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DargonZine Volume 13 Issue 04
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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 4
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DargonZine Distributed: 4/22/2000
Volume 13, Number 4 Circulation: 753
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
A Matter of Honour 3 Nicholas Wansbutter Janis, 1006
A Tale of Two Thieves 2 JD Kenyon Seber 1017
Talisman Three 4 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Fall, 748 FE
========================================================================
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 13-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 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>
This issue is so packed with fiction that there's virtually no
space left for the editorial, so I will be, as they say, "mercifully
brief". Although as DargonZine's Editor, I really don't see why a short
editorial should be termed "merciful" ... But allow me to move on to the
content; I have just two things to talk about.
First, I'd like to extend a personal welcome to all our new
subscribers. Since the last issue went out, nearly three dozen new
readers have subscribed to the zine. Part of that influx is attributable
to an article, written by Emily Alward and distributed by TipWorld,
which featured DargonZine. In the two days after that article went out
we received more than a dozen new subscription requests, and two new
writers had contacted us about joining the group! Welcome aboard, and I
hope you enjoy our stories and that DargonZine meets your expectations.
Oddly, this is a bit of an awkward issue for us to welcome new
readers with, because it contains the concluding chapters of three
ongoing storylines: JD Kenyon's two-part "A Tale of Two Thieves", Nick
Wansbutter's three-part "A Matter of Honour", and Dafydd's four-part
"Talisman Three", which in itself is part of an immense (and ongoing)
story arc that goes back another sixteen chapters and may continue
equally far into the future! I'd encourage our new readers to go back
and read these stories in their entirety; they're well worth the effort!
Unfortunately (or perhaps "mercifully"), due to space limitations
that's about all I can say for now, but you can be sure I'll have plenty
of news and opinions to share when DargonZine 13-5 is distributed next
month! Until then, enjoy the stories, and help us spread the word!
========================================================================
A Matter of Honour
Part 3
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<ice_czar@hotmail.com>
Janis, 1006
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-2
The night of the kidnapping was a bitter one. It seemed fitting to
Aleksandr that the eve of such a vile deed be so cold. That Baron Dorja
Fennell's trusted captain of the guard, Sir Jarek Kelbhen, sought the
baron's daughter Zhilinda's hand in marriage through such means was
appalling, but no less true for it. That Aleksandr, but a page in the
baron's household, and his friend Lev were the only ones standing
between Sir Jarek and his plot did not bode well for Zhilinda. The baron
had not believed the young page when Aleksandr had reported his
knowledge of the plot, and thus the boy had been pressed to take things
into his own small hands. He could not allow Sir Jarek to take the
baron's daughter, and by the Stevene, he'd do all in his power to stop
it.
Aleksandr stole silently down the halls of Fennell Keep towards the
stables where he and Lev had planned to meet. He had only pretended to
go to sleep that evening, and had waited an eternity, listening for the
third bell of night to toll from the monastery bell tower. When it had
finally come, he donned a thick black cloak and heavy boots, over the
clothes that he had never changed out of. Under his bed he had hidden a
shortsword two days previously in preparation for his mission. The thing
was clumsy in his hands, as he had only just started to learn the basics
of sword use the sennight before. He hid it beneath his cloak, wishing
it were a full-sized sword despite the fact such a weapon would be as
tall as he was. But no matter. With God on his side, he was confident
that he would prevail, despite his small weapon and diminutive size.
Careful not to wake any of the other pages, he had then moved stealthily
out of the large room that he lived in, and onto his mission of saving
the baron's daughter. He moved with haste, as in a mere two bells Sir
Jarek and his minions would begin their excursion into the night.
He took care to avoid the guards as they made their rounds. There
still remained two bells until the guard was changed, making this a
difficult task. Aleksandr wondered how Lev was doing in his escape from
the monastery. The thought was cut off by the sound of heavy boots
strolling down the hall. Aleksandr pressed himself into a dark corner
where the meagre light of the torch left burning during the night could
not find him. He held his breath as two burly guards moved past. They
wore tunics in the red and white colours of the baron, and carried
torches in their hands, their swords sheathed. They appeared half-asleep
and bored, never moving their gaze from the space directly in front of
their eyes.
Finally the guards were gone, and Aleksandr resumed his journey. He
was glad for the cloak and boots, even within the keep's walls. His
breath formed thin, frosty clouds with each exhale. They were barely
visible thanks to the bit of warmth cast by the torches, but he knew it
would be a much different story once outside. The scabbard holding the
shortsword was cool in his hand, but reassuring.
When Aleksandr pushed open a door leading out of the inner keep, a
wall of bitterly cold air hit him. It was still at least: a saving grace
on a night like this. A full moon shone brightly down into the inner
courtyard in which Aleksandr now found himself. With it the black sky,
unblemished by any clouds, bore a myriad of stars. It was incredibly
bright, almost as light as day with the glistening snow below reflecting
it. It was a hard white light however, quite different from the warm
yellow radiance of the sun. It was nearly impossible to distinguish
colours: everything appeared varying shades of blue. To Aleksandr the
world barely seemed real. The crisp snow crunched under his booted feet
as he moved across the yard, but fortunately there was no one about to
hear. The guards in the battlements were too far away, and concentrating
on the surrounding city. He made haste across the inner bailey, through
the inner gates and into the outer bailey. Hugging the walls and the
shadows he managed to evade the notice of any of the guards in the
gatehouse.
At last he reached the stables. He waited until the group of guards
patrolling the outer bailey had moved around to the rear of the stables
before approaching them. It was deathly still in the large
one-and-a-half storey building. The frigid air carried the intermingling
of manure, hay, sweat and leather that made the distinct smell that
permeated all stables, which was much more potent in warmer weather. It
lacked the harsh, acidic odour that chamberpots bore, and to a person
used to the stables, the smell of horses was not unpleasant at all. The
moonlight filtered in through the door Aleksandr had just opened,
illuminating the room with its eerie glow. Many of the horses slept on
their feet, large puffs of steam billowing forth from their snouts that
protruded from their stalls. Others lay stretched out in the hay,
sleeping deeply. Snores permeated the room, some loud, others a bizarre
whinny-snort sound. As Aleksandr was no stranger to the stables, the
horses were unperturbed by his entrance, and remained sleeping. Easily
spooked, a great commotion could have been raised by the animals had
someone unknown to them entered. For this reason, it had been arranged
that he would meet Lev outside.
Aleksandr moved through the stables towards the stall Sir Jarek's
horse lived in. As he suspected, the animal was already saddled-up,
ready to leave at a moment's notice, as were the horses belonging to Sir
Kalayan and Miripur. The animals were dozing restlessly with the
uncomfortable gear on their backs. Aleksandr slipped into the stall
holding Sir Jarek's horse first, and brought forth his dagger.
Whispering soothingly to the creature, he approached the horse.
"Shhh ... Easy there boy. I've just got a little present to leave
for your master."
Ever so carefully, he started sawing at the saddle girth with his
dagger. Very slowly he cut, weakening the leather as he did so. He
stopped once he had cut about three quarters of the way through the
leather belt.
"That should do it." he thought. "A good bell's ride and the girth
should snap like a twig. That should give Sir Jarek a good surprise! And
a little more time for me and Lev to complete our work."
Aleksandr repeated the process on Sir Miripur and Sir Kalayan's
horses' girths, then moved to another part of the stable. He didn't feel
completely at ease with what he had to do next, but he and Lev needed a
horse if they were to beat Sir Jarek and his men to the stream in good
time. Tpliki's horse was sleeping soundly, but on its feet, in a stall
near the door. It wasn't anything special -- a skinny old warhorse past
its prime, flea-bitten and slow -- but it would do. Carefully waking the
creature, he placed a thick saddle blanket over the horse's flanks.
Aleksandr then took Tpliki's saddle and placed it on the horse's back.
He then attached his scabbard-encased short sword to it and adjusted the
stirrups for a person of his height. Once the horse had been properly
saddled-up, he opened its stall and led it towards the rear of the
stables where the open door awaited. On the way he grabbed a pitchfork
with his free hand.
Once at the door, he cautiously peered out to see where the bailey
guards were. He caught sight of their pointed helmets and glinting
halberds about three hundred paces away, parallel to the stables.
Aleksandr only had a couple of menes before they made their right wheel
at the chapel and would then see him. Quickly, but as quietly as
possible, he exited the stables with Tpliki's horse in tow, and closed
the door behind him. He moved around the stables so the guards wouldn't
spot him at their turn, then towards the gates where Lev would meet him.
Pulling his cloak low over his head and much of his face he prayed to
Stevene that the next, and most daring, part of their escape could be
accomplished.
Fortunately the guards hadn't thought much of a monk wandering
about the castle, as they often came to visit the guards with some food,
drink and ministry during the night. Aleksandr found Lev unmolested near
the main gates. They exchanged a silent greeting, and started the most
dangerous leg of their journey. The guards in the outer gatehouse were
the most vigilant of them all, but watched for people trying to enter,
rather than leave. Thus, reaching the gate was no problem. Getting
through it wouldn't be bad either; the problem lay in making it out of
visual range of the keep without being spotted once outside.
For the past few nights since the plan had been hatched, Lev had
gone in place of the monk from Heart's Hope Monastery that visited the
guards during the night, and they recognised him when he called up to
the gatehouse. Aleksandr remained huddled in a shadow nearby, hoping
they wouldn't notice the frosty breaths emerging from his position.
Presently one of the guards opened the gatehouse door and allowed Lev to
enter. Aleksandr could hear voices drifting down from the gatehouse as
the guards talked with Lev, and he gave them the food he had brought.
Aleksandr remained in the shadows for the agreed upon amount of time:
the duration of five prayers to Cephas hanged.
He had said the first sentence of six when he began moving towards
the gate. His heart thudded in his chest so loud he was sure the guards
would hear it. Slowly, one finger's width at a time, he edged the main
gate open. When it was exactly the width of the horse, he moved it no
more, and proceeded through the opening. Softly clucking to the horse,
he urged it through as well, then pushed the gate shut. Now came the
most perilous part. Still moving slowly, and through the snow at the
edge of the road leading to the keep, he headed downhill and away. After
an eternity he reached the safety of the closest city buildings and
ducked into the first alley he saw and awaited Lev.
