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DargonZine Volume 08 Issue 03
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 8
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3
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DargonZine Distributed: 07/22/1995
Volume 8, Number 3 Circulation: 592
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
"A Sunny Day in Firil" 1 Arthur King 22 Nober, 1015
Swordmay James Bayers Mid-1014
A Rogue's Gambit 1 Mike Schustereit Seber 3, 1014
the Dwarf 1 Rogers Cadenhead Mertz 9, 1015
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@wonky.jjm.com>.
Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine.
Issues and public discussion are posted to newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 8-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright July, 1995 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@wonky.jjm.com>.
All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual
contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without
the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@wonky.jjm.com>
It's always interesting meeting people whom you know only over the
Internet. I recently had the pleasure of playing host as two of the
project writers came to Boston to visit. Jon Evans came up from
Washington DC for a day, and Carlo Samson flew in from Chicago and
stayed for an entire week. I'd met both of them before, but they hadn't
met one another, and a great deal of fun was had by all. Textual
travelogues and JPGs of our vacation pictures can be obtained via
anonymous ftp from ftp.shore.net in the /members/ornoth/ directory.
The other big news this time around is that both DargonZine and I
will be undergoing a change of network address in the very near future.
In addition to continuing our current services, we'll also be creating a
significant WWW home page. Watch this space for more details!
This issue highlights several of our new writers. We begin with
Arthur King's "A Sunny Day in Firil", which I'm sure you'll enjoy. It
introduces us to a carriage driver and takes place almost a year after
the Baranur/Beinison war leaves Dargon in chaos. Some fan mail would
encourage him to get part two written soon.
Our second story is "Swordmay", by James Bayers. It's a short
vignette about a swordsman and a challenge he must overcome.
The third story is the first installment in Mike Schustereit's
"Rogue's Gambit" series, which depicts a band of outlaws fleeing
Beinison during the height of the war in the south.
Our last story is the first part in Rogers Cadenhead's "The Dwarf".
Rogers appearred in DargonZine 7-6 with "Endgame", and I'm sure you'll
enjoy his new story. I'm anxiously awaiting the next installment, which
Rogers hopes to have ready for the next issue. (No ETA on the next issue
yet, though.)
Please welcome our new crop of writers; I hope you enjoy their work
as much as I'm enjoying working with them.
========================================================================
"A Sunny Day in Firil"
by Arthur King
<arthur@biostat.bsc.gwu.edu>
22 Nober, 1015
As the wagon swayed to a stop the merchant stepped out into the
rain-soaked street, one hand pressing a silk handkerchief to his face to
ward off the smell of manure within and the cold, damp night without. He
winced as his boots sunk two fingers deep into the mud, but resigned
himself to their fate and stepped gingerly around towards the warm light
spilling from the front of the wagon. The shadow cast by the wind-blown
sign hanging over the door of the Lucky Lady swept across the building's
front like a drawstring curtain opening and shutting with manic abandon.
Soon the merchant's shadow cut through its path as he stepped into the
glow of the lantern hanging from a pole that jutted over the driver.
The driver peered down at the foppish little man that emerged from
the darkness and decided that his passenger truly was detestable. When
he had first met the merchant at the marketplace two bells ago after
carting the man's wool from the docks, he thought he disliked the fellow
simply because of the request for "discreet" transport to a place of
"delicate companionship." Now as he gazed at the powdered face peering
up at him, pasty from the rain and indignant as if the ill weather had
somehow been his fault, the driver affirmed that the fellow was truly a
worm.
Dabbing at his fur-lined bliant with his handkerchief, the merchant
squinted up at the figure that hunched against the chill, its features
shadowed in the wide brim of its hat. "I will not require you any
further," he stated flatly, "but hold a moment ... " The merchant fished
about within his scrip and produced a small pouch. He offered it to the
driver with an ingratiating grin. "Here's a little something to forget
me by." He stood there, waiting for the driver to take it. The driver,
however, just sat unmoving in the rain.
The smile remained, but the merchant's teeth clenched as he blinked
several times in irritation. "Go on. Take it. It's yours." His voice
dropped to a conspiratorial level. "Just tell no one that you brought me
here."
Another moment crawled by, then the driver slowly extended a cupped
hand towards the merchant, stopping just a forearm's length in front of
the pouch. Then he was still again, waiting.
Scowling now, the merchant stomped forward, the mud greedily
sucking him down several inches. He lost his footing and pitched
forward, just barely catching himself on the seating board with his free
hand. As he flailed and sputtered about, trying to shove himself
upright, the driver pinched the pouch lightly from his grasp, tucked it
into his cloak, and touched the brim of his hat.
"Have a pleasant evening," he murmured.
Righting himself and quaking with indignation, the merchant spun
about and marched towards the Lucky Lady, moist sounds dogging his
steps. He stopped for a moment to kick distastefully at a small knot of
rats that crouched by the doorstep until they grudgingly moved aside,
then he flung open the door, lighting the street with the warm
candlelight from within. He glowered briefly at the wagon and its
driver, who was again sitting perfectly still, watching him. With a
snort of disgust, the merchant slammed the door shut.
Once his passenger was safely within the brothel, the driver
chuckled quietly to himself and produced the pouch from his cloak. At
first glance the pouch itself seemed to be expensive, made of a soft
sapphire-colored suede or possibly even velvet. Rivulets of blue
rainwater on his fingers betrayed the cheap dye, however, and gray
blotches appeared on the fabric as the rain struck the pouch, washing it
clean. Shaking his head at some peoples' need to appear wealthy, he laid
his whip across his lap and undid the pouch's drawstrings. Within,
nestled among a handful of Bit coins, rested twelve Mints glinting in
the lamplight.
In disbelief he pulled one of the coins from the pouch, held it up
close to the lamp and scraped it with a fingernail. Unlike the pouch,
though, the coin was completely genuine. Wealth was obviously not just
in the merchant's appearance. While not enough to make the driver a
wealthy man, twelve Mints would make the road to buying his wagon much,
much easier. No longer a driver for Harthill's Carts and Messengers,
he'd strike out on his own, travelling across Baranur with merchant
caravans or peddling his own bartered wares. He tied the pouch back up,
tucked it into his belt, and snapped the reins. His horses obliged and
pulled away from the Lucky Lady, glad to do something besides stand and
shiver in the road.
Crouched figures scampered along the sides of the street, people
whose business required them to go home -- or go out -- well after most
people had retired. Clutching cloaks or wraps around their bodies, they
hugged the sides of the buildings, trying to ward off the driving rain.
It looked as if they were afraid to be caught in the light of the
wagon's lamp; perhaps some of them were. Part of the driver's mind kept
track of their movements, waiting for a knife to appear from a sleeve or
a club to be uncovered, but the rest of his thoughts were wrapped warmly
around the money at his belt.
He had only traveled two streets down from the Lucky Lady when one
of the figures veered into the street, waving frantically. Long
accustomed to such odd behavior from the city folk, the horses slowed
their gait but continued trudging forward, stopping only when the driver
reined them in. First casting looks over his shoulders to see if
ambushers were approaching, the driver peered sourly into the street,
trying to see who was keeping him from his bed. The blockade was a
woman, wrapped in a blanket and wearing a damp gown that was little more
than a chemise. Her hair hung in strands down about her shoulders, and
her makeup streaked down her face in thin rivulets. She stared into the
lamp light with a stricken expression, as if she was a damned soul
gazing at Stevene's splendor. The driver's hand tightened on the lash.
She was obviously a whore. Perhaps the Lucky Lady was allowing its
residents a bit of freedom these days.
"Carter? Could you please aid a lady in need?" Despite her wretched
appearance her voice was firm and carried easily over the spattering
rain.
"I don't make them," he snapped. "I just drive them."
She stepped forward uncertainly. "What?"
He walked the horses forward a few steps in response. She drew
herself up warily, but held firm.
"I am a driver, not a carter, 'lady in need,' and I'm driving home
at the moment."
Dismissing his words with a shake of her head, she continued, "I
need to get to Tanner's Street immediately." All semblance of waif-like
vulnerability melted away as her posture firmed and her gaze fell
squarely on the driver's face.
He gestured to his right with the whip. "A half-bell walk that way.
Near the river front. Watch for cutthroats."
"A half of that if you push those nags," she countered, and walked
resolutely towards the wagon. As she approached he could see her
features more clearly. Without the makeup smeared over it her face would
be quite lovely, if perhaps strained with the weight of age. About
thirty-five years old; just slightly more than his wife would have been.
She would have turned thirty and one last ...
The driver felt a sudden chill as he struggled to remember Naysa's
birthday. Nehru's Blood, had he truly forgotten?
Now standing to his left, the whore gazed up at him. She tried to
smile suggestively, but her expression looked ghoulish under the makeup.
"Perhaps I could give you something for barter."
Firil. Naysa had been born in Firil, the sixteenth day. They had
met in Shireton eight years past, on the twenty-second of Firil, and wed
a year later, on the twenty-ninth. His happiness had ended three years
later, the nineteenth day of Seber, when the lung rot that had gripped
her fifteen days before finally snatched her away from him.
The litany of dates settled him somewhat. He still held onto Naysa
in his mind, at least.
