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DargonZine Volume 10 Issue 01
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 10
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 1
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DargonZine Distributed: 02/01/1997
Volume 10, Number 1 Circulation: 627
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Stew A' La Gundi Jim Owens Seber 14, 1015
Last Stand Max Khaytsus Sy 24-28, 1014
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 10-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright February, 1997 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>.
All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual
contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without
the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
We're all familiar with the rates of growth and change on the
Internet. Today, more than ever, the Internet faces a bevy of
substantive challenges. What is the future of high-speed data transfer
to the desktop? How will the network backbone deal with the geometric
increase in traffic? What will be done about the lack of available
domain names? Will commercial sites be able to recoup their investments
in Web sites through electronic commerce? What new measures will be
established regarding privacy, copyright, and intellectual property in
order to deal with this revolutionary new medium?
It looks like there are a lot of challenges and changes in the
works for the network as a whole. That said, I'd like to digress a
little bit and talk about change as it relates to DargonZine.
What "DargonZine" is has certainly changed dramatically since it
was founded (as FSFnet) back in 1984. Many of our changes reflect the
incorporation of new technologies (e.g. Listserv, Usenet News, and the
Web) as they became available. But one thing hasn't changed in those
thirteen years: our goal of supporting aspiring fantasy writers. While
our methods have changed and evolved over time, we remain firmly wedded
to that mission.
DargonZine is neither the most visible nor the most popular SF zine
on the Internet. Because we have always kept our mission foremost in our
minds, our scope has therefore been much narrower than other magazines,
and we haven't tried to be everything to everyone.
Our successes are less quantifiable than simple numbers of readers.
We've built enthusiasm in our writers, and fostered lasting
relationships between writers. Over time we've gathered our "lessons
learned" into a set of firm beliefs about what makes good writing. We've
also created a healthy organizational culture amongst the writers,
giving them a real sense of pride and ownership in the project. And in
the course of producing one of the largest bodies of consistent, related
fiction on the Internet, we've had a hell of a lot of fun (which happens
to be part of our mission, too)!
While our mission won't change, we guarantee that
DargonZine will continue to evolve in 1997. With the war behind us,
we'll be printing new storylines and stories from new writers. You can
also expect a major reorganization of our Web site (we're specifically
focusing on ease of use and making more information available). And
although readership isn't a primary concern, we will probably put a
little more effort into visibility in the coming year.
But the event which I think holds the most promise for 1997 is our
first large-scale writers' summit, which will be held this spring. This
will be the first "conference" of Dargon Project writers, and there'll
be a lot of soul-searching and direction-setting. And, of course, we'll
be trying to generate renewed enthusiasm and have a little fun in the
process. And I promise that a full write-up and our most
incriminating pictures we take will
be made available on the Web site!
But, as ever, we will be working hard to achieve our mission, and
provide you with the best reading material that we can produce.
So we unveil our 13th year with two of the "Old Ones"...
Jim Owens' first appeared in FSFnet 1-3, back in the spring of
1985, and was one of the founders of both FSFnet and the Dargon Project.
In addition to his eleven non-Dargon stories, "Stew A' La Gundi" is
Jim's tenth Dargon story, and there are more on the way! The Web version
of "Stew" is also illustrated with Jim's own artwork, which we're glad
to promote.
"Last Stand" is Max Khaytsus' thirty-first Dargon Project story
since he joined the project back in 1988. Needless to say, he is our
most prolific writer. This story includes a depiction of the aftermath
of the Baranur-Beinison war -- a reality which will continue to echo
throughout several future storylines. Watch for Max's "Deep Woods Inn"
series to begin running in our next issue, which should be distributed
in mid-March.
========================================================================
Stew A' La Gundi
by Jim Owens
<gym@ncweb.com>
Seber 14, 1015
Simon could smell the village before he could see it. He would
rather have smelled the leeks he knew grew wild in these parts, but
years of experience had taught Simon that every scent carried important
information. This one was no exception. It was a smell he had not
smelled for years, but it was instantly recognizable -- acrid smoke from
a fire doused with human slop. The message was not spoken, but was
nonetheless clear -- go away, you're not welcome here. Indeed, although
smoke was still coming from several of the chimneys atop the small ring
of huts, Simon saw no lights or movement through the broken shutters
covering most of the windows. Still, the night was cold, it had been
raining for two days solid, and Simon Salamagundi was not one quickly
turned away. He led his horse through the muddy common to the first
house and knocked on the door.
"Hello! Anyone home?" he called. Several small sounds were his only
answer. He pushed on the door gently. It was securely latched.
"We've no room here. Look elsewhere," came a small, defensive
female voice from within.
"I just want a place out of the rain," chided Simon softly.
"We've no room, and no food to feed you," retorted the woman.
"Please leave."
Simon didn't argue. Hospitality required an offer of a meal, even
in these rude dwellings, and, after the 'gatherings' of the past war,
little food was left for non-combatants. Instead of arguing, Simon
started toward the next hut. He muttered wordlessly to himself as he
sloshed along. What had started as a simple trip to secure some spices
for his stew had turned into a two-day journey, and now he had to endure
the fragile hospitality of this war-torn land. He promised himself that
next time he ran out of sage he would wait for the next ship, rather
than seek it out on his own! Thirty feet of mud later, he reached the
door, and knocked again.
"Hello! Anyone here?"
"What do you want?" This time the voice was male, but no less wary.
"A spot out of the rain, please," Simon responded, trying to sound
innocuous.
"We've no food and no fire. Try elsewhere."
Simon sighed. "I need no food or fire, just dry!" He replied,
exasperated. No reply was forthcoming, however, and so he moved on to
the next house.
The war has hurt us all, Simon thought to himself as he slogged
through the mire to the next hovel. The area had once been civil and
gentle. Even though the raiding parties disappeared with the fighting,
no one wanted to appear to have anything at all, for fear that what
little they had might still be taken away. He cursed silently. The wound
would take years to heal. He approached the next door, and knocked.
This time the door actually opened, and a small child stepped into
view, one thumb innocently stuck in the mouth. Simon smiled, a faint
warmth entering his heart, but the child was whisked from view and the
door closed. "We have no room, please move on," called a firm female
voice from inside. Simon shrugged and did so.
Several more houses yielded several more rejections. By this time
the rain had stopped, and one moon emerged faintly from the clouds.
Simon moved to a high spot in the common, above the mud, and stood
looking at the dark circle of houses. He stared for several long
moments, then sniffed the air again.
"I think a change of air is in order," he said to no one in
particular. He then took the reins of his horse and walked back the way
he came.
The moon was a handspan higher in the sky when he returned, with
what dry wood he had been able to find lashed to the saddle. He stopped
at the high spot in the common and began to build a small pyramid of
branches. That done, he turned to the pack on his horse. He slid out a
short piece of latchet-wood, the fragrant aroma filling the dismal
common. It had been a gift from Ittosai, to be used as incense. Such a
stick was worth more than the entire village. He stood a moment, looking
around at the huts, as if trying to decide if the immediate environs
were worthy of such a extravagant offering, then he hunkered down by the
small heap on the ground and began shaving thin slices off the precious
stick.
After a handful of the fine shavings had accumulated atop the
sticks, Simon returned for his tinder box. Fortunately there was little
wind, and a gem of flame soon graced the miserable clearing. At once a
heady cloud arose from the small pieces of the pungent wood, almost
driving away the earlier, evil stench. He then turned back to the horse,
and uncovered a large pot.
Simon grimaced as he struggled to free the stew-pot from the pack.
He wryly remembered a promise he had made himself; that when the pot got
too heavy to lift, he would stop cooking. His arms were still hale,
however, and the weight of the utensil was manageable. He finally freed
it from its encumbrances, and set it on its three legs over the fire. He
had almost left it home, but now he was glad he had brought it.
From the well in the center of the common he drew a pail of water.
This he poured into the pot, under which the still mostly wet wood
hissed and flamed fitfully. He then drew another pail of water, and with
it in hand began rummaging about on the ground. After a few moments he
found a large stone beside a post, a stone about the size of a double
fist. This he dropped in the pail. He found another stone, about the
same size, and chucked it in the bucket too. Soon a third and fourth
joined the first two. Simon then straightened and walked back to the
fire. From the pail he drew the now-clean rocks, one by one, and dropped
them in the pot. After returning the bucket to the well, Simon returned
again to the camp and lifted a small skin of wine off the saddle. After
dragging a handful of his precious sage from the saddlebag, Simon drank
a swallow of wine for warmth and, after a small prayer for luck, poured
the rest in the kettle, followed by the sage. He returned the skin to
the saddle, grabbed his tools, then squatted down by the fire and began
stirring the mix with a big spoon.
Any good fisherman knows that patience is a virtue, and Simon was
no exception. He waited, and stirred, poking the fire occasionally, for
about ten menes. Finally a nibble came, in the form of a slight figure,
in the shadows beside one of the huts. Simon smiled to himself, careful
not to look up and scare the boy. It took almost as long for the lad to
gather enough courage to leave the shadows.