The fourth bell of night was struck before his friend arrived.
Avoiding the city watch was easy after escaping the castle, but the boys
nevertheless remained silent until outside of the city walls.
Aleksandr breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank Stevene we made it
through that."
"The night is far from over," Lev said nervously.
They didn't speak much during the ride. Each was nervous about what
had to come next, but neither willing to admit it. Lev especially, was
almost sick with nervousness and fear. As an aspiring monk, he was a
pacifist, and totally inept in any form of combat. Aleksandr, though
only a page, at least had some training and though several years younger
he was also bigger and stronger. He calmed himself; faith in Stevene was
all he needed. Silently he mouthed prayers over and over to keep his
wits about him.
It was several bells later when they arrived at the stream, and no
telling how far behind the kidnappers were. Amidst the 'holy rocks',
where the boys had made their pact years before, rested two wooden
buckets that Lev had hidden there the day before. Each of the boys took
one and headed for the stream. It was almost completely frozen, but its
quick current kept some of it liquid. Aleksandr cracked the ice with a
rock, and the boys began scooping buckets-full of water and heading for
the road. There, they poured the contents across the highway. After
several trips a thick glaze of ice covered the road, slippery as
anything in Dargon. Next they sprinkled dry snow lightly over the
surface of the ice to disguise it.
Then they waited. On the edge of the road they hunkered down amidst
the trees, hidden behind a mound of snow. As they huddled there,
Aleksandr with his shortsword gripped tightly, Lev with the pitchfork, a
gentle wind began to pick up, blowing snow all about. It disguised the
boys more completely, but reduced the visibility. As a result, Sir Jarek
and his men were almost on top of them before they realised they were
there.
Aleksandr's sabotage of the saddle girths had not worked as
planned. Only Sir Jarek was dismounted, and it appeared he was only so
to more easily find the path they sought in the blowing snow. Aleksandr
could make out the small form of Zhilinda in front of Sir Kalayan on his
horse. They were approaching at a cautious pace. Perhaps the sabotage
had worked at least on Sir Jarek's saddle and they suspected something?
It didn't matter. As soon as Sir Jarek stepped onto the ice, his
feet shot out from under him, and he thundered to the ground. A look of
bewilderment and rage contorted his face as he struck the hard road
surface. Out of instinct Sir Kalayan dismounted immediately, and rushed
to Sir Jarek's side.
"Now!" Aleksandr whispered, as he dashed with all of the speed he
could muster out towards Sir Jarek, shortsword outstretched.
Lev was right behind him, pitchfork thrust forward. With the added
reach of the stable implement, Lev reached his target first, digging the
points into Sir Kalayan's massive form. The huge knight bellowed more
with anger than with pain, and batted the fork aside, throwing Lev to
the ground with it. Aleksandr fared no better. With cat-like reflexes
Sir Jarek parried the thrust with his forearm sending Aleksandr skidding
across the ice. He regained control, and headed for the horse upon which
Zhilinda was perched. Sir Miripur wheeled his horse about, and, making
the best of its spiked horseshoes, charged onto the ice, knocking Lev
back to the ground as he staggered to his feet.
Aleksandr had nearly reached Zhilinda when out of the corner of his
eye he saw Sir Jarek swinging. The captain of the guards hadn't even
bothered to draw a weapon, he merely struck at the boy with a clenched
fist. Aleksandr tried to dodge, but still caught enough of the blow to
send him to the ground and sliding across the ice once more.
"Kalayan!" Sir Jarek shouted. "The girl!"
Somewhat dazed, Aleksandr looked up to see that Zhilinda was
attempting to escape on her own. Unfortunately, Sir Kalayan's horse was
less than cooperative, otherwise she might have gotten away before the
lumbering knight could grab the beast's reins. Stevene's love was with
her however, as Aleksandr saw an opening. There was enough room and
enough time that he could shoot himself across the ice and have the
knight hamstrung before he knew what was happening. Assuming, of course,
that he could cut with enough force.
"Stevene, guide my blade," he whispered.
He was just about to launch himself into the attack when he heard
the loud whinny of Sir Miripur's horse. He chanced a look to see the
mounted knight toying with Lev. Every time the boy rose to his feet the
knight knocked him to the ground again. No, he was done playing now; he
was circling for the kill, his mace raised, about to strike. Aleksandr
froze. He was only paces away from gaining Zhilinda a distraction that
would allow her to escape. His friend was moments away from dying. Save
his lord and master's daughter? Or his friend's life? He had to choose
and act now; Sir Miripur had finished his backswing.
"Lev!" Aleksandr made his choice, and dove towards his friend.
The swinging mace knocked the shortsword from Aleksandr's hands as
he tried to parry Sir Miripur's attack. The blow was slightly deflected
however, and rather than shattering Lev's skull, it just clipped him
with a sickening crack. Aleksandr dropped to catch Lev, as the other boy
fell lifelessly to the ground. Aleksandr was unable to catch him, but
gathered him into his arms immediately. Lev's eyes rolled into the back
of his head and his muscles suddenly became very tense. His body started
shaking violently in Aleksandr's arms. Aleksandr could only watch in
horror and pray. What had Sir Miripur done to him?
"Cephas, please!" Aleksandr cried. "Help him! Help Lev."
Presently the trembling stopped, and Lev's body went limp. Blood
trickled from his head where the mace had left a depression. His chest
didn't seem to be moving, and no mist emerged from his mouth or nose.
Aleksandr was sure he was dead.
"And now you die!" he heard Sir Miripur say from behind him,
accompanied by the swish of a mace travelling through the air. Aleksandr
didn't care.
"No!" The mace stopped abruptly three hands above Aleksandr's head
as it was blocked by Sir Jarek's sword. "These boys have shown courage
unprecedented for their young years. They will live."
"But they know!" Sir Miripur objected.
"Such is our task that that is of no matter." Sir Jarek pushed the
mace away. "In fact, the more who know the better. Once it is done,
Zhilinda is mine and no one can do anything about it. But these children
... impress me greatly. I doubt I would have had the audacity to try
such a rescue were I in their position."
"But one of them is dead! What about murder?"
Sir Jarek knelt beside Lev and touched two fingers to the boy's
neck. "No. He lives. Bring them."
With that Sir Jarek turned and strode back to his horse, which had
obediently stayed where it was during the brief skirmish. The wind had
died down again sometime in the past couple of menes. Having had good
visibility returned, Sir Jarek mounted the horse, and started once again
towards the merchant Billik's house.
Sir Miripur noticed the horse that the boys had brought with them
standing in the forest, and commanded Aleksandr. "Take your horse, and
follow me."
He lifted the lifeless Lev onto his own horse, and waited. Having
no spirit left in him, Aleksandr obediently mounted his horse and went
to the knight. Sir Kalayan fell in behind Sir Jarek, with Zhilinda
securely in hand, and Sir Miripur followed.
Tears welled up in Aleksandr's eyes as they rode. "Stevene, why
have you forsaken us? Why Lev? He's one of your closest followers. Why
not me?"
Aleksandr cried softly much of the way to Billik's house. Tpliki's
horse followed the others all of the way there. Aleksandr lifted his
head as they neared it. It was a handsome home, built of darkly stained
logs. All appeared quiet in the home. It was completely dark.
"And now," Aleksandr thought, "This atrocity will be allowed to
happen. Out here in the middle of nowhere. Where her father can't
protect her. Why Stevene? Do you not love her?"
Everyone dismounted, except Aleksandr, who was hauled from his
mount by Sir Miripur and made to drag his friend along. They dug fresh
tracks into the snow as they approached, decimating the single set of
tracks that must have belonged to the merchant. Aleksandr looked over
miserably to Zhilinda who was now only an arm's length away. It was the
first time he'd seen her close up. Though her eyes were red from tears,
he found her to be quite beautiful. She had long, black hair and pale,
almost white skin. He couldn't tell what colour her eyes were in the
ethereal moonlight, but they were captivating nonetheless. Aleksandr
could only look at her, a silent apology in his eyes.
"Do not fear for me," she whispered.
Aleksandr hung his head in shame. Such courage.
Sir Jarek pounded loudly on the door. "Open the door, in the name
of Baron Dorja!"
He continued pounding for several menes before the sound of a board
being lifted could be heard. A short, portly man answered the door. He
had dishevelled grey hair, and a reddish complexion. He held a lamp in
his hand and squinted out at the visitors.
"Yes?"
Sir Jarek shoved the man backwards into his home, and entered. "Be
silent, you greedy old dog!"
The man obeyed, and cringed in a corner as the rest of the party
entered, and closed the door behind them. As soon as the bar slid into
place, a door near the rear of the house opened and guards bearing
lanterns appeared. Tramping feet could be heard rushing around the sides
of the house to cut off any chance for escape. In the centre of the room
stood Baron Dorja himself, sword drawn. To his right stood Sir Igrim,
similarly ready for combat. Other knights stood ready behind them. Rage
burned in the baron's eyes.
"You use my name quite freely Sir Jarek," he said between clenched
teeth. "You dare to take my daughter for yourself? How dare you steal
her from her bed! How dare you betray the trust of all of Fennell!"
Sir Jarek knew what was coming, and he stepped forward to face it
as a man and a knight. He drew his sword in readiness for what was about
to occur.
"As is my right as a father, and as baron, I will now deliver
justice for this most foul deed!"
Aleksandr was swept along with everyone else as they piled outside
to witness the final combat that was to take place. Outside, the baron's
soldiers formed a large circle about the clearing directly in front of
the cabin, bearing torches to light the deadly arena. Baron Dorja
removed his heavy cloak and handed it to one of the guards. He wore no
armour but a scarlet shirt and breeches, a gold medallion bearing his
family's coat of arms hanging from his neck.
