Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
DargonZine Volume 14 Issue 06
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 14
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 6
DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
\\
\
========================================================================
DargonZine Distributed: 7/1/2001
Volume 14, Number 6 Circulation: 736
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Last Night I Dreamed I
Tried to Kiss You Jon Evans Seber 14, 1016
Triskele: Lorelei P. Atchley and Vibril 21, 1018
Rhonda Gomez
Death Has a Pale Face 2 Nicholas Wansbutter 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/, or our FTP site at
ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 14-6, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright July, 2001 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
As an Internet-only publication, DargonZine functioned for many
years without our writers ever meeting one another face-to-face. It
seems difficult to believe now, but before we started having annual
gatherings of our writers, we were actually a little concerned about
meeting in person. Would our fellow writers turn out to be people you
wouldn't want to be around? Would people get along with one another?
Would disagreements begun on our discussion list carry over and grow
into divisive conflicts in person? And even if everything went well,
would just meeting one another change the healthy group dynamic we'd
built up over the years?
For many years, meetings between writers were rare, and mostly
one-on-one; as Editor, of course, I met more than most, and got along
well with just about everyone. But it was ten years after the founding
of FSFnet, later to become DargonZine, before any sizeable or organized
meetings took place. The change happened gradually over the mid-1990s.
In 1994 I spent a two week vacation driving from Boston to Austin, and
met six of our writers who lived along my route. In 1995 and 1996 three
or four of our more active writers got together (in Boston and Denver,
respectively), again on personal vacations and also as trial runs for a
larger gathering.
Those initial meetings worked out well, so the next year, 1997, we
planned our first official Dargon Writers' Summit, with attendance open
to all our writers. Our goals were to have fun, get to know one another,
set some direction for the magazine, and explore the craft of writing.
As it happened, we had a lot of fun running around our host city of
Washington DC, got a lot of valuable work done in focused working
sessions, and generated a lot of excitement and enthusiasm about
DargonZine. It was by all measures a resounding success and forever
dispelled our earlier fears about getting our writers together.
Five years later, we have just returned from our fifth Summit,
which took place at the beginning of June. This was our most lightly
attended gathering, because some people have recently left the project,
and others had time conflicts. Although only six Dargon writers (and one
former writer) showed up, we still got a lot done and had a blast, as
well.
Each year one of our writers volunteers to take on the
responsibility of hosting the Summit in their home town. Hosting is a
big job; it involves not just planning activities, but securing lodging,
reserving (and paying for) conference space, coordinating (and paying
for) transportation, planning airport pick-ups and departures, and much
more, and none of it should be allowed to go wrong.
This year's host was Rena Deutsch, and she did a superb job as she
shuttled us between our base in San Jose, California, and San Francisco.
Typically we try to find things to do that are unique to our host area,
but which still allow us to socialize with one another. In San Jose, we
visited the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum, and also the Winchester Mystery
House, one of the most ludicrously-built domiciles made by man. In San
Francisco we crawled around on the rocks at the Cliff House, walked the
Golden Gate Bridge, and sang with the sea lions at Fisherman's Wharf.
All that, in addition to Summit standard activities like billiards,
mini-golf, go-karting, crazy tabletop games, and, of course, plenty of
eating! Big thanks go to Rena for running one of the smoothest Summits
we've had to date!
About a third of our time at each Summit is devoted to serious
work, and this year's working sessions focused primarily on
co-authoring, a topic which has come up repeatedly due to several recent
co-authored stories. We had in-depth discussions about what makes a
co-authoring experience work, and then followed it up by splitting into
three pairs and getting some hands-on experience by collaboratively
drafting some stories. In fact, there's talk about finishing and
publishing two of the three stories that came out of our writing
exercise!
Of course, that wasn't our exclusive focus. We got to learn more
about DargonZine's history by sharing some project folklore; we
continued to evolve and refine our mentoring program; we talked about
how we make more use of the shared elements of the Dargon milieu; we
reviewed our annual goals; and we had a contest to see who could write
the best story lead-ins. As you can imagine, the working sessions were
intense, but among the most productive we've ever had.
And, looking back on five years of Summits, and after having met 23
of the 48 published Dargon writers, I continue to be amazed that we were
concerned about what might happen if we got our writers together in
person. Each of our Summit meetings has been productive, rewarding,
exciting, and helped move DargonZine and our writers forward. And more
than anything else, it's been great fun sharing so many unique and
interesting experiences with the great people who freely give their time
and energy to produce stories for DargonZine.
A write-up and photos from this year's Dargon Writers' Summit can
be seen on the Web at <http://www.dargonzine.org/summit01.shtml>.
This issue features a poignant new short piece from Jon Evans, who
returns to the scene of his 1997 story "Sailor's Homecoming". The issue
continues with the second installment of P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez's
three-part "Triskele", and concludes with the second half of Nick
Wansbutter's "Death Has a Pale Face".
That's it for now, but look for us again in another six weeks or
so. Thanks for your continued interest in DargonZine, and please help us
stay in business by spreading the word!
========================================================================
Last Night I Dreamed I Tried to Kiss You
by Jon Evans
<godling@mnsinc.com>
Seber 14, 1016
It was a lazy summer afternoon. A perfect blue sky, lightly spotted
with clouds, reminded Andrew of calm waters in the deep sea. He loved
Port Sevlin. He just wished it was located on the seashore, rather than
two hundred leagues inland up the Laraka River. He closed his eyes and
imagined he could smell the salt air and hear the soliloquies of the
screegulls as they glided in the cool breeze. Leaving the scent of the
river behind, Andrew meandered slowly up the street toward his favorite
port of call, the Lazy Madame Inn.
Andrew walked into the common room, greeted by the sights and
sounds of friends and neighbors enjoying each others' company. George
Kilgreen sat back in his chair, his guard duties a distant thought while
he sipped mead and chatted with Smitty the blacksmith. Tom McFarley and
Old Kabula sat in the corner playing at cards with a quiet restraint, in
contrast to their usual fervent competition.
The windows in the tavern were wide open, with dust swirls floating
in the sunlight and the breeze. Despite the room being half full of
patrons, the noise of the tavern was low: no one wanted to disturb the
peaceful relaxation of the afternoon. Sandy's red hair and bright smile
greeted Andrew from the other end of the bar. The waitress was the only
person in the Lazy Madame who was displaying any energy. But even her
movements between the tables, refilling mugs and clearing plates, had a
lackadaisical air. Andrew made his way to an empty stool at the bar, and
waited for her.
Sandy returned from the floor with an armful of plates and mugs,
which she deposited onto the bar. "Hey, haven't seen you in a couple
days," Sandy said. She leaned over and gave Andrew a hug.
"Been workin'," he replied.
"Well, I thought I might see you today. I had a dream about you
last night."
Andrew smiled. "I knew you'd come around."
Faster than he could react, Sandy drew her weapon -- the dish towel
she kept at her waist -- and whacked his shoulder. "Not like that," she
added. Kenneth, her father and the owner of the Lazy Madame, entered
through the door behind the bar, the scents of his cooking following him
in from the kitchen.
"Afternoon, Andy!" Kenneth greeted him and shook his hand. "Draw
you an ale?"
"Well, I wasn't planning on one yet," he replied. "But I suppose I
could be convinced -- it being such a beautiful day."
"Seems like a lot of people have that thought," Kenneth said, and
nodded at his patrons. "Hot summer day, and instead of being in the
fields or at the dock, they're coming in here and enjoying an ale."
Kenneth smiled. "I love my job." He placed his large, aging hand on the
tap and slowly pulled back, drawing beer into the mug for Andrew.
Andrew turned to look at Sandy. "So, you had a dream."
"Yes," she replied. "It was very nice ... it was like the old days,
before the war. You and Driftwood ... going swimming in the river and
building a fire at Coleman's field. And that time he stole the lyre from
the bard who stayed at the inn? And you told him he couldn't have it
back unless he came out to Coleman's and played in the moonlight."
Kenneth looked wide-eyed at Andrew. "You two did that?"
Andrew just smiled with the memory. "Yeah. But he got us back.
While we were sleeping, he stole a cow and herded it back to the camp.
We woke up to the insistent boots of the guard, who were very interested
in talking to us."
Sandy smiled. "Well, anyway ... that's why I thought you'd come by,
today."
