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DargonZine Volume 15 Issue 06
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 15
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 6
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DargonZine Distributed: 8/11/2002
Volume 15, Number 6 Circulation: 666
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Malice 3 P. Atchley Firil 8, 1018
A Matter of Pride 2 Nicholas Wansbutter Sy, 1009
========================================================================
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@dargonzine.org> 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 15-6, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright August, 2002 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>. 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@rcn.com>
If you've been with us for a while, you might know that Dargon
stories go through quite a lot before they ever see print. In the best
case, getting a story from a writer's head to your screen might take six
months, but sometimes stories aren't printed until one or two years
after the writer first lays fingers to keyboard.
In most of these cases, this delay is primarily due to our
peer-review process. Once a writer has finished the first draft of a
story and proofed it himself, he must post it to our discussion list and
give every other Dargon Project writer the opportunity to critique it.
After giving people a fair chance to review the story, the author then
takes the comments he has received and revises the story to improve it.
When done, the author posts it to the list again for more comments; this
process of posting, peer-review, and revision goes on until both the
author and the majority of our writers are satisfied that the story is
"ready to print". Sometimes a story might take just three drafts to get
there, and sometimes it can take six or seven.
If you didn't think about it too much, you might assume that
"peer-review" is just another word for proofreading, which is focused on
pointing out spelling and grammatical errors. I'd like to take a second
to give you a broader idea of what peer-review is, and why we spend so
much time on it.
Peer-review, of course, does indeed incorporate proofreading. It's
extremely important for writers to be proficient in the language, not
just to appear polished and professional, but also to ensure that he or
she is accurately communicating his or her ideas to the reader. Writing
is essentially a very rough form of telepathy, and a writer who isn't
concerned with grammar is someone who doesn't care how well he
communicates with his readers.
Although these types of corrections are a steady percentage of the
comments people receive in their peer-reviews, we actually try very hard
to minimize them. Before any story draft is posted to the list, we
require that authors run a spellcheck on it, and also run it past a
proofreader of their own, who isn't on the list. Catching obvious
spelling and grammar errors reduces the amount of time and space that
peer-reviewers need to devote to grammatical corrections, which frees
them up to talk about more important things. After all, you don't need
another writer to point these out, when a word processor, a writing
book, and any competent proofreader will suffice.
On the other hand, some literary elements require human expertise
and judgment to critique. A good peer-review also considers stylistic
techniques like word choice, exposition, point of view, and scene
selection, which form the body of a story. These are frequent topics of
conversation among our writers, as we share with one another what has
worked for us.
But remember that good writing isn't solely a question of how
effectively a writer can transmit ideas from his or her head to yours
through the medium of the written word. That is, of course, a critical
execution skill that aspiring writers must master, but good writing
isn't just the medium; it's also the message. Unless we also examine the
story ideas themselves, we are only looking at half of what writing is
about. How then do we improve the very ideas behind the stories a writer
wishes to tell?
Well, just like anything else, DargonZine exposes it to peer-review
and critique, encouraging our writers to share their beliefs about what
makes stories interesting and moving. DargonZine's goal isn't to just
grow people who can successfully communicate in writing, but to develop
true artists. It takes a wealth of experience, combined with insight,
intuition, and lots of practice to become a masterful "thinker of
stories", and I feel that DargonZine comes closest to achieving our
potential when our writers conduct discussions at this level.
The peer-review process can be lengthy and arduous for our writers,
both those doing critiques as well as those receiving them. But when our
critiques go beyond simple execution issues like grammar and spelling,
it frees us to talk about our ideas and explore the artistic side of
writing fiction. When this happens, the peer-review process becomes the
crucible where DargonZine fulfils its promise of helping aspiring
writers really improve their craft. That's why we think it's appropriate
to put so much time and energy into our peer-reviews.
In case you haven't noticed, we really are back. After a little
lapse back in June, this will be the third issue we've put out in just
six weeks. And even better news is that our next issue, DargonZine 15-7,
is already partially put-together. You should expect to receive it on
September 1. It'll be a great issue, finishing up P. Atchley's "Malice"
series that continues in this issue, and also beginning a new chapter in
Dafydd's imposing "Talisman" series.
Accompanying "Malice" in this issue, though, is the second and
concluding half of Nick Wansbutter's "A Matter of Pride". You have both
these writers to thank for most of our stories this summer, and they've
done a wonderful job getting them finished and into print when the
magazine needed them. I hope you enjoy the results of their work, and
that you'll stay with us this fall for the new crop of stories that are
just around the corner.
========================================================================
Malice
Part 3
by P. Atchley
<dpartha@surfindia.com>
Firil 8, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-4
"Did Ludovic kill Burian?" Ballard Tamblebuck asked as he
straightened the last table in the common room at the Inn of the
Serpent. He pulled out a chair and sat down with a sigh, wiping
perspiration off his bald pate; he needed some rest, for he had been
hard at work in and around the inn since the first bell of the day.
"Oh no. They don't think Ludovic did it." The instant reply came
from his friend, Farquhar, a young man about eighteen years of age, with
close cropped dark hair and dark eyes. He was slender and wiry, and his
short-sleeved tunic laid bare the whipcord lean muscles in his upper
arms.
Ballard asked, "How did Burian die?"
"They say one of Ludovic's knives was found in him."
Ballard knew both Ludovic and Burian, who were twin sons of a
gem-merchant named Einar. The two had always been at each others'
throats until two days past, when Burian had been found dead in his
room. The Town Guard had put Ludovic in jail on suspicion of murder.
This morning when Farquhar had stopped by the inn, Ballard had
seized the opportunity to find out what was happening in the
investigation. The young man always seemed to know of everything that
happened in Dargon almost before it happened; information was what he
bartered for his needs.
"They also say that the two of them got into a fight and Ludovic
swore he'd kill Burian," Farquhar finished.
Ballard sighed. He thought of the twins and wondered if Ludovic
could have done it. While Ludovic had been a serious gambler, Ballard
had never felt that he had any other vice; in fact, it was an open
secret that Ludovic used his winnings to pay a physic to heal animals.
Ballard himself had seen Ludovic almost cry when a kitten had died in
his arms. It was just inconceivable to Ballard that Ludovic was
suspected of killing a man, especially his own brother.
"I can't believe it of him," Ballard said. "Not Ludovic who --"
He was interrupted by the sound of sobbing that wafted through the
open door between the common room and the kitchen. It was faint but it
seemed to be coming from the kitchen.
"Deserae's crying?" Farquhar made the two words into a question,
and slipped off the table he'd been sitting on. Deserae was Ballard's
daughter and normally the only other person in the kitchen at that time
of morning.
"Wait for me, will you?" Ballard went into the kitchen, leaving
Farquhar in the common room. The kitchen was at the back of the inn,
with a large window that remained open most of the time, as it was now.
Raizel, one of his waitresses, was seated at the small kitchen table,
crying, while his daughter stood nearby offering comfort. The two girls
made a pretty picture, with Raizel's red hair contrasting with Deserae's
brown.
"Sweetling, don't cry. We can take care of it," Deserae soothed.
"What's going on?" Ballard asked.
Both girls jumped and looked at him with a combination of
expressions; Raizel looked scared, guilty, and annoyed at his
interruption while Deserae looked relieved. "Father, --"
"No, Deserae, please," Raizel interrupted, hurriedly wiping away
her tears with the back of her sleeve. "Straight, Ballard, nothing's
wrong. It's just the baby -- I've been sick." Her expression changed as
soon as she said that, and she turned to find a convenient bucket to
retch. Raizel was carrying Burian's child, a fact that Ballard had only
recently learned.
"That's not why you're crying," he said. "Is it?"
Deserae looked up at him. "She --"
"I'm just upset," Raizel drew in a deep breath and paused for a
moment before continuing, "because Burian's dead."
"Raizel, please. You have to tell Father what's happened. This is
serious. You need help."
"But there will be a fight, and then someone will die," Raizel
wailed. "I'm scared. I don't want anything to happen to Ballard."
Ballard held on to his patience, knowing that it would take time
for Raizel to tell him the truth. He knew that Raizel did not care for
fights because her mother died in one, but he also knew that he could
take care of himself. "Raizel," he said. "Look at me. I won't let them
hurt you. Now you have to tell me what's wrong."
"I'll tell you," Deserae began purposefully and then paused to look
at Raizel. The red-haired girl did not object and she continued, "Two
days ago, when Burian was killed, Raizel went to see him. He was already
dead."
"What?" Ballard stared, thinking at a furious pace. He had been
marginally interested in the murder and its solution, but this piece of
information made the whole situation much more immediate. If the Guard
knew of this, surely it would help them to find the real killer?
