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-- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 7 05/11/90 Cir 970 --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
-- Contents --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DAG Dafydd Editorial
The Bronze Horseman I Max Khaytsus Sy 10-Seber 22, '13
Hunting of the Red Tiger II M. Wendy Hennequin Neber 1013
A Night Off the Town M. Wendy Hennequin 15 Mertz, 1014
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Dafydd's Amber Glow
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
(b.c.k.a. <white@DUVM.OCS.Drexel.Edu>)
Okay, here is, as promised, the scoop on the DargonZine back
issue archives:
Back issues of DargonZine are available from the Archive Server
run by Mark Seiffert. DargonZine has its own section of the Archive in
the directory called other/digest/DargonZine, with each volume having
a separate sub-directory for it's issues. There are two auxillary
files available from the DargonZine directory: the file "index" lists
the file names and the descriptions of what is in the files; and the
"list" file is a Unix-style ls-lR file of the files available.
Back issues are requested from the machine "Archive@mgse" (which
may have to be translated to "archive%mgse@rex.cs.tulane.edu" from
some machines) by sending it mail. An example of the commands required
to get the help file, the index and list files, Volume 1 Issue 1, and
Volume2 Issue 1 of the magazine is below:
- cut here ----------------------------------------------------------
help
send other/digest/DargonZine/list
send other/digest/DargonZine/index
send other/digest/DargonZine/vol01/issue01
send other/digest/DargonZine/vol02/issue01
- cut here ----------------------------------------------------------
The files are also available for anonymous uucp at 504-467-1069,
2400 baud, login 'archive' in the directory
"/archive/other/digest/DargonZine/". Callers at 300 or 1200 baud will
have to send a break.
If you have any problems or questions, please contact Mark at
"archivea@mgse" (or "archivea%mgse@rex.cs.tulane.edu" - Mark is the
administrator of the Archive and I have little to no knowledge of just
how it works. Please be sure to send your mail files to the right
place: questions/problems to archivea@mgse, requests for files to
archive@mgse. Thank you, and thanks to Mark for the service and for
much of the above explanation.
The above presented documentation is right out of the DargonZine
Info file, and, as noted, was culled from the documentation that Mark
provides for his Server. As I said last issue, I have tested the
Server and it works. However, it seems to only accept one command at a
time. So, if you want multiple issues, it would seem that you have to
send multiple mail messages to the machine. But that's no bad thing -
it will help distribute the load on the network if you don't request
all 13 back issues at once anyway!
I just have two more things to make note of. Its probably a
little late for this (should have been in the last issue), but I would
like to remind those students who receive DargonZine and who are
leaving school for the summer to unsubscribe (just send me a message
-its that easy) to save the bandwidth it will take to send your
account an issue of DargonZine and have it bounce because your account
is no longer active. When you return in the fall, just send me another
message and I'll resubscribe you, and you can get the issues you
missed from Mark's Archive Server! Thank you for the consideration.
And, lastly, there are a few addresses out there that seem to be
reachable from the ListServ network that distributes this magazine,
but not from my personal account. I would like to reassure these
people, most particularly Cathy Newberry (who is the only account I am
sure I cannot reach by mail - but there must be others), that I am not
ignoring their requests for further information. Cathy, I tried to
send you back issues, and this week the DargonZine Info file so you
could get them yourself. But, no matter what I tried (and that wasn't
as much as it could have been maybe, but I'm no mailer-daemon), our
Mailer refused to believe that your node exists. I'm terribly sorry
that I couldn't respond directly to your requests, but I did try.
Fortunately, I know that the issues make it to you, so above is the
back issue information.
Thank you and enjoy DargonZine.
Dafydd, Editor DargonZine
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 The Bronze Horseman
Part 1
by Max Khaytsus
<b.c.k.a. khaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu>
A brigand with a large gap between his teeth handed the lance to
the young knight on his horse. "He's giving you a chance to die
fighting, but if you win, the rest of us will kill you." He smiled
savagely. "You went after the wrong people, boy."
The knight backhanded the brigand and brought the lance up over
the saddle. "I see I killed the wrong three. Get out of my way or I'll
skewer you."
Another brigand drew his sword. "You be careful what you say or
you may have to fight without a tongue."
The knight lowered the tip of his lance to point at the speaker.
"If I die here today, more will come. Your kind will _not_ rule this
land." He thrust the lance forward, hitting the brigand in the chest
hard enough to knock him over. "If I die today, I will do so for a
good cause and people will remember my name."
"Now, now, Sir Arvel," someone said behind the knight and he
turned to face a man dressed in full plate made of bronze, sitting
atop a night black mount. "Enough of this bragging," the rider went
on. "I am giving you this chance because you did earn the chain you
wear and I wish to remove it from you the same way you earned it -- in
combat."
"Quinn," Arvel answered, "killing me won't make your life easier.
You are still an outlaw."
"Until I am removed by a tribunal, you will refer to me as Sir
Garwood Quinn."
"Baron Bankroft already revoked your knighthood!"
"Baron Bankroft is dead!"
Arvel glared at the man in the bronze armor.
"Are the peasants ready?" Quinn asked one of his men.
"They are all in the field, Sir."
"Good. If you will, Sir Arvel," Quinn turned to his opponent. "My
men will escort you to your starting position."
The gap-toothed brigand took the reins of the horse and lead it
away. Quinn kicked his horse to a gallop, going to the other side of
the meadow.
Arvel's horse was led to a red marker on the edge of the field
and turned to face in Sir Garwood's direction. The brigand walked away
and Arvel raised his head to the sky in a silent prayer. As the first
horn sounded, he leveled his lance. On the second he kicked the horse
into a trot. Across the field Sir Garwood did the same. The two horses
gained speed on their charges and the knights collided with a clash.
Arvel's shield received a great dent in its face. He was not sure if
it could take another hit like that, but he suspected he did at least
as much damage to Quinn. He turned his horse and looked to find Quinn.
The renegade knight adjusted his shield and charged back. Arvel
shifted his weight in the saddle and urged his own horse forward. Once
again the two knights collided, but this time Arvel fell from his
saddle to the ground and Quinn rode back. He dismounted and knelt
beside the fallen man.
"See how combat before the gods works?" he asked and took the
chain of knighthood into his hand. Arvel gasped at the force with
which the chain was torn off. "You're no knight," Quinn declared and
slit the fallen man's throat.
Rien embraced Kera one last time and whispered "Have a safe
journey," in her ear. Kera pressed harder against him. "I'll miss
1you."
After a minute or so they released each other and Kera remounted
her horse. Rien watched her ride away until she reached the curve in
the road, where she turned back and waved. He waved back and soon she
disappeared from sight.
