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DargonZine - the Best of DargonZine part2
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the Best of DargonZine Distributed: 03/04/1995
Part Two: the Best of DargonZine Circulation: 631
========================================================================
Contents
Dafydd's Amber Glow Dafydd/John White
Steel Souls John Sullivan DargonZine V 1 N 1
What are Little Girls
Made of? Bryan Maloney DargonZine V 4 N 3
To Be Continued Michelle Brothers DargonZine V 5 N 3
========================================================================
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.
The Best of DargonZine (Part Two of Two) (C) Copyright March, 1995,
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, in part or as a whole, for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Dafydd's Amber Glow
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr (aka John White)
<white@duvm.ocs.drexel.edu>
In 1988 FSFNet, the home of the Dargon Project, ceased publication.
Its editor, Orny Liscomb, left school and the net and consequently had
to cease putting the ground-breaking electronic magazine out. But those
of us who were writing for the Project wanted to continue, so we had to
figure out how.
After some deliberation, I decided to take over publication of
Dargon Project output. Though FSFNet published other types of fiction, I
didn't feel I had the expertise to continue to provide that service. But
I knew the Project, and I knew the authors, and I decided that I was
capable of stepping into at least some of the shoes that Orny had
vacated.
However, I never considered myself the kind of editor that Orny was
and is again. So, I changed things. Beyond the physical changes -
changing the name to DargonZine, changing the banner pages, adding dates
to the stories (which I hoped would give a better sense of how they
interrelated) - there were some 'philosophical' changes behind the
scenes. Because I didn't feel up to the task of being the guide to new
writers that Orny was, I decided to turn the story review task over to
the whole body of writers. Instead of one person's views on how a story
should work, we had 5 to 10 people offering their opinions. As it turns
out, this ended up being a wonderful alteration since it not only gave
the writers a multitude of helpful (usually) criticisms about their
writing, but it also encouraged us all to look at stories in new and
different ways.
After 30-something issues produced on a very irregular schedule
(which had little to do with any lack of writer participation), a
miracle occurred - Orny returned to the net. He rejoined the Project (as
if we could have refused him!), and in due time (when he felt ready), I
turned the editorship back to him. Now, maybe I'll have time to finish
those stories I've been considering!
So, on to the stories. The first of the three DargonZine-era
stories selected for this Best Of set is 'Steel Souls' by John Sullivan.
It appeared in the first issue of the new 'zine, and it is a wonderfully
moody story by an author who didn't write nearly enough for us.
'What are Little Girls Made Of?' is a War story by Bryan Maloney,
who is another author recently returned to the Project. This is another
poingant story showing some of the side-effects of war that many just
don't consider.
And the last is 'To Be Continued' from Michelle Brothers that sadly
wasn't as she left the project soon after. This story has some classic
elements and some eerie surprises.
So I hope you enjoy this second of the Best of the Dargon Project
issues of DargonZine. If you've been reading us from the beginning, I
hope these bring back some memories and if you've just found us, then I
hope these inspire you to seek out our back issues and discover what
you've missed. Happy Reading!
========================================================================
Steel Souls
by John Sullivan
From the seawall I watch as the sun flows down to the ocean,
bleeding red into the water. The wind from the sea is cool and vigorous.
It blows my hair in a black cloud around my head and whips the heavy
fabric of my clothing until it snaps like the sails on the ship that
brought me here. I come here whenever I can, and sometimes I work my way
down the rocks to the water's edge to dip my fingers in the sea. It is
my friend, the sea. I am stranded on this alien soil, but I can touch
the sea. And the sea touches Bichu.
The wind turns colder as the evening deepens. The sun has almost
completely set now and the dockmen slowly filter away to homes, to
taverns, to wherever they go. Some look at me as they walk away,
noticing my different clothes, my face. They are peasants, uneducated
and of no status, but they belong here, and they can see that I do not.
They look at me with distaste as they pass and I try to ignore them and
look at the remaining spot of the sun. Sages have told me that when the
sun sets on Dargon, it rises over Bichu. If that is true, then my father
is waking now, and remembering that I am gone. It has been a year since
I left Bichu in disgrace. For a year my family has been shamed, my
father without an heir. I fled from honor, and my life becomes more
intertwined with this place every day. So my father awakes and begins a
second year of sorrow and shame. His shame feeds on my own and feeds it
in turn. How can I ever go home?
The tavern is called Grey Talka's. It is an ugly place, near the
warehouses and the docks, noisy and full of smoke, smelling of vomit and
cheap ale. I sit alone at a table in the corner, my swords beside me for
the people here are not to be trusted. A maid brings me a tankard of ale
and I examine it for a moment, then dump the contents on the floor,
carefully clean it with my sleeve and return it to her. "Another," I
say, "this mug." She says nothing but returns with it to the long table
where the keeper has set up his barrels. In Bichu a hosteler so insulted
would either seek a champion to defend his reputation or close his
tavern. Here, so long as I pay for the slop, I may pour it wherever I
wish.
The barmaid returns with my ale and collects her copper, saying
nothing. The ale is bitter and poor. I drink it in large gulps, shaking
my head to fight it, and order another. Time passes.
"Mo iti do itte!"
The barmaid does not come, and the men at the other tables glance
at me, their eyes nervous behind their dullness. I realize that I have
spoken in Bichanese. "Bring me another!" I lean forward, resting my
elbows on the table; my head is heavy so I rest it in my hands. I'm
weary of this land, its coarseness and barbarism. Decent men are so rare
here that when they discover one they murder him from a place of
concealment with crossbows. Their honor is blood in the table linens.
The barmaid must be frightened of me, for the keeper himself brings
my ale. He doesn't set it down, but demands three coppers instead of
one, hoping I will leave. Several men have gathered in a nervous group
near the kegs, waiting. His ale isn't worth three coppers, but neither
is it worth one, and I have no intention of being intimidated by these
peasants. I take a Bichanese crown from my pouch and let it glitter on
the table.
"You'll bring me as much as I ask for and leave me alone, won't
you?"
He looks at the flash of gold for a moment, then snaps it up and
sets down the tankard with a muttered "Of course, milord." He goes back
to his kegs and argues quietly with the others.
After that word circulates that I'm not the street character they
took me for; I have money. A few even consider taking me. I see them
sizing me up, trying to appear dangerous. Meeting their gaze is enough
to send them slinking back to their tables like rats.
Crude beasts in a land of animals! I stand on the seawall to be
upwind of them.
When I can stand the tavern smell no longer I flee into the
darkness of the streets, but the streets stink as well. The entire
filthy city stinks, like the unwashed people, their disgusting rotted
meat, their uncivilized habits. Even the ones who attempt to be civil
cannot overlook their delusions of superiority. "We'll teach you to
dance in our fashion, Lord Ichiya," with the slightest nuance of mockery
on the honorific. "I've learned your language from reading your poets,"
he says, speaking like an addled child, disappointed when I do not fall
at his feet in gratitude. I hate Dargon.
I've admitted it and the hatred flows through that crack and washes
over me like a flood. Even drunkenness here is low. Instead of freeing
the spirit, it drags me down into the filth in the gutters. I walk
rapidly through streets unfamiliar in the night, trying to find some
clean place but there is none here, not in the street, or in the
dishonor of the people. "Bastard dogs!" I shout at the dark, crumbling
buildings in Bichanese, then "Zyatai an!" lapsing into Bichoi, the lower
class dialect of peasants and beggars. Perhaps they will understand
this.
"Koshaddan! Tokodoshi esuna ko!" The hoarse cry echoes in the
abandoned street and I laugh. I can imagine my mother hearing me,
learning that I know such language. I can see the look on her face, as
if I had greeted guests by pissing in their teacups.
It has been a year since I saw my mother and thieves prowl these
streets. I had scarcely left the ship when they began hurling themselves
at me clumsily from the dark. With Roissart and Luthias they came and
countless other times, as if this land itself feels my alienness and
reacts with all the violence it spawns. But I can resist Dargon for
there is violence within me as well.
Around me, in the darkest corners of the alleys, furtive shapes
move when they think I don't notice. No one moves through these reaches
of the city unobserved at night. But these see my swords and move with
caution. I realize that I have ceased my shouting and the fire moves in
my blood with more than the ale. I sense their brutality, ebbing and
flowing like the tides and I find some part of me that needs it.