Ballard said firmly, "She needs to tell the Guard this so that they
can concentrate on who went into his room before she did."
"No! I can't!" Raizel cried. "I won't tell them anything. If I do,
I'll have to tell Donato I went there, and I couldn't. When he found out
that I'm with child!" She shuddered, and then gasped. "By Ol, what if
... no, no, I couldn't bear it." She began to weep again and Deserae
patted her shoulder absently while looking at him with a questioning
expression on her face.
"What?" he asked. He knew that Donato, Raizel's brother, had
disliked her friendship with Burian; now Ballard wondered if Donato had
killed Burian on account of the latter's being the father of Raizel's
child.
Deserae said rapidly, "That isn't all, Father. This morning,
someone came here to see Raizel. He said that he saw her go into
Burian's room and if she doesn't give him money, he would go and tell
the Guard that she killed him."
"What? That's ridiculous. Who was it?" he asked, anger distracting
him from wondering about the real killer. "I'll teach him a thing or two
about honor, the cod--" he broke off, glancing from his daughter to
Raizel. "Did you see him, Deserae?"
"No, I didn't. You have to do something about it." Deserae looked
as determined as he felt. "You can't let him do this to her; it's
wrong."
"Don't worry; I will. Raizel, look at me." Ballard glanced down at
her. She had stopped crying and was wiping the tears off her face with
her sleeve.
"Ballard," she began hesitantly. "I don't know who it was. But I
can describe him to you if you promise you won't get into a fight."
"Look, lass, I'll promise you that I won't get hurt, that I will
come back, straight? Is that good?"
She looked up at him and then slowly nodded. "Promise?"
"I promise that nothing is going to happen to me, straight?"
"Straight."
"I'm going to ask a friend of mine to come in. You'll tell him,
won't you?" He turned away without waiting for her response and went out
into the common room.
Returning with Farquhar moments later, he said, "Raizel, why don't
you tell Farquhar what happened?"
"Straight," Raizel nodded. "I -- I --"
Ballard looked at her and then turned to Farquhar. "Sit down. Care
for something to drink? No? Let me get you something anyway." He filled
four mugs with ale and placed one each in front of Raizel and the young
man before handing one to Deserae and seating himself at the kitchen
table.
"Ah ... yes. Ballard, thank you for the ale," Farquhar said, taking
a sip, looking around at the kitchen. He glanced quizzically at Ballard,
who nodded infinitesimally at Raizel.
Then he prompted, "Raizel?"
She started, "I went to see Burian on the day he died. That
morning. But he was already dead, I swear. He was dead! He was lying
there, on the ground, his leg turned away so awkward-like, I --" her
voice quavered and she stopped, breathing heavily. "There was a knife
sticking out of his chest and ... and I touched his hand -- it was still
warm." She cried for a moment before sniffing and subsiding. Deserae
patted her on the back, offering wordless comfort.
"Drink up, Raizel," Ballard ordered.
Farquhar asked sharply, "Why didn't you tell anyone when you saw he
was dead?"
Raizel rubbed her face with her sleeve before replying. "Because I
thought it was Donato. He was so angry when I told him I was with child
and he swore he was going to kill Burian. I didn't want the Guard to
catch him!"
There was silence in the kitchen. Ballard stared at Farquhar,
unsurprised at Raizel's suspicion; after all, he had himself wondered
the same thing. Well, he did understand what it was to succumb to that
protective rage that was so characteristic of Donato; at one time, he
himself had been capable of the same thing. His empathy with Donato made
him hesitate to carry his suspicion to the Town Guard. Ballard turned to
Raizel. "Go on."
She said, "Today someone came here. He said that he'd seen me go up
to Burian's room, and that he'd tell the Guard that I killed Burian if I
don't give him money."
Farquhar looked up at Ballard with enlightenment on his face and
said, "You have a description, do you?"
"Don't cry, Raizel, we'll take care of it," Ballard said gently.
"But you have to tell us what he looked like. How tall was he? What
color hair? What color eyes?"
"He ... You promised not to get into a fight," Raizel hiccuped.
Ballard smiled. "Of course, Raizel. Don't you trust me?"
Farquhar gave him a look that said he didn't, and Ballard narrowed
his eyes at the young man.
Raizel sniffed and said, "Straight, I do, Ballard. He had brown
hair and eyes. Sort of thin. His eyes watered all the time and ...
That's all I remember."
Farquhar asked a few more questions before nodding to Ballard and
walking to the back door of the inn. "What do you want me to do?" he
asked, pausing at the door.
"Truth is, I can take care of it, but I don't know who it was that
threatened Raizel," Ballard replied. "I need you to find out. When I get
my hands on him ..." He let his voice trail off. "Can you find out who
it is?"
"I'll find the rat for you," Farquhar said frowning. "If I find him
in one day, you'll owe me a favor. Otherwise, this one's free. I don't
like blackmailers."
It was almost dusk of the same day and the bedroom was dark except
for the dying rays of the sun let in by a small window set high up in
one wall. Einar sat on the bed and brooded.
"What's wrong?" Udele, a merchant who had been a friend to him and
more besides, sat next to him. She was not a beautiful woman by any
means; her nose was slightly flat, her lips were thin and her forehead
rectangular. Her hair had once been a lovely blond, but was now more
white than otherwise. Her eyes were her most memorable feature; they
were a deep greenish-blue and the color was arresting.
"What's right?" Einar sighed. Despite his age, he still maintained
a slender physique. His brown hair receded from a narrow forehead,
which, combined with his sharp gaze and beak-like nose gave him a
vulturine look. "Burian is dead and Ludovic is in jail for his murder.
In one stroke, I have been deprived of both my heirs."
Udele leaned against him and said, "Are you sure Ludovic did it? I
can't believe it. When they were young, he was so gentle. I cannot
believe that he is even capable of it."
"The two of them hated each other. They were always competing to
see who I would choose as heir. I know; you're going to say I encouraged
it."
Udele frowned. "Yes, you did. You know I never approved of the way
you encourage them to go against each other like that. It was wrong. You
are setting up --" she paused abruptly, and Einar glanced at her.
"I know," he said. "I keep expecting him to come and ask me for
money."
She sighed and continued in a softer voice, "You were setting up a
situation in which they were going to be enemies. How could you ever
expect them to be friends if you encouraged them to fight against each
other for something as important as inheritance?"
"We never agreed on that." There was silence for a few moments
before Einar spoke again. "Are you saying that this happened because I
encouraged them to compete against each other?"
"I don't know what to say." It was Udele's turn to sigh. She rubbed
her face against his arm and he tightened his hold.
"I can't believe Burian is dead."
Udele did not reply and his statement seemed to hang in the
silence. Einar wanted her to say something, to refute his statement, but
how could she refute the truth? "And dead by the hand of his brother,"
he murmured. "Because of me."
"No, don't say that." She turned his face toward her and looked
into his eyes. "I can't accept that it was your fault."
Einar could almost laugh at the contradiction if it were not so
serious. "You were the one who said that Ludovic killed Burian because
he wanted the inheritance. And I was the one who encouraged that
competition. Now you're saying that it wasn't my fault?" His tone rose,
making the last statement a question.
She shook her head. "If it did happen because of that, then it
means Ludovic did it. And I simply can't believe he could kill anyone,
much less his own brother."
"Even if he didn't do it, it was his knife. What does that mean?"
Einar rose and picked up the tankard of ale that was on the table by the
door and took a deep swig. "I don't understand why this happened."
"You should go and talk to the guard who is investigating. They
should have more information by now as to whether or not Ludovic did it.
It's been two days already."
"Straight, I will."
Early the next morning, Ballard was in the cellar rolling out
barrels of ale. Several casks had been delivered the previous evening
and he had supervised from the common room, with the result that the
cellar was in some disarray, barrels everywhere. The large room was cold
and dark, the only light coming from a small lantern that he had brought
down with him. One wall had shelves with jars stacked neatly on them,
and to one side there were several full sacks lying haphazardly.
"Ballard! Where are you?" The words floated down the stairs and he
looked up; there was someone in the kitchen and it sounded like
Farquhar. He called back, "Down here." He was glad to hear the young
man's voice; he could use some help. Footsteps sounded and then Farquhar
came into sight.
"Give me a hand here, would you?" Ballard asked between gasps.
Farquhar began to roll one of the barrels toward the staircase.
"Stack them right here," Ballard straightened from placing a barrel
in a standup position near the steps. "I'll take them up later this
afternoon." He went to the sacks and began to organize them into a neat
pile.
Farquhar lifted the cask he had been rolling and stacked it atop
another. "I think I've found him for you," he said.