The first one is always the hardest, Simon reminded himself. After
one starts the others will fall in, but it's always a trick knowing what
to tell the first one. Fortunately the lad provided the answer with the
first words he spoke.
"What'tcha cookin'?" Simon almost turned away as the gust of
leek-tainted breath struck him full in the face. Instead he smiled
triumphantly and beamed up at the lad.
"Stone stew," replied Simon. He carefully drew a spoonful of the
thin liquid from the pot and sipped it theatrically, smacking his lips
in satisfaction. "Almost ready." He looked up at the boy, enthusiasm in
his voice and expression. "A good batch it is, too." His voice grew
wistful. "All it needs is ..."
"Is what?" the boy asked.
"Oh," Simon replied, "if I only had some leeks. That would make it
perfect!"
"Well, I have some leeks!" replied the boy. "I got them back in the
stable! Didya want me ta get them?"
"If you want," replied Simon, casually. The boy raced off. Simon
watched him go, stirring thoughtfully. Fortunately he had managed to
keep a straight face while sipping the tasteless broth. At least he had
gotten all the mud off the rocks!
After a moment the boy was running back, a handful of limp tubers
flopping in one hand. He thrust them at Simon.
"'ere!"
"Thank you, sir," Simon replied gallantly. "Here, stir," he said,
handing the boy the spoon. Expertly Simon peeled and sectioned the
aromatic roots, tossing them in the boiling water as the villager
churned it, rattling the rocks against the sides of the pot. "This will
be fine stew," admonished Simon knowingly. "It's always good with
leeks."
"I like leeks," remarked the boy, his face almost inside the pot.
"Which is your house?" asked Simon slowly.
"Oh, I don't live in a house," replied the boy, "not since Pa went
off to fight, and Ma died."
Simon's heart sank. An orphan to the war, living alone. How many
others were there out there, bereft of family, fending for themselves?
The villagers would be less likely to follow an orphan's example, to
boot. Perhaps stone stew would be their main course tonight after all.
"Well," he told the lad, "you will eat with me tonight. Stone stew is
always best shared," he added, a bit louder, for the benefit of other
ears.
He needn't have bothered. When he looked up he saw a young woman
watching him, a small girl peeking out from behind her ragged skirt.
"Hello, stranger. Do you still need a place to stay tonight?" Her
voice was soft and carefully modulated. No doubt torn between caution
and the hope that I have some food I can share, Simon thought.
"No," he replied, "I think I can stay out here." He made a show of
stirring the 'stew'.
"What's in the pot?" she asked.
"Stone stew," he replied, thinking hard. This wouldn't be as easy
as the boy. What would a woman like that have tucked away?
"It's good stew, too!" announced his first helper, startling Simon.
"Even better than potato soup!"
Simon gratefully took the cue. "Not that there's anything wrong
with potato soup," he quickly amended. "Why, even stone stew tastes
better with a potato or two."
"It does?" remarked the boy, almost disappointed.
"Well, I have some potatoes, if it helps," replied the woman, a ray
of hope in her voice.
"It would, thank you," replied Simon. "Perhaps you and your
potatoes could join us."
With a nod she sloshed off for her contribution, leaving her little
girl to stare at them. The boy leaned over to Simon. "You didn't have to
ask *her*," he sneered. "She's got *lots* of stuff, 'cause she don' give
*nothin* to nobody else!"
"Now, now," Simon replied calmly, "it's very hard these days, and
people are just afraid to share, that's all. We need to show them that
giving something away doesn't mean you have less." He let the boy ponder
that thought as the woman returned, a small basket in her hands.
By the time the potatoes were cut to Simon's specifications, two
more villagers had appeared, both older women. Simon repeated his
sipping act for them, this time with actual appreciation, as the flavor
of the broth had begun to develop. His praise of the sauce was tempered
this time by a reference to herbs.
"Ah, I've got some niiice broot-weed," replied the one woman, "just
the thing for stone stew!"
"Nooo," hissed the other, "not for stone stew! For that you need
cabbage and dill!"
"No you don't!" replied the first, her voice getting shrill.
"Oh, you've never made a good batch of stone stew in your life!"
announced the second. She turned to Simon. "I'll be getting the cabbage
and dill!" she replied firmly, then tottered off, the first nagging
behind her. Simon looked at the young woman and the boy, who both rolled
their eyes. Every village has at least one, Simon thought. This one's
got two. He almost chuckled at the old crone's comment. She was truthful
in spite of herself -- the other woman never had made a batch of stone
stew! He then shuddered at her mention of the bitter weed. He almost
wished he could dig into his pack for some more of his hard-bought
hoard, but that would ruin the illusion, and perhaps the villagers
growing generosity. He sighed, resigning himself to whatever mess he and
the others ended up with.
And so on it went, with people showing up in ones and twos, until
most every villager had made an appearance. Each returned to their
respective humble abodes, some for carrots, some for a few crusts of
bread, some for salted meat. Finally Simon's pot was full, and with the
whole village gathered around Simon could no longer smell the awful
scent that had first greeted him.
"This has got to be one of the best pots of stone stew I've ever
made!" shouted Simon to the lot, who gave vent to a cheer as they stood
around, bread and bowls in hand. Simon carefully lifted out the four
rocks and carefully set them aside, their purpose served. "And you can
keep these, for your next batch of stone stew," he admonished the group.
When no response came he looked up. Each person was staring fixedly
across the common, a peculiar expression on their faces.
Simon stood and looked to where the road emptied into the village.
There, walking slowly forward, were five men. Their expressions were
haggard, and by the postures of both groups Simon could tell they were
strangers here. One of the newcomers, taller than the others, shuffled
and carried a dead goose. One other was carrying a bow, and all had
swords. As they drew closer and stopped, Simon realized that they were
all wearing their cloaks inside out, the seams showing. One had strange
stitching on his right breast. It took Simon only a moment to realize he
was looking at the reverse of a insignia.
"Beinison turncoats," muttered someone tensely. Simon took a sharp
breath. The familiar stench had returned.
The Beinison deserters stopped in a line, staring tensely, but the
tall one continued shuffling forward after the others had stopped. His
face was set in the slack expression of one not too bright. He peered at
the group, and his eye caught sight of the pot. There was a long moment
of silence, then he smiled loosely and spoke.
"What'cha cookin'" he asked.
Simon looked down at the fire. A few shavings of latchet-wood had
fallen to one side, and Simon now nudged them back into the fire. Again
the fragrance arose.
"Stone stew," replied Simon simply.
"Huh," chuckled the big one. "I've had that before. Do yuh need a
goose?" He raised the animal high, drawing started looks from all on
both sides.
Simon smiled at the wisdom in the simpleton's words. "We need
whatever anyone will share with us."
"Okay," replied the man. He gave the goose a good hard look, then
turned back to Simon. "Do yuh have to pluck 'em first?"
========================================================================
Last Stand
by Max Khaytsus
<khaytsus@alumni.cs.colorado.edu>
Sy 24-28, 1014
"I forbid you to go in!" Jenye looked the man straight in the eyes.
"And you're being paid to listen to me!"
"Out of my way, bitch!" the man growled.
Jenye stood her ground. "Keep it up and I'll have you cut off!"
He shoved her hard against the wall and walked past, not having any
real reason to listen to her. She could do what she threatened, but then
she would need to be alive to make good on the threat.
Jenye gasped, trying to catch her breath, her back against the
doorway wall as Sharks' Cove town guards streamed into the Abyssment.
Since the battle in the bay between the Baranurian and Beinison fleets a
few days before, the town guard had started to cover their tracks,
destroying evidence of their deeds. It was only a matter of time before
the Baranurian Army would dedicate their attention to the town and then
all those who had taken the wrong side in the war would probably be put
to death.
"All right, folks!" the man who pushed Jenye aside called out
loudly, "we know who owns this property and what goes on here. We're
putting an end to it. If you would all get up and proceed upstairs,
there will be no trouble."
The sound of voices elevated, turning into a buzz as the patrons
talked among themselves. The conversations were hesitant and concerned,
some not knowing what the sergeant was talking about.
"Now, folks!" he prompted them and a few of the guardsmen drew
their swords. People slowly started gathering and streamed upstairs,
fearful of what could happen.
"You too, hog-face," the sergeant yelled at Eli. "Drop the bottle
and go."
"Get a move on!" a guard across the room yelled at a young man and
swung his sword at the patron's legs. The flat of the blade connected
with the man's knees, sending him tumbling to the ground. A few of the
patrons turned on the guard in annoyance, but more swords appeared,
aborting the short-lived rebellion.
Eli shook his head, but refused to argue with the polished blade
brandished before him. He put the wine bottle down, wiped his hands with
a rag and followed his customers up the stairs as the sergeant continued
to yell orders. He paused at the top one last time, throwing Jenye a
concerned look.
"And don't you worry about the doctor, pops," the sergeant laughed.
