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DargonZine Volume 13 Issue 11
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 13
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 11
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DargonZine Distributed: 11/03/2000
Volume 13, Number 11 Circulation: 742
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Magestorm 5 Mark A. Murray Ober, 1017
Beloved Mark Murray and 1017
Rena Deutsch
A Fine Blade Mike Adams and Seber 17, 1017
Victor Cardoso
Talisman Seven 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 1-5, 1013
No Pity to Spare Rhonda Gomez Naia 1015
========================================================================
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 13-11, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright November, 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>
I made some promises in recent Editorials. I promised an issue with
five new stories by six different writers. I also promised to balance
out our recent preponderance of multi-part serials with more single-part
short stories. Well, it's time for me to deliver, and this issue should
do the trick. It's filled with a diverse collection of short fiction
from a number of writers. I hope you enjoy it! Here's what you have to
look forward to ...
The first story is the conclusion of Mark Murray's ongoing
"Magestorm" serial. Having reached a surprising climax in the previous
issue, this chapter concludes the series from a different point of view.
However, this won't be the end of the storyline, as Mark has further
plans taking form even now.
Mark also teamed up with fellow writer Rena Deutsch on "Beloved", a
poignant story told in one of Dargon's sketchier taverns.
That story is followed by the second co-authored piece in this
issue, "A Fine Blade". This story was partially complete when original
author Mike Adams left the project due to lack of time. However,
collaboration doesn't necessarily have to occur at the same time, and
the story was picked up and finished (with Mike's blessing) by
contemporary Dargon writer Victor Cardoso.
The only other serial in this issue is the first part of Dafydd's
"Talisman Seven", which begins a new thread in his very lengthy
"Talisman" saga. After twenty-four chapters you may be wondering if
this series will ever conclude; I can tell you that Dafydd has an
outline of the remaining chapters, and there is an end in sight. Still,
it's great writing, and if you haven't read the previous episodes, I can
heartily encourage following its thread through our back issues. The
storyline began two years ago in DargonZine 12-1.
And the issue wraps up with our second piece from Rhonda Gomez,
the haunting "No Pity to Spare".
This issue exemplifies what DargonZine is all about: bringing new
writers together, and presenting their stories to you. I hope you enjoy
the artistic work they have freely shared with you through the medium of
this magazine.
So having fulfilled all my promises, I suppose it's time to make
some new ones! Our next issue, DargonZine 13-12, will follow very
closely on the heels of this one and will feature our third new writer
of the year and the return of a writer who had dropped out of sight for
a while. And if everything works out according to plan, we should have
the unexpected pleasure of a thirteenth issue before the end of the
year. I'll keep working on that, but for now you should just enjoy the
great stories we have for you in this issue.
========================================================================
Magestorm
Part 5
by Mark A. Murray
<mashudo@netzero.net>
Ober, 1017
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-9
"Free!" I yell as the rush of magic twists and warps around me like
a tornado dancing upon the plains. It is wild magic at first, but as my
prison walls weaken, I grab handfuls of that harsh, life-giving energy
and swim in its cold, hard currents.
My soul is free! *Free!* As I stand upon the solid rock stairs and
gaze down into the room below, I search for a body I can possess. The
physical air nestles my soul like an old lover's soft touch.
They stand there so fragile, so delicate, not knowing the power
just above them. The female has been here for a short time. She has
long, wavy red hair, high cheekbones, a small nose, and full lips. Her
eyes glow a stark green against her pale skin. She has a round, curvy
figure and she moves with an effortless grace. Megan. No, I decide. That
body would not last long.
Embraced in her arms is a strong man. Raphael. Just a bit taller
than her, he is wider at the shoulders, more muscular, and radiates
danger. Silver with red lights is flowing through his aura. No, I
decide. I would be fighting him all the while I possess him.
Ah, poor Niatha, looking lost and confused. You still don't know
who or what you are. You were a plaything I had created, a small piece
of dirt beneath my feet that I had trampled on. If I had not found a use
for you, I would have destroyed you and created something else. Perhaps
I still shall, if I get out of this accursed tower.
There! The boy. Lylle. Young, sturdy, and open. He is the one! He
is a street rat that knows only hardship and has no knowledge of the
arcane arts. His body will hold the magical energy that I need. And he
yearns for power and magic. Yes, he will do.
I open my senses to the tower to test the last remaining prison
walls. They hold true. Augh! It will not be! I will be free and I will
kill every Eelail I see. They imprisoned me here during our war with
them. They had no right to leave me here! I'll burn them from within and
without. I'll rot their hands and feet and watch them crawl in their own
vomit.
I feel my rage push against the magical wards still left on the
tower. My soul takes humanoid form and glows. I start down the stairs
towards my human receptacle.
"Illiena?" the mage asks, taking a step towards me. I had entered
his dreams and made him believe I was his goddess Illiena. The pathetic
fool! The other humans turn to me with confusion and fear spread widely
across their faces.
"No!" my brother Aechrose yells from somewhere above me. I would
have killed him long ago, but I had thought I would need his help to
break free.
"Yes!" I reply. "We are free!"
"What?" Merrif, the mage, asks, shocked and frozen. "You're not
Illiena!"
"You pathetic thing," I say. I should kill him now, but the look of
betrayal on his face is worth keeping him alive. "No, I am not Illiena.
I used your dreams to bring you here to set me free!"
"Nathrod!" my brother yells. He is coming down the stairs behind
me. "We are free! Don't walk down the same road as before."
"Do you believe," I say, turning to look up the stairs, "Aechrose,
oh, brother of mine, that the Eelail will let us go?" If I manipulate
him, he will aid me in breaking the wards.
"It has been a long time," Aechrose stops and replies. "They will
never forget, but they may forgive."
"They won't!" I yell. You're a whimpering fool, I curse mentally. A
weak, useless creature that pretends to be a mage. If I didn't need all
of my energy, I'd kill you right now.
"I will not be imprisoned again!" I hiss at him. I can feel the
Eelail now. They are rushing to get here. No time! I race down the
stairs and run straight into Lylle. It is pathetically easy to lure his
spirit down into a black void with dreams of magic and power and then
take over his physical body.
"Young again," I sigh with pleasure. A myriad of colors assaults my
eyes as I look about me. These are more pastel to the stark contrast I
was used to. Tingling, itching, and sometimes painful sensations travel
from my skin to my mind. I have forgotten what it was like to have a
physical body. Before I can get comfortable with the various senses, I
feel the Eelail mages' probing of the tower. "I'm leaving. Are you
coming with me, brother?"
"I won't let you go," Aechrose threatens.
"The Eelail are close! Come, let us flee together!" I reply as I
start for the door. I will have need of his magics to battle the Eelail.
I feel Aechrose move, but don't look back to see where.
"You must let me in," Aechrose pleads. "I can't do anything to stop
him without a host body. You must let me in."
"They made me!" Niatha screams. "I remember now! They created me!"
"Yes, little one," I answer as I step through the doorway. Wood
planks creak under my weight. "We did and you are what set us free." I
arrive at the other room and stop. Dopkalfar warriors stand in front of
the outer doorway. My muscles tense and a grating sound echoes
throughout my mind. I'm grinding my teeth as I gather magical energies.
"You are in my way! I am a god here!" I scream at them. With a
popping sound in my ears and a chill down my spine, I release magic.
"Die!" Flinging my hands outward, a funnel of wind sweeps straight for
the door, heading outside, taking Dopkalfar with it. Bodies tumble and
crash as the wind rips them from the room.
"I can't enter without permission!" Aechrose pleads. He is begging
a human in the other room. Begging! Fretheod do not beg! Fretheod mages
take what they want! I will kill him after I kill the Eelail. "You must
let me in! We can't let him get out of the tower!" he screeches.
More Dopkalfar stand in the doorway to replace the ones blown away.
They are holding swords and daggers, and behind them there are more
waiting to enter. "Augh," I scream mentally in exasperation. There are
too many. There has to be another way out! I push my senses out to the
tower itself. There are windows here to allow my physical body an access
out and the magical barriers on them are not as strong.
"Let them kill you!" I yell as I turn and fly up the stairs of the
tower. "I will be free!" As I gain the third floor, I find a round room
where a tear exists in the magical fabric that was my prison.
"No!" The tear isn't large enough to let me through and it won't
widen. I can feel the Eelail mages holding it together. Heat spreads
throughout my body and my vision blurs at the edges as I rage against my
prison.
The room is circular with two windows looking out into the bright,
sunny day. I strike a pane and it vibrates with my physical abuse, but
does not break. "Is there no end to my torture?" I scream. Looking
around, I try to find something to use to break the glass, but the room
is empty. Running, I leap at a window and curl into a ball. The window
resounds with my body and throws me back onto the floor. Rough wooden
slats rake small thin furrows along my arm. I get up and push at the
glass, only this time I use a fire magic. Perhaps I can melt it.
I feel my brother enter the room. He is inside the old mage,
Merrif. "There are too many of them for me alone," I say. Maybe I can
use his energy to break through this window. "Together, we can break
free."
