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DargonZine Volume 16 Issue 01
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DargonZine Distributed: 3/21/2003
Volume 16, Number 1 Circulation: 682
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
For the Love of Amante Victor Cardoso Firil 10, 1018
Talisman Nine 6 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Sy 24-Seber 4, 1013
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
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 16-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2003 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>.
DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-
NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute
unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions
of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@rcn.com>
January and February always seem to be a fallow time for us. In the
preceding months, our writers often set aside their writing and
critiquing in order to celebrate winter's seasonal holidays, and the
first thing we do when we return is to sit back and set our goals for
the coming year. That means that we usually don't have very much
material to print until well after the new year has begun. There's
always a longer than usual lag between our last December issue and our
first issue of the new year. However, during the twelve weeks since the
publication of DargonZine 15-11, we've done a whole lot of work, and I'd
like to share some of the changes with you.
The biggest announcement is that DargonZine has finally been
incorporated. While this might not sound like a big deal, incorporating
opens several doors for us. It will allow us to apply for funding from
various grants for the arts, and open bank accounts under the
organization's name. The official set of bylaws that we were required to
develop will ensure the stability of the group, even if something should
happen to the editorial staff. We are presently in the process of
applying for nonprofit status, which means that any financial
contributions from our writers and readers will be tax deductible. It
should also assure everyone that we aren't running the magazine to make
money for ourselves.
Speaking of contributions, there's now a link on our home page that
will allow you to donate money to DargonZine using the popular and safe
transaction service provided by PayPal. Over the years, readers have
occasionally expressed a desire to help the zine in some fashion, and
we've decided to give this method a try. If you want to help us defray
the costs of attracting new writers and running our Web site, we
encourage you to use this facility. If you're not interested, don't
worry about it. Donations will never be required, and we aren't going to
harass you to contribute. DargonZine will always be entirely free and
noncommercial.
The costs for running DargonZine have gone up a little this year
because in January we began placing ads for DargonZine on the Google
search engine. Our longtime readers will know we hate advertising of any
kind, but we had to finally admit that we needed to find a better way to
get the word out about the magazine. In the past few years, we haven't
been very effective at letting people know about DargonZine, so we
decided to test whether ads on Google would bring in more readers and a
cadre of new writers. Nine weeks later, the ads are definitely working,
so we're continuing to run them. An enthusiastic welcome goes out to the
dozen or two new readers who discovered us through those ads. Thanks for
taking the time to check us out, and we hope you enjoy the zine!
You might overlook two more changes that are hidden in our issue
masthead, which appears above. The first one, of course, is that we now
describe ourselves as "The Dargon Project, Inc.", but there's a second
item that is yet another significant development for us. We are now
releasing DargonZine under the terms of a license developed by the
Creative Commons corporation. Creative Commons gives artists an easy yet
reliable way to tell the world that the artist permits certain uses of
his or her work, while prohibiting other uses. DargonZine, in
particular, will allow people to copy and distribute our stories, but
only if they are distributed as entire unmodified issues, the original
authorship attributions are kept, and no commercial gain is made. For
specific details about Creative Commons or our use thereof, see our
masthead, above, and the link to Creative Commons.
One change that you're sure to notice in this issue is the addition
of a new illustrator. David Nelson, a 34 year-old graphic artist from
Houston has volunteered to illustrate our issues free of charge. Loyal
readers will know that our new stories have been devoid of artwork since
longtime writer and illustrator Carlo Samson left the project a year
ago. Although he doesn't aspire to write for us, David is an
enthusiastic reader, and his illustrations will definitely bring life to
our stories. We hope that our partnership is rewarding for him and lasts
for quite some time.
I'm proud to start the year by announcing so many positive changes.
Things have looked a little rough around here lately, with readership
slowly declining, a reduced number of writers, and correspondingly fewer
stories to print. However, as you can see, we are putting thought, time,
effort, and money into fixing those problems and making DargonZine
better than ever. All these changes are just the beginning of a bunch of
improvements and lots more good news that I look forward to sharing with
you in the months to come. Thank you for your interest and your support,
and I hope our stories continue to entertain and delight you as we begin
our unequalled 19th year on the Internet.
We open this year with two exceptional stories. The first is
brought to us by Victor Cardoso, whom you should remember from last
year's haunting "Jakob Sings of Monstrous Things". His new work,
entitled "For the Love of Amante" is another masterful tale of wonder
and mystery. It also ties in with the series of recent stories that
relate to Dave Fallon and P. Atchley's "Heir to Castigale" storyline.
The balance of the issue contains the sixth and final part of
"Talisman Nine". As the name implies, this six-part story is itself the
ninth chapter (well, actually tenth) of a very long ongoing storyline
that began back in February 1999 in DargonZine 12-1. Dafydd, its author,
has been with DargonZine since 1986, and is our single most prolific
writer, having printed over fifty stories in these pages. Although this
part completes another chapter, "Talisman Nine" still isn't the end of
the larger "Talisman" story arc. Still, everything is starting to come
together, and like you, I'm very anxious to see the text for the
much-anticipated "Talisman Ten", which Dafydd hopes to produce this
year.
It also looks like our next issue is beginning to come together, as
well, so you shouldn't have quite as long a wait for DargonZine 16-2.
All I'll say about it right now is that you can look forward to the
first piece from a brand new and gifted Dargon writer! With that, I'll
leave you to enjoy this issue and the excellent works these two Dargon
veterans have crafted for you.