"She'll be right up as soon as we're finished here."
He walked across the room, looking around as his men saw to the
remaining people. The crowd of the twenty or thirty patrons quickly
disappeared up the stairs.
"All right," the sergeant announced when only the guards remained
in the main room of the Abyssment, "take anything you want, spill the
hard liquor on the floor and move it! We don't have all night!"
"Caligula's going to have you hunted down like a dog," Jenye
warned.
"No he won't," the sergeant grinned. "There won't be anyone left to
tell him." He picked up a glass with a clear liquid, clearly a strong
alcohol. "You see, you'll help us out with that. You'll get to spread
the fire!" and with those words, the contents of the glass hit Jenye in
the chest.
"You bastard!"
"Bring me a candle, Cadel," the sergeant ordered.
With all her might, Jenye planted her knee in his groin and bolted
out the door. The sergeant sank to the floor and his astonished men just
let the doctor slip by.
"After her!" he groaned, lying on the floor and a half dozen men
hurried to follow his order.
One of the remaining guardsmen cautiously approached his superior.
"Are you all right, Sir?" he knelt by his side.
With clenched teeth, the sergeant got to his feet, not wanting to
display weakness before his men. "I want that bitch dead. Find her and
bring her to me!" He tore the lit candle from the hands of one of his
men and tossed it into one of the puddles of alcohol on the floor. The
room instantly burst into flames and the guardsmen hastily abandoned the
building.
Jenye breathlessly ran down the dark street, not knowing where she
was going, but wanting to put as much distance as possible between
herself and her pursuers. Any place would do, so long as she could
escape the men on her trail.
She suspected the night would go bad the instant she saw all those
guards appear together, but never in her wildest dreams did she imagine
it would turn so deadly. Now she did not even have a place to run to.
She glanced over her shoulder at the guards running after her. They
were less than a block away and she stood little chance of losing them
by running straight down the street. They would certainly not tire out
before her.
At an intersecting street, Jenye took a sudden right and then a
left. A lot of alleys opened into this side street and she ducked into
the nearest one, hoping all the possible routes would confuse the men
chasing after her.
"Split up!" someone yelled, inspiring Jenye not to take the quick
rest she intended and she continued running. She ran out onto a street,
across the next alley, then doubled back, skipping though a narrow
corridor between two houses.
This new alley was quiet. Ever so cautiously, she snuck up to the
street to look out to see where her pursuers were, when a pair of arms
reached out from the darkness and, grabbing Jenye, pulled her into the
shadows. She struggled, trying to bite the gloved hand over her mouth,
but was unable to get very far.
"I won't hurt you," the man holding her whispered. "Please don't
scream." The hand was lifted from her mouth just as quickly as it was
placed there. She turned to look at who it was that had caught her and
let her go so quickly. The reflection of the moon on the polished metal
rendered her speechless.
"You're ..." They were less than a foot apart.
"Shhh."
Jenye looked up and down the alley, for the first time noticing a
light floating in an open window. It bobbed up and down in the room,
floating as if a ghost carried it around, unsure of where to put it
down. On the street the alley opened into, a town guardsman, one of the
ones who had been chasing her from the tavern, ran by.
The reflection of the moon in the faceplate shifted as Ga'en turned
his head. "Are they after you?" he asked in a whisper.
Jenye nervously nodded. She was not sure if she should be more
afraid of him or the men who chased her, but for the time being decided
to trust the blind archer. He had, after all, saved her life once
already.
"What did you do?" he asked, turning back to the window with the
light.
"I ran away," she answered, her voice just as quiet as his.
"Oh, Doctor ..." a yell floated into the alley, carried on a sickly
sweet voice. "... we've got something for you ..."
Ga'en nervously bit his lip, not turning away from the floating
light. One of his arms encircled Jenye's waist and pulled her deeper
into the shadows. "Be quiet."
The light reached the window, revealing itself to be a candle held
by an armored man. He looked out, up and down the alley. "Come on, I
heard someone yelling!"
No answer could be heard, but he was obviously listening.
"No," he answered, "we've got enough." He stepped out through the
window and hopped to the ground. The uniform he wore was that of the
town guard. "Come on!"
A second man appeared in the window and passed him a sack. "Don't
jingle."
Ga'en raised his strung bow and nocked an arrow. It was all black,
from the arrowhead to the fletchings.
"Don't drop it," the man in the window warned his companion.
The bow string snapped and the guardsman fell over backwards, the
sack falling on his companion outside with a thunderous clattering of
metal.
'They're stealing silverware!' Jenye thought as the man knelt close
to the ground.
"You fool!"
Quiet. Ga'en readied another arrow.
"Horain?"
Still no sound.
"Horain, are you there?" The guard stood up, letting the sack lie
at his feet, and tried to look in the window.
Ga'en's bow string snapped again, sending the arrow at the
robber-guardsman. The man staggered forward and collapsed against the
wall of the building, over his ill-gotten loot.
"You're a physician?" Ga'en asked without looking away from the men
he had shot.
Jenye nodded.
"It must be a busy time for you, this summer."
She cautiously reached up and touched the helmet visor, solid over
the eyes. It radiated magic, but she could tell little about the source
or the origin.
Ga'en took a step back, out of her reach. "You know who I am?"
Jenye nodded again.
"And you're not afraid?"
"It was somewhere here!" Rushing feet sounded at the mouth of the
alley as two men entered from the street. Jenye pressed herself against
the wall, recognizing them. She was not sure what she could do or what
she could expect of Ga'en.
"Are you sure?" the second man asked the first.
Ga'en drew two arrows from his quiver, holding them in one hand.
"Had to be. The bitch probably slipped on something." Their
intentions were easily recognizable, their swords drawn and postures
ready for a fight.
Ga'en pulled back on the string, the arrow ready to do its calling.
"I was thinking," the second guardsman said, "if we find her first,
we don't have to bring her back right away, do we?"
Ga'en changed his aim.
"No," the first man smirked and the one who offered the idea
started laughing. The string of the bow snapped once again and the laugh
abruptly stopped.
"Marque?" his companion spun around. The second arrow hit him
square in the back and he collapsed over his friend.
Ga'en lowered his bow. "Go home."
Jenye did not move, looking at him. She did not know what to do and
his words had a hard time sinking in.
"Go," Ga'en repeated. "You know who I am, you're not afraid and I'm
sure you heard I'm the one to blame for the massacre. You're welcome for
your life. Go." He turned and walked deeper into the darkness of the
alley.
"No, wait!" Jenye called to him.
"What?"
"Who are you?"
"It won't be a secret if I tell you, will it? My life depends on
this secret."
"But you're ..." He was a killer, that's all he was. A man who
stalked the night, putting arrows in backs of crooks and soldiers alike.
He was judge, jury and executioner for every person he met and he did
not bother to let his victims give him their side of the story.
Another town guardsman passed the mouth of the alley and Ga'en drew
an arrow. "How the hell many of them are after you? Who the hell are you
anyway?"
"If I tell you, you'll probably kill me."
"If you don't, I'll let them do it for me."
"I'm a doctor ..." She was not sure why that should make her
guilty, but there was a story to her life beyond that. A doctor was only
what she was. It was who she was a doctor for that she had always
feared.
"Yeah?" he asked impatiently.
"I work for Gaius Caligula."
Ga'en lowered his bow. "I won't kill you, today. Caligula is guilty
of many things, but he stood by the city these past few months. He
fought for the people and whether you know it or not, he did a lot of
good. I expect a lot of that is in what he had his people do. I'll help
you reach the Abyssment. After that you're on your own."
Jenye shook her head. She could only guess at what had happened to
the Abyssment by now. She feared that both it and the few people in town
she could call friends were now gone.
"Is there some other place you want to go?" Ga'en asked, not giving
her a chance to explain. He felt sorry for this woman, confused, on the
run, scared. "I'm running out of arrows. I can't stay here."
"There is no more Abyssment," Jenye said. "They were trying to burn
it down when I got away!"
The moon flashed menacingly across Ga'en's faceplate as he turned
to look towards the street. "Is there any other place I can take you?"
She shook her head with despair. "Everything else has already been
burned."
Ga'en shifted uneasily. He could not just leave her in these
streets -- that was not why he chose to do what he did -- but neither
did he want to take any unneeded risks. He did not know this woman, only
had her word for who she was, but at the same time knew he had little
choice. If he did not get her off the streets soon, the town guard
would, for good.
"Are you sure there's no other place?" he insisted.
Jenye nodded.
"All right," he came to a decision. He did not like it, but it was
the only choice available. He could take her to one of the places he
occasionally used to hide during the day. It would serve for the night
and then he would never use it again, since she would know about it.
"I'll take you to a place you can stay the night."
She watched him, suspicious, not sure if he could be trusted. It
seemed that killing came easy to him, that he felt no compassion towards
the people his arrows felled. Should she go with him?
"I have no other alternatives to offer you," Ga'en said, as if
sensing Jenye's concerns.