Rien got back on his horse and kicked it into motion. There was a
month long trip ahead of him to do a job that should have been taken
care of months ago. It was to bring to justice, one way or another,
Sir Garwood Quinn, one of the knights of Baron Bankroft, or rather the
late Baron Bankroft, who was murdered in cold blood by the said
renegade a few days before the Melrin festival. Quinn, in his festive,
pre-holiday spirit, took a few of his men and went out to pillage and
plunder his baron's lands and set up camp somewhere near the village
of Phedra, after permanently releaving the local constable.
That was the report Rien received three weeks ago at the inn,
telling of something that took place almost two months before that.
Now Rien's task was to find the renegade knight in the lands he's been
despoiling and one way or another to take care of him and his dozen or
so men. Of course by the time Rien arrived, it would be well over
three months since the initial event and in that time anything could
have happened. The problem might have already been resolved by the
local authorities, which was doubtful, as any organized process in the
Duchy of Quinnat would be unlikely at best. On the other hand, the
problem also had had a chance to grow, which was the more likely
event. Rien only hoped it had not grown too much.
He sent Kera to Sharks' Cove specifically for that reason -- what
he was about to do was going to be very dangerous. She would be much
safer on the road than in a fight. She was to go to Armand and take a
boat to Sharks' Cove to deliver his message that said he had finally
gotten around to the job. The note also requested his horse and
equipment and a mount for Kera. Rien had initially left his horse and
gear behind to assure his co-workers that he would indeed take a break
this time. All he ended up proving was that he did not need anything
extra to run into more problems. The vacation became nothing more than
a disorganized job, but no one would ever hear about that. Rien was
more restless than Kera showed herself to be in their week long stay
at the inn in Dargon, but he controlled it better than she. Being
forced to "relax" and do nothing was sheer torture for him.
Instead of dying of boredom, Rien managed to obtain an obligation
to the High Mage (who hopefully still knew nothing of the
troubleshooters), get a witches coven upset with him (upset enough to
try and kill him), anger the provincial Dargon mob (which hired an
assassin to hunt him down) and on top of that, get himself an
apprentice! Apprentice for what? He worked alone! His association with
Kera made him wonder about their relationship now that he was finally
alone and had the chance to think. Was it because he felt sorry for
her? Was it because he felt responsible for the disease? And why has
their relationship turned sexual of all things? She didn't even have a
drop of elven blood. His mate...ex-mate was at least an elf.
One thing was for sure, Kera lead the type of lifestyle he lead.
Despite this tie between them there was still a problem. He was more
than seven times her age and would easily live to see ten times that
amount. She, at best, would live to the end of the century. In fifteen
or twenty years she would be on the decline, no longer as strong or as
agile...and twenty years past that, the same would start happening to
her mind. Rien was not happy about human mortality. It was the cause
of the initial conflict between his people and the human race. In a
matter of two centuries, a few millenia ago, elves almost became an
extinct race because of their inability to die a natural death. They
were virtual pacifists back then, permitting themselves to be
1slaughtered almost to the last.
To date, Rien knew of only four tribes in existence, all living
in the same place, Wildwood, in the valley of the Windbourne
mountains, or Charnelwood -- Darkling Forest -- as the superstitious
humans in the area preferred to call it. Two of the tribes were
Ljosalfar. The one he was from and another, of which his ex-mate was a
member. The other two were Dopkalfar and Rien knew little of them. He
could find them if he wanted to, but there was never a reason to. The
Dopkalfar were the ones who insisted that the human lust for elven
blood should be repaid in kind and it was this desire to survive that
almost singlehandedly saved the entire race. It was this desire that
separated the two groups into the broken race they now were. One
remained peaceful and the other became warriors. The conflict lay in
the issue of revenge and question of superiority. Did a more civilized
race have the right to condemn another?
For the most part Ljosalfar strongly believed that they should
not fight a war and should simply be ready to leave if the humans ever
come again. The philosophy of the Dopkalfar was to be ready at all
times to take on the challenge of a war and win. There were naturally
all sides to the issue in each of the tribes and this was a source of
great debates for many centuries.
To Rien it was all ancient history, now no more than a racial
conflict he believed to be wrong. There were less than two hundred
elves that he knew existed and their growth was stunted by humans on
the outside and internal conflicts at home. If Ljosalfar and Dopkalfar
ever met for reasons other than to decide their future, it was to have
as big a fight as they could, although no elf ever died by another
elf's hand.
There were some human tribes in the mountains and in the forest
that did not hate elves and some that even revered them, but on the
whole, Makdiar was now a human world and the elves could no longer lay
any claim.
Rien left his tribe to see the world his father was from, the
world no elf had visited for over two millenia. Most in the tribe were
against it, but Rien managed to convince a good portion of them that
it would be good to know where they stood in the minds of the humans
and that he, of mixed heritage, was the best person to find out. To
his surprise, he learned that his species was a thing of legends and
most, save scholars and mages, did not realize that these legends were
often based on facts. Elves were as forgotten as the empires that rose
to defeat them.
During his time in the human dominated places, Rien learned that
humans feared things they did not understand and often tended to rid
themselves of these inconveniences any way they could. Maari and
Terell were both in this category, but many others were not. Perhaps
because time erased the memories of the wars, perhaps because now
people were more tolerant. Those like Marcellon and Taishent and
Connall, who had no problems with what he was.
And neither did Kera, a fact that, oddly enough, pleased him. On
his fourth day in Dargon, just three days after they came to an uneasy
truce, she saved his life. Perhaps she realized he was not human then,
perhaps not. She certainly had the opportunity, but more importantly,
she had no reason in the world to save a man who could just as easily
have turned her over to the town guard. She could have abandoned him
or killed him or given him to Liriss, but instead killed for him and
remained at his side. That was the type of people who could live
peacefully side by side with elves and that's why he developed respect
for her...
Rien could not tell if that was the reason for the growth of
their physical relationship and did not assume that he would find out
1soon. For now he was glad she had decided to stay with him and more so
that she agreed not to face the dangers he expected to encounter.
Their plan was, that since Kera would reach Sharks' Cove a lot quicker
by ship, she would pick up the equipment and travel on to Phedra, a
week long journey, where she would meet up with him again. By then he
would have had a good week to take care of the job...or not.
Rien caught sight of Phedra in early morning. It lay in a shallow
valley, backed by a forest on one side and open to farming fields on
the other. In spite of the hour, there was no evidence of life either
in the village or in the fields.
Rien stopped his horse on the hillside and scanned the area. The
village appeared well cared for, but still empty. The fields were also
in good shape, but like the town, there were no indications of life.