His attention returned to the woman. His throat felt constricted
when he spoke. "Again?" he managed to croak out.
"I was wondering what I could give you so you would take me to
Tanner's street." Her chin jutted forward exposing her pale neck as she
looked at him through half-closed eyes.
"Money," he replied, without knowing why he was even continuing
this conversation.
Her languid smile faded and her eyelids raised; all traces of
seductiveness had disappeared like her previous guise of helplessness.
She seemed to assay the driver for a few moments. Finally, she spoke,
her voice completely business-like.
"I can give you four Bits."
He was tempted to pull away right then, letting her recede in the
night behind him while he rode to the stable house at Harthill's, to his
small room and warm bed, but having more coins was still better that not
having them, even if they had been earned lying down. More, something in
her face, even under the garish makeup, still reminded him of Naysa.
Sighing inwardly, he said, "Ten. Nasty part of town."
"Five. No more."
"Seven," he grumbled, leaning down towards her, "no less." Part of
him hoped that she'd refuse.
Her eyes unfocused for a moment as she frowned in thought, then
fixed on the driver again. They were light brown, almost hazel in color,
and arresting. "Very well. Seven Bits."
Despite the rain, now falling like volleys of arrows, she had slid
open the window over the driver's right shoulder. Resting her chin on
her folded arms, she now sat quietly, eyes closed, seeming to bask in
the water that washed the makeup from her face. The driver knew that the
wagon's interior was getting soaked and wanted to just shut the window
on her, but something held him back; after all, he had seven more Bits
in his vest pocket than he had started with. With an occasional shout of
"gee" or "haw" he navigated the streets which had grown steadily emptier
of people. The buildings crept slowly by, many with feeble candlelights
peeking out from behind shuttered windows, many more wholly dark.
After some time the woman broke the silence. Putting on another
leering smile, she purred near his ear, "So, how long were you a
soldier?"
Surprised both by her voice and the question, the driver turned his
head sharply to face her.
She chuckled. "I can just tell. You've got that look about you."
He turned back to hunch over the reins. "Just a year. Tended the
pack animals. Didn't see any combat."
"Are you wed?" she inquired sweetly.
The driver felt his throat tighten again. "Once," he spat.
Thankfully, she let it go at that. Her attention turned to the
staccato rhythm that drifted from Belisandra's tavern on their right.
Unlike other establishments that catered to a young and fickle clientle,
Belisandra's had managed to remain viable for longer than a year,
perhaps due to it's ability to find the latest sultry dance that would
incense all righteous Stevenics. Closing her eyes once more, the woman
patted her arm in time to the music and kept the beat for a few menes
after the tavern was well behind them.
They turned onto Layman Street, nearing the poor quarters of town.
The woman leaned out of the window further, trying to look the driver in
the face. Still purring slightly -- perhaps she was hoping he'd rethink
his price -- she said, "I'm called Shandi. What's your name?"
He didn't turn to look at her. After a brief pause, he muttered,
"Tobias."
"Tobias ... " she mulled over the name. "I think I knew a Tobias
once ... "
Some of the bile he had been holding broke free. His voice rumbled
like the thunder overhead. "I doubt it. I don't roll into strange beds
with hired leg-spreaders."
She grew very quiet, her expression turning grim. She stared at him
coldly for a moment, then asked quietly, "Why do you hate me?"
When no answer came, she withdrew into the wagon and slid the
window shut.
'I hate you, "Shandi,"' Tobias replied in his mind, 'because you
kept me from going home. Because you weren't about to let me leave
without taking you in. Because you, a whore, reminded me of my dead
wife, and made me think I had actually forgotten her.'
The reasons were true enough, but didn't explain the depth of his
contempt. Whelped in Margala's House, he had been spared the fates most
male children met in that now-gone brothel: a midnight trip to the
waters of the Coldwell or delivery over to the tastes of certain rare
clients. When his mother had grown bored of raising a son she had
delivered him to the orphanage, and from there he had been handed to a
stabler. Less than a son but more that a hireling, Tobias had been
raised well enough, but the name 'Whoreson' had clung to him throughout
his boyhood. Now the surname was gone, but the shame remained.
Tobias was suddenly sorry he had lashed out at his passenger.
Cursing himself, he snapped his whip over the horses. The wagon lurched
with the sudden acceleration, causing the lantern to swing wildly about
his head.
Decaying buildings loomed like cliffs over the narrow strip of
Tanner's Street. No light came from any doorway or window, and the only
sign of life was a stocky man sitting on a doorstep, apparently
oblivious to the downpour, a large clay bottle cradled in one arm. He
peered balefully up from under greasy hair as the lantern light fell on
him, his head lolling slightly. His mouth twisting into a snarl, he
turned his back to the light, grabbed the bottle, and took a long drink.
Tobias reined the horses in and rapped on the window over his
shoulder. "We're here."
The window slid open. Shandi squinted and blinked out into the
light. Only faint remnants of her makeup remained on her face now, but
there was still a blotch of color on one cheek, underneath a small cut
previously hidden by powder. When her eyes fell on the man she inhaled
with a sharp hiss and winced slightly. Tobias gave her a suspicious
look, but before he could ask any questions she shoved the board back
into place with a loud bang.
The fellow glanced over his shoulder at the noise, staring warily
at the driver. The wagon rocked slightly as its passenger emerged. A few
moments later the whore walked from behind the wagon and down the
street, holding the blanket around her shoulders, head bowed.
Rising to his feet with a look of outrage and letting the bottle
drop from his hand into the muddy street, the man took an unsteady step
towards the woman. "Lidia," he snarled at her as if choking on glass.
Shandi -- Lidia -- raised her head slowly to stare at the man
venemously. "I got here as fast as I could."
More than drink caused the fellow to sway as he wobbled towards
Lidia. His right foot was twisted inward and his knee was unmoving,
forcing him to throw his leg outward in a strange arc as he walked. Rain
had so completely soaked his linen shirt that it clung like a second
skin, revealing his powerful chest and arms. A thick eating knife
dangled in a leather sheath from his belt. Apparently oblivious to her
words, he growled out "You're late," as if pronouncing a judgment. He
stopped a pace away from her and scratched at his chest with a meaty
hand.
Lidia seemed to fade slightly as she stood there, like the
condemned hearing the gavel drop. "Anruss, don't," she said as if by
rote. Anruss extended a hand out, palm up. They stood there in the rain,
frozen for a moment, then a corner of Anruss' mouth hitched up in a
smirk. Lidia tensed, then slowly reached inside the blanket, her gaze
locked on the man's face. Her hand was clenched as she withdrew it and
tentatively placed it over his. Tobias heard the dull clink of coins as
her hand dropped limply to her side.
Anruss stared at the coins blankly as small spasms began moving
across his face. He muttered gutturally to himself -- Tobias recognized
the familiar sound of merctalk -- then his eyes crawled back to Lidia's
face.
"Eight Bits. You're a bell late for eight Bits."
"I tried -- " Her words were cut off as Anruss clenched the coins
in his hand and drove the fist into her abdomen. She crumpled forward
onto him then toppled over, retching. Anruss' face was devoid of
expression as he took a lurching step to one side of her.
"Woman, I -- "
"Wait!" Tobias was startled to hear himself shout.
Anruss turned his head to look at the driver as if noticing him for
the first time.
"She ... overpaid," Tobias muttered. Here." He began fumbling at
his belt pouch to grab her seven Bits. By the time he had procured them
Anruss was facing him fully. Behind him Lidia had drawn herself up to
her hands and knees, head bowed, her hair caked with mud.
Anruss looked towards Tobias but not at him; his eyes were focused
on some distant point. He nodded slowly as he spoke. "Overpaid. My wife
... overpaid." A thin, cold smile appeared on his face. Still nodding,
he swayed back around to Lidia. Letting the coins scatter in the mud, he
shot a hand out, grabbed her hair, and wrenched her head back. "We have
no money for a thrice-dammed bed and you're tossing what we get away,"
he said tonelessly. His head continued bobbing in agreement with some
unknown thought as he raised his other hand.
There was a sound like a board snapping clean. Anruss yowled and
clamped his hand over the back of his neck as he whirled back around.
"*Enough!*" Tobias felt his whole body vibrating as he sat with the
whip held behind him, poised for another strike. Two pairs of eyes
stared up at him in shock. "I am to see my passengers safely to their
destinations and this is not 'safe.' Leave her be."
"You codless, Shuul-damned bastard!" Anruss bellowed. In a blink
his knife was in his hand. "You are going to get a second mouth!"
Lidia knelt in the street, arms folded across her stomach. "Tobias
... stop ... not yours ... " she managed to gasp out.
Anruss wheeled on her. "*Tobias?* You rolled with him and then
brought him *here?*" He rocked closer to her and brought his good leg
back to kick. Lidia turned her head away and closed her eyes.
Without even thinking, Tobias leapt from his seat and hooked his
arm around Anruss' neck, dragging them both into the street. Anruss made
a startled, squawking noise as he fell, his knife spinning off into the
night. His right arm pinned beneath his body, Anruss flailed about with
his left, but only managed to grab a handful of the driver's cloak.
Tobias brought his right arm around and hammered Anruss' temple with the
butt of his whip. Anruss let out a soft grunt, twitched, and fell limp.
