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DargonZine Volume 14 Issue 09
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 14
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 9
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DargonZine Distributed: 12/21/2001
Volume 14, Number 9 Circulation: 731
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Jakob Sings of Monstrous
Things 1 Victor M. Cardoso 2 Ober, 1018
The Measure of His Love 1 Jim Owens Naia, 1007
========================================================================
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/, or our FTP site at
ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 14-9, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright December, 2001 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>
With the approach of the new year, it's time for us to celebrate
another anniversary of DargonZine's founding by looking back at the year
gone by. 2001 really wasn't a bad year for us, but it doesn't compare
very well with our annual performance since 1995. Perhaps we just needed
to take a little rest after five consecutive years of growth!
The Dargon Project's health can be measured in a number of ways,
but they all center on our two main constituencies: our readers, and our
writers.
Twelve months ago, it looked like we were doing great with our
readers. We had a record number of subscribers, and we were getting more
feedback than ever from them via the new story rating system we'd
implemented. With that in mind, last year we planned to put a great deal
of effort into bringing new readers to our site through press releases,
print advertising, and so forth. Unfortunately, the only Dargon writer
with any public relations experience, Brandon Haught, had to leave the
project at the end of January, so that initiative never took place. To
make matters worse, our primary means of publicity was taken away from
us when our ISP forbade us from posting issue announcements to fantasy
and writing newsgroups such as rec.arts.sf.written, an action that we
still strongly disagree with. Because of that loss of visibility, our
rate of new subscribers has dropped for the first time in five years,
and our circulation has contracted slightly. With fewer than 750
subscribers, we go into 2002 needing to find a new way to reach fantasy
fans who will enjoy our stories.
2001 presented similar challenges in terms of our writers.
Typically, we have two to three dozen writers on staff; about half are
longtime participants, and the other half are writers who have recently
joined the group. Despite having established a mentoring program back in
1998 that encourages new writers by pairing them up with Dargon
veterans, only two new writers had stories published in the magazine in
2001. In addition, the shortage of stories from our freshman class was
matched by an unprecedented lull in contributions from our
upperclassmen. All year long, it seemed like every one of us had
something going on which took precedence over writing and the goals we'd
set for ourselves. On top of that, in February we lost two of our most
productive veteran writers: Max Khaytsus and Mark Murray. With very few
new stories to print, we abandoned our publishing schedule in the latter
half of the year, putting out four fewer issues and ten fewer stories in
2001 than we did the year before. Similar to the situation with our
readership, we enter 2002 with a sparse pipeline of stories, and the
hopes that things will pick up again soon.
Of course, 2001 wasn't all negative. After about five years'
effort, we finally finished adding 17 years' worth of information to our
reference database; after writing descriptions for 8500 appearances of
characters and places in our stories, our Online Glossary is now
complete. We also enhanced our mentoring program by creating a FAQ to
help new mentors understand their responsibilities, and provided them
with a forum for exchanging advice and opinions with other mentors. And
we helped our writers in several other ways: by giving them a new CD-ROM
with every available bit of Dargon reference material, producing a
detailed and insightful FAQ about co-authoring, and starting our first
interactive online chat sessions for our contributors.
But despite these accomplishments, 2001 was still a year of
challenges. We have been challenged to find new and better ways of
accomplishing our mission: getting the word out to prospective readers,
nurturing our new writers, and keeping both our new and veteran writers
productive. In 2001, our old methods broke down, and now we must stand
up and address these issues in the coming year, our 18th year on the
Internet. Shortly after this issue is distributed, our writers and I
will be discussing our goals for 2002 and how to do a better job at what
we do. Since you, our readers, are a large part of what makes the
project work, we'd love to hear any suggestions you have regarding these
specific challenges. Please send any thoughts on this topic to
<ornoth@shore.net>, and I will share them with our writers.
In the meantime, I'd like to introduce the first chapters in two
fabulous new two-part stories.
"Jakob Sings of Monstrous Things" is a wonderfully eerie and
haunting story. It is Victor Cardoso's third story, after having joined
the project back in 1999. And veteran Jim Owens brings us a fascinating
parable in his two-part "The Measure of His Love", which has taken
nearly four years to make its way into the pages of DargonZine. I hope
you enjoy these stories as much as I did.
For the conclusions to these and other great stories, stay with us
in 2002 and beyond, as we continue to share the wonderful stories
written by our staff of aspiring writers.
========================================================================
Jakob Sings of Monstrous Things
Part 1
by Victor M. Cardoso
<viktor@mac.com>
2 Ober, 1018
A heavy gale stormed its way through the narrow valley of poplar,
setting trees flailing and whispering huskily as if startled by the
intrusion. From their branches fell brittle, autumn leaves that covered
the woodland floor like fiery snowflakes, mingling with the sprawling
bracken and dying ferns. The valley's western slope rose lazily to
become the squat, bleak peak of Gor Gariner, which cast a shadow in the
late dusk over the forest at its back.
"He who walks with cautious steps and withheld breath deceives
himself ..."
Wolcott Thyle faced the chill wind that came off the ill-regarded
mount of the Darst Range and recalled those words as he walked
determinedly through the underbrush of mulched leaves.
"For in the heart of every man lies a beast whose home is the dark
sanctuary of the forest."
Pillars of trunks stretched before him, each one a possible hiding
place for the fugitive.
Wolcott's gray eyes watered unexpectedly, shedding a tear that
streaked across his weathered and white-bearded face. He wiped at it
with a callused hand. The wind's insistent presence masked any sounds of
movement, and there had been scarcely a trace found of the man that he
and the others from Kenna had pursued all afternoon. The morning had
revealed a hastily beaten path along the Coldwell's banks, headed
southeast into the forest and mountains. Their prey should have been
more careful than that, as any local would have used the well-worn gully
further upstream. It was a sign as obvious as a smoking fire.
A hand grasped his shoulder and Wolcott turned quickly, hunting
knife drawn. A younger man with curly brown hair and the beginnings of a
beard stepped back. Wolcott sighed. It was Feddoran.
"Come with me," the boy shouted over the wind, "Willit found
something."
The woodsman backtracked and climbed after his friend up the
valley's slope. Under a ledge that wound its way like a scar on the
landscape, some of the undergrowth had been cleared and a pit hollowed
in the rocky soil. Blackened leaves and twigs filled the depression.
Wolcott kneeled and stuck his fingers in the ashes. They were faintly
warm.
Across from him, one of the men looked on with hunched shoulders,
as if it took all his strength to keep his hands still. And while the
man's square jaw projected an image of steadiness, muscles twitched just
beneath the skin.
"He can't hide forever."
"No," Wolcott agreed, brushing his fingers clean. "He can't."
There were tracks continuing eastward in the soft earth, staying
close to the ledge. Rising to his feet, the old man wondered numbly how
this had all come to pass. A sennight prior, there had been no hunt, no
worry, no distrust ...
"Heave!"
A dozen arms tensed. Grunts escaped tightly clenched lips. The old,
grizzled trunk rose begrudgingly from its rest as men on either side of
it lifted it from the ground.
Wolcott came forward to throw a broad leather strap, blessed by a
wizard for strength, over the end. The strap fit snuggly, and he worked
to pull it down further on what would become one of the two central
posts for the new dock. Around him, the men strained to keep the thick
trunk upright.
"C'mon, Wolcott," cried a voice in the distance.
The woodsman ignored the jeer and continued his work. The strap had
to be placed an arm's length from the top of the trunk, to be later
covered with rope that would help bind the pillar to the beam nailed to
it.
"Are ya' going to strap it or fark it?" the voice interrupted
again.
Wolcott became increasingly aware of the strained breathing of the
surrounding men. Giving one final tug, he pushed the strap down to the
appropriate position. He stepped back and motioned to the group. The men
groaned and let the beam thud to the ground, a cloud of dust lifting
with its impact.
Wolcott's taunter was revealed as the dust blew away, a comely,
fair-haired lad stripped to his waist, who sat atop one of the finished
posts in the riverbed.
"Hylan," the woodsman yelled back. "Remind me again why I dunnit
take my hammer to your thick head?"
"Because you'd ruin a good hammer," Feddoran answered from behind.
The gathering of men laughed. The building of the new dock was a
fairly light-hearted affair. Most of the workers came from the lands and
fields surrounding Kenna and were eager to help in the construction. The
new dock would help accommodate growing river traffic on the Coldwell
and bring more trading to the young village. Already, a new merchant's
house was going up on Main Street in anticipation of the dock's
completion.
"What's going through your mind, Wolcott?"
Feddoran appeared at the woodsman's elbow, the youth wiping a film
of sweat from his brow. He was a small lad who came up just above
Wolcott's shoulder. Being on the younger side, Feddoran was prone to
being pushed around by the others and Wolcott had struck up a fatherly
relationship with him. The woodsman's own children had never lived out
of childhood.
"Just a lot of nonsense, Feddoran," Wolcott sighed. "It seems only
a sennight ago Elijah and Mariel Kenna were setting up their trading
post here ... Now look at the place." He motioned to the throng of
children that were playing at the water's edge, the dozen other men
involved in the cutting of planks and splitting of lumber for the dock.
"Times change," Feddoran agreed, although the young man was hardly
of the age to remember the old days. "My father says that maybe, at some
point soon, Kenna will be larger than Dargon if it keeps growing at this
pace!"
Wolcott shook his head at the lofty vision. "No, times aren't
changing that fast," the old man muttered. "And I wouldn't want them to.
There are some things better left in Dargon that I wouldn't want in
Kenna -- and that you would not want either." Feddoran was too young to
know the harshness of the world, or what its harshness did to others.
A few catcalls and whistles interrupted their conversation. Wolcott
turned to catch Naris, Hylan's girl, walking towards the group, a
stranger in tow. Skirts in hand, she picked her way among the wood chips
and logs, shooting a disarming grin at a number of admirers who returned
the gesture happily. She was an image of beauty -- a delicate chin and
full lips beneath soft, brown eyes crowned by long lashes. Wolcott
chuckled as he saw Feddoran straighten his posture.
"Naris, who's yer new beau?" someone called out.
"Looks like he delivers more'n Hylan can offer!" another cried.