"Tell me who it is." With a fierce expression on his face, Ballard
lifted the last sack and placed it on the bottom shelf and turned to
face Farquhar. "I'll break his leg for him!"
Farquhar hesitated. "I'm not entirely sure, Ballard."
Uncertainty was very rarely Farquhar's companion, and his
hesitation was surprising to Ballard, who asked, "Why? If you know who
it is, then why won't you tell me? This is important."
"Yes, I know. It's just that I don't want to be the reason some
poor snupper gets his leg broken."
"What do you need to be sure?" Ballard went and picked up the
lantern and led the way to the stairs.
"Raizel saw him, didn't she?" Farquhar asked. Ballard nodded as he
climbed the steps followed by Farquhar. The young man continued, "Then I
need her to go with me, and when I point him out to her, she can tell me
if he's the one."
"Straight. Do you know where she lives?" They reached the kitchen
and Ballard opened the top of the lantern to douse it. From the corner
of his eyes he saw Farquhar nod. Ballard hung the lantern neatly on its
hook and added, "And if he's the one, you come back and tell me who it
is, straight?"
Farquhar nodded, a slight smile on his face and Ballard grinned
back, sharing his sense of anticipation at teaching the blackmailer a
proper lesson in manners.
It was about mid-morning, just past the third bell of the day when
Einar entered the guardhouse. He was filled with trepidation because he
did not want to hear that Ludovic was the killer and was being taken to
the justiciar's next meeting and thence before the duke for execution,
but at the same time, he was unsure of his feelings if Ludovic were to
be released. Ludovic had never been his choice for heir and it galled
him that he had not realized that before.
"Sir, can I help you?" A guard barred his way into an inner
corridor.
"I need to speak with Sergeant Cepero about my son Ludovic."
The guard raised his voice and shouted, "Page!"
Within a moment, there was the sound of running and a small boy
came up. "Take him to Sergeant Cepero," the guard nodded at Einar.
As he followed the little boy, Einar continued to brood. If only
Burian were not dead ... But what if Ludovic had killed him? He would be
taken to trial at the next meeting of the justiciar and would be
sentenced to death. Einar stopped walking for a moment as the image of
Ludovic dead grew vivid in his mind. Horror spread through him at that
image, and he realized that he did not wish Ludovic dead. The guilt he
had been fencing with disappeared. Even though he wanted Burian alive,
and even though he had more affection for Burian than he did for
Ludovic, he could absolve himself because he wanted both his sons alive,
and failing that, at least one.
He sighed. It was just that Burian had reminded him of his own
youth in certain ways. Einar threw out that excuse and faced the truth
bravely: he had loved Burian more than he did Ludovic. Yet he did not
want Ludovic to die. He embraced that thought with fervor; he wanted his
son alive and free.
Meanwhile they had arrived at the sergeant's office, and he entered
behind the page who had knocked at the door.
"Sergeant, do you have any more information about the murder of my
son, Burian? What about Ludovic? When are you going to release him?"
Einar could not wait to get answers and shot out question after question
as soon as he saw Cepero.
"Master Einar, please have a seat." The sergeant gestured to the
empty chair before the desk.
Einar felt that Cepero was trying to delay talking about the
matter. He did not care about sitting; he only cared about knowing what
they had discovered. However, since he needed answers, he forced himself
to reply politely. "Thank you. But please tell me what you've found out;
tell me you can let Ludovic go."
"I am afraid I cannot release Ludovic quite yet."
"But why? He didn't do it; Burian was his brother!" Einar could not
believe that they still thought Ludovic had done it. He did not know how
he had become sure that Ludovic had not killed; maybe Udele had
convinced him, or perhaps it was simply the thought of losing both his
sons. Still, he refused to believe that Ludovic had murdered his
brother, and that was the truth, his truth.
"You didn't seem to think so two days ago when you sent for us,"
Cepero reminded him sharply. "What changed your mind?"
"It was his brother!"
"It was his knife ..." Cepero's voice trailed off and Einar sensed
more than saw the guard's attention tighten.
Einar didn't understand why, but he responded immediately, "Yes,
but if he were to kill his own brother -- which I don't think could
happen, at all -- he would never use his own knife. Ask him; see what he
says. And have you talked to everyone in the house? Have you talked to
the servants? I don't understand what you're doing, Sergeant. It's been
two days and you have made no progress. I --"
Cepero rose from his seat and approached him. "Master Einar, we are
trying to get at the truth. We have been questioning everyone. Why don't
you let us do what we can? It's time for you to grieve over the loss of
your son Burian, not tell the guard how to conduct an investigation. Ah,
Kaaye, there you are. Master Einar was just leaving. Why don't you show
him out? Our corridors can be quite confusing."
Just like that, Einar found himself escorted out of the building.
About two bells later, it was lunch time and the common room at the
Serpent had but few people, all regulars. Ballard was ladling stew into
bowls that Deserae was serving. The windows were open even though spring
had not yet arrived. But at midday it was pleasant enough. The outer
door swung open to admit another patron and behind him came Farquhar.
Ballard glanced at him and Farquhar nodded in the direction of the
kitchen and disappeared down the corridor.
"Can you manage for a mene or two?" Ballard asked when Deserae next
approached the hardwood bar for a bowl to serve the new customer.
"Yes, I can. Go, I saw him come in." She smiled at him and Ballard
left hurriedly.
Farquhar had made himself comfortable in the kitchen, and was
eating a bowl of stew that Deserae had left out, probably for Raizel who
was upstairs cleaning. He said as soon as he saw Ballard, "I checked.
His name is Ruarc. Lives on Murson Street. What are you going to do?"
"I'd like to kill him," Ballard growled. "But I won't. Probably
just frighten him a little. Why do you ask? Do you want to come along?"
Farquhar laughed. "No, no. He's a weak little snot. Half of you
could take two of him. You don't need me."
"I owe you a favor," Ballard said, grabbing a tray of bread from
the counter to take back to the common room.
"No, you don't. This one is free," came the answer. Then Farquhar
grinned. "I could use some bread though."
Ballard laughed and passed him two thick slices from the tray he
held before turning to go back to the common room. "Here, you useless
lad."
The younger man chuckled.
That afternoon, Udele entered Einar's bookroom precipitously. "I
just got away. The girls are watching the store, and I have to get back.
What happened? What did you find out at the guardhouse?"
Einar accepted the embrace she offered him and kissed her briefly
before answering. "Nothing. I talked to them, but they didn't have
anything. I don't know if they're even going to free him."
"They have to. I can't believe he did it. Besides, what am I going
to say to Jessamina?" Einar and Udele had arranged that her daughter
Jessamina would marry Ludovic. Unfortunately the wedding had had to be
cancelled when Ludovic had been taken into custody by the guards.
Einar laughed and it was a harsh sound. "Even if he is released,he
will never marry her. If he won't bed women, how am I ever to have
grandchildren?" The question resounded in his mind as he realized the
answer; with Burian dead and Ludovic's lust taking him in another
direction entirely, he would never see a child born of his son. His line
ended here.
"No," he whispered, feeling himself shake with the force of his
feelings. He tried to separate them, identify them: grief at Burian's
death, fury at Ludovic's tendencies, a deep resolve not to lose his only
remaining son, and above all, a determination, dedication almost, to do
anything to keep his line from ending with Ludovic.
"He will be freed; I cannot believe anything else," he muttered,
realizing that Udele's arms were around him. Both their faces were wet
and he did not know with whose tears. He knew she understood his
feelings only too well; that was why she had been willing to let her own
daughter marry someone like Ludovic, even though it was well-known that
he preferred to bed men rather than women. He sighed. "Thank you,
Udele," he whispered into her hair.
The eighth bell that night had rung a while past. The streets of
Dargon were gloomy and silent, even those who drank and conducted
activities in the dark in bed. It was the quiet time of predawn. A
slender figure crept out of a house on Murson Street. It headed toward
the docks, keeping to the shadows near the buildings on the side of the
street. The figure seemed apparently unused to stealth, for it kicked
stones on the ground, and every so often, forgot to stay in the darkened
corners.
Ballard Tamblebuck watched and followed. He was much more
experienced at stealth than the figure he followed; he had little
difficulty in moving silently and even less in keeping to the shadows.
When at last the figure stopped near the docks, Ballard stepped out of
the gloom.
"You Ruarc?" he asked.
"Yes," came the whisper. "I got a message last night that I was
going to get my money --"
Ballard let out a crack of soft laughter. "You threatened Raizel
that you'd tell the guard she killed Burian if she didn't give you
money, and you thought you were going to get it now?" His voice rose on
the last word, making the statement a question and he saw Ruarc shrink
back from him. Ballard continued, "Listen to me, you worm! No one
threatens my girls, do you hear me? Least of all a stinking, codless
little snupper like --" Tamblebuck threw a punch "-- you."
