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DargonZine Volume 13 Issue 03
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 13
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3
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DargonZine Distributed: 3/25/2000
Volume 13, Number 3 Circulation: 730
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
A Matter of Honour 2 Nicholas Wansbutter Janis, 1006
Talisman Three 3 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Fall, 748 FE
A Tale of Two Thieves 1 JD Kenyon Seber 1017
========================================================================
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 13-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 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>
One of the major benefits of the rise of personal computing and the
Internet is our ability to archive information. At a click, I can search
for a word in dozens of dictionaries, or scan hundreds of telephone
directories to find someone's number, or obtain real-time stock market
information. This power is also available to us as individuals. Many
people save their email or their checkbook or their address book in some
electronic form. We have quick access to information that was
unthinkable just ten years ago. We all have examples, but this was
driven home for me last week when, out of curiosity, I wanted to cite
the date of O.J. Simpson's "low-speed chase" in an email I was
composing; obtaining that piece of information took less than a minute,
and just four mouse clicks.
It seems odd, then, that we have so little information about how
the Internet came about, and the people who made it happen. While there
are a few familiar names who pioneered the technical infrastructure, few
people could name someone who was a catalyst in popularizing the early
Internet. Can you name the people who brought you listserv or majordomo
or IRC or ICQ? Do you know who founded rec.arts.sf.written or soc.motss
or rec.music.misc? Those are people who transformed the Internet from a
boring raw communication facility into an exciting, interesting world
full of unparalleled opportunities to communicate with, learn from, and
share experiences with one another. Those people are the Internet's
unsung heroes.
I want to tell you about one of those heroes: John Labovitz. A few
of you may recognize his name, because it's part of the resource he
created: John Labovitz's E-Zine List, which can be found at
<http://www.meer.net/~johnl/e-zine-list/index.html>. Since he began back
in 1993, John has maintained the best, most exhaustive, most accurate
list of electronic magazines on the Internet. He did this not out of
commercial interest, but because he knew such a site was needed and
would be useful to both readers and publishers. His service has been
wonderfully successful, and has helped DargonZine and hundreds of other
emags grow. Hundreds of readers have been introduced to our site through
index sites like John's, but John's is by far the most widely-known, and
more than a dozen of our subscribers mentioned his site by name when
they joined DargonZine.
I single out John because after seven years of selfless service,
John has decided to cease maintaining the E-Zine List. As a reflection
of his adherence to the noncommercial spirit of the early Internet, he
is presently looking for someone who will adopt this popular site and
continue to operate it as a public, not-for-profit resource. We are
thankful recipients of John's valuable contribution to the Internet, and
we wish him luck in his future endeavors.
On a more positive note, I'd like to mention a new feature that we
recently added to the DargonZine Web site.
We know that maps of Dargon and the surrounding lands are useful
ways to help readers visualize the settings of our stories. We've
recently put together a small DHTML script which ties some of our maps
together with our Online Glossary. By hovering your mouse over landmarks
on the maps, you will see their Glossary descriptions. And by clicking a
landmark, you will be taken directly to that feature's Glossary page,
which contains additional information. It's a great way to familiarize
yourself with the places that our stories talk about, and we're really
pleased to be able to share it with you.
However, the interactive features of these maps rely on fairly
recent innovations, so they will not work for older browsers (we've
tested the script using Netscape 4.0 and Internet Explorer 4.0). If you
have a recent browser, you should have no problem using the maps, but
older or nonstandard browsers may have more difficulty with the
additional interactive features.
The interactive maps of the city of Dargon and of the surrounding
area can be found in the map section of the About Dargon page.
In this issue we continue ongoing series' by Dafydd and Nick
Wansbutter, and print the first part of a two-part story by JD Kenyon.
All three of these storylines will culminate in our next issue,
DargonZine 13-4, so don't miss that one! It should be out before the end
of April.
========================================================================
A Matter of Honour
Part 2
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<ice_czar@hotmail.com>
Janis, 1006
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-2
A cold wind howled like some enraged banshee outside the walls of
Fennell Keep. Aleksandr added another log to keep the fire blazing in
the hearth in the main hall. A great bearskin covered the icy stones
beneath his feet, but he could still feel cold radiating up from the
ground. Indeed, the stone in the castle seemed to soak up the cold, and
pass it on to every being within. Perched atop the hill that held the
city of Fennell, the keep received the full brunt of the frigid winds
that swept in from the northeast. The dense forest that was the barony's
saving grace during the winters was ineffectual here. The keep didn't
even have the benefit of shelter from surrounding buildings. But on a
day like this, it was still better than being outside, Aleksandr
supposed. In a way it was good, as the winds were too cold to allow
outdoor training this day. In the two years he had lived at the keep, he
had learned to appreciate such small comforts.
"Aleksandr!" A deep voice intoned from across the hall.
Aleksandr turned to see his weapons instructor and most direct
superior, Sir Igrim, approaching him from across the room. His powerful
figure dominated the fire-lit room. Long, dark hair hung thickly from
his head, as did a grey-streaked beard and moustaches. On his broad
shoulders hung a black tunic bearing his family crest. Aleksandr of
course, being only the humble rank of page, wore no coat of arms.
Rather, he was dressed in a plain grey tunic with black belt and
breeches.
"Come here, boy!" Sir Igrim's words were harsh, but Aleksandr was
not afraid of him. He remembered many a training session with the
quarterstaff when Sir Igrim would berate him for letting his guard down,
that such a lapse would mean his death some day. Afterwards, he would
always tell Aleksandr when they were alone that he was pleased with his
progress, or offer other such words of encouragement. Nevertheless,
Aleksandr scurried over to the knight without delay.
"Sir?"
"Keeping the fire stoked I see." Sir Igrim never seemed to be the
slightest bit affected by the cold. "Good. The baron has some guests
coming this eve. Fetch a *good* bottle of Solov'necr from the cellars,
then get yourself to the kitchens! Pots and pans will be your weapons
today. Now, be off with you!"
"Yes, sir!"
Aleksandr hurried off down the hallway. The long corridors along
the outer edge of the bailey were the coldest in the inner keep, as
chill winds sneaked through the wooden boards covering the portholes
that looked out on the courtyard. Fortunately, the cellars weren't far.
Aleksandr closed the heavy wooden door behind him to block the wind,
enabling him to light a torch from the pile sitting in a niche by the
door.
He descended the stairs into the darkness of the cellars, where a
wide variety of stores that the keep needed to last out the winter were
stored. The light thrown by the torch illuminated smoked sausages and
meats that hung from wooden pegs along one frosty wall. Barrels of
pickled vegetables, salted pork and spices filled one corner of the
room. Hundreds of pounds of flour lay in large sacks piled in another
corner. More kegs of wine and mead filled other parts of the cellar.
Aleksandr headed to the very back of the room where the finer vintages
of wine rested on large racks. Behind these were more racks bearing the
hard liquor. The stuff he sought was hidden in the furthest corner, in
case a questionable servant might want to pinch a bottle. To Aleksandr's
knowledge, such a thing had never happened, and he resented the fact
that they lay in the coldest corner to defend against it.
Solov'necr was the favoured drink in the Barony of Fennell. Made
from fermented iechyd berries, it was a potent drink that warmed one to
the core during the cold winter months. Aleksandr surveyed the available
bottles, and chose one of the larger looking ones. The coldness of the
bottle shocked him, and when it bit into his hand he accidentally
dropped the frigid carafe. Instinctively, he grabbed for it with both
hands, dropping the torch as he did so. He caught the bottle before it
smashed all over the floor, but the dropped torch made trouble of its
own: one of the older bottles had been leaking it seemed, and its
contents ignited immediately when touched by the torch's flames.
Aleksandr had to think quickly, as the fire was spreading.
Currently only the puddle of Solov'necr burned, but he knew that
wouldn't be the case for long. He carefully put the bottle he was
holding on a nearby barrel, and hurried over to the stack of flour.
Grabbing one bag, he dragged it over to the fire. Summoning what
strength his little body had, he tossed the thing atop the fire, and was
plunged into darkness.
"Cephas' boot!" He cursed. "Now what?"
There were no windows in the underground cellar. It was so dark
Aleksandr couldn't see one cubit in front of his nose. It was chillingly
cold in the room, and quiet. The dark frightened Aleksandr. Who knew
what evil creatures lurked in there? His mind conjured up images of the
Wasp King and other horrible monsters creeping out of the corner to peel
his skin off and eat it. He wanted to run screaming out of the room, but
knew he would only cause further disaster if he did. Countless glass
bottles containing valuable liquids, made all the more fragile by the
cold that surrounded him on all sides.