"So now you're a sage, predicting events with your dreams?" Andrew
smiled.
"Memories is all it was," Kenneth piped in.
"But that wasn't one specific time we shared," Sandy replied. "That
dream had elements from several days we spent together."
"Then jumbled memories, which is even worse," Kenneth replied.
"Is that all dreams are?" Andrew asked.
"Sometimes they're wishes." Sandy replied. "Part of me certainly
wishes I could relive those days."
"So do I," Andrew softly added. She had promised to marry him,
once.
"Useless is what they are," Kenneth put in. "Just a waste of time.
Although sometimes they're fun," he added, with a far away look in his
eyes. "Entertaining. But generally useless."
"I don't know," Andrew replied. "Perhaps they remind us of things
we would otherwise forget."
"Or tell us lies," Kenneth countered.
"Perhaps."
Later in the evening, as the fire flickered slowly to its end,
Andrew and Sandy stood by the door. The cool air carried the sounds of
the river through the night.
"You know," he said, "one of the reasons I keep hanging around here
is because Driftwood and I promised each other we'd watch over you. We
were very much in love with you."
"And I loved both of you," she replied. She looked up at him then,
and timidly asked, "And the other reason?"
He hesitated, gathering his nerve. "Because I'm not quite over
you," he confessed.
He met her gaze then, and suddenly his whole vision was encompassed
by those dark eyes. His breathing became shallow and rapid, and his
throat went dry. He reached a hand out to stroke her cheek. His stomach
knotted. His eyes studied every facet of her face: her cheek bones, her
lips, her chin. He imagined the warmth of her breath, the intoxicating
musk of desire. But when he looked back into her eyes, he did not see
desire. He saw fear.
"Andy ..."
He looked down, and then at the door. When he turned to her again,
he avoided her eyes. His voice shook as he spoke, "I should be getting
--"
"Yeah, I've gotta finish ... " she said, taking the towel from her
apron. Suddenly, the bar needed to be wiped.
When he closed the door behind him, he heard her bar it.
Sunrise found Sandy and Andrew in the common room, as Kenneth made
breakfast in the kitchen.
"How'd you sleep?" Andrew asked. "Any dreams last night?"
"No," she replied. She still couldn't look Andrew in the eyes. "I
didn't sleep all that well."
"I slept wonderfully!" Kenneth exclaimed as he came in from the
kitchen. "Never slept better! No dreams, though. Not as I could
remember, anyway." Kenneth placed two plates of eggs on the bar. "But
you know dreams, they disappear like a spring fog at sunup, and all
you've got are scattered memories at best. How 'bout you, Andrew?" he
asked as he stepped back into the kitchen.
"I dreamed," Andrew replied softly, so softly that only Sandy could
hear. Finally, she met his gaze. "Last night I dreamed I tried to kiss
you. I very much wanted to. But I finally understood that you don't love
me ... not like that." He paused. "And I knew, quite suddenly, that you
would never be mine."
"What's that you're saying?" Kenneth asked as he returned from the
kitchen.
"Maybe dreams are sometimes lessons," Andrew replied. "They show us
a part of reality that we refuse to see for ourselves. And while the
images may fade with the morning sun, the memory of the lesson lingers,
and we learn by it."
"In that case," Kenneth conceded, "maybe dreams are useful after
all."
========================================================================
Triskele: Lorelei
by P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez
<dpartha@usa.net> and <RhondaGmz@aol.com>
Vibril 21, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-5
"Oh, Thyerin!" The words tumbled from her lips before she realized
they had escaped. "Is it ... can it be a man?" She spoke aloud, though
no one could have heard her over the waters raging over Thyerin's Falls.
Viveka remained frozen like a tree in the forest for a mene longer than
was necessary because she simply couldn't understand the scene before
her. It was not that the river had never taken a life; it had. But
Viveka had been so lost in the serenity of the morning that tragedy was
the last thing on her mind. Then, as she had carefully picked her way
along the slippery path next to the river, she had seen him: a dead man,
washed over the rocks and tossed against the bank like driftwood.
Viveka guessed immediately that he was a soldier; none of the
villagers, or anyone else around those parts, ever wore their hair
cropped so short. He also wore, recognizable even at a distance, the
dark trousers favored by the soldiers of Dargon.
She tossed her basket to the ground and slid on her bottom the rest
of the way down the steep path that hugged the falls of the Run. As soon
as she reached him she realized that he wasn't dead after all; she saw
his chest slowly rise and fall. He was alive, but his side and his head
were bleeding sluggishly -- he was terribly wounded. She raced back
across the river and through the forest to the home that she shared with
Nessa, the new village herbalist.
"Nessa, help!" she panted as she ran inside the cottage.
After Viveka's father died, Nessa had taken over as the village
herbalist. At first, Viveka had been moderately shocked that such a
young woman would wear her long, raven hair unbound, but then she
decided that perhaps Nessa had chosen to wear it thus in order to hide
the dark brandywine-colored stain that covered the right side of her
face. At Viveka's sudden entrance, Nessa jerked her head around and all
her lovely, dark hair fanned out from her upper body like a midnight
halo.
"Slow down, Viv. What's wrong?" she asked, and grunted in anger as
the small pestle that she had been working tumbled to the floor.
"I found a man by the Run," Viveka said as she began to wring her
hands. "He fell down the riverfall, and he's hurt. I couldn't pull him
out, and he's not awake."
"Is he alive?" Nessa rose and pulled down her medicine basket,
checking its contents instinctively.
"Yes," Viveka replied, her voice breaking on the one word. "He's
breathing. But there's blood all over his head. Scratches everywhere,
and there's something wrong with his leg." Her voice rose sharply toward
the end.
Nessa took some folded fabric squares from an upper shelf against
the wall and tucked them into her basket. Then she lifted several
straight, hearty tree limbs from a pile in the corner by the shelf and
said, "We're going to need help from some of the men to bring him 'ere."
As if trying to think of something she might have missed, she looked up
and down at each of the shelves. Finding nothing, she continued,
"Viveka, go to the village and get Rakti and Jace. Bring 'em to the
river. Tell me where the man is, and I'll go ahead."
"Go down the path that leads to the falls. He's there, at the
bottom." Viveka's voice became shrill yet again as she said, "Hurry,
Nessa. He looked really bad!"
Nessa paused while stepping out of the cottage and smiled gently at
her. "Don't worry. We'll take care of it. Straight?"
"Straight."
Viveka ran quickly to the village and collected Rakti and Jace.
After showing the two young men where Nessa waited with the wounded
river man, Viveka hurried back to the cottage to make up a cot for their
new patient. As soon as she entered the cottage, she felt a tremendous
sense of relief. The familiar comfort of her home and the ready supply
of healing ingredients quickened her courage, which had been dwindling
at the thought of the nursing that was sure to be needed.
With the exception of the common hearth, it was as if the cottage
had been split in two by an invisible line. One side of the cottage,
Viveka's side, was neat and orderly with surfaces that were completely
bare; everything was put properly in its place except for two wooden
dolls lying on a table aligned snugly against the longest wall. Viveka
could have sworn that she had placed those dolls in their proper places
before departing from the cabin that morning, but since she didn't have
time to worry about dolls at that moment, she quickly gathered them up
and set them back on the shelf. One doll was a man, the other a lady,
both unfinished. The top part of the male doll had been fully carved
with a clean-shaven face and close-cropped hair. The female doll wore
flowing skirts over a big bustle, but the head was incomplete.
The left side of the room, Nessa's side, was a riot of plants:
dried herbs hung from the rafters, large and small bowls of stones and
herbs lay scattered about, and her unmade cot was shoved carelessly into
a corner. The clutter normally distracted Viveka, but not that day. She
quickly made up a cot in front of the hearth and finished just as Nessa
entered.
"Gently boys, gently," Nessa remonstrated as the two young men
clamored through the low doorway, both having to duck. They moved to the
cot and placed the man on it. "Thank you, Jace, Rakti." Nessa nodded to
them and said, "Jace, send Sona 'round and Rakti, send yer mum. I'll
give 'em a couple of days worth of supplies for your 'elp." Then Nessa
turned her attention to the wounded man.