Ruarc collapsed. "Don't! Let me go!" His voice rose on the last
word.
"Hush. Do you want the Guard upon us?" Ballard stepped forward and
grabbed the youth. He pushed him against the wall, holding him by the
neck with one hand so that Ruarc's legs dangled just above the ground
and raised a hand to punch him again.
Ruarc struggled, both hands clawing at Tamblebuck to no avail. "I
won't ask for any money, I swear. Just let me go," he gasped.
"Gah! Gutless coward," Ballard muttered under his breath, dropping
his hand without throwing the punch. Then, in a slightly louder voice,
he said, "Straight, you won't, because if you do, *I* will tell the Town
Guard you killed Burian. Do you understand me?"
"No!" Ruarc wailed loudly. "Don't tell them!" He struggled and
managed to grasp Ballard's left thumb. He twisted it, and Ballard
gasped, releasing him.
Ruarc fell to the side and fell hard on the cobblestoned street;
there was the sound of a pop and then he screamed, one short burst.
Tears came out of his eyes, and his breath came in quick gasps.
Ballard swore. The boy had probably broken his knee, and if his
scream had alerted the night lookouts, then the Guard would be there
shortly. He swore again.
At least Ruarc had stopped screaming. Ballard bent and turned the
boy around. Sure enough, the knee lay in an awkward angle to the rest of
his leg. Ballard picked him up a bit roughly, upon which Ruarc gave a
low moan and fainted. The return walk seemed even longer than the
outbound, what with the dead weight on his shoulder. Ballard's thoughts
went back across the years to the last time he had carried someone to
his home. If only ... He sighed, feeling the useless regrets wash over
him. The past crept up on him every now and then when he only wanted to
forget.
When at last they reached Ruarc's house on Murson Street,
Tamblebuck tried the door, which was unlocked. He walked in and gently
laid the youth on the ground before exiting quietly.
========================================================================
A Matter of Pride
Part 2
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<ice_czar@hotmail.com>
Sy, 1009
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-5
Aleksandr rode at a leisurely pace down the dirt highway on the
back of a bay gelding. On either side of him, dense forest lined the
road along the well-remembered path from Fennell Keep to Heahun.
Aleksandr was troubled by swinging emotions, as one moment he was
excited to be headed home, and the next he dreaded having to face his
parents after the humiliation at the Holy Sennight tournament only the
previous day. He still could scarcely believe what had happened: Baron
Dorja Fennell without his sword at the ceremonial greeting between a
vassal of the Great Houses of Dargon and Northfield. The certainty that
the bully Sigurdur had stolen the blade moments before the baron rode
out onto the lists did little to allay Aleksandr's mortification. It was
a squire's duty to make sure his knight, or lord as it was with
Aleksandr, was properly armed and equipped going into battle, and that
meant being vigilant at all times. Aleksandr sighed as he played out the
nightmare in his mind over again.
He let out a sigh. It helped his situation even less that his
brother Pter, who was with him now on the road to Heahun, had once again
made a brilliant showing. He had placed third overall in the tournament,
which was no small feat. Many of the knights there had been jousting
while Pter was still nursing, to say nothing of the battle experience
many had from fighting in the Shadow Wars that had ended only ten years
ago. Aleksandr turned in his saddle to gaze at the spoils of Pter's
victory, which followed in a cart not too far behind: a couple of pigs,
half a dozen chickens, some bolts of expensive cloth, and a beautifully
forged helm that needed only a crest to make Pter one of the
finest-looking knights in Baranur. Of course, Pter had coveted the fine
suit of armour that had been the first prize but the haul he carried
home was impressive nevertheless.
Aleksandr now shifted his gaze to his brother, and sighed again.
Tall, handsome, his chin held high, Aleksandr's oldest brother was the
very picture of gallantry and chivalry. He had the trademark Heahun
flame-red hair, and a pale complexion. He looked dashing in the Heahun
colours of blue topped with a white chevron. In the top left corner, a
yellow sword denoted his skill at arms, as proven in the numerous
tournaments he had attended. He was fifteen years Aleksandr's senior,
and had been a knight in the household of Baron Winthrop for six years.
As peace had reigned throughout the land since well before Pter was
born, he had gained his fame through tournaments, at which he was very
proficient. Aleksandr knew that his parents burst with pride at the very
mention of their eldest son's name, so renowned was his skill with a
lance throughout Winthrop, Fennell, and even into other surrounding
baronies.
"What's the matter, little brother?" Pter asked, turning his
attention from the road ahead to look at Aleksandr.
"Weren't you at the tournament?" Aleksandr hung his head. "I'm a
failure. I humiliated the baron and our family!"
"Bah," Pter scoffed, taking everything with nonchalance as was his
way. "It wasn't as bad as that. You served the baron admirably for the
rest of the tournament. Why, it was a thing of beauty the way you
delivered that one lance to him at the canter --"
"But none of that matters, Pter," Aleksandr insisted. "No one saw
that. They saw that he didn't have a sword to touch with Baron
Bastonne's in commemoration of the end of the Shadow Wars! That was the
most important part of the tournament -- of the sennight, even!"
"Well," Pter's lip curled into a crooked smile. "The look on the
baron's face was pretty funny!"
"That's not funny Pter!" Aleksandr felt near to tears. "It's all
fine and good for you to laugh and be merry -- you're going home with
prizes! With honour! Mother and father love you."
"And they don't love you?" Pter regained his composure, and a look
of concern crossed his face. "They love you well enough; they just like
making a big deal about knightly things and such. Father's getting too
old to joust, but he wants to keep living it through us. It's not me so
much that they're crazy about; it's the praise I bring them."
"No, you're their favourite," Aleksandr said. "I've never been able
to live up to you."
"Now, now, little brother," Pter said. "I certainly wasn't a squire
when I was twelve, and I didn't earn my first blazon until I was nearing
twenty. Look at you: a rose on your heraldry for saving a damsel in
distress, no less! What I wouldn't give to have a real blazon like that
-- not this 'feat of arms' sword that any fool with a lance can earn."
"Well I haven't done much to live up to it lately," Aleksandr said.
"Wait until we get home. Then you'll see."
"Be that as it may," Pter said, an uncharacteristic gloom
descending over his features, "I would give everything I have now for my
heraldry to bear an honourable -- a *real* blazon, such as yours."
"And I wish I had your skill and fame, so we're even."
Pter laughed at that, and with a toss of his head was back to his
old carefree self again. "If only wishes came true, eh? But I suppose
the soil is always more fertile in the next barony ..."
They rode along in silence for a while, and Aleksandr pondered the
possibility that his brother was not as happy with life as he seemed, or
as it seemed he should. To Aleksandr, Pter had everything a knight could
want: fame, adoration, his parents' pride. Especially his parents'
pride. Aleksandr feared what his parents' reaction might be to his
return, given the disaster at the tournament. It was all the worse since
Pter had fared so well.
"So," Pter said, breaking the silence rather abruptly. "What crest
do you think I should put on my new helm?"
"The same as on your old one, I suppose," Aleksandr said. "I'm sure
I'll wear the flanduil on my helm if I achieve knighthood."
"Ah, yes," Pter said dreamily. "Grandfather Harabin's great
flanduil. I often wonder if he really did slay one, or for that matter
if they really exist. But no, I want something of my own, not a crest
inherited from an ancestor."
"You should be proud of our flanduil." Aleksandr felt mild
annoyance at his brother. "We're just about the only family in Baranur
that is allowed to wear it!"
"Oh, I am proud of it," Pter turned his head to face Aleksandr and
flashed him a brief smile. "But I didn't earn it. That's the thing. Our
grandfather, may God assoil him, earned it by slaying the great serpent,
but I've never even seen a flanduil and I probably never will. I want a
crest that was earned through my own sweat and blood!"
Aleksandr nodded silent assent. He could understand the sentiment;
in earlier years he would have agreed with it wholeheartedly. The
romance of a knightly errand had excited him in days long past, but his
infatuation with knighthood and chivalry had been beaten out of him by
Sigurdur and the other squires in those long, painful, lonely years he
had endured at Fennell Keep since his promotion to squire while only
nine years of age. He often rued the day that he had tried to save
Zhilinda, the baron's daughter, from the lecherous clutches of Sir Jarek
Kelbhen. The honour that it had earned him had proved to be nearly more
than he could bear. Now he was merely content to survive his squirehood,
and hopefully serve as a household knight to the baron. He did not
trouble to imagine grand quests and the like any longer.