She sighed and followed him, wondering if she was doing the right
thing. For all she knew, Ga'en was little more than a cutthroat himself,
using the war to openly prey on criminals, seeming a hero when he was
little more than they himself. Of course right now many of the survivors
of Sharks' Cove wanted to see him dead themselves for the price he made
them pay such a short time ago. Almost no one was left untouched in some
way by his failed attempt on Talens' life and the massacre that
followed. But in spite of all these fears, Jenye followed him anyway,
down the maze of turning and twisting alleys, through neighborhoods she
would not dare enter during the day, much less at night, to an old,
rundown, two-story shack. It was probably all brick at one time, but now
it was half rubble, with rotting wood planks for supports and yellowing,
torn canvas for protection from the wind.
"It's as deserted as it seems," Ga'en said, brushing the canvas
aside for Jenye to enter. "But it's pretty solid and, at times, home."
She passed by him, wondering how he viewed her. What were his
thoughts, his motivations?
He followed her in, guiding her to a back room where he lit a
candle. "It's safe here. No one on the street will see the light."
Jenye leaned against a wall and permitted herself to slide down to
the floor. It had been a long, hard day, made no easier by the events of
the evening.
"Are you all right? Are you hungry?"
Jenye nodded, closing her eyes. It was hard to think about
everything that had happened to her today.
"All I have here is dry rations," Ga'en said, "like the army uses."
"I have good teeth," Jenye smiled ironically. She opened her eyes
at the sound of stone siding against stone. "Do you need a hand?"
"No, I got it," Ga'en gave the false brick cover another shove.
>From there he took a quiver full of black arrows, replacing it with the
nearly empty one he carried and also took out a tightly wrapped pack of
salted smoked meat. "No water. Sorry."
Lighting a second candle for more light, he sat by Jenye and they
divided the meal.
"Are you really blind?" Jenye asked.
Ga'en did not answer.
She looked at him for a moment, then turned back to her meal.
"I can't take the risk of telling people much about myself," Ga'en
suddenly said. "Doing what I do, I acquire a lot of enemies and
anonymity is my only protection."
"Can you blame them?" Jenye asked.
He turned to her, for the first time giving her a chance to see the
face of the helmet so close in this much light. The metal was dark,
slightly reddish, either from the flame or from some alloy combination.
The face plate, a carefully molded piece that fit over his eyes and
nose, was lighter and more reflective than the rest of the helm. It came
down to just above the tip of his nose, covering all but his lower
cheeks, mouth and jaws.
His features, what little could be seen of them, were somewhat
sharp, a little weatherworn, a bruise showing from just under the plate
over his right cheek bone.
"No, I can't ..."
"What?"
"No, I can't blame them," he repeated sadly. "I tried to help, but
I only caused more problems. Now both sides offer a reward for my head."
"How could you miss ..." Jenye muttered. It was not a question, but
it came out as one. She was simply sad to see his good intentions turn
against him, against the entire town.
"Talens?" Ga'en asked. "I didn't. I never even saw him. They set me
up. I think he left town to join the war up-river before they tried to
blame the assassination on me. Trust me, if I would have gotten that
chance, he'd be dead now ... Not that it matters any longer. What's done
is done. There's no turning back the clock."
"But why did they blame you?" Jenye was not ready to believe the
story, but wanted to hear all of it.
"To turn the people on me. To make someone want to sell out. I
guess they hoped the people would find me and give me up in hopes of
stopping the massacre. And if that didn't work, I'm sure they held the
hope that I fell victim to their swords." He fell silent for a moment,
biting into the smoked meat. "I must've averaged two or three kills a
night back then, at times as many as five or ten and that adds up after
two months. The local garrison had little choice."
"To set you up?"
"A price for my head wouldn't do it, so long as the people were
happy with me. They needed a reason to make people hate me. The city was
slipping from them and they were losing more men than they could
justify. They needed me dead, or at least discredited."
"I'm sorry ..." It seemed like it could be the truth, but Jenye did
not feel like much of a judge to decide. For now she would treat Ga'en
with the same caution she treated the men in Caligula's employ.
"So am I," Ga'en responded to her reaction, his voice quieter than
before.
"What will you do now? People won't just forgive you, even if they
find out you were set up. This all started with you anyway -- you know
they'll need to blame someone."
"I know," Ga'en said thoughtfully. He fell quiet for a long time,
then added, "Stay here, then move on, when I'm no longer needed."
"Not needed? In this town?" A smile appeared on her lips, as if
reminded of some old joke.
"There was a time before I came here," Ga'en said. "This city
survived. I'll stay until the army takes charge of the town, then move
on. It'll make it without me, just like it has for the last few
centuries."
"Where will you go?" Jenye wondered. "Where are you from?"
Ga'en settled against the wall at his back. "Doesn't my name tell
you?"
"Perhaps where you're from, not where you'll go."
"I'm sure there are plenty of places that can use my help," Ga'en
said. "Sharks' Cove is one of many."
Jenye nodded in agreement. "There are a lot of cities now that need
help."
He shifted, then stood up. "You're welcome to spend the night here,
but I must go."
"Why?"
"This city needs my help now. The night is here and I do my work
under the cover of darkness. Besides, I can't stay here with you. We
don't know each other. It's a big risk for both you and me," Ga'en
explained. "Just promise me one thing. I helped you tonight. Pass this
favor on. Help someone else. If I can light this fire and the people can
keep it burning, then I think we can change the city, with or without
me, in spite of all the rumors that exist about me."
Jenye smiled, remembering what she did for Barar, the little boy
whose dreams were invaded by the horrors of the war. Perhaps the
knowledge that someone somewhere did something good for him, without
asking for anything in exchange, would set him on a better path in life.
"This is the second time you've helped me," she told Ga'en.
"Then promise me you'll help two people," he said and after she
did, turned to leave, but before exiting the room, he stopped and turned
to her. "Out of curiosity, when was the other time?"
"A month ago. When the warehouses by the river were being burned."
"I'm sorry," Ga'en shook his head. "I don't recall. That was right
after the massacre started? I helped many people then. It was a busy
time."
"Thank you," Jenye said again.
He nodded. "Good-bye."
After Ga'en left, Jenye blew out one of the candles and moved to
one of the far corners of the room, setting the remaining burning candle
in a gap between two bricks in the wall, to reduce the amount of light
being cast.
Ga'en was nothing like she imagined. He was polite, kind,
thoughtful. He looked handsome, or at least his lower jaw did. In all
the time he was with her, he did not remove even one glove. Just like
words, hands can tell a lot about a person.
Jenye also thought he had a trace of a southern dialect, but if he
did, it was so slight it could easily be overlooked.
She closed her eyes, thinking about his request. He wanted to
change the world, one person at a time, if that was what it took. An
interesting idea, but one she did not believe to be accomplishable.
Greed and corruption would quickly see to that.
The help that she herself offered Barar was probably more out of
pity for his condition than anything else. He was, after all, just a
little boy, only seven summers old. She doubted she would do the same
for an adult. Perhaps that just went to say that she was an equal part
of the problem.
And then there was Rien. She was still unsure if he used her or if
she tried to use him. Either way, she was both happy and sorry to see
him go. She really liked him, but his vengeful streak scared her, while
his loyalty to friends made her hesitant to let him go. She almost
chased after him, naked, into the street that morning he left, but
something held her back, be it modesty or recognition that they might
not be compatible, or even fear of entering a lifestyle such as his.
Either way, he did say there was someone else and she did not want to
stand in the way of that. She thought herself to have more morals than
breaking up an existing romance, even if it was in trouble, like he
said.
Somehow, lost in all her thoughts and memories, Jenye drifted off
to sleep.
Jenye opened her eyes to a perfectly dark room, the candle she had
left burning having long since burned itself out. She recalled Ga'en's
comment that no one outside would be able to see the light of the
candle. Conversely, that meant that outside light would also be unable
to penetrate inside the remnants of the house. But was it day or night?
How long could that candle have burned?
Jenye got up and feeling her way along the wall, made her way to
where she remembered the entrance to be.
The weather outside was gloomy, with overcast skies and a moderate
wind. She guessed the time to be mid-morning, but there was no good way
to tell. She paused, contemplating where to go and what to do. The world
she knew had ceased to exist the day before, or so she suspected.
Nonetheless, it would be a good idea to check if the Abyssment was still
standing and if so, how much of it had survived. She still had no idea
of what to do afterwards -- certainly if the Abyssment still stood, she
could not take shelter there -- but she had to know what had happened
after she left, no matter how frightening that truth could be.
The streets of Sharks' Cove were deserted, much as they had been
since the start of the invasion. Jenye expected that she could travel
the entire way without encountering anyone, but to her surprise, on one
of the streets she found the remnants of a recent battle. The first sign
of it were two Benosian soldiers lying in the middle of the street. The
first man she saw startled her, half sitting with his back against the
wall where he had apparently fallen. For a moment she did not notice his
loose grip on his sword and the hollow stare in his eyes, but as she
backed away from him, she saw the deep cut in his side from which blood
had drained and poured down the street in a little snaking river.