Tobias raised the whip up a second time and pounded it into his
opponent's skull before noticing that he wasn't struggling anymore. He
stayed poised there for a few moments, trembling, his breath coming in
choked heaves. Finally rising to a crouch, Tobias rolled Anruss onto his
back and stared into his face. The man's eyes were rolled back into his
head and his face continued to spasm as he gasped for air. He was still
alive. Tobias let out a shuddering sigh. He wasn't a murderer -- no one
saw the fight -- he was still alive -- everything was still fine in the
world.
Then he saw Lidia. She was only two steps away and moving in, her
face distorted with rage as she stared down at Anruss. She had picked up
her husband's knife.
Crying out inarticulately, Tobias sprang over Anruss and collided
into her. Pain shot through his left hand as it struck the blade of the
knife. She tried to shove around him, but he grabbed hold of her wrist
and held fast.
"Lidia, no!"
Her gaze seemed to burn as she sneered at him. "Is it your turn
now?" she spat, trying to twist her hand free. Although his grip was
slick with his blood and the rain, Tobias managed to hang on.
Fighting down his panic, Tobias tried to speak in calming tones.
"You knife him and you'll twist for it, not him."
She stopped struggling and glared up into his face.
"No one will know. Even if someone's watching, no one will tell."
Her voice was seething with anger.
She had a point. This was her life, not his. He had interfered
enough.
"All right," he said quietly, and let go of her wrist. Stepping
back, he looked down at his hand. The cut ran diagonally across his palm
and was encrusted with mud, but it was shallow. He kept staring at the
wound, not wishing to look at the scene in front of him.
Lidia walked forward slowly and stood over Anruss, staring down at
him. His eyes were closed now, and his breaths came more easily except
for an occasional gurgle as rain fell into his gaping mouth. The right
half of his body was covered in glistening mud. Lidia stood motionless
for a full mene, watching him, the tip of her knife wavering as if she
was drawing sigils in the air. Tobias raised his head to look upon her.
Her shoulders drooping, she stepped over the prone figure. Anruss
let out a plaintive groan and shuddered as if in response to her
passing.
"Let's go." She muttered, climbing up onto the seating board of the
wagon. She sat down, wrapping her arms about herself to ward off the
chill, the knife still clutched in her hand. "I have a friend. Close to
old town. Could you get my coins?"
Most of the journey passed in silence, Lidia staring over the
horses into the street and rocking slowly back and forth. As they rolled
down Traders Avenue, she turned to look at the driver.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
The driver grunted in return.
"He ... Anruss ... was wounded. A Beinison mace got his leg. He
killed eleven men for Baranur and came home with almost nothing. No one
wanted him ... but me."
"So he beat you and whored you."
She turned from him and her back straightened. "I loved him, once.
And these days we need to eat. *I* need to eat. Sometimes he does odd
jobs." Her lip twitched. "He'll try and find me, get me back."
"And will you go?"
"I don't know what I'll do. I have nothing now."
They sat for about half a mene, riding in silence except for the
creaking of the wheels and the pattering of rain on the wagon's roof,
and then she spoke up again. "He has friends. Men who work for Liriss.
He'll send them for me."
Tobias felt his stomach knot. He was now entangled with Liriss. If
his men would be searching for her then they'd also be looking for him.
Why had he involved himself in all this?
The driver looked over at his passenger. She was hunched down
again, her rain-heavy hair hiding her face, her knuckles white around
the handle of the knife. Tobias remembered a day in mid-Firil when the
sun had shone brightly, and decided he knew the answer.
The driver nodded slightly. He was content, if not entirely at
peace. Sitting up a bit straighter, he snapped at the reins and the
horses picked up their gait.
The rain had abated by the time they reached Nochtur Street. An
occasional cluster of drunks meandered by, laughing and singing, trying
desperately not to slip on the cobblestones. A few asked in slurred
voices if they could get a ride; the driver ignored them and they
drifted away.
Lidia climbed down, wincing slightly and holding her stomach when
she touched the ground.
"Will you be all right?" asked Tobias.
She gave him a wry little smile, shrugged, and turned towards a
two-story building. Tobias turned the wagon about as he watched her
walk, pale and wraith-like in the night. "Good-bye," he murmured to
himself.
She had climbed up the stoop and was about to knock on the door
when Tobias called out her name. She turned, too tired to even be
puzzled, and saw him hurl something towards her. A small splash and a
clinking sound drew her attention to a nearby puddle. A pouch thick with
coin lay within it, its dye darkening the water. She glanced back up and
saw the driver touch the brim of his hat, then snap the reins. The wagon
started up with a lurch, then rolled into the night, bouncing and
rattling on the cobblestones.
========================================================================
Swordmay
by James Bayers
<bayers@kaiwan.com>
Mid-1014
She gently took his head in both of her hands and turned it toward
her so that he couldn't look away.
"Listen to me, Palan" she said with a look of intensity. "I know
you have doubts, but I'm telling you that you can do it." She looked
into his eyes for a long moment.
"I am unsure..." he started.
Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him close. "I know," she
said in a whisper, smoothing his hair back.
"What if I fail?"
"You will not."
"What if I do?"
"Listen," she said forcefully, pushing him away. "I said you can do
it."
She placed her hands on his shoulders as much to keep him at a
distance as to touch him.
Staring into his eyes, she asked, "Would I lie to you?"
He hung his head.
"Would I?"
"No," replied Palan, but it lacked conviction.
Groaning in exasperation, she took him by the hand and half led,
half dragged him out of her bedroom into the large courtyard outside. It
was cobbled with rounded paving stones and a huge oak grew in its
center. The canopy of leaves above filtered out much of the harsh
sunlight.
Against the tree leaned a great sword. Curiously unadorned, the
blade, as long as a man was tall, was utilitarian in every way.
She let go of him and he stood there, shoulders drooped, and eyes
downcast.
Taking the hilt of the great sword, lacking the strength to lift
it, she let the point of the weapon drag on the ground as she brought it
to him.
"There," she said, positioning his hands on the hilt. "Now,
remember what I told you?"
He nodded.
"What?"
"That I can't parry. That distance and the lunge are my only
defense."
"Right, and what else?"
"Keep the blade moving. Momentum is power."
"Is that all?"
"No. Timing," he said, a smile coming to his lips, "timing is
everything."
"Very good. Are you ready?"
He nodded again.
She waved her hand.
At first there was nothing, but then four man-shapes slowly began
to take shape and solidify. They were rough-looking types, dirty, with
unkempt beards, and they wielded and wore a chaotic collection of light
armor and weapons.
The corners of Palan's mouth turning down, he adjusted his grip on
the handle of the great sword and began to turn, the big blade lifting
off the ground as he did so. Increasing the speed of the spin, the tip
of the sword hissed audibly as it cut through the air.
Still the ragged men advanced. One, an elder with a gray beard,
moved his lips endlessly as if speaking. He swung a flail -- three
lengths of chain attached to a handle -- overhead. Another, a smallish
man with shifting eyes, held a dagger in one hand and a short sword in
the other. The third, a rotund man with a big black beard, carried a
hatchet and shield, but the one that caught his attention was the forth,
a spearman, the only adversary who could match his reach. He would have
to watch that spear.
Timing... As the great sword arced, pointing toward his
adversaries, Palan darted toward them, flipping the huge blade up
overhead, and pulling it down and around. In what amounted to a lunge
the length of three men, he used all the strength in his shoulders to
slam his weapon full into the midriff of the flail wielder.
The tip sliced through. A snapping sound. Bits and pieces of armor
flew. Red blood sprayed. Jerking sideways, the old man fell to the
ground, a deep, red gash across his chest.
Momentum... Palan carried the swing through, and when the blade
pointed away, he retreated under it.
"Well done," she shouted, clapping and jumping about in her
excitement.
He flashed her a grin.
Still they came on, their faces expressionless, as if they were
dead.
In that manner peculiar to great swordsmen, Palan lunged in once
more. His target, the rotund man, braced his shield. The vibration of
impact transferred down the length of the blade and stung his hands.
The crack of wood snapping... Biting through the soft iron banding
-- splinters flying -- the great sword slammed into the fat man's
shoulder and stuck!
Running back as fast as he could -- yanking with all his might on
the hilt -- he pulled it free.
With shifty-eyes and the spearman already rushing in to take
advantage, it was all he could do to unceremoniously retreat, trailing
the sword behind him like a child dragging a stick. It clanged as it
bounced over the rough cobbles.
Building up to top speed, skidding to a stop, Palan let the heavy
sword continue on. Grasping it with both hands, whipping it about, he
caught shifty-eyes but a pace away. The impact knocked the small man to
the ground as if he were smitten by the hand of a giant.
But it was too late. Charging, all of his weight behind that
needle-sharp point, the spearman drove the head of his weapon deep into
Palan's chest.
He stood there, unsteady. Dropping his great sword, he stared first
at the spearman, then at the spear haft that protruded from his ribs.
The ruffians' outlines wavered for a moment, then they were gone,
along with Palan's injury.
She came from behind him and wrapped her arm in his.
"You know," she said, "you don't have to go. You can stay here
forever."
Palan looked at her. His expression changed with every heart beat
as conflicting emotions struggled for supremacy.