I begin to call to the inky shapes like a lover. I sing old
Bichanese drinking songs, anything at all. I weave in my steps as the
drunkenness crests within me. For a block they shadow me, and more. "Why
are you waiting?" I cry in Bichoi, "I am foolish with drink and my purse
is heavy." Come to me now, now.
They come, two figures, weaving toward me, running from behind me,
one at each quarter. They hold their swords reversed, their bodies
curled around them. From that grip they will slash upward from their
left then thrust down. I step, step, one more then one leg wavers under
my weight and I stagger. Then, as my katana feels the fire as well and
leaps into my hand with a metallic singing, time expands into the
montage of battle. There is the sharp cry of the duellist and the right
foot planted behind for the spin. The tip of a sword nicks my clothing
as I spin away from it and I can feel my blade moving like a part of
myself. The clatter of a parry and I continue my spin. Even drunk I can
take these fools apart.
I luxuriate in the force of my body's motion, the kinesthetics of
the sword. A dark form before me as I complete the turn and my left hand
completes its following arc and slaps against the lower menuki, fingers
wrapping around the base of the hilt. The hand shifts the balance of the
sword and I hold my breath, feeling the descent. And then the bite of
the steel. The ecstasy of it! The bite, oh, the bite.
Dim light brings the morning and the wind is chilling. I am on the
floor of my rooms, drenched in sweat. I have committed murder. The
watchmen who came soon after, drawn by the commotion, saw dead thieves
and an acquaintance of Lord Dargon, and did not hold me. But I know the
truth. There is no honor in inviting attack from an inferior fighter to
justify a killing. There is only shame, cowardice, weakness.
It's strange how little a moment of shame leaves of life. Once
there was family, honor. Now there are only disjoint snippings from
time, not unlike the way of a battle. The trunk with my belongings,
opened less frequently every day. The remaining length of unused rice
paper tucked under one arm, flashes of street life around me as I walk
toward the harbor. Fishsellers, marketwomen, apprenticed boys running on
the errands of their masters as if nothing has happened. Near the docks
I discover a bowl of fish stew in my hand, the stewmonger expecting
payment. I give him my purse.
Then there is only myself, the sun rising behind me, the wind, the
seawall and the nervous tossing of the sea. There is only one way to
remove a stain such as this. I wonder if my parents across the ocean
will feel the sting of the blade.
I kneel on the seawall, the end of the ricepaper beneath my knees
to keep it from blowing away in the wind. My katana weights the other
end. I watch my hands wrap a length of cloth cut from my sleeve around
the blade of the shorter wakizashi, once, twice, three and then four
times. Then I hold the blade, one hand ginger on the cloth wrapping, the
other butted against the hilt. When I was born my father expected only
that I would carry the name of our family a step or two forward and not
do it dishonor. I have done nothing else. I have fled from a challenge
to the family name to this forsaken place, and I cannot even uphold the
basic tenets of honor here, in a place without honor. Oh father, how I
have shamed you, how I've shamed myself!
There is only one way to undo the violence I have done to the
reputation of clan Ichiya. Enough stalling, enough wallowing in the
magnitude of my shame. A flash of courage to cleanse it. A stillness
comes over me. Honor welcomes the intention to restore it and helps
quiet the fear. The sounds of the town around me fade away and I breathe
shallowly, in time with the rhythmic beat of the surf against the
seawall. With the next wave, the surge of strength through my arms, and
then peace. It comes. The water climbs, foaming white, the pitch of it
rising, and then it crashes with a tremendous booming sound against the
seawall. The muscles of my arms tense and move.
And in the next instant I fall sideways, knocked over by some
impact. There is pain, and grating of flesh against stone. For the
briefest moment I am confused, like one just waking from a vivid dream.
Then I see a body, on hands and knees over my legs, having dived into me
from the right. Rage floods through me instantly, as if it has always
been there. The ignorant brutes can't even keep from interfering in my
most private moments! I kick his chest with both legs, knocking him away
so that he rolls back until he is a pace away from me and seated in a
clumsy sprawl. As quickly I roll forward to my knees and move after him.
The wakizashi's wrapping begins to unwind and trail behind the blade
like the tail of a comet as I raise it sideways, holding it over my head
for the quick slash downward. As I loom over the man he moves forward,
pride and ferocity in his bearing. He snaps his head back to expose the
vital areas of the throat and barks "Ko choro an!"
"Do what you must."
The ritual words stop me as if paralyzed, frozen in attack posture,
the wakizashi still held overhead. The cloth still hanging from the
blade waves in the wind. I recognize the face of the stewmonger, eyes
locked into my own. He is frightened, but he does not move. There is an
instant to wonder how he comes to know our customs so well. Then he says
the words again, softly this time and, unlike that damned fool of a
chronicler perfectly, with no trace of accent. "Do what you must."
He is right. I have murdered; I cannot expunge their blood with my
own. In death there is escape, but the situation remains behind. It is
only an escape, the apotheosis of self-pity. There is no honor in death
to avoid responsibility. The realization is painful. Something I have
been taught since childhood is a lie, but the stewseller is right! Honor
requires the facing of responsibility, living with it, dealing with it.
I will do what I must. I will go on.
There is a clatter as the wakizashi falls from limp fingers to the
stone. I fall forward, sobbing like a child and he draws me in and holds
me silently. It's a hard thing; nothing has seemed to take on such scope
before. Life had always seemed so brief a thing.
When we rise to our feet there is blood, soaking my clothing,
dripping into the crumpled length of rice paper. The blade of my
wakizashi has slashed my side during the aborted thrust and my fall.
Working quickly and efficiently the stew seller bandages it with the
cloth from the blade. He is a man of many talents, my rescuer. I wonder
why he contents himself selling fish stew on the docks.
From a pocket he takes my coin pouch and returns it to me. "If my
stew is so bad, I shouldn't charge so much for it." A light comment,
denying the seriousness of the incident. He is telling me that the
matter is closed. I bow deeply and he returns the bow, then turns and
walks back toward his cart.
I retrieve my swords and return them to their place. Suddenly
freed, the bloody length of rice paper whips away in the wind. It is
carried over the harbor for perhaps the length of a ship before
fluttering down to float on the surface of the water. My blood soaks
into the water, and the outgoing tide carries it toward distant Bichu.
========================================================================
What are Little Girls Made of?
by Bryan Maloney
<jacobus@sonata.cc.purdue.edu>
Aimee held her breath when she heard more crashing from outside.
Were the Be-innyson soldiers coming again? She wished that she was in
the castle with Daddy and Grandfather. She closed her eyes and wished
harder, so hard that she could feel her fingernails digging into her
hands. She opened her eyes and saw she was still in Grandfather's shop.
Wishing never worked by itself--you had to go and make it work for even
the littlest things.
She'd been here since yesterday, when the Be-innyson soldiers
started throwing rocks at the city walls. She'd been taken to Old Town
with the other children and put near the castle--but she had left
something very important behind. When Grandfather picked her up and put
her in the wagon to Old Town her puppy Karl had jumped out of her arms
and run into Grandfather's home.
Grandfather told her that he'd make sure to bring Karl if he had to
go to Old Town too. Then she'd heard that the Be-innysons had made holes
in the New Town wall and were coming in. She was smart enough to know
that Grandfather would be too busy to find Karl, so she sneaked out--it
was easy enough with so many children around--to find Karl.
When she got to Grandfather's, Karl was there--but Grandfather
wasn't. The puppy was upstairs in Grandfather's rooms. He had tipped
over a jug of Grandfather's awful, bitter drink and was lapping at it.
Aimee had to laugh at the way the puppy staggered and yelped--like
Grandfather did during the Melrin festival. Aimee had gathered the puppy
in her arms and was about to leave when she heard marching, clanking
feet.
She ran to a rope hanging over a table and pulled her feet up,
dangling with one hand while the other held Karl. Slowly, the stairs to
the attic came down, and Aimee climbed them. She sat on a projecting
board she had fastened to the stairs (when Grandfather was away once)
and pushed them closed. Then she pulled the rope up through its hole.
She carefully made her way around the holes in the floor to the attic
window. There she lay down to watch the street.
Soldiers were coming from her left. They marched in straight rows,
making a terrible noise. She could tell that they weren't Dargon's
soldiers. They had square shields and carried an ugly banner with a big
metal bird on top of it. They had to be Be-innysons!
