worn leather, barely able to stand on his own. "Baron!" one of the soldiers called. The man being supported instantly looked in their direction and struggled to correct himself. ReVell Dower walked over to them, Kera curiously following him. "What happened here?" "I have a message for Sir Keegan," the man said. "Keegan isn't here now. I'm Baron Dower. What is the message?" "I'm sorry, Sir, but I can only give it to Sir Keegan." "Sir Keegan left yesterday. He will be gone a few days," the Baron said. "Where did he go?" the messenger asked. "I'll deliver it to him there." "You can't go where he is. You can wait here. Are you sure I can't be of help?" "I'm sure, your Lordship." "Get the healer and see to his needs," ReVell said to the soldiers and left to talk to the captains of the regiments. Kera watched him go, but remained as the soldiers sat the messenger on the ground. "I'll get Lord Ealhfrit," one said and left. "Is there something I can do to help?" Kera knelt down by the messenger. "I'm Sir Keegan's squire." He looked her up and down and smirked. "I ran my horse to near death to get here. I must speak only with him." Kera looked towards the main gates, immediately spotting the horse that looked like every dog in the duchy had chased after it. "The best thing you can do," the messenger went on, "is bring me to Sir Keegan. Or bring him here." Kera looked around, then moved so that the courier was between her and the remaining soldier. "Are you with the trouble shooters? The League?" His eyes narrowed. "What do you know?" "I told you, I'm his squire. I've been with him for more than a year." "It's very important that the message reaches him and I must give it to him myself!" "How important? I can go find him, but if I do, I'll be breaking a promise. Will it be worth it?" "I think it will. And tell him if I don't hear from him tomorrow, I'll have to break the seal." Kera stood up as a tall grey haired man in green-brown robes walked down the stairs with the soldier that left minutes before. "I'll try to find him by tomorrow," Kera promised. "Wait here." She ran to her room, changed into travel clothes, to be more comfortable in the woods, strapped on her sword and inserted a dagger in her belt. She did not think she would need her pack, but the bow? Kera hesitated, looking at the unstrung instrument standing in the corner of the room. She remembered the animal scream from the night before and considered the adequacy of her sword. Yes, she may need the bow. Taking the keep's steps three or four at a time, she ran outside, heading for the stables. No time to saddle Hasina. She already knew the mare could be handled bareback. Another few moments and she was ready to go. "Kera!" She pulled Hasina to a halt just short of the gate. "Kera!" Kiyan ran over to her. "I've been looking all over for you. Where were you all day?" Hasina snorted, as if sensing Kera's urgency. "Kiyan, I need to find Sir Keegan. Congratulations on your victory. We can talk when I get back." "I can go with you," he offered. "There's no time," she answered, kicking Hasina into motion. "I'll see you soon!" * * * Kera dismounted Hasina in mid-gallop and left her grazing in the meadow on the north side of the road. She speculated that if Rien left Kelsey, the walk was not all that long and besides, a horse that large could be in quite a disadvantage deep in the forest. She crossed the road to the south side and paused, looking into Charnelwood, listening for any unusual noises, such as the one she had heard the day before. Everything seemed quiet, with just the sounds of birds and the rustling leaves enhancing the peace of the wilderness. Kera threw a glance back at Hasina, peacefully grazing in the meadow. She did not worry about leaving the horse. She knew both Kelsey and Hasina to be trained well enough not to trust strangers and to come when called. Looking around once again, Kera slipped into the green forest. Everything there seemed as normal as the forests she had gotten used to in the northern portions of Baranur. It was a combination green leaf and pine forest, very dense in some parts, somewhat clear in others, but everywhere she looked, it seemed that a human foot had never disturbed the ground. The forest floor was littered with fallen leaves and branches, without any evidence of footprints, much less a path of any sort. After a league of walking and over an hour of searching the ground, the only tracks Kera could find were her own. With a deep sigh, she sat down by a tree to rest. She was positive that Rien went by somewhere here. She entered the forest in the same place as he. Were the stories about this forest really true? Did it really swallow people never to be seen again? She refused to believe in the impossible. They had to go somewhere, as did Rien. She got up and once again proceeded further into the woods. There were still no trails, but she was confident that would not last forever. Somehow, somewhere, there had to be a trace of someone passing. She was not going to give up that easily. After what she guessed was five leagues of walking, Kera came out to the edge of the forest. She could not imagine it being that short across, but there was a wide meadow ahead of her, the mountains raising on each side, enclosing the valley. Off to the right, where the road angled up hill into the canyon, Kera spotted the fortified walls of Valdasly Keep. "No!" She turned back, angry and determined. She was careful not to make this mistake. She knew she could not have taken such a sharp turn. As she stepped back into the forest, a wild animal scream echoed through the valley. She felt the hilt of her sword, looking around. There was no trace of anything moving. With solid determination Kera walked back into the woods, marching straight ahead, no longer looking for any paths or trails. The animal yell sounded again, all around her, almost on top of her. Kera did not stop. She knew the forest looked equally empty in all directions. She was going to challenge that emptiness now. She felt uneasy and perhaps even scared, but she was not going to give up. Not after making a promise and breaking another. She paused just long enough to take out the item she found in the cave when escaping from Phedra and examined it again. It was a near perfect square with a floating black and gold arrow inside, always pointing in the same direction, or towards metal. Perhaps the ability of this item -- she had no real name for it -- to unerringly maintain its orientation, would be of help in this forest. Turning the item over, Kera examined the other side, containing a series of equidistant black lines, crossed by a red line. The red line changed in size, short some times, long at others. Right now it was long, almost three-fourths the length of the side of the square. It tended to be longer in the day than at night. Perhaps a device for measuring time, but Kera had still not learned to use it. Turning it back over, Kera determined that the direction she wanted to head in was indicated by the gold end of the arrow, the one that pointed towards Magnus. The walk lasted for what seemed to be hours, leagues upon leagues of blindly walking straight ahead, constantly checking her direction. At times it appeared as if a straight path through the forest was off to the side as indicated by the arrow and after debating if she should trust her senses or not, Kera would follow the direction indicated by the device in her hand. Looking up at the sun, barely visible through the branches of the trees above her, and wondering if she should consider turning back before it gets dark in the forest, Kera insistently pushed forward through the thick growths and clearings alike. She did not stop to rest, nor to look around and most importantly, refused to look back. The one effort she consistently made was to walk around the trees in her way. At one such tree, she started to do the same and then froze, standing face to face with a tall blond haired man with sharp features. He wore dark green clothes, tunic and pants, and held a staff in one hand. Close as she stood to him, Kera could not determine where he ended and the tree began. It almost seemed that they were one and the same. She took a hesitant step back, wondering where he came from and who he was. Her hand jerked to her belt, to draw the dagger, but she stopped herself. The man made no threatening gestured and she did not want to seem aggressive to him. She noticed that his eyes were crystal blue, just like Rien's and his almost white hair fell half way down his back, also blending with the trunk of the tree. She stood like that for a long time, examining him, aware that his eyes were tightly focused on her. She took another step back. "Um...hi... I'm looking..." The man silently pointed further into the forest. Neither his motion, nor expression betrayed emotion or malicious intent. His movements were fluid, almost as if leaves blowing in the wind. Kera cautiously stepped past him, in the direction he pointed. It was not the one the arrow had indicated, but he was the first living thing she met in the forest and for the time being, she was willing to trust his knowledge of the woods. "How far...?" There was no answer. She swallowed hard, turned her back on him and continued on. She hopped he was not showing her the way back. It was nearing dusk, with sunlight no longer cutting through the branches of the trees, now hanging far to the west, just over the tops of the mountains. The forest was now eerily quiet. There were no sounds of birds or rustling leaves. Most importantly, the animal cries were gone as well. The dead silence, disturbed only by her footsteps, made Kera feel uneasy. It seemed as if the trees had eyes and paused their conversations as she passed, watching her go by them, pretending not to be afraid. It began to get dark when Kera once again stopped before a large tree in her path. A man stood there. The same man? She was not sure. His clothes were grey, but hair just as white and as long. His eyes were bright yellow, almost glowing in the settling darkness. He stepped forward, separating from the tree and walked past Kera without saying a word. She turned to look, surprised that just a few yards behind her the forest opened into a clearing. She just walked through that part of the woods! Feeling completely disoriented, Kera followed the man into the clearing where a low fire burned in a small fire pit. Slowly she realized that the clearing was filled with people. They all appeared, in some way, not human. Tall, slender, having either extremely light or extremely dark hair. Their eyes were all focused on her, some almost glowing, almost seeing through her. Many were armed with bows, some carried swords. Four of them were seated around the fire, three men and a woman. They were looking at her with what seemed to be suspicion and contempt. "Y ean shipy si' eels'popa," the man who brought her said to those at the fire. A blond man stood up. "Z'I' il ja. Z'Y' pee'P iu tee'L zeer." The language mixed with the sudden wind, sounding almost as a natural part of the forest. The spirits of Charnelwood were finally speaking. Kera knew that she had found the place. "Y sheaf' zeer f'Eeji Ree'N icheepiy," the man answered. "Ja earb'Epee'P si' pa s'peavee'L sipiy." The words passed Kera without making any sense. As she looked, Kera noticed Rien stand up and step forward. "Z'I' il ja," the man at the fire turned to him. It sounded like a question. Many heads turned. "S'peafeemee'L chinbealeel." The voice sounded nothing like Rien. It was soft and flowing, mixing with the natural sounds of the forest. "Reez!" a harsh exclamation sounded from a woman on the ground. Kera had no trouble guessing she was upset. Rien remained motionless. "Y 'Pil s d'Eals si' shi zonealil zeepia eac'Il," a dark haired man at the fire said, without getting up or taking his eyes off Kera. She could feel tension build up. "C'Ees zeer us is zeepia," the blond man who had stood answered and sat back down. Rien walked over to Kera, roughly taking her arm and leading her into the forest. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed as they left the clearing. "You could've been killed!" He released her and gave her a shove forward. "I'm sorry. A courier came. He had a message for you. He said it was urgent and he could only wait a day." Lines of concern appeared on Rien's face. "Wait here. Don't move!" He disappeared into the almost total darkness, somewhere back where the clearing was. Kera could barely see the traces of the fire and sense the smoke from the burning wood. The wind continued to blow and leaves and branches rustle, making Kera wonder if that was elven speech. Long minutes passed before Rien returned. He looked her in the eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry. I thought this was important enough to come." "I hope you're wrong," he told her and walked away. "Rien, wait!" Kera caught up to him. "I'm sorry." He paused long enough to let her catch up, but said nothing. "Rien?" He did not answer. "Rien?" "What?" "Please understand." "Kera, you could have been killed if the Dopkalfar saw you first. The only reason you were permitted to pass and brought to me was because they saw you with me a few days ago. There's a lot of anger there right now. It may effect the decision they make. The villagers here depend on that decision. If the war comes this far, it may mean the difference between life and death for them." "I'm sorry. How many times do I need to say that to make you understand I mean it?" Rien remained quiet. "I did what I thought best. If the courier's rush is any indication of the message's importance, I feel I did the only thing I could." "I hope you're wrong," Rien stopped. His eyes seemed as bright as those of the other elves Kera saw. "Because if you're right, none of our lives may ever be the same again." * * * "Sir Keegan!" the messenger stood up as Rien and Kera entered the great hall. He immediately took a rolled up parchment from under his tunic and handed it to Rien. Kera stopped a few yards short of the courier, not wanting to get in Rien's way. He was tense the entire trip back, snapping at her and refusing to talk. The messenger's willingness to stay up and wait only emphasized the urgency of the message and Kera feared what it might be all about. "Who sent this?" Rien asked, cracking the wax seal. "Lord Yasarin." Kera had never heard the name. Rien unrolled the sheet and read it. Kera wished she could see his face, but did not dare to approach. If Rien's shifting in place was any indication, the news was not good. It seemed like forever before he put the paper down. "When did you leave Port Sevlyn?" His voice was hard, tension obvious in the way he spoke. "On the eighth, Sir." "The army was there?" "Yes, Sir." Rien turned away, looking at Kera. She could not read his expression. It was like nothing she had ever seen. "Rest tonight. I'll have a reply for you to take back tomorrow." "Take back, Sir?" Rien looked back at him. "No. You're to stand down. Stay out of the war." "Sir?" "Just do it. Go." "Yes, Sir." The courier turned and left. Rien leaned on the table, his arms on either side of the letter, seemingly reading it again. Kera waited, not sure if she should interrupt. What could that letter say? What was happening at Port Sevlyn? "Guard!" Rien called one of the men patrolling the great hall over. "Wake Baron Dower. I will wait for him in the library." "Now, Sir?" "Now!" The man rushed off, up the wide staircase leading to the second floor of the keep. Rien picked up the parchment and rolled it up, turning to face Kera. "Rien?" He did not look at her. "Come on," his hand wrapped around her arm and he almost dragged her to the library. "Rien?" "Yes, I'm listening." "What's wrong?" They walked into the library and Rien closed the door behind them. "Adrea never made it out of Sharks' Cove," he muttered. Kera remembered well the argument Rien and Adrea had about leaving Sharks' Cove. He insisted that it was dangerous to stay and she argued that there will be plenty of warning in the event of Beinison attack. Had the war finally come to Sharks' Cove? That was the one thing no one mentioned. All the news of fighting has been coming from the eastern part of the country, the Baranur-Beinison boarder. "What happened?" Kera asked. "Sharks' Cove fell to the Beinison army on the fifth of this month. By now, so did Port Sevlyn." "What?!" Rien sat down, rubbing his eyes. "All of Quinnat is in enemy hands. They are probably at Gateway now...maybe even at Magnus..." Kera paled. How could this happen so soon? How could the Beinison army get so far up the river so quickly? Sharks' Cove and Port Sevlyn were major cities. Gateway was a military garrison designed for events such as this. "You can't be serious..." "I'm completely serious. When this message was written, the Beinison army was in sight of Port Sevlyn and there was no militia to defend them." Kera took a deep, abrupt, breath. "Then we lost without so much as a chance." Rien walked over to the bookshelves and studied the titles, then selecting one, picked it up and opened it. "What are you reading?" "Baranurian Military Disposition." He slammed the book shut. "Two regiments!" The door into the library opened and Baron Dower walked in. Kera was surprised that he still wore his night clothes. "What is it, Rien?" the Baron asked. "Sit down." Rien's voice was forceful, almost as if giving an order. The Baron paused to look at him, but sat down. Kera expected to hear an argument, or at least a reprimand for Rien's tone of voice, but none came. "...Twelve days ago Sharks' Cove fell to a combined assault of the Beinison army and navy..." The Baron stood back up. "...on the morning of the ninth an estimated twenty regiments stood ready to attack Port Sevlyn..." Kera noticed the Baron's hands tense. "...Port Sevlyn only had the local militia to defend with. Two thousand men strong at the most. I have no reason to believe there was no attack." "Where did you get that?" Rien held up the rolled up parchment. "The courier? He brought this? I told him to give it to me if it was important!" "He was under orders to deliver it to me." "That's no excuse," the Baron started, but immediately changed the topic. "Where the hell was our army?" The words were said with such strength that Kera took an involuntary step back. "About three regiments, all light infantry, were lost defending the bay. Another four, under the command of Lord Morion, didn't stop at Port Sevlyn long enough to drink their water. Word has it Sir Ailean died in the battle for Sharks' Cove." "They're marching straight on Magnus!" the Baron exclaimed. He looked at the map on the wall between two book cases. "Gateway's the next garrison they'll encounter. Two regiments." "Both Royal Duchy Militia," Rien added. "I imagine that's where Lord Morion will want to make his stand." "Six light and medium infantry regiments against twenty?" the Baron asked. "They'll never make it!" "If that's what he's doing, I don't think he wants to win the battle. His goal at Gateway would be to win time." "Time for what? There are only seven regiments in Magnus." ReVell Dower walked over to the window, looking into the darkness. Seven regiments were nothing, no matter how well trained. The sheer bulk of the enemy force would crush them in a matter of days. "They won't stand a chance. The two green militia regiments will fall without so much as a struggle. The Huscarls will stubbornly try to hold the whole city and when they take enough losses, back off to the Old Quarter. And the Royal Guard will, of corse, fight to the last in the castle and lose." "They'd be more organized if they all fought together," Rien said. "Yes, but that's the stupid split regiment system. If Wainwright weren't such a horse's ass and cooperated with Sothos, they could have an organized defense!" "I don't understand why there were so few troops stationed on the Laraka," Rien said. "Sothos must've know how likely an attack on Shandayma was!" "Maybe, maybe not," ReVell muttered. "That's still thirteen regiments the Beinison force will have to fight," Rien added as an after thought. "One by one, thirteen is negligible. Their chances would be better if they stood as one!" "Untar can't be so arrogant as to have them march right into Magnus, could he?" "What's to stop him? An ancient broken fort at a fork in the road? He went through all of Quinnat in a matter of days. Magnus isn't much tougher." "Welspeare and Monrodya may send reinforcements," Rien suggested, his voice filled with doubt. "Arvalia can send reinforcements," the Baron said. "But your troops were meant to reinforce Leftwich!" "Leftwich won't matter if Magnus is gone." Rien nodded. ReVell was right. Not much would matter to Baranur if Haralan's rule were to end. "What are you going to do?" ReVell Dower confidently walked to the door and pulled it open. "Guard! I want to see Sir Bonhan and Sir Hardin now!" He slammed the door shut. "I have three regiments here, including one heavy infantry. If I march directly on Gateway, I can also pick up the Seventh Baranurian Rangers in Cynnyd. This will leave two militia regiments in Hawksbridge, along with the Eighth Baranurian Rangers on the Monrodya boarder and another heavy infantry regiment. That should be plenty for the Duke." "What can you do with four regiments?" Rien asked. "It'll be suicide to confront the Beinison army like that." "If there's been a miracle at Gateway, they can use four fresh regiments. If not, then I'll make a direct attack on the rear of the Beinison army at Magnus. Four regiments aren't much, but they can produce quite a bite." "That's a one thousand league march. You won't be there until mid to late Yuli at the earliest," Rien protested. "It may already be too late now." "Faith, Rien. Faith! Where there's no hope, there's no chance for victory!" "I just don't want to see you die out there, ReVell," Rien said. "I agree with sacrifice, but not with suicide. If you can't change the tide of the battle, then there's no reason for you to die in it." "This isn't about life and death," ReVell said, speaking with great conviction. "War has never been about life and death. It's about freedom and rights, because those are the things easiest to lose. This country has had a good line of kings. Losing that would destroy us..." There was a knock at the door. "...I intend to go to make a difference, not to die, but if death is a part of that, then it's a necessary part. I'm willing to do all that I have to." The knock sounded again. "Come!" the Baron returned to his desk and sat down. The door opened and the two knights that had been called walked in. They both seemed sleepy, but were properly dressed. Each man greeted the Baron and Rien. "I think you'd best be the one to tell them, Rien," the Baron said. Rien nodded thoughtfully, then looked up where Kera stood in the corner, watching the exchange, all but forgotten by the men in the room. "Kera, go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow morning." She hesitated for a moment, wanting to hear the discussion, see what the final decision would be, but instead walked over to the door and pulled it open. It was her duty as Rien's squire to do what he said, not argue or ask questions. She had promised him and herself that she would see this through and be the best squire she could and eventually become a knight. "Kera," Rien's voice stopped her. "Thank you." She turned and smiled at him, not sure if he was thanking her for leaving or risking everything to find him to bring him back. He was right when he said that if she did the right thing calling him from his tribe, it could only mean that the unthinkable had happened. Indeed, it has. These could perhaps be the last days of Baranur. Before returning to her room, Kera stopped at the picturesque wall sized map of Baranur in the great hall and looked at the keep representing Gateway. It was maybe two hundred fifty leagues from Magnus, about as far as from Sharks' Cove to Port Sevlyn, a distance the Beinison army covered in just a few days forced march. There were another hundred or so leagues between Port Sevlyn and Gateway. How long could that take? An extra few days? By now it could all be gone and Untar the Second could be sitting on Haralan Tallirhan's throne. "Beautiful, isn't she?" a guard's voice startled Kera. He paused by her, admiring the map she looked at, taking a break from his rounds. "Just look at all that! Our fathers and forefathers took this land from the wild and the barbarian tribes that roamed it and made it into what it is now and the Beinison generals think they can just take it all away. Never! No foreign sword will control any portion of what we are! Baranur has been forged in the fires! You remember that, girl!" Kera smiled at him nervously and nodded. "Good night," the guard went on, down the great hall. How wrong he was, she thought. How much is already lost. She returned to her room, lit a candle and prepared for bed. She could only guess at what was happening in the library this late at night, what kinds of conclusions would be made, decisions arrived at and how different the world would be tomorrow morning. Kera wondered about what had happened to Adrea and what would happen to her little girl, now in the south of Baranur with Brice, if she were killed. The first time they met, Adrea accepted Kera with no questions, going out of her way to make her feel comfortable and welcome. At first Kera suspected it was because of Rien, but as time went on, she realized that that was Adrea's nature. She was always kind to everyone and always helpful. The candle's dying light caught Kera's attention and she wondered how lost she had become in her memories and worries. When she lit the candle, it was a long way from burning out. Getting into bed, Kera permitted the flame die out, letting darkness settle in around her. * * * Early in the morning, following the directions of one of the keep guards, Kera found Rien on top of the watch tower, thoughtfully looking into the forest. The guards he had chased away from the post walked the length of the rampart on the keep wall, quietly talking about having drawn the night shift yet again. "Rien?" Kera asked, stopping just short of him. It took him unusually long to respond. He shifted, then motioned her over, not saying a word. "Are you okay? I'm sorry about yesterday." He nodded. "ReVell wants me to lead the ranger regiment. He feels I'm most qualified." Kera felt her heart sink. Join the war? "Are you?" "I prefer peace," he answered. "Are you most qualified? Will you do it?" He did not answer for a long time, making Kera suspect he had decided to go. She would, of course, go with him. She was his squire, after all. What she did not know was if that was what she wanted to do. "At any other time I would have agreed to do what he asked," Rien said. "The arguments presented were most convincing and while I completely disagree with participating in a war for any reason, he is absolutely right that unless each of us does his part, we can not call this land home or this country our own. Every bit of strength we exert for the crown makes this country that much more powerful." Kera felt her heart beat faster. "`Any other time'?" she repeated his words. "Long before this situation arose, I made a promise that I now have to keep. Adrea never came out of Sharks' Cove and I have to find her and get her out." "Sharks' Cove? It's well over three hundred leagues behind the enemy line!" Kera exclaimed. "A promise is a promise." There was obviously no talking him out of his decision and no further arguments would help. "When are we leaving?" "We?" It was the first time this morning he looked at her. "I'm going alone. It's too dangerous for you." "You can't go alone! You'll need help. And she's my friend, too!" Kera did not really want to go, but she would do it for Rien and Adrea. She felt she owed them at least that much. "No. I'll be in the heart of Beinison held territory. Besides, Deven will be with me. I don't want you getting hurt." "And you think I want you getting hurt?" "Kera," he sighed, "you're my squire. My obligation to you is not just to make you into a knight. It is also to teach you and guide you and when the need is there, protect you, until you can protect yourself. I judge this to be too dangerous for you to come." "I lived my life in the streets of Dargon, taking care of myself!" her voice was filled with anger. "I damn well know how to take care of myself!" "I'm sorry, but I don't think you're quite ready for war. You will remain at Valdasly until you hear from me." "Rien, please!" He shook his head. "I don't want you following me into a war. Promise me that you won't do what you did yesterday, no matter what." She tried to stare him down, but it did not work. His mind was made up long before she tried to change it. "I'll worry about you." "I'd be worried if you wouldn't." "When are you leaving?" "In a few hours. As soon as my things are ready. I'll be leaving Kelsey and my armor here." "How will you go?" "ReVell is giving me a horse from his stables, a very fast one. I need to get to Sharks' Cove as quickly as I can." Kera put her arms around Rien, pulling him close to herself. "Be careful." "I will." She felt his cheek against her temple. "I have every intention to come back." "I love you," Kera whispered as a tear ran down her cheek. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ (C) Copyright May, 1993, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 6 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 2 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 6, Issue 2 07/28/93 Cir 1151 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Archives at FTP.EFF.ORG (192.88.144.4) in pub/journals/DargonZine -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Guest Commentary Carlo Samson Take from the Tower Carlo Samson Firil 30, 1013 Quest Part II Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Ober, 1013 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Guest Commentary: Startled Birds by Carlo N. Samson Greetings all, and welcome to the second issue of Volume 6. For our new readers, the previous single-story issue was a rare occurrence; sometimes a story is written that simply can't be split into convenient installments. I'm sure some of you are wondering about the long time lapse in between volumes. This is due in part to the fact that over the years, several authors have moved/graduated/lost net access, and we are once again looking for new people to join the Dargon Project. Please contact the editor (Dafydd, white@duvm.bitnet) if you are interested. Last year about this time I had the opportunity to meet in person David "Orny" Liscomb (founder of _FSFNet_ and creator of the Dargon Project), as well as fellow Dargon authors Rich Jervis and Max Khaytsus. Interesting guys, all of them (be sure to say 'hi' if you meet them on the net!). Anyway, in this issue we have the long-awaited conclusion of Dafydd's story "Quest" (Part 1 of which appeared in _FSFNet_ Volume 10, Number 3), and a story from yours truly which provides a bit of background to some of my earlier works. As for upcoming issues, we have several War stories in the pipe, a couple of works by new authors, and a new cycle of Brynna/Cydric adventures. Also, back issues of _FSFNet_ are available from the same archive site as _DargonZine._ So keep it here, tell your friends about us, and e-mail to Dafydd (that address again: white@duvm.bitnet) if you want to write for Dargon! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Take from the Tower by Carlo N. Samson (Author's note: The following story takes place about a year before the start of the Baranur-Beinison war.) QUIASHRION WOODS: Firil 30, 1013 The mid-afternoon sunlight filtered down through the tall trees, dappling the forest floor as Berk tramped along the narrow path, softly whistling an old drinking song. The sound of a snapping twig and a muffled curse caused him to turn around just in time to see his friend Kintrell stumble and fall to the moist ground. "What happened there, Trell? Did a tree up and trip you again?" Berk said with a grin as he extended a strong hand to his younger companion. Kintrell struggled with his pack as levered himself up to accept Berk's assistance. "I--I think I saw a rat," he stammered as he regained his footing. "Wouldn't surprise me," Berk said, casually scanning the dense forest that surrounded them. "They say that the wizard kept a pack of crazed killer rats, which of course have now escaped." Kintrell's eyes widened, but he kept a calm expression as he brushed a leaf out of his unkempt hair. "You think I'm afraid of rats? I'm not, you know." Berk gave a short laugh. "I know. It's the mice that really scare you, eh?" He shifted his rucksack to a more comfortable position on his wide shoulders and continued walking. But the thirty- five year old adventurer understood his friend's nervousness, for the patch of woodlands they were now in had a somewhat sinister reputation among the local countryfolk. Stories were told of a reclusive wizard named Tarlada who built a great green tower called Glasmelyn Llaw deep in the heart of the forest south of a town called Dargon. It was also said that those who ventured too close to the wizard's home were never seen again. Berk was sure that most of the tales were exaggerated, but didn't exactly discount them, either. But he never seriously considered trying to find the tower until almost two weeks ago, when he heard a rumor that Tarlada was finally dead. Upon making further inquiries, he learned that a pair of adventurers--a woman in a silver half-mask and a brooding young mage--had invaded the green tower to rescue a gypsy woman whom the wizard had taken. This news had served to pique Berk's interest. It was common knowledge that wizards, especially reclusive ones, usually amassed great stores of wealth, and the thought of an unguarded wizard's tower (ripe for the plundering) very much excited him. He was once again running low on funds, his last job having come a month ago as a hired sword on a caravan run from Magnus. Berk then spent the next few days trying to convince his most trusted friends to join him in an expedition to the tower. None of them wished to do so, as they all believed that the wizard was still very much alive and would horribly torture anyone who dared approach his forest retreat. In the end he was only able to persuade Kintrell, a longtime friend and aspiring thief, to accompany him by mentioning that the wizard would surely have more than a few books in his possession. Although Kintrell was illiterate, the young man was fascinated with books and took every opportunity to try and teach himself how to read. After a few more days spent interviewing various people to determine the most probable location of Tarlada's tower, Berk encountered an old man who was able to provide him with the information he sought. Then, after buying provisions for the journey, he and Kintrell headed south out of Dargon into the forestland where the wizard was said to have lived. Kintrell scrambled to keep pace with Berk. A drop of sweat beaded off the young thief's chin and soaked into the stained maroon tunic that hung loosely on his skinny frame. "What kind of books do you think the wizard has?" he asked. Berk, who had heard this question several times since leaving Dargon, rubbed the back of his neck and replied, "I keep telling you, Trell, wizards have lots of books. Mostly spell books, that's for certain. Okay?" "Do you think he'll have one that can make me know how to read?" "Well, we won't know that until we get there, right?" Berk replied heavily, shaking his head. They had been walking for what seemed like hours after leaving their horses when the trail became impassable for the animals, and his patience was growing thinner the more weary he became. After a few moments Kintrell asked, "Do you think the wizard really is dead?" Berk had also heard this question several times. He was about to snap back an answer, when he realized that Kintrell had never really done anything potentially life-threatening in his twenty- three years, and was undoubtedly feeling apprehensive. He reached down the neck of his brown tunic and brought out the object that hung on a leather thong. "Remember what this is for?" Kintrell looked at the crystal-and-silver pendant. "Sure, it's to tell us if there's bad magic around." He paused a moment in thought, then said, "But what if the wizard's not evil? I mean, what if he's good, but just doesn't want us to bother him?" Berk let the pendant drop to his chest and put his arm around Kintrell. "Trell, my simple-minded friend, think for a moment about why we're in this gods-cursed forest. The wizard is dead, right? And when someone is dead, they can't hurt those of us who are alive, right?" "Yes, but--" "Ghosts are not real, Trell." "I--I know, but if he's dead, why did you buy the pendant?" Berk smiled. Kintrell was showing signs of original thought. "A simple precaution," he replied. "In ventures like these, it's best not to leave some things to chance." They walked along for another hour or so, pausing once for a brief rest. The forest was calm and quiet, with only the occasional birdcall or rustle in the bushes to break the silence. Soon, the trail ended in a large clearing where stood the fabled Glasmelyn Llaw. Berk and Kintrell stopped and stood in silent amazement at the great tower, which seemed to be constructed of a single piece of green crystalline stone. Five slender turrets rose to various heights from points on the tower's circumference, giving the structure the appearance of a giant green hand thrusting upwards from the forest floor. "So this is where the wizard lives," whispered Kintrell, gazing up at the dark windows slits. A shiver raced down his spine at the thought that some unseen lurker could be watching them from inside. "Used to live," said Berk, drawing his sword. He glanced down at the pendant and was reassured when he saw that the crystal was dark. "Come on. It doesn't look like anyone's home." The pair advanced across the clearing and paused at the entrance to the tower. The door was missing, and there appeared to be scorch marks around the frame. The hinges of the door looked as if they had been melted. Kintrell unhitched his mace from his belt. "What do you think happened here?" he asked. "Exactly what it looks like happened," Berk replied. He cautiously made his way into what he assumed was the main living area of the tower--or used to be, he corrected himself. The room was completely burned out; all that remained were brittle piles of charred wood and a layer of ash covering the floor. He poked at a nearby pile with the tip of his sword; moving aside some of the larger wood fragments, he uncovered the twisted remains of a large chandelier. Kintrell wandered over to the side of the room and squatted next to the remnants of a large bookshelf. He stirred the burned wood with the head of his mace; suddenly, there was a loud screech as the wood pile erupted in a flurry of motion. He cried out and flung himself backwards. Berk whirled around in time to see a bird explode from the pile and wing it's way out the door. Kintrell lay gasping, clutching his heart. Berk reached down and hauled the young man to his feet. "What's the matter with you? It was only a wood grouse!" "S-sorry, Berk, it just surprised me, is all," Kintrell panted. "Well, come on, then. Doesn't look as if anything survived down here--let's hope the fire didn't spread any farther." The two made their way to the back of the room and up a flight of stone steps; Berk noted with satisfaction that there was no fire damage in evidence. Almost halfway to the next floor, his foot slipped on something and he toppled forward. He let out a string of curses as he pushed himself back to his feet. "What happened?" Kintrell asked. Berk ignored him as he knelt down to examine the step he had slipped on. It appeared to be covered with a grey powdery substance; he took a pinch between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed lightly. "Feels like ash," he said. He took a quick sniff of the powder and frowned. "But it's not from wood. There's a whole mess of it here." He straightened up and scrutinized the walls; they were clean and unmarked. "So what do you think it is?" asked Kintrell. "I don't know; the fire didn't get up this far, so it can't be from burning." Berk picked up his sword and carefully stepped around the ash pile. "Come on--and watch yourself." The second floor was apparently a display room. A panoply of armor and edged weapons occupied a third of the wall space, while maps of various kingdoms and tapestries took up the rest. "Would you look at this, Trell--this is what we came for!" Berk said with delight. "Now, what we're looking for are valuable things that we can carry and sell easily. You understand what I mean?" "Sure, Berk," replied Kintrell. "Nothing heavy--like those shields, or those big swords, right?" "Right. Now let's get to it." Berk shrugged off his pack and pulled out a large canvas bag; Kintrell did likewise. Berk moved over to a display case holding an assortment of silver tankards; finding the door locked, he smashed the glass with the hilt of his sword. Grinning, he began stuffing the tankards into the bag. After they had ransacked the room, the pair explored the turret for that floor. It turned out to be a library, much to Kintrell's delight. "Ol's balls," the young thief murmured, gazing at the shelves of books and scrolls. "You think these are his magic books?" "Probably," Berk said. Ignoring the shelves, he began rummaging through the drawers of the desk in the middle of the room. Finding only a sheaf of parchment and a stick of sealing wax, he turned away from the desk and saw with horror that Kintrell was happily tumbling the books off the shelves into his bag. "What in Xothar's name do you think you're doing?" he yelled, grabbing Kintrell's arm. The young man looked at him fearfully. "Y-you said I could keep any books we found!" "I know--but you can't take ALL of them! We have to leave room for the valuable stuff." "But books *are* valuable!" Berk thrust Kintrell away from him. "Look, just take the books out and leave them here. All right?" "But, Berk--" "DO IT!" Kintrell winced and began to comply. Berk looked at his friend and felt a sudden stab of guilt. He sighed heavily, then said, "All right, Trell, all right. You can take one, and if we have any room left over, you can come back and get a few more. Okay?" Kintrell brightened. "Okay, Berk!" "Great. Just meet me on the next floor." Berk shouldered his bag and left the room. Kintrell continued taking books out of the bag, and waited until he heard Berk's heavy bootsteps echo on the steps before rummaging around to see which book was worth keeping. Most of the tomes he examined had elaborately illuminated pages and neatly flowing script; one, however, was written with strange blocklike letters and contained no decoration. He looked at the book's leatherbound cover and ran his finger across a large gold symbol in the center. Just then, he heard Berk bellow for him to hurry up. Making his decision, Kintrell stuffed the tome into his bag and scurried down the stairs. Subsequent floors and turrets yielded items more to Berk's liking. His bag overflowed with silver candlesticks, ivory statuettes, small gemstones, and the like. After a while, the two paused briefly for a meal, eating on gold plates and drinking from fine crystal goblets. By late afternoon, they had filled their bags and backpacks, and had to fashion new bags using sheets from off the beds in one of the sleeping rooms they found. Berk continually checked his pendant, even though he was certain that the tower was indeed free of the wizard. He also kept finding mysterious piles of ash on the various levels of the tower, but soon ceased wondering about their origin the farther up they progressed. Eventually, they reached the top of the fifth turret. The room was completely dark, prompting Berk to instruct Kintrell to light a torch. In the flickering firelight, the pair saw that the walls of the room were covered with a heavy black cloth. Next to the wall stood a long low table draped with a silver cloth, and in the center of the room stood a massive table, on which was a dark cube- shaped object. "This was probably the wizard's conjuring room," mused Berk. He eyed the object on the table; Kintrell moved to stand next to him and wondered aloud what the object could be. "I'm not entirely sure," Berk replied. Curious, he unsheathed his sword and was about to poke the cube-shaped thing when Kintrell cried out, "No, don't!" "What, Trell?" "I-I don't think you should do that, Berk." "Why not? Think it's evil or something?" "It-it . . . " Kintrell shivered and cast his eyes nervously around the room. "I think we should leave this place." "All right, Trell, no need to wet yourself," Berk said. He sheathed his sword, glancing at his pendant as he did so. The crystal was still dark, as it had been ever since they entered the tower. It was supposed to glow in the presence of hostile magic, or so the jeweller he bought it from claimed. Then again, perhaps there were some forms of evil too subtle to be detected by magical means. A quick search of the room revealed nothing special. Berk ripped down the dark heavy cloth, which served merely to block the light coming in from the window. Satisfied that there was nothing to be gained in this room, he indicated to Kintrell that he was ready to leave. The young thief was staring out the slitted window next to the table by the wall, gazing out over the woodlands. At Berk's call, he turned and said, "This is the last room, so that means we're finished, right?" Berk nodded. "Not a bad haul, I'd say! Get your stuff and let's leave." Kintrell reached down and picked up his makeshift treasure bag, having left the backpack and canvas bag on the previous level. It resisted his pull; he yanked harder, but the bag remained fast. With all his might he gave the bag one final yank; the low table flipped over and Kintrell found himself tumbling backwards into the table in the center of the room. Berk dropped his bag and started forward to try and catch him, but was too late to prevent Kintrell from slamming down atop the dark cube. There was a crunching sound, and Kintrell screamed as he felt shards of the object dig into his back. "Trell!" Berk shouted as he raced to aid his companion. "Are you--" His words were cut off by a thin, shrill wail that suddenly pierced the air, accompanied by a burst of bright blue light that flared out from underneath Kintrell, where the dark cube had been. Berk helped his friend off the table. Kintrell moaned as Berk removed pieces of what looked like charred wood from the young man's back. Just then, another wail split the air; moments later, a violent tremor rippled through the tower. The two adventurers were thrown against the wall. Berk reached out to steady Kintrell, but suddenly clutched at his head as a searing pain shot through his mind. It lasted for only a second; Berk dropped his arms and saw Kintrell still holding his head. "Trell, are you okay?" Berk asked as he shook the young man by the shoulders. "W-what's happening, Berk?" Kintrell stammered, his eyes full of fear. "I don't know, Trell, but we're getting out of here right now." Berk picked up his bag and ushered Kintrell ahead of him down the steps. They hadn't gotten far when the tower shuddered violently for the second time. A bolt of pain hammered hard into Berk's brain, but this time did not subside. He let out a cry and pounded at the wall, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. He drew a deep breath and concentrated, fighting back against the mental agony. He opened his eyes and saw Kintrell hunched up against the wall. "Let's go, boy!" he shouted through gritted teeth. "It hurts, Berk, it hurts!" Kintrell wailed. "Come ON, damn it!" Berk growled, pulling the young man along. The tower trembled again as they emerged from the turret onto the fifth level, and the pair were thrown to the floor. Kintrell landed next to his canvas bag, which had tipped over and spilled out its contents. Concentrating against the haze of pain that clouded his mind, Kintrell focused and saw the book he had taken from the library. He reached out and clutched it to his chest, just as he felt Berk pull him to his feet. As he stumbled along in front of his friend, he felt a stiffness begin to creep into his arms. His breath started coming in short, ragged gasps. The pain in his mind was unrelenting. By the time they made their way down to the second level, the tower's shuddering had become severe enough to cause cracks in the walls and floor. Kintrell could barely move his legs. He stopped, causing Berk to stumble into him. "Keep moving, damn you! We've got to keep moving!" Berk screamed. "I-I can't!" Kintrell sobbed. Berk shoved him hard and shouted for him to get going. Kintrell started crying openly as he lurched into motion. They finally made it out of the tower and blundered down the forest trail. The pain had lessened somewhat, but the stiffness in their joints had become unbearable. Still, Berk kept them moving as fast as they were able. Kintrell's legs felt like solid stone. His arms had long since frozen around the leatherbound book. He desperately wanted to stop and rest, but Berk was cursing like a madman for him to keep going. Eventually, Kintrell's legs gave out and he crashed to the forest floor. He saw Berk stumble a few steps more, then fall heavily to the ground. Kintrell tried to will himself into motion, but found that his body no longer obeyed him. His arms were dead, useless, and he found that he could no longer even feel the book against his chest. _What's happening to me?_ he tried to scream, but his lips were locked together. The last vestiges of feeling left his body, and soon his eyes closed of their own volition. In a panic, Kintrell tried thrashing about, but it was as if he were encased in stone, or buried alive in cold, hard dirt. _Help me! Help me! OH BY ALL THE GODS THAT EVER LIVED, *HELP ME*!!!_ Mercifully, his mind ceased functioning not long afterwards. A few days later, Jongur the Hermit was chasing a rabbit through the forest when he came upon the petrified corpses in the middle of the trail. With a gasp of horror he dropped his sling fled from the scene, eyes wide with fright. He stood panting against a tree for several minutes, until his curiosity overcame his fear. He crept back to the scene and peered at the bodies from behind a bush. They looked very much like statues hewn from a flaky light-grey stone; indeed, he might have assumed that that was the case, were it not for the items they held. One man lay on his side, clutching a bulging bag made of a heavy blue cloth; the other lay on his back, an expression of sheer terror frozen on his face, clasping a large book to his chest. Jongur estimated that they had not been there for very long, as he had crossed this trail seven days ago. The hermit sat on the ground, considering the bodies. With a shock he remembered that he was near the old wizard's green tower. For as long as he had lived in the woods, the area around the tower felt foreboding and sinister, as if some unseen force wished to keep everyone away. Then, of course, there were the strange vines that seemed to have a life of their own and a singular purpose to discourage people from approaching too closely. Jongur had learned to avoid the tower, until one day not long ago when he pursued a deer into the tower's sphere of influence. The vines were gone, as well as the sense of the unseen presence. He assumed that the wizard had died at last, and with him whatever magic he had used to ward his home. He found that the game in the tower area was more plentiful than that patch of woods around his hovel, most likely because hunters avoided the tower as well. But now, Jongur feared that the wizard was not truly dead, and had cursed these two for plundering the tower. The hermit had always assumed that if he did not bother the wizard, the wizard would likewise leave him alone. But with this direct evidence of the wizard's apparent malice, he wasn't so sure. He no longer felt safe in these woods; it was probably best that he leave and find another place to live. But where? Back in the town? He shook his head sadly at the memories: the fire, his family's death, the months of begging on the street, the constant fear of being attacked by other beggars for what he managed to collect. No, he couldn't go back, yet neither could he continue to live here. Unless.... Jongur eyed the blue bag that the man nearest to him held. Perhaps he had gotten away with some of the wizard's wealth? Hope rose in his chest. He unsheathed his knife and slowly crept over to the man. A few pokes on the man's arm with the knife caused small grey bits to flake off. Satisfied that the man was completely inert, he pulled on the bag, but it remained firmly in the man's grasp. He then cut a slit in the bag and ripped it open. Various objects of silver, crystal, and gold spilled out onto the ground. Jongur let out a cry of delight; if he could sell these, he would be a rich man and could try to start his life over again. His mind raced with plans on how to carry the wealth back to his home, and how best to go about selling them. He stuffed as much as he could into the burlap sack that he used to carry home his kills. He was about to leave when he caught sight of the book the other man held. He went over and pulled the book out from under the man's arms, accidentally breaking one of them off as he did so. The strange gold symbol on the cover of the book fascinated him; whatever the book was about, he was certain it would fetch a good price. He tucked the tome under his arm and hurried home. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Quest by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr b.c.k.a. Recap A young man named Dyalar living in Trasath - a very small village which doesn't seem normal even to the inexperienced youth who has lived there all his life - is apprenticed at age 14 to his uncle, a blacksmith named Lavran whose shop is in the City of Dargon. The lad goes to Dargon and gradually learns smith-craft from his Uncle Lavran. At age 16, after a hearty celebration of Midsummer's day, he is lured from his bed by a falling star and dreams of what he might do with a lump of the fabled sky-iron. He finds the fallen star, as well as two religious symbols - an oak- branch shaped from amber, and a strange silver-like chalice. From that day, he seems to gain a 'guardian angel' which keeps him out of serious harm. Several more years pass. And, just a few weeks before King Haralan's 36th birthday Dyalar dreams that he takes his three treasures and forges a sword from them with the help of an unseen entity. As he dreams that he is taking the rosy-gold sword from its final cooling bath, he awakes to find that it was not a dream and that he now has a Quest to complete. Without telling anyone, he sets out upon it. Part 2 I curled myself up as small as possible in the corner of an abandoned but not ruined woodland chapel. I covered myself as best as I could with my blankets as well as branches and leaves I had brought in when I'd arrived. I was still a little cold and I knew I would be colder when the small fire went out, but the weather wasn't yet bad enough to be dangerous. Still, as I drifted off to sleep I hoped that I would get some kind of direction on my quest soon - I had been wandering all but aimlessly for the past three days and it was getting too late in the season to be so deep in the forest alone and far from any civilization. I dreamed the Dream that night. Confusion, fear, struggle, a ring of dancing figures, a knife, pain - and I woke, sitting up and gasping at the pain in my chest, barely noticing the cold of the chapel. It took me a few minutes to calm down, but soon I was trying to rearrange my 'nest', which had been scattered by my thrashing. I was confused by the intensity of the Dream - normally by this time of year, the Dream only produced a vague sense of unease and a slight twinge in my chest, and it rarely even woke me up. Once I was ready again for sleep, it came swiftly and with a strong scent of roses. I fell immediately into dreaming again, but this time I saw only a familiar village square and no nightmare. A voice that was ghostly even for a dream seemed to say, 'Return to Trasath - your Quest leads homeward...' and I slipped too deeply into sleep to remember what further I may have dreamed. Seven years after I left it, and two days after the night in the chapel, I rode back into Trasath. I hadn't even realized that my 'aimless' wandering had in fact been leading me in the direction of my home village. But if I hadn't stumbled upon a trail just where it was marked by a Fretheod obelisk that had been used as a mile-marker and sign-post to Trasath (among other villages, including Dargon itself) the morning after my dream-message in the chapel, I might have wandered in the woods for far longer than two days. Trasath seemed so tiny to me now! After the vastness of Dargon, my home village was but a clustering of houses about a central well, with the single inn looking even smaller than my uncle's house. As I rode into the central square, the few people out and about looked askance at me, and no one hailed me though I saw recognition in the eyes of a few. I turned my horse down one of the three short side streets the village boasted to my father's house, feeling the suspicious stares biting into my back as I rode. Father's house hadn't changed much save that it seemed a bit run down. I dismounted and tied my horse's reins to the ring by the door and knocked. I was fairly sure he would be home as it was close to sundown, and in any case mother would be there. After a short wait during which I knocked two more times, the door opened slowly and I laid eyes on my Father. He was almost as much changed as my perception of Trasath had been. He seemed shorter, older, thinner, and much more worry-worn. His hair had gone streaky-grey, and his face bore lines too deeply etched for one who was not ancient. He stared at me for a moment, then said shakily, "Son? Dyalar?" He opened his arms and we embraced, hugging fiercely and slapping backs in our love and happiness at seeing each the other again. When we finally broke apart, it seemed as if much of the worry and fear that had been in his face was gone and he stood up straight and proud, looking at me up and down. "Come in, come in son. I was just sitting down to dinner - join me and tell me about Dargon and why you're here." I followed him into the house, idly noting the slightly untidy look of the front room. Something didn't seem right there - something was missing. I knew that mother would never have allowed even so slight a degree of disorder creep into her house. As we crossed to the dining room, I asked, "Father, is mother away visiting someone? It just looks like no one has cleaned in here in a while." He stopped stock still, and all the improvement in his bearing that seeing me had produced now vanished like a spring frost beneath the first rays of the sun. He sat down on the nearest chair and drew me down into the one next to it. "So, Lavran didn't tell you. I thought he wouldn't, but I forgot in the joy of seeing you again. Son, your mother has been dead these past six years. It was - a fever, caught the winter after you left. The village healer could do nothing for it. She...she didn't suffer..." He broke off, consumed by his remembered grief. I, too, grieved. I was shocked to hear that mother was dead, and even more so that Uncle had known but not told me. I would have thought nothing more about the manner of mother's death had not the familiar scent of roses intruded into the grief father and I were sharing, and a sense that father was not being fully truthful with me grew in the back of my mind. The feeling didn't indicate malice, but rather fear, and it seemed to have something to do with my quest. We eventually comforted each other sufficiently to have dinner, and we talked about what I had been doing and what he had been doing but not in depth. After catching each other up in a general way, father said he had to get some sleep as he had work to do early in the morning, but he promised to leave work as soon as he was able and we would talk more then. I was given my old room to stay in, though it took a while to get it cleaned up and ready to be lived in even for a night. Finally it was ready, and I sank into my old bed that was a little too short for my adult body and fell asleep. When I began to dream, it was very much like the night I had forged the sword - everything seemed real but even though I was doing it there seemed to be something between the 'me' that was observing and the 'me' that was doing. In my dream (which I knew probably wasn't actually a dream), I got out of bed and dressed warmly. Then, taking the sword out of its makeshift scabbard, I made my way silently out of the house and to the small paddock where I had put up my horse after dinner. I rode cautiously to the farmhouse of a man named Arndil. I dismounted a short distance from the house and walked the rest of the way silently. As I drew nearer and nearer the house, my sword began to glow faintly silver. I crept into the house and to Arndil's room - he had never been married as far as I knew, and he seemed to be alone in the house. As I stood beside Arndil's bed looking down at him, I felt hate rise up in me. I saw him in a memory that was not my own, but that was as vivid as if it must be something I had seen or done. I saw Arndil dancing in a ring with seven other men, all naked, all chanting, with "myself" bound and helpless at the center. Only Arndil was sharply enough defined in my dream-memory to recognize - who the other seven were I did not know. All eight were chanting dark and evil chants, invoking someone or something named 'Hanarl, Savior of Trasath', and intoning that I must be sacrificed to keep the village safe. The memory faded enough that I again saw Arndil in his bed in my dream. Hatred flooded my body, and I raised my sword high over my head, taking a two- handed grip on the barely-long-enough hilt. I knew that the hate in my body wasn't my own, but belonged to whomever owned that memory, and that person or thing had total control of me. The sword descended, driven by my muscles hardened by long hours at the forge swinging heavy hammers and by the will of my possessor, aimed at the totally unprotected and unsuspecting body of the sleeping Arndil - or so I thought. The blade met an obstruction in clear air about 6 inches from the sleeping body with a jar that rattled my teeth but made no noise. I was startled by the unseen barrier but my puppeteer wasn't. The blade hadn't slid from the barrier like it might have from a curved metal shield; it seemed to have bit into the resistance like an ax into a log. My muscles strained and the blade sank slowly against the resistance. As it bit deeper and deeper, the sword began to glow a fierce gold unlike its previous subdued silver radiance, and I marveled to see the invisible shield-like thing protecting Arndil from the blade begin to glow reddish-white, more red near the cloven part, revealing the shape of the protection. The thing that possessed me continued to struggle to force my blade through Arndil's protection, the farmer/priest still sleeping, blissfully unaware of his danger. Inch by fractional inch, the golden-glowing blade neared Arndil's flesh and finally, my body sweating with the effort, the keen edge reached its target and drew blood from Arndil's arm. The instant that blood was drawn, the protection collapsed and Arndil awoke, gasping in startled fear. He seemed totally unprepared for an attack, both mentally and physically, but my puppeteer didn't give him time to gather himself together. The sword was already drawn back over my shoulder, and after my stance was adjusted slightly, it was swung again. It connected with Arndil's outstretched arm with all the force my body could muster and sheared clean through it, coming to rest deep within Arndil's chest and killing him cleanly. But that wasn't enough for my possessor. It forced my body to continue to hack and chop, rendering the man into so much meat and blood, and continuing when there was no more Arndil to carve by hacking his bed into flinders as well. Finally, the hatred within me cooled, and the strain of what had been done to me dulled even my dream perceptions so that I was just barely aware of being guided back to my horse, and then back to my Father's house and my bed. My exhaustion kept me asleep well into the morning. When I finally awoke, my hopes (faint, at best) that the past night's dream had been just that were dashed when I saw the rust-brown of dried blood on my clothes (not the ones I had worn to bed, either), my sheets, and my skin. My golden sword was on the floor beside the bed, and while it wasn't stained, the floorboards around it were. It took me a while to drag myself out of bed. Up 'till the past night, the strangenesses in my life had been good, interesting things: being dragged out into the forest by a falling star and finding three treasures instead of one; my 'guardian spirit' keeping me safe for my destiny; and the 'presence' that had helped me forge my golden sword. But now those strangenesses had turned sinister and ugly with the carnage it seemed all but certain I had been forced to commit. I was heartsick, but I didn't want my father to know. I hardened my resolve and began to clean myself and my room before leaving Trasath and my 'quest' behind. Dried blood is not easy to get out of cloth, and even harder to get out of floorboards, but I succeeded. After packing my things, few as they were, I checked once more to be sure that no evidence of my dream-walk remained to incriminate my Father, I saddled up Sock and rode for Dargon. The trail took me through the village again, and if I had doubted that I had really killed Arndil despite the blood on my clothes and person that morning, I was made sure that someone had killed the farmer as I rode through the central square of my former home. I only heard bits and pieces of other conversations, as no one seemed to take much notice of me, but the topic of everyone's discussions was the mysterious and messy death of Arndil. I was sure that some of my former friends were eyeing me with suspicion even though I had bundled the golden sword in some blankets tied behind my saddle. And I could feel every pair of eyes in my back as I left Trasath, for good this time. But, as I rode down the main trail toward Dargon, my vision began to cloud. The Dream, which had rarely come to me in the daytime, and then only on MidSummer's Day itself, now obscured my perceptions and I noticed the resemblance between my nightmare-Dream and the memory that had preceded the carnage last night. In fact, my Dream seemed to be a distorted shadow of the memory of the person who had controlled me! The Dream intensified - the confusion, the fear, the pain...and then it was gone, and I found myself riding up to my Father's door. I tried to leave Trasath for the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, but I could not. Always the Dream would come, disorienting me and removing me from control of my horse, Sock. And when the Dream faded away, I would be back at my Father's door or, as in the last few tries, in the paddock behind Father's house beginning to strip Sock of my equipment. Finally, I gave up in despair - I couldn't leave Trasath of my own accord. I wasn't very good company for my Father that afternoon and evening. He could tell I was depressed, and maybe even that I was afraid of something. But, I couldn't tell him what was going on. Not that I couldn't have - nothing was keeping me from it, unlike my wish to leave Trasath - but I wasn't sure enough of him and the situation in the village to fully trust anyone with what was happening to me. If Uncle Lavran were here, or maybe even Leriel...I could have talked to either one of them. But I just wasn't close enough to my Father - I didn't know him, had never known him well enough to talk about something like this. We both decided to retire early. I went to my room, but I didn't want to sleep. I lay on the bed and wished with all my might that I wouldn't go out dream- walking again, or that if I was dragged from my bed that the thing controlling me would explain what was going on and why I was part of it. Somewhere in the middle of my wishing, and sometime before my exhaustion forced me where I didn't want to go - into sleep - I made up my mind that if I did go dream-walking, and I didn't learn why, that I would take steps to make sure that I wouldn't be used any further. This time my dream-walking didn't intrude into my sleep until my body was dismounting Sock at the gate of a family named Harnolt. As soon as I realized that this wasn't an ordinary dream, I began fighting, but it was no use. As my body was carried forward cautiously to the front door of the moderate farm house, my sword began to glow a deep, rich red which seemed to throw a shell around me. Somehow I was made aware that this glow, like the others, had a function - the deep red was to shield me from sight until I had reached my goal. I entered the house silently and paced through the rooms surely, as if I had no doubt of my destination. I passed through the rooms of the children, then their parents, all unseen, and finally stopped in the room of Brenn Harnolt, grandfather to the children in the other room, father to the man who now ran the farm. Once again, the Dream in its pure form rose up in me. This time, I recognized only Brenn in the circle of eight dancing men, although one of the other figures was little more than a moving blot of darkness rather than a shadowy blur and I realized that the blot must be the deceased Arndil. I wondered whether this hell was supposed to continue until all eight of the dancers were dead - but I was determined that it wouldn't. I tried to remain distant from the hate and rage that poured through me, called up by the pure Dream and the sight of Brenn sleeping there on the bed. My body wasn't affected by my withdrawal - it raised the sword and brought it down with all my might, only to be stopped again by a shield like the one that had tried to protect Arndil. As before, the blade began to glow gold, and the shield began to glow red in protest as it was slowly riven by the magic forged into the alloyed sky- iron. Soon, the shield was thoroughly pierced, and first blood was drawn. But Brenn seemed more prepared than had Arndil. When the shield went down and Brenn woke up, he recovered from his shock swiftly and drew a dagger from beneath his pillow. I guess that the death of Arndil had forewarned the rest of the dancers, but I wondered how Brenn proposed defend himself with a dagger from someone who had made mincemeat of Arndil. I found out quickly: the dagger was magic. Brenn was an old man, with thin, withered arms and a skinny, frail body. However, when my body took a swing at him with all the strength in my back and legs, he was able to catch the blade in the vee of dagger-blade and hilt and the force of my blow was totally absorbed by his weapon - he probably didn't even feel the power my body had put into it. And, despite age and fragility, Brenn had probably been a fighter once, and he was still agile if not fast - I was just a metalsmith with occasional dreams of being a swordsman. Brenn flicked my blade aside (another magical property of his dagger) and riposted unexpectedly into my stomach. Fortunately, my puppeteer had good reflexes and I backed up enough to turn a possibly fatal stabbing into a shallow wounding. This only made my puppeteer madder, and it began to hack and slash, attacking mercilessly and untiringly. I had occasion to notice that my sword was again glowing red, its light encompassing the whole room, keeping the sounds of our battle from the rest of the house. I also noticed that every time my blade struck the dagger, a spark of blue light was struck. It started out very small, unnoticeable the first few times, but it increased by larger amounts with each blow. As the spark grew larger and brighter, I noticed that Brenn seemed to feel the shock of the contact of the blades more and more. He seemed to know what this meant well before I did, because he began to get desperate, making wild moves, throwing things to distract me, calling out for help. I finally figured out that just as the blade had sheered through the shielding that had protected the man earlier, it was now somehow canceling out the magic in the dagger little by little. And eventually, when my puppeteer took one last swing which was parried frantically by Brenn, the dagger-blade broke and my blade carried through and into Brenn's chest. This fight had been even worse than the last one in terms of how drained I already felt. My controller managed to force my body to mutilate Brenn's but not to the extent it had Arndil's, and it left the rest of the room intact. I lost awareness even before I had left the house, hoping that my puppeteer could get me home in such a condition. It was past noon when I woke, and even though that meant that I had slept for almost half a day, I was still tired and achy from the exertions I had been forced through in the night. Again, there was blood everywhere - and this time, some of it was mine. But, when I bent to examine the wound that Brenn had given me, I was shocked to find no trace of it on my body. My tunic was slashed and blood stained, but there was no mark on my stomach. I looked over to where the golden sword had been laid across a chair propped against my door and marveled at the magic thing that I had somehow created. I cleaned my room again, removing all traces of blood and struggle. Then I ate a meal big enough to feed half of Dargon, or so it seemed, so hungry was I. All the while, I was trying to figure out a way to end the dream-walking I was being forced into. As I saddled Sock, the solution came to me - I would used the sword that I had made to kill myself, and thereby end the killing I was doing unwillingly. Loath to end my life without need, I tried once more to leave Trasath, this time by back ways. But, I was still blocked from escaping my destiny in that manner. So when I came out of the Dream again in front of my father's house I decided to escape in the only other way open to me. I turned Sock away from my father's house to find a clearing in the woods around Trasath in which to end my life. I followed our side street until it ended just past Jefirt's house, who lived on the outskirts of the village. Choosing one of the faint trails that continued into the forest from the end of the street at random, I rode on, taking side paths and navigating forks totally without pattern. Just about the time I began to think it strange that I hadn't found a clearing yet, I came to a very large cleared space that would be perfect for my purposes. It was about as large as Trasath's Square, oval in shape, with several large stones placed about it. It almost seemed familiar in some way, but I was sure I had never been there before. I dismounted Sock and looped his reins over the saddle. He would stay in the area for a while cropping the dying grass in the clearing, but if I was successful in my mission he would be free to wander off back to town. I removed the golden sword from behind the saddle and moved into the center of the clearing. I knelt in the grass and unwrapped the sword, admiring one last time the work that had been done on it. It was a beautiful weapon, but even though my hands had fashioned it I couldn't take credit for its creation. I wondered whether I would learn who HAD created it and why after I was dead... I had already pondered the difficulties of self-destruction with a sword, but the basic problem was solved by the presence of the stones in the clearing. I placed the hilt of the sword in the angle of a stone and the ground, which would keep it from moving away from me. Then, I placed the point of the sword against my chest between two ribs and to the left of the breastbone. I leaned forward enough for the point to catch in my tunic, then paused for a moment. I silently said farewell to my father, Uncle Lavran and Aunt Mellide, my friends in Dargon, Leriel (who was more than a friend, though I would never get to find out how much more now)... As I tried to remember the people I should be taking leave of, the Dream began to intrude upon my consciousness. Flashes of the circle of dancing men were interspersed among the faces of loved ones. One moment I could feel the ropes binding me as the men danced and chanted, and the next I was kneeling down with the golden sword at my chest. Somewhere in that confusion, I recognized that the clearing I was kneeling in was the same as the one where the naked men danced and chanted in my Dream. Also, somewhere in the confusion, I realized that when I concentrated on the sword, the Dream faded away. Grasping at that straw, I centered my attention on the sword until all vestiges of the confusion were gone and I was once again only kneeling in the center of the clearing. Quickly, then, before whatever was trying to stop me found another tactic, I bade a quick farewell to everyone I had not thought of before, and began to lean forward. Just as I felt the tip of the sword draw blood from my chest, there was a flash of very bright, very white light, and I heard the command, "STOP!" And, I found myself obeying. Completely. I couldn't even turn around to see from whence the command had come - I was immobile. Presently, I felt hands on my shoulders pulling me back gently so that my chest came away from the sword's tip, letting it fall to the ground. The hands pulled me to my feet, turned me, and pushed me gently to the edge of the clearing and into the trees. There, just beyond the edge of the clearing was a pair of ancient oak trees, huge and spreading, shaded to a deep green by the layers of leaves between them and the sun. Nothing but the barest forest undergrowth carpeted the ground beneath them - their age and size precluded anything else taking root within their demesnes - creating a shadowed clearing about their bases. I was guided just to the edge of this dark green clearing by the hands at my shoulders, and then a voice said, "Be free again." As volition returned to my body and I slumped back down to my knees I felt an overwhelming wave of nearly divine power emanating from that natural temple that drove me to prostrate myself without really wanting to. A shape moved briefly within the shadows, and then it faded away along with the awe inspiring sense of power. Before I had even begun to recover, hands took hold of my shoulders again, and a voice I almost recognized said, "Get up, Dyalar. Herne doesn't much like the reaction even the shadow of his partial avatar elicits, which is why I'm here to enlist your aid." As I was helped back to my knees and then to my feet I reflected that that natural temple was a perfect place to meet the Protector of the Forests. Some argued that Herne was more of an elemental force than a deity of some kind, but whichever he was, he certainly had the power to bend mortals to his will. It was in his favor then that he didn't like to use it. Back on my feet I turned to see whose hands had aided me, to confront the impossible. I recognized the voice now, just as I recognized the face, although I hadn't seen it in about 10 years. She hadn't changed at all, but then she wouldn't have - she was my sister Keryin, and she was dead. But she didn't look dead. Dressed in her favorite grey-green gown, black hair tied back with blue and green ribbons, eyes flashing blue, cheeks rosy-red, a budding rose the same color tucked into her hairband over her right ear - she looked exactly as I remembered her going off to the village dance two nights before she died. I said, "Keryin, is it really you? Are you...How could you be alive? Or...a-am I d-d-dead?" She hugged me tightly, feeling very solid, and said, "It's me, Dy. I'm not alive - not really. And you are not dead. We are both here to do the will of Herne and eliminate the evil that dwells in Trasath. From the moment of my death, I, with his help, have been working towards this day. The story is long, but you need to know it all." She began to speak, and her story was almost too bizarre to be believed. I probably wouldn't have believed it were it not for two things. One was Keryin herself, who had been dead for 10 years. The other was the already fading memory of the glimpse of Herne I had been granted. At that moment, there was no way I could doubt anything said in Herne's name. Keryin's tale began with the Wolf Winter, and its effects on our tiny village. Dargon was a prosperous duchy, for all that it was on the northern end of the Kingdom, and even though Trasath was somewhat isolated from most of the duchy, it had always done well for itself. But the Wolf Winter had eliminated half the population of the village, and had provided the means for an evil force to gain a foothold there. Certain powerhungry citizens had been influenced into calling forth from the Dark Places an entity known as Hanarl. Eight members of the community, under the leadership of Master Dineel, the village innkeeper, had made a pact with the spider-like being to provide it with the sacrifices it wished in return for being given power over the entire village. Considering the weakened state of Trasath at the time, and the promises made that such a disaster as the Wolf Winter would never happen again, the village had little choice but to give in to the Octacle and to Hanarl's demands. After that, twice yearly, at ceremonies everyone over a certain age were required to attend, a sacrifice was made to Hanarl of one of the villagers, chosen by lottery. Those two were only the mandatory sacrifices, however. At any time, the Octacle, or even anyone who knew about them, could demand that some supposed wrong could be paid for by sacrifice. Wanderers were frequently the subject of these kinds of sacrifices, but never often enough to arouse suspicions. The Octacle's hold was maintained by blackmail - if anyone left the village knowing of Hanarl's grip on the populace, it was communicated to them that if they told anyone, a loved one would be the next victim of sacrifice. If the person didn't have a loved one to be held, he wasn't allowed away from the village, and if he tried to get away, he was invariably captured and sacrificed. Keryin had been one of those 'extra' sacrifices. At that dance, she had been propositioned by Dineel's son and had turned him down. Repeatedly. In front of everyone, and not politely. Two days later, she had been taken in the middle of the square by Master Dineel and four other men, accused of blasphemy against Hanarl, and sentenced to sacrifice. No one had been able to do anything to save her, because the entire village was in the same precarious position. Her loss had been covered up - none of the children in the village knew of Hanarl and the Octacle, and Father was even more determined that I should not know of them after Keryin was killed by them. He talked to Lavran and made the deal that got me removed from Trasath. It also got him in trouble with the Octacle, but he had thought it worth getting me out of danger's way. But the Octacle had retaliated against him for saving me. He had been lying to me about Mother's death. Keryin told me that her name had been forced to come up for the Mid-Summer sacrifice lottery and that the Octacle had duly killed her on the Stones of Hanarl as they had killed countless others before and after her. "But, now you are here, Dyalar, wielding the Sword of Herne. Ever since my wrongful death, Herne has been using both of us - you through me - to work toward an end of Hanarl. You were guided to the ruined chapel to find the Branch and Chalice, and thereafter to find the sky iron. Once these objects of Power were in your possession, I was able to reach you at times, enabling me to protect you even from the order of form Herne removed me to after my body was slain. Then, when the stars were right, we both moved you to create the Sword out of the three artifacts you had found and a portion of your own soul, for only a weapon possessed of the powers those four things would give it could possibly conquer the Octacle of Hanarl that ensnares Trasath." "Why didn't you just tell me?" I asked after letting Keryin's explanation sink in. "I would have been happy to help you - done anything to avenge your death and mother's." "It would have been too dangerous, Dy. The Octacle is very powerful, and even though they have ruled supreme in Trasath for 17 years, they still fear the day that someone comes to depose them. The two that we killed still slept under the shield given them by Hanarl even this long after anyone has thought to try to kill one of the Octacle in their sleep. And they have their ways to detect surface thoughts that they use mostly on strangers - which you qualify as. If you had ridden into town with death and destruction on your mind, you wouldn't have lasted 5 minutes, Sword or no. "The plan was to have you - us - eliminate four of the Octacle and then challenge Master Dineel with his power severely diminished by the halving of his priests. But, we had not counted on your attention during the night raids, nor on your reaction to those raids. I'm really sorry you found what I was directing you to do so distressing. Perhaps I did get a little carried away, but then they did kill me, after all..." "But, now that I know..." I began, but Keryin interrupted me. "Yes, now that you know, the plan has changed. Your moral outrage at what was being done to you impresses Herne, even though it put our plan in jeopardy. Though you were an instrument of Right, you did not know it. You sought to end the carnage in the only way you could find since you knew not the purpose of the killings and only that such killings were wrong. "That is why Herne intervened today, in violation of the rules imposed upon powers like him by pact and law. And, ironically, it was Hanarl's breaking of the rules so long ago which tipped the Balance far enough in his favor that Herne feels justified in making the small transgressions he has - manifesting the merest fraction of himself on this Order of Form, and allowing me full access to this Order of Form (if temporarily) - as efforts to right the Balance. "And he wouldn't do it even then if it wasn't so important. Hanarl has grand plans, and Trasath is only a testing ground. It works slowly, wanting to be sure of Itself, and in doing so It has amassed a great deal of power here. It must be stopped soon, for if It is not, the whole world is in jeopardy. "You might think that Trasath is an unlikely place for such evil as Hanarl to begin his conquest of Makdiar from - it is, after all, just a small hamlet in the wilds of Dargon. However, the Balance is a delicate thing. Hanarl managed to use the forces of Nature - essentially a part of the Balance itself - to goad certain people in Trasath to helping it tip the Balance in favor of Chaos just a bit, but it was enough. Trasath is small, and Hanarl doesn't have enough worshipers here to draw strength from homage. But he gains even more power from the sacrifices its Octacle performs. Soon it will be ready to spread its influence to more hamlets and villages. As its power grows, and the Balance skews ever farther toward Chaos, Hanarl will move faster and faster, gobbling up towns, cities, whole countries. Unless forces are brought into play on the side of Order and the Balance is restored. "And this is what we must do. We are the forces of Order arrayed against Hanarl's forces of Chaos. It is not as it was planned, but I believe that we can still prevail against Hanarl's minions. You, the sword ... and myself as an added element - it will be enough. It has to be." She stopped speaking for a moment, head tilted slightly as if she was listening to something I couldn't hear. When her eyes refocused, she said, "If you accept our mission, we should be about it. Herne's brief intervention here caused ripples that the Octacle has noticed. We would be foolish to wait around here for their response - we would be at a distinct disadvantage anywhere near their unholy ground. Herne's last words to me were that if we are able to defeat Dineel, Hanarl will be forced to retreat and the other priests will become powerless. He gives us his blessings, but can do no more at all for us now. "So, what do you say, brother?" I put off giving Keryin a definite answer by taking steps to get us away from the Stones of Hanarl. Riding back to Trasath with Keryin mounted behind me, I tried to figure out what to do next. Keryin seemed to believe that the Octacle of Hanarl was a formidable foe, but also that I could defeat them. I wasn't as sure. The only magic I had ever faced had been in the last two days and while it was overwhelming, it was also frightening. I didn't know enough about my skill or the Sword to believe I could stand against a directed attack from a fully aware and prepared opponent. But, I also didn't think I had a choice. "What should I do?" I finally asked Keryin, hoping that she would have the answers I couldn't find due to her 'special' status. "What do you think you should do, Dy?" she responded. "Well," I replied, "my options are rather limited, aren't they? I mean the only thing I can think of is to ride into the village square and cry challenge on Master Dineel, then wait for him to accept and fight." "You have one other option - well, two actually. You could, if you chose, simply leave Trasath. The binding Herne put on you to keep you in the village has been lifted - he didn't want to coerce you any further to his work." "No," I said. "I don't know if I can defeat Master Dineel, but I know I must try, for yours and Mother's sake, as well as all of the others who died at the hands of Hanarl's minions - I can't just run away and let more die." "I didn't think you would," Keryin said, squeezing me affectionately. "So, your other viable option is to sneak up on Master Dineel and kill him before he has a chance to kill you." "But that's not honorable!" I said, indignant that she would suggest such a thing. "Neither is Dineel or his master, Hanarl. You should know that even if you follow the forms and conventions of single combat by calling Challenge on Master Dineel, there is nothing in his makeup that would force *him* to follow them. I can guarantee that the remainder of the Octacle would be stationed around the Square waiting for the right moment to strike at you, with Dineel's approval, and even at his orders. If your opponent will not play by the rules, why should you?" "Because, if I didn't, I would be as bad as he!" "That, brother, would depend on why you were doing it. What you now have to decide is which power - whose "honor" - you wish to follow. True, within the confines of what you term honor, sneaking up on and killing Dineel with no warning is wrong. However, if you did it because it was necessary, the only way you have a chance of killing the man, and the man's death is for the greater good, then you would be following the Honor of Herne and of the Balance. "Herne has enlisted you to remove Hanarl from this Order of Form. He has placed on you no restrictions on the "right" way to do this, only that it be done. Do you agree that it must be done?" "Well, yes...of course..." "Then is it more important that it be done your way, with a challenge that Dineel will ignore and you will possibly die from, or that it be done in the surest way possible?" "I...I don't know, Ker. I always thought....Which is right?" "I can't tell you that, brother. I can only present the options." "But, don't you know? Why won't you help me?" "No, Dy, I don't know which is "right". I know which I would do, but you must decide which you will do. Both Herne and I trust you - you will do the best you can to eliminate Hanarl, no matter which you chose." Still trying to decide, I guided Sock up to my Father's house and dismounted. I was somewhat confused by the idea that "honor" wasn't a constant thing - something solid and absolute to measure your life against. Then, as if in a flash, I realized that "honor" WAS a constant thing, it was the form of the honor that was fluid. The codes that I had learned during my time in Dargon were only one embodiment of the concept. But, they could be set aside if there was a higher guidance - which I had in the form of Herne's directive. It *was* honorable to kill Dineel from ambush, as long as I was doing it for a greater cause than the filling of my purse, or the betterment of myself or my liegelord. I was serving Herne and the Balance in this. I had decided. I secured Sock's reins to the hitching post before Father's house and noticed that the front door was slightly ajar. I was sure I had closed it, but then, considering the errand I had left upon, I realized that I could as easily have left it standing wide as locked it. I closed it, and turned to Keryin. "Dineel's death is more important than adherence to a set of rules." I said. "We're going to the Inn to catch him unawares. Let's go." I set out towards town and the back way to the inn, but I soon noticed that Keryin was not following. I turned around found her walking back towards the woods. "Ker! Where are you going?" I called out. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Remember the shortcut we found racing Minia and Phin to the bakery? Come on!" Only with her prompting did I remember the shortcut - as young children, we had all been forbidden to enter the forest around Trasath for any reason. The village was small, so it wasn't a problem in most cases. However, at the end of the week it had been the custom for Dorinach, Trasath's Baker, to cool her pies on the back porch of her shop. Minia and Phin, the children of our neighbors, my sister and I would often race over there in the late afternoon to take in the lovely aromas and get first pick of the castoffs of Dorinach's baking. There usually wasn't much in the way of castoffs, so the first one to arrive got the best bent tarts, or broken cookies. Keryin had discovered a way to shorten the run down several alleys to the bakery by skirting one edge of the village and taking a trail through the forest to the end of the alley that ran behind the village square. And, as I began to run after her swiftly moving form, I realized that the bakery was right next to the Inn. Sneaking through the alley as silently as we were able, we approached the Inn. I saw that Keryin's shortcut had been a very good idea - there was someone at the entrance of the cross-alley just the other side of the Inn, and at the end of this alley where it met Trainer's Way. It seemed that Master Dineel had posted guards, but only along the most likely ways for me to get to the Inn from my father's house. Now moving even more silently and keeping a wary eye on the two guards who had no thoughts of anyone approaching the Inn from behind them (fortunately), we neared the rear door of Master Dineel's home. It seemed that luck was with us - the door was open, probably to facilitate the warning that the guards expected to give Dineel of our approach. I led the way through the pantry and kitchen of the Inn. The top half of the door between the kitchen and the front room was open so that it was easy to hear the conference going on in there. Keryin and I crouched by the door and listened. "...s properly secured by the well, Master. We had no trouble taking him either." I identified the voice as that of Ederavin, one of Father's best friends and who lived next door. "Good." This was Dineel. "Then we have a hold over the young troublemaker. Ederavin, I want you to stand next to Himran and be ready to answer Dyalar's challenge. Don't worry - you're just there to distract him for a moment. To make sure that Dyalar takes the bait, however, I want you to take this wand. It has enough power stored in it to do substantial damage to the person you touch with this metal end. I won't ask you to try to get close enough to Dyalar to use it on him - the wand isn't capable of discharging swiftly, and I'm not interested in putting another of the octacle at risk. However, if you use it on Himran, you will both be avenging the years of slights that man has done to us, and you will be sure to distract his son long enough for the rest of us to act." "As you will, Master," was Ederavin's reply. I thought I heard a note of regret in his voice, but such was Dineel and Hanarl's hold on the octacle that even the prospect of torturing his best friend didn't sway Ederavin from obeying. And it was only by concentrating on what my mission was that I kept from leaping up right then and trying (futilely, most likely) to keep them from harming my father at all. "To continue," said Dineel. "Feyarin," who was Trasath's shoemaker, "you take the remainder of the octacle and hide in various positions around the edges of the square - make sure you have a good view of the well. While you wait, concentrate upon Hanarl. I will take up a position at the edge of Tailor's Way, out of direct sight of the well. As we wait, I will be entreating our god to supply us with the means of destroying our enemy. When Dyalar enters the square to challenge Ederavin for the life of his father, you will each be filled with the Venom of Hanarl. Release it at Dyalar, and he will be utterly destroyed. We can then rebuild the fullness of the octacle and put our plans back on schedule." With a chorus of "As Hanarl demands, by the Master," the conference broke up. I heard them leave, talking softly to each other. When there had been no sound for a minute or so, I peeked cautiously over the edge of the lower part of the door and was relieved to find that the front room was empty. Cautiously, I went through the kitchen door and crossed the small front room that also served as a tavern. The front door had been left open as well, and I peered through it. I saw Ederavin standing by the well next to the limp form of my father, who had been bound hand and foot as well as being secured to one of the spit-posts by a goodly length of rope wrapped about his chest. Ederavin looked at Father sorrowfully, then stared at the short, black, silver-capped rod he held. After a moment his face took on a look of resolve, and he reached out to touch the silver end of the rod to my father's neck. There was a slight crackling noise, and I could see a flickering dance of sickly purple light begin to move across father's neck. I turned away to find Keryin right behind me, watching the torture with the same expression on her face that I knew was on mine - hatred and desire for revenge. We both moved away from the door and the chance of discovery. Keryin turned her gaze on me, questioning. When the first moans of pain came through the door, she touched my shoulder in sympathy. I was trying to wrestle with my recently-made resolve to eliminate Dineel by whatever means were necessary - with my father's pain on the line as well as my "honor", I was having a hard time not falling into the trap Dineel had so carefully set. But Keryin's presence helped - she was hurting too and she was not rushing heedlessly into the square. Finally, I said, "If we both slip back into the alley and then around to Tailor's, we could sneak up behind Dineel..." Keryin's face had hardened as the moans turned to low screams. She said, "I have to stop that, Dy. You sneak around that way - as fast and as quietly as you can. I'll try to get them to stop hurting father." "But, what about that 'venom' thing Dineel talked about?" "Dy," she said with a smile and a gentle touch to the side of my face, "remember, I'm already dead. Herne will protect my spirit and guide it to its final rest when my task here is done. They cannot harm me in any permanent way. Go - every second wasted is one more eternity in torment for father." I hugged her, wishing she could stay with me always, then ran for the alley. The guards still watched the Trainer's Way entrance to the alley, nervously shifting a bit as the now louder screams echoed from house to house. I turned back the way Keryin and I had come. I didn't dare run outright for fear of alerting the guards, but Tailor's Way wasn't very far along the alley anyway. I turned onto the narrow road in the direction of the square and immediately slipped back into the alley: Dineel's hiding place may have been effective from the Square, but from this end of the street I had a perfect view of the leader of Hanarl's Octacle. My hands itched for a bow (though I was barely an average shot) or a sling (with which I was better - there were more targets for a slingstone than an arrow in a city like Dargon). Since I had neither, I drew my rosy-golden sword and peered around the corner. I marked out carefully likely spots of concealment between myself and Dineel before quietly taking the first step around the corner. As soon as I was around the corner, my sword began to glow red, calling up the shell of concealment I had seen it use before. I moved straight for Dineel, hoping that concealment by ordinary means wouldn't be needed. It seemed that either luck or the red shield was working for me, because I was within two steps of Dineel's back - and him all unawares - when Keryin stepped into the square from the front door of the Inn with a shouted "Stop!" From my position I could see the entire Square. I watched five people step out of concealment, each one with their hands clasped palm to palm in front of them and a cloud of greyish-greenish light billowing around those hands. The fingers of those hands were pointed at Keryin but I could see that everyone was confused by the fact that it was a woman and not a man that had entered the square. Ederavin had jerked the wand away from my father's neck at Keryin's cry, ending his screams, but when he saw it wasn't me who had come to challenge him, he started to put the wand back to my father's neck. But then he recognized Keryin, and his eyes widened in fear and he dropped the wand. It bounced on the well-rim, then fell down inside. Dineel stayed hidden, but I could see the same fog of foul-looking light around his hands. I took one step, then another - I was within range. I lifted my sword to strike, concentrating on Dineel's back. Just as I was ready to end the threat of Hanarl in Trasath village, the red shield vanished, to be replaced by a golden one. At the same time, Keryin cried out "Dyalar!" and I saw a globe of greyish- greenish light impact with the golden shield and shatter, scattering a black liquid from its remains. Dineel wheeled immediately and his face went white when he saw me there. Some of the black liquid struck him, and he winced in pain. He leaped backwards, pointed his hands at me, and the cloud of light around his hands flew at me like the globe had done moments before. This attack acted like a signal to the others, but they didn't have even as much success as the first one to fire. Dineel's globe shattered on the shield, splattering him with even more black liquid - what I assumed was the "Venom of Hanarl", and which it seemed the followers of Hanarl were not immune to. Only one other globe came near me, but it actually hit Dineel, who cried out and staggered. Of the two remaining globes, one hit the Inn, staining the paint and smoking a little. The last one somehow managed to hit one of the other octacle members full in the chest - his screams as he died were deafening, if not prolonged. Dineel, who was hardier than his followers, retreated further from me. He called out, "To me!" and the remaining members of the octacle moved with him towards the well. He glanced behind him and saw that Ederavin was just staring at me, while Keryin was busily trying to untie father. He shouted, "Ederavin! Grab the girl! We need to summon Hanarl, and she's already been a victim - she should provide an easy entry point for our god!" Snapped out of his shock by a direct order, Ederavin did as he was told. Keryin had no weapons, and though she fought as well as she was able without, Ederavin was able to keep her from running away until the rest of the octacle arrived and pinned her down at the lip of the well. I began running as soon as she went down, breaking out of the paralysis I had been in watching her struggle, so much like the Dream that had haunted me for so long. Dineel wasn't wasting time, though. With the five remaining members of the Octacle pinning Keryin, he lifted her tunic enough to bare her stomach and using a knife that was as twisted and sickly looking as everything else having to do with Hanarl so far, he cut her four times in an simple eight limbed star pattern. The cuts were not deep, but they did hurt - Keryin's cries told that - and they did bleed. Then, holding the bloody knife aloft, Dineel screamed out Hanarl's name over and over, a chant taken up by the other five. Though the village square was not large, it seemed to take a terribly long time to cross to the well. As I drew closer and closer to my goal, I began to see a shape forming above the well and the six chanting people there. It was just a blob at first - a presence but formless. Then, it began to shape itself into a spider-like being. It had only five legs, though - there were three stumps where its other legs should have been, showing how much Hanarl had linked itself to its Octacle. I knew that even with the powers of the sword, and the blessing of Herne behind me, I would have no chance against this avatar of a god if it had a chance to arrive fully. So spurred on, I finally reached the chanting Dineel. His eyes were only for the arrival of his god - only Keryin noticed my presence. I hesitated even so, not wanting to strike like this. But I looked up and saw the only slightly ghostly form of the Hanarl-avatar there, beginning to move its legs and click its mandibles, and I knew I had to act. I aimed, and thrust. My sword entered Dineel's chest from behind. His chanting turned to a scream that stopped when the first 6 inches of my golden sword came out his front. The Hanarl-avatar writhed soundlessly, and as Dineel's life left his body, the head of the spider-thing exploded and the body vanished like mist blown away by a wind. The five people holding Keryin down fainted, releasing her. I knelt beside her and covered her wound with her tunic. She smiled at me and said, "You did it. I'm very proud of you, Dy. You freed Trasath!" We hugged, then she said, "Cut father loose - those knots just didn't want to come untied. Then, we have to get back to the grove. I don't want father to see me - I can't stay much longer and it would only hurt him to see me again." I released father from his bonds, but he was still unconscious from the wand. Keryin had already started back down the road to our house and the grove, so I followed her. When I reached home, she was already in Sock's saddle, waiting for me. There was a faraway look in her eye that frightened me, but she wouldn't answer any questions. She just insisted that I mount up. I did, and then we rode at a breakneck pace back to the grove. Even before I had reined Sock to a stop, she had dismounted and was walking back to the two huge oaks. When she entered their shadow, she went to her knees. I looked away long enough to get down safely from Sock's back, and when I looked back, she was surrounded by a faint glow. I walked over to the oaks and stood behind Keryin, who was beginning to look a little transparent within the glow. Though she was not moving, and her head was bowed and thus she couldn't have seen me, she began to speak in a hollow, almost echoing voice. "Herne speaks through me," she said. "Herne thanks you for righting a great wrong. You have done what he was not permitted to do on his own. Now, say farewell to your sister. Her task is finished - her spirit will be released now." I knelt and hugged Keryin, surprised at how solid she still felt, considering how transparent she looked. She raised her head and turned a tearful face to me and kissed me on the cheek. In a voice that had lost its echo, she said, "I wish I didn't have to go, Dy. I'll miss you - these past couple of years have been fun." The scent of roses made my eyes tear up too. Addressing the air, I asked, "Does she have to go? If she truly doesn't want to, that is?" There was silence for a moment, and then Keryin's eyes got glassy and the echo returned. She said, "Your sister may not remain embodied - that is not permitted. But, she could return to being your 'guardian angel', as you referred to her, if she wished. Your bond with the magics of your sword allow the two of you this kind of contact - should you lose the sword, or should it be destroyed, Keryin's spirit will have to go. The decision is yours, Keryin. You have served me well - do you wish this to be your reward?" She came back to herself and said, "Yes, Herne - I want to stay with Dyalar." She smiled at me as she said this, and I smiled back. This time, the voice came from the trees of the 'temple'. "So be it. Come to me, Keryin. Dyalar, turn away. You will not wish to see the destruction of this body." I hugged Keryin one last time, and kissed her cheek. She stood and walked deeper into the shadows between the two ancient trees, and I walked back to Sock. There was a cry that wasn't of sound, but it drove through my soul like a sword. Then, there was a change in the very air, and when I turned I was shocked to see that the towering oaks had vanished - the 'temple' was now just a stand of normal forest growth. Of Keryin there was no sign. I mounted Sock and turned back to the trail back to town. Yet as I rode out of sight of the stones, I caught the scent of roses on the air, and heard a familiar laugh at the back of my mind. Smiling, I rode on, but not alone. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright July, 1993, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 6 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 6, Issue 3 08/02/93 Cir 1xxx -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Archives at FTP.EFF.ORG (192.88.144.4) in pub/journals/DargonZine -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Despatches from the Field (Special War Recap) Heroic Couplet Jeff Lee Yule, 1014 For What We Are About To Receive... Part I John Doucette Yule 14, 1014 'Bout 'Majin Orny Liscomb Firil, 1016 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (This is a comprehenisve review of the Baranur-Beinison war, which started rather a few volumes ago. Enjoy.) Despatches From the Field: Prelude to Invasion Nober. A time of endings and beginnings. The year is 1013 B.Y. and there are numerous celebrations being planned to mark the turning of the year. Just a few short weeks earlier, King Haralan had celebrated his thirty-sixth birthday. Sir Edward Sothos, Haralan's close friend and advisor and the kingdom's Knight Commander, would soon celebrate his thirty-first. Winter had come slightly earlier than expected and displayed a ferocity such as few could remember. The storms raging outside Crown Castle's environs went almost un-noticed. Inside the castle, the nobles of the land were engaged in heated debate and exchanging even hotter words in the great War Council called by the King. The past year had been a tumultuous one for the third-largest kingdom on the continent. Early in 1012, rumors began circulating that Bichu, an island Empire south and west of Baranur was planning to invade. Almost nothing was known about Bichu. Other than the fact that the Bichanese warriors, samurai they were called in the native tongue of Bichu, were fanatical in battle and were said to possess swords of un-matched quality, the most the average Baranurian knew of Bichu, if they knew of it at all, was that they were alien and they wanted their land. Thus spoke the rumours. The truth was very different. In reality, the rumours had been started by a group of nobles and merchants from Duchy Dargon, in the extreme northwest. This small group of individuals had been persuaded to stir up trouble by agents of the Beinisonian Emperor, Untar II. The general idea was to make Baranur and Bichu go to war so that the Beinisonian Empire could then move on Baranur, which would have been weakened considerably by the war, thus adding the lands of Baranur to Beinison only a modicum of effort. To this end, the conspirators planned the assassination of several of Baranur's nobles, chief among these the Duke of Dargon himself. The assassination attempt against the Duke failed, but resulted in the death of one of the heirs of the Barony of Connall. The Connall family were relatives of Duke Dargon and with him had been among the most vociferous in their protestation against going to war with Bichu. Since the Barony now had only one surviving member of the ruling family, the decision of whom to choose as successor to the late Baron was now academic. Luthias Connall was invested as Baron Connall by his cousin the Duke and all seemed fine. All was not fine, though. Duke Dargon had appointed Connall as Duke's Advocate, chief upholder of the King's Justice in the Duchy. As Duke's Advocate, it fell to Luthias to investigate the conspiracy. The primary conspirator, Baron Coronabo, contrived to have evidence planted in Duke Dargon's office that implicated the Duke as the man behind the plot to have Baranur go to war with Bichu, and thus the man responsible for Connall's twin brother's death. Connall was forced to investigate the charges and he concluded, however reluctantly, that there was indeeed evidence to proceed to trial. By Baranurian law, a high-ranking noble such as a Duke had to be tried before the King in Magnus. Sir Edward, in Dargon to judge a tournament, escorted Duke Dargon to Magnus for the trial. Defending Dargon was Lord Marcellon of Equiville, Dargon's father-in-law and former Royal Magist. As Duke's Advocate for Duchy Dargon, it fell to Baron Connall to prosecute. By summer, 1013, it was over. Working together, Marcellon and Connall had exposed the real conspirators and proved Dargon's innocence. King Haralan called a War Council of respected nobles from throughout the Kingdom. This Council would give the King advice on how to respond to the Beinisonian plot. An early decision was made to send Count Connall, newly created as such in reward for exposing the conspiracy, to Beinison as Ambassador. There he would inquire to the Beinisonian Emperor as to his intentions towards Baranur. The summer also saw the arrival of a most unexpected embassy from the Empire of Galicia, Sir Edward's homeland. Galicia had, for several hundred years and by it's own choice, been isolated from the outside world. It maintained a policy of aggressive neutrality. No one was permitted to cross the border in either direction excpet by direct command of the Emperor, Nyrull I. The origin of this policy was unknown save by the Galicians themselves and they weren't talking. Thus, the arrival of an embassy from the Galician Emperor was an occasion of note. Haralan was pleasantly surprised to find that the ambassador had instructions to work out some sort of trade agreement between the two nations. He was less than happy when his Knight Commander nearly took the ambassador's head off, quite literally, when the two met. Sir Edward and the ambassador had been old foes from their days as mercenaries in the chaotic Kingdom of Alnor, built on the ruins of the ancient Fretheod Empire on the continent of Duurom. Moreover, Ambassador Myros was also Baron of Alphoria. For close to a thousand years, Alphoria had been held by the Sothos family. Myros took great delight in informing Sir Edward that Edward's father, Dion, had been executed for treason. Adding to Sir Edward's rage was the fact that Myros was accompanied by his wife, Elaine. Elaine Myros, formerly Elaine Janos, daughter to the former Count Janos, had been the object of Edward's affection eight years earlier in Galicia. Edward had killed the son of one of Galicia's powerful Dukes in a duel over Elaine and was forced into exile. Myros knew full well the history between his wife and Edward and took further delight in seeing Edward's reaction. The War Council dragged on into winter, awaiting a reply from Count Connall, and the Galician embassy stayed to observe. Ambassador Myros had his own personal agenda in coming to Baranur. He was part of a cabal, headed by Duke Markin, the father of the man Edward killed, that was plotting to overthrow the Galician Emperor. Myros saw in the embassy a perfect opportunity to recruit allies and a source of men and material for the coming coup. With Myros was a sorceress by the name of Celeste. She professed to be in Myros' service, but in reality, she was a member of The Order, a secret organization of Galician mages dedicated totally to preserving the Empire. The Order's leader, the Primus, had instructed Celeste to report on Myros' activities. Myros was known to The Order as one of the cabal and they hoped to learn more about Myros' plans while in Baranur and about Baranur itself. Celeste, too, had her own agenda to pursue. While reporting on Myros, she hoped to utilize the information she gained to turn the situation to her best advantage. The end of the War Council was spectacular. An Ambassador arrived from Beinison with a gift -- the head of Luthias Connall in a golden box. On the same day, just after the "gift" had been opened, an assassination team from Galicia arrived with the intent of "removing" Myros and his chief advisors. The result of these two events was that an angry King declared war on Beinison and Myros escaped while his underlings died. In a move that surprised the whole Baranurian Court, Celeste, leader of the assassination team, offered Sir Edward the coronet of Alphoria by Nyrull's command. Sir Edward refused, saying his oath to his friend and King, and the coming war, demanded that he stay in Baranur. The new year would bring red war to the Kingdom of Baranur and the tales the bards would tell would be ones of great heroes and even greater tragedies. Despatches From the Field: Bloody Spring Deber, 1013, finds the Kingdom of Baranur gripped by the worst winter in living memory. War has come to Baranur, a war of inaction -- nothing can move through the heavy snows and freezing cold. Into this frozen hell journey brave men and women on struggling horses. They carry messages to all corners of the Kingdom, announcing war. The people have not been expecting war, not with Beinison and the news comes as a shock. In the barracks and cantonments of the Royal Army, the shock is a double one. For with the declaration of war comes orders from the Knight Commander -- Move south with all haste. In the dead of winter, the commanders of the Royal Army stare with incredulity at seemingly impossible orders. Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Royal Armies, knows how difficult the orders are. He gives them because he has no other choice. The Royal Army can muster 43,000 warriors at the start of Deber. Fourteen thousand in each of the Northern and Southern Marches and fifteen thousand at Magnus. Another 10,000 are being recruited and trained and must remain in their training schools. The Militia of the Kingdom, 50,000 strong, are mobilizing also though the quality of the Militia Regiments varies widely. Sir Edward knows his troops will be facing the full might of the Beinisonian armies and so he gives the order for all available troops to bolster Knight Captain Martis Westbrook's Army of the Southern Marches. The Northern Marches, under the command of Knight Captain Ailean of Bivar, is stripped of troops -- Sir Ailean is left with only five thousand out of his original force of fourteen thousand. The Magnus Garrison remains as a strategic reserve. As the preparations go on, Edward and Marcellon are summoned south by the Duke of Pyridain. A man sufering heavily from his travels has come from Beinison. He claims to be a Baranurian subject and says he has information for the Knight Commander. With spring almost upon the land, Edward and Marcellon arrive to interrogate the traveller. They discover him to be none other than Luthias Connall, whose very "execution" by the Beinisonians was the spark that started the war, very much alive and in very bad condition. From him, they learn that the Beinisonians are planing a surprise attack on the Laraka River, Magnus' economic lifeline and, now, under-defended. They also learn that the enemy does not plan to wait until summer, the traditional campaign season, to attack. Sir Edward's strategy of concentrating his forces in the south will blunt the enemy's main attack but has left the entire Northwest open to invasion. By Melrin, the Royal Army is reeling from losses on both fronts. In the South, the enemy's main army shattered Knight Captain Westbrook's force at Oron's Crossroads. Virtually the entirety of the Noble Houses of the Southern Marches is annihilated and a goodly portion of the Pyridain Militia with it. In what will become recognized as one of the great blunders of the war, the Beinisonian Emperor, Untar II, allows Martis Westbrook to extricate over half her 19,500 troops unmolested. These troops will continue to be a drain on Beinisonian resources throughout the war. Untar's main army, the Fist of the Emperor, goes on to reduce Pyridain City (defended by the remnants of the Baranurian heavy infantry that fought at Oron's Crossroads), and begins its march on Magnus, laying waste to the countryside as it goes. In the North, 20,000 troops commanded by an up-and-coming field marshal of the Beinisonian army, Joachim Vasquez, lands at Sharks' Cove (Duchy Quinnat) on the mouth of the Laraka River. Sir Ailean of Bivar meets this attack at the water's edge with 5,500 men. The Baranurian forces give the elite light troops of the enemy a good thrashing but are finally overwhelmed. Lord Morion of Pentamorlo rallies the survivors and begins a long and gruelling retreat down the Laraka. He plans to make his stand at Gateway Keep, 250 leagues north of Magnus and designed for just this purpose. Vasquez moves quickly in pursuit, but is delayed at Port Sevlyn, a city of 10,000 halfway between Sharks' Cove and Gateway Keep and thus a vital base of supply. One of the Duchy of Quinnat's Militia Regiments garrisons the city and determines to hold off the enemy for as long as possible. The 1,000 defenders hold off the enemy army for three days, an incredible feat of arms. At the end, Vasquez orders the garrison, and half the populace, put to the sword as an example to discourage further resistance. He leaves some troops to garrison the city and moves off down the Laraka towards Gateway and Magnus. As Yule, 1014, reaches its midpoint, three great armies threaten Baranur. In the South, Untar and the 30,000 strong Fist of the Emperor are drawing ever closer to Magnus and if not checked will arrive by Seber. On the Laraka, Vasquez has received reinforcements and is preparing to launch an attack on the desperate defenders of Gateway Keep. In the North, a force of 15,000 approaches Dargon City from the sea undetected. To counter the threat to the capital, the Knight Commander has sent Baranur's heavy cavalry, the 8,000 strong Royal Hussars, to aid Lord Morion in his defence of Gateway Keep while other forces begin the march toward Magnus, hoping to reach the city before the enemy. The spring of 1014 has been one of blood and death. The coming summer promises to be one of carnage and horror unsurpassed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Heroic Couplet by Jeff Lee jlee@smylex.uucp Thomas Shopkeeper knelt on the cold stone in front of King Haralan, well aware of the many eyes on his back. "This man," the King proclaimed to the gathered crowd, "has singlehandedly removed the greatest threat that our fair country has known in over a century. The Beinison threat is ended, and we can at last return to peace!" As the crowd roared, Haralan stepped back to make room for another. Sir Edward Sothos, towering over the kneeling Thomas, laid a black-gloved hand on the man's shoulder. "Thomas Shopkeeper, you have done what neither I nor my armies could accomplish." In a voice overflowing with emotion, he continued: "It is meet that you, therefore, rather than I, should bear the title and duties of Knight Commander of the Royal Armies." Sothos' brown eyes gleamed as he smiled down at the astonished man. When the cheers had again died away, King Haralan stepped forward once more. "Thomas, for your great service to Us, We are moved to make you a Baron of Our Court. No more shall you be called Shopkeeper, but Baron Thomas -- the Hero!" "What are you still doing in bed, you lazy slug?" The cacophony of the crowd was pierced suddenly by the shrewish screams of Thomas' wife; the finery of Dargon Keep's great hall dissolved into the dreary, familiar scene of Thomas' bedroom. Sunlight streamed in through a broken slat in the shutters, and as Thomas watched, a beetle flew in through the gap and hung transfixed for a moment in the beam of light. "Nothing, dear, I was just getting up." "Don't you `dear' me, slugabed!" The swat of Madge's broom punctuated her sentences eloquently. "It's daylight out; you should have opened up the shop hours ago! But, no, you must lie here, wasting the best hours of the morning. Now GET" -- swat -- "OUT" -- swat -- "of BED!" "Yes, dear," he sighed. Thomas considered himself as he polished the brass candlesticks for the third time that morning. He was short, portly, losing his hair; he looked, for the most part, like his own father at forty. Ah, he'd dreamed, when growing up, about a life of adventure and glory, but in the end he was only a shopkeeper, like his father, and his father's father. Timothy, his son, was doing well at University; he might escape the stagnation which had enfolded Thomas like the arms of an old lover. And then there was Madge. He'd loved her once, yes, but that seemed so long ago. The lot of a shopkeeper's wife was like bitter herbs to her, souring her gradually as the monotony grew. She'd been beautiful once, he recalled; so beautiful before the despair and bitterness set in. He'd hated himself that he couldn't give her more in life; his shame turned him to drink. What little comfort he could have given her, he'd withheld by going instead to the tavern. At first, he'd stayed out until after she was asleep; yet he still noticed the tears drying on the pillow when he got into bed. The shame this caused him, though, would ever disappear into the bottle on the next night. He could hardly blame her, then, that her tongue became harsh whenever she spoke to him; that the hurt look in her eyes hardened and became, when she bothered to look at him, one of loathing. Gentle, beautiful Madge became a bitter shrew, and it was all his fault. Ah, he said to himself as he moved dishes from one shelf to another, if only things had been different. If only I'd rescued a princess from a horrible monster. She'd have rewarded me well, and I'd have been a hero. I could have -- "Thomas!" came Madge's shrill voice, interrupting his reverie. He spun about guiltily, then flinched back when he saw her in the doorway, brandishing an iron skillet as though ready to brain him with it. "What, dear?" "This skillet is cracked!" She waved it furiously as proof. "I only bought it a week ago, and now it's completely useless. You take this right back to the ironmonger and DEMAND a new one!" Alas, Thomas mused as he left his shop, by the time you realise the damage you've done to someone, it's too late to repair. Thomas stopped in mid-stride as he heard the muffled cry from the alleyway. He gaped stupidly as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light and reported the scene within the shadows. A man lay on the muddy ground, the back of his blue servant's livery stained black with blood, which pooled under him like the morning mist in a valley. Just beyond the body were two coarse-looking men, one holding a wicked dagger at a woman's throat while the other tore a jewelled pin from her bodice. "Here, you, take your hands off her," Thomas cried without thinking. Both men turned towards him, the one with the knife throwing his captive roughly to the ground. The other, bigger man leapt at Thomas, swinging with a powerful roundhouse. Instinctively, Thomas ducked, then brought the skillet around with all his might, connecting with the back of his assailant's head. The man dropped like a felled ox. A sudden pain made Thomas look down; the handle of the other ruffian's dagger protruded from his chest. As he fell to his knees, he heard the man's footsteps running out of the alley, back into the street. "Ah," Thomas said, his own voice seeming to reach his ears from miles away. He felt nothing, neither pain nor emotion, and his mouth kept repeating, "Ah, ah," of its own volition. The alleyway tilted crazily as he toppled; the ground took forever to receive him, it seemed. All of his warmth spread from the grievous wound in his breast, and darkness began encroaching on the alley from the corners of his eyes. Hands on his shoulders. The world tilting until the sky was above him. The lady looking down at him, ice-blue eyes wide in horror. She was as beautiful a woman as he had ever seen: petite, with short, dark red hair and skin as white as the driven snow. He gazed at her small mouth, the thin red lips moving, but her words seemed muffled as though she were speaking through many thick blankets. He wanted to cry out, tell her that the red mud was ruining her expensive clothes, but he lacked the strength. He tried to hear what she was saying, instead. "-- repay you; you saved my life. Oh, please don't --" He could see little more than her face now. Her lips moved some more, and then she said, "You are a true hero." "A hero," he whispered; and then he smiled; and then he died. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 For What We Are About to Receive... Part I by John Doucette Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur 14 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Haralan Tallirhan, by the Grace of God King of Baranur and Duke of Magnus, watched the column of Hussars wind its way through the Royal District as it made its way towards Northgate. A slight breeze was blowing, bringing some relief from the stifling heat. In the city below the first wall of Crown Castle, people were going about their business almost as if the war was not merely 250 leagues from Magnus. The thing which brought the war home to people was the striking lack of shipping alongside the city's docks. With the main trade artery of the Laraka now denied the capital, Haralan was forced to bring in by land everything needed to keep a city of 50,000 souls functioning, a very expensive and unsatisfactory method of sustanance. To be sure, food was not a problem - the fields of the Royal Duchy were rich enough to supply a population three or four times that which was present. The state of the city's commerce, however, was a different matter. Ever since the closing of the Laraka, the Merchant Houses had been clamouring for Haralan to do something, anything, to re-start the flow of trade. Prices had increased for the fifth time since Melrin. The poor were beginning to grow dissatisfied as well. Soon, the King of Baranur could be facing riot inside the walls of his own capital. Assuming, of course, that Untar hadn't claimed Haralan's throne by then. Haralan's friend and advisor Sir Edward Sothos had for days been sounding the alarm of Untar and his Fist of the Emperor's progress. "You may succeed on the Laraka, Connall, only to find the heart of the kingdom gutted and burned," the king said under his breath. The distinct sound of hard boots on stone interrupted his thoughts. Haralan turned his head in the direction of the footsteps to discover Sir Edward and Sir Edward's aide, Commander Jan Courymwen, approaching. "Edward!" Haralan said with a smile. "What news?" Also watching the departure of the Hussars, but from a much different vantage point, were three men and one woman. "I would have much preferred the Knight Commander to have sent the Huscarls or Legion of Death with the Hussars," spoke the shorter and younger of the three men. "Are you mad?" asked the eldest. "We shall need those troops to hold off the Beinisons." "Phorsan makes a valid observation, Lieran," the third and most expensively dressed commented. "When the time comes for our Lord to move, the Huscarls may prove...difficult." "I don't know, Ethros," Lieran said. "If reports can be believed, the Benison Emperor and his troops have smashed everything we've thrown at them!" "That...foreigner...doesn't know how to handle Baranurian troops," Phorsan said in disgust. Lord Ethros of Northfield turned from regarding the column of horsemen. "Don't be an idiot!" he snapped. "Sothos is a capable general. *That* is why I have been labouring for so long to have him discredited. His is the mind behind the strategy. I dare say that if he had not moved so many Regiments of the Royal Army to the Southern Marches during the winter we would be prisoners of Untar even now." Phorsan took the rebuke angrily, his hand flexing around his sword hilt. "You admire him!" he accused Ethros. "I respect his abilities," Ethros countered calmly. "As should you. With Sothos as shield, Haralan is untouchable. Once Sothos is gone..." "This is dangerous, Ethros!" Lieran said. "What say you, Lady?" Phorsan asked of the woman in the corner. "The prowess of the line Sothos in combat hath long been known," came the oddly-accented voice from the shadows. "To face on the field the Knight Commander is to court the Reaper." "What do you suggest?" A black form detached itself from the wall and moved into the light, midnight black robes rustling against the stone, face hidden by the robes' cowl. "Force the Sothos to face thee in a contest for which thee art most suited." "Politics?" Lieran asked. "Politics," Phorsan said with satisfaction. "Politics," spoke Ethros with decision. "Politics," said Celeste in a voice smooth as silk. Haralan listened to his Knight Commander's report on the state of the Kingdom's army with supressed humour. The King was not a man given to flippant mannerisms. Indeed, the matters on which Sir Edward was reporting were of great import. The thing was, no matter how hard he tried, Haralan simply could not fail to find the sight of his most trusted advisor standing, literally, in the shadow of that advisor's chief aide a cause for humour. The two of them made an odd pair. The shorter, Edward, always in the foreground of attention while the taller, Commander Courymwen, invariably attempted to blend into the background. Much of that was due to the station each occupied, of course. The personalities of each seemed mis-matched as well. Edward very rarely relaxed his posture in public. Even in private, among friends, he was reserved. Haralan, Edward's closest friend, saw his friend let down his guard only occasionally. Haralan wondered at what the adopted Baranurian's homeland was really like if it regularly turned out products such as Edward. Sir Edward displayed such an intenseness, such a resoluteness of purpose, that almost all of Haralan's knights were in awe of the man. As for the common soldiers, well, they reacted to Sir Edward with a strange blend of fear, respect, and utter faith in their supreme commander. Whenever he walked into a room, Edward dominated most by sheer strength of persona. Talking to him, one felt as if Edward had the height advantage instead of the speaker. All in all, a surprise for those meeting the scarred Knight Commander for the first time. That same feeling of surprise was also felt when meeting Sir Edward's aide, Jan Courymwen. With her unusual height, six-foot four, combined with her flaming-red hair and deep emerald-green eyes, one would expect a temper and attitude of superiority to match. She possessed neither. Even the fact that she was the second-youngest woman who had gone through the Royal Military Academy to reach the rank of Commander did not give her cause to be boastful. She was a study in contrasts. Decisive in her duties as an officer of the Royal Army, she was often shy and unsure of herself when not on duty. Much of her deference came from the circumstances of her birth. Her parents were from Port Sevlyn, poor folk making their living working for Lord Quillien Thorne along Port Sevlyn's waterfront. She owed her position at the academy to Lord Thorne. Together, she and Edward administered the Royal Army better than it had ever been administered in its long history. It really was quite sad, Haralan thought, that such a close friendship as she and Edward possessed must come to an end. The King sighed. Sir Edward ceased his narrative. "Something, Sire?" "Oh, nothing, really," Haralan said with a dismissive wave. "I was wondering, should we not send at least part of the garrison to strengthen our forces facing the Fist of the Emperor in its advance?" "I think not, my liege," Sir Edward responded. "Not yet. Until conclusions on the Laraka have been reached, we dare not weaken the capital." "Sound advice, as always, my friend." Seeing the Royal Magist approaching, Haralan eased himself from the battlements with a smile. "What summons you to come calling on us, my Lord Marcellon?" "Busy, Sire?" Marcellon called out. "The Knight Commander has just finished reporting to me on the state of the Kingdom as he sees it." "An exceedingly thorough and intense view it must be," Marcellon jokingly commented as he joined the group. "War is not a time for frivolity, Old Man," Edward said, rising to the bait. "With you," the Royal Magist commented, "there is no time for frivolity." He continued, not giving Edward a chance to speak. "Now," he began, keeping up a running joke the two had been cultivating for weeks, "why don't you carry on or over or whatever it is you warrior-types do and let civilized men get down to some real work?" Sir Edward turned to the King. "If His Royal Majesty will permit, the Commander and I have work to do." "Certainly, Sir Edward. You have our leave to go." The two warriors saluted their King and strode off along the wall, making for the nearest tower. Marcellon winked at Jan as she went and received an answering smile in return. Once they were out of ear-shot, Haralan turned to his chief advisor on things political. "Any success, Lord Marcellon?" "Regretfully, no. I can find no hard source for the rumours about them," he said, indicating the retreating figures of the Knight Commander and his aide. "I have suspicions, but can offer no proof." "Can your magic not--?" "Haralan, magic is not the cure-all for the world's woes. There is a limit to what I can do." "That is not sufficient! I am coming under increasing pressure -- from within even my own House! -- to remove Edward. You must give me a weapon to use!" "I shall try, Majesty. I shall try." As they descended the narrow stairs of one of the great towers, Edward asked over his shoulder, "What would you say to a go on the practice field, Commander?" "It would be a welcome break in the routine, sir. I accept." The two exited the tower and proceeded through Crown Castle's many defences, arriving some half an hour later at the King's Keep. They separated, each going to their rooms to fetch their gear. An hour later, the sun beginning to set, Edward stood in full panoply awaiting his aide and his friend. Once done, he would still have his aide. But the friend would be gone. It is fitting I wear the black over my shield and armour, Edward thought. For today, I shall truly feel deserving of this badge of dishonour. A figure in blue and gold came out of a small portal and walked steadily out onto the field. A crowd was starting to gather, some out of boredom, others out of curiosity to see who the Knight Commander was to fight, still others eager to pick up a trick or two from the man who directed the Royal Army. Edward waited for Jan to reach him, resigned to what he must do, shield on one arm, helm held in the other. "Sorry I took so long, sir," Jan said as she strode up. "My hair was not being cooperative." "It has now succumbed, I gather?" She smiled. "After a fashion, sir. I had such trouble with it, I may consider getting it cut." "It would not suit you short so, Coury." "You like my hair?" she asked. Edward thought he detected a hint of red in his friend's cheeks, but dismissed it as an effect of the sun. "Yes. Very much. Shall we begin?" "Uh...yes, sir." Jan took a breath before speaking, her manner now very formal. "I greet you this day, Your Excellency, upon the field of combat. As challenged, I claim the right of selection. Do you affirm or deny my right?" Edward responded in the same manner, a manner which, as a Knight, came to him more easily than it did his aide. "I greet thee this day, valiant warrior, upon this field of combat. I here doth affirm thy claim to the right of selection. The claim of right of selection thus affirmed, I doth now take upon my judgement the resolution. Dost thou recognize my right of resolution?" "I do recognize your right of resolution, Your Excellency." "I thank thee, worthy gentle. What shalt be thy pleasure?" "I choose sword and shield. What shall be the resolution?" "I choose as resolution that the combat be to the death with no quarter given." "I accept the resolution." Both combatants donned their helms and settled into a fighting stance. Edward decided on a quick, violent offensive and moved in on Jan almost immediately. Jan backed up, trying to use her longer reach and longer blade to thwart the sudden attack. Edward came right on in after her, sweeping at her legs, forcing her to use more of her shield and less of her sword. Realizing that a defensive strategy was a course to destruction, Jan leaned in on Edward's next stroke, using her shield as a battering ram. It worked and the Knight Commander soon found himself parrying a furious series of strokes that sent sparks and bits of wood flying in the waning sunlight. Edward was beginning to get the worse of the situation. His aide's longer reach made it more difficult for Edward to get in a good strike. Consequently, his shield was being quickly and methodically hacked to bits. After what seemed hours, but in reality was only several seconds, the two separated, standing five or so yards apart while each regained some strength and re-evaluated the other's skill. Edward decided that he needed to be the one to go on the offensive and he clearly needed some advantage to get inside Jan's reach. Once inside her reach, he thought he could exploit a gap or two in her guard. He eased the remains of his battered shield off of his left arm. "Art thou ready to continue?" he asked Jan. In response, she saluted. At once, Edward flung his shield at his opponent and followed it with a charge. Jan caught the thrown shield on her blade, sending the splintered target harmlessly to the ground. When she brought her blade back into position, she found herself facing her commander at very close range coming at her from her left, her shield-arm. She was too slow in bringing her shield around to cover and a hard thump on her ribs from the flat of Edward's blade finished the combat. A ragged cheer from the spectators evidenced their pleasure at the spectacle. As the crowd broke up, Edward and Jan left the field together heading for the entrance to nearer to Edward's offices. Both walked in silence while they brought their breathing under control. "I thought I had you," Jan said between breaths. "You very nearly did," Edward responded. "It is your time fighting in line. You tend to let your guard down somewhat on your left -- too much reliance on your line-mate's sword to protect you." Jan shook out her hair. "I'll work on it, sir, if you'll instruct me." "It's not as bad as all that, Coury. Just look at my shield." "It was a good workout," she agreed. Just then, she noticed where they were heading and sighed. "Something wrong?" "No, sir. Well, yes, sir. I'd hoped to turn in." "Let Daniel handle things?" "A bit selfish, sir, I know, but we could both use the rest." "And rest we shall. I wanted to speak with you in private and my office qualifies. Besides, it's nearer than either of our quarters." Jan laughed. She and Edward entered the Keep and made their way to Edward's office. The corridors were mostly deserted, the occaisonal scribe or guard or member of the kitchen staff being encountered. They entered Edward's outer office, greeting Captain Daniel Moore, Edward's other staff officer, as they did. "How fare things?" Edward asked. "Nothing unusual, sir," Moore replied. "No new reports from the Laraka and no change on the southern front." "Good. Glad to hear it." "So who won?" he asked, indicating what was left of Edward's shield. "Who do you think?" Jan said with a chuckle. "It was a very near-run thing," Edward chimed in. "Coury made me work for it." Moore smiled. "Are you two staying?" "You can wipe that beseeching look off your face, Daniel Moore," Jan said with relish. "Edward and I are going to have a little chat and then leave you to minding the store." Moore sighed a sigh that seemed to come from the depths of despair. "One could always hope." Edward crossed to the door to his office. "No one is to disturb us, Daniel," he said as he and Jan entered. Edward set his helm and what was left of his shield on the small table in the corner opposite his large desk and poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher there. Jan joined him, setting her helm and much more intact shield on the table also. This left Edward holding both the pitcher and his cup. He poured his friend a drink from the cup she had rescued and went over to his desk. Jan pulled two chairs over from the table and let herself collapse into one of them. Edward set the pitcher down on the desk and then eased himself into the other. "I've been too long away from the practice field," he said as his rapidly stiffening muscles protested their recent abuse. Jan let her head sink back against the chair. "Me too. Oh, that smarts." The two close friends just sat for a few moments, letting their muscles finish berating them before they continued. It was Jan who spoke first. "What was it you wanted to talk about, Edward?" she asked, eyes closed. Edward carefully set his cup on the desk. "Coury," he began hesitantly, "I think we should no longer be seen together in public. Further, I think it would be best if we kept our relationship on a more professional level than it has thus far been." Jan's eyes snapped open and she sat up. "What?" she asked in confusion. "By all the gods why?" "You know why," he said, eyes downcast. "The rumours." "The rumours?" she asked incredulously. "But -- you never -- they haven't mattered before," she protested. "They do now." Edward ran his fingers through his close-cropped hair. "Coury, there is a danger that if the rumours continue, my ability to function as Knight Commander may be threatened. I cannot allow that." She sat there, unable -- unwilling -- to believe what she was hearing. "You...can't...allow...that? Are you trying to tell me you care for the power and prestige of the position of Knight Commander that dearly that you would...cut off our friendship just like that?" Now Edward looked directly at his aide. "What I am saying is that my continued friendship with you is putting in jeopardy my ability to fight this war. I cannot compromise that ability, not with the future of the kingdom at stake." The young woman sat back. "I thought I knew you. I thought that you were a person who above all else would stand by his friends. I thought you had more dignity and honour than this." "Coury, let me explain," he pleaded. "No, you've made yourself quite clear. You're too high and mighty to have people think you could be friends with a commoner. Well, fine." She stood, tears fighting with her anger. "I once had a friend named Edward Sothos. I don't know who you are, but if Edward Sothos should return, he'll know where to find me." Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned and left, slamming the door on her way out. No sooner had she stormed out than Daniel Moore opened the door and leaned in. "Anything wrong, sir?" he asked his superior. "Wrong?" Edward responded as he stared out the window at the shadows full upon the castle grounds. "No, Captain." "But -- Coury --?" "Leave it, Captain." The bafflement on Moore's face was plain. "What about her helm and shield?" he asked, noticing the articles on the table for the first time. Edward twisted in his chair to face his officer. His gaze flicked to the items on the table and back to Moore. "Have one of the guards take them to Commander Courymwen's quarters," he instructed in a dead voice. "Yes, sir." Daniel was about to leave when Edward stayed him. "Captain," the Knight Commander said, "I shall be at Gortholde's Hall should I be needed." So saying, Sir Edward pushed past the still-bewilidered Captain Moore. As the door closed, Daniel shook his head. "Yes, sir." Those few servants unfortunate enough to come upon Jan Courymwen as she went to her quarters quickly and without dignity shied away from the storm they saw in her face. Jan wrenched open the door to her room and slammed it hard as soon as she was through. She fell back against the door, seething, letting her anger have its way. That was soon spent as it finally sank in that Edward had actually ended their friendship. With that realization came an emptiness. Edward was more than friend to Jan Courymwen. He was a mentor, an example of how society's ideals could work in the real world. He was also the first person to treat her as an equal as a warrior and not just as a "girl playing at swords" as she had been called in the Academy. The war had come home to Jan in a totally unforseen way and she was unready to deal with it. When the tears came, she did not hold them back. Unlike her anger, her tears lasted a long, long time. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 'Bout 'Majin' by David/Orny Liscomb Darren emerged from the woods into the bone-warming sunlight of a warm spring day. There was still snow in places in the woods, and the air within had been sharp and chill. After the long months of bare trees and gray skies, the dancing sunlight on the deep blue of the lake before him was a glorious sight. The road curved down to the shore, just as the innkeeper back in Pride's Landing had said it would, when Darren had asked him where he could find someone to take him across the lake. A small cottage stood nearby, with a dock extending twenty feet into the water. Against the side of the building leaned an old rowboat, its wooden planks gray with age. A couple of old men sat facing the lake in wooden chairs near the dock. Darren walked down and greeted them. "Excuse me, milords. I was told someone here could ferry me across the lake?" The old men looked at him. Darren waited. The one on the left spoke. "Tha's so, junior. But my son Bug's got the boat just this second. Gone down to the cove, do a bit of fishin'. 'Majin' he'll be back 'fore nightfall. If'n so, 'majin' he'll take you across." Darren closed his eyes. The innkeeper had told him that getting ferried across the lake would save him half a day's walk. But in order to get here, he'd had to walk two hours out of his way. And now he'd have to wait for hours -- and he still might have to wait all night! And he'd wanted to be in Westford tonight to be early for his brother's investiture ceremony. Darren thought. "Anyone else nearby who has a boat?" The old man shook his head. "Nope. Can't say as there is, junior." "Wait a minute -- you've got a rowboat over behind your cabin. Can I take that?" The old man shook his head again. "Tch. I wouldn't feel right letting you take it. Ain't been in the water in a couple season." Darren sighed. These old men hadn't used the boat in years, but weren't willing to let him take it? Wait -- maybe that was it! They were hedging about it because he'd leave it on the far shore, with no one to row it back across the lake! "Look, let me buy it from you. Here -- here's five drin. Can I take the boat?" The old man looked at the coins in Darren's hand in front of his face. "Well, I guesso. It's not much of a boat, really. But if you insist..." He held out a weathered paw and Darren dropped the coins into the leathery palm. He turned around and headed toward the cabin. He rounded the corner and found the rowboat propped against the side of the building. As he tilted it away from the building, something jumped out from the rotting leaves underneath. Darren leapt back and let go of the boat, which bounced loudly against the cabin, then fell to the ground with a thump, echoing the pounding of his heart. He took a deep breath; the rodent that he'd flushed had scurried away underneath the cabin. Because the wood was dry, the boat wasn't too heavy, and Darren didn't have much of a problem hauling it down to the shore. The two old men just sat there watching him, not saying a word. He ran back and fetched the two oars, which the previous year's leaffall had half buried. He slipped the oars into their locks and pushed off. He started pulling for the other side. Because he was sitting facing the stern, he watched the two old men watch him as the shore gradually retreated. He was out five drin, but at least this way he'd make Westford by nightfall! He was probably two or three furlongs from shore before he turned again to see where he was headed. The opposite shore stood at least another league distant, and he took a moment to admire the view. The trees were beginning to bud, and the valley would be a wonderful sight in autumn. He kind of envied the people who lived on the shores of the lake. Things were certainly much simpler here than in the crowded crown city of Magnus. It was about this time that Darren noticed the water in the bottom of the boat. He hadn't noticed it before, because he was wearing his boots, but it was already two or three inches deep! Looking closer, he could see water seeping, in some places flowing, between the seams in the planking of the boat. The damned boat couldn't hold water! Darren looked for something to bail with, but there wasn't anything. He looked longingly at the far shore, but was certain that he couldn't make it across. He sat back down and resignedly turned the boat around and headed back toward the cabin and those damnable old men. The row back was strenuous. The boat was rapidly filling with water, which slowed it down and made it heavier. He struggled with it, sweating and cursing the entire way. Once he turned around to make sure he was on course, and he saw the two old men sitting calmly, just as he had left them ten minutes earlier. He didn't turn around again. He was perhaps half a furlong from shore when the boat foundered and just wouldn't move any more. There wasn't anything to do but swim. Darren turned and glared at his audience before he slipped over the side of the rowboat and started to swim for shore. He rapidly began to tire, and began venturing an occasional foot to probe for the bottom. His arms were encumbered by the wet fabric of his puffy shirt, and he struggled to make any progress whatsoever. Finally, he could feel the bottom, but it was still too deep to walk on; he bounded along in a ponderous, bouncing mimicry of a run until the water was shallow enough to allow him to walk. He finally dragged himself out of the lake. His white chemise, now tan with silt and green with bits of plants, hung heavily on his shoulders, and his boots were calf-high buckets of mucky water. He walked up to the old men and just glared at them. They didn't even smirk. After a moment, one of them spoke to the other. "You know, Jess, a boat made of dry wood just ain't no use." "Yep," replied the other. "Gotta let it soak fer a while - let the wood swell and fill up all them little cracks." "Yep. 'Bout 'majin'." Darren just walked away, heading back toward Pride's Landing. He wouldn't make Westford by nightfall, but he'd be sure to make it my nightfall tomorrow, even if it took him half a day to get there on foot. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright August, 1993, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 6 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 6, Issue 4 12/07/93 Cir 1153 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Archives at etext.archive.umich.edu in pub/Zines/DargonZine -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Vengeance is Mine ... Max Khaytsus Yule 10-23, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Vengeance is Mine... by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a Having seen as much as he had of Sharks' Cove burned, pillaged, and deserted, Rien was surprised to see the Abyssment standing in tact. He was even more amazed to see a trickle of people going in and out of the bar, citizens of Sharks' Cove and Beinison troops alike. He watched the flow of traffic for a while, then calmly walked down the street and into the tavern. Inside, nothing had changed since his last visit. It was noisy, smoky and very crowded. "Move along!" a rough voice barked and Rien hurried past the bouncer at the door, in a hurry to get out of the doorway. "Ale," he declared at the bar and slapped some coins on the counter. The bartender silently scooped up the money and and placed the filled mug on the bar. Rien picked it up and, although not liking the bitter flavor of alcohol, drank, observing the room. So far he had seen no trace of the Sharks' Cove militia, but there were quite a few of them here, mixed with the Beinison soldiers and sailors, drinking together, laughing. It was no surprise the town guard sold out. They were always little more than a mercenary troop for hire. Off in the far corner Rien noticed a familiar face and a man he did not know sitting with her. Sitting down on a stool, Rien looked away, hoping the woman had not seen him. He wanted to talk to her alone, preferably in a place more private than this, but the table she sat at would do just as well. Rien glanced over his shoulder at the man at the table. He was well dressed, clearly not a laborer. Perhaps a merchant or an aristocrat or a minor noble. Not likely to be Baranurian at all. "Another ale," Rien told the bartender. He was growing impatient from the need to find out what happened to Adrea and the urgency in his voice clearly betrayed his emotional state. He did not know what to think about her absence. She could have escaped or perhaps been killed, but she could also be a prisoner somewhere or hurt and in trouble. It was those last two possibilities Rien worried about most. Those were the ones that she would need help to escape and so long as he did not know what had happened to her, he was helpless to do anything. He secretly held the hope that she had escaped, although the more likely possibility was that Adrea had been killed. He did not want to believe in that second alternative. He knew she was too good to get into trouble like that. He hopped that she had gotten out of the city in time. Without noticing it, Rien finished the second mug of ale and when he looked back to the corner table, the man was no longer there. "Give me two glasses of red wine," Rien told the bartender. "The good wine, not what you water down. And in real glass." "Two Rounds," the man said. A bit on the stiff side, probably due to the low supply and war time inflation. Rien dug out the two silver coins and put them on the counter before himself. The bartender came back empty handed, probably not expecting Rien to pay, but at the sight of the coins, scooped them up and left. Having finally received the two glasses, Rien made his way to the corner table and sat down without being asked. "So what does a good doctor go for in Sharks' Cove these days?" The woman looked at him. "Life's cheap. What about a mercenary?" Rien put one of the glasses in front of her. "Life's cheap on both sides of the war." She smiled, a touch of irony in her expression. "So which side of the war are you on, Rien the Mercenary?" "Does it matter?" He was still trying to find out if she was trustworthy. "You'd be surprised. Revolutionaries, vigilantes, terrorists. You wouldn't want to get caught in the wrong part of town..." Rien took a sip of wine, watching the people pass through the room. "Which one are you?" "I'm sorry. Which am I?" "Vigilante? Revolutionary?" "Tourist." "In a place like this?" Rien let a smile slip. "Sharks' Cove has everything. Slums, high society, exotic goods, Quirin, a swamp, mountains...even the Beinison army. Where else in Baranur can you get all that?" "There's struggle and death here," Jenye said. "That's all there is in Sharks' Cove. That's all there ever was." Rien leaned back in his chair. "I'm looking for a friend. I need your help." Jenye folded her arms, studying him. "What makes you think I'll help you?" "Old times." "We've had no old times! And Isom is still looking for you." "Does he know who I am?" "He knows you're a tall blond man who cost him thousands of Marks and that's enough to keep looking." "You didn't sell me out?" Rien was somewhat surprised. "Rien the Mercenary? There must be thousands of you out there right now!" "Of me?" "Not by name, but the battlefields are littered with men like you." Rien took another sip of wine. Was she serious or facetious? "And if I tell you my full name and where I'm from?" "I may think you want me to visit." She motioned a serving girl over and whispered something to her. Something about a room. "But will you think I want Lord Isom to visit?" Rien asked when Jenye turned back. She shook her head. "I have nothing to gain by selling you to him. I wouldn't've told you how to find him in the first place, if I liked the man." "What's your problem with him?" Rien asked. "I don't..." Jenye looked around, casting a particularly long glance at the Beinison soldiers two tables away. Her voice was quieter whens she started speaking again. "I don't like the idea of people being sold as cattle." Rien nodded. "I approve." "I know," Jenye looked away. "That's why I helped you last time." The serving girl returned before Jenye could answer and handed her a key. "Eli said you can have it as long as you need." "Thank you." Rien watched the girl go, wanting to ask what that was all about and waiting for the answer to the question he had already asked. "Come with me," Jenye stood up. Rien also got up, picking up both wine glasses. He handed one to Jenye. "I brought this so I could get you drunk and more cooperative." She smiled. "Good try, but I don't drink." "You don't? You did when I met you last Nober. It certainly looked like wine." Jenye laughed. "Eli gives me water and I add coralline to make it red. I hate alcohol." "Sorry," Rien sighed and put his own glass back on the table. "Oh, don't leave it," Jenye said. "Maybe I can get you drunk and cooperative. Come along." Rien picked up the glass and followed Jenye up the stairs to a room at the end of the corridor where she unlocked the door and let him go in first. "This used to be the best room at the inn, possibly the best room for rent in town. The furniture, the view, the status. There isn't much left now. Not much other than the furniture." Rien walked over to the window and looked out. A burned street lay before him, opening into a destroyed market square. "I see what you mean..." "That house over there, with the burned top floor, used to belong to the Captain of the Town Guard. The fighting was most severe here. The Guard tried to protect his residence, but the Benosian troops kept coming, wave after wave. I was here watching as they stormed the house, dragged him up to the roof, chained him there and set the whole place on fire." She shivered at her own words. "And just like that the whole city became theirs..." "Why did they let the Abyssment stand?" "Gaius isn't a man without influence. He made deals. I wouldn't be surprised if he bought the regiments controlling the city..." Jenye sat down on the edge of the bed. "...what's left of the city, anyway." "What about Quirin?" Rien asked, looking at the silver spire raising above the river, beyond the burned portion of the city. "Did Gerald and Morgan make it out?" "Probably," Jenye said. "God only knows. Certainly no one here does." Rien let a smile slip. "Are you Stevene?" he asked, recognizing the monotheistic reference. "Yeah. What about you?" "I'm a heretic," he said, trying to hide the smile. "Benosian? Olean?" "No, just a heretic." "You don't believe at all?" Rien tested her with his eyes. "I believe in Mother Earth and Father Sky, in the dark night and the brilliant day. My deities are the plants and the rocks and the animals. My gods are the elements that create my environment." "You do know what my religion says will happen to you?" Jenye asked. Rien nodded. "It's a risk I'll have to take." "Sit down," Jenye indicated to the bed. "We can talk without intrusions here." "Not about religion, I hope." "About why you came here." Rien put the wine glass on the window sill and sat down by Jenye. "Should I start over?" "Please." "I'm here looking for a friend and I was hoping you could point me to someone who could provide some facts." "It must be a good friend to bring you into the middle of a war," Jenye commented. "She is. And I hope she's all right." "She? Your wife? Lover?" "A student...a friend. She stayed longer than she should have." "Where was she staying?" Jenye asked. "The Tipsy Dragon, by the river," Rien said. "She tended bar." "The Tipsy Dragon was destroyed yesterday," Jenye said, wondering about the coincidence. "I know. I did that." It was not the complete truth, but he was not going to say that now. "You? You don't look like a mage any more than you do a mercenary." "I'm not. There were other factors involved." "Describe her for me," Jenye asked. "I'll see what I can do." "She's a little shorter than you, blond hair, shoulder length in Mertz, brown eyes. Athletic, very outgoing. She has a little girl, a year and a half old, but they've been separated since early spring." "Is the girl with her father?" Jenye pressed Rien for personal information. "She's with a friend. We were never told who the father is." "Is she safe?" there was genuine concern in Jenye's voice. "I hope so. It's hard to tell where the war front is these days." "What's your friend's name." "Adrea Rainer." "All right. You give me a day and I'll see what I can do." "Thank you." He stood up, ready to leave. "Jenye, if you need money or help, let me know." "Nothing yet. Just come back tomorrow evening. If I'm not in the tavern, ask at the bar." "Thank you," Rien repeated himself and left. He still was not sure how much Jenye could be trusted, although it appeared that she was well on the Baranurian side of the conflict. Either way, going to her was better than not going to anyone at all. There had been no leads at The Tipsy Dragon at all. Deven had made sure that it and the men in it were destroyed for good. Rien did not like the idea of coming to Sharks' Cove to attack the Beinison army from the inside, but he could understand Deven's bitterness towards these people and their country and did nothing to stop him. It was always a good idea not to come between a mage and his vengeance. His biggest concern now was Adrea. It had been more than a month since the invasion and there was no trace of her. What could have happened? It had been far too long to tell anything by the condition of the tavern. For all he knew, Adrea left days before the attack or maybe several months later. Rien walked around the Abyssment to look at the charred remains of the market square and the destroyed home of the Guard Captain. Burned alive. What a horrible death. As hard as he tried, he could not understand what could drive someone to do things like this, to draw blood with no provocation, to kill and loot and be willing to die. He did not understand what drew people into these conflicts and at the same time, when drawn into one himself, he was no better than those he condemned. ReVell Dower was another sore spot, leading an army against the Beinison forces, outnumbered five to one. What good could he do? For whom? The gleeful heroic charge into battle made no sense. There was no point with odds this great, no matter what the intent. Rien walked between the burned booths, the street full of litter. There were no dead bodies here as the city was still inhabitable and such decay would be a way of spreading sickness and disease. But what was left of the market square was also empty. He stood alone among ruins, the blackened support frames and remainders of walls. It was a whole different world, nothing like what Sharks' Cove used to be like. "Hey, you!" someone yelled in the Benosian tongue and Rien turned to look. A Beinison soldier stood, arms folded, at the edge of the street, facing Rien. "Come here." It was said in Benosian and Rien pretended not to understand. He knew that if he spoke, he would never pass for a Benosian citizen anyway. Perhaps ignorance would be better. The soldier drew his sword and approached Rien. "Are you stupid, or what?" `Probably stupid,' Rien thought. It was suicide to go into the streets with or without a sword, but it may have been better if he had his now. "You must be stupid, son," the soldier approached, swinging the sword for balance. "You're stupid," he repeated in Baranurian, trying to provoke a fight. Rien took a few steps back, to the remainder of a wall of a building. "Oh, you're making it so easy..." the Benosian words sounded again. The sword started into its strike and Rien, with his back to the wall, dropped to his knees and bent forward. The blade impacted the wall with a crack, splintering the already damaged wood. The soldier's legs were just before Rien and with a quick swing, he sent the man tumbling to the ground. The sword remained stuck in the wall. Rien got up as the soldier drew a dagger and stepped on his right forearm. "Drop it," he said in Benosian, his speech heavily accented. The man tried to throw Rien with his struggling and was rewarded with a heavy boot crashing down on his wrist. The dagger flew out of his hand as he yelled out in pain. Rien knelt down over him. "A few years ago I would have broken your arm to make sure you never fight again, but I've learned that people like you will learn to use their off arm just so they may cause more pain." He drew his own dagger. "It'll be an honor to die at the hands of an enemy," the soldier spat, "to die fighting for my country." "We're fighting for my country," Rien answered, running the knife across the soldier's throat. Warm blood squirted up and stained the ground, the rushing air from the lungs causing it to foam as it ran out. Rien tossed the dagger aside and leaned against the wall, looking away from the body. He could still hear the shallow gurgling gasps and the sound made him sick. He was disgusted with what he did, the soldier's dying words repeating themselves in his mind. The man was already on the ground, helpless and Rien killed him anyway. "Damn you!" * * * Rien held his breath as clanking footsteps fell on the wooden bridge above him. The quickly flowing water from the recent rainstorm threatened to tear him away from the supports he clung to, and he hung on as the clanking of boots above him refused to subside. He looked up, not being able to see more than shadows passing over the cracks. There must have been over a thousand men in this unit. It was as big as the one he had encountered up river just a few days before. As a single man he would probably be overlooked by the Beinison force as relatively harmless, if noticed at all, but his cautious nature forced him to hide from the soldiers, hoping that avoiding them entirely would also avoid any possible unexpected conflicts. As the footsteps on the bridge ceased, Rien released his grip on the support and maneuvered closer to shore. It was wet and muddy, but the bushes were green and strong. Grabbing a thick branch above the water, Rien pulled himself out on shore. Off on the other side of the river he could see the Beinison troops marching in dead precision. It was a hot mid-summer day and Rien did not worry about staying wet for long, but nonetheless, he took the time to shake the water off his clothes and out of his hair. Rien was sure that as soon as he was on his way the sun would take care of the rest and he would be dry, if not clean. He lingered on the shore a bit longer, looking into the rapidly flowing waters of one of Laraka's many tributaries. The mud he managed to stir was quickly being washed down stream and the water was once again becoming clear. "Hey, you, peasant!" Rien set his jaw. "I'm talking to you! Bring me water, peasant!" Rien pulled the peace binding on his scabbard lose and stood up from among the bushes, facing the man who called him, a middle aged Benosian in grimy armor sitting atop a tired horse. The soldier studied Rien, surprised to see someone so young and armed. He assumed it was some old fisherman in the brush. Rien stepped forward, onto the road, looking the soldier up and down. The man was clearly a Benosian knight, a blue star hanging on a chain draped over his shoulders. This was probably not going to turn out well. "Well?" the Beinison knight asked. "Where's my water?" Rien pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "Must be in the river." The soldier pulled his feet out of the stirups and slid off his horse. "I hope you use that sword half as well as you use your mouth." "I'd rather not have to show my skill to others," Rien tried backing off, but it was too late, the man had yanked his own sword from the saddle scabbard and was approaching, ready for a fight. Rien took a step back, mentally readying himself. The Benosian's approach was sloppy, almost arrogant. The sword was loosely held, the wrist limp, the other arm was just hanging at his side. Was he really a knight who could not fight or simply not what he appeared to be? Could he be trying to play a trick, hoping to catch his opponent off guard? Rien planted his feet solidly on the ground. A single good move could solve the problem no matter what the other man's intentions and proficiencies were. He was glad to have unbound his sword. The Beinison knight closed in to striking range, a clearly solid grasp on the hilt of his sword. He thrust in a feint, changing the attack to a swing at Rien's weapon arm. It caught Rien off guard, but he managed to get away with a minor cut, drawing his sword on the move. He stepped closer, inside the reach of his opponent's sword, and thrust his own into the man's gut. The sharp tip easily tore through the chain armor and sank into the flesh underneath. The Beinison gasped in surprise, wrapping his free arm around Rien for support. The sword fell from his grasp. "Water..." was the last thing he muttered before sinking to the ground. * * * "It's my human half, Deven," Rien explained. "That's the blood that makes me do these things." The mage stirred the fire with a stick, releasing sparks from the ambers into the air. "I don't think Eelail are any different from humans. You have the same drives, want the same things... You get angry for the same reasons." "That wasn't just anger. For that one moment if I could have reached into his chest and torn his heart out with my bare hands, I would have." "No. Look where you are. Look at the death and destruction around you. You're angry and you haven't stopped being angry since the moment you got here. What do you have to be angry about?" Rien looked away. Deven was right. He did not want to be angry, but he was. "I don't know," he sighed, although deep inside he knew well enough. Between the war and Adrea's disappearance, as well as Deven's own rebellion against the orders to stay out of the war he had too many things to worry about and it all added to his anger at what he saw. He picked at his food, no longer interested in eating. "I did it without thinking and all I can see now is that cut I made." "You've killed before." "Not like this. Not after my opponent was down. Never a helpless man." "They killed my parents when they were helpless," Deven said. "Do you know how the Empire kills it's enemies?" Rien shook his head. "They cut their eyes, so they can't see and hamstring arms and legs, so all they can do is scream. Then the lucky ones are burned or drowned. Others are just left for the carrion birds or other scavengers, alive and unable to defend themselves. My parents were burned. At night I can still hear their screams..." "I'm sorry." "It's been forty years," Deven said. "It doesn't hurt as much as it used to." "But you still kill for it." "Revenge is a deep cup to drink from and of all people, I admit it." Rien pushed his plate away. "What if we find that Adrea is dead? What then? Revenge on the Beinison army? Go after Vasquez? Talens? Untar?" Deven shrugged. "We'll see." "We'll see what? If we can fight with one thousand to one odds? Or do you mean the entire Beinison army?" "I mean we'll see. I hope she's safe, but if not, I don't intend to forgive." "Neither do I," Rien admitted bitterly, "and that's the problem. That's the human reaction. My people could never justify killing others at random after what had happened to them. Perhaps if I knew who, where...but then..." "Will you need me tomorrow?" Deven asked. "I don't think so," Rien answered. "I'll be meeting Jenye again, see what she found out. Day after tomorrow, if she had any news." "Then I'd like to use the day to look at the Beinison fleet. They seem to be just waiting in the bay. I'd like to see what they are waiting for." Rien nodded. "Be careful." * * * The annoying fizzling sound of the spell subsided, leaving behind traces of what used to be a heavy lock. Deven gave the door a push and it opened with ease, the remnants of the lock slipping out of the frame and shattering on the ground. Silence ruled inside the dark old house, making Deven wonder who the previous inhabitants were and what had happened to them now. He lit a candle with his finger, choosing to conserve the energy that would be required to light the room. The table on which the candle stood was littered with empty wine bottles and the remains of a meal. He picked up a bottle and smelled it. Baranurian wine. Something creaked and Deven returned the bottle to the table. He was here for a single purpose, a single person. He walked across the room to the stairs leading up and as quietly as he could, made his way to the second floor. The darkness here was very deep, the light of the candle on the table downstairs unable to penetrate this far. He muttered a curse and an incantation, creating a glowing sphere the size of a chicken egg. He needed the light. The top of the landing fanned out in three directions, a door in each of the alcoves and another one behind him. Which room? Were all occupied? He should have asked more questions of the urchin before coming here, but all he thought to find out was if there were any guards. Something creaked again, behind the door to his right, and Deven carefully approached it, the glowing sphere trailing after him. He carefully reached for the door and pushed it open. The light of the sphere behind him projected his shadow into the room, casting a deep blue glow around his outline. Someone gasped. Deven moved forward, the light sphere trailing him, better illuminating the room. On the bed sat a woman, holding a blanket to her chest. Her widely opened eyes expressed fear and concern. "I am looking for Lord Asart Geldavery," Deven said in his native Benosian. "Next room," the woman whispered, pointing. "Thank you," he turned and left, the sphere bobbing up and down behind him. He hoped she would not yell in view of the fact that he had not only presented himself as a mage, but a Benosian as well. Deven pulled the door closed after himself, satisfied with his prediction. First thing first. Asart and who ever else, if there was trouble. He walked to the central alcove and pushed the door open. There was instant scrambling in the room as his glowing shadow announced his presence. "Lord Asart Geldavery?" Deven asked of the man in bed. A woman unsuccessfully hid behind the man. "I am." "Grandson of Count Jaril Geldavery?" "Yes?" His voice sounded less sure, somewhat puzzled. "Your grandfather wishes to see you." A ball of light fell to the bed from Deven's outstretched hand, quickly enveloping it and half the room in fire. "Tell him Baron Yasarin still has followers." The last of the words were drowned out by agonizing screams. * * * It was shortly before sunset that Rien started for the Abyssment. He spent the morning looking over the city, trying to look less conspicuous than the day before and avoiding soldiers and the remainder of the almost invisible town guard as much as he could. It almost worked. At one of the alley ways he noticed a small group of youths. They loitered, talked, one muttered a hello as Rien walked by, then, when he was half way down the block, he heard yells and sounds of commotion. When he turned, he saw four Benosian soldiers being pelted with rocks by the youngsters. He did not give the situation much thought, but when the soldiers drew their swords and charged into the alley after the boys, Rien ran back, hoping to prevent a massacre. He made it to the corner in time to see a large log tumble off a wall of crates, crashing into the soldiers and causing boxes to rain down on them. The running boys returned, gathering around the pile of shattered boxes, obviously scared, but wanting to take their task to its obvious conclusion. One bent down to take a sword from an unmoving soldier when, to everyones surprise, the unmoving man's hand locked around his wrist and the soldier planted a dagger into the youngster's side. The rest of the boys ran as the soldiers got up with war cries and charged after them. Rien cut around the boxes, blindsiding the last of the soldiers and getting his sword. The man sprawled out on the ground confused and disoriented. The other three stopped their charge and turned. A sinking feeling hit Rien. He did not want to fight and kill after what had happened the day before, but at this point there was no backing out. He waited. Attacking first was asking to lose advantage with this many opponents. Waiting could mean the same thing. As they started spreading out to surround him, he moved back, to the alley wall, to keep all of them in his field of vision. With a yell one of the soldiers jumped forward and swung. Rien parried and continued moving back. There were only a few more steps to the wall when the soldiers rushed him. He sidestepped one, elbowed another. Surprisingly, the third fell on his own. The last man, without a sword, did nothing. Rien did not wait for his good fortune to change. He parried another swing, feinted a strike, and his sword connected with the arm of his confused opponent. With a scream of pain, the man backed off. The attack came easer than Rien expected. It came from his reflexes, without thought. Three to go. Two. The man who had fallen was not getting up. His sword was picked up by the unarmed man. Rien parried two more strikes and made one of his own, when one of the men stiffened up and fell forward. Both Rien and his remaining opponent stopped fighting to look at him. "Mage!" the man with the injured arm yelled and ran. What he did not see at a distance was a black arrow sticking out of the soldier's back. "You're probably next," Rien told his remaining opponent. The man answered with a vicious swing that Rien barely dodged. His back was now against the wall, a dead body at his feet and a Beinison soldier viciously swinging his sword to keep him off balance. There was no strategy in the foreigner's attack. Rien swung his sword to break the soldier's pattern, parried a hit and feinted a head shot. As his opponent's sword came up to block the shot, Rien brought his swing down, sinking the blade into the man's side. The soldier looked at Rien in surprise, staggered and fell with the sword still lodged in his body. The methods of killing did not change in one day, nor did they feel differently. The look in the eyes of the dying was the same fear as always. Rien stepped away from the wall and scanned the roof tops of surrounding buildings. Nothing. No archer, not even a trace that anyone had ever been up there. He bent down to examine the arrow. It had a black shaft, dyed by its looks, black fletchings and, when he pulled it out, a black flint tip. The construction appeared to be flawless, as did the aim. The arrow penetrated the soldier's mail between the shoulder blades, just to the left of the spine. He was probably dead before he hit the ground. Examining the other man, Rien discovered that an arrow penetrated his chest and broke when he fell on it. These shots were obviously aimed to kill, not injure or disable. Scanning the rooftops one more time, Rien hurried from the alley before the sun set and submerged it into complete darkness. There was no need to sit here in the dark and wait for the escaped man to bring reinforcements. And the boys who started this fight were long since gone. To his surprise, Rien found the last soldier lying face down just short of the exit into the street. A black shaft protruded from the base of his skull. No longer being able to resist the mystery, Rien pulled out the arrow and hid it under his tunic, now hurrying to meet Jenye. It was completely dark when he made it to the Abyssment. The tavern was crowded with people, not a single table or chair available to use, not even at the bar. Rien could not remember ever seeing this pace so busy. Jenye was no where in the crowd. After a moment he walked over to the bartender and asked for an ale. "Is Jenye around?" he asked when the drink was served. "Who's asking?" "Rien." "Room five, up the stairs." Leaving the ale at a table surrounded by drunks, Rien proceeded upstairs. This was not the same room as the previous morning, positioned on the opposite wall, facing north, away from the river. He knocked. Jenye opened the door. She was dressed in travelling clothes, a change from the flashy styles she usually wore. "Come in." He did. "Did you learn anything?" he asked as she closed the door. "Maybe. Eli found out that The Tipsy Dragon had been occupied by Beinison forces since the day of the invasion. Whatever happened to your friend must've happened on the same day." "Then we need to find the people who were present that same day," Rien said. "I'm ahead of you," Jenye smiled. "I was going to ask you to do that with me tonight." "Let's go." "If the first place won't work out, we can go to another, but it may require bribes." "I'll take care of them." "All right, then," Jenye agreed. "We'll start with a street vendor I know." They left the crowded tavern and headed west, towards the docks, Jenye leading the way. "I have a question for you," Rien said. "I witnessed something today that strikes me as bizarre, even for Sharks' Cove." "What?" He took the black arrow from under his tunic and showed it to Jenye. "Oh, God!" she exclaimed. She grabbed it from his hands, tore off the fletchings, broke off the tip and threw the parts in different directions. "Come on," she broke into a run. Rien followed her. "What's wrong?" She did not answer until they ran a few blocks. "The penalty for carrying that is death," she gasped when she stopped. "Death?" "Where did you get it?" "In a dead body that I was fighting. What is it?" "I told you yesterday we have vigilantes and revolutionaries here. The most wanted of them is Ga'en the Blind, an archer who uses black arrows." "The Blind?" "They say that he's completely blind because he wears a helmet with no eye slits." She turned away and looked back the way they came. "Many think that he was a soldier in the Legion of Death, caught by the Beinisons and tortured. His eyes were burned out and he was released into the wilderness, where he somehow became what he is." "The Legion of Death?" Rien asked. The Legion were two regiments in the Combined Host of Baranur, the Red Death and the Grey Death. Two of the perhaps best trained heavy infantry archer regiments on all of Cherisk. Their mention alone has been known to shatter enemy morale and send armies off the field of combat. "He's been called `The Black Death'," Jenye explained, "because of the arrows he uses. The reward for him now is ten Marks, but no one knows who he is." "That may be," Rien said, "but I doubt he's blind. I saw those shots and I doubt I could duplicate them...and I consider myself skilled with the bow." "He could be aided by magic," Jenye suggested. Rien shrugged. "I've learned that a lot of myths and legends tend to be placed on common things that seem to defy explanation." "I think this town needs all the heroes of myths and legends it can get," Jenye said. "He goes around attacking thieves and the Beinison army and that rallys people to his cause. What did happen with you, anyway?" "Some kids were attacked by Beinison soldiers and I tried to help them get away. The next thing I knew, there were black arrows sticking out of the patrol." "Well, that's the reason there's such a high reward for his head," Jenye said. "The Beinison army lost quite a few men to him." As they talked, they reached their destination and Jenye knocked on the door of a small wooden house, little more than a two room shack constructed of old rotting planks and a torn ship sail, to keep the wind and the rain out. A woman of Jenye's age, although appearing ten years her senior, cracked open the door. "Yes?" "Walda, good evening to you. Is your husband home?" "Come in, please," she opened the door completely. Rien followed Jenye into the house. "Moldan, Doctor Calyd is here to see you." A balding, tired looking man appeared at the door to the back room. "What can I do for you, Doctor?" "Please, sit down," Walda indicated to a low bench along the wall. "Can I bring you something to eat?" "No, thank you, Walda. I'm fine." Rien refused as well. This family did not seem to have enough to feed themselves, much less strangers. "Moldan," Jenye started, "I'm looking for a woman who was in town at the start of the invasion. She tended bar at The Tipsy Dragon. I need to find out what happened to her." "A pretty young thing, yes, I remember," he muttered. "Last I saw her was a few days before the Beinisonian ships came." "We need to find her, Moldan," Jenye cast a glance at Rien. "Could you find out? Ask around? If you can find the people who were at The Tipsy Dragon that..." "If they're alive and in town," Moldan agreed. There was a scream from the back room and everyone jumped up. Walda rushed out through the doorway. "My son, Barar," Moldan explained. "I fear he's seen too many horrors of the war." "Let me take a look," Jenye offered. "I have nothing to pay you with, Doctor," Moldan protested. "Then you won't have to," she said and disappeared through the curtained doorway. Moldan followed her, shaking his head. Rien stepped up to the curtain, to look in the other room. Walda and Jenye knelt by a skinny boy, perhaps eight or ten years old, dirty and crying. Moldan absently stood not far away, looking on. As Jenye talked to the boy, Rien scooped some coins from his purse and tossed them into the empty soup pot leaning against the wall by the fireplace. Perhaps that would give them a chance to fill it with real soup tomorrow. Jenye soon finished with the boy and they left after Moldan and Walda thanked them profusely and promised to do all that they could to help. "Sad, isn't it," Jenye asked as they walked down the street. "The boy, I mean." Rien nodded. "You have to wonder why life has to be so unfair for those so young." She looked at him. "But then it wouldn't be interesting to people like you if it were fair, would it?" Rien paused, looking at Jenye. Was that a comment on his choice of occupation? If it were, it was hardly fair. In his line of work he could speak only for himself. Others were responsible for their own actions. He was no one's keeper and never intended to take on a job such as that. As for it being interesting over fair, that was another thing to argue. He always loved the mystery and intrigue of `interesting', but would take fair over that any day. "No, it wouldn't," he said, "but it'd be simple and easy." "And you want a simple life?" Jenye asked, equally surprised. "I don't think I'd mind one." "I can't see you living on a farm, digging in the dirt," Jenye laughed. "You can't see me fighting with a sword, either," Rien reminded her. "I've never seen you with a sword," she shook her hear. "You're a hard man to pin down." "And you? Working for the worst criminal this city's ever known, while selling out his business associates behind his back? And then turning around and helping a sick child for no reason at all?" "It was a way to pay Moldan for what he said he will do. And it's painful to watch the boy suffer like that. He didn't do anything to deserve that pain, but now he'll have to live out his life with the horrors of this war hanging over him... But then I'm not the only one to offer kindness to him, am I?" "I'm sure that goes for his parents without saying," Rien agreed. "It's not his parents I'm talking about," Jenye stopped. "The boy's bed is exactly opposite the fireplace in the big room. I saw what you did and I doubt those were stones you threw in there." "Just a few coins," Rien shrugged it off. "They need them more than I do and they struck me as too proud to simply accept money from a stranger." "You're a strange man, Rien... What is your family name?" "Keegan," he answered without hesitation. "And where are you from, Rien Keegan?" "I travel a lot." "I can see why you would want a simple life, then," Jenye said. "But if you want it so much, why haven't you made yourself one?" Rien had to think about that. Why indeed? "I don't think I've found the right place yet." "You must be a hard man to please." "Sometimes," a hint of a smile escaped his lips. They soon returned to the Abyssment, crowded as it had been at their departure. "Where else did you want to go?" Rien asked. "You said there was someone else." "I think Moldan will come through," Jenye said. "I was afraid he wouldn't know who you were looking for, but he obviously met her. If there's anything to find out, I'm sure he's the one to do it." "Then I guess I'd best say goodnight here," Rien stopped at the foot of the stairs. "Here?" Jenye turned. She was a few steps ahead of him. "I was hopping you'd come up." Rien glanced around the room, at the Beinison soldiers still sitting and drinking. "All right." They went up to Jenye's room. "Rien, what if we don't find her?" "I'll look until I do." "What if she's a prisoner somewhere?" "I'll have to get her out." "And if she's dead?" He turned to the window, looking at the blind alley it faced. What if she is dead? Would he leave? Attempt revenge? "She's alive." There was no proof otherwise. There was no reason for her not to have left in time. "In the last two months," Jenye said, "I've seen more death than I had all my life and you tend to see quite a bit living in a place such as this." "She has to be alive," Rien said, "for her daughter. She has no one else." "I hope you're right, but I have to be realistic. I never thought I'd live to see a war, much less live in one, but here it is. And people do die. It's not some romantic dream the bards tell us about. It's very, very real." "I know," Rien nodded. "But all I have right now is hope, so that's what I do." "Tell me a little about Rien Keegan," Jenye asked. "Who is he?" "I am he," Rien turned back to his companion. "It's all that simple." "No. You said you travel. Where? What do you do there?" "Asbridge, Dargon, Arvalia, Narragan, Quinnat..." "Well, that pretty much covers this part of the country. Your horse must be very tired." "I never asked." "Where are you from originally?" "Arvalia." "It must be nice there this time of year." "It has it's good points," Rien smiled thoughtfully. "It being home, I think it's always nice there. You're from Magnus, aren't you?" he changed the topic. "The accent a little thick?" Jenye smiled. "Just a little, but there's nothing quite as distinct as a Royal Duchy dialect. Are you from Magnus proper?" "The Royal City itself. Born there, studied medicine at the University, then came here to heal the sick." "How long have you been here?" "A while. Ten years. Since 1002. Twelve." "Do you like it here?" "Somewhat. I've found that it was easier to come down river then to go back upstream. What about you? How did you become a mercenary?" "That'll take longer than I have to be told," Rien avoided answering. "Longer than you have? I wanted to ask you to spend the night." Rien's smile faded. "I hope you don't think me forward," Jenye said. "I don't make a habit of asking men to sleep with me. I've only done it twice before." Rien took a deep breath, not sure what to say. "What happened those times?" "They both accepted. With time I learned that one was a thief and the other a liar." "How do you know I'm not both?" "Intuition. Experience." Rien sighed. "You really don't want to get involved with me." "Why not? You're not married." "I travel," he forced a smile, but it faded quickly. "I was home last month. Saw someone I hadn't seen in years and found I still had feelings for her..." He let his words trail off, a bit bitter. "Is she no longer interested in you? Is she married?" "No...but I think she's grown tired of waiting for me. I'm afraid I've hurt her when I left. I didn't realize that for the longest time." "So what will you do?" "I'll wait and hope she forgives me." "You're turning me down?" "I'm afraid so, but I don't want you to think it's because of you. You're the only good thing I've found in this nest of wasps. I just don't want to hurt you like I've hurt everyone else I've touched." Jenye smiled a sad smile. "I appreciate you being honest. There was someone who wasn't. He had a wife...and a convenience -- me." "I'm sorry." She shook her head and kissed him on the cheek. "So am I, but I'm glad I wasn't wrong about you." Rien stood up, somewhat taken aback by the situation. "Is there anyone else we need to see?" he asked again. "No. I think Moldan will come through. I'll go see him tomorrow. Come back and see me the day after, in the morning." "You sure you don't want me to come with you?" Jenye shook her head. "I'll bring some herbs for the boy, to help him sleep. This sort of doctoring may take a while." "All right," Rien agreed, "but be careful out there." She laughed. "I'm the only physician in Caligula's service, one of the few in this whole city. I'm a desperately needed commodity. No one would dare try anything." Rien nodded. "Thank you for your help, then...and for..." Jenye put a finger to his lips. "Don't thank me until you learn the price." * * * It was only three men. One obviously wounded and another drunk. They wouldn't be too much of a problem. Certainly, the screaming girl had already attracted all the attention she could get. The sad thing was, the people of Sharks' Cove were so terrified of the invaders, all the screaming did was force them to double check their doors and windows to be sure that everything was tightly locked. When Rien happened across this scene, he was just in time to see a Benosian soldier spear a man with a pike and the woman begin to scream. He had no idea how the two were related, or if they knew one another at all, but the very next moment the soldiers surrounded the woman and dragged her into an alley. Her terrified screams made Rien's decision for him and he started to run well before his brain gave the order to his legs. Leaping over the dying man, Rien put the force of his charge into the back of the soldier nearest him. The man went sprawling forward with a yell, his metal armor shaving sparks from the cobblestone street. Before the other two could react, Rien had the previously wounded man in his grip, forcing his long dagger through the man's armor and between his ribs. The man screamed and struggled, but was no match for Rien's strength. He released the grip on his sword to Rien as Rien's hand wrapped around the hilt, and sank to the ground, gasping for air. "Yield," Rien warned the other man, who still held on to the woman. The soldier put his sword to the woman's throat. "One step!" "If you kill her, it's just you and me." "But you don't want to see her die." "Try me." The sword slowly slid along the woman's neck, drawing a trickle of blood. Rien could not tear his eyes away from the woman's. "Let her go!" "Not on your life!" The Benosian looked about, at his injured companion, slowly bleeding to death behind Rien and then at the other, the drunk, sputtering about on the ground like a fish out of water. Neither one was of much use to him in this situation. For that matter, neither was the woman. The sword flashed across the woman's neck, squirting blood in all direction and with his leg, he kicked her towards Rien and ran. Rien caught the woman with both hands, letting his sword fall to the ground. His eyes were still locked with hers and deep inside he could somehow feel the terror that spread through her. Her tunic was bloody and blood foamed from her mouth. He knew there was nothing he could do, except hunt down the man that did this, but he held on to her, mesmerized by what he saw. She grappled his arms with her own, begging for help with her eyes, as she drowned in her own blood. Long moments passed with their eyes locked before she passed out from lack of air and even more time before Rien lowered her to the ground and let her from his grasp. He felt pure rage, with no target to vent it on, until spotting the drunken man getting up. "Pick up your weapon!" the hiss filled the street, but the drunk soldier already had that very thing on his mind. He took a wobbling step towards Rien, sword held high, then swung at his unarmed opponent, still on his knees over the dead woman. Rien pushed back, snapping up the sword by him and came back up to his feet, just outside of the soldier's reach. A single parry sent the soldier's sword, as well as a good portion of his arm across the alley and a second sank deep into his chest, lifting him off the ground and throwing him back, the thrusting point of the sword having passed completely though the man. But justice was not yet done. * * * "...forty three ships, nothing smaller than a bireme. Quite a few cogs and carracks. Five galleons," Deven listed out the inventory. "I was thinking I'd sink one, to give the sharks a taste of the tough meat, but if you've wondered where the mages have been during the war..." "Yeah," Rien muttered absentmindedly. "Rien," Deven shifted to a sitting position. "The Benosian mages! I've found them!" "How many?" Rien asked. It was late and dark the two men lay on the floor of their hide out, sharing their impressions of the day's events. "I figure there were twenty, at least," Deven guessed. "Perhaps an even two dozen. Some scrying, others mixing things. I did notice one very powerful clairvoyant. I hope he didn't notice me..." "Clairvoyant? Natural?" "By all means. I hope he doesn't pick up on my trace energies. He's the best I've seen in years." "What good is he to them when he's so far from the front?" Rien asked. "I'm sure they have good messengers," Deven said, "and in case of need, they can probably send a message by magical means, just like we do." "I wonder what his range is," Rien asked. "Judging by the fact that the fleet made no attempt to move past the delta," Deven guessed, "I suspect he can see into Magnus from here." "Eight hundred leagues?" "Explains why they're winning, doesn't it?" "It certainly cuts down on their need for scouts." "Listen, Rien," Deven shifted noisily, "I have an idea." Rien opened his eyes and looked over to the opposite wall, where the mage sat. "Look at us, two old geezers," Deven laughed. "All that living and all that experience and we're now in our primes and we've got that chance of a lifetime right here! If there's one man we get out of the war by force, let's make it that mage." Rien sat up as well. "We were ordered to stay out of it." "Or what? We're volunteers as it is and besides, we already broke all the rules coming here to look for Adrea! What would it hurt?" "I don't think one mage will make a difference in this war," Rien said. "If anyone, Untar's the one to go after." "Next to Haralan, I suspect Untar is the best guarded man in all of Baranur right now," Deven said. "Besides, I know I can't take on someone like Mon-Taerleor, but there are other good fish in the bay..." "So you're willing to swim out to a ship full of mages who all together are ten times as powerful as Mon-Taerleor?" "Dying to!" "And just think, a year ago nothing would've gotten you out of your laboratory for even a moment!" Rien laughed. "A year ago I wasn't on the losing team!" Rien silently evaluated the proposal. He did not believe that the clairvoyant mage was the hinge of the war effort, but he agreed with Deven that a mage so powerful could indeed be a valuable asset to the enemy and a disaster for Baranur. He had no moral problems with trying to stop him. That would more than likely save hundreds of lives in Baranur. He himself had seen more death here than in most other places he had been and could agree with the statement Jenye made earlier in the day. "What do you plan on doing?" Deven did not answer. "Deven?" "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd agree... I was working on my argument." The corner of Rien's mouth curled up, but he refused to let the smile appear. "I didn't tell you this, but a day after I got here, before we met at the Dragon, I saw a woman killed in cold blood and...she died in my arms. I don't know her name, nor where she's from. I don't even know if she's Baranurian... I held her in my arms as she died and there was nothing I could do to save her. And she knew there was nothing I could do..." He took a deep breath. "I'm never going to forget her face, nor the face of the man who killed her. I looked for him all night, but couldn't find him... I'm willing to take one life if it will save others from a death such as this." "I'm sorry," Deven said. "I didn't mean to..." He stopped. "No. I'm not sorry. I want you to know what my countrymen are capable off! I want you to feel the rage that I feel when you think of them!" "Deven, it's not just them. We're all animals inside. When I killed that man in the market, all I could see were the wounds on that woman and all I could feel was the need for revenge...and when I slit his throat and looked in his eyes, all I could see was that woman's expression...for that one instant I was as human as you." "And you don't like being human, do you?" Deven said in a caustic tone. "Well, I've got bad news for you. You're just like the rest of us. You're no better and no worse. You have to live the life you were given and you have to live it with the rest of us, imperfect as we are. Or you can go and hide in the forest, hoping no one will see that face of yours in the light of day. But those are your ONLY choices!" Rien bit his tongue, holding his words. "Look, I'm sorry," Deven went on, "but I'm tired of you using your father as an excuse for what you do! Life is a boat and we're all in it together and it matters little where we came from and where we are going." Rien nodded. "I should be apologizing. We have no choice who we are born to or where. Our families and heredity are determined by events beyond our control. If we're lucky, we're born to good parents in a prosperous area and grow up in a good environment. All that we have a choice in is our path in life. Beyond our births we make ourselves into who we are." Deven took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He knew from experience that Rien just backed out of a fight for sake of an old friendship. He always had a deep conflict with who he was and did not feel at home with either of the two races he belonged to. On any other day Deven would say that not enough time had been invested by Rien into understanding the world he is a part of, but today he had to wonder if that world was changing too rapidly to give those in it a chance to adjust. "I'm the one to speak," Deven sighed. "I'm pulling you in after me, to avenge my parents, your country...Adrea..." "And with no plan," Rien warned. "No plan. It just hit me out of the blue that it might be a good idea to sink that ship..." "Into the blue," Rien corrected. "It also `just hit' you to destroy the Dragon." "The Dragon's different," Deven said. "Even if this were all over today, I wouldn't be able to go back and live there. We wrote it off when we abandoned it. I just made sure it was a casualty of war." "The mage?" Rien reinforced the topic. Deven shifted, leaning back against the wall. "The best way to kill someone, that I know of, still happens to be by bashing their skull in." "All right," Rien agreed. "Assuming that's what we're doing, how do we get to him?" "We don't. I certainly don't. The closer I am to him physically, the more aware of me he'll be. And if he were actively looking for me, I doubt I'd be safe anywhere on this side of the continent." "So you want me to swim out into the middle of the bay and do him in? Has Brice been telling you stories about my swimming again?" Deven laughed. "You can't confront him either. You'd be in as much danger as I. Although you don't practice magic, your potential to do so is a beacon in itself." "Then if we can't do it..." Rien began. "...That's what makes it a challenging problem," Deven interrupted. Rien shook his head. "Deven, I don't want to be taking any more risks than we already are by being here. Adrea should be our primary concern." "She is, but you know I can't go into the street talking to people. My accent will give me away in a blink of an eye. I'm inobvious only so long as I keep my mouth shut." "I'll find her," Rien said. "You just help me get her out." "That was the deal all along," Deven agreed. "And the mage?" Deven rubbed his chin. "Well, if we can't go to him, he has little choice, but to come to us." "Oh, good," Rien said sarcastically. "I was hoping you'd save me the swim." "You may yet need to swim," Deven said thoughtfully. "I need to think this over." "Should I wait or go to sleep?" Rien asked. "Go to sleep." "Right." Deven chuckled. "You wouldn't be this way if you understood how desperately the rest of us need this sleep." "I could've been in a comfortable bed right now, with a beautiful woman, having the highlight of my visit to Sharks' Cove and you're laughing?" "She asked you to sleep with her?" Deven asked, surprised. "The doctor?" "Something like that." "Rien, I'm flattered," Deven laughed, "but you really should've picked her over me." "My love life has plenty of problems without any complications from Jenye," Rien sighed. "Kera?" "Kera. Eile." "Eile? You saw her?" "You know I was in Arvalia." "You've been going there at least once every two years since I've known you and this is the first time you've made an effort to see her," Deven said. "I didn't make an effort," Rien said. "We ran into each other." "And?" "And..." Rien sighed. "I still love her." "And she?" "I don't think her feelings about me ever changed." "And Kera?" Rien did not answer, remembering the harsh exclamation Eile made at the council of tribes. "If looks could kill..." "Looks like you have a big choice to make," Deven said. "I had it to make long before that. There is no way Kera and I can continue." He said that very bitterly, with much finality, although he never really felt any hostility towards her. Deven did not answer, giving his friend a chance to vent his frustrations. "Did I tell you she got me to make her my squire?" "No." "She did. I think this is a good first step to end our physical relationship." "Just like that?" Deven asked. Rien nodded, not quite sure if Deven could see that in the murky light of the dying ambers. "We're of two different worlds. Where will we be in ten years?" "So you'll never sleep with another human female again?" Deven asked. "That's the general idea." "And you'll get yourself a rich Eelail girl, have five kids and a big tree house..." "Cut it out," Rien warned. "That's what I thought," Deven said. "You can't run away." "I can't stay, either." "Does Kera know it's over?" "I don't know if she understands," Rien said. "She loves me, I don't doubt that, but I just don't think she sees the problem." "So in your infinite wisdom, as a man who has three women chasing after him, which one will you pick?" Rien did not answer for the longest time, then finally got up. Deven had this way of getting into the problem, making himself a part of it. Forcing Rien to think. "The one I've hurt the most," Rien sighed. "Who else could I pick?" He walked over to the door of the shack and slammed it closed after stepping out. Deven remained sitting by the wall, knowing full well that Rien would need the time alone to think about what he just said. The mage chuckled and stretched out on the wooden floor. At least one of them needed sleep and for a welcomed change, Deven figured he would be the one to get a restful night. * * * "Sergeant! Are we free to turn in?" "I guess that'll be it for tonight. Go ahead. Tell everyone to be ready to sweep further north tomorrow." "Yes, Sir!" Heavy footsteps echoed down the street as a group of men hurried down the dark street to a two story wood building. "Sir, what about you?" The sergeant turned and looked. "I'll be there in a minute. I just want a moment out here alone." "Sir?" "Fresh air, Lasin! Just smell it!" The other man paused, tilting his head up, as if to get a better sample of the cool night air. "It's better than the stench of burned wood and blood, Sir," the man agreed. "Yes, yes. I find it's the evenings I live for now, Lasin, when we put our swords away and rest from the day's labours." "And enjoy the mead and the women, Sir?" The sergeant laughed. "Let's go in. The mead is better than fresh air when it comes to making me light headed, to forget what I've done during the day." The two soldiers hurried from the mouth of the alley after their companions and disappeared through a doorway under a kite shield. Silence took the street for a time, before shadows again moved against the walls of the buildings. "You're right. They're staying at the Dragon." "We need to go in." Silence. Two men crawled along the wall, watching for any other activity in the street. Two windows lit up with flickering flames above them and laughter floated into the alley. "Any last words?" Rien asked. "No." "Deven!" The mage paused, looking back. "Don't stir trouble!" "My god, Rien! We're going in there with a dozen soldiers and you're saying don't stir trouble? There are going to be a lot of deaths in there tonight. It's either us or them." "Don't look for trouble," Rien warned. "I don't think you know how much I love life," the mage whispered. "I'll do as much as I can to avoid risking it and everything that I can to save it!" "You do that." They moved up to the rear door of The Tipsy Dragon and paused one more time. "Is it open?" Deven asked. "Yes." "It never stops to amaze me how often people lock the front door to stop intruders, only to leave the back door wide open." "Shhh!" A scream echoed down the alley. "That came from above," Deven looked up. "Perhaps I should go with you?" "You look downstairs," Rien answered sharply. "The upstairs is my problem." "You'll run into trouble," the mage protested. "Then I'll call for help. Stick to the original plan for now!" Rien pushed open the back door, allowing a partial view of the rear corridor and the kitchen doorway. Everything was dark, with only a dim glow of a flickering candle visible in the kitchen. "It's clear. Go." Deven slid past Rien and through the open door, pressing himself against the wall once inside. A moment later Rien followed, taking the other wall. Both men looked up and down the corridor, then advanced forward, pausing at the doorway to the kitchen. Rien nodded and Deven slid into the kitchen, heading for the stairs leading to the basement. Rien himself crept further down the corridor to the rear stairs leading up, then, as quietly as he could, ascended into darkness. * * * It was still very early when Rien arrived at the Abyssment. The tavern was almost empty due to the early hour and ordering a non-alcoholic drink, Rien took a seat at the corner table from which he could see both the stairs and the front door. Some time passed with him watching people coming and going, thinking about the events of the last few days. He was becoming worried about Adrea, more worried than he was on his way to Sharks' Cove. He had been here for six days and in this time made no progress. He was no closer to knowing Adrea's whereabouts and as each moment passed, the chances of her being found became more and more remote. He was angry with himself for letting Adrea talk him into letting her stay in Sharks' Cove. There was no need for her to do that and no reason for him to agree, other than her talking faster than he could reason. The Tipsy Dragon was just another facility that happened to make money. There was no reason to maintain it. The funds it provided served little use, usually being used to keep the tavern going and building maintained, not that other funds were unavailable for these tasks. Rien mentally kicked himself. Everything was fine. It was just a matter of time before Adrea would be found. Safe. He shifted impatiently. Jenye was now late. Had something happen to her? Should he wait or ask at the bar? He waited longer, now worrying about two people, instead of one. Finally giving up, Rien made his way to the bar and asked the man on the other side of the counter for Jenye. "You're that Ryan fellow?" the bartender asked. "Yea," Rien winced at the pronunciation. `Something like that.' "Eran," the man called a serving girl over. "Take this man to the warehouse and stay there. Don't go back alone." "Sure, Eli." Rien followed her out of the Abyssment, as soon as she left her apron behind the counter. The girl was young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. She did not say anything. "Why aren't you supposed to come back alone?" Rien finally had to ask. "Because the soldiers are in the streets," the girl answered, almost surprised the question was asked. "Well, of course, they're always there! We're at war!" She looked at him, obviously surprised. "You didn't hear, did you?" "Hear what?" "About the attempt on Admiral Talens' life?" "No." Now Rien was genuinely surprised himself. "When?" "Sometime yesterday. An archer just missed him and he ordered everyone west of Quirin to be put to the sword." "West of Quirin?" That included all of the docks, most of the old quarter and all of the merchant quarter. "That's more than half the city!" The girl did not answer and Rien decided against saying anything more. He was thankful that they were out in the east part of Sharks' Cove, upstream from Quirin, and concerned about what was happening on the other side of town. Just few months ago Sharks' Cove was a bustling city of ten thousand, among the largest in Baranur. By the time he arrived a few days ago, it was said that the four Benosian regiments patrolling the city consisted of more people than what was left of the local population. What would the slaughter of another half of the people leave? Rien wished he could do something, but he knew he was as helpless to stop the enemy as the rest of the populace. Within a few minutes Eran brought Rien to a building with a huge front door and knocked. A sliding bar could be heard and the door cracked open. "What is it?" a man, barely visible behind it, asked. All that could be seen of him was where a narrow streak of light fell across his face. Rien nervously looked up and down the street. They were probably a half league from the part of town where the people were being killed and he could feel a chill in the air. "Is Doctor Calyd here?" Eran asked. "Who's he?" the man asked cautiously. "He's looking for her. Eli told me to bring him here." The door opened into a dark room and Rien followed the girl inside. The room went much further back than it seemed at first, the back part separated from the entrance by a black curtain. "She's in the back," the man said. Rien could now see that he was dressed in chain armor, complete with a sword and a long dagger on his belt and a shield and a helmet lying on a chair. Before Eran could indicate for Rien to follow her, the guard closed the door, sliding the heavy deadbolt back into place. The room submerged into murky darkness, illuminated by a single candle. Eran stumbled towards the curtain and brushed it aside. Rien followed her, better oriented to the darkness on this side of the curtain. They walked through the room and down a short corridor to another, larger room, where many people rushed about and about three dozen lay on the floor. There was more blood there than all those bodies could account for. Rien looked at the bodies in desperation, half expecting to see Adrea among them, but while there were quite a few women there, he saw no trace of her. "Come this way," Eran called to him and he followed her to the other side of the room where Jenye tended to an injured man. Rien knelt by her, taking a bloody gauze she was trying to manipulate and holding it in place. As he took it from Jenye's hands, he realized that her hand was glowing, radiating a warmth which forced the wound to close up. His own arm became pleasantly warm from the closeness of the magical source. "All right," Jenye took the bandage from Rien. "He'll make it." "I didn't realize you were a mage," Rien muttered. "Neither did I, until I saw my father die," she picked up the lose strips of cloth on the ground and moved to the next patient. "I'm sorry," Rien followed her. "So am I. He might've lived if I had found out sooner." She unwrapped and examined the deep cut on the woman's forearm as blood freely flowed to the floor. "Can you move your fingers?" "No," the woman shook her head, obviously in pain. "Hold her arm still," Jenye instructed Rien. He did, not understanding the reason, as the woman lay perfectly still. Jenye took a glass marble from her pouch and forced it into the wound. The woman screamed in agony and Rien had to struggle to keep her steady. A glow again emanated from Jenye's hands, making the torn skin grow together. The bleeding stopped and the injured woman quietly sobbed. "Lie still," Jenye told her. "You'll be all right..." Rien looked into the injured woman's eyes, realizing for the first time that she could be no older than Eran. Just a girl, caught in a war. "What happened here?" he asked Jenye. "Come on," the doctor answered, hurrying to the next patient, a man dressed in chain and some plate. A second man, dressed in the same manner, sat by him, unsuccessfully trying to stop the bleeding from an open wound in his side. "How long was he here?" Jenye asked. "I don't know..." The wound was so wide and deep, there was no need to remove the chain shirt to access it. "You should've gotten me sooner," she scolded. "He lost a lot of blood." Clanking sounds alerted Rien to look up. Two men carrying a third entered the room. "Doctor!" "Wait your turn!" "He's going to die!" they put the body on the floor. "So will this one!" she thrust all of the bandages to Rien and saying, "stop the bleeding," hurried to take a look at the newcomer. Rien moved closer to the body, pulled the soldier's armored shirt up, adjusted the torn and stained tunic and placed a cloth strip over the wound. The cut was deep, probably made by a pike or an axe, slicing deep into the right side, under the ribs. Rien had no doubt that the man's intestines were cut. He threw another layer of cloth over the wound as the first soaked up the blood. In a battlefield an injury such as this would be considered unsalvageable and he would be permitted to die. A third strip of cloth followed the second and although unconscious, the man groaned from the pain. "What happened?" Rien asked the man sitting by him, while continuing his attempts to slow the flow of blood. "He's my brother..." That was not the answer Rien desired. The bleeding did not stop and he continued layering the cloth. The wound was simply too deep, too wide. "Jenye!" He was not sure where she came from, but her hands checked the wound, then rapidly checked the man's throat. They hovered there for a moment, then she pushed herself away from the body. "He's dead. They're both dead." Rien removed his bloody hands from the wound. The man died while he was trying to save him and the blood flow was so strong, there was no indication that he had died, even now. The man's brother sat unmoving, looking at the body. He was probably in shock. "Jenye, what happened?" "Ga'en missed. The one shot that mattered the most, he missed..." "Are you sure?" There were tears in her eyes. "I don't know any more..." "Doctor!" a man called. "Come on," she got up, wiping her eyes and smearing blood on her face. Rien followed her to the next casualty of war. "Get me more bandages," Jenye told the man who called her and he rushed off. As Rien helped tend to the wounded, he eventually lost count of the number of people that passed by him and the types of wounds that they had. It all blended together into one long nightmarish string of bodies and screams and blood from people whose only fault was living on the wrong side of town. Children and elderly, men and women, rich and poor all alike had become targets of the Benosian force. At first, the calm frozen faces of the dead stayed with Rien, but by mid-afternoon even they began to blend together due to their numbers. Every type of wound imaginable had passed by him during the day. Everything from cuts and bruises to burns and mutilation on young and old alike. His clothes became stained with the blood which had covered all of the floor of the large room and the trails of which seemed to crawl though the doorways, as if trying to reach other parts of the building. Each time he closed his eyes, he could see the worst of the wounds and hear the screams of the dying and worst of all, the smell of death followed him at every step, even after it got dark and there were no more people being brought in to be helped. The day passed as if in a dream and Rien found himself and Jenye sitting in a darkened back room, recovering from their ordeal. Her arms were around him, face buried in his hair, spilled over his shoulder, and he was only remotely aware of his own arms around her waist. "I've never seen anything so inhumane in my life," he heard himself say, not sure why he was saying it. There was no question that half the people were tortured and left to die. "You're a soldier," he felt Jenye's warm breath on his neck. "I never killed for sport... I always fought for survival." "This is a different war. I'm sorry I made you come here." "I came of my own free will." Rien could feel Jenye's lips on his jaw and then on his own, but refused to fight her. He had no more fight left in him tonight and did not think she had any, either. * * * Darkness slowly dissolved into the comforting flicker of candles lighting the second floor corridor. Rien held as close to the stairs as he could, raising his head just enough to see over the top step into the lit corridor. Everything was quiet, most of the dozen doors on the floor closed, some with flickering shadows of flame seen from beneath them. Rien hurried up, knowing he had little time to check all rooms before meeting Deven again on the other side. Their goal was only to make sure that Adrea was not there. He did not want to be forced into a confrontation with the soldiers at the inn, even though Deven stressed it was inevitable. He checked the first room, with an open door, satisfying his curiosity that it was empty. How many soldiers were there? At least a dozen. Probably twenty, plus their sergeant. A standard squad of men. There were a dozen individual rooms on the second floor. Six more in the basement. That would average one to a room. Most were probably still in the tavern portion of the inn, getting drunk. He checked the second open room. Empty. The third had a closed door. Rien paused and listened. Nothing. Sounds could be heard coming from other rooms, but not from here. He pushed it open. Empty. The next door hid a lit candle in the very least and he debated opening it now. Would it be worth the risk? He pushed it open a crack. Nothing. He pushed it open some more and stepped inside. Empty. A travel pack on the floor, leather gloves, hauberk and camail on the unmade bed. The owner no where in site. Carefully closing the door after himself, Rien returned to the corridor. The next door was also open, the dark room empty. `Almost half,' Rien paused at a closed door. From the next room down he heard a moan. Pleasure? Agony? It was hard to tell. Either way, he would soon have to look in. He paused at the current door, listening, when running footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor, where the other set of stairs was and not giving things a second thought, Rien pushed the door open and entered. Dark. Outline of a bed near the shuttered window. A form on the bed. Sleeping? "Forance? You so drunk you can't find your room again?" Rien grunted. "Look, I told you it's a bad idea to switch rooms after all this time." Rien did not move. "Look, you dumb kid, get out, or I'll throw you out!" The door behind Rien opened and a large framed man stepped in. "Forance?" the man on the bed asked. "Gegurtuny?" the man in the doorway asked and put his hand on Rien's shoulder. "Who in the name of Sanar is with you?" Rien's elbow impacted with the gut of the man standing next to him, forcing him to double over, then Rien, grabbing his arm, flung him across the room into the bed. Forance more slid than flew into the wall, but in the end wound up sprawled over Gegurtuny, grunting in pain. Rien stepped outside and pulled the door shut after himself. With any luck that would be all to his encounter, although deep inside he suspected there had to be more to it. He had time to quickly verify another empty room before coming to the one he heard originate the moan not long ago. Five more rooms. He pushed the door open. Inside, on the bed, lay a naked woman and in the middle of the room stood a naked man. "Sorry," Rien closed the door, hoping his accented Benosian would not be noticed. He did not recognize either of the pair. The next room was also lit, but there was little time to hesitate. Rien pushed the door open, coming face to face with an armed and armored man. "What?" the man turned in surprise. "Just my luck," Rien answered in the Baranurian tongue. He grabbed the man's arms as the soldier drew his sword and smashed him against the wall. The man reversed the grab, pushing Rien against the other wall, both tripping over the bed and falling on it. Rien punched. His opponent kicked. The bed tilted on it's side, sending both of them to the floor. Rien kicked. The bed turned over completely, falling on the two men. "Intru..." Rien's fist connected with the man's jaw, ending his warning with a yell of pain. They struggled to their feet, the Benosian soldier getting up in the doorway and Rien in the middle of the room. Not wanting to waste time recovering, Rien put his shoulder into the soldier's chest, as he charged out of the room, carrying the man across the narrow hallway and crashing against the door on the other side. The lock gave way and the door fell in, Rien and his opponent tumbling in after it. "Keep it down!" A roar sounded from the corridor, followed by a female shriek. The man Rien tackled made no sound. "Empty room," Rien muttered and got up, stepping outside. Three to go. He picked up the sword the soldier he fought dropped and hurried over to the next door. Sounds of drinking and talking could be heard from the overhang to the common room, not far away. The moment of truth was near. Pushing the door open, Rien paused in the doorway, looking at a partially dressed man leaning over a naked woman. "Help!" the woman shrieked. Rien brought up the sword as the man moved back. At that moment the door half way down the corridor burst open to reveal the large man Rien had assaulted moments earlier. He looked mad and spotting Rien, headed right for him. "Hang on," Rien closed the door. He did not want to deal with more than one opponent at a time. To his surprise, he saw the large man draw a sword from