Finally, after a long while, he said, "I'm ready."
"Are you sure?" she asked.
He lowered his eyes and sighed. "Yes."
Slowly, deliberately, she reached up, put her hands behind his head
and pulled him toward her. Light as the brush of a feather at first, her
kiss grew more passionate with every passing moment. Embracing as if
trying to merge with each other, they gently swayed.
Gasping for air, they stopped.
She rested her head on his chest. "I believe in you."
"I know," he replied.
"Come back to me," she said.
The colors of the courtyard blurred and combined...
"... ye addled, boy?" said the graybeard, a flail in his hand, "I
said we'll be takin' that sword, 'n yer pouch as well."
It all came back to him now: he was on a dirt road a mile or two
from Dargon, and these four had come out of the trees to block his way.
They were all there; graybeard, shifty-eyes, the rotund one, and the
spearman.
"There be four 'o us," continued the old one, waving a hand at his
comrades for emphasis, "just throw yer things o'er here, and we'll let
ya's be."
"Yah," snickered shifty-eyes, "we'll letcha be."
Flipping the great sword off his shoulder, Palan began to turn.
Soon the tip of the blade hissed as it cut through the air.
"Well," said graybeard, "ya asked fer it. Get 'im."
The other three didn't move. They stared at each other and their
leader with uncertainty.
"Damn, he be only one," he said. Graybeard hesitated for a moment.
"He ain't e'en right in the head. 'e probably lifted 'at swords from
someones 'imself. Looks, I'll be doin' it."
"He bloody well looks like 'e knows what 'e's doin' to me,"
whispered the rotund one to the spearman out of the corner of his mouth.
Cautiously, the old man advanced toward the spinning swordsman, the
flail at the ready.
Dashing under his huge blade, wielding it up and around, Palan
lunged a full three spans. The blade cleaved into graybeard and sent him
stumbling into a heap.
Not slowing a bit -- he spun about -- lunged once more and clipped
off the head of the spearman's weapon.
The three, their eyes wide and their mouths open, froze for a
moment, but only a moment. When their wits returned they bolted,
dropping anything that might slow them down.
He stopped spinning and watched as they ran through the trees until
they disappeared. The old man was moaning, but judging by the pool of
blood that he laid in, he wouldn't suffer much longer.
Palan walked over to a nearby stream and knelt next to it to wash
the blood off his sword. Reaching down with a cupped hand to scoop up
some water, he started at the reflection he saw there.
It wasn't his. It was hers.
"Did I startle you?" she asked, her eyes twinkling.
"Maybe a little," he replied with a grin that quickly faded. "Thank
you."
She was quiet for a long moment while she looked into his eyes.
"It's all you," she replied.
They reached out to each other, but when his hand touched the
water, the resulting ripples dissolved the reflection. He waited for a
time, but she did not return.
Hefting the heavy sword over his shoulder, Palan started down the
dusty road for Dargon.
========================================================================
A Rogue's Gambit
Part I
by Mike Schustereit
<schustmv@cglpo1.usachem.msnet.bp.com>
Seber 3, 1014
The horses plodded down the road, their hoofbeats echoing back from
the forest's edge. The ancient hardwoods shaded the edge of the road
where the renegades stumbled upon a collection of motley huts. Though
not quite a town, the men saw the beginnings of the organization needed
to create one. Ramshackle huts on either side of the road reeked of rot
and decay, with litter strewn everywhere. A couple of people digging
amongst the refuse stopped to watch the men as they rode by.
The lead horse, a graceful charger, skittered nervously as a pack
of rats crossed the road at his feet. "Look at them," the first rider,
Caleb OneEye said, "they have the run of the place."
The rats feared no one. They swarmed over the road, nipping at the
legs of the horses, causing the people of the camp to clear a path. The
renegades turned their gaze to the people milling in the street. There
were no predators in that crowd, just people holding on to their
humanity as best as they could.
"By the gods," Caleb OneEye spoke, "this place is damned."
The thin man behind him chimed in, "Perhaps your gods have forsaken
this place!"
"Speak not of the gods like that Facon," warned Caleb, "they have
an unusual sense of humor. The legends say they allowed men to control
their destinies once, until man scorned them. Now we play a grand game
of King's Key, mere pieces on the board of the gods. This may not be the
best of places ..."
"But it feels sort of like home," the third rider replied
sarcastically. Dalton, the scout, had seen places like this before, on
different fronts, but never within the empire itself. It was more proof
that the war with the Baranurians had been a big mistake.
Caleb frowned, "... but everything has its place in the world. This
however, was not here the last time I came through. It seems that war
has made the pieces more expendable." He tugged at the ends of his
drooping mustache as if to emphasize his distress. Dalton watched the
knight examining the situation and wondered, just what had he seen?
Trent Illinsta chimed in, "Oh, and when was that?"
When Caleb let the question go unanswered, Trent turned to the
scout, "Dalton do you know where we are?"
The scout ignored the ex-cavalry captain's question and looked at
the people watching them. He shivered at the dead eyes staring back at
them. The disease had left its mark, leaving blackened and puckered
wounds on their skin. The waxy look of the remaining flesh made the
warrior leery. It was hard to consider them human.
"What have we done?" Dalton asked, "Have we doomed ourselves?"
A veteran of the war, he did not fear the honest death that came
from battling one's enemies, but this was no foe he could defeat with
his sword. Still he kept the pommel firmly in his hand. He feared little
however from the living members of the camp -- it was their disease that
held his gaze.
The rest of the renegades held their weapons just as tightly. Even
after getting used to the grisly battle scenes of the war the dead
strewn through the streets shocked them. Corpses lay where they fell,
often with hands outstretched in pleading gestures. Dogs fought over a
corpse's arm that even after the plague was still fat and juicy.
Dalton stopped, watching the dogs tugging on the arm of the dead
man. One lost its grip and suddenly the glint of gold caught Dalton's
eye. He shifted in his saddle as if to get off, then reconsidered and
rode on. Getting caught stealing now would only land them back in a
Beinison prison, even this close to the border.
Of the five renegades, Dalton had the most to lose by being caught
within Beinison territory. All of the men received sentences of death
before their escape, but Dalton was a deserter from the army and the
army wanted him bad. He fingered the scar on his forearm, marking him as
a military criminal. The army was clear on that. In the prison, military
criminals got the harshest beatings and little to no food. In the rat
infested cells the prisoners fought to keep their food, only to find
that it was inedible.
When Facon first brought Trent and Caleb to plan their escape, he
feared them knowing of his brand. Even after hearing the plan that Facon
had devised, he kept his background to himself. Military prisoners were
often separated from the rest of the prisoners, for even convicts still
felt allegiance to the empire and would tear a traitor to pieces. Once
they escaped, he found that for one reason or another all except
Selvinus had been prisoners of the military.
At first he had hesitated to let his arm show, but Trent displayed
his brazenly, and Caleb rarely got cold enough to cover it. The brand
gave them something in common, but still he trusted no one.
Dalton knew that at least one of his comrades would lose no sleep
by turning him over to a certain death. The war had gone badly for the
empire and everyone was hoping to make some kind of profit from it. The
territories of the empire were slowly breaking apart, realigning to
their former borders. Still they rambled about, rarely leaving the roads
and staying in whatever inns they came across. Dalton had urged the
de-facto leader to speed up their exit, but Caleb was relentless.
Caleb spoke rousing Dalton from his musings. "I know you are
questioning my course," he said.
"It's not that I don't follow where you are headed. But aren't you
worried about pursuit?" Dalton asked.
Caleb glared back at Selvinus. The fat merchant obviously found the
scrutiny discomforting, slowly letting his horse fall to the back of the
group. Dalton grimaced when the fat man pointed in their direction,
informing Trent of their private conversation.
After letting Selvinus and Trent get far enough away to prevent
them from overhearing his conversation with the scout Caleb leaned over
to confide in Dalton. "The people looking for me will not give up."
Dalton nodded in understanding.
"We have been running from them since my escape," Caleb continued,
"and each day my instinct tells me they are getting closer."
Dalton glanced over his shoulder at Selvinus. The fat man held the
attention of the former cavalry captain by waving his flabby arms in the
air to stress his point. Smiling, Dalton faced the knight, letting his
thoughts become words.
"So rather than elude them," Dalton said, "we're going to become
the hunter instead of the hunted."
"Exactly my thoughts," Caleb nodded. "Our escape was an insult and
a black mark on the eye of the new factions. With power on their side,
the Order of the Star will certainly try to eliminate me. No matter who
we turn to, they will hold us. Whoever brings us back, dead or alive,
will win. From the moment we escaped, we could trust no one outside this
group."
"We may not even have that luxury," Dalton snorted, looking back at
Selvinus and Trent.
"They know we are being hunted," Caleb replied, "so they will help
as long as it is to their advantage."
"If we're going to hunt our pursuit, we'll need a better army than
this," Dalton added. Caleb said nothing. Dalton watched as Selvinus was
using his hands to describe some imaginary deed he had done.
"It does not matter. Our strength is not in numbers, it is in
desperation. Eventually we will have to cross paths," replied Caleb,
"and then I will settle my debts. The knights have honor. They will
fight us as equally as possible, but with the odds stacked in their
favor. I know the way the Knight Commander thinks."