"The world has changed, but we have not," Aechrose says. "It is not
our time now. We should have died long ago. Even now, we use other lives
to prolong ours." I hear the door shut and a bolt slam into place. Small
scratching sounds come from the other side of the door: Niatha. Has my
brother shut the door to save Niatha or just to keep me in?
"We can be free!" I urge, trying one last desperate attempt to gain
his cooperation. I can kill him later.
"We can never be free in this life," he replies. "I want to live as
much as you, but not like this. I don't want to use other people like
this, forever sharing thoughts and memories. And I will not go back to
the prison we just left! The only other choice is to walk on to another
life!"
"To die!" I hiss and turn around. Energy crackles around me. Small
arcs of fire flare up and then die around my fists. "Don't make it sound
like it is something nice!" He will not help me.
"To die, then," he agrees. "What else is there?"
"To live! We can find our people and once again be part of the
empire!"
"Our people are an empire no longer!" he yells. "You've picked up
the strands of thought from your host. You know it is gone!"
"I will not go back to that prison!" I shout, rage building inside
me. I feel energy play with my hair. "I will not die! I will live!"
"I won't let you leave here!" he says.
"You won't have --" I begin. A bolt of magic strikes me in the
chest and I am thrown to the floor a second time. There will not be
another! Gasping, I manage to stand and look at him. I can't believe he
has actually struck me. Perhaps my brother is a mage after all.
"Don't," he pleads. I am ready for him this time and as he sent
another bolt, I knock it aside. I've had enough. Twirling a small pocket
of fire, I shoot it into his face. He screams. I smile. Poor little
brother doesn't like to play with fire. I feel almost whole again as I
gather all the magic about me and suck it inside.
Walking over to Aechrose, I pick him up and throw him against the
wall. I have chosen well as this body is fit and healthy. As I start
toward him, Lylle's essence surges upward and fights to be free.
I had thought Lylle to be lost amidst the darkness, but I was
wrong. He had been biding his time to strike and I forgot about him.
Lylle pushes his way into this body's consciousness and tries to force
me out. I try shoving him away, but he is strong. Aechrose tosses a ball
of energy at me and I fling it aside, but it costs me. Lylle takes
control and steps back. I divert my energy to him and finally dislodge
him from the body. His screams cause me to smile as I turn back to my
brother.
Aechrose is walking toward me when the door behind him flies open.
Dopkalfar stand poised to enter the room. They are surveying us. As
Aechrose attacks me with a magical blast of energy, I block it and watch
the Dopkalfar strike. They are taking us down one by one. Swords pierce
Aechrose's back while magic twists his soul. He staggers to his knees
and I watch in fascination. The Dopkalfar's magic is a different kind
than I remember them having. I study what it does as my brother falls to
the floor and dies.
Flinging fire from my hands, I burn one and he falls screaming to
the floor. Pushing outwards, I send a wave of magic through their
bodies, ripping and rending anything I can inside them. Screams
reverberate off of the glass panes as a few of them die.
They try to physically reach me, but I light the air with fire.
Breathing in for them becomes a burning sensation and they fight to
negate my magic. There are only two left when I sweep one aside with a
small whirlwind. The other can't withstand the previous magic and falls
to the floor.
I thought I had some time to break free when another Dopkalfar runs
straight toward me. I build a line of fire between us, but he pays it no
mind. His hair sizzles and his skin blisters as he plows into me.
The wall slams into my back as something inside me cracks and pops.
Pain and fire explode inside my head. As if that wasn't enough, I see
through my slit eyelids that a Ljosalfar enters the room. Ice forms
around him and slides along the wall towards me.
The Dopkalfar holds me against the wall. I push fire down into him,
but he doesn't move. Freezing pain lances through me and I see steam
burst from my mouth as I scream. Icicles pierce my arms and legs and
gut. The fire within meets the cold from without and fizzles.
A blue haze covers my eyes as I cough and spit. "Enough!" I scream
mentally. "I will not die here!" I reach out, gather some residual
magic, and fling it outward as the Dopkalfar spins away. Both Eelail are
stunned and I gather a final spell to kill them.
Fangs and claws and fur assault my face and I have to turn my
attention to Niatha. The creature I had created wraps itself around my
head. "Not now," I think, panicking. "The Eelail will recover and I will
be trapped again." Pain rips down the sides of my head and teeth sink
into my cheek. I start to scream when something pushes through my chest,
followed by a heavy body forcing me back against the wall.
I scream, but Niatha's body muffles it. I bite down hard into
Niatha and feel him let go. "Free," I think. "I want to be ... free." I
won't die here. There are other ways to be free; I can't see, pain is a
sharp throb throughout my body, but I still command magic. And it will
set me free.
Gathering all that I can, I push and pull the magic of the tower
until it splits and bursts. If I could move, I would have broken the
window to escape. It is too late for that now, but not too late to suck
the life and soul from the Eelail and then spiritually inhabit one of
the empty bodies. "Free ..." I whisper as I raise my hand.
I feel the magic working as Dopkalfar spirits are rent from their
physical bodies. I can feel other magic battling my own and I push
against it one final time. It is time to go. I start to shake loose the
physical body so that I can find another, more suitable one.
Sight returns to one eye as part of my soul gains its freedom. It
is one last look at the room and I shake in horror to see the Dopkalfar
in front of me, knife raised.
"No!" I scream, but no one hears. "Not now, not when I am so close!
So close ..."
========================================================================
Beloved
by Mark Murray and Rena Deutsch
<Mashudo@netzero.net> and <Rena3@hotmail.com>
Dargon, 1017
With a sigh, Nai reached out to grasp the thick wooden latch. As
his large hand closed around it, a smaller, more delicate hand touched
his arm. Soft, smooth fingers traced paths through his black hair until
a cool, dry palm rested on his skin.
Looking to his right, he waited for his companion to speak. Her
head was tilted up to look him in the eyes while a mass of wavy black
hair danced in the wind. Small freckles along her cheek accented her
small, upturned nose and full lips. Some sort of blue dye painted her
lips to match her bright blue eyes. Most men found her dazzling and
charming. His love only had room for one woman, and she was gone.
"We can always play another song, Nai," she said.
"No," he replied. "It helps me remember her. I don't want to forget
her."
Looking past Nai at their other traveling companion, she pleaded,
"Kal, it's too sad. We want to get paid and if they're all crying,
who'll pay us?"
Nai looked to his left at Kalanu to see what his opinion was. Kal
always had something to say about everything.
"Simona's right, Nai. We need to get paid. And you won't forget
her; she'll always be part of you." Taking Nai's hand, Kal placed it
upon Nai's chest. "She's right here!"
"Straight." Nai nodded. Turning to Simona, he asked, "Will you play
her song before we go to sleep tonight?"
"Tonight I'll play it just for you, Nai." Simona patted the lyre on
her side. "I have one in mind that will do nicely."
Nai pulled the latch, opened the door, and let his companions enter
the Shattered Spear ahead of him. The inn was dimly lit; it took his
eyes a few moments to adjust.
"Close the door!" A voice bellowed from the left side of the room.
Nai quickly shut the door then took a look around the room. The inn
was nearly full. His trained eye spotted an empty table in the far
corner. He pointed it out to Simona and Kal and watched as the two made
their way through the crowd. Nai looked around for Jamis, the innkeeper.
It took him a few moments to locate the corpulent form among the people,
but then he found him standing in front of a barrel, pouring a tankard
of ale. Nai worked his way towards Jamis and tapped him on the shoulder.
"What do you want?" The innkeeper sounded annoyed at the
interruption.
"I have an offer to make you," Nai began.
"Why should I be interested?" Jamis put the tankard to his lips and
gulped its contents without stopping.
Nai waited until the innkeeper finished his ale before he
continued. "I can help you make some extra money tonight." Nai could see
the interest in Jamis' eyes and directed his attention to the table at
which Simona and Kal were seated.
"Money!" a loud, hard voice echoed behind them. Turning, Nai saw a
large woman staring at him. She was just a bit taller than he was, but
she seemed to tower over him. A long-sleeved dress covered most of her,
except for her hands, neck and head. A worn and dirty apron, which had
not caught all the spills that night, covered the front part of her
dress.
"Jahlena, please," Jamis said. Although his words were polite,
there was a hardness in his eyes. Nai looked back at Jahlena. Her stern
face softened a bit and a little smile played on her lips.
"I'll serve the ale," she huffed, her double chin jiggling
slightly. Grabbing mugs, she turned and made her way into the crowded
room.
"You mentioned money," Jamis said. His foot tapped the floor
impatiently.
"Yes," Nai agreed. "A bard is travelling with me. For a generous
twenty percent of our profit, she'll perform here tonight."
"Straight!" Jamis laughed. "And the king will dance before me
naked, too! You think I'm some wharf rat?"