Rien encouraged his horse forward. Up ahead on his left he noticed
some motion behind a large bush, whose leaves were beginning to turn
brown from lack of water.
Unhooking his foot from the stirrup, Rien placed it on the arc of
the crossbow, which hung off the saddle to his right. He bent down and
grabbing hold of one of the two strings, pulled it back. Not an action
that should be done while riding, but better than not being prepared
at all.
Rien looked ahead again. The bush was still. Across from it was
an old tree with branches extending over the road with too many leaves
to betray anyone hiding in it.
The horse was now about twenty feet away from the tree. At the
current rate he would be passing under it in a few moments. Rien
looked at the crossbow, but it was impossible to place a bolt in it,
not only because of lack of cover, but also because it was pointing
straight down and would not hold the missile. Rien grumbled silently
for a second and with his left hand undid the strap binding the hilt
of his sword.
He was passing under the first branches of the tree and looked up
just in time to see a net falling onto him. The horse stopped and with
a yell someone leaped down. Rien caught the man with his long dagger
in mid-air and his assailant landed on the ground with a thud, the
weapon lost somewhere under him. Rien was also in a bad position. The
horse would not move while the net was around it and he could not draw
his sword to cut himself out. As he considered his situation, an arrow
from behind the bush penetrated his leg with enough force to secure it
to the horse's body. The animal reared up in surprise and pain,
breaking the arrow and throwing Rien off, as a second arrow hit it in
the shoulder, right were Rien's head had been a moment before.
The net caught on the horse and the saddle and Rien more slid
than fell to the ground. He grabbed the dagger on the ground and cut
the net open. When he finally struggled free, he encountered a man
with a drawn sword. The first swing would have surely made contact
with his head, except he timely realized that his left leg could no
longer support him and collapsed to his knees. The sword went barely
over his head and he hit the swordsman with his dagger.
The man staggered back and Rien awkwardly drew his sword. His
eyes were now silver-grey with anger, matching the color of the steel.
Before the brigand could recover for the next attack, Rien swung,
slicing his opponent's stomach open. The brigand dropped his weapon
and collapsed on top of it, a pool of blood spreading under him.
Rien staggered up, the pain in his leg becoming unbearable, but
went on to face the two new challengers who appeared from beyond the
bush. He parried both their strikes, then attacked one man's weapon,
sending it to the ground. The second man swung at Rien, connecting
loosely with his side. Rien returned the favor, but instead of pulling
1his sword back, forced it forward. Panicing, the brigand dropped his
weapon and tried grabbing his sword, but Rien pulled it back, leaving
bloody streaks on the man's hands.
Rien turned on his second opponent, again knocking his sword to
the ground. The brigand tried punching him, but Rien swung again,
cutting his forearm off. The man stared in shock and horror and Rien
put the sword through him for the last time.
When Rien turned to face the last man, the brigand was sitting on
the ground, nursing his hands and side, the sword laying a few feet
away, where it had landed. The brigand yielded and Rien put his own
weapon away. He leaned on his horse, still covered by the net, for
support. A dark pool of red appeared where he stood and his leg was
soaked with blood from the calf down. He pulled out a dagger from the
saddle bag to cut the net off when hoof beats sounded up ahead on the
road. Rien looked up.
Riding towards him were three men. The one in the lead rode a
black stallion and wore bronze plate armor. The other two rode at his
sides and were dressed in chain. Each man wielded a cocked and loaded
crossbow. They stopped less than twenty feet away from Rien and the
man in the middle surveyed the scene with calculated interest. The
brigand sitting on the ground rose, holding on to his injured side.
His effort was rewarded with a crossbow bolt in his chest and
collapsed to the ground, probably dead.
"Is this your doing?" the man asked in an aristocratic voice.
Rien nodded, studying the man silently. He believed himself to be
speaking with Sir Garwood Quinn.
"Those were my men," Quinn motioned to the four bodies. "I think
it'd be best if you joined them..." A new bolt was inserted into the
crossbow.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Hunting of the Red Tiger
Part II
by M. Wendy Hennequin
(b.c.k.a <Hennequi@CTStateU>)
Donegal na Valenfaer laughed as he watched the Beinisonian slave
ship burn blue with hellfire. "Well, that wasn't so hard. The
Beinisonians aren't as tough as they think they are. We've had more
trouble pirating some rowboats."
"Getting the others will be more difficult," Richard warned him
sternly. "Those girls they bought will be in the way." He gazed at the
blazing Beinisonian ship and frowned. "You know, it'll be much more
difficult for me to pick them off. Here we had nothing to be careful
of."
"Don't worry, Rich," Donegal reassured him cheerfully. "I'll stab
a few in the back, slit a few throats...it'll be easy."
"Has anyone ever told you that you're too optimistic?"
"You've told me a dozen times."
"Why doesn't it sink in?"
"Because I'm too optimistic, Rich," Donegal answered innocently.
"You're also a pain," Richard growled playfully, making his way
to the path the Beinisonians had taken. "Let's get moving, Donegal.
Maybe we can catch them at supper."
"Did you bring any poison?" the leech wondered, only
half-jokingly.
The archer abruptly stopped and turned to his friend. "Poison?
Why would I bring poison on a hunting trip?"
"Hey, why would you bring hellfire?" Donegal countered with a
knowing smile.
Richard flushed slightly, but he returned the smile and continued
down the path. "Last time I was here," the archer explained, "I had a
little trouble with the Sun People. A young lady and I were enjoying
ourselves, and a few of the men became rather irate." Richard chuckled
softly. "Luckily, I had a little hellfire on me; my sword couldn't
have fought their spears."
"Sounds like a close call."
"It was worth it. She was a fine woman." Richard retrieved the
spying glass from his belt and surveyed the path in front of them.
"All clear ahead," he reported in a low voice. He crouched. "Still,
we're getting pretty close. Can you hear them?"
Donegal listened; music and laughter floated merrily through the
jungle. "Maybe we can get them now, while they least expect it."
Richard shrugged at the possibility and crept along the path.
When they neared the clearing, Donegal stepped into the shadows at the
edge of the brush; seeing him, Richard did the same. The volume of the
music grew.
Finally halting, Richard parted the underbrush and motioned
Donegal to join him. The archer was grimacing.
About two hundred People of the Sun--men, women, and at least
fifty children--filled the clearing. Despite the carnival
atmosphere--large groups were dancing, and a huge carcass cooked over
a spit--each man bore a spear, and some also had strung bows set
carefully beside them. A few even had iron swords. In a moment,
Donegal, too, was frowning. So much for getting them out while they
were off their guard.
Richard reached for the spying glass and unfolded it. "Do you see
the Beinisonians?" the archer rasped.