He shook his reins and shouted, "But let them beware! I, and only
I, choose my actions." He furiously spat at a dog taking a sudden
interest in his steed.
In Dalton's estimation, Caleb OneEye was much more than a simple
man sparring with his destiny. Once a Knight of the Star, he had chosen
his course of action knowing it would carry the brand of a renegade.
"What made you decide to speak out?" Dalton asked.
"I do not know for sure," Caleb answered, "but I knew that I could
no longer serve the mad designs of the emperor Untar. My fellow knights,
unyielding in their loyalty, passed judgment blindly. Rather than face a
coward's punishment, I arranged for my escape with the last of my
family's money."
Dalton absently rubbed the scar on his right forearm in response.
"I too, felt the sting of the Emperor's insanity," he agreed.
"I recognized that in you, and in Facon," Caleb said, "but we
needed Selvinus' contacts and the steel that Trent provided."
"Selvinus is still not happy that you have assumed command," Dalton
jested. "He would draw a blade on you, except that you would finish him
easily."
Caleb's smile hinted that he too had thought of that possible
outcome.
Facon listened to the two ex-soldiers laughing at the image of
Selvinus skewered on their swords. He shivered at the cold cruelty that
war had made so commonplace. Then again had it not been there all along?
Whether or not Untar had brought chaos upon them was not as important as
surviving. Even if the brutal savagery had been hidden by a thin veneer
of civility, when it came down to it, to survive they would all become
killers.
As for Selvinus, Facon felt sure leadership was not a concern, nor
even escape from the murder charges facing him. Only escape from the
heat that made his obese body sweat endlessly drove the man onward. He
yearned for the next inn down the trail.
The man had definitely been privy to the creature comforts of the
royal duchy. He complained whenever he could about the places they slept
and more than once refused to leave before finishing a meal. However,
the casual mention of the troops on their trail was enough to spoil the
fat merchant's appetite.
Carefully, Facon let his horse drop back so he could listen to
Trent and Selvinus as they talked. The group often divided into these
two groups and secretly Facon feared the two men plotted against the
others.
He overheard Selvinus saying, "... why even last night, Caleb flew
into a rage because I refused to share a room with Facon." Facon could
almost picture the fat man's pout as he whined. "I let my reputation
with the sword do its work," he continued, "and even after the cutter
lulled me to sleep with his dull talk, my money was left untouched."
Trent merely agreed, not wanting to have the fat man elaborate.
"Look at this place," Trent interrupted the fat man, "these people
deserve to die." Facon's thin fingers clutched the reins, making his
knuckles white. They did not deserve any of the things that happened to
them, yet the thin walls of the crudely erected huts could not hide the
filth and desperation that clung to these people. In his estimation,
theirs was a treatable affliction if treated in the towns and cities.
Here where the water ran deep, the tormented and deranged souls of this
camp were ensuring the spread of the ravenous disease by bathing,
urinating, and defecating in the slow moving water. The host of rats
only served to multiply the problem.
As Facon watched them scrubbing the open and festering wounds, he
wondered how long before the river carried the infection back to the
people who shunned these poor souls. Would they flock to the temples
when the dead started piling up in the streets of the royal duchy? What
price would the people of Beinison pay before they looked elsewhere for
salvation?
That was his crime. He believed the gods of Beinison to be figments
of the people's imagination. Fueled by a powerful priesthood, the
Beinison gods governed every aspect of everyday life.
He had held his tongue in public, but in the council chambers, he
vented his anger on the priests and lords present. Measured and careful
was their response. Mindful of his standing in the eyes of Untar, they
waited until after the emperor was dead, then imprisoned him for
slandering the gods.
Even without Untar, Facon had friends sympathetic to him. Indeed
there were many in the empire who sympathized with the same beliefs that
the cutter had expressed. Their warnings served him well, allowing for
him to secure most of his wealth with people who leaving Beinison. Once
in the prison however, his skills in comforting people worked to his
advantage. The guards soon learned to trust him, allowing him to roam
the prison freely to minister to the wounded or dying.
Once before, he had been important to the empire. From humble
beginnings, his skills as a cutter had thrust him from simple healing to
the politic shrouded halls of the Emperor's palace. Eventually his
straightforward views landed him a position of decision-making. Untar
often revealed his fears to the cutter, knowing Facon's loyalty to him
was unquestionable. In return, the Emperor had showered many favors upon
Facon during the years he held the post of Emperor's cutter.
As the Emperor's cutter, Facon was present when the news came of
the massacre of Dalton's company. After hearing his side of the story in
prison, Facon believed Dalton a victim of circumstances, yet a rope was
in his immediate future. As for the true cause of their destruction,
only Sir Aurtoc could answer that, but he was dead, his skull already
bleaching in the sun. None of these men had secrets from the cutter.
Facon personally viewed the bodies of the women Selvinus had
brutalized and murdered, though he never would let the man know that. As
he watched the husbands, fathers, and brothers claiming the women for
burial, Facon had shaken with anger at the cruelty of the killer. When
they brought Selvinus before the Emperor, Facon had been there. The look
the condemned merchant had given Untar burned into Facon's mind. The man
was scum.
Only Caleb OneEye puzzled the cutter. It was rare for the
knighthood to have a rebel and even rarer that the Emperor intervened in
the justice of the order. Untar himself attended Caleb's trial, sitting
regally off to the side. He watched the proceedings with interest and
finally requested to hear Caleb's testimony.
Head held high Caleb faced his emperor. The knight silently dared
anyone in the room to question his courage or fighting ability. After
hearing the knight's testimony, Untar praised the knight for his
valiance and his family honor, then watched as the Knights of the Star
condemned him to death for his treason. Privately the emperor cursed the
decision, but felt it necessary to not interfere, to maintain morale.
During the last days before the final conflict, Untar often visited
the knight in his cell, questioning Caleb on strategy. Soon thereafter
he made the decision to lead his troops on the battlefield. In those
last days before his death, the Emperor surprised many people. Even as
he rode through the dreary camp, the changes in the Emperor still
baffled the cutter.
Facon watched as the people of the camp trudged towards the lone
stone building bearing the mystic symbols of the gods. Their existence
was at an end, yet they toiled for their gods. Held in the grip of their
disease, they could not shrug off their beliefs. Only death would free
them.
Everyone except Facon mumbled a prayer as they passed by the camp
chapel. As for Facon, he could only imagine the precious treasures left
to try to regain the favor of the gods. Wealth laid down as tokens to
non- existent gods, for miracles and favors that would not materialize.
No one would be stopping to rob the hastily built chapel however,
for the breeze blowing by filled the air with the smells of the camp.
The men spurred their horses into a trot to get away from the horrid
town.
Caleb this place stinks," Trent sniffed, "whatever reason we came
through here for, it ain't worth it."
For once Facon had to agree with the unruly cavalry captain. The
stench had an overwhelming effect, making him jittery and nervous. He
pictured the tormented people of the camp, reaching out for his help,
and it made him sick to think of not being able to do anything.
Caleb turned in his saddle, "Shut up! If you find our company
displeases you, then maybe you should seek your own trail."
I'm not going anywhere," Trent replied, "you promised me ..."
"I promised you safe passage out of the city," Caleb broke in. "We
are weeks from the royal duchy, so I think I have fulfilled my end of
the bargain."
"Hey," Trent snarled, "I got you out of there."
"We all did our share," Facon interjected.
"Caleb! Trent," Selvinus whined, "do you want to argue or get us
away from here."
The two warriors turned to regard the fat man. Conscious of being
the center of attention, Selvinus moved his mount closer to Caleb's. "I
don't want to camp the forest tonight," he whined, "so let's get
moving."
Caleb nodded his head in agreement and steered his horse clear of
some broken crockery in the road. The charger pranced for a moment,
longing to break into a run.
In response Caleb spurred him, making the horse leap toward the end
of the row of houses. Then, once beyond the narrow confines of the hut
walls Caleb's mount shook his mane and snorted.
"It seems," Caleb announced, "that a fresh wind is in the air. Let
us ride for someplace new and put this cursed empire behind us."
"I'll agree to that," Dalton agreed, spurring his horse forward
until he rode alongside Caleb's. As their horses put distance between
them and the diseased camp, Facon looked back, cursing again the men who
believed in the humor of the gods to save them. "Why do I care," he said
to no one in particular, "they are no one to me."
In his heart though, he knew he lied.
========================================================================
The Dwarf
Part I
By Rogers Cadenhead
<rogers@pobox.com>
Mertz 9, 1015
Cyrus Gatney flipped through a picture-book as he slowly rode home
on the back of his mule. The pages were adorned with woodcut pictures of
griffons, grobbins and other fantastic creatures, and Cyrus stared in
wonder as he imagined himself a fierce hunter. In his vision the
stallion he rode moved as swiftly as a wildcat, carrying the armored man
with ease as they bore down on prey.
In his reality, the steed under his rump was a glassy-eyed old mule
with a decided predisposition against work. Carrying several hundred
pounds on her back in the form of hairy, sweaty Cyrus Gatney was
something the mule did with marked reluctance.