Aimee was nervous, but not really scared. She'd remembered hearing
Grandfather tell Goodman Corambis that the attic had been made by
smuggil-ers to hide in and see down below. (The next day she sneaked
into the attic to see. Grandfather was right--she could see everything
through the holes in the floor. Best of all, Grandfather couldn't see
her. The ceiling was built very high with rough logs and painted to make
the holes look like parts of a pattern.)
Then she saw Thomas Redcap. He had been sleeping in a doorway.
Thomas was always drunk and he smelled bad, so Aimee stayed away from
him. But nobody ever did anything to him because he never hurt anyone.
Two of the soldiers had picked him up and were shaking him awake. Thomas
woke up and the head soldier--did Be-innysons have captains?--said
something to him. Aimee suppressed a laugh--Be-innysons were stupid
people! Everybody knew that Thomas couldn't say his own name just after
he woke up.
Thomas just stared at the soldier. When the soldier started to
yell, Thomas tried to run. The soldier took his sword and stabbed Thomas
in the back. Thomas kept trying to run, but the soldier kept stabbing
him. Finally, Thomas fell down and the soldier stabbed him in the neck.
Aimee started shaking--these were terrible men! They were demons
like Mother Clariss the Priestess had told her about! She watched the
men pick up Thomas and toss him in the gutter. Some of them actually
laughed! Then the captain shouted something Aimee didn't understand and
the men went into buildings.
Aimee froze, clutching Karl. Three of them had come into
Grandfather's place! If they would kill harmless old Thomas Redcap, what
would they do to her? She inched over to a smaller peephole and looked
into the rooms below. Karl squirmed and whimpered.
"Be quiet, Karl!" she whispered.
Karl tried to lick her face. He began to wriggle more, and Aimee
was afraid that he would start to bark. She couldn't let him go--he
might fall into one of the larger holes and start to yowl. What could
she do?
Karl then belched, softly. Aimee grimaced. he smelled just like
Daddy and Grandfather did at the Melrin festival--of course! Grandfather
kept some of his jugs up here in the winter so they would be cold when
he drank them. Maybe he'd forgot to take some down this spring. Aimee
looked around until she spied a pile of earthen jugs.
"Will you be quiet if I give you a drink?" Aimee whispered as she
crawled over to the jugs. The clay stopper was fastened with wax, and
she had to dig at it with her fingernails. Karl, smelling the beverage,
was whining in anticipation.
Aimee pulled the stopper out and poured some of the brown contents
into a depression on the floor. Karl lapped fast and furious. Aimee then
went back to the peephole.
The soldiers had come up the stairs from the public rooms and were
searching Grandfather's rooms, turning over everything that could move.
Aimee was glad that the table was heavy oak, or she would have to jump
from the bottom of the stairs when she left. Finally, one of the
soldiers found Grandfather's jugs he kept by the table. They laughed and
stuffed them into their packs. Then they left.
Aimee went back to the attic window and looked at the street. The
soldiers were gathering together. The captain yelled something and they
went back into lines and marched away. After they were out of sight,
Aimee went to the board nailed to the stairs and lowered them. Then she
scampered down and went immediately to a cupboard that had been ripped
open. She ran her fingers on the top of the bottom shelf, along the
outside rim, until she found a catch. She pulled the catch and a small
door on the opposite wall swung ajar. This was another thing made by
smuggil-ers, according to Grandfather. She ran to the secret cupboard
and looked--it was there.
Grandfather had once been a soldier, and he had kept a few
souvineers. One was a big greatsword, too heavy for Aimee to lift.
Another was a decorated crossbow that Grandfather had gotten as a gift
for helping in some battle or another. The greatsword was
gone--Grandfather took it with him probably, but the crossbow was still
there, hidden with Grandfather's other treasures. She knew that she
couldn't wield it, but she would still feel safer if she had it with
her. She grabbed the weapon and a handful of silver-inlaid bolts and ran
back into the attic, withdrawing the stairs behind her.
"I know what I'll do." She thought, "I'll wait here until I see
some Dargon soldiers march by, and then I'll come down and tell them I'm
Aimee Taishent and they'll take me to the castle because Daddy's in the
guard."
She lay down by the attic window and watched the street. After a
while, Karl staggered next to her and collapsed in a heap.
"Did you have enough?" Aimee whispered.
Karl emitted an enormous belch and went to sleep.
"Karl, you smell worse than Thomas Redcap." Then she
remembered--Thomas lay on the street, dead, holes poked into his body by
the Be-innysons. Softly, Aimee began to cry. The tears flowed smoothly
down her cheeks until they dripped on the floor. Then she began to sob,
trembling. Her throat started hurting, but still she cried. Her head
started hurting--still she cried. Aimee wept until after sundown. Then
she slept.
She woke the next morning to the sounds of battle. She looked out
the attic window to see a mob fleeing down the street. Behind them were
more Be-innysons. They were hitting people, not even chasing them. Just
running over them and killing them. Aimee suddenly felt terribly guilty.
"I'll never knock over another anthill. I promise." She whispered.
"Just please, Bright Cahleyna, don't let the soldiers come in here."
The mob passed and the soldiers followed them, not stopping to look
in any buildings. Aimee breathed a sigh of relief. How long would it be
before the Dargon soldiers came by? Would they ever? There were so many
Be-innysons, what if they won? Would they come and kill her like they
did Thomas Redcap? She started to cry again.
She stopped when she heard Karl whining. The puppy was lying on his
belly, forepaws over his ears, eyes tightly shut.
"It serves you right, Karl." Aimee whispered. "Now you'll remember
how awful that stuff is to drink." Aimee then realized how terribly
hungry and thirsty she was. She also needed to go outside--badly. But
the Be-innysons were out there! She looked around until she saw some old
junk in a corner. Maybe there was a chamber pot in the pile!
Desperately, she climbed into the castoffs and began to dig. The pile
was huge--Grandfather never threw anything out. She began to tunnel into
the heap, which nearly touched the roof.
"There's my toy cart!" Aimee stated.
Karl stood at Aimee's exclamation and dragged himself to the pile.
He whimpered at his mistress.
"Karl, I was going to pull you around in this, but a wheel fell
off. Grandfather said he would fix it, but I guess he just lost it in
this mess. I'll make him put it together when he comes back." Aimee
stopped digging. Would Grandfather come back? Would anyone? She started
to cry, but her sobbing breaths reminded her of a lower call. She
quested further into the heap. Finally, she caught at glimpse of glazed
clay. Tossing small bits of junk aside, she found a cracked chamber pot.
After she relieved herself, she had a terrible thought--"How do I
get rid of this?" she asked herself. Aimee decided that she would have
to leave it here until she could think of something.
She was still thirsty, though. Aimee grit her teeth and picked up a
jug. She pried it open and took a drink. Yak! It was even more awful
than she remembered. But it helped her throat, so she drank more. She
put the stopper on the jug and sat down next to the attic window,
watching the street for Dargon soldiers. Karl wobbled over and lay down
beside her. Aimee picked him up.
"Karl, I wish you were a great knight like the old Duke Clifton,
then you'd put me on your horse and we'd ride straight to the castle.
And if any Be-innyson soldiers tried to stop us, you'd take your sword
and kill them." Aimee thought about the Be-innysons; she thought about
Thomas Redcap; she thought about the people running away, killed like
ants; and a strange feeling started inside her. It was cold, but somehow
comforting. The more she felt it, the better she felt.
"I hate you, Be-innysons." she said, and for the first time in her
life, she knew what that meant.
Aimee watch the street until she had to relieve herself again. She
went over to the chamber pot--it stank. Aimee sighed, there was no
helping it. Grandfather would understand about the smell. She walked to
the chimney and unlatched a metal door. Grandfather had put it in
himself so he wouldn't have to hire a sweep to clean the flue and he
wouldn't have to go on the roof to clean it himself. The special bendy
brush Grandfather used was on the floor beside the chimney.
She opened the door and poured the contents of the chamber pot down
the chimney. Grandfather kept the flue closed unless he had a fire, so
she knew it wouldn't splatter in the fireplace and give her away. She
would have to remember to warn him before he opened the flue next time.
Again she relieved herself and emptied the pot. That was when she heard
the crash.
She crept to a peephole and looked down. A Be-innyson soldier had
chased an older girl into the building and up the stairs to the rooms
below. He had a terrible grin on his face. He grabbed the girl and threw
her onto the floor. Then he ripped her skirts and petticoats off and
opened his codpiece. Aimee immediately knew that the man wanted to sex
(or s-e-x, as Grandfather always said around her. She was six
already--she'd heard what grownups did! Anyway, she'd seen Karl get
born.), but the girl didn't want to--the soldier was going to hurt her!