Infuriated though he was, the baron attacked with skill and
precision. Aleksandr had never seen the baron in combat, but it was an
impressive sight. It was almost as if he and his sword were one. Sir
Jarek, however, was a better swordsman still, and younger and more
agile. Each blow Baron Dorja delivered was expertly deflected, as Sir
Jarek danced about the older lord. Soon it was the baron who was on the
defensive, trying to put space between himself and Sir Jarek. The knight
was quick however, and closed in on Baron Dorja every time he tried to
draw away.
Without warning, Sir Miripur brought forth his mace and struck at
the baron. Sir Igrim's blade was waiting for it, though, as if the elder
knight knew exactly when and where Sir Miripur would strike. Sir Kalayan
then struck at Sir Igrim, but his attack, too, was turned aside. The
clearing degenerated into one terrible melee. Only the clash of swords
and screams of the wounded could be heard. Aleksandr dragged Lev behind
a tree where Zhilinda had already sought refuge.
The battle was terrible to watch. Aleksandr's heart jumped every
time he caught a glimpse of the baron and Sir Jarek. His lord fought
bravely though Sir Jarek was clearly his superior in armed combat.
Aleksandr winced as Sir Jarek's blade met flesh, and the baron's blood
splattered the once pristine snow. Baron Dorja fought on still, intent
on avenging the wrong attempted against his daughter.
Then Aleksandr's view of the baron was blocked as the lumbering
form of Sir Kalayan moved in his path, laying about him with two
morningstars. The guardsmen that tried to take him were felled by the
flailing ball and chain like strands of dry grass. Aleksandr then caught
sight of Sir Miripur and Sir Igrim trading blows. Sir Miripur lashed out
at his adversary with reckless disregard for defence. As his mace rained
blow upon blow on Sir Igrim's sword, Aleksandr feared his teacher would
not be able to recover. Aleksandr took solace in the composure with
which Sir Igrim faced his enemy, so did not squeeze his eyes shut when
it looked as if the elder knight had left an opening for Sir Miripur's
mace. With practised grace, Sir Igrim redirected what appeared to be the
final blow and used the force of it to send Sir Miripur sprawling
face-first into the snow. He wasted no time in quickly dispatching the
fiend.
Sir Kalayan was not far behind his comrade, as one of the
guardmen's halberds neatly cut his head off as he was smashing a wounded
soldier lying prone before him.
Baron Dorja courageously fought on with Sir Jarek, despite more
wounds that leaked his life onto the ground. It was clear that he was
weakening from the loss, as he dropped to one knee and weakly parried
another attack from Sir Jarek. Aleksandr was filled with fear for his
lord, but also with anxiety. How he wished he had the skill to take up a
sword and come to the baron's aid! For everything that had transpired
here tonight to end this way would be too much for Aleksandr to bear.
"It cannot end this way," he thought.
Blood covered half of Baron Dorja's face and stained his greying
beard, and more blood seeped from several cuts over his body. Still, he
was not defeated, and with a look of steely determination in his eyes,
he rose to land one last attack against Sir Jarek with all that he had
left. With a mighty swing, the baron broke Sir Jarek's blade in two and
cleaved him nearly in half with the follow-through. Jarek toppled the
ground, thrashing and screaming before growing suddenly silent, a puddle
of dark blood seeping quickly into the snow beneath him. Baron Dorja
drove his blade into the ground beside the body and dropped to his face
exhausted and bloodied.
Zhilinda ran to him, arms outstretched. "Father!"
"My sweet child." Baron Dorja forced himself back up onto his knees
and enclosed her into a great hug. Tears ran down both of their faces.
Sir Igrim knelt beside Aleksandr and Lev. "I must apologise to you,
Aleksandr. I told you that the baron did not believe you, only so that
we could catch Sir Jarek in the act, and totally unexpecting. I never
thought that you might do this. You are uncommonly courageous and
gallant for a boy of your age. And I am sorry for underestimating you."
"I was not only I, Sir Igrim." Aleksandr held his friend tightly.
"Lev, my best friend ... I couldn't have done it without him."
Two sennights later, Lev stood before the baron and Sir Igrim once
again, though he did not remember meeting them the first time. In fact,
Lev remembered nothing of he and his friend Aleksandr's ardent attempt
to save the baron's daughter, Zhilinda, nor of several days before and
after. He leaned heavily on a wooden staff. According to Fennell Keep's
resident healer who had saved Lev, it had been several days before he
had awakened from his wounds, though he knew not what had caused them.
Aleksandr's version of how he had received them was suitably valiant.
Supposedly Lev had faced Sir Jarek's minion, Sir Miripur in single
combat to protect the girl. Aleksandr was a good boy, and no doubt had
embellished the story somewhat to cheer Lev, as his wounds had proved
grave indeed. Despite the efforts of the keep's healer, Lev was not yet
fully healed, and perhaps never would. He now dragged his left foot, and
had trouble using his left hand. In fact, much of the left half of his
body was now permanently numb, even his face, which lead to great
difficulty in speech.
It bothered Lev far less than it might have others. He was to be a
spiritual man, and that his young body was now wrecked would not hinder
that. Nor would God look on him any less lovingly for it. Stevene's love
remained with him he knew, as his mind was unaffected by the injuries he
had suffered and his ability to serve God unimpeded. Lev was content,
though he knew physical people like Aleksandr could never understand
how. Theirs was a world of mundane lances and swords, and they were
welcome to it.
But of course Baron Dorja's daughter, Zhilinda had been saved,
which was of further consolation. As it had been told to him later, the
baron had in fact believed Aleksandr's tale of the kidnapping but
pretended not to in fear that Sir Jarek would realise that his plan
would fail. Instead of going to sleep than night, the baron and a few
select soldiers went to the merchant Billik's house and laid in wait
there for the mercenary and his henchmen. Thinking of the baron and his
daughter brought Lev back to the present, where he stood in the great
hall of Fennell Keep. It was far from empty. Shy of crowds, Lev was
comforted to see Aleksandr standing next to him. His friend was as big
and healthy as ever, thanks be to God. Stevene always held the just in
God's favour, and He had not overlooked Aleksandr.
At the front of the room stood the baron before his throne, Sir
Igrim to one side, Zhilinda to the other. All were decked out in
beautiful dress clothing for the occasion, a stark contrast to Lev in
the plain Cyruzhian habit of a white tunic beneath a black hooded cloak.
Several knights and lesser gentry from the Barony filled the hall.
Aleksandr's father held a place of to the left of the baron, as did
Lev's own father. A commoner, Bel Roise had nothing spectacular to wear,
though he seemed not to notice. Both he and Sir Harbid were bursting
with pride.
Baron Dorja cleared his throat. "Gentles, please!" Once the crowd
had quieted he continued. "It is my great honour to present to you this
day, two brave young boys. Aleksandr Heahun, son of Sir Harbid Heahun,
and Lev Roise, son of Bel Roise of Heahun. Their great courage saved my
daughter from what could only have been called an abomination, and they
must be recognised for it."
He recounted the tale to those assembled. Though a cleaned-up and
shortened version, it did justice to what had transpired.
"Such ... valour ... is uncommon to say the least. Why, to face
grown men and hardened mercenaries on their own showed courage
unparalleled since the knight's charge at Balkura. I cannot imagine
having had the audacity to do such a thing without the support of my
knights."
The crowd cheered loudly, but silenced when the baron raised a
hand. "The entire barony owes you its gratitude. Friend Lev, as a novice
of the Holy Order of Cyruzhian monks, I can offer you no personal reward
though I shall make a contribution to your monastery."
Lev bowed as deeply as he could while still clutching the staff,
and with great concentration spoke, "Your grace, I have already been
rewarded a thousandfold by seeing your daughter returned to you safely.
Your generosity to my order is unnecessary, but greatly appreciated. May
Stevene's light shine on you."
"And on you." The baron seemed not to have noticed any slurring of
Lev's speech, for which he was further grateful. "As for you, Aleksandr
..."
"Your lordship?" Lev could hear his friend's voice tremble with
excitement and nervousness, as it had they day they had left for
Fennell.
"I respect nothing more than a man of gallantry who upholds
Stevene's laws. You have proved yourself to have the makings of such a
man. That you and your friend did not meet death at the hands of those
evil-doers impresses me also. Thus, I promote you to the rank of squire
in spite of your young years. Not only this, but you shall be my
personal squire from this day forth."
Aleksandr bowed low, but Lev was still able to see the grin on his
face, which warmed him to the core to see. "Your lordship is too kind!"
Lev cooly observed the faces of their fathers. Sir Harbid's seemed
about to fall from his skull, he was so bewildered and joyous. Lev's
father was more subdued, though Lev saw tears welling up in his eyes.
Zhilinda descended the dias and thanked both Lev and Aleksandr with a
few words and a kiss on the cheek. As Aleksandr said repeatedly in later
years, he would always look back on that day as one of the greatest in
his life, and the true beginning of his life as a knight. Lev knew he,
too, would look fondly upon this day for the happiness it bore his
friend, and the strong presence of God he felt in the hall. For him,
too, it was a beginning.
========================================================================
A Tale of Two Thieves
Part 2
by JD Kenyon
<janine_dee@email.com>
Seber 1017
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-3
The rising sun was warming the crisp morning air as Storn Mard
cantered up Dargon's Main Street, mulling over the day ahead. While he
still felt a bit uneasy about the plan he and Durvin Karrick had devised
to get money from Durvin's estranged wife, he felt buoyant about the
prospect of seeing the attractive Della Karrick once again. He decided
that he would regard this escapade as a "recovery" and not an act of
theft; after all, Durvin insisted that Della had cheated him out of a
goodly sum of money two years earlier. Storn pulled up the reins and
slipped off his mount, tethering the stallion to a wooden post outside
Della's home. He rapped on the door, then stepped back into the street
with a hand tucked behind his back and waited. There were muffled sounds
indoors and he heard a little girl's brief wail just before the door
opened cautiously.
"Oh! Milord Mard." Della balanced her daughter Ginny on a hip as
she pushed the door ajar and looked at the bundle in his hand. "I did
not expect you to return the clothes."