By slowly and carefully reaching out with his hands, Aleksandr was
able to reacquire the Solov'necr he had been sent for. Nearly knocking
several other bottles off of their shelves in the process gave him
reason to move no further. He didn't know how long he had been standing
there, shivering from both cold and fright, when he heard the door at
the top of the stair creak open. He was too far away to see the faint
grey light that filtered through the doorway, nor hear who it was that
had entered.
He was about to call out, then checked himself. "What an idiot
they'll think of me for trapping myself down here without a light. No
... I'll sneak out when they're not looking and no one will know."
Presently, the warm glow of torchlight emerged from the stairwell
and illuminated the room enough for Aleksandr to begin creeping around
the outer edge of the room. He could hear voices as he drew nearer the
torchlight. They seemed to be hovering not far from the stairs.
"What in blazes are we doing down here, Kelbhen?"
Hiding behind a barrel, Aleksandr risked a glance at the people who
had invaded the cellars. The one who had spoken he recognised as Sir
Miripur by his deeply pocked face and slim frame. His greasy black hair
hung limply about his pox-scarred face, and his tabard hung loosely from
his bony shoulder. Standing next to him holding the torch, in stark
contrast, was Sir Kalayan, a barrel-chested man who seemed to bristle
hair everywhere. His reddish-brown beard puffed out from his face in all
directions, as did the curly hair on his head. He was nearly as wide as
he was tall, his arms and legs like tree-trunks. Excitement welled up
when Aleksandr saw the third member of the group. It was Jarek Kelbhen,
the foreign mercenary, captain of the guards, and his idol. Aleksandr
remembered being slightly disappointed the first time he met Sir Jarek.
He was not the towering figure he had imagined. He was of average height
and build. Aleksandr quickly learned that his prowess on the battlefield
came from skill rather than brute strength. He had a certain charisma as
well. Aleksandr had never heard an ill word said of the knight by any of
the guards under him and especially not from the maidservants that
worked around the keep. His olive skin and raven black hair gave him
away as a foreigner, but still he had a certain presence that drew
people to him.
"What we are doing here, Miripur," Sir Jarek stroked his goatee,
"Is making my wedding arrangements."
"Then Fennell agreed?" Sir Kalayan's head snapped sharply to look
at the other.
"Quite the contrary, my friend." Sir Jarek's lips curled into a
smile. "But I shall have my way nevertheless."
"How?" Sir Miripur gestured to the room above them. "If the baron
has denied you, then that's all there is to it. You can't just take
her!"
What *were* they talking about? Whatever it was, it sounded bad.
Aleksandr made sure to keep very still and hidden behind the barrels. He
now had more reason than pride to remain unnoticed. Though he didn't yet
know what they were plotting, he was sure they wouldn't be pleased if
they discovered him.
"Who says I can't?" Aleksandr could hear Sir Jarek's footsteps
moving closer. "Tell me, Miripur. Have you heard of the practice of
marriage by conquest?"
Sir Miripur let out a chuckle. "You rogue."
Aleksandr was not surprised by such a comment from Sir Miripur. In
fact, the man was barely worthy of the title he bore in Aleksandr's
mind. The knight often found sport in beating a squire that had not
performed his duties to a high enough standard, or in tormenting monks
from the monastery with insults he knew they would not return. Aleksandr
had even heard rumors about Sir Miripur mistreating the ladies in
waiting, forcing one of them into his bed.
"Zhilinda will by a fine conquest." Kalayan said knowingly.
"Baron Fennell thinks his daughter too good for me, a foreigner, I
suppose."
That wasn't true! Aleksandr finally knew what the knights were
discussing, and it appalled him. Everyone knew Zhilinda had been
betrothed to Baron Delborne's son, Kristofer, for years. She was still
quite young, being only thirteen; otherwise she would be married now,
and in Delborne. But these were knights! Where was their honour? Were
they not sworn to protect all women?
Sir Jarek slammed a fist down on a barrel not far from the hiding
page. "I did not get to where I am by bowing to unworthy masters! He
will soon learn some respect. He will have no choice but to give me my
due when I am his son-in-law!"
Kalayan gave a hearty laugh, but Miripur remained sober. "Can it be
done?"
"Of course it can be done!" Sir Jarek's voice could be heard moving
back towards the others. "We've travelled the length and breadth of this
land, our swords slaying the enemies of the gold that bought us. Fought
the traitrous House Northfield, and sowed the soil of Fennell red with
their blood. Making this girl my wife will be but a simpleton's game
compared to that."
Aleksandr stole another glance to see Sir Miripur cautiously
watching the stairwell. "How?"
"It's quite simple, really. We *are* the baron's trusted guards,
are we not?" Sir Jarek said. "It is but a matter of moving. We will wait
a sennight, I think, to allow the baron to forget my most recent request
for the young Zhilinda's hand. Seven nights from now, we will take her
from her chambers when I order the changing of the guards at the fifth
bell of night. Getting to her room will be not a problem, but getting
her out will take some care. You'll be able to make it as far as the
weaving room without being noticed. There's an unused door behind one of
the tapestries in there that opens into one of the servants' passages.
Follow it to the servants' entrance on the north side of the keep. I
will meet you there, and we will make haste to the stables."
"Where will we take her?" Kalayan's deep voice intoned.
"I think just outside of the city, into the forest a little ways.
Only a couple bells' ride from here lives a wealthy merchant named
Billik. He's made his fortune as a moneylender, and has a winter
residence in the forest away from the commotion of Fennell. I think such
accommodations would be suitable for my ascendance into Baranur
nobility, no?"
"How and where do we find this Billik?" Miripur asked.
"It's simple. There's a spot along the road to Heahun where a
little stream runs. You'll know it when you see it. Five mene's ride
further, a small trail breaks off the road to the north. Billik's house
lies at the end of that trail."
"It's almost *too* easy." Miripur said.
"Fear not, my friend." Sir Jarek assured, "It will work. Now come,
we must be away from this cellar before we are missed. Remember, one
sennight from today. Until then, not a word. Not even to each other."
With that, the group ascended the stairs, once again plunging the
cellar into darkness, where Aleksandr remained for several long menes.
He wasn't even sure that he heard what he thought he had. Surely, he
must have misunderstood what the knights had said. They couldn't
possibly have been plotting to kidnap the baron's daughter. Sir Jarek
was his idol: the personification of everything knightly. Even if
Aleksandr had understood, how could he destroy the man he sought to
become? But then he remembered what his father had said about Sir Jarek
on the day he left Heahun.
"He is a robber knight. Not a noble like us!" Father had been right
then, and he was right now. Sir Jarek Kelbhen was not a true knight; not
a true idol. There was no denying it. They would take the girl one
sennight hence, and Sir Jarek would marry her by force. Aleksandr
shuddered at the thought. He couldn't let such a thing happen. It was an
offence against Stevene and against the baron! Against all who bore the
title of 'knight'. But what could he do? He knew that he was but a boy.
Who would listen to him?
"He is a robber knight. Not a noble like us!"
His father's words repeated themselves over and over in Aleksandr's
head. What to do? The question still tormented him as he waited on Baron
Dorja's guests that evening.
"If only I were a knight!" he thought. "Then I could challenge Sir
Jarek to a duel, and save Zhilinda! Those who follow Stevene's light
always win their battles!" But he was only a page, of course -- not even
a squire yet, by Cephas!
Aleksandr wandered about the room, filling goblets with the bottle
of Solov'necr that had led to the boy's state of affairs. He didn't pay
much attention to the guests, as they couldn't possibly interest him
with this dilemma rolling about his head. All he knew was that there
were two of them, and that they liked the Solov'necr quite a bit. Which
meant they'd probably stay the night. At least staying busy kept him
from going crazy.
It was a quiet little gathering, and Aleksandr was presently
excused to do as he pleased. Of course, he had to stay in the general
area as he might be needed again. In the main hall of the keep, several
sets of King's Key held permanent residence. Once a sennight, on the
holy day, Aleksandr would meet Lev to play a game or two. The two had
won roughly the same amount of games each, but Aleksandr had pulled
several victories off in the past month, and wished to press the
advantage by keeping his skills sharp. Such was his zeal for the game
that he had far surpassed the other pages in skill level. Sir Igrim's
squire, Tpliki, was a very challenging opponent, however. As the squires
were not required to wait on guests, as the pages were, he was free to
partake in the recreational activities available in the keep. Once he
was dismissed, Aleksandr would often search out the older boy and
challenge him to a game.
"So, you're ready for another thrashing, eh carrot-head?" the
squire taunted when approached by Aleksandr.
