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DargonZine Volume 13 Issue 08
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 13
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 8
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DargonZine Distributed: 8/31/2000
Volume 13, Number 8 Circulation: 756
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Magestorm 3 Mark A. Murray Sy-Ober 1017
Talisman Five 3 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Sy 27-28, 1010
Loren Armare 1 Max Khaytsus Yuli 4-5, 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 correspondence to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. 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 13-8, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright August, 2000 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, 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>
Once upon a time, DargonZine had a problem: we had a surfeit of
really long stories, and had to figure out how to publish them.
Unfortunately, we couldn't increase the size of our issues without
having some email systems reject them due to their size. In order to
print these larger stories without increasing issue size, we had to
either print issues which contained just one story, or serialize those
longer stories into several chapters which could share several issues
with other stories.
Prior to 1994, we generally opted for the former, and a number of
stories were printed that filled an entire issue. However, those
monolithic issues weren't very satisfying and didn't portray the
diversity of Dargon stories and writers. Therefore, in 1994 we decided
to stop printing single-story issues. Since then we've tried to fit two
or three stories into every issue, and broken longer stories up into
smaller parts that spanned multiple mailings. The thinking behind that
change was validated by the feedback we received from our readers. Our
Web site's questionnaire indicated that 57 percent of our readers
favored serializing long stories, 32 percent favored printing longer
stories unbroken, and 11 percent had no preference.
However, today we're facing a different problem: too many serials.
This issue is a case in point; it contains the first chapter in a
three-part series by Max Khaytsus, the third in a five-part series from
Mark Murray, and the third in a three-part series from Dafydd, which is
in itself just one chapter in his Talisman story arc that has now
spanned an amazing twenty issues. While serialization seemed like a good
way to handle the occasional large story back in '94, we have to admit
that we have a problem today, when only three of the 21 stories printed
this year haven't been part of a serial.
While longer stories give the author the opportunity to develop a
more intricate plot and establish more depth in their characters and
their relationships, a preponderance of serials can make the magazine
less accessible and enjoyable. Our new readers receive their first issue
of DargonZine, only to discover that it contains three ongoing
storylines that cannot be fully enjoyed without going back and finding
several prior installments. That's discouraging. To address that, we as
authors have tried to provide enough background information within each
installment so that it can be enjoyed even if you didn't read (or don't
remember) prior chapters. But that's only a partial solution, and it
comes at the cost of potentially annoying other readers who are familiar
with those prior works and don't want that background material repeated
in every story they read. And no matter how familiar you are with the
milieu, an issue where none of the stories reach their climax and
conclusion tends to feel incomplete and unsatisfying.
Fortunately, this year's bumper crop of serialized stories is just
a temporary divergence from the balance we try to maintain between long
and short works. One of the big reasons for the recent prevalence of
serials has been Dafydd's Talisman series, which is a huge story arc,
the likes of which we're unlikely to see again soon. And Max's "Loren
Armare", which begins in this issue, is less like an ongoing series and
more like three standalone tales which are linked only peripherally.
Finally, there are a number of single-part short stories currently in
the works that will soon bring our issues back into balance. I'm excited
to bring those to you because it will give us the opportunity to bring
you stories from more writers, and make each and every issue a more
rewarding and enjoyable read.
So while it's true that we've been printing an awful lot of
multi-part serials lately, we will shortly be bringing you a more
diverse lineup that includes both short stories as well as longer works
from writers both familiar and new. But in the meantime, enjoy these
lengthier stories for the kind of fiction they can provide. We hope to
be mixing things up again real soon!
========================================================================
Magestorm
Part 3
by Mark A. Murray
<mashudo@netzero.net>
Sy-Ober 1017
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-6
The dust blew up and over and around the wagon. At times, the dust
seemed thin and light while at other times, it was thick and gritty. The
lead wagon in the caravan caught part of it, the second wagon caught
more, while the third and last got all the dust.
"I'm beginning," Lylle choked out, "to hate traveling." He was in
the third wagon and no matter which way he twisted or turned his thin,
wiry-framed body, he couldn't escape the dust.
"Sit still!" Niatha yelled, then coughed as the dirt-filled air
rushed into his mouth. He was sitting next to Lylle and every time Lylle
leaned his way, he got crushed between Lylle and the seat. Niatha looked
like a large cat with glistening velvety fur and a long tail. What he
had that no cat had was a pair of wings. Lylle, Raphael, and Merrif were
the only ones who could see Niatha as he truly was. Everyone else saw a
common black cat.
"Did you say something?" Merrif asked, riding up next to the wagon.
He was riding an old mare that would stop every so often and munch on
some grass until Merrif could get her head up and get her moving
forward. The dust didn't seem to faze the mare at all, but Merrif wasn't
so blessed. He moved her away from the wagon to escape the dust.
"I said that I hate traveling!" Lylle answered.
"Not you," Merrif said. "I was asking Niatha." Lylle started to say
something, but instead he sucked dust into his mouth and choked.
"He's crushing me," Niatha complained. "Why can't I ride with you?"
"Because Rilla would get upset," Merrif explained. "Wouldn't you
Rilla?" He bent forward and patted the mare's neck.
"She wouldn't get upset if you shot her full of arrows," Niatha
retorted.
"Merrif!" Raphael called. He was riding a horse, also. His horse
was larger and more energetic. It was so energetic that Raphael had his
hands full controlling him. "We'll stop soon."
"So soon?" Merrif asked. "We aren't getting anywhere with stopping
all the time," he complained. His long brown hair whipped around in the
wind and dust while his scraggly and bushy beard protected part of his
face. He was tall and skinny, but against the wind, he slumped forward.
Merrif was impatient because at the end of this journey he was hoping to
find the goddess Illiena.
"Straight," Lylle choked out. "I can't wait to stop," he said.
"Get this human off of me," Niatha complained.
"The caravan has a set route, Merrif," Raphael answered. "They
don't deviate from it unless they have to. We stop soon."
"Thank Illiena!" Niatha spouted. Merrif whipped his head toward
Niatha and in the process lost his balance. He nearly fell off Rilla,
barely managing to grab her mane in a last, desperate attempt at holding
on to something. "Wha ... what did you say?" he asked after he righted
himself.
"I didn't say anything," Niatha replied.
"No, I heard you say something. Was that a prayer to Illiena?"
"No, it was --" Niatha was interrupted as the wagon bumped and
bounced. Lylle was tossed in the air and bounced back down, landing
partially on Niatha. "Ouch!" Niatha yelled. "Stop this wagon! Anything
has to be better than this!" The wagon stopped. "What?" Niatha asked,
surprise showing on his face.
"They've stopped," Merrif said.
"So they have," Niatha replied sarcastically. "I'm glad you pointed
that out. I might not have noticed."
"Get down and shake the dust off," Raphael told Lylle and Niatha.
"I've got to help set up camp." He turned his horse and rode to the
front of the caravan.
"Get down," Lylle mocked Raphael in a high pitched voice. "And
shake the dust."
"Quit whining," Niatha retorted. "You weren't crushed most of the
way."
"He can't hear you Niatha," Merrif said.
"I know that," Niatha hissed. "So tell him to move so I can get
down off this wagon!"
"Niatha wants you to move," Merrif explained. Lylle turned and
looked down. Niatha's brows were drawn down and his eyes were narrowed.
The tip of his tail was flipping back and forth and his ears were laid
back.
"He looks angry," Lylle said. He turned back towards Merrif and
started to climb out of the wagon. Niatha stood slowly, letting each leg
stretch out before putting weight on it. Lylle grabbed onto the wagon
tightly as he climbed down, groaning with every move.
Merrif leaned over and swung his leg around as he got off Rilla. He
held onto the saddle to make sure his legs would support him. While it
hadn't been a long day of riding, it had been a while since they'd left
Dargon, and he still wasn't used to the traveling.
"I recall riding being easier," Merrif groaned as he took Rilla's
reins and patted her neck. She enjoyed the attention and stepped closer
to Merrif, pushing him back a step. "Easy Rilla. You'll knock me over."
"How much longer did Raphael say this trip was going to be?" Lylle
asked.
"It's already one sennight too long," Niatha replied.
"I thought you wanted your answers," Merrif teased. "Giving up so
early?"
"No!" Niatha said emphatically. "We'll get to your tower and then
you'll tell me where you conjured me from, why, and what I am."
"I don't know what you are," Merrif answered. "I told you that. The
rest I'll tell you when we get to the tower."
"I know what he is," Lylle said, a small smile on his face. "He's a
cushion."
"This 'cushion' is going to bite you next time," Niatha promised,
hopping down from the wagon.
"He said he's going to bite you the next time you use him for a
cushion," Merrif told Lylle.
"It'd probably not hurt as much as riding in the wagon," Lylle
laughed.
"At least with our paid passage, we don't have as many duties as
the rest," Merrif said.
"That's only because they don't trust us," Lylle told him. "If they
knew us, we'd be helping with a lot more chores."
"Not me," Niatha grinned.
"I'd send you out hunting," Merrif stated. "And not let you back
into camp without something bigger than a tree rat."
"Have you seen some of them?" Niatha said, sitting up and eyes
wide. "Some of those tree rats are twice the size of Dargon's rats. I'd
love to go hunting them." He smiled, showing his fangs.
"I'm going to take Rilla to get some water and then rub her down,"
Merrif said. "I'll be back after that." Lylle and Niatha watched him
walk away, Rilla in tow.
"This would be better if I could hear you," Lylle said, looking
down at Niatha. "But at least you can hear me and understand what I'm
saying." Lylle stepped away, stretching his legs in the process.
"That's a good thing?" Niatha remarked dryly.
"Ah," Lylle groaned as he stretched his arms above his head.
"Niatha?" he asked when he saw Niatha walking away. "A walk sounds like
a great idea."