A flame started in Aimee's heart and crept up her throat. She was
going to stop him! He was a Be-innyson, and all they ever did was hurt
people. She didn't care how big he was or what weapons he had. Aimee
Taishent was going to stop him! She scampered to the attic window--no
one was on the street. At least it was only him. The girl had started
screaming. Aimee went to a peephole and looked down. She saw the man
forcing the girl onto the floor. Desperate, Aimee caught the crossbow on
a nail jutting from a pillar and pulled back the string with both hands.
"Please, Father Ol, keep the string from breaking."
Aimee pulled, leaning away from the crossbow. The string dug into
her fingers, feeling like a knife. Finally, the catch clicked--the bow
was cocked.
Her fingers hurt too much to move--there was already a purple line
across them--but she forced herself to drop the bolt into its slot, like
she had seen the guards do in practice. Then she started running toward
the stairs.
On her way, a flash caught her eye. The soldier was right under one
of the larger holes in the floor--Grandfather called them murder holes.
It was very big, Aimee had almost caught her foot in it. She looked down
and saw the soldier's back, right below her. She carefully aimed into
the hole and and gasped as the bolt slid out of the crossbow and through
the hole below. You had to hold the bow straight! She'd heard Daddy tell
that to his men, but had forgotten. She remembered now.
Aimee heard the soldier shout and then a crash. What would he do?
He couldn't get to the stairs, she knew that, but what would he do? She
looked down through the hole. The soldier wasn't there, but the girl
was. Her head bled and she lay in a ball, quaking. Where was the
soldier?
Aimee ran to another murder hole and looked down--no soldier! Had
she scared him away? She ran to the stairs to lower them, but stopped
dead as she saw them come down by themselves. Frozen with fear, she
watched as the Be-innyson soldier came up the stairs, holding a
pole-arm with a hook upon it. He smiled at Aimee and approached her,
weapon held low.
Aimee stared at the soldier as he walked toward her. He was
talking, saying something she couldn't understand. When he had cleared
half the distance between them, Karl charged the foreigner with a
squeaking snarl. The soldier batted the pup aside with his polearm.
As soon as Karl took to the air, yelping, Aimee awoke. The soldier
wanted to hurt her! She ran around the soldier, trying to make for the
stairs, but he just turned and swung his polearm in front of her. She
tried to duck around the weapon, but the soldier just stepped and hit
her with the haft.
She fell over, bruised, and heard the soldier laugh. She looked up
and saw him heft his weapon, then he swung it. The blade descended upon
her like a foot upon a beetle. Aimee tensed herself for the blow, her
last, when she heard a thump beside her. The soldier had missed! Was he
too drunk to hit her? She looked at him and her hopes died as she heard
him start to laugh. He aimed another blow at her, missing by inches. He
was playing with her--just like boys played with rats!
Aimee scrambled backwards on all fours; the soldier advanced,
smirking. He said something in his own tongue and laughed. Aimee still
went back. The soldier stopped to watch her. Finally, Aimee hit
something--it was the junk heap. She started to climb into it and froze
as the soldier yelled and charged toward her, weapon lowered.
Desperate, she grabbed at the pile below her. Her hands came up
with a piece of wood. It was the shaft from Grandfather's old cloak
tree. She had broken it last year by swinging from it and knocking it
over. Grandfather was so mad he didn't even spank her--he just told
Daddy! She pulled up the piece of wood and held the end before her--the
top with a pointed bit. It wasn't long enough! The soldier's weapon was
easily twice as long. And she couldn't even pick it up besides, the
other end was tightly wedged in the pile.
"I'm sorry, Daddy." she whispered.
At that moment, the soldier discovered one of the murder holes. His
right foot came down exactly upon a larger one and went in. The bones of
his ankle ground against each other and cracked. Yet the momentum of his
charge was too great to be halted by this minor setback. Instead, his
body flew the last few yards through the air and landed upon Aimee. His
polearm entered the pile, headfirst, catching Aimee's skirts upon the
hook.
Aimee opened her eyes. Above her lay the soldier. Why wasn't he
doing anything? Then she noticed that her hands were warm. She looked
down to wher she had been holding up the end of the cloak tree and
gasped when she saw it go into the soldier. She looked up at the young
man. He was a youth, with a light mustache beginning to form. Aimee
noticed that his hair was reddish and looked very soft. He was
motionless, breath coming in ragged gasps. Tears poured from his eyes.
Aimee watched the final spasm shake the soldier before he stopped
breathing. Then she looked at his face. He had the same look that Thomas
Redcap did when the soldiers cut him down.
Aimee went limp on the pile, sobbing. She was as bad as the
Be-innysons! She thought that killing the soldier would make her feel
better, but it didn't. She felt awful, even worse than the time she had
been throwing stones to knock down apples and accidentally hit a
squirrel. She dragged herself out of the pile, tearing her skirt on the
hook. Sobbing, she ran down the stairs.
More than anything she had to get away--she'd killed somebody. That
was the worst thing you could do! Grandfather had taught her that Ol and
Cahleyna valued all life, and now she had killed someone. She had to
hide--go where no one could find her. She ran for the stairs to the
street level when she collided with a soft form.
"Where did you come from?" Aimee heard someone say.
Aimee looked up and saw the face of the girl. Unable to speak,
Aimee pointed up.
"You say you came from heaven?" The girl's eyes were wide. "Were
you an angel sent by Cephas Stevene to rescue me?"
"No." Aimee was finally able to say. "I came from the attic. I
tried to shoot the bolt at him and he--" Aimee burst again into tears.
"I killed him!"
The girl held Aimee tighter. "It's all right, honey. He was going
to hurt me, and you only wanted to stop him." Aimee felt a hand on her
chin, lifting her face.
"I am Marta, what's your name?"
"Aimee, Aimee Taishent." Aimee said.
"Are you related to the mage?"
"He's my grandfather!"
"No wonder you're so brave. Living around magic must be very
exciting. I bet you can even read." Marta smiled and stroked Aimee's
hair.
"It's not all that exciting." Aimee said, "Usually he just sits and
studies, except when he has a customer, but I can read."
"Where is your Grandfather?"
"He's in Old Town. He went there when the Be-innysons--when
they--when--" Aimee began crying again.
"It's all right, honey. One way or another, it will be over soon."
Aimee and Marta embraced, each comforting the other.
After a time, Aimee snuffed and said, "Go into the attic, it's not
safe to be down here."
"What about you?" Marta asked.
"I'll be right behind you." Aimee said. Yesterday she had been so
scared that she forgot Grandfather's secret stash. It was where he kept
all the wonderful things he wasn't supposed to eat at his age. She
crawled under the table and pushed a knothole--smuggil-ers had to be the
most fun people. A small trapdoor pushed up and Aimee lifted it.
Underneath were pickled sweetmeats and fish salted so heavy it
crackled. There were also some pickled plums from Bichu. Aimee liked
these, even if they burned on the way down and made her feel funny. She
put it all on the table and closed the trap door. Then she climbed on
the table and put the lot in her torn skirt. After she climbed into the
attic she sat the food on the floor and raised the stairs.
As she finished pulling up the stairs, she remembered--the soldier
was up here! She couldn't turn around, she might see him. Aimee stood,
trembling, and stared at the stairs.
"It's all right, Aimee, I covered him."
Aimee turned around. Marta had covered him with the blanket she had
taken from Grandfather's bed to cover herself up. She was trying to pull
her ruined skirts around her.
"Wait, Marta." Aimee lowered the stairs and ran down. For once she
was glad that Grandfather got cold. Sometimes she hated how he always
had two blankets--it made sleeping with him too hot. She pulled the
other blanked out from under the bed and brought it into the attic. When
she returned, Marta had already started on the sweetmeats.
"I haven't eaten since before yesterday." she said.
"Neither did I." Aimee replied. "I'll get something to drink." She
walked to the jugs and got one. The two began to feast, only pausing to
drink the over-warm beer.
When they had finished eating, Aimee went to the attic window.
"What are you looking for?" Marta asked.
"I'm waiting for Dargon soldiers."
"Oh." Marta sat, quietly.
After a time, Aimee looked back at Marta. The older girl was
sitting, rocking back and forth. Tears flowed down her cheeks and
throat. Her body shook with silent sobs. Aimee ran over to her.