"I think you're an innkeeper with an inn in the worst place in
Dargon trying to keep the whole place from burning down around you," Nai
replied, his muscles growing tight in his arms and neck. He hadn't
expected to argue his way to performing tonight and his short patience
was being tested. "Do you want a performance or not?"
"Twenty-five," Jamis said, not backing away from Nai. "And quit
puffing up like a sea-urlet. I've got enough trouble in here and you
don't need to add to it."
"Done," Nai said, relaxing. He held out his hand and they grasped
forearms. Letting go of Jamis's arm, he turned and made his way back to
the table where his two friends sat.
A young girl stood in front of Simona but Nai overheard them
speaking.
"... to attend the Bardic College," the girl said.
"Some day when you're older, make the trip to Magnus and ask them
to let you in," Simona said. "Practice every chance you get and they
won't turn you away."
"I'm practicing as much as I can, but father won't allow me to sing
here often. He says I'm supposed to make myself useful, clean tables,
and serve ale. I doubt he'll ever let me leave." The girl sounded
disappointed.
"Tira!" Jahlena yelled from across the room. "Get over here!"
"I better get going," Tira said. "Can I bring you a tankard of ale
and a bowl of stew?"
"Straight," Kal answered her and Simona nodded.
"For me, too," Nai added before Tira could walk away. "Who's the
girl?" Nai inquired when Tira was out of earshot.
"She's the innkeeper's daughter. Wants to be a bard, but doesn't
think she'll make it to the Bardic College. She saw my lyre and wanted
to know if I was a bard." Simona smiled as she summarized their
conversation. "What did the innkeeper say to your proposal?"
"He wants twenty-five percent of our profit. I agreed." Nai replied
as he sat down.
Simona drew in a deep breath. "Good thing the inn is so full
tonight. Let's hope the crowd is generous, too. We *need* supplies for
our journey. I don't want to delay much longer. I can feel my sister's
in trouble. I need to find her."
"We will have enough," Kal reassured her. "There are other inns
along the way where we can entertain and make some money. We'll find
your sister."
"Straight," Nai agreed and was about to say more, but Tira arrived
with their food and drinks. Hungrily, the three ate.
"Father said you can play over there." Tira pointed to a small
table almost in the center of the room.
"Thank you, Tira." Simona said. After she'd finished her stew, she
took her lyre, walked to the table, and seated herself.
Nai worried if Simona would be able to get the crowd's attention
without intervention from Kal or himself; it was very noisy inside. He
knew Simona preferred to get the audience's attention without anyone's
help and most of the time it worked. For a few moments Nai held his
breath as he watched Simona pick up her lyre and sound a few notes from
the tune she had played earlier. The noise in the inn subsided and the
people, mostly sailors, looked to see who was playing. And then she
began to sing. Simona's voice with its low timbre drew everyone's
attention. Her song told the story of two lovers and a jealous mage who
placed the woman under a spell when he realized he couldn't have her. As
she went on with her story, she described how the man sought to break
the spell of his beloved and finally succeeded, only to lose her again
in a quarrel. Nai realized she was telling the story of her visions. He
knew there was more; Simona had told him and Kal the whole story. Simona
finished her song and everyone applauded. Nai signaled Kal. Both got up
and collected Bits from the audience for the performance. Nai took one
look at Jamis and noticed that he was paying close attention to the
collection.
"Play another song!" an older sailor requested.
"What would you like to hear?" Simona looked in the direction of
the speaker.
"Tell us how Duke Dargon lost his arm!"
"Tell us! Tell us!" several others called out.
With a smile on her face, Simona began to play again. Nai grinned.
He knew they'd make more money if they could keep the crowd happy. It
would also make Jamis happy; the sailors drank quite a lot of ale. Nai
continued collecting Bits. When Simona told about Dargon's bravery,
commanding a group of ships against the Beinison fleet and fighting his
way to the captain of the lead ship, the sailors cheered. When she
reached the point where the duke killed the captain and saved the town,
some of the sailors stood up and danced.
"Quiet down and move!" a handful of sailors yelled. "I can't hear
the rest of the song!" When the dancing men wouldn't move, a group of
sailors got up and stormed toward them in an effort to force them to
quit.
When knives were drawn, Nai knew things had turned serious. He
reached to his side and in a deliberate, smooth motion, drew out his
sword. An eerie, greenish glow oozed from the steel blade. With the
glow, Nai was forced to remember his wife's death. Using his other hand,
he brushed aside the forming tears. Standing straight, he bellowed,
"Enough!"
His voice rocked the room and rattled tables. The sailors stopped
in their tracks, noticing the greenish glow for the first time and then
they turned toward Nai. Sadness radiated outward from Nai and permeated
the inn. Men breathed deeply and slunk a little lower where they stood.
Sniffles could be heard from within the room.
"I was there," a sailor breathed heavily. Nai noticed that it was
one of the sailors that had screamed at the others to stop.
"Who is he?" echoed in soft whispers throughout the room.
"What happened?" Nai asked. He lowered the sword.
"Lord Dargon," the sailor began, holding back tears, "was aboard
the ship next to us. He ordered both into the thick of the Beinison
fleet. When his crew jumped to the Beinison ship, our ship was right in
line. There we were. All three ships sitting pretty in a row.
"Another Beinison ship pulled alongside and started firing her
balistas across her sister ship at us. Then something took Dargon's arm,
and our ship was hit. Along with a volley of other rounds, his ship
rolled onto ours. The mast of his ship fell on our captain."
"We all lost those dear to us in that war," Nai said softly.
Turning, he looked to his two companions. "Bring the hammer and a mug of
water."
"He's going to sing it," Kal said, surprised.
"Get the hammer. I'll get the mug," Simona said. They retrieved the
items and made their way toward the fireplace. Nai joined them, still
holding the sword. He grabbed a stool and set it beside him, placing the
sword on top. The glow bathed them in green while the fire outlined them
in red.
Taking the hammer from Kal, he set it on the floor with the head
turned sideways. He took out his own hammer hanging from his belt and
tapped the other hammer. Clang. He nodded to Kal and Kal dipped his hand
in the mug. Flinging a drop of water from his finger onto the fire, the
inn heard a sharp hiss.
"Remember those you love," Nai said as he tapped the hammer on the
floor. Kal stood ready to fling drops of water upon the fire.
Clang. Hiss. Clang clang.
Clang. Clang clang.
"Illiena I bless the day you entered my life."
"Strong arms bring a heavy hammer down upon glowing red metal," Simona
sang, trying to paint a picture of what Nai had looked like when he had
forged the sword.
Clang clang. Clang.
Clang. Hiss. Clang clang.
"While I forged blades, you stood beside me and tempered with love."
"A tear journeys down a rugged, twice-broken nose to fall upon glowing
red metal."
Hiss. Clang. Clang clang.
Clang. Hiss. Hiss. Clang hiss clang.
"I bless the days you held me tight and I thank Illiena for the time you
were with me."
"Large hands deftly turn the long rectangular block of metal."
Clang. Hiss. Clang hiss clang.
Hiss. Clang. Hiss. Clang clang.
"But I miss you every day I rise and I miss you every night I fall."
"A muscular, barrel-chest rises and falls sharply with great gasps of
breath."
Hiss. Clang. Hiss. Clang clang.
Clang. Hiss. Clang clang. Hiss.
"Oh Illiena, I bless every moment your memories carry me along."
"The long block gives under pressure to form hard, sharp edges."
Clang. Hiss. Hiss. Clang clang.
Hiss. Clang. Clang hiss hiss clang.
"You were the link that bound my armor together and I'm a stronger man
for the love you gave me."
"Tears group together along small streams and run quickly over grit and
grime."
Hiss hiss. Clang. Clang hiss clang.
Hiss. Clang. Hiss. Clang clang hiss.
"And I'd give up my life for just another bell of your time."
"Cords of muscles bunch and flex in short powerful legs."
Clang. Hiss hiss hi-clang clang hiss.
Hiss hiss clang. Hiss. Clang hiss clang-ss.
"With your soft arms wrapped around me, you healed wounds that magic
could not cure."
"Knees tremble, hands shake, and eyes brim with tears."
Hisssss clang. Hisssss-clang clang-ssss.
Clang. Hisssss. Hiss. Hisssss. Clang hiss-clang-hiss.
"Beinison took you from me in a stroke of war and forever left me torn."
"Metal flashes under blows of love and pain."
Hisssss hiss clang. Hisssss-clang hi-clang-ssss.
Clang. Hisssss. Hisssss. Hisssss-clang hiss-clang-hiss.
"I bless the days you held me tight and I thank Illiena for the time you
were with me."
"Rivers of tears drown dark eyes and cool fiery metal."
Hisssss hisssss hiss hisssss clang. Hisssss. Clang hisssss clang.
Hisssss. Hiss clang. Hisssss. Hissss hissss clang hisssss hiss-clang-ss.
"But I miss you every day I rise and I miss you every night I fall."
"Head bows, hammer falls, and body drops upon a forged sword," Simona
softly sang and ended her part.