Donegal quickly scanned the jubilant tribe while Richard
meticulously searched with the spy glass. "There they are." The
surgeon pointed to four men; three were Beinisonians, and one was an
1older, elaborately dressed Sun Man. "At least three of them. Weren't
there five?"
"That's what I thought." Richard compressed the glass and
attached it to his belt. Turning his back on the festival, he said,
"We have some time to kill. It'll be a while before that beast is
cooked fully."
"Do the People of the Sun eat their meat fully cooked?"
Richard made a face. "Raw meat? Don't make me sick." He rose.
"Want to search for the other..." His voice trailed off, and he stared
over Donegal's shoulder.
The leech whirled. Calmly and patiently standing, not ten feet
from them, was the Red Tiger.
"Or," Richard continued softly, "we could go hunting a different
animal." Slowly, he rose and drew an arrow from his quiver.
The Lowenrote waited.
Donegal began to stand. Richard placed the arrow on the bow. The
surgeon straightened. Richard drew the arrow back.
And the Red Tiger leapt, laughing, into the jungle. "Let's go!"
Richard urged, and in a split second, he crashed after the animal.
Donegal rolled his eyes, sent a brief prayer to Gow, and plunged into
the jungle after his friend.
Once again, he collided with Richard abruptly. Richard raised his
hand swiftly and sharply to still Donegal's question. It didn't
matter; Donegal understood what was happening in a matter of moments.
While the Lowenrote stood patiently--no, expectantly--on the
other end of the small clearing, two men--two Beinisonians--were
chasing two desperately frightened native women. The farther man
reached out to snatch his prey--
And fell to the moist ground, an arrow in his neck.
The second, running past Donegal, paused as he heard his
companion's cry. Donegal leapt upon him, forcing him to the ground,
and in a moment, the surgeon had buried his knife in the Beinisonian's
back.
When he rose, Richard was slitting the other man's throat for
security's sake. The women--and the Red Tiger--were gone.
"Well," Richard began softly, "it won't be long now. When those
girls return to the party, one of two things will happen. Either
they'll tell how they were nearly raped, and the Sun People will
slaughter the other three Beinisonians, or they'll tell how these two
were killed, and we'll have an entire tribe on us." Richard turned to
his friend. "Well, Donegal, which do you think?"
The surgeon grinned. "I think we may be in for it, Rich."
The Baranurian smiled ironically. "You're probably right." He
loaded an arrow. "You know, it might be best if we took off and left
this island right now. The Beinisonians can't come after us, and they
certainly can't take those women any place."
Donegal glared at his friend. "We started this, Rich, and we're
going to finish it," the surgeon commanded. Richard raised an eyebrow
at Donegal's tone of voice, but he said nothing. Donegal saw this and
grinned gratefully. "Besides, Rich, it's much more fun this way."
"That's a fact," Richard agreed good-naturedly. He stepped back
into the brush. "Well, in any case, they'll likely bring the entire
tribe on us. We're going to need surprise on our side, Donegal. We
don't have much else." The archer took two more steps backwards, and
then Donegal could not see him at all.
Donegal glanced about the clearing and quickly moved to the
shadiest spot he could find. He hid the backpack under a nearby bush,
carelessly flung his white shirt into the jungle--let them look in the
wrong spot!-- and hid himself in the shadows. Donegal smiled wickedly.
No one would spot him in the murky shade.
1 "The band!" Richard hissed, and Donegal remembered and panicked.
Remove his headband? But that bright red and yellow band hid the mark
of slavery! If the Beinisonians saw it-- No, he
wouldn't--couldn't--risk it.
"You stupid ass!" Richard's voice harshly mocked the surgeon's
hesitation. "Why don't you just wear a target on your head?"
Donegal scowled, furious at Richard for stupidity that was the
surgeon's own. With a growled oath, Donegal reached for the Bichanese
band and hurled it from him with a vengeance.
A crash sounded nearby. "A black angel and a golden one?" scoffed
a voice in drunken accents. "The woman has had too much wine!"
A couple of loud guffaws seconded the opinion. Another Beinison
voice said, only half-jestingly, "Don't be so sure of your mocking.
This is the year of the Incarnations. It could be Braigh and Alana,
you know, and I wouldn't want to anger them!"
The laughs became louder. "Don't be silly," a third voice
ordered. "They were probably just attacked by some jungle animals;
that Lowenrote that we hear of might well be the golden angel--or
demon--the women spoke of."
"Exactly," the first of the voices agreed. A heavy-set,
half-drunken man parted the vegetation on the north side of the
clearing. "The women had too much to drink."
"I don't think so," the third voice argued, stepping into the
clearing. This man was younger and cheerful, and reminded Donegal in
some ways of himself. "Look there." He pointed to the man Richard had
slaughtered. "Angels don't use bows. And look there." He indicated the
discarded shirt.
The first retrieved it while the owner of the second voice, a
strong- looking man with a scar across his bare chest, entered the
clearing. "It's a shirt," the heavy-set slaver said. "They weren't
lying."
"Exactly. An angel wouldn't leave a shirt be--" the youngest man
started, but the arrow that went through his eye stole his final word.
The heavy man jumped backwards; the strong man burst into the jungle
in pursuit of whoever shot his friend.
And that, Donegal decided, leaves one for me. Screaming the
Highlander war cry, Donegal leapt onto the heavy man's back and
slammed the knife into his back. The heavy man yelled his pain, and,
cursing, he threw Donegal to the ground. Turning, the enraged man, the
blade still in his flesh, now leapt for the surgeon.
Donegal swiftly rolled to the right, and the husky Beinisonian
fell onto the ground. Quick as levin, Donegal drew his Bichanese sword
and stabbed again.
Again, the man let out a roar more bestial than the Lowenrote's.
He sprung to his feet--how can a man that big leap like a deer?
Donegal wondered--and charged the leech.
Donegal lowered his sword instantly, and, thank Gow, at the right
moment. The heavy man impaled himself.
Donegal stared, disgusted, at the surprised corpse. After a few
minutes, the surgeon mentally shook himself out of his stupor and slid
the heavy man from his sword, lest the weight damage the blade.
Sighing in relief, Donegal wiped his blade on some nearby vegetation.
It was over, aye, and they were successful. All the Beinisonians dead,
thanks to him and Richard.
Richard!
The jungle was silent.
"Rich!" Donegal shouted, frantic. "Rich!"
The jungle was silent.
"*Rich!*" Donegal cried. If he had gotten his best friend killed
in this stupid crusade, Donegal would never forgive himself.
1 "Don't get excited," the Baranurian counseled drying, stepping
out of the jungle behind the surgeon. "I'm all right."