over his shoulder, not stopping as he did so. Rien took a step back as heavy foot steps could be heard on the stairs. An armed and armored man appeared at the top of the landing, obviously expecting to run into trouble. "What is going on out...?" the half naked man from the room Rien just looked in appeared in the corridor. "It's a party," Rien smiled, grabbing his arm and flinging him into the man at the top of the stairs. Both tumbled down to the main room of the tavern in a tangle of arms and legs. Rien's sword bounced down after them. "Intruder!" Forance yelled and swung his sword. * * * "Let'er go!" A scream filled the air and Rien shifted, not sure if it was inside the building or in the street. Jenye, still asleep, turned, draping an arm around his neck and wrapping herself around him. He moved her arm and lifted his head, trying to listen. There were sounds of rushing feet in the corridor outside the room and more commotion further away. "Come on," he shook Jenye. "We've got to go!" "Wha...?" she turned away from him, trying to stretch out on the floor. "Jenye!" he whispered, grabbing hold of her arms and shaking her, "we have to leave now!" "What is it?" she looked at him, still half asleep. "The soldiers are here. Get dressed." That made her move much faster. They dressed as sounds of commotion picked up, but this time outside the room. Distinct sounds of swords and distant yells could be heard. "What's going on out there?" Rien cracked the door open and looked out. The hallway was empty, but only for the moment. More footsteps sounded and Rien closed the door before anyone appeared in site. "What is it?" Jenye asked impatiently. "Probably soldiers. If they come in here, don't resist. Do what I do and when I tell you to go, run like you've never run before." Another scream sounded. More rushing feet, the sound of someone falling. "You're not armed," Jenye suddenly said. "Shhh!" The door slammed open to reveal two Benosian soldiers with swords drawn. "Two more in here!" one of the men yelled in his tongue. By the looks of her, Rien did not think Jenye understood. A sergeant walked in, sword arm bloody up to the elbow, clearly not with his own blood. "She'll be good for the men, if she's healthy," he looked at Jenye. "Kill the man." Rien was glad that Jenye did not speak the language. He was not sure if he was glad that he did. One of the soldiers turned to Rien, while the other waited in the doorway. It was time to think fast. "It's bad luck to stand in the doorway," Rien said in their tongue. The man approaching him stopped. The sergeant folded his arms. "So, you do understand... Kill him anyway." Dodging the swing of the sword, Rien slammed himself into the door, causing it to crash into the sergeant. The door hit him square in the chest, pushing him back, but catching his shoulder and bloody arm in the door frame and Rien could hear the satisfying sound of cracking bone. The two remaining men closed in on him. "If you don't move, this'll be quick..." Rien planted his back against the wall and pushed the door to let the unconscious sergeant fall. He would have to retreat to the corridor to get the sword. That was no good. Jenye started inching up, trying to sneak up on the soldiers, their backs now turned to her. "Don't move," Rien warned her in Baranurian and one of the soldiers, who apparently understood, spun around. Perfect. Before he knew it, the man was tumbling down, shielding Rien from his companion's sword. It was a quick thrust, unexpected by all in the room, and the man Rien knocked off balance went limp. The last soldier shouted for reinforcements. "I was hoping you wouldn't do that," Rien said, still supporting the dead Benosian soldier. The soldier backed away from Rien, trying to maneuver closer to the door. "Here," Rien gave the body he was holding on to a shove at his opponent and rushed him as they collided. The door slammed the other way, catching the soldier against the wall and stunning him. He slid down to the floor, leaving behind a trail of blood. "Damn unlucky place to stand," Rien pushed the unconscious sergeant out of the doorway. "Come on," he turned to Jenye. "While they're out." She hurried to him, but paused a few steps short of the door, looking him in the eyes. "You're..." Rien grabbed her and pulled her out of the room. "Let's..." In the corridor lay two bodies of people who helped them take care of the injured the day before. Rien had little opportunity to become familiar with them, but after the emotional drain of the previous day, he had to pause to gather his thoughts. "Oh, no," Jenye bent down by one, a deep cut across his chest and part way down his abdomen. The other man was clearly dead, his throat slashed. Commotion could be heard deeper in the building as Jenye's hands started to glow green once again and she reached for the injured man. "We don't have the time!" Rien grabbed her hands and pulled her up. He could feel the magic affecting him. "He'll die!" "So will we, if we don't get out of here!" He almost carried her to get her away from the body. "We don't have the time to do this!" "He's my friend!" They made it to a side door and Rien forced Jenye into the alley. "Then he'll understand! You're no good to anyone dead!" "And neither is he!" "Jenye, that wound is simply too extensive to spend time on," Rien stopped, forcing her to look at him. "And even if you healed it, he wouldn't have the strength to leave and neither would you! You can't risk yourself this way." "Isn't that what friends are all about?" she asked, pulling against his grasp. "I'm going back." "No!" Rien said, but Jenye pulled free, rushing towards the edge of the alley. "Jenye!" She stopped just short of the mouth of the alley, at the sight of two Benosian soldiers. "Jenye!" The soldiers drew their swords. "Run!" She turned, the soldiers on her heels. Not having a sword available, Rien picked up a sturdy plank and prepared for an unbalanced fight. Jenye charged past him, closely followed by the two men. Rien met the first soldier with his plank, connecting with the man as the sword of the other dug into the wood, uncomfortably close to Rien's fingers. He twisted the plank, yanking the weapon out of the soldier's hands, making both weapons unusable. With a yell, the soldier pulled a broadsword from over his shoulder, swinging down on the draw, the blade skipping across Rien's upper arm, splattering blood in various directions. "For Untar!" The sword impacted Rien's side making him fall over, "and for Beinison!" The weapon hovered in the air and began its downward plunge. "And for..." The soldier toppled forward, the sword digging into the ground near Rien's head, the edge cutting into his shoulder before coming to a rest. "Rien!" He could not move, the sword dangerously balanced between his neck and the soldier on top of him. The Benosian warrior did not move. "Rien!" Through his pain, his eyes focused on the man above him, a trickle of blood forming at the edge of the soldier's open mouth. The head dropped down with a final breath and the shifting weight forced the sword down. Rien pushed at the ground with his heels, desperately trying to get away from the blade, or at least to get his head out of the way. The body fell on him, but the sword froze in the air, stuck in the ground at an improbable angle. "Rien?" He cautiously opened his eyes, his vision obscured by blood. "Rien?" Jenye held on to the sword with one hand and pushed the dead soldier off Rien with the other. Before he could say anything, her glowing hands reached for his wounds. "I'm sorry..." Rien did not answer, lying still as the pain in his side began to dissipate. He deserved that cut. Both, actually. All three. He let the soldier get the better of him. He deserved worse than he got. It was just his luck to fight a walking arsenal with no weapons of his own. "Go!" Rien caught himself. "Before more come." His voice was a mere whisper. "You'll bleed to death if I leave you!" Rien did not believe that to be the case, but was fully aware of the severity of his wounds and that without healing, he would be in no condition to go far alone. "Leave me," he repeated. "Friends don't do things like that," she said again. "Don't be foolish," Rien gasped. "How long have you known me? What do you know of me?" "I know you're kind, gentle and you care." Rien tried to sit up, doing so with a tremendous effort and a groan. He could feel the wound in his side tearing and grabbed Jenye's arm for support. "You're only making it worse," she warned, pushing him back down. "No," Rien resisted. "Not in the middle of an alley." Jenye looked up and down the street. It was probably the only one in Sharks' Cove that happened to be completely free of trash and debris. Well, almost completely free. There was one overturned crate lying by the wall some twenty yards away. She again reached for the wound in Rien's side, forcing it to seal. For the time being, she was not going to bother with the one in his arm, or the shoulder. Neither was life threatening and he was right, she was tired and the effort was already costing her a lot. "Get out of here," Rien's left hand locked tightly around her wrist, "before more come." "No!" she yanked her hand away from his and continued to work, ignoring his protests. Finally, Rien seemingly gave up, resting on the ground as Jenye closed the major wound. She had to force herself to finish the job, in spite of fatigue. She would not have done this for many people, but in the last few days Rien impressed her as few others would have and even surprised her a number of times. When she finished, Jenye sat down, picking up one of the swords the Beinison soldier dropped. Although she had no intention, or skill, to use the weapon, perhaps if she just held it in her lap, it would make her seem a more formidable opponent in this city. Rien appeared to be asleep, the wound in his side healed. The other two wounds, on his arm and shoulder, still needed attention, as blood trickled down to the ground from them, and tearing the dead soldier's tunic, Jenye proceeded to bandage them. She paused as she tore the man's clothes, noticing for the second time the black arrow that cost him his life. She wanted to hate Ga'en for the horrors he brought on the city and at the same time was grateful for what he had done in this alley. She did not think she could handle losing Rien after the previous day and painfully realized that his current condition was her fault. Finishing with the wounds, Jenye pulled Rien down the alley to the large crate that could give them cover for a little while. She also moved the two dead bodies and sat them up in a doorway where they seemed about as inconspicuous as they had in the middle of the street, not that anyone would give them a second thought in this town. Coming back to Rien, she sat down, her back against the box and let out a deep sigh. Now everything was a matter of time. Both he and she needed to recover strength and with any luck, they would move on before more soldiers show up. She could, in all truth, leave now to look for help or better shelter, but she could not force herself to abandon Rien, not after what he had done for her. Lost in her thoughts, Jenye reached to check Rien's wounds again. The one in his side was repaired to the point of not bleeding, but it still needed attention that she could not provide without her tools. The other wounds, although less severe, were merely bound and still bleeding. "Help me up," Rien's voice startled Jenye as she moved to adjust the bandages. "I thought you were asleep..." she muttered. "I didn't mean to wake you." "A pained sleep is a waste of time. Help me up." "You're too weak," she protested. "Too weak to fight if the situation calls for it. I can travel...now." "The hell you can." "Jenye, that sleep did me a lot of good. Help me." She hesitated, but finally offered him a hand, surprised at how quickly he accepted it and sat up. "The flesh is healed, but the pain will last as it normally would. Some things must heal at their own pace." "I'll be fine, thank you," Rien answered. "I'm sorry," Jenye said. She did not want it to seem to be an after thought. "I'll be fine," he repeated. "Let's go. We need to find a safe place." "The Abyssment," Jenye suggested. "It's pretty far east and I'm sure Gaius won't let anything happen to it... Can you make it? It's almost a full league." Rien stood up, exerting more of an effort than he expected he would need, but less than what Jenye predicted. At first a little unsteady, he regained his feet. "I'll make it. Let's go." "Why didn't you leave me?" Jenye asked, offering Rien help. He accepted it without argument. "Same reason you didn't leave me when I asked, I imagine." Concentrating on both walking and the pain was a chore. "That's not fair," she protested. "But is it true?" "Yes. I meant what I said about friends. I make them for life." "I hope I was an exceptionally fast case, then," Rien said. "You were." "It wasn't because of last night, was it?" "I was going to ask you about that." Rien did not answer, watching the deserted streets pass by. It was hard to tell if the fighting in the last day had come this far or if the scars on the buildings were from previous conflicts. He wondered what to say, not having a good answer to give. He did not want to insult Jenye, but neither did he want to give her any false hope. "I think that at times our desperation becomes so great that we are willing to seek comfort in places we know better than to look." "It was just a convenience for you," Jenye said. He could hear the hurt in her voice. "It was a needed escape for both of us, from the horrors we had witnessed," he answered, hoping she was more convinced than he. "Did it make you feel anything?" Rien stopped, taking a deep breath. He needed a rest. The walk was taking a lot out of him. "Jenye, you're the only good thing I've seen in this city since I arrived here. I'll never forget that...or you, but there are things about me you don't know." She wrapped her arm around him, for a better grip, and brushed his hair back with the other, revealing a pointed ear. "Like this?" "Please," he pushed her arm away, almost backing out of her grip. "These are demons you don't want to unleash..." "Do you really think that being different makes you so horrible?" "Jenye..." "I slept with you, knowing you were different. I saw your eyes change color in the fight this morning. I can't explain some things about you, but I didn't run because of them. You need to trust me a little more." "I do, but you have to trust me when I tell you that it would be all wrong." He sank down a little. "Arvalia is more different that you think. We can enjoy the moment, but never a lifetime." She pulled him back up, her hands glowing. "Jenye, don't. You're too tired. One of us in this condition is more than enough..." Surprisingly, she listened. Rien attempted to maintain his breathing at a normal rate, avoiding gasps and spasms that made it that much more difficult to stand up. "All right," he straightened himself out. They returned to the Abyssment, still sparsely populated, even at this hour, without any further interruptions. It would appear that all the excitement had been limited to the bay and the western portion of the city, and the most obvious thing about the tavern was that for the first time in a long time, it was empty of Benosian soldiers. "My God, Jenye," the bartender, Eli, hurried to her as they walked in. "Almost no one got out of the warehouse!" "I know," she embraced him. "We barely got out ourselves. I don't know how..." Eli looked at Rien. "You know the policy on having the injured here." "He's a special case. I'll take responsibility. We just need a room." Eli shook his head, but got a key and handed it to her. "I don't want to see him down here with all that blood." "You won't." She took Rien up to a room looking out at the remains of the market square and barred the door after them. "Lie down," she instructed Rien. He did. "Don't waste your strength on me. I'll be fine by morning. Just shake me awake." "You need to eat something," Jenye protested. "I'll eat when I wake up." "Just rest. I'll bring something and get some water to clean your wounds." She hurried to get everything she needed, but when she returned, Rien was asleep and she decided against waking him up. The rest would at least restore his strength and the time could be used to clean and rebandage the other wounds. Jenye still did not feel strong enough to use magic without overexerting herself and passing out. She carefully washed and bandaged his arm and shoulder and took the opportunity to examine him one more time. Except for the ears, he looked like any other normal human male. Yet, he was obviously not just like other men, but she still refused to believe in the old stories and mythology. There had to be a sensible explanation. Having eaten a little of what she brought, Jenye went downstairs to talk to Eli about what had happened, find out what he heard and tell of the horrors she had witnessed. The news was not good. The pay back for the assault on Talens was rapid and vicious. There was little news about the current condition of the western portion of the city and enough people attempted to flee that the massacre had spilled over into the eastern half. Hardly anyone who fell in sight of Benosian soldiers survived. The day before, Gaius Caligula, upon hearing of the order to the Beinison troops, sent a number of his people to one of his river warehouses to aid those in his employ who were caught in the wrong portion of the city. At first they aided just their own injured, but as the day went on, others started to seek asylum in this little haven and a decision was made not to turn anyone away. Although a criminal, Gaius knew which side to take in this battle and supported the citizens of Sharks' Cove. Trying not to think of all the faces, the people she personally knew, who died in her care in the last day, Jenye returned to the room where Rien slept and re-examined his wounds. They still oozed blood, but appeared much better. Controlled not to be life threatening, but still not well enough to permit him to travel. "Who are you, Rien Keegan?" she wondered. Considering her actions, Jenye undressed for bed, unwrapped the bandages on Rien's arm and shoulder and once again attempted to heal them and the serious wound in his side. Somewhere along the way she passed out from fatigue. * * * Rien barely managed to move back against the banister as the sword cut through the air, catching his arm and tearing through cloth and flesh alike. Acutely aware that without a sword he was helpless against this man, Rien glanced down into the common room where a half dozen men stood looking up, and exerted the strength to hurdle over the railing before the second swing of the sword could catch him. Managing to keep his balance below him, Rien landed on the edge of a table, causing the far end to swing up, impacting with the chin of the man sitting at that end, splattering blood and teeth across the room. Others scrambled to their feet, those with weapons available drawing steel in preparation for combat. "Hold it!" a large man by the fireplace stood up. "Who are you?" Weapons came to a rest as Rien recovered his feet and the man at the other end of the table slowly slid out of his chair and to the floor, unconscious. The sergeant put down his mug and approached Rien, leaving his sword to dangle at his side. "You are?" Rien took a step back. He beat Deven to the common room. And he missed two rooms. "I'm looking for a friend, but I think I got the wrong tavern..." One of the soldiers pulled the unconscious man from under the table and the two that tumbled down the stairs untangled themselves and got up. At least three people stood on the balcony upstairs, looking down. "I think you got the wrong tavern, too," the sergeant said and returned to his seat. "Kill him. But not here. I don't want a dirty floor." Two men with drawn swords approached Rien. "I wouldn't," Rien warned. He had no idea what he was going to do, but stalling for time could not hurt. If anything, it would give Deven time to finish his rounds and come up stairs, assuming Deven was lucky enough not to run into any trouble. Rien was not sure if he wanted Deven to have found Adrea. This would be tough enough to get out of. If she were hurt, it might make the situation impossible. One of the soldiers silently warned Rien with his sword and Rien backed up some more. He detected a faint trace of smoke in the air, too faint for the others to pick up. "Get going!" the soldier made a grab for Rien. He missed a seemingly unavoidable target and crashed down to the floor, as much to his companions' surprise, as to Rien's. "What the..." the other soldier brought up his sword to strike Rien, but dropped it as it turned red hot. "Mage!" someone yelled, filling the room with panic. Simple prestidigitators and conjurors were quite common on Makdiar, but serious wizards, of skill such as that presently displayed, were quite rare and very dangerous in the field of battle. The Benosian soldiers shifted about the room, none wanting to be Rien's next target. Even the man who dropped his sword hurried to what he felt to be a safe range. The sergeant once again got up. "Yes, a mage," a deep Benosian voice sounded from the rear of the tavern, making all the men with their backs to it jump and hurry to place themselves against the safety of the nearest wall. Deven stepped out from behind the bar. "And who are you?" the sergeant stepped forward, showing the initiative the half dozen men with him failed to exhibit. Rien's eyes targeted the backs of the two men nearest him. Deven calmly walked into the room, reached into his tunic and produced a medallion which he let dangle on its chain. "I am Lord Skalen Deven Yasarin, rightful heir to the Barony of Marolleris, son of Lord Kuvinmel and Lady Ashasan Yasarin. And who are you?" The sergeant broke into a light chuckle, followed by his men, the uneasy laughter turning to full bursts of gut splitting contempt. "Kill 'em both." The soldier nearest to Deven drew his sword and swung, still chocking with glee, as the blade impacted the soft cloak. The seemingly soft cloth refused to give to the blade's passage and the weapon tumbled from the surprised soldier's grasp. The mocking laughter subsided to somber groans as the soldier backed away. His own hand reached down to his side and came back up stained with blood, from a wound level with how he struck the mage. Deven only shook his head. Not wasting the precious time, Rien attacked the man nearest him, planting his boot into the man's back, sending him sprawling forward across tables and chairs, taking down another man in his path. The man who dropped his sword when trying to attack Rien, grabbed a bottle and turned at the sound of the racket, fast enough to see Rien close, but not fast enough to react. He slammed into a wall and sunk down to the ground. None of the other men moved, still watching Deven and the man sinking to the floor before him. "Sergeant..." a tongue of flame licked at the air through the open doorway behind Deven, making the soldiers take another step back. "Sergeant, surely you've heard the story of the Yasarin family. All dead? Not dead? Two publicly executed, but what happened to the children?" The large soldier on the stairs, Forance, let out a yell and leapt the few feet separating him from the mage, his sword held before him, aimed at a stationary target. It sank through the cloak, making Rien flinch as he expected Deven to collapse, but the mage remained on his feet and only moved his arms to lower the stunned soldier to the ground. Forance slipped from his grasp and fell backwards on the floor, a deep wound in his chest. "Sir Keegan," Deven turned to Rien, "leave. These men are mine." Rien took an unsure step forward, towards the door. He knew what his friend intended to do, but was not sure if he should let him. His hesitancy did not seem unusual to the Benosian soldiers around him, who only backed up even more. He knew the risks of challenging Deven's authority now. In spite of what he felt to be right, he had to let Deven finish this on his own terms. There was simply no other way. Rien walked past the sergeant, taking care to be ready if the man attacked him, but the old soldier made no move even as Rien opened and closed the door. He paused in the street, casting a glance back at the tavern, looking at the kite shield over the door, displaying a fat green dragon lying on its back, a filled bubbling glass in its clumsy claw and a goofy glazed look in his eyes. Something in him shattered as he realized that this symbol of some of his closest friends had been lost to the horrors of war. He would forever remember it as a place where Adrea disappeared, where he and Deven made a stand against enemy troops. Crossing the street to the river, Rien hopped off the wood supported embankment onto the soft white sand and walked to the rushing waters, looking off into the distance where flickers of light on the distant southern shore could be seen. Behind him, in the shuttered windows of The Tipsy Dragon, orange flames lapped at the walls of the building. * * * Rien opened his eyes, a sensation of extreme hunger foremost on his mind. He shifted, realizing how sore he was and noticed the lack of bandages that were on him before. Instead, there was an arm draped across his chest. "Jenye..." he did not know what had happened and the idea was not much to his liking. "Jenye?" "Yeah?" "How long have I been out?" She lifted her head and looked towards the window, where the sun had already risen in the east. "Over night. You and I both..." "You..." She kissed him. "You don't have to thank me." "Yeah..." "How do you feel?" she sat up. "Sore." "Just sore?" He moved his arm. "Just sore. Very sore." "I'm sorry this happened," Jenye apologized again. Rien brushed his hand across her stomach. "Another place, another time..." "What?" He shook his head. "Thank you for taking care of me." Jenye put her arms around him. "I'll be sorry to see you go." "I still need to find Adrea," he reminded her. "You..." Jenye sighed. "I guess there isn't such a thing as a good time to tell you. Your friend was killed the first day of the invasion." "What?" "Moldan found a witness. The invasion was so sudden, few had a chance to flee. She died at the tavern." "No!" As he spoke, Jenye saw the pupils of his eyes turn steel grey. "I must speak with the witness!" "Rien, don't. Please." "I must." His look and the tone of his voice frightened her, but she felt the obligation to resist. "You don't know what you're asking..." "Yes, I do. Tell me who the witness is!" his voice rose. Jenye turned away from Rien. There were things she needed to talk to him about now for over a day and this seemed to be the right time. She had his attention and the time. "You left two coins in Moldan's house. He gave them back to me to return to you." "You're changing the topic," Rien warned. "Gold Marks?" "Jenye!" "Do you know what can happen to a commoner with two Gold Marks in a town like this?" Rien grabbed her shoulder and twisted her to face him. "Jenye!" "What are you going to do? Find out who killed her? Go kill them? Why don't you go after Talens? He's hiding in Quirin while his men loot and pillage the city!" "Jenye, Adrea was always my responsibility. I trained her. I worked with her. I was there when her daughter was born. I'm not going to abandon her now, dead or alive!" "You won't let her rest until you see blood at the end of your sword!" "If that's what it takes, but I will look in the eyes of the man who killed her and see what's in his soul." "The witness is Barar, Moldan's son," Jenye turned away again. "It's part of the reason for his nightmares. When I went back, he described things to me that he doesn't know the words for. He was there that day. He saw it happen...and he'll never forget it." "What happened?" "A half dozen men chased a girl in to the tavern, a commoner, and killed her. Your friend tried to stop them, killed a soldier, injured some others... Then they caught her, raped her, gutted her and left her to die." Rien threw his legs over the edge of the bed and got up. "No..." "It'll comfort you to know that they were the ones staying at the tavern. You killed them already." Rien did not answer. "Do you feel better now that you know the truth? Does it please you that they died by your hand? You're just like them! Just like any other man who ever picked up a sword! It's people like you that make this world such a miserable place to live!" Fighting the pain and the soreness with his anger, Rien picked up his blood stained tunic and put it on. "I am sorry I disappointed you with who I am, but I warned you that it would happen. Goodbye." She did not move as he walked out. Perhaps what she said was enough or too much, but it all stemmed from frustration of the last few days and the knowledge that he was going to leave anyway, no matter what she would have told him. She was only sorry that the news she had to deliver him was bad. She really had no bad will towards him or his mission. It just came out sounding that way, her anger was at what was happening in Sharks' Cove. Rien was still among the kindest, most sensitive people she ever met and seeing him go still hurt, in spite of her displeasure with his profession. Perhaps she did do wrong, after all. * * * Rien managed to control himself enough not to slam the door to the room behind himself. He was angry at the news and at how he was treated, but he could not disagree with what Jenye had said. He himself had said the very same thing a countless number of times. He just did not expect to hear it from her so harshly. Compounded with the news of Adrea's death, he found himself at a complete loss. Worse than that, there was nothing he could do, no one to take his frustrations out on. He paused at the end of the corridor, before going down the stairs, and forced himself to calm down. He was not going to do anyone any good by staying mad, himself most of all. After a brief rest, he proceeded down the stairs and towards the door across the room. "Rien!" he heard Jenye's voice when he was half way across the common room. In spite of himself, Rien stopped and turned. Jenye stood at the top of the stairs, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. "We need to talk." For what seemed like forever, he did not move, the eyes of everyone in the room either on him or her. He really could not say that he hated her or never wanted to see her again. In a way he could understand her angry outburst, but at the same time he could see the mistake he made with Kera and did not want to repeat it a second time. It would hurt now, but it would be easier to get over than in the future. She would probably hate him, perhaps as much as he would hate himself, but it had to be done. As all confused patrons focused on him, he once again turned around and left the Abyssment, this time for good. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright December, 1993, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 6 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 5 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 6, Issue 5 12/10/93 Cir 1109 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Archives at fir.cic.net in pub/Zines/DargonZine -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Startled Birds Carlo Samson (Guest Commentary) Resolutions Carlo Samson Yuli 4, 1013 Sons of Gateway 6: Running Jon Evans V. 30-Yule 12, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Startled Birds: A Guest Commentary by Carlo N. Samson (b.c.k.a. Seasons Greetings to all our new and current readers, and welcome again to another edition of _DargonZine_! Yes, the previous issue was another single-story blockbuster; while we endeavour to have at least two stories in an issue, sometimes a large story must be printed in its entirety in order to preserve the narrative integrity. Some of you may recognize two of the authors featured in issue 6-3. Jeff Lee ("Heroic Couplet") was a member of the Dargon Project in 1988, and his story "Stranger in the Mist" appeared in _FSFNet_ 11-1. He is now back with us and is currently at work on his next story. The other returnee is David "Orny" Liscomb, of whom I made mention in the commentary for issue 6-2. Orny founded the Dargon Project in 1984 and was its mentor until he stopped putting out _FSFnet_ (the predecessor of _DargonZine_) in mid-1988. At that time he, like many college graduates, dropped off the net and was never heard from again. "'Bout 'Majin'" is his first story since returning, and he also has a considerably more ambitious story that is currently in the editing cycle. We're glad to have his familiar style gracing our pages once again. Lastly, in this issue we have the sixth installment of Jon Evans' "Sons of Gateway" series, as well as one by this writer which wraps up most of the loose ends from my previous stories. Upcoming issues will feature the conclusion of the "Campaign for the Laraka" series, in addition to stories by Bill Erdley and Max Khaytsus. So stay with us, tell your friends about us, and let us know how we're doing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Resolutions by Carlo N. Samson (b.c.k.a. (Author's Note: This story takes place about a year before the Baranur-Beinison war.) Brynna Thorne stood alone at the top of one of Crown Castle's many towers. She leaned on the rough stone battlement and gazed out over the city of Magnus in the direction of the Laraka River. A warm breeze caressed her long dark hair and brought with it a mixture of scents: the briny smell of freshly-caught fish being unloaded on the docks; the sweet fragrance of bright flowers from the Royal Garden; and the faint, familiar smell of the river itself. The sight of a small merchant ship slowly moving downriver under the broad grey expanse of Kheva's Bridge brought on a twinge of longing; she wished she could be out there on the river, back aboard her own ship, instead of being cooped up inside the cold walls of a castle, even the majestic residence of the King of Baranur. She heard a voice in the distance; it sounded like someone was calling her name. Brynna looked around, and spotted a figure waving vigorously to her from far down below in the courtyard. It appeared to be a woman, and next to her was one of the castle guards. Brynna politely waved back, unsure of the woman's identity. Apparently satisfied, the woman spoke to the guard and the two of them disappeared into the castle proper. Brynna's brow furrowed as she mentally reviewed the list of all the people she knew in Magnus. Within the first week of her arrival, before the trial started, she had visited with all the friends whom she knew still lived in the city; a few of them had moved away since the last time she was in town. She was still pondering over this when she heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw a tall young woman in a simple white and green dress coming toward her from the tower entrance. The woman's sandy-blond hair was tied back with a lavender ribbon, and her oval face was dominated by a wide full-lipped mouth, beaming with a broad smile. Brynna felt herself returning the smile as recognition came to her. "Kadie! So it's you!" The other woman extended her arms as she closed the distance between them. "Brynna Brynna Brynna! Surprised to see me?" "As a matter of fact, yes," Brynna replied. The two women briefly embraced. "The last time I saw you was...how old is your son?" "Sons," Kadie corrected her. "Another one?" Brynna shook her head. "Don't you and Alexio ever talk anymore?" Kadie giggled. "Well, what do you think we talk about?" Brynna rolled her eyes. "You still look like the same old girl who used to hide whenever boys came around." "And you look--darker," Kadie said, squinting one eye. "But at least you've kept your mage mark." She reached out and touched the streak of blue that colored the strands of long ebony hair near the left side of Brynna's face. "As if I could get rid of it!" Brynna said with a laugh. "Now, do you want to tell me just what the freezing hell you're doing here? Dawna said that you moved back to the country two years ago." Kadie looked over the battlements. "My, but we're high up!" She gathered her skirts and sat down in a crenel. "Anyway, my husband has friends in the castle guard, and one of them came by a week ago for a chat. He happened to mention that the whole city was talking about the trial of some famous pirate who had been brought in by a woman ship captain. And I thought to myself, there's only one woman who that could possibly be! So I...persuaded Alexio to take me here to see you. He had to call in many favors and do a bit of persuading himself, but it all worked out and here I am!" "I'm impressed," Brynna said. "And I'm very glad that you did. Living in the Castle isn't quite how people imagine it to be." "So what exactly is your part in all this?" Kadie asked. "I thought you'd be away in some far-off port seeking ancient treasures or the like." "Well, it's...it's quite a story," Brynna said. "You know how much I like stories." Brynna sat down against the parapet. "Well, the whole thing started a few months ago with a book." "A book? What book?" "I was on a trading run to Dargon, and a day before we were to leave I wanted to get a birthday gift for my father. So I stopped in at a local book shop and ended up buying this very unusual tome--I'd never seen it's like before. The owner suggested I take it to a scribe he knew...." The scribe's name was Genarvus Kazakian, and he lived in a private residence east of the marketplace. He was middle-aged, shorter than Brynna, and dressed rather more formally than she expected. He seemed a bit nervous when he answered the door, but was pleasant enough as he ushered her into his small but comfortable study. A boy of about fifteen years was busily cleaning the fireplace; he straightened up as they entered the room. Kazakian introduced the boy as his assistant Abiro, and sent him away to make them some tea. They sat down at a table in the center of the room. Brynna watched Kazakian examine the book; he used a large round lens mounted on a wooden handle to peer closely at the cover and pages. "It is certainly very old," Kazakian murmured after several minutes. "And the writing is very precise." He put down the lens and looked up. "What about the language it's written in?" Brynna asked. "That I am not entirely sure about. The letters do not belong to any script or alphabet that I am familiar with. Although, I do have an idea...." He got up and pulled a book from a nearby shelf. Returning to the table, he opened the new book to a certain page. He used the lens to scrutinize the cover of Brynna's book, then looked over to the open pages of the other book. After a few minutes of reading, his expression became triumphant. "By the beard of Ol! I cannot believe this!" He turned to Brynna and said excitedly, "Captain Thorne, you have purchased a most significant tome!" "How significant?" asked Brynna, her interest mounting. "Firstly, have you ever heard of the Mystics?" "Of course. They were an ancient race that lived on Makdiar about three or four thousand years ago. My mother used to tell me stories about them." Kazakian nodded. "But if my suspicions about this book are true, then it may be that the Mystics did not merely exist in stories, as most people believe." Brynna was about to ask him what he meant when Abiro returned with the tea. "Just put it over there, will you?" Kazakian motioned to a low table in front of the fireplace. "And fetch my writing desk." Abiro nodded and moved to comply. Kazakian turned back to Brynna and continued his explanation. "You may know, Captain Thorne, that the Mystics are widely considered mythical by most scholars, and that those who do research on them are generally scorned. I fall into the latter category, and have gathered much information during my years of study." He went on to reveal that the Fretheod people, who ruled much of Baranur over two thousand years ago, sometimes made references to the Mystics in their literature, and even included samples of their script in various texts. "The symbol on the cover of the book you bought is exactly like the one depicted here in this Fretheod volume on religion. The symbol was apparently used by a Mystic sect known as the Ara'la Takkon. Unfortunately, not much is know about the sect, but their 'holy book' is commonly known as the Codex Araltakonia." Abiro returned with the writing desk. Kazakian opened it and took out a sheet of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. Brynna moved the books aside to make room on the table. "Will that be all, milord?" Abiro asked. "Yes, yes," muttered Kazakian. Remembering Brynna, he added, "Unless you would like some tea, Captain Thorne?" She declined, and Abiro left the room with the tea tray. "As I was saying, this book may very well be the sacred text of the Ara'la Takkon. If so, it will do much to prove that the Mystics did once exist." He paused and looked at Brynna with a serious but hopeful expression. "If I may ask a great favor of you, Captain Thorne--would you be willing to take this book to Magnus for proper study?" Brynna considered for a moment. The capital was a two-week journey upriver from Port Sevlyn, her home and final destination. The crew of her ship was due shore leave, though, and the ship itself was in need of repairs; but it would be no trouble for her to continue on to Magnus by herself, and besides, it would give her the opportunity to visit some old friends there. "If it's that important, I'd be glad to do it," Brynna said. The scribe nodded his thanks and hurriedly scribbled on the parchment. "It is imperative, then, that you get this book to the Royal Scholar. He's an open-minded fellow--I met him while I was studying at the University--and he will no doubt be very interested in properly authenticating and translating the tome." He signed the parchment with a flourish. "Present this letter to him, also. It contains a brief summary of my conclusions, and instructions for you to be compensated for delivering it there." Brynna smiled in mild amusement. The scribe had certainly loosened up upon determining the book's significance. "I had no idea it was of such historical value when I purchased it." Kazakian nodded vigorously as he imprinted his seal on the parchment. "It is most fortunate that you came across the book and brought it to me. A devout man might see the hand of a god or two in this!" "Do you believe it was written by the Mystics?" asked Kadie. "Well, I looked at it very closely during the voyage," said Brynna, "and as I said the writing wasn't like anything I'd ever seen before. But in any case, as we neared Port Sevlyn the _Voyager_ came under attack by Commander Challion--" "He's the one who's on trial, right? Didn't he used to be in the Royal Army?" Brynna nodded. "He was Knight Captain of the Southern Marches, but was discharged for forcing himself on a peasant girl." "Disgusting," Kadie said, making a face. "Exactly my thoughts," Brynna agreed. "After his discharge, he became the leader of a band of pirates, and was widely sought for various crimes. He wanted the Codex, but I refused to give it to him...." "You haven't answered my question," Brynna said. "Is this a raid? If not, I'd very much like to get under way. Tell your mage--the conscious one, that is--to give us the wind back." Challion leaned over the rail. "I have one other objective, and I think you know what I mean." Brynna shrugged. "Do elaborate." "The Codex Araltakonia, Captain Thorne. I wish to purchase it from you." Cydric turned to Mandi. "The what?" he whispered. "That book you were looking at in the cabin," she replied in hushed tones."The one on her desk--it's supposed to be as old as the Mystics!" "Sorry. I don't have what you're looking for," Brynna replied, folding her arms. "No lies, no games, Captain! I know you acquired it back in Dargon. But I'm prepared to offer twice what you paid for it." "In truth, Commander, I never thought our paths would cross again--the dragon whale seemed rather attached to you, as I recall." "I got the better of the creature, in the end," Challion answered. Hitching his trousers up around his ample waist, he said, "Well, three times your purchase price, then. You'll be making quite a profit." "The knowledge in the Codex is beyond price. In any case, what do you want with it? You're by no means a scholar--neither are your mages." Challion rubbed his fleshy face and exhaled loudly. "My final offer--quadruple the amount you paid to acquire it! A fine trader such as yourself cannot fail to recognize a wonderful bargain such as this." "True, but I also recognize barjee squat when I hear it. And I've heard enough," said Brynna. "Spear detail, forward!" Several crewmen went over to the remains of the scorpion and picked up spears from the storage box. After dipping the points into the tar pot, they lined up alongside Brynna at the rail. Kayne lit up a torch and stood behind them. "It always comes to violence, hey Skoranji?" Challion said to the balding man. To Brynna he said, "Very well. If you do not wish to sell the book, then I am afraid I will just have to take it." "You and what battle fleet? Your men won't set foot upon this ship," Brynna shot back. The balding man spoke. "Truly now, m' dear? Be you willin' to test your pups 'gainst me bloodseekers?" "Would you be willing to bet on it, Captain Skoranji?" Brynna asked, smirking. The _Voyager_ crew laughed. Even from his vantage point, Cydric could see Skoranji turn red. "Please, please, let's not bring my friend's fondness for gambling into this," said Challion. "I appeal to your reason, Captain Thorne. Give the Codex over peacefully, and we'll part on friendly terms." Brynna shook her head. "You raffenraker, do you seriously think you intimidate me?" Challion motioned to the green-robed man, who lifted his arms and spoke a short phrase. An intense green glow limned his hands, then a ball of light the same color formed and shot toward the _Vanguard Voyager_. It came to hover over Kayne, then sped downward to strike him full in the chest and knock him backwards. It then ringed his neck, and slowly the First Mate rose into the air. "Certainly not, Captain. I know better than to threaten you. But a threat to your friend is another matter," Challion said, smiling. "True men do not hide behind magic," Brynna returned coldly, gripping the rail so hard her knuckles turned white. "Let him down, Commander Challion. Now." "We are going to board your ship. If you or any of your men resists, mister Kayne will no longer have the use of his head." "First let him down, damn you. Then I'll give you the Codex." "The book first, in exchange for his life. That is your only option." Brynna chewed on her lower lip, then finally agreed. "You didn't!" Kadie exclaimed. "Well, at that moment I didn't have much of a choice ," Brynna said. "But when I found out that Cydric and Mandi were hiding on deck, I secretly instructed Mandi to get my bow and arrows and have Cydric make ready to kill the wizard when I signalled." Kadie's eyes widened. Brynna slowly shook her head and sighed. "I don't like having to kill, you know that. But sometimes it's the only way." "I understand," said Kadie. "But then what? He was able to do it, I suppose, or else you wouldn't be here telling me about it!" "He did, and that enabled us to fight back...." Gulping a quick breath of air, Cydric leaped up, drew a bead on the _Black Swan's_ magic-maker, and let the arrow fly. It sped through the air in a flash of silver, and smacked deep into the sorcerer's left eye. The man screamed, clutched at his face with both hands, staggered forward, and pitched over the rail into the river. Kayne fell to the deck as the green ring vanished from around his neck. "Battle positions!" shouted Brynna. The _Voyager_ crew surged forward, scooping up their weapons and whooping in defiance. Cydric ran over to check on Kayne. Challion cursed as Brynna severed the grappling lines. "Are you all right, sir?" Cydric asked, helping Kayne to sit up. "Never did like wizards," the First Mate replied, rubbing his throat. Brynna instructed two crewmen to take Kayne below, then ordered the spear detail forward again. She retrieved the torch and re-lit it. Challion ordered the _Swan's_ oars back into the water, then directed Skoranji to prepare the ballista for a counterattack. Brynna handed the torch to the first spearman, who lit up his weapon and passed the flame to the next man. After the torch made it down the line and all the spears had been lit, Brynna gave the order to let fly. Several of the burning spears struck the side of the _Black Swan_. A few of them landed on the deck, and one managed to hit a sail. The fire spread quickly, forcing Challion to abandon his plans for a retaliatory strike in favor of saving his ship from the flames. Cydric and Mandi watched the action from the rail. As Skoranji dashed madly about the deck of the _Swan_ calling out orders, a breeze rippled across Cydric's cheek. At the same time the helmsman cried, "We've got the wind back, Captain!" Cydric looked up and saw the ship's sails billowing proudly once more. "Get us under way immediately!" called Brynna. As the _Vanguard Voyager_ slowly pulled away from the enkindled _Black Swan_, Cydric could see Commander Challion standing motionless at the rail, flames licking at his back. Suddenly he shouted out across the widening gap between the ships. "I will not forget this, Brynna Thorne! I cannot be defeated so easily--revenge will be mine, in the end!" Brynna came over and took the bow and arrows from Cydric. "Wrong, Challion. It ends now!" she said. She nocked an arrow and fired. It struck the Commander square in the chest, penetrating his breastplate. Challion gasped and fell back into the fire. "Was that really necessary?" Kadie asked. Brynna was silent for a moment. "You have to understand, that wasn't the first time he and I crossed each other. I was just so frustrated and angry that he had attacked me and put my crew in danger again. I really wanted it to end." "And I suppose it has, hasn't it?" said Kadie. "With the trial, yes. When we arrived in Port Sevlyn, I saw a Royal Navy ship in dock, under the command of Captain Xane Hellriegel. He's the one who actually went back and captured Challion and the crew of his ship." "And you rode with them all the way here to Magnus," Kadie finished. "Yes," said Brynna. "I was rather surprised to see how quickly they brought Challion to trial, though. Apparently this is one case the Crown wants disposed of as soon as possible. And, since I was one of his victims, I testified against him. The King is going to announce the verdict soon, so I came up here to wait." "Well, I'm sure there's no doubt about what it's going to be," said Kadie. "But how did Challion even know you had the Codex?" "He claims that a woman hired him to obtain the book from me and deliver it to her, in exchange for a large sum of money. Unfortunately, the woman he described hasn't been found, and he claims he knows nothing else about her." "What about the Codex itself?" "The scholars have been debating over it since practically the moment I brought it in," Brynna said with a grin. "They seem to have divided into two armies--those who believe it's authentic and those who believe it isn't. I still got paid, though." "You've certainly made your mark on this city, haven't you, Brynna?" Kadie said with admiration. Her emerald-green eyes took on a faraway look. "Your life is so much more exciting than mine. You've seen and done far more that I could ever hope to!" "That's what many people think, but the truth of it is...well, don't tell my mother this, but sometimes I think of giving it up. Just settling down and raising a family like you've done." "Would you really do that?" Brynna half-shrugged and gave a slight shake of her head. "I don't know--I mean, you remember what happened with Tarant?" Kadie nodded, remembering the time when a 23-year-old Brynna had accepted a marriage proposal from a young man, but later broke off the engagement in order to take advantage of the opportunity to become captain of her own ship. "So what you mean is, you don't know if you even could settle down?" Brynna sighed. "Well, I suppose I eventually will, but it won't be for a while, at least. Maybe someday if I ever get tired of adventuring." They talked a while longer about family and friends. Presently, the castle guard who had escorted Kadie came up the tower and informed Brynna that the King was about to render his verdict. "Oh, came I come too?" Kadie asked hopefully. "I've never been to a trial before!" "Of course. Let's go," said Brynna. The Audience Chamber of the castle had filled almost to capacity with various courtiers and nobles by the time Brynna and Kadie arrived. The guard led the two women through the murmuring crowd to a bench near the front of the room where sat the other witnesses against Commander Challion. Kadie marvelled at the vast expanse of the great hall, and expressed great interest in the colorful banners and huge tapestries that hung on the walls. A few minutes later, a black-haired man in a gold and green tunic strode solemnly into the room from the double doors at the rear. Brynna explained that he was the Falcon Herald of Baranur, distinguished by the image of the blue falcon in the center of his tabard, and by the silver circlet he wore on his head. The Falcon Herald reached the front of the hall and stood in front of the throne. "Your respect for His Majesty, King Haralan of Baranur!" he intoned. The room fell silent. A moment later, the doors opened to admit an entourage that included several guards, the High Priest, the opposing Advocates, various functionaries, then the King himself surrounded by soldiers of the King's Own. Brynna instructed Kadie to bow her head like the rest of the crowd as the King passed by. When the entire assembly had installed itself at the front of the hall and the King had seated himself on the throne, the Falcon Herald motioned for the congregation to be seated. Commander Challion was then brought in, flanked by guards and iron-shackled at the wrists. Brynna saw that although his arrow wound had fully healed, he still carried himself as if he was in great pain--no doubt a ploy to gain the King's sympathy. The guards made Challion kneel before the throne. King Haralan stared at him for several long moments, stroking his chin. Brynna's heart pounded in her chest as she waited to hear the verdict. Finally, the King stood up. A page handed him a golden scepter, which he pointed at the large man kneeling before him. "Artemus Challion, former Knight Captain of the Southern Marches, the accusations that have been brought against you are most grave. You have committed crimes against your country and stained your honor. It is my judgement, then, that you be declared guilty of all charges, and punished accordingly." The hall exploded with scattered cheers and excitement. Brynna leaped up and shouted with elation. Dimly, she heard Challion shouting in protest. The Falcon Herald called for quiet, and when the noise died down the King continued. "Because of your past service to the Crown your life shall be spared, but you shall be held in the dungeon for fifty years, or until the end of your days. Furthermore, all of your possessions shall be seized and used to pay restitution to those whom you have caused injury. This I decree, before God and the Kingdom." He handed the scepter back to the page. "This tribunal is concluded." "No!" shouted Challion as the guards forced him to his feet. "Your Majesty, please! You cannot do this to me! I implore you--" He roared in defiance as the guards began dragging him away. Catching sight of Brynna, his face contorted with rage. "I *will* have my revenge, Captain Thorne!" he snarled. Brynna gazed coolly at him, smiling faintly in satisfaction. When he was finally out of the room Kadie remarked, "My, but he was angry! Aren't you frightened?" "Not at all. He won't be bothering anyone for a long while." The High Priest said a brief benediction, then the royal entourage moved out of the hall. The crowd broke up, some leaving the hall, others milling about. "So what do you do now?" Kadie asked as she and Brynna headed for the doors. "I collect my restitution, I suppose!" Brynna said with a laugh. Just then she spotted a familiar face coming towards her out of the crowd. "Come on, let me introduce you to someone." A tall well-muscled man in the uniform of the Royal Navy stopped and congratulated Brynna. She thanked him and gave Kadie a little push forward. "Captain Hellriegel, may I present Acadia Farrondale." "A great pleasure," Hellriegel said, taking Kadie's hand and pressing it to his cheek. The young woman gave a nervous giggle. "Ah--it's--I'm delighted to meet you," Kadie falteringly replied, a wide grin on her face. Brynna explained that she and Kadie grew up together in Port Sevlyn, and that Kadie moved to Magnus upon her marriage. "And didn't you say you moved again?" she asked, casting her friend a prompting look. "Oh--ah, yes, we did," Kadie answered, casting her eyes shyly downward. "After my second son was born, my husband decided that we would need a bigger place to live, and so we moved to a town not far from the city." She flicked her gaze up at Hellriegel, then over to Brynna. Hellriegel made small talk with them for a few more minutes, then asked Brynna if she would like to join him later at a local dockside pub. "I'd like to, but..perhaps some other time," Brynna replied. "Are you sure?" asked Hellriegel. "You do, after all, owe me a dinner." Brynna smiled. "We'll see." "That's as good an answer as I'm going to get, eh?" Hellriegel said with a slight nod of his head. "Hope to see you, then, Captain Thorne. A pleasure, Lady Farrondale." He smiled as he took his leave of them. Kadie stared open-mouthed at his retreating back. "Did you hear that? He called me lady!" She put a hand on her chest and turned to Brynna. "WHY didn't you accept his invitation?" Brynna shrugged. "I...it didn't seem appropriate." "You spent two weeks on a ship with the man! Don't tell me nothing happened!" "Nothing did." Kadie sighed and mimed slapping Brynna across the face several times. "Is your mind still there, Brynna? HOW could nothing happen between you and..." She glanced back and breathed a sigh. "And him!" "Don't let Alexio hear you talk like that. He might get jealous." "Realm of the gods, Brynna, it looks like you're not even trying!" Brynna put a hand on her friend's shoulder. "You haven't seen the Royal Gardens yet, have you? They have the most beautiful variety of roses that my mother would give anything for. Would you like to go see them?" Before Kadie could reply, a young disheveled-looking man dressed in red and gray scholars' robes came rushing up to them. "Captain Thorne?" he asked breathlessly, looking at Brynna. "Yes, what is it?" "My name is Cullan, I'm with the Scholar's Council at the University of Magnus. May I speak with you?" "Concerning what?" "It's about--well, we, that is, the Council, would like to make a proposition--I mean, we'd like to make an offer, uh...." "An offer of what?" asked Brynna with slight annoyance. The young scholar visibly composed himself. "Are you available this afternoon? The Council would like to see you before you leave Magnus. It's about a possible expedition." "An expedition to where?" Brynna asked, concealing her sudden rise of interest. "That will be discussed at the meeting. Will you be able to attend?" "Yes, of course. Thank you," Brynna replied. "Very good, Captain. Um, someone will be sent for you at around three bells." Brynna nodded, and the young man departed. "He seemed excited," Kadie observed. "Do you know what he was talking about?" "I'm not sure. I should have at least asked him about the Codex," Brynna said. She turned to Kadie. "Well, why don't we go see those roses now?" Meanwhile, in the infamous Fifth Quarter of Magnus, a gaunt dark-haired man angrily made his way into a pub called the Silverchance Tavern. The man swept through the common room and pushed through the crowd in the gaming parlor until he came to one of the private booths at the back. He flung aside the curtain and stared wordlessly at the older, more expensively dressed man who sat at a small table with a slender auburn-haired young woman beside him. "Ah, Veltain! What news, eh?" the older man said, turning from his young companion. "Challion has just been sentenced," Veltain said tightly, eyes narrowed. "At last," the older man replied. "Well, sit! Tell us about it." The gaunt man stood for a moment, breathing heavily, then ripped the curtain back across the booth's entrance and slammed himself into a chair. "You were wrong, Javaro. Challion has only been sentenced to imprisonment, not death!" He rested his elbows on the table and cupped his face in his hands. "Then it would seem that the King is in a merciful mood today!" Javaro chuckled and took a sip of wine from the silver goblet before him. Veltain looked up, annoyance clear on his face. "Don't you understand? They may interrogate him further--he might even lead them to her!" He stabbed a finger at the young woman, who calmly took a long puff on the pipe she was smoking and exhaled in Veltain's direction. "Why must you always be so scared?" she said in a smooth voice. "You're nothing but a mouse in a pit full of snakes." She looked away and sucked on the pipe. "Damn you, Taja!" Veltain said tensely. Javaro sighed. "Calm yourself, Veltain. Nothing has changed. Challion still knows nothing of us. What does it matter that he wastes away in a rat-infested dungeon instead of twirling at the end of a rope?" He slipped his arm around the young woman's bare shoulders. "And do you really think he could recognize her outside any of her many disguises?" Veltain slapped both palms on the table. "The true issue here is that the Codex is now lost to us, thanks to your total mishandling of the whole matter! If you had done as I suggested--" Taja looked at him sharply. "If we had done as you suggested, every mage in Baranur would be knocking at our doorstep! You have no concept of subtlety, mouseface." "You call hiring pirates subtle?" Veltain sneered. "I would call that desperation born of ineptitude. I'm going to recommend that the both of you be expelled from the Triarch at once!" Javaro leaned across the table. "There's no need for that, Veltain," he said in a low voice. "The situation may still be salvaged." "You utter fool!" Veltain spat, nearly rising from his chair. "Without the Codex, the Triarch will remain no more powerful than a band of street urchins! I find it incredible that they entrusted the task to you!" Javaro's eyes narrowed. "One cannot foresee all that may go wrong," he said. "Nor can one accurately predict the actions of another." Veltain smirked. "You thought retrieving the Codex would be simple, given that Captain Thorne is a woman." He ignored the look that Taja threw him. "I am a patient man, Veltain, but I am starting to become annoyed with you," said Javaro, gripping the stem of the goblet. "You've become soft. Soft and weak. You have no place with us anymore!" Taja took the pipe out of her mouth. "You quivering little mouse," she said with sharp disdain, her pale blue eyes mocking him. "Why don't you go find a cat to put you out of your endless state of fright?" "Bitch," Veltain said. "Meow," replied Taja. Javaro frowned. "I don't want to ever see you again, Veltain," he said. "Leave us." Veltain threw up his hands and quickly rose from his chair, nearly knocking the table over. "Gladly." He turned and made to open the curtain. Suddenly he spun around and with a motion almost too fast to see, hurled something at Javaro. Taja screamed as the man's eyes popped wide, a many-pointed metal star embedded in his throat. Blood bubbled from the wound as Javaro gurgled and slumped over. Veltain's arm flashed again. Taja jerked aside as another metal star buried itself in the wall. She ducked down and shoved the table hard against Veltain's legs. The gaunt man lost his balance and tumbled backwards, bringing the curtain down as he fell. Several of the patrons in the gaming parlor looked up in startlement as Taja ran out of the booth, screaming wildly. Veltain scrambled to his feet and started to pursue her, but changed his mind after seeing the young woman tearfully imploring a pair of leather-clad men to help her. Veltain almost made it to the back door before the two men caught him. At Taja's insistence, they took him outside into the alley behind the tavern. Taja followed, sobbing. Her expression changed as she watched the men punch and kick Veltain. After a few minutes she told them to stop. She took a pinch of tobacco from one of the pouches she wore around her slim waist and sprinkled it into the bowl of her pipe. After lighting it, she told the men to stand Veltain up against the wall and move away. She approached the man's bruised and bloody form and put her face next to his. "You shouldn't have killed Javaro," she said icily. "And another thing; just because you're dealing with a woman doesn't mean that things will be simple." She took a step back and puffed on the pipe. A moment later, she exhaled a cloud of smoke into the gaunt man's face. Veltain coughed and waved his hands in front of him. Taja and her two confederates watched from further down the alley as Veltain's coughs became ragged gasps for breath. Soon he was on the ground, wheezing violently. He kicked and struggled, clawing at his chest. Finally a tremor rippled through his body and he lay still. Taja smiled with satisfaction as she led the men away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Sons of Gateway, Part 6: Running by Jon Evans (b.c.k.a My name is Cara Shem Fenib. I lead my clan. It is the cold time in the plains, but we have survived. I have been a good hunter, so there has often been meat, instead of the hard roots that leave my insides almost as empty as not eating at all. Sickness among my clan also has been rare: the wind spirits have been kind. This light time marks the middle of the cold time. If we survive now, my clan lives until the next cold time. But, the last few hunts have not gone well. Each member of my clan gets hungrier, and with hunger comes desperation: a young one challenged me, earlier. I refrained from hurting him, and avoided hurt for myself, but if the hunts do not improve, things will get worse. I sent the mothers and the weak to the thick trees in search of roots. I and my brothers will hunt what we can, and alert the others if we kill. Separation is bad for the clan. If we kill, it will take longer for the others to arrive, and another beast or clan may claim it before the rest of my clan arrives. But, at least the hunters will have eaten. I have no choice. Our mothers will starve, and will not be able to make milk for the young when the warm time comes and our loins burn. My brother's call disturbs my thoughts: he has found a fresh trail. It is near the darkness, now is the best time. The tracks are from a large beast. The depth of its tracks show much weight. The scent tells us its taste, and our legs tighten, and our stomachs cry out to be filled. We follow quickly. The scent gets thicker in a spot: it rested by this tree, it does not know we follow it. The trail continues, away from the thick trees, and we see a structure lit by Spara-Kla, the burning air. There are many worshipers around it. They are the Spara- Klani, the man-beasts, and they do not travel without the burning air. They roam the fields, burn the land, and hunt in the thick trees with the long claw and the flying stick. And they kill my clan when we are many and strong. We war with the Spara-Klani, but we are too weak now. The trail continues past here, back to the trees, and we follow it, knowing that it is the riding-beasts of the Spara-Klani that we follow. "I couldn't reach you until I was about a hundred feet away," Kenneth told Rho as they rode through the darkening woods. They left the burning tent and its occupants behind, trying to put out the fire, find out what its cause was, and control the slaves at the same time. "I know. The device must be very powerful." Rho looked over her shoulder to Goren, who sat in the saddle behind her. Kenneth, it seems, was only able to acquire one extra horse from the camp ground, and wasn't expecting any company. The silk clothes Goren and Rho had been wearing in the tent were not nearly warm enough for the winter evening, even with five layers of the material wrapped about them, and sharing the horse allowed them the double benefit of sharing their body heat. "I am thankful for your rescue, Kenneth," Goren spoke as a way of getting into the conversation. For some reason, Kenneth had not treated him terribly respectfully in the past half bell. Goren wished he knew why. "My family will reward you greatly for my return, when we get to Magnus. I'll make sure of it." Both Rho and Kenneth turned and looked at him disapprovingly when he said this, but it was Kenneth who spoke next, as if Goren wasn't even there. "I would have warned you if we had the time, but I was being... followed." "Looks like nothing's coming, now," Goren said, glancing back to make sure there was nothing behind them. This time, Kenneth did him the courtesy of acknowledging his remark. "There are other ways of knowing when you're being followed, boy. We are still in danger of those who are behind us." He looked down at Rho, almost scolding her with his expression. "I had to make a decision, didn't I?" She seemed almost childlike to Goren with this remark, and he glimpsed a softness that he hadn't seen from her in the tent. He wondered if he could like this demanding, oppressive woman whose angelic eyes concealed experiences he didn't wish to live, and a fire he feared... and shared. "It was wrong," was Kenneth's only response, and he looked forward and down as if to end the conversation, but he mumbled one last phrase in the next half bell. "The Fenib still have to be fed." The trail enters the thick trees, again, and I send my brother for the mothers and the weak. We are close now, and the man-beast will be stopping, and our numbers will be greater. It is very dark, and the Spara-Klani do not travel in the darkness. A strange thing happens: a man-beast walks toward my clan, not covered in its usual hide, and lays down in the white cold. My brother starts forward, but my bark stops him. The Spara-Klani are not to be trusted. I step closer, coming near his leg. He does not move. Smelling him, I do not sense fear. This disturbs me, and I warn my brothers. But this man-beast is foolish. The white cold surrounds him, makes him weak, and all we must do is wait. Then I feel him in me, speaking to me, showing me, and I know: this one is for us. I wait, and the white cold takes his heat and leaves him with the smell of the Black Fenib. I bark to my brothers: we shall survive this cold-time. Cold air greeted Goren as he stirred from under the blankets he and Rho had shared to keep themselves warm. The small lean-to which Kenneth had built the night before kept some of the wind out, and most of the snow, but the rest of the blankets and materials were needed for the horses. He looked around, searching for his many layers of thin clothes and found only a few of the items with which he had left. "Here, wear these," were the first words Rho greeted him with as she entered the slight structure, a gust of wind following her. She threw a small pile of clothes - a cape, suede vest, thick white pants and a pair of white boots which were a little large for him, and added as she walked out, "We're leaving soon." He dressed quickly, finding that most of the items fit him rather well, over the thin layer of clothes he had taken from their previous lodging. What was that place, anyway, he found himself wondering, and where are we going in such a hurry? And where were these clothes last night, when I needed them? And what's happened to... He left the tent. "I don't understand," was the first thing he said to her. She was dressed in some new clothes, also; probably taken from the saddle bags she was strapping onto the horses. She gave him a hard look, filled with sadness and determination. "He left last night," was her only explanation. This did nothing for Goren's need for information, and only made him wonder who he was dealing with, now that they were free. "Oh, so he always just gets up and walks off without his clothes? In the middle of the night?" "The Fenib had to be fed." She looked at him, almost accusing. "Who in Risseer's feast are the Fenib?" He was getting very annoyed. He knew she could knock him on his back, if she needed, but he didn't care. He only wanted answers, something she owed him at this point. "Inhabitants of these woods. Creatures who live in the winter because we help them, because they need help. All Stevene's creatures need help, some time or other." "Nehru's pointy nose! A Stevenic!" He threw his arms up in the air and began pacing around the fire Rho had built earlier. "Listen, I don't care what religion you follow, as long as it's not bloody Saren. All I want is answers. Why did he leave, what's happened to him, and why am I wearing his clothes? These are his clothes, aren't they? I mean, is he coming back, or isn't he? How does he intend to feed the Fenib? No one in their right mind just wanders off into the winter night without anything to wear. No one can live through..." His words trailed off slowly, their meaning finally hitting home. He knew why Kenneth had left, now, and what had probably happened to him. He had only one reply. "Ol, that's disgusting." Again, she said, "The Fenib had to be fed." "Why him?" This question only resulted in Rho's accusing glare. He didn't know why, but he had the feeling she thought it was his fault. Then, she stopped. "I'm sorry, it's not your fault. It's mine." Goren understood this statement about as well as he did all her opening thoughts, so she reinforced it. "If I had not taken you with us, you would have run on your own, when the tent burned, wouldn't you?" Goren nodded. "Well, you would have been caught by the Fenib, and they would have fed on you. You would be dead, now, and not Kenneth." "He gave his life...?" "I didn't know! The magic field around the tent was preventing me from contacting Kenneth. The Fenib were in danger of dying out." "But he's a human being!" "It doesn't matter, in the long run. There are plenty of human beings, but the Fenib who hunt in winter are slowly dying off. It's our fault, you know." "What?" That last one was a little much. As hard as it was for him to understand that Kenneth's life had been forfeit for his own, that Rho thought she was the reason for Kenneth's death, and the Fenib had to be fed, he had no concept of why she thought the Fenib's inability to survive was his and Rho's fault. "Not 'ours' meaning yours and mine, but 'ours'... the human race's. We kill them in the summer, when they hunt the game we think of as our own, the game we cage in to make the slaughter that much easier. It reduces their chances of surviving the winter." Goren looked at her, seeing pain, happiness, confusion, and remorse all over her face. It crumbled, her eyes became cloudy and her shoulders drooped. He thought of going to her, resting her honey-brown head against him, but she stiffened immediately. "There. You have your answers. Now, we head for Magnus to return you to your family." Goren began scooping snow into the fire and listening to it simmer as the flames became lower and lower. "What can possibly be taking them so long?" Ne'on asked no one in particular as he looked at his map of Baranur. He traced a line, once more, from Gateway to the Nar-Enthruen where he had sent a company of men to take the Stone of Strength. That gem was a giant piece of an important spell component. With it, he could open a gate the size of this hall. Ne'on paced in front of the fireplace slowly, reflecting on the comfort of the warmth. Lifting his black hand, he tilted his head back slowly to empty the goblet's contents down his throat. What was that, his third this evening? He hadn't kept count. He didn't care, anymore. Things had gotten out of control. He could barely even remember how he had gotten here. He reached for the bottle. Everything had gotten so chaotic. And then there was Phos. Phos, whose logic was infallible, who rationalized everything so convincingly until, before he knew it, Ne'on was sitting on the Seat of Gateway and heir to House Winston. Phos, whose magic filled him, gave him the strength to do the things he couldn't control on his own. But it felt so good when the energy filled him. It was better than the wine he was drinking. It was better than anything he had ever known. He could fly, if he wanted, or make lightning strike from the sky. And people listened to him. Yes, he admitted, that was definitely something to consider. The power and respect that he commanded. The way people accepted what he told them, listened to his instructions, and things went along so smoothly. There were actions which had to be taken before that happened. Ne'on didn't like to think of those times. He could hardly remember them happening, as if he had dreamed them during the night, only to wake up and find himself here, now. Phos had taken care of them. When things became confused, and Ne'on didn't know what to do - that seemed to be happening often, in the last few months - he called Phos. All Phos asked in return was a way into this world. Ne'on liked to think of Phos as his guardian angel. "Why not look for them?" Clay suggested from the edge of the firelight. "You have magic..." "That wouldn't work for our - my - benefit. It'd be like turning on a bright light in a forest. Equiville would pick it up in an instant." "I don't understand," Clay returned, stepping out of the shadows to peer at the bottle of Lederian red. Why not? he thought, and reached to fill an empty flask with the wine. "I thought you didn't drink." "I don't," Clay returned, and swallowed a large quantity of the liquid. Ne'on stared silently at his Captain. There were a lot of things he hadn't bothered to learn about Clay. He hadn't thought he needed to, but perhaps now... no. It would all be over in a few weeks. This damn magic - it can take control of a man. "Picture yourself sitting in the hills, watching a field. It's night time, heavy clouds, no moon. Someone is in the field, but he's not using anything to light the way. Can you see him?" "Very difficult," Clay answered. He finished the rest of his goblet, and put it back on the table. Instictively, he wandered toward the edge of the light. "But what does that have to do with it?" "To use my magic," Ne'on explained, "I would have to lower the Garthian Blind. That would be like lighting a torch in the middle of a dark field. Gateway would become very visible to Equiville's senses, and we can't afford that... not yet." Bartholemew Clay stepped back into the darkness. "Just remember what I told you," Rho's voice, surprisingly neutral, reminded him. "Don't stay at Gateway too long. You're not meant for that, anymore." "I still don't understand what you're telling me. First-" She looked at him again, and he became silent. The winter thaw had come and gone on their trip to Magnus, and the horse he had ridden had broken a leg in the muddy trail. They were forced to kill it. Something else for which she would remember him. She had a way of making him feel sorry, making him want to repent for simple mistakes. She had an influence on him which he had never known by his father, and couldn't remember from his mother. No one, in fact, had ever made him feel so much like a child, an inexperienced, immature infant. Yet, it wasn't malicious. It was more like... being instructed. "Don't understand, Goren. Just listen to people who know what they're talking about. Go to Gateway, do what you have to do, and then leave." "What am I supposed to do after that?" He scowled slightly when he said that, realizing that he had been taking orders from her for so long he began to rely on her input. "Forget it. I'll find something to do." "Good." She began to walk away, then turned around. "Remember what I told you about Stevene. He'll forgive you, as long as you forgive everyone else. And He loves you, no matter who you are, or what you do." Goren waived as she pulled her horse in front of her, down the cobblestone drive, and onto the road that would eventually lead her out of Magnus. She wanted him to go to Dargon for some reason. She hadn't said it exactly like that, but he knew she would be there... maybe he would go. She was very trying, as a friend, he thought. Never gave him an inch. He smiled as he turned to walk up the steps... he liked her like that. Haralan squinted his eyes, surveying the battle plans his advisors and War Council members had drawn out before him. It didn't appear favorable on the field, out-manned and out-horsed by the Beinison Army, but Magnus - and Crown Castle, particularly - was strong, and held the loyalty of every good citizen. It would take more than Beinison had, he hoped, to claim victory here. But these Councils went on forever; and with Marcellon's condition... "My Lord King," Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of Baranur's Armed Forces, spoke slowly and intently. "If the Beinison Armada makes its way down the Laraka and joins forces with the Emperor's Fist and the regular army in our Southern Marches, Magnus *will* be endangered seriously. It may be necessary to draw plans for evacuation." "Surely," spoke High Priest Redcrosse, "such plans were drawn up years ago. This discussion hardly seems necessary." "Surely, they were, my Lord High Priest," the Knight Captain of the Northern Marches, Luthias Connall, interupted, not a little contempt for the pompous clergyman in his voice. Haralan realized just how much Luthias had aged these past two years, with the beard roughly outlining his tired face, but he had yet to learn the complete wisdom of restraint. "However," Luthias continued, "those plans were drawn up over one hundred years ago, when Magnus only had three sections. Only chaos, confusion, and death would result if we tried to implement those plans today." "Well, then," returned the clergyman, "surely we should consider the safety of the Church-" A loud noise from the hall outside the chamber, followed by the main doors opening, interupted the High Priest. "Your Majesty," announced a guard, "Goren Winston of Gateway Keep insists on appearing before you." One more thing, he thought. The King sighed heavily, sat back in his throne, and motioned for his council members to sit down. "Show him in." A ragged, tired, and disshevelled man appeared before the throne, hardly presentable to a king under normal circumstances. "My Lord King, my name is Goren Winston," he began, and the King's patience, worn thin by the demands of war and unhelpful clergymen, failed immediately. "I am quite aware of your name, your title, and your heritage, my Lord Keeper. The Winston Household is one of the most well known among the minor nobles, and your resemblence to your father -beneath the dirt and blood on your face - is a striking one. I am also aware that you are now Keeper of Gateway, following your father's demise, and that you hold one of the key strongholds at the joining of the Laraka and the Vodyanoy rivers. Am I to surmise, then, by your appearance and your urgency, that we have lost that stronghold to the Beinison invasion, or have you finally decided - after six months of delay - to take the time away from your country's defense in order to receive your formal title by my hand? In light of the desperate situation the first example places us in, I prefer to believe that the leader of this potential military point of contention hasn't the wits to realize where he is needed most! Further more, the question of who was left in charge comes to mind, with the only possible answer being Knights of the Star!" The King rose from his throne, and Goren stared haplessly about the room, receiving no help from its other occupants. "My Lord King?" "We are at war, man - do you know what that means?" "War..." the word came out slowly, comprehension sinking in deeply and suddenly. "Yes, war - or haven't you been reading the royal messages sent from duchy to duchy these past months?" Haralan could not believe that Gateway Keep had been ignorant of the movement and news of the Beinison and Baranurian armies. He had sent a message less than twenty days past to the Lord Keeper, who had replied with Gateway's readiness. "Begging your forgiveness, your Majesty," Goren began, "in the past six months I have witnessed my father's death, been imprisoned by my brother, beaten by guards, hunted by slavers, and told that the feeding of a man I hardly knew to a pack of beasts was indirectly my fault. I have spent the last three months trying to cover the two weeks' distance between Gateway and Magnus for the sole purpose of clearing my name and requesting the aid of your Majesty in bringing my brother - the true murderer of my father - to justice. The idea that this country was at war never entered my mind, nor are royal messages passed on to slaves from their owners to keep them abreast of world news." Haralan returned to his throne, raising his hand to halt Goren's speech. "Something, then, has halted your freedom, my Lord Keeper. Lord Marcellon informed me four months ago of your situation and dispatched a letter to a fellow practitioner of the arts in order to reinstate your position by royal decree. Obviously, this was never executed. We had thought you in the Keeper's Seat these last two months, at least." Haralan searched about him for a quill and parchment, moving the maps and scout reports and hypothetical troop movements out of his way. "This letter of appointment will have to do," he continued, dipping the quill and scratching it onto the parchment, pausing every so often to speak. "I can't... afford the men... for an envoy... but reveal this to... Castellan Ridgewater, isn't it?... whom, I am told... was very loyal to... your family." Haralan signed his name with a flourish, dripped some wax onto it, and punched his ring finger's royal seal into the wax. "How am I to deal with my brother, Ne'on?" "We all have our situations to deal with if we're to overcome the Beinison forces, Lord Keeper. See if your uncle can spare a few of the House Guard to accompany you. And please, do the court a favor and find your uncle's baths before you embark. Looking like that, you're not likely to instill loyalty in a dog." Goren sighed deeply. "Thank you, your Majesty." "If you'll excuse us, Lord Keeper, we have a War Council to continue. You'll be receiving orders from us shortly, so take care of your business as quickly as possible." "Yes, my Lord King." Goren bowed for three backward steps, turned, and exited the hall. Edward Sothos looked at the King. "A little hard on the boy, weren't you?" "He's no boy... Untar is younger, and his scheming threatens our nation. It's time Winston started accepting the responsibility for the title he's claiming." Sir Luthias nodded his head in grim agreement. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright December, 1993, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 7 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 7, Issue 1 02/14/94 Cir 1120 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Archives at fir.cic.net in pub/Zines/DargonZine -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Laraka III (Part 1) John Doucette Yule 13-17, 1014 Sons of Gateway 7: Reunion Jon Evans Yule 17, 1014 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Campaign for the Laraka III Decision at Gateway Keep - Part 1 by John Doucette Crown Castle, Magnus, Royal Duchy, Baranur 13 Yule, 1014 B.Y. The eight Regiments of the Royal Hussars filed through the gate to the Inner Courtyard and made for the barracks they had vacated just eight days ago when they began their journey south to join the fighting against the enemy army moving rapidly north towards Magnus. General of the Cavalry Count Sir Luthias Connall and Commander Sarah Verde, Commander of the 1st Royal Hussars, dismounted and entered the King's Keep. Luthias was worried. The tone of Sir Edward's message indicated that the scarred Knight Commander was himself worried about something. And if Sir Edward, a man Luthias admired deeply and who had seen more than his fair share of battle, was worried, then Luthias reasoned that he himself had more than enough reason to be anxious -- even without knowing the reason for his hasty return to the Crown City. He and Verde turned a corner leading to Edward's offices when they both literally ran into the man they had been seeking. "Sir Edward, we were just on our way to see you. Your message said to return as fast as I could. What's wrong?" The Knight Commander glared up at Luthias. "What's wrong, General," he said in icy tones, "is that you seem to have forgotten the proper form of address when speaking to a superior. I will not tolerate that in any of my officers, regardless of rank. Is that clear?" "Yes, sir," Luthias responded instantly, confused by Sir Edward's rebuke. "Excellent, General. Now, if you would accompany me." So saying, Edward turned and led the way down the corridor back the way Luthias and Verde had just come, Commander Courymwen following behind her commander. Commander Verde laid her hand on Courymwen's arm, indicating that Verde wanted the two to hold back slightly so they could talk. "What was that all about?" Verde asked her friend. "Things have been fairly tense since you left eight days ago, Sarah," Jan replied. "So I gathered. What's wrong?" "Some rather high-ranking nobles have started campaigning for Edward's replacement recently. That and...other things have put a great strain on him. He doesn't need this now, Sarah, not with all he's got to worry about." "Since when have you and the Knight Commander been on a first name basis?" "We've been close friends for some time now, Sarah," Jan said defensively. "Is that all?" Verde asked carefully. Jan stopped suddenly and turned, stricken, to face her friend. "Not you too, Sarah!" Jan had perhaps spoken more loudly than she may have wished. Edward stopped and turned to face the two women. "Something wrong, Commander?" "Er...no, sir." "Then let us proceed." "Yes, sir." The four entered the Hall of Warriors and made for the guarded door leading to the Audience Chamber. Jan was silent for most of this time. She didn't speak again until the group had passed into the small waiting room leading to the Audience Chamber. "Sarah, what am I going to do?" "Relax, Coury," Verde answered. "We'll figure something out." The group paused outside the double doors. "Sir," Luthias began to ask, ignoring the warning look he got from Commander Courymwen, "couldn't you tell me what's going on?" Edward rounded on Luthias. "The King and I are risking a very great deal on you, Sir Knight," Edward said. "I care little for what happens to me or my reputation, General," Edward went on in a low voice, his eyes utterly cold and menacing, "but I will permit nothing -- nothing, do you understand? -- to endanger my friend and Sovereign. You had best prove worthy." "Sir Edward," Luthias declared, the hurt tone in his voice evident, "I would never do anything to dishonor the King. Or you, for that matter. I will do everything you ask of me with the utmost determination and all the strength I can muster in body and soul." The battle-scarred Knight Commander of the Royal Armies looked up at that intent face for several long moments before finally speaking. "I think you'll do, Luthias Connall," he said with a note of satisfaction. "Yes, I think you shall do very nicely indeed." Sir Edward turned to order the guards to open the double doors but Luthias stopped him. Now Luthias was very confused. He risked a quick glance at Commander Courymwen and the look on her face only served to further Luthias' confusion. Clearly something had happened since he had departed eight days ago. Luthias caught the distinct smell of politics in the air. "'Do' what, Your Excellency, is the question?" Edward smiled ruefully, making the diagonal scar on his face contort strangely. "That is for His Royal Majesty to say. Not I." He nodded to the guards and the great doors opened. A staff thumped three times against the unyielding stone floor. "His Excellency, Sir Luthias Connall, Count Connall, General of the Cavalry. His Excellency, Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Royal Armies. Commander Sarah Verde, Commanding Officer the 1st Royal Hussars. Commander Jan Courymwen, Officer of the Royal Foot Guards and Chief Aide to His Excellency the Knight Commander." The four proceeded towards the throne at the far end of the nearly empty Audience Chamber. They halted at some invisible line perhaps ten feet from King Haralan and all four bowed deeply from the waist as was their right as soldiers of the King. "General Connall, as ordered, Sire," Edward announced. "Very good. Sir Edward, Commander Courymwen, attend us." Edward and Jan moved to stand on the raised dias, Edward on the King's right, Jan to the right of Edward. "There are two others who must be in attendance. The wait shall not be long." Great! Luthias thought. Wonderful. I absolutely hate these things and now I'm going to be forced to stand here while we wait for some arrogant, self-important court functionary to get here to witness...well, whatever. Why couldn't I have been just an ordinary Knight like I've always wanted? Was that so much to ask? Just then, one of the functionaries they had been waiting on stepped from behind the tapestry hanging behind the throne. Marcellon, High Mage and advisor to the King, moved to stand on Haralan's left, his face an expression of anticipation mixed with satisfaction. Luthias nodded and Marcellon smiled in return, that mixed expression still evident. Perhaps two menes passed before the second functionary made his appearance. During this time, Luthias' natural fish-out-of-water reaction to any court situation came to the fore. Luthias prayed his nervousness wasn't noticeable to anyone. When Myrande stepped from behind the curtain it was too much for Luthias. "Sable!" he burst out. Myrande smiled and Luthias made to go to her but was stopped by a single command. "Hold!" Sir Edward commanded. "You have not permission to approach the throne, Count Connall." "Easy, Edward," Marcellon said quietly. "Calm down." "The cause was sufficient, Sir Edward," King Haralan lightly rebuked. "I think we can permit the Count and Countess time to exchange greetings." Luthias went to the dias to greet his wife. He took both her hands in his and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "What's going on?" Myrande smiled again, accentuating her raven-haired beauty. "Later," she said softly. "Count Connall," the King said, "I would not begrudge you time with your beautiful lady wife, but there are pressing matters of state we must see to." "Of course, Your Majesty." Luthias cringed inwardly. He'd done it again, messed up in protocol matters. "I apologize, Your Royal Majesty," Luthias said as he resumed his place in front of the throne next to Commander Verde. "Sir Edward," the King said, "perhaps you should bring the Count up to date on events transpiring along the Laraka River." "Yes, Sire." Edward then launched into a very concise briefing. When he was done, the look on Luthias' face had gone from slight confusion to that of a man planning the minute details of a campaign. "I take it, then, Your Royal Majesty, that I am to lead my cavalry against the enemy army on the Laraka?" Luthias asked eagerly. "In good time, Count Connall, in good time." The King paused, gathering his thoughts. "We were much distressed to hear of the death of our beloved Knight Captain Sir Ailean. He was a good man and a fine officer. His death now renders the Northern Marches leaderless. Granted, Lord Morion is a good man as well and we have no doubt that he will serve Baranur as well as any man, but we cannot have such an important position as Knight Captain of the Northern Marches go unfilled. Lord Morion will not accept our offer, that much is certain. Therefore we have asked our Knight Commander for advice as to whom we should appoint to ward our Northern Marches. "The Knight Commander has suggested someone rather young and not primarily an officer holding the King's Commission, but we tend to agree with the Knight Commander's choice. "So what say you, Count Connall? Do you accept our offer to act as our Knight Captain of the Northern Marches?" It took a moment for Luthias to realize the full import of what the King had just said. When he did, his first act was to think that he must look rather foolish with his jaw hanging down to the floor. After he'd rectified that particular shortcoming, all he could do was stand in stunned silence. I've done it, Father! he thought. I've done it, Roisart! I've actually done it! A slow smile spread across his face. "I -- you -- me?" Marcellon heaved a theatrical sigh. "All that education and the young man still has trouble with sentence structure. I am most distressed at today's youth's shortcomings." The King coughed. Myrande put a hand over her face to hide her smile. Courymwen and Verde did their best impressions of cadets trying hard not to laugh. Sir Edward, however, didn't react at all. Luthias cleared his throat and tried again. He found to his dismay that he couldn't seem to make any words come out this time. "What's that?" Marcellon said in a dry voice. "You'll have to speak up. Or have you lost all power of speech now, son? Perhaps you should choose another, Your Royal Majesty?" All of the Chamber's occupants again made valiant efforts to control their mirth. Jan was not as successful as the others and a short sharp laugh escaped her lips. Sir Edward turned a disapproving stare on his aide. "Sorry, sir. Won't happen again," Jan hastily said. Sir Edward turned his attention once more to Luthias, suppressing the beginnings of his own smile as he did so. "No! I -- thank you, Sire, for the offer. I accept." "Then approach, Count Connall." Haralan stood as Luthias approached the throne. "Kneel," the King commanded. Luthias sank to one knee, hardly able to believe this was actually happening. "Count Connall," Haralan began formally, "do you swear by your sword, the sacred embodiment of your Knighthood, to ward the Northern Marches with all the strength in your mind and body?" Luthias drew his sword and presented it hilt first to the King. "On my sword, I so swear," he proclaimed, the weapon's blade resting lightly in his hands. "Do you further swear to maintain true and unswerving loyalty to your King, no matter the circumstances, no matter the cost?" "I so swear." "Do you swear to show the same loyalty and obedience to the Knight Commander, He who speaks with our Voice and in our Name?" "I so swear." "And do you swear to execute your duties fairly and impartially, with no thought of advantage to you and yours?" "I so swear." Haralan brought Luthias' sword down on the young Count's left shoulder. "By my right as King, I give you the power to mete justice throughout the Northern Marches where you see fit to do so and in accordance with the laws I have laid down as King." The sword now came down on Luthias' right shoulder. "I grant you the authority to command and well-discipline your inferiors serving with the Royal Army, both noble and common." The sword came down a third time. "I charge you to act wisely in your duty and to bring honor upon Baranur and your own House." Haralan stepped back a pace. "Rise, Count Connall, Knight Captain of the Northern Marches." Luthias stood and as he did so the King returned his sword to him. Diplomatic as always, Haralan refrained from commenting on Luthias' nervousness, which was evident to everyone present. Speaking softly so that only he and Luthias knew what was spoken, Haralan said, "Many eyes are upon you, Count Connall. Eyes hostile to my wishes. Be careful. If you should fall, Sir Edward falls with you." Luthias stepped back, giving no indication that the King had even spoken to him. "We regret we cannot bestow upon you your rightful Badge of Office, Knight Captain. It was lost along with Sir Ailean, God grant him eternal rest, and there has not been time to fashion another." Luthias grinned wickedly. "No matter, Sire. I shall take it back from the Beinisonians." "Well said, Knight Captain. Sir Edward, you may proceed." "Yes, Sire," Edward said, coming forward. "Once more, the Cavalry Wing finds itself without a General to command it. And, once more, Commander Verde, I must ask you to accept that duty you had performed since the death of General Tyre. I know you will perform with the same competence displayed in the past. It occurs to me, however, that having the Cavalry Wing commanded thus, by a Commander, would be inviting potential breakdown of the unity the Royal Hussars are famous for displaying in times when the Kingdom is threatened by outside force. Therefore, to ensure that one voice, and one voice alone, shall speak for the Hussars, I hereby promote you to General of the Cavalry. "Congratulations, General." The shock and pleasure on Verde's face was evident. She also had not been expecting anything such as this. Haralan stepped down off the throne dias, the signal for the others present on the dias to do so as well. He congratulated Luthias and General Verde and then, begging pressing state matters, exited the Audience Chamber, his guards in tow. Luthias immediately went to his wife and greeted her in a much longer fashion than he had had time for previously. "My God, Sable, can you believe it?" "Yes, actually, I can. I always knew you'd succeed like this. Are you pleased?" "Pleased?" Luthias laughed, making him seem younger. He grabbed his wife and spun her around. Planting a kiss firmly on her lips, he asked, "How's that for pleased?" Myrande chuckled and laid her head on her husband's chest. Maybe he's finally returning to himself, she thought. "Now," Luthias asked, "what's been going on here the last week?" Myrande raised her head. "What happened, Luthias?" "The Knight Commander," he said in a low voice, "nearly took my head off before we entered the Audience Chamber. I've never known Sir Edward to display that much outward emotion ever. It can't just be the war." Sable sighed, putting her arms around her husband. "No, it's not just the war. There have been rumors going around of late that suggest Sir Edward and his aide are more than just friends." Luthias turned in Myrande's embrace to regard Commander Courymwen. The tall red-haired soldier was talking to General Verde and Sir Edward. All three seemed comfortable in one another's presence, though Luthias could tell that his former second-in-command was slightly nervous. The Knight Commander did not often take time to chat with just anybody, after all. "Sir Edward has good taste in women, then. I don't see the problem." Myrande punched Luthias hard in the left arm. "Idiot!" "Ow!" "Just trying to knock some sense into you, you blockhead." "What are you talking about?" "Luthias," she said, stroking his hair, "when will you learn that the customs of Dargon are not those of the rest of the Kingdom? Remember what I told you about how the attitudes towards that kind of thing are somewhat stricter here in Magnus?" Luthias frowned. She had told him, but he'd forgotten. Come to think of it, when the Knight Commander had come to judge that tourney in Dargon he himself had said something to that effect. "I still don't see the problem. What's wrong with courting? Does her family disapprove?" he asked in disbelief. "No, it's not that. The rumors say that the two of them have gone past the courting stage. Far past. It was just those kind of rumors that destroyed the Princess' marriage, or so I'm told. There are even rumors, vague ones that say that Sir Edward's days as Knight Commander may be numbered." Luthias' face took on a grim expression. That's what the King meant, he thought. Aloud, he said, "Unless Sir Edward's personal life interferes with his performance as Knight Commander, I don't see that anyone has a right to criticize him." "Wait a mene," Luthias continued before Myrande could comment, "how is it that you're so up on the current rumors? You were never much for gossip." Myrande hesitated, not wanting to answer. She knew Luthias' temper and she didn't want him doing anything rash. "There's something you're not telling me. And don't deny it. I can see it in your face." "Luthias, it's nothing. Really." "Now I know it's serious. You never say 'nothing' in that tone of voice when it means nothing. Out with it." Myrande's lips tightened into a thin line. "I didn't have much choice but to become acquainted with the rumor mill. While you were gone there were those that suggested that the children I was carrying weren't yours. Among other things." Myrande's husband's expression grew dark, promising suffering for those who caused her pain. "Who spread these rumors?" "Who knows?" she lied. "That's the nature of things like this. Any rate, the deed is done." "Then these rumors have stopped?" "Oh yes," Myrande responded, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. "The King saw to it personally." Luthias seemed satisfied with her explanation. He decided to change the subject. "Do you believe these rumors about Sir Edward?" "No. I know Jan Courymwen sufficiently well to know she wouldn't do something like this, if only to protect Sir Edward's reputation. And as for Sir Edward, I don't think it would even occur to him to make those kinds of advances towards a woman he wasn't courting." Luthias let his arms drop to his sides as Sir Edward and Marcellon came over, having finished congratulating General Verde. "I trust I am not interrupting?" Sir Edward asked politely. "Not at all, Sir Edward," Myrande responded. "Ever since the war started, I and the children have seen too little of you." "Thank you, My Lady," Edward said, bowing. "I assure you I will try to get around to see you and the children when I can. The war presses heavily upon me, My Lady, and my duties require most of my time." "I'll make a deal with you, Sir Edward. Stop calling me 'My Lady'. It makes me feel old. Call me Sable. Do that and I'll stop pestering you about coming around to see us." "It's a deal, My Lady," Edward said with just the barest hint of a smile. "Your stubborn streak's showing again, Edward," Marcellon said. "Yes, Old Man." Marcellon collapsed in a fit of laughter. "Sir Luthias," Edward said, turning his attention to his tall subordinate, "I must apologize for my actions earlier." "Sir Edward, there's no need," Luthias protested. Marcellon was now clasping his hands to his sides he was laughing so hard. "On the contrary, there is much need. I was -- am -- under intense pressure and I took it out on you, an innocent subordinate who knew nothing of his commander's difficulties." This kind of explanation was not required -- it was dangerous, even -- from a commander to those under him, but Edward was just to a fault, a legacy of his dead father. "My deeds and words were of unknightly conduct and, as one Knight to another, I ask your forgiveness." Luthias, overcome that the Knight Commander should treat Luthias as an equal, said, "Sir Edward, let's forget the whole incident." "Good," Edward said, managing a real smile for the first time in two days. "Now," Edward said briskly, "I have some special orders to give you before you depart. That is, I will if the Lord High Mage can control himself." "Sorry, Edward," Marcellon said with no hint of apology. "It's not often you tell a good joke and I just couldn't help myself." "I'll go talk with Jan and leave you three alone," Myrande said and started to leave. "No, My Lady, stay." Myrande looked at Edward questioningly, as did Luthias. "I need both your counsel, both of you being of the nobility, and possessing a more than significant amount of status. First, I must insist that neither of you speak of this to anyone. Not to Jan" -- this to Myrande -- "nor to the King" -- this to both. "I don't think I like the sound of this, Sir Edward," Luthias said evenly. "Nor I," Myrande added. "I am not shouting from the Forum with ecstasy either." Edward fixed both Connalls with that intent gaze of his that let the receiver know what was about to be discussed was in deadly earnest. "Since the news from Oron's Crossroads was received, I have been seized by the impression that something other than training and professionalism and morale is the cause for our poor performance in the war to date. Having thought and mulled over the despatches in the last few days I have become convinced that the enemy within is aiding the enemy without." "Treason?" Luthias breathed. "No," Edward replied hastily. "At least not intentional. Let me explain. The reason that House Troops are outside the imperium of the Royal Army is to provide an assurance that the nobles have a power base outside the King's control, yes?" Luthias answered immediately; military history was his hobby. "I'm not sure I understand exactly what 'imperium' is but I believe the answer is yes. Having the House Troops separate was what helped the Loyalist forces come out on top during the Great Houses War. It also helped to curb King Darian's excesses in the Shadow Wars afterward." Edward looked at Luthias as if Luthias should have come to a conclusion. "And?" "And...I don't see what you're driving at." "Think, Luthias! A command structure that perpetuates a situation in which the left hand does not know what the right hand is doing or, when both hands do know what the other is doing but neither can influence the other..." "...is fine for fighting an internal enemy but not an outside one," Luthias finished in sudden understanding. "I don't know why I hadn't seen it long ago." "Because as you said the arrangement was often necessary for Baranur's survival and that kind of history tends to put blinders on those it has benefitted. And I do grant that things have worked out when Baranur has been challenged by external enemies before but this time is not like before! This time it is Beinison, the largest military power on the continent." "There's no need to preach, Edward," Marcellon said. "I think you've got him convinced." "And I think I know why you are speaking to us before the King," Myrande said. "You want us to test the waters for something, don't you?" "Exactly so, Lady Sable. I do indeed want the two of you to 'test the waters'. I rather like that turn of phrase. I need to know what level of opposition I will encounter. I know King Haralan will be difficult, but I know my friend and while he may not be a Cadhless, he does have a goodly store of common sense so convincing him shouldn't be too much a chore. It's the rest of the nobility I am worried about." "What is it you intend to do?" asked Luthias. Without even a pause, Edward answered, "I intend to ask the King to grant me the Edict." Luthias' eyes widened. "My God!" he exclaimed in wonder that Edward would have the daring to go to such lengths. Noting Marcellon's lack of reaction, Luthias asked, "You knew?" "Edward came to me for advice early this morning." "Forgive my ignorance, gentlemen," Myrande said, "but just what is this Edict?" "An ancient decree," Luthias responded, eyes never straying from Sir Edward's face, "that gives the Knight Commander total and absolute control over the entire Combined Host of Baranur, Royal Army and House Troops alike. No noble may refuse the Knight Commander's orders, no matter the circumstances. To do so means instant death. In effect, the Military Command Edict makes the Knight Commander Prince in all but name for so long as the Edict is in force." "And if and when the Edict is declared to be in effect," Marcellon broke in, "the wails of protest will drown out even the sun. I would think it safe to say that House Northfield would feel directly threatened. One does not make enemies of the most powerful of the Great Houses lightly. Indeed, House Northfield might, just might mind, feel compelled to resort to a drastic and very permanent solution." "That is why I need the two of you to begin laying the groundwork," Edward said, resuming the conversation. "Luthias will feel out those nobles he comes across while leading his troops against the enemy. You, My Lady, will seek opinions from those nobles here at the capital." "When do you plan to ask His Majesty?" Luthias inquired. "Soon. If we can turn things around, I may not have to ask at all. But if the situation does not improve and improve very quickly, I may have to ask within the month." "You can count on us, Sir Edward," Myrande said. "Good." Edward turned his full attention on Luthias. "Now that that is out of the way, I will give you your orders. They are brief and are the same I have sent on to Lord Morion." So saying, Edward produced a message packet from his tunic and handed it to Luthias. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Lady Sable, Commander Courymwen and I have a great deal of work to do." "Of course, Sir Edward." "Knight Captain, I leave you and General Verde to your duties." Edward returned Luthias' salute, bowed to Myrande, and then left, Commander Courymwen in tow. "Sarah, come over here and we'll see what the Knight Commander has set out for us." "Sir!" General Verde walked briskly over to Luthias and Myrande from the far side of the chamber. "Do you want me to leave?" Myrande asked. Luthias thought a moment. "No, Sable, I'd rather you'd stay. If these orders are sufficiently lenient, we may be able to spend some time together before I have to leave." "All right, then," she agreed. "General, it's good to see you again." "The feeling is mutual, My Lady. I was afraid that after being away for such a long time as eight days you might forget me." Both women laughed, which helped to dispel the somber mood that had been building. "Well, we may be gone longer this time," Luthias commented. "What are our orders, sir?" "I was just about to find out." Luthias broke the seal and took out the parchment contained inside. Luthias quickly read the text and then silently held the parchment to Verde. Verde's features hardened after she read the orders. "May I see?" Myrande inquired. Verde looked questioningly at her commander. Luthias nodded. Silently Verde handed the parchment over to Myrande. Myrande read the words slowly, the unfamiliar style causing her some difficulty. The fact that some of the letters were Galician instead of Baranurian also accounted for her difficulty. One line only was written on the parchment in a strong hand, the letters almost block-like: "Hold at all costs -- done this the Thirteenth Day of Yule in the One Thousand and Fourteenth Year of the Kingdom of Baranur by my hand, Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Royal Armies". Looking over Myrande's shoulder, Marcellon read the order at the same time as she. "Not an easy task." "We'll only be outnumbered two-to-one, Your Excellency," Verde objected. "We may not have an easy time of it, but we'll hold." "You seem very sure of yourself, General." "Of course, My Lord," Verde said, nonplussed. "We are Hussars," she said as if that explained everything. "Of course. Good luck, Luthias, General." Marcellon kissed Myrande's cheek. "I'll be by tomorrow to see you and the children." "See you soon," Myrande agreed. "Sarah," Luthias said, "why don't you go tell Michiya to give the troops plenty of rest. And then see to the replenishment of whatever supplies we may need." "Yes, sir." Verde saluted and exited the chamber at a brisk pace. Neither Luthias nor Myrande said anything for long moments, the two just stood there enjoying the look, the presence of one another. Eventually, the silence was broken. "Do you have much time?" "Just one night." "I suppose that's not so bad," she replied with a smile. "And we shouldn't be away too long. Like Sarah said, we won't be outnumbered by too much, not in military terms anyway. And we've got Gateway's walls to shelter behind. I'll let the Beinisonians smash themselves against us and that will be that." "Luthias, don't lie to me. You don't believe any of what you just said any more than I do." Luthias held her head against his heart. "Sable, promise me." "What, Luke?" Luthias had to clamp his jaw a moment; the old nickname made him shake with fear and the grief that he might not come back again. "If I die--" "You won't die." Luthias was never sure how she could believe this. She knew battle; her father had been a Knight. She had treated wounds, and watched people die--watched her own father fall valiantly to the Red Plague. "I might die," Luthias admitted, and the fact never frightened him so much as it did now. "If I die--" "You won't die," Myrande insisted tightly. "If you do, I'll have Michiya's head and Marcellon's." Luthias frowned with exasperation. "That won't solve anything, and it won't bring me back, either." Myrande's face was getting its customary obstinate look. "You won't die." "Then you won't have any trouble promising." She sighed. "What?" "That you won't..." Luthias was unsure how to say such a thing. "That you won't be alone forever. That..." Myrande raised both eyebrows and her face took on that look which made Haralan remark that she would have been an excellent queen. "You would have me marry again?" Luthias nodded mutely. "And who would you have me marry?" Luthias blinked; he had never considered that question. "Michiya --" he fumbled. "Sir Edward -- hell, I don't know. Marry King Haralan if you can get him, Sable. I just don't want you to cut yourself off from life, and --" "You don't need to worry about it," Myrande replied, and her voice was hard. "If you die, I will never marry again." Her head tilted upwards, and her black eyes were hard as stone. "I won't be able to endure your death a second time, Luthias. They'll bury me beside you." She looked over her shoulder. "You'd better go." Luthias stared at her. "You wouldn't kill yourself!" "I wouldn't have to," Myrande stated, her voice stale. Then, her eyes suddenly filled with dark fire. "No, I'd make the Beinisonians pay first." Suddenly, Luthias laughed, and he kissed her quickly. "You're right, Sable. I'd better go." Confused, Myrande shook her head and reached for her husband's hands. "What is so funny?" "Oh, nothing, but I've really got to stop Beinison before they kill me." And suddenly, Luthias found his wife in his arms, clutching him tightly. "I'll see you this evening." Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur 17 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Lord Morion kicked at a stake in the earthen rampart, sending it flying. "Sergeant," he said harshly to the soldier in charge of the men working on that portion of the fortifications Morion had started, "I want these stakes driven in securely! They'll cause no one trouble the way they are now!" "Yes, sir!" Morion continued on his inspection of his defenses. When he'd been denied access to Gateway Keep on his arrival seven days ago, Morion had all but given up hope of even making a stand against the Beinisonians when they came. Morion had been a soldier for too long though to give up without a fight. And so he ordered what he optimistically called fortifications built. The thing his men and women had been laboring on for close to a week now was finally nearing completion. The fortifications consisted of an earthen rampart two hundred yards long with a twenty-five yard belt of pits and stakes placed in front. All this was built on the south bank of the Laraka's tributary where Morion's force had forded, only a few hundred yards from Gateway's comforting walls. Defending behind the rampart might enable Morion to prolong the battle by one bell's time, perhaps two. Despite the fact that Morion knew the defenses were mainly for show -- the morale of his troops badly needed reinforcement -- it was not the unfinished state of the fortifications that worried him (after all, it was just possible that the rampart and Outer Works would actually stop the Beinisonians for more than a bell) it was the fact of the enemy's absence that caused him to have sleepless nights. The Beinisonians should have taken Port Sevlyn five or six days ago and if the enemy general force-marched his troops it should only take four days to reach Gateway. But the Beinisonians weren't here. And that made Morion uneasy. He had been sending out patrols formed from the Battalion of current and former students he'd raised but so far the patrols had reported no sign of the enemy. Strange. "Well, Colour Sergeant?" he asked the man who just came up behind him. "Three patrols ha' reported back, sair," the Lederian answered. "They've nae spotted a thing. Tha fourth patrol is overdue." Morion had been absently staring across the river as he listened to MacLaird's report. Now, his head snapped around. "How long?" "Two bells, sair," MacLaird said in a tone that said the Lederian was having the same thoughts as Morion. "Double the watch, MacLaird. I'll be in my tent if you need me." "Aye, sair." * * * 8 Leagues south-southwest of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur 17 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Goren Winston and three guards moved north along the Laraka's west bank toward the last and only ford before Gateway Keep. The newly exonerated Lord of House Winston was pushing himself to the limit in order to reach Gateway and reclaim his birthright from his brother, Ne'on as soon as possible. He no longer knew his brother. The boy that had grown up with him, rode a raft down the Laraka to Port Sevlyn (to the consternation of their mother, and the amusement of their father). The boy that, he admitted, took the brunt of Goren's anger every once in a while. Perhaps it was his fault, he thought, that Ne'on had been driven away from the family. Goren was three years his brother's senior. Ne'on probably never understood why Goren, while he loved his father, had felt so constrained by Kald's rule, even while hunting in the woods. Goren now had freedom, but at the price of his father's life. No, Goren did not drive Ne'on to kill their father. That was another's influence, and something he had been avoiding thinking about. I'll think about it later, he thought. Meanwhile, some where in the back of his mind, he knew that 'later' was drawing nearer with his every movement closer to Gateway. 'Later' was not going to be an option, when he encountered Phos. Whatever his feelings, Goren had to tackle the problem of how to gain access to Gateway. For all he knew, the Beinisonians might be laying siege at that very moment to his home. And who knew what changes Ne'on had made since Goren left. His best hope, his only hope, he realized, was that Marcus was still Castellan. If Ne'on had left Marcus in his position as Castellan, then Goren's task would be made easier. If Marcus was still Castellan. If the way to Gateway lay open. If, if, if... Goren adjusted his baldric and increased his pace. With any luck, he thought, I should make it by late afternoon. * * * 83 leagues south of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur 17 Yule, 1014 B.Y. The half-noon sun beat down on the long line of men, women, and horses, hot and doubly so for those wearing amour, which was practically all of the column. Luthias marched with General Verde and Sho-sho Kirinagi at the head of the eight thousand- strong procession. "Well, Sarah?" Verde thought for a moment then answered, "I don't think we'll reach Gateway before Beinison, sir. Not unless we push it." Luthias made an instant decision. "We'll continue on as we are then. No need to tire the horses any more than we absolutely have to if we're going to have to fight once we get there. Do you agree, Sho-sho?" Luthias asked through Michiya. Kirinagi replied through Michiya, "Whatever you think best, Tai-shu. If the horses tire, then we shall fight on foot. Regardless of the circumstances my samurai and I will allow nothing to deter us from our duty. We are yours to command." Luthias inclined his head as acknowledgement. "How about you, Michiya?" "It would seem to me, Luthias-sama," Michiya said, "that the decision should be based on the news from Gateway Keep. Until we know more, we should not commit ourselves to an unalterable course of action." "When's the next patrol due in, Sarah?" Verde shifted her reins to her left hand while she used her right hand to shield her eyes from the worst of the sun's glare. "There should be a patrol due in sometime within the bell, sir." Luthias considered. He still felt that his decision to carry on as things stood to be the best. However, if Gateway was under siege...no, stick with his original decision. Unless one of the patrols brought back news that would require a change in plans. "We'll keep to our present rate of march. But we might as well get as many leagues behind us as we can. Pass the order to mount." "Yes, sir," Verde said and signalled one of the buglers. The bugle's call sounded three times and was quickly passed on down the column. Baranur's elite mounted their horses and were soon making good time toward Gateway. * * * Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur 17 Yule, 1014 B.Y. MacLaird paced back and forth on the ramparts, anxiously watching for the overdue patrol. The patrol should have reported back three bells ago and its absence was causing the Baranurian army's commanders worry. That sense of anxiety had communicated itself to the troops and more than one occasionally looked up from whatever he or she was doing and scanned the north bank of the Vodyanoi for some sign of the missing patrol or worse, the enemy. MacLaird decided that endless pacing would accomplish nothing, whereas a few bells' rest would do wonders. He turned to one of the two soldiers standing guard near him. "Laddie, Ah'm goin' tae take a rest for a while. You and ye're mate keep a sharp eye oot for tha' patrol. If ye see anathin', coom an' fetch me quick-smart. Got it?" "Yes, Colour Sergeant." "Good lad." MacLaird had just stepped down from the ramparts and was heading for Lord Morion's tent when he was stopped by a shout from the ramparts. "Colour Sergeant! Across the river! I see something!" MacLaird bounded up the earthen steps and was at the soldier's side in a flash. "Wha', lad? Wha' d' ye see? Where?" The soldier pointed. "That copse of trees off to the left. I thought I saw something moving at the edge." MacLaird and the soldier stared for a long time at the wooded area. Nothing. "Laddie, are ye sure?" "I'm almost positive...I thought for sure...I...I'm sorry, Colour Sergeant, I guess my mind was playing tricks on me. I wanted to spot that patrol so bad." MacLaird picked up on something in the young man's voice. "Ye ha' friends in tha patrol?" "Yes, Colour Sergeant," the soldier said in a low voice. "I understand, lad. Ye've done no wrong." "Do you think any of them are alive?" the soldier asked in a pleading voice. MacLaird, in a surprisingly compassionate gesture for the normally hard man Morion's students had come to fear and respect, laid his hand on the man's shoulder. "Laddie, I wilna lie to ye. They've been past due for three bells now. Chances are they found tha enemy when they wernae ready for it. It's hard son, I know, but ye must keep ye're spirits up. It's nae easy, but ye'll ha' tae get used tae this if ye're tae continue wi' tha life ye ha' chosen for yeself." "Thank you, Colour Sergeant." "Dinna. Ah was just doin'--" MacLaird stopped in mid-sentence. "Laddie," he asked eagerly, "d' ye see tha' flash o' light yonder?" "No...wait, I did see something. Maybe..." Just then, a figure in tattered leather amour and dragging a sabre from a leather thong fastened to its wrist emerged from the trees. The figure was staggering and one hand was clasped to the figure's side. The face was twisted in an obvious grimace of pain. "Great Culchanan's Ghost!" MacLaird exclaimed. He leaped down the stake-studded embankment and scrambled across the Outer Works. The two soldiers on the rampart with him were close on his heels. MacLaird ran as fast as his legs would carry him, throwing up great waves of water as he splashed across the knee-deep ford in the Vodyanoi. He slipped once on the unsteady footing of the river bottom and came up soaking wet, coughing and spluttering from the water he'd taken into his lungs. He reached the far bank just as the figure that had emerged from the trees collapsed. He turned the blood-stained soldier over. "Aurellan!" MacLaird looked around at the young man he had been speaking with just a short time before. "Ye know tha lass?" "Yes, Colour Sergeant. We're good friends. She's part of our Battalion." "Well, she's in nae good condition. Ye," he said, telling off the second soldier that had come across, "get yeself o'er tae Evris tha Healer an' tell him we're bringing in a casualty. Quick-smart now, lad!" The soldier saluted, turned, and ran back across the ford. "Here," MacLaird said to the young woman's friend, "gi' me a hand gettin' her across." MacLaird and the soldier gently picked Aurellan up and carried her back to the Baranurian lines. In the healer's tent several dozen yards back from the ramparts, Evris, the Baranurians' only healer, was preparing his large tent for the numerous casualties that were certain to arrive once battle was joined. Evris was not alone, though. He had ten assistants, two of whom had shown that they might posses the aptitude to become healers themselves given some intensified instruction in the healers art. None of his assistants had seen anything like the horrible injuries the wounded would be suffering from and that worried Evris. The aging healer had been plying his trade for thirty years in the King's service and had seen it all. Those thirty years had taken their toll. Of late, Evris had been considering leaving the Royal Army and retiring to Magnus, perhaps to a teaching position at the University. After this campaign, his was certain he would retire. Thirty years of tending to those whose business it is to maim and kill is enough for anyone. The flap to the tent opened and two soldiers, one soaking wet, carried in a third soldier with a bloody gash across the abdomen. Evris pointed to a table to his left and the two soldiers set their wounded comrade down. "Ethros, finish laying out these instruments. You two, let's get started on this one." When Evris emerged three quarters of a bell later he found a somewhat dry Colour Sergeant MacLaird, an anxious Lord Morion and two of the force's Commanders waiting for him. "She's alive, but just barely and that for not much longer." "Can she speak?" Morion asked intently. "My Lord, she has received a sword-cut to the abdomen. She is in a great deal of pain and I've been forced to give her a potion that makes her very groggy. She's dying." "I realize that, Evris, but I must know what happened to the patrol. Our continued survival may depend on it." "Very well, My Lord. I can give her something to bring her around but you must be quick, My Lord." "That will suffice." "You and one other, My Lord." Morion motioned for MacLaird to follow and the two stepped past Evris and entered the dark tent. "Through that flap and to your right, My Lord. I'll be there shortly with a potion." Morion nodded and he and MacLaird stepped through the flap leading to the area reserved for the more seriously wounded. Aurellan was lying unconscious on a pallet, a blood-soaked bandage covering her wound. Evris entered the closed-off area carrying a bowl filled with a vile-smelling brew. He sat on the pallet and tilted the bowl to the dying woman's lips. Within moments, Aurellan began to show signs of waking. "Lassie?" MacLaird tentatively asked. "Lassie, can ye hear me?" Aurellan opened her eyes a fraction. "Who...where...?" "Aurellan, it's Lord Morion and Colour Sergeant MacLaird," Morion said in a gentle voice. "Can you tell us what happened to your patrol?" "Patrol?" Aurellan repeated weakly. "Yes, Aurellan, your patrol. Concentrate. Tell us what happened." "Patrol...patrol...oh, yes. Ambushed." "Where? When?" "Don't...don't re...remember. Hurts." MacLaird broke in. "We know it does, lass. All ye ha' tae do is answer a few wee questions an' then ye can sleep." "The patrol, Aurellan," Morion's stern tone resumed, "tell us of the patrol." "Benisons," she responded in a still-groggy voice. "Ran into some few bells northwest. Lots. Tried to get away but caught us. Stupid officer. Wouldn't listen when tried tell him we should scram. Beinisons kept coming. No more arrows. Keenan...Keenan went down. Couldn't save him." Aurellan was crying now, the tears silently flowing; the strength to do more than that was gone. "It's a'right, lass. We'll nae trouble ye anamore." Evris stepped forward with a bowl half-full of a sweet-smelling liquid. "Drink this, Aurellan." Evris helped the young woman drink. She'd breathed her last even as Morion and MacLaird were exiting the tent. Outside, Morion stared at the ground for long moments. Neither man seemed willing to break the silence. Eventually, Morion's warrior training reasserted itself, reminding him that he had a commander's duty to perform that took precedence over everything else, even grief for a departed student. "The pickets should be doubled." "Sair," MacLaird protested, "tha men are verra tired. They ha' been workin' on tha ramparts since before sunrise." "And they'll work on the ramparts long after the sun sets. The enemy is almost upon us. We'll have plenty of time to rest after the battle." If the gods see fit to spare anyone. "Aye, sair. Ah'll see to it straight away." Morion massaged his neck muscles as MacLaird walked away. Consequently, it took several moments before Morion realized MacLaird had stopped. "Something, Colour Sergeant?" MacLaird pointed. "Aye, sair, ye might say tha'." Morion looked in the direction MacLaird was pointing. The senior Regimental commander, Commander Vroneth, was striding briskly towards Evris' tent. From the set of his face, Morion could hazard a guess as to what news Vroneth was bringing. So could the soldiers whom Vroneth passed on his way. Work throughout the camp came to a halt as the soldiers' intuition told them something was up. Vroneth marched sharply to Morion and halted, giving a parade-ground salute. "Report, Commander." "My Lord," Vroneth said, "the sentries report Beinisonians approaching from the north. Thousands of them." "Right." Morion sighed. "This is it, then. Stand to, Commander." "Sir!" Vroneth moved away from the tent, catching the eye of Morion's bugler as he went. Vroneth stopped, facing the camp. He filled his lungs with air. "Stand...to!" The clarion call of the trumpet filled the air, its rising notes summoning the Baranurians to the ramparts, stirring the blood with its call to battle. Marcus Ridgewater stood on one of the two towers flanking the gate and watched the unfolding scene in the Royal Army camp only a few hundred yards from Gateway. "Should we stand to as well, sir?" asked a young officer of Gateway's small complement of soldiers. Marcus remained silent. He wanted to answer "Yes," to tell the youngster to sound the alarm. But he could not. For he was bound by orders to do nothing. The Lord Keeper's son - make that, the new Lord Keeper, Ne'on - had ordered Marcus to remain aloof from the conflict. Ne'on thought to keep Gateway removed from the war. Marcus snorted in disgust. He turned to the waiting officer. "No," he ground out. "But, sir!" "I said 'No' and I meant it. I don't expect you to question me again." MacLaird walked with a steady measured pace along the rampart behind the soldiers of his Battalion. "Steady, lads. Remember, they're just flesh an' blood like we are. Do wha' ye're told, listen tae ye're sergeants, an' show those wee bastards wha' Laird Morion ha' taught ye." His words echoed those of the squad sergeants and did more to ready his troops than any oration could have. As yet, no enemy had appeared. Almost a quarter of a bell had passed since the stand to had been given. Two of the three Baranurian Regiments manned the ramparts along with Morion's Battalion, now under the command of Colour Sergeant MacLaird. Lord Morion waited behind the ramparts with the reserve, Vroneth's Regiment. An uneasy feeling had come over MacLaird but he couldn't pin down the cause. It took him several moments to realize that what was causing his uneasiness was the total absence of sound other than that made by man. The Lederian pushed his way through the ranks 'till he found himself up against the wooden palisade of the ramparts themselves. He stood motionless, staring across the river with every fibre of his being, as if by sheer force of will he could force the Beinisonians to reveal themselves to him. (In the back of his mind the thought that the enemy might have wizards fluttered around until he caught it and squashed it; he absolutely refused to contemplate such a catastrophic happenstance.) Very shortly he was rewarded with the sight of the enemy, a reward MacLaird would have just as well gone without. One moment there was nothing, just the slowly flowing water of the Vodyanoi and the gentle slope of the hill on the far bank, then the hill was moving as three thousand five hundred of Beinison's elite marched into view, light sabres banging against their legs as they ran. The Beinisonians stopped at the base of the hill, a scant few yards from the water's edge. An elegantly armored rider trotted his mount out in front of the enemy line and rode parallel with the Baranurian fortifications. He was obviously the commander of the Beinisonian force. He studied the Baranurian defenses with an arrogant air. Finally, finished with his study, he rode back within his own lines and issued orders to a group of similarly attired mounted officers. His orders given, he galloped his horse to the top of the hill as his officers dismounted and moved to their units. The Baranurians knew what would be next in the sequence of events and all along the line they tensed, ready to receive the enemy. In the very center of the line, MacLaird raised his hand, the signal for the few archers in the force to make ready. Across the river, the Beinisonians were arranging themselves into four blocks of roughly eight hundred fifty men formed in thirty three ranks of fifty. In the center of each block was carried an oak pole topped with a golden eagle and encased in leather, the Colors of the Beinisonian Regiments. Each was ringed by the possessing Regiment's fiercest warriors. Every man was fully prepared to die to keep the Colors from the enemy. For long moments, the only sounds that could be heard were the low but firm voices of the Baranurian Sergeants as they gave final instructions and advice to their troops; the Beinisonians, for their part, were utterly silent, a fact which did much to unsettle even the most stalwart Baranurian veteran. Each line was immobile; the Beinisonians seemed hesitant, reluctant almost, to begin the contest and the Baranurians dared not take their attention away from the foe. From Gateway's battlements, Marcus saw movement in the enemy's lines which he knew the waiting Baranurian soldiers could not see; buglers and messengers making their way to join their commander on the hill. "Won't be long now," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "Excuse me, sir?" the officer who had earned Marcus' wrath earlier asked. "Nothing. The show's about to begin." Marcus felt sick. What Ne'on had ordered him to do was wrong. Marcus was sure he was betraying the soldiers about to die on the Vodyanoi's south bank by complying with Ne'on's orders. He was almost certain he was betraying the Kingdom. But if he didn't do as Ne'on, his commander and Lord in law, bid him do then he would just as certainly be guilty of betrayal. Unless Ne'on were relieved of his command, he thought, noting three horseman riding north along the Laraka, heading for Gateway. "What do you make of that?" he asked the soldier at his side, pointing to the three figures. "Someone's riding toward Gateway, sir." Marcus looked at the soldier quizzically. "What's your name, son?" "Andrews, sir," he answered proudly. "Andrews, if you can't make a better assessment of those three immediately, you'll be cleaning outhouses for the duration of your assignment." Andrews' face went slightly pale, and he stared intently into the distance. "If I didn't know any better, sir..." Marcus did not smile. "Let's assume you don't." "Well, I'd say that was Lord Goren. But isn't he in the dungeon?" "Officially." Just slightly, Marcus grinned. If Ne'on's actions were to cause, or be likely to cause, the Kingdom great harm, then Marcus might be justified in disobeying orders. Further, if that was Goren Winston, riding with three of the King's guards, then Marcus could assume Ne'on was no longer in rightful possession of Gateway. Marcus was not too concerned with what might happen to him, it was his soldier's honor - and Gateway's - which concerned him. Marcus had to be absolutely clear in his own mind that following Ne'on's orders would conflict with his higher duty to King and Kingdom - and that Goren was returning with redemption. Araminia grant me fortune, he pleaded silently. He stared at Lord Morion's personal standard for what seemed like an eternity as his inner thoughts maneuvered and counter-maneuvered. Lord Morion is not properly under the King's sovereignty and yet he is ready to sacrifice all for the slim chance that he may somehow aid Baranur. And here I stand blowing in the wind. Ne'on has been too long here with his accursed Black Hand. No, my duty is clear. Ne'on may turn me into a toad or blast me to ashes but he will not have my allegiance. Only my fealty to the King is left. I will do what I must and Ne'on be damned! Marcus straightened and turned. "Captain of the Guard! To me!" An answering shout and in moments Gateway's Guard Captain was standing at attention before his commander. "Captain, I want you to quietly stand the garrison to." "Sir?" The Captain was very aware of Ne'on's orders. "You heard me, Captain. The Lord Keeper is no longer in command of this keep. There," he pointed to the three oncoming riders, "is Lord Goren, the new Lord Keeper. Our duty to Ne'on is finished. Our duty to the King is not." Marcus was rewarded with the largest (and only, so far as he could remember) smile ever to grace the Captain's face. Obviously, the Captain of the Guard had not well-liked his orders. As the Captain was turning to go, Marcus stopped him with a hand. "One more thing. I want two score archers to keep an eye on the Black Hand. They may give us trouble. If they do, they are to be killed instantly. Handle it yourself." "All of them, sir?" The Captain knew the Castellan's youngest son was a member of the Black Hand. "All that resist, yes." "Yes, sir." On the hilltop on the Vodyanoi's north bank, the buglers and messengers had reached the Light Infantry's commander. A breeze began blowing up from the south, stirring the water slightly. At a command from their leader, the three buglers lifted their brass horns to their lips and blew a single note. The standard bearers of each Regiment in the Beinisonian line reached up and removed the leather casings from their Colors. The wind caught them, making them snap and flutter. Morion signalled his own buglers and the Baranurians unfurled their Colors. On the hilltop, the Beinisonian commander raised his sword in salute. The enemy's horns sounded once more and the enemy line moved forward into the water. "A'right, m' wee bairns," MacLaird said, "make ready." At a silent signal from their officers, the Beinisonians drew their sabres en masse. When the enemy were approximately halfway across a single note sounded from the hilltop. With a mighty shout the Beinisonians hurled themselves at the ramparts. "Now!" MacLaird shouted, dropping his arm. Here and there along the line, bow strings thrummed and arrows dropped among the advancing Beinisonians, felling a few of the enemy, too few to make any difference. The Beinisonians pounded across the ford throwing up a great spray of water. The leading edge of the charge reached the south bank and immediately disappeared into the staked pits the defenders had dug; perhaps three-score of the enemy fell screaming to their deaths. The survivors of the first rank advanced more carefully on the ramparts now just a few yards away anxious to avoid their comrades' fate. Not everyone was successful in avoiding the pitfalls and another score went to meet their ancestors. The enemy wave was at the earthen embankment now, frantically clawing their way up towards the waiting defenders while at the same time trying (unsuccessfully in some cases) to avoid the stakes that made the slope look like a massive, elongated pin-cushion. The first of the Beinisonians reached the top and the smithy's din of combat rang out in all its fury. Men and women up and down the line staggered back or fell clutching at slashes and cuts. More than a few, Baranurian and Beinisonian alike, lay sprawled in death. The fighting was bitter and the Beinisonians were taking most of the losses. Boiled leather just could not compete with chain and scale mail in close-quarter fighting. After what seemed like forever to those on the ramparts, a bugle sounded, three notes rising in successive octaves, the Beinisonian signal to retreat. The enemy flowed back across the Vodyanoi leaving four hundred dead and wounded. The Baranurians counted their losses at nearly two hundred. The fighting had raged for almost a full bell. MacLaird was relaxing on the ground after having issued orders to remove the dead and dying. Morion came up and sat beside his friend. "Water?" he said, offering the Lederian his canteen. MacLaird snatched at it like a drowning man grabs a rope. Raising the canteen to his lips, he downed it in one go. "Thank ye, sair. Tha' was much appreciated." Morion smiled. "What do you think?" MacLaird thought for a moment before he answered. "Ah think we can hold these wee buggers from now 'till Burgondonan. It's when those other lads show up tha' we ha' soomthin' tae worry o'er." "My thoughts exactly." Morion stared up at the sky, gaging the sun's position. "I'd say we've no more than four or five bells." MacLaird swallowed the chunk of bread he'd been chewing and looked at his lord. "Aye," he agreed without emotion, "tha' be aboot wha' Ah'd guess." "I'm sorry, MacLaird." "Sorry? For wha' are ye needin' tae be sorry aboot?" "For getting us into this. I could have stayed out of this war, you know. But my honor wouldn't let me." "Sair, we ha' been together now for more years than Ah like tae count. Ye ken why Ah left my clan." MacLaird paused, the moment making him feel uncomfortable. It was unusual for the pragmatic Lederian to make such a speech. "Sair, we saved each other tha' day in tha' forest. Ah dinna ken it then but Ah do now. Ye ha' been my Laird an' it ha' been my duty an' my honor tae help ye preserve yours." "Thank you, Colour Sergeant. But my honor seems to have gotten us killed this time." "Wha' better way for a soldier tae meet his death than tae go down fightin' for a good cause again' o'erwhelmin' odds?" Morion sighed. "I'm getting too old for this." MacLaird leaned close and spoke in low and gentle tones. "Tha' lass will be a'right. Lady Kimmentari ha' a good head on her shoulders. She'll scramble before anathin' cooms within' reach o' Pentamorlo." Horns brayed, shattering the early afternoon respite. The second round of fighting had been raging for just over two bells when Morion felt the ground begin to tremble. Then he saw them. The cries of the wounded, the grunts and groans of the combatants, the death screams, the clash of steel on steel, all were banished from Morion's senses as his brain confirmed what his eyes were seeing. The crest of the low hill on the other side of the river came suddenly and menacingly alive as rank upon rank, Regiment upon Regiment of Beinison's heavy infantry rushed into view, sun glinting off shields and armor. "My God!" Vroneth breathed. "Is there no end to them?" Morion did not answer. He was far away from Gateway Keep. His world was a blue-skinned woman whom he loved dearly and now knew he would never set eyes on again. The vision passed. He realized someone had been speaking to him. "What, Commander?" "Your orders, sir?" Vroneth repeated softly. "Orders, Commander? What good will orders do now?" Vroneth was shocked. "But, My Lord! We must do something!" Morion was silent long moments. "Quite right. I don't know what came over me." He turned to regard Gateway's battlements. "If only...but that will not happen. Ready your men, Commander. We'll commit all our reserves. Our only chance now is to meet the enemy at the ramparts with everything we have." Vroneth saluted and moved off, giving orders to his officers. When all was ready, Vroneth signalled to his bugler. At the bugle's call the eight hundred men and women of Vroneth's Regiment marched to join their comrades in the fight for the ramparts. "Any word from Captain Greerson?" Castellan Ridgewater asked a junior officer standing nearby. "Not yet, sir." Damn! Marcus swore. I'd feel a damn sight better if I knew for certain the Black Hand was gone. "No plan survives contact with the enemy." "Sir?" "Nothing. Are the catapults and ballistae ready?" The officer made a quick visual check. "Yes, sir." "Good. Set your sights on the Vodyanoi crossing." He turned to another officer. "Make ready to open the gate. And keep an eye on Goren... it appears he has company." In the Keep, a member of the Black Hand was at that moment looking out one of the high, narrow windows that were really more arrow slit than for gazing out of. "Are you in or out, Mak?" asked one of four Black Hand soldiers sitting on the floor in the midst of a dice game. "Just a moment," he replied absently. "Come on," pushed another. "I've only got another two bells before shift." "What has you so interested?" the first asked. "Something's going on. They're moving the catapults into position." "What?" The first soldier joined Mak by the window. "Are we under attack?" "Don't think so." "What, you think the Castellan's finally found some balls?" "Maybe. We should let Clay know about this." "Right. Let's go." MacLaird snarled as he swept the head off a Beinisonian skirmisher. The Lederian's armor was splotched with blood, not all of it the enemy's. In the best tradition of the men of Lederia he had given himself to the battle rage and the Beinisonians were paying a terrible price for it. Few there were among the enemy Regiments that found the courage to go up against the seemingly insane apparition. To his rear a bugle sounded and all at once the pressure on his Battalion eased as Vroneth's Regiment came into the line. Then MacLaird saw the glittering wave of the enemy heavy infantry Regiments rolling over the Vodyanoi. "M'anam don sleibh!" The Beinisonian light infantry were thrown back by the added weight of Vroneth's warriors but that meant little. MacLaird knew those heavy infantry Regiments had sealed the Baranurians' doom. Several yards away to right of center Lord Morion looked not to the enemy but to his camp -- even now being dismantled by his order -- and its wounded. Morion did not truly despair of dying, it is a thing all soldiers know comes sooner or later. He knew he would make his death a worthy one, but his being was permeated by a fear of the fate of those who lay helpless on their blood-soaked pallets. Morion had heard of Port Sevlyn's fate and fully expected his wounded to be slaughtered. "Vroneth?" "My Lord?" "Pass the word. There will be no retreat. We win here, or die." Vroneth saluted gravely and moved off to inform his officers. Goren raced full speed toward Gateway Keep, six advance scouts following his group of four. As he sped along the river's edge, his horse almost frothing with exertion, he saw a sight he'd never forget: Gateway's main gates were opening. "Marcus, I love you," he thought, and urged his men to ride faster. The six Beinison scouts behind him were persistent, he had to give them that. But coming up the back trails of the Laraka, where Goren had grown up, he had spotted them and out-maneuvered them easily. The Laraka flowed north until it met the Vodyanoi, where the latter joined it and turned it west. Gateway was on the eastern rock base where the two rivers met. Fortunately for Goren, the rest of the Beinison army was on the other side of the Laraka and the Vodyanoi, not between Goren and Gateway. As they continued toward the keep, Goren saw six men line up with bows, draw, and take aim. "I hope they recognize us," yelled one of his men. "Or at least, are damn good archers!" "They're in Gateway," was Goren's reply. "I'd put Marcus' troops against the Legions of Death if I had to." A flight of arrows streaked across the sky, landing thirty yards behind them and just in front of the pursuing Benosians. "If that doesn't give them second thoughts, they won't have time for thirds!" Inside the object of so many people's desire, Captain Greerson moved carefully out of sight among the buildings close against the keep overseeing the final positioning of his archers. A quick glance at Gateway's siege engines told him he had little time. A quick mental review of his dispositions left him less than totally satisfied but he decided they would serve. They'll have to, he thought. The main gate to the keep opened and the bulk of the Black Hand emerged. Their attention was on the busy heavy catapult crews in the bailey. They totally failed to notice Greerson's force concealed nearby. Swords drawn, they advanced on the catapults. Mak, the soldier who first noticed the garrison's efforts at changing allegiance, opened his mouth to speak. An arrow sprouted from his neck. He stopped, a shocked look of disbelief on his face. He fell choking on his own blood. He was soon joined by many of his fellows as Greerson's troops opened fire. Caught out in the open and now leaderless, the Black Hand died before any organized attempt at resistance could be made. Even before the last of the Hand was dispatched, the catapults had begun their deadly song. At the Vodyanoi crossing, the wave of steel-clad Beinisonians was at the halfway point when a series of low dull thuds issued from the direction of the fortress-waypoint commanding both Vodyanoi and Laraka rivers. With heart-stopping suddenness huge gouts of water were thrown into the air as boulders the size of small huts found their mark. The first few ranks of the enemy disappeared almost without sound. The green-blue waters of the Vodyanoi turned crimson. Morion spun and stared, slack-jawed, at the sight of Gateway Keep, its great gate swung wide and beckoning. It was several moments before he or anyone could react to what their eyes transmitted to their unbelieving brains. Morion pushed and shoved his way to his bugler's side as another salvo from Gateway's catapults arced overhead. "Sound retreat!" The bugler raised his instrument to his lips and blew a discordant sound. "Spit, boy, spit!" The young soldier wet his lips and again tried, this time with more success. So ended the Baranurian army's organized defense. The bugle's call to retreat, combined with the promise of Gateway's beckoning gate, shattered the defending force. The discipline that had held through so much for so long fled as a wisp of fog on a blustery day. Where once there was a line of battle ordered into Regiment and Battalion, now there was a mob of desperate men and women frantically trying to reach the safety of Gateway Keep. Here and there among the chaos, a sergeant or officer tried to rally their troops. Most met with failure. A few did succeed and Morion pushed and shoved his way to the nearest group. He found the leader of the group, a Captain, by the simple expedient of colliding with her. "My Lord!" the Captain exclaimed with some surprise. "Good work, Captain!" Morion praised. "How many have you?" "Between three- and four-score, My Lord." Morion quickly assessed the overall situation, such as he was able to amidst the confusion, and the state of the body of troops before him. "They're shaky." "Yes, My Lord," the Captain replied in a voice that said she, too, was shaky. "Well, no help for it. Can you hold them?" "I don't know, My Lord." Seeing Morion's expression, she amplified. "I'm sorry, My Lord, but that is the only answer I can give you. Some will stay...I'm sorry to have failed you, sir." "Worry about recrimination later, Captain. Right now, we've got to get some sort of line established." "With what?" The Captain pointed at her troops, drawn up in a loose square. "Look at them, My Lord. The enemy has not yet gained the rampart and already they're wavering." "Well firm them up, Captain! Because wavering or not, in whatever numbers you can muster, you ARE going to form line! There is no way that ," he said, gesturing at the packed mass before Gateway's main gate, "is going to make it inside before the Beinisionians come over that rampart over there. We have to buy time for those at the gate and for the wounded to get inside." To the Captain's doubtful face he replied, "You don't have to hold the entire enemy army. When they see a force deployed, they will also deploy and that will take time. A few menes, even a few moments, can make a difference." "Yes, My Lord," the Captain said sullenly. Morion regarded her intently for a moment then issued additional orders. "Gather what you can to you. Force them to deploy then fall back, then deploy again and so on." "Where will you be, My Lord?" "I'm going to try and get some people together to help Evris get the wounded moved. We can't leave them for the enemy." "No, My Lord." "Good luck," Morion wished then turned and, with his bugler following, waded into the maelstrom. "Goren, you blasted fool!" Marcus yelled as he worked his way down the stairs to the courtyard. His lord had just made his way into Gateway - probably would have died without his help - and didn't bring half the forces Marcus had instructed him to months before. "What in Muskadon's name are you doing? Damn good to see you, but where's your escort? I told you to come back with a regiment of men and the King's seal, and demand your rightful place. Burn my ashes in Rise'er's feast, boy, you're lucky I opened those gates... Ne'on himself ordered them shut and the garrison to stand down. If I-" "Marcus!" Goren's voice finally made its way through the castellan's barrage of dialogue. He looked at the castellan, smiled, and grabbed him by the shoulders. "It's good to see you, too. Now, where's the rest of the force? With all those men outside, I counted on at least three more regiments in Gateway... did you deploy them before I got in?" Marcus' expression turned dark. "Your blasted brother, self-proclaimed Keeper of Gateway - you took care of that business, now, didn't you?" When Goren nodded, Marcus continued. "Ne'on ordered the garrison to stand down, and not to allow access to Gateway. Just recently, I countermanded that order. The catapults and ballistas are firing on the Beinison army now, but I'm not sure how long it will take Morion to move his troops in - and the Benosian's will be making for the entrance as fast as he will." Goren grasped the parchment from inside his cloak and handed it to the Castellan. "This is the King's hand, and his decision to place me as Keeper of Gateway. Take as many horse as you can - leave one for me - and gather archers by the gate. I'll return in menes, Ol willing." As Goren turned towards his father's mansion, Marcus yelled to him, "Watch your brother, boy... he's not to be trusted." Damn fool, he thought, Morion and his troops don't have menes. "Captain of the Guard!" He waited for the man to signal from the parapets. "Gather the two archer companies and all the horse you can muster. We're going to get our hands dirty on this one!" MacLaird stood in front of a group of soldiers from all units and glared at them with sword drawn. By dint of force of personality (and outright physical threat) the Lederian had gathered twenty-two to him. He wasn't satisfied with their morale, but it would have to do. Off to his left and toward the ramparts, a bugle sounded -- hahn taa-ree -- the signal "Form on me!" MacLaird smiled, a wide, vicious, happy grin. He sheathed his sword and bellowed commands to his force. "Hurry, Colour Sergeant!" Morion exhorted. "Sair!" MacLaird turned to his troops and spat out a stream of invective that would have melted stone. Morion, MacLaird, and close to two-score ordinary soldiers were desperately, frantically trying to move Evris' field hospital and the wounded within. Niceties were set aside for greater concerns. Those who were too badly wounded to walk were carried gently but swiftly towards the safety of Gateway Keep. The dying were aided on their way with a quick sword-stroke or dagger-thrust. The hospital was mostly torn down and moving when the catapults stopped. "Keep form, men!" Marcus yelled as he and two hundred archers of his own training were riding toward the enemy lines from behind the Baranurian ranks. Already, swarms of Baranurian soldiers sped past, some desperately lunging through the line of make-shift cavalry riding their way. Marcus silently hoped no men died of stupidity in their attempt to gain Gateway's safety. Seeing the hospital was already broken down, Marcus concentrated on the main bulk of the front line. At about three hundred feet, with hundreds of fleeing soldiers around him, he gave the order to dismount. "Concentrate your fire at the front line, enemy rear. "Ready!" Two hundred bows pulled back, aiming at where the enemy was deploying a force meant to wipe out one of the few small patches of resistance left in the Baranurian force. "Aim!" Arrows steadied on their rests. "Fire!" Two hundred arrows swarmed through the sky, casting a small, fast-moving shadow of death over the troops until it struck its mark. A few of the enemy were killed, more wounded, and the advancing force slowed. "Captains, choose your targets and command at will!" Marcus screamed as he mounted his horse. From his position, he could barely make out the form of a commanding officer nearly quarter of a league away. The wind was at his back. It would be a major set back for the enemy, he thought. Hefting his own great bow, he chose a long arrow from the quiver. More draw for more distance, he mused. He pulled back on the string, meeting the arrow's nock with his chin. As he took aim, he remembered hearing stories of incredible feats of archery, and how his childhood had been charmed with their heroic lore. Galthamon, in the Great Houses War, had slain a commanding officer from half a league away with a great bow. The Legion of Death, two regiments of archers, had defeated entire armies on their own. He gauged the wind another moment, and fired. The arrow seemed to be in the air for an eternity as it sped towards its target. Marcus had adjusted for wind, distance, height difference... to no avail. It struck the ground harmlessly an easy twenty feet from the Beinison officer, barely noticed by an aid, and considered a random shot by all around. The officer did, however, quickly remove his presence from the sight of the enemy army. Marcus thought all those stories about Galthamon were a little over stated, and returned to the situation at hand. His force of archers were causing a noticeable gap between the enemy and Baranurian troops. Morion's mobile hospital, looking over his shoulder, was almost at Gateway. In fact, there were very few troops between he and the enemy, and all of them were moving towards safety. "Cease fire!" he yelled. "Mount up, and ride for Gateway. In form!" (to be continued...) ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Sons of Gateway 7: Reunion Yule 17, 1014 B.Y. by Jon Evans (b.c.k.a. Gemstone Expedition, day 94, Lieutenant Howen, reporting: we spent six weeks in the cave of the magicians, healing our wounds and re-stocking our supplies with theirs. It took longer than expected to recover from the damages... I guess the injuries went deeper than we thought. Hanlar blames it on Lord Ne'on's gem - a two-foot, purple, uncut piece of something I've never seen before. I told him it was the altitude and the thin air, and we left the next morning. Everyone seemed to feel better just leaving the cave. But three weeks later, the gem is still glowing, we're losing weight rapidly, and one of the horses just up and died. No explanation. The other horses bucked their way free, and bolted. That was three nights past, and we've been walking ever since - I only hope things go well until Gateway. Our water supplies will run short in another day or two, but we should be able to make it to the Laraka by then, and our going will be easier. We should be able to scavenge both food and water at the river. For the past few days, there have been large dust clouds to the west, and swarms of buzzards. I sent a scout to find out what's going on. "Lieuten't," Hanlar spoke from the opening of the tent, his six foot frame filling the space between the flaps. "Scout's come back. I think you might wanna take this 'un in yuir tent, sir." Howen looked at his junior officer, a man who knew the disreputable men in this mission better than himself, and beckoned him in with the scout. Walkins, the man who Hanlar had picked for the job, looked shaken, a little pale, and out of breath. His black matted hair was speckled with bits of grass and brush, and the mud on his knees was dry, but dark. Running for two days, Howen figured, and trying to keep out of sight of whatever it was he saw. "Go'n, Walkins, tell the Lieuten't wha' ye saw," Hanlar pushed the man forward a bit. Walkins stepped with the push, and looked wide-eyed at Howen. He looked back at the Sergeant, then started. "S'like this, Sir... there's a batch o' bad luck - bout a keg o' pitchers - comin' this way - ow!" He clutched his shoulder as the pain from Hanlar's punch made its way into his muscle. "This ain't the sewers o' Magnus, ye scum! Talk odd to 'im! Sorry, Lieuten't," Hanlar added, "the rats o' the land 'ave their own language. Pitchers, see... beers, drinks, what 'ave ye... they's town guards to thievin' scum. Keg o' pitchers, must be lots o' guards. Or troops." "Aye, Cap'n, and bad ale is they." Hanlar scowled a moment, then looked at his Lieutenant. "Not flyin' Baranur's colors, sir." Howen looked at his sergeant, the lines around the man's eyes, the chapping of his lips. He'd been through a lot, lately - they all had - and was in no shape to assault an enemy army. If it was an enemy, and not some envoy travelling in from Bichu or some other realm. Too far north and west to be Beinison, surely. "Walkins, what direction are they headed?" Walkins leaned forward and almost whispered, "Straight for Gateway, I'd bet me mother's knickers." * * * Riding North to Gateway after his brief audience with the King, Goren Winston felt clean for what seemed like the first time in ages. He had a horse to ride, three men who knew him, and he was in charge again. It felt comfortable, despite the circumstances. How he and three of his uncle's House Troops were to enter Gateway, depose Ne'on, and fortify it against any possible invasion were only small matters when he thought of Phos. Phos, the Demon. Not in the sense that he ever thought of demons, but then he had never met one, or even thought much about them. This one seemed more like a mad war general. He couldn't explain it, but from the brief time Phos had exposed himself to Goren, Goren felt as though he knew Phos; at least, a little bit. Goren knew that Phos' entry to this world couldn't be allowed. It could cause more harm than this whole war. He only wished he had been able to talk with Lord Equiville about dealing with the matter, but the High Mage had been unavailable for the one afternoon Goren had spent in Magnus. Then, of course, there was Rho. She wasn't nagging him. She wasn't preaching Stevenic platitudes to him. She wasn't giving him orders or telling him things that made no sense. The only thing that bothered Goren was that she simply wasn't there, and he didn't like that. He liked her not being there. He didn't like the fact that it bothered him. He'd have to talk with Marcus about that one. If his father were alive, Kald would tell him to take her to the hunting cabin, light a fire, pour some wine. He smiled when he remembered the first time he had done that. In his naive youth, he thought they would just sit by the fire and drink wine. Maybe talk about hunting, which fascinated him and therefore must be fascinating to everyone! He smiled again, and pulled himself out of those thoughts as one of his men rode up from ahead. "Lord Keeper!" "What is it, Wilkes?" "I estimate we're about two bell's from Gateway, my lord." The guard looked nervous. Their position relative to Gateway was obvious. Goren had travelled the road many times in the last twenty-four years of his life. Goren lifted the iron cap from his head to wipe back the brown hair falling in his eyes. "Yes, I'd say that was about right. Is there a problem?" "Well, sir, to be honest..." The guard looked around for a moment, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "Wilkes, when communication breaks down, problems become catastrophes. Catastrophes cause irreversible damage. Great men become great by avoiding the collapse of communication." "Your uncle always told us that, Lord Keeper." "Good, then what's the problem?" "I think the war has made its way to Gateway, my lord." Goren halted his steed. "Excuse me?" "The war, my lord. When we get over this ridge," the guard pointed to the hill he had just come over, "you'll see Gateway in the distance. Looks like some troops have dug in outside her walls, probably Beinison since they're not being let in, but I could have sworn I saw Baranur's colors. The Winston flag still flies from Gateway, though, my lord." "You didn't see Beinison colors?" "No, my lord, but there's a hill not two leagues past the joining of the Laraka and the Vodyanoi." "I know it well, Wilkes, it's on the west road to Port Sevlyn." "There's one more thing, Lord Winston." Goren sighed. "Yes?" "My lord, if you'll look at the sky behind you..." Goren turned and looked up. The slightly cloudy sky was darkened by rising dust some distance behind. But for the trees, they might be able to see the cause from the hill top. Goren sighed. He guessed he had fifty leagues or less on the forces behind him. There were forces stationed outside Gateway, which probably meant Gateway was full. Two regiments normally made up Gateway's garrison; another five could be squeezed if the surrounding population didn't expect protection. Figure on six regiments inside her walls. If Gateway was being fortified by the King's men, then Port Sevlyn must be in danger of falling. That didn't make sense - Beinison is south of Baranur, and Gateway Keep is north of Magnus, Baranur's capital city. The battalions at Gateway must be on their way east, to the Duchies of Pyridain and Westbrook. One thing was certain, he didn't have time to sit there and wonder about it. "Let's ride for Gateway, full gallop." * * * "Captain Clay," Ne'on's voice called out. "I require your assistance." Clay turned from his conversation with Marcus Ridgewater and opened the door to Ne'on's sanctuary. He didn't usually engage in conversation with Gateway's castellan, but he and Ridgewater had found a common point of interest in Lord Morion's troops. Stationed outside Gateway's walls, Morion's men didn't have a chance of holding out against the Beinison forces on their way. And, without Morion's aid inside the keep, the two thousand under Ne'on's command would be devastated as well. Before entering the Lord Keeper's quarters, Bartholomew Clay turned to the Castellan: "Marcus, it is Ne'on's order that we stand down. And, it is to his Black Hand that you will have to answer for any action against him." The captain closed the door to Ne'on's sanctuary, shutting the confused castellan out, and himself in. Ne'on was standing by his table of vials, powders, and live animals. The wizard likes his components fresh, Clay thought. He advanced to where Ne'on was staring at a bottle of crystal-blue liquid. "What is it, Lord Keeper?" Ne'on turned to Clay and frowned. "Your ignorance baffles me," he said. "Haven't you, in all your years of sword play, ever required the assistance of a magical potion? To cure wounds, ease the pain, that sort of thing." "Yes. But, they were an opaque blue, maybe blue-green depending on who sold them. Not clear like that one." Ne'on slammed the bottle onto the table, nearly shattering it. "That!" he exclaimed, his eyes burning with intense excitement. "That is the presence of the Stone! Come..." Ne'on nearly ran to the inscription of the mystic circle on the floor. "We're about to complete our business in Gateway. This time tomorrow," Ne'on stared up into oblivion, "the stars will be within my grasp." Clay took a good, long look at the man who was employing him. He had done this the first time he had met Ne'on, just outside Magnus' infamous fifth quarter. Then, he had seen only a second son of a minor noble - a son who wanted his brother out of the way for monetary reasons. He had been used to dealing with men like that - there were many second sons in Baranur's seventeen duchies. A few had already employed Clay to make them the first son. Now, however, Clay saw something different: either a man of some magical skill who was not fully in touch with reality; or something undescribable, filled with potential but frustrated by the limits of... He didn't know. If Ne'on was the first, life in Gateway would soon cease to be a comfortable thing for Clay. If Ne'on was the second, then someone had better make sure whatever was limiting him continued to do so. Either way, Clay thought, it's almost time I left Gateway to its own fate. The Captain's thoughts were interrupted by Ne'on's words. "Clay, bring my black-handled dagger, the red incense, and the Lederian red wine. They're over by the window. You know what to do with them. Afterwards, clear the table with the animals and bring it to the edge of the circle. I'll need it to support the Stone." As Ne'on sat cross-legged in the center of the circle, concentrating his will in preparation of the spell, Bartholomew went to the window to gather Ne'on's items. From there, he could see out to the main towers of the bailey, and the catapults which were moving into attack positions. Gateway was slowly, and quietly, standing to. Bartholomew Clay smiled as he pondered the situation, and brought the items Ne'on had requested within the circle. Marcus knew the Black Hand would move against him when his actions were realized. However, the present force of the Hand numbered only twenty, give or take a few of the youths. The regular guard, on the other hand, numbered over 2000, and were all but fanatical followers of the castellan. Clay slowly and meticulously placed the dagger on the alter within Ne'on's circle. He then replaced the ashes in the burner with the incense Ne'on desired, and filled the ceremonial goblet with wine. He took his time, more than was necessary, making sure the salt on the altar was plentiful, and the candles weren't so low they would burn out in less than a bell. He even checked to make sure the altar itself was facing East, even though it hadn't been moved since Ne'on placed it there over a year before. When Clay heard the sound of boots running down the hallway outside, he knew his patience had paid off. Captain Clay opened the door before Mak, one of the Black Hand, could knock: disturbing Ne'on prior to his spell casting could be dangerous. "Outside, and quietly," the captain said to his sergeant. Once outside the room, Clay shut the door carefully. "Now, what is it?" "Captain, it's the castellan," Mak answered. "Is something wrong with him?" Clay feigned ignorance. He was certain Ridgewater would take steps to insure Gateway's protection from the Black Hand and he had no wish to be involved. "No, sir. He's ordered the catapults into position. In a few menes, Gateway will be involved in that mess outside!" "Hmmnn... gather the Hand and commandeer the catapults. When that's done, take a few men and arrest the castellan. By order of the Lord Keeper." "What are you going to do?" "Ne'on's ordered me to stay here and assist him, I've got to do just that. Now go, and hurry up. You don't have much time." As Mak turned and ran down the hall, Bartholomew re-entered Ne'on's sanctuary. He was sending those men to their deaths. He knew it, and he didn't care. They were mostly low-life scum, to him, and if Ridgewater didn't get the reaction he was expecting from the Black Hand he'd know something was up. Besides, their deaths would give Marcus the impression that Clay was as good as dead. As soon as Ne'on began his second spell - one which Clay had been told would take some bells - the former captain of the soon-to-be-extinct Black Hand would be working his way out of Gateway. To where, he didn't know. Gemstone Expedition, lost track of the day, Lieutenant Howen reporting. If all things come in threes, then only my death remains. Funny how you get philosophical when situations are desperate. The first tragedy occurred with the Beinison force's advance scouts. We were taken by surprise four times by relatively small groups; they were, however, better trained, armored, and fed than our more sizeable force. The fifth, and last attack took place more than two bells ago - this time we were ready, foregoing movement in order to fortify our position. The entire attacking group - only a squad of light infantry - were killed, with heavy losses inflicted on our side. We now number only four. We lost Hanlar in that last skirmish; a man without whom I would have failed this mission, or at least already been dead. Hoping to avoid further contact, I've ordered the men moving again - straight for Gateway. The forest and hills are excellent for hiding. Often, this works against the people doing the hiding. When we emerged form our cover, only leagues from our destination, we were greeted with a horrendous sight: Gateway under siege. This was the second tragedy. There seems to be a force of about three Baranurian regiments outside her walls. They are defending themselves valiantly against the light infantry of Beinison, but the heavy infantry have just begun to close. Shortly, the massacre will begin, and our deaths will follow. That will be- "Lieutenant Howen," a voice called, and the Lieutenant looked up from his log to see a virtual ghost. Not more than six feet from the leader of this expedition stood the wispery form of Ne'on Winston, Lord Keeper of Gateway. "My lord?" Howen answered. He could not believe his eyes. Certainly, between the bloodshed he had witnessed, the starvation he was suffering from, and his lack of sleep he must have gone mad. It was the only answer he could imagine. "Do not be afraid, Lieutenant, I offer salvation." With a wave of his hand, Ne'on formed a shimmering circle in front of Howen. "Call your men, carry the stone through the circle - you soon will be within the safe walls of Gateway. Hurry now, this area is not safe." The image faded before Howen could reply. "Men," he called, "pick up the cursed stone and follow me." The three remaining members of the Black Arm hefted the stone with the poles they had been using to carry it. They were weak, tired, and hungry, but blood pumped excitedly through their veins at the sight of salvation. The lieutenant ordered his men through the circle first, not concerned with his life now that escape was so close. When the stone entered the circle, however, only it disappeared, leaving Howen and his three men behind. The lieutenant began to cry. As a large, purple stone appeared from out of nothing and floated toward the table, Clay stared at his lord. "You deserted them." "Of course I did, Clay - I never intended for them to live." Ne'on looked reproachingly at the captain. "Is something wrong, Clay? Haven't you ever left a man to die before?" "I kept my word, Ne'on. I may be a mercenary-" "Assassin, more accurately." "As you wish. But if I make a promise, I keep it." "Your right, Clay," Ne'on mocked. "It was terrible of me to go back on my word. I regret it, truly. Satisfied?" Clay spat on the floor. "You have no dignity, Ne'on." Clay turned to leave. "Leave now, Clay, and you won't be coming back." "That is how I intended it." "Well, then, good bye." A sphere of complete blackness formed around Ne'on's head, then launched itself in Clay's direction. Bartholomew jumped quickly to the right, swinging his sword at the dark sphere. The ball of darkness flew past, striking the door to the corridor and enveloping it. Instantly, the door burst in flames and was reduced to cinders. The black ball was gone. Clay leapt to his feet and dove head first into the hallway. As he ran from the room, he could hear Ne'on's laughter following him. * * * Goren and the three guards of House Winston were riding full gallop, as much to make haste to Gateway as to lose the advance scouts following close behind. Goren hoped that close proximity to Gateway would deter the Beinison squad, but when they got to within quarter of a league from the keep, the scouts were still at their backs. He thanked Nehru the pursuers didn't have bows to shoot him in the back, and cursed his lack of foresight for not having brought any himself. A loud horn rang out from Gateway's parapets at about the same time ballistas began firing their heavy load into the Vodyanoi. Looking ahead, Goren noticed the gates of Gateway were opening, and a barrel-chested man in scale armor was waving to Goren from the parapets. "There's home, men! Run 'em dead if you have to, but we're almost there!" As Goren and the guards made their way into Gateway Keep, five of Marcus' archers convinced the Benosian scouts to head back to camp. "Goren, you blasted fool!" Marcus yelled as he worked his way down the stairs to the courtyard. "What in Muskadon's name are you doing? Damn good to see you, but where's your escort? I told you to come back with a regiment of men and the King's seal, and demand your rightful place. Burn my ashes in Rise'er's feast, boy, you're lucky I opened those gates... Ne'on himself ordered them shut and the garrison to stand down. If I-" "Marcus!" Goren's voice finally made its way through the castellan's barrage of dialogue. He looked at the castellan, smiled, and grabbed him by the shoulders. "It's good to see you, too. Now, where's the rest of the force? With all those men outside, I counted on at least three more regiments in Gateway... did you deploy them before I got in?" Marcus' expression turned dark. "Your blasted brother, self-proclaimed Keeper of Gateway - you took care of that business, now, didn't you?" When Goren nodded, Marcus continued. "Ne'on ordered the garrison to stand down, and not to allow access to Gateway. Just recently, I countermanded that order. The catapults and ballistas are firing on the Beinison army now, but I'm not sure how long it will take Morion to move his troops in - and the Benosian's will be making for the entrance as fast as he will." Goren grasped the parchment from inside his cloak and handed it to the Castellan. "This is the King's hand, and his decision to place me as Keeper of Gateway. Take as many horse as you can - leave one for me - and gather archers by the gate. I'll return in menes, Ol willing." As Goren turned towards his father's mansion, Marcus yelled to him, "Watch your brother, boy... he's not to be trusted." Bartholomew Clay never thought he'd see Goren Winston again; certainly not in the fine-clothed garb of a nobleman. Goren Winston, however, seemed to be looking forward to their present situation. Clay was running down the corridor from the direction of what appeared to be Kald's old quarters. Goren, albeit tired from running the horses near to death, was armed, armored, and feeling healthier than he had in months. "Clay," Goren called. He couldn't remember the rest of the man's name, or his title, or very much at all about the man. His familiar, long blonde hair, and his left-handed sword - what was left of it - were all Goren needed to jostle his memory. Bartholomew stopped, surprised at Goren's appearance, and noted the sword by his side and the armor on his person. The captain of the former Black Hand, Ne'on's personal guard, and the Black Arm, Gateway's now-defunct elite militia, held his sword in front of him, anticipating an attack. Looking down the length of his blade, however, he noted the farthest half was missing. Had Ne'on's black sphere done that? "You have me at an advantage, Winston. My blade seems to be..." He chuckled, "incomplete." Goren drew his own blade, strong and trustworthy, and stared at the man. He was terrible with a blade, and knew Clay could easily defeat him, normally. Goren rationalized that this made them even. "You had the advantage, a year ago, when I was drunk in Magnus. And again, while I lay in shock in the dungeon, did you tell your men to stop kicking me? Did the bludgeoning I received inspire pity or remorse on your part? You have a sword, broken though it is, and a dirk at your side. Use them." As Goren advanced, swinging clumsily at Clay, the captain back peddled down the corridor. He recognized the lack of skill in Goren's footwork, the complete non-mastery of blade control. In some respects, he thought, this made Winston more dangerous than someone who knew what he was doing. Bartholomew thought he might die, this day. "I have an offer for you, Winston. My life for yours." Goren almost laughed. Clay was obviously not in the position to bargain, but he seemed ernest. He wondered. "How do you mean?" "In Ne'on's sanctuary, he's preparing a spell. Something about bringing Phos into the world. He sent eighty men to their deaths already, getting some damn spell component. My guess is, as soon as Phos gets here, we're all dead. I can't stop him, but maybe you can." "How would I stop Phos? He's..." "Not Phos. Ne'on. Of course, you'll have to kill him." That thought struck Goren hard. He'd thought he might have to force his brother to rescind the seat. Maybe push the man who used to be his little brother around a bit, scare him into complying. Death had been there, in the back of his mind, but he had foolishly hoped banishment would solve the problem. But that simply would have been hoping for someone else to take responsibility. Clay continued. "Not just any death, either. You can't take chances. You'll have to chop his head off his shoulders. Let his blood pour out on the floor until his lifeless body falls in a heap. That's the only way you can be sure. Phos has to be stopped, and your brother is in the way." "I can talk to him. Ne'on will listen to me." "Maybe once, but not now. The spell's already started. If you don't get in there soon, it may be too late. As it is, you can't waste time fighting with me. My life for yours." "If you're still in Gateway when I get out of that room, I'll have you killed." Clay smiled. "I wouldn't have it any other way." When Goren entered what used to be his father's study, he stopped. The trophies along the wall had been torn down in place of shelves littered with potion bottles and books. Where an ornate rug used to be, a red pentagram had been inscribed within a circle, the rug rolled up in one corner. And, over the flames burning in the fireplace was a cast iron kettle of no small size. Ne'on was there, too, sitting in the circled pentagram, concentrating on something - the stone glowing in front of him, perhaps. Candles were lit about the circle, and a small altar burned incense and coal in the center of it all. As Goren stepped forward with sword in hand, a voice filled his head with doubt. "Can I kill my brother?" it asked. "How do I know what he intends to do? Clay told me? Who is Bartholomew Clay that I should trust him? He was probably lying to save his own life, worthless and puny that it is. And Ne'on is my brother." He answered that voice. "What else is there? Phos has revealed himself to me. Phos has already told me of his plans to gain entry to this world, and to destroy anything and everything he can. Ne'on was, as near as I could tell, in Phos' total control the last time I saw him." The last time I saw him was seven months ago. Phos might be nothing. He killed my father. He tortured me in prison. I switched the cups. The guards tortured me in prison, as they probably do every prisoner sentenced to life. He's your brother, by J'mirg, you can't kill a man when he's not looking! Goren suddenly started toward the circle again. "I don't worship dark J'mirg, Phos - get out of my head!" A reddish form appeared over the glowing stone in the circle. It seemed more human than the last time Goren had seen it, but the flames were still evident in its eyes, and fire seemed to drip like saliva from its over-sized jowls. It was Phos, as he intended to enter this world. "Greetings, Kald's eldest son; You've come too late, I've won. This life new shall I make; This worthless world I'll take. Immortality 'waits, With death's and blood's complaint. J'mirg's son shall entrance gain, Peaceful Lordsrealm's plane." Goren continued toward the circle, but something - Phos, he guessed, or the magic Ne'on was using to summon him - stopped his entrance. The circle protected Ne'on from harm while Ne'on summoned the world's damnation. Kind of ironic, Goren thought. "Entrance this circle ye, Been forbade while armed thee. Ghastly goals no easy task, With th'hands must lift death's mask. Given you choice has he, Ne'on dies, but not me. Releas'd am I, his head gone, With his head, I'm undone." Goren looked at Phos. The demon - so Goren called him, for he knew no better - had lied to him before. But it was rhyming. Why did that stir something in his memory? Rhymes were sometimes used in spells. Was Phos taking the time to cast a spell, while Ne'on summoned him here? If so, and he understood Phos' words correctly, Goren couldn't enter the circle armed. And if he didn't stop Ne'on, the bloodshed outside would propel Phos into Lordsrealm. So, Gateway would be safe anyway. He could just sit there and wait for Ne'on to finish the spell. Ne'on didn't have to die. He didn't have to take Ne'on's throat in his hands and squeeze the life out of him. But, what would happen in Lordsrealm? According to religion, Lordsrealm was where all the gods - at least, from that religion - resided. So, if Goren sat back, and watched the spell come to completion, Phos would eventually disappear into his reward. Reward for murder. Reward for deaths which, if Goren could, he would prevent. And how many deaths were needed? Would the thousands massed at Gateway be enough? How about just the Royal Duchy? Even if it numbered only tens, or one, it would be too much. It was evil. Ne'on, Goren had to admit, as much as he loved what Ne'on used to be, was evil. He played in this willingly. Goren dropped his sword and entered the circle. "Thy step sounds in the fire, As sour notes from a lyre. With your hands must death make, And Ne'on's life thee take. Make no haste, time is still, Take pause, gather your will. The spell nears its bright end, Life is precious to defend." Goren looked up at Phos, whose form was beginning to solidify. The air within the circle grew heavy with heat and a smell like embers from a cedar fire. He watched as Phos breathed his first breath of air on Makdiar. He looked at his brother, helpless, still entranced and oblivious to the imposing death in both Phos' and Goren's presence. He still could not kill - Ne'on was, after all, his brother. Someone with whom he had grown, and learned. Goren grabbed a small pentagram and the incense on the table, feeling the pain as the incense burned in his hand. "To any god that will listen, give me the strength to send Phos back to whatever damnation he came from!" Goren made to grab the Stone of Strength, completely ignorant of its powers, but Phos was already complete. With a swipe of his massive arm, Goren was knocked back three feet to the edge of the circle, colliding with the same force that had kept him out of the circle the first time. Blood trickled down from his nose, but for the most part, he was only dazed. Phos stepped toward him, grabbed him by his armor, and lifted him to face level. "You could have run, little human. I would have spared your life - one Winston was enough for my plans. If you had left Gateway, you could have lived a full, long life. But trapped within this circle, you are mine to devour, piece by piece. Body and soul." "Think again, Phos," Goren replied, "I don't know much about magic, but if I can't physically leave this circle, neither can you." "Don't be obtuse," Phos smiled. Reaching his arm out to the circle's perimeter, "Of course I ca-" His arm was stopped by the force of the magic circle. "The little gnat." Dropping Goren to the ground, Phos stepped over to Ne'on, who was still half in a trance. Phos grabbed Ne'on by the neck, lifting him up to face Phos, and breaking Ne'on's concentration. "Little gnat, what are you doing? Release this spell, or I shall painfully remove vital organs from your body." Ne'on half smiled, though the pain he was already suffering was evident. Phos' grip on his neck was not gentle. "Heh - first spell I ever cast without you, Phos. Tied this circle into your being. Didn't think I could do it, but you're stuck here, just like me. Till you die. Ow! Heh... Hello, brother. Nice to see you again. Sorry you got stuck her- ulg." Phos stuck his finger down Ne'on's throat and grabbed his tongue. Ne'on screamed and flailed, teears running down his face. With a sickening, wet, ripping sound, Phos removed the greater portion of Ne'on's tongue and dropped it on the floor. Ne'on's breathing gurgled as the blood welled up in this mouth. "Did that hurt? No, don't answer. I can see that it did." Goren grabbed the stone from Ne'on's altar: the Stone of Strength which had been abducted by Ne'on from the Nar-Enthruen. The Stone into which, in a desperate attempt to ward off the Black Arm, the remaining magi had poured their powers. The Stone which, as the Black Arm had transported it to Gateway, slowly sapped the life force of the surviving members of that expedition. And the Stone which, as a component of Ne'on's last spell, had been actively conducting magic like heat through metal. Goren grabbed the stone and, lifting it with all his might, brought it forcibly up against Phos' head. The stone impacted with him and Phos writhed in agony, screaming as his life was sucked into the Stone. He resisted the Stone's pull, desperately grabbing at the floor, the altar... to no avail. His life dimished even faster. As Phos' power decreased, the Stone's increased. The pulsing rock began to heave with powers it was never meant to contain. A crack formed around its base where Phos' head had met it in a downward stroke, and a brilliant light began emanating from it. The air was pierced by a shattering sound, purple light filled the room, and fragments of stone exploded into the confines of the mystical circle. When Goren regained his sight, and his sense of feeling, the trickling wetness in his left thigh caught his attention. A shard of the Stone had plunged deep into his leg, searing his skin upon entrance. His leg was nearly useless. As he felt about the rest of his body, noting only minor cuts through his armor, he heard Ne'on's weak groan. Ne'on lay in a pool of blood. Not having worn any armor, his body was pierced numerous times by stone fragments, the worst of which being a long, thin shard in his right eye. The blood oozing from his wounds was slow, partially cauterized by the hot stone, and Ne'on's death was a painful, slow one. He reached out toward Goren, trying to touch his brother's arm, but his hand fell short and dropped to the ground. Goren wasn't sure if Ne'on even saw his brother, or if it was the memory of Goren's position which had caused him to reach. He watched while Ne'on's blood coagulated, the body trying desperately to heal itself even after the life had gone from it. Goren might have closed his eyes, if he could think about it, but the image was commanding, not letting him look away until the blood had stopped. A footstep, some hands grabbing him and pulling him out of the room. Someone was talking to him, but he couldn't hear the words. "Ne'on's taken care of," was all he could say. It was several menes before he was aware of his new surroundings. Marcus had brought him into the hall, and was feeding him mutton and wine, trying to get Goren to feed himself. The hall was filled with officers from Gateway's garrison, and from what was left of Morion's troops. Morion himself was sitting two chairs down from Goren, concern, exhaustion, and regret etched in his face. Goren started when he saw everyone staring at him. He didn't know what to say, but when Marcus offered him more food, he declined. "I don't think I want to eat, right now, thank you Marcus. I feel very strange. I watched my brother die. I did the right thing, and he still died. I don't know what to do." "Well, Lord Keeper," Morion started in before Marcus could say anything, "if it's not too much trouble, you could start by taking command of this keep. There's work to be done, strategies to be worked on. I don't know what kind of ordeal you went through in there, but the situation has only slightly improved out here. There's twenty-four Beinison regiments outside trying to get into Gateway, and only just over three of ours holding them there. The siege engines will be arriving in a day or two, and if we don't get reinforcements, we're all going to be dead no matter how many right things we do." Goren looked blankly at Morion. "I don't know that much about strategy. I didn't realize Gateway was under siege, when I started out from Magnus. The King himself, to the best of my knowledge, doesn't even know the problem. I spoke with him six days ago." Morion swore. "Well, we sent out messengers last week, and the week before that. Most recently, we sent one out two days ago, telling Haralan - the King, excuse me - where we stood, which was outside Gateway, looking like easy killing." Goren looked to Marcus. "You sent the archers out to help them?" Marcus nodded. "Aye, boy. Lord Keeper. Sorry, but to me you'll always be the son of my best friend." He paused, cursing himself for having brought up Kald's death at a time like this. "Anyway, I knew the squirmin' Benosians were pressing Morion hard in his retreat - and I must say, your lordship, your troops are in need of training if they ever want to try a retreat, again - so I commanded the companies myself. We had a full two hundred archers on horseback, riding about one hundred feet in front of Morion, and we showered the Beinisons enough to slow them down while Morion made his way in. I hope to bloody Saren some two or three companies went down in the hail we sent them." "I doubt it was that much, but it was greatly appreciated, Castellan." Morion said. "I lost some fine troops of my own, trying to organize that mess when the gates opened." "So, here we are," Goren finished. "Bottled up in Gateway and no help in sight." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright February, 1994, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 7 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 2 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 7, Issue 2 08/04/94 Cir 1127 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Archives at fir.cic.net in pub/Zines/DargonZine -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Laraka III (Part 2) John Doucette Yule 19-22, 1014 The Evening After Bill Erdley Yule 21, 1014 Love an Adventure I Orny Liscomb Yuli 2, 1016 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Campaign for the Laraka III Decision at Gateway Keep - Part 2 by John Doucette Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur 19 Yule, 1014 B.Y. Goren stared, for the fifth time that afternoon, at the blood-stained floor where his brother had lain. Tiny shards of the Crystal still gathered in the corners of the room, and the left overs from Ne'on's magical mixtures, books, and components remained in the shelves. He hadn't taken the time to clean out the room, and couldn't spare the manpower on domestic cleaning - with Beinison warriors surrounding the keep, Gateway had needs more pressing than aesthetics. "Lord Keeper," spoke the man at the door. Goren turned to look at him. Lord Morion had traveled hundreds of miles with thousands of men to defend the Laraka's basin, only to be overwhelmed by the size of the attacking force. No one had planned on a military front forming on the western coast of Baranur. The driving force had initiated in the north east, and the south; Baranur had been unprepared for the campaign Beinison had designed on the Laraka. Thus, Beinison now occupied the Laraka from its basin at Shark's Cove, through Port Sevlyn, up to about a quarter of a league west of Gateway. "Lord Keeper," Morion repeated. There was a look of urgency on his face, one which Goren could not understand, in light of the situation: Beinison was not going to be entering Gateway any time soon, even if Gateway was cut off from the rest of Baranur, and Gateway was not in any condition to launch an attack of its own. "What is it, Lord Morion?" Goren answered. "Do the men need more food? Water? We've got enough to last a few weeks... maybe less. By that time, perhaps, Baranur will be taken and we'll be pledging ourselves to a new liege." The Lord of Pentamorlo flinched, barely keeping his hand from flying out on its own to strike the boy who stood in front of him. Fealty to a new liege indeed, he mused. "Lord Keeper, I lost well over a thousand men, two days ago. And there are over twenty regiments -- that's twenty thousand men! -- sitting outside our walls. Perhaps you don't think so, my lord," he continued, "but there are more pressing worries than food and water, just this moment. Ten of them, to be specific." Goren looked quizzically at Morion. "Their siege engines have arrived." Five menes later, standing on the parapets of the inner keep, Goren could see the boats docked half a league down the river, just beyond the tents of the Beinison officers. Large contraptions of steel, wood, and rope were being hauled off the ships, and the area was being scouted by the enemy for the best positioning of the engines of war. "They'll move a few onto the hill," Goren said, indicating the hill over which the enemy had emerged yesterday morning. "Yes. And there, by the road," replied Morion. There was a small knoll just south of Gateway's main gate. "They'll stay far enough out of reach of our archers, but those catapults have a good range. Look at the sun reflecting off the buckets," Morion pointed. "Steel. They're equipped to launch fire." "Captain of the guard!" Goren yelled. Within moments, the captain was standing in front of him. "Make ready with the bucket. If Beinison dumps fire on us, I want to be ready to quench it as quickly as possible." When the captain left, he added, "Not that Gateway couldn't use a good purge." "My Lord Keeper," Morion stepped forward and spoke intently. "I understand that as a nobleman you deserve the respect and honor given to you by the King's own hand, but so help me, if your depressing attitude costs me one man - one man! - I'll throw you right to the enemy and let them deal with you as they please." "Goren!" Approaching them from a short distance was a middle-aged man with well-worn armor. The armor was simple, but effective, and interfered neither with his movement nor his vision. The armor of a foot soldier... or an archer who expected to enter combat. In this case, it was Castellan Ridgewater. "My lord, the scribe needs an official recount of the King's decision to place you as Lord Keeper. I thought you might like a meal as well, and instructed her to meet you -" "Her?" Goren interrupted. "Aye, boy. Your brother... insisted the previous scribe was incapable of service. The new one, Lara... well, she dresses like something other than a scribe, but I suppose she does her job." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Whatever that may be. She's waiting in your father's hall." The look on Marcus' face lead Goren to believe the man was entering battle: hard, determined, and gauging. Goren guessed the war affected everyone differently. "I'll eat in the hall, then, Marcus." "Lord Winston, if I may suggest something militarily - " Morion interjected before Goren left. "What is it, my lord?" "The catapults which the enemy is assembling. Can we reach them from here?" "I don't know. Marcus?" Marcus looked at where the engines were being moved. "I'll see about it. Perhaps we can scare them away from those points." "See to it, then," Goren added and walked down the steps toward his father's home. When Goren was out of earshot, Marcus lowered his gaze and stared Morion in the face. "I wouldn't make trouble with the boy, Lord Morion. He's well-liked in these parts, and the people here wouldn't take too kindly to his being pushed. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Morion's jaw set, and his eyes burned intently. "Are you threatening me, Castellan? I have several hundred men occupying Gateway Keep. If I weren't putting up with lousy decorum, I'd take the blasted place myself and lock you up!" Castellan Ridgewater didn't blink a lash. "Morion, the boy's got a lot on his mind. Don't be bothering him. You may have men here, but I've got a full regiment. And we know how to bother back. Now, if you have nothing else to say, I'll be gettin' about those catapults." "I have PLENTY left-" "I didn't think so." Marcus interrupted, and turned away. Morion stood staring after him, the veins on his brow coming to life. "Haralan," he whispered to the air, "by Nehru's pointy nose, I didn't want this damn job." Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur 20 Yule, 1014 "Goren," Marcus looked across the table at his lord. The boy still didn't eat more than enough to keep him alive. Marcus' own best effort at distracting him, in the form of a scribe named Lara, had failed miserably. She didn't even know how to write! And Goren became less concerned with his surroundings every day. "The south-east wall," he continued. "There's a problem." "What is it?" Morion interjected. Morion did not normally interrupt a question aimed at someone else. However, in Goren's case, he made the exception. Goren was not dedicated to the task at hand. He was not concerned with the welfare of the troops packed within Gateway's walls. He did not have the stomach to order men to their deaths. Morion did not like Goren Winston, the Lord Keeper of Gateway. He liked the castellan even less. Castellan Ridgewater looked at Morion and smiled. Not a genuine smile, but definitely an attempt to be civil. "They're going to crumble," he said. "Mid-day... Maybe later. The catapults have been pummelling them for a full day, and they are weakening." "Blast," Morion muttered. One day of catapults, and the walls are already weakening? What was this keep made of, wood? "Well, then, Castellan Ridgewater," Morion began with his own attempt at civility. "Let's get some fortifications built up within the walls, in the south-eastern section of the keep. That way, when the enemy rushes the breach, we'll be better defended." "Agreed." The castellan found himself saying. It was an odd moment for both of them. They had grown accustomed to being on opposite sides of arguments. Morion raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Excellent. Then we'll have to block off any access to the inner keep from atop those walls, as well as any-" "Now, don't go givin' me orders, Morion." Marcus' ire was instantly fired. "Goren's the one in charge, and I'll take them from him." "Listen, Castellan," Morion suddenly found himself out of the surprising agreement with Marcus, and into the familiar heat of discussion. "I'm certain Lord Winston will agree with me that these precautions need to be taken-" "Oh, I'm certain as well, Pentamorlo," Marcus interjected. "But let's let him make the order. Advising him would better become you." "'Become me?' If these walls were made out of something more sturdy than aelo hide-" "Did you build these walls? No-" "My Lords!" Goren yelled. His headache had not been eased by their argument. In fact, Goren thought, his headaches for the past three days were primarily due to the two of them being in too close quarters with each other. The lord of Pentamorlo and the castellan of Gateway stopped, surprised, and looked at Goren. "My lords," he continued, "make the plans for the defense of Gateway. Morion, see to the construction of the fortifications. Marcus, make sure the keep is secure from the expected breach. Most of all, I want the two of you to STAY AWAY FROM EACH OTHER." Goren got up, looked at the men, and glanced towards the door to the hall. "I'm hungry. I've got a lot to deal with, right now. We all do. But if I have to listen to the two of you argue one more time, I'll tie you together and throw you to the enemy. If you're bickering doesn't drive Beinison away from Gateway, nothing else will. Now, go!" As Goren sat back down, Morion and Marcus stood. They looked at each other, then Goren, and headed towards the door. Captain Greerson waited for Marcus by the door to the main hall. While he had no qualms about entering the room and reporting to any of the men within, he did not want to be the object of anyone's anger. Even Lord Winston, who had been reclusive since his return to Gateway, could be heard yelling within the hall. Those doors were daunting, indeed. The wooden doors opened abruptly, allowing Lord Morion to exit the hallway quickly and without pleasure. Morion headed east toward the inner keep walls. Outside, the low thud of siege engines, followed by a heavy crashing sound, paid its toll on Gateway's walls. "You have news for me, Captain?" The castellan was standing in front of Greerson, now. He was in about as good a mood as Morion. "Only a lack of it, Castellan." Greerson looked away. "Your son is still missing." "But he wasn't with the members of the Hand when you fired on them?" "No, sir." Greerson replied. "None of them escaped, and your son was not among the dead." "Then he's got to be somewhere. Check with the other boys he trained with, find out who saw him last... Maybe one of them knows where he might have gone, or what he's doing." "Right away, sir." Greerson turned to go, but was stopped by Marcus. "Wait a mene, Captain." Marcus took a good look at the man. Greerson's eyes were puffy and dark. His skin was pale, and his face was gaunt. "You haven't slept in a while, have you?" "No, sir. Not since the day before yesterday." "Right. I'll get someone else to look about Thomas. You get some sleep. When those walls come down, it won't matter where Thomas is... we'll need every able man to fight off that Beinison horde. Now get some rest." As the captain of the guard made his way to his barrack, the Castellan thought about his son. Where could he be? What could he be doing? All the old barracks of the Black Hand had been cleared out... Ne'on's own quarters had been searched, and the dungeons under the keep. Most of the boy's belongings were still at the Castellan's residence, excepting a suit of chain and a short sword. But Thomas trained with a broad sword, like his father... Lieutenant Lianna Fellthorne stood atop the makeshift wall where she and one-hundred seventy troops under her command waited. She was not used to commanding such a large force: Lieutenants typically command only one company at a time. Her captain's dead body still lay in the fields outside of Gateway, where he had fallen in the rush for safety. Six other lieutenants from her regiment lay there as well, not lonely among the hundreds of bodies. No one had picked them up. No one had buried them. It wasn't likely that they would be buried any time soon. Certainly, their burial would not be a ceremonial one. One more loud crash fell against the wall she was watching. It began to creak and bend. A good hundred feet from the wall, she knew she was safe, but she ordered her men away from the area. "Clear away, there... it's going soon." At various points of the defensive semi-circle within the wall's boundaries, other lieutenants and captains were issuing similar orders. The wall would be breached, soon, and the hell would start. Suddenly, Lord Morion was beside her. "How are they, Lieutenant?" "Sir?" she asked. "Your troops. Are they stable?" "As can be, sir. We're about to be invaded." Three dull thuds were heard in the distance. "Down, sir!" As they ducked, three large boulders crashed against the wall. Stones shattered, metal creaked, and the wall wavered. When they lifted their heads, they saw the sight for which both armies had been waiting: the wall bent in, bowed, and crumbled amidst a cloud of mortar, stone, and dust. More thuds. More crashes. Soon, the wall would be so much rubble. "Looks like a storm is coming our way, my lord." Lianna had to yell to be heard above the din. "Not yet," Morion replied. "Maybe not until the morrow." "Why do you say that, sir?" "They haven't deployed their forces, yet, Lieutenant." Morion checked the position of the sun over the western wall. "And it's nearing evening. They don't want to fight us in the dark, in our own keep. They'll wait 'till morning, when they'll have plenty of light to fight by." "Then I'll order my men back under cover," she reasoned. "No sense in letting stray boulders kill off anyone else." Morion nodded to her and made for another section of the defensive perimeter. "Not like they haven't taken enough toll already, Lieutenant," he muttered to himself. 20 leagues South of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur 20 Yule, 1014 B.Y. "General Verde," Luthias Connall approached where his junior officer was standing. Sarah Verde had been up late into the evening for the last five days, walking the perimeter and spot- checking the watches. She looked as tired as she felt. She's normally an attractive woman, Luthias thought to himself. Now she looks ten years and several wars older. The newly-appointed general turned to her friend and senior officer. "Knight Captain," she greeted him formally, "it's very late. You should be resting." "The same can be said of you, General. This isn't the first night you've been up this late." "Still early for me, sir. Still used to night watches and early morning drills. Never left time for sleep, back in those days. But you didn't have those days, did you?" Sarah struck a sore spot on Luthias, and was regretful the instant she saw the look on his face. He still didn't believe he was deserving of the titles which had been bestowed upon him over the last two years. He had risen very quickly from a possible barony to higher status than he had ever dreamed: Count, General of the Cavalry, and now Knight Captain of the Northern Marches. He had never even formally served in the Royal Militia, let alone the Royal Army. But he was a knight, and knights of exceptional quality were treated with exceptional praise. He supposed he must have done something right in the last two years. "General," he began, but Sarah interrupted him immediately. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean it that way. Just that you wouldn't have those memories." "Forget it, Sarah. What I was going to say was... well, we're going into a major battle tomorrow. I need you to get all the sleep you can. So far, we've managed to encounter only two squads of scouts from the enemy, and they were easily defeated. Beinison knows something's up, they just don't know what. If they've got any surprises for us, tomorrow, I need you awake and level headed." "I'll be awake, same time as usual, Knight Captain." "Don't get all formal on me, Sarah. The sun's been down for almost three bells. We're marching on third watch to get to Gateway before noon. Get to your tent and get some sleep." "Luthias-" "Now, General. That's an order." As Sarah almost sulked back to her tent, a smaller figure in foreign armor came silently up behind Luthias. Reaching his hand out slowly, the Bichanese native tapped Luthias lightly on his left shoulder. "What?" Luthias jumped around, pulling his fist back ready to strike. "Oh, it's you, Michiya. How are things with Kirinagi?" "The general wishes to see you return to your tent, Luthias- sama. His men are already prepared for the morning's battle, and are sleeping to gain strength. General Kirinagi has much appreciation for your skill as a warrior, but all men need rest some time." "So, now I'm taking orders from Bichanese generals, is it?" "And your friends, Luthias-sama." Luthias sighed and stared off into the night. Not a fire had been lit, and a breakfast as cold as the night's dinner awaited he and his men. He thought briefly of Sable, and how on a hot summer's night she had burst into his room, naginata in hand, ready to defend his life. He thought of the past quite frequently, these days. Roisart and their father... Clifton's father, the old Duke of Dargon... He silently prayed to the Stevene that the war would end soon. Sighing one last time, he put his arm around Michiya and headed toward his tent. "We both need sleep for tomorrow, Michiya. Get to your tent and rest well. Death waits for no one. Might as well get plenty of rest before we meet her." 1 league south of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur Sunrise, 21 Yule, 1014 "Knight Captain!" General of the Cavalry Sarah Verde called to her commanding officer. They had been travelling for four bells, since third watch of the evening before, in order to reach Gateway by morning without tiring the horses. Luthias had been right: they were all going to need the rest they had gotten the night before. Luthias saw what Sarah was pointing out. There was a breach in Gateway's walls, and the enemy was already making its way into the keep. Fighting was still going on, however. That meant the breach was recent. And Beinison wasn't exactly pouring into Gateway, which meant their was strong resistance within the keep. Fortifications... ditches... the light infantry would be the first to attack, saving the heavy infantry for when the ground was more stable, easier to maneuver. "Form ranks, General." Luthias ordered. "Already formed, Luthias." Sarah replied. Luthias looked at his cavalry. Eight regiments strong. Sarah would lead the first wave of four thousand. Michiya, Kirinagi's force, and Luthias would lead the last four regiments in the final wave. As he retreated, Sarah would redirect her force, and the process would begin again. Stevene give us strength, he thought. "First wave," he called. "Deploy!" Four thousand horse pounded out the distance between the hilltop south of Gateway Keep and the breach in its south-eastern wall. A low rumbling sounded through the ground for miles. As the Beinison troops slowed their entrance to the keep, the commanding officers looked suddenly at the wall of cavalry approaching them. Buglers sounded, men scrambled, some small resistance was organized. When General Verde was within quarter of a league of the Beinison force, she could see the small patches of organized resistance. Looking back, the Luthias' cavalry had already begun their approach. She raised her sword high, kicked her mount, and yelled. "CHAAAARGE!!" The light infantry attacking Lianna's section of the perimeter were just beginning to break through the defenses when the rush slowed. Several of her comrades lay in bloody heaps about her. More Beinison soldiers lay in front and around her. As another approached, she parried the attack and thrust low into the man's groin. He fell screaming, if not dead. The wetness on her face increased, but it wasn't her blood. It wasn't the enemy's blood. As she hacked at the enemy around her, she swore. And she cried. She was a fisherman's daughter. Her mother sold the morning's catch in a market at Port Sevlyn. But that was before the war. She knew what had happened to Port Sevlyn: the burning, the slaughter. Innocent people were killed for no reason. Fishermen strangled with their own lines. Women raped repeatedly before being slowly bled to death. Another Beinison soldier made for her. Angrily, she lunged at the man, knocking his blade aside. Her helm almost fell from her head in her desperate attack, but she continued. Her sword found its point in the man's neck and he fell, blood sputtering from his throat. "Lieutenant," someone called to her. Checking to see no enemy approaching her, she turned briefly. There was her sergeant, standing in a pool of blood. At his feet lay an enemy soldier who had gone around her. And in his stomach, the Beinison's sword had found a weak link. "Bury... me... in-" She could only stand there as he fell to the ground in his own blood. She stopped crying. Michiya swung meticulously at the enemy beside him. His katana's sharp blade slicing through the woman's breast plate, he used its momentum to come down on the man below him. Grasping now with both hands, he lunged at a Beinison soldier who had ridden up beside him. Three deaths in three movements, he thought. Some would see this as poetic. Graceful. It is but death making its way through a world so full of life. He spurred his horse to catch up with Luthias. "Luthias-sama," he called. Luthias parried a blade aimed at his skull, and brought his mailed fist into the soldier's face. The Benosian fell from his horse, nose bleeding, only to be trampled by his own mount. The horse knew better than to stand between two armies. Luthias looked over at Michiya, and the battle surrounding him. Beinison was not having a good time of it. While Baranur was definitely taking losses, Beinison had been unprepared for the cavalry's attack. They had been hoping to gain Gateway before reinforcements could arrive. They were almost successful. "Luthias-sama, General Verde is about to make another charge." "Right. Find the bugler, Michiya," Luthias called over the din. Steel rang against steel everywhere he looked. Horses bucked, riders fell, and blood made the ground slippery for the infantry they fought against. "I'll be damn glad when this day is over." Morion cut down another Beinison. There was a small squad which had made its way behind the eastern line of defenses. If not for Luthias' timely arrival, he thought, we'd have been driven out of here just past morning. He looked up at the mid- day sun. They had been fighting for five bells. Another Beinison was crawling up the rear of the defenses, just twenty yards from Morion. The soldier wasn't watching the lord of Pentamorlo, she had her sights on the colors of Gateway's defense. Castellan Ridgewater had his back to the rear line, five archers standing with him, firing arrows into the oncoming enemy. "Castellan!" Morion yelled, but he couldn't be heard this far away. His voice was sore from shouting orders all morning, and the din of battle drowned out what volume he could still muster. He smiled. He knew there was time before the Beinison could make her way up the defenses, and there was another way of gaining Marcus' attention. Picking up a small piece of stone, he hurled it at the castellan's back. A small ringing sound erupted, and Marcus turned around, fuming at the man who had pelted him. "We're in the brink of battle, man, and you're picking on me with stones?!" Morion pointed at the Beinison soldier five feet below Marcus, and the Castellan looked down. The Benosian, suddenly realizing that she was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, dropped her sword. "Take your helmet off, man." Marcus yelled at the soldier. The frightened woman did so, and Marcus swore. "Nehru's pointy nose. Just like a woman to sneak up on you." Raising his bow, he brought the wooden portion of it down, hard, on the woman's head. She fell, unconscious, to the ground. It was mid-evening when the fighting slowed, then stopped. Both sides were tired. Hungry. The cavalry's horses would no longer charge, and did little to support their riders. Gateway was in ruins, the north wall having been breached at mid-day. Beinison's forces were battered, but now more organized. The original force which was to be deployed at the north wall never had the chance. If not for the commanding officer's decision to divide the forces, even more Beinison soldiers might have been caught between the defenders in Gateway and the cavalry which arrived from the south. Things were, for the moment, at an impasse. When Michiya had seen that the siege engines were still pummelling Gateway, he commanded a squadron of cavalry and destroyed them. Luthias had regained the defenses Morion's troops had built four days before, outside of Gateway. Beinison had retreated out of Gateway's catapult range, and was fortifying its camp. Luthias knew he was lucky, that day. If he had arrived a bell later, Gateway might have been taken. If he had been earlier, the Beinison army would not have already been committed to the task. "Sir Luthias," a man -- if such an apparition could be called a man -- approached him on horseback. Luthias had watched him from the small hill Luthias had claimed as his own. Lord Morion, covered in blood, dirt, and sweat, dismounted. "Lord Morion," Luthias returned his greeting. "Welcome to... what passes, for the time being, as my pavilion." "Thank you, Count Connall," Morion replied. "Welcome to... whatever you want to call this situation. The lines are drawn, so to speak." "Yes, they are. But I don't think it will be long." Sarah Verde and Ittosai Michiya approached the two leaders. "Knight Captain. Lord Morion." "Lord Morion," Luthias introduced, "I believe you know General of the Cavalry Sarah Verde, and Ittosai Michiya." "Indeed I do." Morion replied. "General. Michiya." "Luthias-sama," Michiya began. "We -- General Kirinagi, General Verde, and myself -- We are wondering what the next plan of action is to be. You ordered us to dismount and rest our steeds. The supply train is still not arrived from last night's camp. I fear we will have little food for the evening's meal, or feed for the horses." "I believe we can take care of that in Gateway, Michiya," Morion offered. "If I can get that damn castellan to listen to me." "The castellan? What about the Lord Keeper?" "Useless brat, if you ask me. Hasn't been helpful since he killed his brother." Luthias scowled at Morion, knowing both what it meant to kill, and how it felt to lose a brother. Having to kill his own kin would be difficult, even for one who had seen death as much as had Luthias. "The boy didn't even fight in the battle," Morion continued. "In my opinion, Goren Winston isn't fit to defend a major military stronghold like Gateway." "That's a pretty strong statement, Lord Morion." Sarah Verde shifted her scabbard for comfort. "Perhaps we should all convene in Gateway?" "A good idea-- What's that?" In the distance, a man on horseback was riding from the Beinison army toward the hill Luthias occupied. He carried the white flag of truce, and rode weaponless. A captain called to Luthias, and Luthias waved him on. When the soldier was within twenty yards, he dismounted. "Who is the commanding officer?" he requested. He had a thick Beinison accent, but spoke Baranurian quite well. Luthias stepped forward. "I speak for him." The Beinison looked at Luthias and recognized the Baranurian insignia's of rank, as well as the knight's chain around his neck. "I speak for General Vasquez, of the Beinison army. We claim the right to gather our dead from the field of battle before the conflict continues. It is late in the day, and much blood has been lost on both sides." "Tell your general that he may gather his dead as soon as we gather ours." Luthias replied. "It is our land, and we would not want our dead to be dishonored upon it." "The general will accept," the herald responded. "When you leave the field, we shall enter it and remove our dead." The herald moved to his steed and mounted. He turned his horse in a tight circle and sped down the hill to his own encampment. Luthias looked at Sarah. "Tell the healers -- Damn! Tell everyone to gather the Baranurian dead. Stevene willing, it won't take much time. I'd like to be done with this by nightfall." Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur 22 Yule, 1014 "Goren!" Castellan Ridgewater called down to the grounds from atop the sturdiest of Gateway's remaining walls. "I think you'd better see this." Goren made his way up the courtyard stairs in the early morning light. Morion had gone to Luthias' camp the evening before without telling him, leaving some pompous captain in charge of his men. Marcus was cursing up a storm all evening because there were Benosians all over the field but Morion had sent word not to fire at them. They were gathering their dead. Marcus had fired one arrow, though. A man was running from body to body in the night, bending over each one momentarily, and rushing to the next. Marcus' keen eyesight had picked him out, and the man slumped over with an arrow in the back. Pilfering from the dead was the least honorable thing Marcus could imagine. When Goren got to the top of the wall, he looked across the empty field. "What's wrong?" "What's wrong? Have ye lost your eyesight, boy?" Goren just stared blankly at the field. Other than the usual signs of any bloody aftermath, he could see nothing. "Don't you see the enemy, Goren?" Goren did not. "Exactly it, boy. They're gone." Goren looked again at the field. He looked up the hill to where the Beinisons had retreated the previous evening. He looked to where Luthias had made camp the previous evening, as well. Nothing. "Lord Morion!" Goren called, but he did not need to yell. Morion appeared behind him. "Lord Morion, what is the meaning of this?" Goren demanded. "Well, Lord Keeper, the Beinison army isn't there. Vasquez packed up in the middle of the night, just after second watch, and left. He was only waiting to gather his dead." "And Count Connall?" "The Knight Captain, as I found he is now ranked, went after him. He's going to chase Vasquez all the way back to Port Sevlyn and make sure he stays there. He can't exactly assault seventeen regiments with his cavalry, but he'll scare them enough to make sure they run." Goren sighed. He looked at Marcus and at Morion. "What was the outcome? We won, but at what cost?" "The Knight Captain lost one thousand cavalry and two hundred fifty horse. About." Morion said. "Five hundred of Gateway's garrison died in yesterday's battle," Marcus added. "And Eighteen hundred of my own men died, since Beinison came over the hill five days ago." Morion finished. Goren was dumbfounded. "That's..." "Over three thousand dead," Marcus finished for him. "And that's not counting the wounded." Morion stated. "But the Beinison losses were greater. Between the start of battle and yesterday evening, they lost over seven regiments. Over seven thousand men." "But they still outnumbered us... what... almost two to one?" "Goren, we've got cavalry. We've got archers. We've got what's left of Gateway's walls. We even have catapults left on a couple of them. All they had left was infantry. We're in no shape to attack them, and they don't dare attack us." "Best thing they could do, Lord Keeper," Morion finished for Marcus. "Is get out of here before we were rested enough to launch a full attack." "And they did." Goren looked out at the field. He saw the blood. The mounds of dirt piled up where heroes had defended themselves. Holes in the walls where Beinison had broken through Gateway's defenses. A few bloody swords and shields, maybe a mace, littered the ground. "Ten thousand lives ended here." "War isn't pretty, Winston." Morion said. "And there's no such thing as heroes." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 The Evening After... by Bill Erdley (b.c.k.a Three times today I should have died. I owe my life to three different men. Well, actually two, since the third is dead. Tired. I'm tired and I want to sleep. I can't. There's no real memory of the battle. There are pictures in my head, but they all run together like the blood in the rain. I killed my first opponent today. He screamed as he fell to the ground. There he sobbed once, gasped, and died. There is no honor in killing. There is no honor in dying. Honor exists for its own sake. I try to roll over, but my body refuses. I got my first wounds today. Bruises on my legs and sides, a nasty gash across my shoulder, and a lump on my head. I hurt. Three times today I should have died. Apart from those who stood, and fell, before me, I remember Sir Luthias and Michiya. Like two demonic reapers in the devil's own field, they swung and chopped and cut, harvesting a macabre crop of souls to be sent back to wherever those souls came from. Why can't I fall asleep? Sir Luthias saved me by knocking me to the ground while simultaneously parrying the swing that would have separated my head from my shoulders. The mud was already salty with blood. It splashed into my face as I fell, and when I cleared it from my eyes and spat it from my mouth, my assailant was dead on the ground and Sir Luthias was already on to his next combat. My shoulder hurts; the deep, throbbing pain of a joint begging for rest. I fought beside Sir Luthias. They didn't seem to know how to counter one of the tricks that Sir Luthias taught me. Again and again I used it. Swing, counter, swing, twist, thrust; and my sword would bite a shoulder or a neck. Once, my sword caught as a man went down. As I reached for it, another man stepped in and swung. I dodged, but I was open for his next strike. Michiya, without changing his rhythm, caught my opponent with a backhand slash to the head, then continued to fight his own battle. The dead man almost landed on me as he fell... Never have I heard so much pain. Screaming. Moaning. Sobbing. There was a constant sound. It was the sound of the dying. I never knew death had a voice. During a lull, Sir Luthias complimented my ability and "tenacity", a word which he had to explain. I didn't tell him that I was afraid; that I fought for my life. He already knew. I just want to sleep. I try to roll over again. It is the eyes, most of all, that I see when I close my own. The sightless, fixed stare of the dead. My mistake was to look into those eyes. Just once. I saw death's face. There is no honor in killing. I was struck in the shoulder by a man that I didn't see. I fell, my sword falling from my fingers as my arm screamed out in pain. I tried to crawl back from the fighting, but he came at me, a terrible smile spreading across his face. A man from the company that I had traveled with stepped between us and swung. I rose from the mud and tried once again take up my sword. My arm screamed again, so I switched hands. The man who saved me fell. His killer moved on to another fight, perhaps forgetting me. I looked at my shoulder, and saw the blood pouring out. I turned from the fighting to find a healer. My head throbs to a slower rhythm now, but it still throbs. It throbs with every beat of my heart. It throbs because I still live. For that, I am grateful. Still, I wish I could sleep. There is no honor in dying. I tripped over a body while running back to the line. The Beinison man lived, but his pain... "Kill me." he cried. "Please, I beg you." I shook my head. I showed him the sign for healer, then turned to run and find one. He cursed me. "I am defeated!" he cried. "To live with defeat is worse than death. I will NOT live in dishonor!" I fetched the healers, but he was dead when we returned. The eyes. Those cursed eyes. How can I sleep when every time I close my eyes I see theirs. Honor exists for its own sake. The tent flap moved and Sir Luthias entered, followed by Michiya and a man in dirty white robes who looks like a healer. Luthias looked at me and asked "How are you doing?" *I* *Live* I manage to keep my injured arm quiet. He nodded. "You will fight again." *Fight* *Yes* *Sleep* *No.* Again, he nodded. I think that he understood. The healer moved to me and handed me a small bottle. "Drink this." I did, and almost instantly felt my eyes begin to close, as if they were too heavy to hold open. *Question* *I* *Dream.* Sir Luthias' voice sounded distant and vaguely sorrowful. "I hope not." ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Love an Adventure Part One by David/Orny Liscomb (b.c.k.a "And so it came to pass that during the seventh year of the reign of King Brad, the County of Egilsay was transferred from house Sall to Count Justin Petersson, as dowry in his marriage to Lady Amigene of Sall. The dowry also included the lady's handmaidens, seventeen sheep, and six barrels of cider." "Boy, it sure is dusty in here!" thought Dale, wiping his watering eyes before turning back to the history his father had told him to transcribe. Cavendish, his father and scribe to Duke Clifton Dargon, had dreams that his fifteen year-old son would one day be accepted into the scribe's guild, but Dale had other ideas. He peered out the window of his bedroom, which overlooked the lower half of the city of Dargon. Before him lay all the bustle and ruckus of a city alive with the business of midsummer. Above and between the roofs of the houses he could even see the slow-moving mast of a sailing vessel arriving in the harbor from some faraway land. Never in his life had Dale been more than a couple hours' walk from the city, and he longed to explore all the places he'd read about. That was probably the worst part about being a scribe: you could read about all kinds of far-off cities and kingdoms, but you never got to go anywhere! He often went down to the port to watch the ships coming and going, but he rarely talked to the crewmen. They were usually very serious, and looked kind of dangerous. But he did talk with Simon the stew merchant. Everyone knew Simon -- he would often spend a slow afternoon telling the children about the adventures he had heard about when he was a sailor. But Dale knew that he was Simon's especial friend. Dale cleaned his quills, grabbed a piece of bread and stepped out into the street, heading downhill toward the docks. Commercial Street really wasn't much of a street at all. It was really just a big open area between the wharves where the ships docked, and the warehouses where their cargoes were stored. Low carts, drawn by mule and oxen, labored back and forth between the two: slow-moving islands amidst a sea of people all moving at different speeds in different directions. Leftwiched between the warehouses were bars, brothels, restaurants, general stores, rug merchants, provisioners, confectioners, furriers, clothiers, and metalworkers. And on a warm summer day, in front of every building, traveling merchants would set up their wares: candles, lamps, hats, leather work, and every imaginable type of food and drink. On Commercial Street, the swindler hawking overpriced glass jewelry had to compete with soapbox philosophers; whores and thieves rubbed elbows with priests and children. And although it probably wasn't the safest place in the city of Dargon, it certainly was one of the most exciting! Just short of reaching Commercial Street, Dale ducked into the side entrance of the Harbormaster's Building. His boots echoed loudly on the varnished wooden floors as he made his way through the hallways to the doors that faced out onto Commercial Street. The Harbormaster's Building was the only building that faced the wharves that had steps leading up to it, and Dale liked to use this perch to look out over the crowd and see what was going on. Maybe someday he would live in the second or third story of a building that faced the port, so he could watch all the activity from his own room. Dale stared out over the port. The unfamiliar ship he had seen arriving earlier was tied up at Countryman's Pier, but he couldn't make out her name. He scanned the edges of Commercial Street for his friend Simon, the stew merchant. It took a couple minutes, but he finally saw Simon's monkey, Skeebo. The monk had climbed up on top of the small wooden roof of Simon's cart to shoo away a seagull that had perched there. Dale left his high ground and plunged into the sea of activity at street level, heading toward the place where he had seen Simon's cart. Dale pushed through the crowd and finally caught sight of his friend, Simon Salamagundi. The stew merchant was talking with a man who looked like a sailor, and hadn't noticed his young visitor yet. Dale stood unobtrusively nearby and listened to the exchange. Simon didn't notice him, but Skeebo did, and quietly leaped down onto his shoulder. "... not only lost the bet and had to wear a pink scarf around town," continued the sailor, "but he lost the rat, as well!" He doubled over in uncontrollable mirth, then slapped Simon's back and bounded off. Simon shook his head in appreciation, then saw Dale as the young man turned to him. "Who was that?" the boy nodded in the sailor's wake. Simon smiled a little. "He's a cook on-a 'Friendly Lion'. His boy's a headstrong lad. Apparently he favors losing bets in foreign ports!" Dale gestured toward the newly-arrived ship, sitting quiet and stately a couple piers down. "Is that the 'Friendly Lion'?" "Yessir. She just came in from Westbrook and Dar Althol with quite a haul. Books, news, silver. Rice, nuts, barley. And a bard named Kinwood. From Althol. Apparently very popular..." Dale wondered about the places. He'd grown up hearing about other lands -- Westbrook, Winthrop, Tench, Magnus -- places that he'd lived with all his life, but had never seen for himself. "So..." Seeing that Dale's mind was elsewhere, Simon changed the topic of conversation. "What have you been up to, this beautiful summer's day?" Dale managed a resigned laugh. "Hmph! Dad has me transcribing the history of County Egilsay! It's so boring!!! I wish I could visit these places, not just read about them!" Dale started to raise his voice. "I'm tired of hearing other people talking about their adventures -- I want an adventure of my own. Dargon is so boring -- nothing ever happens here!" Simon knocked the young man on the shoulder. "Come on, I've been to plenty of interesting places, and out of all those places, I picked Dargon to live in. Do you know why?" "Because it's boring and calm and you were tired of adventuring?" countered Dale. "No! Because out of all-a the lands I've seen, Dargon is one of the most interesting." "If Dargon's so interesting, when was the last time you had an adventure?" Simon paused a second. "Why, I had an adventure just this morning. I was cutting into a loaf of bread that Madame Nilson had baked for me, and what should I find inside but a silver coin! Apparently it fell outta her bodice and got mixed in when she was kneading the dough! Hah!" Dale scowled. "Simon -- that's not an adventure! Adventures are heroes saving fair maidens or stopping pirates or saving burning cities." Simon shook his head. "Ah, no. Real people can have real adventures, and they don't have to be as dramatic as all-a that. There's plenty of adventure right here in Dargon." Dale looked down and scuffed his feet. "Not for me. Being locked up at home copying scrolls is about as exciting as... as..." Dale threw his hands in the air. "Shit! I can't even *think* of anything more boring! I wish Dad would let me go sign on as a sailor..." "NO!!!" The sudden emotion in Simon's voice startled Dale. His friend was usually the most even-keeled person Dale knew. Seeing the confusion in his friend's expression, the stewmaker sighed and shook his head. "Dale, listen to me, straight? When I was you age I felt the same way. My mama wanted me to be a artist. She even apprenticed me to a sculptor! I thought it was the most boring thing in the world. So I ran away and tried to join a trading ship. I talked to the captain, and-a you know what he told me?" Dale cocked his head to indicate that he didn't know. Despite his renown as a storyteller, Simon had never really talked about himself very much. "He said 'Boy, I'm not going to take you on, but here's a bit of advice for you. You can go all around the world looking for adventure and never find it, or you can walk the streets of your home town and find adventure around every corner. You know why? Because all adventure is, is doing something that you've never done before.'" Simon crossed his arms with a satisfied "Hmpf!" as he mimicked the captain. Then he leaned toward his young listener conspiratorially. "But I thought he was full of wind, so I went to another ship. This time, I didn't talk to the captain, but volunteered to help the cook. He took me on, and my life of adventure had begun. "Or so I thought. It was really the most boring time of my life. When we were at sea, all we did was cook. My legs were bored off! When we were in port, all we did was drink ourselves to sleep. That's when I got to thinking about the old captain's words about looking for adventure." Simon's faraway eyes returned to Dale. "And that's why I'm telling you now -- adventure is doing something you've never done before. It doesn't need to be something big. You can find adventure every day, even in Dargon. I do! There's no need to go running away from home to find it." Dale shook his head. "But Dargon's so *boring*!" Simon harumphed. "Well... isn't there anything you've always thought you might want to do, that you never did?" Dale thought about it. Sure, lots of things, but none of them in Dargon! "I dunno. I've never had my fortune told, but that's stupid." "Why?" Dale shrugged. "I dunno. Dad always said it was a waste of money. They're fakes." Simon smiled in victory. "Sure they are. But they're fun fakes. What's the difference between paying a bard to play for you and paying a fortune teller to read your future?" Dale cocked his head again, this time in thought. "I guess you're right." Simon smiled. "That's it. Dargon isn't so boring -- there's lots of things in this city that you haven't explored! And don't put it off -- go see if the fortune tellers are busy. Here." Simon threw a paw into his pouch and pulled out a silver coin. "Use it." "Oh, okay." Dale smiled, taking the coin. "As long as this didn't come from old lady Nilson's bodice..." Dale looked across at the fortune teller's booth. He was feeling a little anxious inside, but what Simon had said did make sense, even if he couldn't really see the sense in using something as stupid as a fortune teller as an example. If adventure was nothing more than doing something you'd never done before, it made life kind of different. There were lots of things he'd never done, without knowing really why he hadn't. The idea that you could wake up in the morning and find an adventure just waiting for you certainly held the promise of making life a little more interesting. Again he looked across at the seer's booth. No one had entered or left in some time. He glanced up at the sky, as if entreating the gods to have mercy, and stepped across the street. Dale poked his head through a curtain and into the booth to see an old man in a monk's-style robe lifting a heavy crate. "Excuse me..." he began. "Can I help you with that?" The old man stopped and straightened up. Then he looked the boy over. "Sure, boy. Bring 'er into the back room." Dale took the crate by rope handles on the sides and heaved. "Marabinga's Girdle, old man! What have you got in this crate?" The seer let the oath pass. "A shipment of books from my mentor in Magnus. It just arrived this morning on the Friendly Lion!" Dale was reminded of his father and thought to himself, "Great. Another old man with his nose in a book!" The old man held aside the black curtain that led into the back room. Dale stepped in, and took in as much of the room as he could in the darkness. There were no windows, and the room was barely large enough to contain the table and the chairs that sat at opposite sides of it. The table was inlaid with a wheel with all kinds of mystic symbols. There was a small bookcase opposite the entrance, filled to overflowing with both books and all manner of mystic apparatus. The room stank of the dirt floor and incense. The walls were decorated with all manner of symbols and images, only a small portion of which Dale had ever seen before. "Just slide the box under the table, toward the bookcase; I'll deal with it later," the old man instructed with a vague wave of his hand. Then, to Dale as he rose, "Now, presumably you came to me for something?" Dale looked at the floor. "I'd like to have my fortune read, or whatever... Whatever a silver bit will get me." The seer seemed satisfied and accepted the coin. "Well, things have been pretty quiet today. I could read your cards, that's quick and easy. Or we could do a sand casting, which would take more time. Or we could try the Table -- I've been having good luck with that lately..." "That sounds interesting," Dale interrupted. He didn't really care, and wasn't interested in hearing another scholar's lecture. He got quite enough of that from his father! "So be it. Let me get ready. By the way, my name is Zavut. Why don't you sit down?" The old man indicated the smaller of the two chairs, and inched around the table to the other himself. He reached under the table and brought forth a stubby black candle, a cloth, and a piece of fur. He began to clean the surface of the table with the white cloth. When he was done, Dale could see the symbols in its surface much more clearly. It featured a wheel with many spokes, each inlaid with a different colored stone. Each spoke's stones were darker at the edge of the table, and brilliant at the center, making several clearly-defined concentric circles. "KARK!" The tone of command in Zavut' voice startled Dale. The candle was now burning, and Dale wondered how the seer had done that so quickly. Clearly, he was supposed to think it was magic, by the way the old man was smirking. Of course, Dale knew better -- he just didn't have an explanation right at hand. Zavut took up the piece of orange and white fur and very carefully rubbed it on the table, following the contours of the wheel. Then he also rubbed it on the candle, and repeated the whole procedure. Zavut then stood up, took up the lit candle, and walked over to Dale. "Please stand up." He then pulled the chair aside. "This candle is made of beeswax and the blood of a bull. You will hold it in your off hand, at shoulder height, and drip wax onto the table. Try as hard as you can to keep the wax in the very center of the wheel. I will tell you when to begin and when to stop. Do you understand?" "Yes." "Good." The seer handed him the candle and guided Dale's extended left arm over the center of the table. "Concentrate on the flame -- see nothing else." Dale let his vision be drawn into the dancing light. He'd thought the candle black, but near the flame it glowed a deep, rich red. But the candle soon disappeared from his vision as the bright flame swallowed up all less brilliant images. The flame danced with the boy's every breath and flickered hypnotically as Zavut removed his hands from Dale's arm. After a few moments, Dale could feel his arm beginning to wobble with fatigue and saw the result in the flickering of the candle. But Zavut' voice came from beside him. "Continue to concentrate on the flame. You may begin." Dale slowly turned his wrist, but he couldn't tell whether any wax was dripping from the candle. He saw the flame flicker crazily. He noticed that he had turned the candle enough that the flame was touching the wax itself. He smelled the pungent odor of burning wax. His arm was beginning to ache, and he felt sure that he must have covered half of the table by now, when he heard Zavut' voice again. "Now, turn the candle back upright, bring it away from the table, and blow it out." Dale complied. But after staring at the flame for so long, his eyes weren't able to make out anything of the seer's chamber. Zavut guided him back into his seat. "Now, you sit and let your eyes recover, while I look at this casting and try to interpret it." Dale sat for a while. He was able to see things on the edges of his vision, but he couldn't see anything if he looked at it directly. And closing his eyes wasn't any better, because of the dancing spots left by the candle's intense light. Dale was annoyed and frustrated. And it didn't help that Zavut kept making odd noises. First he'd grunt, then he'd hmm, then he'd tsk, then he'd hunh... Although Dale's vision gradually cleared, his understanding didn't. Droplets of burgundy-colored wax were scattered around the table, but mostly in the center. There were a couple very large blotches just off-center. Dale tried to figure out what the symbols meant for the spokes with the biggest blotches of wax, but they didn't seem to have any inherent meaning. At least, none he felt comfortable guessing at. Zavut sat back with a dissatisfied "Hunph!" Dale gave him a quizzical look, but the only response he got was a curt "Be patient." The seer continued to contemplate the Table for a moment, then addressed his customer. "Well, this is an interesting cast, young man! I usually don't bother explaining the Table to customers, but I think you might need the knowledge in order to fully understand this casting and maybe add your own thoughts to the interpretation. "The most basic concept is that how far the wax falls from the center is extremely important." Dale congratulated himself on guessing that, while Zavut continued to explain. "In the grossest terms, blobs in the middle represent long-term predictions and droplets at the edges of the Wheel represent your immediate future. This is because in the long term, it's easy to predict that you'll experience a balance of just about everything. That's why the middle is so blotchy. The center usually doesn't tell us much, so we look at the outermost droplets to get an idea about what's going to happen tomorrow or next week." Dale quickly tossed aside his previous guesses and reassessed the wheel. There were only a couple spots at the edge of the table, with no apparent meaning or connection. "About the only thing the middle tells us about your life as a whole is that you'll be well-liked and are of a literary bent." Dale immediately suspected that Zavut had recognized him as the scribe's son, but Zavut continued, apparently having discarded the comment as irrelevant. "But there are some very definite things we can see in the coming days. Look. These four are the only spots outside the fourth circle -- that should make matters very clear," he pointed out each one in turn. "And although they're in different quadrants, their interpretations might be very complementary. "See this spot?" Dale looked where Zavut pointed. "This sign represents a new approach -- a new way of meeting old challenges." Dale was taken aback; this sounded an awful lot like Simon's philosophy about adventure. The seer looked up at his customer. "Does that make sense to you?" Dale nodded, but remained silent. After a moment, the seer went on. "And this spot over here is similar." Dale looked at the spot, which was right next to a glyph of an ornately-decorated cup. "It represents new friends and new relationships. "The third spot," continued Zavut, "fell in a sign that is interpreted as overindulgence or excess. And the fourth spot, here, represents resolution of conflict by a dramatic, permanent change. Mind you, I've put these in an order that makes sense to me, but that may not be how you experience them..." Dale sat back and pondered Zavut' words. The first spot had been surprisingly on target, but he had no idea about the next two. What were they? New friends, and overindulgence. And then a resolution. It didn't sound like the rest of that applied, but the bit about new ways of looking at things was right on. Dale stood up. "Thank you, seer. When I came here, I had no idea what to expect. But your wheel has given me some things to think about. Perhaps I'll be back again sometime." Zavut stood and parted the curtain for Dale. "Good. People try to make something mystical about it, but that's really all that sagacity is: giving people something to think about." He patted Dale on the shoulder and stopped at the threshold of his booth. Dale stood blinking in the afternoon sun. He'd actually enjoyed the reading. But he wondered if he could call it an adventure. It certainly was something he'd never done before, and it was kind of exciting, too. He found that he wanted to tell someone about it. It really did feel like a little adventure. Simon's philosophy seemed pretty useful, after all. Dale was curious as he thought forward to when his next opportunity to put Simon's philosophy to work might occur. He stood in the bright sunlight for a moment, wondering where he should go next. Across the street, a handful of people stood around the booth where Jenzun, the local instrument-maker, sold his wares. Jenzun was entertaining the people by demonstrating his skill with the dulcimer, and Dale made his way across the street so that he could listen. As he approached, he noticed that one of the people who was also listening was a young woman he knew named Erica. Dale admired her quietly, as he had so many times before: burgundy hair that perfectly framed her dark brown eyes and friendly smile. He picked his way through the people and stood beside her. As Jenzun began a new, lively trotto, he was joined by another musician playing one of Jenzun's wooden box drums, and another on the rauschpfeiffe. The audience started clapping their hands at the appropriate points in the song, and Dale joined in. Noticing the sound, Erica turned and saw Dale for the first time. Her eyes, deep and mesmerizing, met his, and she smiled warmly. Dale smiled, then looked down at his feet in embarrassment. He wasn't any good at talking to girls, especially girls that he liked. Fortunately, she turned back to the musicians, although that left Dale to stand next to her, feeling as if his feet were twice normal size. She was expecting him to say something. Dale felt each moment of silence pass like an accusation. Dale thought back to Simon's words about doing things he'd always wanted to do. But this was Erica! This was *important*! But Zavut, too, had said something about new friendships. And approaching Erica would certainly be something he'd never done before! More moments passed as he tried to formulate something to say. He suddenly realized that the tune was coming to an end, and that if he wanted to talk to her at all, he'd have to do so now. "Erica?" As she turned, she was looking downward. Then she raised her gaze to meet Dale's, and he felt like he was falling into those deep, dark eyes of hers. He was completely in awe of her beauty. But he had something he was going to say... "Umm... You be interested in coming out to the archery butts or anything?" Damn! It wasn't very eloquent, but he'd run out of time. And she just stood there, looking at him and smiling in a faintly preoccupied manner, as if musing about his ineptitude. Then she seemed to come to some sort of decision, and took his hand up in hers and patted it. "Dale... I'm glad I ran into you today. Later this afternoon, a bunch of us are going swimming out at the quarry, and I'd like you to come, too." The quarry? "But the quarry's off limits, isn't it? It's dangerous!" Erica's eyes gleamed. She brought her face closer to his and whispered to him conspiratorially. "That's just what they say to keep the kids away. We've been there dozens of times, and no one has gotten hurt. It's really lots of fun!" Dale couldn't argue about something he really knew nothing about, which gave him pause. How did he know it was dangerous if he'd never even been to the quarry? If his father had been wrong about fortune tellers, he could be wrong about the quarry, too, right? And Erica said it was fun... And the prospect of spending an afternoon with Erica was worth the risk. After all, if he went and discovered that it really *was* dangerous, he didn't have to do anything he didn't want to. And this certainly would qualify as an adventure, by Simon's definition. It was something he'd never done, just because his father had always said it was wrong. So it was pretty easy to come to a decision with Erica looking at him like that! "Okay! When?" Erica rewarded him with a smile. "Meet me at the quarry at six bells? I've got to go pick up some things at home. Straight?" "Straight. See you then." She flashed him a final smile over her shoulder. "Bye!" Dale watched as Erica walked away, then turned and looked at Zavut' booth accusingly. "Yes!!!" he exclaimed, and ran off toward his home. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright August, 1994, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. 1 / DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 7 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- DargonZine Volume 7, Issue 3 08/24/94 Cir 1075 -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Archives at ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ -- Contents -- ------------------------------------------------------------------------ DAG Dafydd Editorial Kidnapped 1 Max Khaytsus Yule 21-23, 1014 Love an Adventure II Orny Liscomb Yuli 2, 1016 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Dafydd's Amber Glow by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Editor DargonZine Well, I don't write editorials very often any more but this is a special occaison - this is the last issue of DargonZine I will be Editor for. The electronic magazine will continue, though, once again under the capable guidance of its creator, Ornoth Liscomb, whom you may have noticed has returned to the project. The Dargon Project has always been his, even when he wasn't here - I was only ever a caretaker. Now that he has returned, and that he has time and energy to devote to it, we (all of the authors and myself) are turning control back to him. There may be some changes in the look of the 'zine, and with any luck it should come out a little more often, if not any more regularly. But the basic element of the 'zine - the stories - won't change much save to get better, perhaps, with Orny's input once again available to us all. Orny will, I'm sure, have much to say in the next issue to come out. Its been a fun 6 years, and I'm glad that DargonZine is still around for me to pass back to him. Enjoy, everyone! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Kidnapped, Part 1 by Max Khaytsus (b.c.k.a. Kera's sword connected solidly with her opponent's shield, splintering a large chip from the edge. He stepped back, shaking his shield arm to relax the strained muscle from the force of the blow. Kera quickly closed the distance the retreat created and swung again, connecting with the battered shield once more. The wood groaned and splintered, revealing a crack through the shield's face. He took another step back and attacked Kera's shield, causing her to momentarily lose balance. She recovered, delivering a third blow to the shield. With a splintering sound, the shield broke and the man flung his arm down, shaking the remains of wood and leather to the ground. Kera took a step back and tried to unstrap her own shield. "Keep it," her opponent instructed, grasping his sword with both hands. "What about the code?" she took hold of the loose strap again. He swung at her and she dodged, dropping to one knee to avoid the blade. "You need to learn to fight, not respect." "Are you saying I don't know how to fight?" Kera's sword glanced off his legging, shaving a yellow spark. "That's right!" her opponent's sword came down hard across her own blade, breaking her grip on it and throwing the weapon to the ground. Sir Ariam Brand stepped back, sheathing his sword. "Get up. You talk too much. You're letting the conversation distract you." Kera stood up, removing her helmet. "Why the shield?" "You kept blocking," Kera explained her attack. "But at the end you ignored me. You fought my shield." "I thought I could get to you if you didn't have it." "And you killed my shield, but that left you tired and gave me a free arm. Get your sword." Kera picked up her blade. Sir Brand drew his sword and brought it down on Kera's right side. "You got down to avoid my blow. That saved you from dropping your sword." Kera brought her blade up to block the one pointed at her. "Here," Sir Brand indicated, tapping his sword against hers. "I'd force it into the ground and you'd either bend with it or drop it. You did the right thing by not parrying. But then you should have brought your sword in behind the shield and gotten up, instead of attacking me." "I shouldn't fight up," Kera repeated what she had heard so often. "That's right." "What about a feint?" Kera asked. "That was a feint. I swung left, you went right. I had a choice of your head, your shield or your sword." "All right," Kera got down on one knee. "I'm down, sword in, trying to get up. You still have a choice of head or shield." "Push forward as you get up," Sir Brand assumed his previous position. "I can't hit you if you're inside my reach." Kera got up, stepping forward. "Like this?" "Right. Now look, I lose my swing when we're this close. I have to step back. Now, be careful not to try this with opponents who are fighting with a stiletto or a short sword in their off hand. You'll have to get up by pushing away, then. It's not as effective, but you'd at least make them chase you down before they can hit you. Luckily, most people can't fight with two weapons." "Sir Keegan does, sometimes." "He was trained at it. Few people are." "Now come on, let's try that again and don't distract yourself by talking." "Yes, Sir," Kera prepared for the next match. "I'll need..." "Lady!" A young page called from the fenced edge of the Arena. "Go ahead," Sir Brand said. "I need to get a shield." Kera hurried over to the page. "I'm sorry to interrupt, ma'am, but the Baron wishes to see you right away." "All right," Kera said. "I'll be right there." The page left and she turned to Sir Brand, ready with a new practice shield. "Go ahead," he told her. "It's getting close to dinner. We'll continue tomorrow." "Thank you," Kera dropped her own shield on a bench and sheathed her sword. "I will be seeing you at dinner, my Lord. Good day." "Good day," the knight answered and she left. It had been just three days since Rien had left and two since the three regiments training at Valdasly Keep marched out the gates and down the road towards the village, on their way to the Royal Duchy. Few soldiers and knights remained at the Keep -- mostly guards and assistants to the Baron, who waited for word from Duke Glavenford. Rien would have gone with the troops, but Adrea's disappearance forced him to go to Sharks' Cove instead, where he was to meet Deven and look for her. Kera asked him to take her along, but he told her to stay and practice, insisting that going to war would be too dangerous for her. "When your training is complete..." she remembered his strong hand under her chin. "I fear for your safety." "Then what's the point of being your squire if you hide me behind stone walls?" "I want you to be the best that you can -- better than the soldiers who you'd have to face. I want you to have a better chance than they." "You make it so difficult," Kera whispered. "I'd rather not go looking for you as well as for Adrea," he insisted. "Take care." Kera embraced him, trying to burn the feeling of holding onto him into her mind. The stable attendant who held on to Rien's horse politely turned away. Rien put his arms around Kera, returning the embrace. "I have to go. I'm wasting time." "Be careful..." Kera muttered. "Don't make me come looking for you." "I won't," Rien laughed. "I won't abandon you, I promise." They broke the embrace and Rien mounted his horse, a tall slender animal the Baron had given him. "Take care of Kelsey." "I will." Kera bit her tongue to force back tears. Three days were not enough to get the tears to stop. She paused in the great hall, wiping her face and straightening her hair, not having had the chance to do so after the practice. Setting her jaw, Kera walked up to the door to the library and knocked. "Come," Baron Dower's voice sounded on the other side and she entered. The Baron stood over his desk, a large map before him, a stack of books, a bottle of ink and a straight edge nearby. The chandelier over the desk, as well as two heavy candelabras illuminated his work, casting a bright glow over the desk and the papers on it. "You sent for me, my Lord?" Kera asked. "Yes, please, sit down, Kera," he said, making measurements on the map on the table. He was always informal with her in private for some reason, just like he was with Rien. Kera sat down across from the desk, watching the Baron work. He looked tired, worn out. A distinct change from dinner the night before. Finishing with the measurements, he sat down as well. "Kera, I need you to do me a favor." He shifted and pushed a stack of books out of the way so they could see each other. "I received the message I was waiting for from Duke Glavenford at noon. He, although reluctantly, approved my plan to march on Gateway. I will be leaving to catch up to my troops tomorrow morning and I need you to do me a favor..." Kera started to answer, but the Baron did not stop. "...I want you to take Stefan to the Ducal Palace in Hawksbridge. Few guards will stay here after I go and I would feel much better knowing my son is safe." Kera kept looking at him after he stopped so abruptly, waiting for him to add something else. "Of course, my Lord," she caught herself. "Good," the Baron nodded. "Don't tell him what I told you. He doesn't know I'm going to war. I've told him we will be picking up men in Narragan to add to the standing troops." "Of course, Sir. What should I do after I deliver him?" "Do? You'll stay there. And you will continue your training in Hawksbridge." "What about Sir Keegan? How will he know where I am?" "I will leave word here. The servants and some guards will remain at the Keep -- I'm not abandoning it." "Yes, Sir." "Good." He picked up two letters from the desk and handed them to Kera. "This is your letter of introduction to the Duke and this is a letter for him. You and Stefan are to remain in Hawksbridge until sent for by myself or Rien. All my letters are marked with my seal, so watch for it. And having been with Rien for as long as you have, I'm sure the two of you have an established method of communications." Kera nodded, although she had no idea how she would recognize a message sent by Rien. "All right, then. Any questions?" "Just directions, Sir." He smiled, realizing he missed so simple a thing. "Take the forest road west. After you exit the canyon, it will join a larger road. Take the right branch, three days, and it will bring you into the city. There are signs along the way and, besides, Stefan has travelled it often since he was a baby. He'll give directions if you need them...and if you don't." Kera also smiled at that. "Go ahead and clean up for dinner," the Baron said, indicating the conversation was over. Taking the two letters, Kera left the library and headed upstairs to her room to get out of the armor and prepare for dinner. She knew Baron Dower had been waiting for word from the Duke about taking the available regiments to Gateway. He sent the message to Hawksbridge the same morning Rien left for Sharks' Cove and a three day turn around time was rather spectacular for what was normally a three day one way trip. In the morning she would take the Baron's son to the Ducal seat and the Baron would join his troops on the way to war, the same war Rien left for only days before. It scared her to think about the war, about the unchecked slaughter of people as the two sides fought over stretches of land no one would think about twice in time of peace. She leaned on the window sill, looking south towards the dark green forest stretching beyond the keep walls and the peaks of mountains on the other side of the valley, that the forest leaned against. Where was Rien? Somewhere in those mountains by now? When they left Sharks' Cove in late spring, they travelled as close to the mountains as they could, so she could see the snow in their peaks, present even in the summer. Kera ran her hand over her eye, trying to prevent its watering from becoming a tear. Summer snow was not unknown to Rien, but it was something she had never seen before and so simple a gesture as going a couple of days out of their way, meant a lot to her. Somewhere out there, in the mountains to the southwest, Rien made his way towards Sharks' Cove, to find out what happened to Adrea. And somewhere, not far behind him, marched three regiments of soldiers, heading for Gateway, to fight the Beinison army that no doubt outnumbered them four to one. Kiyan Kanne was with those troops, ready to become a hero. "In a way I'm glad I'm not going," Kera sighed. "I don't know how I would handle it." "First kill is a hard thing," Kiyan answered. "Then you become cold about taking a life." "I know," Kera said. "I've killed before..." Kiyan turned to face her. "I feel there's a past you're not telling me about," he commented and quickly looked away. "There's a past I'm trying to forget," Kera responded, slowly and cautiously. "...and I'm not quite ready to fight new opponents to the death just yet." "I'm glad you'll be here, where it's safe," Kiyan answered. "I'd be afraid for you if I knew you were there with the army...and that's one less person I'd have to out do to become a hero." An abrupt laugh slipped from Kera's lips. "You don't think I can do it?" "I think you're taking it too seriously." "Yeah?" "Yeah," she smiled. "It's a bit much to win a war singlehanded." "But's it's a goal to aim for." "It is that." Kiyan bent down, and pulling a fresh pale blue Iris from the lawn, handed it to Kera. "Hold on to this until I come back." "It'll..." He kissed her before she could respond and disappeared into the barracks. The next morning, the troops left at the crack of dawn. Kera ran her fingers over the still fresh Iris, standing on the window sill in a cup, wiping the moisture from her eyes off on the delicate petals. Each time it seemed that her problems were about to lessen their grip on her, something new would cause a conflict in her life. Something there was no way to predict and something that could not be avoided. Quickly changing into a clean set of clothes, Kera went down stairs. Life had to go on, no matter what challenges it would throw her way. "...grain ready for harvest, we're bowing to the damned Benosian army!" a deep voice declared as she entered the great hall. "Now, Clev, you know we have more uncommitted forces than Beinison," the Baron's calm voice answered. "We're fighting for our lands, with people who live on these lands. We'll take them back." "But before we take it back, we have to look at us as a country, at our losses, our morale, our..." Noticing Kera, he stopped and stood up. The other three men at the table did likewise, as has been done the past two nights, them being a small group and Kera being the only woman dining with them. "Please," she smiled, embarrassed. "You don't have to do this... I'm sorry I'm late." She took her seat on Sir Hardin's right, across from Sir Brand. The Baron sat at the head of the table, between his son and Sir Hardin. The men sat back down as a servant hurried to place a warm plate before Kera. "Looks like you'll escape having to practice with me," Sir Brand said to Kera. "I can't say I'm disappointed, my Lord," Kera answered. "You've been working me much harder than Sir Bonhan." "You have to understand Ariam is much more zealous," the Baron laughed. "He knows he has little time, so he wishes to see a marked improvement over the training you have received so far." The others at the table laughed. "This reminds me," Sir Hardin said thoughtfully. "I took a squire soon after I was knighted, a bright young lad. You might remember him, Rev -- Alaman Helvik. His father was your father's scribe..." "Yes, yes," the Baron nodded. "He was a frail little thing, but Lord Gregor said I must take him, as a favor to him and his father, and so I did." He paused to take a bite from a leg of mutton and wash it down with ale. "The boy was so zealous to learn to be a knight, he broke both arms when he fell off a horse the very first day. He became a scribe after that, just like his father..." The Baron chuckled over his food. "And it took you five years to select a new squire after that, one that wouldn't `break' on you." He paused and added in a more somber tone, "I always felt sorry for him over that. He wanted to be a knight so much, but he really wasn't made for it." "Then there was Albert Targ, who you took as your squire," Sir Hardin laughed. He turned to Stefan, the Baron's son, to tell the story. "A large lad, built like Sir Bonham, but much taller. Bigger than either your father or I were at the time. The lad lasted a whole week, then one morning I'm woken up by your father and he tells me Targ ran off. "Now, we entertained rather late the night before, so I tell him to stop bothering me and turn over..." "I drug him out of bed screaming and kicking," the Baron laughed. "...and he tells me his mother's best silverware is gone with that rogue!" Stefan looked at his father. "Silverware?" "Your grandmother's pride and joy -- her parents gave it to her for a wedding present -- a fine, almost pure alloy from Othuldane." Sir Hardin laughed. "So like two fools we dress and saddle up in the middle of the night to go look for a thief. Snow's hip deep, wolves are freezing in mid run and we're out there looking for a thief." "Did you find him?" the boy asked. "No," the Baron shook his head. "Spent a week in the cold, knowing we lost him, but afraid to come home. I knew how dearly my mother loved that silverware..." "So what happened?" The Baron looked at Sir Hardin and the knight nodded. "Well, we came back a week later and my father calls us to his study and says if we want to go wenching, the least we can do is leave him a message. He doesn't say a word about the silverware, so Clev and I keep quiet about it. "That evening, at dinner, the servants bring the roast on the silver platter. Turns out guests were expected earlier in the week and mother sent the dishes to the smithy to be polished." Sir Brand chuckled. "What punishment." "What about Albert Targ, father?" Stefan asked. "I worked the boy so hard, he ran back home to farm wheat and never looked back." Sir Hardin let out a hearty laugh. "So she could be leaving under worse circumstances," he warned Sir Brand. "Having broken things and stollen silverware?" Kera smiled. "You broke three shields in two days," Sir Brand reminded her. "That's a rather impressive number, considering they're made of oak." Kera blushed and hid her face behind a mug of ale, taking a log sip in the process. "Three oak shields?" the Baron asked. "Quite an accomplishment. How has your progress been?" The servants started replacing the empty dishes with desert. "All right, I suppose. I'm really not the one to judge my own skills, Sir." "Ariam?" "Quite fine, although she needs to learn to be more comfortable with the blade, learn the finesse of using the weapon. We made good progress on feints and breaking binds." "Pardon my bluntness, my Lord," Kera said, "but I feel perfectly comfortable with my weapon. It's fighting with someone more skilled that troubles me." "Troubles me, too, my girl," Sir Hardin muttered, "troubles me, too." "It is the only way to learn," Sir Brand insisted. "You have to stretch yourself so you may reach." "Talking about stretching," the Baron said, "I want you to leave for Hawksbridge as early as possible tomorrow -- right after breakfast, so act accordingly. And that goes for you as well, young man," he tuned to his son. "And stay out of trouble while I'm gone, understood? Do everything Kera tells you." "Yes, Sir," the boy answered. After dinner Kera went for a walk in the keep's courtyard, relaxing in the cool evening breeze. In the morning she would have to accept a new responsibility, perhaps the greatest one she was ever given. She considered how long she may have to remain in Hawksbridge and what she would need to take with her. It may be a short trip, or a very long one. But then Valdasly would be three days away, possibly less on Hasina, so she could always return. When she went back into the keep, Baron Dower stopped her in the great hall. "One last thing, Kera," he said. "I have one more thing to give you to take to Hawksbridge." She followed him to the library where he handed her a thick envelope, with a large wax seal holding it shut. "My will," he explained. "A duplicate will remain here in the keep, and I want you to give this one to the Duke's archivist. It is to be opened only on my verified death." "Sir..." "I'm not going to Gateway to die," he interrupted Kera. "I am going to save Baranur, but we must always be prepared. Give it to the archivist." "My prayers will be with you, Sir," she accepted the parchment. "Thank you, Kera. Good night." * * * In the morning Kera got up much earlier than any of the previous mornings and went for her daily run. She spent the last few days running in the meadow or up the canyon leading away from the forest, but on this, her last morning at Valdasly, she decided to run by Charnelwood, towards the village on the other side of the valley. It was still dark when she made it to the point where she and Rien had stopped on their very first run together. She paused there, at the edge of the road, looking into the forest. For the first time in her ten days in Valdasly, she could feel something from the forest. She took a few steps off the road, closer to the tree line, to see better into the darkness of trees. For an instant she though she could see a light in the distance, floating in the darkness between the trees. "Who are you?!" The sensation quickly faded, leaving an empty feeling and the giant towering trees menacingly standing over her. She hesitated a moment longer, then hurried back to the road and back to the keep itself. All the way back she could not help but wonder what it was that she sensed. Was the forest really alive, like Rien said? Could it really watch those who passed by it? Kera shrugged the chill that her thoughts had brought on. She was there, in the forest, saw its inhabitants. There were people living in those woods, people much like Rien, who took comfort in the seclusion the dense forest provided. It was light when Kera returned to the keep, the sun just high enough to shine its first beams over the top of the eastern range, bathing the valley in a comfortable yellow light. She ate a quick breakfast and packed what little she would be taking with her -- the sword, the bow Rien purchased for her, the armor Enneth made some months before and some clothes. Once packed and ready to go, Kera took her things to the stables and then called on the Baron in the library. "Come," Baron Dower's voice sounded after a long wait. Kera entered the room. The Baron sat behind his desk, maps no longer on the table. Before him sat Stefan and Sir Brand stood by the window. Kera greeted the men. "Are you ready?" the Baron asked. "Yes, your Lordship." "Good. Stefan, get your things. Meet us at the stables." "Yes, Sir," the boy got up and left the library. "Kera?" "Your Lordship?" "Any questions?" "No, Sir." "Any concerns?" She shook her head. "It's a great responsibility, Sir. I won't let you down." "Very good," he nodded. "Don't let Stefan boss you around. I warned him not to already. Take charge and follow your best judgement." "Yes, Sir." She wondered if he would say these things if he knew of her past in Dargon. The Baron turned to Sir Brand. "How soon are we going to be ready?" "As soon as you are, Sir. I saw to the horses myself and servants were readying the armor." "Will old Ealhfrit be ready?" "Your guess is as good as mine, my Lord," the knight laughed. "Check on him while I see Stefan off," the Baron stood up. "Yes, Sir." He made a few steps towards Kera. "I wanted to..." "I forgot about that," the Baron interrupted. "You two go on to the stables. I'll remind Ealhfrit. Wait for me." "What is it?" Kera asked the knight. "It's nothing serious," he answered as they left the library. "Just something to make things right. There was no opportunity before." He handed her a palm-sized box. "This is a chain of the order. Wear it around your neck so Knights of the Stone will know who you are." "What? What order? Knights of the Stone?" "I guess Sir Keegan had no time to explain the politics of knighthood to you. Knights in Baranur are broken into orders. Each order was started ages ago by various Houses of Baranur. The House of Arvalia, led by Duke Bargine, established the Order of the Knights of the Stone, in honor of his father, Duke Bayder the Second, also known as Bayder the Stone, for his charming personality. There are painting of them in the gallery upstairs. All squires of the order and all knighted by it wear the chain and pendant to show membership." Sir Brand reached inside his tunic and pulled his chain out as an example. "This may or may not help you in your journeys, but it will give you identity and a history...and it's a tradition." Kera opened the box and took a look at the chain. It was thin, of fine workmanship, with silver links and a stone tear. "I've never seen Sir Keegan wear anything like this," she commented. "I have," Sir Brand said. "It's your identity with us." "Thank you." They entered the stables and Kera double-checked the equipment on Hasina, as well as tack, harness and saddle, then did the same for Kelsey. "How soon will you be at Gateway?" she asked Sir Brand as she worked. "A month, I suppose. Maybe mid-Sy, if we're lucky." "What do you think you'll find?" "A war. I know we'll find a war." He fell silent as Stefan walked in, followed by the Baron. "Everything ready?" "Yes, my Lord." "I'm not ready," Stefan complained. He went to check his horse and Kera led the two thundersteeds out of the stables. "You're taking Kelsey also?" the Baron asked. "Sir Keegan asked me to keep an eye on her," Kera said. "Can't do it if she's here." Baron Dower chuckled. "Hope he keeps half as good an eye on the horse I gave him." "I'm sure he will, Sir." Stefan came out of the stables, leading his chestnut-brown stallion, with a white steak diagonally across the neck. "I guess I'm ready." "Stefan," the Baron addressed him, "I know you're practically a man, but I want you to listen to the Duke and to Kera and do what they say. I don't know how long I'll be in Narragan or where I'll go from there, but I will write you as often as I can." The boy embraced his father. "I'll make you proud." "I know you will," the Baron tousled his hair. "Would you like to ride Sir Keegan's horse?" Kera asked the boy when he was ready to go. Stefan looked at his father and the Baron nodded. "Yes." "Mount up, then!" Sir Brand took hold of Hasina's reins while Kera mounted her horse. "Thank you, Sir Brand," she told him. "And good luck in your mission." "Thank you, Kera," he handed the reins to her. The Baron helped his son mount Kelsey. "Remember to visit the crypt in Hawksbridge, Stefan. Lay flowers for you mother and tell her I wish I could come." "Yes, Sir," the boy promised. "And take care. Write often." The boy nodded somberly. The Baron walked over to Kera, putting one hand on Hasina's neck. "Take good care of Stefan." "I will, Sir. May Sevelin help you on your quest." "Sevelin?" the Baron asked, puzzled, "the god of magic?" "He helped me, Sir. I think he helps everybody." ReVell Dower released a hearty laugh. "Have a good journey!" Kera kicked Hasina into motion, followed by Stefan and Kelsey and Stefan's horse. The boy paused at the gates of the keep and waved to his father. The Baron waved back. * * * "My Lord?" Sir Brand asked as the Baron sighed. "I worry about my son, Ariam. I may never see him again..." "I worry about Kera, my Lord. She is a young woman, alone, charged with the protection of the boy. I hope her courage and skill remain untested." "Before he left, Rien told me about where she's from and how she lived," the Baron said. "I'm not worried about her courage. I'm worried I may not return to tell my son the truth of where I went..." "We must have hope, Sir." "I do. I hope Baranur wins this damn war. I hope this is as close as my son ever comes to being in one." The Baron turned away from the keep gates, realizing he will not be seeing his son any time soon. "Lord Ealhfrit is ready. Assemble the men. We'll leave in a bell." * * * Stefan Dower remained quiet for a very long time after he and Kera left Valdasly Keep. Kera watched his somber expression and wondered how to strike up a conversation to distract him, but could not think of what she should say. It was many years since she was fifteen and her worries were not of living in the Ducal Palace at that age. She was more worried of rotting under one. She had to be adult at that age, know what risks to take and how to take them. She had to be self-sufficient and self-reliant. And she had to steal to survive. "Kera?" Stefan caught up to her, having fallen a little behind as they rode. "Yes?" "Tell me the truth." "The truth?" she asked. "About what?" "My father. He's going to war, isn't he?" "Stefan... What gives you that idea?" "I know my father." "I'm not privileged to know some things," Kera tried to avoid the question. "But you're not saying `no'." "I'm..." She sighed. "He is, isn't he? Tell me. I won't turn back." "I promised I wouldn't say a word," she uttered. "But you're not denying that he's not going to Narragan?" "No, I'm not. He's doing what he feels right, what Duke Glavenford thinks is the right thing to do." Stefan sighed. "I wish he'd have told me the truth." "He loves you. He doesn't want you to worry." "I'm his son. I have to worry." "He'll come back in the fall, I'm sure," Kera said. "Don't worry yourself. Why don't you tell me about Hawksbridge instead? I've never been there." Stefan fell quiet for a while, giving Kelsey a chance to start falling back, but then caught up again. "I guess you're right -- there's no use worrying about what can't be helped. "Hawksbridge is pretty old. The castle was built about three hundred years ago, but the city is probably five hundred years old. It's in the plains on the other side of the mountains. It's very beautiful. On a clear day you can see all the way to the mountains..." Stefan thought for a moment. "The castle was built on the east bank of the river Ty, to protect the kingdom from the barbarians on this side...and from the evil spirits...." "Evil spirits?" The boy laughed. "The peasants say demons live in Charnelwood. No one ever goes there. It's a very dangerous place. I remember a few years ago some children from the village went into the forest and never returned. And no one went to look for them, either. Every one was afraid that the demons took them." "Do you believe they're real?" Kera asked. "The spirits? Of course! Everyone knows there are spirits there. They're older than Arvalia!" "Have you ever seen them?" Kera asked. She couldn't help but vent the urge to pull his leg. "No. They stay in Charnelwood." "Then if you've never seen one, how do you know they're real?" "Have you ever seen a Benosian?" "No," Kera shook her head. "Then how do you know they're real?" "Word of mouth?" "Well...?" Stefan answered, victoriously. "I guess I had that coming," Kera laughed. "But I'm sure the people living on the Beinison boarder will swear they've seen Benosians." * * * Shortly before sunset Kera and Stefan made their way to a small village in the mountains, at the crossroads where they were supposed to turn southeast. "I guess we're making good time, since we made it here before sundown," Kera commented. A stream ran on the north side of the crossroads and Kera dismounted Hasina, letting her quench her thirst. Stefan also dismounted and soon all three horses were in the middle of the stream. "There's a lake up that way," Stefan pointed north. "It's locked between mountains, about a league north of here. It's very hard to get to, but very beautiful. My father hunts there every summer. Every summer except this one..." "You two will go there, again. As soon as the war is over," Kera assured him. He nodded. "It's very quiet there, just birds and the beavers that dammed up the river... And north of that is a valley full of wild game." "Maybe if the Duke doesn't have a problem with it, someone can take you here this summer," Kera offered. "Maybe," Stefan agreed. "Is there an inn here?" "There's one down the road. It's not a very good one, but it's the only one in the village." "Then we'll have to make the most of it," Kera said. "Come on." They got their horses and walked down the road to the inn. "We need two rooms," Kera told the innkeeper once they were inside. "And we need stabling for three horses." "Are there three of you?" the man asked. "There are three horses. Two of us." "Kill someone on the way?" the man laughed. "Yes," Kera answered, annoyed at his nosiness and the stupid laugh. "Well, here you go. Two keys, two rooms, two Rounds." "Two Rounds," Kera placed two silver coins on the counter. "Do you serve dinner?" "Yes, we do." "Do you want to eat here?" she asked Stefan. "It's fifteen leagues to the next village," he answered. "And this is the only inn and tavern here." "All right, we'll eat here," she agreed and turned back to the innkeeper. "There are three horses outside. You can't miss them. I want them stabled, fed and brushed down." "That'll be another fifteen Bits, five a horse." Kera put another Round on the counter. "I expect to find them in VERY good shape tomorrow morning." "You'll find them in great shape, missy." Kera set her jaw, but did not answer the man. There was no need to pick a fight. They would only be staying here overnight. She and Stefan went upstairs to leave their things it their rooms, then came back to the common room downstairs to eat. It was dark outside by this time and the tavern was partially full, mostly populated by middle-aged men, drinking and laughing and complaining about their wives. "How about right here?" Kera indicated to an out of the way table by the wall. "Sure," Stefan agreed. He waited for Kera to select a chair, then helped her with it. "Stefan, I don't want you doing that again," Kera said after a moment's hesitation. "Why not?" he sat down across from her. "Because of your social rank and because of my goals for myself and...and because I'm not a cripple and can do it myself." "Then perhaps you should start addressing me correctly, too," he said caustically. "I don't think so," Kera answered in mocking serious tones and Stefan laughed. "I thought I'd be a gentleman and show some chivalry." "I appreciate the gesture -- it was very sweet -- but also inappropriate and it's something I'm not used to." "All right," Stefan agreed. "If you insist." "Forcibly, if I have to." A lanky wench came over to the table. "All right, you two, make it short. What do you want?" "You first," Stefan said and Kera decided not to argue with him again. "What have you got?" "Dinner special is five Bits. Chicken, duck or mutton. Turkey will cost you six, pheasant is seven. Ribs and beef are seven Bits, venison is nine. We have stew and soup, for three Bits a cup." "Turkey sounds good," Kera said. "Turkey," Stefan agreed. "Ale, mead, wine," the wench went on. "Milk?" she glanced at the Baron's son. "Milk," Kera said. Stefan looked at her and set his jaw. "Water." "Cost you the same," the wench warned. "Water," he repeated. "And bring us a bowl of fruit," Kera instructed. The serving girl left and Kera looked at Stefan. "Milk?" "Men don't drink milk." "You're one of those..." "I have to be in public," Stefan said. "And this past year father has been having me drink ale and mead at functions, as well. I am the next Baron, after all." "You can drink what ever you want once we get to Hawksbridge, but on the road stick to milk and water," Kera said. "Water. Men don't drink milk." "So I've heard." "Kera," Stefan said, "I told you about Hawksbridge. Would you tell me a little about Dargon?" "Dargon..." It seemed worlds away. "Dargon's a small place. I didn't think of it this way before, but I've seen a little of Baranur now. It's a beautiful city, if you stay in the right part of town and don't go outside after dark." She chuckled, remembering. "It's home. Dirt and misery and bandits -- I'm still from there." The serving girl came back, placing bread, cheese and milk and water on the table. "That'll be eighteen Bits as soon as I bring the rest of it," she warned. "The new part of the city is the most beautiful," Kera went on once they were left alone. "That's where Dargon Keep if built. It was built on top of some old ruins, so in some places the streets are very, very old. Some say a thousand or two thousand years old, but the town of Dargon is just over two centuries and the new part isn't even a hundred years old... "There's a port that spans the length of the beach, too. And during the summer the water..." "Kera," Stefan interrupted her, tilting his head to the side. Kera turned, just in time to see a large man sit down at the table by her. "Kid bothering you?" he asked. A second man sat on her other side. "We can make him go away." "Aw, look, milk," the first man said. Kera held her breath not to gag at the stench of liquor. "The boy's just having water," the other one said. "What, boy, ale? No milk? Or do you drink hers?" the man indicated to Kera. "I think that's quite enough," Kera stood up. "Aw, come on, spend the night with me," the drunk advanced on her. "What has he got that I don't?" "Manners." "Har, har," the drunk choked, backing Kera against the wall. "We're not interested," she warned. "Leave." "We're interested," the second man towered behind his companion. "So why don't you send the boy to bed and we'll find another one for you." Kera looked around. The other patrons had moved further back, the nearest few tables being abandoned with unfinished meals. Neither the innkeeper, nor the serving wench were anywhere to be seen. "I think you should go," Kera repeated. "We don't want any trouble." "Trouble?" the drunk laughed. "We don't want it either!" Kera drew her dragger and swung it across the man's gut. The blade skipped across the tough hauberk and bit into his arm, throwing a bloody streak across the wall. "Bitch!" Her fist, reinforced by the dagger hilt, impacted the man's stomach, making him double over and with a final swing, she planted the base of the hilt into the back of his head, making him drop. The second man stood stunned for a moment, then advanced towards her, fumbling with the dagger at his belt. "Leave 'er alone!" Stefan yelled, grabbing the water pitcher off the table and swinging it at the man. The wood vessel crashed against the drunk's head, splintering and spilling water. The man stumbled and fell as well. "Go, go," the innkeeper rushed up to them. He blotted the water and blood on the table. "Go, before they figure out what hit 'em. I'll have the meals sent up to your rooms." * * * Kera stretched in bed, savoring the warmth of the old blanket. The black of the night slowly dissolved into reddish hues, forming outlines of the furniture. Was it time to get up? She sat up, holding the blanket tightly around her shoulders. The night air was chilly, even colder than the drafty old castle she had been staying at. Outside something creaked, the sound of a rusty wheel joint turning. A whip snapped, followed by a "move it, you old nag." The whip snapped again. Was that a thud that woke her up a few moments before? Kera could not remember. She got up, with the blanket, and walked over to the window, to look out, but by the time she pushed the latched shutters open, the road past the stables was empty. "Damn." It was the middle of the night, the eastern sky showing no evidence of morning light. "Like I've got nothing better to do." She returned to the bed and fell on it in a tangle of blankets, but for some reason sleep had already left her for the night. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 Love an Adventure Part Two by David/Orny Liscomb (b.c.k.a * This story is intended for mature readers, and * * may not be suitable for all audiences. Although this * * story was not written as erotica, it does contain * * explicit depictions of sex and other adult themes * * that some readers may find distasteful or morally * * offensive. * The afternoon sun was hot and bright overhead as Dale made his way across the hayfield outside Dargon. In the distance he could hear the voices of the people practicing at the archery range, but he was too busy thinking about the events of the day to pay much attention. Just this morning he'd been sitting, transcribing a history for his father, wishing something interesting would happen for a change. Now it seemed so far away! He had decided to go visit his friend, Simon the stew merchant, but the old sailor had told him something that Dale was only beginning to understand. He'd said that you didn't have to travel the world and rescue princesses in order to find adventure. Adventure was just doing something that you'd never done before, and the old seaman had insisted that there were plenty of interesting things to be experienced right in Dargon. Dale had been skeptical, but Simon had convinced him to try doing something small but new, like visit a fortune teller. So Dale had gone to see Zavut the seer, and it actually had been kind of fun. Zavut had told him that the young man's future included a new approach, new friends, overindulgence, and resolution. It didn't make a whole lot of sense, but it had been fun. As he left Zavut' booth, Dale spotted Erica, a girl he liked, listening to the music outside Jenzun's shop. In his newfound spirit of adventure, he had decided to talk to her. She invited him to go swimming with a bunch of friends at a nearby quarry, and although the quarry was off limits to kids, Dale told her he'd go. It had sounded like a grand adventure at the time, but now he wasn't quite so sure. He'd heard of kids getting hurt out at the quarry -- it really wasn't a safe place. And although the quarry sounded like a fun place to swim, he wondered what the kids who went out there did. Would someone dare him to jump into the water from one of the ledges? And the kids who went out to the quarry always hung around in their own little group. They seemed a little strange to Dale, and with each step he became more and more uncomfortable with the whole idea. But somehow he kept walking, and the path he was following eventually came through a stand of aspen and up to a clearing overlooking the quarry. "Dale!" Erica came bounding up to his side and hugged him. Dale didn't quite know how to respond. He looked helplessly over Erica's shoulder at the handful of other teens who were watching them with bemused expressions. Erica sure felt good in his arms, though! After several moments she broke the embrace and took him by the hand. "Isn't it beautiful?" Dale took in the area. The kids were sitting in a clearing, shaded by the aspens he had passed through. A little ways away was the lip of the quarry, and forty feet down, the lake that had filled it. Ledges from ten to seventy feet high surrounded the lake. A little further away Dale could see the current quarry that had been started when this one was abandoned. And between them stood an immense pile of broken granite blocks, some as big as a wagon! Erica followed his gaze. "That's the Chasm. It's full of half-cut stone that wasn't cut right." She turned him around. "Come on, I have to introduce you to everyone." They walked down into the clearing and joined the others. Dale felt a little uncomfortable. "You don't have to introduce me," he whispered. "I know most of these kids." Erica smiled at him, as if he understood nothing. "Yeah, but you don't know their *real* names! Everyone here has a secret name. When you've been here a few times, you'll get to make up your real name, too. And remember, I'm not Erica. I'm Paws. Straight?" Dale was even more confused. A dubious "Yeah..." One young woman was standing apart from the others, practicing with a hand-and-a-half sword that flashed silver in the bright sunlight. She was very dark-skinned, with black hair and beautiful dark brown eyes. Erica approached her first. "Dale, this is Windsong. She's an artist." She smiled warmly and Dale returned her greeting. The three of them walked over to where the others were sitting on the ground. A heavy-set boy that he knew was named Parker offered him a mug of liquid and a smile. "Hey, Dale. Drink up -- you'll be needing this later on!" Erica -- or, rather, Paws -- nodded. "This is Bearcub. He's harmless," she added as she exchanged a meaningful glance with the boy. Unfortunately, Dale wasn't privy to the message. He took a sip of the drink, which tasted like bitter apple cider. Next, Paws introduced Seagull, a smiling young man with long, dirty blond hair. Dale knew that Seagull was really an innkeeper's son, but no more than that. Next to him sat a boy that Dale knew from the classes his father, the scribe, had taught. Although Dale knew him as Baird, Paws introduced him as Webster. Dale sat down and quietly listened to the group chatter. Paws sat with him. After a few moments, Windsong piped up. "Hey, let's go down and crawl around the Chasm!" Everyone jumped up, and Paws helped Dale up. Just as they were about to leave, Paws scooped up Dale's half-full mug of cider from the ground and gave it to him. "Hey, boy. Finish this up before we go." Dale shrugged and drained it. The walk down to the Chasm was pleasant and warm. Walking behind Windsong, he noticed that she was limping, and occasionally leaning on Seagull for support. When he asked Paws what was wrong, she told him, "Windsong's stubborn as a cat. She was running home a fortnight ago and was run down by a man on horseback, and she refuses to see a healer." Hearing this, Windsong turned around and grinned in reply. After a short walk around the lake, they reached the Chasm. Huge granite blocks and boulders were piled forty feet high. Dale thought it looked like a great place for a rockslide; but Windsong, despite her injury, hobbled ahead of everyone else and leapt up onto the nearest block. "First one to the top gets the prize!" The others scrambled to follow. Hanging behind, Dale looked skeptically at Paws. "Is it really safe to be climbing around up there?" She smiled. "Yeah. We've never been able to move any of the rocks, and we've tried. They don't shift at all. We've even named some of the rocks and the caves underneath. Come on, I'll show you Fat Man's Misery..." Instead of climbing up the outside of the slag pile, as the others had done, Paws led Dale to a small crevasse between the stones and into the base of the pile itself. They crawled on hands and knees, and made their way slowly inward. Eventually, they came to a small open area, where they flopped against the wall and rested. "This," Paws said between deep breaths, "is the Cloak Room." The laughter of the others could be heard, but it sounded very distant. Dale was pretty worked up, but he didn't know whether he was scared or just excited. He tried not to think about the tons of rock balanced haphazardly just above his head. Despite his fatigue, he found Erica's heavy breathing very erotic, and tried to gather the nerve to kiss her. He wished he knew how to tell when a girl wanted to be kissed. It just wasn't fair that he had to make the first move! Even though he'd never told her, she somehow ought to know that he liked her! Dale waited too long, and the moment passed. Paws got up and disappeared into a tall but very thin fissure in the opposite wall. "Coming?" Dale sighed as he got up and wedged himself into the two foot wide opening. The crevasse was no more than twelve feet deep. Paws was waiting for him at the other end. "Well," he asked, "now what?" "Watch this!" Paws turned so that she was facing him and jumped straight up. At the top of her jump, she pushed her hands and feet outward against the walls, and stuck, suspended three feet above the floor. "Follow me." With that, she started making her way straight up, alternately moving hands and feet, but always staying wedged against the walls of the crevasse. By the time Dale had gotten himself properly wedged, she was already fifteen feet above him. "This is why we call it Fat Man's Misery!" he heard her call as he tried his best to keep up. Twenty feet up, he paused and looked down. This was really a great place! The rock was cold against the warmth of his scuffed hands, and he could feel its weight all around him. His leather boots couldn't get much purchase on the granite face, so he put most of his weight on his arms. Being a scribe's son, his arms weren't very strong, and they soon began to ache. His heart pounded in his chest in exhilaration. Paws' looked down at him. "It's easier if you scurry up -- if you stop, you won't get started again!" When she was about thirty feet above the floor, Dale saw someone's hand pull her up and onto a ledge out of sight. Then he saw her head poke out again. "How are you doing?" "I'm almost there." He pushed and clambered upward one more time, catching the hairy arm that was waiting to pull him up. Paws and Bearcub were standing on the ledge, and Dale could see sunlight on the boulders behind them. Dale got a bearhug. "Welcome to the Tower!" Dale just panted and grinned. He followed the others as they picked their way to the top of the slag heap. Everyone was sitting around, admiring the view of the two quarries: the old quarry that had filled in to form a small lake, and the new, active quarry on the other side. "So who won the race to the top?" Paws asked. "Bearcub did," Seagull snorted. "He jumped a span that I couldn't..." Dale wasn't surprised -- Bearcub was the biggest of the bunch, and hadn't had any trouble hauling him out of the crevasse moments earlier. He looked at Windsong expectantly. "So what's the prize?" No one answered for a second, and Dale got the feeling that he'd asked a bad question. Bearcub jumped in with, "It's a surprise." After another pause, Paws looked over at Dale. "Whew. That was a lot of work, and this sun is really hot." Then, addressing the group as a whole, "Anyone for a swim?" Everyone thought that was a wonderful idea, especially Dale, and they picked their way carefully down to the quarry's edge and back to where they had gathered before. As soon as they arrived at the campsite, everyone started removing their clothes. Dale hesitated, but followed suit, patently avoiding looking at anyone else. By the time he was done, everyone except he and Paws were lined up at the ledge overlooking the lake. Walking over to him, she said, "You sure take a long time getting undressed." He tried to keep from looking directly at her, but she caught him. "Why aren't you looking at me? You really are too modest, Dale. Don't you think I'm pretty?" Dale had been brought up to be polite, and that included not staring at women. But Paws wanted him to look, and seemed amused by his behavior. He fought with himself and looked. Her long burgundy hair flowed over her shoulders and down her front, partially obscuring her breasts. Between her legs was a small triangle of matching fur. Her hips were cocked to the side in an suggestive pose, and a hand idly twirled one lock of hair. Dale wasn't in much of a position to judge how pretty she was -- he just wanted to touch her! "Dost thou like what thou dost see?" she teased. "Yes. You're beautiful!" "So are you." Dale had forgotten his own nudity and blushed, subconsciously turning his shoulder toward her in modesty. Dale couldn't possibly think of himself as "beautiful", and it really embarrassed him. Paws giggled, then turned and bounded off toward the others. "Come on!" Everyone but Bearcub and Windsong were in the water when they got to the ledge. Dale noticed that Bearcub had considerably more body hair than he did, which made him kind of self-conscious. But Dale's eyes lingered on Windsong's dark skin and muscular frame. "I guess it's my turn," said Bearcub as he walked a few feet back from the ledge. Dale stood with the two women and watched as Bearcub ran up to the edge of the cliff and jumped off, landing in the water a second later with a big splash. Dale walked to the edge and looked down; the water was a good thirty-five feet below them. Apparently, being a quarry, it was deep enough to jump right in. He'd heard stories about kids who had gotten hurt jumping into the quarry. That was why the adults didn't let the kids go there. Even though most of the others had gone before him, Dale didn't like the idea very much. "Is this the only way to get in?" he asked. Windsong turned, looked him up and down appraisingly and smiled, which made Dale feel really self-conscious again. "No. After Paws dives in, we'll go down to the lowest ledge over the water. With my knee the way it is, the Evils," nodding toward the others, "won't let me jump in from anywhere else," she pouted. She made it sound like they were punishing her, rather than thinking of her safety. But after seeing her aggressive disregard for her injury at the Chasm, Dale figured he sided with 'the Evils'. They watched as Paws got a running start and dove in head first. Then Windsong leaned on Dale and they climbed down to a lower ledge. Dale really enjoyed the feeling of having Windsong's arm around him. And he was very aware of each time her naked breast brushed against him, although she didn't seem to notice it at all. When they got there, Dale wished that the trip had been considerably longer. And that he still had his breeches on! Fortunately, Windsong apparently hadn't noticed *that*, either. "Now, all you have to do is jump in. And keep your hands at your side." Dale stood at the edge and peered over. It was about twelve feet above the water. "Is it cold?" "It's beautiful!" Paws shouted to him from below. "Jump in!" Dale composed himself. He really wasn't very comfortable with heights, but he knew that he was a very good swimmer. He'd even done some diving off the docks, but they were usually not this high above the water. At least here he was directly over the water and wouldn't have to get a running start. He nervously took two steps and leapt out over the water. For a moment it seemed like he was suspended in air, then he began to fall. Time seemed to have slowed down, because he had the time to look around him and see Paws and Bearcub treading water below, and notice the blueness of the sky and the rugged cliffs of the quarry. He even heard the call of a gull over the rush of air about his ears. Surely he'd been falling much longer than Bearcub had taken when he jumped from the higher ledge! His feet slapped through the surface and his body drove deep into the water, tickled by a million little air bubbles as they rushed upward. As he kicked and struggled back to the surface, he thought he could hear Paws voice. He opened his eyes and looked up at the cliffs of the quarry and the woods around them from a completely new perspective. "That was great! Let's do it again!" Everyone laughed, and Paws showed him where to climb up the granite face to get to the ledge where she and the others had jumped from. Standing at the edge of the cliff, Dale could see that he'd have to get a running start in order to clear another ledge that jutted further out. He walked a few paces back from the edge and stood, ready to jump. His heart raced with excitement and a little fear. What if he slipped just as he jumped? What if he hit the water wrong? He couldn't even see where he was going to land! He willed himself to take the first step, and suddenly it was decided. He couldn't turn back now, lest he seriously hurt himself trying to stop. He took three more strides before he saw the lake suddenly open up beneath him. His bare foot felt every grain of gravel on rock as he leapt out and over the water. Again, he hung momentarily suspended above the lake. Then he plunged downward with his arms outstretched behind him like the wings of a gliding eagle before pulling them to his sides as he impacted the water. It took a long time before his body stopped sinking, and he had to swim quite a ways back to the surface. Dale continued jumping and diving from several different ledges. He had never had such a wonderful time! But everyone eventually tired of swimming, and they headed back up to the encampment. Following Paws, Dale carefully picked his way up the granite face. His skin tingled as the water evaporated from his nude body in the warm summer sun, and his eyes followed Paws' ample form just in front of him. Her hips swayed and he would occasionally see her naked breast bobbing as she climbed, her nipples very prominent after the cool swim. He felt compelled to touch her, to grab her and make love to her, but he tried to keep his desires hidden. Unfortunately, that wasn't so easy to do without breeches! Soon they reached the clearing where everyone had stripped before going down to swim. Before he could get to his clothes, Paws turned to face him, her deep brown eyes shining. "How did you like *that*?" Dale smiled, momentarily fancying that she was referring to the climb up. "That was really great. Especially the cliff jumping -- I'd never done anything like that before... Thanks for inviting me to come along." Dale had certainly had a wonderful adventure, and had lots to tell Simon the stew merchant next time he saw his old friend. Paws returned his smile and took his hand. "I've got another surprise for you, too. Come on!" She pulled him off towards the copse of aspen that stood nearby. "Um... Can I grab my clothes first?" "Dale! Don't be so modest. Isn't it better to feel the sun and wind on your skin?" She pirouetted in celebration, and Dale wondered at her. He envied her sensuality -- he might feel the same joy as she felt, but if he showed it like that, people would laugh at him. Dale let himself be led down a worn path that led around the top of the quarry and toward a small pile of cut stone he'd seen earlier. Paws led him past it, into another clearing that contained a mass of undergrowth. "Look for a plant with a big, orangey-red fruit. We want one of them -- don't take any more, straight?" They rummaged around the undergrowth for several minutes before they found a plant that had two reddish fruit. Paws sat down and offered him one, waiting for him to bite into it. The rind was soft, and the pulp red and juicy. As he bit into it, the red juice ran down his chin from both corners of his mouth. Paws laughed. "That's just the way you have to eat it. It's rather messy, but that's okay..." She bit into it, and Dale watched as the juice ran sensuously down her chin and dripped onto her naked chest. She slowly ran her tongue across her lips, and once again he found himself suppressing the desire to kiss her. Dale took another bite and savored the taste. It was sweet, yet had a certain bite to it. The juice was warm, and he could feel its heat spreading through his body as he swallowed. "It's warm!" he giggled. Paws laughed and nodded. He could see that it had the same effect on her; her face and chest were flushed a rosy pink. Dale took another lusty bite and juice squirted all over his hands and in his lap. "Ummm... So what *is* this, anyways?" Paws smiled and fell into his arms. "Nightfruit..." Dale's eyes opened wide. Nightfruit? Nightfruit was very rare, and was usually only given to newlyweds on their wedding night! Everyone knew that it was supposed to enhance desire. Dale could feel its warm surge building irresistibly. She'd tricked him! But, in a way, it had been in the back of his mind ever since he'd approached her earlier that afternoon at Jenzun's booth. And even though he was torn between joy and fear of what might happen, she felt so good in his arms... Erica watched quietly as these thoughts rushed through Dale's head. Then she reached up and kissed him; her soft, moist lips met his tenderly but irresistibly. They fell back into the undergrowth in each others' arms and began to make love. Dale's eyes closed as he focused on each moist kiss. However, he was troubled by the nagging sense of responsibility that his father had instilled in him. Was this the right thing to do? Weren't you supposed to wait until you were married? But he also had friends who bragged about having made love. But good boys didn't do these things. And he also knew girls who had children at his age... He suddenly broke off and sat up. "What's wrong?" Erica asked him. "Well, it's not right... I don't want to take the chance of becoming a father." Erica caressed his back and smiled. "Remember that drink I told you to finish? That wasn't just cider, dear. You won't be making anyone pregnant for two whole days..." She smiled conspiratorially. Dale still didn't feel quite right about going forward. He was still a little scared, even though he didn't know why. As he tried to sort through his indecision, Erica put her arms around him and began lightly caressing the nape of his neck. She brought her lips close to his ear. As she whispered to him, he could feel her warm breath on his neck. "Lover..." No one had ever used that name for him, and it sent a shiver of excitement down his spine. His resistance crumbled like a sand castle before the tide as Erica pushed him down, onto his back, and began raining kisses on his neck and chest. Her leg slid between his and began grinding against his crotch. He tried to match her motions with his hips as he stared unfocusedly up into the branches of the aspens above, lost in sensation. He caressed Erica's back, then her buttocks as she subtly guided his hands lower. His hands explored the soft warmth of her flesh as her lips and tongue traced the muscles of his chest. Her kisses made their way up his neck to his chin, then suddenly her lips found his, swarming over them urgently. With their lips locked, she sat up a little, supporting him as he followed. She rolled onto her back and Dale was free to take the active role. He began exploring her neck and shoulders with his lips. "Nibble..." she suggested, and he complied. Her hands pressed his lips into her neck, silently encouraging him to bite harder. As her excitement became more vocal, Dale found her reactions feeding his enthusiasm. She guided his lips to the base of her neck and lower. Dale could taste the sticky Nightfruit where it had dripped onto her chest. He stopped for a moment to admire her breasts before he began to kiss them. Her reaction was a breathless "Yesssss..." As he continued, he began to grind his leg against her crotch, as she had done earlier. Again, she responded enthusiastically, her breath coming in short gasps. Then she brought his hand to her crotch. He began massaging her maidenhair, and registered surprise at how bony her pubic mound was. Then she guided his hand lower. "Inside me..." she pleaded. Dale wasn't very comfortable with his knowledge of what he was supposed to do, but he managed to find his way around. He slid his middle finger inside her nether lips, as her hips bucked to meet him. Inside, it was warm and satiny-soft and very wet, and he felt her tugging at his finger. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would feel like to be inside her. Her hand found his manhood and began stroking it with long, forceful thrusts. He was completely lost in the sensations. Her closed eyes opened and he could see the desire in them. "Do you want me?" "Oh, yes!" was all he managed to get out. She pushed him back onto his back, and straddled him. Then she took his achingly erect manhood and guided it to her. She hovered over him an excruciating moment before impaling herself upon him. The sudden wet, satiny heat surrounding his manhood felt so incredibly good! Erica kept him all the way inside her just for a moment, then began to move back and forth. Dale had never felt so close to anyone before. His wide eyes locked with Erica's, communicating intense love. Dale kneaded her buttocks as they slapped against his thighs. Her womanhood grasped his member on each thrust, milking him. Suddenly, Dale knew that he was about to come, and a half second later his back arched in ecstasy as he exploded inside this beautiful woman. Their motions slowly subsided, and Erica slowly backed off Dale's spent manhood. It slipped out of her and fell limply onto his stomach with a very wet splat that Dale found horribly embarrassing. The two of them shared a smile over it, and Erica took Dale into her arms. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling, occasionally shivering with the intense memory of how delicious it felt to be inside a woman for the first time. He woke with his face nestled in the warmth of Erica's chest. He turned and looked up into her deep brown eyes as she greeted him. "Hello, lover. Have a nice nap?" Dale could hardly contain his emotion. "You're beautiful. Marry me?" She smiled in a bemused sort of way, then pinched his nipple so hard that he flinched. "You're so cute!" She drew his face back into her chest. "Here, have a tit." Apparently that was a 'No'. He buried his nose against her soft breast for a while more, then asked, "What about the others? Did they go back to town?" "They're still around. Come on, let's track them down!" Dale followed as Paws led him back toward the path. "There's Webster and Seagull," she pointed the couple out. Beneath a beech tree, the two men were locked in an embrace. Although he knew that it wasn't that uncommon, he'd never seen two men together. He didn't know quite how to react to it, but he felt a twinge in his loins as he watched. They walked on toward the campsite in silence. Dale was trying to figure out how he felt about what he'd seen. He knew how his father felt about men who loved one another, but if they were both happy, was any harm being done? Was it something he could see himself doing? That wasn't a very comfortable question! As if Simon's definition of adventure and making love to Erica hadn't given him enough to think about already! They walked on, hand in hand. He and Paws entered the clearing to find Bearcub giving Windsong a back rub. Dale noticed the discarded Nightfruit on the blanket beside the two, and noted the blush on their cheeks and chests. Paws held Dale's hand as they quietly approached. Dale again found himself admiring Windsong's nude body. She was very dark, with long, straight black hair and deep brown eyes. Her breasts were smaller than Paws', and shaped differently. Paws knelt down directly in front of Windsong, so that they were both kneeling, facing one another, nude. Their eyes locked, and Dale could see the feelings they shared -- these two women were in love with one another! As he stared in amazement, Paws moved forward and kissed Windsong on the lips, as gentle and loving a kiss as Dale had ever imagined. Dale was completely mesmerized by the scene before him. He stared as the two kissed each other deeply and passionately, their breasts touching as lightly as their lips. On one level, it really excited him, but on a deeper level he acknowledged that it was by far the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. His eyes remained riveted on Paws' full lips as they traced their way down Windsong's throat, to her cleavage, and fastened onto her succulent breast. Dale gaped, awestruck at the beauty of the scene. As he watched his lover working on Windsong's nipple, Dale whispered to no one in general, "That's so beautiful!" The artist's deep brown eyes flitted half-open and met Dale's wide-eyed stare. She smiled and squeezed his hand, then closed her eyes in concentration. Dale saw Bearcub come up behind Paws and begin massaging her breasts. Then the two kissed deeply before Bearcub joined Paws in nibbling and aggressively sucking Windsong's breasts. Dale would never have been so rough himself, but apparently it was okay, for Windsong thrashed her head quickly from side to side in ecstasy. Paws moved downward and traced Windsong's legs with her tongue, slowly settling on her womanhood. Dale watched as she licked around Windsong's blossom, and the dark woman writhed and moaned as if each loving caress were a lashing. Dale stared in wordless appreciation of the love and excitement that was being shared with him. Finally, grasping the hair of each of her lovers, Windsong exploded in a furious orgasm that left everyone spent and panting. And smiling. Paws stretched, kissed Bearcub, and then Dale. Her tongue darted inside his mouth, and he could smell and taste Windsong's womanhood on her. It was sweet and musky and heady, and struck a chord deep inside him. It was something Dale knew he'd never forget. Then Windsong leaned up and kissed Bearcub and Paws and then Dale. Before he knew it, Dale even got a kiss from Bearcub! It was both very similar to kissing a woman, and very different. He felt small next to the big man, which was a very different feeling. Their energy spent, the lovers all lay in a pile on the blanket. Dale didn't know why, but even the powerful scent of the women around him somehow left him feeling very safe and secure and loved. He'd never felt such a wonderful unity before. Dale had sat and reflected for a few minutes when Seagull and Webster arrived at the campsite. The newcomers all gathered around, and suddenly everyone was exchanging hugs and kisses of greeting with everyone else. "Thank goodness that's over with!" said Webster, giving Paws a hug. "I hate having to be on best behavior when guests are around!" Everyone laughed and sat down to talk. Windsong grabbed Dale and pulled him down next to her. With her arms around his neck, she commented, "I'm keeping this one!" in an authoritative tone. Although Dale couldn't make up his mind whether he felt embarrassed or proud, he certainly felt good. Dale posed his question to the group as a whole. "I don't understand. Do you act like this all the time?" Bearcub, sitting on the other side of Windsong, replied. "It's like this. We're kind of a family, like we're all married. We all care about each other, and we like making love to each other." "But isn't this kind of strange? How come you're not jealous of each other?" Bearcub responded, "What's strange to me is the idea that if I'm in love with Seagull, I can't be in love with Paws, too. Loving her doesn't reduce my love for him." That kind of made sense. Bearcub continued, "I'm not jealous of you, either, because Paws' affection for you isn't any threat to her relationship with me. In fact, I'm glad, because it's made you both happier, and I can share in that happiness." He glanced slyly at Paws. "You can't imagine how long she's been going on about you!" Dale looked at his lover, and she was blushing. Apparently it was true! Bearcub continued. "And we all had to encourage her to bring you out here. We did that because we knew it would make her happy, and we care about her." Dale struggled to keep up with the conversation and think about his own feelings. "But this isn't right -- you can't seriously live this way?" Seagull picked up the argument. "But if we lived like everyone else, we would all have to choose one husband or wife and reject the others, and no one would be happy. We really do love each other, and it's much easier this way." With a wry smile: "Although having several lovers can be just as much of a problem, too." "I never knew any of this existed. You don't act this way in the city..." "The only time we're free to show each other how we feel is when we're out here," added Webster. "So we come out here pretty often. Someday maybe we'll live in our own house or a farm outside Dargon." As the conversation continued, Dale's mind worked to keep up with the concepts and their implications. It sounded like they were very happy thinking of themselves as one big family. Dale thought to himself about whether or not he could live in such a group. Loving more than one person might not be so difficult, but could he give his lovers the same freedom? Would he ever be able to support and nurture a lover's love the way Bearcub had encouraged Paws? He sure had lots to think about! Although he certainly couldn't say that he loved all these people, he liked them and felt comfortable with them. But did he really care about these people? The idea was very appealing. But was that just because he was looking for excitement and adventure? Did *they* genuinely love one another, or were *they* just looking for excitement and adventure? To look at them, Dale thought it was the former. But the idea was so strange! He'd never thought there was any other road but for a man to marry a woman and have a family. In Dargon, men didn't love men, and there was no such thing as a group marriage. His father called such people "freaks". But Dale knew these kids; they weren't "freaks". Baird was one of the smartest kids he knew, and one of the students his father liked best! Surely his father didn't know this about Baird! Already today his father had been proven wrong about fortune tellers and the quarry. Could his father, a knowledgeable scribe to the Duke of Dargon, also have been wrong about this? And if so, what did that mean for all the other rules and principles his father had instilled in him? Although his father had undoubtedly meant well, did he now have to question everything his father had taught him? One thing was certain: Simon's simple statement about adventure had led Dale very far afield. Eventually, Paws took Dale aside and walked with him down the path. "You should head back to the city now. We have some things we need to talk about as a group." "Is one of them me?" Dale inquired. "Of course!" She gave him a quick but passionate kiss. "And I'm sure you've got plenty to think about, too!" "That's for sure." Dale sighed heavily. "I just wish I never had to leave." "Me, too." After a pause, Dale spoke again. "You know, this morning a friend told me that all I had to do to find adventure was do something I've never done before. After all the things that I've done today, I'm beginning to think he's right." They walked on for a moment before Paws responded. "My biggest adventure today was bringing you here. When we met at Jenzun's booth this morning, I knew that I wanted to bring you out here, but I almost missed it because I was afraid to take the chance. If you hadn't approached me, it never would have happened." Dale thought about that as she continued. "I believe that you should never deny yourself anything if you think you will regret that decision later. So many people go through life thinking that they'll be happy just as soon as winter is over, or their children are grown, or whatever, that they never enjoy today. They go through their whole lives waiting for tomorrows. Then, when they're old, they look back and realize that they've never spent a single day happy or content. I don't want to be like that. You only get one chance to enjoy today. I'm glad I took this chance." Paws stopped as they reached the end of the path, where the woods met the hayfields. In the distance, Dale looked upon the distant town from a very new perspective. "So, what do you think of our little family?" she asked, approaching him from behind and wrapping her arms about him. Dale smiled, but had no idea what to say. "It's hard to believe. It's so different. It really seems like a family. You're all so happy together, you know?" She took both his hands in hers. "Yeah. We try to give each other as much of ourselves as we can. We *are* a family. We all love one another very much." Then she frowned. "But the adults don't understand. When we first got together, it was Seagull and Bearcub and I: two men and a woman. When we told our parents, they laughed at us and told us to grow up. When we persisted, they just got angry. Seagull's parents eventually threw him out of the family. They can't see that there can be any other way other than one boy and one girl. We have to be kind of careful who knows about us." "That's why you use nicknames?" "Sort of. When we're in town, we act like Erica and Parker and Baird. Erica acts like everyone in Dargon expects Erica to act. Out here, I'm not Erica -- I'm Paws, and Paws is kind of a different person: the person I really want to be. Someday they won't be separate people." "I know what I want to be called, if I can be part of the group." Paws cocked her head in inquiry. "Sluice." She smiled. "Straight! But I should get back to the others." Then, with a very mischievous twinkle in her eye: "See you next time?" Dale sighed and smiled. "I love you." "And we love you." Dale turned and walked silently back toward Dargon, contemplating the day's events and the meaning of Paws' last statement. Dale made sure that he caught up with Simon Salamagundi the next morning. "Hey, Dale! So wassa fortune teller a good adventure?" Dale had forgotten all about the fortune teller! Simon had sent him there to prove to him that adventure could be found even in Dargon, if you were open to it and knew how to look. What was it the seer had told him he'd encounter? A new approach, new friends and new relationships, indulgence, and a favorable resolution. "Well, I guess you're right, Simon. There certainly does seem to be some adventure to be had in boring old Dargon, after all!" The old sailor gave him a gentle poke. "Good. No more talk about running off to faraway places?" "Nope," said Dale with a grin. "I think there's plenty to keep me occupied right here in Dargon." Simon would think that the trip to the fortune teller he'd suggested had done the trick. In a way it had, although there was much more to the story than that. And much more yet to tell. But this time it was Dale's turn to keep a secret. Love an Adventure Author's Comment by David/Orny Liscomb "Love an Adventure" is a story about growth. The protagonist, Dale, has several mind-expanding experiences and comes out a very different person on the other side. But as much as Dale grows, the story's unstated goals are the growth of DargonZine and you, its readers. "Love an Adventure" pushes the informal self-imposed boundaries that the Dargon Project authors have lived under since the project's inception in 1985. It is the first Dargon story to contain on-screen sex, which we have historically avoided. Probably more controversially, the story arguably contains positive depictions of drug use, dangerous behavior, bisexuality, polyamory, teen sex, group sex, casual sex, and raises serious questions about consentuality. It also does not portray the practice of "safe sex", which has become a necessity of modern life. It is far afield from what we've been comfortable writing to date. Like Dale, we are growing and trying new things. It was just a matter of time before sex and these other issues made their way into the "Dargoniverse" as the authors call it. It is my hope that this story will show that there is a legitimate place for sex in Dargon, or any form of literature, when it is dealt with maturely and in the pursuit of a valid literary goal. In "Love an Adventure", my literary goal is that the story will also help the reader grow. Even with its positive depiction of alternative lifestyles, the real purpose of the story is what Dale learns from Simon in the first half of the narrative. Adventures are for everyone, and happen every time you do something that you've never done before. You don't need to do anything special to find adventure, because it exists everywhere you go; you just need to be open to new experiences. Your results may not be as exotic as the adventures Dale has had, but then again they might, and I guarantee that you will grow as a person. I hope that it is obvious that "Love an Adventure" is something other than a pornographic heterosexual male fantasy masquerading as literature. It is intended to be a very personal statement about life, and a study of the protagonist's emotions as he comes to understand this philosophy and follow the fascinating places that it takes him. Future stories about this group are planned. Comments are very strongly encouraged, whether they be in agreement or disagreement, and whether they deal with adventure, the role of sex in DargonZine, polyamory, or whatever. You may contact the author directly at mail directly to the DargonZine writers' group at Project writers. I'd also like to thank the people who have (sometimes completely unknowingly) helped this story, and the bits of my own that show through, be written: Ailsa di Mipp, Ace, Dafydd, Lothie, Nodrog Cur-chaser, Recki, Max, Sonja, Amq, Lory, Claudia, Lauren, Ayse, Curwen, and the other Dargon Project writers. I hope both stories bring you as much pleasure as I experienced by participating in their writing. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ 1 (C) Copyright August, 1994, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the express permission of the author involved. DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 7 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 10/12/1994 Volume 7, Number 4 Circulation: 1,083 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb ...I Shall Repay Max Khaytsus Yuli 25-27, 1014 CFV: rec.mag.dargon Ornoth D.A. Liscomb ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine. DargonZine 7-4, (C) Copyright October, 1994, the Dargon Project. Editor Ornoth D.A. Liscomb All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb "Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" What better use for that cheesy opening line? It's been six years since I wrote my last editorial and shut FSFnet (DargonZine's predecessor) down. In the fall of 1988 I turned the leadership of the Dargon Project and the production of its magazine over to one of our best writers, John White (aka Dafydd). John has done an admirable job keeping the writers writing and reaching new readers. He's put out several dozen issues totalling over 50,000 lines of text. He deserves recognition and thanks for the effort he's put into making DargonZine a success. As he mentioned in his editorial in DargonZine 7-3, I have reassumed editorial responsabilities. What's that mean? Well, because all the Dargon Project authors collaborate on the actual job of proofing and critiquing stories, you shouldn't expect to see major changes in the content of the magazine. The job of the editor is primarily the production side of things: compiling and distributing issues, publicizing the zine, managing the infrastructure necessary for author collaboration, and some direction setting. There are many changes in the works on this production side. We've developed DargonZine readers' and writers' FAQs to periodically post to likely Usenet newsgroups. We are hoping to set up an automated subscription bot, and exploring other interfaces beyond ASCII text. We're also hoping to find a site to sponsor us and provide us a permanent home and FTP site. This issue is an example of another thing we'll be trying to get away from: one-story issues. In the future, there'll be more, smaller stories per issue, and more serialization. No more gargantuan single-story issues. We're also working to have our newsgroup, rec.mag.fsfnet, revamped. A vote is currently under way to permit us to rename the newsgroup to rec.mag.dargon and make it an unmoderated newsgroup, so that it can be used not only for distribution of issues, but for feedback and discussion between the readers and the writing staff. The text of the "Call for Votes" appears at the end of this issue; *PLEASE* take the time to send an email message to of: I vote YES on rec.mag.dargon Then, get everyone you know to do the same. Every ballot is crucial, so please do whatever you can to get YES votes. ******************************************************************** * IMPORTANT!!! IF MORE THAN 1/3 OF THE VOTES RECEIVED ARE 'NO' * * VOTES, OR IF WE DON'T RECEIVE 100 MORE 'YES' VOTES THAN 'NO' * * VOTES, WE WON'T BE ABLE TO MAKE THIS CHANGE!!! PLEASE VOTE!! * ******************************************************************** In addition to the visible changes, we're also working on many things behind the scenes. The biggest of these is a huge database of Dargon's people, places, and things, that cross-references them with the stories in which they appear. It's quite an undertaking, but it'll be a priceless help for our writers, both old and new. Bitnet readers may notice that issues are now being delivered to them as email, rather than via SENDFILE or DISK DUMP. We apologize for any inconvenience, but for technical reasons I am unable to continue to support those file formats. Thanks to those of you who sent feedback regarding "Love an Adventure", which was printed in 7-2 and 7-3. It was the first sexually explicit story we have ever printed, and your comments give us better insight into our readership. Your continuing feedback is enthusiastically encouraged. Let me close with a familiar refrain to those of you who remember the days of FSFnet. DargonZine is as much your creation as it is mine or John's or the writers'. Your interest and participation are what determines whether we are successful or not. And as we prepare to celebrate the tenth anniversary of FSFnet's first issue with a blockbuster two-issue reprint of the "Best of Dargon", we gratefully acknowledge that you, the readers, have made FSFnet/DargonZine the longest running electronic magazine on the Internet. However, it is imperative that we continue to solicit new readers, and there's a very serious need for new writers. Although we plan to increase our visibility, it's important that you, the reader, do what you can to help us spread the word to people who might be interested. And VOTE YES for rec.mag.dargon!!! With that said, this issue features another story by Max Khaytsus, our most prolific writer in recent years. I had the pleasure of meeting Max and nearly all of the current Dargon writers on a road trip I took this spring, which was a wonderful experience. Max impressed me as articulate, opinionated, and very detail-oriented, and we had great fun terrorizing the staff and patrons of the Johnson Space Center. "...I Shall Repay" takes place during the war between the kingdoms of Baranur and Beinison, and recounts the shipboard exploits of his longstanding protagonist, a certain Rien Keegan... ======================================================================== ...I Shall Repay by Max Khaytsus Yuli 25-27, 1014 Skalen Deven Yasarin. That name alone was more than enough to take any Beinison regiment any distance. He, just like his blood relatives, was supposed to be dead, a symbol of what will happen to those who would disagree with the imperial line, commoner and noble alike. It was a different reason that had brought the Imperial Beinison Army and Navy to the shores of Baranur, but the reason did not matter to Deven. His single-minded goal was the large cog in the Shandayma Harbor, the _Golden_Sword,_ fighting the strong currents at the Laraka delta. She majestically stood against the strong current, holding out better than even the larger, sturdier galleons at her side. She was the ship that carried a number of sages, among them the venerable Lord Haurance Cinofrid, one of the greatest scryers of his day. "I've got you," Deven laughed, watching the ship from shore. "Another day ... two. You won't float well with a hole in your belly." He looked down at the two dead sailors at his feet. There was a sense of satisfaction that another two of his enemies were dead by his own hand. Four decades ago he would have proudly called them his countrymen, but that pride was long since gone, forever replaced with anger and bitterness. No amount of Beinison blood would ever restore his family to life and he would keep that blood flowing as long as he could, to force the Empire to remember his loss. "Commander?" a man's voice followed hurried knocking on the cabin door. "Commander, you're needed on deck." Muriel Dainyn shifted in her hammock, letting the book she held close on her finger. "I'll be right there!" 