========================================================================
For the Love of Amante
by Victor Cardoso
<viktor@mac.com>
Firil 10, 1018
AMANTE (DEITY, MEMBER OF THE BEINISON PANTHEON)
Amante, once the god of love and beauty, kidnapped the
goddess Alana out of selfish, unchecked desire and sparked a
battle that raged through the heavens. Following his defeat,
a tribunal of gods stripped Amante's powers from him and
appointed him god of criminals, executioners, and torturers
as punishment for his treachery. Beinisonians commonly refer
to Amante as the Masked God, for he hides his face to conceal
a hideous wound struck by the flaming sword of Gow, Alana's
husband, during the battle to free her.
--Kebero of Heahun, from the tome "History of Beinison"
"Why have you brought me here, Skyler Gatney?"
Deep under the earth, in a cave whose ceiling hung low with fangs
of glistening stone, a man and a woman sat upon a rock ledge, gazing
upon a pool that stretched long and still before them. The water glowed
faintly, shedding soft, blue light that sparkled on the rippled ceiling.
"I wanted to take you away from the castle," Skyler whispered,
looking down at his hands that were black with dirt. "I believe you
should rethink your decision, Pythia."
The woman's face hid behind a white silk mask, laced with pearls
that draped in bows down her cheeks. Ribbons were tied at the corners of
the mask, one of which wrapped about a white, painted stick she held in
her gloved hand. "Evelain always tells me that I think too much. Do you
not think that an odd thing to say? Sometimes I think about the sky or
about the grass. People are cruel to walk on it. What a grotesque
practice to step on a thing whose only fault is to be cool and green."
"I can only think of how cruel you are to me," Skyler replied.
"Haven't we danced in the ballrooms where the servants do not go? Did I
not take you outside on the night of the full moon, even though it is
forbidden? I've given you much, my love."
"Yes. Well. Of course you have given me much," Pythia said
abruptly, derisively. "You are a subject of the Castigales. It is your
*duty* to serve us." She was evidently disturbed by the man's comments,
however. With her free hand, Pythia absently twisted a strand of dark
chestnut hair and rocked her body back and forth. "How else am I to feel
towards our subjects?"
"I cannot help how I feel."
"And I cannot help who I am."
Skyler's face blushed in embarrassment. A bead of moisture gathered
at his temple and he raised his hand to it. His fingers came back red
and wet and he found himself beset with a piercing headache. "I found a
map," he murmured, rubbing the blood between his digits. A wave of
dizziness overcame him. "It led to these mountains. I thought to mine
some gemstones and take you away from here. "
Pythia laughed in astonishment. "You cannot take me away, Skyler."
She gathered the folds of her gown and stood up. Skyler, his temple
throbbing and the pain in his head increasing, looked up at her and saw
that she had grown to the size of the cavern. She towered above him, her
frilled shawl billowing like a thousand pale serpents about her
shoulders. The fangs on the ceiling sparkled. "I am far beyond your
reach in position and prominence. You are a foolish man to attempt to
court me."
Skyler, his legs trembling, tried to stand but failed. He suddenly
felt weak and sick, as if he had not eaten for days. His worn trousers
ripped as he fell to his knees, gazing upwards at the dark beauty of
Pythia Castigale. "What, is there another? A noble?" Skyler shouted.
"I'll challenge him, Pythia! I'll call him out to the marches before all
of Castigale and unarm him! I'll break his shield with my bare hands and
cast the remains of his coat of arms into the grass! I'll let none come
between you and I."
The daughter of Castigale lowered her silken mask and startled him
with a face hideously scarred and disfigured. Her flesh sagged under the
right eye and looked melted, as if a great fire had laid a glancing blow
to her cheek. "But he already has," she whispered, raising a hand as if
to strike him. The mask became a flaming sword that guttered and sparked
in the cool, cave air.
Skyler Gatney's eyes opened abruptly, the assault rousing him from
sleep and his twisted dream. The pain flared quickly, a strike from a
blunt staff spraying droplets of blood at his feet. His hands were bound
above him to an iron ring driven into the bedrock. He had been stripped
to the waist and sweat glistened on his scarred chest. A woman stood
before him, dressed in a black cowl and cloak, her hand holding a staff
with a bloodied end. She passed it back to a guard standing behind her.
"Please try to remain awake," she said coolly, "or I will strike
you again. I ask you one more time: who else knows of this cave and the
gems you have stolen?"
Skyler tried moistening lips that were chapped and dry from several
days of questioning. "I told you ..." he croaked. "There are dozens in
Myridon and Northern Hope. We have an ambassador on his way to the duke.
If I do not return, they will come looking for me."
The guard leaned forward and whispered something to the woman. She
smiled patiently, as if hearing the answer she sought. "We are
finished," she said simply, looking directly at Skyler. Walking up to
him, she placed a pale, ivory hand against his grime-ridden,
blood-speckled face. Her fingers felt cool and soft to his bruised skin,
and a brief scent of jasmine tickled his nose. "You are a clever man for
a dirt-farmer, Skyler Gatney, but not clever enough. If there were
others, they would be here, helping you. You expect me to believe that
they would trust you, alone, with this treasure? And if the duke of
Asbridge knew of your little discovery, he would seize it from your
clumsy, callused hands."
He rolled his head back, eyeing her suspiciously. "Do you speak for
the duke?"
The woman's smile narrowed to a smirk. "No," she replied.
"Then I don't give a fark about a woman's opinions on the matter."
She pulled her hand away as if stung. "So bitter," she said, her
voice pitying.
Skyler leapt forward at her, pulling against his restraints. The
woman stood a hand's breadth from his face. "Tell me," he gritted. "You
do a fine job of reading men's hearts, whore-bitch. Is it taught to all
your sex in the womb? To read a man and know how to destroy him?"