Judging by the size of the blood puddle, Jenye had no doubt he was long
dead.
The other man lay face-down in a pile of rubble, spread over some
broken planks that had no doubt impaired his movement when he tried to
run. In his back was a single cut that must have been his undoing.
The second sign of battle was a blood trail starting in the middle
of the street and leading into the alley. It clearly did not belong to
either of the dead soldiers and indicated a third serious injury.
Although the trail appeared quite fresh, there was quite a bit of blood
and Jenye wondered if whoever spilled it could have survived up to now.
It did not take long for her to decide to change her destination and see
where the trail led.
Jenye cautiously stepped around the corner where the trail
disappeared, to look at what was there. For a moment her heart sank as
she tried to sort out the uniforms on the men both standing and lying on
the ground. There must have been a half dozen men dead, wearing both
Baranurian and Beinison uniforms and even more men standing. It appeared
as if the Baranurian side had won.
The last person Jenye noticed was the one she should have seen
first, a teenager, probably sixteen, certainly no older than eighteen,
wearing a Baranurian military tabard, charging full speed for the
street. They both should have seen each other, but instead he collided
into her, grabbing her just in time to prevent her from falling, but
almost falling on top of her.
"I'm sorry, ma'am," he gasped, maneuvering around her. On her
forearm, where he grabbed her to prevent her from falling, he left a
bloody smear, although he seemed to be in too good a shape for it to
have been his own blood. Suspecting where the blood was really from,
Jenye hurried into the dead-end alley, hoping she was not too late.
Almost immediately a man ran up to her. "Are you a doctor?"
She nodded.
"Lieutenant! Jeser found one!" the man yelled, then grabbing
Jenye's arm, pulled her to the group of soldiers. "Come on!"
On the ground not far away lay a man, bleeding from his gut like a
stuck pig.
"Right here," the soldier guided her.
"The sergeant took a shot protecting the boy," a man already there
said, speaking with a thick Magnus dialect.
Jenye paused, looking at him. What boy? Where was their doctor? Why
were the two armies still fighting in Sharks' Cove, after the Beinison
fleet had been decisively defeated?
"Are you a doctor?" he demanded, seeing her hesitation.
"Yes," Jenye looked at the soldier on the ground. "Get me some
water," she said as she moved the loose bandages that someone had
applied, in order that she could see the wound. Blood practically
bubbled over the gash in his side. A waterskin was passed to her and she
used it to wash out the wound, realizing how thirsty she herself was,
not having had anything to drink since the day before, but she used all
the water on the wound, although the blood quickly flowed over what she
washed.
"Lieutenant?" one of the gathered crowd asked.
"Wait," the accented voice answered.
Jenye, not having any of her equipment or aides, placed her hand
over the wound spilling blood and started her spell. It would have been
easier if she had been able to route her energies through a crystal or
used something designed to slow bleeding and seal wounds, but this was
the best she had and it would have to do the job or the soldier would
die.
After a time she lifted her blood-stained hand off the wound,
drained, but successful. She leaned back against somebody, catching her
breath.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" the soldier behind her asked.
"Yes," she gasped. "I'm fine."
The soldier moved, letting the lieutenant sit next to her. "Are you
sure you're all right?"
She nodded. "It was a pretty deep wound."
He passed her a waterskin and she gladly accepted it, thirsty as
she was.
"Are you from the Royal Duchy?" the lieutenant asked.
"From Magnus," she said, having relieved her thirst.
"Magnus? What part?"
"The Old City. Merchant quarter."
"You're a long way from the high ground ..."
Jenye leaned forward again to check the sergeant's wounds.
Everything seemed fine and she once again settled down, satisfied with
her work. "Where are you from?"
"Well, we have the place back home called the Fifth Quarter ... You
might've heard of it."
Jenye smirked. The Fifth Quarter was a place almost as well known
as the Royal Castle. "Your man won't be able to travel on his own for a
while, but he's going to live."
"Can we carry him?"
"Sure."
"Yaris, prepare a litter!" the Lieutenant yelled. Both he and Jenye
stood up. "Thank you for your help," he said. "I don't know what we
would've done without you."
"It was my pleasure," she answered. She had never felt bad about
restoring a life.
He took her hand and brought it to his cheek in the old tradition
of Magnus. "Lieutenant Donric Fagizo itas Senwynn, Third Baranurian
Regulars."
"That's a pretty long name for someone from the Fifth Quarter," she
took her hand back. "Jenye Calyd, I'm sure you heard I'm a doctor."
"For my men you'll always be a doctor first," Donric answered. "If
I may," he added, "could I ask you to join my men and me at our
regiment's camp? We could use an extra hand with the injured and I'm
sure the Captain will be more than happy to compensate your efforts
generously."
Jenye still wanted to see what had happened to the Abyssment, but
she was also afraid of what she might find once she would get there and
after a short thoughtful pause, agreed to help the army for a few days.
At the main camp of the Baranurian force, in what at one time used
to be one of Sharks' Cove's many prospering markets, Jenye was
introduced to a grey-haired middle-aged man with mutton chops a good
five shades darker than the rest of his hair. His name was Hargro
Nephrendge, a career officer, son of a minor noble, whose only goal in
life was to some day defeat the enemy and save his country.
"You're kidding," Jenye said to Donric.
"No, I'm absolutely serious," the Lieutenant said. "Years ago, when
I first joined this regiment, I thought this was funny, but over the
years he won my confidence and these last few months erased those doubts
for good. He really was born to do this. You'll see ..."
And she did see the forceful way in which the captain gave orders
and made decisions. He seemed to be the constant center of activity,
dozens of men swarming about him, some coming to him, others leaving.
They rotated rather quickly, making his time limited and permitting him
to only exchange a few words with Jenye.
"Doctor, we'll have to talk more at dinner," he promised as he tore
himself away from his men for a moment. "Senwynn, be sure she's there.
And get that patrol off! I want the perimeter pushed out to the next
major street before sunset!"
"Come on," Donric told Jenye. "That's probably all we'll get from
him now. He's a firm believer in being in the middle of all his fights."
"I meant to ask you," Jenye said as they left, "where are your
doctors?"
"Mostly here. We try not to spread them out in the field. We need
them there more, but they're not soldiers. We need to protect them and
that takes away from our strength. Ideally, when we have a large force
moving out, we keep them to the rear. That way they're available when
they're needed and not in any serious danger when they're not. It costs
us in lives, but not as much as it would if we lost good healers in
battle."
Jenye nodded, the explanation making sense. "I guess I'm ready to
get to work, then."
"That will be at the other end of the square," Donric said. "We're
sharing it with a militia regiment. We push the sweeps and the perimeter
and they maintain it and pick up the injured. I'll take you to where the
doctors are and then I have to lead another patrol."
For Jenye the day passed as if in a dream, or more precisely, a
quickly moving nightmare. With eight other doctors present, the number
of injured that passed her was not as great as what she tackled
single-handedly a month before when the massacre took place. She was
given a medical kit confiscated from a Benosian doctor and a pouch of
magical aides scavenged off an enemy mage. She scavenged them and other
things she came across for tools she could use and found some items that
were extremely helpful, especially the multi-faced crystals and a small
power stone that helped her control her fatigue.
To Jenye's surprise, most of the army doctors did not seem skilled
enough to deal with the injuries that came in. They could take care of
bruises and cuts, mend broken bones, but injuries that dealt with muscle
tissue and vital organs often went mistreated and she tried to pick up
that slack, puzzled over why these doctors could not get the job done.
Shortly after sunset the fighting ended and no more injured came
in. The present wounded were resting, for the most part; some were still
being worked on, and the less lucky ones were being moved from to the
far end of the market square and arranged in neat rows, pending
identification and disposal.
Jenye did one last check of her patients, taking the time to talk
with those who could, taking a closer look at those whose wounds were
more serious. Satisfied that no other emergencies would arise with these
men, she relaxed by a fire, drinking water from a waterskin. She was
offered some watered-down ale, but turned it down. She did not like
alcohol and would not drink it in the best of times, much less now. And
after a day such as this, she considered the old leather bag with warm
water to be a great luxury in her possession.
"Mind if I sit here?" an elderly voice disturbed Jenye's rest.
She slowly turned to face Doctor Iun Iter Krentenyent, the
regiment's senior physician. "Of course, Doctor." She was tired and a
little overwhelmed by the day she spent here. The elderly physician had
helped her set up and get started and provided some initial equipment
for her. He stayed at her side early in the afternoon, watching her
work, making sure that she indeed knew what she was doing, but after
seeing her handle a few of the injured, asked her to watch over the less
skilled physicians as she worked and left her alone.
After brushing aside the dust on the ground, Iun sat down by Jenye.
He was a minor noble from an old family, also from Magnus, a physician
with this regiment for many years.
