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DargonZine Volume 03 Issue 11
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 3
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Issue 11
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-- DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 11 11/15/90 Cir 1057 --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
-- Contents --
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DAG Yours Truly Editorial
The Bronze Horseman III Max Khaytsus Ober 5-7, 1013
Understanding Bill Erdley Yule, 1014
Opus Interruptus Wendy Hennequin Melrin 4-5, 1014
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Dafydd's Amber Glow
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Editor
First, I hope that I haven't lost any of you loyal
readers by waiting so long to get this issue out. We have
lots of material now, so there should be lots of reading
material coming your way between now and the end of the
year, which should make up for the long dry spell since
August.
Next, I would like to officially welcome a new author,
Bill Erdley, to the published fold. I'm sure he never
thought he'd see this story in print - he only submitted it
to me an eon ago! But here it is, and I'm sure you all will
like it. It presents a different perspective on the little
war we're having, and does so very effectively.
Lastly, for those of you who haven't heard, the Archive
at MGSE is no longer functioning for a variety of
unavoidable reasons. What this means is that the back-issues
of DargonZine are no longer available in an automated way.
When the Archive accepted DargonZine as part of its service,
I archived all of the back-issues to tape (I needed the
space desperately!). So, while I do still have access to
them, I do not have them on hand at all times. Consequently,
if anyone wants back-issues of DargonZine from now until
someone else volunteers to house and distribute them (a
veiled plea!), they will have to send their requests to me
and I will put them in a queue. When I have enough requests
and enough time, I will send them all out at once - it is
unlikely that this will be any more frequent than once a
month (sorry).
Now, on with the stories.....
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 The Bronze Horseman
Part 3
by Max Khaytsus
(b.c.k.a. <khaytsus@tramp.colorado.edu>)
"He's not dead!" Kera looked defiantly at the farmer. "He can't
be!"
"I saw it with my own eyes, Miss. They jousted and then Sir Quinn
cut his throat. He's not the first one either. Knights and bounty
hunters from all over have been coming to collect the reward on his
head."
"No!"
"Trust me, Miss, he's dead. I can take you to his grave, if you
want."
"All right," Kera said. Seeing Rien's grave would not help her,
but maybe it would let her know one way or the other for certain. If
what the farmer said was true, she would finish the job Rien started.
Quinn would become the target of her revenge.
"Miss? Miss?"
Kera looked up, a single tear coursing down her cheek.
"Are you all right? I'm sorry about your friend. Sir Quinn is a
renegade, you know. Come, it's not safe here. Those brigands are
always on the lookout for new blood."
Kera felt another tear run down her cheek and tried to hide it.
Rien was all she'd ever had, the only one who ever cared and now she
was on her own. "I'm fine," she wiped her eyes. "Show me the grave."
"This way," the farmer led her towards the cluster of huts at the
edge of the field and she followed blindly. Nothing seemed to matter,
not even as she realized that this might be a trap. She could not
imagine what to do next. It was as if all control and ability to make
decisions suddenly escaped her.
"It's right here," the farmer stopped short of a cleared patch of
land, not far from the edge of the road leading to the village. It
contained seven wooden markers, representing the men Quinn killed.
"Your friend is on the edge there," the farmer pointed. "He was the
last killed."
Kera walked over and sank to her knees. `And yet another knight
lies buried here, slain by Sir Garwood Quinn on 20 Seber 1013,' read
the marker. This time Kera forced herself not to cry and made a
decision. She was going to get revenge, no matter what stood in her
way.
"They're coming, Miss! You'd better hide!" She heard the frantic
words of the farmer and turned. On the road at the edge of the village
were three mounted men. As the farmer began to run, the one in the
middle pointed at him and one of his companions charged after the
running man, drawing his sword on the charge. The other two rode
slowly up to Kera and she gasped. The one who appeared to be in charge
was Rien.
"You're not from this village," Rien declared. "What is your
business here?"
"I-I..." Kera stuttered and saw Rien wink. "I was looking for
someone..."
"One of them, perhaps?" he pointed at the graves.
"This one, I think..." Kera pointed to the last grave. "It's not
marked."
"But it is marked," Rien insisted. "Some fool knight who lost to
Sir Quinn. He got all the honors he deserved."
At that moment the brigand who had charged off into the field
after the farmer came riding back alone. "I struck him down, but he's
still alive. He's from the village."
1 "Get the village healer to take care of him and I want him
brought to me when he can talk," Rien said and the man rode off
towards the village.
"I hope your find was satisfactory, as you won't have much
satisfaction from now on." Rien winked again. "Come here, wench."
Kera walked over to him and he pulled her up on his horse and
quickly removed the two daggers in her belt. Kera was suddenly too
scared to move.
"Here," Rien handed the blades to his companion. "Remain here. I
will send someone to replace me, so you may complete the patrol."
"Yes, Sir," the man answered and Rien galloped off.
A safe distance away Rien slowed his horse. Kera still could not
move. She did not know what happened to Rien, what he was after or
even who was buried in the grave. More than anything else, she wanted
to embrace Rien, but could not permit herself to do so.
"I am glad you're here," she finally heard Rien's voice and felt
his arm tighten around her waist. "It's a lot worse than I thought.
Quinn is holed up here as if he was born in this place. He has plenty
of men, too. I managed to become his lieutenant after killing the man
who originally held the job, but I needed you. When I kill him, this
place won't be safe for anyone. We'll need to be together. For now I
need you to pretend you'd rather be anywhere else but here."
"I love you," Kera said almost inaudibly and Rien realized that
she was crying.
The horse came to a dead stop and Rien's grip on Kera's waist
tightened. "No. Not here and not now. Please."
Kera nodded through her tears and Rien kicked the horse into
motion again. "Did you get everything at Sharks' Cove?"
"It's a few leagues out of town," Kera answered. "I tied the
horses to a tree away from the road."
"Good," Rien approved. "I'll check on them in the morning."
They rode through the village which appeared to be deserted. Rien
stopped the horse before the largest building in sight and helped Kera
down, then jumped off himself. Kera noticed that he had a limp, but he
pushed her ahead of himself before she could say anything.
The building was a tavern and an inn. Inside four men lounged
around drinking and a bartender stood behind the bar. Kera noticed
there was a metal chain around his neck which led up to the rafters.
Rien kicked the chair out from one of the drunker looking men.
"How often do I have to keep telling you not to drink if you can't
hold your booze?"
The man groaned, rising his hands to his head and Rien, having
picked up a half full goblet off the table, threw it at the man. "Go
get Quinn and clean up this mess when you get back!"
The man stumbled up to his feet and staggered off as the other
three straightened themselves out. Rien shoved Kera into a chair and
picking up the jug on the table took a few deep swallows from it, then
sat down himself. A few moments later a tall dark haired man dressed
in a fashionable red tunic and grey pants came down the stairs. Rien
immediately stood back up.
"And what have you brought me this time, Sir Keegan?" the man
looked over at Kera.
"With all due respect, Sir Quinn," Rien answered, "I brought her
for myself. You told me I might select a woman for my own."
"So I did," the man kept appraising Kera, "but you said none in
the village suited your interest."
"None did, Sir, but she is not from the village. She came looking
for one of the knights you jousted. I request her for my own."
Quinn thought for a moment. "Having found her, you may have her
for tonight, Sir Keegan, but I want her tomorrow and then I shall
1decide. She is rather young. The rest of the men might appreciate her
as well. They need something new."
"As you wish, Lord," Rien answered.
"It's always as I wish, Sir Keegan," Quin laughed and went over
to the bar. "Give me a drink, man!"
The man Rien kicked out of his chair came back to clean up the
floor. "After you're done here, go take up my patrol with Kritner and
Breault," Rien told him. "Kritner will be in charge."
"Right away, Sir," the man answered.
Rien took Kera by her arm and led her up the stairs, showing her
into a luxurious room. "Sit," he let go of her and locked the door.
Kera sat down on the bed. The way Rien acted reminded her too
much of the men working for Liriss. She noticed him doing everything
he said he was against and it was beginning to frighten her more and
more.
"Are you all right?" he finally asked her.
"Fine," Kera answered, wiping the tears off her cheeks.
Rien knelt in front of her. "You sure?"
"Why are you limping?" Kera asked.
"I got hurt proving to Quinn I'm as good as any four of his men,"
Rien said. "It's fine now. I ride most of the time anyway."
He and Kera embraced and remained that way for a long time. It
was dark in the room by the time they let go of each other.
"How are your eyes?" Rien asked.
"As good as ever," Kera said. "I think my sense of smell improved
too."
"It's not the disease?"
"No, no. That's all passed. I guess I was so concerned, I just
didn't notice the change at first. How are you?"
Rien smiled. "A little worse for wear, but fine. I am glad you're
back," and he embraced her again.
This time they let each other go a lot sooner. "Are you hungry?"
Rien asked and without waiting for an answer went to the door. "Let me
get us some food." He put the key in the lock and remained motionless
for a moment.
"What's wrong?" Kera asked.
Rien waited a moment longer, then turned to Kera. "Scream."
"What?"
"Just scream."
Kera did and her yell was followed by laughter from the corridor.
She smiled and screamed again and Rien pushed a chair so it fell over
with a thud. More laughter could be heard outside and Kera bit down on
her lip to prevent herself from doing the same.
Rien placed his index finger to his lips and made a shushing
sound, then quickly unlocked the door and stepped out.
"What are you doing here?" Kera heard Rien demanding.
"Talking, Sir," someone answered.
"Not at my door!"
"Yes, Sir."
"Bring dinner for me and my friend and then get lost."
Kera heard footsteps hurrying away and Rien stepped back into the
room, holding a candle. He was smiling. "I have a well earned
reputation."
Kera smiled also, in spite of being concerned over how Rien was
acting. The nagging thoughts of how he could have earned that
reputation were shoved to the back of her mind, where she would not
have to think about it.
Rien placed the candle in a stand on the table and returned to
Kera. "Give me your cloak."
Kera fumbled with the strings at her neck and handed it to him.
1 Rien turned it over, shook it, then carelessly tossed it on the
floor in the middle of the room. He then bent down and unlaced Kera's
tunic, pulling it partially off of one shoulder.
"What are you doing?" she asked him, but instead of answering,
Rien kissed her and roughed up her hair.
A knock sounded at the door, "Yes?" Rien stood up and turned, one
hand resting possessively on Kera's shoulder.
The door opened and a man walked in carrying a tray. He stepped
over the cloak on the floor to place the food on the table, then
stepped back and threw a quick glance over at Kera, who lowered her
eyes. "Will there be anything else, Sir?" he asked Rien.
"When's your patrol?"
"Midnight, Sir."
"Stay away from my door."
The man bowed and quickly retreated from the room, pulling the
door closed after himself. Rien hurried to relock it.
"Come," Rien called to Kera and she came over to the table. "You
can fix your tunic now," he motioned.
"I was hoping I would be removing it later," she answered
cautiously.
Rien smirked. "As you wish. I won't make you sleep dressed."
Kera hurried through dinner, even though it was much better than
the trail rations she had been enduring for the last couple of weeks.
She found herself thinking of the things she saw and heard. Listening
to Rien she understood that he did his best to fit in with the rest of
the cut-throats around, but the environment greatly reminded her of
Liriss' organization, something she thought was well behind her.
"How did you join them?" Kera asked when she finished eating.
"Here?" Rien asked and she nodded. "I was ambushed on the road. I
realized it was an ambush, but there was nothing I could do when I was
attacked, other than be ready. So I got hurt, but I did win the
fight."
Kera smiled. Somehow she'd expected that.