She did not flinch at his outburst but merely stood there, gazing
into his eyes. From her robes she pulled out a laced handkerchief,
wiping her hands delicately. "Only to those who listen carefully." Her
lips curled into a mocking smile. "Guard," she called back, "when the
time comes, take him with the others. We will use him this evening. "
She then turned from Skyler and she and her formidable companion
departed through one of the seven tunnels leading from the roughly-hewn,
low-ceilinged cavern. Skyler and two other prisoners were manacled to a
wall, a foul, flickering lamp their only source of light. The tunnels
led to many, similarly interconnected chambers under this offshoot of
the Darst mountains.
Mustering his strength, Skyler pulled again at the tightly wound
cord that looped around the black ring. Dust fell from his effort, but
nothing else. He sagged in resignation, certain that he would die here.
His dark eyes darted over to the other prisoners in the chamber. They
were two men, their clothes in tatters about their bodies. On occasion
he saw them move, drink water that was given to them or relieve
themselves where they sat, but never did they respond to his attempts at
conversation. Nor did the lady ever seem interested in questioning them.
He shook his head.
"Dead to the world," he muttered, his glare focused on them. "Might
as well get used to it, I s'ppose." He did not know what the lady wanted
to use him for that night, but felt certain it would be the end of him.
Still idly looking about the room, Skyler spied the decaying remains of
a mouse pressed against one of the irregular walls. The creature's eyes
were nothing but black sockets and half its minuscule face was torn away
to reveal brown-white bone underneath. Saliva gathered in Skyler's
mouth, a testament to his hunger. He grinned.
"Did they torture you, too, little friend?" he asked the corpse.
"Were you also here to find your fortune and escape Asbridge?" Skyler
shifted his arms, trying to regain some feeling in them. "No doubt the
lady did you in," he said, perturbed. "Don't trust their sex. They'll
betray you every time."
To Skyler's dismay, he thought he saw the little body convulse. Its
claws seemed to jerk, as if roused by his words. He watched the thing
for several long moments, trying to discern if he had really seen
movement or if it was a trick of the uneven light. The body lay still.
Finally shaking his head, he looked away, calming his quickened heart.
"I'm going mad," he said, closing his eyes.
"Perhaps you are," a small voice answered.
Skyler did not open his eyes immediately. Instead, he took a few
long breaths and slowly opened one lid. At his feet sat the thin and
emaciated corpse of the mouse, looking up at him with those dark
sockets. Two sharp teeth gnashed the air at the front of its ruined
face. Thin, soiled fur clung precariously to the creature's head and
body.
"Ol's balls," Skyler swore.
The mouse continued looking up at him patiently, its rib cage quite
visible under its skin. Skyler tried making a sign against evil but his
bound hands fumbled the gesture. Small, wheezing laughter escaped the
mouse's form. "That ward will do nothing against me, Skyler Gatney."
"What, it wasn't enough to be tortured by the living that I must
now be tortured by the dead?" He kicked his legs at the creature, trying
to shoo it away. The mouse jumped nimbly out of his reach. It paused to
scratch at an ear, taking extra care not to remove any of its sagging
fur.
"So defensive," it said calmly. "Who is to say that I'm here to
torture you?"
"Could there be any other reason?" Skyler exclaimed. "Are you a
machination of the lady's, you undead fiend? Trying to get more
information out of me?"
"And so very paranoid," the creature sighed. "No, Master Gatney, I
believe she's done with you. But do tell me, what happened to turn you
so completely against their sex?"
Skyler narrowed his eyes. "Nothing a dead rodent would know of, of
that I'm sure."
"Ahh," the mouse said, "you've had many opportunities to speak to
dead rodents in your tenure as dirt farmer?" At his stunned silence, the
creature continued. "Don't be so surprised, Master Gatney. Being dead
gives one plenty of time to listen to the living. I was able to learn
much by just lying in my haphazard grave. You blurted out quite a bit in
your dazed sessions with the lady. Let's see," the creature began
counting off on its tiny hands, "you worked for the Castigales as
groundskeeper when you could not make enough of a living on your own
lands. Your brother, Cyrus, was murdered for having a deformed son --"
"Watch your words, mouse," Skyler growled, his arms tensing the
cords. "Gaergor was the sweetest child a father could hope for and, dead
or no, don't you say a thing to malign the boy."
The mouse paused and wiggled its nose. "You did not answer my
previous question. Why do you harbor a hatred towards all women?"
Skyler kept mum, staring at the creature at his feet. "Stubborn
thing, aren't you? Why don't you answer some of my own questions?"
The mouse tilted its head. "What would you like to know?"
"Why are you here?"
"To free you, of course!"
Skyler snorted. "Out of the kindness of your unbeating heart?"
The creature's skull seemed to grin at him. "One could say that,"
it replied. The mouse hunched down on all fours and approached him,
making as if to climb onto the man's bare feet.
"What are you doing?" Skyler asked, alarmed.
The little creature leapt onto the ruined trousers and began
scurrying up. "Bend to let me onto your shoulder."
"I most certainly will not!"
"Would you rather I scrambled up your skin?"
Skyler frowned, imagining the creature digging its sharp, little
claws into his bruised flesh. Cursing all the while, he did as he was
told, lifting his knee and letting the rodent hop onto his shoulder. It
smelled rank as it moved up his neck and onto his head, clawing through
his hair. The sensation was almost too much for him. The mouse rose on
spindly, hind legs and grasped the leather cords on Skyler's arms,
lowering its exposed teeth to the tough hide. The man felt the rodent
gnawing on his bindings. After a short time, one of his hands came free,
followed by the other.
The rush of blood into his lowered arms made them sting and he took
a moment to rub them. The mouse jumped off his head and landed on the
ground with a hollow thud. Picking itself up without a hint of pain, it
started towards one of the tunnels that spawned from the room.