"You did a good job today," he muttered, taking out an old pipe and
a pouch of tobacco.
She glanced at him as he began stuffing the pipe. "I had to, or
they'd die."
"How many'd you save?" he asked, picking up a small dry branch and
holding it in the fire.
"Two ... Two died."
"That's not what I asked."
"I didn't count. I don't count the living. They won't compensate
the families of the dead."
Iun lit his pipe with the burning branch and tossed it back into
the fire. "You must've worked on two dozen people. Two dead of that
number is nothing."
Jenye wanted to answer, but the physician did not stop.
"I know what you want to say -- everyone who hasn't been in a war
says it. But how many would die if you were not here? Did you ever
consider that?"
"So what did I do? Heal them so they can go and try to get killed
again?"
"You're one of those," Iun let out a laugh. "What little comfort
this may offer you, it was not Baranur that started this war."
"How many of them did you save more than once?" Jenye asked.
"I personally? Some. I don't deny that a single injury will not
temper them against future harm, but my healing them will temper
Baranur."
Jenye sighed. She did not like this discussion. He was a stubborn
old man, a career military doctor, and he seemed to be one of the two
doctors available who could deal with the more serious wounds. "Why are
so many of the staff unable to cope with the tougher injuries?" she
cautiously inquired of him. She did not want to call his people
incompetent, although one or two of them were.
Iun chewed on his pipe for a while, thinking how to best answer
Jenye's question. He was acutely aware of the problem, had complained
about it many times, but had never seen a resolution satisfactory to
him.
"Experience, I suppose," he finally muttered. "Everything's a
matter of experience. Have you had much with these sorts of injuries?"
"Fourteen years ..."
"Fourteen?" He took out his pipe. "How old are you, if you don't
mind my asking?"
"Thirty-one."
"Forgive me, you look younger." He put the pipe back in his mouth
and inhaled deeply, enjoying the aroma of the tobacco. "But as I was
saying, cuts and bruises are common and we all learn to treat them early
on. Later we're even told not to bother with them because they're so
superficial. Broken bones are also rather common -- show me someone who
never had one and I'll show you a scribe's son.
"But the injuries we see on the battlefield are different. They go
beyond surface tissue. They cut veins and muscles and sink into bone.
These ... these are the ones we need to teach the new doctors to work
on, but the only place to get that sort of experience is in a place like
this, in a war."
"Hmmm ... I guess that sounds reasonable enough," Jenye said
thoughtfully, "but I myself don't recall having these sorts of problems
when I was learning."
"Perhaps you were just eased into it, unlike the people here.
Gradual exposure often works much better," Iun said.
"I did have a good master teaching me ..." Jenye mused.
"Whom?" he asked out of curiosity.
"Graveakim Ercarn."
"Graveakim the Great? From Magnus?"
"The same," Jenye shrugged it off.
"My God, girl, what are you doing in Sharks' Cove? You can work
where ever you want, on your own terms! Graveakim was one of the best!"
"If he were so great, why is he dead now?"
"You're a very stubborn woman," Iun warned. "Don't let that trait
rule your life. Now, why Sharks' Cove?"
Jenye shrugged. "This just seemed like the place to end up."
"End up!" Iun took the pipe from his mouth. "After the war I want
you to look my family up in Magnus, in the Old City. I'll let them know
to expect you. My brother can help you start a practice in Magnus."
"Thank you, Doctor, but ..."
"Don't turn me down!" he snapped, "not until you know what it is to
work like a real doctor, not in this rat hole! You're wasting your
skills here!"
"I'm saving lives!"
"You can save them anywhere you go."
"But no one will save them here when I leave."
"I can't force you," Iun finally said, "but I want you to think
about what I said seriously. In a proper practice you can do a lot more
than you think."
"I'll think about it," Jenye promised.
"Good. My offer will stand until you accept it."
"Thank you," she forced a smile.
"Don't thank me until you do what I ask," Iun stressed. "You're an
excellent doctor. I would gladly let all my staff here go if I could get
a physician or two as skilled as you are."
"I'll stay and help until the city is secured," Jenye promised,
having seen firsthand how desperate the need for more healers was.
"Thank you for your kindness," the elderly physician said. He took
the pipe out of his mouth for the last time and shaking the ash into the
fire, stood up. "I have to make my rounds. Have a good evening and thank
you again."
He left Jenye by the fire with a lot to think about. His offer to
help her start a practice in Magnus was more than generous, but she did
not know if she could leave Sharks' Cove behind, not that there was
anything holding her here. Many of her friends were dead, her home was
burned to the ground; the Abyssment was probably gone as well. And most
importantly, the man she had followed out here many years ago had proven
himself to be a thief and a liar. She was amazed at how she could remain
in this city, so filled with bad memories, but this was not the first
time she had felt this despair. Usually these bad moods passed and she
could start enjoying life again, but somehow she had to admit that this
city would never be the same for her again.
"Doctor?" a boyish voice called to Jenye and she turned to look,
thankful for the possible distraction. A teenager, the same one she met
running from the alley that morning, stood a few paces away.
"More wounded?" she started to get up, not knowing how long she had
been sitting there alone.
"No, ma'am," he approached. "I wanted to thank you."
"I'm just doing my job," she shrugged it off.
"No, you don't understand," he protested. "That man you saved, the
sergeant. He's my father ..."
"Oh ..." she was at a loss for words.
"So I just came here to thank you for doing it," he went on, "and
ask if I can do anything for you."
"You're welcome," she answered. "That's what I'm here for, I guess.
How old are you?"
"Fourteen, ma'am."
"Fourteen?" He looked older, more mature. He acted older than that.
"Yes, ma'am."
"You shouldn't be in a war! You should be home."
"This is home, ma'am. My father and I had to fight to win it back."
"And your mother?" Jenye wondered.
"She died a few years after I was born."
"I'm sorry ..."
"It's all right, ma'am," he brushed his unkempt hair back. "It's
been a long time. My father and I, we manage."
"How is he?" she asked, forgetting if she had checked on him during
her rounds. She tried to be methodical, but there were simply too many
injured soldiers.
"Better, ma'am. He told me to ask you if there's anything I can
do."
Jenye thought for a moment, then answered. "When you're older and
have children of your own, teach them how to live without having wars."
"Yes, ma'am," he answered, a little embarrassed.
She turned back to the fire as the boy left, hoping he would live
long enough to have children of his own and make good on that promise.
"That was well said," an unexpected voice startled Jenye, making
her jump.
"I'm sorry," Donric sat down by her. "I didn't mean to sneak up on
you, but I didn't want to interrupt your talk with Jeser."
"He came to thank me for his father," she said.
"I heard," Donric said. "His father is a good man. I guess I should
thank you on behalf of the Third and the militia and everyone else
you've helped."
"You'r
e spreading yourself very thin," Jenye hid a smile.
"What choice have I got? I'm already mother and father to my men,
their best friend, big brother ..."
"And what are they to you?"
He gave it some thought. "People who have families and homes, who
don't belong here any more than you or me."
"Then why are you still here? What are you fighting for? Hasn't the
war been won? The enemy fleet defeated?"
Donric laughed, catching himself. "It's not that easy. A fleet is
just some ships. A captain here, an admiral there. Some generals, if
we're lucky. They're not the ones who fight the war. Men fight wars,
common mortal men who are no different from you or I. Just because the
Beinison fleet is sunk, the war doesn't end. All it means is that the
enemy force can't go home. The men are scared and confused. They fight
because they're afraid to surrender, afraid of what will happen to
them."
Jenye shook her head. All those lives lost because of fear. How
many could have been saved if they just gave up? How many would still be
alive if Untar had not wanted to fight?
"You look tired," Donric said. "Come have dinner with the Captain
and then you can get some rest. Tomorrow's a whole new day ... and who
knows, we may push ten more blocks ..."
"Ten blocks? That's all you took today?" It was such a small
number!
Donric nodded, offering her a hand up. "We're no longer fighting a
regular war where the cavalry, charging down the hill, can sweep the
entire battle field. We're fighting house to house, door to door. Once
we're done here, we won't have to return."
"You're not the only ones doing this, are you?" Jenye accepted his
hand.
"No, of course not. There are four regiments in the city and
reinforcements from Narragan will arrive soon."
They walked across the square, between the campfires, surrounded by
resting soldiers, to Captain Nephrendge's tent, where a dinner fire was
being started. The Captain paced back and forth before his tent,
muttering something to himself as two soldiers stood by.
"Captain, I brought Doctor Calyd."
"Good, good," he continued to pace.
Jenye looked at Donric, expecting an explanation, but none came.
"Okay, Hobin, forget the docks. Sothos wants a place for the ships
to call home, he can clear them himself. I'm not sending any men out
there when there are over a thousand naval infantry doing nothing. They
should be helping us, if anyone's to be helping at all!"
"Yes, Sir," one of the waiting soldiers said.
"Leave him the whole district," the Captain continued. "All the way
to that big street with the taverns ... What is it?"