"What is this?" Lylle asked, munching on a biscuit.
"It's a biscuit," Raphael answered, eating one also. He was seated,
his legs stretched out in front of him.
"I know that! What's in it?"
"Breb," Merrif answered, a whole biscuit stuffed in his mouth.
"Huh?" Lylle said. "Oh, bread. Well, why does it taste different
than last night's or the night before that?" Lylle asked, exasperated
with the two of them.
"From what I understand," Raphael explained, "each family makes
food for the journey. We get to eat something from each family every
night. When they've gone through all of the families, they start over
again."
"I liked last night's food better," Lylle said.
"Get used to it," Raphael smirked. "We'll have it again and again
until it's all gone."
"How much farther do we have to go?"
"We should reach Valdasly sometime in early winter."
"Winter!?!" Lylle exclaimed.
"We'll be climbing higher and will probably see snow before we get
to Valdasly."
"We could double up and go on our own," Merrif suggested.
"Yes, why don't we?" Lylle asked.
"Because we paid for passage," Raphael said.
"Why did we have to go by caravan?"
"We didn't have to. It's safer and easier."
"Easier?" Lylle asked, shock on his face. "You call riding in that
wagon easier?"
"Yes. Easier than walking and easier than riding double."
"I guess it would be easier than walking, but not by much."
"It's our turn to clean up," Merrif said. "Finish up, Lylle and
let's get it done. I'm tired and would like to turn in early."
"Maybe someone will actually strike up a conversation with us this
time," Lylle remarked.
"They're a close group," Raphael told him. "They don't usually let
strangers travel with them. It's only because May arranged for us to be
here that they agreed."
"She's an amazing woman," Lylle said, finishing the last of his
food. "She knows all kinds of people. I heard the duke stops at her
place every so often."
"Wouldn't you?" Raphael chuckled. "She's probably got the best food
around. Not to mention the cleanest place."
"What place is that?" Merrif asked, standing up.
"Spirit's Haven," Raphael said. "One of the finest inns in Dargon."
"I don't think I've been there," Merrif replied. "When we get ..."
"Merrif?" Raphael asked after Merrif didn't finish his sentence.
"Are we going back?" Merrif asked, his voice quiet and soft.
"Where else would we go?" Lylle asked as he collected plates.
"I don't know. I didn't think of what we'd do after we got to the
tower."
"There will be plenty of time to think of that. If you don't go
clean up, you won't get any sleep tonight," Raphael warned.
"He's right," Niatha yawned. "Besides, I'm trying to sleep and
you're too noisy."
"Come on Lylle. It seems we're keeping Niatha awake." Lylle looked
down at Niatha, started to say something, but turned and walked away
instead. Merrif followed him.
"You didn't say it would get this cold!" Lylle yelled from the
wagon. His hands were in front of his face, trying to block the wind.
The wind, though, was howling down upon them all with a chilling
ferocity that threatened to freeze them solid.
"Pray that it doesn't start snowing. You'll get wet, cold, and
freezing," Raphael yelled back. He was on a horse riding next to the
wagon. A scarf was pulled around his chin and neck, a coat covered his
upper body, and wool breeches covered his legs. A cap covered his head,
but where his brown hair was blown back away from his forehead, the wind
reddened his face. He blinked constantly.
"Sometimes it's good to have fur," Niatha replied from beside
Lylle.
"It won't be too much longer," Raphael said. "We'll stop at an inn
this time."
"An inn?" Lylle asked. "A real inn? One with walls, a fire, and
beds?" He crossed his arms, placing his hands in his armpits in an
attempt to warm his hands. Although he wore mittens, the cold seeped
through them. The wind, unblocked now, blew into his face.
"Is there any other kind?" Raphael laughed.
"It won't be soon enough," Lylle gritted through chattering teeth.
"It's too late," Raphael corrected him. "Look," he said, pointing
ahead of the caravan. The horizon seemed darker and it looked as if the
air swirled with something.
"What is it?"
"Snowstorm," Raphael said. "I can't tell if it's headed our way or
moving along in front of us, though."
"How soon is that inn?"
"The other side of that snow, I think," Raphael answered, his hands
over his eyes trying to keep the wind out of them.
The three wagons moved slowly, even though the road was fairly
smooth. The snowstorm was moving ahead of them, but slower than the
wagons. They traveled into the edge of the snow before they reached the
inn. Everyone worked together to unhitch the horses and then two boys
took the horses to stable them.
"I'm cold and hungry," Lylle said, heading for the inn. "I hope
there's a warm fire and some hot food." Raphael and Merrif were behind
him a few steps. Jeth, one of the leaders of the caravan, stepped in
front of Raphael.
"Aye, boy, there will be both of those things in the inn," Jeth
said, slapping a hand on Lylle's shoulder. "My thanks for the help
unhitching the teams." He stepped ahead of Lylle, opened the doors, and
went inside. Lylle stopped and watched him go.
"Is the cold getting to me, or did he just thank me?" Lylle asked.
Raphael and Merrif walked past Lylle.
"The cold will get to you if you stand there until night," Raphael
replied. Merrif said nothing as he hurried inside to the warmth of the
main room. Lylle watched as a couple more people from the caravan walked
around him. "He thanked me," Lylle muttered before going inside.
The inn was getting crowded as the people from the caravan slowly
filtered in from outside. There was a fire going in the fireplace.
People were taking off cloaks and coats before sitting down to a table.
Several women and one boy were bringing in bowls of food and mugs of hot
liquid.
"Hot cider," Merrif said, sniffing the air. "Smells good, too. I
don't know what's in the bowls, though." He was seated at a table,
rubbing his hands together to warm them.
"Food," Lylle said. "It doesn't matter what it is as long as it's
food." He took off his tattered, thin coat and then sat down at a table.
Raphael unwrapped his scarf, took his coat off, and joined Lylle at the
table.
"I see Niatha," Raphael said, nodding toward the fireplace. Niatha
was sitting in front of the fire, warming up. "So much for his fur
keeping him warm." Merrif chuckled and nodded his head in agreement. The
serving boy was headed their way with mugs of cider.
"I don't think anything could keep warm out there for long," Merrif
said.
"Does it always snow this hard around here?" Lylle asked. The boy
set two mugs on the table.
"This hard?" the boy asked. "This is a light snow. I'll be back
with another mug." He left to get the cider.
"This is a light snow?"
"It snows like this in Dargon," Merrif said, sipping his hot cider.
"Yes, but it isn't this cold and the wind doesn't blow this hard,"
Lylle replied, waiting on his cider.
"You've been out in the wind and cold and snow for days now,"
Raphael said. "That's why it feels worse than in Dargon. Once you're
cold, it's hard to warm up fully."
"The fire helps," Niatha said, from below the table. "Fire helps."
"Niatha?" Merrif asked, looking down under the table. "I didn't
hear you come over."
"I'm hungry," Niatha said.
"We all are," Raphael told him. "Have some patience. They're
bringing food and cider around."
"Cider?" Niatha asked, curling up on the floor. "Tired, too," he
added.
"We're over halfway there, Niatha," Raphael said. "We traveled
south from Dargon, through Kenna, skirted the Darst range just a bit
before turning into it and climbing higher into the mountains. Some of
the forests around here have legends about them and so are avoided.
That's why we climbed into the mountains. It's slower and colder, but
according to some of the legends, it's a lot safer. We'll stay in the
higher mountain area until we get closer to Valdasly."
"We're halfway there ..." Lylle muttered. He was watching the boy
bring his cider.
"Here's the cider and a bowl of stew," the boy said, placing both
items on the table. "Where are you headed?"
"Valdasly," Lylle answered.
"You're not going all the way to Hawksbridge with the caravan?" the
boy asked.
"We're looking for a tower in the mountains," Merrif said, taking
the stew. Raphael looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn't.
"A tower? There aren't any towers around this inn that I know of.
You're going in the right direction, though. The closest place that
would have a tower is Valdasly. I've only heard about it. Never been
there, so I don't know for sure."
"We're each searching for different answers," Merrif replied.
"And the tower?" the boy asked.
"It holds them," Merrif said. "At least our hopes are that it
does." Merrif sipped some more cider.
"When we get to the tower," Niatha whispered from below. "It will
reveal all." He yawned and closed his eyes. The boy left to bring more
food out to the people.
"I hope that this tower does hold all our answers," Raphael said,
looking down into his mug.
Scattered throughout the warm inn, most everyone was asleep on the
floor. With the rooms full, most of the people from the caravan were
camped in the main room. And outside, winter dropped snow down upon the
ground in small, fragile flakes.
"Do you really think she'll be there?" Lylle asked. He was lying on
his back with a blanket covering the lower half of his body. His arms
were crossed above his head as a makeshift pillow.
"It's my hope, yes," Raphael replied. Sitting up, legs crossed
under him, Raphael was leaning back against the wall of the inn. "If
she's not there, then I'll search elsewhere."
"She must be something special," Merrif said. He was lying on his
side. His arm was propped under him, holding his head up.
"Megan is," Lylle replied, smiling.
"You'd steal her away from me if you had the chance, wouldn't you?"
Raphael asked, a small smile on his face.
"If I thought I had a chance," Lylle said. "But she loves you too
much."
"Why do Megan and I fight so much, then?" Raphael asked, but to no
one in particular.
"Hmmph," Merrif snorted. He turned over on his back and relaxed.
Niatha, curled up next to him, unconsciously shifted his body to adjust
to Merrif's move. "If men knew that answer," Merrif continued, "we
wouldn't ever have any problems with women."
"That's a bad thing?" Lylle asked.
"Ha!" Merrif chuckled. "I don't know. It would be a very different
world, though."
"I think we enjoyed the fighting," Raphael mused.
