Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
DargonZine Volume 13 Issue 10
DDDDD ZZZZZZ //
D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE ||
D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 13
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 10
DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
\\
\
========================================================================
DargonZine Distributed: 10/14/2000
Volume 13, Number 10 Circulation: 744
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Talisman Six 2 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Firil-Naia, 1011
Past, Present, and Presage 1 Rena Deutsch Deber 1010
Loren Armare 3 Max Khaytsus Yuli 13-21, 1014
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 13-10, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright October, 2000 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
If you've been with DargonZine for a while, you'll know that every
so often I take a few moments to note as we pass one milestone or
another. I had planned this Editorial with the intention of noting the
publication of our 300th Dargon story; however, in looking up the
numbers I was diverted by the fanciful idea of measuring DargonZine's
output in terms of a bookshelf, rather than simple numbers. How many
paperbacks would it take to contain all our stories? The answer
surprised me.
I started with DargonZine's output: our stories, not including
editorials of course, amount to a tidy 1.5 million words. Then I
consulted the FAQ for the Usenet newsgroup misc.writing, which indicated
that the average word count for a standard novel is about 80,000 words.
Dividing one into the other gave me a total of 18 trade paperbacks.
That's an awful lot of shelf space!
It also averages out to a little more than one novel per year over
our sixteen-year history; however, lately our output has been higher
than that. For the past couple years we've actually been printing
stories at twice that rate, with no signs of slowing.
Eighteen paperbacks, and a another new novel every six months, is a
whole lot of fiction. I can't think of any other site with such a huge
collection of reading material; and I certainly don't know of another
site where you can download all those novels absolutely free and
completely ad-free.
This issue continues some of the traditions that have made us so
successful. We begin with the conclusion of Dafydd's two-part "Talisman
Six", itself a part of a huge serial that has spanned every DargonZine
issue for the past two years. Already a novel and a half in length, the
Talisman epic illustrates one of the more ambitious possibilities of the
serial format.
Our other two stories both demonstrate how storylines in a shared
anthology can overlap and intertwine. Rena Deutsch's "Past, Present, and
Presage" links her own storyline with Mark Murray's longstanding series
about Raphael and Megan. Also, although Max Khaytsus' "Loren Armare"
deals with the troops of his duchy of Arvalia, his third and last part
in the series focuses mostly on Dalton, a completely unrelated character
who was introduced by Michael Schustereit five years ago. These kinds of
linkages between storylines are what makes collaborative writing
exciting.
So enjoy these works as we celebrate publishing our 300th Dargon
story. And be on the lookout for our next issue, DargonZine 13-11, which
promises to be an absolute blockbuster, with five more new stories!
========================================================================
Talisman Six
Part 2
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Firil 26-Naia 12, 1011
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-9
I had seen death before, of both natural and unnatural causes.
There is a great difference between the body of someone who dies of a
disease, or by simply living to the end of their given days, and the
corpse of someone murdered by man's hand.
The ending of Shorel's life by means of two crossbow bolts in her
back as she fled along a forested path stunned me. Shorel my fellow
bard, my companion, my lover, was dead. She lay in the middle of the
path, blood darkening her tunic, her sightless brown eyes staring into
my green ones, her body twisted by her lifeless fall from the back of
her horse.
I looked away from her blank stare and saw the two guards who had
killed her advancing along the forest path, their horses pacing slowly,
their reloaded crossbows pointing at Shorel's corpse. All of their
attention was on her; I had not yet been noticed. Shorel's horse had
continued a short distance beyond the point where her control had left
it before stopping as it had been trained to do. I saw that it bore no
saddlebags: she had been fleeing in haste, then.
The guardsmen reined in their horses near their victim and
dismounted warily, as if Shorel were feigning death to lure them closer.
I briefly thought to race out onto the path and single-handedly avenge
Shorel's murder. Thankfully, I regained my senses before doing anything
so foolish. The guards were armed, and obviously excellent shots. They
had not scrupled to kill one bard, despite the inviolate status bards
usually enjoy; I did not think they would quail at shooting another.
Instead, I quietly slipped deeper into the clearing where I had
been watering my horse Riesta. I made sure she was secure, then moved
with as much stealth as I could muster to a position within the trees
where I could see the road but remain reasonably concealed. Hidden
behind a trunk and in deep shadow, I watched what followed, hoping that
the slight breeze would not shift and carry the scent of the horses to
each other.
The guards advanced on Shorel's body, swords having replaced
crossbows in their hands. All of their attention was on the corpse; not
a single glance was spared for the surrounding trees. One drew next to
her and nudged her with his foot. Her body moved limply. While the first
held his sword to her neck, the other bent down and lifted an arm, then
let it fall just as limply back down. That one looked up at the first
and said, "Dead," or so I clearly read on his lips, for they were too
far away to hear their voices.
The first one shook his head and gave Shorel a rougher kick. Then
he and his fellow guard searched her thoroughly, and next her horse.
They didn't find whatever they were looking for, and this did not please
them. Eventually they considered their duty done and they remounted
their horses and rode away back the way they had come, leading Shorel's
horse with them.
I waited a short while longer to be sure, but they didn't double
back. I let Riesta return to her grazing, and walked out to where they
had left Shorel lying.
I knelt by her body, at a loss for what to do next. I reached down
and brushed her long brown hair away from her cheek, and then rested my
fingertips against her skin for a moment. I remembered her smiles, her
kisses, her voice raised in song or passion. I remembered riding with
her along forest paths like this one, or sitting to dinner with her at
the Bardic College. Waking up to the feel of her body next to mine five
days in a row, or seeing her walk through a door after being apart for
three months. My eyes misted over as I realized that all I had now of
her were memories.
In the midst of my reminiscences, my hands set about automatically
straightening her limbs, and then her clothes. I wanted to turn her onto
her back, but I didn't want to remove those quarrels. As the birds began
chirping again and normalcy returned to that section of the forest, I
lifted her carefully even though she didn't need care any longer, and
carried her to the little clearing.
I buried her with only the ceremony of my own grieving. As I stood
over the shallow mound contemplating what I should do next, a curious
thing happened. A great weariness came over me, as if somehow Shorel's
death had been one too many. I felt old, older than my years, older than
my parents', older than the Bardic College, and even the kingdom itself.
That aching weariness and age bore me to my knees, and I thought I would
collapse further and never be able to rise again, but just then I felt
as if everything around me was on fire. Instead of fear, or feeling
trapped by these encompassing flames, I felt instead peace. The
weariness vanished, vanquished, but the flames faded more slowly, and
seemed to leave a sense of promise with me as they went.
As I rested momentarily on my knees, recovering from that strange
feeling, another image came to me. It was Shorel being struck again with
the quarrels, but this time my attention focused on the stick or staff
that she had hurled away from herself at that same moment. That hadn't
been a random act; I had seen how intent her face was before the pain
swept her concentration away. I knew I had to find that object.
The afternoon was well advanced by the time I located that one
wooden stick among all of the others in the forest. It was a plain
walking stick shod with metal. I had never seen Shorel with it before,
but I understood why she'd had it as soon as I found it. Chopped into
its side were stick-runes, a very simplified set of letters made up of
vertical lines, each crossed by a varying number and placement of
slashes or flanked by dots. They were easy to carve, and did not require
great finesse to make them easily understandable.
The story these runes told was incomplete out of necessity -- there
wasn't room on that staff to scribe an epic. But it had enough room to
carry the essence of Shorel's last, desperate message.
The information concerned the coming wedding of Baron Frasilk's son
to the daughter of Baron Jaleit. The runes told me that Baron Frasilk
was attempting to unite the two baronies into one by the marriage,
despite the slight impediment of Jaleit's two older sons. The two boys
had been out of sight for most of the winter, and the baron had put it
about that they were unwell. Shorel had discovered that the boys were
actually prisoners in the keep's vaults. It wasn't hard to follow her to
the conclusion that Frasilk intended to murder the boys once Jaleit's
daughter was wed to his son.
This information explained Shorel's murder. She had been caught
where she didn't belong and had fled, hoping to reach safety. As a hedge
against failure, she had carved the story into this staff. Her final
words implored anyone finding it to save the honor of Baron Frasilk and
the lives of the boys before momentary greed ruined the future of the
betrothed couple.
I resolved to do just that.
I rode into Lesser Hallvis three days later. Lesser Hallvis was the
largest town in the north end of Duchy Othuldane. It was situated
between Lake Aulk and the Winink River, which drained the lake to the
ocean. All manner of trade was drawn naturally to the town, resulting in
growth that showed no signs of slowing. That it was situated firmly
within the borders of the Jaleit Barony explained Frasilk's ambitions.
I had chosen Lesser Hallvis as my destination because it was in
Jaleit Barony, and because it was on one of the maps I had memorized. I
had no plan yet in mind for finishing Shorel's mission. I needed more
information and I would probably need help. I was sure I could find both
in Lesser Hallvis.
Four days later, I had a better grasp of the current situation. I
had listened to the gossip each night in the taverns and inns, and
during the day in the marketplaces. I had asked discreet questions here
and there of those likely to hear things: stall holders, tavern owners,
a group of people about a public well. What I had learned fleshed out
Shorel's minimal tale completely.