"That's when Quinn showed up," Rien went on. "He had a couple of
his men with him and all had crossbows, so I decided to talk my way
out of a conflict...or rather into a job. A couple of praises of his
skill and fame and a boast or two about my own abilities got me
challenged to a sword fight. Quinn's pretty good, but I let him win
anyway. Told him I'm a knight.
"That got him interested enough to keep me around and a week ago
I arranged for a mishap to take his lieutenant. Being the only other
knight around, Quinn gave the position to me."
"Why haven't you killed him yet?" Kera asked. "Sounds like you've
had plenty of opportunities."
"He has men," Rien said, "and I cannot outfight all of them
should they learn that I either attempted or succeeded in the
assassination. I also promised you I would meet you here. I don't
expect to stay long now. Just a few days so I can finish the job."
There was some commotion and Rien got up to look out the window.
He saw two men pushing another one around in the dark. "The guards
must have gotten a hold of another villager," he sighed.
Kera took a look too after putting out the candle. "Aren't you
going to stop them before they kill him?"
"No. There are only so many good things that I can do and not
have anyone wonder," Rien said. "Don't worry, they won't kill him.
There are so few villagers left that Quinn will have their heads if
they do."
"Rien," Kera said, "Quinn told you he wants to bed me tomorrow."
"He won't," Rien promised and put his arms around Kera. "Tell me
about your trip. What happened in Sharks' Cove?"
1
Kera woke up alone, realizing that her arms had fallen asleep and
to her surprise found that both her hands were tightly tied behind her
back. She struggled against the rope, which was looped somewhere
beneath the bed, but could not break or loosen it. With difficulty she
sat up on the bed and looked around. Her clothing was still scattered
on the floor, but Rien's were gone, as were the dishes on the table.
She tried to bend over, to see what the rope was attached to, but it
was too short to give her that much freedom of movement. She kicked at
the floor in anger and threw herself back on the bed.
"Son of a ...!" She couldn't think of a good derogatory word for
an elf. `What am I going to do? Run away?' She rolled over to look at
the window a few feet away. All she could see was a clear sky and a
ray of sunlight filling the room. It must be late morning. Kera tossed
a bit longer, making herself comfortable. It made sense to her that a
prisoner could not roam free, but couldn't Rien just lock her in or at
least tie her more comfortably? She wondered if the door was unlocked
and maneuvered herself under the blanket. `He wouldn't dare...'
The street was reasonably quiet and occasionally voices and
footsteps could be heard in the corridor. After what seemed like an
eternity of staring at the same spot on the wall, Kera decided that
her only course of action was to wait and, anyhow, the bed was the
most comfortable place in the room and she could not get free of the
rope anyway.
It was well past noon when Kera heard a key click in the lock and
quickly slid further under the blanket.
Rien walked in. She glared at him.
"I'm sorry," Rien shut the door and walked over. He sat down and
untied the rope.
Kera felt like strangling him, but instead placed her arms in
front of herself and dropped her head in them.
"Why?"
"If you are to appear as my captive, it has to be full time."
"Who's going to see me?"
"Quinn has keys to all doors. Most other men could pick the
lock."
"And you were going to leave me tied up for them?!"
Rien stroked her back. "If you were free to roam about, could you
pick it?"
"Why didn't you warn me?"
"I didn't think of it last night and did not want to wake you up
this morning. You tend to sleep late, so you would have been spared
most of the anxiety."
Kera sighed. "If you keep this up long enough, I'll forgive you."
Rien smiled and continued running his fingers along her spine.
"How long?"
"Long," she answered and brushed the blanket back.
Rien looked up to avoid meeting Kera's gaze and then moved behind
her, so she would not see him. "I moved the horses to a box canyon on
the other side of the hills to the south," Rien said after a while.
"It's secluded and has good grass."
Kera moaned in response.
"Are you paying attention?"
"Uh-huh."
"I left one of the healing potions we took from Terell on your
horse. I am leaving another one in the room so you can be close to it.
The third is on my riding horse here. I've got the poison here too.
You'll administer it to Quinn tonight."
Kera turned over and Rien pulled his arms back. "What do you mean
I'll administer it?" She looked down at his hands. "Keep going, I
1haven't forgiven you yet."
"Quinn wants to see you tonight," Rien reminded her. "You will
have the opportunity. I will be taking care of his men." He reached
out towards Kera and a second later she jumped up with a burst of
laughter.
"Cut it out!"
"That sounded pretty final," Rien said. "I guess I'm done."
Kera covered her stomach with her arms. "How are we going to do
that?"
"You will take..."
A knock on the door interrupted Rien. He looked at Kera, then
stood up. She instinctively took the rope and placed her hands behind
her back.
"Come," Rien turned to the door.
The guard whom Kera met in the field the day before entered. "The
old man is conscious, but the healer says he is not to be moved."
Rien folded his arms and the man took the opportunity to steal a
glance at Kera.
"Prepare my horse. I will be there shortly."
The guard bowed and left.
Rien turned to Kera and she fell back on the bed. "I hate this,"
she sighed.
Rien sat down on the edge of the bed. "I have to leave. You will
add the poison to Quinn's drink tonight. I will take care of as many
men as I can. We'll leave during the night."
Kera looked up at him. His eyes were a nondescript blue-grey.
"I have to tie you."
She turned over, placing her hands on her back and closed her
eyes to hide the pain.
Rien secured her hands and left without a word, locking the door
after himself.
Rien and Breault dismounted on the neat lawn in front of the
healer's hut. The healer, Sherestha, a plump old woman, scornfully
muttered that these two could not walk the fifty yards from the tavern
to her house.
"How is he?" Rien asked.
"He'll die if he's lucky," the woman answered.
Rien took the healing potion from the saddle bag and went inside.
The old farmer lay on his stomach on a pile of blankets and skins.
Across his back were leaves and herbs covering a foot long gash. Rien
knelt down next to him.
"He is not conscious," the woman said. "He's too old."
Rien stood up and handed her the potion. "Make him drink it."
"What is this?" Sherestha asked.
"Does it matter? He'll die if he's lucky."
Breault chuckled and the woman glared at him.
"What is this?"
"It will heal the wound," Rien said.
The healer opened the vial and smelled the contents, then turned
the wounded man on his side and began pouring the liquid into his
mouth.
The smile on Breault's face diminished as the wound started
healing over. He looked at Rien.
"Come, we need to talk, Breault."
They walked out back with Rien saying no more.
"Why are you healing him?" Breault finally asked. "What good is
he to us?"
"Are you questioning my authority?"
Breault drew himself to his full six-four height. "Yes, Sir
1Keegan, I am."
Rien calmly walked past him. "Don't you think I know better?"
"I think something is wrong."
Rien stopped. "Like what?"
"There's something wrong with you."
Rien remained with his back to Breault, but his hand all ready
held the hilt of his long dagger. "Like what, Breault?"
"You like life," the man made the accusation and started after
Rien. "I've never seen you take it."
Rien waited for Breault to be directly behind him, then turned,
putting the dagger in his stomach. "Don't you like life, Breault?
Given the choice, do you want to live?" He held the man still and
forced it up under his rib cage. "I am taking a life, Breault. Do you
like it?"
Red foam began appearing at the brigand's mouth and he started
slipping down.
Rien let the body drop to the ground. "Now you've seen it all."
He wiped the blade on the dead man's tunic and returned to the house
after stopping by his horse. He noticed the wound on the farmer's back
was almost gone and the old woman was looking it over.
"He will never be able to repay you," she looked up.
"You will," Rien said.
"What do you want of me?"
Rien held up the dark green stalk he had retrieved from his
saddle bag. "This is Wolfbane. I want you to make me the strongest
poison you can with it."
"Why?" the woman asked.
"I will free this village of its plague," he answered.
"You alone?"
"Mostly."
"What's in it for you?"
"Peace of mind. Revenge."
"For what?"
"One of the graves out there belongs to a friend. My lover is a
prisoner at the tavern. Is that reason enough? ...And," he added more
carefully, as if the healer was one of Quinn's people, "I just killed
a man for trying to stop me."
The old woman took the stalk from Rien's hands and carefully
studied him. "I will help you," she said finally.
Kera lay on her back, staring at the wooden planks in the ceiling
when she heard a key turn in the lock. `About time,' she thought to
herself and turned over. The door creaked open and Garwood Quinn
walked in. Kera's eyes immediately snapped shut and she pretended to
be asleep. She heard Quinn walk up to her and immediately wished she
was better covered by the blanket. He stood over her for a bit, then
walked away. A chair was shoved aside and the shutters on the window
were pushed open. Quinn came back to the bed and kicked it solidly
with this boot. Kera bolted upright, looking at him with startled
eyes. The knight smiled and she looked down.
"Has Sir Keegan been a gentleman with you?" Quinn laughed.
Kera didn't answer.
Quinn grabbed her chin and forced her to face him. "Well?"
Tears formed in her eyes.
"He wasn't!" Quinn laughed with delight. "Well, I won't be
either!"
Kera tried to pull her head back, but Quinn tightened his grip on
her jaw until she screamed in pain.
"So you can talk..."
Kera continued looking at him emptily. It was the only thing she
1could do.
Quinn pushed her down and untied the rope from the bed, retying
the lose end around her neck. "Come on," he pulled the rope. "My
room's bigger."
Kera resisted and Quinn jerked hard on the rope, making her fall
to the floor. The loop around her neck tightened and constrained her
breathing and as she began to to cough, Quinn stepped on the rope near
her neck. In her coughing fit, Kera tightened the loop more and
started gasping for air.
Quinn lazily bent down and loosened the loop, then pulled her up.
"See what can happen if you don't follow my lead?" He checked the
knots at her neck and hands and then pushed Kera ahead of himself to
the door. By the time they reached it, he was all ready ahead of her
and pulling her by the rope. "You make this good and I may even let
you enjoy yourself."
In the corridor they were stopped by a guard. "Sir Quinn, a wagon
was just brought to the inn. The men say they have prisoners."
Quinn looked at the guard with annoyance in his eyes, then shoved
Kera into him. "Take her to my room and keep her there."
Rien returned near dusk, his vial refilled with a potent poison.
He watched the off duty men roll two barrels into the bar from a wagon
in the street. He asked where it had come from and was told that a
merchant and his daughter were captured and were currently being
questioned by Quinn. The wagon was being unloaded at his order. The
two casks contained wine.
Rien proceeded upstairs to his room only to find the door
unlocked and the room empty. He scanned the area for any signs of
struggle. There were none and he returned to the corridor where he saw
a guard standing by Quinn's door.
"Where is the girl who was in my room?"
"Here," the man said. "Sir Quinn asked me to guard her."
"Did she try to escape?"
"I don't know, Sir. I was only told to bring her here and guard
her."
Rien opened the door and walked in. The guard followed him. Kera
sat inside in a chair, her hands still tied behind her and a rope
around her neck.
"She looks nice, Sir," the guard smiled lecherously and Kera
glared up at him.
"Did anyone hurt you?" Rien asked.
Kera shook her head.
"How long ago did Quinn leave?" Rien asked the guard.
"Not long. Shortly after sunset, when the wagon was brought. He
went to talk to the prisoners."
"Good," Rien said. As the guard turned back to gawk at Kera, Rien
forced his dagger into the man's back and carefully lowered him to the
floor.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Rien asked Kera again, cutting
her loose with the bloody knife. "They didn't do anything to you?"
"I'm fine, really. He didn't have the time."
Rien helped Kera up and put his free arm around her. "Return to
my room and get dressed. Come down in a bit. Be ready for a fight." He
picked up an empty glass and walked out with Kera.
She took a turn down the side corridor to Rien's room and he
proceeded to the top of the stairs. Below he saw Quinn's collection of
thugs and cutthroats gathering together for dinner. Behind the bar he
noticed the two barrels that were brought in from the wagon. He smiled
and poured the poison the healer made for him into the empty glass and
proceeded down the stairs.