"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Aimee put her arms around Marta.
"That man--he wanted to..." Marta put her head down.
"I could see that, but I stopped him." Aimee was puzzled. He hadn't
been able to hurt Marta, but Marta still seemed hurt.
"I know you stopped him, and he didn't hurt my body, but he hurt my
heart." Marta wiped her face. "He scared me and tried to do something
terrible." Marta began sobbing.
"He broke the Third Law of your Stevene, didn't he, Marta?"
"What do you know about that, Aimee? They don't teach the Third Law
to little girls."
"I can read. Mother Clariss is a Priestess for Stevene and she used
to come around and talk to me before Grandfather chased her away. One
time I sneaked one of her books out of her pouch. I kept it up here
until Grandfather found it. He was so mad--I don't know why."
"Perhaps your Grandfather is pagan...mine was."
"I don't know about that, but he made me pray all day to Ol for
that."
Marta looked Aimee in the eyes, "Then you worship Ol?..."
"Of course I do. Grandfather tells me all about him."
Marta took Aimee on her lap. "Despise not the pagan, for they may
still be good of heart." she whispered.
"What did you say?" asked Aimee.
"Just a little prayer of thanks that you were here, Aimee--What
were you saying about the Third Law?" Marta dried her eyes.
"Well, I think it goes: 'The sexyoual act is a sacrament. It is a
holy gift of pleasure...' that means good feeling, you know."
"Yes, I know, Aimee." Marta smiled, faintly. "Go on."
"...'a holy gift of pleasure from God. He who violates this gift
shall burn, but she who is violated...' Why did Seefas Stevene say 'she'
there, anyway?"
Marta sighed, "I think he had some idea what things are like in the
real world."
"Okay, anyway: '...she who is violated is as pure as before, by My
Holy Word. Let none gainsay...' That means disagree. '...this decree."
"Thank you Aimee." Marta hugged the young girl.
"Do you want to pray, Marta?"
"I would like that."
Marta recited the Plea to Stevene and the Creed of Mercy. Aimee
listened to the alian phrases. Stevene people prayed strangely, all full
of begging and pleading. Praying to Cahleyna and Ol was much easier. You
just thanked them for the good things and asked them to help with the
bad things. When Marta was done Aimee looked into her eyes. They were
brown and dark, just like Karl's fur--Karl! Where was he? She looked
around the attic and then, to her horror heard, at the same time, Karl
barking from below and a roar, like the parade at Melrin Festival,
coming down the street.
"I've got to get Karl!" Aimee cried as she ran to the stairs.
"No, Aimee, the battle's come this way." Marta grabbed Aimee and
held her tight. "Anyway, you've already proven that the Stevene looks
after brave little girls and foolish puppies very well."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." Marta lied.
The two sat by the attic window to watch, fearfully.
"They're coming." Marta whispered.
Around the corner came a Beinison legion, banner torn, shields
broken, ranks ragged. Behind them was a veritable mob of an army. Here a
soldier in fine armor hacked at a Beinison shield; there three street
toughs pelted a lone Beinison with cudgels. Old men threw rocks; young
men wielded spears. It was a rabble, but it drove the foreigners back.
Behind this line were ranks of ill-matched soldiery. Dargon personal
guard mixing with town militia. Noblemen marching alongside common
thugs.
The two girls watched the foreigners get pushed down the street,
almost as if the stones of the city had risen against them. Then there
was quiet.
"Do you think we should go out?" Aimee asked.
"We ought to wait for our soldiers to look for us. Things could
change."
Aimee nodded, and the two waited, breathlessly.
Hours later, after sundown, the girls heard noise from below.
"She's got to be here!" They heard a man yell, "It's the only place
she'd go!"
Aimee ran to the stairs and lowered them as fast as she could.
"Aimee, stop, it could be a trick!" Marta called.
Aimee, heedless, ran down the stairs, one word on her lips.
"Daddy!" She ran into her father's arms.
"I guess we found her, Lieutenant." a soldier in sergeant's livery
said. "Anything else you want?"
"No, thank you sergeant." Jerid Taishent replied. "You can go now."
"Right!" The sergeant saluted. "All right, you crowmeat, we've got
Beinison cowards to mop up! Move yer asses!"
The soldiers left at a trot.
Marta walked down the stairs, blanket wrapped around her. Jerid
looked up at the sound of her. The first thing he saw were her eyes.
Somehow he couldn't look away.
"Who is this, Aimee?" Taishent asked.
Marta blushed and pulled at the blanket.
"That's Marta, Daddy." Aimee said. "Some man tried to hurt her so I
killed him."
Jerid winced at his daughter's words.
"Beggin' yer pardon, sir," the Sergeant had returned, "but we'll be
needin' ye to help wi' the moppin' up."
"I'll be right there," Jerid said. He put Aimee down. "You stay
here until Grandfather or I come for you. Will you do that? Don't come
out of the attic unless you actually see one of us."
"I'll wait right here." Aimee said, seriously. "Karl!" Aimee dived
under the bed and retrieved the wriggling puppy. "You'd better stay with
me, or some Be-innyson will come along and cut you into gloves."
As Jerid left the shop, his sergeant approached him.
"Me 'n the men," he said, "would like to say that we're sore happy
that ye lost none o' yer family."
"Sergeant," Jerid replied, "Thank you--and the men--for that, but
you're wrong." Tears frosted his eyes. "My little girl died today."
========================================================================
"Can you see anything ahead?" the merchant called up to the lanky
guard in the lead. His voice fell dead amid the damp moss and still
water. "Do you see the castle? Ragan?"
"No, Burgamy, I can't see the castle yet," Ragan replied with
exaggerated patience. It wouldn't do to aggravate the man who was paying
him, no matter what he thought of the heavy-set fool. "Be careful," he
warned after a minute. "There's a fallen tree in the path. Goddam
swamp."
The sound of dull splashing in the thin veneer of water fell dead
amid the dangling vines and moss. The usual tenants of the marshy area
were silent as the intruders noisily made their way through. Ragan led
his horse around the green and brown obstacle, leather armor creaking
softly over his cursing. Behind him, rich vermillion cloak dragging in
the scummy water, paced Burgamy. He paused briefly and glanced over his
shoulder at his companions.
"Are you all right, Sister Moya?" he asked solicitiously as a
woman, clad in what surely used to be a white robe, appeared out of the
ragged mist. He offered a plump fingered hand to assist her forward.
"I am well, thank you, Burgamy," replied Moya, avoiding the
merchant's grasp. She paused to allow her mount, also white, to steady
its footing, then continued around the tree.
Burgamy made a disappointed sound deep in his throat and turned to
follow.
"She won't have you, merchant," laughed a voice from behind him. A
rakish figure in gaudy red and blue appeared beside him, a globe of
bright green trailing along like a puppy behind. "You know how those
*devout* Stevenic women are. You won't see her outside of chapel, let
alone out of her robes."
"Silence, juggler. I didn't ask your opinion."
"That's High Mage Tagir to you," admonished the mage cheerfully.
"Coming, oh great Sir Knight?" he called over his shoulder as the
merchant moved off after Moya.
"Coming, High Mage," a voice, followed by a large man clad in a
remarkably shiny breast plate and a green surcoat. He was the only
traveller not leading a horse. He paused beside Tagir. "Move it, boy."
Bringing up the rear was a fourteen or fifteen year old boy,
leading a heavy horse, a pony, and two mules. His worn tunic bore the
same crest that blazoned the shield slung over the knight's back.
"Yes, Sir Ceneham." Gindar, the squire, picked his sodden feet up a
little faster.
The motly party had been tracking around this swamp for days in
search of a lost keep that Burgamy claimed was filled with treasure. The
merchant had hired his companions for half of whatever treasure was
found, to be divided among the five as they chose. Following a few
obscure references in a an old diary he'd found, they made their way
into the marshy tracts upriver of Quiron Keep. Each had their own
reasons for coming, be they honor, adventure, or holy quest. Burgamy
didn't much care why they were there, only that they followed his orders
and abided by their half of the agreement. There hadn't been any
difficulties as yet.
"I've hit solid ground," declared Ragan out of the mist. "And the
fog clears up once you get here."
"About damned time," Burgamy muttered. "Can you see the keep?" He
laboriously climbed the little rise that elevated him a few feet above
the water line to stand beside the thin man. Behind them, the rest of
the party straggled up.