"How is he?" Viveka asked, staring down at the patient, knowing
full well that Nessa would be unable to answer that question
immediately. The man's hair framed a face with high cheekbones, an
aquiline nose and thin lips. He had broad shoulders and muscular arms,
suggesting that he was no stranger to hard labor.
Nessa catalogued as if she were compiling a list of herbs. "Big
bump on the head: probably hit hisself against a rock. It's really bad
-- must've have happened when he went over the falls. Cut on the temple.
Broken nose. Broken leg. Deep cut on the side. Scrapes and scratches."
Nessa looked at Viveka then, her countenance troubled, and said firmly,
"He'll need to be watched and cared for. Yer going to have to help me."
Viveka's heart filled with dread. When her father, Mushtaq, had
fallen ill, Nessa had been living with them and working with Mushtaq for
a year or more and had nursed him in the beginning. But Nessa's growing
duties to the village had taken her away more often than not. Nursing
her father had fallen to Viveka without warning.
During one of Nessa's absences Viveka's father had died. His last
rattling breath, the sudden cessation of his life force, the ominous
silence in the hut, and the certainty that she now had no family left in
the world had all sunk into Viveka like a freezing Deber wind. She had
never been able to reconcile herself to the fact that her father, an
herbalist, had died, even though a corner of her mind realized that
people did die. He should have been able to cure himself. Yet, in spite
of her fear, how could she refuse to care for this helpless soldier?
"Yes, of course," Viveka answered slowly.
And she had helped. For two days she had nursed and cared for him
as he lay sleeping. Then one morning, as Nessa was changing the bandage
on the man's head, he opened his eyes. "I see yer with us," she said in
her habitually low and steady voice.
Viveka had been making porridge at the fire. She turned and
approached the cot. The man's blinding blue eyes wandered to meet hers.
Viveka stared into them and drowned, her breath suspended in her chest.
She stood there, like one of her dolls, mesmerized by the brilliance of
his gaze.
Dimly, Viveka heard Nessa say, "This is Viveka," as if from a long
distance away. She realized at some level that Nessa was introducing her
and she thought it odd because, though the river man and Viveka had
never been formally introduced, she knew him.
While caring for him, Viveka had become intimately familiar with
every part of his body. Never having nursed a helpless a man in the
prime of his life, Viveka had found the experience unsettling. The
bodily contact and his dependence on her for such simple tasks as
bathing and eating had created a strange feeling in Viveka. She knew
every aspect of him as if he were a doll that she had dispassionately
fashioned with her own hands. She could trace the map of the scars on
his back in her head.
"Who are you, and what were you doing in Thyerin's Run?" Nessa
asked with her normally abrupt manner. After a long pause his eyes
turned away from Viveka toward Nessa. Viveka took a deep breath and
moved closer to the bed, anxious to hear his response.
He opened his mouth and only air came out. He cleared his throat
and spoke. It was a nice voice, Viveka thought dreamily, like the honey
Nessa used to mix some of her herbs.
"I am ..." his voice trailed off as he met Viveka's eyes.
Nessa coughed, the sound unusually loud in the silence.
He began again, "My name is ..." There was a short pause as he
gazed at Viveka and then he said, "I don't know. I can't remember."
Nessa raised her brows and asked, "Can't you remember what you were
doing just before you fell in the Run? You don't even know your name?"
"Um, well ... "
"Perhaps the bump on yer head," murmured Nessa. "Would you turn on
your side, please? I need to look at that bump."
He obediently turned toward them, still keeping his gaze locked
with Viveka's.
"The other side. Turn towards the other side," Nessa said softly.
He smiled a bit sheepishly at Nessa and turned to the other side,
letting his amusement touch Viveka as well. She felt her face redden and
saw his smile widen slightly before he turned away completely.
Nessa paused for a moment, examining the abrasion on his head
closely. "You will recover soon enough." She rose and went to the herb
shelf that took up the entire wall across from Viveka's worktable.
"Viveka, our patient needs to eat something. Can you give him a helping
of the porridge, please?"
Viveka ladled some porridge into a bowl and approached the cot
cautiously. He was still lying on his side and she walked around to face
him. When he saw the food, he attempted to sit up but she quickly
admonished him, "Oh, wait! Don't try to sit up; you've had a nasty
bump."
As she leaned over to press her hand against his chest, her hair --
as yet unbound for the day -- brushed across his face. She heard him
take a deep breath and she turned to look directly into his eyes. "Um,
here, let me adjust your pillow and you can lean against the wall. I'll
feed you." She pulled up a stool and sat down next to the bed.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." Viveka watched his mouth as she slowly began to
feed him and unconsciously moved her lips to match the movement of his.
Between bites, he said, "You have a lovely mouth. Do you sing?"
"Sometimes." Viveka blushed again, suddenly, when a vivid image of
his broad, naked back flashed in her head. "Do you, um, remember
anything of what happened?"
He hesitated for moment and then said in a rush, "I guess it can't
be that important if I've forgotten." They both smiled at that, and she
looked away.
"Don't look away, please."
Her heart thumped in her chest and she smiled down at him. When her
eyes again met his, he said, "Perhaps it was my time to journey down
Thyerin's Run."
She frowned and said, "Why do you say that?"
"Let's just say I had cause to be reborn." His eyes fell away from
hers, letting her imagine that he was suffering greatly with regret,
undoubtedly associated with his days of war.
In an attempt to change his mood, she asked in amusement, "Oh, yes?
You don't even remember your name. How could you possibly know what the
gods desire for you?"
The young man laughed and replied with goodwill, "Aye. Well, you
can call me whatever you like," and his brows arched on the last word.
"Oooh, is that right, river man? I shall call you," Viveka paused
dramatically, her eyes wandering to his bright hair. Then she smiled at
him mischievously, "Yellow."
"Yellow?" His voice tightened and the smile disappeared from his
eyes.
"What did you say?" Nessa asked and Viveka realized that she hadn't
even noticed the other woman's approach.
"Nothing," Viveka replied. She cocked her head to one side and
looked at him questioningly.
"Viveka has decided to give me a name since I don't remember my
own." He paused for effect. "She chose 'Yellow'."
"Viveka, that's rude," Nessa scolded.
"Not at all." He smiled at Viveka and arched his brows again. "It
was a natural choice, because of the color of my hair," he said, staring
up at Nessa this time.
Nessa looked at Viveka sharply. "Is that so?" she said
noncommittally. Her gaze dropped slowly away from Viveka's and she
commanded, "Turn around, Yellow. I need to bandage your head."
Yellow was not exactly what he appeared to be; it didn't take a
healer's instinct to know that. I had known it since the day that we
found him in the Run and I had seen the lash marks on his back. There
was something about him that confounded and confused me: he was both
tragically cruel and bewilderingly compassionate.
He had been with us longer than usual due to the severity of his
injuries. As the days grew into sennights my concern for Viveka
increased. It was obvious from the start that Yellow's attentions toward
Viveka were not honorable. Viveka was a very pretty woman, with perfect,
bow-shaped eyebrows crowning green eyes that were fringed with dark
eyelashes. But most of all, her long, brown hair which she wore in a
braided coronet, gave her a certain patrician air and changed her from a
pretty woman to a beautiful one.
It did not surprise me that Yellow desired her; rather it surprised
me that he could imagine that anyone of his station would have the right
to court someone like Viveka, if indeed that was what he wanted to do.
Her father, the village herbalist from whom I had learned my trade, had
been a man of great honor and integrity. I doubted that Yellow could
ever live up to Viveka's expectations. I was determined to bring an end
to this calamity, if not for Viveka's sake, then for Mushtaq's, for what
I knew he would have wanted for his daughter.
Therefore one morning when the three of us had just risen from our
beds and I was busying myself with the mortar and pestle, I said,
"Viveka, could you please cease your endless fiddling with those two
dolls and gather the chamomile that you promised to collect for me?"
Viveka had -- adding to my already troubled mind -- begun to
fashion two of her latest efforts into a pair of dolls that I thought
bore a remarkable resemblance to the doll-maker herself and to Yellow.
Viveka had never before created her dolls in the image of anyone that we
knew; even the most ignorant of souls knows that to capture the image of
a living person within a dead object is very bad magic. Why had she
started now? I didn't know; I didn't want to find out, and I intended to
put a stop to it as quickly as I could.