"What are you up to, mouse?"
"Follow me," it called back to him. "I will show you a way out."
Skyler shook his head in disbelief, laughing. "I'm grateful for my
freedom, but I'm not so sure I should be following you deeper into these
caves."
His rescuer stopped and turned in its tracks. "Why?" it asked
simply. "Do you still think me an apparition of your madness? Perhaps a
trick of the lady's? Of what significance is this? I might very well be
the guide that leads you over the covered bridge to the otherworld or I
might be a fanciful delusion that will pass the time until your death.
Does it really matter? You will die soon in either case."
Skyler stood there, thoughtful, examining the mouse's logic. He
looked over at the other prisoners who were still tied to the wall,
having shown no reaction to the spectacle before them. He nodded in
their direction. "What about them?"
The mouse raised its head as if sniffing the air and looked at the
two ragged figures. "If you'd like, I will free them as well."
Skyler paused a moment, thinking. "Let them find their own way
out," he finally muttered, turning from the men and walking to where the
mouse waited. As he passed the lamp, Skyler picked up one of the raw
nuggets of stone that had been lying next to it. The rock's surface
glittered with a thousand facets of unfinished gems. "Might as well take
this, just in case I have to bribe the gatekeeper to the otherworld," he
quipped, pushing the stone into his pocket. The mouse shrugged and
scampered down a dark passage, Skyler following in its fetid wake.
The creature led him down passages illuminated by various breaks in
the rock. Some passages were narrow, barely allowing the dirt farmer
from Castigale to squeeze through, others were cavernous, held up by
stone columns a dozen times his height that grew from floor to ceiling.
Infrequently, outside sunlight poured into the depths in shafts of
brilliance that lit the passages in a warm, lazy glow. The deeper the
two companions ventured, the fewer of these breaks they encountered
until, at last, there were none. After that, Skyler climbed through
tunnels dark and heavy with the mountain's presence, the mouse's tiny
form glowing dimly to guide him. At one point, while pushing himself
between two smooth columns like the fangs of some enormous, buried
beast, Skyler thought he heard angry shouts far behind him, echoing in
the crevices of the surrounding stone. They soon faded. Strangely
enough, he felt secure with this undead creature that had come to his
rescue.
After what seemed like a bell, the two came upon another vast
chamber whose ceiling vaulted away into darkness. If mountains could
have hearts, Skyler swore that they had stumbled upon one. The room had
the feeling of a place of worship, so quiet and powerful was the
presence that filled the air. Around him, he felt the weight of the
stone bearing down upon the walls. A dozen man-sized alcoves dotted the
walls, their entrances shimmering like the air that surrounds a burning
fire. Behind the roiling walls of force lay immobile figures. Through
the haze, he could make out men and women in various kinds of dress --
some in fashions he had only seen in paintings in Castigale Keep, others
dressed similarly to what he would have found in Myridon.
"Mouse?" Skyler asked a little sheepishly. "Where have you brought
me?"
The undead creature made its way over to him, looking at what had
caught his attention. "A holding area," it replied, quietly. "The men
you saw above have been prepared for the lady's ritual. They were once
here. These await preparation but their fate will be the same."
"Ritual?" Skyler asked. Curiosity got the better of him and he
wandered over to the alcoves, trying to get a better look at the
inhabitants.
"Yes, ritual," the mouse answered. "The lady and her husband seek
something in these caverns greater than gold or gems. The ritual aids in
their quest."
"Haphazard graves seem to teach dead rodents much. Do you know what
it is the lady seeks?" Skyler asked. When there was no response, he
looked back and saw the creature sitting there on its haunches, waiting
for him. "Mouse, I asked you if you knew what this treasure was?"
Again the creature did not answer but merely looked back at him
from hollow sockets.
Skyler shrugged. "No matter," he muttered. "It means nothing to
..." As he came upon the last alcove, he let his voice trail into
silence. Lying in the vertical grave, as if asleep, was a woman in a
soiled and ruined dress. Her long, chestnut hair tumbled, disheveled, to
her waist. Pale, blossom-white cheeks, free from the disfigurement of
his dream, were streaked with dirt. Although her eyes lay closed, Skyler
knew their color in his heart.
"Pythia ..." he whispered, amazed. His hand went to the glowing
barrier, as if to pass through and touch her.
"Do not break the barrier," the mouse warned.
Skyler turned, his mind still astonished at his discovery. "How did
Pythia Castigale come to be here?"
The mouse tilted its head. "Is this the Lord Castigale's mad
daughter?" it asked. Jumping over some small rocks, the undead guide
made its way over to the alcove. "Hmm. I would've thought she'd be
older. Or not as pretty. She *is* the mad one, correct? The lady's men
found her wandering the mountains, calling out for her lover."
Skyler's face tightened at his companion's words. His dark eyes
surveyed the shimmering alcove. "Stupid girl," he said softly. There was
no anger in his voice, only indifference.
The mouse tugged at his pant leg. "Is this the woman in your
dreams?" it asked.
"What are my dreams to you?"
The creature was silent.
"I have no woman in my dreams, only a foolish memory."
"So, she is the cause of your embitterment?"
It was Skyler's turn to not answer.
The little creature laid a fragile paw on Skyler's foot. "The exit
is still far from here, Skyler Gatney. If you wish to escape, we should
leave."
"It would serve her right," Skyler snorted, "to leave her here." He
backed away from the alcove, a numbness growing inside of him. Pythia
was the last person he imagined to find buried under the mountain.
Backing into a stone outcropping, he sat down, never taking his eyes
from the alcove. The mouse continued staring at him quizzically.