"I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you," the younger boy said,
setting pieces on the board. "Remember last time?"
Aleksandr had almost won their last encounter. "I've been
practising."
"So have I." Aleksandr sat across from the other. "Ready?"
The game moved at a good pace, both of the boys employing a rather
aggressive style of play, much faster than when Aleksandr confronted the
methodical monk Lev. Aleksandr's favourite piece was the horseman, whose
abilities he'd mastered. He always pictured himself as the very cavalier
he moved about the board, bravely charging to battle in the name of
good. Tpliki knew this however, and his first objective was to remove
those pieces from the game, leaving Aleksandr in a tight and unfamiliar
spot. He tried to employ other pieces, initially to no avail. It
appeared that Tpliki was going to dominate the rest of the game, when
Aleksandr was able to pull off a series of moves utilising his priests,
turning the tables on the other boy. Tpliki eventually won the game, but
Aleksandr had realised something important. Using his horsemen to their
maximum potential was the attack he always used when playing King's Key,
but when they were taken from him he had to employ a strategy that was
less than obvious at first.
"I don't have to stop Sir Jarek myself!" he thought. "There *is*
someone who will listen to me, and bring justice to Fennell!"
Aleksandr bade his time with patience uncommon for a nine year-old
boy. After helping the guests to the rooms reserved for such purposes,
and cleaning and sweeping the main hall, Aleksandr sought out Sir Igrim.
Tpliki was thankfully still about, and aware of his master's
whereabouts, as Aleksandr knew any good squire should be. He directed
Aleksandr to the knight's living quarters.
The living quarters were very similar throughout the keep, save
those belonging to the baron and his family. Like the others, Sir
Igrim's was a single room with a fireplace along one wall, and a window
on another. It being winter, the window had its shutters closed tightly.
Sir Igrim had not lit the fire however, and was cleaning a dagger by the
light of a candle. The somewhat chilly room was as impressive to
Aleksandr as its inhabitant was, however. On one wall hung a tapestry
portraying a battle from the Shadow Wars that had taken place during the
reign of King Darian, that Sir Igrim had been given as a gift. On the
floor lay the skin of a bear, which the knight had killed personally.
The sword that he carried with him at all times rested on the bed, a
cleaning rag and sharpening stone nearby. He didn't trust anyone with
his weapons, not even Tpliki. Above the fireplace rested a crossed sword
and axe.
As Aleksandr entered the room, Sir Igrim shifted slightly in his
chair to appraise the boy.
"Aleksandr!" he rumbled. "What are you doing up here, boy? You
should have been in bed almost a bell ago!"
"I'm sorry, Sir Igrim." Aleksandr kept his eyes on the floor. "But
there's something I have to tell you ... that can't wait until morning."
"Oh?" Sir Igrim put the blade down that he was polishing, and
turned to face the boy fully.
Aleksandr could feel his courage leaving him so he blurted the
entire story out to the elder knight. True to his nature, Sir Igrim
appeared totally unperturbed as the young page described the disrespect
with which Sir Jarek and the others had spoken about the baron and his
daughter. Even when he explained the plan to gain Zhilinda's hand 'by
conquest', the knight remained emotionless. When the tale was complete,
he gave Aleksandr a long, hard look.
"What have I told to about spinning tales, boy?" His heavy eyebrows
moved fractionally into a frown.
"Sir ..." Aleksandr could feel panic welling up inside of him. Sir
Igrim thought he was lying! "Sir, a knight does not lie ... he is honest
always and with all people."
"Exactly." Sir Igrim face grew darker. "And are you being honest
with *me*?"
"I am, Sir Igrim!" Aleksandr trembled. "I swear as if Stevene were
here in front of me!"
It seemed an eternity before the knight spoke again. "A strong
oath. If you be made of the stuff worthy of a knight such an oath will
prove it. I will take your ... tale, to the baron. He will judge. And if
he judge that you are not being entirely truthful ..."
The threat didn't need to be finished. Aleksandr knew well that the
punishment for dishonesty was harsh, as was the punishment for breaking
any of the knightly code upheld throughout Baranur. But Aleksandr had
hope. If Sir Igrim was taking the story to the baron, he at least
suspected a grain of truth in it. Also, Aleksandr *was* telling the
truth. Surely, Stevene would guide the baron's heart to that conclusion.
"Stevene favours the just," he thought.
Sir Igrim placed a leathery hand on Aleksandr's shoulder. "You will
speak of this to no one."
Aleksandr shook his head vigorously. "No, sir."
"Be off with you, then."
Aleksandr left the room, Sir Igrim closing the heavy wooden door
behind him. Aleksandr headed down the hallway towards the large room
that the pages lived in, still a little shaky from his encounter with
Sir Igrim. It was very dark, now that most everyone had gone to bed, and
only every third torch remained burning for the guards to make their
rounds. Aleksandr shuddered at the thought that Sir Jarek, Sir Miripur,
and Sir Kalayan were among them. Just as he turned a corner, he heard
the faint sound of Sir Igrim's door opening, and footsteps moving
quickly from it in the direction of the baron's quarters.
Baron Dorja's answer came sooner than Aleksandr expected. It was
only the day after he had told Sir Igrim about the kidnapping plot, when
the knight pulled him aside from his grammar studies with Brother
Vladimir. Aleksandr knew when he looked into Sir Igrim's eyes that the
answer wasn't a good one.
"Baron Dorja the Just has considered what you said carefully." His
eyes seemed to smoulder with anger. "Considering the services Sir Jarek
has rendered Fennell in the past, he has judged him innocent. And your
tale less than truthful!"
Aleksandr gulped, but could say nothing in his defence.
"By rights I should give you a good thrashing for telling such
tales!" He was clearly quite upset with his pupil, but no hand was
raised. In fact, his hard features suddenly softened. "But your
intentions were good. You may well have heard something, but your
imagination created what you told me. Therefore, your only punishment
shall be extra duties. Hopefully that will teach you to keep your mind
free of such flights of fancy. You may begin by mucking out the stables
after your lesson with Brother Vladimir."
Aleksandr would have bemoaned his extra duties, were he not so
distraught over the news he had just received. As he shuffled back to
his desk and slate among the other pages, worried thoughts ran through
his mind. "The baron didn't believe me! How? Why? Was it just my
imagination?"
"He is a robber knight. Not a noble like us!"
"No! I wasn't imagining it!" Aleksandr thought. "He *is* going to
kidnap Zhilinda! Cephas' boot! What now? I can't let him take her!"
As was the custom in the Barony of Fennell, the fifth day of the
sennight was declared a day of worship for all Stevenics in the barony.
Lev's friend Aleksandr had been given the day off from training and, as
usual, made the short journey to Heart's Hope Monastery just outside
Fennell Keep's outer walls, to visit him. Aleksandr had of course
attended worship in the keep's chapel, at the first bell of day, with
all of the other residents of the keep, while Lev had celebrated with
his brothers. After the service, Aleksandr had made his way to the
monastery.
Heart's Hope Monastery had been Lev's home for just over two years,
living with the Stevenic sect of Cyruzhian monks. He was, of course,
still far too young to join the sect as a brother, but they treated him
as such, and taught him all of their ways. Very different from many
groups that followed Stevene's light, they were named after Cyruz of
Vidin, a close follower of Cephas Stevene and missionary. The order had
come into existence with an unconditional grant of land to Cyruz from
the Baron of Fennell some fifty years previous. Heart's Hope Monastery
was the first of many that soon dotted the countryside of Fennell.
Centrally located in cities, the Cyruzhians were both scholarly and
disciplined; their business was social and pastoral work, as well as
education. They were effective preachers from the "common touch" as
Cyruz liked to say, and knowledgeable. When they weren't caring for the
sick and homeless, they created elegant religious icons and exquisitely
beautiful books. The tomes were so valued by the monks that they were
chained to their bookcases by metal rods built into the binding. As Lev
had always loved reading, the monastery's scriptorium was his favourite
room in the entire community. That the Cyruzhians eagerly accepted
anyone attracted many peasants with unpromising futures to join. This
despite the fact that unlike the vast majority of Stevenic groups, the
order took strict vows of celibacy and poverty.