Late in the previous summer, Baron Shando Jaleit had taken suddenly
and gravely ill. This had left that barony in danger of being without a
leader; Shando's wife had died shortly after giving birth to their
youngest daughter, Shindi, and his oldest child, Krandel, was only
fourteen.
Shando had turned to his life-long friend and neighbor, Marin
Frasilk. After appointing Baron Frasilk regent for Krandel, Shando had
succumbed to his illness.
Baron Frasilk had seemed to take his duties seriously, and he had
moved the entire household to his own keep for the winter, leaving only
enough people at Jaleit Keep as were necessary to maintain it. Winter
had closed in and news, whether gossip or official, ceased to travel. As
soon as spring thaw had opened the roads again, word had issued forth
from Baron Frasilk's keep that his son Normb was betrothed to the young
Shindi Jaleit. Tongues had wagged at the announcement of the union; some
had thought the difference between Normb's twenty years and Shindi's
mere twelve would cause problems in the future; most of the rest had
believed that it was nice that the two friendly families could be bound
together that way.
The mention of the ill health of the two Jaleit boys, Krandel and
Eelis, had never been officially announced, but when gossip of it had
passed from tongue to ear it went as fact. Every person who had traveled
from Frasilk Keep was sure to mention the tragic illness of Shando's
heirs, and both so young and formerly healthy. Some put it down to ill
luck; others wondered whether Shando's sickness had been given to the
children and when little Shindi would come down with it.
I marveled that no one considered the coincidences involved to be
too convenient. One night as I entertained at a tavern I played an old
favorite that followed the situation as I knew it almost exactly; no one
noticed the similarities. Marin Frasilk had always been friends to
Shando and his family. If any long-standing jealousy had existed between
them, it was not public knowledge. No one suspected any wrong-doing
because no one had any cause to suspect Baron Frasilk of it.
I never even considered just telling people about Shorel's
discoveries. Even if I had been believed, and it was clear that I would
not have been, someone would have taken news of the accusations to the
baron and he would have been pushed into a rash act.
No, my only recourse was to expose the baron's actions personally.
The truth had to be told, before it became moot. But I knew that more
than just my own eyes needed to see that truth. One witness was easy
enough to silence, as Shorel had proved. The more who learned the truth,
the harder it would be to silence it again. I needed accomplices, and
more than that I needed people I could count on in the keep to go
looking for me, should I turn up missing.
People who travel for a living are often looked down on by the folk
of the places they travel to. They are strangers wherever they go, and
most distrust strangers instinctively. This is why there is almost
always a certain section in larger towns where these strangers can go
and be apart from the locals. A certain tavern or inn will cater
expressly to merchants or mercenaries or wandering tinkers, treating
them like they belong. Those who drink or lodge there can share the
commonality of being not-local with each other, even though they are
often strangers to each other as much as to the residents.
Bards are usually immune to this mistrust, but we are as welcome at
a travelers' inn as at a locals' inn. The Long Road was one of the
former kind in Lesser Hallvis, and there I came up lucky in my search
for aid.
One night as I entered the inn and glanced around the bustling
taproom, I spotted a tall, grey-haired man I recognized. It was Goerff
Heas who, last I knew, had been the leader of a traveling puppet show.
As I made my way over to his table, I recognized several of the seven
who were gathered around him as also being members of the Payslee
Puppets, Goerff's troupe.
He saw me striding through the crowded room and rose to greet me.
"Ho, Bard Nakaz, it's been long since our paths crossed. Do you fare
well?"
I gripped his offered forearm in greeting, and replied, "Ho,
puppeteer Goerff! Well met, indeed. My farings have been well enough,
well enough. What of your own journeys? Do your puppets still mesmerize
young and old alike?"
He laughed and nodded, and room was made for me at their table.
Goerff introduced me around the table. First, he proudly presented his
son and daughter-in-law, Teiff and Allea Heas, whom I had not met
before. Allea had finally influenced Teiff to take up with his father,
and now both were being groomed to take over the Payslee Puppets. Marum,
the puppet-maker, and Womore, the costumer, I had met before. Lavisk was
the carpenter and scenery builder, while Huyal and Demni had been hired
as protection but who had proven to be competent puppeteers and so
contributed to the group in that way also.
The evening passed swiftly in their company. We traded stories back
and forth, some more accurate than others, and we drank good ale and ate
good food. I learned that the Payslee Puppets were not currently
engaged, and an idea flashed into my mind at that news.
Late that evening, I drew Goerff aside to speak to him privately. I
trusted him on the basis of our past associations, so I told him the
real reason I was in Jaleit. I also told him that I was going to need
eyes and ears to help me witness the truth of what Baron Frasilk was
hiding, as well as weapons and hands to hold them to help me uncover
that truth. I asked him whether I could hire his troupe to be those
eyes, ears, hands, and weapons for me, for the duke, and for the king,
to ensure that justice was served.
His response was immediate. "Yes," he said, "and you don't have to
offer us Crowns to have us with you for this. It is the right thing to
do. How are we going to accomplish it?"
We discussed several options, but couldn't finalize any plans as
neither of us had ever been to the baron's keep before. We needed more
information. What we did agree on at that point was that we should not
go as ourselves. Another bard showing up so soon after Shorel might make
the baron nervous, and Goerff's people would be able to mingle better
with the people of the keep than the Payslee Puppets would.
There was one other suggestion that Goerff made that I made haste
to carry out. I was fortunate enough to be able to track down a
middle-aged man named Prett who had, until recently, been a retainer at
Baron Jaleit's court. He was as easy to recruit as Goerff had been once
he knew of Shorel's discovery, and he would be able to identify the boys
we were looking for conclusively.
It was the ninth of Naia when I rode into Baron Frasilk's keep with
a merchant caravan carrying wares for the wedding and Melrin
festivities. My fine clothes and my instruments were in safe keeping
back in Lesser Hallvis along with the bard-marked trappings for Riesta.
I was just one more hired hand to those in the keep, as anonymous as any
other servant.
Frasilk keep was of modest, though sturdy, construction. The outer
wall was maybe two man-lengths tall, without any towers at the corners.
There was no gatehouse, just wooden doors set into the wall. Within the
wall were several wooden outbuildings: barracks, stables, storage and
the like.
The keep itself was a two-story stone structure with a flat roof
and crenelations. It bore a single tower in one corner that rose another
story before being capped with a conical slate roof. Inside the keep,
most of the ground floor was occupied by the gathering hall, with the
kitchens to one side and guest quarters on the other. The second floor
was all apartments. It was an easy layout to memorize and keep track of,
and I made sure to do it as soon as possible.
Huyal, Demni, and Prett had traveled with me in the caravan. The
first two were guards, naturally. The former retainer served as another
hired hand. The rest of the Payslee Puppets were to arrive individually.
Some were already present; the rest were supposed to do so within the
next few days. I had that long to snoop around and learn what there was
to learn first hand.
Skulking and prying in secret after information is not one of the
classes taught in the Bardic College. Nevertheless, a surprising number
of us take training in the subject when and where we can. Sometimes the
truth requires that an effort be made to lure it out, like a shy maiden,
or a wild bird. I went seeking, coy and quiet, striving to be as
scarcely noticed in my work as any hunter after game.
I learned from the guards themselves that the watch was still
tripled on the door to the vaults beneath the keep as they grumbled over
their boring duty in the kitchen at midday. The extra work had begun a
fortnight past, when a thief had attempted to steal a valuable treasure
that Baron Jaleit had entrusted to Baron Frasilk. That thief had been
run down and killed, and the Baron himself had rewarded the two who had
done it for their diligent service. Speculation had the well-guarded
treasure being a scepter of gold, or a crown carved from amber, or a
small statue with magical powers that one guard seemed to remember that
Baron Jaleit had always treasured. It was not easy to grit my teeth and
remain impassive when they called Shorel a base thief masquerading at
being a bard.
I learned, again by being in the right place to overhear others
speak, that Jaleit's boys had still not been seen by anyone save Baron
Frasilk since Deber or perhaps earlier. The baron daily took food and
medicine up to their tower room, and a doubled watch of guards stood at
the base of those tower stairs lest some other scoundrel sneak into the
keep with a mind to harm them. The baron took his responsibility to
Krandel and Eelis very seriously, so that even the keep's physician was
not allowed to see the boys, but must dole out his tonics and poultices
by what Frasilk told him. I wondered upon hearing this how the boys were
getting food and care in their real hideaway, as no one had entered the
vaults since Shorel's fatal attempt.
What I experienced for myself in Frasilk's court, and of Frasilk
himself, surprised me. My expectations had, of course, been colored by
my private knowledge. The court that I had imagined could foster the
right conditions for such treachery as the baron perpetrated would have
been one full of intrigue, with all manner of minor nobles battling
covertly for position amongst themselves. The modest keep of Baron
Frasilk was nothing like that. Rank was barely honored, save that of the
baron himself. He had honest, simple, loyal people around him, people
who served their baron as they would their duke or their king, with
their whole selves. Cooks cooked gladly, guards guarded contentedly,
pages ran about happily, and squires trained with their knights eagerly.
And the baron seemed just the sort to foster that kind of
camaraderie. Frasilk was a large man, huge of chest and arm, a fighting
man with the rough manners of one. He never stood on ceremony, or put on
airs. He seemed to be one of his people, instead of the lord of his
people, and they treated him that way too.