Ragan pointed to a large, shadowy lump in the growing dusk. "That
looks to be it."
Burgamy's hungry eyes devoured every curve in the indicated
direction before turning reluctantly back to his companions. "Since it
will soon be too dark to investigate, we'll camp here for the night."
The squire promptly dropped the reins of the animals he was leading
and stared pulling dry fire wood out of the oiled canvas pack on one of
the mules. Ragan's muttered "First intellegent order he's given all
week," was lost in the general bustle to set up camp before sunset.
Following traditions set from the first day of their journey, the
squire laid out the fire, and went to tend the horses. The fire was
always lit by Tagir, as the wood was too damp to respond easily to
normal flames. Ragan staked out a perimeter while Burgamy and Sir
Ceneham rested by the dancing fire. Sister Moya had taken care of
providing fresh drinking water, since their own stores ran out a few
days ago.
She carried an iron pot down to the edge of the swamp and collected
as much water as she could. Bringing it back to camp, she knelt beside
the fire, leaning over the pot.
"We have drinking water yet, Sister?" demanded Sir Ceneham a few
minutes later, coming closer and looming over the woman.
"In God's time, Sir Knight," replied Moya placidly, not stopping
her prayers.
"I just wish God would hurry," muttered the man, pacing away,
around the fire and back behind the priestess. Realizing that his
glaring was having no effect, Ceneham went over to harass his squire.
This too was a ritual, and no one bothered to take notice any more.
The boy took the berating in stoic silence. When you're finished
with this, do that. When you finish with that, polish my armor, and make
sure there's not a single speck of rust on it. Since coming into the
swamp, rust was Ceneham's biggest concern. By the time he'd finished his
list of orders, the water was already being made into soup.
The ruins were silent. A coat of dampened dust layered everything
and tainted sunlight crept down the holes in the ceiling through the
remains of the second floor. The musty scent of wet stones mingled with
the smell of rotting plants. Torchlight caused the shadows to dance
against the worn stone floor and unsteady walls.
"This way," said Sir Ceneham, voice rolling out from beneath the
heavy torch. The sound of cascading chainmail echoed slightly in the
crumbling hall. He'd decided that since there might be wild creatures
holed up in the keep's remains, that he should be better armored, so he
could better protect the party. He cut an impressive figure in the full
armor; it was the first time he was able to wear the entire suit on this
little expedition without the fear of sinking into the muck and was
enjoying preening in front of the group. No one paid him much attention.
"Are you certain, Sir Ceneham?" was the return query from behind
the light. Burgamy, with Tagir at his side, moved up next to the knight.
"Quite certain," was the sharp reply. Because his back was to the
merchant, Burgamy couldn't see the look of contempt on his face. "I've
walked through many hallways in many keeps. This one is no different."
"Unless they changed the floor plans from the last time you were
here," teased Tagir, his magelight making him look faintly sinister. "If
you get lost, call. I'll be happy to help you out."
"Thank you, magician," said Sir Ceneham through clentched teeth. He
had to force himself to be polite to the cocksure mage. Considering the
man could kill him with a single spell or two, it was well worth the
effort.
"Can we get on with this?" Burgamy demanded peevishly. "Where's the
rest of the party?"
"Listening to you argue," said Ragan bitingly. "If there's anything
around, it's sure to know where we are."
"We haven't seen a living creature since we crossed the
drawbridge," scoffed Ceneham. "And that includes the gods cursed
insects."
"Except that squirrel Gindar tossed rocks at," observed Tagir.
"Don't swear, Sir Knight," said Moya softly. She held her robe a
few inches off the keep floor out of habit, despite the fact that the
hem was nearly black with mud. "Taking the Lord's name in vain isn't
necessary."
"I'll decide what's necessary, Sister. Where's my damned squire?"
While Gindar rejoined the party from gathering more rocks, Ragan
and Tagir started investigating deeper down the corridor. They found a
door which Ragan was busily investigating when the rest of the party
joined them.
"There seems to have been a trap set on the lock," he observed
professionally, pulling a bit of metal out of his pouch. "Opening the
door sets the trigger off. Somebody was obviously paranoid about his
privacy. It's a pretty good lock to have lasted all this time."
"Just how old is it?" asked Tagir, curiously peering over his
shoulder.
"How should I know? It's not new, that much I can tell you. Now, if
someone will push the door open, this should keep the mechanism from
triggering."
"Be careful. There might be something dangerous in there,"
whimpered Gindar. Moya put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Cautiously, torch held high, sword drawn in in his other hand,
Ceneham kicked the door open. The worn wood crashed back on its green
brass hinges. Silence rolled in after the echo and torchlight
illuminated the damp, dusty bedroom. Off in a corner a pair of bright
black eyes watched the group enter.
"Well, there's your dangerous monster," laughed Tagir, pointing.
The creature twitched its bushy tail and cocked its head to one side for
a better view.
"A gods be damned squirrel!" swore the knight angrily. He
brandished his sword in the animal's general direction. The squirrel sat
up on its hind legs and stuffed another seed into its mouth.
"Oh, allow me to deal with it," Tagir said gleefully, making a few
slight gestures. "Wouldn't want you to strain yourself on something so
deadly."
A thin jet of fire leapt out from the mage's finger towards the
squirrel. With a surprised noise, the animal jumped and bolted for the
door, past the kneeling Ragan.
The mage laughed again, and beneath his half helm Ceneham smiled
grimly. His squire giggled. Burgamy started to search the room while
Sister Moya looked on disapprovingly.
The merchant was soon joined by Ceneham and his squire in
ransacking the remains of the room. Ever helpful, Tagir lit his light
and centered himself so that he could illuminate every corner. Sister
Moya waited patiently for them to finish. It didn't take long. Four
pieces of tarnished jewelry and a pile of dead moths later they grouped
back together by the white clad woman.
"This was a bit of a disappointment," commented Tagir. "I wonder
why the former occupant wasted so much time on a trap for such paltry
remains." He glanced casually about the room as though trying to
determine something of the former occupant from the wreackage.
"Let's try and find the real treasure," Burgamy said, pocketing the
dirty bits of gold. "We'll divide this later."
"Yes, we will," growled Ceneham darkly as the merchant walked out
past the still kneeling Ragan. "Come on, man," he added, slapping the
mercenary on the shoulder as he went by.
Ragan fell flat when Ceneham touched him.
Moya stifled a surprised scream.
"Oh, yuk," added the squire.
A short, thick bolt protruded from the back of Ragan's neck.
Quickly pulling herself together, Moya stepped up to the body.
"High Mage Tagir, if you please."
Obligingly the magician allowed his light to fall over the wound,
turning the blood a sickly shade of purple. The rest of the party
grouped around the priestess as she probed around the bolt with skillful
fingers.
"There is nothing I can do for him," she pronounced finally. "I
assume that the trap he discovered was set off, as there was no
indication of someone about to shoot him. The wound was poisoned as soon
as he was hit. Even if I could have gotten to him immediately, I don't
think I could have negated the poison."
The party was silent while the nun prayed over the body, then
Burgamy shrugged. "Means a larger share of the treasure for the rest of
you. Let's go."
Moya's head snapped around at the merchant's statement, real anger
in her usually peaceful eyes. The rest of the group walked out of the
room before she could say anything. Rather than be left alone in the
darkness, she completed her prayers and rose to leave.
"Oh, Lord, this is a difficult path You have set for me to follow.
But follow it I shall, and bite my tongue about my companions, because I
need them to complete Your holy task, to Your everlasting glory. Go in
peace Ragan." Making a gesture of blessing and another of reverence, she
followed the ragged company down the hall.
Several hours later they grouped together in the crumbling main
hall. Shafts of afternoon sunlight dribbled through the ceiling that
used to be the second story floor. No sounds beyond that which the party
made themselves could be heard.
Pickings had been lean throughout the first floor. A few pieces of
old fashioned jewelry in questionable condition and a small pile of
coins were all they had found for many hours of searching. The second
floor was in ruins and the likelyhood of finding anything of value there
without a full salvage company was unlikely. Ragged bits of what might
have once been tapestries were piled on the floor and the furniture, not
particularly stable to begin with but salvageable as antiques, had been
all but dismantled by the searchers. Burgamy was not happy.
"If you're trying to find the main treasury," said Ceneham after
the merchant finished his stream of complaints, "then it's probably down
with the cellars and the dungeons.