Lev had always been exceptionally intelligent, far above his
station in life as a peasant and son of a woodcutter. As Aleksandr's
playmate he had devoured all of the scrolls and religious texts in the
Heahun household. He had been taught how to read by Aleksandr's
compassionate mother, who had claimed to see a bright future in him as a
servant of God. The local church had been another source of learning
with its handful of religious scrolls. It soon came time when there was
no more room for intellectual growth in Heahun. It was then that Lev's
parents decided he would join the Cyruzhians. As well as an avid
learner, Lev had always been very religious. He loved discussing
theology with the priest in Heahun, and the texts of Stevene's light
spoke to him as they did to few others. It was not only priests he spoke
with, but God as well. He never heard voices or had visions, but he was
aware of a deep communication with a higher being. Sitting alone, near a
gently flowing stream or quiet forest, he would have long conversations
with his creator. He was never answered in words, but he found his mind
was always directed towards an answer to his questions. Often answers
that he would have never thought of on his own.
And so, the Cyruzhian monastery seemed the appropriate place for
him. Despite this, he was initially less than enthusiastic about his
parents' decision, and asked them to consider another sect with a less
severe code than the Cyruzhians. They had made up their minds, though,
and he was going. With no hope in changing their minds, he had resigned
himself to the Cyruzhians. He had contemplated what life would be like
with them. The thought of marriage had never particularly appealed to
him, and the idea of a wealthy cleric was appalling. In the end, he
decided that if he were to dedicate his life to God and to Stevene's
light, he would devote all of it. Since then, he had been able to expand
both his mind and his soul beyond his expectations with the Cyruzhian
monks.
As he and his friend sat at the simple wooden table in the common
room of the monastery, cool white rays from the sun shone through the
cracks in the boards covering the window slits that lined the outside
wall. Outside, the courtyard where the boys usually visited was covered
with a thick blanket of snow. In the summer it was a truly beautiful
place, its gardens carefully tended by the monks.
The boys were alone in the room. Lev quietly surveyed the King's
Key game that they were playing. Aleksandr sat restlessly across from
him, obviously disturbed by something.
Lev moved a piece and looked up to Aleksandr. "Something's
bothering you, my friend. What is it?"
"Something terrible is going to happen."
Lev felt concern grow within him. It was unlike his friend to
exaggerate on a matter of such importance. "Aleksandr?"
The young page related an appalling tale, of Sir Jarek and his plot
to kidnap Baron Dorja's daughter, and of the disbelief of Sir Igrim and
the baron when Aleksandr told them of the plot. "... and I don't know
what to do now."
Lev sat in silence for several menes. Indeed it was a desperate
situation, for both of them now that he knew of it. "What does your
heart tell you?"
Aleksandr seemed taken aback by the comment. Lev had always known
him as one to think with his head, a tactician as a knight should be.
But the mind couldn't answer every question. Lev was sure his friend's
mind said he'd done all that could be done. But Lev knew there was a
small voice near the back that said there was more. He listened to that
voice often, and prayed it would lead Aleksandr as it lead him.
"By Stevene! I have to try to stop them myself! If no one will
listen, I *have* to try! I cannot have a clear conscience by retreating
from glory!" He looked hard into Lev's eyes. "You will help me."
Lev felt slightly sick at the idea. Two children against hardened
mercenaries? But there was no alternative. "If all else has been
exhausted, we have to take matters into our own hands. Stevene's light
commands it."
Aleksandr reached across the table to grasp Lev's hand. "Like the
knights' charge at Balkura! It is better to die for a cause than to
surrender it, and our cause is the defence of the Stevene's laws!"
Lev was not taken by Aleksandr's sudden burst of enthusiasm, but
knew the boy to be speaking the truth. The knights' charge at Balkura
was less than an appetising thought however; a glorious battle it had
been, but at great cost. The confrontation had taken place not far from
Fennell, during the Great Houses War. There, the brave Fennell knights
had confronted a force loyal to the insurrectionist House Northfield
nearly one thousand strong. No fewer than fifty Fennell knights, nearly
all of the noble sons of Fennell, had died in the battle. In an act of
uncommon valour, the knights had charged, taking the rebels by surprise.
All of the knights had died, but took more than half of the traitors to
the crown with them, halting the advance and ultimately saving the
barony from certain defeat. Though he knew he would go to a better place
than this upon death, Lev was not so eager to become a martyr.
"We cannot just charge them as did the brave cavaliers at Balkura,
my friend."
"No." Aleksandr's face was a little red from excitement as he
settled back into his chair.
"One must be pragmatic. We are only boys after all." Lev steepled
his fingers before him in a meditation position. It helped him think.
"Though I know direct attack has always been your way, this will call
for subtlety."
Lev couldn't hide the hint of a smirk from his friend as he
remembered their many games back in Heahun. Yes, Aleksandr had won many
of them by brute force, but Lev had won more by intelligence.
"What do you have in mind?"
"Well, if I recall from your endless prattle about your hero Sir
Jarek," Aleksandr shot him a dirty look, "He comes from far south, does
he not?"
"Yes. He's not even from Baranur."
"Exactly. There is something we have in Baranur that they don't in
the warmer climes where Sir Jarek hails from. Winter. And with winter
comes ice. Did you not say their route runs near a stream?"
"Yes, it does!" Aleksandr touched a hand to his cheek. "Right near
the holy rocks where we became brothers."
"Which is perfect for my plan ..."
========================================================================
Talisman Three
Part 3
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Fall, 748 FE
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-1
The next morning saw most of Torenda's Troupe reloading the wagons
and cleaning up the clearing by the way-cabin where they had spent the
night. Meanwhile, Orla, Naka, Elin, Kend, and Thanj were sitting around
the table that had been fetched from inside the cabin, and debating
their next move.
The odd stone that had been found in the cabin rested on the table
in front of Elin. Its marble-like surface gleamed in the sunlight, and
the metal and glass bands that crisscrossed it sparkled like new.
Thanj was staring at the stone fragment, tracing the paths of the
silver, gold, and glass bands. He idly wondered what the original
sculpture had looked like. He reached out and traced a few of the lines
as they wove under and over each other. Then, on a whim, he licked his
finger and ran it along one of the glass strips. To everyone's surprise,
a clear ringing tone issued forth and he snatched his hand away in
haste, wondering what he had done to the thing.
Naka's interest was immediately piqued by the note Thanj conjured.
Ignoring the restarted conversation, she pulled the stone fragment
closer and tried to get the glass strips to make noise. Thanj finally
had to show her the trick. Once she had it, Naka found that every single
glass band on the stone produced at least one note, and often several.
Upon close examination, she discovered that instead of being continuous
like the metal lines were, the glass ones were really segmented into
smaller lengths and held in place by wedges of wood.
Curious, Naka tried 'playing' the metal pieces in the same way as
the glass strips, but the metal did not respond to rubbing. Trying the
next logical thing, she tapped on them with her finger, to no result.
Finally, it was Kend who took his dagger and tapped a band with its hilt
to produce a bell-like tone. Naka thanked the wood carver, fished in her
pocket-pouch, and found a piece of metal she proceeded to use to tap on
the metal strips.
She found that each band, while obviously continuous along its
length, was somehow segmented within so that several different notes
could be conjured from each length just like the glass strips. While she
delicately tapped at the stone to determine what notes could be found
and where, the discussion continued around her.
So far, no one had been able to produce a convincing argument for
either proposed course of action: continuing on south or returning to
the original path and heading for Roebsach.
Orla was in favor of continuing on south. "After all," she said,
"we may have been intending to visit Roebsach next, but we certainly
don't have any commitments there."
"But we just don't know where this path leads," argued Elin. "It's
so run down and overgrown that it certainly hasn't been used regularly
in quite a long time. Why? What if it doesn't lead anywhere any more?"
"You know, this speculation would be moot," put in Kend, "if we
hadn't managed to lose our only map of the south of Farevlin." The
woodworker looked at Thanj when he said this, since it had been the
illusionist who'd had that map last, but Thanj was listening to Naka
play random notes on the stone and didn't even hear Kend's gibe.
"Still," Kend continued, "the weather has been nice and it's early
enough in the Autumn. We only really have to worry if the path actually
vanishes, and even then we could still pull the wagons back out by hand.
But the path most likely leads somewhere eventually, and we have plenty
of provisions for the trip. I say we continue on south."
Thanj had torn his attention away from Naka's playing to hear the
end of Kend's opinion and was about to add his own when they all heard
hoof beats coming along the path from the south. Moments later, a rider
sped past the clearing. They only had a glimpse of a person in a dusty
tan robe on the back of a large brown horse, and then the rider had
galloped past and was gone.
The five of them looked at each other, and at almost the same time
they all shrugged and returned to their previous pursuits.
Thanj said, "Yes, the weather is nice and yes, we have plenty of
provisions. And this portion of Farevlin is just as heavily populated as
the rest of it, so we can't go all that far without coming across a
village or town eventually.