Did I see a haunted look in his eyes late at the dinner table? Did
I catch him falling silent at odd times when all around him was noise
and laughter? Were his trips up the stairs more ostentatious than I felt
was needed? Did I only imagine these things because of what had happened
one afternoon a fortnight ago?
If I had not known Shorel as well as I had, I might almost have
believed that the tale carved into the walking stick was the false one.
But Shorel was no thief, nor was she a liar. I still had work to do.
Normb was a slighter copy of his father. Only twenty years old,
he'd not had the experiences that had deepened his father's chest or
broadened his shoulders. Normb strove for the same kind of openness his
father had, but it was still evident that he was apart from them, more
noble than common.
As for Shindi, I saw her seldom, and only at meals. There, she sat
quietly on the opposite side of the baron from her promised husband, and
seemed quite sad. Perhaps she missed her brothers, or even her father.
She was still quite young, and small for her age, delicate, beginning to
hint at the beauty she would be as she grew older. Standing next to
Normb, though, she looked like a doll, or a figurine, so small and
fragile, so lost.
My other recruits filtered into the keep slowly, making sure that I
knew of their presence with a slap on the shoulder as they passed me, or
a hearty greeting and a wink. My plan was formulated by the time the
last one had arrived. In a court like the one I had imagined my ploy
would never have worked; here, they were too honest to think every
possible move through to its most devious end.
I passed word to Goerff that everyone should meet at night's
seventh bell at the base of the tower stairs. Late that evening, I was
just outside the kitchen when a young page exited it carrying a tray
bearing the mid-watch meal of the tower guards. I chatted amicably with
the boy for a few moments, easily distracting him long enough to slip
the sleeping draught into the jug of ale, then let him continue on his
way.
I was first to arrive at the foot of the tower stairs two bells or
so after the middle of the night. The two guards posted there were fast
asleep; my plan was working so far.
Even so, I couldn't help but feel nervous at what I was
undertaking. I hoped that the danger was minimal, but I couldn't be
sure. And the baron had ordered Shorel killed for her discovery. I hoped
that I had foreseen all eventualities.
I attempted to distract myself while I waited by reviewing the
night's proposed activities. I had decided to check the tower room first
for two reasons. The door to the vaults under the keep had six guards
watching over it, and the chances of one of those six not drinking
enough of the drugged ale was too great to risk. Also, the door was well
secured by chains and bars, requiring three different keys to open it. I
had no reason to believe that any of the members of the Payslee Puppets
knew how to open those locks, and neither did I.
In any case, there had to be another way into the vaults. I knew
that Baron Frasilk had Shando's boys imprisoned in the vaults below the
keep, but I couldn't believe that he had simply locked them away to let
them starve. Shorel had found them alive, so the baron hadn't just
killed them out of hand. My thinking was that he needed them alive until
after the wedding, probably as insurance against anything going wrong.
Until Shindi was Normb's wife, the rightful heirs needed to be kept
alive, in case something went wrong. Only once Normb had a rightful
claim to Jaleit's daughter were the sons of Shando really expendable.
Perhaps it was a leap that only a bard with his head full of old
tales could make, but I was wagering that Frasilk's daily excursions
into his tower served two purposes: to give the impression that he was
taking care of the sick children, and to take the food he pretended to
carry to their sick room into their actual cell. If I was wrong, and
remained uncaught, we would simply have to determine a way through that
well-guarded door.
One after another, my recruits appeared. Soon there were nine
people standing around me, and it was time to begin. I quietly explained
my plan, and chose my caravan-companions to come with me. The other six
members of Goerff's troupe were instructed to wait until light and, if
we did not return, he was to take up the burden of proving Shorel's
story and, if possible, of rescuing us.
I began to climb the stairs, my picked companions following
cautiously. We went directly up about three floors and came to a small
landing with a single door. It opened easily when I lifted the latch,
and we entered a completely empty room.
There weren't even the trappings of a sick-room here: no bed, no
fire in the single hearth, and certainly no ailing boys. A cold stone
floor, bare stone walls, a peaked wooden ceiling, shuttered windows, and
the fireplace, empty of logs and even of ash. I also noted that there
was no pile of dishes or of food here. If Frasilk didn't take his trays
of food elsewhere, then what did he do with them?
The four of us tapped on walls and pushed at likely looking stones,
hoping to find the secret door I was sure existed. No one was having any
success, even after half-a-bell of searching. I stood in the middle of
the room and tried to think while the others continued looking. As they
brushed their hands across the walls and eyed cracks in the mortar for
signs of regularity, I noticed that no one was searching in the area
around the door. I had ignored it for what was likely the same reason:
there was a landing out there, and so no place for a secret passage to
exist.
I wondered, however, if that wasn't part of the secret. I opened
the door and checked the dimensions of the landing. Pacing off those
dimensions within the room left plenty of wall that hadn't been checked.
I tapped first to one side of the door and then to the other, and was
finally rewarded by a hollow echo. With only a bit of poking and
prodding, I found the catch and the hidden door opened wide.
My recruits had already gathered around me, so we lifted our
lanterns and started into the new passage. It looked as if the hidden
stairway followed the open stair exactly. It made sense to me: why build
two staircases when you can build one, and then build a wall down the
middle of it?
We descended as far as we had ascended, as quietly as frightened
rats within the walls. At the level of the main floor, the stairway
turned to the side and continued downward. At the bottom, we quickly
found the catch and another hidden door swung open onto the vaults of
Frasilk Keep.
The layout of the cellar was simple. There were two corridors set
crosswise to each other. One corridor ended in the stairs that led up to
the well-locked main door; the cross corridor had the secret door at one
end. Doors lined each corridor, the ones closest to the main stairway
pierced by small, barred windows so they could be used as cells at need.
A quick check showed that none of them were occupied.
All of the doors were locked, but a large key ring hung at the base
of the main stairs. I distributed these keys among us and we began to
search.
I took my keys and went to the door farthest from the stairs. I
tried all three keys on it, but none worked. I tried the door on the
other side of the corridor, and the last key opened it.
The room was small and uninhabited. I might have ignored the pile
of clothes in the corner if there hadn't been a wooden flute on top. I
walked over to the pile and picked up the flute. I knew it was Shorel's
-- I could tell from the wear marks, especially the one her little
finger had made where she rested it. I knelt and moved aside the
clothes, recognizing one tunic I had purchased for her, with leaves
embroidered around the neck and cuffs. Her saddlebags were here as well,
hastily stuffed with her personal items: her quilt, the portrait in wood
of her brother, the strange stone sculpture I had first seen the
previous summer, the last time we had been together.
I set my lantern down on the floor and took the stone sculpture out
of the saddlebag. I stared at it with an intensity that blocked out all
other thoughts, including the reason I was down here in the first place.
I traced the interlacing bands of gold, silver and glass. I brushed my
fingers across the two animals sculpted into the outer third of the
arced edge, lightly over the fox, but more caressingly over the stylized
cat.
I remembered that night in the Bardic College when I had first seen
it. I recalled dinner, when I had been distracted by that handsome, if
not well talented, bard named Kethseir. I remembered going up to
Shorel's room afterward, intent at first on making it up to her for my
periods of inattention at the meal. I had noticed the addition to her
possessions almost immediately. I recalled the way it had seemed to be
part of me, to belong to me, from the first moment my eyes rested on it.
I had needed to concentrate hard to make good on my promise to myself to
pay full attention to Shorel, despite the call of the sculpture.
It still called to me, and now there was nothing to keep me from
taking ownership of it.
The thought reminded me of Shorel, which reminded me of my mission.
I wondered how much time I had wasted staring at the stone. I set it
down reluctantly, and as I stood I heard the clash of arms.
Lifting my lantern from the floor, I dashed out of the room and
then stopped. In front of me, Huyal and Demni were defending themselves
against two fully-armored guardsmen. Beyond them was the baron, looking
furious. The short swords of my recruits were barely serving to protect
them against the larger weapons of the baron's men.
I strode forward, and said, "Stop! Before someone else is killed!"
with all of the authority I could muster.
My desperate gambit worked; the guards looked at me and stopped,
backing away from their prey. Baron Frasilk looked at me, and then
looked at them and said, "I didn't tell you to retreat! Do your duty!
Kill them, and him too!"
Before the guards could comply, I said, "Baron, wait! Think about
what you want to do. How many will have to die to keep your secret?"
He laughed, somewhat nervously. "What secret, thief? That the
treasures of my vaults seem to attract rogue after rogue? Eventually
there will be enough bodies to deter future knaves like you." He spoke
with bravado, but to his own men, not me. He was trying valiantly to
maintain his fiction; his words told me that these men didn't know the
truth.
I contemplated telling them myself, but I couldn't count on them
believing me no matter how authoritative I sounded. I was just another
thief, and not even one masquerading as a bard, as they believed Shorel
had. I thought about going back into that room to fetch the scrolls in
her saddlebags, thinking that might convince them of her actual status
... but no, they might just as easily believe she had stolen them from
the same person she had stolen her horse and other gear from.
I began to think that this phase of my plan was not going to
succeed. And then, as I thought about it, I realized that the other
phase was not going to work any better if this one did fail. I had left
six people behind with the knowledge of what the baron was really doing.