The day before, Storn had contrived to meet Della after staging an
accident at the docks during the annual blessing of the Dargon fleet.
The plan had worked out neatly; not only had she invited him back to her
home, she had also loaned him dry clothes.
"It was the least I could do, Madam Karrick." Storn smiled broadly
as he proffered the pile of borrowed clothes and followed Della into the
house. "You were most generous in providing me with assistance after my
unfortunate tumble."
He revealed a spray of wildflowers that he had concealed behind his
back. "I picked these on the way into town."
Della took the flowers and set Ginny on the bed, along with the
clothes. "They are very pretty. But there was no need." She was cool and
aloof. Storn watched as she crossed to the kitchen and silently searched
for a jug.
He bent to talk to the toddler in a loud whisper. "Something tells
me that your mother does not like flowers." Ginny rushed away shyly to
her mother's side and Della reached down to clasp her hand.
"I didn't mean to sound rude." She looked at him. Her blue eyes
were piercing and her direct gaze caught Storn off guard.
"Della ..." he paused. "It so happens that I now have some business
in Dargon that I need to attend to. I will be here for a day or two." He
had to convince her he had a good reason to stay on, because he had told
her before that he was just in town for the festivities. "Would you and
Ginny like to accompany me on an outing tomorrow? After all, we missed
the festivities and I feel I owe you both something in return."
"Thank you for your kind offer, Milord." Della's smile seemed
forced. "Unfortunately," she said, looking at Ginny, "we are not going
to be here on the morrow."
"Oh." This was going to affect Storn's plans. "Will you be busy the
whole day?"
"I am afraid so." She started to walk back towards the door and
Storn was forced to follow. "Thank you for returning the clothes," she
said brusquely, and nudged the door open with her foot. Storn knew he
was being given a signal to exit.
He stepped outside into the fresh air, untethered his stallion and
hardly had time to say farewell as Della shut the door firmly. With his
foot in the stirrup, he swung his leg over and settled on his mount.
"Never fear, Storn Mard. One door closes, and another opens," he
muttered to himself as he set off down the road at a canter, his mind
already working on a way to turn the situation to his advantage.
Judging by the glazed look in his eyes, Durvin was already downing
his umpteenth ale of the day as Storn walked through the door to the
Rogue and Quiver. His greasy-haired companion was also doing his best to
engage the serving woman in a conversation and Storn caught the tail end
of some fanciful story as he approached.
"Back already?" Durvin grinned. "I guess our Della did her usual
icy slip and shunt." He chuckled at his own description.
"For your information," Storn said through gritted teeth, "it so
happens that I have another plan."
Durvin's stool scraped as he pushed it back, swigged his ale and
surveyed Storn. "So let's hear it then."
"She's going out tomorrow." The interest in Durvin's eyes picked up
at Storn's words.
"You're sure?"
"She turned me down for a prior arrangement," Storn informed him,
but decided not to say that Della had subtly declined him in more ways
than that. He was not used to having his advances rebuffed. He turned
his attention to the woman behind the counter.
"Good morning, fair maiden." The woman blushed, but responded with
a gap-toothed smile. Reaching across the counter and catching her hand
in his, Storn beamed back at her. "What does a poor man have to do to
get a drink and a smile in this place?" He lifted her fingers and
brushed them to his lips as his partner snorted loudly next to him.
"Just bring the man a drink, you silly sow," Durvin interjected
loudly.
Storn gave him a sideways blow on the shoulder, almost knocking him
from the stool. The woman laughed and filled a tankard with ale. Storn
decided that this was a more productive way to spend his day, instead of
chasing after a cold-hearted woman like Della Karrick. He took a
generous swig and winked at the barmaid.
"It's going to be much easier than we anticipated, Durvin."
"Fat lot of good you've been," his partner grunted. "I may as well
have done this on my own."
"Straight! You could not take the chance of being seen by the town
guard. In fact, you are taking a risk sitting here." Storn said under
his breath. "Or did you forget that they still hang people who commit
murder?"
Durvin's eyes narrowed and Storn knew that his partner would prefer
not to be reminded that he was being sought in Dargon for the killing of
a young guardsman. "Well, thieving ain't much better, Mard. So don't get
all self-righteous with me."
"We are partners. We do this together," Storn proclaimed, slapping
Durvin on the back. "Besides," he said, leaning forward to whisper a
fact that he had concealed the day before, "I know where she has hidden
the money."
He grabbed the wench as she passed by the table and pulled her onto
his lap, ignoring Durvin's expectant gaze.
"I've got work to do," she protested.
"That you have," Storn agreed and slid his hand around her waist.
The stallion swished his tail and snorted, and Storn patted his
flank as he peered from the alleyway early the next morning. A full bell
had passed since first light.
"Shhhh, boy, shhhh." Storn felt uneasy. It was unlike the horse to
be restless, and it was not the first time that he had been backed up in
a narrow alley, although Storn usually worked under cover of dark. He
had a clear view of Della's doorway. She was yet to leave for her
errand, but there was still no sign of Durvin. Storn cussed under his
breath. They had agreed to meet here at dawn and Storn hoped that the
stupid fool was not still asleep somewhere. His own head was throbbing
slightly. If it had not been for the fact that he had had company in his
room the previous night, he would have kept a closer watch on his rogue
companion. As it was, he had told Durvin to make his bed elsewhere;
after all, Storn had paid for the room and he was in need of a little
womanly comfort, even if she was not as fair as Della Karrick.
Sudden movement from across the road caught his eye and he sidled
closer to the wall to get a better look. Della was closing the door. She
had her back to him and a bright scarf bound loosely over her hair,
concealing her face as she turned to the road. Ginny was standing at her
side, fidgeting about. Della picked her daughter up, cradling her in the
crook of her arm, and walked off in the opposite direction towards Main
Street. She was moving slowly, and Storn had to wait a few menes until
she disappeared from sight. He stepped from the alley and looked about
for any sign of Durvin.
"Turdation!" He decided not to wait any longer. A heavily laden
wagon rolled by, stirring up a trail of dust. Storn gave a quick tug on
his horse's reins to check that they were still tied to the wooden wall
slat, then hurried across the road as the wagon came to a halt a short
distance away. There was some commotion as a group of men started to
unload barrels. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Storn opened
Della's door and stepped inside, shutting it behind him.
The room looked as if the Beinison army had plundered it. Chairs
had been smashed; jagged bits of splintered wood poked into the air.
Bolts of cloth had been yanked open and were covered in ash. His eyes
settled on the torn strips of material caught beneath an overturned
bench. He recognized it as what was left of the dress Della had been
working on.
"*Durvin*!" He spat the word out as he dashed to the back room,
stumbling over a tattered flap of curtain that had once covered the
doorway, and dropping to his knees to look under the bed. The loose
floorboard he had noticed when he had changed in the room two days
earlier had been pried open and lay to the side of a now-empty hole.
There was no time to be lost if he wanted to catch the two-timing,
thieving, no-good whoreson. Storn sprinted for the door -- and stopped
dead in his tracks as he came face to face with Della Karrick. Ginny was
asleep in her mother's arms, her thumb in her mouth. Their eyes met.
"What are you doing in my home?" she asked in a low tone that
seethed with anger. Storn saw with some shock that her scarf was
concealing a livid bruise across her cheek.
"I just came to bid you farewell and found this disarray," he said,
watching her reactions closely. "What happened?"
Della sighed and stood quietly.
"Please don't tell me you think I am responsible for this," Storn
said, with a calculated measure of surprise. He crossed the room and set
the bench upright, then gestured for her to sit on it. She walked past
him, leaving the door open behind her, and laid Ginny on the pallet,
smoothing the little girl's dark curls.
"I was going to report this to the guard this morning." Her voice
was trembling. She bit her lower lip as she stared at the destruction
around her.
"You know who did it?" he asked, feeling ill at ease. There was an
extended silence as he waited for her to speak.
"I was not entirely honest with you," she said at last. She spoke
slowly, her body rigid as she perched on the edge of the pallet. "This
is the work of my former husband -- the lousy rat who walked out on us
two years ago and then came back last night."
If the town guard knew, they would be here soon. Storn glanced at
the door. "Did you report it?"
"I changed my mind." She looked defeated. "Durvin is a brutal man."
Storn's hands hung at his side and he felt an inner rage starting
to seethe. "Why did he do this?"
"He said it was revenge for the way I treated him." She shook her
head and looked at him, as if she was expecting him to say something.
To avoid her gaze, Storn bent to the task of clearing up the things
that were strewn on the floor. He could feel her eyes on his back as he
moved about the room.
He found a woven coverlet under an unrolled bolt of cloth and
handed it to her. She flinched when she took it and he noticed the
bruises on her arm as she covered Ginny with it. Her trembling fingers
tugged at the scarf and a sheaf of hair fell across her shoulders. She
stood up and brushed past him.
"Did he take much?" Storn asked, watching as she began to
straighten her possessions, her hands pausing over the broken shards of
mug and bits of shattered wood.
"He took everything I had." She looked at the torn remnants of the
dress she had been working on. The tears welled in her eyes and he
barely heard her whispered words. "It was money that I earned the hard
way."
They worked together in silence, turning the table upright and
fixing the stools and chairs as best they could. Swirls of dust
glimmered in the sun's rays as they moved about. Ginny whimpered in her
sleep and Della rushed to her side. She knelt and cuddled the little
girl in her arms, and as Storn looked down on mother and daughter, an
uncomfortable sense of guilt settled heavily on him. It was not
something that he was used to feeling.
"I have to go," he said quietly. Della did not reply as he left her
house, pulling the door shut behind him.
Storn's gap-toothed companion from the night before beamed widely
as he barged into the Rogue and Quiver. There were a handful of early
morning patrons hunched over tables, but Durvin was not in the tavern.
Storn darted across to the counter and tried desperately to recall the
wench's name. Eventually he blurted, "Woman! Where is my friend? Did you
see him leave?"
She looked taken aback at this sudden show of rudeness and turned
away from him. He leapt over the counter and pushed her up against the
barrels.