"What's she like?" Merrif asked. Niatha pushed a paw out and
muttered something in his sleep. Merrif reached down and stroked
Niatha's fur.
"Megan is all fire and energy. Her hair is red and sometimes, when
we're fighting, her eyes are red, too."
"Red eyes?" Merrif asked.
"She's got green eyes," Lylle said.
"Yes, she's got green eyes. But get her mad and you'll believe her
eyes are red, too. She isn't as tall as I am ... about to my nose. And
I've seen fairer women in Dargon, but Megan ... well ... she's just
Megan. She won't back away from anyone or anything. She has a temper,
yes, but she can be tender and caring, too. Especially for things that
can't take care of themselves. Unless that thing is feeling sorry for
itself," Raphael said, closing his eyes. "Unless that thing is being a
stubborn fool." Merrif and Lylle said nothing and waited for Raphael to
continue.
"It's strange how life can turn on you. There was a time when she
was cursed. She couldn't move of her own free will, but she could still
see everything that was going on around her. She couldn't talk either,
but her body functioned to keep her alive.
"I cared for her when she was like that. It wasn't easy at first.
It was the hardest thing I'd ever done. I fed her, cleaned her, put her
to bed, did every little thing you do unnoticed and don't ever think
about. I don't know how she lived through that, not being able to say or
do anything.
"And then, when I killed the mage that cursed her, I lost the use
of my legs in the fight. Megan was cured, though. But now, I couldn't
walk and she had to take care of me. It was a tough time for me. I
thought taking care of Megan was the hardest thing I'd ever done. I was
wrong. Living without the use of my legs was harder. I was used to doing
everything and suddenly, I couldn't do anything.
"She cared for me as I'd cared for her, except I could still talk
and move. I didn't like feeling helpless. We started arguing. The
arguments got worse and one day she left. She told me she was leaving,
too. Told me to come get her when I was ready. I think she knew that I
wasn't going to get better with our arguing. I think she knew that by
her leaving, I'd have reason enough to walk. At least I hope so."
"How did you start walking again?" Merrif asked.
"By pain and sweat and more pain and hard work. At first, I was
outraged that she left. I used my anger to push me along. When I
couldn't move because of exhaustion, I'd think more about what happened
and get angrier. I crawled and fell more than anything in those first
few days, but slowly, and it was slow, I began to walk.
"In the end, I did walk. That's when I asked May about Megan. May
told me that she'd gone to visit family near Valdasly. I couldn't
believe what I'd heard. I'd thought she'd just left the inn and was in
Dargon somewhere waiting.
"But she wasn't. She'd left Dargon and me in it. I think I lost
most of my will and strength in my efforts to walk. The news that she
wasn't in Dargon hit me hard and I left the inn. I lost touch with May
and Lylle. I was almost living on the streets. But I was fortunate that
Lylle found and helped me. And that wasn't too long before we met you."
"It sounds like you really care for her," Merrif said as he rolled
onto his back and relaxed. "I hope she's at the tower."
"It's been a long day," Raphael sighed. He had heard Merrif move
and guessed that he was nearly asleep. Opening his eyes and looking, he
saw that he was right. Lylle was already asleep. Niatha had been for a
while. Raphael slowly slid sideways down the wall until he was lying on
the floor. He yawned and pulled his cloak over himself.
"Wake up," Niatha said, nudging Merrif. "It calls."
"Wha ...?" Merrif yawned. Raphael opened his eyes, as he had heard
Niatha also.
"We must go," Niatha urged.
"What are you talking about, Niatha?" Merrif asked, then groaned as
he moved to sit up. Lylle was turning over to see what all the noise was
about. Raphael stretched slowly.
"I heard them calling me," Niatha said.
"Heard who?" Merrif asked. He was sitting up, all groans gone. His
attention was fixed on Niatha. Raphael was also sitting up, attentive.
"They said they are sending a guide," Niatha continued.
"Who said, Niatha?" Merrif asked. "Are you all right?"
"I saw them last night in a dream." Niatha was standing, looking at
Merrif. His tail was swishing slowly back and forth. His wings fluttered
briefly, but did not open fully.
"You dreamt?" Merrif asked. "You don't dream. I'm the one who
dreams ..." Merrif stopped talking and left his mouth open. "I haven't
been dreaming," he said, closing his mouth. "I haven't dreamed anything
since --"
"I was outside the tower," Niatha interrupted. "The door was open
and I saw two men standing inside. They were tall, with long,
light-colored hair. There was a shimmering in the air around the tower.
It wouldn't let me inside, but the two said they were sending a guide to
bring me to them."
"A guide?" Raphael asked. "Who?"
"They were familiar, Merrif," Niatha said, ignoring Raphael. "I've
seen them before."
"What are you talking about?" Lylle asked as he got to his feet. He
looked around the room and saw that other people were slowly stirring.
It was morning and he could see some light streaming in around the door.
"Where did you see them?" Merrif asked, recovering from his
amazement at not dreaming. He usually dreamt about the goddess Illiena.
His long hair was a tangled mess and he ran his hands through it
carefully in an attempt to straighten it out. His bushy beard was
slightly flat on one side where he had slept on it.
"I don't know. They just seemed familiar." Niatha sat and used his
front paw to scratch behind his ear. "The first thing I thought when I
woke up was that I didn't see Illiena."
"You had that as your first thought?" Merrif chuckled. "I didn't
know you cared so much about her."
"I don't," Niatha retorted, flicking his tail in irritation. "It
was just something that came into my mind when I woke. Just as I
remembered the dream."
"Who is the guide?" Raphael asked again.
"I don't know," Niatha answered. "They just said they were sending
one."
"Will someone tell me what's going on?" Lylle asked.
"Niatha's had a dream about the tower and two people in it,"
Raphael explained. "He said that the two people are sending a guide."
"Convenient," Lylle replied. "It sounds like someone wants us to
get there, desperately."
"We all have choices," Raphael said. "We can turn around now and
leave the tower behind us."
"You could do that?"
"No," Raphael sighed. "But it is a choice that each of us has."
"Illiena is at that tower," Merrif said. "I won't turn back."
"Those two were familiar," Niatha added. "I don't know why or how,
but even if I don't find out, I will get my answers from you. You'll
tell me how and why you brought me here."
"Yes," Merrif agreed. "Once we get there."
"I came this far," Lylle said. "If Raphael goes to find Megan, I'll
go too. If it's stopped snowing, that is. If it's snowy and cold, I'm
going to stay right here until next summer."
========================================================================
Talisman Five
Part 3
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Sy 27-28, 1010
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-6
A great deal of attention had been paid to the fashioning of the
entrance hall of the College of Bards in Magnus. The outer doors were
massive: tall, wide and thick. Their inner faces were intricately carved
with figures of dancing musical instruments interspersed with fruits and
vines. The space they opened onto was in scale with those doors; the
expansive floor was patterned with the star-and-harp symbol of the
college surrounded by the twelve symbols of rank, from apprentice to
master bard, and all ten journeyman ranks in between. Overhead hung a
large chandelier consisting of a metal wheel which supported translucent
globes of glass in various sizes and colors, all glowing brightly.
The walls of the vestibule bore pillared arches that almost reached
the ceiling. Within each arch was an intricate mosaic of rolling
countryside, forever locked in springtime, with flowering orchards,
blooming gardens and country estates in the distance. The effect was
that the room was actually a porch in some bucolic location which, by
inference, transported the entire college there as well.
The single door that allowed access to the college itself was much
smaller than the exterior doors it stood opposite, much more human-sized
and less ornate, bearing only the star-and-harp symbol carved into its
surface.
When the outer doors swung open, SongWarder Jepar didn't have far
to go to come to attention. Jepar took his reception duties seriously,
especially when stationed in the Bardic College's vestibule. He always
made sure that his blue tunic was draped perfectly over his large frame
and that his white hose were never wrinkled. His red sash of office was
always smooth, cutting a straight line from his right shoulder to his
left hip. He was the first person someone entering the college would
see, and he was determined to be worthy of the setting.
The man walking through the massive outer doors was tall, with
sandy-brown hair swept back from his heart-shaped face. His eyes were
wide and brown, his cheek bones were high, and his mouth and chin were
both narrow. He wore the green cloak of a bard, and Jepar could see the
strap of what was probably an instrument case across his chest. As the
man strode confidently toward him, the cloak opened and Jepar saw the
rank pendant hanging from his neck.
Satisfied that the man was allowed to enter by that single
credential, Jepar bowed and said, "Welcome to the College in Magnus, my
lord." He shifted his weight onto the pressure plate in the floor that
caused the inner door to open, and continued with the ritual phrase,
"Enter, and may all your needs be fulfilled within."
The bard began to walk through the inner doors, but paused and
turned to Jepar. "Perhaps you can assist me, brother," he said. "A
friend of mine, a traveling companion for a time, said she might be here
this month. I was wondering if you knew whether Je'lanthra'en was,
indeed, here?"
Jepar's properly formal expression wilted into one of sorrow.
Another one who hadn't heard, and a fellow eighth-staver too, by his
rank pendant.
He said, "I am sorry, my lord, to be the one to tell you this. Lady
Je'en is in the city, but she has suffered an accident. Not quite a
sennight ago, in the Fifth Quarter. Her injuries were severe, and she is
being tended by Master Enowan at Crown Castle. Did you know her well?"
Jepar watched the bard's face display sorrow as well. The man said,
"Yes, brother, I knew her well. I am sorrowed to hear of this. I leave
again on the morrow, but perhaps I will delay long enough to pay her a
visit. Thank you for the news, brother."
The bard walked into the college, shaking his head in sorrow. Jepar
let the inner doors close behind him, shaking his own head at the
astonishing attack. How could the streets of the Crown City of Baranur
not be safe for a bard to ride? Jepar unconsciously smoothed his tunic
and sash, and resumed his ready stance, waiting for the next visitor to
the College of Bards.