But they had no more proof than I did. They could tell their tale, but
who would believe such perfidy of their baron? Even if enough people
could be made to doubt, and a group was permitted into the cellars to
search, Baron Frasilk had a multitude of options. It would take time for
my six accomplices to generate enough support to force such a search;
Frasilk could spirit the boys away at any time through the hidden
doorway, and the search would find nothing. He might even be forced into
the ultimate act of killing the boys and hiding the bodies, or just
saying that they had succumbed to their illness like their father before
them. I had miscalculated, and my anchoring plan was already a failure.
I had no choice but to make my first plan work, or all was lost.
"So, baron, what happened last winter?" I asked, switching targets.
I spoke rapidly, but with assurance, and with that same authority I had
used earlier. "Your friend Shando Jaleit asked you to be regent for his
son, and suddenly there was an opportunity right in your midst. A means
to improve your son's inheritance greatly, and only two young boys to
suffer for it.
"How long did you agonize over your decision? Was it an impulsive
thing, as you sat in your gathering hall one stormy night, looking at
the sparseness of your home, and imagining the luxury that Krandel would
be going home to eventually with a coronet on his head? Or did you plot
and plan, perhaps actually poisoning Shando as a means to set up this
carefully orchestrated marriage?
"Tell me, Marin, is it really worth it? Do you think your son would
appreciate all that you are doing for him? Or your people, who love you;
would they still love you knowing the steps you are taking to increase
their prosperity? Would your guards still be loyal to you if they knew
that Shando's sons are not ill, but being held prisoner by you so that
your son will be able to inherit Jaleit's lands as well as your own?"
The two guards' heads were swiveling between me and their baron, at
first wondering what I was talking about and then wondering why Baron
Frasilk wasn't denying my accusations. Frasilk himself was too busy
turning red with fury and then white with fear to respond to my
questions. As I finished my litany, he finally said, "You ... you ...
you lie! How dare --"
At that moment, Prett stepped out of the cross corridor and was
spotted by one of the guards. He pointed and said, "'Ware, my liege,
another is behind you!"
Frasilk turned and saw Prett. His nervousness seemed to increase,
and he said, "Quickly, men, apprehend that one! The treasure ..."
He was interrupted by the appearance of that treasure. Two boys
stepped up behind Prett, two young boys who were pale but seemed to be
in good health otherwise. I could see their resemblance to their sister.
The baron wilted on the spot, and his guards let their swords, and
their jaws, fall. I walked passed them, and over to Prett, drawing my
own people with me. Soon, we were grouped around Prett and the boys
protectively, facing the stricken baron.
"Let me ask another question, Baron Frasilk," I said. "How would
you like to handle this little revelation? These guards now know the
truth. Would you have them executed for it, as you wished us executed?
Or do you think them loyal enough to you to keep your secret?"
Frasilk stammered, "I ... I ..." He looked at his guards, who were
frowning at him. "I ... I didn't mean ... I thought ..." The baron
deflated like a punctured bladder. In a voice much too small for his
frame, he said, "No. No, this is too much. Too many problems, too many
complications. I shouldn't have ever attempted ..."
He looked up at me, anguish in his eyes. "I only wanted what was
best for my people. When Shando made me regent, the possibilities were
suddenly there in front of me, like flowers in a garden, waiting to be
plucked. It was so easy ...
"If my people hadn't been so loyal to me, it would never have
worked. But they believed me. They never questioned a word I said. All I
had to do was say it, and they all believed boys were sick. Normb wasn't
happy about being betrothed to little Shindi, but he never complained to
me. He never said, 'But why, father?' He didn't even know of my plan,
yet he never objected. I don't deserve such loyalty."
Taking pity on the man, I said, "Perhaps you could arrange for
Baron Jaleit's sons to make a miraculous recovery today, leading them
down from their sick room yourself and presenting them to your court
with all manner of rejoicing that they have recovered. I'm sure that
would be an acceptable way to begin atoning for your mistake.
"There remains, of course, reparations to these boys for locking
them away from the sun for half a year. And also for tricking your
guards into killing a bard. Nor do I think that your son should be
required to bravely suffer his betrothal any longer. I'm sure we can
come to some kind of arrangement, right?"
The baron's guards had a look of determination on their faces, but
it was directed at their liege. Frasilk didn't say anything more; he
just nodded and hung his head in shame.
I rode away from Frasilk Keep with several announcement and record
scrolls in my case. The marriage between Normb Frasilk and Shindi Jaleit
was canceled. Baron Jaleit's two sons had made a complete recovery from
their two-season-long illness and were doing well. Prett, the former
retainer, was named as Krandel Jaleit's new regent, and the Jaleit
household moved back to their castle shortly after Melrin.
I also took with me Shorel's stone sculpture, leaving the rest of
her belongings behind. I told myself that it would remind me of her, but
truthfully, it never did. Taking possession of it was like reclaiming
something of mine and so thorough was that feeling that I never
associated the stone with Shorel again. I carried it with me everywhere,
taking it out to look at, to touch, to experience it often. It became
like a talisman to me, and I took great comfort from its presence in my
life.
Perhaps there had never been any need of bad omens in the first
place.
========================================================================
Past, Present, and Presage
Part 1: Simona's story
by Rena Deutsch
<Rena3@hotmail.com>
Magnus, Deber 1010
It has been seven years since I entered the Bardic College, seven
long years during which I learned how to read and write and tell stories
with the songs I sing. My teachers say I have much to learn before they
will bestow upon me the first stave of my journeyman bard rank and let
me leave the protective walls of the college. Yet my longing to see my
mother and sister leave me crying at night. Even worse, I am not
supposed to tell anyone about my sister so she will be protected and not
taken away from our mother as I was. But I have to tell someone. The
pain of keeping this secret is too intense to bear alone. You, my
friend, are sworn to secrecy and must not betray my trust.
I still remember the day I was taken as if it happened yesterday,
though it took place almost nine years ago.
"Mama! Mama! Megan got sick again," I yelled, running towards our
house. My mother stepped outside. I could see she wasn't pleased.
"Simona, not everyone needs to know your sister isn't feeling
well," she scolded me. I felt my cheeks burn and looked down at the
ground.
"I am sorry Mama, I forgot."
"Where is Megan?" she asked me, her voice soft and full of concern
for my sister.
"She's sitting under the apple tree. She said she needed to rest."
I took my mother's hand and rushed with her to Megan's side.
Even though Megan and I are twins, we do not look alike. Megan
looks a lot like our mother with her red hair, green eyes, and fair
skin. I, on the other hand, have black hair, blue eyes, and a complexion
that is a bit darker than my twin's. Mother says I look a lot like my
father. Megan and I never met our father; he died in a hunting accident
the day we were born. My grandfather told me it was because of a curse
that had been put on our family many generations before. But I will get
to that later. I knew nothing of a family curse that day, and neither
did Megan.
Megan looked very sick and mother didn't waste a moment. She picked
her up and carried her back to the house.
"Simona," my mother called me after she'd put Megan to bed. "Please
go to Rebecca's house and ask her for more herbs for your sister."
I did as I was told. It was a beautiful summer day. I took the
route through the fields to Rebecca's house, which was at the other end
of our village. My tiny feet flew over lush grass, jumped over stones
and other obstacles, and waded through the cold water of a small creek.
Out of breath, I arrived at my destination, my eyes searching for
Rebecca. I located her in her herb garden and approached her. Rebecca
knew more about herbs than anyone else and whenever anyone got sick, she
was sent for.
We got to know Rebecca well, because Megan was sick quite often.
Politely, I asked her for herbs for my sister. She invited me to follow
her inside. It always smelled like a big garden inside her house. Every
wall had plants and flowers stuck to it for drying. Curious, I watched
as Rebecca mixed the herbs for my sister and put them in a pouch. I
could not identify the plants she picked, but they smelled good. I had
learned from past experiences not to interrupt Rebecca when she mixed
herbs. The last time I had dared to bother her, she'd grabbed me by the
arm, yelled at me for interrupting, dragged me outside, and made me wait
in the rain. I'd been quite cold by the time I'd gotten home. That day
though, I sat patiently on a footstool and waited. Finally, Rebecca
handed me a pouch, patted my head, and sent me on my way with get-well
wishes for my sister.
On my way home I noticed a caravan approaching our village and got
excited. An arriving caravan meant we'd be trading again. Mother made
beautiful baskets and had several ready for selling and bartering.
Returning with the herbs for my sister, I couldn't contain my excitement
as I told mother about the merchants.
"Mama, can I go and see the peddlers?" I could barely stand still.
"Did you water the garden?"
"I did that before you sent me to Rebecca, and I fed the rabbits,
because Megan wasn't feeling well."
"Then you may go." Mother smiled at me and pulled two Bits out of
her purse. "See if you can get a handful of eggs for supper."
Mother's request made me feel proud. It didn't happen very often
that she would trust me with money. Carefully, I placed it in my little
pouch and secured it to my belt. I took my basket, made sure I had some
soft cloth in there to cushion the eggs, and went merrily on my way.
Skipping part of the way and running the other, I quickly reached the
place where the peddlers had set up their wares. Already, most of the
women were present, checking out the merchandise.
I took my time looking at the variety of items displayed. I had
little use for kettles, cloth, and other household items. One of the
peddlers, however, had something on his cart that drew my attention. It
looked liked a doll, but instead of cloth, it was made of wood. It had
strings attached to its hands, feet, and head. I stood and stared for
some time before the peddler noticed me. He took the doll on strings off
its hook and made it walk on the ground. Next the doll started dancing
to music no one could hear. Fascinated, I watched. What a tale I would
have to tell Megan when I got home. He made the doll bow and I clapped
my hands.