"Please, my dearest one," he said in a soothing tone, running his
hand over a rounded hip, "it's a matter of life or death." Her eyes
softened as he took her hand in his grasp and dropped to his knees,
clutching her waist.
"All right, you charming scoundrel!" She pointed to a stout woman
wiping tables. "He spent the night with Maddie over here -- even gave
her a bleeding Round, unlike some of us who got nothing."
"I wouldn't say nothing," Storn reprimanded in mock offence and
stood up. She blushed and pushed at his chest as the other woman came
towards them.
"If you're looking for your friend," Maddie said, "he bolted during
the night." She leaned over the counter, giving Storn a generous view of
her ample bosom. "Just so you know, the Round was only because he
couldn't get it up and wanted me to keep quiet about it."
"Guess I should have given you a Round then," his bed companion
said, running her hands down his chest and winking at Maddie, who let
out a hearty laugh.
"Did he say where he was going?" Storn brushed the roving hands
away.
"Do I look like I care where he was going?" Maddie said. Storn
swore in exasperation. Durvin could be heading anywhere, and he had a
good head start. "If it will help, he asked about barges heading for
Kenna."
Storn bolted back over the counter and planted a resounding kiss on
Maddie's cheek before dashing out the tavern. He could still hear her
laughter as he mounted his startled steed deftly and dug his heels in to
get the beast moving.
"Thought you would get away, you cheating whoreson," he grunted,
and galloped towards the riverside docks.
It was close on mid of day at the docks as Storn slowed the
stallion to a trot. He cursed, looking at the clusters of people milling
about. It seemed as if everyone in Dargon had business at the riverside
today. A couple of deckhands staggered past him.
"Ahoy there," he called. They stopped and turned to look up at him.
"I'm seeking barges bound for Kenna."
"End of the dock," the swarthy one muttered, pointing past a row of
crates and goods on the small crowded dock.
"Thanks." He spurred the horse on, then yelled back over his
shoulder, "If you're wanting a good time, try the Rogue and Quiver!"
With the knot of people thickening every step of the way, Storn
slipped off the stallion's back and looped his reins over the closest
post. Charging ahead, Storn narrowly avoided careening into some
dockworkers who were shifting a large wooden crate. Ahead of him, he
could see deckhands preparing a barge for sail. Storn's path was blocked
by a group of straggling dockworkers. He skirted round them, lengthened
his stride and broke into a run. Durvin Karrick was not going to get
away that easily. Kenna was upriver from Dargon, and if his cheating
partner got that far, Storn would have a hard time tracking him.
"Are you bound for Kenna?" he called to a thickset man who was
untying a thick swirl of rope from its mooring.
"Aye." Storn stepped past the man and bounded up the gangplank,
ignoring the shouts of protest from behind him. A glimpse of greasy hair
and a black cape were all he needed to confirm that his crooked partner
was on board. He lunged forward.
Busy deckhands cursed him and blocked his path as he shoved past
them and clambered over crates, jostling his way across the barge's
deck. Durvin was near the barge's helm, talking to a man Storn took to
be the captain. They turned at the sound of the commotion. Durvin's eyes
widened. He muttered to the captain and started to scramble backwards.
Storn reached him in two strides.
"Screegull scum!" He grabbed Durvin's tunic and whipped him round
to face him.
"I can explain --" Durvin stammered.
"How you cheated me and beat up a young woman?" Storn snarled. He
sensed that the men on board were circling them.
In the background, he heard one of the deckhands start a chant.
"Fight. Fight. Fight" More voices joined in.
"The bitch deserved it!" Durvin spat the words out and widened his
stance.
The voices around them rose, but Storn no longer needed an
invitation. He swung his arm and felt the crunch of Durvin's jaw beneath
his fist. Wild-eyed, Durvin staggered into the gathered men and was
grabbed roughly and flung back into the tight circle. As he
straightened, Storn saw that Durvin now held a short dagger in his
hands. Durvin lunged at him. Storn pulled back, narrowly escaping the
blade, but the circle of men behind him thrust him forward again. Out
the corner of his eye, he saw a thick wooden staff against a crate in a
narrow gap between the jeering deckhands. Dodging to avoid another of
Durvin's wild blows, he made for the staff, gripped it in his hand and
went on the attack, slamming the hard wood into Durvin's chest and
forcing him to reel backwards. He wielded the staff, blow after blow,
until Durvin's knife fell from his grasp and he sank to his knees. The
gathered men fell silent, and the only sound that could be heard was the
ragged breathing that tore from Durvin's lips and Storn's own deep
gasps.
The captain bent to retrieve the knife and took the staff from
Storn's clutch. "Beat a woman, you say?" he asked, looking at Storn.
"A beautiful young woman," Storn said, not taking his eyes off
Durvin's prostrate form.
Nochturon's glow lit the deserted streets of Dargon as the lone
rider's mount slowed to a trot. The horse's hooves clack-clacked slowly
across the cobbles towards Ramit Street. Storn pulled the horse up short
and paused in the cool night air, his tongue running tenderly over a
bruised lip. There was a dull ache in his arm and he plucked gingerly at
his shirt, prying it away from the dried blood on his wounded shoulder.
Less than a bell ago he had been on the road south, heading away from
Dargon. "You're getting soft," he said under his breath and shook his
head. From where he sat, he could see Della Karrick's door, a short way
down the road. The stallion whinnied and flicked its tail. Storn dropped
his hand to his waist and felt for the pouch of coins he had taken from
Durvin, then he nudged the horse's flanks with his heels and headed for
her threshold.
He slipped off his steed and knocked quietly on the door, shifting
his weight from one foot to the other. The house remained silent. He
knocked again, this time a short, sharp rap. The sound carried in the
night gloom and Storn glanced over his shoulder to see if there were any
people about. He heard a light footfall. The door scraped and opened an
inch, and he saw Della staring at him in surprise.
"May I come in?" he asked, the reins trailing loosely from his
bruised fingers.
She hesitated, the candle she held lighting her face with a soft
radiance.
"All right, Milord." She opened the door to let him in, tugging her
shawl around her shoulders. There was an icy chill in the dark room.
"I won't stay long. I just wanted to return this." He stretched out
his hand and held the bag of coins before her. "I'm afraid Durvin has
already spent some of it."
She stared at the pouch that dangled from his fingers, and he heard
her breath catch in her throat.
"I don't know what Durvin led you to believe," she said as she
eventually reached for the bag. "There wasn't much to take."
He raked his fingers through his hair, wincing at the pain in his
shoulder. Della crossed to the table and emptied out the small pile of
coins in the flickering candlelight. She gathered them in her hand and
turned to face him.
"Why?" she asked.
Storn realized that it was a simple question which begged a hundred
different answers. He looked away and thought a while before he spoke.
"Durvin lied to me and he cheated me. I expect that he did the same
to you." He swallowed hard. "I suppose I thought that you and Ginny
didn't deserve it."
"Should I be grateful?"
"No," he said, "That's not what I came for." He was glad that he
stood in the shadows so that she could not see the uncertainty on his
face, because he did not know what he wanted from her. Not gratitude.
Perhaps acceptance; perhaps just to know that he had made her happy;
this woman with eyes the color of the ocean on a calm day, and a laugh
that made him feel like the gods had smiled on him.
She slipped the coins back into the pouch and tightened her shawl
around her. "Then you have done what you wanted to do."
"Della --"
"I've survived Durvin Karrick more than once, Milord Mard." She
sounded bitter, but resolute. "I'll do it again."
"Then at least know that Durvin won't be back in a hurry." What he
did not say was that after he had beaten Durvin, the captain had agreed
not to call the guard. Since he had already been paid for the journey,
the captain said he would let Durvin stay aboard, but as a deckhand, and
not a passenger. "He's on his way to Kenna."
She picked up the candle and crossed to where he stood, her hand on
the door. He turned to leave, then paused.
"Tell me," he asked, voicing the one question that had been on his
mind, "why did you think that I was involved? Because I was at your
house that morning?"
"I knew the day that you brought the clothes back," she said.
"Was the ruse that obvious?"
"No. But I never told you my married name, Milord Mard," she said.
"When you brought the clothes back you called me Madam Karrick. People
around here only know me by my mother's name."
He remembered how cool she had been towards him that day.
She gave a wry laugh. "I moved the coins, you know. I took you for
a petty thief, and thought if you didn't find anything you would leave
me alone. Durvin was just more persistent."
"I am truly sorry, Della." He looked at the fading bruise on her
cheek. "I have been many things in my life: I have swindled and conned
and stolen. But I have never hurt a woman."
"Perhaps not with your fists."
The words hit him harder than any of the blows Durvin had struck.
He swallowed and shook his head lightly. "It's not likely that I will
ever do an honest day's work, but knowing what I have done to you will
certainly make it harder."
She opened the door. "Good bye, Milord."
Instinctively, he leaned forward and brushed his lips over her soft
mouth. "Good bye, Della Karrick."
He turned and walked out the door. As he settled in the saddle, he
saw Della staring at him from the doorway, the candle flickering in the
cool night breeze.
"It's never too late to change, Storn Mard," she said, and he had a
feeling that she knew what she was talking about. He clicked his tongue
and yanked the horse's reins, turning to head up the dark street.
========================================================================
Talisman Three
Part 4
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Fall, 748 FE
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-1
Torenda's Troupe, plus one student of the Way, traveled south at a
much slower pace than any of them wanted. It was nearing the end of the
same day Virrila had come across the troupe in the clearing of a
way-cabin. They had listened to her story of the Treasurer of Farevlin,
who was also a teacher of some kind of pacifist philosophy, and of a
renegade warlord intent on conquering the thousand lands of Farevlin
with the aid of one of the artifacts in the Treasury. They had decided
to go south to help the teacher against the warlord, but they didn't yet
know how. What made their decision even stranger was that it had not
been made solely out of concern for the students endangered by the
warlord's will, but more because of the news that the Treasury housed
another carved and banded stone fragment like the one they had found,
and found so important, in the way-cabin.