Donegal turned. The statement was true, to a point; Richard was
well and whole, but a nasty cut decorated the archer's chest. "Let me
take a look at that," Donegal ordered.
"Are you all right?" Richard wondered as Donegal scrutinized the
wound. "It's just a scratch; don't worry."
"You're right, Rich. It isn't bad." But Donegal went to the
backpack anyway and returned with some gauze and whisky. "Did you get
him?" Donegal asked as he cleaned his friend's wound.
"Yes. The arrow hit him right in the heart. The blood was
incredible."
"How'd you get this, then?" the confused surgeon asked.
"You're not going to believe this," Richard warned, "but a tree
branch leapt out in front of me, and--"
"There's some weird things on this island," Donegal admitted as
he finished his task. He capped the whisky flask and looked at his
friend. "Now what?"
"Well, now that we've finished with the Beinisonians, I thought
we might go hunting the tiger," Richard suggested.
Donegal, suddenly weary, sank to the ground, but he found himself
unable to protest. After Richard had helped him, it seemed to Donegal
that he would be unfair or ungrateful to refuse to help Richard.
"But I'm tired, too," Richard added, smiling calmly at his old
friend. "What do you say we go back to Port of the Sun? We can come
back next week; I'm sure that no one will kill the Lowenrote between
now and then."
"Sounds great," Donegal agreed with all the tired enthusiasm he
could muster. He slowly rose, donned his shirt and backpack, and
retrieved his knife from the back of the heavy man he had killed. He
stared at the corpse for a moment, then said, "Let's take care of one
thing first." He bent and severed the head from the body.
"What are you doing?" Richard asked, appalled. "Why are you doing
it?"
"I think the Sun People have a right to know why
these--men--aren't coming back," Donegal explained gruffly. "And I'm
going to make sure they don't make the same mistake again."
Decapitating the Beinisonians took several minutes; Richard
consented to return and bring back the head of the young man he had
killed. That done, Donegal took the heads by their hair and carried
the gruesome bouquet to the celebrating Sun People. Richard thought
the surgeon was crazy and told him so, but he followed anyway, to
"make sure you don't get yourself killed."
So Donegal marched like a conqueror into the clearing; Richard,
beside him, carried himself like a grim guard. Within moments, the
music died. Fearful questions filled the clearing a moment later.
"Where is the interpreter?" Donegal loudly demanded in
Beinisonian.
The older man with the profusion of feathers and shells
decorating his person came forward. Beside him stood a younger man,
who spoke. "I am the interpreter. The chief wishes to know why you
have done this. Why have you dishonored our tribe by robbing our women
of honorable marriage?"
"No!" Donegal shouted angrily. "I have saved them from slavery.
They weren't going to marry the women; they were going to sell them!"
The interpreter turned to the chief and spoke. The chief replied,
and the interpreter said, "Why do you suspect this?"
"I have seen it!" He pointed to the ugly brand on his forehead,
the most dominant feature on his face when he did not choose to cover
it. "This was the first thing they would do--burn slavery into their
1faces and into their brains! I, too, was a slave there, and I saw the
injustice--the beatings--the rapes--the whippings--the torture! I
know! These snakes tricked you! Your women would have been made
slaves, sold like animals, made prisoners until they died!"
The young man paled and relayed this to the older man. The older
man considered. A young woman timidly approached the older man and
spoke. The old man muttered something to the interpreter, who again
spoke. "If this is so, dark one, you and your companion have done us a
great service."
"I am not lying," Donegal assured him stubbornly. "I would not
make up something so horrible."
"We must then give the women to you, since you not only have won
them fairly from their purchasers, but since you have also saved them
from this misery."
Confused, Donegal turned to the archer. Switching to Baranurian,
the tongue spoken aboard the Eclipse, Donegal said, "They want us to
take the women."
Richard half-smiled and considered. "Not a bad deal."
"What are we going to do with them?"
"Use your imagination," Richard suggested, laughing. "But
unfortunately, we can't do it. I can't handle more than five or six at
a time, and we'd never get them all in the sailboat, anyway."
Donegal looked at the interpreter and shook his head. "We didn't
fight for their freedom to take it away again. Let them stay here with
you."
The interpreter relayed this to his elder, who spoke, and some
men came forward bearing bars of gold and silver. The interpreter told
the visitors, "You must take something for the deed."
Donegal eyed the metals for a moment, then shook his head. "I did
this to save them from what I escaped. I want no gold." He turned to
Richard and switched once more to the Baranurian tongue. "Do you want
some of that?"
"For what?" the archer inquired.
"For saving the girls."
"I didn't do it for money, Donegal."
The surgeon smiled gratefully at his friend, then turned back to
the chief and the interpreter. "We want nothing," Donegal concluded,
but then the aroma of the cooking meat assaulted him. "Except," he
continued, "for a piece of meat and a drink of water to refresh us."
The interpreter spoke, and two women came forward with meat and
drink for the visitors. Donegal spoke their thanks and began to eat
timorously.
Richard sniffed the meat and started to eat ravenously. "Sun
buffalo!" he cheered. He took a long draught of water. "Best meat in
this part of the world!"
Donegal took a larger bite and found he agreed with the archer;
the meat was rather tasty. The Sun People returned to their dancing,
singing, and feasting as the visitors ate. "It's nice to see them
happy again," Donegal sighed contentedly. He turned to the Baranurian.
"Sorry we didn't catch your tiger, Rich."
"As I said, the Lowenrote will be here next week." Richard wiped
his hands on his leggings, took another draught of water, and
retrieved his bow. "We'd better be leaving if we want to reach Port of
the Sun at a reasonable hour. Let's go, Donegal."
Donegal nodded and faced the chief. "Thank you," the surgeon
said. "Good-bye."
The chief seemed to understand without the interpreter. He
smiled. Donegal waved farewell and followed Richard along the eastward
path.
"This is the one the Lowenrote led us to," Richard commented. "It
1should come out on the beach, and then we'll just follow it until we
reach the sailboat."
"Whatever." Donegal smiled tiredly. "What a day."
"You do seem to bring excitement wherever you go," Richard teased
with a grin. "I've gotten into more scrapes with you..."
"Hey," the leech protested good-naturedly, "of course it was
exciting. I only came with you because I was bored!"
"Bored?" Richard laughed. "Well, that's what you get for seeking
adventure, Donegal."
"And don't blame me for all those brawls I seem to get into,"
Donegal continued hotly, glaring jestingly at the archer. "I don't
start them."
"No, you usually just--holy Stevene!" Richard screamed in a
shocked tone which Donegal had never before heard the archer use.