"Make it dance some more, please," I begged him, hopping from one
foot to the other. With a smile on his face he made the doll do another
dance and then parade in front of me.
"What kind of doll is it?" I asked the peddler, curious to find out
how he made it work.
"It is a puppet. See the strings, they pull on the hands and feet
and make it move." He demonstrated again how it worked. I reached out to
touch the puppet, but the peddler moved it out of my reach.
"Sorry, you may only look at it." Disappointed, I pulled my hand
back.
"How much for the puppet?" A voice asked from behind. I recognized
Jerel's voice and turned around. In my fascination, I hadn't noticed
that more people had been watching the peddler's demonstration.
"Four Rounds, sir," the merchant answered and my heart sank. I
would not be able to ask my mother and I knew Jerel could not spend that
much money for a toy. Jerel and his wife Zarit were not relatives, but
might as well have been. When my mother was a small child her mother
died. A friend of Jerel's traveled with mother to the village and left
her in Zarit's care because she was sick. After Jerel's friend died,
mother stayed with him and Zarit. They raised her as if she'd been their
own child.
Jerel shook his head and the peddler put the puppet back on its
hook. I just stood there and watched.
"Let's go home, Simona," Jerel said and took my hand in his.
Turning my head back to get one last look at the puppet, I followed his
lead.
"What is the basket for?" he asked me as I walked silently beside
him. His simple question reminded me of my mother's request.
"Mother asked me to buy eggs. Megan is sick again." Jerel guided me
to a woman who sold eggs and watched as I carefully placed the eggs in
my basket and paid. We left the market area and walked to the crossroads
together. Jerel's place was to the left; I had to continue on towards
the forest to reach my home.
"Tell Megan I wish her well, and let your mother know I will come
by tomorrow." Jerel said as he bid me farewell. I hugged him and walked
home, thinking about the puppet and how wonderful it would be to play
with it.
"You are just in time for supper, little one." Mother greeted me
with a smile as I handed her the basket with eggs. "Thank you for
getting the eggs."
"Mona!" Megan called weakly from her bed. I rushed to her side. She
looked pale, but seemed to feel better. "Tell me about the peddlers." I
cuddled beside her and told her what I had seen. When I told her about
the puppet, I took our rag doll and demonstrated the dance. Megan
giggled at my attempts to make it move like a puppet.
"Simona, time to eat," Mother called and I came. She put a bowl of
soup in front of me and went to feed Megan. I ate hungrily and then
joined my sister in our room. When father built the house we lived in,
he had created a room that could only be reached when walking through
the room mother slept in. I don't know why he did that, but Megan and I
loved that room. We could hide in it and no one but mother would know we
were there.
"Mona, tell me again about the puppet," Megan asked after she had
eaten.
"Simona has chores to do, then she can tell you," mother said and
sent me on my way. I knew what I had to do. I went outside to feed the
quail and made sure the goats were all in the fenced area. We had two
new kids so milking our goats was not possible for a few more sennights.
I had taken quite some time to tend to the animals. When I entered our
house I was surprised to see the peddler from this morning talking to
mother.
"... that did not seem of much concern to you before." I heard
mother say. She sounded bitter. I walked over and stood next to her.
"Simona, this is your Uncle Ezra. He is your father's brother. He
was just about to leave."
"Hello," I greeted him.
"Hello Simona," he replied and looked at my mother again. "We
already met. She was very interested in my puppets earlier."
I could see mother was not pleased to hear that. For a moment there
was an awkward silence. Uncle Ezra patted me on the head, then bid us
farewell and left. I felt mother relax the moment the door closed behind
him and she was able to lock it. Turning to me, she had a serious
expression on her face, which I had only seen once before. She pulled me
close, hugged me briefly, and then looked into my face.
"Simona, I need you to pay close attention now," she began,
sounding serious. I swallowed hard and nodded.
"Your Uncle Ezra came to take me back to your father's family. I
told him I was not going to leave here. We had a big argument just
before you came in. He knew I had a child, but he does not know that I
had twins. He knows about you, but not Megan. I do not want him to find
out that there are two of you. He will be leaving with the caravan again
in a few days. Until then, promise me to stay away from him and do not
speak of Megan."
"I promise, mother."
"That's my girl!" She hugged me again and whispered, "I love you,"
in my ear.
"Why does Uncle Ezra want you to leave here?" I asked, curious
about a family I had not heard much of before.
"Before you and Megan were born, your father and I went to see your
father's family. Your Uncle Ezra is your father's brother. We had a big
argument with your grandfather and left shortly after that. Your
grandfather said he didn't want to see me ever again, and if I would
return, he would hurt me. When your father died, his family blamed me.
Your uncle said that his father, your grandfather, had forgiven me, and
wanted to see my child and me. But do not worry, we will not be leaving
here."
"And I will not tell him about Megan."
"Straight, Simona. Do not tell him you have a sister."
"Can I sleep with you in your bed tonight?" I asked feeling the
need to be close to my mother.
"Yes, you can," she answered and stroked my cheek. Together we
looked in on Megan. She was already asleep. I tiptoed in, kissed her on
the forehead just like mother did every night, and whispered good night.
That night was the last time I saw Megan and my mother.
The next morning I got up early and went to the outhouse to relieve
myself. I was about to go back when I felt a hand clamp down on my mouth
and I was picked up and carried away. I struggled with all my might,
kicked as hard as I could, but to no avail. Before I could do much more,
I found myself bound inside a wooden box, with a piece of cloth in my
mouth. I was scared and unable to move. I do not know how much time I
spent inside the box. At some point I heard voices calling my name. I
wanted to scream, "Here I am," but the cloth prevented me from doing
that. I must have fallen asleep inside my prison. The box, which had
been rocking for a long time, suddenly lay still and then someone opened
it. I was surprised to see my Uncle Ezra. For a moment I thought he
would take me home to mother, but I was wrong.
The sun had already set when my uncle opened the box. I had soiled
myself and reeked of urine. Before he removed the cloth from my mouth,
he told me to be quiet or I would not get anything to eat or drink.
Afraid of what else might happen to me, I nodded. Yet the moment he took
the cloth out of my mouth, I screamed. My uncle's hand hit me hard in
the face; I fell backwards and banged my head. I screamed even louder
and my uncle shoved the cloth back in my mouth.
"I told you to be quiet!" he growled at me. "If you don't listen,
and keep quiet, I'll leave you tied in the forest for the catwyrm to
find and eat you!" Of course I had heard the story of the catwyrm, and
was terrified. The catwyrm is a giant cat that tricks people into
thinking a child is crying. When a person follows the cry and gets
close, the catwyrm catches and eats him.
"You will keep quiet if I take this cloth out and untie you,
straight?" Teary-eyed, I nodded.
He took the cloth out and I could breathe better. Quickly, he
untied my hands and feet. I rubbed my sore wrists and climbed out of the
box. Stripping me of my soiled garments and getting me cleaned up was
next. Soon I started to feel better. My uncle handed me clean clothing.
To my surprise they were boy's clothes. At first I refused to put them
on, but again I was threatened. Finally, I received a bowl of cold stew.
My uncle's next task was to cut off my hair. I let out a scream when I
felt the first pull on my hair and was promptly punished. I was hit hard
on the back of my head. My hair was as short as a boy's after my uncle
was done cutting. Thick tears cascaded down my cheeks, but I did not
make a sound.
"Now you listen to me Simona, this is the last time I will call you
by this name. From now on, you will pretend to be a boy. Your name is
Sarim; that was your father's name. During the day you will stay inside
this wagon. You will be quiet and behave yourself. If you do not listen
you will go back into this box. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I whispered, too scared to try and resist.
The next day, my uncle warned me again to be still inside the
wagon. I nodded, but when the wagon started moving, I climbed out the
back and ran into the forest. I didn't get far. My uncle caught up with
me quickly. He hit me hard and all went black. When I woke up, I was
back in the box, bound and gagged. I tried a few more times to escape,
but each time I was caught, I took a beating and was placed into the
box. Finally, I gave up and complied with my uncle's wishes.
It seemed we traveled forever. I spent my days sitting quietly
inside the wagon, thinking about Megan and mother, crying at times. I
missed them both very much. Finally, we seemed to have reached our
destination. Uncle Ezra introduced me to my grandparents as Anna's son
Sarim. The welcome we got was almost overwhelming. My grandparents were
seemingly happy to have a grandson and told me how much I looked like my
father. For the first time in sennights, I got to sleep in a bed again.
I was told the room had been my father's. Somehow that made me feel
safe.
The next morning, I woke up early and took a look around the room.
There was a desk and a stool underneath the window. At the foot end of
the bed was a large trunk. I tried to open it, but the lid was too
heavy. I looked up and saw a painting hanging on the wall. The sunlight
hit it so I couldn't immediately make out what it showed. I stepped
closer and drew in a deep breath. Mother! I stood and stared at the
picture until my grandfather opened the door.
"Time for breakfast," he said in a low voice. "Don't keep your
grandmother waiting!"