1 A few of the men greeted him on his way to the bar and he
responded in kind. "Where's Quinn?" he asked the barman.
"There," he was directed to the back room.
"Make my dinner," Rien ordered and the man left, the chain
clanking up above him as he walked. Rien went around the bar to the
barrels, opened one with a mallet and dumped the poison in. The men in
the common room quieted down hearing the bang and looked over. Some
even came up. A couple more hits and Rien removed all the portions of
the splintered lid. "A little good fortune that we can all share in!"
he announced. "Help yourselves."
The men cheered and Rien, picking up a pitcher and scooping up
some of the dark red liquid, left.
Making his way past the mob that gathered around the barrel, Rien
stopped in the corridor before the back room door and and emptied the
vial of poison he obtained from Terell into the pitcher. He opened the
door and entered. A guard stepped out of his way and Quinn, sitting
with his back to the door looked over his shoulder. Across from Quinn
sat a middle aged man and a girl not yet out of her teens.
"Good, Sir Keegan. I am glad you could join us. You should see
how this fool is trying to make a deal!"
Rien smiled and placed the pitcher before Quinn. "Compliments of
our guest."
Quinn released a laugh as Rien reached up to a shelf to get a
goblet. "Get me two," Quinn instructed.
Rien placed both glasses before the knight and remained standing
behind him.
Quinn poured wine into both goblets and moved one to the man
across from him. "Let me remind you I have you, your property and your
daughter. Offer me something I don't all ready have, otherwise you
wanting to go free is merely wishful thinking. Drink a little of my
wine. Let it not be said I am not a hospitable man."
Rien looked down. There was no way to stop the merchant from
poisoning himself. Quinn was about to have his last taste of wine.
"No matter how badly I want my daughter and myself to to be free,
I can give you nothing more than what you've all ready taken from me.
I will not drink stolen wine!" The goblet bounced to the floor with a
pronounced clank.
Rien looked at Quinn, whose eyebrows went up. "Then why did you
ask me to make a deal, you old fool?"
The man did not respond and Quinn took a swallow from his goblet.
"I will let my men practice with you tonight and your daughter can try
and stay alive with me." He turned back to Rien. "That bitch of yours
is in my room. You may have her back."
Rien nodded.
"May the gods strike you down for what you are doing!" the
merchant exclaimed, glaring at the three rogues.
"If they haven't yet, I doubt they will. Worry about yourself for
now," Quinn said, taking a second, larger swallow from the goblet.
"And tomorrow your worries may be over."
Deep inside Rien smiled at the irony of the merchant's statement.
If he identified Terell's poison correctly, Quinn would not have a
pleasant death.
Quinn coughed as he put the goblet down and again turned to Rien.
"Good wine. Have the men break open a barrel."
"All ready have, Sir. I knew you'd be in a good mood." As he
spoke, Rien noticed Quinn's face beginning to redden and his arm was
curled under his stomach.
Quinn struggled to get up, holding onto the table, trying to
maintain his facing. A look of horror spread on his face. "Let them
go, Rien..." and with those words Quinn collapsed to the floor. Blood
1flowed out of his open mouth.
"Get a healer!" Rien turned to the startled guard and the man
made for the door, impaling himself on Rien's long dagger. Rien pushed
the dying man down on top of Quinn. He waited for a moment for the man
to die, then looked up at the merchant who was as white as a sheet.
"In a few minutes you will leave by this door and turn left down
the corridor. The passage leads to the stables out back. There will be
no guards. Take your horses and wagon, nothing else, and go. The left
fork of the road is not guarded."
Not giving the merchant a chance to recover from his death
sentence and its subsequent favorable resolution, Rien left the room,
proceeding to the stables. He killed the man standing guard in the
doorway and then another one outside the barn door. He took a little
more time to compensate the merchant with some of Quinn's lootings and
after dumping a bag in the wagon bed, circled around the building to
the front entrance. The first thing to catch his attention were the
two guards lying at the door. `The healer's poison must be quick,' he
thought, walking past them. Inside a good half of the men were
sprawled out on the floor and furniture and another dozen or so were
merrily drinking away.
"Look!" Rien noticed someone get up behind the bar. "Seli is
dead!" The man pulled the bartender up and shoved him over the bar,
collapsing after him. Neither got up.
Rien remained at the door, watching as two or three other men
quietly passed out in front of him. There was a commotion upstairs. A
male voice said something and a moment later a body hit the railing
and broke through, falling into the common room. The man had a deep
wound in his chest. Kera appeared at the top of the stairs looking
down. Besides her clothing she wore Quinn's red cloak and scabbard. A
bloodied sword was in her hands. She looked around the common room,
surprised that no one had reacted and, after spotting Rien, went down
stairs.
As Kera passed one of the tables, a man at it got up, took one
step towards her and collapsed. She stood in awe, looking at Rien.
"What did you do?"
Rien shrugged. "I asked the village healer to make me the
strongest poison she could with a stalk of Wolfbane I took from Maari.
Wolfbane, also known as Monk's Hood, is an aphrodisiac and
hallucinogen in small quantities, but too much of it will burn a
person out...or make them go mad. She must have added something else.
They don't even realize what's happening to them."
Another man fell out of his chair as Kera stepped over the one
that had fallen in front of her. "I didn't ask for a lecture. What
about Quinn?"
"I gave him the poison I took from Terell's shop. He's dead too."
Only three of Quinn's men remained upright and it was obvious
they would not last long. Nineteen other bodies lay on the floor. A
job well done...if well could in any way be associated with death.
"Come," Rien took Kera's hand. "There are still patrols out
there. We'd better leave."
"Shouldn't they be killed too?"
"There are less than ten men total, all back alley thugs. The
villagers can take care of them if they don't flee on their own."
Distant thunder rolled through the skies as they stepped outside
the tavern. Rien walked past the stables towards the forest.
"Aren't we taking the horses? It looks like it will rain," Kera
stopped him, "and what about all your stuff?"
"We have horses waiting," Rien answered. "They are more powerful
than anything here and they carry equipment. I have no use for looted
treasure. The villagers need it more."
1 Kera tossed the cloak she wore to the ground. "Red is too obvious
in the moonlight," she said. "And it's not my color." She started
unstrapping the sword when Rien stopped her.
"It's a good blade. Keep it."
It was well into the night when Rien and Kera reached the hilly
area southwest of Phedra. Their target was a cluster of boulders with
a small pass between them. On the other side, in a box in canyon,
waited their two horses and escape from the remaining guards.
"I take it you didn't bring them through here," Kera said,
looking over a passage so narrow that even she would not fit through.
"I went all the way around," Rien answered. "Climbing over to the
pass will save us three leagues of hiking. We'll have to climb some
twenty feet, though. There is a lip in the cliff face up there."
"What's another three leagues after the last ten?" sighed Kera.
She grabbed a hold of some rocks and started climbing. Rien followed
her.
"Do you smell smoke?" Kera asked when near the top.
Below her Rien took his time to finish the climb before
answering. "I've been smelling it for a while. If there was wind, we
could tell where it's coming from."
The step-like formation in the face of the cliff was about two
feet across, wide enough to stand on, but not much more.
Rien leaned back on the wall. "Can you see the village?"
"Right there," Kera pointed into the darkness. "It's not very
clear."
"I'm impressed," Rien nodded. "Much superior to other people."
"Do I look better with grey or brown eyes?" Kera asked.
"Excuse me?"
"You did notice that my eyes changed color?"
"Of course! I told you they did."
"So which is better?"
"For what?"
"My appearance!"
"I'm partial to grey."
"Took you long enough."
Rien laughed and Kera took a step towards him.
"If we weren't on a cliff right now, I'd give you a shove you'd
remember for a while."
"If you give me one here, I promise you I will remember it for a
while as well. At least on the way down."
Rien took Kera's arm. "Come on. This slopes up. Watch your step."
They made their way up the ledge into the crack in the hill side
and continued at a leisurely pace for some time. They were passing an
overhang which was level with the top of the hill on the other side
when a loud sound of splintering wood disturbed the night and rocks
started falling from above. The thunder that has been at the horizon
for the duration of their walk, sounded overhead and a brilliant flash
of lighting split the sky.
Kera jumped back and fell against the wall. One stone managed to
bounce off her shoulder and a mass of pebbles sprayed over her back.
When it was all over, she stirred and got up. Rien lay a few feet up
ahead. He must have taken the brunt of the landslide. Kera made her
way to him. He was alive, but unconscious. The top of the hill was no
more than twenty feet away.
While thinking of what to do next, Kera heard running footsteps
and went up, in hope of finding help, but instead encountered two men
with swords, one of which promptly took a swing at her and missed. She
backed down the slope, dodged his second attack and then swung at him
with her sword. Those late night practice sessions with Rien must have
1helped, as the man was knocked off balance and fell past her, off the
cliff. His fading scream made Kera realize how dangerous it was for
her to remain on the ledge and she hurried to level ground.
The second man, apparently wiser for not taking the same risk,
held a torch in one hand and a sword in the other, patiently waiting
for her to come up. His first swing was with the torch and Kera
instinctively jumped back, stumbling and landing on her back. With
horror she realized that her head was over the edge of a fifty foot
drop. The man advanced with the torch ahead of him before Kera had a
chance to react. She could not move with it almost directly in her
face.
"Drop the sword," the man told her and when she hesitated,
brought the flame closer in. Kera smelled singing hair and immediately
let the weapon go. The man kicked it aside. "Now get up. Slowly."
Kera did so and took a step back when the man motioned her to do
so, but when he bent down to pick up the sword, she gave the torch a
kick and it flew out of his hand and over the edge. Darkness descended
on the small plateau. The man blindly swung his sword, but Kera had no
problems avoiding the blow and remained crouched on the ground.
Without light and a cloudy sky, her opponent was practically helpless
and expected her to be just as lost, but was surprised by getting a
dagger in his side. He swung in the proper direction, but was again
too high.
Kera remained silent, watching him trying to hear her. After a
while the man apparently gave up and Kera was able to put her dagger
into his knee. He sank to the ground, but swung again anyway, missing
Kera completely. With another thrust she finished him off and went to
check on Rien. Thunder and lightning made themselves known once again
and a light rain began to fall.
Kera found Rien still unconscious, laying where she left him. She
took the time to examine him now. It was difficult in the rain,
without light -- everything was red or black or both -- but it was
enough to determine his condition. The most obvious wound was in his
side. It was dirty and bloody and the clothing was torn. Kera, not
quite sure of what to do, decided to move him to the level area up
above, instead of continuing on the thin ledge. It was amazing that
neither one of them had fallen off it in the first place.
While trying to move Rien, Kera found what looked like remains of
a mechanism that could have caused the rock slide, but it was of
little importance now. She struggled to get Rien up top and he groaned
from pain in spite of being unconscious.
Locating the brigand's camp, a small cave in the rocks, sheltered
from the storm, Kera dragged Rien in and placed him on an even slab of
rock towards the back of the cavern. There was a small fire to keep
warm and she tore off a few strips of her tunic to make a bandage. It
was only then that Kera noticed that her own shoulder was bloody where
it had been hit.
After washing Rien's wounds, Kera bandaged them. She suspected
that his ribs were broken, but not being a doctor, not only did she
not know how to make sure, but also how to treat it. She then took
care of her own shoulder and looked over the cave. It was bare, except
for the fire and two packs in the corner. Searching them she found
nothing more than basic equipment. It looked like the two men had only
been beginning to set up camp.