"Donegal, look-- "
Instinctively, the surgeon dropped, and a knife whizzed over his
head. He looked up to see three demons, charred, ugly beings straight
from the fires of hell, attacking Richard with fists and blades. Two
more of the appalling creatures were running toward him.
"Gow!" Donegal screamed for aid and drew his katana. The
horrifying man-shape jumped back and circled. The other skirted behind
Donegal.
"Don't call for his help," the one behind the surgeon taunted him
sinisterly. "Gow rarely helps those who use Amante's methods."
And the devil leapt onto Donegal's back. The surgeon dropped and
rolled, thus pinning the creature under him. But there was the other,
coming at him with a short sword. Donegal lifted his legs and kicked
as the one underneath him tried to stab him from behind. Again,
Donegal rolled a little, pinning one of the ugly thing's knife arm.
"Rich!" the surgeon called for his only aid. His only answer was
loud crack and a cry of pain. "Rich!"
The pinned thing was pummelling Donegal with his free fist; the
other charged again. Frantically, Donegal swung his katana. The
charger leapt backwards and stumbled. The pinned one was moving,
trying to roll.
Again, the free one charged. The pinned one sought to roll. In a
stroke of inspiration, Donegal stopped fighting and rolled with the
monster he had pinned. The thing screamed as its companion buried his
short sword in him. The other cursed and took the name of Sanar in
vain.
Donegal slid from under the body, dragged his Bichanese blade
with him, and attacked the fiend facing him. The short sword, Donegal
knew, would be no match for his katana, if he were a great fighter.
But he wasn't; the dead beast had been right to say Donegal followed
Amante's methods. No, Donegal couldn't win a straight fight; he had to
strike from behind, use surprise. Well, he was a pirate, after all,
not a Knight of the Star. Still, his blade cut his opponent's arm.
"Rich!" Donegal called. He couldn't spare a look; the grotesque
thing came at him again. What were these things?
Donegal managed to leap away from the intended blow and deliver
one of his own. He whirled to face his attacker again. From here, he
could see Richard. The archer was lying on the ground and using his
left hand to wield the cutlass. The bow was nowhere in sight, but one
of the demons, an arrow in its belly, lay dead near Richard's feet.
With another stroke, Richard killed one of his opponents.
"Well done!" Donegal encouraged, sidestepping another attack and
aiming a blow at his antagonist's head. Good Sanar, what *were* these
ugly, burned things?
A blade--Richard's blade--flashed past Donegal's astonished eyes.
The surgeon stumbled and fell. The attacker came forward and held his
1sword's point at Donegal's throat. "And now, slave," said the
Beinisonian, "you will die."
"Rich!" Donegal called, praying for a miracle.
"Your friend can't help you," the man-thing laughed cruelly.
"Look, slave."
Without moving his head, Donegal glanced aside. Another charred
being held his blade at Richard's throat. Damn!
"Now, slave, say prayers that Sanar will save your soul,"
snickered the monster, "thought I doubt that slaves--"
Giving a bestial roar, a red blur flew over the creature's head.
He looked up; Donegal buried his katana in the burnt thing's gut. It
fell; Donegal turned to help his friend--
But the other creature was engaged, its throat locked in the
teeth of the Red Tiger. Donegal sprinted to Richard's side, lifted the
archer's head. "Are you all right?" the surgeon breathed, watching the
Lowenrote rend the attacker with teeth and claws.
"My arm," Richard answered, his voice stiff with pain.
Donegal gently probed Richard's right forearm. "Broken."
"Tell me something I don't know," Richard snapped.
"Hey," Donegal began, "don't--"
The Lowenrote tossed its victim away with a sudden movement.
Carefully, deliberately, it approached the men it had saved.
"Run!" Richard rasped, shoving Donegal away with his good arm.
"She'd catch me, but if she's busy, she'll never catch up with you.
Go!"
Donegal stood; often the commands in Richard's voice were too
powerful to be disobeyed. But the surgeon was still, unsure. The Red
Tiger trotted to the pair and paused. Donegal's limbs froze although
Richard again was shouting at him to leave.
Gingerly, the Lowenrote approached the paralyzed surgeon and
began to rub its head against the back of Donegal's hand, much as a
pet cat would. Donegal wondered if he would die of the shock. Then the
tiger approached Richard and nuzzled the archer's neck.
"I'll be damned," Richard said, reaching out and petting the
beast. "She wants to be friends. Hello."
Donegal was finally able to move; he blinked, then ordered, "Stay
put, Rich. I'm going to find something to splint that arm to, and then
we'll leave."
"Use my bow," Richard suggested, gesturing with his left hand.
"It's broken. I'm glad I didn't bring my best one. You like that,
don't you?" the archer added, scratching the Lowenrote behind its
ears. "You're a good kitty."
"I didn't know you liked animals," Donegal laughed, retrieving
the bow and its string. He patted the Red Tiger's nose as he
approached. He gently reached for Richard's broken arm.
"I've always like--damn, that hurts!"
"Well, it's going to," Donegal reminded him practically. "I'll
set it when we reach Port of the Sun. I don't have everything I need
here." Quickly, the surgeon finished the job and offered Richard a
hand up. "Let's get going."
"I'm with you." Richard stroked the Lowenrote's head, and the
tiger purred. "I guess I won't be hunting you anymore. Let's go."
Silently, Donegal led the way through the jungle path. After a
few minutes, he turned to say something to Richard, but stated
instead, "That tiger's following us."
Richard turned to the beast. "Go away," the archer commanded
gently. "Go on."
With a resolute tilt of the head, the tiger nuzzled Richard's leg
and trotted after him and Donegal when they moved on.
"I don't think it's going," Donegal observed, looking over his
1shoulder. "What are we going to do ?"
"Take her with us, I suppose," Richard guessed. He sighed. "I'm
not fighting with her."
"But a tiger?" Donegal protested. "On the Eclipse?"
Richard, his pain still evident, tried to smile. "Hasn't Captain
Fynystere been saying we need a cat aboard?"
It was near the next dawn when Richard, Donegal, and the
Lowenrote--whom Richard gave the original name of Kitty--finally
returned to Captain Fynystere's house in Port of the Sun. They had had
a hell of a time returning; it was difficult to maneuver the sailboat
with only three arms. But luckily, the break had been clean and easy
to splint and set. Unfortunately, Donegal rued, it would be six or
eight weeks before Richard could teach him to shoot a bow.
"You two look like you've been through a battle," Fynystere
observed cheerfully when the pair joined him for breakfast. Then he
saw the Red Tigress. Fynystere looked briefly nervous, but calmed when
Kitty approached him gently and nuzzled his hand. "So I see you got
your tiger, Richard."
Richard looked at Donegal and smiled. The surgeon grinned back.