"Grandfather, did you put that picture of my mother here?" I asked
innocently. I don't know what I'd expected him to answer, but I
certainly wasn't prepared for his reaction. He stepped into my room as
fast as his injured leg would allow and reached for the picture on the
wall. With one stroke he pulled it from its hook and threw it on the
floor.
"Nooooo!" I screamed and rescued the painting before he could do
more damage to it. "Don't do that!"
"That is not your mother, it's one of your ancestors," he said
harshly. "Your mother has no place in this house!" I looked at him,
uncertain what to make of his words. He turned and left my room. Slowly,
I followed.
During breakfast everyone kept silent. My grandparents had already
finished their meal while I was still stirring half of it in my bowl.
"Who is the woman in the painting, grandfather?" I asked, taking
all my courage.
"Finish your breakfast and I'll tell you," he replied. His harsh
voice frightened me into eating the rest of the tasteless meal. I had
barely emptied my bowl, when my grandfather had me follow him outside.
He pointed towards a group of trees not too far away from the house,
commenting that there was one for every woman and girl in the family who
had died. I looked at him in disbelief. He told me to sit down next to
him and listen closely to what he had to tell me. What I heard that
morning was too much for my young mind to comprehend. I learned that
there was curse on the family and that my grandfather blamed my mother
for the death of my father. His words were harsh. I was choking back
tears. It hurt me to hear him speak badly of mother. I remembered the
promise I gave to mother and kept Megan's existence a secret. I hoped
that my uncle would take me back to mother, but I was wrong.
At the end of his story, my grandfather handed me a scroll. "This
scroll contains our family history. It will now be yours. You will learn
how to read and write so you can continue it."
"Yes, grandfather," I answered timidly.
"Keep it in a dry place!" he instructed me. I went to my room and
placed it on my desk.
Summer turned into autumn and I was still at my grandparents'
house. My days had fallen into a set routine. I got up early in the
morning, did my chores, and then reported to my grandfather. He
instructed me in the art of reading and writing. I was an apt student.
Soon I was able to read parts of the scroll I had been given when I
first arrived. The painting my grandfather had thrown to the floor was
back up on the wall. I had struggled for some time to put it back up and
finally had to ask my uncle to assist me. He only helped when I
threatened to tell that I wasn't really a boy. I still don't understand
why he deceived his parents, but when my grandmother found out the
following spring, he made it sound as if the whole plan had been my
mother's idea.
I had been out playing and when I returned that evening, I was
covered in mud. My grandmother poured some water in a basin and told me
to wash up and put on my nightshirt so she could clean my clothes.
Without thinking I took off my dirty clothes. My grandmother looked at
me in surprise and disbelief.
"You're a girl!" she yelled and the repeated it softer. "A girl!
You're a girl!"
My grandfather appeared, took one look at me, and left the room. I
blushed. An uneasy feeling crept up inside of me. I looked for my
nightshirt. My grandmother was still holding it. I took it from her,
pulled it over my head, and went to my room feeling I had done something
terribly wrong. I wasn't that far off.
My grandfather must have been waiting outside for Uncle Ezra,
because when he returned I could hear both of them yelling at each
other. I pressed my hands over my ears so I wouldn't have to listen to
their conversation. I was frightened: afraid of what my grandparents
would do to me and most of all what my uncle would do. The box on his
wagon was still fresh in my memory; so were the beatings I'd received
from his hands.
The next morning my uncle awakened me. He handed me the dress I'd
worn the day he'd taken me away from mother and told me to pack my
things and meet him outside. The dress was tight and made me feel
uncomfortable. I took a pouch and placed my few belongings in it. I
looked at the scroll on my desk and decided to take it as well.
Carefully, I rolled it up. I took one last look at the painting on the
wall and went outside to meet my uncle, uncertain of what to expect.
Surprisingly enough, he didn't hit me or threaten me in any way. He
gestured me to climb into the wagon, handed me some bread and a mug with
water, and told me to sit down. As soon as I was seated the wagon
started moving.
My uncle and I went traveling. While we were on the road, he taught
me to play the lyre and sing. Soon I was earning extra Bits, performing
for the people in the villages we passed. I traveled under the
assumption he would return me to my mother. The months passed and we
never came near my mother's house. I took courage and asked Uncle Ezra
when I would see her again. I belie
ved him when he told me that we were
on our way there, but had to take a different route.
We reached Magnus not too long after I had asked about my mother.
My uncle showed me a building and explained that this was the Bardic
College. He told me that the teachers there would instruct me further in
reading and writing. We entered the building and were asked to wait. I
took my lyre and played to pass the time. Eventually, a messenger came
and spoke with my uncle. I was told to stay where I was, while my uncle
left with the messenger. I do not know what kind of arrangements my
uncle made with the teachers at the Bardic College, but I was left
behind to eventually learn the trade.
Over the years I have tried to get word out to my mother, but to no
avail. The journeyman bards returned with the message that they hadn't
been able to find her. At night I dream of my mother and Megan. It is as
if they were standing beside me, their red hair blowing in the wind. I
long to see them and count the days until the first stave of my
journeyman bard rank is bestowed upon me and I will be able to leave
these protective walls in search of my family. Until then, all I have
are my childhood memories, my dreams, and the hope that one day I shall
see them again.
========================================================================
Loren Armare
Parte 3
by Max Khaytsus
<khaytsus@cs.colorado.edu>
Yuli 13 through 21, 1014
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-8
On this question of principle, while actual suffering was yet afar,
the repressed raised their swords against a power, to which, for
purposes of foreign conquest and subjugation, in the height of
glory that was not to be compared, a sovereignty which dotted the
surface of the known world with her possessions and military posts,
whose only goal was the conquest of civilization, which meant
taking away land from those who at any other time we would have
been proud to call brother.
"Videre Virile" (unfinished)
Lord Bistra Scire Deriman,
College Guild of Khronica
With breakneck speed, four horses emerged from the forest, their
riders urging them to speed up as they neared their ultimate
destination.
"Clear the way!" the lead man yelled, forcing his horse to jump
over a burning campfire. The horse, a trained army mount, carelessly
smashed the spit featuring rabbit or rat -- whatever was the catch of
the day -- and continued its charge into the camp. Soldiers quickly
cleared the way for the returning patrol and somewhere in the distance a
trumpet sounded their arrival. The lead rider, a lieutenant by rank,
reined his horse at a large pavilion, waiting for his men to gather
around him.
"Josef, proceed to Gateway and alert them. Report to no one less
than a senior captain. General Vasquez or Colonel Conti should be your
goal."
"Yes, sir!" one of the riders answered and spurred his horse into
motion.
The lead rider wearily dismounted his horse, twisting his back to
let the sore muscles stretch. As he did, the flap on the pavilion opened
and two men quickly made their way towards him.
"You made quite a ruckus returning, lieutenant," the first man
said. "I hope you're quieter on your patrols."
"Yes, sir, I am," the scout saluted his captain. "And I have a
report to make."
The other soldier, also a lieutenant, impatiently folded his arms.
"Dalton, we're working our way east, following ten regiments of heavy
infantry. The only thing of interest downriver are ruins of once-great
cities."
"Stand down, Tobias," the captain ordered. "There is always time to
look over our shoulder."
Dalton impatiently pushed on his horse's side, making the animal
shift out of the way, then knelt in the midst of the gathering crowd and
began drawing with his finger in the dirt.
"Being promoted to lieutenant does not disbar you from using
parchment, Dalton," Tobias moved closer to the slowly emerging image,
stepping dangerously close to the map forming on the ground.
Dalton did not answer, knowing full well Tobias was attempting to
provoke a reaction and while on any other day, with any other opponent,
he would be willing to take the challenge, he was painfully aware that
this man was the one major obstacle in his career and that his status
assured swift and uncompromising discipline given half a reason to
exercise such power. The edge of the map was abbreviated coming to a
sharp halt at the edge of Tobias' boot.
"Gateway," Dalton made a mark at the fork in the river. "Us, at two
days' march, Captain Hansard's three regiments another two days' back,
and Port Sevlyn all the way here," he pointed at Tobias' boot. "Our
patrol took us far enough downriver that we decided to join Captain
Hansard's troops for the night, rather than making camp in the forest.
They were happy to have us and the news from Gateway. Captain Hansard
wished me to report that they were delayed with the last of the cleanup
at Port Sevlyn, but managed to put together four shiploads of supplies
to be sent to Gateway."
Dalton paused, organizing his thoughts. The next part was the bad
news and he had to deliver it right. "We left yesterday morning, just
before sunrise, because I did not want to be forced to spend the night
in the woods. Going along the shore on horseback would have gotten us
back here by nightfall, but as we left, when we were two leagues out, at
the crest of a hill, we looked back and saw Baranurian troops crossing
the Laraka, heading for Captain Hansard's camp. And worst of all, they
were cutting us off from Captain Hansard. For us to warn them would have
meant having to fight through the Baranurian army and at five hundred to
one odds, all we could do was watch."
The scout marked a circle around where the Beinison troops made
camp. "The attack came from here, here and here," he said, marking
arrows in a rough triangular shape. "Most of the force crossed the
river, but there was a regiment that hit the camp from the south. I
can't even begin to understand how a troop that large was missed by
their scouts.
"Needless to say, they were taken by total surprise before the sun
broke the horizon and although they fought a good fight and had even
odds, they were simply overwhelmed by the intensity of the attack. Had
we stayed just half a bell longer, we would have suffered the same
fate."