Viveka opened her mouth and then shut it. I could easily decipher
the emotions flitting over the other woman's face. She wanted to refuse
to go, or at least invite Yellow to go with her. Little did she know
that, in fact, that was the exact thing I wanted to prevent. But habit
forced Viveka to assent: a habit developed from years of gathering herbs
for herbalists, first her father and then me. I watched her push the
last hairpin into her coronet with unnecessary force, pick up a basket
and leave. This time she did not even look at Yellow.
I crossed the length of the cottage in a few quick strides, grabbed
the dolls that Viveka had left on the worktable, and stuffed them into
her basket. At the hearth, I hastily emptied the contents of the mortar
into a large pot and bent to pick it up. Yellow was beside me at once.
As his wounds healed, he had picked up a lot of the heavier work around
the cottage. I found his apparently genuine offers to help confusing.
"Let me." He picked up the pot with ease and placed it over the
wood laid for the fire.
"Let me? Let me! Thyerin be damned, Yellow. Why are you such a
snupper? You can stop the infernal pretending with me, eh?" I demanded
abruptly. "I know perfectly well what you are doing." He looked up at me
warily, and I knew he understood what I meant.
I sighed and began again. "You cannot do this, Yellow. You will
heal from your wounds and you will leave this place to go back to your
... whatever life you've led. Viveka will be left to deal with a broken
heart. Is that all you can give her?" That Yellow was hiding from
something in his past, I knew; that the secret was dishonorable, I
suspected.
It was his turn to sigh. "What the fark is that supposed to mean?"
"Don't break her heart, Yellow. She's innocent, but she is also
very stubborn. She needs the kind of man to whom the means are more
important than the end. I know who you are, Yellow. Those lash marks did
a lot more than just flay your skin."
He frowned, and walked to the window. Although it was almost
spring, there was still a bite to the air. Bare-chested, he shivered.
"Wrap a blanket around you. It's on the bed," I said roughly, the
healer in me concerned about the health of a man who was still
recuperating from nearly drowning, even though I disapproved of what he
was doing.
"Yes. I know who I am. I know who she is," he said, an edge of
anger in his voice that I was unaccustomed to. "A beautiful woman, too
good for the likes of me." He lifted the blanket from the cot and turned
to me then with a look of cold contempt, saying, "And for the likes of
you, Nessa. I'd venture to guess that, like the scars left on my back,
the stain on your face has marred more than your skin, eh?" His gaze did
not waver from mine as he continued, "I made a mistake, a long time ago.
And I paid for it with several miserable years as a mage's apprentice!"
He spat the last word out of his mouth as if it were slug of poison.
"What do you think about me, Nessa? Is that your big secret, that you
think I'm not good enough for her?" He laughed, and it was a short,
bitter sound. "I'm actually a thief!"
I turned my back on him and stirred the pot furiously. When I
looked back I was surprised to see that he was standing by Viveka's
workbasket and that he had removed the male doll which now lay at his
feet. "Gods! Now you're obsessed with those damned dolls as well," I
snapped, walking toward him.
He looked down to where my gaze fell and replied, "Huh? What are
you talking about?"
"The doll. You took it out of the basket didn't you?" I bent down
with some annoyance, picked up the doll and set it on the top shelf.
"No! I never touched the blasted thing." He dismissed the issue
abruptly and I saw his eyes move to the large dark stain that covered
the left side of my face. I sighed and stared out of the window,
remembering the past, stirring the pot absently. "We are not always who
we think we are, Yellow. I learned something from Viveka and her father.
Mushtaq was a wonderful man. He taught me to give kindness so that I
could receive compassion, for that was what I most longed for. What is
it that you want, Yellow? What is it that you long for, that you want
above all else?"
"Those are just words, Nessa," Yellow said scornfully. "I've done
things that I wasn't ashamed of, but which would horrify you."
"Stop it!" I interrupted him, shaking my head angrily. "Don't say
another word. I don't care if you're a part of the robber brotherhood,
or a part of the town guard. You regret your actions now, don't you?"
"Yes. No. I don't know, Nessa. I am who I am. I'm not going to
pretend to be a soldier simply because Viveka thinks soldiers are
honorable. Not all soldiers are honorable, and not all robbers are
knaves."
"That isn't the point, Yellow. The question is, are you an
honorable man, or are you a knave?"
Silently he stared out into the forest, until a sound at the
doorway signaled Viveka's arrival.
In the following days, I continued to watch the growing closeness
between Yellow and Viveka, deeply troubled in more ways than one. I
wished to stop it, but I didn't know what to do. The medic in me
rebelled at the thought of sending Yellow away before he was fully
healed. Finally, in an attempt to divert his mind from the doll-maker, I
decided to teach him herbal lore. Much to my surprise, he took to it
like a cheetar to running. I suspected that he knew some of the more
lethal herbs better than I did, yet I did not ask; there are some things
better left unasked and unanswered. I taught him the benign qualities of
the herbs that grew around us, and those that I grew in my own garden.
To my delight, he had a better manner with patients than Viveka
did, that I clearly saw in his interaction with one of the village
children. The little boy had hurt his knees and his mother had brought
him to the cottage. Most of the mothers in the village did not go
running to the healer when one of their children fell and scraped a
knee, but Truus was overly protective. Her daughter, Aliya, was
sickening with something that I did not recognize. She was fine on some
days and not so fine on others, but that she was wasting away was
something that I knew. And so I understood Truus' fears and made
allowances.
"Truus, what are you doing here?" I asked, smiling at the
red-haired woman who entered through the door. A sudden fear struck me.
"Is Aliya all right?"
"She's fine, Nessa," Truus hastened to reassure me. "It's Aziz."
The woman stepped aside to reveal a small boy about four years old.
I said, "Oh, look who's here: Aziz! Oh, poor baby, are you hurt?" I
bent and lifted up the small child, whose knee was badly scratched and
bloodied. He knuckled his eyes, hiccupping. As I petted him, he sat
trustingly in my arms, for he knew me well from my frequent visits to
his sister. "There, there, Aziz, we'll fix you up."
Yellow asked quietly, "May I?" He stood near Viveka's worktable
with a bowl of water, clean rags and a small pot of one of my decoctions
spread out before him. I sat Aziz down on the worktable and Yellow began
to clean the boy's knees.
"What's your name, little one?" he asked.
"A-Aziz," the child hiccupped again.
"Well, Aziz, my name is Yellow. You're going to be fine." He looked
up at me. "I'm going to clean his knees with the tincture." I
understood: the tincture he referred to had a sting.
"Aziz, see, Yellow is going to clean your knees because they're
full of dirt," I said, patting the child on his back.
"Aaah, hurts, it h-hurts," Aziz began to cry again.
"There, there, Aziz, everything is going to be fine now," I
soothed, hugging the boy. He cried some more into my shoulder before
subsiding. Truus extended her arms to the boy and he leapt into them.
"Thank you so much, sir," Truus said to Yellow, smiling at him. He
returned her smile but I sensed that it was a bit forced. I wondered
why. It was yet another puzzling contradiction in the river man.
"You're welcome. Aziz, see, you're going to be fine. I told you,
didn't I? Now I have something for you, for being such a good boy."
Yellow brought out a small sweet and popped it into Aziz' mouth. The
sweet was nothing but some dried apple pieces rolled in honey, but it
made the child smile.
"Fank you," Aziz lisped, smiling up at Yellow, his tears magically
gone.
"You're welcome," he repeated. "Now be off with you. And be
careful."
As we watched the woman leave, still carrying Aziz, he asked me,
"Should I go with them? Will they be safe alone?"
I stared at him in surprise. "Yellow, it's the second bell after
midday; the sun is still out and they're going home. What could possibly
happen to them?" He stared down at me with a strange expression in his
eyes but did not respond. I sensed that his question had a deeper
significance: that in a sense, it was a key to his past.
Three sennights later, with a basket of completed dolls on her arm,
Viveka entered the village common. The peddlar, Ezra Molag, hailed her.
"Mistress Viveka, how nice to see you again!" Ezra usually made two
trips a year to the village and he always bought her dolls. Sometimes he
even sent word requesting a special doll that a wealthy customer wanted.
She crossed quickly to the other side of the street and stood
before Ezra's stall. "Hello, Ezra. How are you?"
"Oh, could be better, could be worse," he offered. With his eyes on
the basket she carried, he asked, his voice eager, "So, what do you have
for me this time?"