"What's the matter, Aleksandr?" Pter asked. "You used to be so
taken by all of this. Where's the aspiring knight I once knew? Has that
little thing at the tournament got you that down?"
Pter, of course, knew nothing of what Aleksandr's life had been
like the past few years. Nor did anyone for that matter -- not even
Aleksandr's long time friend Lev who was studying to become a monk at
Heart's Hope Monastery in Fennell Keep.
When Aleksandr did not answer, Pter once again became grave.
"There's something, isn't there? Something you haven't told me?"
"People change ..." Aleksandr said.
"Not that much," Pter said, once again looking forward. "Nay, not
that much. You're a completely different person now than the brother I
knew a few years ago. But if you don't want to discuss it right now,
that's your affair. I'll have it from you before the sennight is out,
though."
It was nearing the end of the day when Aleksandr and Pter arrived
at their home of Heahun. The sun was low in the sky, covering the
landscape in a cheerfully ruddy glow. As the horses and the cart
approached the town, Aleksandr saw one of the young peasant boys hop
from his perch in a small tree and scamper towards the village, yelling
at the top of his little lungs, "Sir Pter is here! Sir Pter is here!"
The village folk who had been milling about converged on the main
road that bisected the town and led to the Heahun manor. They cheered
Pter as the two brothers got nearer.
"Poor folk," Pter said quietly to Aleksandr, "not much excitement
in their lives, I'm afraid!"
"Yay for Sir Pter!" the townsfolk cried, crowding around the horses
and trying to touch Pter or his horse. Some threw rose petals in a
celebration worthy of a returning hero.
"Did you win the tournament, my lord?" a pretty young peasant girl
asked, tugging at Pter's blue tabard.
Pter leaned over in his saddle and planted a kiss on the girl's
cheek, at which she blushed a deep crimson. "No, not quite, but I did
win this," he said, plucking the new helm from the wagon and holding it
aloft. The people cheered even louder at this, and acclaimed Pter the
greatest knight in the land.
Aleksandr tried to remain inconspicuous throughout all of this, and
despite being on horseback he managed fairly well. Only a few of the
peasants noticed him, one or two giving him a shallow bow or nod of the
head. A couple of girls his age who loitered near the back of the crowd
giggled when he looked their way, causing Aleksandr to blush nearly as
much as the girl Pter had kissed, but aside from that he was ignored. He
kept an eye on the manor, and it was not long before he saw the large
shape of his father clad in dark green, with his hair, now more silver
than red, flowing in the wind. Behind him the thin form of Aleksandr's
mother followed at a more modest pace, along with a few of the household
servants.
Pter dismounted when his father, Harbid Heahun, drew close. The two
embraced mightily, and Harbid even placed a kiss on his son's cheek. He
then held Pter at arm's length, a huge tooth-filled grin splitting his
face.
"How great to see you again, son," the older Heahun exclaimed. "And
with such honours! We received news this morning of your triumph at the
tournament. I would that I had been there to witness first hand but ..."
Pter laughed and clapped his father on the back. "Think nothing of
it, father! Here, look at the prizes: the pigs and chickens; they're for
you and mother of course as I have no need of them."
Harbid went over to the cart and marvelled at the helmet that Pter
had won, opening and closing the visor in fascination with the new
innovation. "If only we had helms like these in my day! Why I could tell
you a tale or two about almost smothering inside my own --"
"Mother!" Pter cut Harbid off as Madeline approached, and he picked
her up in a great hug and kissed her as well.
Throughout all of this merriment and warm greetings, Aleksandr felt
particularly alone and left out, as his parents seemed not to notice he
was even there. His dismounted his own horse, and in what seemed an
afterthought, Harbid approached him and shook his hand gravely. He
betrayed no emotion with the neutral greeting. Aleksandr did not know
whether he should fear a tongue lashing as soon as the peasants were
gone, or to mourn the loss of his father as a loving parent. With his
mother it was worse, for she would not look him in the eye as he hugged
her, and she remained rigid and unresponsive when he kissed her on the
cheek.
Harbid ordered the household servants to bring the cart and horses
around to the stables, while the family walked together to the manor
house. Pter smote Aleksandr reassuringly on the back as they walked side
by side behind their parents.
"Don't worry," he said. "They'll get over it. This is Holy Sennight
after all, when all wrongs are forgiven."
Aleksandr hoped that his brother would be proven correct. Once
inside, Harbid sat down at the large oak table in the dining room and
poured himself a tankard of wine. After a healthy draught, he seemed
fortified for further conversation.
"Well, it will be a quiet Holy Sennight this year, I'm afraid," he
said, seeming more sad than angry; Aleksandr had hoped that Harbid was
not as angry as predicted. "Your sisters are of course all married now,
spending the sennight with their husbands and their families, Kaiya
having left just before the last harvest. Tschel is off on some
assignment for the courts, and Bren and Tancred are still free-lancing
in Comarr ..."
He trailed off and seemed to brood for a while. Until then,
Aleksandr had never seen his father as old, but in that moment, his face
lit only by the dying sun that cast its last rays through an open
window, Harbid looked ancient. His hair was mostly white now, and his
face bore deep crevices. He was not as imposing a figure as he had been
when Aleksandr had left for Fennell Keep six years ago, his muscles
having withered away as if by some evil magic. His eyes no longer held
the lustre they once had.
A servant entered the room, carrying a tray of bread and cheese.
She set it down on the table, and again Harbid was moved to speak.
"Well, let us have a little bite of something before we're off for
the night, shall we?"
Everyone sat down and munched on the food in silence for a while
before Pter spoke up, "Well what's everyone so gloomy about? This should
be a joyous occasion!"
Something seemed to stir in Harbid as he looked up from his drink
at his eldest son. "Cephas' boot! Need you ask? Why, I can barely show
my face to the sun's light after that disgrace the day before last!"
"Oh come now father," Pter said. "If you're talking about that bit
with the baron's sword, it wasn't that --"
"By the good God it was," Harbid roared.
"You weren't even there," Pter protested. Aleksandr merely tried to
hide in the shadows near one corner of the table, but to no avail, for
his father pointed a knotted finger at him.
"The most promising of my five sons, or so I thought," he
thundered, his voice shaking as if he were near to tears. "Saved the
baron's daughter from disgrace even! So what then? You feel you have the
right to sit on your arse and do nothing? Nay -- not even that! You
bring dishonour on yourself, on your family --"
"Father, please," Pter shouted loud enough to drown out his father.
"The boy's twelve years old and already a squire! I doubt even you would
have been fit for the task at so young an age --"
Harbid sent his goblet sailing across the room with a swipe of his
arm. "Why are you defending him? He's sullied your victory at the lists,
too! By the Stevene, what is this family coming to? Certainly the days
of Harabin are long past!"
Pter bit his lip, presumably to keep from saying something he would
later regret. Aleksandr emerged from his hiding place to try to calm his
father down. "You're right father, I am a disgrace, and I'm sorry!"
"Oh, I see," Harbid fumed. "Why, I suppose that makes everything
all better then!"
"No --" Aleksandr whimpered.
"Bah!" Harbid got up from his seat in disgust and stormed away from
the table, taking the pitcher of wine with him as he went. Madeline
followed closely in his wake.
Pter made an inarticulate noise, then he too left the dining room
for his own chambers, leaving Aleksandr alone in the room. Aleksandr put
his head on his arms atop the table and began to cry. For all the
beatings and belittlings Sigurdur and the other squires had lavished on
him at Fennell Keep, none were as painful as what had happened just now.
Aleksandr's own family was disintegrating around him, and it was all his
fault. The dishonour he had brought the family was surely more than his
parents could bear, and they hated him for it. Worse still, a wedge was
being driven between them and Pter as well, since Aleksandr's older
brother had tried to defend him. And as far as he could tell, there was
nothing Aleksandr could do to improve the situation at all.
The following days might have been Aleksandr's happiest in a very
long time, were it not for his blunder at the tournament. For the first
time in months, Aleksandr woke in the morning free of bruises and stiff
joints. Only the sun filtering through the shutters of his childhood
bedroom awakened him, and he ate well at every meal. No exhaustive
studies in war and chivalry, and more importantly, no older squires to
torment him. Indeed, they should have been days for which he would be
thankful, but instead they caused him more discomfort than the past
three years combined.
His father's anger had cooled somewhat, and now Harbid merely
tolerated his youngest son with cold politeness. Aleksandr's mother
hardly spoke to him, and it seemed to Aleksandr that she hated him.
Aside from the servants and peasants who were properly deferential given
his noble blood, the only person in Heahun who treated Aleksandr like a
human being was his brother Pter. After the first evening's argument,
Aleksandr's eldest brother had been cheerful and carefree, as if nothing
had happened. With his dashing good looks, charisma, and unparalleled
skill at arms, he had quickly returned to their parents' good graces,
having always been their golden son.