"Underground?" squeaked the squire.
"Where else, you twit?" Ceneham cuffed the boy, sending him into a
little heap on the moss covered flagstones. "What's the matter? You
afraid of the dark?"
"No, my lord," Gindar mumbled.
Tagir helped the boy up. He'd shut off his light several hours ago,
pleading fatigue, and now carried a torch just like everyone else.
"We can give the place a cursory look at least," said Tagir.
"There's enough light for that. We can investigate further if we find
something."
"That sounds like a satisfactory course of action," said Burgamy.
"All right, Sir Knight, lead the way."
Ceneham moved off and everyone fell in behind, the squire taking up
the rear.
The passage that led down to the cellars was in better repair than
the rest of the first floor. Dust covered the stairs, where wind
couldn't reach and largish rocks were scattered around like pebbles, but
the walls were intact and the steps solid. The unsteady torchlight
caused fungi and moss to glow an eerie pink.
As they rounded the final corner into a small antechamber, a pile
of rubble taller than the mage loomed up to block their path. Apparently
part of the roof had given way years ago, choking the corridor with dust
and dropping the impressive pile in the path.
Ceneham looked a little annoyed and the squire turned pale.
"And how do you propose we get past that?" Burgamy demanded,
glaring at the knight and the mage. "This was your idea." Although
ostesibly in charge of the party, the merchant was more than willing to
let someone else make the decisions so he could pass the blame of
failures off later. Ceneham glared back.
"Allow me," said Tagir, stepping forward with a flourish of cloak.
He pushed past the knight and the merchant and made a show of rolling up
his excessively full sleeves. Muttering softly, the mage made a few
obscure gestures and started shifting the rubble aside, into smaller
bundles than the amount should have been able to fit into.
The rest of the party stepped as much aside as possible to allow
him room to work.
A pair of heavy, jagged boulders became visible as the smaller
loose debris was cleared away. Tagir ended his first spell and took a
deep breath. Moya observed him closely, out of professional curiosity.
"I'll have to shift the rock straight up to get it out of the way,"
he declared. "You'll all have to move into the hall on the other side,
so I'll have someplace to put it."
"But how will we get back out?" asked Gindar, white faced.
"There will be room enough to move around the boulders once I shift
them away from one another," said the mage smugly. "Now stand back, but
be ready to run through after I move it." He began to gesture and mutter
again. After a long pause one of the stones shuddered and began to rise.
To get it clear of the intended walkway, Tagir had to levitate the rock
over his own head, which he did with agonizing slowness.
He nodded significantly to the party as the boulder reached the
designated threshold and watched as they passed, one by one beyond him.
Turning his his attention to the place he wanted to put his rock in, he
prepared to muster more power to do it.
Then his eyes went wide as he spotted something on the stairs.
It smiled at him, winked, then flickered into something else. And
in that brief instant of Tagir's shock, he lost control of the spell.
The rock landed with heavy finality, tiny plumes of dust rising to the
ceiling. The mage's four companions stared in silent horror and shock.
Moya fell slowly to her knees and started offering the prayer for
the dead.
"What do you think went wrong?" whispered Burgamy, staring, a
little glassy eyed at the dusty stone.
"Perhaps it got too heavy," Ceneham said. "He did indicate it would
be difficult." He didn't sound ver
y confident. Both men knew that
keeping the rock in the air was well within Tagir's powers.
"The damned squirrel is back," declared the squire abruptly.
The two men looked to where the boy pointed. Atop the boulder that
had crushed Tagir, the dark brown squirrel stared down at them. Its tail
twitched and it turned, vanishing into the shadows.
Ceneham cuffed his squire again .
"It wasn't important," he said sharply.
"I think it would be a good idea to go back up and camp for the
rest of the day," offered Burgamy hesitantly. To his surprise the knight
nodded in agreement. Ceneham touched the nun's arm with uncharateristic
gentleness to get her attention and repeated the suggestion.
Sister Moya started, looked up, then stood.
"I think open air would be a good idea," she said quietly. "And I
feel the need for purification."
Strangely, the knight made none of his usual caustic remarks. The
four made their way back up the narrow stairway and into the over-grown
courtyard. By unspoken agreement, no one wanted to shelter in the great
hall. Their horses and pack mules were still tethered by the remains of
the fire.
"If nothing else," commented Burgamy while Moya purified more water
for the evening meal and the squire polished Ceneham's armor, "you'll
get a larger share of the treasure."
Moya actually stopped in the middle of her prayers and turned to
glare at the merchant. "That is the second time that you have said
that," she said angrily. "There are two men dead and all you can think
of is gold?"
"Sister, I don't know why you came along, but the others were just
treasure hunters and adventure addicts," said Burgamy frankly, looking
steadily at Moya's face for the first time during the journey. "They
knew the risks, just like they knew the rewards, so save your
recriminations for the sinners and your pity for the masses. Ragan and
Tagir knew full well what they were getting into and don't deserve your
sympathy."
"And do you feel the same way, Sir Knight?" Moya turned to Ceneham,
trying with only moderate success to hide her horror at the merchant's
coldness.
Ceneham looked up from peering over his squire's shoulder. "I agree
with the merchant, Sister," he said calmly. "They were seasoned
professionals. They knew the potential consequences. Save your worry and
your prayers for the people who can benefit from them."
Moya stared at the two men for a minute more before turning back to
her pot of marsh water. Anger smoldered in her eyes. She hadn't been
prepared for such callousness when she undertook her holy journey and
joined with these companions. Some of Moya's faith faltered as she
listened to the camp sounds and knelt beside the pot.
It took longer then usual to get fresh water that night.
With two of their party members dead, it was necessary for
everyone, including Burgamy and Sister Moya, to take a turn on guard.
Gindar woke the merchant just after moon rise for the second watch. At
the knight's insistence, he carried the squire's short sword for
defense, and Ceneham's shield was leaned against a log so it could be
banged in case of an emergency.
Barely an hour had passed and already Burgamy was bored and sleepy.
Resolutely he started wandering around the perimeter of the camp with a
torch trying to stay awake. He allowed his mind to wander a little with
thoughts of himself, Sister Moya, a few common objects he kept around
his shop in town, and the wonderful things they could do together.
As he made another circle around the tiny camp a motion by a
boulder caught his distracted attention. Burgamy stopped in mid-fantasy
and mid-turn, gripping the short sword a little tighter in his sweaty
palm.
"Who's there?" he demanded hoarsely. As far as he had seen, none of
his companions had gotten up or even moved since the start of his watch.
There was a soft rustling of dry tipped marsh grass and a woman
stepped around the shadowed rock.
She was tall and slender, wearing nothing except the mane of
red-brown hair that spilled over her forehead and down her back. Pale
moonlight silvered her limbs from behind and the torches flickering
yellow glow caused shadows to dance on her taut stomach and breasts. Her
eyes were fathomless black in the uncertain light. She smiled at the
merchant, revealing long, even teeth in the yellow torchlight.
"How did you get here?" Burgamy asked, cautiously moving closer. He
wondered if he had dozed off during his watch after all and was having a
better dream than chaste Moya could ever provide.
The woman's smile deepened and she slipped around the rock with a
ripple of heavy hair.
"Hey! Come back here!" Abruptly more confidant, Burgamy followed
the elusive figure back into the first floor ruins.
They found Burgamy's body laying in the middle of the great hall,
stark naked, without a mark on him. His clothing was nowhere to be found
and no reason could be found for him to have come out to the great hall.
Sister Moya dropped her cloak over the body then blessed the dead
man while the squire triumphantly declared; "I told you I woke him up. I
didn't shirk my duty!"
"Silence, boy," growled Ceneham, adding another bruise to the
morning's set. Gindar accepted the cuff silently, and glared at the
knight after he turned away.
"We'll need to bury him," said Moya finally, gathering up her
skirts and standing.
"We don't have the time," Ceneham told her. "We need to find out
what killed him."
"We can't just leave him here!"
"We don't have a choice, Sister. And you didn't seem to have a
problem with leaving High Mage Tagir or Ragan, so I don't see the
trouble now." Ceneham turned away. "Now come on, if you're coming. I
want to check out that corridor where we lost the mage. The last thing
we need is something trying to kill us before we can finish our business
here." He marched off, calling for his squire to come help him with his
armor.
In the silence of the great hall, Moya again knelt and settled
herself to pray.