The four leaders of the troupe, Kend, Naka, Orla and Elin, were
walking at the front of the caravan with Thanj the illusionist, and
Virrila, the student of the Way. The rest of the players and the
troupe's three wagons followed behind. Though the need for haste was
evident, their current pace was a sedate walk. Trying to maintain a
soldier's ground-eating pace for long periods of time was too difficult
for the actors and the philosopher. Their slower pace, however, allowed
those in the lead to discuss how a score and a half of actors could
contrive to defeat or scare off a warlord determined to reach his goal.
Orla said, "'Scare' is what we need, right? Because we can't
actually confront the man and his army, so we need to make him run away,
not kill him. So, what would frighten this Warlord Adamik?"
"A bigger army, I should think," said Naka. "Someone to challenge
his might and power. Right?"
Virrila nodded. "That sounds right, Naka. Superior force would
easily make him run. But where are we going to get enough people for
that kind of army?"
Elin said, "Thanj, what about your illusions? I know we have never
tried to multiply a single person, but could your magic make one person
seem like two, or five or twenty?"
Thanj thought the idea over, then said, "I think I could probably
make one person look like as many as a score, perhaps more with a
well-carved image to work from and if the illusion did not need to move.
But, I couldn't possibly make one person look like ten score, nor could
I make ten people each look like twenty -- I could not stretch my magic
so far. I could make our company look twice as big, but we would never
be a fearsome army."
"But ..." said Kend, who then paused as if thinking something
through before continuing, "Wait, wait! The key phrase there was
'fearsome army', yes? But that doesn't have to mean a large army!"
Orla asked, "What do you mean, Kend?"
He explained, "Well, remember Sir Nathrik? His army would qualify."
Virrila asked, "Who? Sir Nathrik?"
Elin explained, "Sir Nathrik was a famous knight about twenty years
ago, in the north-eastern part of Farevlin. He gathered a group of
exceptionally skilled warriors around him, no more than a double-dozen
all told, and then rode all through the states championing just causes.
Some people even called him Farevlin's Champion. I'm sure that some of
the stories about him are exaggerations, but I'm equally certain that he
wasn't some empty legend, since I met him once."
"Exactly," said Kend. "So, Virrila, is there anyone here in the
south with that kind of reputation? Anyone whose appearance alone would
scare Adamik away?"
Virrila thought about it, then said, "Well, the school doesn't get
every scrap of gossip that passes around a market-center we
ll. But if
anyone besides Adamik himself had gained enough of a name hereabouts to
frighten by sight, news surely would have reached us. I can't think of
anyone. Sorry."
Thanj said, "Just our luck. Oh well, I don't suppose we could just
disguise ourselves as Sir Nathrik's band. I mean, I know that he died
over ten years ago, but maybe Adamik wouldn't know that. Or maybe Adamik
would think that Farevlin's Champion had returned to save the Treasury."
Kend brightened at the suggestion, but Orla saw the problem with it
first. "No, that wouldn't work," she said. "Adamik would never believe
that, not even with someone to suggest it to him. I've never heard of
any legends attached to Sir Nathrik that would suggest something like
that. And a suspicious mind would find it easy to believe that someone
could just duplicate the knight's banner and try to usurp Sir Nathrik's
fame. No, I don't think that one is going to work."
Everyone nodded their agreement, and turned their attention to
searching for ideas again. Only a short time had passed when Naka spoke
up again. "Wait! Maybe Thanj *was* on the right track. We can't craft a
convincing natural enemy to frighten Adamik, but what about a
supernatural enemy? Perhaps not Sir Nathrik returned from the dead, but
something else?"
Virrila turned to the musician and said, "Wait, you might have
something there! I remember Adamik as being very superstitious! He wore
charms and trinkets all the time, and was always chanting litanies meant
to keep the attentions of evil spirits away from him.
"But what kind of supernatural figure? A ghost? One of those
red-eared hounds from the Mavratal legend?"
Elin said, "No, not frightening enough. I ... wait! I've got it.
Not red-eared hounds, but invisible hounds! Do you remember the first
night at the Headless Sheep, in Tilting Falls? The stories that were
going around?"
Virrila was mystified as her walking companions all got looks of
enlightenment on their faces. Then Orla explained how they had overheard
tales of a certain local legend, and Virrila started grinning with the
rest of them.
"You've got something there, Naka," said Virrila. "A supernatural
threat mean enough to turn a powerful but superstitious warlord into a
coward. *If* you can make him believe."
Orla, well acquainted with the strengths and weaknesses of her
troupe, said, "It won't be easy, but we do have some time to prepare. I
think we will be able to put on a production fit for a duke!
"Thanj, your illusions will be at the heart of this play. Kend, you
will have to supply the main focus, so start carving. Elin, I know that
it won't be a proper stage, but perhaps with Virrila's knowledge of the
land around the Treasury, perhaps you can rough out some movement
directions for the action. I'll work on the script, such as it is, and
come up with the other supporting parts."
She raised her voice and said, "Let's pick up the pace again,
everyone!" To her walking companions, she continued, "We have the
beginnings of a plan, and a day to whip it into production shape. Shall
we get to it, then?"
Low, rolling hills spread across a portion of the southern border
of Farevlin, where it met Drigalit. At the end of a slight notch in one
of those hills, almost too small to be termed a valley, was the
passageway that led beneath the hill and into the cavern that was the
vault of the Treasury of Farevlin. But the Treasury was more than just
that one room where the treasures were actually stored. Aside from the
few other underground rooms that served as the Treasurer's quarters, the
Treasury also comprised the several hectares of land around the valley
entrance. The hill provided good grazing on its gentle slopes and large
meadows, while the flat land around the base of the hill was divided
into several small fields that had been harvested by this time of the
year. It was a league between the entrance valley and the beginnings of
the forest to the north, and all of the cleared land between belonged to
the Treasury.
Warlord Adamik stood in front of his troops and surveyed this land.
He remembered tending the herd animals that belonged to Zarilt's school,
leading them from their pens up onto the hillside, and back down at the
end of the day. He remembered toiling beside his fellow students in the
fields, sowing, tending, reaping like any common peasant. He scowled at
the memories, and was tempted to spit the foul taste of his past out of
his mouth.
It hadn't been hard work. Even in the early days of Zarilt's
school, when there had been fewer students, there had been fewer animals
and fields to tend. But it had always rankled him ever after that he had
once scrabbled in the dirt to earn his keep. He had always had large
dreams, and this day he would one step closer to fulfilling them.
Adamik fingered an amulet at his belt to appease the fate sprites
at his presumptive thought -- it was never a good idea to set the fate
sprites against you by assuming success in an undertaking. He pushed the
thoughts of his past away, and turned to look at his troops lined up in
neat ranks behind him. These were the elite of his forces, though, in
truth, they were the bulk of his forces as well. He had left about two
score troops with his most trusted lieutenant, Eliian, to keep his
conquered lands safe, bringing the rest of his army here to underscore
his resolve to get his wish. The men and women standing in ranks were
armed and armored as if for a pitched battle, the better to help
intimidate his enemies.
Adamik thought it fittingly ironic that the people who had flocked
to his banner could just as easily have ended up among the ranks of
Zarilt's students who were now lined up in rows in front of their
barracks building. Both groups of people were the outcasts of Farevlin
society -- third or fourth children of minor nobles with nothing to
inherit; sons and daughters of merchants or tradespeople who didn't want
to follow in their parents' footsteps; the kinds of people who couldn't
find their places in normal society. The chief difference between his
people and Zarilt's people was that the students of Zarilt's Way were
peaceful, willing to be led like the herd animals they tended into a
pattern of belief that left them helpless and ineffectual, total ciphers
in the greater scheme of things. Adamik's soldiers, on the other hand,
were going to help him conquer Farevlin. Whether their individual names
would be remembered by history or not, they were going to leave their
mark by helping him become famous.
Absently fingering his fate-sprite charm again, Adamik turned back
to the Treasury's entrance valley. The overcast sky was beginning to
darken as evening approached, hastened by the rain-heavy clouds that
were slowly appearing from behind the hill. He was waiting for Zarilt to
answer the summons that he had sent just after gathering all of the
students into rows. He hoped the teacher wouldn't keep him waiting -- he
didn't want to have to conduct this final interview in torchlight in the
rain.
Finally, Adamik spied Zarilt walking calmly up the entrance valley
towards his students. The warlord raised his arm, and with a satisfying
clash, his troops came to marching attention. He then started to stride
forward, focusing his attention on his former teacher and his plans for
the man and the treasures he guarded. Thunder rumbled over the hill, and
Adamik smiled grimly at the fitting accompaniment to his thoughts.
At about two dozen paces from the rows of students, Adamik signaled
for his troops to halt. He continued toward Zarilt, who was standing
before his students. Only his four officers, those who had accompanied
him into the vault the previous day, continued with him.
Adamik stopped only a pace from his former teacher, and asked
without preamble, "Are you going to surrender Hekorivas to me, Zarilt?"
"My resolve has not changed," answered the calm man. "I will not
give you the scepter; you must take it if you would have it."
Adamik had not expected any other answer, and his own reply was
ready on his tongue. "Yes, yes, and I know the price that would take;
yesterday was an effective demonstration. Still," he said, a nasty gleam
in his eye, "I wonder how many the magic would kill before it wore down
enough to stop protecting the treasures?"
Zarilt seemed puzzled by the question. "Why do you think that there
is a limit to the protective capacity of the vault?"
"Because, old man," Adamik replied, a nasty sneer in his voice,
"nothing is unlimited. Everything eventually runs out. Draw water from a
spring too fast, and it will dry up for a time. My advisors tell me that
this should happen with the vault, as well."
Adamik saw Zarilt glance at his officers behind him. The teacher's
face was as calm and serene as ever, but something about the way
Zarilt's eyes darted around between the five of them made Adamik wonder
if he and his officers had really come up with the solution to the
vault's defenses.
Finally, Zarilt said, "Well, Adamik, you have plenty of volunteers
behind you. Why don't you escort them to the vault and have them test
your theory?"