Aleksandr could not help feeling mildly jealous of his brother, for
he had everything that Aleksandr could ever want. This was easily
curbed, however, for Pter's friendly and easy-going nature did not allow
one to bear ill feelings towards him for long. He also spent much time
with his youngest brother, which Aleksandr appreciated immensely.
In the early afternoon of Aleksandr's third day in Heahun, he and
Pter went for a long walk in the fields surrounding the village. They
had gone for walks in the days previous, but had never left the confines
of the town before. At first they travelled along the beaten dirt
highway that led to Fennell Keep, encountering along the way a number of
the village folk going about their daily business. For the farming
contingent of the peasantry, Holy Sennight could not be devoted entirely
to leisure and worship, as the last of the crops still needed to be
harvested. The peasants who were not Stevenic also continued to work.
The pace was slow however, as most of the wheat had already been safely
stored, while in other trades the fact that all the Stevenics were not
working seemed a good excuse to relax.
A few furlongs down the road from Heahun, Pter directed their path
off the highway and into the fields themselves. They walked along the
border between a field of flax and one of wheat so as not to disturb the
growing crops. Being the month of Sy, the wheat was still a verdant
green, and the flax a bluish-grey. Aleksandr let his fingers play across
the tops of the plants on either side of him as they walked, enjoying
the happiness of the moment, trying not to think of the troubles he had
left behind in the town. Ahead of him, Pter swung his sword lazily from
side-to-side, cutting a stalk here and there, but doing no irreparable
damage to the crop. The sun shone warmly down on Aleksandr's head as
they walked, and a cool breeze licked at the beads of sweat that
gathered on his forehead. Intermittently, peasants tending to the fields
could be seen as the two Heahuns made their way to the forest.
Presently, they entered the dark coolness of the forest. Normally
the woodcutters' axes and cries of warning would have permeated the
wood, but today all was quiet. The brothers made their way to a small
brook that trickled gently through the woods, and there they took their
rest. Its modest banks offered a place for Aleksandr and Pter to sit
however, and water to cool their feet and quench their thirst.
After a few moments of silence, Pter drove his sword into the
ground decisively. "Well, little brother, I've decided."
"What's that, Pter?" Aleksandr was not expecting anything
particularly ground-shaking.
"I'm going to go on an errand of knighthood." By the steely set to
Pter's jaw, Aleksandr knew he was not being facetious.
"What?" Aleksandr caught his breath.
"I've been giving it a lot of thought. I've realised I'll never be
happy with just tournaments and inconsequential frivolity. I need to
prove myself as a true knight!"
"You --" The words stuck in Aleksandr's mouth, fearful of what
Pter's revelation meant. "You won't go to Comarr like Bren and Tancred,
will you?"
Pter laughed. "Oh, no, little brother! How could I complain of the
lack of honour in tournaments, only to prostitute myself in some foreign
war? I have no desire to follow our dark-haired brothers into the bloody
fields of Comarr."
Out of a family of eight children, Bren and Tancred were the only
ones who had the chestnut coloured hair of their mother. Aside from that
they looked more like Harbid than any of the other Heahun children.
Despite outward resemblance to their parents, they shared a personality
that seemed perpetually at odds with the rest of the family. Impious and
rash, they had caused Aleksandr's parents nearly as much consternation
as he had.
"You and I are not like our other siblings, Aleksandr," Pter said.
"We belong to an older time -- the days of the Knight's Charge at
Balkura and the Great Houses War. To serve the Duke of Dargon and the
Stevene and no others."
"But where will you go, then?" At the time of their departure,
Aleksandr had been disappointed in his brothers, Bren and Tancred, but
over time his lofty ideals of chivalry had been tarnished, and to earn
one's living as a free-lance seemed much more agreeable.
Pter looked at Aleksandr, a warm smile on his face. "Does it
matter? The errand is in the quest. Do you really think that there was
that much more for our father and our grandfather to do than there is
now?"
"They both fought in the Shadow Wars," Aleksandr said.
"Yes, that's true," Pter said. "But there have been other periods
in Baranur's history when such was not the case, but still knights took
errands about which ballads are sung today. I do not need a specific
destination -- God and my heart will guide me."
Aleksandr was so taken by his brother's idealism that he could
almost believe him. Apparently this showed on his face, for Pter gave
him a playful punch in the shoulder and said,
"Aleksandr, what's wrong? You used to live for this kind of talk.
You're the reason I have the courage to make such a decision, leave
behind everything that's dear to me, take the knight errant's vows of
poverty and celibacy ..."
Aleksandr sighed and steeled himself to tell his brother that which
he had told none other. "Well, you did say that you'd get it from me by
the end of the sennight. I didn't want to tell anyone, but --"
As his voice wavered, Aleksandr felt a reassuring hand on his
shoulder. Pter's compassion gave him the resolve to go on, and expose
the entire horrible story to the light of day.
"When I was a page, things were the way they were meant to be.
Nothing was especially easy, but it was bearable, and it was the path to
knighthood. Once I was a squire it was different. It was horrible and
wrong and -- and I learned that chivalry is a lie! I was only nine, five
years younger than even the youngest of the squires. Some of them are
nice to me, but most aren't. Especially Sigurdur. He's as old as you,
but still a squire. He beats me all the time, and makes the other
squires hurt me, too. They hate me, and they hurt me all the time!"
To his humiliation, Aleksandr burst out in tears yet again. For
three years he had fought a battle with himself every night to keep from
crying, but in the last sennight he had betrayed himself more times than
he cared to count and let tears flow
unabated down his cheeks.
Still, the strong hand remained on his shoulder. "Cephas' boot! Why
haven't you said anything before this?"
"I can't," Aleksandr said. "For one thing, Sigurdur is the baron's
nephew. But also ... it's just not done! You were a squire once; you
should know!"
"Aye," Pter said, "I was a squire once, but not like this."
"Besides, even if I did rat them out, what would change? Who would
believe the word of the squire who lost the baron's sword over a dozen
faithful squires? Especially Dame Lyudmilla, the training master, who
hates me as much as any of the squires do."
"I am beginning to see a picture," Pter said. "You did not lose or
forget the baron's sword, did you? It was Sir Foninn's squire who
brought the baron a sword, wasn't it?"
"Sigurdur."
"Good God!" Pter exclaimed. "All of this, because of him! But I
think I can see your point. Even if we told father of this, he'd surely
think that we're so desperate to win back his good favour we'd say
anything!"
There was a long pause before Aleksandr spoke. "Pter ... I don't
know ... how much longer I can take this. I don't even want to be a
knight anymore."
"It hurts me more than you know to hear that, little brother," Pter
said. "Because I know you would make all of us proud, would follow the
code of chivalry unfailingly, and serve the duke dutifully. But one way
or another, this situation must be ended."
"What do you mean, Pter? What should I do?"
"That is for you to find out, unfortunately"
"But how?" Aleksandr said, hanging his head in despair.
"I don't know," Pter said. "Perhaps you should think about it alone
for a while."
Aleksandr was alone in Heahun's stone church. Modest compared to
the churches in Fennell Keep, it now seemed cavernous to the young boy
as he was alone. Aleksandr himself sat in one of the wooden pews at the
front of the church, near the altar. It was the only place he could
think of to go to be alone. After the recent years spent in Fennell
Keep, he didn't believe in anything that was taught in churches like
this, but after only a while in the building he had been taken in by its
calm atmosphere.
He looked about the large, silent hall, relishing the peaceful
atmosphere. It was mid-afternoon, and coloured rays of sunlight played
across the stone floor through several stained glass windows that lined
the various walls. Many of them depicted certain of the Stevene's most
revered followers, noteably Holy Aleksandr and Cyruz of Vidin. There
were, of course, representations of the Stevene and the window above the
church showed a noose over a shining book that represented the Stevene's
Light.
As it was Holy Sennight in Fennell, the altar was covered in a
cloth of deep cerulean blue, and a blue carpet led from the entrance to
the altar. Several potted flowers and candles also decorated the church.
It was pleasantly cool in the stone building, and smelled faintly of the
blossoms that adorned it. Not a sound encroached on the perfect calm of
the nave. Aleksandr knelt on the smooth stone floor.
"God, I know I haven't spoken to you much lately, and I'm sorry. I
guess you know my excuses ... but I need your help."