As he and the mule crested the last hill before home, a small
farmhouse not far from Myridon, Cyrus had his eyes firmly locked onto
the hand-bound book he had purchased at significant cost from a
traveling priest earlier in the day. He was almost within the fence
around his home when the acrid smell of smoke reached his nostrils.
Cyrus looked up to see the remnants of his home burned to the
ground, save a few support beams that stood resolutely upward like
exposed ribs. He was close enough to see into his sleeping room; close
enough to see the blackened forms of a larger figure and a smaller one
half as big; close enough to see a few unsullied tresses of golden hair
on his wife's head and the ropes that had tied her to their son.
What Cyrus Gatney was too close to see, to his eternal regret, was
the lightly wooded copse which flanked the front of his farmhouse.
There, a foursome of young men had been waiting for his arrival home,
and they moved towards his back as Cyrus slid off his mule and dropped
the forgotten picture-book from his trembling hands.
His boots caked in manure, Ulmer Nirnov swore at the pair of oxen
driving his plow through the fallow field. It was spring in Shireton,
and that meant a lot of work ahead. The narrow strip of land he was
farming had delivered a wheat crop the past two years, and the soil
needed a respite before a crop of highland beans could be planted to
help restore it. Unfortunately for Ulmer, fallow ground still required
plowing.
One of the oxen wasn't cooperating today. Surprisingly, it was the
older of the two, a fat brown veteran of many long spring days in the
fields. Ulmer walked around the animals to face the quarrelsome beast,
checking its eyes and nose for signs the ox might be sick. It appeared
to be healthy, and a test of the yoke showed that it was lashed securely
to the horns of both animals.
Ulmer walked back to the plow, readied himself and struck the older
animal violently on the backside with a short leather whip. It let out a
pained bleat and yanked the plow forward.
The rest of the long day's toil went a little easier than had the
morning. As the afternoon passed and the red fingers of dusk spread out
over clouds to the west, Ulmer was still working, driving the tired,
grunting beasts to exhaustion.
"You don't have to clear the field in a single day, Ulmer." The
gentle admonishment came from Apted, an older villager and friend who
had snuck up behind him. "The sun's coming up again on the morrow."
Ulmer began the removal of the yoke without looking at his friend.
"I wasn't aware of that," he said.
"I see," Apted said as he helped Ulmer unfasten the loops of rope.
Apted stared at the younger man for a moment before saying anything
else. "Now," he began, "I don't want to tell you your business ..."
"Then don't," Ulmer said sharply.
"It needs to be said," Apted responded, a faint hint of blood
rising to the surface of his cheeks. "You ought not push Old Brown so
hard this early in the season. Gunt would have your head on a pole if we
lost him."
Both men knew exactly what Manor Lord Gunt's reaction would be if
Old Brown was killed or incapacitated. The village had only five oxen
left since the war, after all, and Gunt was looking for an excuse to
claim a penalty from Ulmer. The plowman had managed to establish his own
small farm near the forest, a freehold outside of Gunt's holdings.
Ulmer reflected on Apted's words, then said, "You're right. I will
make sure he's rested tomorrow and slow up a bit. I'm sorry to have
spoken to you like that."
"None the bother," Apted said. "Besides, you're half likely to
cripple yourself working this hard. Or Trissa will do you harm if you
don't get home for dinner!"
At the mention of going home, Ulmer looked away in the direction of
a nearby stream. "Better get the oxen to water," he said. "Good night to
you."
Apted watched him lead the animals away and then headed to the
village and his own family. Once within Shireton he passed by Trissa,
who was carrying fresh bread home from the common oven, her two young
sons close behind. His friendly nod was met with a smile by Trissa. Her
youngest, Aaron, nodded also and greeted the farmer. He had much more a
mouth on him than his older brother did. "Hello, sir," Aaron declared.
Apted gave the boy a friendly pat on the head and continued home.
As he walked through his front doorway, Apted was welcomed by his wife,
who had watched him passing by Ulmer's family.
"Aaron's growing a bit stocky, I guess," she said.
"I guess," Apted replied.
By the time Ulmer arrived at his home that night, it was long dark.
After seeing her sons to bed at the conclusion of a hard summer
day, Trissa heard a telling snort in the garden behind her cottage.
Grabbing a broom handle, she charged outside and into the rows of
growing cabbage. A small white pig, intently chewing on a vetch plant,
finally looked up to see a wild-eyed harridan bearing down with death in
her eyes. The pig bolted from the yard, narrowly avoiding an early trip
to the meal table.
At least that's what Trissa wanted the little scavenger to think.
It was protected from becoming bacon by order of Lord Gunt, who wanted
to build up the village's store of animals this year. Trissa thought the
pigs were beginning to recognize this fact, and she had needed to scare
them off several times the past few days alone.
Stepping back through the garden in her bare feet, Trissa stumbled
and accidentally uprooted a fledgling plant as she regained her balance.
Ulmer was not yet home, so she took the time to repair the damage and
lightly repack the plant.
As Trissa kneeled in the yard under the gray haze of early
nightfall, she was unseen by two neighbor women who walked out of an
adjoining cottage. One of them was Apted's wife Coira.
"Looks like the Nirnovs have retired early," Coira said. Trissa was
about to raise up and correct this perception but her neighbor continued
to speak. "It's a real shame what's become of their youngest."
"What do you mean?" asked Magdal, a gray-haired woman who had spent
the winter with her son in nearby Dargon. "Little Aaron is sick?"
"No, not in the way you think," Coira replied. "He's not sprouting
up like Gull or any other child I've seen. Something's gone awry and
he's all thick and bulgy. His head's not right anymore, as well."
Magdal clucked in horror. Trissa, unable to muster enough will to
stand up, dug her hands into the soft soil of the yard, pressing the
tips of her fingers hard into the ground until her arms began to shake.
"Dearest be," Magdal said. "Do you mean to say the little one's a
dwarf?"
"An abomination," Coira said.
When Ulmer returned home that evening, it was a bit later than
usual. He found Trissa sitting by the remains of the fire, tracing
grooves in the ashes with a dull stick. Aaron and Gull were long asleep.
"You've been out late," Trissa said angrily without turning to face
him.
"I'm sorry, sweet," he said, kneeling at her side and extending an
arm to touch her shoulder. Trissa shrugged it away from her body as if
she could catch something from the touch.
"In fact, you barely return at all before bedtime," she continued.
"That's not true," Ulmer said.
"It isn't? Name the last time you were home to play with Gull
before supper." They were facing each other now, but Ulmer could hardly
look at his wife. Her pale green eyes
burned a fiery emerald.
"It's been too long," he admitted, staring down at the ashes.
"Since before plowing," she said. "And I haven't mentioned Aaron
yet a'tall."
Ulmer suddenly found himself thrown into a fury, and he rose to his
feet. "Nor will you!"
"We need to talk about this," she said. Ulmer started to remove
himself from the room, either to the darkness of the other side of the
cottage or the darkness of the street. But Trissa said something next
which made him stay.
"After all, everyone else in Shireton is talking about him, so why
shouldn't we?"
Trissa related the gist of Coira and Magdal's conversation to
Ulmer. He spat out a hateful and uncharacteristically brutal curse
against the chattering women. The two sat down, Ulmer on a wooden bench
and his wife on the floor, leaning against his outstretched leg. This
was the first time the long-married couple had directly discussed the
subject of Aaron, who had stopped growing in the manner of other
children at least a year before. The five-year-old had beautiful
features -- his mother's curly reddish locks and shining eyes -- and an
appetite for learning like his father. But it had become particularly
evident with the blossoming of this spring that he was growing
differently than others, his head out of proportion to his short, stocky
body. Gull, only two years older than his sibling, was two heads taller
and thin as a rail.
"I wanted to believe that he would come around," Ulmer said
quietly. "That's fool's thinking on my part."
Trissa wiped her eyes, which were tearing up from a mixture of
sadness and the spent fire's soot. "There has to be something to do.
Perhaps my father ..."
"Corambis can do nothing," Ulmer said. Trissa's father was a
notable sage and astrologer in the city of Dargon.
"You've spoken to him?" Trissa asked incredulously.
"When I went into the city to buy another plowshare," Ulmer said.
"That was months ago!"
"I did not tell you because the news was not good," he explained.
"Your father took out some of his books and spent the afternoon poring
over them to see what might be ailing Aaron. At first he mentioned food.
He said a child that starves is like a tree -- it won't grow. But we've
always eaten well on my share of the village crops."
Ulmer went on, looking past his wife into a bare corner of the
room. "Corambis finally decided that it needs have something to do with
the humor of the blood. At a young age if a disturbance takes place it
won't be made right." He put a comforting hand on his wife's arm as he
related what her father had concluded: "Aaron will never be half as tall
as a normal man."
The last statement washed over Trissa like a chill wind. She fell
sobbing into her husband's lap. Ulmer, a fourth- generation farmer whose
ancestors helped to clear the forest and scratch out a life for
themselves in Shireton, did not let himself cry. He stroked his wife's
long reddish-brown locks and whispered softly to her that things would
work themselves out as the gods intended.
Shortly after sunrise, Ulmer left for the fields and Trissa cleaned
up the fire pit with Aaron's help. Gull dug for worms in the garden.
