Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
DargonZine Volume 03 Issue 08
From WHITE@DUVM.OCS.DREXEL.EDU Tue May 12 10:36:01 1992
Received: from DUVM.OCS.DREXEL.EDU by eff.org with SMTP id AA26856
(5.65c/IDA-1.4.4/pen-ident for <RITA@EFF.ORG>); Tue, 12 May 1992 10:35:49 -0400
Message-Id: <199205121435.AA26856@eff.org>
Received: from DUVM by DUVM.OCS.DREXEL.EDU (IBM VM SMTP R1.2.2MX) with BSMTP id 3311; Tue, 12 May 92 10:31:45 EDT
Date: Tue, 12 May 92 10:31:33 EDT
From: "Avid Reader - Fledgling Writer" <WHITE@DUVM.OCS.DREXEL.EDU>
To: RITA@EFF.ORG
Status: OR
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
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
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 <Hennequi@CTStateU>)
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
<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.