Aleksandr knelt several menes, begging for some kind of help, but
to no avail. No answers came to him, and he found only frustration. He
sat back on his heels, and sighed. He was trying too hard. He remembered
a lesson that Brother Vladimir, the chaplain at Fennell Keep, had taught
him: a relationship with God was like a relationship with any other
person and sometimes had dry spells. It was not something to feel guilty
or frustrated about, and trying to force the relationship back to
happiness would never work. Instead, Brother Vladimir recommended merely
sitting back and clearing one's mind, and allowing what images that
might come to enter the imagination. So Aleksandr got up and sat back
down on the pew.
He had to sit for several menes before he became vaguely aware of
images forming in the back of his mind. He could see King's Key pieces
being moved about a board. He began replaying a game from long ago
against Tpliki in which his knights, a unit he was used to using to
their maximum potential, were taken from him. He was then forced to
employ a strategy that was less than obvious at first. During that first
game, he had come to the realisation that he did not have to save
Zhilinda Fennell from Sir Jarek's hands himself. Now, he realised that
he alone could deal with Sigurdur.
Strangely, he could feel within himself the stirrings of chivalric
pride. Perhaps spending so much time with Pter over the past few days
was having an effect on him, or perhaps it was divine inspiration, but
suddenly he knew exactly what must be done. Only honour could defeat
Sigurdur's dishonourable ways.
"And so, it must be trial by combat."
"Aleksandr..." Pter's eyes grew wide. He appeared to be shaken.
"Are you sure this must be the way? This Sigurdur is so much older --"
"No, Pter," Aleksandr said, "It is the only way. I prayed as you
bade me, and I have come to this: I will clear my name by challenging
Sigurdur to single combat. If I win, I am exonerated and he will no
longer torment me. If I lose ... then he will no longer torment me, but
in a different sense."
"I do not doubt your courage, little brother, but a twelve year old
should not speak of death so lightly."
"I did not decide this lightly, Pter. But it is the only way. Just
as it was the only way when Lev and I tried to save Zhilinda Fennell
ourselves."
"Aleksandr," Pter reached over and put a hand on his little
brother's shoulder. "It is because of me that you have decided to do
this. Let me fight in your stead; it is allowed --"
"No, Pter." This was Aleksandr's fight. If he allowed Pter to go in
his stead nothing would be solved. "I have to do this. Do not worry
about me. Either way I'll be better off. And besides, Stevene favours
the just."
One corner of Pter's mouth curled up into a smile. "Very well
brother, you have convinced me. I should have as much faith as you --
after all it did guide you safely through your battle with Sir Jarek.
For certes, fighting but a lone squire will be nothing compared to
facing three hardened free-lances!"
Pter stepped forward and hugged Aleksandr. "Ah, Aleksandr, what has
become of us? We both have exactly what we want and yet are miserable.
You, the baron's own squire, while I bear a blazon for feat at arms on
my heraldry. And yet, you are bullied by your fellow squires and I ..."
"I know that you feel you lack honour, brother," Aleksandr said,
"but you do not. You're one of the few people who's actually treated me
with dignity of late."
"I wish it were not so." Pter stepped back. "But we will make
things right. I wish I could convince you there was another way for you,
though."
"There isn't."
He ruffled Aleksandr's flame-red hair with one hand while he
reached for his sword with another. "I can see there is no turning you
from this choice, little brother. So at least take this." He pulled the
rest of the sword from its sheath and handed it to Aleksandr.
The young boy's eyes grew wide as he took the blade. He was not
ready for how heavy the sword would be and almost dropped it, then
recovered and moved it through the air in a slow arc.
"It is an excellently balanced blade. It has served me well."
"Pter, I can't take this! You'll need it for your errand."
Aleksandr had almost forgotten about his brother's decision to leave
home and his position as a knight in Baron Winthrop's household to take
up an errand of knighthood. Such a brave undertaking required a good
sword.
"I won't need it as much as you do. You might not care whether you
live or die, but I certainly do!"
"Well, you're the only one then," Aleksandr replied.
"You know that's not true," Pter said. "Mother and father love you
very much. Their pride's just a little hurt right now, but they'll get
over it."
Aleksandr trembled as he approached the squire's barracks, Pter's
sword clutched in his hands. The moment was here, when he would
challenge Sigurdur to single combat. He had thought about this moment
for days, going over the scenario in his head a thousand different ways.
In almost every instance he died at Sigurdur's hands. He had convinced
himself that he did not care. Now that the time had arrived, he was
terrified. He could feel beads of cold sweat on his forehead, and the
scabbard in his hands was wet and slippery. His whole body trembled.
Only a few cubits from the door that led into the part of Fennell
Keep where the squires lived, Aleksandr stopped. He could not make his
feet move. His heart pounded in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"You fool, this is what you've dreamed about for nearly a sennight.
Now just get in there and finish it!" he cursed himself.
But wasn't a life of beatings, ridicule, and humiliation better
than no life at all? Aleksandr could just hide the sword and go about
his life as it had been before. Surely he could survive, just taking
everything one day at a time.
But what then of honour? Aleksandr had been raised to believe that
honour and pride were among the most important things in a person's,
especially a knight's, life. He had strongly believed that at one time.
He wanted to believe it again. Aleksandr tried to draw strength by
thinking back to Pter's departure only yesterday on his errand of
knighthood. He had been the very symbol of chivalry, atop his stallion,
lance held high, declaring to the assembled villagers of Heahun his
pledge. His armour had shone so brilliantly in the early morning sun.
The people had cheered him loudly, proclaiming him the greatest knight
the Heahun family had ever known. Aleksandr's parents had not been so
pleased, especially Madeline, Aleksandr's mother. The look she had given
Aleksandr as Pter was riding off on his quest --
"What on 'diar are you doing out here, you tree rat?" Sigurdur's
voice blared mere handswidths away from Aleksandr's face.
Aleksandr opened his eyes to see the door that he'd been standing
in front of was now open and the imposing figure of the oldest of the
squires filled the doorway. Sigurdur must have come through the door
while Aleksandr had been daydreaming. Before he could answer the older
squire's challenge, a fist struck Aleksandr in the nose. He reeled
backwards, bright lights flashing before his eyes. Sigurdur's laughter
helped stop the room from spinning.
"What are you going to do now, squireling?"
As Aleksandr's vision cleared, he could see that most of the other
squires had followed Sigurdur through the door and had filled the castle
corridor. "You stole the baron's ceremonial sword at the Holy Sennight
tournament and humiliated him before the baroness of Bastonne!"
Everyone laughed, Sigurdur the hardest. "And how are you going to
prove that?"
"With this!" Aleksandr said, pulling Pter's sword from its
scabbard. The blade caught half way out of the scabbard and the squires
howled. Aleksandr could feel his face heat and his heart pound harder.
He wrenched the sword free so forcefully that it nearly flew out of his
grasp, but he recovered by twirling the blade in the pattern of a noose
in the air. "I challenge you to trial by combat, Sigurdur!"
The hallway suddenly became quiet. Sigurdur eyes were wide as he
stared at the sword, then at Aleksandr. Then his eyes narrowed and his
face contorted into an ugly scowl. "You stupid fool!"
He slapped the sword blade away, but Aleksandr flipped the blade up
then slashed to the left, nicking Sigurdur's cheek.
"You'll pay for that!" Sigurdur said, touching the cut. "With your
life!"
He stormed into the barracks. The remaining squires stood where
they were, eyes wide with shock. Tpliki walked up to Aleksandr and
grabbed him by the shoulders.
"Aleksandr!" he shouted. "What are you doing? Sigurdur will kill
you!"
"If that is what is meant to be."
"How can you talk like this?" Tpliki shook Aleksandr. "Cephas'
boot! He's twice your size and experience! Nothing is worth this!"
Aleksandr looked directly into Tpliki's eyes. "Tpliki, you know
what my life has been like these past years as a squire. How do you
think my parents reacted to the Holy Sennight humiliation? Add those
together and you will see that I have no choice."
Tpliki dropped his hands from Aleksandr's shoulders and lowered his
gaze to the ground. Without another word, Aleksandr walked through the
doors leading into the barracks where he picked up a shield before
heading into the training area. As he tested out the sandy ground, he
felt a sense of re-enacting a scene he had lived before. It was not long
ago that he faced Sigurdur on this circle of sand, with the other
squires gathered around, cheering for the baron's nephew to 'smash the
squireling.'
"By the good God, what am I doing?" Aleksandr thought to himself.
Things had happened so quickly once he got to the barracks that he had
not had much time to think about it. His knees went weak as the
lumbering, tree-like shape of Sigurdur moved in front of him.
Aleksandr's heart began to race again. He was going to die. His sword
arm was shaking so violently he almost lost the grip on the weapon. He
swallowed hard. At least he would die with some pride left.