Kera returned to the cliff to pick up her sword and then looked
around to see if the men brought horses. Not finding anything, Kera
paused on the cliff overlooking the canyon. Through the rain she could
tell it was a good mile wide and at least three long. Kera did not
know where to begin looking for their own mounts and the only healing
potion she could use was somewhere out there. She spent a long time
1looking down into the darkness, waiting for a glimmer of something
other than trees. Finally giving up, Kera returned to the cave to take
shelter for the night. Maybe Rien would wake up by morning and tell
her where to look.
She checked the dressing on Rien's side one more time before
settling down to sleep. He was definitely weaker and this time did not
even groan when she moved him. His breathing was shallow. The lesion
was still oozing blood with no indication of stopping; the area around
the wound was hot. Kera made the bandage as tight as she could,
knowing it would probably do more damage to the broken ribs, but
preferring that to having Rien bleed to death.
Upon completion of the task, Kera made herself comfortable
against the wall of the cave, leaning slightly back on the step-like
rock formation and wishing for Rien's condition to improve by morning,
finally fell asleep.
Kera opened her eyes and was nearly blinded by the bright lights
around her. She blinked several times at the light that was as bright
as day and after a minute her eyes adjusted to the brightness. She sat
in a soft chair with arm rests in a large, brightly lit room. She
looked up to see where the light was coming from, but saw nothing more
than a uniformly glowing ceiling. In front of her sat a box, about a
foot square, with a glossy black surface that reflected the ceiling,
facing her. Kera reached out to touch it, but as soon as her hand made
contact, the box made a noise and lit up with an orange glow. Strange
symbols appeared on the smooth surface.
Startled, Kera jumped up and the chair she was sitting in
swivelled and rolled back. For the first time she noticed that ten
feet away, to her right, sat a young black-haired man. The clothing he
was wearing Kera could not recognize as having ever seen before. He
wore faded blue pants and a sky-blue tunic carefully tucked into them.
She gasped and he looked up at her, no less surprised. Next to him was
a box identical to the one Kera had touched -- she now noticed there
were quite a few of them set in rows about the room.
The young man simply stared at her for a minute, not quite sure
what to say. The box next to him flickered a couple of times, but he
did not look at it.
Kera straightened out as the rolling chair bumped against a table
on the other side of the room. The box on that table lit up like the
first. "Where am I?" Kera asked, concerned about all the magic going
off around her so freely.
"En..." the young man began to say with what appeared to be
reflex, making Kera believe it was a question he heard often. He
picked up a frame from a pile of papers and put it on his face. It
looked to be made of thin strips of metal, twisted to hold two round
pieced of glass in place in front of his eyes. A wider piece of metal
connected the two pieces at the bridge of his nose and two pieces
extended from the other side to hook over his ears.
The man eyed Kera from head to toe and she stood there looking
back at him, doing the same. "Kera?" he finally asked, taking a quick
glance at his box.
Kera nodded and took an unsure step back. She felt for her
dagger, but remembered she was sleeping before and did not have it on
her. It was on the ground in the cave, where she had placed it after
cutting bandages for Rien. "Rien?!" she spun around, realizing he was
not there.
"Calm down!" the young man finally stood up. "He's fine."
"He's not fine!" Kera fired back, no longer concerned for
herself. "He's alone in a cave, unconscious and bleeding! Maybe
dying!"
The young man again glanced at the box next to him. "Trust me. He
1will be fine," he said, not without compassion. Kera noticed that he
had a slight accent that made his words softer. "Please, sit down. I
need to know how you got here."
Kera did not care one bit how she ended up in the room. All she
wanted was to be back with Rien, but realizing that this man seemed to
know both her and her companion, she sat down in the chair nearest to
her. Just like the first one she sat in, this one was soft, swivelled
and moved freely on the floor.
"I don't bite," Kera's host smiled and indicated to a chair next
to his own. Kera changed seats, but not to the one he pointed to. She
sat down one chair away, just in case she would need to move. That
seemed to satisfy him and he sat back down, again looking at his box.
Kera looked at the desk at which she was now sitting. On it was
yet another of those boxes, but the glossy front of it was not lit. A
rectangular pad with emphasized squares sat before it. Each of the
squares had a different symbol on it. On this desk, like on some of
the others, lay a pile papers, scattered around in disarray. Kera
picked one sheet up. It was very smooth and thin -- nothing like the
parchment she had ever seen. On it were uniform proper letters which
did not appear to be written by hand. Kera stealthily picked up a palm
sized glossy item on the table to examine it.
"You were asleep," the young man said. Kera was not sure if it
was a question or a statement or even an order. He still looked into
the glow of the box.
The door across the room opened and a slender woman with long
brown hair walked in. "I got it!" she declared in a joyful voice,
holding up sheets of parchment similar to those on the tables. She
stopped at the door, looking at Kera. She wore a white blouse neatly
tucked into a narrow grey skirt that went down to her knees and a pink
belt with a butterfly buckle. The shoes on her feet were elevated so
that she stood balanced on her toes. Kera could not believe that
someone would ever wear clothing so impractical for everyday
activities.
"Stay there," the man said to the woman, holding up his arm. "I
don't know what's happened."
The woman remained standing by the door and the man turned back
to his box. He quickly pressed different locations on the rectangular
pad before the box and took one more look at Kera, then he turned back
and deliberately pressed one of the right hand squares. Darkness so
dark that Kera could no longer see at all descended on the room.
Her back hurting from where a sharp rock pressed into it forced
Kera to leap up from the "steps" she was sleeping on. She looked about
the cavern she was in. The fire was almost out and her night vision
began supplementing her normal sight. She noticed Rien lying on the
ground not far away. However much time passed, he has not moved.
Kera sat down next to him, realizing that she held something in
her hand. It was the little glossy object she picked up in the
brightly lit room that she believed to have been a dream. It was a
thin, smooth rectangular bar, made of some material she had never seen
before. A slender chain was attached to one side, ending with a silver
ring. At the other end was a strange golden symbol that Kera later
realized to be overlapping runic letters. A long red line ran almost
the full length of the item. It was crossed by many small black lines.
Down both sides of the red line were more symbols, all in black.
Kera turned the strange item over. On the back side a circle was
cut away in the square. In it floated a glowing arrow and in time Kera
realized that no matter how it was turned, level with the ground, the
arrow always pointed in the same direction.
She put it away and took another look at Rien. His condition had
1not improved. Kera lay down next to him and after some tossing and
turning, fell asleep again.
Kera awoke to Rien trying to turn over. She held him down for a
moment, stroking his hair and he relaxed. She again examined the
condition of his wounds and was surprised to find that the cut was
beginning to heal over and what she originally thought were broken
ribs was only a severe bruise.
Satisfied with her diagnoses, Kera started making breakfast from
the supplies the men she killed had, waiting for Rien to wake up.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Understanding
by Bill Erdley <b.c.k.a. BERDLEY@BUCKNELL.BITNET>
As I sit here under this tree and watch my friends die, I think
of how nice a day this is. It's a fine day to just sit and watch the
hawks circle lazily through the sky, occasionally dodging an errant
arrow. The clouds seem oblivious to the carnage happening below them.
The grass, on the other hand, gets to see it all; the blood, the
horror, the death.
The grass doesn't understand ...
I was one of the first to fall during the first rush. I was
holding my shield a little too high, and I caught an arrow in my right
leg just above the knee. As I stopped to remove it, I took another
arrow in the side. I fell and crawled out of the way of my comrades,
who continued the attack. I had fallen near the tree, so my crawl was
not a long one, but it was most painful. The arrow in my leg snapped
off when I fell, but the leg is almost numb, so I don't notice. I
removed the arrow from my side, but it was high enough to catch a
lung. Already I am coughing blood, and the wound continues to ooze
through the rags that I hold over it. The rags are soaked.
Even the grass beneath the tree knows the taste of blood ...
... but the tree won't understand.
This is a fine day for sitting, and for thinking. How many of us
know what we are fighting for? How many know who we are fighting
against? We fight for no good reason, except that we are told to
fight. Those that we fight could as easily be our neighbors as our
enemies. Yet we hack and slash and kill those that we have no reason
to hate; fighting and killing and dying for the whims of some noble.
I watch a man who I had met last night crash to the ground with a
cry ...
... but the ground can't understand.
The battle is going badly for us, and I watch my friends fall one
by one. They are proud men; strong men; brave men who would fight
until they could fight no more. But they could be proud at home, with
their families, watching a new child take it's first step. They could
be strong in the fields growing crops or strong in the shops making
horse shoes or plow blades or axe heads. They could be brave facing a
storm without shelter, or protecting a neighbor from a wild animal.
But they are here; these proud, brave, strong men.
They are here to die beneath a sky which has only now begun to
weep for them ...
... but even the sky doesn't understand.
The ground is cool and the grass feels soft, under the tree
beneath the sky. The battle is almost over, and the outcome assured;
we have lost. I need no longer watch, for I have seen all that needs
to be seen. A warm breeze blows across my face toward the carnage of
the battlefield. I can smell the scent of wild flowers in the wind and
it makes me smile. I can feel the wetness on my cheeks which must have
1come from tears, but I don't remember crying. I think of my wife, who
waits for my return. I think of my children, playing in a field like
the one before me used to be. I think of the nobles who demanded that
this war be fought. I think of the men whose blood now colors the
meadow.
Darkness begins to fall in the middle of the day as I think ...
... And I don't understand, either.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
1 Opus Interruptus
by Wendy Hennequin
(b.c.k.a. <hennequi@ctstateu.bitnet>)
Relaxed at last, Marcellon walked barefoot beside a woman along
the shore in Dargon. The sand was warm and the water cool, and the sea
air soothed the High Mage's mind, overwrought with conferences with
the King, War Councils, nursing the ill and wounded flocking from
Pyridain, and all manner of interruptions which dissolved his visions
as if they were powdered sugar in a child's drink.
Marcellon turned to the woman beside him and smiled. She had
started appearing to him about a year ago, when the High Mage had
first met Luthias Connall and his twin. Perhaps that explained why she
looked as if she could have been related; her coloring was the same,
and so was the shape of her eyes. She also bore some resemblance to
Lady Sable: they were of a height, and while they were not cut from
the same cloth, neither could either outshine the other's own kind of
beauty.
She soothed Marcellon's heart. She always seemed to know what
troubled him, and although the woman seldom spoke of the High Mage's
anxieties, she calmed them by her presence, for Marcellon had the most
certain feeling that this woman had everything under control.
He had never seen her on the shore of Dargon before. Once, he saw
her in a meadow, on a moonlit night, with a tall, blond man who
reminded Marcellon of Richard. Another time, she sat with a man quite
like Clifton. Once, the High Mage envisioned her on an archery field,
shooting arrows. Marcellon pictured her many times in a moving, red
room, small and uncomfortable.
Thus, he called her the Wanderer.
"Who will be hurt in the war?" Marcellon asked her suddenly.
"The King will be wounded in the last battle," the Wanderer began
calmly without looking at him.
The High Mage smiled. Of course she would know; the Wanderer
always seemed to know things, even things that managed to evade
Marcellon's crystal. That question had nagged the magician all day,
but interrupted constantly, Marcellon could find no answers. He should
have known the Wanderer would tell him.
She continued, "Ittosai Michiya, too, will be wounded." The
Wanderer halted and looked up at her companion. "Clifton will receive
a severe wound soon, and you must do something, or he will die."
Clifton? Marcellon's heart froze. His daughter's husband would
die? "What should I do?"
"That answer will come to you soon enough," the Wanderer entoned
calmly. "I do not need to tell you everything."
"What of Luthias Connall?"
That made the Wanderer smile. "Has he not suffered yet enough?"
"That is not an answer," Marcellon chided guardedly.