The stranger behind her smiled tentatively, his eyes moving from
unknown face to unknown face. He was thin of build with rough-cut black
hair and ragged boots. The mended pack and unshaven face stood in sharp
contrast to his pale blue eyes, alert and scrutinizing the scene around
him. This was a man who knew the harshness of the world.
"What's this?" a voice called out. Hylan's face appeared amidst the
crowd and he rushed determinedly towards Naris, lifting her off her feet
and throwing her over his shoulder. She squealed and beat her hands
against his rump, much to the delight of the gathered men.
"Put me down, Hylan!" she yelled.
"What? Who said that?" Hylan asked. He turned around mockingly,
looking for the source of the voice. Laughs burst out in the crowd.
"You know perfectly well who said that," Naris replied, "and if you
dunnit put me down this instant, you won't ever get a chance to put me
down again, if you get my meaning!"
A number of the men chuckled and Hylan's eyes grew wide in mock
fear. He squatted to let Naris down, and as she regained her balance she
thumped him heartily on the chest with a balled fist.
"Ow!" Hylan answered, catching her wrists. "Well, dearest, how do
you expect me to react when you bring a new man about?"
"This man is for Wolcott," she stated, her cheeks flushed.
"Ho, ho!" Hylan replied. He let go of her and stepped back to throw
a sweaty arm around Wolcott's shoulders. "That's right nice of you,
Naris! The woodsman doesn't seem to have much luck with the ladies!
Perhaps a man would serve him well."
A few more whistles cut the air.
The girl came forward and put a hand on Wolcott's face, patting it
gently: "He stays away from the ladies because I keep 'im well
satisfied, love."
The gathered crowd roared in response.
Wolcott rolled his eyes and shrugged off Hylan's embrace. "Enough
of this, you two! Ol's Balls, if you talk this much when alone it's a
wonder you ever get a chance to kiss!" He turned to the stranger.
"You'll excuse your welcome, sir. My name is Wolcott Thyle, a woodsman
who has to put up with these runts. How do men know you?"
The stranger grinned at Hylan and Naris, appearing amused by their
antics. "By the name of Graham Walker, sir."
"Well, Graham, how can we be of help?"
"He comes from Dargon," Naris volunteered.
"Yes," Graham answered, nodding to her. "I heard upriver that there
was need of men in Kenna to help build a bridge?"
"Dock," Wolcott corrected, "but we need carpentry skills
nonetheless. Do you have such skills?"
Hylan came forward and poked Graham's arms. "I dunnit know,
Wolcott," the man tsked. He circled the stranger and looked at him as if
he were appraising a horse. "Thin arms, flat chest ... You know them
Dargonites. He dunnit look like he has enough skill to nail a board."
Without missing a beat, Graham met Hylan's gaze and replied: "Why
don't you ask Naris? She knows my nailing quite well."
The men surrounding them laughed hard at Hylan's shocked look and
Naris came up to Graham and intertwined his arm in her own.
Wolcott extended a hand in friendship to the newcomer at once,
saying: "Any man who can make Hylan eat his own words is welcome in
Kenna, my friend."
"My friend ..."
Darkness had fallen across the wood, and the band from Kenna had
camped for the evening after following a trail haphazardly east and
south deeper into the mountain range. They caught no glimpse of the
fugitive, and his tracks were lost from time to time among the scree and
crags. The group had spread themselves apart, Feddoran and Willit
bringing up the rear and occasionally scouting behind to see if their
prey had looped back.
Wolcott sat across from Hylan, a fire between them. The younger
man, once a source of endless jokes and pranks now stared vacantly into
the flames, casually breaking twigs at his feet and throwing them into
the crackling mass. The laughing, jovial Hylan had been broken, much
like the twigs in his hands, and his remains cast into a flame that
could not be so easily extinguished.
"We should cut a trail southward tomorrow," Wolcott said suddenly,
breaking the silence which had prevailed since setting camp. "It's
possible we may get ahead of his trail once he realizes he cannot cross
Marrow's Gorge."
Hylan shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.
Wolcott watched the darkness that gathered about his friend's
shoulders and face. It was deeper than merely shadows cast from the
surrounding forest. Bits of the woodland leaves and twigs littered
Hylan's blonde hair, emphasizing a look of madness. The woodsman
couldn't recall ever seeing the youth look this way.
"It wasn't your fault, Hylan," Wolcott offered across the distance.
Hylan raised his eyes from the fire. In their depths smoldered a
deeper flame.
"Isn't it?" he asked simply. He looked to say more but then closed
his mouth, tightening his lips against his teeth.
"We seek the man who performed the wrong," Wolcott countered.
"Oh, I know who committed the greater wrong, woodsman." Hylan
nodded slightly, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them with
broad arms. "But there are other wrongs to account for."
Wolcott didn't answer, unsure of how to respond.
"There was a wrong of jealousy," Hylan continued, moving his gaze
back to the fire. "A wrong of mistrust and of leaving her to walk home
-- " his voice choked and he stopped speaking, swallowing with
difficulty.
There was a rustle from the darkness and Feddoran came into the
fire's light. He moved his gaze from Hylan to Wolcott uncertainly, aware
that he had walked into a conversation.
"What do you want, Feddoran?" Hylan asked thickly, his eyes glassy
but fierce.
The younger man squatted by the fire's edge, again turning his
head, first to Wolcott, then to Hylan. "Willit and I didn't spot any
fires in the distance ..." he started hesitantly. "And I was thinking
about our pursuit ... about which way we should go in the morning.
Wolcott and I spoke of this earlier. I know he's of the mind to try and
cut the fugitive off. But I wondered if we should not go south but
instead travel east?"
Hylan glared at him contemptuously. "We go south," he answered.
"But the trails show him going east," Feddoran protested. "If we go
south, we may lose him."
"Marrow's Gorge will stop his passing," Wolcott said. "And he will
not dare the higher peaks to the north. Other men from Kenna were sent
to warn the brothers of Coldwell Abbey. They know to be on the lookout
for his passage. It also seems likely that the fugitive knows there are
pursuers. If we travel south, we'll intercept his passage."
"But won't a madman dare anything to prevent capture?" Feddoran
asked.
"Your decision-making isn't worth Nehru's Pointy Nose, Feddoran,"
Hylan snapped. "You've been incompetent since the day you were born.
Leave the decisions to the men."
Feddoran's face turned red, noticeable even in the firelight. "Well
at least I'm doing something to help, Hylan."
"Help?" Hylan shouted. He rose to his feet, fists bunched. "You
question my contribution?"
Wolcott rose quickly, intercepting Hylan's movement towards
Feddoran. It was a feeling of helplessness that drove this argument.
"Hylan," he commanded. "We are all helping in this quest. Dunnit get
angry at Feddoran for simply making a suggestion."
There was murder in Hylan's grimace and his fists trembled. He
lowered his arms and swallowed heavily. Wiping his eyes with haste, he
stumbled toward the forest and disappeared from sight. Feddoran was left
shaking by the fire.
"Thank you, Wolcott," he said.
"Dunnit mind me," the woodsman replied sharply, "mind your tongue.
Hylan should not have come with us in this state. I should have had the
presence of mind to forbid it, but he's here and there's naught we can
do now. His memories are clouding his thoughts, driving him to act. It's
best that we all look to not anger him further."
Feddoran nodded. "I kn-know," he stuttered, "I didn't mean to make
him think ..." his words drifted into the night.
Wolcott continued to stare in the direction Hylan had gone.
Memories were dangerous things, lurking in the back of one's mind. The
woodsman had his own memories to deal with, trying to determine where
his judgement had gone wrong ...
"How goes the dock, boys?"
"It goes, Elijah."
Wolcott and Hylan sat in the back of the River's Edge, a tavern on
Kenna's Main Street. The two drank ale while mopping the remains of
their stew with last night's bread. Elijah Kenna, one of the city's
founders, took a seat between them, producing a flask from his satchel
and placing it squarely on the table.
"What's this?" Hylan asked, greedily taking the bottle into his
hands.
"Sarna's Blood," Kenna answered. He reached over and took the flask
back. Unstopping the cork, he poured some into the two men's cups.
Wolcott made a movement to stop him, but Hylan pushed his hands away.
"Come on, woodsman! You spend your day ordering us about, playing
at lord, enjoy some of the rewards!"
"Hylan has a point," Elijah agreed. "Let's celebrate somewhat,
Wolcott. I've been to your home in the woods, I know you enjoy a good
drink." He winked conspiratorially. "Besides, it seems that you and the
men make good progress."
"If you call the jokes and the pranks progress ..." Wolcott
muttered between bites.
"They're harmless, Wolcott!"
"What pranks?" Kenna asked.
At that moment the newcomer, Graham, entered the empty tavern, his
clothes thoroughly drenched. He'd been with the group for several days
now and unfortunately had been the butt of many a joke.
Wolcott groaned and pointed towards the stranger. "Throw you into
the river again, Graham?"
"One could say that," Graham replied. He pulled off his shirt and
walked towards the group. The back of the tavern was where most of the
out-of-town workers slept.
"We all know Dargonites like to keep clean," Hylan chuckled under
his breath.
Wolcott glared at his friend. "Elijah," he asked, changing the
subject, "have you met our newest man, Graham Walker of Dargon? I dunnit
believe he was here last you came 'round."
Graham bowed while undoing his trousers. "You'll excuse my state
milord, I don't usually bare myself to strangers on our first meeting."
Elijah laughed, "It's all right, Graham. When you're through, sit
down and have a drink with us!"
"Yes, Graham," Hylan said, "Elijah's broken out the heavy brew!"
The Dargonian rummaged through his belongings and pulled off his
trousers. "No thanks, gents. I'll take a glass of ale, but I'm just as
happy to stay away from the stiffer drinks. I roamed Dargon at the
bottom of a cask for a few seasons. It's a familiar poison I could do
without."
"Graham," Elijah Kenna called, "What is that mark you bear?"
Wolcott had noticed it as well, at another time when the man had
been thrown into the river. A fist-sized blossom lay on his waist with
something that looked like lettering at its center. The woodsman
couldn't read, so he had no idea what it said.
"Just a mark, my lord, nothing more."
"I'd hardly recognize it if I hadn't spent some time in Magnus,"
Kenna said to Wolcott. "Isn't that a mark of the Bardic College?" he
called out.