The seneschal of the College of Bards was in charge of the mundane,
day-to-day details of keeping the college working. These included
overseeing the staff, keeping track of the stores, and assigning rooms
to scheduled classes and sudden guests. A thousand and one routine
details a day, and at times two thousand and two unexpected details as
well.
Seneschal Efezha thrived on the challenge. She was methodical,
organized, confident, and had been seneschal for twenty-five years. Her
office was small and surprisingly uncluttered, containing only a desk
and two chairs. On the wall hung a small plaque, presented to her by the
head of the college upon her twentieth year of service. It was the only
personal possession in the office.
When the bard entered her office, Seneschal Efezha looked up to see
a tall young man with high cheekbones and wide brown eyes. His hair was
light brown, almost blond, and pulled back from his forehead. Efezha's
eyes automatically went to the rank pendant hanging from his neck, since
she didn't recognize him as a resident. Assured of the propriety of his
presence, she efficiently waited for him to make his request rather than
trying to guess.
"Greetings, madame seneschal," he began in a smooth, cultured
voice. "My name is Kethseir. I have just arrived, and would like a room
for the night. My duties will take me away again tomorrow, so no long
term arrangements are necessary."
Efezha opened the single book that rested on the desk. She flipped
through the pages until she found the right section. She said, "A room
will be no trouble; such a request seldom is. Still, had you arrived in
time for your meeting, there would have been less of a choice. Delayed
on the road, eh Kethseir?"
She glanced up, puzzled by the bard's silence in response to her
idle question. Kethseir looked puzzled, as if groping for an answer to a
question he didn't understand. "Perhaps the word never reached you then.
The annual meeting of eighth-stavers was three days ago. Little business
transpired, and the gathered bards began departing yesterday. I hope you
had no business to transact."
Understanding flowed onto Kethseir's face. "Oh, yes. That was this
month? I thought it was in Seber! And yes, I was delayed, else I would
have arrived in time to be surprised by my own lack of memory." He
chuckled, and Efezha went back to checking for rooms.
"Room 214, in the guest wing," she said finally. "No one else is on
the second floor, so you have the bathing room to yourself. Dinner is at
ninth bell, so you have time to refresh yourself beforehand. As always,
if you need anything, just ring the bell. Do you require anything else?"
Kethseir shook his head. "No, madame seneschal. All I need is a bed
for the night, though a meal would be welcome too. Thank you."
As Kethseir left, Efezha took a charcoal stick from the drawer of
the desk and made the notation that room 214 was occupied. Organization
was the key to keeping things running smoothly, organization and
attention to details. She shook her head briefly at the idea that a bard
would forget the month of his rank meeting like that. She had a
suspicion that Kethseir hadn't misremembered the date of his meeting.
Perhaps he had not wanted to attend for some reason. Still, that was
none of her concern. If Kethseir was in trouble with his rank, it was
for someone else to deal with.
The dining hall of the College of Bards was vast, and largely
undecorated. This allowed it to be dressed according to any special
occasion that warranted it. No such occasion loomed, so the room's bare
wooden walls and stone pillars were visible.
The quarter of the room closest to the kitchens was divided from
the rest by curtains. Only in that quarter of the room were the lamps
and chandeliers lit. Tables were arranged in the room to form two rough
horseshoe-shapes set perpendicular to each other, open mouth toward open
mouth, leaving a large space empty for performing in. Tables also lined
one wall, upon which the kitchen staff placed the food and wine. The
diners then served themselves on informal occasions such as this one.
Seated at one outer corner of the right-hand horseshoe was a young
man with short, ash-blond hair, pale skin, grass-green eyes and a large
nose. Despite the nose, he was very handsome, and despite his youth, he
had become very used to being very handsome.
He was dressed to show himself off. His tunic was well cut, with
embroidery at the collar and elaborately faced dagging at the sleeves.
The tunic was short, ending just barely below his waist in more, if
shorter, dags, revealing his long legs clad in elegant hose, with a
codpiece that was only slightly stuffed.
He had more to be proud of than his looks and his semi-stuffed
codpiece. He was only twenty-one summers old, and already he wore the
rank pendant of a sixth stave journeyman bard, more than halfway to the
tenth and highest rank before mastery was granted. His talent seemed,
even to him, almost supernatural. He could play any instrument within a
bell of picking it up for the first time, and his voice had made master
bards take notice. No one doubted that one day Nakaz would be numbered
among the ranks of those master bards.
Sitting next to Nakaz, and just as often in his lap, was Shorel, a
fellow bard. She was ten years older than Nakaz and one rank higher than
him. But she cheerfully admitted that she was not more talented than
him. Shorel was half a foot shorter than Nakaz's six-foot, half-a-hand
height, with long, lustrously brown hair that hung down her back. The
eyes in her narrow face were brown and her nose was small, but her lips
were very full and red. Her body was fit and lushly curved, as her own
tunic and hose revealed. She had never been as pretty, even ten years
ago, as Nakaz was now, but her self-confidence made her equally
attractive.
The first serving trays of dinner had been set out not long before,
and Nakaz and Shorel were busy switching between kisses and bites of the
appetizers. They talked as well, to each other and to their neighbors at
table, with the easy camaraderie of life-long friends, though Nakaz had
not known most of those he conversed with for more than three days.
Shorel was the exception; he had known her for two years, and relished
the times their paths crossed long enough for them to be together.
Nakaz loved Shorel in his own way, but he certainly wasn't in love
with her. He couldn't imagine committing to a family with her, for
example. There was something missing in their relationship: nothing he
could put into words, but definitely something missing. She was fun to
be with, good in bed, a talented bard ... but not someone he could spend
the rest of his life with.
He'd had other lovers; quite a few, despite his meager years. None
had ever been more than temporary pleasure, no matter how long the
relationship had lasted. None had ever satisfied that certain longing
inside of him, that something that would take him beyond momentary
pleasure into life-long satisfaction.
Nakaz sighed momentarily, wondering what it was he was searching
for. Then he put it out of his mind to concentrate on the moment. He
leaned over against Shorel, who was talking to her neighbor about an
instrument maker she knew of. She leaned back without a pause in her
conversation, and Nakaz smiled. He put his hand on her thigh and started
sliding it slowly, teasingly, up and up and up. Which was when the man
walked into the room.
That man was tall, thin, and good looking. He had light brown hair,
wide brown eyes, and a narrow chin that set off his high cheekbones. He
wore a white linen shirt under a tightly-laced leather jerkin that
showed off the development of his chest and waist admirably. He wore
tight riding trousers, with leather from waist to crotch, and then only
on the inside of the legs down to the high boots he had on. The lower
body that those trousers displayed was as impressive as his chest and
abdomen. The only jewelry he wore was a pendant of rank, but he was too
far away for Nakaz to tell what stave it represented.
Nakaz's hand ceased to move on Shorel's thigh. His eyes tracked the
towheaded bard as he walked over to an empty chair at the end of the
same horseshoe Nakaz sat at. The newcomer just sat there for a moment,
as if resting, before rising again and moving toward the trays of food
on the sideboard.
As Nakaz watched the confident stride of the newcomer, he faintly
heard a "Hey!" from next to him. Then, the word was repeated,
accompanied by someone taking hold of his chin and turning his gaze away
from the man. He refocused on Shorel, who was chuckling ruefully.
"Hey, boyo, you're with me tonight, straight? Stop that drooling!"
She glanced over toward the object of Nakaz's sudden interest and said,
"Yes, he's cute, and if you weren't going to be spending the night in my
room I'd go after him too. But you promised me one night, and I leave
tomorrow. So you'll just have to do without him for now."
Nakaz kissed Shorel, closing his eyes to prevent them from ogling
the man as he walked back toward his seat. Leaning forward almost out of
his chair, nose to nose with her, staring her earnestly in the eyes, he
said, "Yes, I promised, and yes I will be in your bed tonight. I
wouldn't miss it for an early mastery-test!" He kissed her again, and
then, with a twinkle of mischief in his eye, said, "I don't suppose you
might consider a threesome?"
She growled at him, and swatted him back into his chair. She
grabbed for her cup and tipped it threateningly over his head. "Maybe
this will cool you down enough to be satisfied with only me tonight!"
she said with a laugh in her voice and in her eyes.
"No, no! This is my best tunic!" he said in mock-horror, just as
much laughter in his own eyes. Even as young as he was, he knew better
than to offend someone as dear to him as Shorel over someone he knew
nothing about. He guided her cup back to the table, and kissed her once
again, murmuring racy promises in her ear. As the kitchen staff brought
out the next course amid a swell of noise and clattering serving trays,
he and Shorel settled back down to dinner.
Despite his promises, which were heartfelt, he couldn't bring
himself to totally ignore the man who had so captured his attention. He
learned that the man was named Kethseir, and was an eighth-stave bard.
He was too far away to overhear any of the conversation the man made,
but later in the evening when it was Kethseir's turn to perform, Nakaz
found himself disappointed by the level of vocal talent he displayed.
His first thought was that this man was no eighth-stave bard! His second
thought, swift on the heels of the first, was that perhaps his talent
was in other areas. Nakaz had also learned early on not to try to
measure someone's abilities against his own. Nearly every performance
Nakaz had ever heard had contained some flaw or other that he had felt
no one could possibly miss, only to find that no one else noticed.
Perhaps this was another such case.
The residents and guests at dinner seemed to appreciate Kethseir's
voice more than Nakaz could, and he was given much applause and cheering
when his song was finished. Nakaz continued to woo Shorel, and to
intermittently stare at Kethseir hungrily. It was a hunger he had felt
before, and he knew it was nothing more than idle lust. He knew he could
put that aside easily enough, and had done so before when circumstances
didn't allow him to pursue the objects of his fancy the way his promise
to Shorel bound him now.