"Do not worry about Luthias. Be concerned instead about Lauren
and Clifton. Clifton's wound is certain; his death is not. And if
Lauren goes to the battle--"
A bang--thunder?--sounded, and Marcellon jolted awake to stare
furiously at the door. Cephas Stevene, could he not even *sleep*
without interruption?
"What?" Marcellon screamed violently, and the knocking stopped.
Damn it, hadn't he given the servants strict orders to let him sleep?
For God's sake, he'd been up all night at the War Council--so many
stupid, mundane things that Haralan and Sir Edward and the various
military and noble personel could have handled by themselves, but no,
the King wanted Marcellon's wisdom or visions or moral support. God
knew, but Marcellon was certain that he instructed his servants that
1he was absolutely not to be disturbed until at least noon.
*They* had been doing it to him all week--they, the
indescribable, ever-present *they*--the King, Sir Edward, the sick
ones, the desperate, the dying, everyone and anyone--and never was it
worse than it was now. *They* had stolen the Wanderer's warning from
him. His only daughter was in danger if she went to the battle...or
maybe Clifton could only be saved if she went to the battle. Marcellon
didn't know, thanks to *them.*
"Well," Marcellon seethed, rolling out of the couch and seizing
the door handle, "which one of *you* is it this time?"
He threw open the door and was surprised to see Luthias Connall
there. The High Mage relented a little. Luthias had been at the
previous evening's War Council--and had distinguished himself with his
knowledge of strategy and tactics--and if Luthias was willing to
disturb Marcellon this early in the morning after being up all night
at War Council, there was a good reason.
Marcellon looked the young man over. Luthias Connall was a tall,
handsome, strong man with the gait and bearing of a warrior- -usually.
Today, he held his shoulders straight with great effort, but Marcellon
felt defeat oozing from young Sir Luthias, as if he fighting a battle
he knew he could not win. The Count was tired, haggard, haunted,
anxious--just as he had been during Duke Dargon's trial months ago.
Hell, Marcellon thought, staring, he hadn't even been this bad after
Mon-Taerleor and his cohorts in Beinison had finished with him.
"Sit before you collapse," Marcellon ordered with the brisk
authority of a healer. "What is it, Luthias, son?"
"I need a sleeping potion," the Knight stated with his usual
directness.
Marcellon practically shrieked, "You fool! And you woke me for
that? Stole the chance to save my daughter and her husband for that?"
The High Mage subdued his frustration, however. If Luthias had come to
him, something truly needed fixing beyond the power of a sleeping
potion. "Why not have you wife make you one?"
The Count of Connall scowled through his beard. "Oh, she'll make
one for me, all right, but not for her." His eyes pleading, Luthias
faced the magician. "If she doesn't get some sleep, it'll kill us
both."
Marcellon sat on the edge of his barely rumpled bed. "What's
wrong that she's not sleeping? Is it the babes? I thought you had a
wet nurse."
"We do. It's not the girls, Marcellon. It's me."
Marcellon fought to hide a smile. "Most men would enjoy a woman
who couldn't get enough, manling."
Worried as he was, young Luthias still--still!--rose for t
he
teasing. "You--!" he began, but he finished with a pillow tossed
expertly at Marcellon's head. The High Mage murmered a word, and the
feather missle dropped inches from his face. Luthias was sputtering.
"You--you know better--I mean Sable isn't--I mean she is--damn you,
magician."
The last was uttered in half-hearty exasperation, so Marcellon
didn't take it seriously. Oh, young Luthias Connall had reason enough
to hate users of magic after what the Beinisonian butchers had done to
him, but the Knight reserved no ire or prejudice for Marcellon or his
daughter Lauren. These two he trusted.
"And don't call me manling," Luthias finished.
Marcellon chuckled at the displeasure in the Count's brown eyes.
The High Mage held no fear of Luthias in his heart, just as the Count
harbored no awe of him. "Come, Luthias," Marcellon encouraged gently,
"what's wrong with Myrande that she isn't sleeping?"
The Knight's expression questioned the mage's tone. "You're not
1angry with me any more?"
Marcellon waved the question away with his hand, much as he had
dismissed the pillow. He could search the crystal later for a warning
for Lauren and salvation for Clifton. "I know as well as you that your
Lady Sable won't take a sleeping potion without being tricked. What is
it, Luthias, son?"
"She's worried about me," the Count explained. "She's afraid I'll
die in the war."
Marcellon considered this. "That isn't an unreasonable fear. How
soon do you ride out with the cavalry, General?"
"The King promised me I wouldn't ride until after the Melrin
Ball. I can't believe he's still celebrating at a time like this."
Marcellon understood it, however. The celebrations gave the
message that all was normal, all would be right again. Without those
assurances, the populace would fall apart. "He has his reasons, but
I'm certain he won't make you attend."
"Oh, I'm going," Luthias countered, half-laughing.
Marcellon frowned mightily. Damn Haralan! One of these days he
was going to push Luthias Connall too far. First, Clifton's trial,
then Beinison, now, Haralan was going to force Luthias to attend the
same ball at which his brother had been murdered a year ago.
Luthias laughed outright. "Of my own accord, Marcellon, believe
it or not. I promised Sable when I left for Beinison that I'd be back
to dance with her at the Melrin Ball. I keep my promises. Besides,"
the Count concluded, his eyes merry, "if I stayed home, Roisart would
taunt me from his tomb, 'Just another excuse not to go dancing, eh,
twin?'"
Well, something was getting better, the High Mage noted with
satisfaction. Marcellon had never heard Luthias joke about his dead
brother.
"Anyway, you'd better give me the potion. Between her nightmares
and mine, no one in the house is getting any sleep."
"Your nightmares?" Marcellon sometimes dreamed them too, houses
or miles away; those dreams of torture, longing, flight, cold, fear,
and murder were incredibly powerful. Marcellon never dared ask if they
were real. He didn't want to know. "The same ones?"
"Mostly."
"What are the new ones?"
Luthias considered. "I'm tied to a horse. The ocean's in front of
me, filled with a thousand ships--ours and theirs. There's a battle--I
move with it, but I can't get to the ships. I can see Clifton's ship.
It's hit by something, and I see Clifton fall, and the sea turns to
blood."
"Blood," Marcellon whispered. Clifton would be wounded and bleed
to death. Oh, granted Luthias Connall was no mage, and his talent for
magic was recessive, but the Knight's dreams occasionally took a
prophetic turn. Roisart had been more powerful; if only he had lived,
Marcellon groaned to himself. He could have used the help.
Then he saw in his mind a young man of medium height with jet-
black hair and hazel eyes. His face was Luthias', but the expression
it wore was closer to Roisart's face.
*Roisart-Talador,* Marcellon thought, and Luthias was before him
once more. The High Mage blinked the image away.
"Marcellon?"
"Clifton is going to be wounded and bleed to death," the wizard
explained, rising, for there was no time to lose. He glanced out his
window and raised both eyebrows. It was past noon, at least two hours.
He might be able to do it today, on an off chance, if he had help. "If
I can make him a ring--"
Luthias shook his head. "What good is a ring going to do him?"
1 "I can enchant it so that he will never loose enough blood to
die." At the Count's look of disbelief, the magician laughed. "I am
not High Mage because I lack power. Still," Marcellon mused, "I cannot
do it alone. Send your wife to me. Part of the process includes making
potions, and she has experience in that area."
"What about the sleeping potion?"
Marcellon's mind raced. "We have only until sunset to complete
this," he told the Knight. "The process must all be completed between
dawn and sunset."
"Why not wait till tomorrow? You'll have more time."
Tomorrow? But who knew when the battle would be? That was one
thing that frequently enfuriated the mage. He often knew what would
happen, but seldom knew when. Besides, a feeling of urgency was
pushing him. "I must do it today. I need your wife, Luthias."
"What about the sleeping potion?" Luthias asked again.
"I'll give something to her before I bring her home," the mage
promised, distracted. "I must make that ring. I cannot allow my
daughter's husband to die!"
He moved to his cabinet and pulled a lever. A concealed door
opened; Marcellon did not make access to his laboratory easy. From the
cabinet he took a few of the move mundane of his needs: oil, sulphur,
and acacia.
"I wonder," Luthias said behind him, startling the mage out of
his preparations, "if having a sword like that would be unKnightly."
Marcellon turned slowly. "I don't think so," the mage answered,
uncertain why Luthias had asked. "I learned this spell from watching
the Old Enchanter in my crystal. He enchanted a King's scabbard with
this spell, and the King was a Knight and a great leader of Knights.
Why?" Marcellon finally confronted him, remembering the Wanderer's
words. "Do you want your sword enchanted? You don't need it. I don't
need to worry about you, Luthias."
"Oh, I'm willing to put my faith in my training," Luthias
confessed, a little of his normal confidence seeping into his smile.
"But if I had a sword that would keep me from bleeding to death--or
better yet the sword hilt, for any blade can break--I bet Sable would
feel much better."
Marcellon smiled as he realized the logic behind the suggestion.
"Send your wife, my friend," he invited. "Have her bring the sword you
will use in battle."
The Countess of Connall entered, and Marcellon ached to see her.
She was a beauty, normally, but the worry had worn her out. Quelling
sudden fury that both Luthias and Myrande were being forced into old
age without having reached their twenty-second year, the High Mage
smiled. "Welcome. Come in."
Uncertainly, Myrande stepped forward and offered a swathed
burden. "Luthias said we would need this, but I have no idea for what.
What's this all about, Marcellon?"
Marcellon unwrapped the shroud and smiled at the sword within it.
"Luthias intends to use this sword in battle?"
The Countess grinned. "Why not? It has excellent balance, and
Carrerra steel is the best in the world. Beinison does know how to
make its swords."
The High Mage raised his eyebrow. "And when did you become a
weapons' expert, Lady Sable?"
In response, the Countess gave him an arch look. King Haralan had
been right when he said that Myrande would have made an excellent
Queen. "Being a Knight's daughter--and another Knight's wife--I've
manage to glean a few facts." She paused and relaxed her imperial
expression. "Even if this weren't the best sword that Luthias owns, he
1would still use it. It isn't every man who wins the respect and
tribute of an enemy, let alone a Knight of the Star."
"It was quite a battle," Marcellon agreed. "Luthias fought
excellently."
"I figured Sir Edward knighted him for a reason."
Marcellon rolled his eyes in mock-agony. "You're developing my
own sense of humor. Come," he commanded, offering her hand. "We have
much work to do."
A knock on the door halted the mage mid-step. "Good God, who is
it this time?" Marcellon forced between clenched teeth. Myrande,
trained from birth as seneschal and hostess, turned back and opened
the door. King Haralan stood behind it, attempting to blink away his
bewilderment. "Your majesty," Marcellon greeted him icily, but he
supposed he must speak to the man. Haralan was, after all, the King.
"Good day, Countess," the King spoke finally, taking Myrande's
hand to his cheek. He looked over her head at the High Mage, who gave
him a cold, furious stare. "Your sevants did tell me not to interrupt
you, Marcellon, but there is something I must know. Can we not speak
privately?"
Without taking his glare off the King's eyes, Marcellon said,
"Lady Sable, will you go into my garden and pick seven large valley
lilies? We will need them."
"As you wish," she answered, ducking out the room's sudden chill.
"With all due respect, your majesty, speak quickly," Marcellon
ordered, turning away. "I have much work to do. There are reasons I
asked to not be interrupted."
"I am sorry," Haralan apologized mildly, and Marcellon felt
himself relenting. Still, he was furious. He was sick of the
interruptions. "I only need one question answered, and I will leave. I
quite understand the need to work uninterrupted."