Adamik grinned evilly at his former teacher's suggestion. He had no
intention of sacrificing any more of his own people, at least not yet.
Fortunately, there was an alternative plan to hand which had two
benefits: it would test the theory at no cost to himself, *and* it would
hurt Zarilt greatly.
The warlord turned his grin into a sneer and said, "Yes, I do have
plenty of volunteers: they are not standing behind me, Zarilt, but
behind *you*. I think your students will provide me a much less
expensive body of test subjects, don't you?"
He paused meaningfully before continuing, "Of course, you could
just give me Hekorivas instead."
Adamik watched his former teachers' calm facade crack a little as
he considered the warlord's statement. There was a small hope that
Zarilt would relent to save his students, but Adamik wasn't gambling on
that hope.
"Do what you feel you must, Adamik," Zarilt finally said, his
unruffled mien back, utter confidence in his voice.
Adamik was furious, despite knowing the likelihood of Zarilt giving
in then and there. He had expected something more, perhaps a little
sweat. It was as if the old man didn't believe that he was ruthless
enough!
"That's *Warlord* Adamik, old man!" Adamik thundered. "Do you think
I won't do it? Do you think I don't have the heart to slaughter these
sheep that follow you? I will. Don't believe that I won't! I'll take
them one by one and throw them on the altar myself, if that's what it
takes. I swear by Harmett's jawbone I will!"
Zarilt didn't so much as flinch in the face of his tirade, which
only made Adamik angrier.
Seething, face red, growling with anger, Adamik pointed toward the
students. Two of his officers darted forward and grabbed a student from
the front ranks. They brought the man over and stood just to one side of
the warlord, between Zarilt and Adamik, holding his arms firmly. Without
breaking eye contact with Zarilt, Adamik drew his sword in a short,
angry movement, and thrust it into the student's abdomen, then gave it a
savage jerk sideways to clear the body it impaled.
The gutted student made no sound, but the students gasped, and some
moaned. Zarilt never even blinked, and the slight smile never left his
lips, as if he knew something that the warlord didn't.
Adamik glanced down at the body of the man he had killed, and then
back into Zarilt's eyes. He reached for the fate-sprite amulet again,
and rubbed it four times. He recognized the murdered man. It was Louff,
who had been a student of Zarilt's Way even before Adamik had joined.
Anyone who had stayed with the Treasurer's school for that long had
surely absorbed Zarilt's teachings into the very fabric of his being.
Adamik had just killed one of the least likely among the students to
have feared death. Just his luck.
Still, the move had unnerved the students. Surely, Zarilt would see
sense now. Adamik gave his sword a practiced flick that cleaned it of
most of the blood that coated it, and then resheathed it. It wasn't
clean, but his officers could take care of polishing it later.
"*There!*" he shouted. "Now do you believe me?"
"I never doubted you," was the soft, calm reply. "It was not me you
were proving yourself to."
In a twinkling, Adamik's sword was out again, its tip touching
Zarilt's throat. "Maybe I should just kill you now, and rid myself of
your smirking face for good. Then, I can throw your students to their
deaths on the altar in peace. How about that, huh? Got any more words of
wisdom, old man? Think you can save yourself with a glib tongue now?"
Once again, Adamik saw Zarilt's resolve falter just slightly. Was
that resignation in the teacher's eyes? Was that despair? Almost before
Adamik could be sure of anything, calm descended over Zarilt's face
again. Some decision had been made. Was it the right one?
Zarilt opened his mouth to say something, but he was preempted by
one of Adamik's officers saying, "Warlord, sir, we have visitors. Look."
Everyone followed the pointing arm, and saw a wagon rolling slowly
out of the woods along the only road that led away from the Treasury,
the one to Bluebell Rock. Three people rode on its drivers' bench, while
two or three handsfull of people walked alongside of or behind it.
Thunder rumbled from behind the hill as Adamik said, "Who are they?
Didn't the people in Bluebell Rock warn them not to come here?" He
removed his sword from Zarilt's throat as he turned back to the teacher.
"Do you know them, old man?"
Zarilt shook his head. "I have no more idea than you, Adamik."
The warlord frowned in puzzlement rather than anger, and made some
quick decisions. Pointing, he said, "You two take this body and hide it
behind the students back there. You go back to the others and tell them
to ready their weapons. At best, we have an audience; at worst, some
more subjects for our upcoming experiment. Right, old man?"
A few of Adamik's soldiers rushed around carrying out the warlord's
orders, while everyone else waited and watched the wagon and walkers
approach slowly. Adamik took the time to compose himself, trying to look
and feel in command of the situation. His efforts were hindered,
however, by the presence of his former teacher by his side. Zarilt
exuded confidence; he had a commanding presence even doing nothing other
than standing there in his robe and smile. Adamik was almost minded to
stick a knife in the old man's back and drag him back behind the
students with the other corpse before the strange travelers reached
them. He fingered several of his talismans in turn and hoped for the
best.
The wagon finally pulled up in front of the dormitory-barracks,
next to the rows of students, and stopped. The people on the drivers'
bench stepped down, and then everyone walked over to where Adamik stood.
The leader of the group, a somewhat plump, raven-haired woman with
one blue and one brown eye hailed Adamik and those standing around him.
"Greetings," she said. "I am Bifrorlani, the owner and manager of
Torenda's Troupe, the group of players whom you see behind me. We heard
in Bluebell Rock that there was something exciting happening here, and
as we wanted to see the Treasury of Farevlin ourselves in any case, we
decided to bend our journey in this direction. I trust we will not be
seen as an intrusion on the ... ceremony? ... going on here."
Adamik thought for a moment, trying to adjust to this new element
in his plans. He knew that he wasn't always the quickest wit in the
race, but he did have an image to uphold, and a warlord had to be
decisive. Fortunately, this time an answer presented itself readily.
"Players, you say? Hmmm. Well, players are not quite the same as skalds,
but have been known to serve a similar function. So, Lady Bifrorlani,
perhaps your players could do more than simply observe here. Perhaps you
could take news of what happens here to other towns and cities, and
spread my fame even faster than rumor."
"And whose fame would we be spreading, then?" asked Orla.
"Warlord Adamik, unifier of Farevlin, that's whose fame. Today, I
mean to secure the proof that I will unite the thousand lands of
Farevlin. Today, I will secure Hekorivas, the Scepter of Unity, for my
own!"
Adamik's fingers again caressed the fate-sprite charm, as Orla's
eyes widened almost theatrically. She said, "A grand plan, Warlord, and
one that will surely be worthy of our troupe. But, is Hekorivas not one
of the artifacts housed in the Treasury? What has the Treasurer to say
about your plan?"
Adamik started to reply, but Zarilt interrupted him. "I am Zarilt,
mi'lady, and have been invested with the duties of Treasurer of
Farevlin. And Hekorivas is among the treasures I guard."
"But," Adamik re-interrupted, "he is about to surrender it to me,
isn't that right, Zarilt? We have unbiased witnesses now to preserve
this historic occasion. You don't want to be remembered as the loser
here, now do you, Zarilt?"
Adamik was itching to press his advantage, not even realizing that
his position was untenable from the start, but Orla broke in with,
"Speaking of witnesses, I can understand the soldiers over there, since
you are a warlord and all, Sir Adamik. But what explains the robed
persons over there? I had thought that the Treasury ordinarily required
no guards, and even so, no offense, but they do not seem very soldierly
in any case."
Zarilt was absorbed by looking at the group of players standing
behind Orla, so Adamik stepped into the gap. "The Treasurer is also the
leader of a misguided philosophical cult, and these are his students. If
they have picked the wrong man to follow, at least they do no one any
harm in it."
"Philosophical cult, you say?" said Orla with excessive interest.
"What kind of philosophy, if I may ask?"
Zarilt, recovered from his reverie, said, "Well, I ..." but he was
cut off by Adamik, who was beginning to thunder like the clouds behind
the hill again.
"You may not ask, not right now!"
"But, I need to know, so that we can get the story right,"
complained Orla.
Lightning flashed from the Drigalit side of the hill, trailed
closely by rumbling thunder. Adamik said, slowly and forcefully, "I will
tell you the right story when this is over. For now, stand back and shut
up. The day is fading fast and there is a storm coming, and I want to
get this finished!"
Orla backed away, her hands up in demonstration of her surrender to
the situation. Adamik nodded, turned back to Zarilt, squared his
shoulders, took a deep breath, and got back to the business at hand.
"Now, Zarilt, as I was saying, we have witnesses to this historic
moment, and it is up to you how history remembers you. Will you be the
person who handed the Unifier of Farevlin the Scepter of Unity, or will
you be some fool who ..."
"Look," cried one of the players in the troupe. "What's that?"
The voice was filled with enough startlement that Adamik followed
the pointing finger without really thinking about it. His gaze was
directed to the south and slightly east, to the top of the hill. Thunder
rumbled again, and then lightning became visible. Except that the
lightning came after the thunder, and it didn't stop.
A small patch of lightning seemed to be rising over the top of the
hill. Adamik felt the hairs start to rise on the back of his neck. He
had seven different luck-charms hanging from various parts of his body
and he fingered every one in turn, twice, as he chanted three verses
from an ill-luck warding softly to himself. And then the figure
appeared, riding over the crest of the hill and coming down toward the
people gathered in the fields.
The figure was tall, and made taller by the fact that it was riding
on the back of a stag that was larger than any deer anyone had ever
heard of. The stag's antlers glowed with lightning, its eyes were red,
and everyone could see the fangs in its mouth even from that far away.
The figure seated atop the demon stag was just as fearsome. Crowned
with lightning, the figure had a wild face -- eyes that flashed with
flame, hair and beard tangled and white, glowing with the flashes of
lightning. The strong-looking body was draped with hides, most still
with heads and legs attached. And despite its wild-man appearance, the
figure held a sword aloft, a sword that was longer than two men were
tall, and that rippled up and down its length with flame.
A faint sound then reached their ears, even over the thunder that
was still on the other side of the hill -- the baying of hounds. It
didn't take sharp eyes to see that the grass in front of the stag was
rustling and being disturbed by the passage of something invisible.