"Yes," Graham said, throwing his wet clothes into a corner, "but I
have never attended. 'Twas a joke -- from some comrades who remarked on
my singing ability and took advantage of my drunken state."
"Does the naked bird sing?" Naris' voice interrupted. She stood at
the door to the tavern, leaning against its threshold and grinning
wickedly.
Graham grabbed a shirt and covered himself hastily while the other
men shouted at her.
"Naris!" Hylan yelled and rose to his feet. The girl winked before
ducking back out. Graham pulled the shirt over his body and shook his
head. "That girl is a handful, Hylan."
"For all her flirting, Graham, her heart belongs to me," the
fair-haired man responded, still frowning at the door.
The Dargonian pulled on a dry set of pants, and only Wolcott
noticed the sly smile on his face. "She has a queer way of showing it,"
Graham remarked.
"What do you see?"
Wolcott lowered his hand from his eyes. "Not enough," he answered.
The Darst woodlands still held too much foliage for him to glimpse
any details beneath their canopy. Wolcott was not used to hunting men.
Bears and wolves, those were his usual fare and their actions were
predictable: find the lair or the watering hole and lay in wait; you'd
be likely to find the prey then. But here he was laying traps and
guessing the mind of a criminal in the foothills of the granite range.
Hylan hadn't returned that night, but instead appeared as the camp
was being disbanded. Wolcott had dreamed of the man searching the forest
by moonlight, trying to find the source of his distress and twist its
dark-haired head from its body. The woodsman wasn't even sure what he'd
do when they found Graham. Could he really prevent Hylan from exacting
his revenge? Didn't the Dargonian deserve his fate?
Feddoran stood a dozen steps behind, surveying another expanse of
land. The wind, blowing from the direction of Gor Gariner, had picked up
again in the morning, as if conspiring against them. It whipped past the
two men on the outcrop even now, making hearing any noises from the
valleys below impossible. Marrow's Gorge, several peaks north and
visible only as a grim, jagged line from this distance, should have
stopped Graham's progress. That is, unless the madness which prompted
his crime also drove him to commit suicide. The chasm's walls were steep
enough to prevent crossing unless a traveler hiked far north or south to
find a natural bridge. It was unlikely Graham would risk coming across
them by traveling north.
"You know, I still have nightmares," Feddoran said unexpectedly.
Wolcott turned. The younger man surveyed the land before him
without emotion, almost unwilling to meet the woodsman's eyes.
"It was a horrible sight," Wolcott replied.
"Naris' body, yes," Feddoran said, nodding. "But I also mean of
Graham's tale that night. The hunting ... the restlessness ... I've
never heard a song of that ilk." Almost level with them, a hawk circled
above one of the valleys, riding the currents of the mountains expertly
and almost lazily. It, too, was hunting. "Do you ever feel what Graham
spoke of?"
Wolcott thought about the question for a moment. Had he ever felt
that way? He stooped to pick up a rock at his feet. "Of murder? No,
Feddoran. But the passion, the feeling of something within? Yes, lad, I
do. I think every man does at some point in his life." He threw the
stone out above the colored mantle of the forest, watching its journey
as it fell among some of the trees further out. "The human soul is full
of passions, not all of them of good intent. If it's any consolation, it
lessens with age. Come on, let's head towards the river. He couldn't
possibly pass us higher."
The wind whistled at their backs as they descended, its melody a
dark song, just as puzzling and seductive as Graham's on that fatal
night ...
"Heave!"
The group of men brought the tankards to their lips, slamming back
the contents, some of which splashed about their chins and down the
fronts of untucked, unlaced shirts. The evening's revelry had started a
bell prior.
Wolcott and Naris stood at the door to the River's Edge, taking in
the scene before them.
Hylan sat at a table by the hearth's side, drinking greedily with
the group. He brought his tankard down first, thumping its bottom
against the table and wiping his mouth while laughing. "Now that's what
I call work!" he announced to the men around him.
Graham also sat at Hylan's table, albeit slumped with a mug spilled
by his arms. Wolcott approached and sat down across from him while Naris
took a seat beside the Dargonian.
"Graham?" Wolcott called. The man raised his head slowly. "Hylan,
what's the meaning of this? I thought Graham didn't drink heavily?"
"He didn't, up until a bell ago," Hylan winked. "The boy asked for
some ale and that's what we gave him, more or less ..." The men around
him broke into laughter. "It's a shame our pretty Dargonite can't hold
his liquor better."
"Oh, Hylan!" Naris scolded. She started to pat Graham's cheeks to
awaken him but Hylan grabbed her arms and pushed her away roughly.
"Dunnit touch him!" Hylan growled, his eyes full of anger. "He'll
be fine." He put a friendly arm around Graham's shoulder. "How do you
feel, Dargonite?"
Graham shook his head, his eyes unfocused. "What's going on?" he
asked. More laughter from those at the other tables.
"We're hoping Graham will sing for us," Feddoran shouted from
across the room. Naris' eavesdropping had made its way around the
workers the day before. Now the men in the tavern started banging their
cups against the tables in unison, chanting loudly "Sing! Sing! Sing!"
Graham stood up unsteadily, a severe look on his face.
"Stop!" he shouted, but the chanting continued. "I do not sing," he
declared. But, for a moment his strength sapped and he leaned one arm
heavily against the table. "I mustn't ..." he mumbled, as if pleading to
Wolcott and Naris.
"Aw," Hylan chided. "What's the matter with our Dargonite bard?
What's happened to your golden tongue, Graham? Did some pretty pussy
trap it?" He took another long draught and looked accusingly at Naris.
"I'm warning you, Hylan," Graham snarled.
"Ah, he probally wannit any good at it anyway," someone else chimed
in.
At that remark, Graham's back straightened as if an invisible hand
had jerked the strings of his pride. "Any good at it?" he shouted. He
let out a laugh, a look of incredulity on his bleary face. "Good at it?"
he repeated. "Oh you idiots!" His laughter changed into a shriek.
"All of you! Look at you!" he declared. He picked up his discarded
mug in a fist and threw it at one of the men at another table. "You sit
in your safe little houses, your cozy groups of friendships. Has any of
you ever been to Magnus? Been beyond Dargon?"
Some of the men in the room stirred, muttering amongst themselves,
but no one answered the question.
"I didn't think so," Graham replied derisively. "You act all high
and mighty here in Kenna, under the watchful eye of Elijah and Wolcott
-- but this is no city, no destination worth traveling to. You fool
yourselves in your naivete!"
"Graham," Naris pleaded, pulling at his arm. "Please, sit down."
"No," Hylan called from his seat, his eyes glittering dangerously.
"Why dunnit you enlighten us, Graham? Share some of your worldly
wisdom." Around the room, a few of the other men echoed Hylan's
statement.
Graham stood there, his fists clenched, as if holding an internal
debate. But as the taunting calls for his wisdom grew, his fingers
eased, as if some battle had been resolved.
"My worldly wisdom," he snorted. "I have no worldly wisdom to
share, Hylan. I have stories: stories of men's cruelties, wives'
infidelities, and the world's ideas of justice. I have despair, Hylan,
that's what I have."
He stumbled away from Wolcott and Naris, over to the neighboring
table and took a man's tankard straight from his hands. Gulping down the
contents, he tossed it onto the rough planks of the floor and kicked it.
"Each of you knows despair, don't you?" he asked, almost cheerily.
"Or perhaps you're too simple-minded for it. You know lust, don't you?"
At the mention of the word lust, some of the more drunken men stirred.
Graham nodded smugly. "There's an easy emotion. Yes, each one of you
knows that. I've seen it in your eyes from time to time. But have any of
you ever acknowledged it? Acknowledged how deeply it courses within
you?"
Graham stopped in the middle of the room and lifted his head to the
bare, wooden supports of the tavern. From his throat issued a song the
men could not identify, but in its sweet melody and haunting notes it
spoke of darkness. Dangerous shadows grew in the corners, and the
roaring fire burned more intensely behind the Dargonian, transforming
him into a silhouette of a man, a demon borne of the hearth's anger.
Wolcott could not tear his eyes from Graham's form; his growing terror
would not allow it. Around him, at the other tables, the fidgeting and
drinking stopped. The room's attention focused on Graham utterly.
The vocals from the song ceased, but the would-be bard did not drop
his eyes from the ceiling. Graham looked up with a fierce passion, the
lines of his neck strained. "I once knew a man who knew lust," he
hummed. "A lust so strong it would choke any of you who tasted it.
"He went by the name of Delial Barrond. A simple man, much of the
likes of all of you. He had no family worth speaking of and lived in a
village, much like this sopping pit in the center of nowhere. He worked
hard, he drank with his so-called friends, but in his breast he harbored
a secret. A deep secret that he shared with no one. Not his father, not
his friends, not even with the occasional wench that shared his bed."
Graham dropped his gaze, leveled it at Hylan. "In every man's heart
lies a burden, a secret self: the dark side, which fills his loins and
fires his fists." Graham's silhouette boxed playfully before the hearth.
Those nearest to his wild lunges flinched. "He who walks with cautious
steps and withheld breath deceives himself. All men fight to contain
their wild selves, this is no new knowledge. But do you know Barrond's
secret? That which he wished no one to know?"
He paused dramatically. "His secret? Barrond had ceased that
struggle! He could not quench the lustful thoughts that filled his head
while about his work in the village, the rage that boiled his blood when
he was put in his place within the pecking order.
"There were nights," Graham dropped his voice to a murmur,
"restless nights when Barrond turned within his linens, when the cloth
felt like straps that restrained him, unable to let him slumber in the
solace of darkness.
"Aye men, you know the feeling, don't you?" Graham leered, drawing
close to some of the tables and staring deep into the faces that watched
him. "Those nights when the sweat gathers at your temples and you're
aware of every muscle in your body? The nights when the moon's blood
courses within you, raising the heat between your legs? Those were
Delial Barrond nights."
Another burst of song issued from Graham's throat, sharp and
unexpected. Wolcott felt his stomach clench at the sound and, for the
first time in years, a deeper heat blushed within him: a heat of youth
that he had misplaced or forgotten. He turned from Graham for a moment
to catch a glimpse of Naris and felt an old stirring between his legs.