Before Ulmer left, the conversation of the previous evening was not
discussed, as if like the log of the fire it had been consumed and swept
away. They did not talk much at all in the subsequent days.
"I beg of you, do not do this!" Blindfolded and tied up at wrist
and ankle, the young man began to sob as Caruso brought his horse-drawn
wagon to a stop and dismounted. The youth cast a pathetic figure, curled
up in the back of the small wagon.
"Do what?" Caruso responded as he pulled a rope off a saddle hook
and threw one end over a tree branch. "You should wait to find out what
I'm going to do before you start begging."
Caruso's captive, a pale, fleshy man of about sixteen, shifted his
weight against his bonds but couldn't loose himself. "Tell me, demon!"
he spat.
"In a moment, friend," Caruso said as he finished tying a running
knot in one end of the rope and fastened the other to his wagon. "If
your nose was any better, you'd know exactly why this is happening."
"My nose?" the youth asked.
"Can't you smell it?" Caruso said, angrily grabbing the man's shirt
and pulling him upwards to a seated position. "The burned wood; the
burned flesh of a woman and her child!"
Caruso ripped off the cloth obscuring the man's vision, allowing
him to see the noose hanging above and the remains of a burned-out house
beyond the copse of trees. He grabbed the backside of the man's head and
turned it towards the center of the house.
"I'm surprised you don't remember," Caruso said. "Have you put so
many wives and children to the torch that the memories run together?"
"No," the man said, his lower lip fluttering. "I did not ..."
"Silence!" Caruso brought the backside of his gloved hand sharply
against the man's face, catching the bone beneath an eye. At six feet
tall, Caruso loomed above the younger man, his dark eyes ablaze with
ferocity. "You came here to kill a child and his parents because the
child was a dwarf. Afterward, you stole books from this farmhouse and
sold them to a passing merchant in Myridon."
Caruso removed a small leather-bound book from his saddlebags. The
man stared at him in silence, then turned his eyes up towards the
knotted rope a few feet away. Caruso grabbed his captive's head again,
so that he could see the inscription on the inside front cover. It read,
"To my friend and fellow dreamer, Cyrus Gatney."
Caruso stared at the face of the man and saw terror beginning to
give way to resignation. "You have one chance to avoid this noose,"
Caruso said with soft and steady deliberation. "Others helped you do
this, with the killing and perhaps with the planning. Give these people
to me and you'll be lucky enough to wake up tomorrow. Stay silent and
I'll have you dancing from this rope in two menes."
There was only a brief hesitation before the man began confessing.
They were all soldiers home from the war. It had been a plan
orchestrated by two of his friends, and the biggest incentive was the
belief that Cyrus Gatney had squirreled away a sizeable fortune over the
years.
"The Gatney child was a dwarf," Caruso said. "Are you telling me
that it wasn't a cause?"
"Of course it was," the man replied. "We figured it was doing the
town a favor. They wanted the Gatneys out for a long time."
When his questions were complete, Caruso rode back into Myridon to
pay a few visits around the community. He left the captive behind,
securely bound to a tree on the Gatney farm with his mouth gagged and
one leg severely broken below the knee.
"Don't go anywhere while I'm away," Caruso told the man before
mounting his horse.
Summer passed over Shireton and left behind the makings of a strong
harvest. The belief in the village was that the gods were repaying the
peasant farmers for their sacrifices during the war, including those of
four families who had given the most and lost men in battle.
Unfortunately, Manor Lord Gunt issued an edict that quelled much of
the euphoria and optimism which had sprouted up among the verdant
fields. Gunt, recent inheritor of the farmlands of Shireton, announced
that he would be doubling the cost of the village mill and increasing
the amount of tribute he would levy on the fall's crops. These moves
were justified by hardships endured during the long war, he reasoned.
The villagers, who had endured more in wartime than young master
Gunt, voiced their grievances in small clusters of people over the next
few days. Ulmer normally would've been at the center of these
discussions, and would have tried to convince his neighbors that little
could be done. Gunt, like his predecessors, needed to assert his
leadership over those who owed him fealty. Ulmer had lived under Gunt's
father when he tried the same many years back, and in that time the
levies were eventually softened to something liveable.
Today however, Ulmer remained at a distance from the candid and
unflattering discussions of Lord Gunt. Except among his mother's family,
there was a growing chill between the Nirnovs and other residents of
Shireton. Some of it was self-imposed, since neither Ulmer nor Trissa
could forgive those whose wagging tongues had spoken ill of their
youngest boy. The rest was a realization, growing more brazen by the
day, that the sight of Aaron made people uneasy.
One morning after Ulmer had left for the fallow fields, Apted
called together the village children for a bird run. The ripening corn
was becoming an alluring feast for magpies and other bothersome birds,
and it was the task of every child old enough to walk to venture into
the fields and drive them away.
Armed with anything that could be cobbled together to make noise,
children eagerly left their homes to join Apted, one of the eldest
members of the village. A mentor of sorts to the children, Apted was
having as much fun as they were.
By the time the procession neared Trissa and Ulmer's cottage, more
than 20 children surrounded Apted. Several of the younger ones were
disregarding his orders to refrain from noisemaking, and both Gull and
Aaron heard their approach from a distance. Gull grabbed a dull piece of
metal and a stick and headed out. Aaron was a little slower, and Trissa
grabbed his shoulder as he left to join the crowd, an old breadpan in
hand.
"Mayhap you should stay with me, little one," Trissa said, even
though she had agreed the day before that Aaron was old enough to go.
The child looked crushed at the thought he wouldn't be included,
and his mother couldn't bear to enforce her change of heart. She patted
him on the back before he could voice any objections. "Go on, then," she
said. "Gull, keep an eye on your brother!"
"I'll be careful," Aaron said. "You can watch from the garden and
see all the blackbirds fly away!" He ran towards the gathering, an
excited flurry of arms and legs around a body different from those of
his peers. To see him around the other children illustrated how
different he was becoming. Different, she thought, but with all the
handsome innocence of a young boy beginning to grow up.
Trissa smiled to see how happy he and Gull were. As she saw Apted
looking towards Aaron, she started to think he would ask the child to
stay behind. He didn't, but did glance once at Trissa as if she should
have kept Aaron home.
"Have you seen this man in recent days?" Caruso held out a sketch
of a dark-haired man in his early twenties with a thin nose and a
clefted chin. "His name is Ergard, but he may not be using it these
days." Two merchants looked over the drawing but did not appear to know
Caruso's prey. Before leaving Myridon, Ergard had told an acquaintance
he was heading for Dargon. Caruso had followed the lead to this small
roadside tavern between Shireton and Dargon.
"Why do you want to know?" one asked. The men had been playing
paquaratti, a popular card game, when Caruso walked up to their table at
Gent's. The small tavern had a reputation for attracting thieves and
slavers.
"Unsettled business," Caruso replied. "Finding him would be worth
100 Florens to me, so be sure to keep your eyes open."
The men went back to paquaratti and Caruso sat down at a table
across the tavern. Gent's smelled of rain-soaked wood and old smoke, and
the three were the only patrons on this dusty summer morning. Caruso
removed his overcoat and folded it over a chair, still feeling the
weight of seven days' travel on his bones. He found himself craving a
glass of akavit, though neither a bartender nor barmaid was anywhere in
evidence.
It had been a hard summer for the finder. He had come down from the
mountains when word reached him of Cyrus Gatney's child, and Caruso's
plan was to bring back a living thing, not bury a family. Hunting down
their killers was taking its toll -- avenging a wrong did nothing to
make him feel right.
Though the faces of the dead never strayed far from Caruso's
thoughts, he pursued his calling with a single-minded zeal. Finders were
often the only friends these people had, when living or dead. Still,
Caruso ruminated, it would be nice to come across more live ones.
"Caruso, right?" The messenger stood at Caruso's shoulder, handing
him a sealed tube and receiving a Floren in return. The messenger looked
at the coin but did not otherwise move. Caruso pointed out to the street
and stood up next to the much-shorter man. The messenger got the
message.
Sitting back down at his table, Caruso unstuck the seal and
unrolled the parchment.
"To Caruso the Finder from Corambis deSaavu," began the letter.
Caruso did not know the scholar but certainly knew of him, and the fact
that Corambis had tracked him down was an impressive credential in its
own right. The letter was comprised of several pages of densely penned
script.
By lunchtime, Caruso was headed for Shireton.
Nibbling on a carrot, Trissa walked out to the front porch of her
home and looked at the other villagers working in their gardens or
talking in the street. There were mostly women in the range of her gaze,
the men away in the fields and children out with Apted.
The absence of Aaron and Gull had left Trissa anxious and fidgety
all morning. Several times she considered making the walk out to the
creek where the children were likely to be. Most of the blackbirds had
been spooked by now, for certain, and the sons and daughters of Shireton
were probably making a grand adventure of their time away from the
village. Trissa stayed home, thinking that her sons would soon return.
A few of the women across the street glanced at Trissa but did not
acknowledge or greet her. Trissa Nirnov had lived in Shireton for more
than 20 years, coming from Dargon to live with an aunt after her
mother's death. Her father Corambis had returned to Dargon, but Trissa
did not begrudge the quieter life that was hers in the farming village.