"I was in love with her," Skyler said aloud. "Does that answer your
question?" He looked at his companion and smiled a sad smile. "I was in
love with her upon my first glimpse of her bedraggled head in a tower
window." He recalled the moment clearly: tending the hedge bushes and
catching the sight of a pale-skinned, wild-haired woman peering
curiously at him from the north tower -- the one forbidden to all
visitors and most servants by order of Lord Castigale himself. "I had
heard the rumors, of course. Pythia was the eldest daughter of the
Castigales, gone mad after the death of her husband in the war with
Beinison. Borroll, a groomsman, swore up and down that she had cursed
his mare into bearing only dead foals. Some of the maids even claimed
they had glimpsed her dancing naked on top of the tower in the light of
the full moon."
"Did she?" the rodent asked, its voice full of wonder.
"Dance? Perhaps. Curse? No," Skyler snickered. He rubbed at his
dirt-smeared arms, as if he could clean them. "This girl who talks to
the air and loses her way in a closed room is not a witch. Only broken."
Another memory swelled in the man's head. "She and I would dance
together sometimes, in one of the shuttered halls in the north tower.
She kept this one dress -- cream-colored, with strands of pearls along
its bodice --" Skyler's hands sketched the air, as if drawing it for his
companion. "She kept it secreted away and in fine condition. Most of her
other clothes she ruined. It used to drive her personal maids to tears.
But this one dress ... it matched a ring her father had bought her in
Dargon, before her troubles set in. She only wore that gown when we
danced."
Skyler could almost hear Pythia's humming in the distance even now.
He envisioned the tower's ballroom: tall ceilings criss-crossed with
lumber that shed dust when the wind blew too fiercely; several tables
covered in linens to protect them from the passage of time. He and
Pythia would light an old candelabra and sweep tracks in the floor with
their steps. Only the two of them. The man remembered that sometimes she
would put her head on his shoulder and he would smell the sweet scent of
her unruly hair.
"And yet your love was somehow poisoned?" the mouse asked, this
time with sadness in its voice.
Skyler sighed. "Lord Castigale," he said wearily. Around him, in
the shadows of the mountain cave, a night sky bloomed. It was near dusk
and the scent of the apple blossoms lay heavily in the air.
Involuntarily, Skyler's fist tightened. "The lord came upon us one
evening in the orchards. Pythia was forbidden to leave the castle, but I
would sneak her out sometimes when no one was looking." There was a
shadow of a figure at the end of a row of apple trees, darker than the
evening sky. A flurry of images followed: the lord's angry face, the
spit hurled at Skyler, the brawl that ensued. The dirt farmer swallowed.
"The lord threatened to have the Lady Dagny drag me halfway across
Asbridge, naked, to leave me dying in some ditch. He took Pythia away
and I was left with no work." He heard Pythia softly weeping, stumbling
after her father through the trees. The vision ended.
"An unfortunate encounter," the mouse said. "What did Pythia do?"
Skyler laughed harshly. He leaned back and shrugged. "Several
nights later, I snuck back into the tower and tried to get her to run
away with me. I promised to protect and provide for her -- I told her
that I had found a map ... She said that I could not possibly care for
someone of her stature. Her father had forbade her to ever see me again
and so she could not go. To top it off, she said that if I didn't leave
her that instant, she'd call the guards! Stupid girl," he echoed.
"Then good riddance to her!" the mouse exclaimed, twitching its
tail. "You should be glad that the lady's men found her and brought her
here. Skyler Gatney, I must tell you again: if you wish to escape, we
must leave immediately. Your captors could come upon us at any time."
The dirt farmer from Castigale ignored his undead guide's warning
and looked long and hard at the woman in the alcove. For the first time
in sennights, since he had left Castigale land, he felt his heart
beating again. It ached within him, worse than the bruises or the cuts
he had received at the hands of his captors. The Castigales were better
off with Pythia's death. Skyler would be better off with Pythia's death.
He stood up, ready to leave, and paused. In the alcove, she looked
peaceful, asleep. He idly wondered what she would do when they pulled
her from that place. How would she feel?
Skyler sighed, feeling emotion snag its hooks into his heart. "How
do these barriers work, mouse? Something tells me that you know."
The little creature cried out in exasperation. "Ah, the trials of
the living! I am but a simple rodent, Master Gatney. I only know what I
have seen and heard. I believe these alcoves are protected with barriers
of sleep and warding. Should someone remove their contents then the
barriers will break and those who raised them will know and come to
investigate. They would arrive much more quickly than I could lead you
out."
Skyler scratched his stubbled chin. "That's not acceptable, mouse."
"I did not say that rescue was impossible," the mouse replied. "To
free Pythia Castigale, if that is truly your wish, then you must trade
places with her."
Skyler frowned at his companion's statement. "What?" he asked. "You
joke."
"I am sorry, Skyler Gatney. I have only seen what the lady and her
men have done. They only exchange prisoners, and once, when one of her
men sought to take a beautiful woman for his own, the lady came to find
him. Should you wish to free Pythia without alarming your captors, then
you must pull her out of the barrier while you go in."
Skyler's heart sank. A part of him had imagined her expression when
he freed her. Perhaps she would be elated? Then again, perhaps she would
not even remember why she had come out to the mountains. "Will you lead
her out if I free her?"
"Of course," the mouse said quietly.
Skyler nodded in satisfaction. Gathering his courage, he reached
out and took hold of Pythia's shoulder. The barrier enveloped his arm
with crawling tentacles of lightning, tingling his flesh like a thousand
roaches probing his skin. He felt it drawing him in as he pulled the
woman forward, the barrier wanting to claim him for its own. The
entrance to the alcove was narrow, so Skyler brushed up against Pythia
as they traded places. The smell of her hair almost caused him to stop,
to hug her fiercely before he lost her, but he settled for a brief
brushing of lips as the prickly feeling spread to his neck and his hair,
across his chest and down his legs. And then he was in and she was out,
and he closed his eyes, awaiting his fate.