Nakaz was disappointed when, shortly after the fourth and
penultimate course was served, Kethseir rose somewhat unsteadily from
his chair and left the dining room. He learned that the man had been a
little drunk and tired from his journey, which would resume the next
day. Nakaz made himself a promise to rise early and contrive to meet
Kethseir as he was leaving, to try and make an impression on him if he
could. Then, he returned his attention fully to his partner for the
night, lavishing on her all of the passion she deserved, and much that
Kethseir had aroused in him as well.
Much later that night, Nakaz followed Shorel into room 332 of the
guest wing. His arms were around her waist and he was kissing her neck,
to much giggling and sighing. Once they were inside, she slipped out of
his arms, shut the door, and flung her arms wide, saying, "Welcome to my
domain!"
The rooms in the guest wing were all almost alike. They were large
enough for the bed, flanked by two armoires, and a sitting area by the
fireplace that consisted of two chairs and a small table between them.
One of the armoires was meant for clothes, the other for instruments. A
washstand was situated between the two small windows opposite the door,
even though there was a bathing room at the end of every hall.
Shorel had taken the time to personalize the room, even though she
had only spent a sennight in it. Two small figurines of birds sat on the
mantelpiece between a matched set of candlesticks made from antlers.
There was an intricately embroidered and quilted blanket thrown over the
back of one of the chairs. A portrait of a handsome man and a dog, made
out of shaped wood, hung on the door of one of the armoires.
Nakaz knew which decorations belonged in the room because his own
room at the other end of the hall had them too: the lit lantern on the
mantelpiece, the bowl of fruit on the table, the vase on the washstand.
There were no personalizing touches in Nakaz's room. He preferred to
remember that this wasn't home, no matter how many years he had spent
here long ago as student, apprentice, and journeyman bard. It made it
easier for him to leave.
He looked around the room, taking inventory of the items he
remembered, and noticing the new ones. He had just noticed a large,
wedge-shaped, oddly-carved stone on the table by the bowl of grapes when
he was grabbed and hugged from behind. He squirmed and wriggled his way
around and grabbed back, to find his arms around a completely naked
Shorel.
He squeezed, hugging her tight. She returned the hug, and giggled
in his ear, then danced backward until they were a double-arm-length
apart, just holding hands. Nakaz ran his eyes over her revealed charms,
tracing the hills and valleys made more mysterious by the shadows cast
by the lantern. Her teeth glinted in her smile as she stepped back two
more paces, dropping his hands and striking a pose. She ran her own eyes
appraisingly across his still-clothed form, then asked, "Do you like?
Ah, I see you have either stuffed another stocking into your cod-piece,
or you *do* like! What are you waiting for, boyo? Get those rags off!
You're wasting time!"
Nakaz laughed, charmed as usual by her casual attitude. He undid
the buckle of his leather belt and tossed it aside. But as his hands
went back for the cloth belt that held up his hose, he found himself
increasingly distracted. For while the utterly displayed, undeniably
lush charms of Shorel were in front of him, there was something behind
him that was calling to him even louder.
Unable to resist the strange urge, he turned around and took a
closer look at the stone on the table. He first noticed that it wasn't
just a carving, it was some kind of amalgamated sculpture; it also
seemed to be broken. It looked like the original had been circular, and
this was a wedge-shaped third of it as indicated by the two straight
sides angled from each other, and the curve of the single rounded side.
On the flat upper face of the object were interlaced bands of
silver and gold metal, and one band of glass. The interwoven bands
seemed to take up what had been the center of the original whole, while
along the curved edge were carved two animals, a cat and a fox. Two of
the types of bands seemed to originate from the center of these animals,
the silver and the gold respectively.
Nakaz felt Shorel snuggle up against him again, as he gazed at the
stone. She said, "Do you like it? I just received it recently. It has
been in my mother's family for some time. When I went home for her
funeral two months ago, I found that she had left it for me. It must
have been important to her, but I'd never seen it before. I wonder what
it used to be?"
Nakaz had slipped his arm around Shorel's naked waist. When she
mentioned her mother's funeral, he had given her a supportive squeeze,
and made appropriate mutterings. They had caught each other up on their
time apart days ago, and he had learned then of her mother's death. He
had made all of the appropriate, and heart-felt, responses of affection
and support at that time, which was just as well as his response now was
automatic and he didn't even realize he had made it.
Nakaz reached out to touch the carved cat, and then trace several
of the silver bands as they looped over and under the gold and glass
bands, and then up to the broken edges of the fragment. He wondered what
it had been, too, and he wondered why it seemed so important to him.
There was something about the fragment, like he had seen it before, like
it was part of him somehow. It pulled at him, insisting that he pick it
up and take it away with him. As much as he wanted to do that, he knew
he couldn't. It was Shorel's, something of her recently departed mother.
It wasn't his, and he could neither take it nor ask for it. But, as used
as he was to resisting temptations, this time it was much, much harder.
Suddenly, Shorel was between him and the stone, staring into his
face with an expression of mixed hurt and puzzlement. Nakaz realized
that he had been completely ignoring her for far too long, especially
since she was naked. He leaned forward and kissed her, pulling her
toward him and running his hands down her back to her taut behind, which
he gave a playful squeeze, making her squeal, then laugh. He whispered
in her ear, "I'm sorry, dear, I've been ... distracted."
She pulled away and said, "I should say so, boyo. At least I could
understand when it was that pretty Kethseir dragging your awareness from
me, but distracted by a stone? That's a little insulting, don't you
think?"
Nakaz realized that she was right, and there was no way he could
explain the strange attraction he felt toward that stone. He sputtered,
trying to come up with some placating words, but was rescued by Shorel.
"So," she said in a tone that told him to forget everything but
this moment. She continued, "Are you going to strip, or should I just
unfasten your codpiece and you can do me up against the wall like some
Melrin festival assignation?"
Nakaz laughed loudly, relieved that his inattention had been
forgiven. He shrugged himself out of his tunic, and found his hands
joined by Shorel's at his waist, fumbling at the hose's cloth belt. Soon
the hose lay with the tunic and leather belt in a corner of the room,
along side only a small codpiece-stuffing stocking. Shorel exclaimed, as
she usually did, about the purely natural codpiece stuffing now
revealed, and Nakaz laughed again. Then he picked her up, carried her
over to her bed, and threw her into it. He paused, looking at her
fetching disarray. He almost glanced back at the table before joining
her, but he resisted the urge, not wanting to hurt her again.
Fortunately for both of them, the demands of their coupling were
enough to keep Nakaz's mind focused on the activity at hand. It couldn't
stop, however, the image of a carved cat and silver bands eclipsing the
sight of her beneath him from time to time.
In the darkest part of the night, a man dressed from mask to boot
in black slipped out of room 214 in the guest wing. Silent as a ghost,
he made his way to the cellars of the College of Bards. Using
information supplied by his employer, he located one specific vault.
Using the keys also supplied, he worked the complicated mechanical
ritual that found him the correct keyhole, and he opened the door and
entered the vault that had not been entered in decades.
The room was filled with chests, but he only had keys for one. He
found that chest, and, using the secret keyhole, opened it as well. He
removed tray after tray of books until the chest seemed empty. Knowing
better, he revealed the hidden compartment and used the last key to set
free the books secured there.
He needed only one of the books he had revealed. He picked up the
one bound in light-colored leather. Comparing the flowing drawings with
the image that his employer had supplied him with, he made sure they
were the same. He had been informed that the drawings, vaguely
sticklike, were some kind of ancient language, and that they spelled out
"The Tome of the Yrmenweald". He had the right book, but the name meant
no more to him than the copulating-rat drawings had.
The thief, who had masqueraded as the bard Kethseir, placed the
trays of books back in the chest and closed it. He left the vault,
closing it behind him, and ghosted back to his room. He dressed again in
his leather riding clothes, placing the black clothing and the book in
his empty harp case. Then he waited.
Half a bell before dawn, bard Kethseir left his room and then the
college. Only a couple of servants noted his passage, but did not remark
upon it, as it was common for bards to travel at need or whim, at any
bell, day or night.
Nakaz was sorry to have missed his hoped-for rendezvous with the
handsome bard, but decided that the meeting was fated not to be.
The theft went completely unnoticed.
Skar didn't often spend time in the Fighting Unicorns. Not because
he couldn't afford it -- Sir Hawk's "philanthropy", as many called it,
meant that almost anyone could afford a decent meal there -- but because
it wasn't his kind of place. It had too clean of a reputation, despite
the kinds of transactions that went on there. Skar didn't really feel
comfortable in a bar unless there were wood splinters of broken chairs
and tables on the floor, and at least one bloodstain on the wall.
He was there now because a friend had told him that Baron Kanning
had returned and was staying there. Baron Kanning had been away for a
few days, and Skar thought he knew why and, what's more, why he had
returned.
Five days past, Bellen, one of Skar's little band of cutthroats and
thieves, had come up with the idea to waylay a traveler in the Fifth
Quarter. By happenstance or ill-luck, Principine Avenue had been
singularly deserted that night until the singer had happened along.
It wasn't until they had ambushed and disabled her that Skar
learned why Bellen had urged them to continue with the attack. It had
all been for the rank pendant she wore.
Skar had had no trouble slitting the girl's throat. He had never
liked singers, who seemed to have privilege denied honest working folk
like him just because they could manage a tune, or pluck the strings of
an instrument. But he had never really thought to attack one as they
also enjoyed noble protection, another perquisite they got that he
didn't. But as much pleasure as killing her had been, the five Cues that
Bellen said he could get for the rank pendant was worth even more.