Suddenly Marcellon saw a collage of images of Haralan, trying to
see his sons or catch a nap, trying to write proclamations or pray for
guidance. He was interrupted each time. He hadn't seen his two young
sons in a week. He hadn't slept for as long. The High Mage sighed
heavily. Kings' burdens were heavy, too. "What is it, your majesty?"
"Is my brother still alive and well?"
Marcellon looked up quickly and saw the pain in the King's eyes.
"Of course. If anything had happened to him, I would have told you."
Haralan's blue eyes calmed like the sea after a storm. The High Mage
smiled at the King's relief. "The worst he's suffered since he left us
is a few broken bones."
Haralan managed a weak smile. "That puts him ahead of you and I,
my friend. Thank you."
As he turned to go, Marcellon said softly, "He misses you, too,
Haralan."
The King turned sorrowfully, nodded once, then asked, "When is
the last time you saw him?"
The High Mage smiled. "A few days ago." Marcellon called up the
memory, then searched for the vision. Ah, there was the younger
prince, in his usual place, with his two friends.
"You see him now?"
Marcellon nodded. "He is well and quite merry. He is singing."
"That's like him," the King acknowledged. He turned to go, then
paused. "If a King may ask..."
The mage rolled his eyes. "What now, your majesty?"
"What is of such importance that you instruct your servants to
deter even the King?"
Marcellon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Haralan's
occasionally pompous attitude always annoyed him. Still, the High Mage
answered, "Preserving the life of your fleet admiral."
1 "Is he in danger?" Haralan's eyes were wide and worried.
Maracellon could feel the cold terror that gripped the King's heart.
Good and skilled--not to mention loyal--officers were difficult to
come by these days.
"Be easy, sire," Marcellon assured him softly, coming close
enough to touch the King's shoulder. "I believe the Duke of Dargon to
be in great danger, yes, but as long as I can have an uninterrupted
day's work, I may be able to prevent his death." And Lauren's too,
Marcellon added. What about that battle?
"Be assured I will do my part to get you that uninterrupted day,"
the King promised, reassured. "Work well, Marcellon, and thank you."
Myrande opened the door the instant the King touched the opposite
one, but she didn't enter until Haralan had left. "Don't worry. I
didn't hear anything but the last bit. I don't know, and I don't want
to." Marcellon smiled tiredly and took the lilies from her hand. "War
isn't my talent."
"No, but making potions is," Marcellon agreed, examining the
lilies closely. Yes, they would do well. "That is why I asked you
here."
"What potions? What are we doing?"
Marcellon led her into his laboratory, put the valley lilies on
the table, and began pulling ingredients from shelves. "We are
enchanting a ring for Clifton and your husband's sword hilt so that
they will never lose enough blood to die as long as they wear them-
-or wield or touch them."
Without turning, Marcellon could feel the Countess' relief like a
long-pined-for breeze. She took a step closer to the table and started
scanning the bottles and boxes which Marcellon had selected.
"Hematite, coral, beth root, acacia, garlic, thyme, fox tail,
amaranth...We're making a clotting salve and an anti- hemoragging
potion?"
"Triple batches, and that is only the first, longest, and most
tedious step," Marcellon instructed her, fetching the mortar and
pestle and two glass cauldrons. "After that is done, I must magick
them so that they will be permanent. I must cast other spells to make
them both work together and yet others to have their effects work by
touch and not absorption or digestion."
Myrande started shredding the valley lilies. Marcellon was glad
he did not have to lesson her on how to make the potions he sought.
"How do we get the sword and the ring to do these things, Marcellon?"
"That is the most difficult part," Marcellon sighed, grinding
hematite in the mortar. "The final spell, and the one that is the most
exhausting and exacting--and therefore the one that I'll most likely
have to cast many times to make it work--transfers the powers of the
potions to the sword and the ring." In another mortar, Marcellon began
crushing red coral. "And we have only until dusk."
"If we can't make it work today, we'll try again tomorrow,"
Myrande promised, sprinkling the valley lily strings into a glass
cauldron and adding the oil.
"I'd rather finish today," Marcellon grumbled. "I do not know
when Clifton will be wounded, but I know that if he doesn't have this
ring, he will die."
Myrande shuddered and reached for the cloves. "In that case," she
agreed, grinding them in the mortar, slowly, "we had better get to
work."
Marcellon raised his hands over the clotting salve and began to
chant softly. The words were old, soothing, like a long- known prayer.
The mage felt heat in his fingers and knew that his hands had started
to glow. Between two fingers, he crushed a diamond.
1 There was a flash, and Marcellon opened his eyes. "Done."
Myrande looked from the High Mage to the caudron of salve, then
back. "How do you do that? Can you teach me? If I could make potions
that would never spoil--"
Marcellon chuckled gently at her eagerness. "You may indeed have
a talent for it, Lady Sable. According to Rish Vogel, we have a common
ancestor ten or twelve generations back. However, we don't have the
time now for it. Perhaps after the war."
Myrande studied both cauldrons carefully. "How do you know that
the spells worked?"
Marcellon blinked at the question. He had never thought about it
before. "I...just know. I can feel it." The mage wished he had time to
show her how to feel such things, but Marcellon felt rushed still.
"Come, we have much to do. Move the hemoraging potion toward me."
Showing greater strength than her size suggested, Myrande lifted
the glass pot--with effort, the mage noted--and, grimacing, she set it
beside him. The High Mage stretched his hand over the salve and then
over the potion. "Bring me a piece of coral and another of hematite,
each as big as your thumbnail. When I hold my hands open, put one in
each." The Countess of Connall scurried toward the counter.
Beginning in a whisper and increasing toward a shout, Marcellon
chanted again, the ancient words in the ancient tongue, praying for
both mixtures to work together. He turned his hands over and felt
Myrande place the stones on his palms. The wizard held them out,
offered them to God on High, raised his voice--
And gasped as if struck. Marcellon dropped to his knees and
covered his ears at the force of the fear. There was fury, too, from
another source, just as criplling.
The power left him, and he could feel Myrande's arms around him.
"What is it? Are you well?"
The High Mage took deep breaths. "Something is very wrong," he
gasped. "Call for dinner. We may as well eat now. Sir Edward is
coming."
Although Sir Edward Sothos, Knight Commander of the Royal
Baranurian Armies, hid his emotions almost professionally, Marcellon
could sense the fright--he might have named it panic had it been in
any other man--clanging like tuneless bell. "What happened?" Marcellon
demanded as he motioned Sir Edward to a chair.
The Knight Commander sat heavily after greeting the Countess
formally but tiredly. "Your excellency--" he adressed her.
Marcellon dismissed his fear of her overhearing with a jerk of
the hand. "You know as well as I that Lady Myrande can be trusted," he
snapped. "What is it? Say it, Edward."
The Galician Knight took a deep breath. "The King has gone
mad--or Sir Luthias has. I'm not sure."
Cold, steel bands snapped around Marcellon's heart like a trap.
That was all they needed! "What happened?" the High Mage demanded
again. If Edward didn't spit it out, and quickly, Marcellon decided to
read his mind. This avoiding the question--
"The King," Sir Edward revealed finally, but slowly, "said
something to me about..." The Knight Commander paused to search for
words. "About bringing back his brother to be Captain General of the
Archers."
Marcellon's jaw dropped. He stood and clapped his hand to his
forehead. He should have known when Haralan had asked, he berated
himself silently. "Steward!" the High Mage bellowed. The cowed servant
stuck his head timidly through the door. "Summon the King and the
Count of Connall to my presence *immediately!*"
As the servant whisked himself from the house, the magician
1turned to his friend. "Don't worry, Edward. The King isn't mad. What
exactly did he say?"
Sir Edward frowned mightily. "I don't remember exactly, but I
thought it sounded like a wish, especially as both King Haralan's
brothers are dead."
Marcellon nodded grimly. "As is well known," he concurred, but
the falsehood tickled his heart unpleasantly. His hasty, mental
accusation of Haralan also bothered the High Mage; he knew Haralan
better than to think the King foolish enough to try to bring his
brother home.
Next to the Knight Commander, the Countess of Connall frowned.
The High Mage raised an eyebrow. "What is it, Myrande?"
She sighed. "I can't believe he--the young prince--is dead."
"Believe it," Marcellon confirmed with a nod, though he smiled
internally at Myrande's calling a man more than ten years her senior
"the young prince." Where the hell was Haralan? "Who did he tell this,
Edward? It is imperative."
Sir Edward took a moment to remember. "Myself, Sir Luthias,
Ittosai Michiya and Ito, Sarah Verde, and Coury."
Marcellon breathed his relief. Those few could be trusted to keep
quiet. "Good. Luthias will need no such instruction, but the others
must be made to hold their tongues. And as soon as he and the King
arrive, I hope there will be no need for him to speak of it any more
at all."
"I have already spoken to Captain Verde and to Coury. Answer me
this, old man: if Haralan's brother is dead, why is Sir Luthias
upset?"
"I'd like an answer to that myself," Marcellon interrupted,
glaring at the unopened door. Where was Luthias? Where was the King?
"Luthias doesn't think Prince Richard is dead," Myrande supplied
easily. She stared out the window at the near-setting sun. After a
moment, she turned back to the High Mage and the Knight Commander.
"When my father came to Uncle Fionn with the news that Prince Richard
had been declared dead, we were all appalled. Luthias finally asked my
father how he had died. Then Uncle Fionn laughed and told us that
Prince Richard probably was still alive, and that he was only declared
dead so that King Haralan could take the throne."
Marcellon fought cringing. That was too near the truth. Well,
leave it to Fionn Connall not to miss a trick. And damn Myrande for
her excellent memory. She couldn't have been more than eight or nine
at the time of Richard's "death."
"I see," the Knight Commander said slowly. Then his eyes widened,
and this time Marcellon saw the fear plainly. "Nehru's blood, no
wonder Luthias exploded! If Haralan could bring his brother back--"
The High Mage raised his hand, and Sir Edward ceased. "I'm sure
Sir Luthias merely misunderstood him."
"What did my husband do to the King?" Myrande asked quietly, her
voice testy. Marcellon smiled at her willingness to defend Luthias
even if he had done treason. Marcellon's own wife had been like that.
Sir Edward patted her hand. "Nothing of great insult or injury,
my lady. He merely roared, 'Why don't you just *give* the country to
Beinison?' and marched off with his castellan."
Marcellon pictured the entire situation without benefit of his
powers: Haralan's announcement, Luthias' explosion and departure,
Edward's cautioning the ladies to keep this quiet, and his quick
journey to the High Mage's house. "Well, that's like our Sir Luthias."
"And he's right," Sir Edward concluded. "Or he would be, if
Prince Richard were still alive. As I understand the inheritance laws
of this country, the chosen child becomes heir. If Haralan's brother
were alive, then Haralan's right to rule would be uncertain."
1 "True," Marcellon agreed. "But we needn't worry." The High Mage
took a deep breath. "I may never get that ring done," he muttered. He
faced the Knight Commander again. "I'll clear the matter, Edward.
Don't worry, but keep quiet."
"Thank you," a relieved Sir Edward exhaled as he rose with
dignity. "Good afternoon." He moved toward the door, then turned.
"Lady Countess, you have an excellent memory." The Knight Commander's
scar danced as he smiled. "Do you perhaps remember when we first met?"
The Countess of Connall gave him a smug grin. "It was the Melrin
six years ago. You had come to judge the tournament and to visit my
father."
Sir Edward bowed, and Marcellon saw the Knight Commander's
pleasure in his face. "I don't recall who won that tournament."
"My father did," Myrande reminded him, tilting her chin proudly.