Adamik knew every supernatural legend anyone had ever told over an
open camp fire, so there was no question in his mind who the riding
figure was. His mouth opened and closed as he tried to utter the name,
but no sound issued from his tightened throat. His left hand clutched at
one of his protection talismans so hard that finely-carved stone
actually crumbled in his fist, while he rubbed the most powerful of his
luck charms so hard that his fingertips started to hurt from the
friction. His mouth continued to move like a landed fish, until his
herald finally said, in a strained whisper that still carried over
everyone standing there, "It's Skrnahl, the Wild Hunter!"
Mutterings came from all sides, as students and soldiers alike
wondered whether this could really be the legendary Wild Hunter Skrnahl,
and if so, what was he hunting here? Adamik, however, knew: knew that it
was Skrnahl, and knew what he was after.
The warlord had always harbored a deep doubt about what he was
doing. He thought that conquering the many tiny states of Farevlin could
only be for the good of everyone. And if it was better for him as that
conqueror, well that was all right, too. But perhaps some of the lessons
that Zarilt had tied to teach had, in fact, taken root in Adamik's soul.
Or perhaps that catalog of legends that the warlord had memorized just
led him to believe the worst in any situation.
Whichever and whyever, Adamik was sure that the Wild Hunter was
after him. If for no other reason -- and there were plenty of other
reasons -- than the killing of Louff, who had certainly not deserved to
die today.
Adamik had actually started to shudder in fear, staring at the
approaching apparition. He felt his officers gather around him, and his
herald said, softly for once, "Warlord, sir, pull yourself together. We
are more than five score, surely we can defeat this Hunter? He normally
pursues lone prey, what can he do against so many? Even a sword as big
as that can only slay one ... maybe two ... people at a time.
"Give the order, sir. We will all gladly die for your cause. Tell
us to attack, and we will give that Skrnahl a taste of his own medicine.
And won't that be a tale to boost your reputation, eh, Dami?"
His other officers joined in, entreating him to give the order.
Slowly, their words drew him back from his fear. Slowly, they convinced
him that the Wild Hunter was a cowardly foe, and that Adamik's army
could beat Skrnahl without hardly trying. Slowly, his shaking stopped,
and he stilled his frantic fumbling with his charms and talismans. Still
clutching the crumbling fragments of the protection amulet, he
straightened from his instinctive crouch, squared his shoulders, and
thanked his officers for their encouragement, with an extra pat on the
rump for his herald. He was himself again, ready to conquer anyone, or
anything, in his way.
He turned toward his soldiers, ready to give the order his officers
had suggested, when one of his troopers started charging toward the
stag-riding figure that was now halfway down the hill. An instant later,
a second soldier charged after the first, and the two somehow collided
and fell to the grass. One got up and resumed charging toward Hunter.
The other soldier didn't rise.
The charging warrior brandished her sword at Skrnahl, shouting
"Fake! Trick! Go away!" As she neared the waving, shaking grasses that
preceded the Hunter, the figure pointed its sword at the running
soldier. A tiny gout of flame flashed from the tip of the sword and
struck the woman's arm, setting it alight. The soldier's shouts turned
to screams.
And then, the baying of the hounds increased, and all around the
warrior the grass was waving and dancing. The soldier began to rock from
side to side as if she was being struck by something, perhaps leaping
dogs. Blood appeared on her body, and then a limb was ripped clean off.
The woman screamed louder, and then stopped as her throat was torn out
by invisible teeth. The frenzy increased around the falling soldier, and
in moments there was nothing left of her except, perhaps, a faint
wraith-like image standing where she had last stood, fading around the
edges. The Hunter pointed with his sword again, and a larger bolt of
flame shot out, engulfing that fading image. A long, eerie wail echoed
across the hillside, and flame and image vanished.
Adamik, who had watched the charge raptly, was stunned by the
results. As the eerie wail faded away, he said as if to himself, "He
destroys them, body and soul ..."
Adamik's men were already running. The warlord wanted to follow,
but his fear, returned ten-fold, had paralyzed him. His officers,
changing their pro-attack position in the face of bolts of fire and
fierce, invisible dogs, grabbed Adamik, spun him around, and dragged him
away. By the time he got back to the camp, he had recovered enough to
mount his horse himself, and ride away as fast as he possibly could,
leaving his dreams lying in the grasses surrounding the Treasury of
Farevlin.
Adamik's soldiers weren't the only ones to run: most of Zarilt's
students fled too, some into their dormitory, most for the safety of the
vault. Only a handful remained standing before the barracks with their
Tchad and the several members of Torenda's Troupe. Strangely enough,
once the fear had set into Adamik's soldiers and Adamik himself, the
players had ceased acting fearful at all.
Those few students, the Tchad, and the troupe were the only ones to
see the image of Skrnahl vanish about a hundred quoks from them, to be
replaced by an ordinary sized man riding an ordinary horse. At the same
time, nine people appeared in front of the rider from nowhere, as if
they had been invisible. One of the nine was dressed like one of
Adamik's soldiers, and had what looked like blood smeared on her.
Orla walked calmly over to the newcomers, calling out cheerfully,
"Great show, Kend!" The rider bowed. "You made a most convincing Wild
Hunter. You and Thanj truly make an excellent team. And you others:
superb hounds! Most convincing!."
She reached the group, and clapped the one dressed as a soldier on
the back. "Fantastic dance, Naka," she said. "Music is not your only
talent. But what happened at the start of your charge?"
Naka said, "Oh, apparently one of the other soldiers got the idea
to challenge our illusory Hunter on his own. Fortunately, I was ready to
go anyway, so I just tackled him, and hit him on the back of the head
with my sword while he was down. I hope he didn't disrupt things too
much."
"Quick thinking, and quicker action," Orla complimented. "And, as I
said, you made an excellent example of the fierce might of Skrnahl's
hounds.
"And now, let's go meet the people we just saved, and reassure them
that all is well again. Right?"
It was after dark when Zarilt led the representatives of Torenda's
Troupe, along with Virrila, into the vault. Explanations had been given
and accepted, and Zarilt still marveled at both the ingenuity of these
players, and how a few simple illusions had turned Adamik from his
purpose.
He had already sent students ahead to reapply the coverings to the
Vault's walls and floor. There hadn't been time to completely restore it
to its normal appearance, but at least there weren't quite so many
twisty limbs to look at now.
The leaders of the troupe marveled at the sections of wall and
floor still revealed. Elin, in particular, found herself fascinated by
the mosaics that were not yet covered up: she thought they looked almost
familiar, but she had certainly never seen them before in her life.
Soon, everyone was gathered around the low stone table that looked
like an altar. Five objects still rested there, thanks to the efforts of
the troupe, and Zarilt intended to reward them for that service.
Five objects, five treasures. The Chalice of Oronhil, a small,
ornate cup linked by legend to the health of the Farevlin region
somehow. The Scepter of Unity, Hekorivas, that strange piece of wood and
crystal sculpture that fascinated Kend no end. The Orb of Sdanyip, a
faceted metal egg suspended within a wire framework that supposedly
contained the hand bones of a former ruler of Sdanyip, though no one
knew to what purpose. The amber-oak, an exquisite work of art but legend
less.
And last, the intricately carved stone fragment. Virrila had told
Zarilt about the smaller fragment that she had seen in the possession of
the players, and Zarilt had known exactly what he was going to do. The
circle was complete, the wheel turned around. It was right.
The five representatives of the troupe gathered on one side of the
table, and Zarilt stood on the other with Virrila. Four of those five
were staring at the stone fragment that rested there: Kend, Elin, Naka,
and Orla all ignored the other treasures for that carved cat and falcon
fragment. Thanj alone was still examining the more impressive treasures.
"My new friends," Zarilt began. "You have done an enormous service
to the Treasury, to myself, and to Farevlin itself. Adamik has been
forestalled in his efforts to steal Hekorivas from this vault, which he
would have attempted at great cost of life without your intervention. As
well, I believe that he has learned a lesson he greatly needed to learn
-- that there is always a greater power, a larger force. Perhaps he will
give up his dreams of conquering all of Farevlin, and all those who
might have died in his quest will be spared.
"I know that you did not do this for a reward; you did it because
you felt it was the right thing to do. But I also know that you find one
of the treasures here of particular interest. It is not one of the
official treasures of Farevlin, however; it was left here many, many
years ago as payment for a debt owed to a former Treasurer by a group of
nomads called the Siizhayip. And now, I will give it to you to reward
your services."
Zarilt stooped and touched some of the stones on the side of the
table in a certain order. There was no indication, no signal that the
combination had worked, but Zarilt was sure of his knowledge. He
straightened up, and reached for the large, carved stone fragment. He
grasped it with no ill effects, lifted it from the table, and held it
out to the people across the table from him.
Orla and Kend took the fragment between them as Elin withdrew the
other fragment from the ornate bag at her belt. She held it next to the
larger piece, and it was clear that they were from the same sculpture.
Everything about them was the same: the bands of different materials,
the size, the marble-like material. The two falcons were almost exactly
the same, except that they faced different directions. Naka was tracing
some of the bands on the large piece and almost by accident, she found
herself tracing the continuation of a broken band right onto the smaller
fragment Elin held and back onto the large piece. Fingers from all four
hands started tracing bands and identifying matching points, but it
wasn't until Virrila said, "You know, I think I was right -- these two
pieces actually belong together!" that the others realized that she was
probably right.
So, four hands reached in, and four hands pushed the two pieces
together. Orla, Naka, Elin, and Kend all felt the slight jolt race up
their arms as a flash of light obscured the two pieces. When their eyes
had recovered from the flash, everyone was astonished to see that there
were no longer two fragments of stone, but one large semi-circular
fragment of some circular whole, bearing three carved animals -- a cat
and two falcons, and intricately woven bands that filled the middle of
the piece and linked the three animals together as well.
The look of happiness on their faces as they held and gazed at the
now-single fragment made Zarilt wonder if the stone was their own
version of the Way. If so, he thought, he was glad to have given them
more of it.
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