Bellen had told him that it was Kane wanted the pendant. Kane, who
sometimes pretended to be Baron Kanning. Kane, who played roles, and put
on airs, who thought himself better than the likes of Skar. Kane, who
had been away for some few days, likely planning whatever escapade he
needed the pendant for. If Kane had been willing to pay five whole
Crowns for the pendant, then he had to be getting much, much more for
whatever he had been hired to steal. Skar was as sure of all of that
supposition as he was that Kane was here now to deliver the goods and
receive his payment. Which explained Skar's presence.
Kane, in the role of Baron Kanning, had descended the stairs from
the inn's upstairs rooms some time ago, carrying a satchel. He had taken
one of the privacy booths at the back of the taproom, and had been there
since. Skar sat, sipping his ale slowly, and waited for the inevitable
to happen.
Everyone noticed when the prostitute walked in. Male eyes followed
her as she walked across the room, Skar's included. A few appreciative
whistles sounded from the corners, but no one accosted her as they would
have in one of Skar's preferred haunts. She slipped into Kane's booth,
and closed the curtain across its front.
As the normal chatter of the room started up again, Skar's first
thought was, "Lucky cur!" And then he reconsidered. Maybe Kane wasn't
the only one playing dress-up, eh? He decided to keep his eyes on that
booth.
After a short while, the curtain slid open again, and the woman
slid gracefully out, stood, and then leaned back in to give Kane a
little kiss. As she walked to the door, throwing a "See you later," back
over her shoulder, many eyes followed her swaying hips out the door.
Skar was tempted, but he kept his eyes fastened like the proprietor's
namesake on Kane's booth.
Skar's perseverance was rewarded. As Kane stared in a daze, Skar
saw an open bag of gold coins sitting on the table in front of him. Skar
smiled a mean little smile as Kane recovered himself and quickly
snatched the bag off of the table. Skar slowly drank the rest of his
ale, and then rose from his table. He strolled across the taproom and
slid into Kane's booth just as the prostitute had.
"Greetings, Kane," he said. "Any good business come your way
lately?" Smugness seemed to drip from his every word.
Kane maintained his put-on noble air as he replied, "What business
might it be of yours, Skar?"
"Well, friend Kane, perhaps we could share a little of that gold
you just got from that fancy whoor as just left. You know, share the
wealth, yes?"
Skar watched Kane's pose slip a little as he realized he had been
foolish. It was only a matter of time now, but Kane would probably put
up a little more fight.
"What makes you think that she brought me that gold, and why should
I share it in any case?"
Just as predicted, thought Skar. He had been rehearsing this part
of the encounter all night. "I know she brought it because you didn't
have it when you came down them stairs earlier. And, 'cause if you had
that much money, you wouldn't be staying here, now would you?
"And, we should share, 'cause I know something that the town guard
just might like to hear. I don't know just what that tart wanted you to
do in the singers' school, but I know that you bought a singer's pendant
from Bellen. And if they check real careful, I bet they find something
missing, eh?
"'Course, my yearning to do my civic duty just might be subverted
with enough gold ..."
Kane seemed to realize that Skar had the upper hand. There was only
one sane thing for the caught thief to do. Skar gave his ultimatum. "I
think about half of what's in that black bag there should keep my mouth
shut -- for a while at least, eh?"
Resignation filled Kane's voice as he capitulated. "I guess I have
no choice, friend Skar. How about a little privacy though, so no one
else decides that they need a little of my hard-won gold?" Kane reached
over and pulled the privacy curtain closed again, shutting them in
together. That suited Skar; he didn't want to share with any more people
than he had to either.
Kane lifted the bag of coins back onto the table and began to count
them out slowly. Skar just had to touch those C
ues, and he reached over
to grab some to keep himself occupied while the royal sum was divided.
As he grabbed a few of the gold coins, Kane's hands passed over his
hands and he felt something brush across the back of his fingers. It was
such a slight sensation and the Cues glittered so enticingly that he
forgot about it immediately.
As Kane continued to count, Skar watched the pile that was his grow
larger and larger. He tried to imagine what he could do with that many
Cues -- maybe buy a castle for himself, and become a bandit-baron or
something. As he fondled the few Crowns he had grabbed early, he
realized that whatever grand dreams he might be able to realize with
half of those Cues, he could do twice as good with all of them. He then
began to work out just how he was going to extort the rest of Kane's
bounty from him.
Then something strange began to happen. Kane's words seemed to slur
and be drawn out. He was counting slower and slower. Skar then felt a
tingling all over, and he found that he couldn't move his feet at all,
nor his hands.
Sudden realization dawned -- Kane had surprised him. Kane, the
proper gentleman thief, the player of genteel roles -- Kane had poisoned
him! His head jerked up and he tried to force out a sentence through
already stiffening jaws, but all the farther he got was "What did y ..."
before his muscles wouldn't obey him any more.
Skar knew this poison. He knew he was in for a lingering death. His
eyes, frozen open and beginning to burn, watched as Kane retrieved his
coins and stashed them back in his bag. Then, Kane took his own tankard
and put it between Skar's hands, placing his hands around it, settling
his fingers properly as if he was actually gripping the vessel. As Kane
bent Skar's neck so that his eyes now only looked into the tankard, the
gutter-thief was surprised to note the look of disappointment on his
killer's face, and he realized that Kane was sorry he had been forced to
this extreme.
Somehow, the thought didn't comfort Skar as he died.
Ka'lochra'en, however, might have been comforted if he had known
that the man his hidden, poisoned dagger had killed had been the man who
had slit his cousin Je'en's windpipe, ending her bardic career and
forcing her into a new life.
========================================================================
Loren Armare
Parte 1
by Max Khaytsus
<khaytsus@cs.colorado.edu>
Yuli 4-5, 1014
Note to the Reader: This story is a long overdue segment of the
Beinison-Baranur war. Select reading will assist the reader in
understanding the events leading up to this series. "Loren Armare" is a
three part sequel to "Place Unto Wrath" (DargonZine v6n1). It follows up
on the events from "Campaign on the Laraka, part 2" (DargonZine v3n10)
and precedes the siege of Gateway in "Campaign on the Laraka, part 3.1"
(DargonZine v7n1). The last part of this series will use characters that
later appear in the already published story "A Rogue's Gambit"
(DargonZine v8n3).
Moreover, as I chronicle the bleak patterns of human deportment
from one frontier of Cherisk to the other, it becomes presently
evident that the only people to equal my own countrymen in the
inhuman and often barbaric rituals of conquest are those the
conquest is against.
"Videre Virile" (unfinished)
Lord Bistra Scire Deriman,
College Guild of Khronica
A bird call disturbed the normal night sounds of the forest and
echoed among the trees until another voice picked it up and carried it
further into the gloom of the night. A frightened rodent rushed between
the roots of an old oak, dodging some unseen danger. Quiet again settled
on the woods, only to be disturbed by distant voices.
"That was a wolf. I know that was a wolf."
"I can't believe you wanted to move camp because of a wolf."
"There were three, at least three!"
"Oh, please! They were more frightened to find us than we were to
see them."
"You sure didn't look that confident when it sank its teeth into
your pack."
A shrill whistle abruptly ended the argument as soldiers in dark
clothes dropped from surrounding trees to the ground around the small
party that was travelling in the night.
"I wouldn't if I were you!" a soldier warned as one of the
travellers reached for a weapon. A lantern appeared from nowhere,
illuminating the apprehended party of six, who were all wrapped in
cloaks and carrying packs.
"Drop your weapons," a woman's voice sounded from behind the
lantern. The light moved forward, focusing on the figure among the group
-- probably a man -- who was reaching beyond his cloak for a weapon.
Armed soldiers surrounded the small group.
"Baranurian. You're Baranurian!" One of the travellers advanced
forward in spite of the soldiers surrounding him and his companions. He
brushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing an aged face with dark,
thoughtful eyes. His gray hair seemed silver in the flickering light and
he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the lantern.
Two soldiers closed on him, creating a barrier between him and the
woman holding the lamp. The man paused, but did not back off. "I'm
Quillien Thorne ..." he tried to explain. "We're Baranurian."
"On the ground, all of you!" one of the soldiers ordered. "Now!"
The circle of armed men tightened, confining the small group to
their midst.
"Now, I say!" the voice sounded again. "Hands where we can see
them. We'll take care of your weapons."
The cloaked travellers slowly began to obey, confronted with the
weapons of their assailants. One, clearly an older woman, accepted the
hand of another to get to her knees.
"Remain standing," the woman behind the light said. The light
focused on the older woman. "You too, Lord Thorne."
The older man rose from one knee. "You know me?"
"I know the name of Quillien Thorne. I don't know you."
"I wish I could prove my claim," the man answered, "but our hasty
departure from Port Sevlyn did not permit us to carry out more than what
you now see."
"Matrosov, check for weapons," the woman ordered.
A large man closed to arm's reach with the cloaked people and
walking among them, pulled back their hoods one by one, checking them
for weapons as he did so. They were four women and two men, all dirty
and clearly tired. None resisted the search. He came away with a sword
from the younger man and a highly decorated dagger from the man claiming
to be Quillien Thorne.
"Get up," the soldier told everyone, standing among them. He held
on to the weapons as everyone around him rose. "They're not soldiers."
The lantern light shifted. "Did you get all the weapons?" the woman
asked. A sword and a dagger retrieved from six people well behind enemy
lines did not sit well with her.
"Not much of a threat, ma'am," Matrosov paused to challenge with
his gaze the young man from whom he confiscated the sword. The man set
his jaw, but did not answer and permitted the young woman next to him to
pull him back.
"Here." The weapons were handed to one of the other soldiers.
"Can you prove to me you're Thorne?" the woman asked again.
"I wear his clothes, travel with his wife and friends ... The
signet had to be left behind when we abandoned Port Sevlyn. I could not
risk our discovery by the Beinison troops."