"He was a good Knight," Sir Edward declared. There was no higher
praise from the Knight Commander, as Marcellon knew well. Edward's
smile wrinkled near his eyes. "I do remember, however, that that
particular tourney was Luthias' first. I turned to Sir Lucan--"
Myrande warmed at the mention of her father. "--and said, 'I do not
want to meet your squire when he reaches twenty-one.' It is still not
a pleasant thought." Sir Edward paused and squinted. "As I recall,
Luthias took third place in that tournament."
"That's because there were no bloody Bichanese!" Myrande rose as
if she had been shot from a bow. Luthias, obviously in pain, stumbled
through the door, supported on one side by his chief aide, Ittosai
Michiya, and on the other by Michya's older brother, Ito. All three
wore armor, but Luthias' breastplate hung in three pieces. Derrio,
nervous and anxious, followed behind.
Myrande rushed to help. "Lay him down," she instructed quickly.
"No, on the floor," she corrected as Michiya and Ito moved toward the
couch.
"Your excellency, do you think you should attend him?" Sir Edward
protested, horrified.
The Countess laughed. "This isn't the first time I've put him
back together."
Marcellon entered the fray. "What have you done to yourself this
time, manling?" He clucked mildly when the Count gave him an acidic
stare. Luthias would not still be in a temper if he were seriously
hurt.
"Broken rib, I think," the young Count groaned as the Bichanese
gently rested him on the floor. Myrande dropped to the floor at his
side. "I was sparring with Ito."
"And I thought you were saving yourself for Beinison," Marcellon
quipped, moving to the Count's left and kneeling on the floor beside
him. He reached out his hand and probed Luthias' chest gently.
"They've had their chance already," Myrande snapped, looking
coldly at the wizard.
"My armor exploded," Luthias told them, glancing from his wife on
one side to Marcellon on the other. "And Ito hit me again. It's on
Sable's side, Marcellon."
"I did not see it until after I struck the blow," Ito apologized,
his Baranurian still somewhat halting.
"It's no wonder," Luthias agreed, groaning as his wife found the
injured bone. "Stevene, you Bichanese move like lightning."
Myrande snatched a knife from her belt and sliced Luthias'
undershirt open. Ugly purple-brown bruises decorated the Knight's
strong chest. The High Mage quickly whispered a spell, and Luthias'
armor fell off. Marcellon tossed the plates to the Knight Commander,
who shook his head grimly as he inspected it.
"I'm glad you're on our side, sir," Edward told Ito quite
1sincerely. The Knight Commander touched the crushed plate in wonder.
"I would not like to be your enemy." The samurai bowed, and Sir Edward
looked at his officer. "I doubt it can be repaired, Sir Luthias."
"That's all right. It was pretty old." The Count tried to take a
deep breath but found he couldn't. "Stevene, what I wouldn't give for
Bichanese armor. You can move like the wind in that stuff."
"And it does not...explode, as you say," Ito added.
"So you will have your birthday present early," Michiya dropped
casually. "It will be ready in two days' time, anyway."
Despite the pain, Luthias grinned at the prospect of new armor.
Marcellon chuckled at the boyish expression then laid his hand on the
broken ribs and whispered a spell. Luthias sat up almost immediately.
"I like you, Marcellon. Last time a broke a rib, I couldn't fight for
two months."
"You broke more than one this time," Marcellon informed him, "but
I certainly couldn't keep you off the battlefield for two months in
times like these." The Royal Physician and High Mage ignored the
Countess' glare and continued his prescription. "Two days, Luthias. No
fighting." The young Count nodded, and his lady wife helped him to his
feet. "You may, however, be fitted for your birthday gift and dance at
the Melrin Ball."
Luthias grinned and turned to Ito. "Rematch, next week."
The Bichanese turned to his brother, who translated the first
word. Ito bowed. "Very well."
"What were you doing fighting with the Bichanese, anyway?"
Myrande wondered as her husband put an arm around her.
Marcellon smiled at them, wistfully remembering such times with
his wife. He quickly supressed the ache.
"I have a lot to learn from them, Sable," Luthias explained
easily. "Besides, I needed some way to work that frustration off." The
young Count scowled. "God, King Haralan's crazy. How can he even think
of bringing Prince Richard back?"
"Luthias, wouldn't you bring back Roisart if you could?"
Marcellon asked gently, and the Count looked away, his expression
amguished. Marcellon hated to bring up a painful subject--it had been
a year, less a day, that Roisart had been murdered--but he knew no
better way to make the young Knight understand his King. "That's all
the King meant."
"Why is it that you do not want this Prince to return?" Ittosai
Michiya, confused, asked Luthias. "Is he an evil man?"
"No, he's great," Luthias told him, grinning. Marcellon had a
quick vision of young Richard playing with Luthias and Roisart, and
smiled too. "He used to teach me strategy by playing toy soldiers with
me." Funny, that's how I taught Richard, Marcellon remembered. "He
used to climb trees with us and everything. But," the Count darkly
concluded, "he was supposed to be King."
"He didn't want to be King any more than you wanted to be Baron,"
Marcellon admonished Luthias sternly.
"Yet King Arneth chose him as heir over King Haralan," Luthias
reminded the Mage.
"Why?" Ittosai Michiya asked. "Is not Haralan a good King?"
"Certainly, and a better one than Richard would have been, but
Richard was his father's favorite," Marcellon said, pacing. Where
*was* Haralan? God, if he didn't get here and allow Marcellon to
dismiss these people, he'd never get that ring done!
"You are saying that there would be problems if this prince
returns?" Ito said, his face stern with concentration.
"There will be no problems. The Prince is dead," Sir Edward
stated.
"You wished to see me, Marcellon?" the King asked mildly as he
1walked blythely into the nest of the Wasp King. The High Mage took a
step forward, but Luthias, holding Myrande with one arm, beat him.
"I'm glad to see you, Sir Luthias. I wished to speak with you."
"I bet," Luthias spat angrily. Sir Edward sent his Knight a stern
look, which Marcellon knew the Count ignored deliberately. "How soon
are you starting the civil war, your majesty?"
The King looked from his Cavalry General to the High Mage. "Is he
well?"
"I believe Sir Luthias has misunderstood a remark your majesty
made about bringing back your brother Richard," Marcellon told him
slowly, his blue-green eyes steadily holding the King's.
Suddenly white-lipped, King Haralan inspected Sir Luthias'
furious face. "I merely wished I could bring him back. I would think
you would understand me, Sir Luthias, as you have lost a brother,
too."
Luthias' anger evaporated into shock and confusion. "You mean
he's really dead?" he gasped.
Haralan glanced at Marcellon, who returned the gaze steadily and
nodded. Shifting his eyes back to Sir Luthias, the King laughed
hollowly, and Marcellon saw the King's jaw shake. "Marcellon swore it.
Are you calling him a liar?"
"No, of course not," Luthias reassured him quickly. "But sire, I
thought--"
"Yes," Marcellon interrupted, then he caught the King's eye.
"Baron Fionn Connall thought perhaps our declaring Richard dead was a
political ploy to put you on the throne."
Haralan groaned and put his head in his hands. Marcellon felt his
despair--and the fear, too. If Fionn Connall had seen, how many others
had? "Luthias, I can no more bring my brother back than you can bring
back yours!" the King cried. He seized his tall Knight's shoulders.
"Can't you believe that?"
Luthias lowered his eyes. Marcellon sensed the young man's shame.
"Forgive me, your majesty."
"Sir Luthias," Haralan said slowly, breathing deeply, "if somehow
I could bring my brother back and I was planning on doing it, I hope
you would explode and prevent me. I realize what would happen if..."
The King looked toward Marcellon. "We all know what would happen."
"I certainly hope that you would not be so rude about it," Sir
Edward scolded his Knight harshly. "Courtesy is the virtue of a
Knight, Sir Luthias."
"And advising the King is the duty of a Knight," King Haralan
added softly. "Don't be so hard on him, Sir Edward. I understand the
anger he feels." The King watched Sir Luthias sorrowfully. "I, too,
have lost much of my family and would not sit still for someone
increasing the danger. Besides, Sir Luthias has realized his mistake
and apologized, and I accept that." With effort, the King smiled.
"Come, Edward, and you, too, Sir Luthias. We have much to do." Haralan
scanned the room. "And no one is to speak of this."
"Understood, your majesty," Ittosai Michiya said, then he quickly
translated for his brother, who nodded. Derrio covered his mouth.
"I'll see you later, Sable." Luthias kissed his wife on the
mouth. "How are the sword and ring coming?" the younger Knight asked.
"The ring!" Marcellon breathed. "Shoo!" he commanded, waving his
hands nervously at the King, the Knight Commander, the Count of
Connall, his squire, and the two, dignified samurais. "I have much to
do. And Haralan, issue a proclamation if you have to, but I can't deal
with any more interruptions, unless you want you Fleet Admiral dead!"
The King smiled and turned toward the door. "Good day, Countess."
Haralan motioned to her husband. "Attend me, General."
"As you wish, your majesty," Luthias agreed soberly.
1 Marcellon heard them no more, and he didn't notice when his
assistant fairly shoved the Knight Commander out of the room and
slammed and bolted to door. There wasn't time to waste. The sun would
be setting in an hour.
Such an hour. Marcellon had to cast the spell binding the two
mixtures thrice before it took. Then he boiled the mixed potion and
salve over a heavy fire, too hot for this day, but necessary. Plunging
his hands into the scalding compound, the High Mage cried the spell in
a loud, pained voice. The enchantment sealed over the mixture
immediately, God be praised, for Marcellon couldn't cast that spell
more than once a day. The damage to his hands couldn't heal more
quickly.
The High Mage cast a quick look out the window. A half hour to
sunset, perhaps, and the most difficult spell left to do. Myrande
stood patiently, awaiting his orders like a dutiful seneschal. "Bring
the burning yellow sand and oil," Marcellon requested as gently as he
could. He hands burned, and he whispered a spell to speed the healing.
Myrande retrieved the two substances from a nearby worktable.
Marcellon nodded toward the combined potions. When the Countess placed
the two beakers near the cauldron, Marcellon reached out and dipped a
hand in each. Almost absently, he sprinkled the sulphur and the oil
over the potion.
"How does it work?" Myrande asked, watching with avid,
unconcealed curiousity.
The High Mage chuckled despite his scalded hands. "It would take
years of training for you to be able to understand, Lady Sable."
Myrande considered his words, then inquired, "How do we make it
work, then?"
"Lay Luthias' sword and the silver ring on the table," Marcellon
commanded. While she did so, he explained, "When the mixture cools, we
will dip the sword hilt and the ring in it, then set them afire. When
I say the spell, the fire and the potions will be absorbed, and we
will be done." Marcellon grimaced at the difficulty of this seemingly
simple process and added, "If it takes."
"Why wouldn't it?"
"It's a very difficult spell, Lady Myrande," the wizard tried to
enlighten her. "Spells are...fixed, and if one syllable is off, one
bit of rhythm a fraction late, the spell won't work. Like..."
Marcellon's mind searched for something she could easily understand.
"Like leaving a potion to boil overlong, or underlong."
Myrande nodded thoughtfully and looked out the window. "Not much
time," she commented. Turning back to Marcellon, the Countess
wondered, "If necessary, could we finish tomorrow?"
"We'll have to begin at the beginning again," Marcellon told her,
finishing the delicate mixing. "Give me the ring and the sword."
Myrande handed both objects to him and watched the High Mage with
blatant curiosity. Carefully, for his hands still burned most
wretchedly, Marcellon dipped the silver ring and the sword hilt into
the mixture of the clotting salve, the hemoragging potion, the
sulphur, and the oil. After one last glance to make certain that the
objects were well covered, Marcellon uttered a single word. Both ring
and hilt erupted in flames.