"He took to walking the forests when the mood became unbearable,"
Graham continued, drawing Wolcott's attention back. "For in the heart of
every man lies a beast whose home is the dark sanctuary of the forest.
He stalked things in the wild woods: buck, boar, and wolfhound. There
were nights he could not even remember. There were mornings when Barrond
would awaken on the floor of his home naked, his body littered with
bruises and scratches, sometimes with dark stains under his fingernails.
"Until one early morning, when he awoke and tasted the heavy,
coppery taste of blood on his lips ... smelled blood on his chest and
arms, on his cod. And it was not his blood."
The crackling of the fire filled the absence of sound. Graham
hummed softly, weaving his song, but spoke no words. One of the men,
Willit, finally dared the question: "Whose blood was it?"
"A maiden's!" Graham responded gleefully, his teeth bared in the
firelight. He was back by the table with Graham and Hylan. "Barrond
found her in his bed, her clothing torn, her pale, supple skin ravaged
with gashes and wounds, her throat bloodied with the marks of human
teeth." Graham turned to Naris for the first time, taking her chin in
his thin, long fingers and studied her with sad eyes. "She was beautiful
and innocent," he uttered softly. "A woman who knew not her danger, the
threat from the man who harmed her."
"Was she dead?" Naris asked, her eyes tearful. Her arms were
crossed over her breasts, as if she were trying to hide her femininity.
"Most certainly," Graham replied. "Barrond was not enough of a man
to control himself. Or perhaps he was too much of a man. That is the
deeper question. His next thought was to escape -- to run away before
the maiden's family discovered her absence, but he was a fool. He was
found and chased to his death by the very men he once called his
friends."
The room fell silent again. All at once, the color drained from
Graham's face and his shoulders sagged, as if he had just released an
enormous burden. Wolcott thought the stranger was going to be sick.
Graham tried to seat himself on the ground but fell clumsily. Wolcott
rose and came to his aid, but was pushed away roughly.
"What have I done?" the Dargonian whimpered.
"Nothing, Graham, come," Wolcott said. "We'll get you to bed."
"I can't go to bed!" he shouted. "I must walk. I must ... get out
of here." He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the nearby tables for
support, and bolted from the room.
Naris turned to her boyfriend, her arms still held defensively
before her. "Are you pleased with yourself, Hylan?"
Hylan finished his draught and stood uncertainly. Without a word he
stumbled between the tables and out of the room, venturing out a
different door than Graham into the night beyond.
Looking after him, Naris shook her head, then shuddered. "Wolcott,"
she asked, rising to her feet. "Will you walk me home?"
"Westward!" Hylan's angry shout echoed like a mandate through the
quiet, dying woods. And Graham appeared to be listening. The wind had
quieted a bell before dusk, and in the newfound silence they had heard
their hunt's shambling footsteps in the forest's cover of brittle
leaves. Gor Gariner could no longer shelter its kindred spirit.
Wolcott saw Graham in the distance, a small skittering figure
climbing desperately over fallen limbs and around rocks. The woodsman
and the others followed mercilessly, Feddoran the closest of them all,
running through the forest and attempting to cut off any chance of
escape. But the fugitive was being driven upwards, up the flank of a
peak. There was no chance of his escape in those craggy heights.
"He was found and chased to his death by the very men he once
called friends ..."
Wolcott had walked the girl home to her door, returning to the
River's Edge afterwards and falling into a restless sleep. But that had
not been enough to protect her. Naris' body had been discovered in the
woods the morning after the tale, her pale, beautiful skin ravaged with
scratches and gashes, her fingernails caked in blood. Her throat ...
Wolcott's mouth tightened at the memory. Graham was nowhere to be found.
Why the stranger had chosen to enact his tale was anyone's guess.
"Graham!"
Feddoran's cry cut through the mountains. Wolcott found a last
measure of strength to hurry his pace, scrambling around a boulder to
find Hylan, Feddoran and Willit perched at a cliff's edge. They turned
as Wolcott approached.
"So this is the end of the story?" Wolcott asked grimly.
"Chased to his death ..." he thought.
He went to the edge and saw that down below, the closer bank of the
Coldwell cut near the side of the mountain, with rocks and shallows
abounding.
"He couldn't survive that," Feddoran whispered, his face stricken,
just like the morning the villagers had found Naris' body.
"We will find the remains," Hylan answered, his eyes never once
leaving the surface of the river.
"Very well," Wolcott said. "Hylan, you stay here to watch the
river. Feddoran, Willit, and myself will go down below to start combing
the banks. Alert us if you see any movement. Once we find the
Dargonian's body, we can put this sad tale behind us."
========================================================================
The Measure of His Love
Part 1: Wounding
by Jim Owens
<Gymfuzz@yahoo.com>
Naia, 1007
"I'm still not sure I understand," commented Daruk, his sandaled
feet kicking up the summer dust as he trod alongside the other archers.
"What do you mean you don't know when we will be back?"
The Carver frowned, the scars on his face bending into curves.
Daruk felt uneasy, like the Carver was trying to hide something. "The
emperor has not yet negotiated a redemption price for our services," he
said. "He had expected to do so by now, but there was a delay."
"My father is expecting me back within the year," Daruk replied. "I
must complete my training for the Order of the Dragon."
"Count Ruuga knows that there have been some ... problems ... in
setting a final term of service. These things are never expected to go
well." His tone was not as polite as his words. "He will have to accept
that you will be with me until I am finished here." His tone lowered,
getting more of an edge to it. "You are pledged to the emperor's
service. This is his will."
Daruk's lips pressed tight together. "Long live the emperor."
The Carver walked on. Daruk waited until the man was several paces
away before continuing himself. It bothered him that such an important
detail would be left until they had already nearly completed such a long
journey. For months now, ever since they crossed border from Beinison to
Baranur, Daruk had been expecting that this would be merely a year of
service and travel, a break from the rigorous training in the Order. To
find out now that there was no end in sight was unsettling. While he had
excelled in his military training, he had no great love for the martial
life, preferring instead to travel and learn the wisdom of other lands.
Daruk paused for a moment in the road, allowing the others to pass him
by. He covered his eyes to block the glare of the sun, and stared
intently at the castle walls ahead. He thought he could detect movement
atop them. The Carver reappeared at his side.
"What do you see, Daruk?" the older man asked.
"Three people, atop the wall. A large man, dressed fine. A smaller
one ... wearing chain mail? And leather. The third ..."
"That would be Baron Claywall, and his steward, no doubt. And his
daughter, I wager. I hear she's always meddling in his affairs." The
Carver spat in the dust.
Daruk stared at the daughter. She had long blond hair, unlike
Daruk's dark curls, and fair skin. Used to the swarthy maidens of his
native Beinison, Daruk was awestruck.
"She's beautiful!" he breathed.
"And you're a mere archer, and don't you forget it," commented the
Carver. "She'll have nothing to do with the likes of you."
The Carver continued on after the rest of the caravan, leaving
Daruk to ponder that statement. Why just an archer? Surely the son of a
count rated more, even this far from his home. But the Carver had
insisted that all the archers were to be treated equally under his care.
Daruk shook his head and lifted his eyes to watch the castle walls a
moment more before running after the rest.
High above the gate, the three people Daruk had spotted were deep
in discussion.
"... put them in the stables, but then we'd have to find a place
for the horses," the steward was saying as he and Baron Claywall looked
down at the approaching caravan.
"What about the firing platforms? There should be enough space
there for a few days," countered Claywall as he also watched.
"I don't trust the mortar on most of them. The workmen are due to
start the repairs in a few days -- once the wells are finished -- and
until then I'm not allowing more than a lookout in each."
"Just bed them in the court and be done with it, Father,"
admonished Fennla, tossing her long, blond tresses. "The new quarters
will be up soon, and besides, they're soldiers. They're *used* to
sleeping on the ground."
"Just so," Claywall agreed. "Put them in the court. Toughen them up
some. This isn't some hot Beinison garden they're living in now. They'd
best get used to it."
"Well, they are supposed to be the best archers money can buy,"
countered the steward, whose name was Gefaron. "With these men, we're
almost at full strength."
"Close enough for me," replied Claywall. "Begin the maneuvers. I
want the men ready by fall." With that he turned and headed for the
stairs down. Fennla followed.
"So you're really going through with it?" she asked him as they
walked down.
"Of course. Those villages are unallied. If I don't take them now,
someone else will, and then I'd have either Dross or Callen on my
border. Land is wealth and security, Fennla; don't you forget it. My
grandson will rule one of the biggest estates in the north, and secure
borders around them."
"But what of Dargon? Surely he won't just let you grab so much land
without saying something."
"By the time he finds out it will be long done." Claywall chuckled.
"You're learning fast how to manage the land, Fennla, but you have a
thing or two to learn about court politics. He'll fuss and fume and then
all will be forgotten. No, I just need to make sure I move before either
of the other two do."
"But isn't Dargon rather fond of the Barels? Won't he take
exception to you taking them?"
"He hardly ever sees them, except when he wants a miracle, or
perhaps a loan. No, he'll make a fuss, but will do nothing."
They had reached the court, and watched as the caravan moved into
the small enclosure. Fennla's gaze followed the Beinison archers as they
moved off to one side as a group.
"They're so dark," she commented.
"The sun is hotter down there. It burns their skin," replied
Claywall.
"How much did we pay for them?"
"Too much," grumbled Claywall. "But I understand they're worth it."
Fennla stared appraisingly at the group of men. "We'll see. Well,
I'm off to tend my gardens. I'll see you in the morning."
Without waiting for further comment, she left him and walked to the
stables. Her horse was ready, with a pack prepared for her trip. She
mounted up and rode off. The summer sun sparked and shone off every leaf
of her family's holdings, urging the land to greater productivity. She
had been urging as well, directing the planting, monitoring the herds,
and corralling the peasants into proper action. Her father had set his
heart on the adjacent lands, and preparations for the campaign had
consumed all his time. Fennla's mother, the baroness, was no planner,
and in fact had little heart for any public appearances at all, so
Fennla had stepped in to fill the gap. It left less time for her own
projects, but she was still able to get out to her gardens occasionally.