Aleksandr saluted, then fell into a fighting stance, and began to
circle his opponent. Pter's sword was well balanced and Aleksandr carved
a quick figure-eight in the air with it. Sigurdur grunted, and charged
in for the first attack. His blade nearly cut Aleksandr's wooden shield
in two and became stuck just above the handgrips. Aleksandr lashed out
with his own sword, but Sigurdur was able to parry the blows with his
shield. He wrenched his sword free of Aleksandr's shield and swung
again.
Aleksandr shuffled backwards and avoided the attack. Now that the
first blows had been struck, he was more calm, his grip on his sword
tighter. As with all the other combats he had fought before, now that
the first terrible attack had been landed, he was able to concentrate
more on how to defend himself, less on how afraid he was. For several
menes Aleksandr was able to hold Sigurdur off with his shield and parry
with his sword, but he was getting tired. Sigurdur was too strong.
Another strong blow from the older squire broke a large piece off
Aleksandr's shield. Aleksandr knew he was finished if things kept up the
way they were going. He remembered that his father had told him that old
grandfather Harabin said always to attack. Even in the most dire of
circumstances a knight must never defend, but always attack the enemy.
Despite being outnumbered almost a hundred to one, that was what the
Fennell knights had done at Balkura many years ago. It was their brave
charge that had always inspired Aleksandr, and so, he now lunged towards
Sigurdur.
The larger boy -- no, man -- was caught off guard by this new
tactic and Aleksandr was able to put a deep gouge into Sigurdur's leg.
Sigurdur bellowed with anger and pain and lashed out at Aleksandr. The
uncontrolled attacks were easy to dodge, however, and Aleksandr was able
to get outside of Sigurdur's considerable reach.
Apparently wounded, Sigurdur dropped to a knee and seemed to lower
his guard. Without thinking, Aleksandr attacked the opening left by his
opponent, then was blinded as a handful of sand was tossed into his
face. Aleksandr's eyes felt like they were being ground in a flour mill
by all of the tiny granules. His first instinct was to get away from
Sigurdur as quickly as he could, but then he remembered what had
happened the last time Sigurdur had used this tactic: he had counted on
Aleksandr backing away and had kicked Aleksandr in the crotch, finished
the fight. So instead of retreating, Aleksandr lunged forward, sword
extended ahead of him. At first he felt the slightest of resistance as
the tip of the blade made contact, then it slid smoothly and Aleksandr
kept pushing until the hilt stopped the blade from going any further.
The thud of Sigurdur's sword dropping to the ground reached
Aleksandr's ears and he was suddenly struck by the realisation that he
had driven Pter's sword into Sigurdur's body. The older squire made a
gasping noise and started to slide backwards, off of the sword.
Aleksandr fell onto his back as the blade was suddenly freed and he
felt warm liquid splatter onto his face and hands. A short distance
ahead, he could hear Sigurdur begin to whimper like a wounded dog. The
whimpering then gave way to screaming. Aleksandr dropped his sword and
shield and rose to his knees.
"My God, what have I done?" Aleksandr thought as he rubbed his
eyes, trying to get the sand out of them.
Sigurdur's screaming got louder and Aleksandr could hear the other
squires rushing to his side. One of them shouted for the healer. Another
cried for Brother Vladimir. More sand flew through the air and landed on
Aleksandr. Given Sigurdur's screams, Aleksandr imagined the other squire
was thrashing about and sending sand flying in all directions. The
sounds Sigurdur was making were horrible; Aleksandr wished he could not
hear them. Even for one such as Sigurdur, Aleksandr felt pity.
"Aleksandr," Tpliki was suddenly beside Aleksandr, wrapping an arm
around his shoulders. "You're alive!"
"B-but I killed Sigurdur," Aleksandr said. Bile suddenly rose in
Aleksandr's throat and he leaned over to empty the contents of his
stomach. Once he had stopped heaving, he cried. "Oh, God, I killed him,
Tpliki!"
Aleksandr could not see, but the air reeked of vomit, blood and
feces. There was no honour here. Mercifully, Sigurdur's wails began to
grow quieter and then finally he was silent. He had been mute for a few
moments when Aleksandr's eyes finally cleared enough that he could see.
Sigurdur lay twisted on the ground, the sand all around him stirred as
if by a huge mixing spoon. Blood covered the sand and the squires who
had tried to hold Sigurdur down as he thrashed about.
For several menes, Aleksandr could only kneel and stare at what he
had done. The other squires were all staring at him. It was deathly
silent; not even a bird chirped though it was by now mid-morning.
"What is going on here?" A shrill voice shattered the silence. Dame
Lyudmilla, the knight in charge of training the squires stormed into the
inner bailey. "What are you codswallops doing out here? Why I ..."
She stopped when she caught sight of Sigurdur. Her gaze followed
the trail of blood that led to the sword laying next to Aleksandr, then
at Aleksandr himself. Her eyes were wide and her face pale. Aleksandr
could not fathom what she might be thinking.
"By the good God," she finally managed to gasp. "What happened
here?"
One of the squires who had been kneeling beside Sigurdur stood and
said, "Dame Lyudmilla ... Aleksandr challenged Sigurdur to trial by
combat. He accused Sigurdur of stealing the baron's sword at the
tournament."
"Sigurdur did do it," Tpliki said. "That is why he lost the trial!"
Dame Lyudmilla turned her gaze once more to Aleksandr. "I can't
believe it. I would have never expected such a thing from you." She
shook her head. When she spoke again, her voice held something
resembling respect. "Clearly, I misjudged you, Aleksandr. Yes, you
definitely do deserve the honours you've received."
She looked across the bailey to some commotion at the main keep.
"The baron is coming. You had better get Aleksandr out of here. I will
deal with his lordship. There are things I must set aright."
Several days later, Aleksandr stood before Dorja Fennell in the
baron's chambers high in the central keep. Aleksandr had been there many
times before, first as a page waiting on the lord of the keep, later as
the baron's squire. He wondered whether he would remain Baron Dorja's
squire after this meeting.
The room seemed ominous this day, the shadows in the corners
somehow darker, the light cast by candles somehow dimmer. The head of
the bearskin that lay at the foot of the baron's bed seemed to be baring
its teeth at Aleksandr specifically. He shifted nervously as he waited
for the baron to speak.
Baron Dorja was sitting at his large oak desk, an elbow on the arm
of his chair, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. As Aleksandr's
father had, the baron looked much older than the last time Aleksandr had
seen him, a sennight ago. He seemed to have more grey hair, and the
lines around his eyes were more pronounced. His skin was almost the
colour of the ashes left over after a raging fire.
At long last, he spoke, "I did not mourn the passing of my nephew
as much as I should have, perhaps. I always knew he was a thug, but I
let him stay in my household as a favour to my sister.
"Even so, I do not know what to make of what happened a few days
ago. It is unfortunate that you had to be vindicated through such
means."
"Your lordship?" Aleksandr was confused. He had felt sure that the
baron would have been furious that his own squire had killed a family
member. At the least, Aleksandr had expected to be thrown out of the
baron's household without preamble.
"Dame Lyudmilla explained everything to me. Even down to how the
other squires treated you. Despicable. Needless to say, Dame Lyudmilla
has been removed as trainer of the squires. She should have put an end
to this long ago."
"I think she wanted to harden me, your lordship," Aleksandr said.
He wasn't sure why he was defending the woman who had contributed to
making his life hell nearly as much as Sigurdur had.
"Yes," the baron said, "which is why I am allowing her to stay on
as one of my household knights. As for you, that is a harder decision."
Aleksandr swallowed hard.
"A member of my family is dead, killed by a fellow squire. Even
though it was a true trial by combat, members of the same household
should never take each others' lives. I thought perhaps that you should
no longer be my squire. However, taking everything into account, I think
the burden you bear as a result of killing Sigurdur is enough. And I
would be proud to have a squire as brave as you.
"Twice, you have proved yourself to have great courage: once trying
to fight mercenaries that kidnapped my daughter, and another time
fighting a man nearly twice your size and experience in single combat.
You remind me of a wolverine I saw once while hunting in the woods near
Fennell Keep. It had been an especially bitter winter and food was hard
to come by. The wolverine had found a carcass to feed on when along came
a great bear which was over twenty hands tall when it stood. The
wolverine, no bigger than a dog, fought the bear and killed it. I think
from now on, your nickname will be wolverine instead of squireling."
"I-I thank you, my lord," Aleksandr stammered. "I don't know what
else to say. I am sorry for the loss of your nephew, I wish there had
been another way."
"I know," Baron Dorja nodded. "And it is because you feel remorse
that I want you as my squire. A knight should know bravery and skill at
arms, but must still have a human heart."
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