"But are we explorers, or actors? Should we strike out into the
unknown of south Farevlin without any idea of where we are or might end
up? Or should we just go back the way we came, get back onto the road we
shouldn't have turned off of in the first place, and end up in nice,
safe, planned-for Roebsach?"
Before anyone else had a chance to rebut Thanj's cautionary stance,
they all heard hoof beats again, this time coming from the north part of
the path. Heads all turned, and sure enough, what looked like the same
horse and tan-robed rider soon came into view.
This time the rider reigned in and steered the horse over to the
group by the table, who could now see that the rider was a woman with
long black hair and a strong-featured face, handsome rather than pretty,
but just now exhausted.
The woman halted her mount a few paces from the table, and everyone
around it stood up. "I ... can you ... ah ... help ... ?" She gasped out
these unintelligible phrases, and swayed atop her horse. She took a deep
breath and scanned the whole clearing. What she saw seemed very
disheartening, though, for she bowed her head with a little sorrowful
sigh-almost-sob, said, "Not war ..." and fainted.
Orla caught her as she fell from her saddle, and then called for
help to carry the rider over to the benches around the table. Players
were sent to fetch water and some food while the woman was stretched out
on two benches shoved together side by side. Orla used a wetted cloth to
wipe the woman's face clean, which revived her. After a few sips of
water, the woman sat up slowly, leaning her back against the table and
staring up warily at the strangers who surrounded her.
Kend, kneeling down next to her, said, "Take it easy, friend. We
mean you no harm, but you fainted off of the back of your horse and we
just wanted to be sure that you are all right. You also said something
about 'help'?"
The woman shook her head and said softly, "Help I sought, and help
I have not found. But still ..." She looked around at the five faces
directly around her, and the others crowding in behind that first ring.
She said, "Help you may not be, but neither do I think you could be
harm. So."
She sat up straighter, drank the water Kend offered her, and after
a moment spoke. "I am Virrila, one of Tchad Zarilt's students of the
Way. The Tchad, who is also the Treasurer of Farevlin, has gathered
around him people to whom he is teaching his philosophy of simplicity
and serenity: this is the Way.
"Two evenings ago, word came to the Treasury that an invasion was
imminent. A former student of the Tchad, who now styles himself Warlord
Adamik, is said to be intent on one of the objects housed in the
Treasury. You have, of course, heard of Hekorivas?"
Everyone nodded. The legends of the Staff of Unity were widespread
throughout Farevlin. The gist of most of them was that Hekorivas
belonged in the hand of the ruler of a unified Farevlin.
Virrila nodded in return, and said, "Good. Adamik seeks Hekorivas,
and knowing the man as I do, he will do anything that is required to get
it. Adamik also knows something of how well the Treasury is protected,
so he knows he cannot just walk into the vault and take it from its
table. He has something planned, of that I am sure.
"Tchad Zarilt has stated that he will not actively resist Adamik,
and he has also forbidden the students from attempting to do the same.
The Way is not about strife or combat, of that I have always been aware.
But he also will not flee to leave the Vault to protect itself. This is
understandable -- he does have his duty as Treasurer. And, though he has
given his students leave to seek safety, they have chosen to stay with
him. I do not know whether they think he can protect them, or whether
they all accept the Way enough not to be frightened by the threat Adamik
represents."
Virrila paused to take another drink, and to collect herself.
Everyone around her was hanging on her every word, and she liked the
feeling of being paid attention to like that. But she also had a
mission, one that seemed doomed to failure. Hope still lived, however,
and these people around her were that hope. So, she continued her tale.
"I, however, *am* frightened by that threat. I do not believe that
Adamik will stop short of harming any or all of the Tchad's students if
he thinks that will bend his former teacher's will. So, I left to seek
help.
"I hurried to Bluebell Rock, the village nearest to the Treasury,
and got a horse. Then, I rode. I've been riding since. I was trying to
get to Hofrusk or Redtree Grove, where it was likely that I could find
some soldiers, or guardsmen, or even some rowdy farmers' sons eager for
trouble. Someone to help against the upstart Warlord, someone to protect
the students from Adamik's enmity.
"About midday yesterday, somewhere south of here, I took a wrong
turn. A trick of the light, or maybe I was just tired or over-worried,
but somehow the signpost was pointing north along what becomes this path
here. I had thought to continue east, but followed the sign
automatically. By the time I realized that I was not on the right road,
it was too late to turn back. I could only hope to find some town along
this path in time.
"When I rode past this clearing, I barely recognized that it was
peopled. And then, when I realized, I hoped that you would be a company
of guards or a band of mercenaries that I could hire. You were my last
possibility to find someone in time.
"Adamik will be at the Treasury by tomorrow, maybe the next day at
the latest. He may give the Tchad time to consider before trying to
coerce him, which may give me more time. Is there any village close by
up this path? Anywhere I could find help we so desperately need?"
The way the silence stretched for a few moments gave her the
answer, even before Elin said, "Well, the village of Tilting Falls is
three days east, but you'd find no help there. Roebsach is maybe a day
to the west, but that was our destination before we, too, became lost,
so we don't know what kind of help might be available there."
"If any was, it would be help that was too late," said Virrila. "A
day to this Roebsach, time to muster help if it exists, and the time it
would take to ride back, as a group will ride more slowly than one,
means that Warlord Adamik will have Hekorivas before we could possibly
arrive. Which is also true of doubling back and taking the correct road
from that traitorous signpost.
"So, it falls to you to help us, or to no one. Is there any aid you
could offer?"
Orla said, "I do not wish to disappoint you or thwart your loyal
efforts, but we are actors, Torenda's Troupe, though I fear our fame is
not great enough for it to be likely you have heard of us." Orla
introduced herself and the other four immediately around Virrila, and
then the rest of the company with a sweep of her arm and a simple, "and
our players."
Silence fell again, and Virrila rose and started pacing.
Eventually, she said, "I don't suppose you could ... well, *play*
warriors, could you?"
Naka laughed, and Thanj said, "Given that we could play warriors,
which we could, we don't number enough to scare someone at a distance
who calls himself Warlord. And our wooden swords and knitted chain mail
won't fool him up close, either, so to try to out-bluff him face-to-face
is also not an option."
Virrila sighed in resignation, and said, "That makes sense,
unfortunately." She turned in her pacing, and noticed the stone fragment
on the table. She walked over to it, stared at it, reached out but
didn't quite touch it, and finally asked, "What's this?"
Kend walked back over to the table and said, "Well, we don't know.
We found it last night in the way-cabin; it was among the belongings of
a traveler who died there. Ordinarily, we wouldn't loot a body, but this
fragment ... it was different. I know I felt like it belonged to me when
I saw it. Well, to us," he said as he gestured at the other three people
who wore the blue earrings.
Elin added, "It was like something I, we, had been searching for
for a long time, without even knowing it was lost." Elin reached over
and touched the stone, not to take it or hide it from Virrila, but just
to reassure herself that it was still there, still real.
Naka added, "And, it's musical. See?" She began tapping at the
metal bands, and sliding a wet finger along the glass bands, playing a
simple children's game tune, fingers and hand darting around the piece
to hit notes that weren't in any normal instrument's pattern.
Virrila listened for a moment, fascinated by the tune, but then she
remembered why she had been drawn to the piece.
"But," she exclaimed, "there's one of these in the Treasury! Not
exactly like this -- it is bigger, and has a cat as well as a falcon on
it, but it is otherwise just like this one. Same kind of interlaced
bands, same kind of marble-like stone, same fragmented sides. They might
even be related -- if they somehow fit together, they would make half a
circle, I'd bet. I wonder what they could be?"
There wasn't even a vocal decision made. Orla, Kend, Elin, and Naka
looked at each other, excitement welling up inside of each of them, and
nodded. Orla turned to the players and said, "Finish packing, we're
leaving as soon as possible." She turned back to the people gathered
around the table and said, "I don't know what help we can be, Virrila,
but we are going south at least as far as Bluebell Rock. Maybe we can
think of some way to help as we travel."
Zarilt stood in a very different-looking vault and gazed at the
treasures laid out on the altar-like table at the front of the room. The
wooden floor of the vault had been removed square by square, as had the
covering panels on the walls. But that removal had not revealed the bare
structure of the cave: instead, another floor had been hidden beneath
the wooden ones, and other walls behind the plaster-smooth ones. Some of
what was on the formerly hidden floor and walls was attributable to the
artistic bent of a former Treasurer; the rest served as evidence of the
vault's protection.
Snaking out from the stone-block table were large root-like limbs
that crawled across the floor and walls. These limbs coiled and curled,
moving up, down, and sideways in the space beneath the transparent
floor. But each limb, no matter how twisted and convoluted, eventually
connected with a large, blue crystal. These crystals were usually
beneath or behind the level of the coiling limbs, and as such were
mostly concealed by the limbs themselves.