Nothing happened. Skyler opened one eye. The shimmering barrier was
gone and the cavern was dark. Even his guide's glowing form had
disappeared. Skyler tentatively poked his head out.
"Mouse?" Skyler whispered fervently. "Mouse, are you there? What's
happened?"
He heard his guide's voice giggle, although it deepened as it broke
into echoes. From the walls, Skyler saw something flit. A small, bright
flash broke the darkness of the room, clear to the far off ceiling. The
flash ran through thin veins lacing the stone walls, moving too fast for
Skyler to see clearly. He was left with the distinct impression of a
white cloak that trailed behind a man.
"I am here," a voice boomed.
Skyler cringed as he emerged from the alcove, frightened by the
loud voice. "Mouse, what is going on? What are you up to?"
"Skyler Gatney, you are not the first to enter my lair," the voice
answered, "but you will be the first to leave it. Despite your pain and
bitterness, despite your anger and callousness towards life, you did not
fall victim to vengeance and attempt to harm the one you loved, even
though she did not return your affection. There is a part of you that
still loves, and loves truly. That is a deed that not even I, a being
far superior to you, was capable of accomplishing."
"What? Who are you?" Skyler asked incredulously. "A demon? Devil?
Where are Pythia and the others?"
Another laugh echoed in the empty space. "The Pythia you saw was an
instrument of my judgment, Skyler Gatney. It was a figment to see if the
bitterness that encompassed you was complete. I am no demon. Nor am I a
god. I am a shadow left behind by an act of power." Another flash leapt
across the face of the rocks. Deep gashes in the walls were revealed,
wounds that looked far too straight and square to be natural. "There
were priests who cleaved this very rock for Amante's worship. Before the
god's disgrace. They called upon him in this room and part of him
remained after they left. Skyler Gatney, I am the memory of lost Amante,
god of love and beauty."
Skyler felt the blood drain from his face. Unconsciously, he
stepped back towards the alcove, as if to hide from this strange power
that crawled through the veins of rock.
"Do not fear me," the voice assured him, as if reading his mind.
"It is true that I am also a part of the Amante that is: the butcher,
the thief, the assassin; he who would steal a mortal's mind and warp it
to his own end, but I do not share his lust for vengeance and blood."
Skyler looked around. "Then this was a test?" he asked. "Pythia was
never here?" He straightened his back. "What would have happened had I
failed?"
The voice laughed. "I think you know the answer to that." Around
Skyler, the alcoves glowed briefly, although there was no one in their
depths.
"Who were those people that captured me?" Skyler asked.
"They worship the true Amante," the voice answered, "the god who
has forgotten love under the layer of scars that enwrap his soul. I am
the treasure they seek.
"The nugget of stone in your pocket, the one you stole from your
captors? It will fetch you a duke's ransom, and do not let any
pawnbroker tell you otherwise. When you sell it, buy a home and health,
both for you and Pythia for the rest of your short lives. Ride into
Castigale Keep in hose and finery, on a white horse. Find Pythia and
take her away from Asbridge, never to return or to speak to anyone of
this place. Ever. While all my power is bent to prevent my dark self
from finding me, I still have ways in which to exact revenge."
"But Pythia," Skyler said, taking the rock out of his pocket. "She
has rejected me. I'm not even certain she will know me. If she did not
truly come looking for me ..."
"The ring that Pythia wears," the voice said. "It is a corrupt ring
forged by hands that found a shattered stone in an alley where a madman
died. Pythia treasures it above all else because her father gave it to
her, and yet it is the cause of her madness. Dispose of it and you will
have your true love in all her health. In her lucidity, she will know
you. Even now, though she will not admit it, I hear her dreams call out
to you."
Skyler felt his throat clench. He was astounded. His dreams were
within his grasp. After so many years of hardship and pain, happiness
seemed right before him. He swallowed heavily. "I do not know what to
say."
"Then say nothing and leave me to my hiding," the voice replied,
softly. "My light will lead you to the surface, away from the lady and
her minions. Thank you, Skyler Gatney. You have given me hope for man.
Hope that I have not had for millennia ..."
"He is gone, milady."
Nimieta, wife of Lord Curran of Dargon, held the desiccated remains
of a mouse in her fist, gazing deeply into its hollow sockets as if they
spoke to her, whispered of something she could just barely hear. There
was something of power left in this fragile corpse of an animal. She and
another guard stood in one of the many tunnels snaking through the
mountain's belly.
"Lord Curran will be displeased by this," she said shortly,
crushing the creature's skull in her hand. It cracked into dust. "The
guard who was charged with watching over the dirt farmer, has he been
beaten for his laxity?"
"Yes, mistress."
"And has he been prepared for the ritual in place of Skyler
Gatney?"
"Yes, mistress."
"Good," she said watching the dust from her fist fall to the floor.
"At least the noisome man is lost to the tunnels here. He will die a
slow death, but at least a death it will be. Come, we have much work to
do." She started to lead the way out, the guard in tow, when she heard
something. Nimieta turned where she stood, her eyes searching out the
dark depths of the cave tunnel around them.
"Did you hear that?" she asked.
"No, milady. What was it?"
"Nothing," she said grimly, but in the back of her mind she thought
she heard laughter, a deep laughter that mocked her from the darkness.
========================================================================
Talisman Nine
Part 6
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Sy 24 - Seber 4, 1013
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-7
Rhonwn was jolted awake by a kick to his foot. Pain coursed through
him, but he was used to it. He had lived with a broken leg for the past
month and at times he felt the pain in his sleep. He didn't cry out
because his healthy leg had been the one kicked; by that he knew that
Flane had launched the blow.