'It's the wind. It's always the wind,' she thought, feeling the gentle rocking of the hammock. The motion soothed her, bringing back memories of a little girl on board the merchant vessel _Eastern_Star_ many years before. She swung out of the hammock with practiced ease, again opening the book and tossing a coin between the pages to keep her place, then proceeded up on deck. "Ma'am," a sailor said, passing her in the long alleyway she needed to navigate to get on deck. She greeted him, but did not stop, wanting to resolve the problems above and return to her novel. "Commander?" a new voice greeted her as she appeared on deck. "Lord Cinofrid. A pleasure to see you on deck so early in the morning." The elderly man bowed, his grey eyes picking up the sparkle of the sun. "The pleasure's all mine, Commander." "Commander Dainyn?" a sailor called from the quarterdeck. "Yes?" she looked up. "Wind's shifting west, Commander. We need to turn. We can't fight the current and the wind!" "Do it!" "North or south?" "You best handle this," the sage said, noticing the anxiety in the woman's face. "Thank you, my lord." She hurried up the companionway to the bridge over the quarterdeck, taking the stairs two or three at a time. "Icath?" she called the first mate. "Ma'am?" "Can't you handle this?" "No, ma'am. Whichever way we turn, we've got _Broken_Beak_ behind us and she's close enough that we'll take her fore and jib in a turn." The woman turned and looked at _Swift_Sparrow,_ the large galleon aft of them, holding her own into the wind, too close for any fancy maneuvering. "Damn Kaar! Using me for a wind break again! I've got it on my mind to knock that jib right off his deck!" "He's a captain, ma'am. One of Talens' favorites," the mate reminded her. "And my father's a duke ... not one of Untar's favorites. Let's see how fast Kaar dumps in his pants." She looked around, noticing the expectant sailors, all watching her. "Helm, hold her steady. Gennaker and mainsail down!" "We'll lose wind," Icath said. "And Kaar better move his cow, or she'll have a broken beak for sure." Sailors released lines, causing the large sails to drop and the _Golden_Sword_ to catch the current. The cog slowly drifted back, the smaller sails still holding the wind and fighting the current. "Turn back and look, Icath. I don't have the nerve." The mate adjusted his cap, taking the opportunity to glance over his shoulder. "They're watching us." "You'd think I was a Baranurian or something!" the woman exclaimed. "Kaar's an old sailor. He doesn't think you belong." "Tell him I don't want to be here any more than he wants me here," she muttered. "Vane shifted," Icath noted. Muriel looked up at the streamer over the crow's nest. "Dropped sails in time. I'd hate to think where we'd be otherwise." "Pennant to stern!" someone on deck yelled. Muriel and Icath turned to look back at a sailor on deck of the _Sparrow,_ signalling them with a red flag. "Signal him to move back!" Muriel ordered. "Commander," the helmsman said, "I can't hold her into the wind." The rocking of the deck was long an indication of that. "Prepare to put port lee on my order." "_Sparrow_ needs to back off, or we'll be putting her jib though our side," Icath noted. "Aye, sir, but if she don't, she'll put her jib up our poop," the helmsman answered. Muriel watched a man signal the _Sparrow_ with a pennant, but no answer came back. "Drop sea anchor," she ordered. "Ma'am? That'll drag us." "Risk, Icath. It's all about risk. Cavalry will take a phalanx if it consists of cowards." "She's falling back," the signalman announced. "Mizzen up, lee to port!" Muriel ordered. Sailors heaved on ropes in response and the helmsman spun the wheel to the right. "Sea anchor up!" The _Golden_Sword_ slowly settled into the new current. "Doesn't make your day, does it?" Icath asked. "Oh, it makes it, all right. Makes it all bad." "Sorry, ma'am." "Not your doing, Icath. Just watch our back." "Yes, ma'am," he nodded and went to the helmsman as she took the companionway down to middeck. "Lord Cinofrid?" Muriel found the old sage looking off towards the nearing land as the ship was repositioned in the water. "I'm sorry about that scene." "It's quite all right, Commander. I'm just a passenger on your vessel." "So am I, my lord. I'm here only for political reasons." "Your fame on land precedes you," Cinofrid said, "but you shouldn't be a commander when you're a captain." "I don't want to be a captain, my lord. I want my sword and my horse and my regiment. And an enemy to fight." "But you're here now." Muriel flung a strand of oakum overboard. "I'm here because my father is a great captain, too old to go to war, and has dreams of me carrying his burgee into battle. I'd have been better off going with that fleet to Dargon. At least they get to land." "It's all about land to you, isn't it?" the sage laughed. "I was born on land. I sure intend to live on it!" "Do you know what your name means, Muriel?" She looked up at him, a little confused. This was the first time in a month he called her by her given name. Before this it was always 'Commander', just like with the rest of her crew. "It means 'sea-bright'. I'll bet that wasn't an accident on your father's part." "Then why did he encourage me to be in the army?" "I don't know that. I never met the duke," Cinofrid answered, "but you have here a chance to be a legend on sea as well as land. This is an opportunity no one before you has had." "My lord, I may know the terms and maneuvers and command respect of my men, but when I eat breakfast and the ship rocks, I sure wish I was on solid ground." The old wizard laughed. "So do I." "I best get back to my tasks," Muriel said, secretly thinking about the novel waiting in her quarters. There were few real duties to handle while waiting for orders in the middle of the bay -- nothing Icath could not handle himself, except perhaps for the occasional pig-headed move by Captain Kaar or one of his officers. "I should, too," Cinofrid said. "I do my best work rested, in mornings." "I'll walk you down," Muriel offered, letting go of the gunwale. They made only a few steps, when the man in the crow's nest yelled out, "Man in the water!" Activity quickly picked up on deck, with sailors rushing to rails, looking into the sea. Muriel instinctively turned to the _Swift_Sparrow,_ expecting to see someone in the water, but the lookout yelled again, "Man in water on steer-board!" "Steer-board?" Muriel turned back to the side of the ship she was just on. There was no trace of anyone in the water. She neared the gunwale, looking into the water. "Commander?" the mate appeared at her side. "What do we do?" "Where is he, Icath? I can't see a thing!" "Right there," he pointed to some debris in the water about quarter league distant. "But that's just some planks ... a broken crate?" the woman squinted to see better. "You need to work on your sea-eyes," the sailor laughed. "That's a man." "He looks dead," someone announced. "No he's not," someone else yelled. "Lookout?" Icath called up. "What's the word?" "Alive, I think -- he's holding on!" "Commander?" Icath turned to the woman again. "Should we get 'im from the drink?" "Yes." "He's probably Baranurian." "Get him, before Kaar sees him. He might be important." "And if he's not?" Muriel looked at the nearing debris and the man she could now make out holding on to it. "If not, we'll see. We can always throw him back." "Baear, Marbin, get that man out!" Icath ordered. Two men scrambled for the davit extending over the bulwark from midship. Some others moved a gangplank into position to aid their efforts. "Arm a couple of men, just in case," Muriel told the mate. Icath barked out more orders, taking charge of the rescue. The debris was going to pass relatively close to the ship and no effort to move it was needed, but it would not be close enough to make the rescue easy. "Commander," Lord Cinofrid approached the ship's captain, "if you would, take notice of Captain Kaar and his crew." She looked over her shoulder at the _Swift_Sparrow,_ no more than one hundred feet off _Golden_Sword's_ port. The galleon's crew stood on deck, watching the events unfold on her ship, Dasgant Kaar in the forefront, arms folded, a scowl on his face. "Someone go for a swim?" Kaar yelled, noticing Muriel looking at him. "The cook went fishing!" she yelled back. "I've tasted your cook's work, Captain Dainyn. Leave him for the sharks!" The men around Kaar laughed. Muriel turned away, looking at her men work. "Won't you respond?" the sage asked. "No. He's not worth it," she said, trying to show more interest in the action on the other side of her ship. "Besides," she sighed, "I don't know what to say." "It's not what you say, but how you say it," Cinofrid advised. "Don't let him intimidate you." "Ma'am, _Broken_Beak's_ circling 'round," one of the sailors said, indicating to the galleon having raised mainsail and started around the cog's bow. "How much longer?" Muriel asked. "I don't want Kaar to see what we're doing. Icath?! What's going on?" "We almost got him," Icath called back. He had stepped over the bulwark and was holding on to the backstay, to keep from falling. Below and around him sailors cast lines in attempt to secure the debris. "Hurry it along," Muriel said. "Kaar's getting too curious." The mate glanced up at the galleon, making a wide circle, now half way to the cog's bow. "Baear, just pull him in. Don't worry about the planks." Muriel looked at the sage, then at the _Swift_Sparrow._ The galleon had indeed deserved that name, having gone most of the way to her ship's bow in such a short time. She fought the easterly wind, making the turn and that gave a few more moments for the sailors attempting the rescue. All they needed was just a few moments longer. "You're a competitive woman, Commander," Cinofrid laughed. "I see why you like war." "I don't like Kaar and the more I can make his belly ache, worrying about what it is I caught, the better I'll feel." A line on the davit broke, snapping from broadside and flying into the mainmast, where it tangled on the mainstay. "Hold him up!" Icath yelled. "Helm to steer-board!" Muriel called, ordering a turn into the wind. The ship moved to the right slowly, blocking the _Sparrow's_ view of the rescue. "All right, just hoist it up," Icath called down. "Don't bother with the raft." Men heaved on the ropes strung overboard and brought up a plank on which sat a wet sailor, holding on to a semi-conscious man. Two sailors swung the davit in, locking the gooseneck that supported it in place. "Move him to the carling," Muriel instructed, knowing that would take her catch completely out of sight of the _Sparrow._ "Icath, wrap it up!" The ship's physician leaned over the rescued man and started checking his condition. A group of sailors gathered around them, all trying to get a good look at their catch, obscuring their captain's view as well as their own. Icath Taryl assisted the last two sailors on deck as the _Swift_Sparrow_ made her way around the _Golden_Sword's_ bow, Dasgant Kaar leaning on his ship's jib, looking at the crowd on deck and the debris in the water. Icath saluted the large captain as the ships again closed. "Good day to run circles around cogs, Captain." "What'd you catch, Taryl? Your cook or a shark?" "Shark caught the cook, sir. We didn't get much." Muriel entered the cargo hold, where the rescued man was placed, away from the prying eyes of the _Sparrow's_ curious crew and captain. The man they rescued was alive and well, although rather beat up and tired. "A day or two rest and I expect he'll be as good as new," the physician speculated. "He took some water, but he's in good shape." "Thank you, doctor," she answered, studying her catch. He was a tall man, maybe a little better than six foot, with blond hair and bright blue eyes. His clothes were torn from what must have been a struggle that forced him into the water and she suspected that he was not a peasant. "I'll call you if there's anything else, doctor." The physician nodded and left. "Wait outside," Muriel instructed the two armed guards who followed her down on Icath's orders. "No one comes in. If I need help, I'll call you." "Yes, Commander," the men answered and left. Muriel approached her prisoner. He lay, still dripping water, on a platform built of crates with supplies. As she approached, he tried to sit up, but she motioned for him not to. "What is your name?" she asked, speaking in Benosian. There was little chance the man would understand, but it was her native tongue and the one she felt most comfortable in. There was no indication the man understood. That could only mean he was not on her side in this war. "Are you Baranurian?" she asked in the local tongue. It seemed like he grasped some words, but not enough to make sense of them. That surprised her somewhat, but she did not give up. "Do you speak Galician?" she asked in the only other language she knew. The man forced himself up on his elbows. "I am Galician," he answered. He took a deep breath and lay back down, obviously too exhausted to support himself. "Where am I?" "You're aboard the _Golden_Sword_ of the Royal Beinison Navy. What is your name?" Seeing the man was not Baranurian, Muriel relaxed a bit. He was not as big a threat as she feared he might turn out to be, and she was curious what he was doing out in the bay, so far from his homeland. "My name is Rien Keegan," he answered. "I'm very grateful for your help." "I'd have thrown you back if I thought you were Baranurian," she said. Rien turned his head to look at her upon hearing that. "There are sharks out there." "There's a war out there." "Does life mean so little to you that it can be disposed of so easily?" "An enemy's life? Sure." Muriel sat down on a crate across from Rien, studying him. "Well, I guess we all feed on death in one way or another," Rien answered, turning his head away from the woman. Muriel glanced up at the beam that ran above him, that his eyes had to be locked on. "What makes you say that? What do you do?" "I'm somewhat of a scholar." "A scholar?" She examined his form. There were two types of scholars she met. The fat ones who sat on their rumps all day and complained and the skinny ones, who sat on their rumps and complained just as much. This Rien Keegan looked nothing like a scholar. He was well muscled, well tanned and clearly weather-worn. "You don't look much like a scholar." "What does one look like?" "What does one do?" Rien looked at her, understanding the question. "Books are perceptions of the past, by people who experienced and recorded it. Most accounts are biased by what those recording them believed personally, or what they were paid to believe or write. History isn't just a story from the past, a few faded words on parchment or a legend passed from father to son. What we do now, we do because someone else did so before us and the way we can learn about ourselves is by studying ourselves. We are all reflections of our past." Muriel smiled, trying to hide the smile from her prisoner by looking away. "You're a philosopher." "I'm a scholar who doesn't look for answers in books. If we stop exploring life today, who will write the books about modern life that future generations will want to read?" "What are you looking for in Baranur?" "Roots." "Whose?" Rien did not answer for some time. "Everyone's. The west coast of Cherisk is where Fretheod fell. It's where the world was reborn." "Is that so?" Rien shifted on his crates. "Just tell me I'm crazy and leave it at that." "All scholars are eccentric," Muriel answered. "I'm more interested in why Baranur now. And why the river?" "Perhaps I should ask you why Baranur now and why the river?" "I have my orders." "I have my research. I told you why Baranur. This is the west-most part of Cherisk. As for the river ..." "Yes?" Muriel asked after a prolonged pause. "Let's just call it bad timing." "You were attacked?" "Yes." "By?" "A man with a sword." "Benosian?" "A man with a sword. He did not tell me who he was fighting for." Muriel stood up. "You look like someone who can defend himself." "Not against an armed opponent," Rien sighed. "Those are the fortunes of war." "There are no fortunes in war." Muriel frowned. "You best rest. I have other duties to attend to. I will have food sent to you shortly." She walked to the door, pausing as she heard a struggling gasp behind her. "Who are you?" She turned to see Rien sitting up on the crate. He was slouching forward, holding on to his ribs. "I am Commander Muriel Dainyn, captain of this vessel. My physician said you're merely bruised. You will be fine in a few days. I will have him mix something for your pain." She waited a moment longer, then turned and left the hold, giving the guards outside instructions to feed the prisoner and wait. She returned on deck and finding a remote spot along the bulwark, leaned on the rail and watched the sea. This self-proclaimed scholar she caught did not strike her like what he claimed he was. He was fit, tan, strong. He could be a scholar, but she had a feeling. He just did not seem the type. "Commander?" the first mate's voice disturbed her contemplations. "Right here, Icath." He leaned on the bulwark by her, looking down to where the water licked at the hull below. "How's our fish?" "He claims to be Galician ... and a scholar." "Is he?" Muriel shrugged. "He speaks Galician. Better than I. But I don't know the first thing about scholars." "He's pretty fit," Icath said. "Didn't strike me like a book lover." "Same here." "Why was he in the drink?" "Said someone attacked him." Muriel turned, placing her back against the rail. "Anyone here speak Galician?" "Can't say. Lord Cinofrid, perhaps. He'd tell you if our fish's a scholar." "He has more important things to do than question my prisoners," the woman answered. "Let's not forget why he's here." Icath nodded. "You're right. But I forget why we're here sometimes." "How's Kaar?" "_Broken_Beak_ backed off. Kaar hasn't been on deck since the rescue." "Watch him like he watches me, Icath. I don't trust that man one bit." "Nor I, Commander. If it were up to men like him, you'd have no place in the service of the Emperor." "Yes, I would. As a rug." Icath turned to look at her. "Those are harsh words." "I know Kaar." "I'll watch, ma'am." Muriel turned back to the water as the mate left, reviewing the talk she had with her prisoner. Could he be a Galician scholar? 'Keegan' -- was that a Galician name? She kicked at a loose bulwark board. After the evening meal, Muriel told the guards to bring the prisoner to her on deck, then stay at a distance and watch. She wanted to give him a sense of security and a chance to tell her his story again. She did not have to wait long. Moments later, the two guards reappeared with the scholar and led him up to the fore of the ship. "I understand you're feeling better," Muriel said, looking him up and down. She had not mistaken about his build. He was tall and well muscled, not like any scholar she had ever met. "Much better," he smiled, sitting down on a crate. She noticed him wince as he changed positions. "My physician informs me your shoulder and ribs are sore, but there is little bruising." "Lucky twist," Rien answered. "Very lucky, indeed." "How did it happen?" He let out a deep breath. "I was making my way into town, when a man confronted me at the edge of the docks. He drew his sword and ..." Rien looked up. "You're going to make me tell this story until you're satisfied it does not change." "I have to be careful in a war." He nodded. "The man didn't say anything. Just drew his sword and started swinging. I was able to thrust my pack before me and it took the first hit, but he cut it, and his sword caught my sleeve. His second blow was to my side. I suppose that having caught in my clothes, the sword twisted and the flat of the blade pushed me over into the river. I must have been stunned, because the next thing I knew, I was holding on to driftwood, being battered against the side of your ship. "I wish I could tell you who that man was. I wish I knew myself. I've met my share of brigands and robbers, but this was the first man who was unwilling to talk." "You always try talking to those who draw steel on you?" Muriel asked, amused. "I try. Sometimes it works." "Tell me." Rien looked up. "This is hardly an interrogation." "You'd rather I interrogated you?" "No, please ..." "Then amuse me by telling me a story." "I ..." Rien paused, thinking. "I guess it was three or four years ago. I was in Lederia, in the highlands, when my horse's path was blocked by a fallen tree. I got out of my saddle to lead the animal through the brush, when two men appeared from it, both holding swords. I had the feeling they would take my money, but I did not expect they would take me as well. "They wanted my horse, I imagine, because they went through great efforts to be gentle with it and ..." "I thought I heard Galician speech," Haurance Cinofrid appeared from the darkness. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but I love the language. It has words for things we build sentences to describe." Muriel frowned. She had agreed with the sage that he would intrude on their discussion and evaluate her prisoner, which he did right on time, but she wanted to hear the rest of the scholar's story and the sage's interruption quickly removed any chance of that happening this night. Rien glanced at the old man, looking him up and down. He was a grey-eyed, grey-haired man in his sixties, appearing somewhat brittle, but rather agile for someone of his advanced years. Muriel stood up. "Lord Haurance Cinofrid, Rien Keegan." Cinofrid approached. "You're the man who was pulled from the water this morning." Rien stood up as the sage approached and greeted the man in the traditional Benosian greeting. The old man responded in kind, a little surprised. "You've been to our lands?" he asked, letting go of Rien's arm. "I am familiar with some customs, my lord." "I wish I could say the same about Galicia, but your borders are closed to most foreigners." They all sat down again. "My Lord King is a man of old beliefs of family and privacy." "I understand your Lord King is an ancient man," Cinofrid noted. "He is an old man, but far from ancient. His isolation gives birth to many rumors." "So I can imagine." The sage fell silent for a moment, casting a glance at Muriel. "I'm not interrupting, am I?" "Not at all, my lord. I was being entertained with scholarly tales." "You are a scholar, then?" Cinofrid asked. "I am a scholar," Rien agreed. "Your discipline?" Rien shrugged. "People?" "A historian? A philosopher?" "A little of both, I guess. I look at life and try to make sense of it." Cinofrid laughed. "Puglewav, Shewu, Elepniwra ... Keegan?" "I would be honored if some day my name is listed with the greatest thinkers of Fretheod." "Some would call them harlequins and soothsayers." "What would you call them, my lord?" Rien asked. "I'd call them men who had too much free time, whose purses grew and energies dwindled, so they travelled the lands, giving people advice. Puglewav was killed because he dared speak." "But he said things that are to this day the basis of our existence." "But was he right?" "He was to me. He said, 'an unexamined life is not worth living,' so I study the lives that people lead." "He also said that 'no man knowingly does evil'," the sage pointed out. "You don't think he was right?" "Certainly the men who took your money and your horse, and the one who attacked you when you entered the city were were not 'good men'," Muriel said. "Oh, you're not going to involve me in a political discussion, because that's where this question always leads. If you want to understand ethics, you have to understand Shewu." "Surely you have an opinion," Cinofrid protested. "I do," Rien said, "but let me assure you that it is not the same as yours. And it is different from a Baranurian you may find in this town. Even the two of you, I suspect, differ in opinions on the divisions between good and bad." "Good and bad are the lines that divide Gow from Amante," Muriel said. "And the knights of Beinison align themselves with Gow, the Protector?" Rien asked. "Of course!" "Does that mean the knights of Baranur are aligned with Amante, the Masked God?" Rien went on. "Surely they don't view themselves as following the god of criminals, executioners and gladiators!" He paused long enough to let his words sink in, but not long enough to let his audience answer. "Good and bad are the lines that divide the twins, Sanar, the Wise and Talam, the Green." "But they're both gods of healing and nurture and growth," Muriel protested. "But one is a king." Silence lasted for a long span of time, disturbed only by the sound of the waves lapping against the sides of the ship. Muriel kept looking at Rien, Cinofrid off into the murky darkness of the harbor. Somewhere on deck boards creaked as sailors attended to their chores on the dark deck of the _Golden_Sword._ A loose sail flapped in the light breeze blowing in from the south. "I don't understand." Rien turned to look at Muriel. "Think about it. It has nothing to do with what they do and everything with who they are." He stood up as the two guards who had brought him here came back, alerted by the sudden silence. "I see my keepers are here to take me back." He indicated to the two men as they appeared from the shadows. "Good night, Captain. Good night, Lord Cinofrid." He walked over to the two soldiers and let them escort him into the darkness. Muriel remained quiet well after their footsteps disappeared below deck. She tried to make eye contact with the old sage, but failed, twice. Then, looking into the dark water beyond the ship, spoke. "Is he a scholar?" "He asks hard questions." "Does that make him a Galician scholar?" "Perhaps." "My lord ..." "He affected you," the sage interrupted. "He made me think about his world." "Galicia?" Muriel shook her head. "He made me think about what makes us different." "Then perhaps he is what he claims. Puglewav was killed for this crime." Muriel sighed. "He said he was not going to bring up politics." "By saying he would not, he did," the sage stated. "And he knew when to take leave. He did not let the discussion fall on the morality of the war." "But he did let it lie with us," the woman said. She stood up and leaned on the bulwark. "What do I do with him?" "Give him a day or two to recover, then return him to shore, or arrange passage to Beinison on one of our returning ships, should he desire it." "You don't think he's a threat?" "No more than I am, Commander." Muriel frowned. "You're Untar's eyes." "The eyes are old and tired. They don't see as well as they used to. The army struggles more as it reaches further inland. My range is tasked." Muriel turned back to the sea, leaning on the ship as the little girl she used to be had. The ocean had remained much as she remembered it, except much of the childhood romance had turned to mystery of the vast expanse, and the bulwark grew smaller and less comfortable. Life had only managed to become more complex. "You're up early, Commander," Icath called down to Muriel before she was completely out on deck. She paused, squinting up into the bright sunlight, holding on to the fidley for support. The first mate stood on the quarterdeck, fists on his sides, a pipe in his mouth. He adjusted his cap as the woman made her way to the upper-most deck. "Thought you said you were going to take night watch." "Took it." Muriel pulled a cable hanging over the toerail back on board, taking the opportunity to glance into the clear blue water. "_Broken_Beak_ almost tore our jib off at daeg," Icath muttered. "She must've gone up into the delta at night, then hurried back down in the morning. Kaar's sitting on us like a vulture!" Muriel calmly turned and looked at the large galleon, holding wind not far away. There were two sailors on deck watching the _Golden_Sword._ "How close did she come?" "Quite close. Close enough, I could smell their breakfast." "What were they having?" "Maggots on rye," Icath spat. "And salt water." The woman laughed. "You stayed up to tell me that?" "Stayed up to watch the raffenrakers." "Take a break, Icath. I've got plenty of dizzy sailors as it is," Muriel said. "Too tired to sleep," he answered, taking a deep puff of smoke. "I've got a book in my cabin -- _Lives_of_Lords_and_Princes_ -- guaranteed to put you to sleep, if you can put it down ..." "That the one you been reading?" Icath asked. "The same." Icath shook the ash from his pipe. "I don't like to read." "Either way, get off the deck. You've been up for a full day now." He nodded. "Watch the topsail. It's been tearing loose all night. I've had the bowman set it twice this morning." He paused, looking about. "Galician been very quiet. Probably still asleep. Cinofrid came up to sniff the wind. Cook said he wants to make port for new supplies. All right, all right. I'm going." He shook the pipe out again and proceeded below deck. Muriel watched him go, then glanced up at the topsail. She could see a corner binding flapping in the wind. "Bowman, what's with my sails?" she called down. "Need a fresh line, ma'am! I'll need to restring the lines next time we put into port!" She nodded to him. Five days since they left port and everyone wanted back already. The nod turned into a shaking of the head. "In a few days, Bar." He went about his business and she turned to look at the _Swift_Sparrow._ The galleon had neared a bit since she looked at it last and standing on deck, before the castle, was Kaar himself. "Promises to be a good day, Captain," he called to her, in spite of the dark clouds gathering in the west. He made a few steps forward, coming up to the bulwark of his ship. "Good for swallowing the anchor," Muriel agreed. "Now, Captain, is that any way to talk to a fellow soldier?" She sighed and turned her back to him, not having anything more to say. "Who was that fish you caught yesterday?" Kaar continued his questioning. "I understand he was out for a long swim." Muriel calmly proceeded to the lower deck, letting the echos of the unanswered questions remain on the wind. She went below deck, to the cargo section where the Galician scholar was being held. The two guards at the door stiffened up as she approached. "'Morning, ma'am," one said. "How's my guest?" she asked. "He's up, ma'am." "Open the door." The guard fumbled with the key and let her in, waiting for further instructions in the corridor. Muriel entered the hold, not bothering to close the door behind her. Rien Keegan lay across a row of crates he had apparently arranged himself. His arm lay across his face, shielding his eyes from the non-existent light. There was a blanket lying on the floor, at the base of the crates. Muriel paused, looking at his motionless form. "You're in damn good shape for a book lover, Keegan." His arm slipped, the back of his hand slapping against the wooden deck. He quickly pulled it back up, making a fist. "Ah ..." "Don't hurt yourself. My physician isn't good with splinters." Rien brought his hand to his eyes. "I hope someone here is." "Let's go on deck," Muriel said. "Have you sniff some wind." She turned and walked out, pausing by the guards. "Bring us a breakfast on deck. Nothing fancy." "Yes, ma'am." She turned, watching Rien get up and follow her out. When she saw him pause to take a deep breath before standing up and try to disguise a slight limp, she felt a guilty pull at her heart. "You'd be better off sleeping in a hammock," she said when he caught up. "There are a few in the hold." "I didn't want to be presumptuous." "If you're worried about imposing ..." "I already am, I know," he interrupted. "But you haven't offered me my freedom." "Where are you going to go? You're about as deep in the war as you could get." "It'd be worse on the front line." "Maybe ..." They came up on deck and Rien paused, giving Muriel a chance to pick the direction. "Why maybe?" "Up there they only deal with the moment," Muriel explained. "Here I have to live with what they left me. I'd rather be at the front." "At the front or home?" Muriel headed for the fore of the ship and Rien followed. "At home, but if I have to be in a war, I'd rather fight it, than watch the wounded and the prisoners and the bureaucrats." "I think I qualify as all three," Rien smirked. Muriel laughed, stopping at the very edge of the foredeck. "You do, don't you?" Rien proceeded to the bulwark and took a look over the side. "It's clean today," Muriel said. "That's very rare. Most days the river carries a lot of mud into the bay, making the water brown, but today Moire is at rest." Rien shook his head. "Looks like it's going to storm." "We'll put further out when it does," Muriel said. "It's a good idea to keep distance from shore in storms." "How far out?" Rien asked. "Depends. A league or two. Whatever my helmsman feels comfortable with. If we catch a high wave crest, we can come down on a pretty low trough and that can crack the strake. Or worse yet, we can scrape bottom or rip the hull on rocks." "I feel safe already." A sailor appeared with a tray of food. "Where would you like this, ma'am?" She indicated to a barrel tied down on deck. "It is safer than other occupations." "Even in a war?" "Pull up a crate," Muriel indicated to the meal. Rien studied her for a moment. "You always treat your prisoners this way?" "If you're Galician, you're not my prisoner." "And I'm welcome to a hammock and breakfast?" "Yes," she smiled. Rien sat down and she pulled up another crate across from him. At this point she decided to trust him a little more. Even if he did not look it, he seemed like a scholar and was rather defensive about his work. He was always polite and not once indicated desire to run or cause trouble. If his mouth was the most trouble he could be, she found him not to be a threat. "That ship," Rien pointed to the _Broken_Beak,_ off port, "is rather close." "That's _Swift_Sparrow,_" Muriel said, starting on her breakfast. "Her captain doesn't know how to keep his distance." Rien studied the ship for a while, as they ate. "Looks like she ran into something," he commented on the newer looking wood of the jib and the fore of the ship. "We call her '_Broken_Beak_'," Muriel said. "A year or so ago, Kaar caught a good wind and ran her up the Royal Docks at Tasantil. Brought down a whole pier." "And the Emperor didn't get mad?" "That was Untar the First, just a few months before he died. People say he laughed so hard, he wet himself." Rien smiled. "Sounds like it could make a good myth in a generation or two." "It probably will," Muriel agreed. "I already heard rumors that he was falling ill back then. I suspect they're not true, though. He was a tough old man." "And his son?" "His son wants to be tough. He wants to be the legend his father is." "Is that the reason for the war?" Muriel stopped eating and looked critically at Rien. "Last night you said you don't involve yourself in political discussions because ..." "I'm sorry. I was trying to lure a personal opinion out of you." She shook her head. "I follow my Emperor. If he orders we take Baranur, I travel on land. If he orders we war with Bichu, I will walk over water. If his wish is to challenge Veran the Bold, I will follow him through the fires of hell." Almost as if in response, a sudden gust of wind rocked the ship. Muriel instantly got to her feet. "Bowman, take down that sail!" "Yes, ma'am!" a heavy set bearded man yelled back. She sat back down, putting her head in her hands. "I don't know where we're going to get a new topsail ..." She brushed her hair back. "Sometimes I hate this job." "You can't replace your sail?" Rien asked cautiously. "We can't replace a thing," Muriel said bitterly. "Our lines are overextended." She was going to say more, but did not. Baranur's leaders did not realize how thin the Beinison lines had become and she was not going to enlighten the Galician scholar about how much the invading force had to sacrifice to push the way it had from Sharks' Cove to Port Sevlyn. They lost three thousand men taking the city. They must have lost a quarter that getting to Port Sevlyn in five days. "The supply ships are all in the south. Warships have to resupply the troops here. And we don't have enough for ourselves, much less the front lines." "Sounds like you're already following Untar through the fires of hell." "What I do, I do for my Lord." Rien sat back on his crate, finished with his meal. "Your lord must be a very unique man." "He is." Rien eyed the dagger lying on the tray on the barrel. "May I?" "What for?" Muriel asked. "Splinter." She nodded, cautious that he not trick her. He reached out and picked it up, carefully cleaned the edge and then scratched the tip over the back of his hand. A moment passed and Rien again ran the blade over his skin. "Not coming out?" "I can't get myself to press it harder." He moved the dagger again and it slipped from his grasp. Rien quickly reached for it and returned it to the tray. "Sorry." A drop of blood ran down his fingers. Muriel shook her head. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you're a scholar," she laughed. Rien covered his hand, applying pressure to the cut. "I think I got it." "Good thing you kept your fingers," Muriel answered. She paused, looking at the chain and medallion now hanging outside Rien's tunic. The pattern looked vaguely familiar. "Sorry about the mess." "Not like the first time there's been blood on this deck. Let's go wash it out." Rien stood up, the medallion swinging as he righted himself. Muriel caught it and took a closer look. "This crest. Is it Benosian?" Rien nodded. "Someone I used to chase gave it to me." "A woman?" "A woman." "Beinisonian?" He nodded again. "I told you, I travel." "Well, come on." "Ship to fore!" the lookout in the crow's nest yelled. Muriel turned to see the _Swift_Sparrow_ slowly turn in the water ahead of them, pointing her jib off their port. Her new course would take her only twenty or thirty feet off their port side. "Helm to port!" Muriel yelled. "Keep our bow to them!" The _Golden_Sword_ groaned under the shifting weight, but managed to keep her jib pointed at the large galleon, forcing the other ship to pull further away as she adjusted course. "What the hell do you think you're doing?!" Muriel yelled at Kaar, standing at the bow of his ship. "We're supposed to be on the same side!" Kaar's smug expression betrayed his intention to get a look at Rien. A hatch burst open and Icath Taryl, the first mate, jumped out on deck. He froze seeing the galleon pass within grappling range and instinctively reached for a sword that was not there. "Kaar, you pull this stunt again and you're going to have burning tar on your deck!" The galleon's captain let out a laugh. "I don't think your meager crew could handle the assault of my men. Swim with the small fish, Icath -- your own captain's more your size. You girls have a lot of growing to do." The tray the morning meal had been served on went flying over the water, impacting the hull of the _Swift_Sparrow_ with a loud clank. "I should add," Kaar yelled as the distance between the ships grew, "your captain, Icath, even throws like a woman ..." Muriel Dainyn adjusted her hair, watching two sailors stretch two torn sails on deck. The strong morning wind made their task harder, but they managed to pin the two stretches of cloth under a pair of crates. "Figure we can make a whole sail out of this, ma'am," one of the men guessed. "Be pretty heavy, though." "It'll have to do," Muriel said. "At least we didn't lose any of the big sails." "Lost some rigging," the sailor complained. Muriel walked around the stretched out sails, wondering where she would find their replacements. The rigging was easy. There was probably a league and a half of strong rope in the hold. They could re-rig the ship if they wanted, but sails were hard to find in the middle of a war. She looked up at the mast from which the wind of the previous night's storm tore the rigging, pulling down and tearing a folded sail. It was really no one's fault. Just bad luck. "Commander?" She turned to face the first mate. "We took a little water, but no more than in the belly of a good drunk. No hull damage and the deck is fine. We got off easy for a storm like that." "Where am I going to get sails, Icath? Yesterday it was one. Today I need two." "We can try for a trade," he tilted his head towards the other ships in the bay. "For what, Icath? Rope?" "We can ask Talens for sails in exchange for rigging. Say we'll give 'im enough rope to hang everyone left in Sharks' Cove." Laughter sounded from the men on deck. "We'll even do the work, if he gives us a few days at a tavern," someone yelled out. Icath glanced up to the quarter deck, where the yell came from. "Aren't you supposed to be rigging?" "Gallows are just as easy, sir!" Muriel looked at her first mate and laughed. "You're losing." "I don't mind a little bantering with the men," he answered. "And something tells me they enjoy it, too. You should join in." Muriel shook her head. "I should find us some sails." "Why don't you ask Lord Cinofrid?" Icath suggested. "He might know the right people." "I suppose you're right," Muriel said. "He's really been making more use of us than we of him. I think I will call on him." She cast one last glance at the men patching the torn sails and went below deck. Haurance Cinofrid's cabin was a small hold to the aft of the ship. It held food and water on long voyages, but here, not far from shore and a town ready to offer produce, it was a comfortably large room for the sage to do his work in relative quiet and safety. She paused at the door and knocked lightly. She knew the sage to be at work this hour of the morning, but he had never turned anyone away. No answer came to the knock, but the unlocked door cracked open and Muriel entered the hold. The sage sat at the table that was brought in for him, a large wood bowl of water before him. Two candles burned on the table, casting gloomy shadows on the elderly man. He was deep in concentration. Muriel paused for a moment, wondering if she would disturb his work, but then closed the door behind her and approached the sage. There was a faint image in the bowl. A forest and a damaged city wall. For a moment she thought she could see people moving along the wall, but the picture paled. "Sit, Commander. I'll be with you in a moment." She looked at the sage, sitting in his chair, unmoving, eyes tightly closed. He sensed her? The image in the bowl cleared up. From above green trees a hill could be seen. An army stood on that hill. A small force. The enemy's force. The standard that flew before the troops was of the Kingdom of Baranur and next to it flew two others. Muriel could not identify them. The image once again flickered, pulling away from the hill, across the forest, letting the picture blur as everything passed by at a rapid pace. The candles blew out. Haurance Cinofrid opened his eyes. "Gateway?" Muriel asked. He shook his head. "Closer. Much closer ..." "Where did they come from?" "Up north, perhaps. Our scouts missed them, but they're few in number. They're not a threat. They're caught between our forces in Port Sevlyn and the army at Gateway. I will inform the local commander to send a messenger to Port Sevlyn ..." "I wish I could be there ..." Muriel sighed. "It's so hard knowing what's happening out there and not being able to take part." "There are plenty of battles here, Commander," the sage said. "Resistance in the town, a citizen army building in the south, Captain Kaar ..." He smiled sadly. "I sense there is more, but I can't see it. Something watching me ... another sage, perhaps. The enemy can see me ..." "You'll be perfectly safe on the _Golden_Sword,_" Muriel assured the old sage. "The sailors are skilled and our few troops are well trained." Cinofrid nodded. "I don't fear for my well being on your vessel, Commander." "I am glad," Muriel answered. It was time to talk business. "I hope I didn't interrupt ..." she said, knowing well enough that she did intrude on the sage's work. A kind smile spread on the sage's face. "Your interruptions are always a pleasure. What can I do for you, Commander?" "When you're out there, looking around," Muriel indicated to the bowl, "you wouldn't have happened to spot a sail or two I can have?" Cinofrid laughed. "A sail?" "Last night's storm damaged ours," the captain explained. "We have no spares." "Is it serious?" the sage asked, his expression now somber. "Not really. It's just the topsail and the skysail," Muriel explain. "They're small sails, but they do help." "I haven't paid much attention to sails, I'm afraid," Lord Cinofrid answered. "I know there are none in the forest." "Well, I was hoping you'd know ..." He shook his head. "War and sails are your aptitudes." "Well, I guess you help me once and I expect you to help me with everything," Muriel started to rise. "Do you mean lord Keegan?" "The one man in this city who can't hold a knife." "He visited with me last night," the sage said. "I was meaning to tell you. During the storm I couldn't get my work done and he couldn't sleep. I ran across him and his guards in the corridor and we struck up a conversation. He's a most interesting man." "I'm surprised my men let him out of the hold without checking with me first," Muriel frowned. "With a loop of bandages on his hand, in addition to his costumery groaning, he did not seem like a threat to me." "What did you talk about?" "His travels, Baranur, Galicia. He holds many interesting opinions. To a philosophical aspirant such as myself, he's a fountain of ideas. He's lucky it was you and not Captain Kaar that picked him up." "Lucky, huh?" "Commander," Icath Taryl approached his captain, talking quietly so the other men on deck would not pay attention. "Last time _Broken_Beak_ passed by, they tossed this on board." He held out a rock, with a piece of string and a rolled-up sheet of parchment. "They're throwing rocks at us now? Where'd they get a rock?" "Read the note." Muriel took the scroll from the first mate and unrolled it. Black ink, somewhat runny from the heavy humidity, cursively covered two short lines. "Captain Dainyn, we must meet. Dasgant Kaar." "If I didn't value the parchment, I'd tell you to throw it to the sharks." "You won't meet with him?" "What for? He hasn't done anything but insult me and endanger my ship for the last month." She glanced at the _Swift_Sparrow,_ holding sail not far away. "Give me that." She took the rock from Icath. "What are you going to do?" Muriel walked to the stern of her ship and studied the galleon. A few moments passed and the galleon neared. Kaar and two other men appeared on deck. Kaar seemed anxious. "Throw like a girl, do I?" Muriel yelled when the gap between the ships narrowed significantly and flung the rock at the men on the other ship. The missile impacted solidly with one of the men with Kaar and flailing his arms in surprise, he tumbled backwards. Brushing the dirt off her hands, Muriel turned her back on the speechless crew of the _Swift_Sparrow_ and retreated to mid-deck. "You know, that felt good," she confided in Icath. "I wish I had another rock. Who did I hit?" "I think that was their physician," the first mate answered. "You know Kaar will be mad as all hell over this." "He started it." Icath chuckled. "There was one dry rock in all of Shandayma and you just threw it away." "I wish I had another," Muriel muttered again. "Ma'am, sir?" a sailor walked up to them. "A man on the _Sparrow_ just plunged in the water. He's swimming this way." "Was it the one I hit?" "I don't think so, Commander." "Icath?" "I'll check on him," the first mate nodded. Muriel watched the two men leave, then sat down on a crate anchored down on deck, watching other sailors gather at the steer-board of the vessel as the swimmer was pulled on board. Through all this Icath stood behind the men, arms folded, a furrowed brow, the corners of his mouth giving his normally stern expression a tinge of evil. 'He's as mad as I am,' she laughed to herself. The _Swift_Sparrow_ held sail at a respectable distance, having backed off after Muriel flung the rock. There were plenty of men on deck watching the rescue. A half dozen or so held spears and a few more stood by the sails. It was obvious they were worried about the man coming on board. When the swimmer finally appeared, Icath stepped forward. He said something and the man answered. "You talk to me!" Icath yelled. The man obviously refused. Icath folded his arms, studying the man for a long time, then turned and looked at his captain. Muriel nodded for the man to be brought to her. He was dressed like an officer and arrogantly pushed his way between the sailors gathered on deck, following Icath. A full but neat beard hid his expression as he made the short distance across deck. "He refuses to talk to anyone but you, Commander," Icath reported. Muriel set her jaw. "You will talk to my first officer." "I was sent to talk to you." His voice was deep, sea-worn. "Who are you?" Icath demanded. "Answer him," Muriel said after seeing the answer was not going to come. "Lasiel Browin, pilot of the _Swift_Sparrow._" Without warning, Icath spun, delivering a roundhouse punch to the man's jaw, sending him down on deck. "Keep your distance, fish kisser, or I'm going to break your neck!" Muriel cast a stern look at her first mate, but said nothing. A pair of sailors helped the man up. "What did you want?" He wiped the blood from his lip, turning his back to Icath. "Captain Kaar sent me to ask that you come talk to him about urgent matters." "I have nothing to talk to Kaar about." "I am to stay here until you are done, to ensure your safe return." "What does he want to talk to me about?" Muriel demanded. "I can't say," Lasiel answered. "Try." Icath's hand clamped on the back of the helmsman's neck. "Say it, or you're not walking off this ship alive." "I don't know. I am here to tell you that it's urgent ... very urgent, in fact." Muriel glanced at Icath. "What do you think?" He let the helmsman go. "Kaar must be pretty sore at you by now. And so's half his crew." "Captain Dainyn's safety is guaranteed," Lasiel assured. "I'll talk to him," Muriel said. "Go signal him." The mob of sailors on deck accompanied the man to complete the task and Muriel turned to Icath. "I want you to grapple that ship and not let go until I'm back. And I want a spear detail on deck. Everyone who's got a sword wears it. Keep Lord Cinofrid and the Galician below." "Yes, ma'am," Icath said and rushed away. Muriel watched Lasiel signal the _Swift_Sparrow_ to approach and the two ships again neared. "Hold her steady," Muriel yelled to her own helmsman. "Let them do all the work." A pair of grappling irons came over the gunwale, then a pair more flew in the other direction, securing the ships to one another. It took a long time to narrow the gap between the vessels. When the commotion settled down, Muriel approached Kaar, who stood on his ship, a mere hand's reach away. "What did you want?" "Come on board." "We can talk this way." "I want you to talk with someone else. I don't want him on deck." Muriel glanced back at Icath and her men holding the pilot of the _Swift_Sparrow._ "No tricks," Kaar promised. "Please." He extended his hand and she accepted it, first stepping across the gunwale of her ship, then the gap between the vessels and finally over the bulwark of the _Swift_Sparrow._ Kaar did not release her until she was safely across. "I wanted you to talk with my first mate," Kaar said as they left the _Golden_Sword_ behind them. "Or rather, he wanted to talk to you and I felt it was important that he does." "He could have come on deck, or swam over himself," Muriel said. "This charade you're creating is pointless." "You will understand," Kaar said. He escorted Muriel below deck to a large well lit and decorated stateroom where two other men waited. One Muriel immediately recognized as the man she hit with the rock. The other she did not know. As Kaar and Muriel entered, the two men stood up and greeted their guest. "My first mate, Aldyn Kile Nephlan," Kaar introduced the tall muscular man Muriel did not know, "and my physician, Lord Reuus Merramnez." "I am sorry, my lord," Muriel sighed as the physician faced her. "Think nothing of it, my lady." "Please, sit down," Kaar indicated to the chairs around a table that took up most of the room. Muriel chose her chair and the other men settled around her. Kaar sat at her side, his first mate directly across from her and the physician next to the first mate, opposite his captain. "That man you fished out two days ago," Kaar said, "could you tell us who he is?" "That's all you brought me here for?" "We suspect you may not realize who he is," Aldyn said. "He is a Galician scholar," Muriel answered. "I didn't believe him, but he had a long talk with Lord Cinofrid and if the Sage believes him, that's good enough for me." "Your scholar," Aldyn frowned, "is a Baranurian soldier." He paused to let Muriel express her disbelief. "Don't frown, Captain," Kaar advised. "Hear him out." "Your scholar," Aldyn continued distastefully, "and I have somewhat of a history. About ten days ago I was in the city, with some of the men. We had two days in port and wanted to relax. We went to a tavern and spent the day there and headed back in the evening. Just short of the docks, we were assaulted by two men and a woman. The men with me were killed. A man and the woman probably died. The survivor was the man you fished out." "I don't think so," Muriel shook her head. "He hasn't been in town that long and he knows nothing of fighting." "He knows plenty of fighting, I assure you," Aldyn said. "The men I was with could swear to that, too, if they could. Perhaps a face to face confrontation would prove it to you? I've been careful to avoid showing my face on deck." "You're mad," Muriel said. "He doesn't even speak Baranurian!" "He speaks Baranurian," Aldyn said, "and if I'm right, his Beinisonian is rather good, too." "I don't think so," Muriel turned to Kaar. "All the proof we have is two dead sailors and my first mate's story. I doubt he killed those men himself. When our men returned to the site of battle to pick up the bodies, it was a rather grisly scene. I have no reason to question the story." "All right," Muriel agreed, "if I let you on board and give you a chance to talk to this Baranurian warrior, will your anxiety be relieved?" Aldyn nodded. "It would," Kaar agreed. "And I won't bother you again." "Kaar, you're not going to bother me again either way." He laughed. "Let's get it over with," Muriel got up. "If I know Icath, he's boiling tar to throw at you by now." The three men got up and followed her back on deck. "I'll go over alone," Aldyn said to Kaar. "I'm sure there'll be no risk. There are plenty of sailors on the _Sword._" "Be careful nonetheless," Kaar instructed. "We'll cut the cables so it doesn't arouse the Baranurian's suspicions ... if that's all right with you, Captain Dainyn?" "Perfectly all right," she responded, stopping at the bulwark of Kaar's ship. "What kind of an idiot docks steer-board?" she paused, looking at Icath, across the gap between the ships. "We did, ma'am." She shook her head and started her climb. "We're having a guest join us, Icath. Don't hit him." The first mate offered his captain help getting across while other sailors aided the man following her. "Icath Taryl," Muriel introduced her first mate, "Aldyn Kile Nephlan, first mate of the _Swift_Sparrow._" "Cut the lines," Kaar barked an order from the deck of his galleon. "Release their grapples," Muriel ordered her men. "What's this about?" Icath asked. He nervously took out his pipe and started stuffing it with tobacco. "Your fish is Baranurian," Aldyn said. "I'm here to prove it." Icath skeptically folded his arms. "They'll leave us alone after this," Muriel told him. "That alone is worth it." "And you just took his word for that, I'll bet," Icath muttered. Muriel's expression darkened, but she did not respond. "Let the pilot go," she yelled to her sailors. "Helmsman, pull us away, fore to current!" The _Golden_Sword_ slowly turned in the bay's current, facing the delta of the Laraka and the tall winding spire above the keep in the middle of the river. "What's Cinofrid doing on deck?" "He was curious," Icath explained, "and getting him to go below is like asking the wind to turn." "Sage," Muriel called the elderly man over. Both he and the _Sparrow's_ pilot made their way over to her. "My lady," the sage bowed. "It's a pleasure this morning." "It's a pleasure every morning, my lord. I was wondering if you still believe that the man we caught is a Galician scholar." "Having discussed the arts of philosophy with him, I have to say he's very learned -- and opinionated -- and seeing he only speaks Galician, I can't imagine him to be anything but. I stand by my initial statement." "This gentleman here," Muriel indicated to the first officer of the _Swift_Sparrow,_ "believes he's not." "And never having seen this man, what do you base your claim on?" the sage inquired. "But I have seen this man before. I met him in battle ten days ago." "Then he will recognize you if he sees you?" "That's what I hope to show." "Do you just want him brought on deck?" Muriel asked. "It would probably be easiest," Aldyn agreed. "Marbin, bring the Galician up here," Muriel ordered one of the sailors. "Right away, Commander." Lord Cinofrid sat down on a crate. "This will be an interesting display whether you're right or not." "I'm right," Aldyn eyed the sage. "I know I'm right." Icath sat down by the sage. "Do you care to wager, my lord?" "I suspect we'll be wagering on the same side," the sage leaned over in mock whisper and both men laughed. "Why don't you start talking to him and I'll walk over then," Aldyn suggested. "I don't want to give him the advantage." "Go," Muriel nodded and he departed, leaving her with Icath and Cinofrid and Lasiel, the galleon's pilot. "Listen," Icath said to the man standing by Muriel, "I'm sorry for punching you. That was out of line." "It's all right. We're all a little heated now," Lasiel said. "We all follow orders." "You hit him?" the sage asked. "Right on the jaw," Icath agreed. The sage shook his head. "It's fine, my lord," Lasiel said. "It was a heated moment and I was pretty pigheaded myself. I'll get over it. The teeth are fine." "They're coming," Icath warned. "Act normal." "Commander?" two sailors stopped by the group, Rien between them. Everyone turned to the scholar. "Good morning, Keegan," Muriel said in Galician. "Take a seat." "Commander," he greeted her cautiously, then did the same with Icath and Cinofrid. When Icath stood up, he sat on the crate as instructed by the woman captain. "Rien Keegan, Lasiel Browin" Muriel made the introduction. "Lasiel is with the Advocate General," she went on. "We have to ferry him down coast and when I mentioned your adventure on the docks to him, he wanted to know about that man you fought." "He fought me," Rein corrected. "Any description would help," Muriel said. "He wore a helmet," Rien said thoughtfully, "but he had a light brown beard ..." "Would you be able to recognize him?" a voice sounded behind Rien. Rien stood up and turned, his eyes narrowing at the site of the _Swift_Sparrow's_ first mate. The expression on his face betrayed a glimmer of angry recognition. "... Because I recognize you!" the man yelled in Beinisonian and grabbed Rien's tunic, pulling him close. "And once again, it's just you and me." Rien's arms instinctively came up to break the other man's hold on him, but Aldyn gave him a shove. "I don't know you," Rien struggled to sit up on the deck. Icath and Lasiel helped Rien up, but did not release him. "I don't think anyone here believes that," Aldyn said. He again took Rien's tunic in his fist and pulled the supposed Galician forward, against the grip of the men holding him. Rien grimaced as the chain of his medallion tightened around his neck. "You ambushed and killed my men," Aldyn went on. "In cold blood, with no mercy. You will answer for these crimes." He gave Rien a rough shove, tearing his tunic and the chain around his neck, letting the medal fall. "You will pay." The medal fell to the deck, spinning about for a moment, echoing the words. "You!" Cinofrid suddenly stood up. He almost tripped on the folds of his robe, stepping away from the crate. "You're the one!" A small flame danced on the deck, around the now still medal and a circle of mist rose around it. A cloaked figure shifted in the settling darkness, letting the wind wrap the black cloak around the body, with just the very bottom of the hem playing with the wind. Waves in the bay steadily licked at the pier, producing occasional groaning sounds from the wood. The man chuckled. It was done. It was done at a terrible cost, but it was done. It was both for justice and victory. "Deven?" another figure came on the pier. The man was tall, dressed in light armor and wearing a sword. His long blond hair blew in the wind, offering no resistance to the elements. "Deven?" The cloaked figure turned. "You saved the ship." "Our deal was for the sage." "It was for all of them. You liked the woman." "I learned the enemy had heart and soul ... even the sage." "You don't know the enemy." The cloaked man turned back to the waves. "It's time to go, Deven. We did all we could. Adrea's dead. You had your revenge and I had mine." The cloaked man turned again. "Death no longer satisfies me. There is nothing I can take from them to make them feel as empty as I do. There is nothing that they have that's as valuable as what they took from me." The armored man reached out, holding a medallion on a chain out for the other. "It's over for now." The cloaked figure moved near, accepting the offering with a pale hand. "This symbol will yet burn in the hearts and minds of those who defied it, of those who had not the courage to stand up for what was right. The empire will bow to the name Yasarin." A distant flash of lightning cut across the now dark sky somewhere off in the distance and a rumble of rolling thunder suppressed the sound of the surf. ======================================================================== REPOST: FIRST CALL FOR VOTES (of 2) unmoderated group rec.mag.dargon Newsgroups line: rec.mag.dargon DargonZine fantasy fiction emag issues and discussion. Votes must be received by 23:59:59 UTC, 1 November 1994. After this CFV appears on news.announce.newgroups it will be sent to the mailing list the DargonZine readership as a whole. The posting will be clearly labelled as a "repost" of a CFV in news.announce.newgroups. This vote is being conducted by a neutral third party. For voting questions only contact rdippold@qualcomm.com. For questions about the proposed group contact Ornoth D.A. Liscomb CHARTER Rec.mag.dargon will be used both for the distribution of DargonZine, an electronic magazine, and also for open public discussion of the magazine's content. DargonZine prints fiction produced by aspiring amateur writers who are members of the Dargon Project, which has been active since 1985. Dargon Project stories are all set in a shared medieval fantasy setting (a la "Thieves' World"). "Dargon" refers to the town and surrounding lands where most stories take place, as well as the surname of the area's ruling family. DargonZine has worldwide distribution. Email subscriptions can be obtained from Starting with the existing newsgroup rec.mag.fsfnet, the proposal should be thought of in two parts: removal of the existing moderation, and renaming the newsgroup. Although there are two distinct changes taking place, they will be voted on as a single proposal. Rec.mag.fsfnet was originally created with the intent to serve solely as a moderated distribution vehicle for issues. At present, the only articles posted to the newsgroup are issues of DargonZine as they are published. However, the Dargon Project writers would like to remove the moderation from the newsgroup so that it can be opened up for reader feedback and exchange of opinions and ideas between the readership and the writers. However, we would also like to take this opportunity to change the name of the newsgroup. The Dargon Project first began publishing stories in FSFnet, an electronic magazine that ran from 1984 through 1988, during which time the newsgroup rec.msg.fsfnet was created. When FSFnet's editor graduated and left the network, the new editor began putting out issues under the name DargonZine. Because FSFnet has been defunct for over five years it is appropriate that we change the newsgroup name to something more recognizable. Our readers would immediately associate rec.mag.dargon with the Dargon Project and DargonZine. HOW TO VOTE Send MAIL to: voting@qualcomm.com Your mail message should contain one of the following statements: I vote YES on rec.mag.dargon I vote NO on rec.mag.dargon You may also ABSTAIN in place of YES/NO - this will not affect the outcome. Anything else may be rejected by the automatic vote counting program. The votetaker will respond to your received ballots with a personal acknowledgement by mail - if you do not receive one within several days, try again. It's your responsibility to make sure your vote is registered correctly. One vote counted per person, no more than one per account. Addresses and votes of all voters will be published in the final voting results list. ======================================================================== DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 7 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 5 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 11/15/1994 Volume 7, Number 5 Circulation: 617 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb A Lesson Learned Bill Erdley Yule 08, 1014 Tracks Jon Evans Yule 24, 1014 Kidnapped 2 Max Khaytsus Yule 23, 1014 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine. Issues and public discussion are posted to newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 7-5, (C) Copyright November, 1994, the Dargon Project. Editor Ornoth D.A. Liscomb All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb In the minutes before I send out a new issue, I always get butterflies. It's a moment not only of pride, but of anxiety as well. Did I remember to update the circulation and issue numbers? Did I format all the submissions correctly? Is the JCL I send to Listserv correct? And the question that always concerns me most: how will the network react to the 100+ megabytes of traffic I'm about to generate? Well, for Volume 7 Number 4 the answer to that question was: badly. And if you notice this issue's circulation as compared to last, you'll get an idea why. When I sent out 7-4, I received errors from over 400 invalid recipients, and most of the error reports included full copies of the issue I'd sent. Now, sending an issue out is easy -- I send just one copy to Listserv. But neither myself nor my upstream sites were able to effectively deal with the 50+ megabytes of rejected mail that I received. Oops! Hence the new policy of sending out a small "trial balloon" mail file a few days prior to sending the actual issue. The rejected mail was almost entirely "unknown user" and "unknown site" messages. The latter appears to be a symptom of Bitnet sites switching to being Internet-only sites. Unfortunately, for many of these sites, I have no way to construct an Internet domain based upon their old Bitnet node name. I've tried to track down several sites, but the majority remain unknown. Anyone with any bright ideas on how to reach these people, please speak up! This also highlights the importance of Bitnet users notifying me of their Internet domains. I'd encourage all subscribers who are on Bitnet to find out their Internet address and send mail to me at domain, rather than a Bitnet address that may expire. Weighing in on the other end of the scale was the passage of the rec.mag.dargon voting by a margin of 156 to 37! Our old newsgroup, rec.mag.fsfnet, has been renamed rec.mag.dargon. It will not only be used to distribute issues, but is also open to postings by anyone, for open discussion between DargonZine readers and writers. I'd like to encourage you to post your comments to rec.mag.dargon, and again thank everyone who participated in the vote -- it wouldn't have happened without your help! We have an interesting problem, however. Lots of wargamers started flooding rec.mag.dargon, thinking it was a forum for TSR's Dragon Magazine. While we're still dealing with the chaos that resulted, a number of these fantasy gamers have requested subscriptions! Since 7-4 came out in mid-October, over fifty new subscribers have signed on, and we've had the biggest influx of new writers in years! Another pleasant thing that happened recently is that Christy Phillips has made the back issues of both FSFnet and DargonZine available in a special ezine library of America Online (AOL). She'll also be making new issues available as they come out. This is a great development, because we've historically had problems getting issues distributed to AOL users, due to their flaky mail system and that system's annoying and arbitrary email file size limitations. Kujos (sic) to Christy! AOL users should be able to access the back issue collection via: Keyword PDA *Mac* users select "Software Libraries" *All* users then select "Palmtop Paperbacks" The path from there is: Ezine Libraries->Science Fiction/Fantasy/DargonZine. With all that said, I'd like to welcome the readers who have recently joined us, and once again echo the familiar refrain. Spread the word about DargonZine to people you think would be interested, and if you're a serious aspiring writer who'd like to join the project, we'd love to hear from you! This issue begins with a short story about Derrio, Bill Erdley's deaf squire to Luthias Connall. I met Bill on my road trip this spring. You should send him mail congratulating him on his recent marriage -- and while you're at it, congratulate him on getting "A Lesson Learned" printed, after it sat on the back burner for months. Bill will appear again very shortly with "the Evening After" and "the Scent of Balsam". Bill's story is followed by "Grim" Jon Evans' newest, "Tracks", in which Goren Winston, the Lord Keeper of Gateway Keep faces an important decision. Grim's a very gracious and laid back host, but beware his penchant for stealing your shampoo! He's been one of the movers and shakers in the project of late, and he too will appear again very shortly, with "Storm Dancer", the first installment in a new storyline that I'm sure you'll enjoy. And, of course, the omnipresent Max Khaytsus makes yet another appearrance with the continuation of his story "Kidnapped". So, read on! Oh, and write if you find work! ======================================================================== A Lesson Learned by Bill Erdley Yule 08, 1014 "Good Evening, Squire." The tone of voice made it clear that there were no good wishes in the greeting. The youth stepped in front of Derrio, blocking his path. "I said 'Good evening'. Aren't you going to answer me?" Derrio tried to walk around the lad, keeping his eyes cast downward in an attempt to avoid what he knew was coming. The boy pushed Derrio back. Derrio's head snapped up and he stared at the belligerent youth. *Go* *Away* "Don't flap your arms at me, buffoon! You insult me by not answering my greeting. I think that you need to be taught a lesson in courtesy ..." The youth leapt at Derrio, arms extended. Derrio, instead of retreating as the youth expected, stepped to the side, pushing the stumbling bully past him, then ran. He didn't feel like fighting again. The marching and the chores were hard, the training was tough, and the constant state of near panic had everyone on edge; but nothing was as bad as the taunting that had become an everyday occurrence. Derrio was constantly having to avoid people who meant him harm, and face up to people who tried to make him cringe. He tried to avoid trouble as much as he could, but it seemed that trouble sought him out. He finally went to Luthias. *Question* *Why* *Squires* *Hate* *Me* Luthias, his mind on matters of war and peace, didn't catch all of Derrio's signs, and shook his head. "I don't understand." *Squires* *Fight* *Me* *Much* "The other squires fight with you?" *Yes* "Do you provoke them?" *No* "Do you fight back?" *Yes* "Who's squires are they?" *Knight* *Nose* *Large* The knight chuckled at his squire's description, but sobered quickly. "Ongis. I might have known. The man's arrogance has even outgrown his rather large nose. And, it appears, his squires are learning well from him." *Squire* *Laugh* *Me* "Derrio, there are two ways to deal with a bully. You can do nothing, or you can do something that will make him stop. Doing nothing may help, or it may make him angrier. There is, however, the matter of an unrequited blow -- something that no knight will ever stand for." *Question* *I* *Fight* *They* *Stop* The knight's face softened. "Perhaps. You can make his attacks too painful to continue, or too embarrassing. You must find a way to accomplish one of those two objectives. It is quite a bit like the war we are fighting. The only way to get the Benisons to stop is to embarrass them so badly at court that they don't want to continue, or hurt them so badly in the field that they can't continue. Only with this war, the chance for the former is past, and we are limited to the latter." His mind back on the war, Luthias turned and walked into his tent. That evening, when Luthias sent the youth off to find Michiya, the bully caught up with him again, and this time he brought friends. Two of them caught Derrio from behind and held him, while Mikus, Derrio's original opponent, stood before him. "Now, idiot, you will learn to respect your betters ..." WHAM! The blow drove the breath from Derrio's lungs. "... and with that respect, you'll learn courtesy ..." WHAM! The bile rose in his throat. "... and you definitely need to learn courtesy ..." WHAM! "ENOUGH!!!" Luthias' voice was a sweet sound, indeed. The boys released Derrio and he slumped to the ground, spent. The sound of flesh hitting flesh sounded briefly through the damp air, but it wasn't Derrio that was being struck. "Cowards!! You haven't the courage to face your opponents one-on-one! If you were my squires, not only would I release you from apprenticeship, but I would beat you to within an inch of your cowardly lives! Go, before I forget my responsibility to this army and reduce its numbers by three! GO!" The three ruffians scrambled to their feet and ran. "Are you OK?" Luthias' concern was evident in his soft tone. *Small* *Rest* "Michiya has returned to my tent. Come back with me and clean yourself up." The next morning, Derrio's chores again took him into the camp at large, and once again he and Mikus crossed paths. "Derrio, I'm gonna tear you apart! Not only did I get a beating from Sir Luthias, but Sir Ongis punished me for embarrassing him. You're not gonna cause me any more trouble." Derrio's vision began to tinge with a bloody haze. This was infuriating! He couldn't even leave the tent anymore without having to defend himself. Mikus and Derrio circled each other for a moment, Mikus searching for an opening, and Derrio looking for an escape. Mikus moved first, rushing Derrio. But instead of running away, Derrio lunged forward, throwing a "sunfist" punch as Michiya had shown him. Fist met face, and the youth fell to the ground, blood fountaining from his nose and mouth. *Greetings* Derrio stepped around the fallen youth and walked away. Later, as Derrio approached Luthias' tent, he could hear voices raised in anger. He stopped outside the tent flap to listen. "It is not your place to lesson my squires in courtesy!" a dark voice roared. Sir Luthias' voice was steady. "You are wrong, sir. It is the duty of a Knight to correct the behavior of all those who aspire to the chain." The dark voice answered. "My squires behave as I teach them." With that, the dark voice acquired a name: Sir Ongis. "As does my squire," Luthias replied. "I taught him to give a curt reply to anyone churlish enough to taunt him." Sir Ongis snorted. "So your idea of a 'curt reply' is a blow to the mouth?" Derrio started. The news of his lashing out at Mikus had reached Luthias before Derrio could get back to explain. "My squire is mute, sir. He can only speak with his hands." Derrio smiled. "You! I should teach you a lesson in how to respect your betters!" "At your leisure, sir. I look forward to thrashing you as thoroughly as my squire thrashes yours." Derrio's smile broadened. There was a short silence, then Luthias spoke again. "Shall I have you escorted to your pavilion?" Derrio backed away, and found himself hiding behind several horses. "Dismissed." Luthias' voice had within it the note of finality. Sir Ongis burst from the tent, strode several paces, then stopped; obviously attempting to regain control over his temper before he returned to his tent. He spied Derrio standing by the horses. "I will teach your knight the lesson that he badly needs, a lesson in manners." The knight was speaking softly, as if to prevent Luthias from overhearing. "And when I am finished, YOU will learn a lesson in respect!" He then turned and stormed off. For several minutes, Derrio stood and quieted his quivering insides. He not only feared Ongis' threat, but Luthias' retribution as well, for it was his fault that Ongis had been here. Finally, his shaking halted, he approached the tent. "If it rains tonight, we might have a little trouble. Mud could --" Sir Luthias looked up and spied Derrio entering the glow of the campfire. "Come here, Derrio." The Knight inspected his squire sternly, noting the blood, the dirt, and the bruises. "Brawling with Ongis' squires again?" Here it comes, Derrio thought. He hung his head and nodded. Luthias waited a moment before asking, "Did you win?" Derrio couldn't help but grin, thinking that perhaps he would escape punishment. "Good. Now come over here and look at the plan for tomorrow." He didn't get angry! I thought for sure that he'd be upset because I disgraced him in front of Sir Ongis. He crossed over to the fire and looked at the markings on the ground. Luthias used his stick as a pointer and explained, "We'll meet Beinison here, and after a while, we'll retreat into this meadow. The archers will be hidden in the trees around the field. The troops will split into four parts -- one to protect the archers on each side, and the last to seal off the meadow -- and the archers will open fire." Derrio studied the plan intensely. It suddenly dawned on him ... this was a trap! A trap wasn't honorable! It didn't allow the opponent a fair chance. *Trap* "Yes, of course, it's a trap," Luthias agreed. The Knight laughed at Derrio's appalled expression. "What's wrong? Don't you think it will work?" *No* Derrio shook his head. He pointed an accusing finger at the Knight Captain, another at the battle plans, then shook his head. *You* *No* *Do* *This* "Unlike me?" Luthias didn't understand his squire at all. "What do you mean?" Disgusted, Derrio motioned reproachfully at the trap. *This* *No* *Honor* Again, Luthias misunderstood. "It's not evil! This is war, Derrio. I'm trying to save lives." *This* *Death* Luthias had to admit it. "Yes, it will kill many, too, but that's the purpose." The squire was confused and angry. Luthias had taught him about honor, now he was about to perform a most dishonorable act; and many people would die because of it. *This* *No *Honor* The knight was getting angry. "This isn't a matter of good and evil, Derrio, this is war." *NO* *You* *No *Honor* Luthias hurled his drawing stick into the fire in frustration. "You can't judge me by my battle plans!" Luthias cried. "A man's conduct in PEACE makes him good or evil, Derrio, not his conduct in war. The only moral decision in war is whether or not to start one. After that, it's survival -- kill or be killed, and end as quickly as you can." But doesn't war include honor. Isn't there to be justice, fairness, in battle? The young man's confusion grew. *Question* *This* *Fair* Luthias smiled. "Of course, it's fair. There are no rules in war." Confusion suddenly rushed onto silent Derrio's face. *Question* *You* *Lawrence* *Fight* Luthias shook his head, not understanding. *Knight* *Drink* *Cup* Again, Luthias shook his head. Exasperated, Derrio grabbed a small stick and wrote in the dirt, "LAWRENCE." "Oh." Luthias said, finally comprehending Derrio's question. "That wasn't the same." Derrio shook his head in utter bewilderment. Luthias now seemed to understand Derrio's confusion. "Single combat does have rules. It's not the same as war." Derrio again shook his head. "You used to wrestle Sir Edward's squires, didn't you?" Derrio nodded, uncertain. "You were ... playing a game of sorts, and there were rules. With Ongis' squires, though, you're just trying to beat them into the ground." Derrio nodded again, still not understanding. "When you wrestle Sir Edward's squires, it's like a Knight's single combat. You fight by rules. Thrashing Ongis' boys is like a war -- the object is to win, and win fast." Derrio considered this. *Question* *You* *Kill* *Lawrence* "Yes. I would have killed Sir Lawrence if I had to, Derrio, but I would have done it under the rules of chivalry." *Question* *Trap* *Kill* *Lawrence* Luthias shrugged. "If he's there tomorrow, he'll die by the bow, the same as the rest, if all goes well." *Lawrence* *Honor* "He is a good man," Luthias agreed, "but if I were in his trap, he would let me die, too. This is war, Derrio, and we all do what we must." *I* *Not* *Understand* Luthias smiled sadly. "You'll learn." Luthias gazed down at his hands. "Believe me, Derrio; you'll learn. We all do." That night Derrio thought long about Luthias' plans for the upcoming battle and the differences between a battle of war and a battle of honor. Fighting had always been an honorable conflict between two equal opponents -- with rules and courtesies and the better man winning. Now Luthias is making a difference between war and combat. If war is "get him before he gets you", and chivalrous combat is "prove to him that you are a better fighter", where is the line drawn between them? If two knights meet on the battlefield in the middle of a skirmish, how do they fight? Do they follow the chivalrous rules of combat, or do they do anything that they can to win? Luthias had also talked about the trouble with Ongis' squires. He made it sound like a war, with the outcome being the only important thing; "to win and win fast." But if honor was a "sometime" thing, was it really important? Sleep was a long time in coming. When the morning sun was greeted by the call of "Break Camp!" and "Prepare to March!", the young squire had come to a decision. 'Honor', as a concept, was like combat. One could follow the rules, or ignore them. It was a choice, and each individual situation demanded a decision. Choose to act chivilrously or not, choose to follow the rules or break them ... ... Choose to win or to lose. *Greetings*. "Look mates, it's the talker!" Mikus could hardly believe his eyes. Before him stood Derrio, right here in Ongis' compound! "I believe he's come for his daily lesson ..." Derrio's gestures were unmistakable. *You* *Me* *Fight* *Now* Then he turned and walked out of the compound. "Hey! Why not fight right here?" Derrio kept walking. "Hey, Idiot! Where are you going?" Mikus and his fellow squires ran to catch up to Derrio. Mikus grabbed Derrio by the shoulder to spin him around. "It's time to ..." WHAM! Derrio spun around and swung his hand over the outstretched arm of Mikus. Before the youth could react, Derrio stuck him in the throat with an open hand slap, causing Mikus to fall to the ground, gasping and gagging. The other two squires stepped toward Derrio, and he pulled a cudgel from beneath his cloak. *Come* The smile that accompanied the gesture was icy and hard. One lunged at Derrio from the right. Derrio stepped forward, spun, and struck the other boy between the legs with the club. He stepped sideways to avoid another rush, then swung around and down, striking the last youth in the back of the skull. All of his assailants down, Derrio turned back to Mikus, who was still trying to lose the constricting feeling in his throat. Mikus, seeing Derrio's approach, tried to rise, but Derrio swung the club and struck Mikus in the knees, felling him once again. Then he stepped up to his fallen adversary, looking down into the fearful eyes of a coward. *You* *No* *Knight* Then he spat in the face of the frightened boy. As he turned and strode back to his own tent, he wondered if his last words were to Mikus, or to himself. ======================================================================== Tracks by Jon Evans Yule 24, 1014 Marcus Ridgewater walked slowly down the main hall of Gateway Keep, the links of chain in his armor less than perfect after the previous days' battles. The broad sword at his side came within a foot of the ground as he half-walked half-loped toward his rightful leader, Goren Winston, Lord Keeper of Gateway Keep. Marcus' wounds were many. Arrows which had grazed his armor left bruises on his skin. Sword cuts left loose links hanging from his armor, and blood stains on his shirt and pants. He looked nothing like the epitome of chivalric knights in shiny armor. But then, he was not a knight. Goren Winston sat in his father's seat at the head of the table. The chair was large, with ornate patterns carved into its heavy wood, and almost made Goren appear to be a large child. Goren, however, while not his father's size and bulk, could not be mistaken as such. His beard was thick and unkempt, and the sadness in his eyes hinted at more than his 23 years. In the last year, he had killed both his father and his brother. Only one had been an accident. He rubbed his fingers through his beard, scratching along his jaw, and stared vaguely beyond the table. His leg ached where a shard from a magical stone had pierced his skin and muscles. The rest of the cuts and bruises on his own body had faded into a single, continuous, dull pain which generally permeated his whole being. The salves which he had administered to the cuts would heal them, in time, but his right leg would forever burden him with a slight limp. "Lord Keeper," Marcus spoke in his most formal tone. Goren had all but ignored Marcus' approach, and was slightly startled at the sound. "What is it, castellan?" Goren sat straight in his father's chair -- his own chair, now -- and looked at Marcus. "My lord, with the assistance of Lord Morion and Sir Luthias, the Beinison threat has been forced into retreat. Furthermore, with Lord Morion's men continuing presence at Gateway Keep, and the military advice of Lord Morion himself, I'm confident that Gateway Keep is not in need of my services, at this time." "What are you talking about, Marcus?" "Now that my presence is not required, I intend to take a leave of absence from Gateway, my lord. My son is missing, and I intend to find him." "You can't leave, Marcus." "Lord Keeper--" "Have you got the slightest idea where to begin?" Goren looked at his father's best friend. A man who had been almost a father to him. "You are under orders from the Crown. You serve in a military unit dedicated to the service of Baranur, and Baranur is at war. You can't leave now just because you're going through a personal emergency. You've got a responsibility." "My lord, some men have found a drain in the dungeons that has been uncovered. It leads into the Vodyanoi, and it's large enough to fit a small man, or a boy. I've also discovered a youth who saw Thomas leave with ... Captain Clay." "Clay?" "Aye. The boy was told to keep quiet about it. Clay cooked up some story about a mission he and Thomas were going on. But not that Beinison is gone and they haven't returned, I suppose the boy thinks they might be in a bit of trouble." Goren stared at the floor in front of Marcus. Captain Bartholomew Clay was the mercenary that had plotted with Goren's brother, Ne'on, to kill their father and usurp the seat of Keeper of Gateway. They had succeeded on both accounts, and imprisoned Goren for months before he was able to escape. Goren owed a debt to Bartholomew Clay that he dearly wished to repay. "I suppose you're right. Let's check out that drain." Goren squatted by the edge of the drain while Marcus held aloft the oil lantern. The flame afforded little visibility in the dark stone passages of Gateway's dungeons, and almost no light shone down into the drain. "Can you see anything?" "Yes," Goren replied, looking at Marcus. "Darkness. The lamp casts its own shadow into the drain. I'll have to go down into it." "Goren," Marcus put his left hand on Goren's shoulder. "Let me. If anything should happen-" "What? Marcus, look at you. You're almost twice around the size of me. I'll be hard put to get into that drain, but you could never fit. And if you did, how would we get you out? Besides, I've got a stake in this, too. I want Clay's head." Goren searched around the floor. "Why isn't there an old torch or something around here? What happened to castle dungeons with wooden planks and torch ends littering the ground?" Marcus smiled. "She's less than thirty years old, Goren. And your father wasn't the type to send every peasant who couldn't pay taxes into the dungeons. This area wasn't used but more than two or three times." "Yes." Goren's gaze seemed to focus beyond the wall. "And I was one of them. Tell me, Marcus ... where exactly was my cell?" "That direction," Marcus pointed down the tunnel. "Go right. Only cell on the left." Goren started walking toward it with Marcus at his heels. "Is it unlocked?" "Maybe." When they came to the cell, Goren entered it. Running his hand through the straw pile that passed for his bed, he found the object of his search. He pulled out a half-burned torch. "I was going to use this on the guards, and try to escape," he explained to Marcus. "But I never had the strength for it. It was all I had." Goren's feet found small footholds in the drain's walls as he lowered himself waist deep into the hole. It was a close fit. By the time his shoulders were in, he had only a few inches to spare. The air was stagnant, and the closeness of the walls seemed to press in on him. He had a sense of the drain hole getting smaller, and the passage shrinking. He knew it was only fear playing tricks with his mind, but his heart beat faster. He had to will himself to breath slowly, relax his body. He knew that if he panicked he could be stuck in that hole for a long time. "Goren, I don't like this." Marcus scolded him. "Ol's balls, we're grown men. We should get one of the guards to go down there first." "Well," Goren gasped out in between steps. "You name a guard you can think of that deserves to go through this, and I'll send him through. But most of the men are wounded, and besides ..." Goren looked up at Marcus and smiled. "This is the most fun I've had in a long time. Now hand me that torch so I can work my way down." Marcus sighed and reached for the torch. As Marcus' hand closed on the handle, he noticed a surprised look come over Goren's face. A soft "ulp" escaped Goren's lips, and the Lord Keeper of Gateway began to slide away through the hole. "Goren!" Marcus yelled. He dropped the torch and nearly kicked out the lantern in an effort to grab his friend, but Goren had slid beyond his reach. Slowly, a few feet at a time, Goren's face began to disappear from view. "Goren! Are you alright?" "Fine." Goren replied. "I'm moving slowly, at the moment. The walls of this drain are a little slimier than I thought. I think there's an opening beneath me, if I can get down a little further without breaking my neck." "Do you want the torch?" Marcus called. "No! My hands are wedged at my sides." After a moment he added, "And I don't much fancy the smell of burning hair." Two shadows separated themselves from the walls of the dungeon. One drew a long knife from it's sheath. The other removed a crowbar from beneath its cloak. "Evening, Castellan. Can we be of help?" "Yes," Marcus replied without turning around. "Go get a rope and a few more lanterns. And a couple of the young guards in training. They can fit through the hole easily." "I'm afraid I'm too tired to run all the way back up those stairs, sir," said the shadow with the long knife. "Maybe my friend, here-" "No, no, sir," his friend replied. "Me leg's still sore from fightin' off Beinison, and livin' down here these past few days, we ain't had but much to eat. I don't think I could muster the strength." Marcus turned around slowly to see the two figures before him. Thin, ragged, desperate men with weapons. And no room for Marcus to draw his broadsword. Were they deserters? No. Their faces looked familiar, though. When a sparkle of recognition entered Marcus' eyes, the first one spoke. "Aye, Ridgewater. The last of the Black Arm. Now step away from that drain." Marcus looked down the hole. "Goren, here comes the torch," he said, and kicked the torch down the hole before stepping away. Goren's yell began to rise up from the drain and then stopped. "Me and Nick, here, seem to have come across a bit o' luck," the first one continued. "We wanted you for offing our mates. But getting the Keeper with the same deal is a bargain we hadn't dreamed of." He looked to his friend. "Clay will have to pay us extra for Winston." "Not if we don't bring back a piece of him, Will. One of us'll have to go down there in a few days and get an ear or somethin'." "What has Clay to do with this?" Marcus asked cautiously. He glanced around for something he could use as a weapon. His armor would probably protect him from a stab or two of the knife. Possibly soften the blow of the crowbar. But with nothing to strike at them, they could keep their distance and beat him senseless. "The Captain found us," Nick said. "Last of the Black Arm. Gave us two gold marks apiece, he did. Told us you'd be comin' this way, probably alone. And that if we got rid o' you, we could get out of here without havin' to crawl through that hell at your feet." "So Clay did go through that hole?" "Aye," Nick answered. "Was there a boy with him?" "Goren, here comes the torch" were the last words Goren heard before the torch slipped over the edge of the drain. Goren couldn't reach out to grasp it. As it landed on his head, he let out a short cry of pain. The smell of burning hair quickly filled his small confines. There was only one thing to do. He let go. The rough walls of the drain, covered in the slime of decade-old garbage and excrement, were uncompromising. But as he slid further down the drain, he was able to move his left arm up to grab the base of the torch. If he was going to die, at least his scalp wasn't going to be burned off in the process. His decent accelerated gradually. He was unable to prevent his fall. His boots kicked uselessly against rough edges, and with his right hand he grasped fruitlessly at ridges and knobs in the rock. After almost a mene of slipping and sliding, he fell out of the hole and into the air, and landed on a bed of sand and grime. The torch flame cast odd shadows on the rough-hewn walls. Long-tailed creatures scurried at the edge of the flickering light, and the sound of running water emanated from his right. At the sight of one of the red-eyed creatures, he nearly cried out. Rats. Some with bodies almost two feet in length, and tails slithering along behind. Goren's sudden landing and the introduction of light into their otherwise dark demesne scattered the rats away from Goren, but they began to sense his fear. He was trapped, he knew, and had no idea what had happened to Marcus. He remembered hearing voices, someone telling Marcus to step away from the hole, and then his slide had begun. "Marcus!" he called out. "Are you there?" No answer. He did not think he would be receiving help any time soon. And the rats were getting brave. He stabbed the burning torch at one of the nearest rats, searing it. Its squeal and the smell of burning meat let the other rats know that Goren was capable of defending himself. They were wary. They almost seemed to be gauging him, planning their attack. There were scores, perhaps hundreds, of them. Crawling and squirming on the ground, fighting for space. Several of them crept closer, still out of range of his torch, and began to circle him, looking for an opening. How close could they get? How quickly could he defend himself? He knew they were pushing his limits, weakening their prey, just as he had weakened animals he had hunted. As a few more of the rats began to circle him, he noticed the light was getting dimmer. His torch was burning low. When it went out, his life would be over. He desperately looked about the area. Refuse, human waste, rats, and water. There was a small crack in the wall where the water entered the cave, and a larger one where the stream left. He noticed that while some of the rats entered and left the cave from the one crack, they avoided the crack where the water exited the cave. Why? He did not know. In the faint light remaining, he did not care. His only chance to escape from a painful, agonizing death was to follow the current. Retrospectively, climbing down the hole that had led to this room seemed to be a bad idea. Nick charged Marcus with the crowbar, swinging wildly as he came. In the few moments since the melee had ensued, Marcus had noticed they were weak. They must have been telling the truth about being here for several days without much food. And since there were no prisoners for the dungeon, and all the guards were reassigned to defend Gateway and initiate its rebuilding, no one would be delivering food to any guards stationed in this part of the castle. Still, the crowbar Nick used had struck him several times, leaving him winded and bruised. But the low-cut stone ceiling which felt so oppressive was inhibiting to Nick's swing. As he charged this time, the bar knocked the ceiling, stalling his swing. Marcus struck upward with his fist, catching the man in his throat. Nick dropped the crowbar and gasped for air. Will had kept his distance, staying away from Nick's wild swings and gauging the castellan's ability. As Marcus picked up the crowbar, fear seemed to settle in the knife-wielder's eyes. Marcus swung the crowbar hard at Nick's head. He heard the cracking of bone as Nick's skull spilled blood and brains against the impacting weapon. Then he advanced on the other. The knife shook in Will's hand as he extended it in defense. Marcus walked confidently toward him, striking the knife aside and breaking Will's hand in the process. Will turned to run, but a kick from Marcus swept his legs out from under him. Marcus grabbed the thug and turned him over, staring hatred and pain into Will's eyes. He raised the crowbar. "Kill me now, castellan," Will managed to cry, "and you'll never find your son." The crowbar hesitated. "Bring me to him." He hauled the thief up by his neck, grasping the lantern with the same hand as the crowbar. "And he'd better be healthy." "My life for his," bargained Will. "You let me go if I show you where he is, okay?" Marcus' stare was his only reply. "Right. Mine for his. He's real close by, see." Will brought him down the hall and through a door. That door led to another hall, which led around a corner, to a secluded section of the dungeon that was unused. Had never been used, in fact, until now. And there was Thomas. Thomas was chained to a wall, gagged and blindfolded. By the looks of his head and the skin on his bones, he had been beaten and starved for several days. He was unconscious and hanging by his swollen wrists. Marcus ran to him, setting the lantern on the floor, and tried to wake him. Thomas was beyond reaching, for the moment. He was breathing, barely, but only just hanging on to life. With the lantern's light closer to Thomas' body, Marcus could see the extent to which the thugs had punished his boy. He turned toward Will, hatred and pain filling his eyes again. And, this time, a touch of ... revenge? The smell of urine filled the thug's britches. Marcus advanced toward him, raising the crowbar with a sinister grin. Goren was surrounded by a swirling mass of water, tumbling and tossing him in each direction. There was no way for him to see where he was or where he was going. One moment he had been crawling backwards through the stream, using the torch's remaining fire to ward off the rats. The next, he had slipped, landing face-first in the water, dropping the torch, and being swept away by the current. There was no light without the torch. He had been pulled under to a deeper, faster moving current. At the first turn, he had been slammed into a stone wall of the underground waterway, and the air had been knocked out of his body. Now his lungs screamed for air, and the tightness in his chest seemed ready to burst. As he was hurled through the water, he wondered how the water would taste. He tried not to imagine the choking feeling of his lungs trying to breath the liquid. It would be better than being eaten by rats, he thought momentarily. Suddenly, bubbles surrounded him. Light emerged into the watery passage, and he began floating upward, no longer knocking against the passage ceiling. He emerged, exhausted, into bright sunlight. He was floating on a river, less than ten yards from one shore, and the current was slowly edging him towards the overhanging trees. He let it. When his feet finally touched ground, he had regained enough strength to drag himself out of the water and crawl to the shore. His remaining clothing -- breeches, a shirt, a belt, and a pair of boots -- hung heavily on him, filled with the waters that had almost claimed his life. His injured leg throbbed, but held his weight. He was alive. It felt good. He looked around. He was on the Laraka, about a quarter of a league north west of Gateway keep. He could see Gateway's walls in the distance, and he instinctively backed into the brush at the river's edge. "Why did I do that?" Goren asked himself. "All I need to do is hail them, and they'll send a few horses out to get me. "And then you'll be back in Gateway, sitting on your father's chair, presiding over your father's business. Bored depressed, and lonely," he answered his own question. "And probably talking to yourself more than anyone else." Face it, he thought, you don't want to go back. And this is the perfect opportunity to leave. They'll think you're dead. "If you keep talking to yourself," he continued out loud, "you might be dead anyway." He checked his resources, as if he had already made his decision: he had clothes suitable for the summer season, although not perfect for travelling; a long knife was sheathed in his left boot; and a small pouch with one ... two ... three marks and ... four rounds. "A treasure for a king," he remarked dryly. Still. What reason could take him away from Gateway? Had he not just denied Marcus, less than a bell ago, the right to go searching for his son? What about responsibility? What about his father's legacy? Had he the right to remove himself from the duties the King had entrusted him with? As keeper of Gateway, did he not have a responsibility to the men within the keep, as well as the townspeople in the villages under its protection? Would he be the hypocrite, saying "follow my thoughts, not my actions"? As he thought about this dilemma, his mind a pendulum swinging from responsibility at one end and freedom at the other, he spied a small stack of dead branches that had been used as a campfire. He made his way out of the scrub he had hidden in, and approached the old campfire. Kneeling down, he smelled it, ground some of the dead soot through his fingers. There were boot tracks nearby: one man, small feet. Possibly a heavy child? No ... Clay. The name sprung to mind instantly, and he knew he was right. Clay had taken the waterway out of Gateway, also, and landed on this very shore. He kept a small fire at night, hidden from both Beinison and Gateway by the trees on the shoreline. But he could not have left until the battle was decided. If Beinison had entered Gateway keep, the scouts would have been brought in, and Clay could escape the region. If Gateway's troops had held out, as they had done with the timely assistance of Luthias Connall and his cavalry, then Beinison would be fleeing with all speed, and the scouts would move with them. Either way, with the battle for Gateway Keep ended less than two days past, Clay's trail was relatively fresh. There had been no rain. Goren was an accomplished hunter. And Clay had no idea that Goren was following him. Now Goren's debate was ended. He would not return to Gateway. But he would send Marcus a note, once he reached a civilized town, and let him know he was on Clay's trail. In his own mind, he had justification. He had tracks. ======================================================================== Kidnapped Part Two by Max Khaytsus Yule 23, 1014 Kera stretched in bed, savoring the warmth of the old blanket. The black of the night slowly dissolved into reddish hues, forming outlines of the furniture. Was it time to get up? She sat up, holding the blanket tightly around her shoulders. The night air was chilly, even colder than the drafty old castle she had been staying at. Outside something creaked, the sound of a rusty wheel joint turning. A whip snapped, followed by a "move it, you old nag." The whip snapped again. Was that a thud that woke her up a few moments before? Kera could not remember. She got up, with the blanket, and walked over to the window, to look out, but by the time she pushed the latched shutters open, the road past the stables was empty. "Damn." It was the middle of the night, the eastern sky showing no evidence of morning light. "Like I've got nothing better to do." She returned to the bed and fell on it in a tangle of blankets, but for some reason sleep had already left her for the night. "Innkeep?" Kera called, hurrying down the stairs. "Innkeep?" The large man from the night before yawned in his chair at the front desk and looked up. "The boy I was with last night. Have you seen him?" "Not since last night," he rocked in his chair, not paying attention. "His door is unlocked and he's missing. Where is he?" "Probably went out ..." "I was up, I would have heard," Kera said. "And he'd have to walk past you to come down the stairs." "Look, I don't know," the man tried righting the chair, but Kera reached over the counter and grabbed his tunic, momentarily holding him suspended in the air, barely balanced on the two worn legs of the chair. "You better be telling the truth!" She pushed him back against the wall, the chair groaning under his weight and rushed outside. Where could Stefan had gone so early, without telling her? She rushed to the stables, to check on the horses. Hasina and Kelsey were peacefully pulling at grass just outside the stables, their pens open for no apparent reason. Stefan's own horse remained in its stall, securely locked. "What happened to you, girl?" Kera pulled Hasina's head up. The horse solemnly chewed on the grass she managed to grab on the way up, showing no eagerness to answer the question. "Kelsey," Kera whistled and Rien's horse slowly walked over to her. "You two stay here," she threw a hitching rope around their necks and wrapped the other end around a post. Something happened during the night. The stalls were opened and horses let out. Did someone try to steal them? If so, the horses would have refused to go far. But who would do that? Stefan? Why then try to take them, but not his own stallion? And why did he not tell her he was leaving? She looked around again, up and down the road, then up at the window of her room. The squeaking wheels! Kera examined the ground. So many tracks. A nearby puddle of mud contained the tracks of at least a half dozen different wheels, but no useful clues. Kera returned to the inn, suspiciously eyeing the proprietor. "If you know anything about the boy's disappearance," she warned. He shrugged. "Told ya already. I don't know." "If anything happens to him, I'll hold you responsible, understand?" She did not wait for an answer and hurried up the stairs to look in Stefan's room. The room was empty, all personal belongings she saw Stefan bring in the night before now missing. The bed was still unmade and the pillow lay on the floor on the far side of the bed, but no evidence of trouble. What reason would he have to leave? Kera looked out the window. Hasina and Kelsey stood below, slowly taking apart the bush next to them. What if he did not leave? What if he was taken? That cart or wagon she heard at night. What if he was kidnapped and taken? Could someone have recognized him or followed them from Valdasly? What would they gain? The Baron was gone, quite likely for the entire summer. But ... but if there was a kidnapper who did not know any better. Kera hurried back down, almost knocking over the serving wench from the night before. "I beg your pardon," the young woman said, holding tightly to the baluster to avoid falling. She was conservatively dressed and quieter than the night before. Kera did not answer, taking steps three or four at a time. "Did any guests leave during the night?" she demanded of the owner. "Your companion, it seems like." "Any one else?" "No." She entered the common room, trying to convince herself to relax. She was running herself ragged. It was no wonder she could not think. Taking a deep breath, Kera sat down at the table she and Stefan used the previous night. Could it have been the two men they had a run-in with the night before? That seemed the most natural answer, but why did they take Stefan and not her? He hardly did anything. She humiliated one, beat him up, knocked him cold. "You want something to eat?" a matronly woman appeared from nowhere. "Eggs and ... Just a normal breakfast." "Right away, miss." Kera leaned back in her chair, looking around the empty common room. It was still very early and no patrons had yet arrived. She folded her arms, wondering how Rien would handle this problem. He always seemed to have the answer to any problem. He always managed to see something that stood out that she never gave a second thought to. What was it? Kera started recalling the details of the night before. She saw those men earlier, right after she and Stefan came in, drinking at the bar. The plump woman was serving at the bar then. After that she became involved in the conversation with Stefan, telling him about Dargon. That was when the two men came over. And right afterwards, the innkeeper came over and told them to go to their rooms to avoid trouble. Maybe he knew those men, maybe he just wanted to avoid a fight at his inn. Most inn and tavern owners yell that it is bad for business to have patrons fighting, but from her own experience that only drew larger crowds and more silver for the mead. Noticing the proprietor watching her, she motioned him over. "Those two men from yesterday. Do you know where I could find them?" He looked flustered. "No, I don't." "I'm warning you," Kera repeated. "If you know something, tell me. If I find out you're lying ..." The plump woman came back with the breakfast Kera ordered and a warm cup of milk. "Stop bothering the girl, Arty. Go fix those loose steps. Lord knows, if someone important falls, we'll never hear the end of it." The man grumbled and left, looking suspiciously relieved at being given a task. "Are you all right, child?" the woman went on. "I'm fine," Kera answered. "Thank you." She did not want to involve the woman. There did not seem to be a reason to. "Then you have a good meal and just call me if you want anything else." "Thank you," Kera muttered. She picked at her food, worried about Stefan, about what she would tell the Duke if she could not find him. Why did this have to happen now? The Baron trusted her with his son and she lost him the first night away from the keep. He probably would have been better off at home, with no protection. She fumbled with the meal a little longer, forcing herself to eat a few more bites, then, leaving a few coins on the table, got up and left. She was too nervous to eat, too nervous to sit still and when she got outside, she felt an unsettling ache in her stomach. An acrid taste filled her mouth and she could feel the food refusing to stay down. "Damn." She leaned on Hasina's side, feeling feverish, but relieved that she no longer had to vomit. Hasina shifted, as if in sympathy, offering Kera a shoulder of support. "Horses don't get this sick, do they?" Kera tried to joke. "Actually horses can get pretty sick, miss, if you run them enough." She looked up at the young man sitting a top a horse not far away. "Are you feeling well?" "Fine. Just fine." She pulled the rope holding her two horses off the post and turned to go. "Wait up, miss," the man jumped off his horse. "I understand you're having a problem." She turned and looked at him, dressed in soiled clothes, with a deep bruise under his eye, unkempt hair. "I don't think you could help me. Thank you." "We haven't been introduced," the man stepped into her path, his horse obediently following behind him. "Bajuin Daret. I'm the constable in this village." Kera felt another contraction in her stomach and swallowed hard to avoid throwing up again, although she suspected there was nothing left in her. "Are you sure you're all right?" "Yes, I am!" she snapped. "What do you want from me?" "I understand the boy you arrived with is missing." "What's it to you?" "I told you, I'm the constable. Here," he pulled the chain of office from his tunic and showed Kera a signet ring. "In this village I carry the authority of the Duke. Let me help." "All right, find him. He's got brown hair, he's fifteen, my height." "Why don't you confirm a suspicion for me first?" "What?" Bajuin leaned on the post where the horses had been hitched. "You picked a fight with a pair of scruffy looking fellows last night in the tavern." "Is that a question?" "No, it's a statement," the man shook his head. "And I think you think they took him." "How do you know that?" "I'm the constable," he said. "I have to know these things." "Look, you better go," Kera said. "Anyone can get a chain and a ring like that." "They could, but that's against the law. I assure you, I am the constable." "Then how do you know about this?" "My cousin told me." "And who's your cousin?" "The daughter of the man who runs this establishment," Bajuin said. "The serving girl or the old woman?" He shook his head. "Do you want help or not?" "If you don't know who those men are, you're absolutely useless to me." "Are you sure the boy was taken?" "I think so," Kera sighed. "He did not take his horse, nor mine and his things are gone." "Is he a responsible type?" "Very. His father is a very strict man. I doubt he ran away." "`His father'? I'm to take it the two of you aren't related?" "That is correct." "Who's his father and where is he?" "His father's at war. I'm taking to boy to Hawksbridge." Kera was not about to say more than that. She did not need to find any more trouble than what had already found her. "All right, you go back to your room and wait. I'll check on those men to see if it was them." "I'm coming with you." "You're staying here." "That boy is my responsibility until I get him to Hawksbridge! I'm going with you!" "Look," Bajuin took Kera by her shoulders, "I've had a really rough night. I'm sore, I'm tired, I'm in pain. I don't need some nanny who can't keep her breakfast down and a kid under wraps following me around like a sick puppy. Go to your room and wait." Kera broke his hold on her with anger. "I'm not some child to be bossed around by you! If Stefan was kidnapped, there was nothing I could do to prevent it, including tieing him down to his bed! I was given a job to do and I'm damn well going to do it with or without your help!" "Okay, his name's Stefan," Bajuin said. "That's a start." Kera set her jaw. She was not going to let the subject be changed. "All right, you can come, but you're going to stay out of my way or I'm going to forget about all this and go home." "Do I need my horse?" "No, it's in walking distance." Bajuin walked Kera back to the stables where she secured Hasina and Kelsey in stalls and they then proceeded to visit the houses of the two men. "Those your horses?" Bajuin asked as they walked down the road towards a cluster of small wooden homes. "One of them. The other's a friend's." "Where's your friend?" Kera eyed him. "At war." "Seems like a everyone you know's at war." "Well, it's a big war, isn't it?" "Yeah, it is. Who are you going to see in Hawksbridge?" "Are all constables so nosy?" Kera asked. "All the ones who do a good job." "You find him and I'll believe it." They stopped before a dusty house with a damaged porch, damp and moldy from excessive moisture, sagging into the ground on one side, but obviously lived in. Bajuin knocked. "Do me a favor and let me do the talking, would you?" "Sure," Kera nodded. After a moment the door was opened by a thin young woman. "Good morrow to you, Constable." "Good morning, Sarse. Is