She reached the small cluster of huts by early afternoon. She
dismounted, and was met by Drow, her peasant farmer, his wife Getta, and
their daughter Flew. Each bowed properly, then Drow took the horse while
Getta offered Fennla some water. As Flew took the pack off the horse
Fennla stood and surveyed the land the trio worked.
"Show me the gardens," she instructed.
Getta took Fennla on a tour of the garden, which had grown to
several acres of trees, shrubs, herb beds, and paths. Fennla walked
along behind Getta as the woman pointed out the various sections. Fennla
listened attentively. The pair ended their tour back near the hut,
beside a wall that she had previously instructed Flew to make. Flew and
Drow were waiting there.
"I'll be staying here for the evening, so please prepare my
bedchamber," she instructed Drow, who scuttled off to comply. She turned
to Getta and Flew next. "Why hasn't this wall been completed?"
Flew curtseyed nervously. "The straw has run out, Milady," she
explained. "We've been waiting for the villagers to bring more by."
"Don't wait for them -- get your own straw," she instructed. She
waved her hand at the surrounding land. "There's grass everywhere. Just
cut it, and use it to make the brick." She raised her tone commandingly.
"I expect to see this wall done when I return next. Now go cut some
grass and churn a batch of mud -- I want to see if you're doing it well
enough."
"Yes, Milady," Flew responded, and hurried off. Fennla watched her
go, congratulating herself on how well she had handled the situation.
Her father had taught her to be firm and clear with the peasants, and
she was getting much more practice at it now. She turned back to Getta.
"Let's get to work."
Fennla exchanged her travelling dress for a coarser skirt offered
by Getta. The two women and Drow began working in one of the nearby herb
beds, Fennla instructing and showing, Drow and Getta nodding and
mimicking the younger woman in her movements. They worked until Flew
returned, her tattered skirt holding several armfuls of newly cut grass.
Fennla left Getta in the herb bed and walked over to where Flew was
untying the bundle, while Drow ran to get Fennla more water. Fennla made
Flew count out the measures of sand, grass, and water that went into the
pit. She watched carefully as the young woman jumped in and trod the
ingredients together. After several menes of stomping, Fennla reached in
and felt the batch. Clucking with displeasure, she gathered her skirt
above her waist and jumped in the pit with Flew, stomping the mud and
lecturing the bemused peasant girl on the finer points of cob
construction. Only when she was satisfied that Flew was again correctly
kneading the mix did Fennla climb out. Despite the fact that she was
covered more by mud than cloth, she refused the water Drow offered her
to wash with, insisting instead on returning to the herb beds.
When dusk fell Fennla finally allowed the peasant family to begin
preparing supper for her. While they labored in the hut, Fennla walked
to the well to wash. She laid the peasant's skirt on the ground for a
mat, and began to peel the cob from her skin and hair, loosening it with
handfuls of the water Drow had drawn earlier. She looked up as Flew
approached.
"Shall I get your travelling clothes, Milady?" she asked.
"Yes. Wait ..." Fennla took the soiled water she had used and
poured it over the girl's head. Flew gasped in shock, and Drow looked
out of the hut, concerned. "You're filthy," Fennla explained. "I don't
want you getting my clothes dirty. Wash that mud off." Flew nodded,
sputtering, and obeyed, pouring more water over her own head, washing
her torso and legs. Once she was clean, she drew more water for her
mistress, helping her scrub until the blue of her blood could again be
seen. Flew then ran to the hut for the travelling dress, scooping up her
own skirt on the way. She returned with both garments: the travelling
dress for Fennla to wear, the skirt to dry Fennla's hair. The two then
joined the older couple in the hut, where Fennla presided over the
coarse meal as her father would over a state banquet. After the meal,
Fennla assumed the couple's straw mattress, while the peasant family
retired to a night under the stars.
As Fennla returned to the keep the next day, she was surprised to
see a number of her father's men riding up to the castle with a man
bound and slung over a horse. Interested, she rode in after them, to
find her father being briefed by the leader of the pack.
"... this man riding through our fields, southwest of the keep."
The man had the air of a person who was reciting a poem. "When we
attempted to question him, he tried to ride off, so we bound him and
brought him back here for you to judge."
Claywall took the man's hair and lifted his head roughly. His
features mocked surprise.
"Put this man down! Don't you know who this is?" He motioned to the
riders, who dismounted and set the prisoner on his feet. He was a young
man and appeared in good health save for a few recent bruises. His hair
was ruddy and he wore no beard. His clothes indicated wealth, but were
of a strange cut.
"Master Barel, I'm sorry to see you enduring such rough treatment
from my men," remarked Claywall. "Surely you have done nothing to
warrant it," he leaned forward inquiringly. "Have you?"
"I assure you, Lord Claywall, I have done nothing more than ride
across your borders, as your own men have so many times across ours," he
replied, glancing sourly at his captors.
"Well, these are tense times here in Clayhold," remarked Claywall.
"A dispute between myself and your southern neighbor, Dross, have
required that I maintain a careful watch over my lands." He eyed Barel,
cocking his eyebrows suspiciously. "So, what business brings you to this
area?"
"I was on my way to visit Baron Callen, to your north, when your
men intercepted me. Although," he again eyed the riders unhappily, "I
seem to remember the questioning coming after the binding rather than
before."
"Callen, eh?" The suspicion in Claywall's eyes was quite genuine
this time. "Another troublemaker. What are you doing for him?"
"Or what is he doing for me," replied Barel. "I was going to pick
up some iron he had promised us. He's late on the payment."
"I'd have less business with him if I were you," Claywall growled.
"He's just plain trouble." He emphasized the last word, then his face
brightened up. "In fact, I have a bit of business I'd like to pursue
with you. You're Levy, aren't you? The Elder's third son, am I right?"
"Yes, you are. I believe we've met before." Levy shrugged his
shoulders, as if to remind Claywall that he was still bound.
"Indeed, I do remember you. You've done quite a bit of studying,
under some quite brilliant men, as I recall. Done a thing or two for
Dargon himself even."
"I'd be more than willing to discuss it with you, Baron Claywall,"
Levy replied, quite obviously fidgeting now, "but couldn't we do this as
free men?"
Claywall frowned. "I have a right to be suspicious." He stared at
Levy hard for a moment, then nodded at his men, who stepped forward and
unbound Levy. Claywall glowered darkly at him while Levy rubbed some
life back into his hands and arms. Claywall then turned to Gefaron, who
had by this time joined the growing crowd. "Master Barel will stay with
us this evening." Levy's eyebrows arched, and he swallowed hard.
Claywall looked back at him. "Won't you?"
Once Levy was installed in a secure room high in the keep, Fennla
cornered her father in the main hall.
"So you caught him," she said simply.
"Of course I did. He's a craftsman, not a crafty man," he replied,
savoring the play on words.
"So how will you convince him to do it?" she asked.
"It should be obvious to anyone that he needs to make me happy
while he's in my ... care." He gave Fennla a meaningful look. "It won't
take him long to see that I can do a lot before Dargon steps in. He'll
work for me rather willingly."
"I don't trust the work of a man coerced," she replied, her tone
low and steady. "I don't trust *him*. I don't like this."
"He's smart but not wise, dear Fennla. Leave this to me." Claywall
turned away, confident. "It'll work out."
As was the case for all in the barony, Daruk's life was bound up in
Baron Claywall's schemes. As the baron had said, it didn't take much to
induce Levy to work in Clayhold; it was obvious that the entire Barel
clan was hostage to the man's whims. Similarly, the baron pushed his
troops to train more vigorously than was warranted by an otherwise calm
summer. The Carver also was driven, and between Claywall's insistence on
constant target practice, and the Carver's insistence on other forms of
training, Daruk and the other archers had little time for anything that
was not martial.
Nonetheless, Daruk somehow found time to make his way into the keep
almost every day on some pretext or other, hoping for a look at the
beautiful Fennla. His attraction to her was entirely unrequited; she was
utterly unaware of his existence. Her beauty aside, Daruk himself was
unsure of exactly why he wanted to see her so much. It wasn't her
reputed character, to be sure; she and Claywall set the mood for the
entire holding, lending a chilly air to the otherwise sunny area. Daruk
had been raised to be fair of word and deed, and had made it his goal to
embody those ideals. His behavior set him apart at Clayhold. More than
once he found himself carrying a thankless burden simply because its
rightful owner knew that Daruk would not refuse to accept it. He had
long ago accepted that his was a life of service, however, and he
thrived on it.
It was on one of these errands that Gefaron hailed him and pressed
him into service. Daruk found himself hauling boxes up to the second
floor for a visiting dignitary. One other unlucky archer, Knot by name,
also ended up playing the porter, along with a number of other servants
and laborers. As the son of a count, Daruk had a bit more experience in
the world than some of his companions, and he recognized the arcane
markings on some of his loads. He didn't recognize the visitor, but he
was clearly a mage of some sort. Claywall was leaving no stone unturned
in his quest for power. After many trips up the stairs Daruk was not
unhappy to find the carts finally empty. The drill grounds were empty,
the archers gone to eat. The kitchen door was nearby, and Daruk stepped
in and appropriated a small loaf. He stepped outside to eat it. He
shared the space with a little kitchen maid, who sat in the dust
carefully pulling small bits off her own loaf and tucking them into her
mouth, concentrating on the chewing with intensity. Daruk watched her
eat, noting the fading bruises on her cheeks and the rips in her only
garment, a shirt that barely reached past her thin belly. He found it
hard to guess her age, for although she was as tiny as a toddler, her
face spoke of more years than her frame. She finished her bread and
continued to sit there, her face expressionless but her eyes alive with
interest, following the movements in the courtyard. Daruk tore a chunk
off his own loaf and bent down, holding it out to her. She flicked quick
eyes at it, then looked up at him, a startled look on her face. He
smiled. After a moment she returned the smile, and took his offering.
"It won't do you any good to fatten her up," a voice behind him
said. He arose and turned to find Gefaron behind him, also holding a
loaf. "Unlike Beinison, Baranur does not hold with virgin sacrifices."
Daruk gave the man a perfunctory salute. "Only the barbarians of
old did that," he replied, "and they were more likely to sacrifice
virginity than virgins. Not that there is much difference, I suppose.