The floor continued to be smooth to walk on, and the walls were
just as smooth now as they had been when covered. The space that the
limbs existed in was either trapped beneath a layer of what looked like
clear, very hard glass, or they were completely encased in that
crystal-hard substance. In various places, intricate mosaics had been
inset into the surface of that substance. Some of those mosaics were
complimentary to the objects below the surface, reproducing the twisting
limbs in other colors or shades, or creating pictures out of twisting
limbs; others were completely at odds with them, as if to deny their
existence and cover them up with normal scenes of lakesides, or forest
glades, or city walls.
Zarilt knew nothing of what the blue crystals were, nor what the
limbs were. He was fairly sure that no one in Farevlin did. The vault
had not been constructed by those who had set up the Treasury, but had
rather been usurped for the purpose. What had the creators of this cave
needed the crystals and limbs for? What strange rites had the
altar-table been used for? Sacrifices? Fertility rituals? No legends
told those stories.
He did know that those crystals and limbs formed the protection
around the table. The mosaics had been done at a much later date, around
the time when the carved stone fragment had come to be one of the five
treasures.
He understood why another former Treasurer had asked that the wood
and plaster coverings be constructed. Zarilt had only once been in the
room when it was bared like this, and that was when he had become
Treasurer himself. He had always felt that the room looked impressive,
but upon spending some time in it now for longer than the brief
confirmation ceremony, he felt that it was growing more spooky and
sinister. He certainly didn't think that his meditation sessions would
have gone well in this version of the room.
But meditation sessions were on hold for the foreseeable future, as
were most of the normal day-to-day activities of his school. It had been
four afternoons since word had come that Warlord Adamik was on his way.
By now, he could be here at any moment, and though almost all of his
students had remained with him, few were able to continue their daily
routines in the face of looming disaster.
Zarilt remembered Adamik as being strong and resourceful, but
superstitious and headstrong. He had no idea what had brought such a
person to his school, but it hadn't taken long for there to be trouble.
In those days, he hadn't had as much of a grasp of the temptations his
students offered to the unscrupulous, and Adamik had been able to carry
out his tiny empire-building efforts for longer than Zarilt had liked.
But eventually he had been caught and expelled, like Fessim had been
only a few days past. Only now Adamik was back, with plans that did not
include adopting the Way.
Zarilt looked down at the five treasures. The one called Hekorivas
was what Adamik was after. The Scepter of Unity was short, only a quok
long, the span from a man's fingertips to his elbow. On each end,
encased in a wood lattice, was an irregular oval lump of some kind of
whitish crystal. What was even more odd, there was one in the middle of
the length as well. Not attached to the side of the staff, but actually
in the middle of the wooden staff. It looked as if the wood had been
softened somehow and cut into strips. These strips had then been
stretched outward to leave room for the crystal lump to fit within.
Then, the strips had been twisted and braided somehow to form lattices
like those on the ends. Zarilt had never been able see the joins that
had to be in the wood to get it into that shape. But then, there was
only so close that he could get without removing it from the table, and
he would not let curiosity sway him from his duty.
The seams could have been concealed by the carving on the wood
itself, of course. The object was a work of art, but it was also
possessed of a powerful history and legend. It made a sort of twisted
sense that Adamik would try to get his hands on Hekorivas, but that just
wasn't going to happen. The Treasury had never been plundered, and that
wasn't going to change now, Adamik or no Adamik.
The door on the other side of the room slammed open, drawing
Zarilt's attention away from the altar. A student dashed through and
managed to stammer out, "He's here!" but he needn't have bothered for
Adamik was striding confidently right behind him.
The so-called warlord hesitated just after crossing the threshold,
startled by the change in the room that he thought he knew. Adamik
recovered quickly, and looked around, taking in the ophidian splendor of
the vault. "Very nice redecorating job, Zarilt!" he boomed out. "I
wouldn't have thought it your style, but it works, I think. Most
impressive."
Zarilt watched his former pupil, trailed by a handful of well-armed
and armored guards, stride across the floor. Adamik was older now, of
course, but otherwise unchanged. He was still thick-bodied, with strong
arms and legs, and a pinched face on a head that had always looked a
little too small for his body. His hair was still brown, but his
jaw-framing, short-cropped beard had a light sprinkling of grey. He wore
armor like his fellows, and carried a huge sword at his hip, but he also
wore a surcoat and cape, and the woman directly behind him carried a
ridiculously ornate helm that could only have been made for intimidation
purposes. And, of course, there were the customary amulets and trinkets
hanging from his belt and epaulets -- Adamik had always been rather
superstitious.
The warlord stopped five paces from the altar, and his soldiers
fanned out to either side of him. The woman who held his helm advanced a
step in front of him but still to his right, and announced in a
surprisingly loud voice, "Warlord Adamik comes before you. Heed his
words and obey, or face the consequences!"
She took two steps back, and Adamik laughed. "She's a good herald,
isn't she, Zarilt? And that's not all she's good at either!" He laughed
with his people, including his herald, who didn't even blush. Adamik
continued, "I wager you know why I'm here, Zarilt. You may not have
spies of your own, but the information would have come to you anyway.
But to make it formal, I am here to claim Hekorivas."
Zarilt said, "No one may claim Hekorivas. It is one of the
Treasures of Farevlin. Only the unifier of Farevlin can lay claim to
Hekorivas, and such there shall never be."
"There you are wrong, my old, *old* teacher. I shall unify the
thousand lands of Farevlin, but I do not intend to wait until I do to
take Hekorivas in my hand. With that scepter, I can convince maybe a
third of Farevlin to accept me as their overlord without striking a
blow, which is a third fewer lands I have to conquer by might. And the
more states I control, the more likely that others will come to me of
their own free will, especially if I am wielding Hekorivas. I need that
artifact, old man, and I *will* have it."
Zarilt stepped back a pace from the altar and spread his hands
wide. "Then try to take it, if you must. I shall not stop you."
Adamik had never expected to just be handed the artifact he
coveted, but neither had he expected Zarilt to simply step aside, to
offer no resistance whatsoever in his office of Treasurer. He glanced
around the strangely-decorated room and wondered about the legends
concerning the Treasury. No one had ever pillaged it in all its history.
It made sense that there would be a reason for that, didn't it?
Still, Adamik had a reputation to uphold, and an impression to
make. If the vault really could protect itself, he had to see that for
himself. And Zarilt had to know that he was serious about his demands.
He *would* be carrying Hekorivas when he left the vicinity of the
Treasury, or he was no Warlord worth the name.
Adamik gestured to his left. One of the soldiers standing there
stepped forward. He looked at the Treasurer, and then at the fabled
Scepter of Unity lying on the table in front of him. He would have
looked back at his leader, but he knew what the warlord expected of him.
He, however, also knew the legends of the Treasury, and he didn't think
he would be satisfying his warlord's wishes this day. Knowing his duty,
he reached for Hekorivas anyway, a faint plea for mercy on his lips.
As his fingers approached the top of the table, a hum built up in
the room. A glance around would have revealed that each of the blue
crystals was glowing behind the twisting limbs. Nearer, and tiny blue
stones set into the vertical corners of the stone-block table started to
glow one after the other, starting at the floor. Other gems also began
to glow on the four faces of the table, and the hum grew louder.
Finally, just as the soldier's fingers were about to touch the staff,
the top of the table flashed bright blue. The soldier screamed, there
was a deep snapping noise, and suddenly the soldier was slumping against
the far wall, back by the door. Tiny blue sparks darted around on his
armor, and smoke drifted out from under it. The man was quite obviously
dead.
Warlord Adamik turned to check the fate of his man, and to hide
from his former teacher and current foe the way he was clutching at his
amulets in fear. He had expected something less deadly from the vault,
despite the legends, and to see the might of the response it had
produced to the attempted theft rattled him to his bones. But caressing
his amulets and trinkets calmed him, and he realized that he couldn't
let anyone see his fear. He took a few steadying breaths, composed
himself, saying a silent 'farewell and well done' to Rinask, his dead
companion.
Adamik then turned back to Zarilt, summoning rage to cover his
momentary weakness. Bluster would be enough to cow the Treasurer, he
knew; a show of continued determination and strength to back it up. He
said, menacingly, "You tricked me, old man."
"I did not," replied Zarilt calmly. "I said 'try'. I never said you
would succeed. You did not trust me in any case, else it would be you
lying dead over there."
Zarilt's placidity infuriated the warlord. "Turn it off!" Adamik
thundered. "Release the scepter to me, or you will be sorry!"