"So far, we do well," sighed the mage. He raised his arms and
closed his eyes. When he began murmering, Marcellon felt his body
shiver, as it should. He felt power flow down his arms, and the hot,
white light burned his hands. Marcellon felt the great release when
the light left his fingers like harnessed lightning and struck the
ring and the sword.
Marcellon opened his eyes and watched them burn. If all went
well, the fire at any moment would be sucked into the silver.
1 The ring and sword hilt burned.
"Damn," Marcellon whispered. He scrutinized the worktable. "I
said the spell rightly..." When his eyes fell on the cauldron, the
High Mage reached out and touched the side. Too warm. He hadn't let
the mixture cool enough. Then Marcellon laughed at himself. In his
anxiety, he hadn't let the mixture cool at all.
The magician turned to his assistant and smiled ruefully. "I
suppose patience is not one of my virtues today," he sighed. Marcellon
marched toward the window and yanked the curtain back. Twenty minutes,
perhaps, until the sun set for the day.
"How much does it need cool?" Lady Myrande wondered, placing her
hand cautiously on the side of the cauldron. "We haven't much time."
"We'll wait a few minutes, then try again," the High Mage decided
as he wearily fell into a chair. "I have no wish to repeat this on the
morrow, Lady Sable. Although," Marcellon continued, his eyes dancing,
"I doubt we could have more...ah...interesting problems than we had
today."
Myrande chuckled. "Don't tempt fate." She handed him a goblet of
wine. "What if we don't get it done?"
"We'll do it again tomorrow," Marcellon promised her. She sounded
so worried, as if Luthias would be killed before her eyes if he didn't
have the sword by this evening. The High Mage could hardly blame her.
Roisart had been murdered in a peaceful ballroom, a year from
tomorrow.
Still, Marcellon didn't want to wait until tomorrow any more than
the Countess did. Clifton's life was in danger; he, too, could die at
any time. And Lauren--
The High Mage grimaced as he thought of his daughter. Marcellon,
now that he knew of its existence, felt the danger surrounding Lauren
like a stench-filled fog. Lauren, if she goes to battle...what if she
goes to battle?
"I'm glad to know Prince Richard is still alive," Myrande began
calmly.
Marcellon started out of his thoughts and stared at the Countess,
who was gazing at the setting sun. After a moment's consideration, the
High Mage answered, "After all that, you think him still alive?"
The Countess turned slowly and smiled regally. "Why not? He is.
He must be."
Marcellon stared at her sharply and quickly reached for Myrande's
thoughts. 'If Prince Richard were dead, you would have said so,'
Marcellon caught.
"I did say so," Marcellon protested, although he knew she was
right.
"Sir *Edward* said so," Myrande corrected him smoothly, "but you
didn't, and neither did the King. Besides, there's no other
explanation for your anger and the King's fear."
She read people too well, that one, Marcellon concluded. The
winter in court had taught her much; Myrande had learned how to read
eyes and faces and tones when words could not be trusted--too often
the case at court. Still, the High Mage realized acknowledging her
assessment was too dangerous.
"Myrande," the High Mage sighed heavily, for he hated to lie,
"Prince Richard is dead. He has been dead nearly fourteen years. I
swore it on the Word of God. Would I be forsworn?"
She doubted then; Marcellon felt it. Myrande knew well that
Marcellon never lied--almost never, the Mage reminded himself.
But she only doubted--and only for a moment. Myrande still
believed Richard lived. By not pronouncing him dead at the very first,
the High Mage realized that he had convinced stubborn Sable that
Richard still lived. Oh, Myrande would say nothing more--in her
1thoughts, Marcellon gleaned the Myrande's realization of the futility
of fighting the High Mage--but still she believed. Damn her, she was
as stubborn as Lauren when Lauren magically knew something.
Lauren--What would happen to Lauren?
The mage sprung from the chair impatiently. As soon as this was
done, he would search his crystal, day and night if necessary, and
send a warning to his daughter when he sent her husband the ring. But
the ring must be finished. As for Lady Sable, let her believe what she
wishes, so long as she remains silent. There was no time to worry
about it now. Marcellon knew without looking that barely a quarter
hour of sunlight remained.
"Come," Marcellon half-invited, half-ordered his assistant,
"Bring the ring and the sword to me, Myrande."
Marcellon took them from her and dipped them carefully. He
immersed the objects in the carefully concocted mixture a second time
to be sure of their coating. Once again, he placed them on the
worktable and set them on fire with a word. Marcellon lifted his hands
in spell and prayer and closed his eyes.
Marcellon's body quaked gently as the power of the earth and the
air flowed through his body and gathered at his hands into hot, white
lighting, pure and powerful. The power began to elongate, lightning
waiting to strike--
Lightning in a dark forest, covered with clouds--great wind and
fire--blood on the ground--Lauren stood within in, calling out words
of horror and magic.
And the lightning coursed through Lauren, fell on her from a
stormy sky and fled from her in many directions to sear as many trees.
Lauren screamed with the pain of a banshee, but she didn't release or
banish the lightning as Marcellon had taught her. Seven trees were
sinking into the earth that spawned them, and more were burning.
The lightning grew brighter, and Lauren glowed with its power.
One more levin-strike, and it split a great oak in half. Lauren
screamed--Marcellon heard himself scream her name--and his daughter
collapsed on a high cliff amidst the cries of children.
"Is Lauren all right?" Lady Myrande was asking anxiously.
Marcellon sensed her arms around him, but the Countess seemed so far
away. The High Mage tried to open his eyes, but the room swung
dizzily. "Marcellon? Are you all right?"
"Lauren," the High Mage murmered, clutching his head miserably.
"Oh, my baby."
"Marcellon, the spell," Myrande reminded him. The mage was
beginning to feel cold stone beneath him. "It didn't work."
"Lauren," Marcellon groaned. She had to stay out of the battles.
He had to warn her. Without opening his eyes to the swaying room, the
High Mage climbed to a standing position. "Lauren," he croaked. "I
have to warn Lauren."
"Marcellon, the spell!" Myrande insisted. "There's no time!"
"I can't let her die," Marcellon mumbled, stumbling blindly in no
coherent direction. The mage suddenly felt someone supporting him.
"Myrande, my daughter....the lightning..."
"We'll warn her," she promised. "I tell you, we'll warn her. But
Clifton and Luthias--Marcellon, cast the spell!"
That's right--Clifton and Luthias--but Lauren--and Marcellon
feared to call the lightning again, lest it kill his daughter. Lauren!
Lauren!
"The sun is setting!" he heard Lady Sable scream. "Marcellon! The
spell! Clifton will die! You told me Clifton will die!"
Clifton--yes--Clifton, too, must be saved, for Lauren, for the
King. But the lightning--
No, Marcellon knew his spell did not--would not--hurt his own
1daughter. Not his spell, no. But I must warn her! the High Mage
thought, but even as he did so, he raised his arms and created the
spark that set the sword and ring afire. I must dip them, he thought
dazedly, but they burned as if newly immersed in the potions. Slowly,
breathlessly, the High Mage murmered the words that set the magic in
motion, that called power from the earth and from the air, and the
lightning gathered at his hands.
Marcellon knew when the lightning struck, and as the fire was
pulled into the sword hilt and the ring, the High Mage collapsed.
Marcellon did not raise his head from the table when Luthias
entered the sitting room well after dark. Marcellon knew it was
Luthias; he had had plenty of time to aquaint himself with the rhythm
and sound of Luthias' walk on the ships bound to and from Magnus and
in the long winter months in Pyridain. Marcellon even knew when the
young Knight bent to kiss his wife, fast asleep as a kitten on
Marcellon's plush couch. The High Mage sighed; he had often bestowed
such a caress on his own, sleeping wife when the King's business kept
him late.
Ah, Eliza, my sweet Eliza...
Marcellon heard the young Count pause before a side table, and
the High Mage would have smiled if he had the energy. "You may take
it. It is finished." With effort, Marcellon opened his eyes to see the
Knight, satisfied, slip the sword into its scabbard. "It will serve
you well."
"Clifton's ring?"
"It is on his hand as we speak." That spell, the one that
transported the little ring and the warning, finally exhausted
Marcellon so that even lifting his head from the table where he wrote
his daughter was nigh impossible. "I could not wait for a messenger. I
saw Lauren's death."
"Lauren's?" Luthias questioned. "Maybe you should make her a
ring."
"It would not help. She will not die of wounds. I have warned her
to stay away from battle..."
"Marcellon."
And the High Mage knew the time had come. He had known that for
some time the questions that plagued Luthias Connall, and Marcellon
had known that sooner or later, the young Knight would confront him.
Without waiting for the question to be asked, Marcellon answered it.
"I did foresee your father's death. I knew he would be thrown from a
horse, and I did warn him, Luthias. To his credit, your father
believed me. Still, there was no way...the drug Manus used on
Dragonfire worked through the poor horse's food. There was no way to
detect its administration until it struck, and when it was over,
well..."
"And my brother? You were at the ball, Marcellon. Didn't you--"
"My visions are imperfect, son. Some are plain, others like
dreams...and they only function if there is no change. I never foresaw
your brother's death." Marcellon grasped a breath with tired lungs. "I
saw yours."
"Mine?" The Count sounded surprised. "But I didn't die."
"I tell you, I see things that will happen if nothing changes,"
Marcellon repeated. "I saw, as if in a dream, your brother invested as
Duke of Dargon, and he asked me what he should do now. But something
happened--he saw the assassins, I guess--and he died, not you."
"Why didn't you save him?" Luthias demanded, his voice grieved.
"Marcellon--"
"I could not have saved him," Marcellon admitted heavily. "I have
great skill in medicine and magic--but not even I can bring back the
1dead. The poison they used on Roisart was immediate, like ardonatus.
Roisart was dead before he fell to the floor at your feet. He was dead
when you reached him, Luthias. I was farther away. There was nothing I
could have done."
"Nothing," Luthias whispered. After a long silence, the Knight
said, "It is past midnight, and it's a year he's been dead." Marcellon
heard the young man shift toward him. "Do you ever stop missing the
dead, Marcellon?"
"No." Tired grief flooded Marcellon's consciousness. "It has been
six years since my wife died, and there are still nights I wake,
expecting her beside me and grieving to remember her gone." Marcellon
wearily turned his head and looked at the Count of Connall. "Do you
not miss Sir Lucan still and your uncle Clifton?" The Knight nodded
glumly. "And your brother and father...thank God your wife lives
still, Luthias, son."
"She won't be hurt in the war, will she?"
The thought startled Marcellon; he had never even considered it.
"I don't know. Now take your wife home, and drink a sleeping potion
that you both might sleep uninterrupted. And if I can do the same,
I'll tell you tomorrow."
Marcellon listened as the Count of Connall took two steps toward
his wife; again, the young man paused. "I hate to ask, Marcellon, but
what about me?"
The High Mage managed a coughing chuckle. "Sir Luthias, they have
sent assassins for you. They have imprisoned you. They have tortured
you and drugged you. They sent a Knight of the Star against you- -a
high-ranking one at that--and you defeated him. I don't think Beinison
possesses anything that can kill you. You seem to be under the
protection of God Himself."
"Well, I'm grateful," the young Knight admitted, chuckling also.
In a more serious tone, Luthias continued, "And I am grateful for what
you have given me, Marcellon. You saved my life once, and now you're
preserving--"
Before the words were finished, the mage's eyes slid closed, and
he snored softly. Smiling, the Knight silently lifted the mage and
carried him to his bed in the next room. "Rest well, Marcellon." Then
Luthias took his sleeping wife, who cuddled to him as if she were one
of their newly born daughters, home.
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Quanta is the electronically distributed journal of Science Fiction
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(C) Copyright November, 1990, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd
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