Viveka rested the basket on the small makeshift counter he had put
up, and lifted out the dolls one by one. The first one was a big bear,
painted in a dark color. She smiled down at it proprietarily,
remembering how she had achieved that particular shade of blue-black: by
adding a tincture of blueberry to the basic pigment.
"Very nice," Ezra murmured. "I like it. I'll give you two Bits."
"Two Bits? That's robbery," she said, settling down to some hard
bargaining. Ezra liked to haggle and if she wasn't careful, he would
send her home with a pat on the back and some loose change. Viveka
needed to replace at least two of her tools: one of them had been
begging for a decent burial for a while. The tools wouldn't last for the
extra dolls she always made for Melrin. As for Nessa, Viveka knew she
needed another knife.
Ezra examined each of the dolls she had brought for him that day.
Viveka's brows knitted together as she noticed that two of the dolls lay
side by side a little away from the others, as if they were a pair that
couldn't be separated. Ezra's pudgy little fingers moved slowly over the
two dolls and Viveka felt an unexpected wave of fear grip her throat.
She snatched them away before he could touch them and said, "Not those.
I'm ... I made a mistake. Those aren't for sale."
He looked at her pointedly as she shoved them back into her basket,
and asked as his gaze fell back to the remaining dolls on the table,
"Only eight? You usually have more than ten for me when I come after
winter."
Viveka blushed guiltily. "We have a patient I've been helping to
take care of," she offered by way of explanation. Finally, he decided to
buy all of her dolls at a fair price and after making a brief stop to
deliver some herbs to Truus, she was soon on her way home.
When she arrived, Yellow was there, standing at the door with
Rakti. "What's the matter? Where's Nessa?" she asked.
"Sona's had the baby, and Jace is out in the fields somewhere.
Nessa asked me to come and get some more herbs, she said she needed
more; but I can't find them, and even if I did, I wouldn't know what
they were," Rakti paused for breath, obviously rattled.
Viveka glanced from him to Yellow, wondering what they had been
talking about. Rakti didn't get nervous that easily, yet here he was so
edgy that he was running his sentences together. "What herbs did Nessa
want?"
"Thistle down, silver weed and myrrh. The eight-herb decoction, and
the chamomile." Rakti's speech slowed to its normal cadence under her
gaze, and once again, Viveka wondered what had upset him.
Yellow stepped aside to allow Viveka inside the cottage. "I was
just about finished gathering what he needs, when we heard you coming.
Nessa's been teaching me some of the lore and I think I've got them all
straight."
She glanced into the basket Yellow had placed on the worktable,
nodded and smiled, "Yes, you seem to have managed quite well."
With a smile at Viveka, and barely a nod to Yellow, Rakti snatched
up the basket and muttered, "Aye, I'll be goin' then." He rushed out the
door only to return immediately, poke his head in the door with a grin
that stretched from ear to ear and say, "It's a boy! Sona's had a boy!"
They both smiled for a moment, but Rakti's leaving left a strange
silence inside the cottage. Viveka pulled out the two rescued dolls from
her basket and looked up at him. "So you didn't go to Sona's with Nes?"
"No, I was hoping that you'd make it back soon and that we could
have a moment alone." The look that he gave her caused the tiny hairs on
her arms to stand on end and the ball of heat that had been lodged in
her chest for several sennights slowly spread throughout her body,
settling with a distinctly pleasant sensation between her thighs. The
values that her father had given her had kept her, until now, from
becoming too intimate with Yellow, but values had a way of becoming
diluted in the face of passion and Viveka knew that she could no longer
resist Yellow's advances. She didn't want to resist them. And he seemed
to know that, just by looking at her.
He was at her side immediately and she found it mildly amusing that
he knew exactly which of the pins to remove in order to release her hair
from its coronet. He pushed away the dolls that she was still clutching
against her chest and buried his face in her neck.
Truus' child, Aliya, had taken a turn for the worse and while
Viveka had been ferrying herbs to the family on my behalf for some time,
I knew that convincing her to continue doing so in the face of impending
death would be difficult. Unfortunately, Viveka had rigid ideas about
lying: she had no tact and no conception of softening the truth so that
it was bearable. One of my responsibilities as the village healer was to
make the truth palatable. This quality Viveka lacked. Perhaps this was
why she had chosen to be a doll-maker rather than a healer, even though
her herbal lore was quite good.
"Aliya has worsened," I said softly. "Will you go and give some
medicines to her mother, Viveka? Aliya asked for you; she wants to see
you."
"No! I don't want to. I can't. Don't make me, please, Nessa!"
I sighed. Viveka had asked me about Aliya's health very pointedly
one day -- she was a healer's daughter, after all -- and I had told her
the truth, a truth that I had not told the child's parents; as a result,
Viveka had begun to avoid the entire family.
"Why?" I asked gently. "Your visit will give Aliya a lot of
pleasure." I never failed to try to teach her that facing the truth was
not like a coin with only two sides; facing the truth was like a
rainbow, with as many emotions. Thus far I hadn't succeeded.
Viveka sighed, stirring the contents of the pot hanging over the
fire. "Every time Aliya's mother sees me, she asks me how Aliya is
doing. I can't lie any more, Nessa. Every time I lie, something dies
inside me. I won't lie any more."
"Viveka, imagine how Aliya's mother will feel if you tell her that
her daughter is going to die. Is it more important to tell the truth or
save a mother's feelings?"
"My father taught me never to lie. A lie isn't something I can live
with."
"Didn't Mushtaq ever lie?"
"No. Even when someone was too hurt to survive, he told the truth,"
Viveka said with a stubborn jut to her chin.
I was silent. I knew that Mushtaq had been a diplomatic man who had
placed the well-being of the living above all else. "Truth and lies are
not like land and ocean, Viveka. Real life isn't like that. Truth isn't
a god at whose altar you need to worship. The truth is like clouds:
sometimes they bring much needed rain and at other times they bring too
much. Sometimes you have to bend the truth a little so that the living
can have peace. If you don't learn to relax your truths, Viveka, you
will be hurt."
Abruptly Viveka shrugged her shoulders. "We are not going to have
this argument yet again, Nessa. I--"
"Lady! Lady! 'elp, 'tis me son. He's taken an arrow in the leg!"
One of the area woodsmen rushed in through the door, gasping out the
words, his fear preceding him like noxious fumes.
Infected by his urgency, I snatched my basket from the shelf and
rushed to follow the woodsman to his cabin a league away. Fortunately,
the young man's wound was a lot less serious than his father had led me
to believe. I completed my task and returned home much quicker than I
had anticipated.
Yellow and Viveka had not heard my approach to the cottage. It was
no wonder really; they were otherwise engaged. I halted abruptly as I
entered the cabin, the scene before me all the more shocking because I
had been fearing and imagining the potential dangers of such an event.
Viveka's skirts were rucked up far too high on her thigh, her head
was thrown back exposing the soft white flesh of her throat as she
leaned back against the massive worktable. Yellow was ravishing her
mouth as if he wanted to devour her bit by bit. He was bent upon
consumption.
I stepped back quietly into the shadows as I heard Yellow say,
"Come on, Viv. Nessa won't be back until sunset, and besides, you know
you want to roll with me," and some of my suspicions of him were
confirmed.
"But I ... can't," Viveka replied as she pushed away his hand,
which had decided to take on a mind of its own and had begun to crawl up
her waist like a hungry spider intent upon its dinner. I heard a
peculiar mix of desire and fear in Viveka's voice, but it was the fear
that convinced me.
I stepped fully into the room and cleared my throat. The look that
Yellow gave me was frightening in its menace, but I wasn't one to back
down and he quickly moved around until he had placed the huge worktable
between himself and Viveka.
I looked directly into his eyes and asked, "So you've told her
then?"
========================================================================
Death Has a Pale Face
Part 2
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<ice_czar@hotmail.com>
Seber, 1017
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-5
"Don't look back!" Jakob's voice was harsh and raspy. "Death will
take all of us ... it has no mercy!"
Tree branches grabbed at his tabard and scratched his face as he
ran, but Morgan did not need his companion's encouragement to keep
going. Behind them, in a clearing not far away, four of their fellow
guardsmen were dead, butchered like pigs. One of them had been his
friend and lover, Lara. Morgan did not know who or what their assailants
were; he had only caught a glimpse of one, clothed in flowing black
robes with great horns protruding from its skull-like face.