"You stayed to watch the engagement?" the captain asked.
"Yes, sir. We were hoping there would be something we could do, but
as it is, all I have to bring back is sad news. After the battle, they
sent out scouting parties, several heading east. They're looking for
other enemy to fight and we're the next closest force."
Tobias spoke. "Captain Benjes, I volunteer to lead an immediate
counter-attack on the enemy."
"Not yet," Benjes knelt down across from Dalton. "Here and here,"
he pointed to the two arrows that crossed the Laraka, "are northern
troops. Possibly Narragan or Arvalia. Those troops were uncommitted, but
I'm surprised they made it this far so quickly. This," he pointed to the
attack that came from the south, "has to be a northern regiment as well.
There's practically nothing left south of the Laraka to offer
resistance. I'm surprised Hansard let such a large unit circle around
him without disclosing themselves. He is generally much more cautious."
"I've dispatched a man to Gateway," Dalton said, "but a message
from you would carry more weight, sir."
"We won't need reinforcements, lieutenant," the captain answered.
"At best it's one day there, two days back. The enemy will find us
before then, unless we do to them what they intend to do to us. How big
a force are they, lieutenant?"
"Four thousand or so," Dalton said. He had been working on that
number for over a day. "Mostly light infantry."
"And that makes us even with them," Benjes declared. "Tobias, take
two regiments across the Laraka, out to here." The captain's index
finger landed squarely on the halfway point between the two armies. You
will cross the river and attack at dawn. Dalton, you will take the two
other regular regiments along the south shore and stand by until Tobias'
attack begins. Take care not to advance too far, both of you. Their
scouts are no doubt looking for us. I will take all of the Knights of
the Star and we will close the loop right here." The three points of
attack made a perfect triangle, an inverted image of the attack that had
taken place the day before.
"How can you let him treat you like that?" a deep voice sounded
behind Dalton as he stirred the dwindling contents of the fire remaining
from the midday meal. "If I were you, Tobias would be food for the
wolves."
Dalton motioned for the man to approach and continued poking at the
dying fire, sending small embers of flame into the air. "I called you to
help me plan, not give me political advice."
"If I don't, who will?"
"No one and that's just as well. I've grown tired of this job,
these tasks, the daily toil of the Empire. Why are we here, Francis?
What has Beinison lost so far north?"
The newcomer settled down next to Dalton, letting his bulk spread
comfortably against the downed tree trunk his companion sat on. "We've
turned north because we've struck desert heading south."
"You're not answering my question," Dalton responded. "Why does
Cherisk need to be one under Beinison?"
"By no means are we one," Francis protested. "We have treaties with
Comarr, Shakin and Tholer'Ram. Defined borders where troops won't
cross."
"We had one with Lashkir, too. And some would argue that we had the
same gentleman's agreement with Baranur as we do with Galicia. What
happened to those?"
"They've become inconvenient to the throne," Francis said. "Untar
saw the greatness and might of the Fretheod and wants to be like them.
He's no different from his father. Or his grandfather."
"Yes, but what does that land get them? Why are we killing in their
name?"
"You still can't forget that farmer, can you?"
Dalton paused. There had been a farmer on a homestead they had
crossed a fortnight before. An older man with a gray head of hair and
wise old eyes. Skinny and weathered, he had tried to defend his farm and
a wife and two daughters. As the regiment advanced he stood before his
home, a heavy old sword in hand and the knights, on horseback, leveled
their lances and took charge, much as they would when hunting a boar.
The first one missed. The second knight ran the old man clean through.
The shaft of the lance went through his stomach, sticking out half way
on the other side, forcing the knight to drop it. And the old man had
still been alive.
After the troops were done looting his house, the lance had been
retrieved. The old farmer gasped in agony as it was pulled out, cursing
the soldiers and swearing that his two sons, now in the Baranurian army,
would take their revenge. Then he had died, his lifeblood soaking deep
into the soft dirt before his house.
Dalton kicked at the dying embers of the fire. When would Beinison
kill the old man's sons? Was it a month ago or would it be in a month?
Would they know what had happened to their father? That their mother had
died crying over her dead husband's body? And the daughters ... he
didn't even know which regiment had walked off with them.
"I was just a squire then ..."
"Deep in your soul, you still are." Francis stood up and put his
hand on Dalton's head. "Your old master's footsteps may no longer seem
clear, but in them you must walk as he takes his final rest. Sanar's
wisdom will guide you."
"You are Sanar's wisdom, Francis. You've always given me all the
answers I looked for ... except for why we must kill."
"In some ways the paths on which we walk are predetermined. We're
ruled by giants who control our fate. Untar and Benjes are such giants.
Tobias, he's a bully."
"He thinks I'm too young, too inexperienced."
"You are, but someone had to take your master's place, to fill a
gap and to lead. You will grow into your title of knight and serve the
Empire well."
"But I won't be required to like it," Dalton answered. "Help me
plan the raid. I have little time to banter over philosophy."
It was still some time before sunrise, but Dalton's troops stood
ready to move against the Baranurian soldiers who camped in the forest
along the Laraka. They had found a fairly inconvenient location to use,
the top of a low hill, which stretched out as a lengthy plateau. That
was to force the Beinison soldiers to fight uphill. Tricky, but not
impossible, especially under the cover of darkness. Advancing overnight,
Dalton's men managed to ferret out and eliminate two scouting parties.
The scouts were good soldiers, but fell easily to the overwhelming odds
they encountered.
Now it was time to do the same with the rest of the enemy force
before the missing scouting parties would be discovered. Dalton's
standing orders were to attack at the first sign of light in the eastern
sky. It was tricky timing in this dense forest.
The sergeants had already taken their smaller groups into position,
creating a wide arc against the eastern edge of the camp. The concept of
war itself was fairly simple. It was all a matter of putting more men
into position, obtaining the greater surprise and having the provisions
available to sustain your own side. Beyond all this, the soldiers were
evenly matched when fighting one on one. Some battles Dalton had read
about had been won without a single sword being drawn; simply
eliminating the food supply was often all that was needed to force an
army to retreat. That had been a favorite tactic of the rebels in the
war with Lashkir. More often, though, it was a question of who could
deploy the most troops more rapidly. In the case of this war, the clear
winner was Beinison. The imperial troops had quite effectively crushed
all of Baranur's borders and simply marched in, much as water would flow
from an overturned vessel.
Dalton turned his back to the Baranurian camp and faced east,
hoping to see the first light of daybreak through the forest's canopy.
He knew he would not be the first one to see this happen, even though he
would be the one to give the order for his troops to attack. But he also
wanted Tobias to have a head start across the river, crossing which
would be a tremendous challenge for armored men. Having his own,
smaller, force be the diversion for the larger Baranurian force did not
strike Dalton as a terribly good idea. He could tell that his men were
glancing his way impatiently, wanting to be done with the anxiety of the
wait and cast aside their fears in the heat of the battle. Dalton felt
it, too, that ache in his gut that made him wonder if he would still be
alive at midday.
Even though the sky remained dark, there was just a hint of
brightness in the forest, as if some unseen light was just starting to
burn, casting its glow to this distant, forgotten place. Dalton turned
and looked his sergeant in the eyes, pausing before giving the order. He
wished that Josef was here instead of on his way to Gateway. They worked
well together, having known each other for many years and having squired
to the same knight. Dalton had been elevated to replace his old master
and Josef was an inheritance that came with the job.
There was commotion from the Baranurian camp and Dalton knew that
he hadn't a heartbeat to waste. Either the attack was on the way or his
people had been spotted. It was the latter option that Dalton feared
most. While they were ready for battle and would not be surprised
themselves, his side without a doubt would lose the advantage of their
planned surprise attack. That would put them on even par with the enemy,
which was something he did not want to see happen.
"Now, sergeant," Dalton nodded. "Have the men advance."
A rumble of voices flowed in either direction and a wave of
soldiers flowed up the hill, a sharp wedge in the center and two wings
following it in. Dalton followed the first wave up before the second one
had started their charge, but behind him he heard the sounds of rushing
feet and clanking metal and realized that his advance was the signal for
the second wave to begin.
The slope was moderately steep and the plateau perhaps forty or so
feet high. Wearing full armor and weapon in hand made the charge rather
challenging and as he hit the slope, he realized that the morning dew
made the advance far less stable than initially anticipated. Only now
did he notice, in the semi-murky darkness, that some of the men in the
first wave hadn't done so well in their advance. Several had slipped and
fallen and a number had to resort to using their hands to aid in their
ascent. He managed to reach the top of the hill mixed in with the bulk
of the first wave, the second closely behind them, and entered what was
already a raging battle. It was hard to tell how it had started or when,
but the sight of soggy wet soldiers was a clear indication that Tobias
brought his men in earlier than he was supposed to and they were the
ones to take the Baranurian soldiers by surprise. It was not for some
time that the horses and colors of the Knights of the Star also graced
the field of battle, having waited for the proper cues and been delayed
by the climb over wet ground.