"And I'd give up my life for just another bell of your time," Nai
finished singing, bowing his head.
Nai returned the hammer to his belt and wiped the tears from his
eyes. Looking up, he noticed several sailors wiping their faces. No one
spoke. He made another round through the inn to collect for the
performance, but he only received a couple of Bits. Nai watched as the
sailors left the inn in small groups. Within menes only a few people
were sitting at the tables. Half of them were asleep or too drunk to get
up. Nai had a bad feeling when he saw Jamis' expression.
"You!" he bellowed, closing the distance between them quickly. "You
were supposed to entertain tonight, not clear out my inn! This will cost
you half of your earnings tonight to cover my losses."
"I broke up a fight that could have ruined your inn," Nai argued.
"I will pay the twenty-five percent we agreed on."
"She caused the fight with her song about the duke." Jamis pointed
his finger at Simona. "You will pay half and then get out of here!"
Nai was about to take a stand when Jahlena posted herself next to
Jamis. He felt the light touch of a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he
looked into Simona's face. He knew what she was going to say before she
opened her mouth.
"Pay him and let's leave," she said quietly. Nai took out his
purse, counted out half their earnings, and handed the money over to
Jamis.
"Get out," Jamis pointed to the door. Furious, Nai followed his
companions outside into the darkness of the night.
"Half the money lost! And no place to sleep tonight," he muttered
more to himself than attempting to talk to Kal or Simona. Kal must have
heard him because he let out a short laugh.
"You gave him half of the money you had, straight?" Kal said,
sounding amused.
"Straight," Nai grumbled.
"I guess Jamis wasn't paying close enough attention or he would
have demanded half of what I collected as well." Kal grinned. "And I
think I collected more than you did."
Nai let out a short laugh and his mood improved considerably.
"Let's put some distance between us and this inn and find a place to
sleep."
"What about Spirit's Haven?" Simona spoke up.
"It's clear across town!" Kal replied in a tone indicating he
wasn't in the mood to walk that far.
"I know that. But I have a feeling I will find some of the answers
I am seeking there."
"Then let's go there," Nai decided and led the way.
========================================================================
A Fine Blade
by Mike Adams and Victor Cardoso
<meadams19@earthlink.net> and <viktor@mac.com>
Seber 17, 1017
"Only fools and bards seem to be awake at this bell, Lansing."
"Your Grace," Lansing Bartol remarked, "I wasn't aware you, too,
had taken up the song?" He looked to Clifton Dargon expectantly as they
walked. The duke did not respond.
The couple traversed the short distance from the heart of Dargon
Keep to the armory, flagstones echoing the sounds of their feet off the
broad stone walls. The sun's crown, barely cresting the horizon, shot
long rays of soft light through the arched windows. Despite attempts to
maintain a jovial profile, inwardly Bartol's spirits sank. "Perhaps I
fit both of the duke's descriptions," the bard thought glumly. He began
to regret his impulsive decision to drag Clifton with him this morning.
Bartol's friend of two years, Bren kel Tomis, waited in the armory.
The mercenary had escorted Lansing's niece to her wedding, and since
then he and Bartol had struck a deep friendship. They enjoyed regular
morning workouts, sparring in the castle's weapons yard. Kel Tomis had
once been a herald in the distant land of Mandraka, trained to dispense
justice with the help of his sword. His presence in Dargon had taught
Bartol more than one move that could save life and limb.
The previous night, Lansing had found his duke in one of the black
fogs that had plagued him since the loss of his left arm, and had
thought watching a little friendly swordplay might brighten Clifton's
mood. The aging weapons master, Edlin, had considered it a good plan
when the bard had run into him that morning.
"It wouldn't do for our Grace to be so dismal when blessing the
fleet today," he had agreed, leaning on his cane.
However, since the knock at his chamber door, the duke had only
spoken short, grim sentences. Bartol sighed. Perhaps this wasn't a good
idea after all. He hadn't seen Clifton draw a blade once since his
injury in the Beinison war, but the lord had been a superior swordsman,
and his fighting arm was still intact. The gods were the only ones who
knew why he, if truly disgusted with the idea, had agreed to come.
Lansing descended a few wide steps into the cobbled court that led
to the armory's gate. Sea-blue pennants, in honor of the fleet's
blessing, hung from high timbers outside the massive stone structure.
The armory was a fortification unto itself, with an inner bailey for
weapons practice and fierce battlements along its perimeter. Lansing led
the way through the gates and into the covered section where a young
apprentice, Matthew, rubbed sleep from his eyes. Here were tables at
which weary combatants could rest after practice, and several barrels
contained various sovereign remedies for thirst, depending on the
thirst's taste. In the middle of the far wall was a large double door,
thrown open to the inner court, brightening in the morning light.
"Is kel Tomis in the yard, lad?" Lansing's friendly question came
out as a growl. Perhaps Dargon's mood was catching.
Matthew nodded enthusiastically. "Aye, milord," he replied,
somewhat loudly.
Lansing shot a strange look at the boy and stepped up to the
threshold, the duke in tow, when shouting reached their ears.
"Stupid boy! Get up! When the Beinisons took away the use of your
leg, did they numb your fingers as well?"
Lansing frowned. It sounded like Bren's voice.
"What's going on out there?" Clifton grumbled.
"I don't know," the bard answered. He walked out into the yard and
stopped dead cold.
The ebon-haired kel Tomis, red-skinned, muscled and visibly angry,
stood above the cowering shape of a boy, sparring sword in hand. The boy
tried rising to his feet but fell in the attempt. He was obviously
injured.
"This is the venerable kel Tomis?" Clifton asked.
Bartol hastily made his way to the sanded practice yard. "Bren, my
friend," he called, a sweating smile on his face, "how are you this
morning?"
"I am well, Lansing," Bren replied, taking a step back from his
inferior opponent. "I see you have brought company. Greetings, your
Grace," he said, bowing slightly.
Clifton stopped beside the bard. "And to you, Master kel Tomis," he
replied. "Lansing has told me much about you," the duke looked down with
a raised eyebrow at the boy sprawled on the floor, "albeit with a few
exceptions. If I might ask, what exactly are you doing here?"
Bren wiped a sheen of sweat off his brow. "Trying to make a man out
of a boy," he replied.
"By berating him to the point of humiliation?" Clifton countered.
"He appears hurt."
"Not so much in his body than his heart, sire," kel Tomis poked the
boy's chest with the tip of his sword. "He was apprenticed to the armory
until he could win his freedom as journeyman. I am helping him to that
end."
The duke nodded, as if in deep thought. "And you think to help
someone through the destruction of their self-worth?" he finally asked.
"A man's self-worth is not built by hiding behind a cane." Bren
chuckled, lowly. "The boy gave his word to fight until he learned enough
to be released. His path has been hindered by an injury, but it does not
undo his oath."
The morning's light had crept over the wall and cast Clifton's
features into sharp contrast. The duke looked to Bren and then down at
the child. "Boy," he called out. "Do you wish to remain in this
service?"
"No, sire," the child replied, his face turned aside in shame.
"Then you are free from its bonds."
"Your Grace!" Bren objected.
"Do you doubt my authority, Master kel Tomis?" Clifton's voice rang
throughout the courtyard, his profile appeared cut from stone. "No one
shall be a slave in my duchy."
Bren lowered his sparring sword, point-first into the sand and
leaned on it. "Your pardon of the boy's oath is admirable and, of
course, within your right. But you diminish his honor."
"You will not fight him," Clifton said grimly.
"I will not pursue it," Bren answered, his dark eyes never leaving
the duke's. "I come from a foreign land. I do not yet understand your
ways. But, in my land, if you wished to preserve the boy's reputation,
then you would appoint a champion. Someone to fight for his freedom."
Lansing stepped forward, his fists trembling in rage. What in the
world was Bren trying to do, get himself thrown in the dungeon? "Are you
disobeying the duke's directive?" he asked.
Clifton put his hand on Lansing's chest, a faint look of intrigue
on his face. "No, Lansing, Master kel Tomis has a point. The boy gave an
oath, and that oath must be fulfilled." He stepped forward and plucked
the sword from under Bren's hands. "And since I have given the pardon, I
will bear the burden of the boy's champion."
Bartol very nearly fell over. "Your G-Grace, don't be mad!" he
stuttered. Events had suddenly gotten out of control. A trained
mercenary fighting the crippled duke?
Clifton didn't even turn to look at his friend. "Lansing, help the
boy up."
Bowing first, Bren had turned to retrieve another wooden sword from
a stock barrel in the yard's corner. Bartol opened his mouth to object,
but Clifton refused to meet his gaze.
"Don't forget his cane," the duke murmured.
Lansing cursed under his breath and helped the crippled boy to his
feet. A cane lay on the ground, obviously the lad's only defense. The
bard took that as well, shaking his head at the entire affair. Bren had
always come off as headstrong, but never cruel and demeaning. The bard
was still muttering as he and the boy took a place on the side of the
yard, watching the two combatants.