What the attackers wanted, Morgan did not know. Maybe they were
bandits looking to loot the caravan full of Duke Dargon's annual tribute
to the king bound for Magnus. Regardless of who they were, the fact
remained that they had ambushed Morgan's troop once the soldiers were
inside the great forest dividing northern and southern Baranur, and
already too many friends were dead.
Morgan and Jakob burst from the trees onto the road and nearly ran
headlong into Lord Connall's horse. Connall halted the caravan at the
sight of the two soldiers. Jakob nudged Lord Connall's horse a little as
he clutched at the commander's hand. He left a greasy red streak along
the horse's side, splattered and dripping with the blood of his comrades
as he was.
"What on Makdiar has happened?" the young lord demanded.
"My lord," Jakob's face was ashen and his eyes wild. As he spoke,
his voice cracked with lunacy. "It is death! It has come for us!"
"Grab hold of yourself, man!" Lord Connall gripped the soldier's
arm.
"D-death has a pale face ..." Jakob stared into Lord Connall's
eyes, his body shaking. He continued to shout gibberish as Commander
Connall fought to free his hand from Jakob's grip.
"Forgive him, my lord," Morgan helped the lord by prying Jakob's
fingers open. Morgan was embarrassed at his fellow guard's disgraceful
and undisciplined behaviour, but also glad that he wasn't the gibbering
idiot.
"Morgan!" Connall turned his attention to Morgan. "What has
happened?"
"Lord Connall," Morgan said. "We were ambushed. They killed the
others. The scouts were already dead when we got there."
Once the words were out of his mouth Morgan began to tremble, and
he felt cold all over. The others had died -- Lara had died! She'd been
killed horribly by those things. He could still hear her screams, one
after another, repeating over and over in his head. Why hadn't he saved
her?
"Your lordship," the priest Orto approached on his dilapidated
pony. "There are forces of evil at work here. Certainly, these are
servants of the underworld, sent to destroy the sacred text we carry
with us."
"Bah," Lord Connall scoffed. "They are but a few bandits, trying to
steal the king's gold. There can be no more than a half dozen men out
there, and all we need do is chase them out of the trees that we may
deal with them."
"No, I beg you, your lordship," Orto pleaded. "You mustn't leave
the wagons, or the holy artefact we carry! You musn't leave the king's
gold unprotected!"
"No, of course not," Lord Connall signalled the caravan to begin
moving again. "It was but wishful thinking. We move. Keep a close watch,
troops. We've lost too many this night already."
"What? Keep a close watch?" Morgan said, guild giving way to anger.
"That's all?"
"Save it, Morgan," Griff said. "What else would you have him do?
Send another group into the woods to be ambushed? Leave the caravan to
hunt them down?"
Morgan didn't like any of the answers, but he had to admit that the
commander had no other options than to carry on. Morgan looked to the
priest, Orto, who looked similarly dissatisfied, his beefy features
molded into a frown, and his mouth opening and closing as if about to
say more, then thinking better of it.
The column resumed movement along the road, the soldiers nervously
brandishing their weapons and scanning the forest as they moved. Lord
Connall maintained a strong face at the head of the column, his back
straight as ever, his face set into hard lines. He didn't so much as
flinch when a twig snapped somewhere in the bushes. He would bark at the
troops to keep proper formation occasionally, his voice never wavering.
His cool composure reassured Morgan, and was perhaps all that kept the
more green soldiers from breaking formation and running. The mist grew
thicker as they moved deeper into the woods, obscuring their view so
that they could see but a few cubits into the trees. After nearly a bell
of no contact with the attackers, the soldiers relaxed a little, only to
be brought violently back into the terror of the forest by a high
pitched woman's scream.
Lord Connall's horse reared and he bellowed at the priest Orto, "By
Cephas, why must I sit idly by now? Those brigands have a woman captive,
perhaps from a nearby village. God only knows what depravity will befall
her!"
"I beseech you not to, your lordship," Orto's husky voice pleaded.
"You cannot leave the carts unprotected! You could never find the poor
woman in any case. Not in this fog."
Morgan shared his commander's sentiment, if only to avenge Lara and
the others that had been killed. He hoped that Lord Connall would change
his mind and give the order for the soldiers to head into the forest and
attack. Now that he was away from the beasts he felt more sure of
himself and that the assembled soldiers could destroy their enemy.
"I know this as well as you, father." Lord Connall brandished his
sword menacingly and fidgeted anxiously in his saddle. "But how it irks
me that I must stay here when a maiden is in need! By my honour I wish
it were not so!"
Orto grabbed Lord Connall's arm. "But of course, that is what they
intend, my lord! The evil that we face is trying to goad you into
leaving the sacred scriptures of the Stevene unprotected!"
"Or the gold and kind unprotected, more likely!" Lord Connall
scowled.
The caravan continued on despite the exchange between priest and
lord. Morgan jumped every time a scream broke through the night, or
breaking rocks echoed through the forest. The column felt as if it were
moving impossibly slow as it made its way through the forest. Morgan
wished that whoever was out there would attack, or begone if that was
not their plan. Moving along the road through the mist, tormented by the
sounds coming from the woods, was a thousand times worse than the terror
of combat. After another bell's travel, the sounds and wind abruptly
stopped, and the forest became silent. Instinctively, Lord Connall
signalled for the wagons to stop, and scanned the trees intently.
"Be ready," he whispered.
Suddenly, the caravan was under attack. Dark shapes swooped between
the trees in near silence and descended on the soldiers. Morgan shouted
in surprise, so suddenly did the attackers appear. Immediately, the
night sky was filled with the sounds of battle as blades clanged against
one another, and the fallen cried out in pain.
The soldiers' formation disintegrated into total chaos. Black
shapes moved all about Morgan, so quickly that by the time his sword
swung towards one it only met air. A soldier next to him screamed in
agony as his arm was hacked off, and blood from it splattered Morgan's
face. The man's cries were cut short with a gurgling gasp, however, as a
lance impaled him through the mouth and out the back of his head.
The creature that had slain the man was gone before Morgan could
mount an attack of his own. As Morgan dodged a black horse galloping
past, he caught sight of Bayard pinned to one of the wagons by a spear.
Morgan rushed to his friend's side, where Jakob was taking refuge. Then
a blur swooped past Morgan and Jakob's head was off, a dark horseman
standing beside the body. Morgan held his sword out in front of him as
if to ward off the creature and thought, "Maybe the priest is right!
Maybe these are creatures of the dead!"
"Bastards!" Lord Connall screamed as his horse charged past Morgan
and towards the creature that had slain Jakob. The lord attacked with
confidence and zeal, sending the creature flying from its horse. The
mount promptly fled into the trees.
"Morgan," Bayard croaked as he weakly clutched at Morgan's tabard,
pulling his attention from Lord Connall. "I think the priest was right
about more than one thing ..."
"Save your breath," Morgan said.
"No," Bayard continued to speak. "It's too late for me now. But not
for you ..."
Bayard's hand slipped from Morgan's tunic and fell limply beside
him, as he convulsed one last time, and died. Morgan stared in disbelief
and horror at the body of his friend, eyes rolled into the back of his
skull and blood trickling from his slackened mouth.
"Bayard!" Morgan shook his friend. "No!"
Suddenly a dark shape bore down on Morgan, and he narrowly evaded
another spear thrust. Regaining his balance, he took a swing of his own.
This time his blade met something, and he chopped again. Griff rushed to
Morgan's side brandishing a pike, and drove the weapon into the beast as
it tried a second time to charge with its spear. The creature made no
sound, but as Morgan hacked at it again with his blade, the brute
slumped sideways and began to fall from its horse.
"Die, you son of a whore!" Griff cried, pulling his pike free then
stabbing the dark rider with it again, then moving to Morgan's side for
the next attack.
Another of the attackers rode past Morgan to the rear, and he
whirled about to confront it, only to see that the dark riders were
galloping away from the carts and into the forest.
"They're broken! After them!" Lord Connall screamed, his sword and
face streaming with blood. "Derkqvist, you stay here with the standard
bearer, and three others."
"Griff grab one other person," Morgan said. "Louen, you'll stay
here, too."