"Yes, Captain," Donegal answered, "and we managed to hunt us a whole
pack of wolves, too."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 A Night off the Town
by M. Wendy Hennequin
(b.c.k.a <Hennequi@CTStateU>)
"Homesick?" a gentle voice wondered, causing the red-soaked
paintbrush to fly from Gaoel Fynystere's steady hand to the newly
cleaned deck. The captain of the Eclipse whirled and stared into the
serenely amused face of his bowmaster. Richard just Richard smiled.
"It's a nice painting," the archer commented, gazing critically at the
nearly complete representation of the night-shrouded city of Dargon.
Only the Regehr, the red north-pointing star which would crown the
port city like a glowing ruby, remained uncolored.
"You're back early," the captain finally noted, retrieving his
paintbrush. "Is something wrong, Richard?"
The bowmaster squatted beside his old friend. "Plenty, but it
will keep, Gaoel. It can't touch us here off the town."
"Nothing can touch us," the captain noted smugly, cleaning the
brush so that he could complete the painting. Fynystere dipped the
brush, smiling wickedly as he thought of the Eclipse's reputation. Not
only could no one touch the Eclipse or her crew, but no one would
dare.
"Nothing but our own souls," Richard replied, sighing. "It is a
beautiful painting, Gaoel."
"It's a beautiful night." Fynystere looked fondly at the
moon-shadowed city with a thousand flickering eyes, with a mantle of
stars such as Alana the Night Goddess, the figurehead of the Eclipse,
would wear. Fynystere dabbed the Regehr above Dargon with blood-red
color. "Mind telling me why you're back so early on a beautiful night
like this?"
"You know I don't raise living and dead on shore leave like
Donegal and Cedric do."
"But you generally like Dargon," the captain pointed out,
delicately touching the canvas.
"I do like Dargon," Richard confirmed. "Are you almost done,
Gaoel?"
Fynystere smiled at Richard's abrupt change in subject; it was
typical of the bowmaster. "Aye, just." Fynystere washed the brush in a
cup of seawater. Richard rose and lifted the painting. "She'll hang
beside the Eclipse," Fynystere decided aloud. He folded the easel and
closed the small chest full of paints. "Luen, take the watch!"
Fynystere bellowed, and he turned to the archer. "Well, Rich, if you
aren't going to drink on shore, you'll drink with me."
"Aye, captain."
Fynystere led the way in the dark to his cabin below. Richard
opened the door for his friend, and the captain, after gently setting
the paint chest in the corner, lit the hellfire lamp. Richard set the
painting against the wall and took the spare seat.
"Drink, Rich?"
"I'll pour," the bowmaster offered, taking a folded paper out of
a pouch. "You read."
Fynystere took the letter eagerly, broke his family's seal, and
scanned the neat handwriting anxiously. He frowned. "Xandra's still
missing," he announced, anger and frustration in his voice.
"Gaoel," Richard said gently, pouring the whiskey, "I don't think
you'll ever see your sister again."
"If she's dead, I'll kill that God-damned Duke!"
"That will only get you killed," Richard noted, and as usual, his
logic was irrefutable. "Here, drink." Fynystere took the goblet
absently. "It always amazes me that you only blame the Duke of Dargon.
Your sister did participate, you know."
1 "Aye, but Xandra didn't refuse to acknowledge the child or cut
the Duke off from her. Damn that ass! He's probably the one who scared
her out of Dargon in the first place. If it weren't for Fionn Connall,
the Duke might have had her killed."
"Clifton Dargon? Hardly," Richard laughed. "I know Dargon has an
overblown sense of honor, but it isn't *that* extreme."
Fynystere started to grunt, but he forgot the sound in the words
of the letter. "My God!" When Richard failed to speak, the captain
looked at him concern in his eyes. "Rich, there's war! Beinison's
attacked us!"
"I know," Richard said calmly. "I heard at the Rogue and Quiver,
and while I was waiting for your letter, I went to Belisandra's to
find out what I could about it. It's rather interesting."
"Interesting?" Fynystere scoffed, kicking a chair toward him and
sitting firmly in it.
"War is always interesting," Richard returned mildly.
"Not when you're in it!"
"I beg to differ," Richard replied with formality that was only
half-mocking. "We war against ships, and I've never heard you declare
it boring."
"This isn't the same."
"Perhaps," Richard acknowledged.
Fynystere took the drink Richard had poured him and scowled at
the bowmaster. "So, you went to Belisandra's. Why?"
Richard nodded. "As I suspected, some of the Duke's men and
Connall archers were there." The bowmaster frowned. "They knew the
entire romance. It's rather complicated, but the end of it is that
Beinison has executed the Count of Connall and attacked Pyridain."
"They killed Fionn Connall?" the captain screeched, thinking of
the man who had protected his sister, who had helped Gaoel escape the
city after he had clouted Connall's brother, the Duke.
"No, they killed Luthias Connall," Richard clarified. "Fionn
Connall and his other son--Roisart, I think his name was--were
murdered last Melrin."
"Murdered?" Fynystere let his breath out in a low whistle. "Sweet
Randiriel. And now what?"
"Well," Richard began, taking a deep breath and raising his cup
to his mouth, "the Knight Commander is fighting them off in Pyridain,
and this duchy's getting ready for an attack on the Laraka River."
"The Laraka? What for?"
Richard swallowed his liquor and stared at his captain in
disbelief. "Gaoel, come on! They're after Magnus! The Laraka's Magnus'
lifeline."
Fynystere pondered the information. "I suppose you're right,
Rich, but you would know better than I."
Richard laughed and set the goblet aside. "Would I?"
"You are from Magnus, after all."
Richard leaned forward suddenly. "What makes you think that?"
This time, Fynystere was laughing. "Wake up, Rich! Every time you
open your mouth, you announce that you're from Magnus! You have one of
the most pronounced Magnus accents I've ever heard!"
"I don't have an accent. *You* have an accent."
The captain wiped his eyes and caught his breath, but when he
looked at his bowmaster, he was still smiling. "Enough, Richard: I
have the accent, but you are still from Magnus."
The archer folded his lips. "Yes," he agreed stiffly.
Fynystere burst into laughter once more. "Calm down, Rich. It's
the only thing I've found out about you in thirteen years." The
bowmaster sighed and agreed. "You keep your secrets more close than
any man I've ever known." Richard gave his captain a serious look.
1"Well, what about the war? When do they expect the attack on Shark's
Cove? How is it faring in Pyridain?"
"They expect the Shark's Cove attack to arrive in Yule, and
despite the morale of the House Dargon troops and the Connall archers,
it isn't going well in Pyridain at all."
"Yule?!" Fynystere slammed the goblet on a small table. "Yule?!