"Lieutenant Catalin Bellen," the woman introduced herself,
"Valdasly Garrison, Arvalia. You will be my prisoners until my men can
deliver you to my captain. I hope you can prove to him who you are."
"Magnus under siege," said a soldier, elbowing another as they
observed the shadow cast by their lieutenant as he crawled through the
brush between two campfires of a Beinison scouting party.
"Shh!" The success of the Baranurian raid on the Beinison camp
hinged on their ability to get all the men into place before alerting
the enemy.
The whispers ceased and the men turned their attention to the
clearing where three Beinison soldiers sat around one of the fires,
roasting a piece of unappetizing looking meat on the hot coals. They
were saying something in their native tongue and occasionally laughing
over jokes not understood by the Baranurian troops. A second shadow
twisted in the brush and rolled between two bushes. A glitter of metal,
barely visible in the dim light of the fire, revealed the presence of a
second man. He crawled to where a fourth Beinison soldier slept and
carefully removed the man's sword from the scabbard at his side. The
soldier stirred, but did not wake.
"Skoji's getting good, too," one of the hidden soldiers whispered.
"Let's give them a hand," someone suggested from behind the
whispering soldier and more shadows slowly moved along the ground,
closing off the only remaining escape route. The small troop slowly
dispersed along their side of the camp, settling into positions around
the four Beinison soldiers.
A rock thrown from somewhere in the darkness landed in the
campfire, forcing upward a cloud of embers and ash, and as the three men
around it got up, coughing and waving away the ash, a shadow jumped from
the bushes, tackling two of the soldiers and scattering the burning wood
of the fire across the clearing. There were more noises as the man by
the other fire awoke and was jumped on by the soldier who had already
removed his weapon. The rest of the small troop charged into the
clearing, quickly subduing the Beinison soldiers without shedding a drop
of blood.
Lieutenant Hakan Magnus brushed the dust off his tabard and picked
up his sword, which had been dropped in the struggle-turned-fistfight.
His men held on to their newfound prisoners as he walked once around the
clearing, checking the edge of his blade. "Sergeant, is it?" He glanced
at the Beinison soldier who appeared somewhat older and more grizzled
than the other prisoners. The man looked away, indicating he had no wish
to talk. Magnus sheathed his sword. "Are we going to discuss your unit
here, or do you wish to see my camp first?"
Baron ReVell Dower shielded his eyes from the sun, its glare coming
down from the high point in the sky. His tabard fluttered in the light
breeze, mimicking the motion of the leaves in the trees. From his high
point on the north bank of the mighty Laraka, he could see the canopy of
the forest reaching far to the south. There were no settlements here,
halfway between Port Sevlyn and Magnus. There were the occasional
village or town here and there, along the river, but from this remote
spot along the Laraka, he had an unobstructed view of nothing. Before
him, at the bottom of the cliff, the river ran rapidly to the west,
rushing the free waters of Baranur into the enemy's hands.
The war was not going well for Baranur. Rumors from the eastern
front hinted that duchies were falling as quickly as Beinison troops
marched through them. Pyridain, Westbrook, Leftwich, Equiville were all
rumored to be in the enemy hands, hinting that in six months the enemy
had walked halfway across Baranur.
Now the western portion of the country was threatened. From their
landing in Sharks' Cove during Melrin, the advancing force had taken
almost the entire Duchy of Quinnat. And all in a fortnight. At this rate
of advance, the Beinison force would march into the Royal City of Magnus
before Yuli was half over. Baranur was unprepared and ReVell knew it
well. The military command in the Royal City was more impressed with
show than method. They flew their colors high and placed green troops on
the front lines, but these images of readiness could not stand up to the
onslaught of bows and swords, pikes and axes wielded by the enemy.
ReVell turned to Kamerad Bonhan, who was patiently waiting for
orders, occasionally glancing back to the group of men standing in the
distance. Unlike his baron, the old soldier wore light armor, eternally
ready for a battle that might not come for days.
"They've been here," ReVell stated flatly.
"Without a doubt."
"A while back ..."
"But by no means a fortnight," Sir Bonhan agreed. "I'd guess a half
dozen regiments in the least. Plain troops, mostly. Footmen. Not a lot
of indication of horses. Not good territory to take them through."
"Horses and catapults would have to go by water," ReVell agreed.
"That's the only way in this forest."
"But could they spare the ships?"
ReVell thoughtfully looked up-river. "Why not? They have Sharks'
Cove, Port Sevlyn. The only fleet they have to fear is in Magnus. The
nearest help would come from Armand, but Narragan has already committed
his ships to Pyridain. The next closest major port is Dargon and if they
bother to come, they're at best a month away. Probably two."
"But the Laraka's a big place to patrol. Navy isn't the only
threat, nor the most effective at this point. They'd be foolish not to
expect extra land troops attacking their flanks."
"Like us?"
"Exactly like us!" Sir Bonhan raised his voice.
Both men realized all too well that their intrusion did not fit in
the plans of the Beinison generals. The path of the Arvalian reserves
took them almost directly south from Arvalia, in hopes that their rapid
advance would aid the Quinnat and Royal Duchy troops, but instead, they
discovered themselves far behind the enemy lines, after the enemy had
marched through the duchy.
"I imagine that if Sothos still has his wits about him, he'll try
to make a stand at Gateway. It's the last remaining garrison before
Magnus," ReVell declared. "They have maybe two regiments there. Plus
those that retreat from Quinnat and any that come up from Magnus. The
only question I have is if there is time. If Sothos over-committed his
forces expecting an eastern assault, he'll have nothing to reinforce
Gateway. I see only one solution, my friend."
Bonhan glanced at the river. "Nothing heavier than men on shore.
That means there are ships. Many ships. And there are two goals.
Supplies and provisions. We cut their supply lines."
"Gather the troops, Captain. Trade on the Laraka has come to an
end."
Kamerad Bonhan turned on his heels in his stiflingly military
manner and headed away from the cliff. Behind him, the gray waters of
the Laraka, muddy from the spring run-off, continued to flow as if no
war had ever been fought on its shores. It was a river much like the Ty
in his native Arvalia, oblivious to politics or war, to knights and
men-at-arms, to the agonizing cries of Beinison and Baranur locked in
the bloodiest war that had ever been fought in the history of Cherisk.
His military background and life-long training were the tools and
preparation for an invasion just like this, but with the dark days now
here, with the fall of Sharks' Cove and Port Sevlyn, there was little
hope for Magnus and there was no hope for him to get his troops to the
front lines in time. The stand against the enemy had to be made here,
some one hundred leagues behind the enemy lines. If the battle was
played right, there was just the shadow of a chance that his troops
could be the boot to stand on the back of the invading serpent and give
Baranur a chance to push back the aggressors.
"My Lord," a man-at-arms rushed up to Sir Bonhan as the old captain
headed away from the edge of the cliff. The senior captain paused.
"Yes?"
"Sir, forward guard reports a squad returning with captives."
"Good," Bonhan nodded. "They're just in time for my briefing. Is
Captain Binu with them?"
"I believe it's Lieutenant Bellen's men, sir. Captain Binu took his
men to the south shore this morning."
"Then inform Lieutenant Bellen to represent her captain at the
meeting."
The soldier returned the way he came and Bonhan turned back to the
party gathering up on the cliff. "One of the squads is back!" he called
to ReVell.
The baron waved in acknowledgement.
"Baron Dower in camp?" Hakan Magnus questioned a sentry at base
camp, having split from Lieutenant Bellen's and his own squads after
they arrived back at the heavily forested stretch of hills the four
Arvalian regiments had been using as a temporary base. Magnus was a
tall, broad-shouldered man with sun-bleached brown hair. He spoke with a
slight accent, indicating he was not native to northern Baranur. His
face and clothes were dirty from his nighttime patrol and he gave the
distinct impression of not really wanting to talk to the baron.
"Yes, sir. He's holding council at the overlook. They were looking
for you."
Magnus nodded. His return was well timed, if not convenient, and
having prisoners from the patrol was not bad news to bring back. He had
been with the militia for many years, having advanced from a man-at-arms
through squirehood and eventually to knighthood. He was a veteran of
many duchy patrols and confrontations with lowbrows and brigands and
now, after all these years, he was in his first war. "Cat," Magnus
called his companion over, "they're waiting for us."
"Already?" the woman trailing behind him hurried up. She was a full
head shorter than he was and of a slighter build, but without a doubt a
soldier. Like him, she wore light field armor and around her neck, a
small stone tear, representing her knightly order. "I was hoping we'd
deliver the news first," she added.
"I think it's the Baron's regular war council," Magnus answered.
"I've got half a mind to go on another patrol just to avoid it, even if
it costs me another night of sleep."
"We're fostering communications between the regiments," Catalin
laughed. "Our seasoned troops need to share their wisdom with the
peasants in the other regiments. Besides, I really want to know what
Bonhan is planning. It's coming down to getting our swords ready for
battle and strategists like him don't come along every day."
"After you," Magnus indicated, "but beware, I won't let you go
first on the battlefield."
The two lieutenants made their way to the top of the cliff
overlooking the river that had been their target for the past several
days. Their troops had taken the hard path in, down the Windbourne
Mountains through valleys so rough and narrow that no road would ever be
laid through them. They had entered behind the enemy lines, four
regiments total, on an unprotected flank, and cut through some of the
densest forest in Baranur to come to their country's major waterway and
the Beinison army's lifeline. Now the time was coming to confront the
enemy and in a matter of days they would be taking on the Beinison
troops from behind.
"... and if the patrol reports this area clear," Sir Hardin's voice
fell into hearing range, "we'll be able to advance sufficiently close to
be within striking range of Gateway, no more than a two bell's march."