Without her maiden's proof a girl's life isn't worth much." He looked
down again at the girl, who stared back unabashed.
Gefaron grunted. "You are still barbarians. You discount half your
own people just because of their sex." He bit off another bite. "It
makes you weak. You should learn the lesson of Alanna and Lottio."
"I don't worship Alanna the Dark."
"Pity. You could learn from her example. A woman can drive as hard
as a man when she knows what she wants. That's why we allow our
daughters to inherit with our sons. You Beinison should too."
Daruk shook his head, watching the little girl eat. "There are many
things about both our societies that I would change." He gave the girl
the rest of his bread. "There are too many who serve because they have
no choice, and too many who are served just because of who their
father," he glanced up at Gefaron, "or mother, was." Daruk looked back
down at the girl. "I do not worship the foolish gods of my people. If
they do exist, which I doubt, then they are nothing but people grown
large, with the same evils and weaknesses as anyone else. If something
is worth worshipping, then it must stand for more than mere pleasure and
politics. I have sworn to myself that I will only worship that which is
higher than what I see around me."
"The word of a southerner," Gefaron sniffed. "Not worth the air it
blows on."
Daruk straightened, his
brow furrowed. "I keep my word, even to my
own hurt. Can you say the same of all the men of Baranur?"
Gefaron took one more bite from his loaf then tossed the rest
aside. "Men are pigs and women are dogs. Remember that and you will do
well."
Behind Daruk came a quiet muttering. He turned to see Knot emerge
from the keep, his last load delivered. Shaking his head and scowling,
he headed for the drill grounds. He had only gone a few steps when a
voice called out from the stairwell.
"You! Archer!" Fennla emerged from the door and approached Knot,
whose scowl deepened. "I need supplies carried up to the wall. Come with
me." She turned and walked off briskly, Knot following behind. Daruk
watched her go, his eyes taking in the roll of the hips, the set of the
shoulders, the sway of her hair.
"You can put away your blade," Gefaron said dryly. "That's one
sheath it'll never slip into."
Daruk looked down, frowning. "I'll have you know I never drew it."
Gefaron snorted. "I don't know why you're looking at her, anyway.
She's a perfect example of what I'm talking about. Fennla intends to
have the holding when Claywall is gone, regardless of who she's married
to or who comes of out of it. No man has any place in her plans, except
maybe for a roll, and until the baron picks her a husband she'll never
even get that."
Daruk looked at him. "I thought you said that men and women inherit
equally. Why would Claywall care who she beds?"
"Claywall's grip on his title is weak enough as it is. He doesn't
want to waste his only heir on some commoner." Gefaron noted the
puzzlement in Daruk's expression. "Didn't you know? The baron was not
born a Claywall: his wife was. The baron was born a mere knight, albeit
one with more than his share of ambition. He managed to turn the Lady's
eye when she was young, and rode her for all she was worth. The Lady,
see, she's kind of soft, and not just between the legs, if you know." He
tapped his temple twice. "The baron married into this holding, and runs
it like it was his, but he knows his claim is less than tight. The Lady
ripped delivering Fennla, so she's not going to be whelping any more
pups for him. So he's keeping the young bitch on a tight leash until she
gives him a litter he likes. So you can forget getting any of her love.
The only thing going between her legs is a saddle."
Daruk's upper lip curled slightly as he listened. "You have a low
tongue for your office, Gefaron. I'd have expected better, even working
for a usurper like Claywall."
Gefaron glowered. "Remember your place, archer, and your tongue. I
was once a commoner, walking in the dirt like you. But I know how to
seize an opportunity. Baron Claywall is rising fast, and I intend to
rise with him. I'll be noble before long, one way or another."
"You may have a title soon, but that will not make you noble,"
Daruk said, rising. "You cannot get nobility from marriage, or
promotion."
"Ah!" Gefaron smiled unkindly. "We have a dreamer in our midst!
Tell me more of your wisdom, dreamer!"
"It doesn't take a wise man to know that you will never be noble
until you rise above who you are today."
"And you will lead us into this grace, I suppose?"
"I can only lead if I seek it myself."
"So now you would seek to be noble also." Gefaron laughed coldly.
"You're an idiot. A naive idiot. I'll say this last, and then I expect
you never to speak to me again unless I speak first. In this life we get
what we can take for ourselves, nothing more, nothing less. To expect
anything from anyone other than sheer self-interest is a losing bet."
With that he turned and walked toward the keep gate.
Daruk watched him go, and eventually started for the drill grounds.
After his first step he spied the discarded loaf Gefaron had tossed
away. Daruk looked back at the kitchen girl, who was standing in her
tattered shirt, watching him. He picked up the bread, dusted it off, and
handed it to her.
The archer's quarters were made and the firing platforms
strengthened by the time the next caravan passed through the keep's
gates. This caravan was much smaller, though not by design. Gefaron
rushed up, his hands on his head and shock on his face.
"What happened?" he shouted as guards pulled bodies off the
blood-streaked wagons.
"Bandits," grunted the lead driver as he slid off the seat, his
right arm protecting his left, which was bandaged. "They feathered us
from the bushes, then toppled the carts and sacked the goods. We killed
one, but they carted the body off with them."
"Why didn't they kill you?" demanded Gefaron, facing the man
angrily.
"They *did* kill us," snapped the driver, waving his good hand at
the carnage, "those that they wanted to. Once we were down, they hit the
goods and ran. They were after plunder, not blood. We just got in the
way."
"We hired you to bring us food and cloth," countered Gefaron, "not
dead bodies. Why didn't you hire guards?!"
"We did!" shouted the man. "They lie there now!" He pointed at the
pile of dead.
Gefaron stepped back, apoplectic. "Pay them for what they have,
then send them off," he ordered his clerk, who stood by.
"What?!" The driver lunged at Gefaron, but the guards held him.
Gefaron ignored the invective that poured out of the driver's mouth as
he stormed back into the tower. He met Claywall and Fennla coming out.
"What is it?" demanded Claywall.
"Bandits. Probably Dross and his men," replied Gefaron. He stared
out at the shouting merchant. "The fool probably never had a chance."
"Twice Dross rides my border, and now he hits my cargo. This is too
much," muttered Claywall. "Order all the patrols doubled, and post extra
watches. No one goes alone, and each man carries a signal horn. They
blow at the first sign of anything, clear?" Gefaron nodded, then walked
off to accomplish the task.
"Looks like your garden will have to do without you, Fennla,"
Claywall told his daughter.
"What!? Why!?"
"I want you to stay inside the keep from now on."
"I will not! I can take care of myself!" Her eyes flashed.
"Nonsense!" snapped Claywall. "They killed half a caravan! No one
goes out alone!"
"So I won't be alone!" she replied. "Give me a bodyguard!"
"I can't!" He spun to face her. "I have no more women -- they're
all watching your mother and that blasted old wretch you call
grandmother, and I'll not hire another just so you can stretch your
legs."
"So give me one of your men!" she replied, exasperated.
"Oh, no. No, no, no," he replied, waggling his hands. "It's bad
enough that I have Dross and Callen sniping at my birth every time I
turn around, the *last* thing I need is some bastard grandson running
around here," she gasped in disgust at that, "mucking up the inheritance
and causing me pain! No, you're going to stay closed until we find the
right family, and I'll not have the chance of that ruined by some guard
just so you can get some fresh air!"
"Father!!" Fennla shouted. "Have you lost your *mind*? I'm
practically lord here as it is, and do you really think that *I*..."
"No, no, and don't ask!" he barked, and she shut up. He stared at
her for a moment, turning away to walk back into the keep. "A bodyguard
I could live with, but you're not having a man hanging around you with
nothing to look at but you, and nothing but his piece on his mind!"
Fennla stared at him, her face red and her fists clenched. She spun
on her heel, and started off down the corridor, fuming, then paused. She
cocked her head for a moment, as if listening to his words again, then
her lips tightened and she headed back out into the courtyard. She
walked purposefully to where the new archers were training with practice
swords. As Fennla walked up she passed a servant carrying water. She
took the servant by the arm.
"Fetch the surgeon," she told her, then continued up to the
archers. They came to attention as she approached.
Daruk couldn't help but stare as she approached. So often he had
watched in awe as she appeared in the distance, usually with her father,
but rarely had he gotten close to her, and never this close. Her beauty
all but took his breath away. He glanced at the other archers to see if
they also were experiencing such bliss, but most of them were merely
looking fatigued, sweat dripping off their skin as they stood,
dust-encrusted and baking in the summer sun.
"Carver," she called as she approached. The Carver stepped
respectfully forward and gave a slight bow.
"I have need of a bodyguard." She looked the archers over. "I'd
like a volunteer."
Daruk was stepping forward before the Carver had even turned
around. "Does anyone want to volunteer for bodyguard duty?" Carver
asked, his eyes falling on Daruk.
"I'll do it, Carver," Daruk replied. He looked around. None of the
others had stepped forward. His heart thrilled when he realized the job
was his by default.
Fennla looked the man over almost pityingly. "It's not going to be
an easy job," she remarked coldly. "It will require great personal
sacrifice." She frowned slightly. "You may even have to give your life
for it."
Daruk's chest lifted more than slightly. "I'll do it, Milady."
She looked around at the other archers. None moved forward -- in
fact several were regarding her with looks of disdain. She had never
really spent much time around the Beinison, and now she had even less
desire to. Not that she worried about their feelings for her; they were
mere soldiers, and would do as they were ordered.
"It would seem that you have an easy choice, Carver," she remarked,
surveying the group.
"Aye, so it seems," agreed the Carver. His eyebrows lifted slightly
as the surgeon joined them.
"Please follow me," Fennla said, and turned toward the nearby
smithy, a chamber built into the wall of the keep. The Carver motioned
to the other archers to resume practice, and he, the surgeon, and Daruk
followed Fennla into the dim room.
"Leave, and close the door behind you," Fennla commanded the smith
as they entered. He did so with a curious glance at the foursome. The
forge burned brightly, and skylights further illuminated the room.
Fennla stepped over to a table that held a number of swords recently
forged.
"What is your name, archer?" she asked, lifting one of the heavy
blades.
"Daruk, Milady."
"Will you swear an oath of fealty to me, in addition to any oath
you have to my father?"