your husband home?" "What had he done? Gotten another wench pregnant?" Sarse eyed Kera suspiciously. "The lazy bastard should be out in the field, tending his crops!" The door slammed noisily, catching Bajuin in the arm. "Oh ..." he groaned, backing away. "Are you all right?" Kera asked. "No." He straightened out. "Come on. We can check on Skaly while we're here." Kera followed the constable down the street. "What happened to you, anyway?" He looked at her. "I found who was trampling the Mayor's wheat field." "He must've been bigger than you," Kera commented. "Quite a bit bigger. This house." Kera again waited while Bajuin went up to the door and knocked. There was no answer. He waited and knocked again, then tried the door. It creaked open, revealing the dark interior of the house. "Skaly? Urta? Hello?" He pulled the door shut and walked back to the street. "No one there. Let's go to the stables and get the horses. We'll check the fields." "What if they're not there?" Kera asked. "Then I'll ride around until I find them," Bajuin said. "Is there any reason they'd want to kidnap the boy?" "I don't know," Kera said. "He hit one of them with a pitcher, but I ... Well, they have more of a reason to be mad at me." Bajuin nodded. "Maybe they entered the wrong room. Maybe they're trying to get back at you ..." "You're not surprised that they're accused," Kera noted. "Those two? Not one bit. They're about as low as low can get. I was beginning to worry they haven't been in any fights recently." At the inn Kera quickly saddled Hasina and joined Bajuin outside. "Do you know how to use that?" he indicated to the sword hanging off the saddle. "I held it once or twice," Kera answered. "Then you best leave it peace bound," he instructed and kicked his horse into a light trot. "Pig-headed, chauvinistic ass," Kera kicked Hasina. "We'll have to make one stop on the way," Bajuin told Kera when she caught up. "I need to talk to the Mayor." "Constable," Kera said, "I'm not sure how to phrase this best, but I have the feeling the innkeeper knows something of this and is hiding it." "Of the kidnapping? Probably." They rode in silence for a while. "You see, my uncle isn't as young as he used to be. There was a time he'd have been among the first to help you, but now he's older and sicker and my cousin hasn't married yet, so everything's on his shoulders. So long as his inn isn't threatened, he'll lead a quiet meek existence as far away from bullies and troublemakers as he can. He's afraid that if he does anything to help you, it will come back to haunt him and it's a risk he doesn't want to take. That's why I offered my help. It's not just my duty to you. It's also what I owe him." "So what did your cousin tell you?" "She said your companion was kidnapped and that Flary and Skaly were probably involved." "Flary and Skaly? Sounds like you know them pretty well." "It's a small community and they've spent a good deal of time keeping me company in the last few years," Bajuin laughed at a private joke. "I'm very, very close to them." They stopped at a large white stone house and Bajuin hopped off his horse, grunting as he hit the ground. "Oh, gods," a plump woman hurried down from the porch. "What ever happened to you, Constable?" "Good morning, Madam." "Clauneil!" the woman yelled. "The Constable is here!" "Are you all right, Constable? Your eye and your hair and ... oh, those clothes are ruined. What did you do?" A short plump man bounced his way down the stairs towards the street. "Good morning, Lord Mayor," Bajuin bowed. "What happened to you, Constable?" It appeared to Kera that Bajuin was searching for the right words. "I found your despoiler, Lord Mayor. It was Ol' South Paw ..." "Oh, goodness!" the woman exclaimed. "You didn't fight Ol' South Paw, did you?" "Yes, ma'am. From the creek to the road and back." "You didn't kill him, did you?" the Mayor asked. "No, my Lord, but I highly suggest you put some men to guard the field tonight." "Yes, yes, of course ..." he muttered. "I best go, Mayor," Bajuin said. "I need to help this woman find her companion and then I need some sleep." The Mayor and his wife bid their goodbyes and Bajuin again mounted his horse. "Who's Ol' South Paw?" Kera asked as they rode away from the Mayor's home. "Ol' South Paw is the biggest, toughest, meanest bear in these parts. He usually stops coming around early summer and we don't see him until the following spring, but this year he's been rather regular in his visits." "You fought with a bear?" "He did most of the fighting," Bajuin laughed. "I did all of the running." "I'm sorry," Kera said. "I didn't realize. You should be resting, not helping me." "No, no. I'm fine. Let's check the fields since we're out here, then we'll decide what to do next." "All right," Kera agreed. "What's your name?" Kera looked at him, surprised. He had not asked before. "Kera. My name's Kera." "Just Kera?" "Yeah, just Kera." "You're hiding something from me, Kera," the constable warned. "Try not to forget that you're the one to come to me and offer help." "What would you do without me?" he asked. "I don't know," Kera shrugged. "But I'd find a way. Your uncle obviously knows who I'm after." At the northern edge of the village Bajuin signalled Kera to stop and scanned the sloping field with his eyes. Not one person was in site anywhere in the field. "This is where you farm?" Kera asked. "What of it?" "It's ... that's just a dirt patch!" "Well, we all can't be as lucky as you! We live in the mountains and make the most of what we have, including farm land. It's small and rocky, but it feeds the village and there's enough to sell in the city to buy warm clothes for the winter." "Sorry." Bajuin grumbled something and rode on. Kera waited for a moment, then followed. "So what now?" "Now you go to the inn and I'll go get some sleep and I'll look again afterwards." Not answering, Kera yanked Hasina around and proceeded northeast on the twisting road. "Hey, the village's the other way!" Bajuin called after her. "Then you go there! I've got a boy to find." The clatter of hooves on the dirt road sounded behind Kera as the Constable caught up to her. "I can't let you do this alone." "Afraid for your reputation if I find him first?" "Afraid something will happen to you." "I can take care of myself." "Not against those two," he sighed. "Look," he got his horse to block Hasina's path, "neither Flary, nor Skaly worked an honest day in their lives. They've been causing trouble since they were born and I have reason to believe they've killed people in the past. Dearly as I want to see them hang, I haven't the proof. But I do know they're dangerous and that you shouldn't be looking for them alone. If they have the boy, and haven't hurt him yet, I doubt they will now. Just trust me on this." "Constable," Kera pulled Hasina to a halt, "the fact that Stefan is missing is enough to force me to look for him. The suspicion that a pair of brigands kidnapped him makes it that much more critical that I find him soon. Either help me, or get your horse out of my way." He sighed. "Look, I know it's hard, but ..." "I refuse to argue with you!" Kera jerked Hasina around the make-shift road block. "All right, all right. Let's go find the kid." Kera stared at him silently, her jaw set, Hasina shifting impatiently below her, sensing her agitation. "Did you hear anything last night?" Bajuin asked. "Any conversation Flary and Skaly were having before coming over to you?" Kera shook her head. "No." Rien would have. He always did. "I did wake up in the middle of the night," she added. "I heard some noises and a squeaky cart or wagon going by the inn." "In the middle of the night?" Kera nodded. "A man yelled for a horse to move on. Called it a `nag' -- something I haven't heard in a long time." "Voice sound familiar?" "I don't know ... I could've dreamed the whole thing." "But you wouldn't have brought it up if you believed you did," Bajuin said. "No, I guess not. And this morning I found my horses out of their stables, but not Stefan's horse. That's why I think he was taken. If he had left on his own, he'd have taken his stallion, which remained in his stall all night." "Why not take your horses?" the Constable inquired. "They're rather expensive, powerful creatures." "They're well trained. They wouldn't trust a stranger and you'd have a hell of a time staying on one if I weren't around. I think someone may have tried taking them, but they put up a fight." Bajuin nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like you've thought all this out already. One more thing, though. Why did you throw up this morning?" "I don't know. Nervous, I guess." "Nervous? You sure you weren't poisoned? Or drugged?" "I don't know. Why drug me to get me sick?" "Just a thought," Bajuin shrugged. He looked up and down the road. "You don't happen to remember seeing a wagon at Skaly's, do you?" Kera shook her head. "I don't remember seeing a wagon all morning. And I've been watching for them." "Skaly has a small wagon. Just seems convenient it's been moved after all this time ..." "There is one more place I'd like to look, Constable," Kera said. "Stefan told me there's a lake north of here, with a valley north of it that's hard to get to, but has plenty of good hunting. He and his father went hunting there a lot. Maybe he just ran off to visit there ..." "That'll take the whole morning," Bajuin warned. "There are two ways to get there -- on foot, with a good league of the worst terrain this side of Hawksbridge, or by riding around the cluster of hills over there. Takes the same amount of time." "Let's do it, then." "That's a lot of time for someone in as much a hurry as you." "That's what I wanted to look at anyhow," Kera said. "Help me?" "Come on," he agreed. "You rather ride or hike?" "Ride," Kera said. "I don't think my stomach will let me do much climbing." It was nearing noon when Kera and Bajuin reached the north shore of the lake, having gone a good ten leagues north, then down a narrow canyon into a valley and back down the meadow to the lake. "Nothing," Kera muttered, looking at the muddy soil at the edge of the water. "As if no one had set foot here in months." "I doubt anyone has," Bajuin jumped off his horse. "It's hard to get to, as you've seen. The locals don't come here too often, though we tend to get visitors -- nobility, mostly, or hunters and trappers -- but we've had a long winter and there's a war on, so few people come here these days." He guided his horse to the water and backed away to the grassy patch where his boots did not sink into the mud. Kera jumped off Hasina, letting her get some water as well. "Disappointed?" "About Stefan? Yes." She looked down the meadow from where they came. "First time I ever wanted someone to be irresponsible ..." "We'll find him," Bajuin assured her. "Don't worry." "What if it's not Flary and Skaly?" Kera asked. "What if something else happened to him?" "We'll find him and he'll be fine," Bajuin repeated. "Just to have a clear conscience, let's ride around the lake to get back. It's about the same distance, and we'll come out on a good road five leagues outside the village. It'll be time to eat soon, anyhow." "Constable! Constable!" a man in the road waved his arms wildly as Kera and Bajuin made the last turn in the road towards the village. "What a crazy job to have," Bajuin spurred his horse on and Kera followed, keeping Hasina to a trot behind the Constable's galloping horse. By the time she made it to where the man was, she missed the beginning of the conversation and Bajuin had already dismounted his horse and followed the man who called him to the edge of the road. She jumped off Hasina and followed the two men to look down into the dry water channel at the side of the road. Another man stood in the depression, bending over a body. "Skaly?" Bajuin asked the other man and he nodded. "Stabbed to death, Constable." Bajuin looked at Kera. "Maybe we are looking in the right place, after all." He climbed down into the ditch and examined the wounds on the body, talking quietly to the man already there. They then both climbed out and started looking at the tracks in the dirt. "What are you looking for?" the man who had first flagged them down asked. "Horse or wagon tracks," Bajuin answered. "Doesn't look like he was killed here. I'd expect more blood from a death wound." "How about this?" Kera took a step back from where she was standing. "That's it," the second man said. "No one would drive this this close to the edge of the road." "Uh-huh," Bajuin knelt down. "And hooves clearly point west." He checked the dryness of the soil with his finger and got up. "Gerik, go back to the village and get the doctor or the smith to come out and get the body. And tell Lord Mayor that we have a murder on our hands and may be dealing with a kidnapping." "Right away, Constable." "And ask Lord Mayor to deputize some men and send them this way." When the two men left, Bajuin walked back to Kera, waiting at the side of the road. "What do you think?" she asked. "I think they had a falling out on the way and Flary killed Skaly. The question is, where were they going?" Kera pointed west. "Yes, but why? And why kill him? They've been friends for years ..." Kera shrugged. "No point wasting time," Bajuin got on his horse. "Let's go find him. He must have a good five bell start on us." Kera got back on her horse and they silently rode west at a trot. The choice of road struck Kera as equally strange, it being the same road on which she and Stefan arrived. It was not a major road and one through rather difficult terrain. There was nothing on it for a good fifty leagues. Nothing before Valdasly Keep, that is. Could Stefan had tricked them into taking this road? If so, why? He knew his father had left for the war. It made no sense. Some time after the sun passed the mid-day mark, Kera and Bajuin decided to take a break. There was no reason to run the horses into the ground in the middle of no where. They found a small spring and drank from it, giving the horses a chance to quench their thirst as well. They ate nothing, having neither supplies, nor weapons to hunt with, other than their swords, and even if they had, they did not intend to stay long enough to prepare a meal. "You know, Kera, I've been thinking," Bajuin said, "and I keep coming up with the same answer every time. There's nothing on this road for leagues and leagues, until the scattered villages down by Charnelwood. And there's Valdasly Keep, Sir Dower's Barony. And Baron Dower has a son, whose name, I believe, is Stefan. Am I right?" Kera only looked away. "You bitch. Had you told me this morning, the whole village would've been out looking for him now." Kera took a deep breath, but refused to answer. "Well? Why this road? Why go back? Why a murder? What are you hiding?" "I can only guess that he tricked them to take this road. I can't imagine why. Baron Dower left for the war yesterday morning. The Keep is practically empty." "What if it's a ransom kidnapping?" Bajuin asked. "It's a sound motive: Flary and Skaly recognise the boy, kidnap him to hold for money, have a disagreement and Skaly is killed." "Could be," Kera agreed. "Which just leaves me with one question," Bajuin went on. "Why is the boy travelling with you?" "As opposed to whom?" "A knight or a man-at-arms?" "You're making an assumption," Kera answered. "Am I right?" "I refuse to discuss it." "Am I?" "That is between Baron Dower, Duke Glavenford and myself," Kera got up and walked over to Hasina. "Are you coming or is this as far as you're going?" "I'm coming," Bajuin got up. Darkness in the mountains comes in a wink of an eye and by mid afternoon Bajuin voiced the question of continuing on at night. "These are dangerous roads in the dark," he pointed out. "Anything can happen." "Afraid of the forest spirits?" Kera laughed. She knew she was, but this was not the forest to be afraid in. "I prefer to call it common sense," came the answer. "Start looking for a good place to make camp. I'm sure we'll catch up to them tomorrow morning." "That's what you said several bells ago about this evening." "I was wrong. I didn't expect he made so much distance in a day." "How far do you figure?" Bajuin shrugged. "I can't imagine him being more than five leagues ahead of us now." "You're saying he went thirty leagues in one day in a wagon hitched to one horse, up hill?" Kera asked. "One or two horses, but yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. You said it took you a full day to travel the whole way?" "Just about." "Then let's figure he made it about half as far in the same amount of time." "I just hope we're following the right hunch on the right trail," Kera said. "If not, we'll have lost two days and gods only know what could've happened to Stefan in this time." "Don't worry, we'll find him," Bajuin said, as he had been saying all day long. "Do you really believe that or are you just saying that to prevent me from worrying? Because if you are ..." Bajuin started to say something, but Kera stopped him. "... don't tell me. I don't want to know." He nodded. "We will find them." "Do you think the Mayor will send ..." Kera fell silent, detecting a new smell on the wind. "If he'll organize help? Of course he will. He's ..." Kera rose her hand to silence Bajuin. "Do you smell that?" "What?" he smelled the air. "Pollen?" "Smoke." He stopped his horse and looked around. "Smoke? That means we've either found people or a forest fire ..." The wind blew from the west and Kera strained her eyes to catch any indication of a fire in the quarter league to the next turn in the road ahead of them. "There must be something beyond that bend." "Are you sure? I don't smell anything." "I'm positive," Kera kicked Hasina into a gallop. The thundersteed, a stronger, faster animal, quickly outpaced the Constable's saddle horse, in spite of his protests, and moments later she was at the bend in the road. Dismounting on the run, Kera pushed Hasina off to the side of the road where shrubbery was plenty and proceeded to stealthily advance forward. "Wait for me!" Bajuin joined her. "What the hell are you going to do alone?" "I'll know when I see the fire." They made the turn and proceeded down the road, along the wild bushes growing along the side of the road like mushrooms after a rain. "I can smell it," Bajuin suddenly said. "About time." Ahead of them was a clearing, set some twenty yards in from the road, with an open fire, but no trace of people. Not seeing anyone around, Bajuin got up and walked over to the fire. Judging from the burning logs, it was far from fresh, but at the same time, not old enough to have burned itself out. "Whoever made it can't be far ahead of us," Kera said. "No," Bajuin agreed, kicking dirt over the fire. "Let's go get him!" They hurried back to their horses, but as they made the curve in the road, a large man on a brown and grey horse, wearing home-made armor, blocked their path. "Flary?" Bajuin asked. "Evenin', Constable!" the man lowered a pike he was holding and kicked his horse hard enough to make it leap forward. Before Bajuin had a chance to react, the pike impacted his shoulder, carrying him a few yards back on the thrust, before he fell to the ground with a yell of pain. The rider turned his horse, adjusting his grip on the pike. "What's the matter, Constable? Can't stand up and fight?" "Flary ..." Bajuin gasped. "Don't do it. There's help on the way. If you kill me ..." "If I kill you, they'll what? Hang me? Ha! Constable, you don't know how long I've been waiting to do this!" And once again his kicked his horse into a charge, this time letting it simply trample the man on the ground. At the sight of this, Kera made a break for her horse. Hasina still carried her sword and bow. And a powerful mount could be of much use. "Oh no, you don't!" Flary brought his horse around, seeing Kera's destination. "You an' I still have a score to settle!" Kera leaped out of the way of his horse just in time to avoid getting hit. "But I want you alive," he turned his mount, "so you'll have to wait until the Constable and I are done." "Flary!" Bajuin was now standing in the road. He held his sword in the off hand, his right shoulder torn and punctured and his weapon arm absolutely useless. "You leave her out it! It's just you and me!" "Gladly, Constable," the brigand turned his horse again and headed for the new challenger. Kera grabbed a thick fallen branch and swung it at ground level as the horse trotted by her, splintering the wood and forcing the horse to stumble, but not doing enough to cause it to fall or throw its rider. "Oh, girl, that was stupid," Flary broke off his charge. He turned and lowered his pike, preparing for a charge. The horse already had a limp, but impact from the sharp edge on the end of the pike was nothing less than a guarantee of crippling pain. Kera quickly looked around and picked up a somewhat larger fallen branch. It was too heavy for her to swing and too dry and brittle to be used for a weapon, but it was all she had available and it was the only way she saw of getting her opponent off his horse. Rien was right, as was Sir Brand. Chivalry held little place in the world they lived in. The goal was to stay alive. The means mattered little. And this time, it was the opponent who held the advantage. "Flary, don't!" Bajuin yelled as the horse lunged forward. The tip of the pike extended a good six feet beyond the horse. Not as dangerous as facing a lance, but equally deadly. "Sevelin, please ..." Kera leveled the branch she held at the oncoming rider, letting its base rest against the ground and the far end remain in the air, level with Flary. As the horse and rider neared to striking distance, Kera took a step forward and dropped to one knee, letting the branch drop lower, changing the target from the rider to his horse. Her sudden advance was too unexpected for Flary to slow or turn his horse and his own weapon remained too high, passing clear over Kera's head. A moment later the branch Kera held splintered, as it penetrated the horse's flesh at the base of the left front leg and sank deep into the beast's body as the charge continued past her. With an agonizing neighing sound, the horse fell to the ground, throwing its rider clear. Completing her roll out of the way of her attacker, Kera whistled for Hasina and as her mount approached, yanked the sword from its saddle sheath. "Go," she slapped the horse, not wanting it to become Flary's target. Flary stood up, bruised and shaken and mad enough to spit rock. "You're dead, bitch!" "Flary, don't!" Bajuin yelled again, hurrying towards them, but he was too far and too hurt to make any difference. Kera readied her sword as her armed and better armored opponent reached her. In her mind she remembered Sir Brand's instructions from their last match. "Don't let a running opponent force you to back away. You lose any bracing you have when you do it. Instead lean in with your shield. Give me a target you want, not what I want." "But what if I have no shield?" "Then use your sword. Make me want to back off." And she swung, causing Flary to come to a sudden stop as the tip of the blade shaved a spark from his chest plate. He countered with a powerful swing, sending strong vibrations down Kera's sword, making her take an involuntary step back. He was twice her size, probably three times the weight and better armored than she thought she could handle. Flary swung in a cross pattern, making Kera dodge twice, bringing her to one knee, below him. He rose his sword above his head for one final blow. Sir Brand's voice sounded in Kera's head again. "That was a feint. I swung left, you went right. I had a choice of your head, your shield or your sword." The sword above her started its downward plunge. "Push forward as you get up," the voice persisted. "I lose my swing when we're this close. I have to step back." As the man's arms came down, Kera advanced, getting up, his elbows impacting her shoulders, but because of his much greater height, the blow did little damage and he only lost his solid grip on his blade. Not wasting the precious moments she won, Kera drew the dagger from her belt and forced it through a crack in the armor overlays of her opponent's side. As he grunted in pain, she backed away and adjusted her grip on her sword. Another blow came across her blade, but noticeably weaker. A thin trail of blood ran down Flary's leg, staining the dirt in the road. Kera took a swing, purposefully high, forcing Flary to raise his weapon for a block, then leveled her blade off, hitting the soft padding under the man's left arm. Flary staggered as the padding absorbed the blood from his wound, now holding the sword in his right arm. "Yield," Kera warned. She did not want him dead. "Gods damn you!" his blade undercut hers, throwing her arm up. She almost lost the grip on her sword. "You ignored me. You fought my shield," Kera suddenly remembered Sir Brand's words. He warned her that inexperienced fighters perceived their opponent's weapons and armor as a greater threat to them. Flary was big and strong, but he knew little of fighting. Less than she. She stepped closer, narrowing the gap between them. He had neither the skill, nor the agility to defend against the short quick thrusts she could make. The first blow was placed against his gut, where the dagger had previously made the cut, forcing him to gasp in pain. The second crashed across his arm, braking his grip on his sword. Blood splattered up as Kera realized there was only cloth protecting his lower arm. She planted a final blow to the man's side, sending him stumbling to the ground. "You lose!" Bajuin finally managed to stumble his way over to her as she stood over the beaten brigand. "Now it's over," she said, kneeling down. She picked up her dagger off the ground and leaned over Flary. "Where's the boy?" ======================================================================== DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 7 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 6 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 12/14/1994 Volume 7, Number 6 Circulation: 634 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Rifts Max Khaytsus Seber 1-10, 1014 Endgame Rogers Cadenhead Seber 10, 1014 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine. Issues and public discussion are posted to newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 7-6, (C) Copyright December, 1994, the Dargon Project. Editor Ornoth D.A. Liscomb All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Perhaps at some point I will be able to use this space for witty personal observations or pointed editorial opinions on topics ranging from the Information Superhypeway to Order Rodentia. Unfortunately, there have been so many changes to announce that I've had neither time nor space to indulge my expository inclinations. And this issue is no exception, for this editorial is dedicated (primarily) to the announcement that DargonZine now supports "notification subscriptions". Users who select this subscription option will not receive complete issues by mail, but only a notice that the issue has been distributed. This is designed for those users who would rather fetch their issues from rec.mag.dargon or our FTP site rather than wake up to find a 100K mail file in their incoming mail queue. This is useful to us, as well, because it allows us to keep a more accurate count of readers who obtain their issues through secondary channels in preference to direct subscriptions. If you regularly read DargonZine via rec.mag.dargon or the FTP site, we'd like to add you to this "notify list", so that we have a better idea of how many people read DargonZine on a regular basis. If you are interested in changing your subscription to a "notification subscription", please drop mail so stating to In other news, we're in the process of infiltrating the Delphi online service. In the near future (it's still under construction!), Delphi users will be able to find the FAQ and recent issues in the Fanzines database of the Science Fiction & Fantasy SIG. The Internet archive site for DargonZine is available on the Internet Gopher menu in the SF&F SIG. Look under the Fantasy Sites, Newsgroups and Homepages selection. The Dargon Project newsgroup is also on the Usenet Reader menu in the SF&F SIG. Thanks to Gordie Meyer for helping us get set up over there. The final bit of news is that during the month of January, we'll be celebrating the 10th anniversary of the founding of FSFnet, DargonZine's predecessor. We'll be distributing a huge two-issue compilation of the Best of the Dargon Project, reprinting some of the stories that we are most proud to have brought you during the past decade. Special hardcopy versions are also being planned. They will contain artwork and other material not available in the electronic versions. Information on availability will be forthcoming. This issue features two stories that depict some of Dargon's less savory characters. Max is back with "Rifts", which continues his exploration of Dargon's underworld and the city guards who combat it. And we have "Endgame", which marks the first story by Rogers Cadenhead. Actually, Rogers first joined the project back in 1987! He fled after a short stint, but has (against his better wisdom, perhaps) returned. And now he's finally breaking into the pages of DargonZine. Let's hope that it won't take another eight years for him to print his next story (which should be a beaut', judging by the synopsis we've seen). Onward! ======================================================================== Rifts by Max Khaytsus Seber 1-10, 1014 "I'm afraid we're not the same Dargon we used to be." -- Kalen Darklen A large wagon pulled by an overworked horse rumbled down the street, a misaligned wheel rattling unevenly against the rough cobblestones. The driver's whip snapped in the dark, causing the horse to speed up, the clicking of the bad wheel developing a more even rhythm as the wagon rushed off into the distance. Quiet once again settled in the deserted street and a dirty-orange tabby braved the darkness, rapidly crossing the street before some other contraption decided to cut across his path. A crashing noise sounded behind him and he froze in mid-trot, looking up and down the street. It was dark and quiet. The tabby glanced back to the alley in which he had settled down to rest in a warm pile of debris, where two noisy men had disturbed his peace, causing him to flee. He paused, deciding if he should run further or wait them out. The sound of footsteps up the street made his decision for him and in a streak of orange he disappeared under the steps of the building on the far side of the street. "You hear that, Kiney?" a whisper sounded in the alley. "Kiney?" "Shut up, you fool!" "But ..." "Shh!" Silence fell on the alley as a lantern light floated down the street. It rocked back and forth in a careless grasp and for a moment threatened to enter the alley. In a moment the light faded and a mene later so did the sound of the footsteps. The shadows again moved. "Was that the guard, Kiney?" "Don't know." "What was it?" "Shut up." A man stood up and reached for the windowsill above his head. His fingers deftly played with the shutters and they came undone. "Never so easy!" "Kiney, what if the owner's home?" "Then you'll kill him." "I've never killed anyone, Kiney. I don't know how to do it." "Shut up." The man's hands wrapped around the window's ledge and he started to pull himself up. His feet aided his efforts and in a moment he was inside the dark room. "Kiney, where are you?" "Shh! Give me your hand." A shadowy hand reached out the window and helped the other man up, then both figures disappeared into the house. Quiet again ruled the dark alley, but the calmness did not remain long. There was a clank and a crash and yell and not long after a man hopped out the window and reached up to accept a bag. "Is he really dead, Kiney?" "Come on!" "Is he?" "Just shut up and give me the bag!" The large bundle was passed down, followed by the figure that held it. "Is he?" "Yes!" "Do dead people go to heaven, Kiney? Mums said they die and go to the Stevene." "Shut up!" They moved to the edge of the alley and Kiney paused, looking for and listening to any signs of others. As he stopped, his larger companion bumped into him and lost his grip on the bag. The overfilled sack slipped out of the man's arms and tumbled to the ground, spilling the pilfered items at the mouth of the alley. Silverware clattered on the ground around the two men, including one adventuresome platter that decided to roll out of the alley and down the street. "You idiot!" Kiney hissed, spinning about. His exclamation was accented by a sudden gasp -- only then did the two men notice a woman hiding in the shadows of the old structure. "Grab her!" Kiney yelled as she bolted. She was close enough for him to get a good grip on her cloak and they both tumbled down among the spilled contents of the bag. Jerid Taishent looked down into the castle courtyard from the long stone balcony halfway up the facade of the fortress. The massive stone wall of the keep rose a hundred feet ahead of him, its top rampart level with the balcony. Two guards stood talking on the wall and his gaze paused on them. Through no fault of their own, the guards were never where they were needed most. The entire time since war had come and gone from Dargon, all his time had been dedicated to keeping the Duchy running. It was not his job, but with Clifton Dargon battling the Beinison fleet, Luthias Connall fighting the Beinison army and Lansing Bartol recruiting and training troops in the south of the Duchy, the lieutenant of the First Dargon Militia found himself performing a job never meant to be his. "I understand your concerns, Lord Arstead," Jerid said to the young man sitting at the table behind him. "I had a sister myself ..." "What can you do to help?" Jerid turned. "Right now not much. There's a war on. This town is in ruins and it won't begin to be repaired for a long time to come. I wish nothing more than to order a squad of men to track down those who killed your sister, but I have not the troops to spare. We are extremely shorthanded here and the public knows it. Some choose to use this opportunity to plunder the city and the citizens." "So you say there's no protection even for noble blood?" "My Lord ..." Jerid shifted uncomfortably. The answer was 'yes', but he was not about to use that word. "We are only a quarter of the force we were before the war. The town guard is barely a half. And all the remaining troops are green. We do what we can. What we have the power to do." Arstead shook his head. "Maybe you'd use different words if you had known my sister ... or if you had to tell our mother how she died." "I'm sorry. We're doing all we can. I wish we could do more." "You're the law here. You can do what you want." "My Lord," Jerid faced the noble across the table, "with the power I hold comes a responsibility for things far above and beyond what the nobility may need. My first duty is to the Duke, to his lands and his people and I must protect his interests to the best of my ability. My responsibility is to the living. My second duty is to avenge the dead. When I have the time and the troops, that shall be done." "I'm sorry you feel that way," Arstead stood up. "My grandfather shall be mentioning that in his letter to your Duke." "The Duke's ship is the _Shining_Star_. Send your letter through the Port of Armand and it will get there faster." Arstead stiffened up at the response. "Good day, Sir Taishent." "Good day." Jerid returned to the edge of the balcony and listened as the departing footsteps fell somewhere behind him. The letter, he knew, would be worthless, save to aggravate Lord Clifton at a time such as this. He did the best with what he had and the Duke had known that when leaving for war. A door slammed loudly in the chambers. "Page?" he called into the room. "Yes, my Lord?" soft footsteps were followed by a young girl's voice. He had not intended to turn, but this was unusual enough to warrant his attention and Jerid took his eyes off the distant green forest beyond the castle wall. In the doorway stood a young girl, thirteen or fourteen, the crest of the House of Dargon proudly displayed on a guard uniform that was a little too large. The girl's long blond hair made him think of his own daughter. She was only six now, but where would she be if she were ten years older and where will she be in ten years with the war now on? "You called, my Lord?" the girl asked again. "Yes. Tell Madame Sepagary I will see her now and have Vogel bring his parchment and inks." "Right away, my Lord." And she disappeared behind the curtain. A shadow of a man blended into the scaffolding at the base of the castle wall as a dying lantern hurried down the walk. It was carried by a guard and followed by another, both armored and armed, the Ducal crest displayed on their clothes. A heavy fist fell on the castle gate. "Sarge!" The gates creaked open. "Out of oil," someone said. "Come on in." Shuffling footsteps sounded, followed by the doors creaking closed. The shadow again emerged from the wall, followed by a tall lanky man dressed in sandy-grayish clothes. He looked towards the castle gates, then up the road leading into town. All was once again quiet. He gripped the scaffolding and rapidly ascended to the crack in the wall where a lucky catapult or ballista round must have penetrated the castle's defenses during the siege. The opening was now mostly repaired, only needing the proper stones to be laid so the style of the wall remained the same. He looked up to the top of the scaffolding, some six or eight feet short of the top of the castle wall. They probably made it short on purpose, but short was fine, too. He finished his climb, waited for the guard above to pass and then jumped, letting his hands wrap around the edge of the battlement. He would not have been able to do that in armor. The footsteps on the wall lost their rhythm and paused. Only the crickets below disturbed the quiet of the night. The guard muttered something and went on. Another moment passed and the thief climbed over the embrasure and landed softly on the castle wall walk. No one was in sight. A few flickering lights in the castle revealed the windows of those who could not sleep, but the one window that was important was dark, as it was supposed to be. The man quickly crossed to the other side of the wall and glanced down. Three soldiers stood talking below, a dying lantern held in their midst. He judged the distance between the wall and the castle. It was too far to get across by any means other than crossing the courtyard. It was not to be done. Returning footsteps alerted the thief to hurry down the wall to the west side of the castle where the roof of the stables rose better than halfway up the castle wall. It was a good fifteen foot drop, but it was the best and quickest way to get down the castle wall. As the guard's footsteps neared, he flung himself over the edge and landed softly on the stable's roof. The footsteps again paused and the thief attempted to blend in with the darkness. Something slammed on the roof, hit against his shoulder and fell over the edge of the roof. Startled, the thief rolled over, just in time to see a rock hit the roof where his head was a moment before. Startled at his discovery, he rolled over again, backed up to the wall and felt for his dagger. It was a long blade, since a full sword would get in the way, and under normal conditions it was more than enough, but now, discovered, he feared it would not keep him alive long enough to finish the job. Another rock bounced across the roof and rolled over the edge. There were footsteps above. "Rotten cats!" a curse floated down. "STAY OFF THE WALL!" A pained smile spread across the thief's face as he rubbed his sore shoulder. Quiet as a cat. Mistaken for a cat. At least he was not drowned like one. Once the guard had passed, the man once again started moving. He hopped off the roof of the stables into a bale of hay and proceeded across the dark side of the castle's courtyard. Along the roof there were no customary gargoyle heads or weather-protecting ledges or even statues of the local heroes. That would make the scaling of the wall more of a challenge, but the dark of the courtyard and the reduced guard were an added bonus to making the theft a success. "I had not realized that unfortunate girl had been one of yours, my dear," Liriss muttered, pacing the length of the rich carpet. "I wish you had told me sooner. I am not sure what I may be able to do to help now." The plump, matronly Eliza Tillipanary remained in her chair as the crime lord circled the room. "I thought the girl had returned home as she kept saying she wanted to do," the woman explained. "It was not until recently that one of the other girls, who also cleans in the Duke's castle, brought to my attention that a noble from Arvalia has been looking for the unfortunate's killer." "Noble. What noble?" Liriss stopped. "I believe his name was Arstead." "Arstead ... Arstead ... from Arvalia?" "That's what she said." "Never heard of him," Liriss shook his head. "Should I find the killers, what do you want done with them?" Tillipanary shrugged. "You know I take no interest in your work. Do what you will. I just want them and their friends to know that even frontiers have justice." Liriss laughed. "If they hang me, my dear, they'll hang you right next to me. Everyone knows my work." The matron shook her head. "I don't. You merely offer me a service I can not obtain from the town guard." Liriss laughed again. "I will look for the killer and be sure to tell you who they are." "See about finding them first," Tillipanary warned. "We will discuss who they are then." She stood up and adjusted her dress. "Now, I still have plenty to do, so I'll be going. Be sure to let me know your progress." "Good evening, my dear," Liriss saw the woman to his office door and closed it after her. As he returned to his desk, he made a mental note to ask Kesrin to look into the murder and see if he could locate who had committed it. If it were one of his own people, the search would be easy and fast, but the punishment would be more difficult to mete out. If it were someone outside his organization, the search would take more time, but the punishment would be a pleasure. Others must know that the city belongs to one man. A knock sounded on the door just as he sat down and the perky nose of his assistant Rene appeared through the crack. "I'm sorry to bother you again my Lord, but there's a 'Pike' here to see you." "Yes," Liriss stood up. "Send him in." "Straight," the girl disappeared. Liriss prepared himself for the visitor. The door again opened and a tall young man walked in. His dark hair was carelessly brushed back and he had a slight limp, but he did not let it bother him and rapidly crossed the room to the desk. "A pleasure as always, my Lord," he nodded to Liriss. "You're back soon," the crime lord commented. "And with a limp ..." "A minor mishap," the young man admitted. "Dargon Castle was not built for scaling." "You've been there already?" Pike removed a pouch from his belt and placed it before Liriss. "I've been there." Liriss quickly snatched up the offering and pulled open the strings. From inside he removed a cloth-wrapped box and from that a flat headed ring. He examined it, then removing a burning candle from a girandole, dripped some wax on the table and imprinted the ring in it. Pike took a step closer to the table to take a look as Liriss worked. The crime lord produced a parchment from the stack in the corner and compared the impression in the wax to an impression on the parchment. "Perfect!" "You had doubts?" "I am impressed by your speed." Pike smiled. "You do realize the seal is worthless for official business without the appropriate signature." "Don't concern yourself with that," Liriss laughed. He opened a desk drawer and took out a pouch. "Impressed with your speed, but ready for the delivery." Pike accepted the pouch and placed it on his belt where the other had hung. The contents jingled as they passed hands. "You won't check?" "I trust you. And if it's not there, I'll steal the signet back." Liriss concealed a smile. The world had too few honest thieves. "I have another task for you, if you feel up to it." "If it requires no climbing for a few days ..." "That's up to you. I have no interest in the process of execution of the job." "All right, then." "I have ... I *had* a lieutenant who fell into the hands of the guard. I want him back." "I assume he's larger than the signet?" "Significantly." "My prices rise with the weight." "How much?" "Where is he being held?" Liriss sat down, indicating for Pike to do the same. "In the Old Guard House, in the center of town. The prisoners are held in the basement." "You're talking about high risk here, my Lord," Pike took the offered seat. "There's the entry and exit I have to take into consideration and your man's willingness to leave." "He'll die if he doesn't," Liriss said. "You'll get two Marks if he does." "Two and a half." "And a half?" "I like odd numbers," Pike explained. "That is rather odd," Liriss agreed. He considered for a moment. "Two and a half it is. I need him back." "... or ..." Pike suggested. "Or?" "Or one Mark and the name of the man who killed Miriam Arstead." Liriss' eyes betrayed surprise. "A popular girl." "Have others asked?" "The question is, have others asked you?" "A contract, my Lord. I merely need a name." "A contract by whom?" Liriss demanded. "A brother, a father, a lover ... Does it matter?" Pike shrugged. "It might." "Not when money is paid, my Lord, just like in your agreement with me. I was offered money for a name. I did not ask why." "Revenge's the usual motive," Liriss explained. "So I suspect," Pike agreed, "but it's none of my business. If you get me the name, I'm willing to do the job for less. Is that to your satisfaction?" Liriss rubbed his chin. Eliza implied she wanted the killer punished. Pike implied someone was ready to do that. That only left Liriss as a broker of information with reduced expenses on his part. "I believe that deal is more than fair, Pike. One Mark and I will look into the murder personally." Pike smiled. "A deal, then. Now, my Lord, who is it that you need rescued?" "In here," a guardsman pushed open a second floor office door for the young noble and let him in. Arstead entered the small cluttered office and paused patiently before the desk loaded with papers and an empty scabbard. The dark-haired, dark-eyed officer wearing lieutenant pins indicated for a moment's time and completed an entry in his journal. "What can I do for you?" "Sir Darklen?" Kalen stood up. "I am." "My name is Janos Arstead. I understand you were the one looking for the killer of Miriam Arstead." "You're her husband?" the Guard Lieutenant asked. "Brother. I came to Dargon as soon as my family was notified. My father is in the war and my grandfather is far too old to travel. I have to be responsible for the family now." "Please, sit down." Kalen again took his seat and closed his journal, using the scabbard to hold his place between the pages. He had no good news to give and plenty of bad. He had been far too busy in the past few days to make any sort of progress on the increasingly violent incidents that had been surfacing around the city and barely managed to hand out assignments to junior officers, most of whom were barely qualified to wear swords, much less do investigative work. Perhaps an offer of hospitality would make things easier. "Would you like anything? Mead? Ale?" "I would like to know who killed my sister." Kalen shook his head. "I'm sorry. As of the last report I received, this morning, we had not found the killer. Our resources are stretched and time is an issue. It will be a while longer before I can give you a definite answer." "The trail may grow cold by then, Sir Darklen." "I realize that, but there are dozens of crimes taking place every day. We don't have the men to do the job right and I'll be the first to admit that. Have you requested assistance from the Duke's Adjutant? Right now Lieutenant Taishent is in that position." "I met with Sir Taishent yesterday," Arstead answered. "When we learned about the death, my grandfather gave me a letter of introduction to help expedite the matter, but that was met rather coldly. I had hoped the House of Dargon would be of help, but clearly ties of nobility do not stretch across the Duchies of Baranur." "I'm sorry," Kalen shook his head. "The system worked much better before the war. Hurt as we are, with as many men as we've sent off to war, I'm afraid we're not the same Dargon we used to be. I wish I could do more to help." "Perhaps I should be the one to offer help, Sir. It is my sister, after all." "What could you do to help us?" "Investigate? Just how short on men are you? Perhaps I can help to fill in?" Kalen let a ghost of a smile escape. "Lord Arstead, we're half the force we used to be before the war. One more man will not make a difference, particularly if he is new to the city and not trained in our methods. The offer is appreciated, but not feasible." "Are you saying justice will go undone?" Arstead's tone became more demanding. "No. I'm saying justice will need more time." "That's unacceptable, Sir," Arstead set his jaw. Kalen's soft expression melted away. He stood up, the journal falling off the desk. "Unacceptable? The same men who killed your sister, killed a renownd scribe, a personal friend of the Duke's family, yet the crime receives no greater priority to be solved. Your family is part of the masses that come through this city. Do not make the assumption that noble blood will make a difference in a shattered duchy." Arstead stood up as well. "I see I may have request assistance from the Duke himself." The chair behind Kalen tumbled over. "I'll be more than happy to forward that letter for you, along with my report that a dozen of my men were killed or injured in a raid last week. Don't make assumptions that your lineage matters to a duchy crippled by war! Get out of my office!" "Told you it was our lucky day!" One guardsman slapped another on the back and took a few rapid steps, leaping on the back of a waiting horse. His companion also quickened his pace and mounted the steed near the first. "Horseback duty for a week! I think I can get to like this job!" "Let's go get 'em, boy!" The first man's heels connected with his horse's sides and they disappeared into the night. "Hold on there!" the other guard yelled, trying to adjust the saddle. "Wait for me!" The second horse jumped into a trot and also disappeared into the night. Silence descended on the dark street and a shadowy figure drifted across the alley behind the guard house. It crossed the street to the Dargon Town Guard Stables and disappeared inside completely undetected. In the dim light of the stables, Pike discarded his black cloak in an empty stall, revealing the blue and grey uniform of the town guard. It was a great risk showing up here dressed as a guard. Reduced as they were, the guards would probably know one another, but this was for a quick job in the night, one that would be discovered no more than a bell or two after being done, if that long. When put into the right perspective, the impersonation of a guard was the least of his concerns. He checked a few horses, working his way towards the rear door to the guard house and calmly walked through. A woman in a guard uniform passed him, nodding a hello. Pike responded in kind and slowly walked down the corridor to the back stairs. Liriss' directions were rather specific. Offices and storage upstairs, holding cells downstairs. He quickly glanced up the stairwell and descended into the basement. A lone sleepy guard stretched at the sound of footsteps and shifted in the creaky chair. "Yes?" the soldier asked as Pike approached. "I have it right here," Pike reached into his pouch, drawing the guard closer by his curiosity. His fists connected with the guard's chin and the chair tipped over, the unconscious guard rolling up against the wall. Pike paused to take note of the room. Small, dark. Stairs leading up on one side, a heavy metal door on the other. A small table and a chair for the guard. There were four candelabras in the walls, three candles each, but they produced barely enough light to see the metal door and the unconscious guard on the floor. Pike pulled the guard up and replaced him in the chair, removing the ring of keys from his belt in the process. It took a few moments to find the proper key and pause to listen for sounds both on the other side of the door and in the corridor at the other end of the stairs. Satisfied with the lack of activity, Pike turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. The well-oiled hinges made no sound as the door swung open and Pike quietly stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him. A wall candelabra served as the only source of light. Removing a single candle, Pike proceeded down the long corridor, looking at the sleeping prisoners and the occasional names on the wall. About half of the cells were populated, although not all with prisoners were tagged. At one such cell, when Pike brought the candle close to the wall to see if there was a name, the prisoner jumped out of bed and rushed the bars. He collided with the door with a wild scream, arms reaching for the blue and grey uniform before him. Pike hurried to back away as one of the muscular hands grabbed his shoulder and was able to pull away only when the hair on the prisoner's arm caught fire from the flame of the candle. "I'm gonna kill you, you damn bastard!" the prisoner roared. "Next time," Pike forced himself to keep his cool, "I'll douse you with oil before taking the candle to you." The man fell silent and took several steps back. Satisfied with the results, Pike continued down the corridor of the semi-awake prisoners until coming to a cell carrying the name he was looking for. He banged his arm on the door. "Get up!" The body on the cot stirred and a man sat up. "What?" "Interrogation. Let's go." He unlocked the door and pulled it open. "This way." The man in the cell hesitated. "Kuvan Ovnik?" Pike asked. "Yes, yes." The man stood up and came to the open door. He looked to be in good shape, although very dirty and unshaven. In the dim candle light Pike could barely see the remnants of an old bruise on the man's cheek. "Not enough entertainment at night?" the prisoner spat. Pike gave him a shove forward. "Spit again and you'll be cleaning the floor with your tongue." Ovnik stopped and gave his captor a chilling look. "I'll remember your face." "You do that." They made it to the end of the corridor and went through the door. Pike closed and locked it as Ovnik glanced over at the unconscious guard. "Take his clothes." "What?" "I was sent to get you out. We won't make it out of here with you dressed like this. Take his clothes." Ovnik chuckled. "Oh, I knew they'd send someone." Liriss matched his gaze with Kesrin, waiting patiently for his lieutenant to react. Kesrin, in his usual style, gave no hint of surprise at having seen Ovnik just a moment before. Even as the footsteps of his old friend faded down the corridor, he calmly sat in the chair across from his lord. "Any reason he's in chains?" "He lied to me, Kesrin," Liriss picked up the half full wine goblet and took a sip. He swallowed with satisfaction. "I don't like it when people turn on me, Kesrin. When they do, I have to go to a great expense to make sure others know what a bad decision that is. Lord Dargon may be losing control of his city, but I'll be damned before I lose control of mine. Make sure I don't have to do this again, Kesrin. It pains me so to see trust misplaced. And good men, too. This shouldn't be." "Of course, my Lord," Kesrin answered in his usual calm voice. "Good. Now go and make sure that Ovnik's fate is not shared by others." Kesrin rose slower than usual. "And that fate, Lord?" "I feel good today, Kesrin. He will have a slow death." The crime lord's laughter trailed his lieutenant into the corridor and as the door closed, the older man's face sombered up. "Put a little fear of me into you, Kesrin. Loyalty must be unconditional, even if it stems from fear." ======================================================================== Endgame by Rogers Cadenhead Seber 10, 1014 The village of Tench The reader leaned over the Wheel of Life, a drop of sweat falling from his forehead onto the ornately decorated cloth. Eight signs of Makdiar's zodiac were painted inside slices of a circle on the aged fabric's surface. Eight smaller symbols separated the signs, and at the center was the mark of Destiny. It was unseasonably hot for Tench in Seber, and there was precious little breeze coming in through an open window. The two men knelt on opposite sides of the Wheel, in a small room at the Duck Inn. The fat-faced reader hovered over the wooden discs and uttered a soft incantation: May Araminia's grace Fall upon this Wheel Like the first kiss of spring On a graveyard. The reference to the goddess of good fortune was part of the pitch, Teyvas noted with amusement. The rogue expected to receive happy news about a bountiful tomorrow. There was no profit in ill tidings, after all. The reader gestured for Teyvas to pick up the nine discs that were blue in color. Teyvas did so, and he was told, "Close your eyes and make a picture in them of your birth sign. Can you see the Torch?" Teyvas, clamping his eyelids shut as tightly as he could, saw orange and red flickering. He tried to make a torch out of it but the glimmerings were elusive. "I can see Pyrale," he said. "Cast the discs!" the reader said, and Teyvas opened his fist to let the discs spill out over the wheel. For more than a mene, the reader looked over the scattered objects and mumbled a few disparate words to himself. The cutpurse reached behind his back and scratched at a slow-healing sore near his midsection. This action prompted no notice from the reader, and Teyvas smiled to see how self-absorbed the man was. Finally, the reader offered his interpretation. He pointed a pale finger at a blue disc that lay near the only red one. "This is the heart, and it is resting on Pyrale, your birth sign," he began. "You are a man of fiery passions." The reader looked to Teyvas for a comment, but he wanted to hear more so he said nothing. Several other discs were described, based on their resting places and the reader's gift for metaphor, but it became obvious that he was saving the best for last. "This disc represents the body, your own mortal flesh," the reader stated ominously. "It lies on Valonus the Oak, which means you will not be called from this realm for many years." If Teyvas had needed more proof of the insincerity of the Wheel, this prediction would suffice. He knew there would be no life for him beyond 25 years, if he even got that far. Teyvas welcomed a young man's death -- after his parents were killed in their beds when Dargon guards raided their camp in 1004, Teyvas promised himself that he would die on his feet. He was well on the way to keeping that vow. Teyvas pointed to a disc that had fallen on a smaller part of the wheel. "What does this mean?" he asked. The reader looked a bit flustered, then said, "Occasionally, a casting falls in a way that cannot be explained in the teachings," he said. "This is such a case. The disc for future foe has landed on the Crown, the symbol for the past." "That is indeed a puzzle," Teyvas said, amused at the misfortune. "Verily," the reader said. "In such cases, you must find the answer in your own heart." He moved on to another spot on the Wheel. "This last disc is your course of action, and it has landed on Kafarn, the water symbol. You will be traveling soon, on a long journey that will be of importance, perhaps by seaborne route ..." Teyvas interrupted him, pointing to the symbol for Gefflin the Fox, which was his real birth sign. "What of this, then?" he asked. The reader was surprised to see a disc there, and was unaware that it had been the thief's doing. "This is the symbol for treachery," the reader said. He was planning to elaborate further, but was interrupted again, more forcefully this time. Teyvas had pulled a knife from his boot and buried it in the man's fleshy midsection before another word could be shared between them. The reader gasped, and a strangely comforting hand was placed on his shoulder by Teyvas. The fortune-teller fell with a shudder as the knife was yanked from side to side before being removed. As Teyvas pushed the man aside, a drop of blood fell from the unfortunate's mouth and landed on the Wheel. The blood was about the size of a disc, and of similar coloration to the red token. "Your body disc has landed on Valonus," Teyvas said to the fallen reader. "You have a long life in front of you." It had not been difficult to get out of Tench with the reader's money and the silver earring that he wore. The room was on the second floor, and Teyvas climbed out the window and retrieved his horse from the stables. Teyvas had hoped for more good fortune from the reader, but was not unhappy because he needed to leave town in any case. Tench was a crossroads village with a few squalid taverns and a rough reputation. Teyvas had hoped to meet Lana the Snake there, a dark-hearted beauty whose exploits were legendary. Lana was nowhere to be found, and the only explanation he got was crazy talk about the assassin losing an arm in a fight with her twin. There would be other opportunities, he thought, and other women of questionable moral character to look after. Though he had just turned seventeen, Teyvas had a puckish smile and a calculated indifference that women found attractive. He had amassed a lengthy history of conquest, but in recent days the young man had narrowed his standards to a particular breed of femininity. He now sought women who were as hateful and fearless as he was, traits he imagined for his own mother when she was courted by his father. Teyvas' parents had been bandits, a profession he was proud to carry on. Ten years ago, they had been part of an encampment five leagues south of Dargon that had demanded a toll from travelers. He lived there, playing with the other children who were spawned by the bandits, but that life changed when Captain Tamar Armstrong led a Dargon guard unit on a raid of the camp. Armstrong, a general now, had been ordered to teach a lesson to those who would break the laws of the duchy. The lesson was taught. The boy's parents were among the first to die -- a guardsman entered their shelter and cut them down with his sword before they could even stand. Teyvas, who was seven at the time, was taken into the city and placed in a home for orphans. The ride back to Dargon would be a long one, and not very pleasant, since Teyvas could not keep to the main roads. There would be soldiers about in great numbers, because of the war, and he did not want to chance an encounter with them out in the open. Someone might remember him from a past exploit in the city, or he might also be conscripted into the army. The trip passed without event, save for a horrific storm on the 11th of Seber that forced him to seek the cover of trees. By the time he arrived in Dargon, he was nursing a headcold, so he sold the horse he no longer needed and used the money to buy a room in the waterfront district. The building was next to a brothel, and the thief could hear the hawker's cries, as well as other carrying on, well into the night. Teyvas kept to the docks for many days, a little worried that two murders he was involved in might be catching up with him. When he stopped at one of his favorite haunts, Teyvas was told that town guardsmen were looking for him in connection with the deaths. Zaran, a companion of his, must have confessed to the crimes while the thief was in Tench. The two of them had dragged a woman into an alley, killing her servant when he intervened. Zaran had wanted to take her, and Teyvas was willing to let his oafish friend have the pleasure of her company before they robbed her. Unfortunately, another hero chanced upon the little tryst. The portly fellow laid Zaran low with a skillet, of all things, and Teyvas was forced to cut down the man as he escaped. Teyvas now had learned the name of the middle-aged hero: Thomas Shopkeeper. His persistent widow had sung Shopkeeper's praises throughout the city, and the city fathers had taken notice. They wanted the slayer brought to justice. Teyvas needed to get out of Dargon, perhaps permanently. He could head back to Tench or a village like it, but the number of people who knew his face was getting perilously high. The best thing to do would be to book passage on a ship, but he did not have enough funds to leave Cherisk behind. To remedy the situation, Teyvas left the docks and meandered towards the upper-class reaches of Dargon. He lingered on a street lined with temples, hoping to find suitable prey leaving from an evening service. As the last strands of sunlight faded to the west, Teyvas watched a slender woman with a long tan cloak leaving a small shrine to Sbeppo. She was carrying a book as long as her forearm, and the thief concluded that she must be a scribe, since that was Sbeppo's sphere of influence. It was heartening to see the glint of gold around her slender neck, since Teyvas could not linger long in this district without arousing suspicion. The little scribe walked purposefully towards the market center of Dargon, evidently with some tasks in mind. When she turned away from a shop-lined avenue and headed across a tree-lined street, Teyvas cut across a grassy patch of land to get closer to her. He began dogging her steps, only 10 feet or so behind her, and she finally took notice of him. There was no one else on the street with them, and she knew what a bad position the shortcut had left her in. This dance of prey and predator was something that Teyvas wanted to savor, to extend until he could practically taste the fear exuded by his victim, a scent that hung heavy like a musk. But there was no time for play. Teyvas moved with the grace of a cat, knocking the scribe off the path and into some overgrown grass. She turned over and pushed at him with a weak thrust of her right hand, but the thief had undone her by pulling his knife across her throat. As a torrent of blood flowed from this second smile, Teyvas realized that the scribe was not as she seemed. For starters, she was actually a man. A slight, almost elfin looking man, but definitely male. He took the necklace, a pouch of coins and the contents of a shirt pouch -- thin slivers of glass coated with a powdery dust. He found a fourth sliver in the man's right hand, as if he was planning to do something with it. Teyvas touched his tongue gently to the sliver, to see if the dust was some kind of drug he had experienced. There was no taste, but Teyvas found all the explanation he needed when he looked more closely at the dying man, who was beginning to tremble convulsively. The book that he clutched tightly to his breast was covered with runes and other markings, whose origin was unmistakeably arcane. He had killed a mage. Teyvas cursed the luck that had put this spell-wielder into his path. If the shopkeeper was not enough of a burden, this would be his undoing. The thief had made long practice of avoiding magic and its practitioners. He pried the book from the hands of the mage, kicking the now-dead man in the ribs so hard that bones snapped. As Teyvas was walking away, three cloaked figures suddenly approached him from a street 50 feet distant. One pointed a finger at him and yelled in a guttural language Teyvas had never heard before. The rope was pulled so tightly around his neck that Teyvas thought it would kill him prematurely. His promise was going to be kept; he would die on his feet, before hundreds of Dargon's citizens who had assembled to send him off. The crowd looked up at the gallows with expectant faces, glad to have a diversion from the all-consuming passions of the war with Beinison. A female lieutenant named Ilona Milnor read the accusations levelled against him, and the sentence that had been meted out in the name of Duke Clifton Dargon the Second. There was a dull efficiency to her demeanor, and Teyvas was instantly attracted to her indifference. She had better things to do, and the young thief earnestly wished that he was one of them. After the murder two weeks ago, Teyvas had been captured by town guards as he was being dragged off by three Nar-Enthruen mages. He found out that the victim belonged to a 23-year-old arcane society that fiercely protected its own, affirming the thief's lifelong fear of magicians. The Nar-Enthruen were disappointed to hand him over to the guards, and had complained bitterly when it was ruled that they could not have the killer back. Still, they exacted one concession from the town guard before today's hanging. A hollow-faced Nar elder had spent an afternoon outside of Teyvas' cell, asking him numerous questions about his life and the crimes that he had committed. He was forthright, hoping some measure of infamy would outlive him, but the somber man did not seem impressed. As the Nar elder left, he spat some kind of curse at Teyvas in the exotic language of the Nar, and it left the thief with a strange coldness in his bones that did not fade. It was time for Teyvas to pay for the murders of Thomas Shopkeeper and the mage. Ilona stepped over to a hoist that would pull his ragged frame up the gibbet. "Do you have any last words?" she asked. "Only these," he said, looking into her eyes directly. "I love you." He smiled as she signaled for two attendants to turn the hoisting mechanism. For a moment, Teyvas looked down with a cheery air at the crowd that had gathered to see him off. He felt important for perhaps the first time in his life. This elation faded quickly, replaced by the burning pain of the rope. The weight of his body pulled at his neck, and Teyvas strained for a breath he could not take. For 20 minutes, onlookers watched as the thief danced on the gibbet, his feet gyrating to find purchase on the ground below him. Teyvas had promised to die on his feet, and as his consciousness faded he was still trying to extend an outstretched foot downward to the earth. His sorry path through the world reached an end. But it was not the end at all. Teyvas wiped his eyes, which had somehow become filled with smoke, and found that he was standing in a kitchen where roasted meats were charred black from overcooking. Through a closed door he could hear dozens of people talking in an adjacent room. Instinctively, he reached to pull the meats away from the cooking fire, wondering if he was meant to prepare food in the life after death. He noticed that his own arm was slender, and pasty-white in color. He looked down at his body, and really began to wonder about his predicament. "J'mirg's blood!" Teyvas exclaimed in a sonorous, high-pitched squeal. He clutched at his chest in terror and amazement. "I'm a squirmin' female!" After a few minutes of hysteria, Teyvas settled down to the fact that he had been reborn as a woman after being hanged for two murders in the city of Dargon. He was a mature woman in a tavern maid's attire, hunched over roasting fires in a kitchen. She had burnt most of tonight's main course. Teyvas could hear the sounds of merriment from a nearby room, and he gingerly opened a door to peer out. There were about 20 people in the dank establishment, which was decorated with boar's heads and the pelts of numerous forest animals. A poorly executed painting of King Haralan hung above a fireplace. "Adrana!" a man screamed at him -- her! -- as he approached from an adjacent bar. The boisterous character was a stocky barkeep with a long beard and unclean attire. He grabbed her around the waist once he came close enough to do so. "That foul smell had best not be the meat you're preparin', or we're going to have a riot on our hands." Teyvas shrugged Adrana's shoulders, suddenly embarrassed that a man was touching her in such a brusque manner. The thief would have liked to remove the offending hand with a blade, but this wench carried no weapons. Even if she had, he realized that the barkeep could physically dominate the woman if he chose to do so. This sense of inferiority was new to him. "Ol's balls, woman!" the barkeep cursed. "You really did burn the food ... show me what you did." He pushed her back into the kitchen, and gazed upon the ruined meats she had pulled from the fires. For a moment, he stared at the food as if his glance could restore it, but his face reddened and he turned to Adrana. "Your stupidity has cost me for the last time, you old crone," he said. A feeling of shame and fear washed over Teyvas, two emotions he did not possess before assuming this woman's form. He tried to stammer some kind of reply, "It, it was ..." Before he could finish, the burly barkeep brought the back of his hand across Adrana's face so hard that she was knocked to the corner of the kitchen. A tin pitcher full of grease was upended by one of her flailing arms as she attempted to break her fall, and the hot liquid spattered against her leg, causing excruciating pain. The barkeep was not hurt by the grease, but the accident enraged him further, and he approached her to mete out more punishment. Teyvas was not going to let this continue, woman or no woman. He lifted himself to a crouching position and grabbed a butcher's knife. Adrana's arms were not strong enough to plunge it deeply into the barkeep's chest, but Teyvas hoped the dullard would not realize that. "Adrana," the barkeep said, a little quieter than he had been. "I'm leaving," Teyvas-Adrana said. "If you move I'll gut you like a fish, and feed your entrails to those codswallops out there." The barkeep backed off a step. "Don't come beggin' tomorrow morn, woman!" he said. "I won't," Teyvas-Adrana replied. She left through the tavern's back door, and headed to a well-lit public street in front of the building. Teyvas could see the duke's castle and a few familiar guard towers in the distance, so he knew he was still in Dargon. For a half-bell he walked the streets aimlessly, in the general direction of his apartment in the waterfront district. As he came closer to it, Teyvas suddenly realized that it wasn't really his home any longer. He wandered away. Teyvas was too stunned to be alive in this woman's body to appreciate the escape from the hangman's noose. There were no rope burns on his neck, but he could still feel the itch of the cord wrapped tightly under his chin. The grinding sound of the hoist pulling him onto the gibbet reverberated in his head like the clangor of a Lederian battle-drum. Teyvas did not know what to do next. The few friends he had would not believe this, and some were likely to seize the opportunity to avail themselves of Adrana. From his vantage point, he could see she was not entirely unattractive. With no other options to consider, Teyvas took himself back to the tavern, hoping to find someone who could tell him where Adrana lived so that he could sleep there. Unfortunately, as he crept into the kitchen through a back door, Teyvas saw the barkeep, sitting on a stool a few feet away and drinking wine from a bottle. "I knew you'd come back," he said, pulling himself to his feet with considerable effort. The unclean man wiped his beard with the back of his hand and then grabbed a knife. It was the same blade Teyvas had threatened him with a few hours ago. "No wife of mine treats me like that," the barkeep said. He smiled savagely at her, his teeth glinting like jagged rocks on the shoreline. Teyvas sat up in a dark room and pulled a sheet off his body, screaming. The competing smells of excrement and death told him that he was in a dungeon cell. He was back under Dargon Keep, he reasoned, and had dreamed of his own hanging and the experience as Adrana. The last part was still horrifying to him, and though her murder was a figment of the mind he could not help but clutch at his neck in sympathetic pain. The nightmare that had visited itself upon that woman was beyond anything Teyvas could conjure, and he wished the Nar elder was around so that he could tell the man his own crimes were minor. Teyvas had dispatched his victims with efficiency, and had never taken sexual liberties with any of them. To torture a woman and to rape her so violently was unimaginably grotesque, even to him. Still, it was just a dream, probably an effort by the gods to introduce him to the sensations of guilt and remorse. It was not going to work, he thought, and laughed weakly. As he did so, the ends of his beard rubbed against his chest. Teyvas did not have a beard. He found himself in a new form, some kind of squat, muscular figure who was covered in flea-infested hair. What happened to Adrana really happened, to him, and the rebirth had come again. "Damn you, spell-tosser!" he yelled in agony, and Teyvas threw his new body against the solid wood of the cell door until it was bruised and bloody. He fell asleep on the floor, a throbbing and badly sprained arm lying askew at his side. He awoke to the banging sound of a metal pan being slammed against the walls outside the cell. Teyvas lifted himself to his feet, crying in pain as the injuries of the previous night asserted themselves upon his conscious body. Peering through a small barred hole in the door, Teyvas saw a guard clad in the duke's colors heading down the hall. He recognized her as one of those who walked him to the gibbet the day before, though he had no way of telling if that was really how long ago it took place. He was still in Dargon. Sitting back down on his noxious pallet, Teyvas looked himself over. He was some kind of wild man, with a stone-solid upper body, stubby legs and dark olive skin. Most of the injuries he inflicted upon this form would heal quickly, but the left forearm was still extremely sore. When his sensibilities started to return, Teyvas began to think about the curious visit from the Nar-Enthruen elder shortly before his execution. Rosgode was his name, and he claimed that the visit was for an interrogation about the thief's "sundered life," as the elder put it. Rosgode acted as if there were some kind of spiritual reason for needing to know such details. "Do you not wish to tell me?" Rosgode asked. "Surely you must know that you are already doomed." There was a sympathy to this last statement, as if the old man took a fatherly interest in his subject. Teyvas did not believe in the sentiment, but was flattered at the attention he was receiving. "I will share it all with you, spell-tosser," he said, "and when you walk out of this place you will know that I wanted to be here." Teyvas told the mage about the carefree life of a roving bandit clan, and how rich with joy he had been before the devil Tamar had taken it all away. He explained how Dargon's orphan shelters were haphazard operations that would expel children for troublemaking whenever expenses went beyond the funds alloted by the Dargon government. He told of fighting with wild pigs and dogs for refuse tossed in the middle of city streets at age ten. While Teyvas spoke, Rosgode cupped his hands together as if he could catch the conversation like rainwater. Teyvas thought it was odd but was too wrapped up in himself to consider it further. He continued his tale, hoping that Rosgode had a strong memory and would take the story beyond the dungeon walls. Teyvas told him about living in the dying houses when the Red Plague struck in 1007, stealing food from the palsied hands of victims when he could, hoping that he would join their suffering. But he never became sick from the exposure, and it even led to the only honest job he ever had, as a charnel runner taking the dead to be burned. "Why did you never try to kill Tamar?" Rosgode inquired. "Did you not despise him for what his men did to your parents?" "I despise them," Teyvas said. "They were weak and deserved what they got." When Teyvas' tale reached the murder of Rosgode's compatriot and the thief's subsequent confinement, the Nar elder stood up, clasped his hands together and held them tight as if he were holding a cricket. He stared at the young man in the cell and suddenly said something unintelligible in his own tongue. The sneer on Rosgode's face made Teyvas feel that it was some kind of curse, and it laid a chill on his bones. Sitting in this new cell, Teyvas surmised that the spell-caster had used their conversation as a pretense to enact some kind of Nar-Enthruen hex. Adrana's demise at the hands of her husband was visited upon him as punishment, and a sense of dread fell over him as he wondered what might come next. He did not have much time to speculate about it. The day progressed and guards delivered gruel masquerading as food. Teyvas was still trying to stomach it when his cell door was unlocked and another inmate stepped inside. "I'd wager 13 marks you didn't expect a visitor today, kinsman," the prisoner said, pulling his lips back as a wolf does, revealing a sinister smile. The man was from Kimerron, a small country of barbarians that had lost a war with Beinison. He removed a short knife from a pocket in his leggings. "It cost a king's ransom to get this shank," he said. "Your lord sends his warmest regards." After his third death in Dargon, Teyvas was reborn in a widening spire of sites and situations. At Gateway, he was a foot soldier of Beinison skewered by a Lederian colour sergeant. At Sharks' Cove, he was a slaver whose property rose up against him, tying him up and setting him ablaze. At Shireton, he was a halfwit stoned to death for exhibiting inappropriate affection for livestock. As the number of expended lives grew, the thief stopped resisting the fate that had been bestowed upon him. For a time he contented himself with the relative peace of drowning, submerging himself in the water before others could choose a more appropriate end for him. He began to lose his attachment to the mortal form, and imagined himself as a floating wisp of golden cloud, skimming the top of trees in one locale and then dissipating, only to reform somewhere else at the direction of the prevailing winds. When the number of his reincarnated forms reached 17, Teyvas found himself kneeling in a small alcove, looking upwards at a bronze statuette of Sbeppo, the patron deity of scribes and the written word. There was a reflective glass behind the sculpture, and Teyvas gazed into it. His face was that of a frail, tawny-haired man. He carried a rune-covered book as large as his forearm. For several minutes, the thief stared into the eyes of the last man he had killed. He breathed deeply, filling the body with life, and thought about the way he had taken this vitality away from the mage. Teyvas pushed aside the curtains that separated the alcove from a larger chamber of worship. Two men in lily-white robes stood near the back of the room, talking quietly. The altar was empty because the evening services had ended several menes ago. Setting the book down, Teyvas ascended to the raised dais that contained the altar, a pair of tables and a large illustrated manuscript. The book was open to a drawing of a mother giving birth to a younger woman who was pregnant herself. The thief was not aware of the significance of the book, but he could tell that it was valuable and of import to the people who worshipped here. He yanked a torch from its holder on one wall, an act that took all the strength this elflike body possessed. At this point, the two robed men approached him in alarm. "Get yourself off there, brother!" one said. "Come any closer, brother, and we find out if this book will burn," Teyvas replied. "Bring me Rosgode of the Nar-Enthruen!" It did not take long for the elder mage to reach the temple. "Have you gone mad?" he asked emphatically as he strode down the aisle towards the dais. "For someone you have killed more than a dozen times over, I am remarkably sane," Teyvas said. He wished he could summon the other Teyvas, who was probably wandering the temple area at this point, looking for someone to rob. He would give the boy all of the mage's riches, if he could, and send him away from Cherisk for good. "This is nonsense-talk, Alder," Rosgode said. "What kind of enchantment are you talking about?" Alder-Teyvas was growing fatigued, and he knew that he could only keep everyone at a distance for a few more menes. "I am out of your time, and I am not your friend," Teyvas said. "Later tonight, I was a thief who murdered Alder and was captured. You came to my cell and I told my crimes to your hands. When you left, you spoke a Nar curse upon me. "I was hanged, and reborn as someone who was fated to die," Teyvas continued. "I am reborn and reborn, and I die every time." Rosgode looked stunned for a moment, but the expression was replaced by one of comprehension. "The hand-telling is a way to remove a man's crimes," he said. "If I did that, I took them so you would not have the evil to draw upon in a future life." The response made sense to Teyvas, gave him an answer to why he was unable to resist being the victim of 17 successive crimes. The evil had been stolen away from him, and he had not found anything to take its place. The elder took a gentle step back, and held out his hand as if trying to keep Teyvas calm so the book would not be harmed. But there was fear in the pits of Rosgode's ruminant eyes. This was a revelation to the tired cutpurse who had been freed from the finality of death. Rosgode had not expected the spell to come to a circle like this -- before he had even cast it. It was all Teyvas needed to see. He knew what had to be done. Alder-Teyvas dropped the torch onto the holy book of Sbeppo, causing two nearby priests to cry out in agony and rush onto the dais. As this happened, Teyvas reached into a pouch on Alder's shirt and pulled out four powder-covered slivers of glass. He knew that they were a weapon of some kind, since the original Alder had intended to use one before his throat was slit. Rosgode was unable to react, jostled by onlookers who were rushing in to assist their fellows. Teyvas put the glass in his mouth and held it with his teeth as he leapt onto the elder. He wrapped both arms around the mage, who was attempting some form of evasive magic, and bit down as hard as he could. White fire erupted from his mouth, spewing forth a clarified heat that blinded all those who gazed upon it. Rosgode, whose head was directly in its path, was beyond such concerns about his vision. Teyvas stood on the deck of the _Laughing Gale_, a merchant ship headed to several trading ports on the eastern coast of Duurom. He found the money to leave Dargon for good: A miracle had visited itself upon him in the form of a fracas at the Temple of Sbeppo. As he waited in the area, hoping to find a templegoer headed home with too much money and too little sense, Teyvas saw a spell-tosser confronting his brethren inside a temple. The frail man rose up like a snake baring its fangs, and as the thief headed for a closer look, a white fire erupted from the mage's mouth. This sorcerous act unleashed a potent magic that left one man dead and another dying. Rather than attending to the surviving mage, his fellows worked feverishly to save a book that had become damaged. "The illustration of the birth and rebirth has been lost," a man wailed. "That page cannot be saved!" As they left to attend to the manuscript, Teyvas was able to walk into the temple and clean the altar of its golden adornments. An offering box that rattled with coins was also left behind by Sbeppo's faithful. Teyvas used the easily gained fortune to book passage on the _Gale_ two weeks later. He watched the continent of Cherisk recede to the east as the ship headed northwest into colder waters. Finally, when the land faded from his sight, he headed down to the hold where passengers were to sleep. Filthy straw covered the floor and the blankets were threadbare and moth-eaten, but he fell asleep like the duke's heir esconced in a feather bed. "Get up, dog!" The bark of the ship's captain was unmistakable, sounding like a shovel dragged across stones. Teyvas stumbled to stand but did not move quickly enough, and four hands pulled him to his feet. Hovering next to the captain, a round face slowly came into focus for Teyvas. When it did, he did not have to ask the reason for the nighttime visit. It was the teller from Tench, whose fortune was much better than Teyvas had thought when he left the man for dead. "This is him," the fat-faced man told the captain as a sailor found a blade among Teyvas' belongings. It was the only weapon he had carried onto the ship. The Wheel reader brought himself closer to the thief, and Teyvas could smell the ointment that was caked upon the man's midsection, salve that closed the hole opened by a knife. "I must offer apology to you for a mistake in your reading," the teller said, his voice weak but deliberate. "The Wheel's promise of a long life has been shown to be false." A blackjack was brought down upon Teyvas' head by one of the captain's men. As red light filled his sight, and warmth radiated from the back of his skull, the thief received the last indicator of his future from the reader. "You are about to embark upon a seaborne journey," he rasped. Two sailors wrapped the legs of Teyvas in chains, and a bloody cloth was stuffed into his mouth. A hearty shout rose from the crew of the _Gale_ as the son of bandits was tossed overboard. Teyvas landed feet-first when he reached the ocean floor, a dying sob trapped in his throat by the Wheel of Life. ======================================================================== DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 8 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 04/01/1995 Volume 8, Number 1 Circulation: 623 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb The Evening After ... Bill Erdley Yule 22, 1014 Storm Dancer Jon Evans Seber 11-12, 1014 The Scent of Balsam Bill Erdley Late Seber, 1014 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine. Issues and public discussion are posted to newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 8-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 1995 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb I hope you all enjoyed the special two-issue "Best of DargonZine" reprints. I can tell you that our veteran writers definitely enjoyed the respite from my constant appeals for submissions! And the writers who recently joined us have used the time to get up to speed and prepare their first submissions. But now it's time to get back to work! The biggest news since our last editorial (early December), is that you will now notice an ISSN number in our banner page. The primary benefit of this is the legitimization of DargonZine as an internationally recognized periodical. Major thanks to "Grim" Jon Evans for singlehandedly making that happen. The only other news is that DargonZine 8-2 will follow reasonably closely on the heels of this issue, and will include the first stories from the bumper crop of new writers who joined the project at the end of 1994. We have nearly 20 stories that are currently in the peer review process, so we should have plenty of reading material for you very shortly! Thanks for your continuing interest, and keep spreading the word! This issue features stories by two of our veteran writers. In contrast to his previous works (particularly his "Sons of Gateway" series), Jon Evans' "Storm Dancer" is a light, humorous, well-written, and delightful story that introduces us to a new protagonist -- a young man named Thedos. We're all anxious to see followup stories. "The Evening After" and "the Scent of Balsam" continue Bill Erdley's exploration of Derrio, the deaf squire of Luthias Connall, the Knight Captain of the Northern Marches. As the Beinison army continues to pillage cities and countryside that once owed fealty to the kingdom of Baranur, the Baranurian troops begin to realize that war isn't anything like the songs the bards once sung ... ======================================================================== The Evening After ... by Bill Erdley Yule 22, 1014 Three times today I should have died. I owe my life to three different men. Well, actually two, since the third is dead. Tired. I'm tired and I want to sleep. I can't. There's no real memory of the battle. There are pictures in my head, but they all run together like the blood in the rain. I killed my first opponent today. He screamed as he fell to the ground. There he sobbed once, gasped, and died. There is no honor in killing. There is no honor in dying. Honor exists for its own sake. I try to roll over, but my body refuses. I got my first wounds today. Bruises on my legs and sides, a nasty gash across my shoulder, and a lump on my head. I hurt. Three times today I should have died. Apart from those who stood, and fell, before me, I remember Sir Luthias and Michiya. Like two demonic reapers in the devil's own field, they swung and chopped and cut, harvesting a macabre crop of souls to be sent back to wherever those souls came from. Why can't I fall asleep? Sir Luthias saved me by knocking me to the ground while simultaneously parrying the swing that would have separated my head from my shoulders. The mud was already salty with blood. It splashed into my face as I fell, and when I cleared it from my eyes and spat it from my mouth, my assailant was dead on the ground and Sir Luthias was already on to his next combat. My shoulder hurts; the deep, throbbing pain of a joint begging for rest. I fought beside Sir Luthias. They didn't seem to know how to counter one of the tricks that Sir Luthias taught me. Again and again I used it. Swing, counter, swing, twist, thrust; and my sword would bite a shoulder or a neck. Once, my sword caught as a man went down. As I reached for it, another man stepped in and swung. I dodged, but I was open for his next strike. Michiya, without changing his rhythm, caught my opponent with a backhand slash to the head, then continued to fight his own battle. The dead man almost landed on me as he fell... Never have I heard so much pain. Screaming. Moaning. Sobbing. There was a constant sound. It was the sound of the dying. I never knew death had a voice. During a lull, Sir Luthias complimented my ability and "tenacity", a word which I had him explain. I didn't tell him that I was afraid; that I fought for my life. He already knew. I just want to sleep. I try to roll over again. It is the eyes, most of all, that I see when I close my own. The sightless, fixed stare of the dead. My mistake was to look into those eyes. Just once. I saw death's face. There is no honor in killing. I was struck in the shoulder by a man that I didn't see. I fell, my sword falling from my fingers as my arm screamed out in pain. I tried to crawl back from the fighting, but he came at me, a terrible smile spreading across his face. A man from the company that I had traveled with stepped between us and swung. I rose from the mud and tried once again take up my sword. My arm screamed again, so I switched hands. The man who saved me fell. His killer moved on to another fight, perhaps forgetting me. I looked at my shoulder, and saw the blood pouring forth. I turned from the fighting to find a healer. My head throbs to a slower rhythm now, but it still throbs. It throbs with every beat of my heart. It throbs because I still live. For that, I am grateful. Still, I wish I could sleep. There is no honor in dying. I tripped over a body while running back to the line. The Beinison man lived, but his pain... "Kill me." he cried. "Please, I beg you." I shook my head. I showed him the sign for healer, then turned to run and find one. He cursed me. "I am defeated!" he cried. "To live with defeat is worse than death. I will NOT live in dishonor!" I fetched the healers, but he was dead when we returned. The eyes. Those cursed eyes. How can I sleep when every time I close my eyes I see theirs. Honor exists for its own sake. The tent flap moved and Sir Luthias entered, followed by Michiya and a man in dirty white robes who I thought was a healer. Luthias looked at me and asked "How are you doing?" *I* *Live* I manage to keep my injured arm quiet. He nodded. "You will fight again." *Fight* *Yes* *Sleep* *No.* Again, he nodded. I think that he understood. The healer moved to me and handed me a small bottle. "Drink this." I did, and almost instantly felt my eyes begin to close, as if they were too heavy to hold open. *Question* *I* *Dream.* Sir Luthias' voice sounded distant and vaguely sorrowful. "I hope not." ======================================================================== Storm Dancer by Jon Evans Seber 11-12, 1014 The brisk ocean breeze drifted off the water and worked its way into the woods surrounding the bay. Slowed by the trees and scrub of a northern wood, it traveled inland, becoming less than a draft, and turned a warm Seber day into a comfortable day to work. Picking up his ax, he looked about the woods for previously felled trees. This day, he cut wood for his mother, the blacksmith, who insisted on old, dry wood. Walking through the light forests east of his home town, he enjoyed the soft chill in the air. The leaves were turning, their reds and oranges mingling with patches of blue sky now visible through the trees. The smell of the ocean carried through the air, and Thedos' blood raced. Images of ships lurching forward in the water, waves and wind carrying their precious cargos from lands south and west of Baranur. The sea was where he wanted to be, not chopping wood for his mother, or farming vegetables with his father. His father had spent two years on a merchant ship, trading with Beinison port cities, before marrying Thedos' mother. He was more his father's son than his mother's. He would be seventeen years old, this Nober. And while he had no ambition to become a blacksmith, he resented his mother's refusal to teach him the trade. His mother's ancestors had always passed the trade to their daughters, and she was not about to break tradition. He wandered through the brush, following animal trails which he knew would lead him toward his invariable destination. "It's too nice a morning to spend chopping wood," he thought. "Besides, the storm which had raged three nights past would just as likely have felled trees at the water's edge as in the woods." Thedos could hear the surf in the distance as he stepped through the woodland brush. As he neared a thorny bush, he removed his shirt. The last time he went home with a torn shirt, his mother had nearly skinned him. And, when she found where he had spent his morning, rather than chopping, farming, or trapping, he had been punished for a week. Passing through the thicket, he topped a small, sandy hill and saw his destination: the cove. It was only thirty five of his paces across, and between twenty and forty paces from brush to shore, depending on the tide. No one, as far as he was able to tell, knew of this cove. Occasionally, he'd seen animals or birds around the water. Once he even glimpsed a small sea animal on the beach, but it hobbled back into the water as soon as it noticed him. Someone, however, had found it now. Beached inside the bay was a small, single-masted sailing ship. It appeared to be grounded against a sand bar about fifty feet from the shore. Approaching it cautiously, he noticed that no one was visibly on board. "Halloooo," he called. "Ahoy the ship!" No answer. As he neared the water's edge, he could see that the mast had been cracked, and there was a hole about two feet above the water line. Instantly, tales of ghost ships and pirates came to mind. He had listened to Captain Kent tell of dangerous adventures on the open sea, and far-away lands. He looked about the beach to be certain no one was around, then slipped his feet out of his sandals and removed the rest of his clothing. He again checked the cove for people. He knew no one was ever in the area, but still he imagined the embarrassment he would feel if someone saw him standing completely naked by the water's edge. The cold northern waters chilled his feet and legs as he waded out to waist deep waters. He swam here often in mid summer, when the cool waters offered refreshing contrast to the hot days. But now that it was getting late in the season, he had less desire for the water's cool comfort. When he dove into the water and began swimming toward the ship, the cold water splashing against his body had an almost numbing affect. As he reached the ship, he easily pulled himself up to the hole in its side. With his eyes unaccustomed to the darkness, all he could see was a few odd shapes and the shimmer of water on the floor. "The boat may have been here for several days," he thought, "probably beached during the recent storm." As Thedos' eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he pulled himself through the hole. It was just big enough for him to lift his body through, being careful not to scrape his groin across the splintered wood. The interior of the boat was cramped and low, and he had to hunch over to stand on his feet. He had seen fishing boats like this, the insides of which were used to store nets, rope, food, and materials to mend sails. This one, however, was bare but for a small box and the water at his knees. The box was on the third step of a ladder leading up to a hatch. Thedos walked to the ladder and reached for the box. Pain stabbed through his left ankle, and he knocked the box off the step. It splashed into the water and floated while Thedos examined his ankle: a small sword had been left below the water line, which Thedos had not seen in the darkness. A trickle of blood mingled with the water at his feet -- it was only a small cut. He lifted the sword from the floor, being careful not to cut himself. Its previous owner had taken excellent care to keep it oiled and sharpened because its edge was keen and its surface was not rusted, even after being in the salt water. Its weight was unfamiliar in his hands, balanced more toward the grip than the head. He was used to the heaviness of an ax, which constantly tried to pull its head to the ground. He gripped the sword in his left hand and reached up with his right, groping along the almost unseen ceiling for a latch above the ladder. When he found it, he slid the latch open and pushed the hatch upward. Sunshine spilled in from the outside. He grabbed the box and brought it and the sword on deck. When he stepped out into the sunshine, he could see the entire ship before him. The boat was about 25 feet from fore to aft, and 10 feet port to starboard, with one mast in the center. It was a well designed ship. The railings had been damaged, somewhat, but the wood was sturdy and nicely carved. The deck, for the most part, was undamaged. There were no signs of inhabitants, but someone must have manned her before she arrived: there was the remains of a make-shift scorpion on her foredeck. "Well, it doesn't matter," he thought. "For the moment, she's mine!" Placing the box and sword on the deck, he stood at the opening for the gangplank and looked down. Only a few feet to the water. Stepping back a pace, he steadied himself, then leapt forward. He seemed to float in the air for a moment, then landed in the water with a resounding splash. When he surfaced, he had a smile as wide as the cove. "This is going to be a good morning," he thought. He immediately swam back to the hole, crawled into the ship, and worked his way back up to the deck. Half a bell later, he was lying on the deck, sunning himself. It had been a beautiful morning, and the sun was high overhead. Midday meal would be served in one or two bells. "Wouldn't it be nice," he thought, "if I could just sail into Dargon arbor, sign on a crew, and ship off to Bichu, or the Caldo, or somewhere exotic. My own ship," he thought, and looked around at the wreck. "But it's not such a wreck," he mused. "It's in fair shape, aside from the mast, the hole in the side, and some damage to the railing. The sail could use some patching, and a good mast would need to be found, but it could be repaired." If only he had the money. If only he had the time. If only ... He looked around again, contemplating the whole of the ship. Why couldn't he? His mother and sister were blacksmiths in the duchy of Dargon. Between the war and rebuilding the city, they always had plenty of work. Duke Dargon had decreed that any wrecked ships found along the coast of Dargon could be claimed by the finder. While most of the ships either had been destroyed or carried into Dargon proper by the winds and tide, this one was still unclaimed. He thought for a moment. It was midday, now. If he skipped his meal, he could make it to Dargon around second bell. If he brought the fee of fifteen rounds, he could take a scribe out to the boat, file the claim, and be the proud owner of a ship. Albeit a slightly used one. But he would never get the money. His mother had been saving all the silver for his older sister, Cara, who was practicing to be a silversmith. She would not give up the money to invest in a ship, particularly one which would cost more money to repair. He sighed. The least he could do is ask. Perhaps his father could say something ... anything. He got home just as the vegetables and bread were lain on the table. His father, Braewen, looked up and smiled, "Hi, Thedos. How'd the wood hunting go?" Thedos smiled back, creating a near-perfect image of his father's face. Only his hair was different, being longer than that of his father's, and his father's shoulders were broader. Both had hazel eyes, light complexions reddened by the past summer, and a strong jaw. "Actually, I found a lot of wood. But I didn't cut any." He could not wait any longer. "Could I skip midday meal?" Braewen looked at the boy. His brown hair was a little damp around the neck, and his skin looked slightly burned. He noticed the sand sticking to the boy's feet. Braewen smiled. "Gave up the wood cutting to go swimming, and now you want to skip the meal? Don't worry, Thedos -- and don't tell your mother I said this -- but there's enough wood stacked up at the smithy to last us through tomorrow. Cut some after midday, and stack it here. You can bring it to the smithy tomorrow." "Well, I wasn't going to cut any wood, this even'." Thedos began cautiously. Braewen's eyes squinted as he sized up his son, trying to determine what he was up to. "What, exactly, *were* you thinking of doing, then, Thedos?" "I need fifteen rounds, and I have to go into Dargon." "No." "But--" "You know your mother's saving silver. And we don't have that much copper, and we sure as Stevene's Word don't have any gold. And you can't just ask for money to go into Dargon with. What are you thinking?" Braewen frowned. Thedos gulped. It was going to be harder than he thought. "I- I found ... a boat." "So, you were out on your boat all morning? Were you at least fishing? This was a beautiful day to work, and what were you doing? Hmnn?" Suddenly, his father looked more imposing than Thedos had remembered. And if his father was against it, his mother would never allow it. "I was swimming, like you said. But I found this boat -- it's more of a ship, really -- and I want to claim it in Dargon. We could sell it, or fix it, or ..." "It needs fixing? Do you know how much that costs? *And* you need the fifteen rounds--" "But it's not that bad!" Thedos looked like a hurt puppy. He gave up trying to convince his father, and sat down on a stool. Picking up some fresh beans, he began eating his midday meal. After a short time, his mother entered, covered in soot and dirt, and sweating from the heat of the kiln. Her leather smock was black, with small burn marks in it, and her thick shirt stretched across a large back. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing unusually large arms. Her blond hair was cropped short, like her husband's, revealing bright blue eyes. But her face was soft, if determined. "Good day, Brae ... how's this side running?", she asked. She took a seat next to her son and noticed his melancholy expression. "What's wrong with you, Ted?" "Thedos spent the morning swimming, instead of cutting wood." Braewen offered. "Ah ..." she nodded, looking at her son. "And?" she asked Thedos. "I need fifteen rounds to claim a ship I found." "Fifteen rounds! You know Cara needs the silver to apprentice, and we don't have that much money to throw around! A ship! Where is this ship? What's it look like?" "In ..." he hesitated. He didn't want anyone to know where his cove was, not even his parents. But if he did not tell them, they would never give him the money. "Never mind." "I'll find some other way of getting fifteen rounds," he thought as he walked back into the forest. There had to be something he could do. "How much did wood sell for, at the market? Not enough," he wagered. And he had no other skills to sell, thanks to his mother's refusal to teach him to smith. He had no savings of his own. His mother and father had simply given him money when he needed it. But never for an expense like this. Slowly, as all avenues to his desire seemed to close, a small thought bubbled in his brain: "I could steal it." No. He clamped that thought down immediately. He was not a thief. And he did not know anyone who could afford to lose any money, let alone fifteen rounds. His was the wealthiest family in the small village, and only because the war had placed so much demand on smiths. But he could go into Dargon, where gold and silver were as common as the people walking the streets. No! He was not going into Dargon to steal gold or silver. He wasn't going anywhere. He was going to chop wood, and stack it at his house. He was going to work away his thoughts of stealing and gold and Dargon. But not the ship. Somehow, he'd find a way to get fifteen rounds. He came across a tree that had been felled during the storm, three days before. And, while the wood was still slightly damp, the branches were not so dense as to hinder his swing. This would be fine work for the afternoon. He planted his feet firmly in the ground, about shoulder- length apart, and faced his target squarely. With his right hand at the base of the head and his left hand on the bottom of the handle, he lifted the ax. As he swung the ax down, his right hand glided across the wooden handle, meeting his left hand just as the ax head bit into the wood. "A good swing," he thought. Braewen sat at his kitchen table, cleaning vegetables and fruit. "The fruit will be rotten, soon," he thought. "I'll make up some juice, add some nuts and berries, and heat it with some wine over the fire. If I store it in a barrel for a month, it should take the bite out of a cold night." He thought, then, about Thedos. The boy wanted to own a ship. He remembered his own days on the _Sea_Cutter_, with dreams of travelling to far away lands and great adventures on the open sea. Well, the only far away land he'd ever been to was Beinison, which did not require much travel on the open sea. Most of the time, the ship had been within sight of the continent. After a year of returning to the same, dirty, port towns time and time again, he had regretted signing on. "Perhaps," he thought, "if I'd owned his own ship. Maybe that would have made the difference. Sailing to Bichu or the Fire Sea might have been exciting, and the open sea would certainly have been less boring -- and more dangerous -- than staying along the coastline. The rewards would have been better, too," he mused. He stood up, leaving the vegetables and fruit on the kitchen table, and walked to his room. "There were rewards," he thought. Such as being able to establish his wife in her own smithy. She was skilled, when he met her, and the way she commanded herself and others sparked his interest. Certainly, she was not everyone's idea of a classic beauty. But there was a way she held herself. She did not require his presence, the way a common village woman might. She *wanted* his presence. He smiled. But Thedos probably felt less than wanted, with two sisters in the house. Both were apprenticing smiths, receiving most of the attention from their mother. The girls were being given more opportunities for their future than he. Lianna's family apprenticed trades through their daughters so the girls would not have to depend on others for their livelihood. Aside from farming a small field for seasonal vegetables and chopping wood, Braewen had no skills to pass on to his son. He lifted the straw mattress he and his wife shared and slid it to the side. Beneath the floorboards of the room was a steel box, unlocked. He and his wife kept the family's savings there. He opened the box and removed a leather pouch, which contained seventeen rounds. It was the last of the "rewards" which he'd gathered in his sailing endeavors. The other money -- silver and copper -- amounted to about 35 rounds. It was enough to last most of the families in this village for several years. He could afford to give fifteen of his last seventeen rounds to his son, to register the ship. The rounds had been in the pouch for six years, since he had last spent twelve rounds on a dress for his wife. She had traded it for a leather smock and hammer for Cara's apprenticeship. He sighed. But what guarantee had he that Thedos would be able to repair the ship? Continue with his boyhood desire? If it was just a phase Thedos was going through, it would be a waste of money. And without seeing the ship, Braewen had no way of telling if his money would be put to any good use. "Brae!" The door to his house was nearly ripped off its hinges as his wife burst in. "Brae! Come quick!" she called, looking about the kitchen, the fruits and vegetables still sitting on the table. "Where are you?" Braewen entered from the hall that led towards their room. "What is it?" "It's Cara," Lianna said. There was a gleam of pride in her eyes, and a smile beamed from her face. "Mr. Gordon, a silversmith in Dargon, agreed to apprentice her for the next year! And only twenty-five rounds! Quick -- run and get the money. I'll meet you back at the smithy." As his wife bolted back through the doorway, heading to the smithy, Braewen ran to the bedroom. Leaving the box and his pouch on their mattress, he gathered twenty-five rounds from the larger pile and ran back out the door. Two bells after midday, Thedos entered the wood shed behind his family's house, carrying an armload of logs. He had forgotten the rope he used to tie bundles together and to his back, and had to leave his ax by the tree. "As soon as I get the rope," he thought, "I'll run back to the tree." "Father," he called as he walked into the house. No answer. There was fresh food sitting on the kitchen table, in various stages of preparation, but his father was nowhere to be found. He knew the rope was in the closet by his parents' room, and he went to fetch it. As he passed by his parents' room, he stopped. On their mattress was a pile of silver and copper coins. He hesitated. Mentally, he counted the money from where he stood. His pulse quickened as his mind refused to believe what he was contemplating. If there was one family in the village that could afford to have fifteen rounds stolen, it was his. His breathing was heavy and his throat dry. He glanced around the room and down the hall. No one was in the house. Again, his eyes found the silver. It looked as if the fifteen rounds on the right side of the pile had been separated from the rest. How easy it would be to grab the coins and run. He could be in Dargon by the fourth bell, and home in time for the evening meal. No one was home, the money was left on the bed. Anyone could have stumbled into their home and taken it. And he'd have his ship. Braewen, Lianna, and their eldest daughter, Cara, entered the house. A trunk would need to be packed, with sufficient clothes and equipment to last her the year. She would only be a few hours away; but she would be apprenticing six days a week, and there wouldn't be much time to transport her belongings between towns. Braewen went down the hall while Lianna and Cara went directly to the room where Cara and Lysande slept. It was much smaller than the room in which Braewen and his wife slept, but there was less need for space. There was no mirror, for one, and fewer clothes hung on pegs in the wall. On the trunk at the foot of the bed sat a wooden doll and a book. The wooden doll had been given to Cara when she was seven, and the book, _Fretheod_Romances_, belonged to Lysande. Inside the trunk were the clothes Cara and Lysande would wear to church, one day a week. Braewen appeared at the entrance to the room. "Leah," he softly called. Lianna looked at her husband's anguished expression and the sadness in his eyes. She stepped out in the hall to talk with him. It was just fourth bell when Thedos had arrived at the edge of Dargon, slightly sweaty but still breathing well. He'd removed his shirt to wrap the silver, not wanting passing strangers to see him with a handful of coins. By the time he'd made it to the Ducal Buildings, it was half way to fifth bell, and the sun was low in the sky. He didn't have much time. "Excuse me," he said as he entered the building. It was a large room, with three desks separating it into smaller areas. The man in the office wore a dark brown robe with a silvery sash across his waist, and leather sandals. There were two women, also in robes, at the other desks, carefully applying quill to paper. A city guard in chain mail and holding a spear stood at the edge of the doorway. "Is this the building where official records are kept?" The robed man looked up. His face was grey and wrinkled, and his eyebrows reminded Thedos of thick bushes found at the edge of ponds. "What does it say on the door, son?" His gravely voice was harsh and tired. Thedos paused, and looked at the door. "I don't know ... I can't read." The man nodded and approached Thedos. "My name is Galwyn. What can I do for you?" "I found a ship. I want to claim it." "Did you?" Galwyn eyed Thedos. "And where is this ship?" "It's ... I can't tell you." "Then I can't help you." "I'm not sure the name of the place. It's in a cove, east of here." "What kind of ship is it?" "I think it's a small bireme. I'm not sure." "What's its name?" "It doesn't have one. I think it was Beinisonian, but I couldn't find a name plate." "And you can't read." "I read a little!" Thedos protested. "Just not very well." "There is not a great deal you *do* know about this ship, is there?" "No, sir." Galwyn spoke slowly, "Do you know there's a fee to register a craft?" "Yes," Thedos stepped forward. "I have it here." He lifted the bundle in his hands and shook it lightly. The silver clinked softly. "And where did *you* get fifteen rounds?" the guardsman asked, taking a close look at Thedos. Thedos' voice cracked. "My father gave it to me ..." His lie was unconvincing. He looked at himself. His pants were dirty from the road, mud was caked on his feet, and the dust of the city clung to his sweaty chest. His hair was unkempt, having gone swimming that morning, and his face was covered with a light fuzz of which, until now, he had been proud. Entering the building with the coins rolled up in his shirt, he looked like a common street rat who had stumbled across an unlucky citizen. "My mother is a blacksmith in-" "Your *mother*?" the guard interrupted. Galwyn snickered. The guard guffawed. Thedos turned and sprinted out the door. When Thedos returned home, it was past seven bells. Once he had left Dargon city, he had slowed his sprint to a walk. Now, shirtless, dirty, and without either his ax or wood in the shed, he would have to explain his whereabouts for the past two hours. Of course, there was also the silver. About a hundred feet from his doorstep, he stopped and looked at the bundle in his hands. He couldn't claim to have lost it, or used it already. He had stolen from his parents; he didn't want to avoid it by lying to them. But, he did not think they had been fair to him. They had not seriously considered his asking for the money. They had brushed it off as if it were some foolish notion of a young boy living a wild dream. He supposed it was possible they were right. Perhaps he did not wish to be a sailor. But to be *something* ... Something other than the wood-cutting, vegetable-farming son of a woman blacksmith. His father had mentioned how easy life had been, sailing between ports. Fighting the ocean storms, and the occasional skirmish with pirates ... it all sounded like such fun. And he had enjoyed spending the time with his shipmates, a group comprised entirely of men. Growing up with two sisters, Thedos thought the idea of being part of a crew made entirely of men sounded appealing. It would be nice just to get away from his sisters for a little while. And some day, if he was rich enough, he could pull his ship back into the cove, drop anchor, and just lay in the sun -- no crew, no sisters, no one. When he got closer to his house, the door opened. Instantly, his stomach seemed to drop to his knees, and his chest felt very heavy. His father's silhouette framed the doorway. Thedos hoped his father understood why he did it. Perhaps if he could explain it to him ... After all, his father also had to live in the house with three women. But then his mother seemed to appear. Thedos heard her speak, and his father retreated, taking Thedos' hopes with him. His mother would never understand his need to get away. One sentence was all she needed. Four simple words spoke volumes to Thedos. They meant there was no hiding. She knew exactly who had taken the silver, and why. She knew he was going to be punished. She had probably already determined what the punishment was going to be. "Give me the silver," she said. Thedos offered her his rolled up shirt containing the fifteen rounds. She did not take it. She only looked at him. There was no humor in her face. Her lips had not the slightest curve of a smile. Her eyebrows were heavy and closely knit, overshadowing her eyes. Thedos unrolled his shirt, carefully removing and counting each of the fifteen pieces of silver, before handing her the coins. This time, she took them. Thedos felt very tired. He wanted to sleep. He did not want to be in his cove, diving off his ship, and swimming in his water. He did not want to be here, now, in front of his mother. He wanted nothingness; blackness; isolation from everything. She was willing to give him that much. "There'll be no evening meal for you, tonight." "Yes, ma'am." Thedos could not even lift his eyes to hers. He slouched where he stood, not daring to look up. "Your clothes are a mess, and your father is not going to wash them." "No, ma'am." "There's barely any wood in the shed, and less at the smithy." "Yes, ma'am." "You'd best get some sleep. You can be up early in the morning, if you like." It was not a matter of his liking. In sixteen years, it had never been a matter of his liking. It was a matter of preferring one form of punishment over another. And it was she who was given preference. It was more effective. She would say little or nothing to him over the next few days until he could not stand it any longer. Then, crying, he would apologize profusely, embarrassing himself in front of his family. She would accept it, pat him on the head and patronize him. And make him perform some rigorous task to placate her. He hated her for it, but he loved her too much not to seek forgiveness. "Yes, ma'am." Thedos retired to his room. It was very early in the morning when Thedos awoke. He had little love for that time of day. It was brisk, with a cold breeze, and no sun to warm the body. Still, he stepped out of his bed, walked to where his clothes hung on pegs in the wall, and quickly dressed. Thedos ate his breakfast while walking through the woods almost a full bell before sunrise. He had to find the tree where he had been cutting wood, the previous day, and hope his ax was still there. There weren't too many people who would steal a woodsman's ax, in these parts, but there were all sorts of curious critters that believed anything they could move was rightfully theirs. Apparently, one of them had decided it was too much trouble. After searching about the broken and chopped portions of the tree, he spotted his ax a few feet from where he remembered leaving it. This early in the morning, the woods were too dark to see what type of creature had tried to take it, but Thedos could see the small tracks around the ax. He lifted the ax and took his stance in front of the felled tree. Swing. Chop. Swing. Chop. Swing. Crack! "STEVENE'S BLOODY NECK!" he screamed. "Can anything else *possibly* go wrong?" He looked down at the ax. The handle had split at the base of the head. Now he would have to get the head fixed to another handle. He thought for a moment. He knew his mother did not have any handles at her smithy -- she dealt exclusively in iron and brass. And there wasn't a woodsmith this side of Dargon, anyway. He looked at the handle again. Could he carve a new handle in less time than it would take him to go back and forth to Dargon? Not likely. And he would still have to attach the head and pound some nails in to keep it from slipping off. "Of course," he said to no one in particular, "this is going to cost money. And OBVIOUSLY it's MY fault!" His father was not pleased to give Thedos the money to repair the ax. However, Thedos had shown him the tool, and it should only cost a round. Thedos had been given two, just in case. Braewen had nothing else to say to Thedos. As he waited for the ax to be repaired, however, Thedos had an idea. Simon Salamugundi, the soup seller, knew a lot of shipwrights. Perhaps Thedos could convince one to look at his ship, and estimate the damage and cost of repairs. Simon had given him several names, with various recommendations. Thedos ultimately decided on the cheapest. "Hello," Thedos greeted a woman as he knocked on a door. "I'm looking for Skar Jansen." "You've found her," the woman replied. Her voice nearly cackled with age. Simon had said Skar would give Thedos the best price in town. Thedos, not realizing "Skar" was the woman's given name, had expected to see a gruesomely deformed man whose face had been ravaged in some heroic sea battle. Instead, he was greeted by an unattractive woman who looked to be in her early forties. She was dressed as Thedos had seen many ships' mates: a loose, warm shirt which could be tucked in and tied up tight for a cold day covered her torso; long pants made for working ran down to the top of functional leather boots; and her greying brown hair was kept out of her eyes with a brown leather thong tied behind her head. "Oh, I- I'm sorry," he stammered. "It's just ... I ... uh ..." Her expression became less cheerful. "You were expecting a man." "Yes." "Sorry to disappoint you." "No! No disappointment. I just ... I'm looking for someone to take a look at my ship. It needs repair, and I'm not certain how much." "*Your* ship?" She looked doubtful. She knew there were young captains who had made their name during the war, fighting for Baranur in the navy or in mercenary fleets, but this one did not have the look of a captain. He looked like a page. "Yes, sort of. I'm claiming it. I haven't given it a name, yet, but I know where it is. It's slightly damaged, and needs repairs. I was wondering ... I don't know how much work it needs, or how much it will cost." "How did you come to me?" she inquired. This boy seemed to fairly intelligent to her. "He must be less than 20 years old," she thought, "yet he's already out to get his own ship. I wonder if he knows what he's doing?" "Simon Salamagundi said you were cheap. I mean," he quickly added, slightly embarrassed, "that your prices are cheap. That you won't charge a lot. I don't have a lot of money ... I'm sort of just looking for a price." His voice trailed off with his last sentence. He did not know if she would take the time to close up her shop and look at the ship. "The reason *my prices* are cheap," she said, "is that I often invest in what I'm repairing. Would that be a problem?" "I'm not certain what you mean." "I mean, if I repair your ship for a small price, I'll want a percentage of your profits on every trip you make with the vessel. Or, if you sell the vessel and I haven't realized a certain level of income, a portion of the final sale will be allocated for myself, up to one hundred percent of the ship's full value, depending on the sale price of the ship and the extent of the repairs necessary." Thedos looked quizzically at her. "I'm not sure ..." "Forget it. Let's just take a look at the ship, shall we?" "Okay. It's a bit of a walk from here." "How far is 'a bit'?" she asked. "Two bells?" "Why don't we take my horse." Riding back from Dargon saved Thedos almost two bells' time in getting the ax finished. The ride, however, made him uncomfortable. Skar sat in the saddle with Thedos behind her on the horse's rump. Each step jarred him to the left or right, and he had no stirrups to balance himself. Furthermore, he had to use one hand to hold onto the ax, keeping it away from the horse's flanks. With only one arm to secure himself, he had to hold on to Skar's ample waist for dear life. He had the feeling she enjoyed the ride more than he did. He could almost picture her like some ghoul from Hell, cackling wildly in the wind as she galloped down the road, her few remaining teeth dotting her mouth like a group of islands lost in a vast ocean. By the time they came within walking distance to his cove, he was glad to remove himself from the horse's back. "That's her," he said, pointing to the ship. It had been only a day since he'd seen her, but he felt as though he missed her already. The ship did not seem to have changed position at all, and was not lying any deeper in the water, save for the tide's change. The water was now lapping at the hole in her forecastle, and little bits of debris could be seen floating just inside the ship. "Hmmnn ... interesting. Beinison, I'd say." Skar began. She pulled an eyeglass from a pouch at her side and slid it open. Studying the ship through the glass, she began her assessment. "Main mast is broken ... secondary mast seems missing. See the iron rings on her foredeck where it would be tied down?" She pointed while she looked through the glass, but Thedos could not see what she meant. "Main beam seems right enough, above the water. She's taking it in through the forecastle, though. Won't stand the open sea. I can patch that up before moving her into dock. Rails need repairs, flooring inside is going to be useless wherever there's leaking." She pulled the glass away from her eye and slid it shut. "That's the best I can give you from here," she said, "and it may be worse. My hope is that she didn't damage the main beam when she bellied into that sand bar. If there were any rocks, she might have cracked it a bit. And you can just about kiss her goodbye, if that's the case." "So ... How much are we talking?" "If it's not that bad ... a few marks for the hole in her side. Rounds for the railing. Marks if you want to keep to the style. Masts will run you standard pricing, you can't go through me for that. Plus floor boards, drying her out, coating her. Pre-launch bath. Time in the dock. Anyone else would cost you seven to ten marks, plus masts, which will run you another two or three marks." "Stevene's Word!" Thedos muttered. Skar smiled. "It's not that bad, really. I could charge you five marks, plus a percentage. If you plan on using her." "Yes!" Thedos added, quickly. "I want to take her to Bichu and Duparyn and the Valenfaer Ocean, and trade clothes and spices and things. My father used to sail with a crew, and he still knows a lot of men. I can have her manned in less than a bell, if I can repair her." Thedos was not entirely certain how much of what he had said was true. He knew his father still had friends who sailed and traded, but whether or not they would sail with him ... It seemed to work. "Another option, Thedos," Skar almost whispered. There was a hint of conspiracy in her voice, and she leaned over as if she were telling him a secret. "Is to sell *me* the ship. I can repair her for less than I'd charge you, and you could be her captain." She put her right arm around his shoulders and drew him into a huddle while she spoke, as if anyone might overhear what she was suggesting. "What would you say to an offer of ..." She seemed to be gauging the ship's worth. "... nine marks!" The gold was very tempting. With the nine marks, he could ... why, he could do anything! Of course he had not yet registered the ship. But, he was sure he could sell her the ship just as soon as he registered it. It was only fair. He had found it, and it was in his cove. "Uh ..." he stammered. "It's not really registered, yet. I don't know ..." "You haven't registered it, yet?" she asked. This time, her voice was less louder, less conspiratorial. "No. I'm in the process. I have to raise the fifteen rounds ..." "Oh," she replied. Her smile was perfectly even as she pulled away from him, but something seemed to be missing. "Well, I tell you what. As soon as you register the ship, come see me." She winked. "We'll talk about it." With that, she stepped back through the brush. In a moment, Thedos heard her horse neigh, and she galloped off. That was odd, he thought, but he dismissed it. While he was in the cove, he decided to swim out to the boat one more time. He wanted to take the box and the sword back home with him. Seeing as he was still about a bell ahead of schedule getting back from repairing his ax, he had the time to dry off before bringing them home. Maybe he'd even take a jump or two off the side ... The large fireplace in the kitchen was double-sided and, therefore, served two purposes. It afforded his father a means of cooking food in the kitchen, and provided warmth and light for the main room during the evening, when the steel doors were opened. The doors were Lianna's construction and idea. She wanted neither the house to burn down nor grease to be splattered on the rug in the main room. Regardless, from the occasional times Thedos and his sisters were allowed to eat or drink in the main room, the rug was less than spotless. While sitting in his chair, Braewen thought about his son, and the fact that he had stolen the silver. True, he rationalized, he was going to give it to Thedos, anyway. That did not remove the fact that Thedos had committed a crime and, worse yet, a sin in the eyes of Stevene. "Well," he thought lightly, "I don't know how much I hold onto the ideas of the Stevene. God knows I've done some rotten things in my days. Being a sailor, you learn to curse, and fight, and drink, and even go whoring. But it also teaches you to respect other people's belongings." Thedos wanted the ship, that much was certain. And while it would cost quite a lot to have it repaired, Thedos could at least own it. Maybe sign on as a hand for another ship, and use his earnings to pay for the repairs. Maybe just sell it, if he could find a buyer interested in it. Thedos entered the room with a box in his hand. His father looked at him. Braewen did not smile, but he was not frowning, either. Thedos approached him. "Do we have a file or something I can force this lock with?" Braewen instantly looked scornfully at his son. Had he stolen something else? This was beginning to be a habit! "Where'd you get the box?" he asked, tentatively. "It was on the ship." "When did you have time to get it?" Braewen prodded further. If there was a lie, Thedos probably would slip up. "On the other hand," he thought, "I'm already suspecting my son of having stolen it." "Today. When I was in town, I convinced a shipwright to come out to the ship and look at it with me. We took her horse, so I saved almost a bell's time and was still able to have her look at it." "Ah," Braewen smiled. "That's how you still got all that wood chopped, even though the ax had broken. For a moment there, I thought you had learned to fly!" "Not yet," Thedos smiled, thinking of the second jump he had taken off the ship's bow. "But I figure if I can open this box, maybe there's something in it that will help me pay for the registration fee. It's heavy enough, and I can hear something in there." "What did he say?" "Who?" "The shipwright you had look at the ship." "Oh. That was kind of funny, but then, she's a woman." "You had a female shipwright look at it?" his father asked. He seemed concerned. "Yes. Skar Jansen." Thedos' eyebrows knitted thoughtfully. "Very odd woman." "Yes, right, go on." "Oh, well, she said it would cost me around ten marks to repair, unless I sold her the ship and settled for being the captain." "But you can't sell the ship until you register it." Braewen offered. "Right, that's what I told her. Then she said goodbye. She wants me to talk to her after I register the ship." "What time was this?" Braewen asked. "Just before midday." Braewen sighed. His son had been taken. Probably. Skar Jansen, according to friends of his, was a ruthless business person who made opportunities for herself in shipping. She preyed on less fortunate owners of ships, repairing them for half the cost and collecting percentages of the profits for years. A fairly nice means of doing business, it seemed, but she was known to lock captains into deals that lasted longer than the ships they had repaired. She was also the full owner of at least three ships that he knew of, and she had never sailed a day in her life. He didn't like her. "Did you give her the name of the ship?" "It doesn't have one. None that I could find, anyway." Braewen smiled. "Then she can't register the ship, either," he said. "Unless she has friends in the Ducal offices," he added. "Why would *she* register the ship?" Thedos asked. "Because, Ted ... she's really not a nice person. She's a good craftsman, but what her craft *is* ..." "She seemed pretty nice to me." Braewen laughed. "Yes, I'm certain she did! But listen to me on this one, Ted. Don't go to her for anything. She can't be trusted." "So what am I supposed to do?" "Get up early, tomorrow morning. Very early. There should be pitch somewhere in the ship's cargo hold-" "There were no cargo holds, just a lot of hammocks. I think it was used to transport men before the attack on Dargon." "Well, there should be pitch, there, somewhere. No ship travels without it. Find a stick or something and write a name on the side of the ship. Did she see the whole ship?" "No, we just stood on the shore." "Good. Write it on the side that she didn't see." "Father ... I'm not real good with words. Writing and reading, and all that." His father sighed. Something else he didn't know about his own son. He really should have spent more time with him. His daughters had always gotten Leah's attention. "I'll go with you." "What should I name it?" Braewen thought about it. "I don't know. She's yours. Or she will be. You think of one. It doesn't matter. Just give her a name, then get to Dargon as quick as you can. As soon as the Ducal offices open -- that'll be about a bell past sunrise -- register the ship. If she's already pulled something, maybe we can contest it." Thedos hesitated. "I'll need fifteen rounds." Braewen noticed that his son's entire spirit depleted with that statement. It was partly his fault, Braewen thought. "What am I going to do, crucify you for fifteen pieces of silver?" He smiled a half-hearted smile. "You'll have it. I'll talk to your mother tonight. In fact," he added. "I'd better start getting the evening meal ready. Your mother will be back, soon. She took Cara to a village on the other side of Dargon, today. Cara begins her apprenticeship as a silversmith tomorrow morning." Thedos was dumbstruck. "I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye," Thedos said. "Well, worry about it tomorrow. Maybe after your visit to Dargon, you'll have some good news for her." ======================================================================== The Scent of Balsam by Bill Erdley Late Seber, 1014 A breeze, and with it the scent of balsam, caressed him as he stood in the doorway of the ballroom. The large chamber was decorated like a hall of the harvest, sprinkled with festive trappings and garlands of fall flowers. To the left, several musicians prepared for the night's revelry, arranging their chairs and tuning their instruments; playing lively little tunes to the empty hall and the flowers. A group of tables stood clustered to the right; empty now, but the evening would find them overflowing with food and drink. At the far end of the hall, a fountain murmured. Water flowed from the pitchers of three maidens, each as lovely of face and figure as had ever been captured by artist's brush or sculptor's chisel. And within its basin, more flowers floated. The flowers of the harvest. The flowers of life. Life; that was what would be celebrated here tonight. Life in all of its glory, all of its wonder, all of its beauty. Music would play, dancers would whirl, people would laugh and love and live. It was what these decorations were all about. Life. The man turned from the doorway, misty eyes cast downward. "'Life," he thought, "a celebration of beauty and joy; a gift given us by the gods.'" He remembered the words that he had been taught as a child, not so many years ago. And the memory made him sad. Later, as the musicians played and the dancers spun, the man stood alone, expressionless, in his small room. From there he could hear the music drifting on the evening breeze. In his mind's eye he could see the dancers in their graceful movements. He could hear them and he could see them, but he could not feel with them. The celebration of life was lost to him; as though life itself had been lost to him. In one of his hands he held a small piece of parchment, badly creased and tattered; in the other, a small circlet of braided hair. These two pieces of his past were more precious to him than any other possession, yet at this moment, his aching heart wished that these gifts, and the accompanying memories, would vanish. He brought the circlet to his face, and with it he caressed his cheek. Through the smell of leather and smoke and sweat, he could still smell a hint of balsam, her favorite scent. Or did he just imagine it? He closed his eyes and a tear fell onto the ring of memories. His mind drifted to his experience with, in the opinion of several of the stable boys, the wisest man in Magnus. He had gone to ask if there were any way to forget the past. Instead of an answer, the sage made several strange requests. One was that he was to visit often with slate and chalk. It was obvious that the sage wished to teach, though the subject was a mystery. Also, the sage requested that the youth attend the victory celebration tonight. That was one request that would have to go unfulfilled. He thought back to the day when the army had ridden into the city. He felt grand, proud and dignified. He rode just behind his knight, Sir Luthias, but in his mind he imagined that the cheers were for him alone. The people cheered for the return of the men, and for the ending of the war as well. It had been bitter and costly affair, and many of the men who had ridden from the gates of this city in the past months would never return. He looked into the faces of the people in the crowd. Those drawn and haggard faces belonged to people who had been starved and beaten and besieged. Yet he saw only their looks of appreciation and awe. To him, this was a glorious time; to them, a time of relief, of weary thanksgiving for the end to the madness. Looking back on it now, he remembered what he hadn't noticed before; and he understood. He drifted back even further. He thought of the battles, the death, the pain that he had seen. He had witnessed the best and the worst of mankind; the honor and courage on one side, and the cruelty and the savagery on the other. He remembered with sickening vividness his first melee, seeing his enemy fall before him with a cry. He remembered his first wounds; the pain, the fear, the bitter disappointment with himself. It seemed that he could remember much about the war, but very little of it was pleasant. Except for the letter and the braid. He carefully unfolded the parchment, creased and worn from many months of handling. He had taught himself to read all of the words, so he wouldn't need someone else to read it for him. Now, he re-read the words that he could have spoken from memory. 'Please forgive my mother for saying those terrible things. We have spoken long about this, and I understand her fear. My father was a member of the militia. He died at Oron's Crossroads.' "Yes. The battle at Oron's Crossroads was a bloody rout from which very few of the Baranurian soldiers escaped with their lives. It was one of the worst defeats of the war -- and one which would not soon be forgotten by the many wives and children who lost husbands and fathers in that massacre." 'My mother didn't want me to know the same pain that she had known.' "How well I can understand her sentiments. My father also died in this war; as did my sister. Yes, I think I know something of the pain that she spoke of." 'She said "I will not have my daughter marry a warrior", but I asked her if she would keep her daughter from marrying a knight!' "Oh young and innocent child! There is only one difference between the two. The knight must fight bound by rules and codes as well as armor and shield, while the warrior has only his weapon and his courage. They both fight with anger and fury and terror and pain. They both hear the sounds and smell the smells and taste the tastes of fear and horror. They both bleed. And they both die." 'You will be a knight someday, Derrio. This I know in my heart. When you return, I will marry you, with or without my mother's blessing!' "Would you still wish to marry me now, dear girl? I have changed. I have become sad and cold. I have become a killer of men whose only fault was to be born on the wrong side of some imaginary line which divides two nations. They fought because they were told to fight, and they died because I knew that, if they did not, I would. Sometimes, when I think about it, I loathe myself." 'I wait for thee, my knight to be. Be safe and be well.' "But you didn't wait. I did as you asked -- I stayed as safe as I could, although there were many days when I faced the wrong end of a sword. I stayed as well as I was able, although I was sickened by the sights and sounds and smells of death and battle. But you didn't wait. I came back to you, for you, but you didn't wait for me. Why!? WHY DIDN'T YOU WAIT FOR ME!? WHY DID YOU HAVE TO DIE BEFORE I GOT BACK?!! The sounds of his wracking sobs carried to the window, where they mingled with the music from the banquet hall. Tired and weak from crying, he staggered from the room and into the street. He ran from the happy music, which haunted him like a spectre. He fled blindly, not knowing or caring where he went. He slowed as he approached the docks. Few ships were docked there, for most of the piers were charred or smashed. One ship which was docked there, the GANNESS PRIDE, was missing an entire mast and a spar. Its railing was missing in places, and, near the back, a gaping hole was torn in her side. The war had touched the docks. He walked on. He came to a section of the city which had been the scene of intense fighting. Men had fought from house to house. Alleys were won and held and lost again. Buildings became objectives to reach, prizes to be won, goals to be paid for in blood. Here, a broken shield lay discarded in an alleyway; there, part of a mail shirt colored by the brown stain of dried blood. He stopped before a building which was familiar. Once upon a time, children had met here at night and told dark stories by candlelight. Now the door had been torn from its hinges, and in several places, sword nicks and blood patches marked the passing of recent events. The war had touched here, too. He moved on. Suddenly, he knew where his feet were taking him. Turning the corner, he saw the doorway from which a woman had once called to him, telling him not to be afraid. Within the walls of that house, he had eaten a meal, spoken of himself to a stranger, and proposed marriage to the woman that he loved. Now the doorway, the walls, all of it was charred and blackened. For blocks, from here to the edge of the city, a great fire had swept. It was said that magic had moved the fire along; and that the Benisonians had hoped to use the fire, and the chaos that it caused, to sweep deeper into the city. The city had been miraculously spared total destruction by a freakish rain squall, but not until an entire quarter of the city had been ravaged. Not many people were in their houses, they had fled to the keep for safety; but many more were lost to the inferno. And she was one of them. He walked slowly toward the doorway, its blackened frame beckoning to him like a succubus. His heart rebelled, screaming in terror to flee, to stop, to do anything but walk through that portal. His mind, however, had to see, had to know for certain that his eyes saw the truth. He hesitated at the threshold, then stepped inside. A hole in the roof allowed moonlight to enter, casting strange shadows in the gloom. The destruction was complete. The walls were shattered and broken, the furniture was ashes. With his foot, he toyed with a pile of ash in a room where meals had once been served. A small cloud of dust rose, then settled quickly, or disappeared into the unlit corners of the room. Another room, and more piles of ash and broken memories. He walked to the back of the small house. Here the entire roof had collapsed, leaving ghostly half-walls pointing jagged fingers at the moon. It was impossible to tell what this room had held. Perhaps it had been a bedroom. What dreams had been dreamt here? What plans had been made, then remade, then discarded. Had this been her room? Had she slept here? Did she die here? He sat down and leaned his tired body against an unsteady wall. He had been angry, but that had passed. He had cried the bitter tears of mourning, but they, too, had dried and disappeared. He looked with sadness at the moon, shining its light on the desolate scene. He found that he was holding her braid of hair in his hands, caressing it. He held it to his face, trying to once again smell the smell that reminded him of her. Was it there? After their entrance into the city, he had found her mother among the throngs. He looked at her face, into her eyes, and at once knew that his love was gone. For what he saw in that sad woman's eyes was the same vile emptiness that he felt when he held his sister's broken body in his arms. "She is missing." she had said, "I haven't seen her since the fire. I've looked and looked, but she just isn't here." He didn't believe her then, and had searched for her himself, for days on end. He neglected his duties as a squire, but Luthias didn't need him much these days, busy as he was with other things. Finally, Luthias had confronted him and made him face the truth. "Death is a part of life that we cannot avoid." Luthias was obviously speaking from experience, since deep within his voice was a compassion and a sympathy born only of intense, consuming sorrow. "You must face it now as you faced it in battle, with courage and strength." His courage had lasted until he had reached his room, then he fell upon his bed and wept in agony. That had been days ago. He rose and wiped the ash from his trousers. "It is time to walk from the past into the future. I must let you go, my love. I must accept the truth and walk on." He turned and walked from the house, a final tear wetting his cheek. He gently placed the braided circlet back in the pouch where he had carried it for so many months. And he walked; past the house where they had listened to stories, past the streets where they had walked in the moonlight, past the docks where they had met. Again he could hear faint strains of music, the celebration was still going on. He entered the keep and strode quickly to his room. He changed his clothes, brushed his hair, and pulled on his good boots. Then he turned and left again, only this time he walked toward the music. He entered the hall and was almost overwhelmed by the crush of people. He could see that the dancers were occupying most of the floor, and what was left was taken up by people eating and drinking and talking and laughing. He searched carefully, and finally found Sir Luthias standing near the fountain. He worked his way onto the dance floor, which was only slightly less crowded than the rest of the hall. Sir Luthias saw him coming, and smiled. "I am pleased that you decided to join us." The knight's voice was soft and gentle, and in his eyes was the light of understanding. He said nothing, but walked instead to the fountain, whose quiet mutterings were barely audible above the music and revelry behind him. He gazed into the water, breathing deeply of the mingled scents of the flowers that floated within. Behind the fountain hung boughs of balsam. He breathed, and for the first time in days, felt a peace which had eluded him. He turned back to Luthias and bowed slightly. He gently drew the circlet from his pouch and showed it to Luthias. *I* *Say* *Goodbye* ======================================================================== DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 8 -=========================================================+ D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 2 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 05/13/1995 Volume 8, Number 2 Circulation: 609 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb A Lighter Burden Jim Owens Firil, 1015 Ship of Doom Carlo N. Samson Seber 1013 "I am my Lord's Possession" Alan Lauderdale 20 Firil-7 Naia, 1004 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine. Issues and public discussion are posted to newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 8-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright May, 1995 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb It's not really an important point, but there was recently some discussion on the newsgroup rec.mag.dargon about the role that Robert Aspirin's "Thieves' World" books had in inspiring the Dargon Project, and I thought it worth reiterating here. Dargon does bear a strong resemblance to "Thieves' World" (henceforth: TW). And in a sense it's true that in 1985 TW inspired me to start a collaborative fantasy writing project that would print stories in FSFnet, the fantasy and SF emag that I'd founded a year earlier. I can't argue with that. Way back then, TW was the only popular example of a collaborative writing project, and that description hadn't even been coined yet. So at that time I usually described the Dargon Project as "similar to Robert Aspirin's Thieves' World series" because that was really the most effective way of getting the concept across. However, the TW books are not as ubiquotous as they once were, and several other similar projects have led to a popular understanding of what a collaborative writing project is without having to tie it to TW. So a while ago I dropped the "Thieves' World-like" comparison from the DargonZine FAQ. But why is it so important to drop the reference to TW, anyways? you might ask... Well, from the start, TW served more as a negative model for the Dargon Project than a positive one, and I (and many of the writers) consciously tried to avoid the problems we thought had killed the TW series. These included (but were not limited to) powerful/destabilizing magic, archetypal/stereotypical characters, superlative characters, authors investing ego in their characters, competition between writers who tried to make their characters "better" than the rest, resorting to end-of-the-world plotlines, authors working virtually independently and "springing" their stories on the others, and so forth. Fortunately, we didn't have to suffer the added complexities of divvying up the royalties and the temptation (that many TW writers succumbed to) of printing garbage just because it was guaranteed to sell or because they were contractually obligated to produce. So with all those criticisms of TW, you can perhaps understand why I wince when people cite it as "the inspiration for the Dargon Project". Looking back on that list of things we wanted to avoid, I think we (the Dargon Project) have done a pretty good job of avoiding the pitfalls that were TW's fatal flaws. I can only think of one glaring failure where someone managed to violate several of those guidelines, and years later we're still trying to restore the project to normalcy! Beyond that, I think our problems have been minor. I just chastised the writers about "springing" surprises on people, but that wasn't because people were doing things behind others' backs, but because an author might waste a lot of time in writing a first draft of an inappropriate storyline if he/she doesn't run an outline by the group first. And while we do occasionally print garbage too, the reason for that isn't financial gain or obligation, but because we're amateur writers learning how to write, and it doesn't always come out as well as we'd like. We've also got problems of our own, though. The Baranur/Beinison war has taken us six years to write, and it's still going strong (despite all efforts to the contrary)> Taking on something that big was probably our biggest mistake. There's also ongoing conflict between the high and low fantasy camps, the people who want background detail and those who think it shouldn't be defined until it's needed, the realist versus escapist camps, the newbies versus the geezers, those who think fantasy stories need themes versus those who say it's ok to just write to entertain, and so forth. There are *ALWAYS* things to argue about in the authors' discussion group (and if there aren't any, we'll create some!), but hopefully that's all healthy discussion that everyone learns from. But enough pontificating. We've got a great issue lined up for you here. Leading off, we have a thought-provoking story by none other than Jim Owens. Jim last appearred in FSFnet 9-3. That was December of *1987*!!! He dropped off the net for the longest time, but he returns with this great short. We hope to see more from him, as well as a couple other veterans who have recently resurfaced. We follow that up with a new Cydric story by Carlo Samson. Carlo is also an old-timer, and was last published in DargonZine 6-5, which was December of 1993. Carlo and a couple other authors will be visiting me in Boston later in the month, and I'm sure there'll be stories to tell in the next editorial! Hopefully we can motivate Carlo to get stories out a little more frequently than once every 18 months! Carlo's last story left his protagonist (Cydric) in port, about to embark upon a voyage of exploration. "Ship of Doom" takes place at an unspecified point in that journey, which Carlo's future stories will present in more detail. And batting cleanup is a great story by one of our newest writers: Alan Lauderdale. Alan joined the project in January and has hit the ground running. I found "I am my Lord's Possession" engrossing, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. And Alan assures us that his next story is already half written, so hopefully it won't be too long before his works appear again. At present, I don't have an ETA for the next issue, but it'll be out just as soon as I've got the submissions! Hopefully this excellent issue will help tide you over until then. ======================================================================== A Lighter Burden by Jim Owens Firil, 1015 The day had dawned cold and gloomy. It was raining, light but steady, just as it had been for several days. Levy's heart was heavy within him as he stepped outside. He looked to his left, to where Sarah was bent over, working in her herb garden, little Jen sitting beside her. Sarah straightened a moment, her swelling belly becoming apparent. She glanced at him, but then bent back to her work. Levy's heart sunk even lower. He turned away from her and walked on. He crested the hill his house was built on. He looked down into the valley where his wheat crop was planted. Muddy water lay where wheat had sprouted only days before. Only as he walked closer could he begin to make out the young shoots, laden with mud. Levy's heart hit bottom. I'll no doubt lose most of the planting, Levy thought. The shoots will damp off and then we'll have neither seed nor crop. Why do we have such problems?, he asked, only partly to himself. Most of the winter wheat was taken south to help feed the soldiers during the war, leaving barely enough for food and planting. Without this crop, we'll have to sell my tools to get through the winter, assuming we could even find a buyer. He looked heavenward. Is this fair? He turned back towards the house, disheartened. At the top again, Levy glanced over at Sarah, still working in her garden. The sight, which nomally would have brought him comfort, if not joy, now merely added to the leaden weight in his soul. Married for over seven years, Levy wondered, and yet we still cannot agree on such a simple thing. How will we be able to agree on something like raising a boy? Or girl, he reminded himself; Sarah wants a girl. Levy sighed. We can't even decide whether we want a girl or a boy, he mused. He almost laughed -- good thing they hadn't had to choose on the first three! He lifted his eyes to gaze at the town ruins on the neighboring hilltop. Here and there among the shattered houses he could see the new buildings taking form. What a burden, he thought. They take our food, they take our men, and leave us to the scavengers. To add insult to injury, we don't even have enough men left to properly rebuild the buildings the raiders knocked down. Levy snorted in disgust. It would take weeks just to haul off all the debris. Still, it had to be done before they can build the new houses, Levy reminded himself. Then, too, much of the debris could also be used in the new homes. In every obstacle there's an opportunity, he reminded himself. You could build a lot of houses with what was lying in heaps on the distant hill. Just like the one Sarah wants. Levy walked into the tool shed, to get his tools for the day's work. The smell of metal filled his nose. Suddenly he longed to be back working metal, cutting it, selling his services to the highest bidder, like he had in his younger days in Dargon. In Dargon, he could make enough money to build a big house, with a separate bedroom for the children! He savored the thought of having privacy again -- Eli, the oldest, was starting to notice the sounds at night. Not that there had been many of them lately, he mused ruefully. Again he glanced back at the herb garden. What would be so bad about moving into the village, he wondered. With the war over the press gangs would again be banned, and a clump of houses would no longer seem an inviting target for food-gathering raids. Still, why crowd into town when all the countryside lies open and waiting? He had set his house apart from the others for a reason -- Levy prefered some solitude. With life in town came problems not of one's own making, the problems that other people brought with them. But it can be good to be where the people are, he countered, taking Sarah's side in his mind. Our children ought to grow up with other children to play with, to learn from. They have cousins there, and aunts and uncles (not to mention two solicitous grandparents). Besides, Sarah wants the hustle and bustle of town life. After growing up in isolation she wants to be with people now. Then too, the marketplace is there, with its goods and stuffs, which should be plentiful with the war past. And the men would now be returning. He remembered the angry disputes in town, with some wanting to go and fight, and Levy insisting that war was not the way, not how the Barels had lived their lives in the past. Moving back into town would mean the returning soldiers and their resentment and hostility. Or perhaps not. Perhaps a few years in the field had taught them what Levy already knew -- war was a waster, an enemy, not a gain or a glory. Or, Levy shuddered, perhaps they would not be coming home at all. He dreaded the thought of his little town, bereft of its men, its strength, its hope. Either way, town would not be an especially joyous place in the near future -- at least not for Levy. So many things to consider, so many points to ponder, he thought. Levy stood and stared into the distance for a long moment, weighing his feelings. Sarah's got good reasons for wanting to go back, he finally realized, but I just don't want to live in town. I want to live here. With his feelings again clear, Levy headed down toward his sodden ground. The next day dawned clear and warm, outside at least; Sarah still wasn't talking. Levy walked over the hill and down to the wheat field. He saw what seemed to be a large rat grazing on the far side. He stooped for a rock, then threw it, the near miss sending the startled animal off into the nearby brush. He stopped at the side of the field, where he found a surprise. Despite the silt weighing them down, thousands of wheat shoots had pushed themselves aloft, straining towards the sun. Levy beamed at the sight. "Well done, faithful servants. You push aside this world's burdens as you fight for life." Levy paused thoughtfully. Now there's a thought. What burden am I laboring under? Am I a faithful servant? He sat there in a funk, part of his mind pondering this concept, part of his mind resentful at having been brought up short from its normal routine. Lately I've been very aware of what I want, Levy admitted, yet I haven't thought much of what anyone else wants. Eli, for instance. Have I ever considered that he might benefit from being around the other men? Or Eleya, the middle one, would she benefit from being around the women? Would they all be better off seeing their grandparents more often? Or the grandparents, seeing them? He stared unseeing across the field. How often had someone complained about the long trip to his shop to have something fixed? A growing realization plagued him. Perhaps I've been putting too much of myself on others these years. During the war I've not been much help to many in town. Oh, I've helped Mattan and Father and the widows, but life has been hard for everyone, and I've been out here. The Barel way is to serve, not fight, and I can't serve very well out here. Perhaps it's time I served someone other than myself, he concluded, his thoughts returning to Sarah. He walked back to the house, deep in thought. Levy walked to where Sarah was pouring milk into a large tank. He set aside the bucket, and took her in his arms. "I've been thinking. Perhaps you are right." Sarah's eyes were quick and distrustful. "Are we going to move into town?" "If you think that would be best." She softened, her arms not as stiff. She returned his embrace, tucking her head under his chin. "What made you change your mind?" Levy sighed. "Our heaviest burdens are the ones we make for ourselves. Mine finally got too heavy." He looked into her upturned face. "I'd like to carry yours for a while, instead." ======================================================================== Ship of Doom by Carlo N. Samson Seber 1013 Cydric awoke in darkness, confused; for a moment he believed he was in his bedroom at the castle, until he remembered it had been months since he had slept in a real bed. He lay still, waiting for his strength to return; his body ached as if from prolonged exertion, and his clothes felt cold and damp. Fragmentary images of water flashed through his mind, with memories which, no matter how hard he concentrated, remained tantalizingly out of reach. After several minutes he gave up the effort; he slowed his breathing and listened intently. Gradually he became aware of the sounds of creaking wood, lapping water, and a faint flapping sound. He felt rough wood beneath his fingertips, and soon perceived that whatever he was lying on was slowly rocking. A ship, Cydric thought. I'm on a ship. The realization allowed him to retrieve one of the memories that floated beyond his grasp. He had been on a ship -- the _Vanguard Voyager_ -- and there had been a storm in the middle of the night. He had been on deck when the captain ordered him to go below. A wave crashed into the ship, and the captain was thrown hard against the starboard rail. He went to aid her, but another wave smashed into the vessel, and he felt himself being swept over the side into the churning sea ... Feeling somewhat stronger, Cydric levered himself into a sitting position. Aside from the ache, he felt relatively whole. His tunic and breeches had begun to dry, but wetness still remained in his boots. How long had he been lying here? And where was here? Was he back on the _Vanguard Voyager?_ He realized that the darkness seemed to be lifting; he was out on deck near an opening in the bulwark. Huge tattered sails flapped from the ship's three giant masts, and the rigging seemed burned and torn in several places. There was also the very faint smell of smoke in the air, but he was unsure whether it was from tobacco or wood. The thought of tobacco brought on a powerful urge to smoke. He felt for his leather pouch and was relieved to find it still attached to his belt. To his disappointment, the tobacco was thoroughly wet. He sighed; it didn't matter anyway, since he was missing his pipe. He checked for his dagger and was satisfied to find it still at his side. Warily, the young man rose to his feet. He appeared to be the only one on deck. This was a bigger ship than the _Voyager_, but its crew was far less considerate. Why else would they have left him to dry out on deck like a wet washcloth? He had no memory of being rescued in the first place ... He recalled flailing about in the water to keep himself afloat. The _Voyager_ was nearly invisible in the darkness and rain, and he had felt himself being swept away from the vessel. He had shouted until his throat was raw, but no one seemed to hear and soon he had completely lost sight of the ship. He continued struggling in the water, but it wasn't long before he felt himself slowly sinking, dropping down through the dark sea and into unconsciousness ... "Hello?" he called out. "Ahoy! Anybody on board?" Silence. It was now considerably lighter than it had been when he first awoke. He thought it might be nearing dawn, but the light seemed to have a strange greenish cast to it. Upon realizing this, a warm thin sweat of anxiety broke over him. Without quite knowing why, he rushed to the bow of the ship, where a large catapult was mounted. He peered over the rail at the figurehead; it was a large black dragon, its massive wooden head thrown back and its mouth open in a silent roar. Cydric stood transfixed, gripping the wooden rail. There was something in his gap-riddled memory about the dragon, but he couldn't quite grasp it. A cold chill suddenly ran through him, and he felt a presence nearby. He tensed, wanting desperately to look behind him yet lacking the nerve to do so. Finally, he forced himself to turn around. For a moment he saw nothing. Then a shadowy form coalesced out of the air in front of him. It was a young man of about Cydric's age and general build, dressed in clothes that were at least fifty years out of style. Suddenly afraid, Cydric pressed himself back against the rail and tensed for a leap over the side. The strange youth raised a hand and looked at Cydric with fearful eyes. "Go," he said in a thin, almost inaudible voice. Cydric remained frozen where he stood, unable to take his eyes off the ghost, for that was surely what it was, as surely as this was a ship of ghosts. The spectral youth cast a glance over his shoulder, and his eyes filled with alarm. "Go, please!" it said, almost imploringly. He looked behind once again, and abruptly vanished. Cydric stared at the spot where the youth had been, unwilling to relax even the slightest bit. This is a drowning-dream, he told himself. It must be! A few moments later, Cydric felt another wave of coldness, but this time it was accompanied by a feeling of overwhelming fatigue. He felt a strong desire to yawn, and his sight dimmed as if his eyes were closing. An instant later the feelings vanished like a candle flame being blown out, and he saw -- The ship was no longer deserted and no longer a derelict. Rough-looking sailors, all in old-fashioned seaman's garb, crawled among the intact rigging and tended to the full, billowing sails. Other crewmen scurried about to orders barked by a large thickly-bearded man who surveyed the scene from the aft deck. Unsure what to do, Cydric stood where he was in the hope that he would go unnoticed. That hope proved in vain, for the bearded man soon began storming his way toward him. Cydric decided that this was the moment to go overboard. He turned around and prepared to launch himself over the rail, but a strong hand gripped his shoulder and slammed him down. Cydric struck the deck and sprawled onto his back. The bearded man glared down at him and said, "So, Tullis! Wanting to bail on us, eh? You gutless worm!" He reached down and hauled Cydric up until their noses were almost touching. "The captain'll be right pleased to see you." Cydric closed his nostrils against the man's foul breath. "I -- I'm not Tullis," he said with as much composure as he could muster. "I'm not -- I was in a storm, and --" The bearded man laughed. "Did you break your head when you fell?" He called over his shoulder to a pair of nearby sailors. "Take Tully Boy here down to the captain. He was wanting to jump the gunnels!" "No, I --" Cydric wrenched himself from the man's grasp and backed away. "I don't belong on this ship. I don't know --" The bearded man lunged forward with surprising speed and struck Cydric savagely on the side of the head. The young man felt an explosion of pain in his mind and went limp, collapsing to the deck. Dim thoughts drifted through Cydric's mind as he teetered on the edge of oblivion. A flash of green -- green lightning? A name -- Sarkos? A black ship with the figurehead of a dragon ... Slowly he returned to consciousness. He was on the floor of a silent room that smelled of must and decay. When his eyes adjusted, Cydric could see the silhouette of a man outlined by a single lantern that was mounted on the wall. The man was seated behind a small table, and his face was hidden by flickering shadows. The man said nothing as Cydric slowly rose to his feet. For several long moments neither spoke; finally, the silence was broken as the man said in a cold, deliberate voice, "So, Tullis. You've ... returned." "My -- my name isn't Tullis," Cydric said, aware of how loud his voice seemed to sound. Cydric strained to see the man's face through the gloom of the cabin. A realization struck him; continuing to stare at the man's face, Cydric said, "Forgive me, *Sarkos*, but I'm not a member of your crew." The man seemed to stiffen at the mention of the name. In the same cold voice he said, "You'll address me as Captain." Cydric held his breath and said nothing. "ANSWER ME!" Sarkos suddenly cried, slamming his fist on the table. Cydric jerked back, deeply startled. A moment later he found his voice and replied, "Yes -- Captain." He decided it was prudent not to antagonize the man. Sarkos rose and turned the lantern up slightly, increasing the light just enough for Cydric to make out the Captain's lean, slender frame, his dark hair and short beard, and the deep-set, hollow eyes embedded in a long, tired face. Sarkos sat down again and regarded Cydric with the expression of a man who has just discovered a worm in his piece of bread. "I don't know why you've ... come back, but nothing has changed," Sarkos said tonelessly. "I am the captain; on this ship my word is law. I have the right to punish those who break my laws." A humorless grin tugged at his mouth. "You think you are above my justice?" He paused. "Do you?" he repeated slowly, his eyes narrowing. "No, Captain," Cydric replied quickly, a tingle of fear racing up his spine. Sarkos was a dangerous man, there was no question of that. "And was it worth it, do you think?" Sarkos was not looking at Cydric, but somewhat past him. "I had every right. I still have the right. Do you think it was worth it?" Without waiting for an answer, Sarkos placed an intricately-carved wooden box on the table. "Go ahead," he said. "Look at it. See if it wasn't worth the cost." Cydric stared hesitantly at the box, mentally sorting out what Sarkos was saying. Apparently, someone named Tullis had violated one of the captain's rules, and it had something to do with the contents of the box. "LOOK AT IT!" Sarkos roared. He pounded the table, causing the box to jump. Cydric approached, paused, then lifted the lid of the box. What he saw inside made him gasp. Resting on a bed of red velvet was a huge oval-shaped emerald, about the size of a clenched fist. Forgetting himself, Cydric reached out to touch the emerald, but Sarkos slammed the lid shut. "Now get away," he said with a low snarl. Cydric put his arms to his sides and backed off. He suddenly remembered his dagger, but decided that trying to fight his way out of the situation would do no good. For a moment Sarkos said nothing, then cracked Cydric across the face with the back of his hand. Cydric staggered from the blow. Sarkos gripped the front of Cydric's tunic and yanked him close. In a sullen whisper he said, "And to think that me, of all people, trusted you." The captain's eyes now seemed full of a dark, concentrated fury. Fear clenched Cydric's gut, and he knew that Sarkos intended to kill him. But before either of them could make another move, the door burst open and a dark-skinned crewman stuck his head into the room. "Captain! The Duke's ships -- they're attacking!" Sarkos's anger suddenly seemed to drain away. He released Cydric and sagged back against the table. "Gods damn," he muttered listlessly. A moment later he looked up, his face a mask of resignation. "Prepare for battle," he said. "And--" he glanced at Cydric--"lock him in the hold." The dark-skinned man nodded and entered the room. He drew the cutlass that he wore at his side and used it to motion for Cydric to walk ahead of him. A short time later, Cydric watched as the door to the damp ship's hold slammed shut, leaving him alone. Thin beams of light filtering down through cracks in the cargo hatch above provided barely enough illumination for him to see dusty crates, barrels, and coils of rope strewn about. He waited a few moments, then tried to force the door open with his dagger. It firmly resisted, so he went over and sat down on a crate to consider his situation. If this was a dream, he thought, it was certainly the most realistic one he had ever experienced. A scuffling sound interrupted his thoughts. He leaped up and spun around, dagger in hand. Staring into the shadows for a breathless moment, he detected no one. Then a small furry shape skittered across the top of a barrel. Cydric relaxed -- it was only a rat. Sheathing the dagger and sitting down again, he mused about what the dark-skinned crewman had said to Sarkos. Duke's ships attacking? "Which Duke?" he wondered aloud. "A Duke of Pyridain," came a reply. Cydric drew his dagger again and looked around for the speaker. From the gloom at the other end of the hold a figure gradually emerged. It was the youth who had appeared before and urged him to leave the ship. "Who are you?" Cydric demanded, rising to his feet and taking a defensive stance. "My name," the youth said wearily, "is Tullis." At the sound of the name, Cydric lowered his blade. "So *you're* Tullis," he said. The youth nodded sadly. "Why does everyone on this ship think that I'm you?" "I tried to warn you. You should have escaped when you had the chance." "What ship is this?" Cydric demanded. Tullis sighed. "You are on the _Rampant Dragon_. Her captain is Jaren Sarkos, whom I believe you've already met." The name of the ship stirred something in Cydric's memory. His brow furrowed as the image of the black dragon figurehead, illuminated by green flames, came to him. The _Rampant Dragon_. He had heard the name mentioned somewhere before. The _Rampant Dragon_ ... Suddenly, it all returned to him. He had been on lookout in the _Vanguard Voyager's_ crow's nest, high atop the main mast, when he first glimpsed the strange green lightning. At first he dismissed it as a random imagining produced by his cold and tired mind. But a little while later he saw another flash, clearly this time, on the darkening horizon. Curious now, he remained alert and carefully watched the sky and sea around him, hoping to catch another glimpse of the unnatural lightning. His watch ended without another sighting. In his report to the officer of the watch he mentioned only that he had seen lightning, omitting any mention of it having been green. But as he made his way below, he caught sight of a third stroke of green lightning, far out over the water. In the _Voyager's_ galley he encountered Captain Brynna Thorne, enjoying her customary early-evening bowl of dried figs. With her was a white-haired seaman by the name of Avron, who was the oldest member of the crew and known to have a vast knowledge of ocean lore. Cydric was hesitant to ask Avron about the green lightning with the Captain present, not wanting her to think that he was prone to irrational imaginings; but his desire to know if he had in fact seen some kind of natural occurrence won out, and he told the old sailor about what he had seen. Avron frowned and pursed his lips when Cydric mentioned that he had seen the green lightning three times. "Not a good sign," the old seaman muttered ominously. He then told the young man that there was an old belief that anyone who saw green lightning three times in one day was fated to join the crew of a wandering ghost ship called the _Rampant Dragon_, a pirate vessel cursed to sail the seas forever. Captain Thorne shook her head skeptically. "Old seadog talk, nothing more," she said with a tone of dismissal. "My father told me the same stories when I was his cabin girl. And I've also heard it said that one can see a flash of green at sunset, if the sky is right." "Believe -- or disbelieve -- what you will, Captain," Avron replied. "The sea holds many mysteries." Cydric asked the old sailor to continue, but he refused to say anything more about it. Cydric came away believing that the story was indeed an old sea tale ... ... until the storm the following night that washed him up on the ghost ship. Cydric stared at Tullis, whose form seemed somehow indistinct. "This ship is cursed," Cydric said, and repeated to Tullis what he had just recalled. "That is the story," Tullis affirmed with a solemn nod. "But why was the ship cursed?" Tullis gave another sigh and related the story of how, many years ago, Captain Sarkos -- a cold-hearted pirate who regularly raided the southern coast of Baranur -- disguised himself as a nobleman and tricked the only daughter of a powerful duke of Pyridain into giving him the Eye of Cirrangill, a huge perfectly-cut emerald the size of a man's fist. It was one of the family's treasures, and the duke was furious at the Eye's loss. He sent out his three fastest ships in search of the _Rampant Dragon_, and after three days they caught up with the pirate on the open sea. The _Dragon_ was larger than the duke's ships but surprisingly fast for a vessel her size. She was able to keep just ahead of the pursuing ships, until one of them managed to get close enough for several ballista-launched flaming spears to set fire to her sails and bring her to a stop. The three ships maintained a flaming-spear attack, while the crew of the pirate vessel returned fire with catapult-launched stones and burning coals. The battle soon turned in favor of the duke's fleet. Sarkos, seeing the heavy damage to his ship and fearing capture, came to a drastic decision: he called upon Cirrangill, god of the seas, and offered up the namesake jewel in return for help. The sea god manifested himself as an immense waterspout and agreed to aid Sarkos. The duke's fleet was caught up in the vast watery vortex and sent to the bottom, but the _Rampant Dragon_ remained unharmed. Cirrangill then demanded the emerald, but Sarkos knew the mythical history of the jewel: it had originally been a gift to a poor fisherman from the sea god himself, as a reward for the man's honesty. Over the years the emerald changed hands many times, but it had always been a gift -- never once had it been bought or sold. Sarkos knew that unless he willingly gave it up, the sea god could not reclaim the jewel. Knowing this, the pirate captain greedily refused to part with it. And so, angered by the pirate's ingratitude, Cirrangill laid a curse upon the ship and crew; they would be doomed to roam the seas for all time and relive the battle with the duke's fleet, which now ended with the _Rampant Dragon's_ destruction. "... and that is what is happening now," Tullis concluded, casting a glance up at the roof of the hold. "But why aren't you with them?" Cydric asked. "Aren't you affected by the curse?" A grim look came over the youth's face, as if he was recalling a painful event. "This is a ship of ghosts, but I ... I am a different ghost." He paused, as if to compose himself. Then he continued. "During the chase, the Captain was always on deck and rarely came back to his cabin. I had heard about the jewel and knew where he kept it. One day, I couldn't resist -- I took the box out of its hiding place and looked at the jewel. I don't know for how long I stared at it, but the next thing I knew, the Captain was in the room, shouting at me -- hitting me. He took me down here, to the hold and ... " Tullis stopped and gazed into the shadows. Cydric read his look and knew what had happened next. In a whisper he said, "Sarkos killed you." Tullis nodded, unable to speak. "So you're a true ghost." Again Tullis nodded. "Yes -- and doubly cursed for it. Everyone else has only the faintest notion that they've been repeating the same events, but I seem to be only one who truly remembers." "But why *does* Sarkos and the crew think that I'm you?" "You are not the first man to be taken aboard this ship. Each one before you was mistaken for one of our men who'd been killed in some way or another in the past. And the only way any of them left this ship was by bailing overboard." Cydric now understood Sarkos's behavior toward him. The pirate captain no doubt believed that Tullis had come back, and had tried to justify his actions to relieve his guilt. But knowing that was little comfort -- what he needed was a way off this ship of doom. Stepping over to stand directly in front of Tullis, Cydric drew a breath and asked, "Will you help me escape?" The ghostly youth nodded his agreement. "But I first have to ask you this: will you help me to end this curse upon our ship, so that we may finally know rest?" Cydric paused before replying. "Will you still help me if I don't?" "Yes. I said that I would." Stepping back a pace, Cydric frowned slightly as he considered Tullis's request. It would be easy to simply leave him and the others on board the ship to their fate. He was certain that Sarkos deserved his, but what of the rest of the crew? And what of Tullis -- was his transgression so great that he deserved to spend forever in this waking nightmare? Cydric gave a mental shake of his head. Who was he to judge any of them? But if people like himself were unwillingly drawn into the punishment reserved for the _Dragon's_ crew, didn't he have a responsibility to try and ensure that it happened to no one else? A long moment passed. Finally, Cydric spoke. "Then I'll help you." Tullis showed Cydric the location of a rusted axe, lost behind a row of crates. Cydric used it to hack away at the door after being assured by Tullis that no one was nearby. After escaping the hold, Cydric followed Tullis to the Captain's cabin. The spectral youth directed Cydric to a loose plank underneath Sarkos' bunk that was the hiding place for the box containing the Eye of Cirrangill. Cydric removed the emerald and turned it over in his hand. He cast a dubious glance at Tullis and said, "Are you sure this is the only way to end the curse?" "Yes. And at the right moment you must do what I told you, otherwise the curse will continue." A short time after leaving Sarkos's cabin, Cydric emerged from an aft hatch onto the deck of the _Rampant Dragon_. The air was thick with smoke and the shouts of the crew. Huddling near the steps leading up to the aft deck, Cydric looked to port and saw three ships in a loose line a short distance away. The starboard-side hull of the middle ship was ablaze, but the other two were undamaged. Suddenly, a great spear of fire leaped from the foredeck of the lead ship. It soared in a graceful arc toward the _Rampant Dragon_ and buried itself in the portside hull just above the waterline, sending a shudder through the vessel. Cydric staggered and fell to the deck, coughing. A moment later, a gust of wind cleared the smoke from the deck, allowing him to observe crewmen with buckets racing toward the port side to dump water on the flaming spear. Looking up, he saw other crewmen in the rigging struggling to put out fires in the mainsails. Two more flaming spears flew from the attacking ships. One fell short of the _Dragon_, but the other grazed the mizzen sail and set it afire. Cydric leaped up and scrambled out of the way as crewmen rushed astern to combat the flames. He made his way forward and crouched against the starboard rail, not far from the steps to the foredeck. He watched as Captain Sarkos bellowed to the men manning the catapult to winch the arm back to firing position. When it was ready, one man dumped a bucketful of large dark rocks into the bowl and another man set them ablaze with the torch he held. They stood back, and a moment later Sarkos gave the order to fire. The catapult arm slammed upright and flung the rocks toward the lead ship. Most of them missed, but a few landed on the deck where a crewman quickly extinguished them. Tullis materialized beside Cydric, who looked up at him and said, "It's not going well for Sarkos, is it?" Shaking his head, Tullis replied, "It will become worse. The Duke's ships will start to draw closer; two will continue the attack, while the third will attempt to ram." Cydric felt a twinge of fear. "And then?" "The attempt will succeed. This ship will sink, and all hands will go down." "But you'll all be brought back to go through this all over again." "Yes, unless you are able to put an end to it. Be ready." The battle soon began to unfold as Tullis described. All three ships ceased firing, then pointed their bows toward the _Rampant Dragon_. Sarkos screamed for the crew to finish repairs to the sails and ordered the catapult attacks to continue. As the Duke's ships approached, the first and last ship in line altered course slightly so that they would pass directly fore and aft of the _Dragon_; the middle ship seemed to hang back, but was on a course for the pirate vessel's midsection. Sarkos directed the catapult crew to concentrate fire on the first ship, but a well-placed flaming spear smashed into the catapult frame and set fire to one of the men. Cydric stood up to see if Captain Sarkos had been hit. A few moments later he quickly crouched down again as an arrow sped past his face. The flanking ships had closed to within arrow range and their archers were raining death down on the _Dragon's_ deck. Cydric covered his head as crewmen all around him sharply cried out in pain. A few screams seemed to rise in volume and then abruptly end with a muffled "thump". After what seemed like years, Cydric heard Tullis whisper that the ships had passed. He lowered his arms, stood up, and was struck with horror to see arrow-pierced bodies littering the deck of the _Rampant Dragon_. Turning to face port, Cydric saw the middle ship rapidly bearing down on the pirate vessel. Tullis appeared, his face stricken with anguish. "Now, Cydric!" he shouted urgently. "The jewel! Do it now!" Pulling the emerald from his tobacco pouch and holding it aloft, Cydric faced starboard and said in a loud voice, "Great Cirrangill! God of the Seas! I offer to you your sacred Eye in return for the release of the souls on board this ship!" There was no immediate response. Cydric quickly repeated the offer, and was about to do so a third time when Tullis cried out a warning. Shooting a glance over his shoulder, Cydric saw Sarkos staggering toward him. The captain's clothing was blackened, his face was bloodied, and an arrow protruded from his upper back. The young man from the _Voyager_ took a step forward just as Sarkos gave a yell and leaped. He slammed into Cydric, and the two of them collapsed to the deck. Cydric lost his grip on the jewel and saw it skitter away; Sarkos pushed off of him and dived after the emerald. Retrieving it, the pirate captain lurched to his feet. Just then, Tullis materialized and confronted Sarkos. "You murdered me!" the ghostly youth cried. "You killed me with your own hands!" Sarkos recoiled in shock. "No," he whispered hoarsely. "You betrayed me. I had a right to kill. I had every right!" He gave a scream of rage and flung the emerald at Tullis. At that moment, the _Rampant Dragon_ shook violently as the duke's ship impacted the pirate vessel's side. Tullis vanished as the green jewel passed through him. As the ramming ship pushed its way into the _Dragon's_ hull, a shimmering translucent mass formed in the air over the water to the starboard side. It assumed the vague shape of a bearded human face. Cydric watched as the emerald flew in a leisurely arc toward the shimmering mass. The jewel tumbled end over end until it appeared to cover the left eye of the translucent shimmering. A green light exploded outward from the emerald, filling the sky. The light blinded Cydric, and he lost all consciousness. There was the sensation of falling a long way, stopping abruptly, then slowly rising. A pale green curtain wavered in the distance, and the feeling of rising quickened the closer the green curtain approached. Suddenly the curtain was pierced -- -- and Cydric found himself breaking the surface of the water and being hoisted into the air. Hands grabbed him and gently set him down. Cydric opened his eyes and saw a group of people huddled over him. Among them were Avron and Captain Thorne. I'm back on the _Voyager_, he thought. He blinked his eyes several times and tried to speak, but instead gagged and vomited the seawater that filled his throat. A little while later, Brynna and Avron visited Cydric as he recovered in the crew quarters. Brynna told him that not long after he went overboard, the storm had abated and they found him floating only a short distance from the ship. He then told them, somewhat hesitantly, of his experiences on the ghostly pirate vessel. "Actually, I'm sure it *was* just a drowning-dream," Cydric admitted after he finished. "In true fact, though," said Avron, "there really was a duke of Pyridain who ordered a certain pirate hunted down and captured. But all the ships were lost in a storm, so it is said." "And there's the explanation," Brynna said with satisfaction. "A simple story blown into a mysterious sea legend. That's how most of them start." Avron opened his mouth as if to argue, but closed it and merely nodded. Brynna patted Cydric's shoulder and said, "You should be better tomorrow. Is there anything you need right now?" Cydric thought a moment. "No, but I do have one request." "Yes?" "I'd like to go back to galley duty, if I may." High up in the crow's nest, a crewman gazed out over the dark water. His watch was almost over, and he thought about leaving his post a little bit early. But just as he made up his mind to do so, his attention was drawn by a tiny dot of green light at the limit of his vision, seeming to be just under the surface. He brought the spyglass to his eye, but was only able to catch a brief glimpse of the green light dimming and going out, as if it had sunk into the depths of the cold, mysterious sea. ======================================================================== "I am my Lord's Possession" by Alan Lauderdale 20 Firil-7 Naia, 1004 [20 Firil, 1004.] Sir Ongis Fennic scrounged up a drumstick and strolled over to a window. His sharp, commanding black eyes gazed out at the morning shadows and mud of his courtyard. With wolfish ferocity, he tore into the cold leg he held. His black hair and physical strength only added to the lupine resemblance. (It was a pity that his oversized nose spoiled any appearance of feral cunning.) "She still there?" he asked around his gnawing. "Yes," Cahill replied. Cahill partook of the servant's lot of anonymity. Like the rest of them, he tugged his forelock, knew his place and stayed out of the way. All that distinguished him was a modest calligraphic skill and a scar on the left side of his face acquired while learning to stay out of the way of Sir Ongis's horse. "Risser's teeth, she gets up early." Cahill refrained from commenting that the morning was in fact far advanced. He knew too well that such a remark was dangerous to his health. "Standing there every day ... she's just asking for a whipping. She doing anything?" "No," Cahill replied. "No evil eye, no chanting, no spitting on my gateposts?" "No." "If she's a witch, she's a cowardly one." "She never said she was a witch, only the creature's mother," Cahill thought. He kept silent, though. There was nothing he could think of to say that wasn't either lickspittlishly beneath his shreds of dignity or unbecoming to a servant who wanted to survive. He gazed uninformatively at his liege lord. Sir Ongis nodded over at the covered birdcage. "What about her?" he asked. "No better." "Worse?" Cahill shrugged and nodded. Sir Ongis threw the drumstick at the fireplace and strode to the cage. He tore the cover off and glared through the wickerwork at the small figure within. The creature looked like a girl but her height was only about three hands. "Say the words, dammit!" he shouted. "Just say the damned words." She raised her head and looked at him. "I will not." Her voice was scarcely audible over his own breathing. "I want to go home." "You'll go where I send you!" Sir Ongis exclaimed. He replaced the cover approximately and turned again to Cahill. "What about my wife?" he asked. "Your wife, sir?" Cahill asked, surprised. "Yes, my wife." Sir Ongis stalked toward his servant. "Remember her? She's sick too. Or had that slipped your mind? How. Is. My. Wife?" "She's much better," Cahill said quickly. "Much better! Memfis -- you know, the leech? -- he says she's improving. He says she's much better." "He's been saying that for a week!" Sir Ongis roared. "If she's so much better, why's she still in bed?" Sophie stood outside the gates of Sir Ongis's hall. Sophie knew Sir Ongis had her daughter, her Mouse. Sophie knew Mouse was her daughter's name, not Melisande. Sophie knew how her daughter had come to be given her true name ... [Yule, 994.] She was always small, even at her birth. She slipped out of her mother's womb quickly and with no fuss. For Sophie, the event was routine; the baby was her seventh. She no longer bothered with a midwife -- or even summoned her sister, whose house in the village she'd come to visit for the birthing. Sophie knew what to do. She stood up from the birthing stool and put the infant in the old basket -- the one that would be burned. Then she dressed and, taking both the old basket (with baby) and the Naming Basket, she went along to the other temple. Not the temple of Kurin -- the only god who ever seemed to answer his worshipers these days -- but the older temple, the one dedicated to the Stevene. The one whose only remaining purpose, it seemed, was washing and naming infants. And burying the stubborn remainder who insisted on worshipping the superseded god of everything. The temple persisted only because of the continued patronage of the family Fennic. Otherwise, "something" would surely have happened to it by now, the Kurinish priests and leaders of the congregation were so hostile to it. Even the Fennic's support wasn't enthusiastic; it was merely a family tradition. The great-grandfather of the present Stafhold would have died as an infant but for the wisdom of a Stevenic priest. The good will left over from that event wasn't quite depleted yet. Since that time, every mother brought her infant to the stevenic temple for naming -- though it was beginning to crumble these days. Fanatically devoted worshipers of Kurin were beginning to bring their infants to the new temple (a century or two old, but still "new") for blessing. The one remaining priest of the Stevene, Bartleheim, was too weak to protest this breach of tradition. He was old, he was tired, he was blind. He was irrelevant. Sophie, though, wasn't fanatical about much, certainly not about debates over whether to worship the sun or worship everything. She went to the old temple because that was where she'd taken her six previous babies. And three of those were still alive, so she was doing all right doing it the traditional way. Two were old enough to help their father already and the other would probably train in clerking in a few more years. Sophie had done well by the Stevene. No reason to change. She rang the bell in front of Bartleheim's shack, then continued on to the old temple itself. She went in and went to the chapel where the naming font was. Fortunately, she'd birthed by day. Otherwise, she would have had to bring her own candles. The temple used to have candles and lamps burning all the time, then only at night, then just whenever people came. Now people almost never came (except to name their babies) and the temple had no candles. The last lamps had disappeared years ago. Sophie put the basket down and checked the water. At least the font still worked. (She recalled that keeping the font functioning was mainly what the Fennic patronage accomplished.) She skimmed dead insects and scum off the surface of the water and sang quietly to her new daughter while she waited for Bartleheim. Her ring gleamed slightly when it swept into the water under the floating muck. Sophie smiled at it. Actually the thing was badly and permanently tarnished and probably a cheap metal (tin? copper?) to begin with. It wasn't a wedding ring. Gregor hadn't been able to afford anything like that then. No, he'd found it in a field about a year ago and brought it to her with much joking ceremony. She'd appreciated the joke, accepted the belated token, and liked the ring itself even if it was homely. It fit snugly and almost never called any attention to itself. Gleaming was unusual, but this was supposed to be holy water. Bartleheim showed up finally, led by the only acolyte the stevenic temple had. He was an idiot named Henri (who could hope to become priest only by default when Bartleheim died). Henri positioned Bartleheim by the font while Sophie unwrapped her baby. Then the acolyte wandered off, touring the rest of the dark, dusty chamber. Bartleheim started blessing the Stevene with comfortable, familiar words. Sophie immersed the tiny girl in the water and cleaned her for the first time. The water was cold, the girl displeased by the experience. She began to cry. Bartleheim recited louder. He reached the point where the omniscience was supposed to advise him of the baby's name and paused. Since a god of everything was terribly busy -- too busy to reliably choose a name that would please the baby's family -- custom allowed the mother to whisper a suggestion to the priest at this point. Sophie, keeping a firm grip on the unhappy infant, leaned over to recommend the name Merry to the divine principle. "M -- owww!" she exclaimed. There was a flash in the font and a sharp pain in her fingers. "By the grace of God and in the love of her family, the child's name shall be Mouse," the blind Bartleheim said with a mental shrug. "Praised be the name of Cephas," chimed in Henri from the shadows elsewhere in the building. He knew his cues, but wasn't good at perceiving when a ceremony had careened off its track. The acolyte came back (empty-handed) from a survey of the temple's almsboxes. "You may now burn the basket," Bartleheim went on helpfully. "But that's not supposed to be her name," Sophie complained. "It's what you said," Bartleheim replied. "Yes, but -- where's my ring?" Sophie stared at her hand. (The other hand was busy cradling an infant who'd suddenly decided to be at peace with the entire situation.) Where the pain in her fingers was worst was where her ring used to be. It was gone now. Sophie started fishing around in the font. With only daylight available in the chapel, the bottom of the basin couldn't be seen. And no ring could be felt anywhere in it. Sophie felt tired. She'd lost her only piece of jewelry and gained a daughter named for the vermin who helped keep her family hungry too often. "Her name is Mouse?" she asked, continuing to feel around the basin. "Praise Cephas," Henri affirmed, taking it upon himself to attempt to burn the old basket. Recognizing the potential for catastrophe in this plan, Sophie abandoned her search and relieved the acolyte of the basket. "Can we change it?" she asked. "And offend God?" Bartleheim responded. "I'd rather not." Sophie started to ask about her missing ring. Then she considered Bartleheim's clouded eyes and Henri's vacuous grin and thought better of it. Perhaps Gregor could find her another. Perhaps she was just never meant to wear jewelry. Silently, she burned the basket while Bartleheim said a little basket-burning prayer and Henri gazed raptly at the flame. Then, she dropped a couple of coins into Henri's hand. ("Because it's customary, that's why!" she thought to herself in annoyance over why she should make an offering for a botched ceremony.) Finally, she gathered up her contented little Mouse in her new basket and went home. Gregor held Mouse and listened to Sophie's account. He gazed thoughtfully at his first daughter. She gazed thoughtfully at her first father. "Well," he said at last, "it makes a better story than if you'd succeeded in naming her Merry." "I just hope you won't regret that opinion," his wife told him. [20 Firil, 1004.] Gregor paused at the end of the row. Morgan, his ox, was content to stop pulling the plow also. Both stared out across the fields thoughtfully. Gregor was farming. That was what he did. He got up and worked; later, he might rest. Sophie might go and stand outside Sir Ongis's hall for hours hoping that he might relent and give her back her child. He still had work to do and many mouths to feed. Mouse, though, had never been much of an eater. [Summer, 994] The infant Mouse declined to eat. To say that she "refused" to eat would be putting it too strongly. She simply declined it almost all the time when Sophie offered her breast for suckling. She slept and she woke and she greeted the world with great interest, but tears were rare and eating was rarer. Sophie worried (first of all, it was uncomfortable) and Gregor heard about it every evening. Sophie asked her friends for advice and Gregor heard a report about every suggestion. She got 27 different sure-fire ways to persuade a baby to eat from 11 different friends. Two thirds of these really only applied to solid food; the others didn't work. Gregor advised her to take Mouse to Merton, the most accessible of the priests of Kurin. (He also advised her that Bartleheim was useless and she agreed.) So she did, and reported to Gregor every detail: Merton looked at Mouse. Mouse looked at him. Merton smiled at Mouse and Mouse smiled back. Merton drank some milk and ate a biscuit. Mouse stared at the window of his office. Merton put his hand gently on Mouse's forehead and prayed to the sun for guidance. Mouse put up with it. Merton received no clear guidance from Kurin. Mouse and Sophie went home. So Gregor had resigned himself. Sophie had given him Cedric and Con (Gregor the Younger) and Follano and Petrin and Dorian and Tobric. (And she would follow the Mouse with Armonk and Quinn and Widric and Barberry.) Cedric and Con were strong, healthy boys who already were helping their father work the land. Dorian was growing up fine. If poor Mouse went the way of Follano, Petrin and Tobric, that would be sad, but life would go on. Sophie would go on. But Mouse flouted the alternatives -- eat or die. She continued to sleep and play with the world. She also continued to avoid eating and crying. She stayed small, but she stayed alive and contented. For Gregor, who started off waiting sadly to see how long the Mouse would take to waste away and die, the vigil shifted gradually to appreciating this strange, small blessing. His daughter continued to be1 another joy around the house but not another mouth to feed (though Sophie never stopped trying). Mouse loved sunlight. Left to her own devices inside the cottage, she would eventually maneuver herself into any illuminated patch of the floor. Outside, she lay on her back and laughed at the light. Since she seemed to treat Gregor and Sophie with equal love, Gregor sometimes took her along when he went out to his fields. (Especially after Sophie became pregnant yet again.) The hawk reminded Gregor that it was dangerous for his daughter to be small. Gregor was pulling weeds; Mouse was gurgling in a basket. Gregor was in a struggle with an especially deep root when the baby's scream jolted him out of it. He looked up and saw the bird swerve past Mouse's basket and lurch upward into the sky again. For want of anything more effective to do, Gregor threw a stone or two at the retreating hawk, but Mouse continued to scream. Gregor went over to her and made sure that she'd come to no harm. The baby clung to her father the rest of the day, crying (very uncharacteristically) if put down. After that, Gregor made sure that his tiny girl was not quite so exposed when sitting outside. (Gregor grimaced and urged the ox into starting another row. He hadn't been there when she was taken.) He remembered that Mouse took up crawling before anyone except her mother thought it appropriate. (Gregor regretted her precocity. Once she started crawling amongst his crops, the pleasure of her company was overbalanced by the trouble of looking after her. He had to leave her at home most of the time.) Everyone else reminded Sophie that now she'd have to make sure that Mouse stayed away from dangerous things like cooking fires, but Gregor knew that there was no worry. Sophie was an experienced mother and a wise one, who knew how to do that automatically. She told him that she was just glad that something about Mouse was normal. She was equally pleased when Mouse began walking and talking; she only worried because her daughter was still so small. [20 Firil, 1004.] Gregor stopped. The furrow was going wayward, as was his mind. He brought Morgan back into line and resumed the plowing. Mouse was never wayward, he thought. Almost never. Sophie stood nursing Barberry and still remembering her other daughter, the one Sir Ongis was holding prisoner. Mouse was always a good little girl. She almost never made trouble for her mother or anyone else in the family. For example, there was the day that Sophie left her knitting out. There were the needles and the orderly knots and all that yarn that any kitten would have known to make a mess of. When Sophie realized that the house had been quiet for too long and went on patrol, she found Mouse sitting next to the needles and yarn, staring at them. Remarking "When you're older, we'll make some socks together," Sophie gathered up the knitting and put it away where it belonged. (Mouse watched her in solemn silence.) It was so much later when Sophie discovered the extra row that she decided she must have knitted it in herself by mistake. Now, though, Sophie felt a twinge of doubt. Why else would she remember the matter (except that she never erred in her knitting besides that one time)? Was Sir Ongis right in declaring that Mouse was a faerie princess who should be presented to the Duke of Dargon himself? Sophie didn't think so. For ten years, Mouse had been Mouse, daughter (tiny daughter -- smaller than the brand new Barberry) of Sophie and Gregor. How could she be changeling or faerie? Wasn't that what the naming at the stevenic temple was supposed to prevent? Mouse knew what her mistake had been. She should never have let Dorian get her to come with him into the woods. Mommy Sophie had told her always to stay close to home. She'd warned her that so many things were bad when you were small. Mouse hadn't known that that included people. Now she knew. But Dorian needed her. He'd explained to her that Farnace had loaned him a book. He'd been looking in the woods for a safe place to keep it because Con and Cedric sometimes abused the books he had at home. He'd found a safe-looking spot in a shallow cave but the cave turned out to have a false floor which fell through under the book and the opening was too small to get through unless you were Mouse and would she help? Of course she'd help. So she went with Dorian out to the woods with some twine to fetch back a book from the bottom of a mysterious cave. It was an adventure; it sounded like fun. At the cave, Mouse tied the twine around herself and Dorian lowered her through the hole in the floor. Down she went in the darkness until the downing ended with ground. She started feeling around for the book and, just as she felt something that was probably the book, she realized that she was looking in the darkness at two glowing eyes. She jerked on the twine the signal to get her out of there. The eyes didn't move, but neither did the twine -- at least not right away. So she jerked again -- and flew upward. She was just lucky she didn't crash into anything on her way up. She got back to the surface all right and argued with Dorian about his paying attention to her signals and being more careful bringing her back up. Then, she went back down -- only this time with a makeshift lit torch. (Dorian's very smart, actually, and almost always had with him the flint and stuff for starting a fire. Mommy Sophie didn't like Mouse playing with that stuff, but Dorian was just enough older and bigger that it was all right for him.) Nothing bothered Mouse while she and her light dropped again through the dark. With the torch, she found the book easily. It was broken and some loose pages had scattered. She ignored that at first, though, looking around for the thing with the glowing eyes. Not finding anything, she next set about reassembling the book. Then she untied the twine, wrapped it around the book and re-tied it. She hopped onto the book, signalled Dorian to lift her out and, as the book was beginning to lift off the ground, she saw the glint. She made another mistake. She jumped off the book and went to see what the sparkle was. It was a small, dirty disk, only as wide across as her hand. There were two of them, lying on the ground, and they glowed slightly. She'd found the eyes! She picked one up -- and it burned her hands so she dropped it. "What happened?" Dorian called down. "Found something," Mouse shouted back. "What? Mouse, are you all right?" Dorian called again. Mouse sighed. He hadn't heard her or understood her. People almost never did unless she was sitting on their shoulder. She glanced behind at her landing spot. The twine dropped down to the ground again. Dorian had removed the book and put a pine cone in its place. "Mouse? Come on, we've got to go." Mouse made another mistake. She decided she didn't want to leave without the disks she'd found. She ignored her brother. She wrapped her hands in the folds of her dress and picked up one of the disks. It wasn't easy, but she managed to get both disks over to the pine cone, one at a time. After a while longer, she'd wedged the disks in between the pine cone and the twine. She signalled to Dorian to bring her up. Nothing happened. She signalled several more times and still nothing happened. Mouse sighed and began to climb the twine. Climbing up and down things around her home was something she was used to. Climbing back up this twine wouldn't be that hard. She'd have some things to say to Dorian when she got to the top, though. She pulled herself up through the hole in the cave floor and was immediately picked up by hands the size of her Daddy's. Surprised, she screamed. "A faerie princess!" an unfamiliar voice announced. "In Sir Ongis's forest." Mouse looked at the strange, bearded face; the face was staring at her in amazement. A hand was still wrapped around her middle. "Let me go!" she shouted, grabbing and trying to pry loose the top finger. She always did that at home when picked up and it never worked there either. "That's my sister!" Mouse heard Dorian shout. "Let her go!" He was running toward them. Other voices joined his: Cedric's and Con's. He'd gone for help. But others were also with her captor. Though Cedric and Con and Dorian argued long and loudly (and Mouse joined them and was ignored by all), Sir Ongis's men -- for that was who they were -- brought her to Sir Ongis. Sir Ongis found the faerie princess fascinating and would not let her go. He dubbed her Melisande, the daughter of Queen Braia, the Great Lady of the Forest. She explained that she was Mouse, daughter of Sophie and should be allowed to go home. He told her that that was a most unimpressive pedigree to be presenting to the Lord of these lands. She told him impressiveness didn't matter if it was the truth. He told her that as Lord of these lands, it was up to him to decide what was true. She stamped her foot and said no. He laughed at her outburst since it took place on his trestle table. Then he told her that if she was indeed a mouse and not a melisande, then he was her lord and master and therefore could do with her what he pleased, including ordering her to play the part of a faerie princess named Melisande. She disagreed, but was ignored yet again. Sir Ongis went on to say that he didn't much care if she was really a faerie princess or only a freakish peasant. Faeries and faerie princesses were just stories anyway. What Sir Ongis intended to do was dress Mouse as a faerie princess and present her at Dargon for the amusement of Duke Clifton. Mouse again said she'd rather not; she wanted to go home. Sir Ongis became annoyed and ordered Mouse to swear allegiance to him and promise to obey his commands. He said that she had to do this because she had been living on his lands. She said no again. "You are my possession, little mouse," he warned. "Now say it. Say 'I am my lord Sir Ongis's possession'." "No." "Very well," Sir Ongis said. "I can be patient." This Mouse doubted. He put her in this covered cage and here she still was, wasting away. She hated Sir Ongis. The cover flew off the cage again. "Well?" demanded the bad lord himself. Mouse had little to say to him. Everything she could think of to say had been said before and denied. She took a deep breath and attempted to bellow "May I ... please ... sit ... outside?" "Not until you -- " Sir Ongis began yet again, then stopped, apparently changing his mind. "Will you give me your parole?" he asked. "What's that?" Mouse belted out. "It's a promise that honorable prisoners make to their captors in exchange for certain liberties during their confinement. You're an honorable faerie princess, aren't you?" "Honorable," Mouse shouted, nodding. It was too much effort to debate the question of whether she was faerie. "All right -- " "This," Mouse continued, gesturing to the cage, "honorable?" "Yes it is!" Sir Ongis shouted at the tiny creature's impertinence. "How dare you impugn -- ?" He broke off, paced across the room and back and tried again. "I am an honorable vassal of Lord Fionn Connall who owes service to the Duke Clifton himself. I am honorable and I believe you to be an honorable faerie -- or whatever you actually are. I think we might arrange a parole. Will you promise not to attempt to escape if I let you sit outside?" Mouse thought about that. "Yes," she agreed. "No crossed fingers or anything like that." "Yes," Mouse repeated her promise, holding up her hands in plain view. "And if anyone else tries to help you escape or kidnaps you, you'll do whatever you can to stop them and failing that, return here as soon as you are able?" Mouse thought longer about that. "Yes," she finally agreed. "Good," Sir Ongis said. He picked up her cage, carried it out onto the terrace and put it on a table. Mouse waited for him to open the cage door. He didn't. She stared at him from within the cross- hatching of sunlight and shadow. He watched her. "Outside," she finally bellowed. His eyes narrowed. Finally, deciding agreement, he opened the cage door. "Leaving the table would be attempting to escape," he remarked as she crawled across the cage and out through the opening. If she said anything in response, it wasn't to him. Mouse fell out through the cage door and sprawled on the table. She lay still in the sunlight. Except for her size -- perhaps three hands long -- and pretty face she scarcely looked like a faerie. Her dress was still filthy from her sojourn underground. Her light-brown hair was matted and disheveled -- but her mother was none too clean-looking either. Her exposed skin was deathly pale and hanging loosely on her bones. "You should eat something," Sir Ongis said, appraising her condition and worrying about making her presentable to the Duke. She ignored him. "Why won't you eat any of the food I offer you?" he asked. "What do you want to eat, choice nectar?" She shrugged. "All right," she breathed into the table. Sir Ongis stared at his sick prize. Then he went to see if anyone besides bees knew how to collect nectar. Thank goodness it was spring, he decided. Sir Ongis was a busy man, what with his own keep and household to supervise (while his wife was sick) as well as his extensive lands. (His servants, on the other hand, wished that he had a war or something somewhere else to keep him amused instead of spending all day hectoring them.) Nonetheless, he managed to visit his terrace from time to time that day. On each visit, he found Mouse the same: She was lying motionless in the sun, asleep, as far as he could tell, since she ignored everything he said to her. Late in the afternoon, he stepped out onto the terrace just as a shadow was finally creeping across the table. "Wake up!" he shouted. This time, she stirred, rolled over on her back, and looked up at him. "Time to go back to your cage," Sir Ongis announced. "I could let you stay out," he offered, "if you swear that oath of allegiance." Mouse said nothing. She went over to the wicker cage and climbed in. Sir Ongis spat a curse over the balustrade of his terrace and carried the cage back inside. The next day, Mouse and Sir Ongis repeated themselves almost exactly. Sir Ongis allowed Mouse to sit out on the terrace and Mouse gave the same parole she had the day before. The only differences were that Mouse looked healthier when she scrambled out of the cage in the morning and Ongis chose slightly different words in the evening when he reminded Mouse that she could end her imprisonment in the cage with a few simple words. He said "Unless, of course, you've enjoyed this freedom and are willing to swear that oath." Mouse looked at Sir Ongis and shouted (simply so that he could hear her) "Not freedom. Just sunlight." Sir Ongis exploded. "Then you can rot in darkness!" he shouted. He shoved Mouse into the cage and then carried the cage inside. He grabbed the cage's cloth cover and carried both down to the keep's cellars where his small, but adequate dungeon was. Going in, he slammed the cage down on the ground and settled the cover over it. "There are rats down here," he remarked, savoring the thought. "Hope you don't get into a wrestling match with any of them." He went out, securing the door behind him. Walking back up the stairs, he muttered to himself "Damn her! I will have her play the toy for that Duke! It would be such a shame to damage her though." The next morning, Sophie failed to show up outside Sir Ongis's gate. Ongis nodded at Cahill's reporting this, the first time she'd missed an appearance since the princess had been brought in. He imagined all the explanations: Sick brat at home, too much work at home, neighbors needing help, husband needing help, husband talking sense into her, giving up hope. He considered going and breaking the news to the mouse, but then remembered that he'd never told her about Sophie's vigil to begin with. And right now, he wanted her left alone down there with the imagined rats. No, better to tell her that she'd even been abandoned by her mother. Sir Ongis smiled, lit a torch, and strolled down to the cellar. Nice touch that: He'd bring the light of companionship and then carry it away again after telling the mouse the news. He unbolted the door of the dungeon, entered, walked to the cage, pulled the cover off -- and stared at the empty cage. He crouched down, incredulous. He stared at the new hole in the side of the cage, the one made both by pushing the wooden slats aside and by gnawing at them. He jumped to his feet and prowled around the chamber, looking for some evidence of a dead Mouse or how she escaped. He found some. The door wasn't a perfect fit; there was a small hole in it. Likewise, there were one or two small holes at the base of the walls of the room, suitable only for a mouse -- or Mouse, perhaps. It was difficult to guess how small a hole that creature could wriggle through. Sir Ongis stood up, thinking. The teeth-marks were evidence and there almost certainly were rats down here, but he simply didn't believe that his faerie princess had been carried off by any vermin. No, the more telling clue was the absence of the girl's mother. She wasn't there today because she knew the Mouse would be gone. She knew the Mouse was gone because she helped her escape in the night -- or at least was outside to meet her daughter when she emerged. Sir Ongis ran for his stable, shouting for men to join him. Soon a party was riding out to the remote part of his lands where the farmer Gregor had his house. He returned that evening empty-handed. [7 Naia, 1004.] Lady Kathryn Fennic awoke in the darkness. She felt different -- she felt better. She could feel! She felt the way that her willowy (and emaciated, right now) body was too long for this sickbed. She felt itching in her scalp from long, straight, dark brown hair that had been confined too long under that cap. She felt weak and fatigued still, but it was a good fatigue, a tiredness as though she'd finished a job right. The lump in her belly wasn't weighing on her, sucking away her strength, as it had for the past month or more. There was a weight on her chest, though, and that was new too. She opened her eyes and beheld the faerie princess for the second time in her life. (Sir Ongis had once shown his melisande to his wife immediately upon acquiring her.) "You ran away," Kathryn said. "Many days ago." She'd heard the news but hadn't cared much about it. The princess dropped onto her hands and knees; she was close to Kathryn's ear. "I came back," she said. "Why?" There was a pause before the princess said anything. "Your Ongis came after me," she began at last. "I know. He couldn't find you. He told me." "He found my family. Did he tell you that?" "You have a family? He found other faeries?" The princess's tiny face moued disgust. "Faeries! My father's a farmer. Was. My mother's name's Sophie. She came here looking for me. Did you know that?" "No." "I didn't either. Not until Dorian told me. He's my brother. I went home and talked to him after I ran away from here. He told me that my mother came here to try to get me back from your Ongis. She waited and waited and then she went home. I never got to see her --" "Didn't you see her when you got home?" The princess made another face. "Are you stupid?" she asked. "It took me days to get home. I didn't know the way exactly, I don't walk very fast, and I was trying to keep away from foxes and people both. By the time I'd gotten home, they'd already buried her. Besides, why would I want to look at her body?" "She's dead?" "Yes, she's dead!" the princess hissed. "Your Ongis killed her." "How -- how do you know?" Kathryn asked. "He did it with my brothers watching, didn't he? He marched into the house where my mommy and daddy and brothers and Barberry all were. He marched in just after my mommy finally got home after walking all night. He marched in with a bunch of his men and ordered my family to give me back. And when my mother smiled at him and said they didn't know where I was but anywhere else was better than his keeping, he got mad and killed her. And that made daddy mad and he picked up a kitchen knife and Ongis and his men killed him." "Oh, Kurin ... " "So that left Cedric and Con, because Dorian wasn't there and Widric and Barberry were both crying. They looked at each other and then at Ongis, but they didn't move. Ongis glared at them and then at the carnage in that kitchen. Then he left. So he didn't tell you about that?" "No." "So when Dorian told me, I had to leave again right away. I didn't even see any of the others and I didn't tell them where I'm going or what I'm doing. Do you understand that? It's no good going there again. They don't know anything." "Yes, I understand that," Kathryn said. "So what are you going to do?" "I decided to come back here. It's your Ongis's fault and mine my parents got killed, isn't it?" Kathryn preferred to avoid any answer to that question. "But now what are you going to do?" she asked. "Well, the way I see it, I have to do something to your Ongis -- " "I wish you'd stop calling him *my* Ongis," Kathryn exclaimed. She tried to sit up, but was reminded how weak she still was. "He's Sir Ongis, and you should refer to him that way." "No." "Well, what do you think you're going to do to Sir Ongis? Are you going to murder him for killing your parents?" "You *are* stupid, aren't you?" "I prefer not to think so," Kathryn said. "What's stupid about it?" "If I just kill him because he killed them, that would make me no better than him. And I think he's bad. I don't want to do anything like him. So I'm going to do something else." "What?" Kathryn asked. Then her eyes widened. "Do you think you're going to kill me?" The princess sat back and folded her arms. "That's stupid too. You were dying already and besides, that's still too much like your Ongis. Nope. I've cured you -- " "You cured me?" Kathryn laughed. "Well, me and God together." "You and -- " Kathryn was about to say "that useless, gutless, rattling old voice", but one chooses very carefully the occasions to blaspheme. Instead, she said "And how did you do that?" "I prayed to God and told her that you had a lump in you that was killing you. And that it needed to go away." "Yes, and I also had Brother Cwynydd visiting me daily and praying -- " "To Kurin. I know. And also that leech. Memfis. Sucking out your blood. That's stupid." "How do you know they didn't cure me?" "They've been visiting you more than a month, haven't they?" The princess grinned. "You didn't get better until I started praying for you. Now you're cured." Lady Kathryn Fennic frowned. She had no intention of ever ascribing her healing to Cephas Stevene; the Fennics had made that mistake before and only the early death of Henri the idiot priest had finally repaired that error. "All right," she said. "I'm cured. What do you expect to gain from that? If you expect me to kill Sir Ongis for you -- " "No," the faerie princess waved away the idea. "That's still too much like him. No. You're his wife. You're the mommy for his children -- if he has any children." "One. A boy. Also named Ongis." "Huh. I don't like that much. Anyway, he murdered my mommy and daddy and now you're all better because I prayed to God for you to get better. I want you to stay with your Ongis -- " "Sir Ongis!" "and hate him for me." "Hate him?" Kathryn asked. "Uh huh. He's a bad man. I've told you that, haven't I? It'll be easy. All I want you to do is stay close beside him, right next to him -- " the faerie bent close to Kathryn's ear, " -- and hate him for the rest of his life." Then she crept away from the sickbed, leaving Lady Kathryn staring upward at the invisible ceiling. She sighed. "I already did," she murmured. ======================================================================== |