Rhonwn opened his eyes and looked around the camp of Lacsil and the
Bloody Hand of Sageeza. It was a warm night near the end of summer but
there was a large fire burning in the center of the clearing. The night
was dark, made darker by the moon in its new phase, but light wasn't the
only thing the fire provided: it was also a source of comfort.
He knew that these men needed that comfort more than the food it
cooked or the light it provided. They were in the middle of the woods,
far from their homes and far from what they called civilization. They
only had each other, their fire, and the maps. And a gypsy map reader
that each and every one of them despised.
Rhonwn looked at Flane then. The man had a plain face, brown hair,
and an ear whose top had been removed by a sharp edge of some kind. He
held a bowl in one hand, a scroll tube in the other, and had the same
scowl on his face that he always had when it was his turn to feed the
prisoner.
Rhonwn the despised gypsy prisoner said, "Hello, Flane. Nice night,
isn't it?" He didn't extend a hand to shake, or rise from leaning
against the tree at his back. The reason wasn't rudeness; he simply
couldn't do either of those things. After the escape attempt that had
earned him his broken leg, Rhonwn had been trussed up like a pork loin
except when absolutely necessary. Aside from the debilitating pain of
his broken leg, which had been immobilized but not set properly, the
gypsy had been wrapped in rope to secure his arms to his sides, with a
loop linking his wrists to his neck. His good leg was bent double and
circled by rope as well. As a final precaution, short loops were staked
to the ground and attached to his other bonds to prevent him from
rolling away into the woods or some other impossibility.
Flane actually answered Rhonwn's question, saying, "Passable." The
man knelt next to the gypsy and made himself comfortable. The waxed
leather tube was set to one side and Flane took hold of the spoon in the
bowl to feed the prisoner.
Rhonwn swallowed the first spoonful, grateful that it had all gone
into his mouth. The soup was thin and tasteless but it was better than
nothing. In an effort to distract himself from the ignominy of being fed
like an infant he said, "You don't treat me as badly as some of the
others, Flane, but I know you don't like me any better. Why?"
"You may be scum, gypsy," said Flane as he spooned more soup into
Rhonwn's mouth, "but that's all. I might treat my worst enemy like a
diseased dog, but you're not worth the effort."
Rhonwn was surprised by being answered as much as by what that
answer was. For the past three fortnights he had been talked at but
never listened to unless it concerned the trail or the maps that his
father Bobere had made to supplement his faulty memory. Perhaps he
should have tried talking to Flane earlier.
"That's an interesting point, Flane, if not a flattering one," said
Rhonwn. "If you don't mind my asking, why are you part of the Bloody
Hand? If it's too much trouble to torment me, why throw in with a group
that wants to destroy all gypsies?"
Half of the bowl was fed to Rhonwn in silence before Flane answered
that question. He finally said, "Because you don't follow the rules."
More silence followed, and Rhonwn thought he wasn't going to get
anything more, but eventually Flane did continue. "You gypsies ...
you're too different. You move around the kingdom, never staying in one
place long, never suffering the consequences. You know about Lacsil,
right? How he lost his right thumb because he was blamed for gypsy
mischief? Well everyone here has a similar tale. And it's all down to
consequences. We just want to give you what you deserve."
Four more spoonfuls of the tasteless soup later, Rhonwn finally
asked, "What's your story?" His eyes strayed to the man's cut ear.
"My sister," said Flane without a pause, and Rhonwn's gaze snapped
back to Flane's face in surprise. "She was happily married until a gypsy
seduced her. Wouldn't have been more than a brief storm in her
relationship if she hadn't had a baby."
Rhonwn's own romantic escapades made him feel a little guilt at
Flane's story, but he had to interject at the last bit. "We try our best
not to leave children among you. Draughts, sheathes, even charms. How
are you sure the child was not her husband's?"
"That was the problem, you see," Flane said, his eyes on the bowl
in his hand. "Ahleen and Imaad, my sister and brother-in-law, were both
blond and fair-skinned, while the baby, Weerit, was black-haired and
somewhat dusky. But he looked like his mother, and his father's family
had its share of dark hair. And yet, there was the matter of the
dalliance which cast doubt on everything. Maybe the child was Imaad's
but no one could tell for sure. He left Ahleen, said he couldn't take
the talk. Ahleen killed herself in shame.
"Consequences, gypsy. Consequences."
Guilt flared up again, even as Rhonwn tried to blame the stranger's
death on the ridiculous morals of the rooted-folk. Then he recalled that
the expedition he was now an unwilling part of had been enabled by a
liaison of his own. A young woman in Beeikar, somewhat plain but
pleasing in bed, had expected more of him than one night of pleasure. He
had neatly avoided contact with her without thought to her feelings. The
consequences of letting slip the secret of his father's maps to her,
combined with the consequences of ignoring her, were obvious; she had
been well motivated to reveal that secret to the Bloody Hand of Sageeza.
How many people had he left in similar circumstances, but without
the power to strike back at him? Certainly many of his dalliances knew
the nature of his attentions and wanted no more, but he had left lovers
like Merilee behind him in the past: lonely, shy, plain, freshly
de-flowered. His only thought had been for his own pleasure, his
conscience salved by meaningless congratulations at bringing happiness
to otherwise unhappy folk. Maybe he should have started thinking beyond
the simple consequences of his own dalliances much earlier.
He ignored the next spoonful of soup, pondering consequences. Flane
said, "I'm not allowed to return with anything in this bowl. Either it
goes in you, or on you. Your choice."