"I swear, Milady."
"And will you swear that you will protect me, and give your life
for me, if necessary?"
"I swear it, Milady." Daruk's heart was thudding in his chest for
excitement and joy.
She looked at him, one eyebrow canted. "Your word and your oath?"
"On my honor."
"You really want this, don't you, Daruk?" Fennla's voice held
almost a note of wonder.
"Yes, Milady."
"Then you will be my bodyguard," she replied, turning around, blade
held firmly in her hands, "once you are gelded."
There was a pregnant pause.
"What?" asked Daruk, incredulous.
"Milady ..." the Carver started, shock on his face.
"My father will allow me a bodyguard," Fennla interrupted, "but I
may not have a man in my bedchamber." She stared into Daruk's eyes. "You
swore you wanted to be my bodyguard, that you would give your life for
me. Do you take that back now?"
Daruk stared back, fear in his eyes. He swallowed hard.
"Because," Fennla continued, sensing Daruk's dilemma, pressing it,
"I cannot have a man guard me who cannot even keep his own word."
Daruk stood, frozen, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth and his
lips moved silently. The Carver looked at him, uncertain. Finally Daruk
found his voice. "I swore."
Fennla looked around, her eyes settling on the table behind her.
She stepped to one side and pushed the clutter back, exposing the
corner.
"Lay your parts up here," she instructed Daruk. She turned to the
surgeon. "Fetch your kit to bind the wound."
"But Milady, this is not ..." started the surgeon, but she raised
the blade to his face.
"I did not ask your opinion," she stated firmly, in a voice very
like her father's. "Do as I said."
The man stumbled off through the door and ran for the keep. Daruk
stood, paralyzed, Fennla's words, and his own, ringing in his ears. The
Carver, a man of the sword and used to blood, stepped up to Fennla, his
hands clasped in supplication.
"Milady, be reasonable. Surely there is something, some other way
to do this," he asked, his voice even.
"Such as?"
"Well," stammered the Carver, "we could set up a rotation, or, or
assign you a, a couple of men, or ..."
"We are short-handed as it is, Carver," she explained, "and my
father has a campaign to plan. He cannot spare but one person for me,
and I am certainly not going to wait for a woman to be found who can
safeguard my life outside these walls. No, I need one man, and I need
him trained and strong, and I need him *safe* and I need him *now*. And
Daruk wants the job, don't you, Daruk?"
"But that was before he knew ..."
"I gave my word," Daruk replied in a dull, leaden voice.
"Shut up, fool!" snapped the Carver. "Milady ..."
The Carver continued to argue his case, but Daruk was not
listening. He slowly undid the knot that held up his trousers. Once
free, the loose clothes slipped easily to the floor, exposing the items
in question. Daruk cradled his balls in his hands, trying to imagine
them gone. The Carver saw this and snatched the trousers up, lifting
them back into place.
"Now wait just a moment," he started, but just then the surgeon
reappeared, kit in hand, his face gray.
"Enough, Carver. Let's get to it," Fennla commanded. The Carver
looked in her eyes and saw determination. He looked in Daruk's eyes, and
saw both resignation, and joy. He looked in the surgeon's eyes, and saw
only terror. He let the trousers fall, and stepped back.
"Place them here," Fennla commanded, tapping the blade on the
corner of the table.
"Milady, there are better ways to do this," stammered the surgeon.
"The proper way ..."
"Silence, or you'll be next," she hissed, anger in her eyes. She
turned and watched as Daruk stepped over the trousers, and positioned
himself at the table. He gingerly laid his testicles on the wood,
pressing his male organ up out of the way against his belly.
"No, all of it -- my father will allow nothing," she ordered. Daruk
shot her a wide-eyed look, then dropped his hands to his side, allowing
the penis to fall. Fennla glanced at the Carver. "Hold him."
The Carver hesitated a moment, then resolve entered his eyes, and
he came at Daruk hard, pinning his arms behind him and pressing him
against the table.
"Hey," Daruk said, indignant, as if to protest and profess his
willingness.
*THUNK*
The deed was done in a stroke. The heavy blade cleft cord, tissue,
and skin, pinning the injured cluster to the wood. Daruk and the Carver
staggered back, trailing blood. Daruk's legs gave out, and the Carver
eased him to the floor.
"Milady," whispered Daruk before his eyes rolled back in his head
and he passed out in shock.
"Bind his wound," Fennla ordered. The two men closed in over the
bleeding archer, wielding bandages. She turned to the table, where the
blade still stuck. The severed genitals, more crushed than cut, pressed
tight against the blade, the pinched member erect in a sad mockery of
life. She wrenched the blade from the wood and they collapsed in a
crimson pool. She set the sword down and lifted the cluster by its
bifurcated foreskin, examining it carefully. Satisfied as to its
completeness, she turned and headed for the door.
"Take him to my chambers when you're finished," she admonished. The
surgeon, stooped by the fire with a hot iron in his hands, merely
nodded. She closed the door behind her. As she walked away she wrung the
last of the blood from the items. Behind, in the smithy, there erupted a
howl of agony. The archers, startled out of their routine, ran for the
small room. She continued on.
Fennla walked the corridors to her father's study. The door was
open, and she walked calmly past the guards to her father's desk. He did
not look up from the document he was writing. She dropped the severed
genitals on the parchment. He exploded back in shock and terror.
"Ol's balls, woman!" he bellowed.
"Actually, they came from one of your archers," she explained
calmly as he clawed his way up and out of his chair, his eyes fixed on
the wet mass.
"You whore," he exclaimed quietly, horror on his face. "You
wouldn't dare."
"You said I could have a bodyguard, as long as it wasn't a man."
She looked him in the eyes, her gaze unwavering. "Well, he's not a man
anymore."
"You bitch." His voice was rising in volume as the shock left him.
"For this you ruined one of my men, one of my prized archers?!"
"Ah," she exclaimed, rolling her eyes, "only a man would consider
this ruined. It's not like I cut off his fingers."
Claywall came round the table, eyes locked with hers. "You always
have to be pushing, just a little bit more, don't you? You always have
to be grabbing just a bit more control."
"What else would you want me to do, father?" she asked, not giving
an inch. "How else have you taught me to rule?"
His face hovered a mere fingerbreadth from hers, his breath
caressing the fine hairs on her upper lip. "You want a bodyguard? Fine.
You've got one now. If I ever see you without him I swear I will hang
you." He drew a ragged breath. "He will sleep with you. He will eat with
you. He will bathe with you. He will *shit* with you. He will be a
second skin to you and you will *never*, *ever*, be out of his sight. Do
you understand, my dear daughter?"
"Once he's up and about, that shouldn't be a problem."
Claywall's words almost choked him. "You're just sorry it wasn't me
you shortened."
Her eyes never flinched, never wavered. Her tone was smooth as
milk, sweet as honey. "I'm glad you could see things my way, father. So
nice to talk to you."
Claywall's face flushed red and his brows knit. The only sound was
his uneven breath. They stood nose to nose for a long moment, then he
shoved her aside and stormed out. She straightened up and smoothed her
dress, smiling. She casually retrieved her bloody tokens and walked off
past the silent, trembling guards.
Three bells passed before she returned to her quarters to find her
normally smooth bed roiled by the quavering body of the gelded archer.
Her white sheets were stained with his sweat and blood. He was moaning
quietly, his hands clasped over his vacant groin, his eyes closed with
pain and loss. She was actually unprepared for the sight; it took her
aback a bit.
"Oh, this won't do," she said aloud. "Here, archer," she knelt on
the bed beside him, setting her hand on his shoulder. "I need you to get
off my bed." He stopped shaking and slowly sat up. "I should have told
them to bring you up here after you've recovered from the operation. Why
don't you go down to the infirmary? Do you know where it is?"
"Yes, Milady," came the quiet reply. He slowly stood up and began
shuffling for the door.
"Oh, what is your name?" she asked.
"D-daruk, Milady," came the soft reply.
"Good, Daruk. Go on." He nodded, and shuffled off, closing the door
behind him slowly. She shook her head as he went, then surveyed her
ruined bed. Shaking her head some more, she took and shook the bell to
summon her chambermaid.
The next day Fennla was awakened by a quiet knock on her door. She
arose, wrapping her robes around her. She opened the door and peered out
inquisitively. To her surprise, there stood Daruk.
"You're up!" she exclaimed.
"I'm here to serve you," he replied. His voice was stronger than
when she had heard it last, but there was a breathy quality to it, as if
his breath was too hot to contain.
"Are you able?" she asked, noting his stance. He looked as if it
were requiring effort to stay up.
"The surgeon has stitched ... my wound ..." He spoke these words
with great control, his eyes not meeting hers. His hands were pressed
tight against his sides, and he stood at attention, although painfully
so. "A soldier must be at his duties as soon as he is able."
"Indeed," Fennla replied, shaking her head at the whole male
gender. "So I've been told." She surveyed his attire, noting a certain
limpness at the crotch. "Let down your trousers for me."
A flash of pain and anger sparked in his eyes. "Please, Milady. It
is not proper for a lady to be looking at a mere archer so."
"Oh, please," she replied, stepping outside into the hall, "as if I
don't anyway. It was proper enough when I cut you short yesterday. Off
with them. I want to see the stitches."
His lips went tight and his face went red, but his hands moved to
his waist and his trousers hit the floor. Fennla bent down to examine
the wound. She unwrapped the bandage and traced the sewn edges with her
finger. The surgeon had cut away the hair, and now Daruk's loins were as
smooth as those of the kitchen girl. The surgeon had drawn the remaining
skin together around what seemed to be the protruding stub of a thin
bone. A closer look showed it to be a boiled feather quill. Fennla noted
that his flesh was very warm, almost hot to the touch. As she crouched
there, the chambermaid stepped out of the apartment.
"Och, Milady," she gasped, her hand to her mouth, "isn't it a bit
early for that?" Her eyes widened when she saw the vacancy in Daruk's
loins. "Oh, so he's the one you did, is he?"
"Yes, I'm checking to make sure I got it all," Fennla replied,
oblivious to Daruk's deepening shame and embarrassment.
"So this is your Lottio," the maid said, getting down beside Fennla
and peering at Daruk's wound.