"I can not. I will not."
Adamik growled in frustration. Sword-rattling obviously
wasn't
going to be enough. He hadn't expected to get Hekorivas without a fight
of some kind, but it troubled him that he felt like he was losing the
contest of wills.
"I will give you some time to reconsider, Zarilt. Think well to
what lengths I might go to gain what I want." He turned and strode
single-mindedly to the doors, scattering the handful of students who had
followed him in. His soldiers started toward the body of their fallen
comrade, but Adamik said, "No. Leave him to the teacher and his
students. Rinask served me well in life but can no longer serve in
death." He stopped and turned back to Zarilt. "Until tomorrow, Tch --
*old man*!" And he was gone.
Zarilt's students crowded around him, all babbling at once in
fright. None of them had ever seen the might of the vault displayed, but
neither had Zarilt himself. He had known that the vault was protected
and had trusted in the tenets of his office. The result of Rinask's
action had been as gruesome as the twisty limbs in the floor were, but
effective also. His treasures were in no danger. His students ... well,
he just didn't know.
He reassured those around him, and soon each had left except one.
Ninya, who stayed by him behind the altar, asked, "Do you know what he
intends, Tchad?"
"No, Ninya, I don't. I think he may be even more ruthless than I
feared, however. He sacrificed his own man to prove that he was serious
in his desire for Hekorivas. What else might he be willing to sacrifice
to gain that artifact?"
"Is that not reason, then, to resist? To take up arms, to stand in
the hallway out there and hold him off? To send for help?"
"No, Ninya, it is not. Fighting is not part of the Way. Resistance
to others cannot lead to happiness. Serenity will armor me against
anything that he does, and any of my students who stay in the face of
what Adamik represents must learn the same, and swiftly."
"But, Tchad," Ninya all but whined, "What use is serenity when you
are dead?"
Zarilt looked her in the eye, calling upon all of his calm and
confidence. He said, "If serenity is a worthy goal -- and it is -- then
serenity is its own reward. If I were to die now, my search for serenity
would still have been worth every moment that I spent on it. There is no
result to be earned, no reward at the end. The result is happiness now,
the reward is serenity today.
"Let me ask you a question, Ninya. Do you think that Warlord Adamik
is happy?"
Ninya laughed a short, derisive laugh. "Of course he is! He is
powerful, so he can have anything he wants. His army earns him his every
desire. How could he not be happy?"
"If that is happiness, then how is it that I am happy? No, Ninya,
he is not happy. His army can not bring him everything he wants, though
he thinks it can. It cannot bring him Hekorivas, can it?
"There is a simpler test, however. I am happy in and of myself, and
no one can take that away from me if I do not let them do so. But I ask
you, Ninya, what of Adamik? He has a powerful army, and people respect
and fear him. This gains him much, and makes him happy in a way. But his
happiness is not of himself nor with himself. Others suffice to make him
happy.
"So what happens, Ninya, where is his happiness, if Adamik meets
someone who is powerful enough to take it away from him?"
========================================================================
A Tale of Two Thieves
Part 1
by JD Kenyon
<email@janine.cc>
Seber 1017
"Can you see her?" Durvin Karrick whispered loudly. Storn Mard, a
good head taller than his companion, had no trouble finding the woman
and her child, even at a distance from the crowd that had gathered for
Dargon's annual blessing of its fleet of ships. He watched as the little
girl trailed behind her mother, clutching a chewy-apple in her grubby
hand. From his vantage point in the alley, he followed their weaving
path along the edge of the milling throng.
"She's heading towards the dock." His look was appreciative -- she
was a fine woman, worthy of more than one glance even when not being
followed.
"You've got to get close to her." Durvin's breath reeked of ale and
Storn shoved him away.
"Just get away and leave me to it." Impatient to get on with the
plan, he found his target again. She bent down to swoop her daughter
into her arms and he could hear her light laughter as she examined the
brown sticky mess all over the little one's face.
"Go now!" Durvin said insistently.
Storn shrugged away from Durvin's hand on his back and stepped into
the road, sweeping his cloak over his shoulder and turning to keep his
eye on the woman. He did not want to get too close; his timing would
have to be perfect. He glanced back to see if Durvin had left the alley.
It would all come to naught if the idiot got himself recognized by one
of the town guard. Thankfully, he was gone from sight. Storn inhaled
deeply and lengthened his stride.
The citizens of Dargon seemed in a festive mood as they ambled
around vendors' stalls, even though a thick gray blanket of clouds
hinted at possible rain. Squeals of delight rang out from a group of
children as they tossed hard-shelled flingers onto the rocks and rushed
to collect them. He edged his way past the row of people waiting to have
their fortunes revealed from the broken flingers and wondered whether
his future would show a sudden increase in wealth. A guardsman cast a
keen eye over him and he hurried on past. He was virtually a stranger in
these parts following a lengthy absence from Dargon and there was no
need to draw attention at this stage of the plan. For a moment he lost
sight of mother and daughter, then saw the small head of dark curls
bobbing up and down to his right as the young woman tried to adjust the
wriggling child on her hip. She had joined a group that was making its
way towards the dock where the ceremony would be performed. He changed
his pace and moved in behind them.
Up close, he could see that the woman had tiny flowers pressed into
the braids that swung across her back with each step. The little girl
had noticed him and he gave her a big wink. She tucked her head down and
scrunched her face into her mother's slender neck.
"Ginny ..." the woman reprimanded gently, twisting away from the
small gooey hands that had suddenly been flung around her neck. Storn
slowed his pace and bent down, adjusting his boot clasp but watching the
figure in front of him from under his fringe of hair.
She started to move again and he rose quickly, moving to her side
as they neared the edge of the dock. A swift glance assured him that
everyone around them was absorbed with the pending arrival of the
priests. Storn nudged closer, aware that the tot's big blue eyes were
locked onto him. The moment was right he decided, and sneaked his hand
to the little girl's leg and gave it a playful tweak. The effect was
immediate: the face crumpled and the little mouth let out an almighty
wail. The woman stopped short and Storn gave a loud gasp of surprise as
he tumbled to his left over some netting and ropes, and plunged into the
murky waters below the dock.
As he rose to the surface spluttering, he heard the urgent calls
for help and saw that mother and daughter were huddled most concernedly
just above him. Storn also realized that the water was cold and smelled
foul, and in his head, he cursed Durvin. He looked for a foothold, but
was forced to tread water. Someone tossed him a rough rope. His body
thudded into the dockside pillars as they hauled him up, but within a
mene, several hands were clutching at him and boosting him onto the
dock. He twisted his head and coughed.
"I am so sorry. So, so sorry," the woman he had been following said
anxiously to him as he slumped onto the wooden deck. Other voices asked
if he was all right and he nodded his reassurances, spitting into the
water and tugging off his cape. With the excitement over and a clamor
growing nearby as the priests approached the fleet, people began to head
off, leaving Storn hunched over, wringing out his sodden cloak. The
woman waited.
"That was cold," he announced, looking into her guilt-laden eyes
and inwardly breathing a sigh of relief that she had not bolted. She had
a protective arm around her daughter.
"I didn't realize ..." Her remorse was genuine.
Storn smiled. "No harm done, madam. Just a bit of a soak." He
dropped his cloak and extended a hand. "Storn Mard is the name."
His disarming smile had the desired effect: the tension eased from
her face and she slipped a soft hand into his clasp. "I'm Della," she
said, "and this little mischief maker is Ginny."
Storn focused on the tot, who was cowed in her mother's arm.
"Hello, Ginny." He tousled her curls and gave her a conspiratorial wink.
"I suppose we had better get up."
He straightened, water dripping from his drenched clothes. Della
stood up too, and a bashful Ginny buried her face in the folds of her
mother's skirt.
"I'll find a spot out of the way to dry off." He looked up at the
overcast skies, and then offered a further explanation. "I'm staying at
the Feathered Pig."
He watched as Della grasped the predicament, as the inn was a good
way out of town.
"I live nearby," she said. "I suppose you can come and dry off in
front of a fire."
"I wouldn't want to impose." Storn squirmed from one foot to the
other and the water squelched in his boots. There was no need to feign
the coldness he was feeling; every shiver came from the bone.
"It's no problem," she said. "After all, we did knock you into the
water."
"Well, if you are sure." He shuddered involuntarily. "If the foul
water doesn't kill me, the cold surely will."
"It's not far." Della picked her daughter up onto her hip.
Storn smiled warmly again. "Just lead the way." He had reeled her
in as easy as eating honeyed pie. This was the reason he was known as
the best swindler in Baranur he thought smugly as they left the docks
behind.