For 15 years she had been the wife of Ulmer Nirnov, and his role as
village plowman made them a respected part of the small community.
Those days had passed. The year had grown increasingly harder for
the Nirnovs, as the people of Shireton put a distance between themselves
and the family. Making matters worse was the death in the spring of
Trissa's aged aunt, the last tie to her mother's family, and her
father's ill-fated visit a few month's past.
No one spoke openly with the Nirnovs about Aaron's condition, but
they were talking often about it amongst themselves. Some of their
children had begun to echo the hateful and frightened chatter.
As Trissa watched Coira and a few others standing outside the
common oven, she could not help but think that the woman was talking
about Aaron. Living next door to each other and having husbands who were
longtime friends, Trissa and Coira were confidants for years. They had
not spoken to each other, aside from pleasantries, since Trissa
overheard Coira's conversation with Magdal.
To Trissa's surprise, Coira approached her as she returned home
carrying freshly baked bread. The older woman nodded curtly as she
walked up to Trissa, who remained silent.
"I think we need to talk about Aaron," Coira said.
"Do you mean Aaron, or abomination?" Trissa asked, raising her
voice.
"I don't know what you mean," stammered Coira.
"I know the words you use to describe my child, Coira. I heard you
telling Magdal all about the monster in your midst."
"Lies!" Coira said. "But whether you want to hear it or not, the
child is a dwarf. You know the stories; you know that it's a punishment
from the gods."
"Punishment?" Trissa stepped off her porch and stared closely into
Coira's eyes. "He's a little boy!"
"Of course he is," Coira said. "But it is not our place to question
their wisdom. He could be paying for something your father has done. For
dabbling in forbidden knowledge, perhaps."
They blamed Corambis! Trissa had not expected to hear this, but it
was probably a commonly held notion among the people of Shireton. Books
and magic were alien to most of them, and being alien, were feared.
"Get out!" Trissa yelled, and she could see that the argument was
being closely watched by several neighbors.
Coira's expression turned cold and openly hateful. "You're not
welcome here anymore!" she spat, turning away and leaving. "You should
be glad I told you."
Trissa spun on her heels, went back into her house to put on shoes,
and quickly headed off to find Ulmer.
As she did so, Aaron and Gull were playing in the creek near
Shireton with a group of younger children, as Trissa had suspected. They
had ventured quite a distance away from Apted and the older members of
the bird patrol, looking for a good stretch of water upon which to skip
stones.
"Let's go to Pig's Bottom," Sark suggested. It was the name given
by the children to a pond fed by the creek further downstream. Wild pigs
liked to forage in the low-lying area for roots and nuts.
"Good idea!" Gull said. "I know a great place there to throw
stones."
The others were of like mind, but as they headed further down the
creek, Aaron grabbed his brother by the arm. "We should go back," he
said. "Apted will be mad."
Sark, a year older than Gull and one of Magdal's grandchildren,
overheard Aaron. "You go back to Sap-Head. We're not afraid like a
little dwarf."
"I am not!" Aaron protested. Since he had never heard the term
dwarf before, his denial was about being scared. "I'll go."
The six children walked alongside the creek towards Pig's Bottom,
out of earshot from Apted and the others.
When Trissa found Ulmer in the field, he had stopped the oxen and
was on the ground looking at his plow. "In the name of Saren what have I
done?" he said to himself, exasperated, invoking the name of the Olean
god of suffering. The coulter, a vertical blade that cuts a path for the
plowshare, had broken on a submerged stone.
"That looks bad," Trissa said, surprising her husband.
"It is," Ulmer replied. The coulter seemed beyond repair. "I'll
have to see Lord Gunt about a new one. What are you doing out here?"
"Coira talked to me today about Aaron."
Ulmer sat up and wiped dirt off his clothing. "What did she want?"
"To let me know we're not wanted," Trissa said.
"This is madness!" Ulmer said. "Shireton has been my family's home
for 100 years. I'll be damned if I let them drive us out of it."
"I don't care about these people or what they think," Trissa said.
"I just want what's best for us."
"Living here is what's best," Ulmer said. "I'm going to call a
village meeting on this tonight."
The talk with Coira still fresh in her mind, Trissa looked
intimidated at the suggestion of facing more than 100 people whose
thoughts could be equally venomous. "Can that work?" she asked.
"It will," Ulmer said, embracing his wife and running his hand
through the curls of her reddish-brown hair.
After removing the yoke from the oxen, the Nirnovs made the trek
back to the village, talking little. As they crossed a small wooden
bridge over the creek that came from Shireton, Aaron, Gull and the
children with them could have been seen in the distance, heading away
from the village. But Ulmer and Trissa were not looking in that
direction, having spotted Apted and a large group of children close by.
They hurried towards the group but did not see Gull or Aaron.
Apted spoke first as Ulmer and Trissa approached, the concern
evident in their faces. "Some of the children have strayed a bit," he
said. "I'm sure they haven't gotten far."
As the adults started to discuss where to look for the missing
children, a stranger to the village rode up on a spotted gray horse. He
was a broad and tall man with long black hair that reached his
shoulders.
"I am looking for the Nirnov family," Caruso said.
As they reached Pig's Bottom, Gull pointed to a cliff wall on the
other side of the pond. "We need to get up that rock," he said to his
compatriots. "You can throw stones a long way from up there."
"That's a bad place for throwing," Aaron said. "Too high up."
"Wrong! Let's climb it and I'll show you." The others agreed with
Gull, and they worked their way around the pond. Pig's Bottom was
nestled in the thick woods that surrounded Shireton, and the children
had to push their way through trees and undergrowth. At one point
Apted's son Reshua surprised a sleeping pig in a leaf-strewn gully. Both
animal and boy took off at the sight of each other, screaming or
snorting their fright. The other children were still making fun of
Reshua when they reached the top of the cliff.
The cliff was about 50 feet above the surface of the pond. A hollow
had dug itself out at the base of the rock, and the water there was
murky and still. No other people could be seen at the pond.
"This isn't so high," Reshua said, eager to make amends for being
scared by the pig.
Sark and he walked over to the edge, which sloped slightly
downwards. "Looks high to me," he said.
While the others looked out onto the pond, Gull and his brother
were searching for suitable stones. They had to be as wide as a coin and
mostly flat, and Gull took off his shirt to hold all the ones they
found.
After they distributed about two dozen stones among the six
children, it didn't take long to discover that Aaron was right about the
cliff. It was too high up for a tossed stone to skip across the water.
The game switched to an accuracy contest, as they tried to hit birds, a
nest, rocks and one unfortunate turtle.
Reshua was the first to run out of things to throw. As the other
children were looking for a second turtle that Sark had spotted, Reshua
saw a fist-sized rock he could pull out of the side of the cliff. He
stepped to the edge, leaned over and tugged at it. The ground gave way
beneath his feet.
"Sark!" Reshua screamed for his best friend as he fell off the
cliff and plummeted into the water. Sark was first to the edge, but it
was more precarious footing than he anticipated. Gull grabbed at his
shoulders but couldn't catch Sark before he went over the edge also,
slamming into the rocky face of the cliff once before falling into the
water.
Gull pushed Aaron a few feet away from the precipice and told him
not to move. He did the same for another younger boy. Gull and a boy his
age then scrambled along the side of the cliff until they could reach a
safe place to descend.
"Help me!" either Sark or Reshua pleaded. "It's deep here!"
Several minutes passed before Gull and his companion reached the
water. They found Sark at the base of the cliff, blood oozing from a cut
where his skull met the back of his neck. Sark was unconscious as Gull
pulled him out, and his breathing was labored.
Reshua could not be seen. Gull took off his shoes and dove into the
water. He was a good swimmer, having learned the past summer at this
same pond. But it took more than 10 dives before he found Reshua and
pulled him out of the dark water.
Reshua was dead. Gull finally let himself think about it as he
reached the water's edge with the body. He began sobbing and couldn't
make himself stop.
At the top of the cliff, Aaron sat motionless, listening to his
brother but too afraid to look. "What's wrong, son?" Apted was the first
to find the children, having heard Gull's sobbing. He grabbed Aaron by
the shoulder and turned him around.
"Sark and Reshua fell," Aaron stammered, pointing to the edge.
Apted quickly looked to see what Aaron meant, believing it must
surely be a minor accident. When he saw Reshua's prone form, it was
obviously too late to save him.
His youngest son, the one who most reminded Apted of his father,
was gone. Apted looked at Gull, sitting in the water below with his head
in hands, and turned around to see Aaron. The dwarfen child looked up at
him and began to tremble. "They're not hurt, right?" Aaron asked.
"Right?"
Despite his wife's protestations, Apted was not one of the
villagers who believed Aaron's affliction was a divine punishment
visited upon his family by the gods. He was not comfortable around the
child, admittedly, but thought people would grow used to the dwarf.
Apted now saw that his beliefs were an affront to the gods. The
people of Shireton had ignored the portent of Aaron's birth, and it cost
them dearly.
"This is your fault!" Apted raged against the little child at his
feet. He picked up Aaron and held the boy over the precipice, the
child's legs dangling above the water and rough-edged rocks. Apted
looked downward for the right place to drop the boy. "Why didn't I see
this sooner?"
To Be Continued
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