Kel Tomis had returned to face the duke while movement in the
armory ceased. Matthew had come forth from the tavern and on the wall a
guard had turned to watch the event. The opponents stood a swordslength
apart. The sun, now fully risen, warmed the air; beyond the high walls
surrounding them, the muffled sounds of the keep's daily life could be
heard.
"The bard has spoken fondly of you, your Grace," Bren said quietly.
His brown eyes were coal-black in the morning light. "Lansing says you
were a fine blade, in your day."
Lansing winced at the back-handed compliment.
"That was not long ago, Master kel Tomis," Clifton replied.
A husky rasp was followed by a loud crack, as Dargon's sword swung
in a vicious backhand slash for Bren's throat, only to be met by the
other's blade.
"Well met," Dargon breathed.
The duke stepped back, he and the mercenary circling each other.
The air in the practice yard went still. Lansing could see the duke
gaining control of his emotions, the coolness of his command asserting
itself. Bartol let out his breath, unaware that he had been holding it.
He was glad to see his duke's grim determination returning. There hadn't
been this much passion in Dargon's face for months.
"A fine blade, indeed," Bren said off-handedly. "But your Grace
must surely know that it is a new day."
"A new day," Dargon agreed, his sword at the ready. "But a man who
recalls yesterday will not make the same mistakes tomorrow."
The ensuing flurry of motion took Lansing by surprise. Bren lunged
forward, intercepting the duke's attack. For a moment the two combatants
stood almost still, blades flashing and clacking through the armory.
Then they were moving, using the full length of the yard, attacking and
retreating, the space between them a quivering blur.
Bren parried a thrust to push the duke's blade aside then lifted
his sword double-handed; Clifton stepped aside quickly, turning as his
opponent's balance shifted, but his opportunity was thwarted. Kel Tomis
swiveled his torso and the two engaged again, back and forth, sand
taking flight at their feet.
Suddenly, quiet reigned again. The duke and the ex-herald stood
still, both breathing heavily. Clifton's blade rested on Bren's chest,
directly over his heart. For a long moment, neither man moved nor spoke.
Then, whispered, almost inaudible, Bren's words: "I yield."
Lansing relaxed where he stood and watched Bren reach for the
duke's sword, twisting the blade until its flat surface was parallel to
the ground.
"However, my lord, I would suggest you keep your blade positioned
to slide between the ribs, like this," Bren thumped the blade against
his chest, "else you might have trouble wresting it from my limp, dead,
body." A ghost of a smile crept across his face.
Then the two fighters laughed like fools, or more like men who have
seen darkness and preferred to contemplate the light.
Lansing ventured to speak, "Clifton, are you well?" He couldn't
recall the last time he had seen the duke smile so broadly.
Clifton pulled himself together and responded, "Of course. Can't a
man take some sword practice around here?" He straightened his attire
and looked to his opponent. "The matter is settled?"
Bren nodded, still catching his breath.
The duke bowed and walked to the side of the yard, handing his
sparring sword to the apprentice, Matthew. Grabbing Bartol's elbow,
Clifton pulled him into the doorway of the tavern.
"You old flingshell, this was a very clever trick of yours."
Bartol furrowed his brow in confusion. "Your Grace?" he questioned.
Clifton laughed. "You should inquire for a job in that troupe that
came to town a few days ago -- the one performing 'Ol's Ride.'" He
pointed to the boy he had championed. "I've seen that apprentice before,
and he's using Edlin's cane to boot, something the old weapons master
would never give away. This was a very clever ruse of yours. And it
almost had me."
Bartol looked at the boy who had been on the ground. Now that
Clifton mentioned it, Lansing could swear he had seen the lad just the
other day, without the injury he currently bore. And the cane he used to
prop himself up -- it did bear a resemblance to the one Edlin carried.
"It's good to know I still have friends who have faith in my
skills, even when I began to doubt myself." The duke touched his shorn
arm.
The words stabbed at Bartol's heart. "Clifton --"
"We have no need to speak of it further," Dargon interrupted. "Tell
me, that Bren kel Tomis, is he actually employed by the weapons master?"
"No, sire. Not at all."
"Well, speak to Edlin about changing that. He's obviously skilled
in weapons, and has an efficient, if brusque, teaching manner. I'm sure
we can make use of his talents." Clifton turned to the yard and called
out: "Master kel Tomis, come, have a drink with us, and tell me more
about that high line of attack you almost got me with."
Bren grinned broadly as he approached. "Certainly, my lord," he
replied, "It starts with a parry of a low thrust ..."
It was mid-morning before the duke departed and Lansing sat alone
with Bren in the armory's makeshift tavern. Sunlight beat heavily on the
ground outside, throwing the room's features into stark shadows. Bren's
dark skin looked almost maroon in the light, blending him in with the
environment.
Leaning close to the mercenary, Bartol finally broached the topic:
"You could have let me in on this little charade of yours, you know."
Bren stared at him in mock seriousness from across the table. His
stiff features then broke into a wide smile followed by a booming laugh.
"I wish we could have," he replied, chuckling. "But it was born this
very morning when Edlin ran into you. The look on your face was
priceless as I debated honor with his Grace. 'Are you disobeying the
duke's directive?' " he mimicked.
Bartol shook his head in disbelief as his friend continued to
laugh. "You could have been thrown in the dungeons for your impudence."
"Not with you as *my* champion," Bren replied. His laughter
subsided and he stretched two powerful arms behind his head. "It's been
a long road for me from Mandraka, my friend, in leagues ... and other
things," he sighed. "A dungeon would not have been the lowest point of
my journey. This was an opportunity, Lansing, and I knew through our
conversations -- and through conversations with Edlin -- that the duke
was doubting his worth. The weapons master and I knew he simply needed
some reminding."
"As ashamed as I am to say -- and don't you go repeating this to
*anyone*--" Bartol shot his friend a serious glance, "I think a few of
us started to doubt him as well. But I have to say, it certainly worked
to your advantage."
"How do you mean? I've got at least two bruises to bear, one on my
reputation and another," Bren winced, "on my side."
Bartol smiled. So perhaps the ex-herald didn't have an ulterior
motive. "Well, you may have a few cane-lashings to add to those bruises.
You're in the employ of the weapons master if you so choose."
Kel Tomis looked shocked. "Lansing, if you're seeking vengeance for
my jest ..." He stopped when the bard didn't respond. "Are you serious?"
he asked.
"We'll have to get Edlin's blessing, but I don't see that as a
problem." Lansing reached over and shook Bren's shoulder, "Maybe now, as
a gainfully employed citizen, that healer Raneela will let you back into
her bed." The bard stood to take his leave but Bren stayed him with a
hand on his arm.
"Lansing," he said quietly. "Thank you."
Those black eyes, the ones Lansing had always seen behind battle
and weariness and laughter ... now looked moved. He patted Bren's hand
and looked around the room. "Don't thank me," he replied. "You're the
one who got yourself into this mess. Now that you've got the job, work
on keeping it." With a grin he turned from the table, leaving his friend
to put his new domain, and life, in order.
========================================================================
Talisman Seven
Part 1
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Yuli 1-5, 1013
The guest wing of Welspeare Castle had been the scene of bustling
activity for most of the previous sennight. Each room had been
diligently cleaned and prepared for the coming visitors. One suite had
received extra care in an effort to save the chief roomskeeper's pride.
The small shield beside the door of that suite -- a red oval, surrounded
by a gold disk, within a brown diamond, on a white field -- marked who
was assigned to those rooms as well as the futility of the roomskeeper's
efforts: the disposition of the baron identified by that blazon was well
known.
The receiving room of the suite was neatly arranged and elegantly
appointed. The whitewashed stone of the walls gleamed above the
well-polished wainscotting. The three deep-set windows on the wall
opposite the main door were open, letting in a refreshing summer breeze.
The space to the right of the door was divided into two areas: one for
relaxing, one for eating. The former was centered around the fireplace
in the far corner and consisted of high-backed benches set between low
tables for setting drinks. The latter, in the other corner, contained a
table covered by a highly-embroidered cloth, surrounded by chairs. A
silver bowl in the center of the table contained artfully arranged
flowers, while plates and tableware were stacked neatly along the edge
by the wall.
The other side of the room made up the reception area. This was an
open area marked by dark-colored rugs on the floor. The ornate, stately
chair in the corner was worthy to be the throne of a duke; here it would
serve the needs of a lesser rank.
The roomskeeper's staff had done a thorough job cleaning and
arranging the room. The wood of the furniture had been polished to a
high shine, and the rugs had been vigorously beaten in the courtyard
only that morning. The silver candlesticks on the mantel and tables were
mirror-like in their finish, and the gilded frames of the hunting-scene
paintings on the walls likewise gleamed. The knobs on the doors leading
to the other rooms of the suite glowed with the mellow luster of
polished brass. The cleaning staff had left so recently that none of the
dust that had escaped their diligent rags had had time to settle again.
Even the wood in the bin next to the fireplace seemed to have been
groomed: cleaned of every stray scrap, and stacked as neatly as a pile
of lumber.