"Sailors' Row, Sir."
"Yes. From the docks to there is the navy's problem. The rest is
ours. And tell the militia captains to enforce it!"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Dismissed." The Captain's pacing stopped right in front of Jenye
as he sent the officer away. "I'm not going to be taking misguided
orders from a wet-behind-the-ears commander."
Jenye smiled nervously.
"You're Doctor Calyd."
She swallowed. "Jenye Calyd. Jenye's fine."
"Yes, of course. I wanted to thank you for your help."
"It's my pleasure. I just want to see the war end."
"It'll end," he said confidently and walked off. "Attend me."
Jenye looked at Donric.
"Come on. We're breaking bread with him."
They followed the Captain to the campfire and sat down, Jenye
ending up between the two men. More people quickly gathered. Other
lieutenants and aides quickly took their places around the fire and the
company cook passed out shallow dishes of slop and bread.
"You weren't kidding when you said 'break bread', were you," Jenye
looked at Donric.
"It's tough, but the men like it," the Captain said, overhearing
her comment, in spite of her trying to be quiet. "They say each time
they see it, it encourages them to fight harder, so they might get home
sooner."
"It's a pity we can't fight at dinner," someone on the other side
of the fire said. "We could club the enemy to death with it, in between
grinding our teeth." Those gathered around the fire laughed as he said
it, someone else commenting that at least it encouraged them to take
good care of their teeth.
"Dip it in the soup," Donric advised. "Gives both of them a little
taste that way."
"Are you from Magnus, Doctor?" someone asked.
"From Magnus," she answered. She could not clearly see the man on
the other side of the fire.
"What are you doing in Sharks' Cove, then?" he asked another
question.
"I live here," she said, forcing down the mouthful. The food was
indescribable at best. "Have been for a few years."
"Well, both cities will need a lot of rebuilding," the Captain
declared. "No war is over, not even when the soldiers go home."
"I was just telling the doctor," Donric said, "about the difference
between generals and their men."
"Ah, yes," the Captain picked up, apparently a topic familiar to
him. He brushed his mutton chops, thinking, then went on. "History will
name Haralan, Sothos, Connall, Dargon as the men who won the war -- have
no doubts that Baranur has already won -- but they are not the ones who
are the heroes of battle. The men you see out here are. The common
people of Baranur.
"All Sothos ever said was 'take that hill' or 'siege this city'. He
knew only what our reports said and assumed what the enemy were going to
do. His orders never reached us in time of battle, giving orders for
that battle. The real heroes of the battle are the men who fought it, my
lieutenants and their sergeants, who made the snap decisions which flank
to reinforce, where to drive the wedge, what barricades to storm. Those
are the men that history should honor!"
"How can you go wrong with a guy like that commanding," the man on
Donric's right elbowed him.
"It sounds to me like that would be a very unpopular opinion with
your command, Sir," Jenye noted.
"That's why I'll never be considered for the position of Knight
Captain," Nephrendge said, "and I wouldn't want it if it were offered.
Those positions are for wet-behind-the-ears runts like Connall and
Sothos. Men of experience can do infinitely more good in the field! And
who are they, after all? What have they done? The only reason they have
their titles is because of who they know, not because of their actions!
All of my officers were selected to their positions because of their
actions in the field. Most of them are as qualified as Connall and
Sothos to do the job of Knight Captain. And some are qualified even
beyond that!"
The following three days passed uneventfully, the casualty load
becoming lighter each day. Fresh troops supplemented the old ones,
reclaiming the city and putting down little pockets of Beinison
resistance.
Jenye found out that the Abyssment still stood, although no longer
as clean and perfect as it had been a few days before, the fire having
done a lot of damage before it was brought under control. A lot of
rebuilding would have to be done before the tavern could become what it
once was, but then the city itself needed a lot of rebuilding as well.
Some conservative guesses put the local death toll at five thousand
lives, about half the city's population.
Pausing at the burned entrance to the Abyssment, Jenye cast one
last glance into the damaged main room. She had experienced so many good
and bad times in there, it was hard to let go of that large part of her
life.
"Are you ready to go, Doctor?" one of the soldiers from the patrol
she was with asked.
She nodded, not saying anything. The soldiers had simply assumed it
was a place she had frequented and did not give it a second thought, but
she knew the truth and those memories were enough to bring tears to her
eyes.
The small squad gathered and started on its way west, towards the
camp.
"Are you all right?" the soldier who had called her came over to
Jenye.
"Yes, Dasin," she answered sadly.
"You just look like you need to talk."
Jenye sighed. "Have you ever gone back to a place where you had
lived for many years, years after you left?"
"Sorry, ma'am. My family's always lived in Erygin. Seven
generations, now, with my children."
"There are certain feelings you develop for a place where you live
-- I'm sure you know what I mean -- and when you see that place after
being gone for a long time, you have a deep sense of familiarity, almost
intimacy to that place you used to call home ... But this place no
longer feels the same. Something has been lost, as if a part of me died.
I look at the fire marks, the traces of swordplay and it all strikes me
as foreign, like I've never been here before. Everything feels dead."
"I'm sorry, ma'am," Dasin offered.
"So am I," she said. "I feel like a part of me died here."
"Perhaps you should speak with Father Modu," the young soldier
offered.
"Perhaps."
They turned the corner, heading towards the docks, Jenye wondering
about the past summer and all the friends that she lost. Nothing would
ever be the same again, no matter how much rebuilding would be done,
even if it were all made to look just like it had before the war.
Nothing could ever bring lost friends back or erase memories of what had
happened to them.
"Do you mind if we make another stop here?" Jenye asked after a
couple of blocks.
"No, I guess not."
She walked up to an old building, which was falling apart from
damage, while the men spread out to explore on their own. It was the
place where Ga'en had hid her a few nights before. It looked different
in the light -- appearing to be barely able to stand on its own, torn
canopy hanging over the boarded-up windows, crumbling mud-colored brick
threatening to give way any moment. It had looked far safer in the dark
of the night.
Jenye carefully entered through the doorless entry, careful of
where she put her feet. Everything was dirty and falling apart, not even
the old furniture was intact. She found the right corridor and the
covered doorway and entered the room where she had spent the night.
Everything was pitch black.
With some effort, Jenye found and lit the unused candle she had
left behind, and looked around the room. Everything was much as she had
remembered it: the overturned broken table, the loose bricks on the
floor. Finding the block that Ga'en used as his hiding place, Jenye
tried to push it aside to see what else was behind it, but the stone
refused to budge.
After a few more unsuccessful attempts and a careful candle-light
investigation, Jenye found it to be cemented into place. But it was the
right rock, there was no doubt about that. The marks it left when it
opened were still there, slight scratches on the surface of the adjacent
stone.
Giving up, Jenye left the room, still wondering about the hiding
place and the man who called himself Ga'en the Blind. She wanted to see
him again, to ask about him and why he did what he did. These last few
days with the Baranurian army gave her a view of life she never expected
to see, something the sheltering walls of the Abyssment hid from her
sight for all these years she had been living in the city.
"Are you ready to go, Doctor?" Dasin approached her.
She nodded, not turning away from the structure.
"Was this your home?" the soldier asked, remembering what she had
said earlier.
"No ... It was a friend's."
Ga'lannath'en stood on the roof of an abandoned building, watching
the setting sun. The night would soon come and he would once again take
to the streets. They were no longer endangered by the Beinison army, but
in Sharks' Cove things rarely changed. Problems came and went, the city
changing disasters as one would change clothes, rather than fighting
back. The threat now came from street gangs and petty criminals who saw
a fast profit to be made in the city. The army did not police these
individuals, often unable to distinguish between them and their victims.
He glanced down to the alley below; then, slinging his freshly
filled quiver over his shoulder and picking up his unstrung bow, he
climbed on to the roof of the next building over, heading south towards
the docks, where most of the night activity took place. He paused to
cross the next street, spotting some soldiers on the ground. They were
Baranurian troops, nothing to fear, but it was always a good idea to
stay out of sight, even though the few times he had run into Baranurian
soldiers before, they exhibited respect for what he was doing and let
him go about his business. But in spite of his good fortune, he always
remained cautious about these meetings and did his best to avoid them
whenever he could. No need to take unnecessary chances. Instead, he
remained hidden while they looked around.
A part of the respect they gave him, he suspected, came from their
belief that he was one of them. The only name he ever used was Ga'en the
Blind, but the Beinison troops often referred to him as the Black Death,
for his dress and activities against them. This name soon became
confused with the Baranurian elite archer regiments, the Red and Grey
Deaths, units renown in the northern portions of Cherisk as the best
archers to ever fight.
Ga'en himself had never been a member of their ranks or, for that
matter, of any military at all. He learned the bow as a child from his
father and spent the better part of his three decades using it. He never
missed a stationary target and the only moving ones that managed to get
away from him were those that had a lot of luck; and even then, never
twice.