"The rest of you, with me!" The lord charged into the woods after
the fleeing creatures, with several soldiers in his wake.
"Your lordship!" Orto shouted, but he was not heard.
In the sudden quiet following the departure of the creatures,
Morgan scanned the area. The wagons were unharmed, save for the lead
one, which had obviously been hacked at by an axe. Orto stood next to
it, clutching his precious book to his chest.
"I knew they were after the scripture," Orto said, gesturing to the
wrecked cart. "Look at what they've done!"
Morgan inspected the cart, and was pleased to see that it was not
too damaged to travel. "If they sought your precious tome, priest, then
why didn't they kill *you* for it?"
Orto muttered something about Stevene's Light and waddled away from
the damaged wagon.
"Where are the bodies?" Griff said.
"What?" Morgan wheeled about to see his friend leaning on his pike
and looking about the remarkably empty clearing.
"I'd swear by Ol's blood that we felled at least four of the
beasts. And they certainly took a few of ours, but look: not one body!"
Morgan looked about and realised that indeed, there were no bodies
at all. Even poor Bayard, whose corpse had been pinned to the centre
wagon by a spear, was gone, only blood and a small hole in the side of
the cart gave evidence that he had ever been near it.
"Why Bayard?" Morgan asked no one in particular.
"There are evil powers afoot here, my children!" Orto shambled back
into view, bearing his tome as if it were a shield against the
creatures. "We must pray to God for His protection."
A loud crack intoned from somewhere deep in the forest, followed by
screams. It was hard to tell whether they belonged to men or women, but
they were no less terrifying for it.
"What do we do now?" Louen cried. "Lord Connall's gone! We're done
for!"
"Grab hold of yourself, boy!" Griff shouted.
"No, he's right Griff," said another of the soldiers with them.
"We're trapped out here with those things! Alone!"
Morgan forced the images of Lara's and Bayard's deaths from his
mind and turned to confront the troops that remained with the caravan.
"We still have weapons, do we not? We can fend for ourselves."
"I'm for making a stand here and killing those whoresons when they
come back!" Griff said.
"No!" Louen shouted. "Let's just get out of here! Let the demons
take the wagons!"
For a moment, Morgan froze. He knew that he had been given command
of this small group, but did he deserve it? He asked himself the
question again and again. He had let Lara, then Bayard die. If he
couldn't even save his friends, how could he save these others? He could
hear his father's voice in the back of his mind berating him as weak,
and especially damned for not following God in this predicament.
Suddenly he realised that he was being as hard on himself as his father
had been. It filled him with anger. "I was rid of that bastard when I
left home! I won't let him control me now!"
The assembled soldiers quarrelled amongst themselves, which did
little to calm him. "Be silent, all of you! We keep going and get out of
this bastardly forest as quick as we can! *With* the wagons! Now let's
get moving."
Orto hurried along the road with the caravan that thankfully moved
through the forest with a sense of urgency. Orto wanted nothing better
than to get away from the dark trees and ominous mist as swiftly as
possible. He had seen more bloodshed this one night than any human had
any need to see in ten lifetimes. When the evil demons had attacked the
caravan, Orto had hidden inside the wagon bearing the holy scriptures,
clutching them to himself. He felt ashamed for hiding while the soldiers
died outside the cart, but he was no soldier, and would have done little
good.
He shuddered as he thought of sc
reams that he had heard while
inside the wagon. They had borne more pain and suffering than any person
deserved to feel. He felt almost as if he himself had been pierced in
the heart by one of the demons' lances. He knew fellow priests and monks
that had accompanied Baranur's armies as healers in the war with the
Beinison Empire. He could not imagine how immeasurably more horrible
their experiences must have been.
A sudden gust of wind made Orto nearly jump from the saddle of his
pony, and the soldiers around him jerked when the wind was accompanied
by a snapping twig not far off. The boy Louen broke formation and
started to run, but Morgan grabbed him and barked some orders that
appeared to calm the others. It seemed only a matter of time, however,
before the soldiers' dread would get the best of them, Orto feared. At
the very least, he knew that he was near his breaking point. But he also
knew the group would only escape the forest alive with God's blessing,
so he stayed. As a priest, it was up to Orto to help the soldiers find
the grace they needed.
"Only through the Stevene's Light will we survive, my children," he
piped up. "Let us pray to God for his blessing."
Louen nodded his head vigorously, but Morgan turned on the priest.
"Be silent, you! I don't need you making these troops any more scared
than they are!"
"I seek to calm them," Orto said.
"Just be quiet."
"Your conscience weighs heavily upon you, my son," Orto said. "You
are not to blame for your friends' deaths, but you must not make their
loss be in vain."
"What are you talking about, old man?"
"May God have mercy on their souls, but I fear they were not ready
--"
"Enough of your religious wind, priest!" Morgan grabbed the sacred
text from Orto's arms and hurled it as far as he could into the forest.
"Cephas' boot!" Orto exclaimed, his body stiffening with terror. He
watched the book fly through the air, time seemingly slowing down. As
the tome slowly twirled in the air into the bushes, Orto could only
think that this wasn't possibly happening. When he heard the book hit
the ground some way into the forest, time returned to normal and the
reality set in. Orto was dismayed that anyone, even Morgan who clearly
hated the Stevenic faith, could do such a thing. "What have you done?"
Not waiting for a response, Orto hopped off of Hubris' back, and
scuttled into the woods as quickly as his stout legs would carry him.
What had the boy done? By the good God he could still scarcely believe
it. Didn't he know that they were all done for if the creatures captured
the Stevene's most sacred words? To say nothing of the indignity that
Morgan had inflicted upon the holy script.
The underbrush quickly became very thick once Orto was off the
road. Hardly a few cubits into the trees and Orto's pace was slowed to a
crawl, as bushes and burs clutched at his long robes, and rotting logs
crumbled underfoot. He cursed as his sleeve became hooked on a branch
that jutted out from a nearby tree. He pulled it free and continued
through the foliage. The forest seemed to clutch and grab at him,
holding him back from retrieving the text. Orto began to get frustrated,
then angry. Of all the things that could have happened! Maybe it was his
own fault, Orto thought, that Morgan had flung the book into the trees,
for in his inability to properly say what his intentions were, he had
insulted the soldier.
He came to a dense gathering of trees, such that there was no path
between them without passing through the branches. But there was nothing
for it -- he had to press on. Lowering his head and covering it with his
arms, Orto pushed through the tree branches. Every moment counted, and
he hadn't the time to go around. As far as he knew, the dark riders were
upon him, moving silently towards the sacred scriptures. Certainly, all
was going according to their evil plan. They had managed to draw Lord
Connall away from the caravan, and had hardened Morgan's heart until the
tome was completely unprotected. Orto himself had perhaps been a pawn in
their plot even, by accidentally antagonising Morgan.
"No, not completely unprotected, Lord," Orto prayed aloud. "Your
humble servant still -- turdation!"
He tripped over a fallen tree and was sent sprawling right onto his
face. Fortunately, he landed in a small clearing covered in moss and was
unhurt. He rolled onto his back and lay there panting. He was unused to
such physical stress, and his body complained loudly for what he was
putting it through. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and his
breath came out a wheeze. While catching his breath Orto gazed up
through the clearing in the trees at a sky that now bore a few stars.
The mist played about him, obscuring his view, but he was still aware of
the beauty of the night sky. Slowly, his anger seeped out of his mind,
and was replaced by a renewed sense of purpose.
"By Stevene's blood, I'll find the text!" he exclaimed, and turned
on his side to heft himself up. He stopped dead as the sound of large
creatures crashing through the bushes not far away reached his ears.
"Cephas! They are upon us!"
Orto remained on the ground, not daring to breathe as two
man-shaped shadows tramped within a few cubits of his position. They
appeared not to notice him however, and continued on. Orto breathed a
sigh of relief, and was about to get up again when his eye caught a
strangely angular object lying in a bush nearby. He crawled over to it
and pulled the thing from the branches.
"Praise be to God!" he whispered. "The scriptures are here, and
unharmed. I worship your wondrous ways, lord, that you clouded the
creatures' minds that they did not find me and your most holy words."