He paused, glancing at the newcomers. "And that would be Captain Binu's
job ..."
Catalin and Magnus saluted Arvalia's military commander and took
their positions among the other regimental and company representatives,
forming a semi-circle at the edge of the cliff.
"We understand you brought back captives?" Sir Hardin asked. He
stepped into the center of the semi-circle, letting Baron Dower back
away to the very edge of the cliff. "You may as well report now with
everyone here."
Catalin Bellen took a step forward. "As planned, sir, we scouted
the Laraka ten leagues upstream. There is sufficient evidence that a
large military presence passed this way recently on both banks of the
river. I would estimate ten to fifteen regiments, but they crossed the
river multiple times, often marching on both banks. It's hard to tell,
other than that there were many.
"We recovered two independent parties. One consisted of six
individuals of Baranurian origin. They claim to be nobility out of Port
Sevlyn. The other consists of four Beinison soldiers, apprehended by
Lieutenant Magnus shortly before we turned back."
"Magnus?" Sir Hardin asked, turning to the other knight.
Hakan Magnus was the senior lieutenant in the regiment and by all
rights should have been making the report to start with, but he often
remained a silent representative of his captain, having more input on
what had yet to be done over what had already happened.
"The soldiers, sir, are a part of a Beinison regiment holding a
rear flank. They were neither prepared for us, nor organized enough to
offer resistance. There were four men. We brought three back. The last
one chose to resist rather than cooperate. Based on their answers, the
main body of the army believes this area to be secure, which is the
reason for a small and irregular rear guard."
"How large a force are they with, Magnus?" Baron Dower asked. His
tone indicated he had a plan before hearing the answer.
"Ten regiments marched up a sennight ago," Magnus responded.
"Several more followed, although we have no numbers. We did not perform
a detailed interrogation. I felt it was more critical to return the
scouting information than to take the time required for an
interrogation."
"You marched them ten leagues back?" Sir Bonhan asked.
"Actually, sir, I had them carried. Their pace would not have
permitted our scheduled return."
Sir Bonhan and Baron Dower exchanged a look that must have carried
some meaning because Sir Bonhan nodded and the Baron went on.
"Have the Benosians transferred to Captain Bonhan's staff and the
nobles to mine. We will conduct the interrogations.
"Captain Hardin, I want you to take your regiment east and set camp
at the ten league mark. You have one day to accomplish that. The other
two regiments will be joining you shortly. Captain Binu's regiment will
be doing the same on the south shore. Questions?"
No one asked any.
"Dismissed."
Quillien Thorne faced off with Garrett Covington, his gray eyes
turning darker at the contempt from the younger man. He could afford the
luxury of an argument here in the tent, away from the prying eyes of
their captors. Garrett had been belligerent towards the soldiers that
captured them in the forest and this had to stop before things were made
irreparably worse. His daughter kept an eye on the activity outside
while he attempted to argue Garrett into submission.
"Please Garrett," his wife, Tassy, pleaded, getting between the two
men. "Lord Thorne got us this far, out of Port Sevlyn. Let him get us
out of this, too."
"Covington, listen to me," Thorne said. "My social status has no
standing with these soldiers. Yours is even more trivial than mine.
Unless you can produce an uncle who just happens to be a duke, any
demands you wish to levy will be thrown out and you'll be lucky if they
dump you in the wilderness to fend for yourself rather than handing you
a sword and sending you into battle. Your healer training will merely
inspire them to use your skills on the front lines where you are bound
to get killed. Look at your wife. Do you want her to be a widow at her
young age? Or would it be better if she was handed a sword, too?"
"I'm not going to --"
"Garrett, please!"
"Don't stress yourself, dear," Rolanda Thorne pulled Tassy away
from the two arguing men. "The last thing I want is you in the middle
when they come to blows." She guided Tassy away, then cast a fierce
glare at Garrett. "Sit down and shut up, if you know what's good for
you."
Garrett glanced over at the two women, momentarily losing eye
contact with Thorne. And that was all it took for him to lose ground in
his debate.
"Now sit there and let me do the talking." Thorne persisted until
there was no doubt that he had won.
"Father, the guard's returning," Jannis Thorne warned. She let the
flap to the tent close as she retreated away from the entrance.
"I'm ready," he answered, without turning to look. He glanced at
his wife, knowing she wanted to go with him. "Rolanda ..."
"I'm ready."
"No, no." He stepped towards her, placing his mouth to her ear.
"Garrett's a hothead. If we don't rein him in, he'll just pick a fight
with the guards and we're all going to be blamed."
"Quillien," Rolanda turned to face him, starting to protest his
decision.
"You're the only one I can trust to do this right," he said.
She nodded, reluctantly.
"Keep them calm, Rolanda. I will talk to the commander of this
regiment. Jannis, you'll be coming with me. Remember, all of you are
working for me."
The flap of the tent was pulled open just as Jannis moved away and
two guards entered. "Lord Thorne, the Baron will talk to you now. Please
attend us."
"With pleasure," Thorne answered. He threw one last warning glance
to Garrett and stepped to follow the guards. "Jannis, come with me."
The guards stopped. "Just you, sir."
"My daughter is studying to take over my business. She will come
with me to see the baron." His gaze remained fixed on the lead guard and
he used the advantage of his height to intimidate the smaller man.
"Very well," the guard gave in. "Just two."
Thorne and his daughter were led across the military camp to a
large tent that appeared to be the center of all activity. There were
few tents at the camp -- only a half dozen could be seen, including the
one they were led to and the one where Thorne and his family were kept.
The guard brushed aside the flap of the tent, then followed Thorne and
his daughter in.
Inside were two men. One, about Thorne's age, sat at a small table.
He was comfortably dressed and visibly stressed. No doubt the baron. The
other, a significantly younger man, stood next to him, looking at what
appeared to be a roughly-sketched map. He was wearing armor and a sword
hung at his side.
"My liege," the guard said, "Lord Quillien Thorne and his daughter,
Lady Jannis Thorne."
"Thank you," the older man responded to the guard. "Please leave
us. Lord Thorne, would you care to sit?"
"I'm fine," Thorne answered as the guard silently departed. Sitting
would put him in a submissive stance and he wanted to have a firm grasp
on any negotiations.
"And you, lady?"
"I'm fine as well," the young woman answered.
"Very well." The older man stood up, clearly understanding the
tactic. "I'm ReVell Dower, Baron of Valdasly of the Duchy of Arvalia.
This is Ariam Brand, my aide. I trust my men treated you well?"
"Somewhat better than a common thief, I imagine," Thorne answered.
"Better than the three Beinison soldiers that were brought in with us."
ReVell smiled. "I am pleased to hear that my officers are also
gentlemen. But I have a more significant issue to address. Lord Thorne,
you stand before me dressed in peasant rags, dirty and tired. You are
clearly Baranurian as you have perfect command of the language and no
sign of an accent, but how can you help me identify you for who you
claim to be?"
"I don't believe I have a proper means of validating my claim,"
Thorne said, "but I can share information with you that may help it."
"Very well."
"I don't know if you've heard my family name before, but I am the
owner of Land's Rim merchant house, the largest in all of Port Sevlyn.
My older daughter, Brynna, is the captain of the _Vanguard_Voyager_, one
of my ships. The Baranurian navy is very familiar with my small fleet
and perhaps with me, if you have any naval officers present, I am sure
they could confirm this."
"I do not," ReVell answered, "but go on." The names and places rang
familiar to him and for the time being that was enough.
"The eve of Yule nine the Beinison forces came in sight of Port
Sevlyn," Thorne continued his story. "They laid siege to the city and
three days later broke through. The town guard and the few troops that
retreated from Sharks' Cove were slaughtered before the night was over.
Then the enemy forces proceeded to burn and loot the city. My family and
staff took refuge in a vault inside my house until the worst of it was
over, then under the cover of darkness, dressed as you see us now, we
walked out to the gate and requested passage. Rayna, my assistant, had
suggested we pass ourselves off as pilgrims of the Stevene. The Stevene
must have been smiling on us that moment, because the Beinison
commander, Vasquez, in a moment of compassion, let us through while his
men continued to destroy the city."
"Joachim Vasquez?" ReVell asked. "Describe him."
"I don't ..." Thorne paused. "Very tall. Black hair. Sharp
features."
ReVell nodded. "Go on."
"There isn't much more," Thorne said. "We spent a fortnight in the
forest moving east. We hoped to get to Magnus. Your men found us and
brought us here."
"East isn't the way you want to go," ReVell said. "You're following
the advancing Beinison army. Would information on their strength be too
much to ask for?"
"I'm afraid so," Thorne answered. "We only saw some of the looting.
Our lack of apparent interest in the war was an element in our being
able to leave the city."
"Very well, Lord Thorne. I want you to gather your family and
associates. I will supply you provisions and an escort to safety."
"I would greatly appreciate that, Baron," Thorne said. "I would
also like to request that the items confiscated from us be returned.
And, of course, if there is any message you wish to send with us, I
would be happy to render that service."
ReVell nodded, then called for the guard to take Thorne and his
daughter back. "Ariam." He turned to his aide once the merchant was
gone. "I want you to select three men-at-arms and lead the Thorne party
to safety. Take them to Arvalia. Go to Wachock or, if you can, up to
Hawksbridge. And track down and return whatever Bellen took away from
them."
"I'd rather fight at your side, sir," Brand answered. "Foot
soldiers should be able to get them to safety. We don't even know if
they are who they claim to be."
"I'm fairly confident that they are telling the truth, Ariam. And
Lord Thorne would deserve nothing less than a knight as an escort. I'd
rather have you at my side, too, but this is about alliances and the
great houses of Baranur. Four men won't make a difference where four
regiments are concerned. Us treating Thorne well would benefit our
duke."
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