Much damage had come to his reputation during the war, when he was
accused of an attack on Admiral Talens, the Beinison Fleet Commander in
Sharks' Cove. He would not have missed if the rumors of confrontation
were true. He would have given his life to make that shot, but the lie
was taken for truth by the people and the massacre that followed was
blamed on him. Now, if he were to decide to stay in the city, it would
take a lot of work to restore his name. He was not sure he wanted to
take that time, or even remain who he was. The blind archer was someone
who fought against the Beinison force. He was no longer needed for that
purpose.
"Are you ready to go, Doctor?" a deep voice with an eastern accent
said somewhere below.
Ga'en shifted impatiently, not wanting to look down. The fewer
people saw him, the better he felt.
"Was this your home?" the same voice asked.
Ga'en neared the ledge. He used a couple of buildings on this
street to hide in occasionally and was curious who their owners might
be.
"No. It was a friend's," a familiar voice said as he looked down.
It was the woman doctor, the one he helped a few days before, because of
whom he had to abandon one of his hiding places. She had come looking
for him, but why?
He watched them go down the street, then ever so careful not to be
spotted, followed along.
"It's been very good having you here," Iun Krentenyent said,
watching the dying fire before him. "Your help was invaluable."
"Thank you," Jenye said. "These last few days have been an
eye-opening experience for me. I spent all this time living in the war
and never really understood what was happening ..."
"I doubt this is a lesson you'll want to remember," the elderly
physician said.
"Oh, I'll remember," she answered. "These are the things I may
never forget. I just hope I made a difference for some of these men ..."
"Never doubt that you did, even though you lost some."
"I lost parts of some," Jenye said bitterly, remembering the
amputations and crippling injuries she was helpless to heal. She was
hardly willing to believe that she had removed people's limbs so that
they could get better. Even in the darkest of nights, when Beinison
troops slaughtered the populace of the city for Ga'en's raids, she had
not faced wounds such as these.
"But you did save their lives," Iun insisted.
"Was it enough? I wake up at night, wondering if I should've
bothered saving parts of people ..."
"Most will get over their losses and live to be grateful to you for
saving their lives," Iun said, understanding Jenye's internal conflict.
He twisted his pipe in his hands, shaking out the tobacco ash. "I hear
their cries, too, and the curses they throw at me, but as a healer, it
is my duty to do all that I can. Grisly as it may sound, I would even
try to save a single head, if I thought I could."
Jenye had to tell herself she did not hear the last thing he said.
It was too horrible to think about. She had plenty of difficulties
thinking about the injured she had saved, the ones she did not think
stood a chance in life, even though they survived their injuries from
combat.
"Are you all right?" Iun asked.
She nodded to him, no more convincing than she felt.
"I know they're hard to deal with," he said. "The faces are there
when you close your eyes and their voices haunt you in your sleep, but
you are a doctor. You have to help them."
"I know."
"Take my advice," he repeated what he had been saying for days, "go
to Magnus. A doctor such as you would be a great asset for the Crown
City."
Jenye nodded again.
"Yes, yes. You're still thinking about it." He got up. "I guess I
can try to convince you again before you leave tomorrow morning," he
sighed.
Jenye also stood up. "You've been telling me these last few days
how much you appreciate my help," she said. "I've been meaning to tell
you how much I appreciate your support. I doubt I could have done half
of what I did if you weren't here to help me deal with this war."
"It was you who helped these men deal with it," Iun stressed.
"Don't ever forget it." And chewing on his empty pipe, he returned to
the remaining patients.
Jenye sat back down, facing the remains of the fire. She wondered
if she should throw some more wood on the hot embers, but could not get
herself to move. She was glad that she would be leaving in the morning,
but unsure of where she would go. Everything she knew in Sharks' Cove
was gone. All buildings, most people. The only friends she was able to
locate in the last few days were the ones who were dead. The rest were
missing. There was no news of Gaius Caligula since the day of the battle
at sea. Eli was nowhere to be found since after the fire at the
Abyssment. The regular tavern guards and servants were also missing,
some having turned up dead here or there. Was it worth it to stay?
Soft footsteps sounded behind her, but Jenye did not turn.
She came to the city over a decade ago with a man she thought she
could spend the rest of her life with. It had been soon after her
medical apprenticeship in Magnus ended. She had wanted to stay in the
city, to continue working with Graveakim the Great, who had almost
became a father to her, but one day he was killed in a robbery; the only
thing taken, a worthless stone glyph, that he would probably would have
given away gladly. Her illusions of a perfect life shattered, she agreed
to let her partner take her to Sharks' Cove, a place where she could
start anew, but she soon found the stone glyph in his possession and
decided to turn him in. It was a hard thing to do, to testify to the
constable against the man she loved, to force a judgment of death, but
it had been done in the name of her master, as her last duty to him. She
knew she could not live with a murderer, particularly one who had killed
a person so close to her.
"You were looking for me?"
Jenye jumped, overflowing with emotion of her thoughts.
"You're crying," Ga'en noted the obvious, removing a lengthy
bandage he wore around his neck, like many knights, and offered it to
her.
Jenye accepted, but did not use it. These tears could not be done
away with as easily as that. They were a part of her soul, to live with
forever. Perhaps it was time to face them again, to return to Magnus and
reclaim what she always expected to be hers. A good healer was always in
demand and she recognized her own value. Perhaps it was also time to
take an apprentice, to pass on the secrets of Graveakim, as he himself
had few apprentices and many of his one-of-a-kind spells died with him.
She caught herself looking straight into the helmet of Ga'en, right
where the eyes should have been, covered by the reflective metal plate.
"Why are you here?"
He seemed to be caught off guard. "You ... came looking for me
earlier today."
"I ..." She was just as confused. "I was just looking around ..."
He hurriedly stood up. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you."
"No, wait." Jenye started getting up and he stopped. "Please, sit
with me. I won't give you away." They were on the edge of the camp,
which had obviously made it easy for him to sneak in, especially now
that the last of the Beinison troops had been rounded up and the
perimeter guard was reduced.
Ga'en sat down by her. "The army are the only ones who don't care
about what I do. To them I'm still a hero."
"You're a hero to me," she smiled.
"Thank you."
Jenye fell silent for a moment, evaluating the decision she had to
make. Could she break ties with what she called home twice in her life?
Go on and do something different, somewhere else? But then what could
hold her here, in a city practically burned to the ground?
"Are you still thinking about leaving town?"
"I ..." Ga'en seemed surprised that he had told her of his plans
when they met before. "I ..." Another pause. Was he going to leave? He
touched his hand to a cut on his jaw, where an upset resident of the
city had struck him with a stick as a reward for having caused the
massacre. Ga'en may have been good with a bow, but in a melee he was an
amateur at best and these fights had become a regular occurrence in the
last few days. "Yeah, I think I'll be leaving soon."
Jenye reached out to him, touching her hand to his face. This time
he did not pull away. "Where will you go?"
"I don't know yet ..."
A chant she knew by heart ran inaudibly through her mind and a
light blue glow surrounded her fingertips, making the cut on Ga'en's jaw
heal. "I'd like to hire you to escort me to Magnus."
"You can travel with a returning regiment," he protested, "or take
a ship up-river."
"I asked you."
He took her hand into his and brought it to his cheek for
gratitude. "You don't know me."
"No, but I did as you asked. I spent five days here, giving life to
those who would've lost it without me."
Ga'en remained thoughtful. "How soon?"
"Tonight."
"I won't get you there tonight," he smiled.
"No, but you'll get me there sooner than if we leave tomorrow."
"Magnus ..."
"Have you been there?"
"Many times." He stood up. "How long do you need to get ready?"
"I'm ready now." She did not have many personal possessions any
more. What little survived the burning of her home, had been burned a
fortnight later in the Abyssment. All that she had, she carried with her
-- her clothes, a change she scavenged while working in the camp, a
dagger a soldier thanked her with and the medical kit with all the
tricks of the trade that Captain Nephrendge had graciously given her as
payment. It contained crystals and herbs and a few magical aides,
including a small powerstone. Expensive things that she knew the army
could use. She fiddled with the pouch on her belt and took it off,
carefully placing it by the remains of the fire. An expensive gift to
part with, but one she could live without. She was good and with skill
came opportunity. She would earn her instruments as she had done the
first time.
"I'm ready," she repeated.
"What is that?" Ga'en asked.
"Just some things I was borrowing."
"You're not taking anything else with you?"
"Just one bag -- some clothes." All of her other possessions had
already been lost to her.
He nodded, not sure why he was agreeing to do something like this.
"I guess we'd best get started."
========================================================================
It waits in the dark forest of a new frontier.
It waits for a desert warrior seeking his fortune
and a royal archer to face their greatest challenge.
But most of all, it waits for you.
Dargon: Deep Woods Inn.
In March the wait will be over.
It waits on the edge of good and evil.
It waits for a running noble
and a soldier of fortune to challenge frontier justice.
But most of all, it waits for you.
Dargon: Deep Woods Inn.
In March the wait will be over.
========================================================================