The house on Ramit Street was unusual. Judging by the
worse-for-wear forge that now served as a stove and fireplace, it had
once been a smithy. Storn looked about while Della sat the little one at
the table and produced a wheat cake from a pottery jar, then turned her
attention to stoking up a new fire with some wheezing bellows. Things
were going far better than he had expected. He had heard much about
Della from his partner Durvin, and had thought it was an exaggeration,
like so many of Durvin's tales, until he met her this day. He wished
Durvin had provided a bit more detail. After all, Della was Durvin's
former wife. Storn found his eyes straying to her gentle curves and slim
waist. She looked up and he glanced away.
"I'll just be a mene," she said, and disappeared into a back room.
He looked around -- there were no cupboards or cabinets. A few pots
and pans hung from large hooks above a small table. The place was
sparsely furnished, but had a comfortable feel. Storn saw a few bolts of
cloth on a low bed in the corner and a half-completed dress spread out
on the kitchen table. If Della had the money Durvin claimed she did,
then she was using it sparingly.
He suddenly realized that she was back and that her eyes were on
him -- and on the puddle that was forming at his feet.
"I appear to be making a mess of your neat home," he said.
She offered him a pile of clothes. "You can use that room to
change."
He shrugged off his cloak and she took it from him.
"The clothes may be a bit tight, but they're dry." Then she added
hastily by way of explanation, "They belonged to my late husband."
Storn repressed a smile as he pictured her "late husband" Durvin
propping up the tavern counter and downing yet another ale. It was
somehow fitting that he should be dressing in Durvin's clothes.
"Thanks." He squelched across to the doorway, pausing to undo the
twist of curtaining draped above the lintel.
This room was also bare: a bed, a nightstand, a chest and a
makeshift shelf. With his ears pricked, listening to Della's lively
chatter with her daughter, Storn undressed. As he stripped off his
shirt, he looked for possible hiding places: the little treasure trove
that Durvin had promised would be there somewhere. He let his boots thud
to the floor as he hurriedly searched the nightstand drawer, then
crouched down to peer under the bed. In the dark, he could make out a
loose floorboard that jutted slightly askance. He felt a sense of
elation as he finished undressing and pulled the dry clothes on, tugging
as they stuck to his wet skin and sighing when he saw how short the
sleeves were. At least the leggings were a better fit, but if he had
been a modest man he would have been a tad wary about the close cut that
clearly accentuated his masculinity.
"Are you all right?" she called, and Storn realized that he had
taken his time. He pulled back the curtain and she fought to suppress a
smile.
"Your mirth is not appreciated, madam," he said in a mock stern
tone as she gave a spontaneous laugh.
"I'm sorry. You do look odd though." Della laughed again. She
reached for his wet clothes and draped them over a bench and a chair,
which she had moved closer to the forge. Storn padded across the floor
in bare feet and placed his boots close to the heat.
"Do sit down, Milord Mard." She gestured to the clothes that had
now started to give off wisps of steam. "They may take a while to dry."
There was only one chair left, and he hesitated. Della resolved his
dilemma by swinging Ginny onto her hip and sitting down on the edge of
the bed pallet in the corner.
"I should really leave," he said, as he sat down on the edge of the
seat.
"You should at least stay until your boots have dried out some
more." She settled a sleepy-looking Ginny on the bed. "Let me get you
something to drink."
He watched as she got up and walked past him. He had not pictured
her like this at all. From Durvin's description, Storn had expected
Della to be cold and humorless -- more like the "nagging, demanding,
selfish, high and mighty hussy" he had been told about. He had met
Durvin at Jo'nass' Tavern in Port Andestn about a year before, and their
common background -- both formerly from Dargon -- had been the basis for
their partnership in crime. Storn was the charming swindler in their
partnership. He would befriend lonely widows; and as he wooed, he would
watch and note the little details of their homes. What better alibi than
to be with the widow herself when some dastard thief broke in? It had
proven to be a smart plan that netted both Durvin and Storn a goodly
hoard. Unfortunately, there were only so many widows, and it had seemed
a good idea to leave when Storn's charm started wearing off because of
rumors.
"Where are you from, Milord Mard?" she asked, interrupting his
thoughts.
" I was in Dargon to check on a valuable shipment, but need to
return to Port Andestn." Storn decided on a vague mixture of the truth.
"It just seemed like a good idea to see the blessing of the fleet."
"I'm sorry that we ruined the festival for you." She set up two
mugs.
"Not much to regret. The fleet will be blessed again next year,"
Storn said, knowing that he had no intention of being in Dargon next
year. After this little caper and their activities in Port Andestn, he
and Durvin would have to seek the anonymity of some or other town --
possibly Hawksbridge, or even the city of Magnus -- for a while.
A sweet spicy scent wafted his way as Della decanted some short
mead.
"I'm sorry I couldn't offer you anything warmer to wear." She
handed him a mug.
"I suppose I would have been luckier if my rescuer had been a
tailor instead of a seamstress." He gestured to the dress and bolts of
cloth.
"A man in a dress -- now that would make an awful sight." She
tossed her hair back and laughed, and Storn found himself laughing too.
"What happened next?" Durvin was hunched over the table, glaring at
Storn who was seated opposite him in the otherwise deserted Rogue and
Quiver.
"Keep your voice down, fool," Storn said angrily, checking to see
if they were drawing any attention. The tavern owner was leaning against
the counter, cleaning his fingernails with a short dagger, and the only
serving wench present was sprawled across a table, polishing silver
tankards in a bored daze.
"The stupid sow gave you my clothes," Durvin said.
"Do you want to hear what I found, or not?" Storn waited as Durvin
picked up his ale and took a swig, then leaned back against the bench.
"I think you may be right about the money."
"You see!" Durvin clanged his tankard down. "Bitch took my money,
ran me off with threats to expose me, and now she is living in noble
style."
Storn decided to ignore Durvin's sullen outbursts and instead
presented the facts, as he saw them. "She says she is working as a
seamstress, but there wasn't much work lying about. She dresses well,
but the place is sparsely furnished." He pictured it again in his head.
"She has also spent money recently. The walls look like they have just
been whitewashed and she was wearing a fine pair of shoes for someone
counting their rounds."
"Well it certainly ain't from an inheritance. Her mother died
little more than a pauper," Durvin interjected. "No great loss there --
the old woman was a real curmudgeon."
Storn expressed his doubts. "I really don't think we are talking
about a lot of money, Durvin."
"You don't know Della like I do, Storn Mard. She's a hoarder, that
one. Set aside every coin that came into the house when we were married,
and turned it ten times before it went out." Durvin snorted and spat on
the ground. "She took a big pile of my plunderings too. Della's a
devious one, I tell you."
"Well, I still have to find out where she is hiding it." Storn
recalled the loose floorboard, but decided not to reveal it just yet.
"We just have to make sure she isn't there when we go look for it."
Durvin snarled, "So what do you propose we do? Spend a few more
weeks here until we see our chance?"
"No. Perhaps it's simpler than that," Storn said slowly. He had
just figured out a way to do it. "I think she's already taken a fancy to
me."
"She's not a widow, you bastardly jack-a-dandy. She's my wife!"
Durvin cried out.
"Not any more." Storn sucked in a deep breath, wondering what a
beautiful woman like Della had ever seen in a fool like Durvin Karrick.
"The mighty Mard," Durvin said sarcastically. "Truth is you are
always thinking with your pecker, aren't you?"
"The truth is that this plan has worked well for us before," Storn
said, annoyed. "It will work fine here too." He leaned back against the
bench and clasped his hands behind his head.
Durvin scratched his beard and slowly rubbed his hairy throat
before he spoke. "Straight, Storn. You get the woman and a third of the
loot --"
Storn smacked his hand on the table. "A *third*! We agreed on half,
you screegull scum!"
"Ah. But that was before you planned to sleep with my wife."
"Former wife, you stupid lout. You left her, remember?" Storn said.
"Or perhaps you still have feelings for her?" he asked in an accusing
tone.
"I forgot that bitch a long time ago," Durvin said with a sneer.
"If you go anywhere near her, she'll report you to the town guard."
Storn reminded him. "Somehow I don't think *they* have forgotten how you
murdered a guardsman."
Durvin grunted and swore under his breath. "All right!" He glared
at his smirking partner, who knew too well that he had to stay out of
sight in Dargon or risk being arrested. "You can take half."
"Fair share partners!" Storn declared and thrust his hand out.
Durvin gripped it.
"So be it," he stated.
Storn smiled and lifted his tankard. "To good fortune -- no matter
whose we claim!"
========================================================================