The waiting silence was shattered as the main door slammed open
with a loud crash. Baron Chak Bindrmon strode through it and stopped a
few paces within the room to scowl at his temporary accommodations. The
baron was of average height but built thickly, with a barrel chest and
well-muscled arms beneath his tunic. His hair was starkly white and
unbound, flowing down past his shoulders and over the cape that still
swirled around him.
Half-a-score of servants boiled through the door behind him and
scattered throughout the room bearing cleaning implements borrowed from
the castle's staff. They set about industriously cleaning the spotless
room. There was no chatter, and not a single smile showed among all
eleven newcomers.
Baron Bindrmon watched his people sweeping nonexistent dirt from
the rugs and brushing away nonexistent dust. The frown that pinched his
narrow features didn't lighten at all as his eyes roved over the elegant
room. His search didn't find anything out of place or obviously in need
of fixing, but he didn't halt his people's work either. Instead, he just
shook his head and gave an exasperated sigh.
A thin young man with blond hair and a scar on his cheek appeared
in the doorway. He seemed somewhat out of breath, and he paused for a
moment to collect himself before saying, "Your Excellency?"
Bindrmon turned and the young retainer continued, "He's been
caught, my lord. He's being taken to the place you suggested."
Chak nodded and said, "Good. Let's go, Talss, and get this over
with." He strode out of the room. Talss stepped aside to let his baron
through, then turned and followed him down the hall.
In the room, none of Baron Bindrmon's servants looked up to watch
him go. They all continued to work and still, not one uttered a sound.
The stables of Welspeare Castle were vast and well organized.
Duchess Welspeare hosted all of her barons every third year for the
tax-taking, and there was room enough and more in her stables for the
horses and pack animals of every one of them and their retinues.
The duchess' stablemaster ran his stables with an admirable
efficiency and a huge staff. The stalls and aisles were clean and neat,
and the food troughs were kept filled with fresh oats and grain. The
tack shed was scrupulously organized, and abundantly supplied with
materials and tools for any repairs that might be necessary.
Baron Bindrmon and Talss strode into the stables and headed right
for the section reserved for the Bindrmon stock. As in the guest suite,
the baron's servants were busily forking out the clean, new hay from
each stall that had been assigned to them and replacing it with equally
clean and new hay. Every food trough was emptied, cleaned, and refilled
with new food. The baron's horses were being systematically stripped of
their tack and given stalls. That gear was not being taken to the tack
room. Instead, it was being set out on makeshift tables the way that
Bindrmon's own stablemaster favored. The baron's luggage had been placed
neatly to one side, ready to be carried to the suite when there were
hands free for the task.
As before, not one of the baron's ten people spoke or smiled as
they worked. The sounds of other baronial contingents elsewhere in the
stables, as well as the duchess' own staff, echoed around the large,
airy space, but the only noise in the Bindrmon section was the scrape of
rakes and the rustle of currycombs.
Talss had stopped briefly in the stables upon returning from his
hunting errand. He had informed Chak's stablemaster that the baron would
be riding out again, before proceeding to deliver his message to
Bindrmon. Though Thunder, the baron's horse, had been unsaddled and seen
to first, he was ready once again by the time the Chak arrived.
As the baron was handed the reins to the big black stallion, a
young man stepped out of one of the stalls, his rake held nervously
between his hands, and said, "Please, s-sir?"
Bindrmon turned and focused on the youth, but didn't say anything.
The expression on his face was the same as it had been in the guest
suite, the same as it always was: unreadable.
The young man looked down, suddenly terrified. He was barely old
enough to be called a man: twelve or thirteen summers, almost squiring
age. He still had the rounded face of a child, though his shoulders were
beginning to gain the breadth of an adult. He had a reserve of courage,
too, for he looked up again, and said, "Y-your excellency, is he found?
Is he coming back?"
Baron Bindrmon stared at the youth for several long moments. Did
the baron's frown lighten slightly? Did the downward curve of his mouth
straighten up a tiny bit? Something seemed slightly different about
Chak's face as he said, "No. No, Jurvin, he hasn't been found. You
should not count on his coming back. Now, get to work, straight?"
Jurvin turned and dashed back into the stall, but no rake-scrape
could be heard. Chak looked toward the stall for another moment, then
turned and stepped up onto Thunder. With a glance at Talss, who had
mounted in the meantime and was ready to go, the baron flicked the reins
and set off.
The clearing was about a bell's ride from the outskirts of Fremlow
City, the location of Welspeare Castle. It had once hosted an inn, but
the only indication of that was a paved space that had once been the
inn's courtyard. The well at one edge of the plaza meant that the
clearing was still used frequently by travelers despite its proximity to
Fremlow City.
The five people occupying the clearing weren't thinking of camping
there, though. Four of them were dressed in drab tunics and trousers,
and wore the badge of Baron Bindrmon on their sleeves. The fifth was
wearing the same kind of clothing that was tattered and torn by rough
handling which had also marked his face and body. His sleeve was little
more than strips of cloth after the badge marking his allegiance had
been ripped away. He had been tied to a tree at the edge of the
clearing. His head hung down against his chest, and his breathing was
ragged as he waited for the inevitable.
Baron Bindrmon rode into the clearing atop Thunder with Talss close
behind. One of the waiting men took the reins of both horses as the
newcomers dismounted. Chak strode directly to the restrained man as the
horses were picketed with the rest of the mounts.
The raggedly-garbed man looked up and met his baron's eyes. There
was no hope at all on his face as he stared into Chak's frown. His head
dipped slightly as he responded to the baron's presence in the usual
way. Then he shook his head, straightened his spine, and resumed his
stare.
"Why did you do it, Flitchin?" asked Baron Bindrmon in his deep,
resonant voice.
"It was an accident, my lord," replied Flitchin, purposefully
misunderstanding the question. Talss had joined the others, those who
had helped him hunt down their fellow stablehand, and they now stood in
a half-circle behind Chak. Flitchin looked from to face of his friends.
Aside from a flinch or two as eye met eye, all were as stony-faced as
the baron.
"You know what I mean, Flitchin," intoned Chak. "The cinch-strap
coming loose may or may not have been an accident. The broken chest that
resulted was an inconvenience that caused us to be late arriving at
Welspeare Castle. It was your responsibility to see that the pack-mule's
burden was secure, so it was your responsibility to take the punishment.
"I ask again, why did you run from your responsibility, Flitchin?"
"I ..." Flitchin swallowed convulsively and started again. "I, I
suppose ..." The bound man had begun to hunch over again, his eyes
drifting to his baron's boots as usual. Suddenly, he straightened again,
his eyes a little wild in his hopeless face. "I was tired of it, Baron
Chak. Tired of the 'discipline', tired of the whip, tired of the short
rations, tired of being treated like a slave! So, I ran. I saw my chance
and I took it. Better the life of a beggar, eking out a living from the
scraps of others, should it come to that, than another beating. Does
that help you, Baron Bindrmon?"
Chak was silent for a moment, staring into the eyes of his escaped
servant. Then he said, "Discipline must be maintained. Leniency only
leads to even more slovenly behavior. This method worked for my father
and his father before him, and it has always worked for me.
"You were a good worker, Flitchin. I am sorry, but you forced me
into this position. I would have been inclined to be lenient with the
punishment you earned through your carelessness, in view of your past
service. But by running you have given me no alternative but to deal
with you as severely as I can. Flight is not permitted; you know that,
and the rest of my staff must be reminded of it. Good bye, Flitchin."
Baron Bindrmon turned and walked away from the captive, who had
slumped against his bonds as if his knees had turned to water. The
half-circle audience broke up, and one went over to fetch the Baron's
horse. As Chak mounted, he said to his servants, "You know what to do.
Be quick, but not too merciful, and bury the body back in the woods. I
expect you to return by nightfall."
With a final look at the now weeping prisoner, he rode away.
The outer gate of Welspeare Castle was not a defensible position,
and it had never been intended as one. The gate itself was made of
fancifully wrought iron, and the wall that the gate was set in was no
higher than a tall man could reach. The trees planted within and without
the wall overhung it in both directions, and in places climbing vines
obscured the stonework completely.
The plaza outside this ceremonial gate often attracted merchants
eager for noble pat
ronage, something that the guards at the real gate
piercing the real wall half-a-league within would never permit. Though
the plaza was well-sized, fitting into a half-circle indentation in the
outer wall, only a limited number of merchants could effectively display
their wares within it. It was not a normal market after all, which meant
that the only useful positions were along the direct route to the gates
themselves.
The influx of the duchy's barons for the triennial tax-taking was a
perfect opportunity for eager sellers to display their wares for new
eyes. So prestigious was the occasion that only those merchants with
top-quality wares normally bothered to vie for the limited space
available. Which did not in any way explain the gypsy in the corner.