"Lottio?"
"You know, from that old story. Wanted to show pure intention, so
he sent his bits to his lover in a box, but she turned out to be a
goddess, and so she put them back on for him. Alanna the Dark, I think
it was."
"Never heard it," Fennla said, straightened up. As she did she
handed Daruk the top of his trousers. "It's quite clean, then. I expect
you can get started immediately," she said, fixing her gaze directly on
him as he fumbled with his knot, his eyes averted. "I'm planning to ride
out to my garden today. You will accompany me." Daruk murmured something
affirmative, not quite looking at her as she stepped back into her room.
She peeled off her robe and handed it to the chambermaid. "Now come in
here and close the door." When she saw his startled look her brows
furrowed. "Well? Step to it! You're a eunuch now; start acting like one!
I didn't cut your prick off just so I could pickle it!" She turned and
walked away from him, leaving him to close the door, sealing away from
the world his pain and shame.
Once Fennla had bathed and dressed she and Daruk went to the
stables for two horses. She noted with irritation that Daruk seemed to
grow more distant, slower to respond, less sure with his actions. She
grew impatient, snapping at him, ordering him to hurry. He seemed
oblivious to her concerns. The two were finally saddled and riding out
when Daruk just folded in the saddle, pitching off onto the dusty
courtyard. Fennla wheeled her horse about, startled in spite of herself.
She sat there, unsure what to do. Daruk lay unmoving. "Is he dead?" she
wondered "What should I do?" She felt uneasy at the thought, certain
that Claywall would have a fit if Daruk died because of her initiative.
The surgeon came running across the courtyard and placed his hand
on Daruk's chest. He spun to face her, furious.
"What's he doing out? What did you do?" he demanded.
"I did nothing," she protested, not feeling the certainty she
forced into her voice. "He came to my door. We were going riding."
"You can't just castrate a man and expect him to walk away from it
like it was a simple fall!" he shouted at her. "I've ordered him to bed!
He has a fever! He could die from this!" Almost as if to contradict him,
Daruk stirred, trying to rise. The surgeon lifted him up, half carrying
him. "I'm sending for Taithleach." Without waiting for her reply he
began to drag Daruk back toward the infirmary.
Taithleach arrived within a few menes. Fennla walked into the
infirmary as he completed examining Daruk.
"Are you the Lady Claywall?" he asked somberly, his tone accusing
and condemning. Fennla nodded, hesitant to reply. Her father's military
buildup had resulted in a number of rather severe injuries, and Claywall
had recently retained the healer because of his renown and expertise. It
cost quite a bit, however, and Fennla had never liked the man. He seemed
far too haughty, and now her involvement in Daruk's predicament made her
feel a surprising and unaccustomed defensiveness. The healer glanced
about, then looked askance at Fennla and the surgeon. "Did you keep
Lottio's Proof?"
The two silently turned to stare at a small crock on a nearby
table. Following their gaze, Taithleach peered inside, then carefully
fished out Daruk's severed genitals. He examined them carefully, the
preservative brine running down his wrist.
"Not quite a godly set, but quite nice." He cast a disapproving eye
at Fennla. "But then there are no goddesses here. Certainly no weeping
Alanna." Ignoring the angry huff from Fennla, Taithleach carefully laid
the cluster back in the brine, then turned to the waiting pair. "I am
able to heal him, but he will not be able to perform as a man for a
year."
"You mean ..." the surgeon began, but Fennla cut him off.
"No!" she ordered. "I don't *want* you to heal him like that! He's
*supposed* to be a eunuch!" She glowered at the healer.
"To protect your cosmic virtue, I suppose," he stated evenly,
meeting her stare.
She shoved her face into his. "Like Lottio, he offered it. Unlike
Alanna, I accepted."
"The healing magics are not always predictable," he intoned.
"Sometimes things grow back on their own."
"Then I'll cut them off again!" she thundered, on the edge of
hysterics. She felt her world slipping out of her control, and she
needed to get it back. She took a few deep breaths, staring into
Taithleach's cold, gray eyes. "Look, you're one of the best healers
around. You're *supposed* to know what you're doing." She noted with
approval the glint of anger in his eyes. She felt her grip coming back.
"I want you to heal him as a eunuch, so that it can't grow back and
won't grow back." She studied his expression. "Now, can you do that or
can't you?"
He locked eyes with her. "I can do that, Milady."
It was she who looked away. "Then do so. Take the fever from him,
along with any hope of his ever being a man again." She looked down at
Daruk, stirring fitfully in a fevered sleep. "I need him ready as soon
as possible."
Six days passed, and Fennla was watching out the window of her
room. It overlooked the courtyard, where her father and Gefaron were
gathered with a small crowd, watching Levy Barel.
"... guest, but I really do need to be concerned that I'm getting
something useful from all that food I've been feeding you," Claywall was
admonishing, in what seemed like a genuinely concerned tone. "Perhaps
you could show us just what it is you've been working on?"
Barel had been housed in a hastily erected barn, built against the
outer wall of the courtyard. He stood now in front of its slatty door.
"It hardly seems like a day since I've arrived to test your
hospitality," Levy replied in an arch tone of voice, "and I feel like my
labors here have barely begun." He paused for effect. "But even so I had
expected that you would want to see some of my work, so I have arranged
a demonstration." He turned toward the barn, then paused and turned
back. "Do you have some small children here? I need a few for my
demonstration."
"Children?" scoffed Claywall. "I've asked for some engines of war!
I know that children can be destructive, but how do you expect to use
them, throw them at the enemy?" His entourage erupted in callous
laughter at his humor, and Levy returned a chill smile.
"Not at all, sir. I just need them to show something, for a
contrast, as you will. Surely a holding as large and prosperous as yours
has a few children around?"
Claywall motioned and an aide gathered up six of the watching
youngsters, herding them toward Levy. He took them in tow, instructing
them quietly as he led them into his workshop.
"See to it they're well cared for," called Claywall after them, to
the appreciative chuckles of his men. They waited a mene or so, before
the children came out, carrying long bundles of rope arranged in
peculiar ways. Levy followed them, directing them to the side of his
barn, where two uprights stood, with a large, square stone between them.
As the crowd watched, Levy had the children lay out the rope in front of
either post, reaching out into the courtyard. He passed some of the rope
through several large iron eyes set in the top of the stone, and then up
through two large iron loops affixed to the tops of the uprights. Once
he was satisfied with his arrangement, he looked over his little
helpers. He picked out the littlest one, the kitchen maid.
"So, little one, do you think you're strong?" he asked her, loud
enough so everyone could hear.
"Yes," she replied shyly, embarrased to be in the center of
attention.
"Do you think you could lift that stone for us?" Levy asked,
pointing to the large rock.
"No," she replied immediately, grinning in spite of herself at such
a silly question. The people laughed.
"Then I'll tell you what," Levy replied. "Go to that pile there,"
he pointed at a pile of rounded rocks by the wall, "and bring me a good
rock. Not too big, not too small, one that's just right."
She nodded timidly and dashed off to get a stone. The crowd watched
with interest, and Levy turned to address them.
"You see, she is stronger than she thinks she is."
The girl returned, small hands wrapped around a double-fist sized
rock. She dropped it at Levy's feet. He did a comic dance of avoidance,
drawing laughter from the crowd.
"Everyone wants to throw stones at me," he commented. Claywall
didn't laugh, but his eyes twinkled. "All right, my little one, take
that rock, and put it," Barel lifted a woven pouch at the end of the
laid-out ropes, "in here." She did so, and he transferred the pouch to
her. "Now, I want you to hold this stone, just so, and I want you to
walk backwards, away from that big rock, straight?" She nodded, and when
he released her, she did just that.
Fennla watched, intrigued, as the girl backed slowly away, hands
around the rock. The ropes, thick twine really, trailed her, and Fennla
could see now that they passed through an intricate arrangement of small
wooden holders before looping up to the posts and then down to the rock.
The girl kept backing up, and the ropes drew taut. She continued, and
Fennla gasped as the great stone began to move.
Every eye in the courtyard was watching as the little girl, who
weighted no more than a medium sized dog, walked backward and lifted a
block of rock that weighed more than a man. She continued backward,
drawing the crowd with her until it formed a corridor for her to move
through. Finally Levy motioned for her to stop, and the crowd broke into
applause.
"Well, my little giant," Levy told her, walking back to where she
stood, "you are a lot stronger than you think, aren't you?" She nodded,
beaming. "Well, I think you've done enough work for now. You can just
drop that little rock."
She did, but the rock didn't quite fall. Drawn by the pull on the
cord, it bounced off the ground and whipped up into the air, drawn by
the attached cord and the suspended block, which in turn fell to the
ground. Even Fennla, in the tower, could feel the thud of its impact. A
moment later, the small stone smacked into the stone keep wall, and
shattered into gravel. The crowd burst into applause. Levy turned to
Claywall.
"That is what I have been doing," he said, lips tight.
"Then I think I'll keep feeding you," grinned Claywall, and walked
away.
Fennla turned away from the window and returned to where Daruk sat,
his hands carefully folded over his bow. "You should have seen that,
archer. Barel had made an engine that can smash rock when wound by a
mere girl. Think what else he could make for us."
"Barel is a very clever man," Daruk replied neutrally. "Your father
would do well to watch him very carefully."
"Oh, he does, he does," she assured him. She returned to her
interrupted wardrobe, allowing the chambermaid to hold the garments as
she stepped into them. "Are you sure you're quite ready to ride with
me?" she asked, eyeing him carefully. "I can't have another incident
like the last time."
"I am quite well now, Milady," Daruk replied, his eyes never
leaving her. "The healer is quite skilled."
She noted his gaze. "Do you miss them?" she asked.
"Yes, I do," he replied frankly, understanding her question. "More
than you could know, as a woman. But," he added quickly, "I miss my
father and my home as well, and I left them gladly, to serve you."
"And you do serve me well, archer," she continued, shrugging on her
blouse. "Today we will ride out to my garden, after I have tested your
archery skills. Do you feel ready?"
"Yes, Milady."
Fennla smoothed the fine fabric, dismissing the chambermaid to
return to the elder lady's side. She turned to assess herself in the
mirror, then headed for the door.
"Come, archer."
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