Dalton was pleased that, when his men came onto the field of
battle, it was almost directly behind the Baranurian soldiers. With the
battle already in full swing between the Baranurian troops and Tobias'
men, the noise of the fighting covered his force's advance until their
only threat were the blades of the men they engaged. The wedge that
started at the bottom of the hill swelled and cut directly into the
enemy's rear. For a few moments there was genuine disarray in the field
as Baranurian soldiers tried to figure out who was on their side and the
directions from which the true threats originated. The formation of the
Baranurian line quickly changed as they were now fighting a multi-front
battle and while the Baranurian soldiers were clearly well trained, many
remained unprepared and unequipped for battle.
The sun, still not having broken the canopy of the forest, had
already provided sufficient light for the battle. With two forces, both
numbering into the thousands of soldiers, the battlefield had quickly
expanded beyond the original Baranurian camp. Those that spilled over
from the main battle and tried to fight on the hill's wet slope quickly
ended up at its base, fighting in the denser forest, scattering further
and further away from the Baranurian camp. It was not long before Dalton
found himself back where he started, beyond the base of the hill,
fighting a pair of men, wildly swinging his sword, trying to put
distance between their attacks and his own body. There must have been an
easy two score soldiers down there, fairly evenly split between the two
armies, and neither group gaining any ground.
The call to halt came as a surprise and when Dalton paused, he
realized that he and his two opponents were the only ones still swinging
their swords. A tall dark-haired man approached him as the other
soldiers watched.
"You're their leader," he said in an accented voice, clearly not
Baranurian. He did not wait for an answer. "I wish to challenge you,
knight to knight."
Dalton backed away from his opponents. He could see the soldiers of
the two sides reconsolidating, recasting themselves into two groups. By
the knightly code, the stranger, if truly a knight, had the right to
issue this challenge. But the stranger wore no armor and merely carried
a sword. He could have been anybody. "Who are you?"
"Hakan Magnus, House of Arvalia, Knight of the Stone." He reached
in his tunic and pulled out a chain with a small stone tear hanging off
it. Dalton had heard of Arvalia and of the Knights of the Stone and was
willing to accept this man's claim merely on his word. He introduced
himself, knight to knight, a gentleman to a gentleman.
"We have a large group here," Magnus said. "If we let them fight it
out, one of us will lose half his unit and the other all of his. Let the
two of us fight to first blood instead. The loser and his men yield to
the winner."
This was the old chivalric code that Dalton was familiar with. The
men-at-arms did not matter, the size of the army didn't matter. Just the
two leaders, man to man, victor takes all. Magnus proposed that the
lives of these men be wagered using the old knightly code and was
clearly confident in his ability to win, but Dalton was no coward. He
was a knight, a good soldier, and confident in his ability to handle a
sword. He, too, would prefer that should victory be unreachable, the men
he commanded be allowed to walk away having lost the fight, rather than
be carried away dead. There had been little doubt in his mind that the
deal was fair to the lives involved, if not to the spirit of the battle.
"Agreed," Dalton nodded.
Magnus drew his sword.
"Your armor?"
He shook his head. "A solid hit on yours would count for first
blood."
That seemed fair. Their swords clashed and Dalton realized that
Magnus was a far stronger man than it had first appeared. The force of
the impact rattled his sword and Dalton had to take a moment to adjust
his grip. He shuffled out of the way, changed his grip and parried a
blow just in time to avoid having his arm hit. Magnus corrected his
angle, taking a deep, wide swing, forcing Dalton to again risk losing
his grip as he blocked.
Dalton braced his legs and swung back, trying a different approach.
His sword came about on his left side and angled upwards, forcing Magnus
to compromise his attack in favor of parrying the blade, but at the last
moment, Dalton adjusted his swing, leaving Magnus protecting the left
and open for an attack on the right. He'd have made the blow with any
other opponent, but Magnus spun about and parried the feint with a
backswing, leaving little doubt that he was an expert swordsman.
Another swing and parry. The two men were successfully learning one
another's style, but not making any real progress in the fight.
"My compliments on your swordsmanship."
"I'll pass them to my teachers."
Dalton jumped over a low swing, blocked the high return and struck
back. Magnus caught it midair and redirected the blow, letting Dalton's
sword glance off his own and pass over his head.
"First blood may be long in coming."
"Your armor will tire you out first."
"No doubt the plan you started with."
The two swords again clashed between the two fighters, drowning out
the cheers of the soldiers.
"I've got two dozen men who think I'm the better swordsman."
"Funny. Not what my men think."
They exchanged several more blows.
"You can yield now, you must realize."
"Not yield to the man destined to lose this fight!"
Dalton's world turned upside down as he collided with Magnus. For a
moment he could only see the now blue sky above him and his only
bearings were the yells of the men watching the fight. He landed hard
and rolled out of the way, not sure how he was hit or by what. He came
to a rest, realizing that he was covered with a splatter of blood, but
in his mind felt no pain. He was only knocked off his feet. The yells he
was hearing had changed. There was once again swordplay and the sound of
hooves. Dalton forced himself to get to his feet. He had no idea where
his own sword was, but with the sight he took in, his sword no longer
mattered.
Dalton kicked in anger at the tray of food that was placed before
him. He was furious with his captivity, his allies and his countrymen.
It had been a sennight since he had been confined. People were talking
treason, but there was no source to the tale. Rumors merely merged,
plots evolved and ultimately he was on his way from the front lines, an
example of a man who betrayed his country.
He relived that moment hundreds of times, that battle where he
ultimately fell. He had wondered about Hakan Magnus from the moment that
he met him. The man was clearly not Baranurian, judging by his accent,
but he was there standing up for the soldiers of Baranur. Could he have
been Beinison? Or a country further away?
Dalton closed his eyes. He saw that last fight, felt the bond of
respect he had established with Magnus. He had not been a knight for a
very long time, but in that one moment, he grasped the full meaning of
the symbolism his title embodied; not that the title would ever be used
again.
Francis had visited him before he had been taken away.
"Is there no justice?"
"In the eyes of Sanar all things are even. He is not 'Sanar the
Just'; he's 'Sanar the Wise'. Wisdom hardly ever lent itself to justice.
"It must have been a century since a Shakin philosopher wrote that
'conscience is a coward and those faults it has not the strength to
prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse. Consider what you think
justice requires and decide accordingly, but never give your reasons;
for your judgement will probably be right, but your reasons will
certainly be wrong. '"
"I wish I had him with me that day," Dalton sighed.
There was little doubt that he was meant for failure and Dalton
could not help but wonder what it was that made Tobias hate him so much.
He had ascended to his title justly and fairly. His master's death could
not have been helped. His men liked him and followed him, but something
somewhere did not sit right. Tobias was bitter and spiteful. He hated
people, the only exception being Captain Benjes, who no doubt was the
most critical factor in his advancing in ranks.
Even with his eyes open, Dalton vividly recalled the beginning of
the end, that last moment of the fight when he had parried Magnus'
strike and struck back. There was a constant shadow in the back of his
mind, something that came from nowhere and ended the fight. It took a
nightmare to remember the details, the image of Tobias on his horse
flying out of the woods, sword rattling high overhead, heading for the
center of the circle of men watching the fight ...
Magnus never really knew what hit him. He must have died thinking
that he had lost in a fair fight. Tobias, as his horse charged through
the line of men, swung his sword, aided by momentum, nearly slashing
Magnus in half, throwing him forward to be impaled on Dalton's blade.
The sight of Magnus' eyes in that last moment would haunt him forever.
The men that Dalton and Magnus had tried to save died anyway,
killed almost to the last. The Baranurian troops had taken no extra
prompting to attack Tobias. He lived, though badly beaten. His horse had
died under him. The Beinison troops likewise entered the combat,
returning the conflict exactly to the moment where it had left off. As
Dalton had walked the grounds after the battle, he had recalled seeing
the standing pools of blood which the ground was too saturated to allow
to soak in. The stench of death and the cries of pain had continued to
echo in his mind night after night.
"History is written by the victor," Francis had told him once. "The
atrocities you will commit in war are rivaled only by your opponent's
and in the end, whoever wins earns the right to write them down as
imagined by their own eyes."
One night Baranur had slaughtered the sleeping soldiers of the
invading Beinison, having given them no fair chance to defend themselves
in battle. And two nights later Beinison had cut down the evil force
that caused this harm, razing them to a man, returning justice and honor
to their fallen brethren. It wasn't until the next day, when Tobias had
regained consciousness, that Dalton had been accused of treason. And
there was really no one around alive to counter the story. Justice in
Beinison could be swift.
"No good deed ever goes unpunished," Francis had reminded Dalton
before he was taken away, indicating that it would have been better to
let all the men perish rather than try to save them. They had died
either way. So much advice from a wise old friend, things that rang so
true. Perhaps the hardest truth of all was realizing when your closest
friends and supporters turn their backs to you, for with all their
comforting words, one thing forever remains true; they will support the
sacrifice of your soul to the crown, a show of force to remind those you
leave behind what will happen to them when they too fall out of favor.
Note to the Reader: In their fortnight on the Laraka, the Lost
Regiments of Arvalia hampered the Beinison ability to move supplies
and rendered appreciable damage to the troops Beinison had
committed to Gateway. Even though over three thousand Baranurian
soldiers died at the battle for Gateway ("Campaign on the Laraka
III", DargonZine v7n1 and v7n2), the delay impacting the Beinison
reinforcements allowed Gateway to withstand the most critical
assault of the war. Dalton's fate can be further followed in "A
Rogue's Gambit" (DargonZine v8n3).
========================================================================