Baron Bindrmon rode back into the plaza before the outer gate
contemplating a swift return to his own keep. Despite his demeanor, he
was angry about Flitchin. He knew that he drove his servants hard, but
he also provided well for them. They had the best food and the best
quarters he could supply, and they each received a bonus of a Round
every Melrin. All he wanted in return was unswerving loyalty, and a
dedication to their duties. Unfortunately, that had been too much for
Flitchin to give.
Chak seldom spent much time making decisions. He resolved to set
his people to packing up again as soon as he reached the stables, and he
would present his taxes to the duchess' representative in the meantime.
It was late in the day to set out, but the roads in the north of
Welspeare were well maintained, and there was an inn only four bells to
the south. They could reach it safely even traveling in the dark.
The baron rode through the shouting merchants in the plaza without
really hearing any of them; his mind was not on making purchases. The
flash of color in the corner drew his eye, however, and as his path took
him naturally closer and closer to that corner, he looked the gypsy
over.
The man was dressed in the motley colors of one of the Rhydd Pobl,
the wandering gypsies that could be found almost anywhere in Baranur.
His clothes were not, however, made of rags and scraps. Instead, they
had been intentionally cut from diverse types and colors of cloth, in
the manner of a habit of necessity turning into a statement of fashion.
The fine cut and trim fit of the gypsy's clothes almost suited him to
the company of the other jeweled and tailored merchants lining the
plaza.
He stood next to the wall, a bright spot of color against the drab
stone. He had a board in front of him that hung from his neck on a strap
and seemed to be balanced against his midriff. On the cloth-covered
board were a collection of carved wooden statuettes, two fine-looking
daggers shining in the low sun, and a strange piece of broken, sculpted
stone. The latter drew Chak's attention from the colorful clothes of the
gypsy and entranced his gaze with the strange interlacing bands on its
surface, and the raised carvings of two birds and cat along the outer,
half-circle edge.
Thunder carried Baron Bindrmon through the gate automatically,
breaking Chak's eye contact with the fragment of sculpture. Shaking his
head briefly, he blinked a few times, the afterimage of the carving
fading from behind his eyes as the memory of the gypsy faded from his
mind.
The baron rode into the stables and dismounted, handing the reins
to the stablemaster. All of his stock had been taken care of and were
now lodged in their stalls, and the stacked luggage had been cleared
away as well.
Chak said, "When the others return, Ricce, send them up to the
suite. I have some further business for them."
"As you wish, sir," replied the stablemaster without the slightest
hint of curiosity in his voice.
The baron stalked out of the stables, all thoughts of leaving as
soon as possible having been banished by the glimpse of the strange
carving. He now had plans to set in motion, and they had to come to
completion in the next few days. He knew he could trust his servants to
carry them out.
The hallways of the guest wing of Welspeare Castle were as elegant
as the suites to which they gave access. Regularly spaced, arched niches
contained statuary or decorative pottery. Oil lanterns were placed on
either side of these displays. The walls were whitewashed, and hung with
tapestries every ten strides on alternating sides of the hall. A gray
carpet patterned like flagstones lined the center of the floor, with
smaller, brightly colored rugs placed before each niche.
Two bells after Baron Bindrmon's return, Talss and the four other
stablehands who had apprehended Flitchin walked nervously through these
hallways to their baron's suite. The door was open, and they tentatively
entered. The baron was seated at the large table with the floral
centerpiece, picking at a plate of cold meats and cheeses while he
stared at an unrolled parchment next to him.
Chak looked up at the five men ranged on the other side of the
table from him. No one else was in the room. He set down the sausage he
had been chewing on and said, "Baron Durening has arranged a marriage
for his only daughter, Millicet. The talk is all over the castle. I want
it stopped."
Talss spoke the confusion of all five of them with, "Your
Excellency?"
"His name is Brerk. He's the second son of Baron Peil Shaddir. They
made the match over some kind of trade agreement. I want the betrothal
broken."
"Your Excellency?" Talss repeated. "Why?" His confusion had only
deepened.
"Because, Talss, my son Aldan needs a wife too. Durening borders
Bindrmon on the east; I think that I can make a much better deal with
Groon Durening than Peil did. Millicet's dowry will benefit Bindrmon
greatly. I want it, and you lot are going to facilitate getting it for
me."
"Do you mean ... ah ... well, like Flitchin?" Dread filled Talss'
face.
"No, no, no. Killing a noble, even a second son, wouldn't be right.
So, just scare him. Make him back down. Do whatever you have to short of
killing him. Just make sure that you are not seen. And I don't know you
if you are caught."
The five just stood there, uncertain. At first, the baron's frown
deepened, then it lightened after a moment. "I know that this isn't the
kind of thing I normally ask of you, men. But it will benefit your
barony. Do this for Bindrmon, if not for me." He paused, then continued,
"There's a Round in it for each of you. If you perform very well, it
might be two."
The five stablehands looked at each other and, after a moment,
nodded. Talss said, "We will convince Brerk Shaddir to break off his
engagement, your excellency. Consider it done."
They each bowed in turn and left. Baron Bindrmon turned his
attention back to the scroll before the second one was out the door.
Four days later, Chak Bindrmon and Groon Durening were walking
toward the outer gate of Welspeare Castle shortly after fifth bell. The
mid-day sun was being intermittently hidden by large, white clouds, and
the addition of a pleasant breeze made excellent walking weather.
The official tax-taking ceremony had taken place two days
previously, and about a third of Welspeare's sixteen barons had already
departed. Baron Shaddir had left the previous day, after making a public
announcement breaking the betrothal of his second son to Durening's only
daughter. Brerk hadn't been present, but his father had communicated his
regrets for him. Millicet, of course, was heartbroken.
Chak patted Groon consolingly on the shoulder and said, "I'm sorry
to hear about how your plans were disrupted. What do you think you'll do
now?"
"Oh, thank you, Chak. Yes, it was quite a surprise. I thought that
everything was arranged, and then ..." Groon shrugged resignedly, and
continued, "Well, there's nothing I can do about it anyway. Do now? Look
for another husband for Millicet, I suppose. It is so difficult,
though." He paused, then went on in a softer voice, sharing his
confidences. "I should have insisted she marry ten years ago, but she
kept persuading me to wait. But it's past time. She needs a husband."
They passed through the outer gate and between the lines of
merchants on the plaza. Some had departed, feeling that the prime
selling opportunities had passed now that the baronial delegations were
leaving, but the colorful gypsy still stood against the wall. Chak
ignored him as if he wasn't there; Groon was drawn by the half-circle
sculpture on the man's selling board to stand in front of him. Durening
reached out as if to touch the metal and glass bands woven across its
top, but pulled his hand back at the last moment. With a distracted
frown, he turned away and caught up quickly with his friend, Chak.
"I was thinking," began Chak, but Durening interrupted as if he
hadn't even heard Bindrmon's overture. "You have a son, right, Chak?
Adin, or something? Isn't he of marriageable age?"
Chak blinked in surprise and said, "Aldan, yes. Very marriageable.
Very available." When Groon didn't respond, Chak ventured, "Why?" just
as if he didn't know.
"Oh, well ... That is, what would you think about a marriage
between Millicet and Aldan? I know that Millicet is a little old but,
well, I'm sure that we can come to some sort of arrangement of mutual
benefit."
Baron Chak Bindrmon's perpetual frown almost disappeared as he
said, "Yes, I think that we can. Let's talk about it, shall we?"
========================================================================
No Pity to Spare
by Rhonda Gomez
<Rhondagmz@aol.com>
Magnus; Naia 1015
Dungeons are perpetually dark, but at night the quality of that
darkness changes, becomes thicker and more substantial somehow. The
young woman chained to the wall is far too young to be an intimate of
darkness. Nessa's mind fools her into thinking that she cannot see, even
though she can. Nessa is a thief, a pickpocket and a street urchin. She
is seventeen years old and this is not the first time that she has been
a guest in King Haralan's dungeon.
When she was ten, her mother died, followed soon after by her
father, murdered by his own sorrow and cowardice. She remembers the
exact moment that her father died, can still feel the fear and see the
pity in his eyes as his fingers traced over the ragged outline of the
dark, wine-colored stain that mars Nessa's face. "Ah, lass. Why? Why
were ye cursed so?"
She turned from him then, sickened by the fear. "Please Da. Don't."
Nessa's tears lodged in her throat and remained there, choking her with
self-pity for a long, desperate time. The last thing her father said
was, "Wear the scarf, lass. If ye'd worn it when the priest came 'round,
mayhaps we'd have gotten the dole and yer ma wouldn't have wasted away."
Her father died that same day and Nessa began a journey that led,
inevitably, to the cold, damp dungeon below Crown Castle. She never did
cry for her Da.
