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DargonZine Volume 04 Issue 01
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 4
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 1
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-- DargonZine Volume 4, Issue 1 04/05/91 Cir 1127 --
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-- Contents --
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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. <khaytsus@tramp.Colorado.EDU>)
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
<b.c.k.a. acssjon@ubvms>
"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
<White@DUVM.BitNet>. 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.