"Highest," she whispered softly. "I have erred. I did not do my
duty by my companions and thereby to You in their hour of need. I beg
Your forgiveness. Whatever they were in life, they are Yours now, either
cleansed or damned. Aid me then, in granting a last bit of decency to
their bodies, along with my prayers for their souls."
A soft white glow grew around Moya after a few seconds, then spread
towards the body of Burgamy. It touched it and leapt away, dividing
itself to go to the lower level and Tagir's resting place and along the
wall to where Ragan lay.
For an instant the glow became incandescent, then it faded, leaving
behind only Moya's dingy white cloak. The priestess opened her eyes and
sighed deeply with fatigue. Only rarely did she try spells of such
complexity, for just this reason. She spent a few more minutes in
contemplation and prayer before getting up to join her companions.
The dust had settled in little swirls around the rock that had
killed Tagir and the footprints from yesterday were wiped clean away.
Ceneham strode past without so much as a glance down, but Moya made a
gesture of blessing and warding and the squire went pale again.
They edged past the offset boulders and down another short flight
of stairs to a heavy door. Time, in conjunction with the damp had warped
the wood and turned the brass binding a sickly shade of green. Cobwebs
choked the corners of the frame and the ancient keyhole.
Ceneham made a quick survey of the barrier, then held his torch
back for the squire to take. With several powerful thrusts of his mailed
shoulder, the door bent back on its hinges, then fell to the cobbled
floor with a dull boom, ripping the now useless crossbow trap out of the
wall. Stale, musky air whispered up the corridor.
Gindar jumped at the quick succession of sounds, and Moya winced.
The knight took the torch back and stepped over the ruined planks into
the cellar. Pale torchfire trebled as Moya and the squire joined
Ceneham, reflecting off dank walls covered in something flourescent and
yellow. The mold gathered the light and aided in brightening the dim
chamber.
Chests were stacked along the walls, with tatterd, moldy bolts of
cloth leaning against them. Something long and wide lay in the center of
the room, covered in oiled canvas.
Gindar gasped softly.
"I'd say that we found the treasury," rumbled Ceneham, flipping
open one of the tattered lids. Leather bags, some with holes worn in
them, lay piled inside, and bits of gold and silver glinted through in
the wan light.
"I thought we were looking for what killed Burgamy," said Moya
sharply.
"You thought wrong, sister." Ceneham's voice was harsh. "He's dead,
just like the others. If what came after him comes after us, I'll kill
it. But until then, it's stupid to go looking for trouble." He turned
back to opening the chests. Gindar joined him, raising his torch high.
Furious, Moya glared at the knight's back, then turned and marched
out of the cellar. He was a lost cause, and she was worldly enough to
realize this, but she didn't have to stay in his company.
Ceneham didn't acknowledge the nun's leave-taking except to note
absently that there was a little less light to see by. He considered the
holy woman to be little more than a nuisince, useful only because with
her on the expedition they would neither starve, nor die of wounds taken
in combat. As a result of the sudden lessening of light and his slight
preoccupation, Ceneham misjudged the composition of the next thing he
picked up. The little box shattered in his hand as he grasped it like
one of the heavy leather bags.
Marsh nuts scattered over the damp floor.
"Ridiculous!" Ceneham stared at his fistful of splinters and nuts.
"Who the hell is stupid enough to keep nuts in boxes! Boy!"
"Sir?" Gindar appeared by his elbow, trying hard to conceal a
smile.
"Leave that torch and go get some more. And that lantern the mage
toted about with him. And make sure that damned nun didn't stray." The
knight dusted his hands off and his feet crunched on shells as he
wandered around the cellar searching idly.
Gindar quickly found two rusty scones to deposit the torches in,
then hurried back up the stairs and into open air. His relief was
indescribable. He didn't like the way the shadows moved in that cellar.
He'd never really liked cellars in general, but this one was worse than
any of the others he'd been in.
He trotted through the remains of the great hall and back out to
the campsite where Moya knelt in prayer. The torch she had been carrying
was stuck in the ground beside her, burning fitfully.
"Run off, indeed," sniffed the squire to himself. "She can't run
off any more than I can." In her case, she didn't have the survival
skills, in his, Ceneham would find him, no matter where he ran to and
make him wish he'd died. "Soon," Gindar thought, grabbing a handful of
unlit torches, then turning to root though the dead mage's packs. "Soon,
I'll know everything he does and I'll be able to do more than run." But
until that mythical time, he would follow and obey to the best of his
ability.
Arms filled with the lit and unlit torches and the battered metal
lantern, Gindar made his reluctant way back down to the cellar.
Moya was started out of her meditative prayer by the squire's
paniced screaming, echoing from the guts of the keep. She started up,
stood uncertainly for a second trying to place the disturbance, then ran
into the great hall.
Gindar nearly ran her down in his haste to escape the crumbling
walls. In his panic, he didn't recognize the hands that reached out to
try and halt his headlong flight. He struggled wildly as Moya pulled him
around and forced his back to a crumbling wall.
"What is it?" she demanded, giving the boy a brisk shake. "What's
happened?"
It took a sharp slap to get anything coherent out of the boy.
"C--C--Ceneham!" he stuttered out finally. "He's dead! Ripped to
pieces!"
"Lord above grant us mercy," breathed Moya. For a second she
wondered what could have been big enough to kill the knight, but silent
enough not to disturb her or the squire. Keeping a firm hand on Gindar's
skinny wrists, she pulled him back down to the cellar, repeating like a
litany that "God will protect us...God *will* protect us..."
Sir Ceneham was indeed dead, although he was not, as Gindar had
said, ripped to pieces.
His breast plate was rent open, not with the clean cuts of a sword,
but by four jagged gashes, as though some other-planer creature had
tried seeking his heart. Beneath his helm, Ceneham's face was twisted
into a mixture of fear and surprise. His heavy sword lay in a far corner
of the cellar--in two pieces.
The only other thing in the room besides Moya, the squire, the
piles of boxes, and the cloth wrapped bundle was a squirrel busily
stuffing marsh nuts into its mouth. There weren't any signs of a
struggle.
Gindar whimpered from where Moya had left him by the door, then,
with a strangled sob, bolted back up the stairs. Moya jumped after him,
clentching her will against the sickness in her stomach. The thought
uppermost in her mind was that the boy could not survive alone. And
neither could she.
"Wait!" she shouted after the squire. "If we separate were doomed!"
But Gindar, frightened and sickened beyond hearing, didn't even
slow down. Doggedly Moya followed him through the great hall and past
their camp. She hiked up her robes as he charged blindly off into the
swamp, continuing to call after him to wait.
Branches and vines tangled in her way, and the smell of rotting
leaves was kicked up more strongly for the pairs passing. Strangely, no
animals were disturbed by their charging blindly through the
undergrowth.
Moya lost the squire briefly in the growing mist, and only found
him again after he shouted in surprise. She reoriented herself in the
general direction the sound had emanated from, and ran after.
She came upon him suddenly. Moya stumbled to a halt, then scrambled
back a few steps as her worn boots began sinking into black mud.
Gindar floundered in a mud pit, his paniced thrashing only drawing
him deeper under the sticky mud. His screaming was all but incoherent
from terror. Moya cast about for something to throw the boy, calling
platitudes all the while, but by the time she turned up with a branch
long enough to reach him, Gindar's head was beneath the mud's slick
surface. A hand grasped briefly, futilely at the knobby root Moya
extended, but despite the nun's impassioned encouragement, he was never
able to catch hold.
The last of Sister Moya's companions sank out of sight, without so
much as a bubble to show where he'd gone under.
For several long minutes the nun stared at the patch of mud that
now looked no more dangerous than any other patch of cleared ground.
Then she dropped the root and went to her knees.
"How could You do this to me, oh Lord," she moaned, rocking back
and forth without even realizing it. "How could You do this to Your
faithful, on Your holy quest? How? Was I unworthy? How? Why? How did I
fail You? How?"
Moya kept repeating this, and variations until it was nearly dark.
Night sounds and something hitting the back of her head finally roused
her to partial reality.
She coughed, voice raw from her prayers and tears, then jerked as
another nut bounced off her arm and landed in the moss beside her.
Bemused, the nun stumbled to her feet. "Must get back to camp..." she
mumbled. "Complete holy service...keep vow...at the keep..." And she
tottered off, deeper into the dusky, glowing swamp.
To Be Continued
by Michelle Brothers
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