Orto hefted himself up with the aid of a nearby tree and tried to
get his bearings once again. He realised that he had no idea which
direction the road was in. He had gone in several circles while
searching for the book and had completely lost his bearings. He listened
intently to the night sounds, but could not hear the clatter of the
wagons. Clutching the book to his chest, he uttered a quick prayer.
"Guide me, Cephas."
He then began stumbling through the forest once again, whispering
prayers to himself as he did so. He stepped on a rotting tree stump and
tumbled to the ground when it crumbled beneath his foot, but did not
pause before getting up, determined as he was to reach the soldiers and
protect them with the holy aura of the book he carried. Surely the book
carried supernatural powers, as it had prevented the dark riders from
detecting him, and had kept Orto safe all this night. After what seemed
several leagues of travel through the forest, Orto was forced to stop
for a rest, despite his desire to go on. He leaned up against a tree,
and forcefully tried to slow his breathing. Not far to his right, he
heard a loud cry.
"Ol protect us!"
Orto stood up abruptly. Surely the servants of darkness would not
invoke the name of Ol, creator-god to those who believed in the Olean
pantheon? Pagans, to be sure, but certainly a worshipper of Ol would not
be in league with such evil. Before continuing, Orto listened some more,
and his ears were met by the sound of violent retching, and coughing.
With a deep breath, Orto plunged through the trees in the direction
of the sounds. He made a horrible racket as he travelled, and when he
crashed from the forest onto the road he nearly impaled himself on the
end of a pike, wielded by a pale-faced Dargonian soldier.
"Illiena's eyes!" the man said. "Father, I thought you were one of
them!"
Orto did not reply, however, as he was paralysed at the sight
before him. On a tree branch that hung over the road, several heads hung
from ropes, blood forming in a pool darker than the road beneath them. A
couple of the soldiers still remained at the side of the road, their
backs to Orto, emptying their bodies of everything their stomachs held.
Orto thought he himself might vomit, but took solace in the comforting
weight of the book in his arms. He at least knew why he had not heard
the carts moving: they had been stopped by this terrible sight.
The soldier with the pike turned to the others and shouted, "Chins
up lads! Father Orto has returned to us unharmed! Surely his God is with
him this night!"
The soldiers looked up, and Louen crawled over to Orto and embraced
him. "The Stevene's Light shines on you, father!" he cried.
Orto patted the boy on the head, but fixed his gaze upon Morgan.
Orto was not pleased with him, but could not think of anything
appropriate to say. Morgan fidgeted uncomfortably then turned to look at
the disembodied heads hanging from the tree branch before him. "Cut
those down, and let's get moving!"
"We're through taking orders from you, Morgan," Louen got up
abruptly and stalked over to the larger soldier. "You left the priest to
die out there! Luckily for you he lived!"
"Be silent, you," Morgan said. "You're just a boy, what do you
know? Besides, you should be grateful I took you with me otherwise you'd
be dead by now for sure. It's a wonder you've lived this long!"
"That's enough Morgan," Griff said. "I'm not questioning your
command here, but the priest did --"
"Well, I am!" another soldier said, adding her voice to the
argument. "I'm through with you, too, Morgan! God is with Father Orto;
we will follow him!"
Morgan didn't say anything as he got up and cut the heads down from
the tree himself. Orto felt a pang of guilt at the sight of Morgan's
treatment at the hands of the other soldiers. He was not an evil lad,
and Orto bore him no grudge.
"No, Morgan is your rightful leader," Orto said. "He was appointed
by Lord Connall thus, and thus he shall stay. I can but give spiritual
guidance."
"Guide us out of this forest," Morgan said, his eyes downcast. "I
will follow."
From then on, the caravan moved along at a slower pace with the
priest, Orto, at its head, brandishing his book like a weapon, and
chanting loudly. Morgan had to admit that the priest showed a certain
amount of leadership that was needed in this situation. Morgan had led
the group the best way he knew: by being honest with them. That had
worked to keep them in line, but the priest's superstition had another
effect. His incantations and hymns seemed to make the soldiers less
scared, and helped keep formation because of that; not because Orto
would shout at them if they did break. Morgan could see the value in
that approach. Perhaps spirituality wasn't all bad, for here was an
aspect he had never seen before. Whether the singing was bringing divine
protection or not, it would help the soldiers escape the forest.
There was more to it than just that, though. The hymns the priest
sang touched something within Morgan, and despite the situation, calmed
him. Morgan had never heard such incantations in the small church he had
attended as a boy. Lara had told him of the choruses that would reach
beyond the walls of the monastery in Fennell, but hearing of and
experiencing were two totally different things. Poor Lara ...
Morgan thought at length about his life as the wagons trundled
along behind the priest and his chants. Lara and Bayard were both dead.
What was it Bayard had said to Louen? "Youth is for having fun and
adventure. Go grovelling to Stevene when you're an old man." But what if
you didn't survive to be an old man? Then you would die as the priest
had said they had: unprepared. But unprepared for what? *Was* there some
higher power out there?
But then what of Morgan's father? He had been so concerned with
being ready to die that he had never lived, and never let Morgan live
either. He had been so concerned with living right that he had no love
left over for Morgan. Morgan decided that was the reason he had hated
his father so much and the faith that he had adhered to. Morgan had been
raised without any encouragement or any kindness. Maybe it was time to
finally put that behind him and stop doing things just because they went
against what his father would have wanted ...
Several bells later, Orto and Morgan sat side-by-side on a small
knoll just less than a league outside the forest. From there, Morgan had
a good view of that nightmare place from which they had escaped. From
the outside it looked much less menacing than before. The other soldiers
milled about the wagons, waiting anxiously for the return of Lord
Connall and the rest of their fellows.
It was still night, but outside the forest the stars and the moon
could cast their light unobstructed, and it seemed a different world
from the one they had been in not long before. The mists did not
continue much outside of the forest, and where Morgan rested all was
clear.
"Father," Morgan hesitated before continuing on. "I, uh ... want to
thank you for helping us escape the forest. I think I believe now that
if it wasn't for you we may have never made it out alive."
"No, my son," the priest laid a comforting hand on Morgan's
shoulder. "I did nothing. It was God who protected us."
"I'm still not sure I believe in God, father."
"Do not trouble yourself unduly over it, my son. Faith will come in
time. Like anything, it must be learned. Think of God as a friend you've
never met, and the Stevene as a friend who will introduce you to him."
"I know a little of your religion, but the version I was shown was
a much different one than yours. The only time I ever prayed was when
forced," Morgan said. "You have shown me a different side. Your patience
with my insults showed me that. I am sorry for treating you poorly. I
think I used you as a target for my feelings toward another Stevenic I
know ..."
"I fear that there are some sects that are ... rather more strict
than mine. But when thinking of Stevenism, remember this only: there is
one God, and the Stevene's Light is the candle that illuminates our path
to that God. That will get you started, for the rest are details. But
above all, live a good life. A good pagan is more likely to enter God's
kingdom than an evil Stevenic."
Morgan nodded, and contented himself in just sitting in silence
with the priest a while. He was startled by the sound of hoofs and feet
approaching, and looked up to see a man on a horse followed by several
human shapes on foot following behind. Could it be Lord Connall and the
others?
The rider quickened the horse's pace to a canter, and approached
the caravan. Orto stood to greet the approaching warrior, who it was now
apparent, was indeed Lord Connall. He laughed as he approached, and
threw down a black cloak and a spear at the priest's feet.
"Ha ha!" he shouted, a huge grin covering his face. "I told you it
was but a few bandits, father! Why, we butchered them like cattle! A
fitting end for those who would try to steal that which rightfully
belongs to the king!"
"Your justice was indeed swift and merciless, your lordship," Orto
said.
"As befits such dregs," Lord Connall replied. "We lost them
initially, but we found them again, in their camp no less! What of the
duke's tribute? Morgan?"
"It is safe, your lordship," Morgan replied.
"Good, good!" Lord Connall laughed again, then wheeled his horse
about to address the troops that had now assembled near the carts.
"Sleep well, troops. You deserve it. We'll travel to Valdasly on the
morrow, where we'll rest for a few days before continuing on to Magnus."
Once the young lord had gone to tend his horse and his armour, Orto
turned once again to Morgan. "I do not believe the brigands your
commander so easily overpowered were the same creatures that attacked
us."
Morgan wasn't so sure either, and was glad to know that Orto would
be with them for the rest of the trip.
========================================================================