Nessa had just been caught picking someone's pocket and within a
few bells of being tossed into the dungeon, the darkness reaches out for
her. "Ah, if it isn't my favorite street swine." The guard, who the
others call Hatchet, clutches crudely at his crotch, "Couldn't stay away
from me, eh lass?" Hatchet is accustomed to the pliant defenseless of
prisoners. Nessa knows, all too well, that cruel pinches and slugs of a
mailed fist will accompany his grunted release. She believes, even
though she's too young to understand the implications, that it is her
pain that attracts him: that he is like a bee unable to resist the sweet
nectar of her suffering. He snatches her hair and jerks her head to one
side, exposing the dark stain that wraps around her neck and slides
grotesquely over her right cheek. He fumbles with his breeches and Nessa
swallows the bile that rises in her throat.
A mind can be a sharp and deadly weapon against a guard's heavy
boot parting your thighs, and over the years Nessa has built within her
heart a secret place. She cannot recall the origins of her forest house,
nor exactly when it entered her life; she knows only that it has always
been a part of her. It is her escape; a place of dignity and peace. As
Nessa turns her face to the wall, she feels the silent strength of her
mind, and the cold mail of his fist sliding up the inside of her thigh
becomes the fluid coolness of spring water. The oppressive weight of his
body becomes the sweet tightness of exertion as she climbs to a hilltop
glen. When the pain begins, Nessa is well within the confines of her
sanctuary. When he's finished, the guard's ignorance allows him to
believe that the look on her face signifies enjoyment and Nessa doesn't
care what he thinks, she knows he'll return and that her forest house
will be there to shelter her.
A doomed man joins her in the dungeon that night, dragged in by
angry guards. Nessa is bruised and battered; one eye is swollen shut and
the dungeon's darkness threatens to consume her. But Nessa doesn't need
to see. She hears the guards as they spit his name out of mouths twisted
with rage. She feels Mal's agony pouring from his body like sweat. Nessa
knows the routine and stares blindly into the dark as stiff leather
cuffs are strapped around his wrists and ankles. He will be bound to the
wall next to her by short chains, leaving barely enough room to squat on
the floor; never enough room to lie down to rest, or even enough room to
lie down to die.
After the guards leave, Nessa crouches on the floor, listening for
any hint of him. Silence does not exist inside the darkness of a
dungeon; there is a constant clamor of cursing guards, rattling chains
and moaning prisoners surrounding them. She has witnessed too many
prisoners being tossed into dungeons and even the strongest warrior will
thrash and call out at the first hint of lost freedom. Mal remains
silent and still for so long that she begins to think him daft.
Eventually, she realizes that she doesn't need to hear him either;
the stench of his defeat is overpowering. From the beginning, the guards
call him a killer. He doesn't seem like a killer to her; he seems dead.
There is an air of hopelessness that surrounds Mal, and Nessa imagines
that she can see it glowing in the dark.
Nessa's heart holds little capacity for compassion and she wills
herself to scorn Mal. She believes he is weak and doesn't fully
understand why she begins to speak to him, but talking soon becomes a
habit: whispered words, battered against the inside of their cage. "If
you lift your head to the north, you can still detect the faint scent of
winter blanketing the land," she intones and is astonished at the sound
of her own voice, alive with promise, while inside she feels as dead as
he. "The sun is waning and the birds are winging home to rest." Mal
doesn't move, doesn't give any indication that he has heard her at all.
She closes her eyes and leans back against the weeping wall. "I can
smell the faint scent of a burning hearth and it draws me away from the
village and into the forest." She hears him then, as he shuffles as
close to her as his chains will allow. She's astonished to discover that
she doesn't mind; he can join her, if it helps.
She speaks a little louder, making sure that he can follow. "Under
the trees, darkness cloaks us in a protective layer and we are hidden
from the gods that rule our lives. The forest is frozen in that peculiar
unsilence of prey and predator." She hears him breathing next to her,
"We've entered the forest at the head of a tiny, struggling spring."
Inside the dungeon, Nessa inhales a deep breath of air rank with the
scent of human captivity, while inside her head she sees the rise of the
land as it makes its way past the stream. "The water trickles over
smooth, liquid rocks and the green scent of life greets us." Nessa hears
the call of a night raven high above. "Listen. Do you hear it? The
goddess Cahleyna comes, trailing the moon behind her." As she starts to
cross the stream, she looks back over her shoulder and he is there,
shuffling along. The realization that Mal, too, can inhabit her secret
place jolts her from her reverie and she will never again return to that
place without the vaguely oppressive knowledge that Mal is her
companion.
The next day Mal has a visitor, a priest searching for lost souls.
At first, he only stares at the priest, but soon Mal begins to talk,
slowly and then with increasing anguish. His tale is a bitter one, full
of hateful jealousy and death for the betrayed, as well as the
betrayers. He explains to the priest how he had been falsely accused of
burning his village and that, in the end, he had murdered the one truly
responsible. Mal tells the priest, in a voice devoid of life, that he
has been condemned to hang. With a wickedness that startles her, Nessa
finds it amusing that the priest's bag of tricks are ineffective against
Mal's torment. Mal is too consumed by his own agony to care much for
redemption and Nessa knows the priest doesn't leave the dungeon that day
with any redeemed souls.
In Mal, Nessa sees her own suffering and after the priest leaves,
she strains her eyes, eager to see if his hatred pours from him like
smoke, but all she sees is death. She feels an insistent need building
in the pit of her stomach, an inexplicable urge to flee to her haven.
She continues weaving the spell that comforts them, "It's morning now
and the forest is alive. The leaves rustle under our feet and the wind
blows a cool, welcome breeze along our backs. We're moving to higher
ground. The trees are huge up here, ancient sentinels guarding the heart
of the wood. The forest crowds us, moves in closer and becomes thicker.
Up ahead we see a small clearing. That's our destination." Her voice
rises in pitch and Mal moves as close to her as his short chains will
allow. "The glen is no larger than the house that inhabits its space. A
perfectly-lined stone fence is all that restrains the forest from
totally overtaking the cottage. Smoke curls from the chimney and a lamp
burns brightly through a small window beside the door." Nessa feels the
serenity of the place and she wraps it about her like armor. "Oh, yes.
By Araminia, it is quiet here."
In the forest, she rests her hand upon a wooden gate and she feels
Mal's warm breath along her neck and his hand clutching her arm as he
urges her forward. He whispers, "Let's go inside".
Nessa chokes, "No! No, we can't." The cottage recoils from her and
shatters into tiny, frozen embers. She scrambles onto all fours and
lunges away from him, stretching her chains to the very end. She has
never gone inside the forest house. She fancies herself being patient,
waiting to get the full measure of the place before venturing over its
threshold. But she is afraid. On the surface her life is difficult
enough to bear; slipping below that turbulent edge is unthinkable. Nessa
suspects that the forest house is as empty as her life and the thought
terrifies her.
The day of the priest's visit is to be the last day of Mal's life.
During the night, the bitterness that burns inside of Mal grows until it
fills the dungeon. Like the relentlessness of a hungry flame, his defeat
washes over Nessa, forcing her to embrace the desperation of her own
self-pity.
It is a terrible thing to relive all the sorrow of a lifetime in
one instant; when it is watered down by the daily chore of living, it is
easier to ignore. The years rush through Nessa's head like water rushing
over a cliff. She hears the taunts of her childhood, "What is that ugly
stain on yer face girl? Is it the mark of the demon Xothar?" She sees
the children run from her, and whispers resound inside her head, "Nay
lass, we've no work for the likes of ye." Huddled on the floor of the
dungeon, she recalls when the bitterness of self-pity had begun to eat
away at her heart. She was only a child when she first realized that,
unlike the other children, she would never evoke more than fear and
loathing, never love or tenderness. That bitterness had eventually
devoured her.
They come for Mal before dawn. He doesn't resist, as do most of the
dying. As soon as Nessa hears them, her voice begins again, with the
soft rhythm of all stories. In their secret place, she takes his hand
and leads him inside the stone wall. "The sun is sinking below the
surface of the forest and wood smoke trails over the trees." When the
guards release him and he is no longer bound to the wall, he turns to
her and she knows, in spite of his agony, that he is ready to accept
whatever fate the gods have decreed. She continues to talk even as they
lead him away. "The grasp of winter's cold chill is defeated yet again
and we can feel the land stir beneath us. The trees stretch their roots
deep into the soil, their arms high into the sky. There is no one here
to see us. We are free to do as we please."
Softly, carried on the air, she hears the roar of the crowd
outside. She feels the old, familiar tingling along her neck and face
and recalls how often she has endured the stares of others, fear evident
in their eyes and disgust stamped on their faces. Back in the forest,
she has her hand on the door to the cottage. "Yes, let's go inside.
Look, it is safe and warm." She no longer speaks aloud, but Mal is with
her still; she feels him there as she pushes on the door. Outside she
hears the shouted command, and inside she sees the door slowly swinging
open. Nessa hears a thud as the rope jerks around Mal's neck and the
door to her forest house swings wide. Her heart thunders up into her
throat and she hears from inside the cottage, a man's soft, slow voice.
"There is no greater light than a meager candle burning in the dark and
nothing more courageous than the strength required to make the long and
difficult journey from dusk to dawn." Nessa doesn't look back as she
takes that final step over the threshold and into the forest house.
========================================================================