Sanar and Stevene, what the hell are they thinking of? Yule? It isn't
that far! And besides, from the south--the seas are fairly calm--Naia,
Rich, Melrin at the latest!" The captain exploded to his feet and
stared wildly at Richard. "You say it's bad in Pyridain?" The
bowmaster nodded once. "How bad?"
The bowmaster shrugged and looked at his old friend mildly. "I
don't have numbers."
Fynystere punched a wall. "Damn you by all the gods, Richard!
Will we win?"
Richard settled into his chair calmly. "God knows. No one here
does."
Fynystere snatched the discarded, fallen letter, opened it, read
it, and again looked at Richard wildly. "That's it, Richard. I have to
do something."
Richard was silent.
The captain of the Eclipse crossed the room nervously. He came to
his trunk and threw it open. "Not much here," he assessed nervously.
"It's enough." He shut the chest soundly. "They may not think me much
of a captain, but I'll be better than the incompetent whoreson who
thinks that the Beinison navy won't be here till bloody Yule!"
Suddenly, the captain whirled. Still and silent, Richard watched him
placidly. "What's wrong with you? Aren't you even concerned? Rich, you
own half this ship, and I'm leaving!"
Richard smiled slightly. "Why are you leaving, Gaoel?"
"My *country's* under attack, you jack-ass! Do you think I can
leave my people here, my family, to get butchered by Beinisonian
curs?"
"Do you think you will help them by leaving the Eclipse?"
"Curse you!" Fynystere screamed. "Of course I will! I'll join the
Royal Navy, and they'll make me a captain. I won't let those heathen
Beinisonians touch my land." The captain scowled at his guest. "You're
not even concerned that I'm leaving."
"Nay, I'm not," Richard confirmed quietly, "because you're not
going."
"I tell you--"
"Sit down and listen," Richard ordered, and without really
knowing why, Fynystere obeyed. There were times when one obeyed
Richard, rank notwithstanding. "You are not going back to Dargon,
Gaoel. You can't."
"Why can't I?"
"We'll put aside the fact for the moment that Clifton Dargon will
have you killed on sight," Richard began calmly, "but Dargon's Admiral
of the Fleet. Do you think you have a chance of a commission?"
"What? But he's a Knight!"
"I know," Richard agreed wryly. "It's very strange."
"I wouldn't go to Dargon."
"Fine," Richard concurred for sake of the arguement. "And what
would you do on one ship? How could you protect your family? You
couldn't. You'd go where they tell you, do what they tell you. You're
likely to get killed. The Beinisonian Navy is nothing to laugh at, and
you know it."
"Of course I know it," the captain responded contemptuously. "But
I'll have hellfire--"
The bowmaster's eyes burned as blue and hot as the hellfire he
1invented. "You will *not* have hellfire!" Richard thundered, and there
was no room for arguement in his voice. "Hellfire is mine and
Donegal's, and by my God and all of his, it will *not leave this
ship!*"
Fynystere frowned, greatly displeased. "I can't just do nothing!"
"I'm not saying that you should do nothing. But the fact remains,
Gaoel: you hurt your family and your kingdom more by leaving the
Eclipse than by staying with her."
"What are you suggesting I do then?" the captain asked with angry
stiffness.
Richard leaned forward, his face serious. "Gaoel, this is the
most powerful ship a-sail. You know that. We have a fine crew, and we
have hellfire. We can sink anything Beinison has afloat, and we can
afford to leave the Baranurian navy alone."
"A personal crusade?"
"Why not?" Richard countered, smiling again and leaning back. "If
we still go after the merchant ships, the crew will be content."
"I don't think the Beinisons aboard will like this, Richard," the
captain muttered, reaching for his drink, but internally, Fynystere
was relieved. Despite the fact that Clifton Dargon had deserved that
blow to the face in his court for deserting Xandra, Fynystere truly
had no wish to deal with him again.
Richard abruptly threw back his blond head and laughed loudly.
"Gaoel, are you jesting with me? 'The Beinisonians aboard won't like
this'? Donegal, whom they enslaved? Albar, whom they branded for
worshiping Cephas Stevene instead of Gow and Sanar? Use your sense,
man!"
Fynystere thought about and smiled; Richard was, again, right.
The captain sat back thoughtfully. "So," Fynystere said, "we leave the
Baranurian navy alone and sink anything belonging to Beinison. It
might work; it might help." He looked at his bowmaster earnestly. "Do
you really think it would work?"
"I think it's the best we can do, you and I."
Fynystere laughed and poured himself more liquor. "You're right,
Rich. You always are." The captain quaffed his drink, then looked
searchingly at his old friend. "How did you know?"
"Know what?" Richard wondered.
"Know what I'd do, and how to talk me out of it."
"Well, I know you," Richard explained uncertainly, "and as for my
talking you out of it--well, I'd already had the arguement once
tonight."
"Really? With who?" Fynystere asked, avid curiousity shining from
his eyes.
"With myself." The bowmaster sighed as if he had a world
oppressing his soul. "I realized I'd do my family--and my
country--more harm than good if I returned."
"Hmm." For lack of any better action, Fynystere buried his nose
in his cup. As much as he wanted more information, Fynystere didn't
dare break his own rules and question Richard about his past.
"I couldn't leave the Eclipse anyway," Richard breathed, settling
into the comfortable chair. "It's like home to me, and I have no
other--and no one else."
"You mentioned family," Fynystere reminded him.
"A brother," Richard confirmed, "and if he were in danger--" The
bowmaster stopped, clouds in his blue eyes.
"You'd leave?"
"Leave?" The archer gave a short, barking laugh. "I'd take the
Eclipse with me. Believe me, Gaoel, I'd need all the help I could get.
But as it is, I think he's well protected."
"Hmm," the captain muttered again. "Here, Rich, have another
1drink." The captain tossed the skin to Richard, who caught it deftly.
"And tell me one more thing about tonight before we drink ourselves
senseless, Richard."
"What's that?"
"How did you know that the Dargon House troops and the Connall
archers would be at Belisandra's Tavern?"
"It's a popular retreat of both companies when they're in town,"
Richard hedged as dexterously as he caught the skin.
"Aye, and how'd you find that out?" the captain demanded, his
hazel eyes sparkling. The bowmaster looked away. "Come on, Rich, or by
J'mirg--"
"Ask no questions, Gaoel," Richard threatened.
A dim sun dawned in Fynystere's clouded consciousness. "You were
in Dargon before you joined us."
"Aye." Richard inhaled heavily and took another drink. "I trained
as an archer in Connall." The archer suddenly smiled. "Those days are
gone with your merchanting, Gaoel. Let's drink."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
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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.