Rhonwn looked up at Flane, and opened his mouth. He looked past his
temporary servant as he swallowed, and caught sight of something on the
underside of the branch over his head that didn't belong. He focused on
it and discovered that it was a Rhydd Pobl trail blaze: the symbol for
attention.
While he ate the last few spoonfuls of soup, he scanned the part of
the campsite he could see. He found the signs almost everywhere he
looked: green leaves tucked into flaps of bark, sticks piled over acorns
and honey locust pods in specific ways, feathers sticking out of pine
tar stuck under the branch of a maple tree. He counted a dozen intact
blazes, and a score more that had been disarrayed by unaware feet. Each
one contained the same information in its abbreviated trail code: ten
people in four bans, or gypsy wagons, were on his trail, no more than
five days to the south. The scouts who must have left the blazes
couldn't be more detailed, but Rhonwn knew his people wouldn't be
following unless they knew about Lacsil and his mission, which was very
good news indeed.
Flane had set the soup bowl aside and was drawing a map out of the
scroll tube. He spread it out in front of Rhonwn and said, sweeping his
hand across the chart, "What are those red marks?"
Rhonwn knew what Flane was asking about without even looking at the
map. He glanced at it anyway, noting the scattering of red dots all
across the parchment. They represented angwleriddan, areas of strange,
intermittent, usually dangerous, magic that were found only in this area
of the forest.
"They're former campsites, that's all," he lied. "As you can see,
this map doesn't have a single village marked on it. We wanted to be
sure we knew where the best campsites were since there isn't anywhere
else to stay."
Flane said, "Fine. Which way do we go tomorrow?"
Rhonwn gazed at the map, glad that none of these men were the type
to bother learning even the rudiments of the Rhydd Pobl language or they
would know that the rune next to each red dot meant danger. He said,
"Same as yesterday. Tench is still to the east, and the next time we
need to switch trails isn't for two days."
"I'll let Lacsil know," said Flane as he rose and walked away.
Rhonwn closed his eyes and rested his head against the tree behind
him. He reviewed the nearby trails in his mind with his new knowledge
that Lacsil was being pursued uppermost in his thoughts. He plotted the
best way to steer the Bloody Hand's minions into the arms of his own
people.
"We shouldn't have left her!"
The five people who remained in Bresk's Band rode single-file along
a narrow dirt path between trees that pressed too close. The man who had
spoken, tall, broad-shouldered, brown-haired, led the group with a scowl
on his face.
"We had no choice, Bresk," said the man at the back of the line,
who was black-haired and had a scar in the middle of his left eyebrow.
"Meelia was surely killed in that cave-in. We all miss her, but she's
gone. And we have business in Dargon that we might as well be about."
"But you don't know she was dead, Voesh," said Bresk. "She might
have survived for the past three days behind those rocks." He twisted
his body around and looked back at the others. "Why couldn't we have
spared a bell to try to dig her out? What is so pressing about this
quest of yours that we had to leave not knowing?"
The question hadn't been asked before, but Voesh was ready with an
answer. "We were being followed, Bresk. We needed to get away. I heard
rumors as we were preparing to ride out to the canyon, rumors of another
group who were also hunting after the Margre Chalisento."
"That's nonsense, Voesh!" the man in the lead shouted. "You just
didn't want to get your hands dirty. We've been looking for this
legendary Margre for five years, but we've known Meelia for twelve. We
shouldn't have abandoned her without even looking!"
Bresk twisted forward again and flicked his reins. His horse began
to trot toward the curve in the path about two score paces away, gaining
distance on the four behind.
The rider next in line after Bresk, a beautiful woman with short
white hair and an aristocratic bearing, had been looking thoughtful
since before the group's leader's outburst. She said, "Does anyone else
think there was something ... odd ... about that fallen tree that
diverted us onto this path? I mean, what could have knocked it down? It
seems like we haven't had any rainstorms all summer, and the dirt on its
roots looked fresh."
"Are you sure, Yera?" asked the wiry, blond man riding behind her.
"I didn't notice that."
Yerianolya said icily, "Yes, Joal, I'm sure, else I wouldn't have
said it. Now what --?"
She was interrupted by a scream from up ahead. All four looked up
the path to find that Bresk was no longer to be seen. The screaming
didn't stop either, and it was the unmistakable sound of a horse in
agony.
Yerianolya and Joal spurred their horses on and dashed ahead. The
man riding in front of Voesh, large-bodied and dark-haired, turned for a
moment to ask a question. Voesh spoke first, saying, "We should get
after them, Shan. I think Yera might have been right about --"
He didn't get the chance to finish; at that moment, three figures
appeared out of the woods. Two came from the sides of the path, darting
out between the two horses. The third dropped off of a branch that Voesh
was riding under, landing behind the black-haired man and reaching for
his neck.
The sudden movement and the slamming of weight on his haunches made
Voesh's horse rear up and flail with his front hooves. Voesh and the
attacker tumbled off and, landing very badly, neither moved again. The
horse's hooves impacted the head of one of the other newcomers, and that
man fell too, unmoving.
Shan, still ahorse, drew his sword. All of the members of Bresk's
Band were armed, though some were better with those armaments than
others. Shan was the worst swordsman among them, but he had the
advantage of height and an ironic surprise. The last attacker,
astonished at how quickly he was alone in his banditry, was easily run
through.
Shan tried to gain control of Voesh's frightened and bolting horse,
but he missed. He dismounted and made sure that the three bandits were
dead. Then he knelt beside Voesh, who had a broken neck like his
assailant. The dark man was motionless for a few moments, listening to
the screaming from around the bend that suddenly stopped. Then, moving
stiffly, he bent forward and reached into Voesh's robe. He found what he
was searching for, and when he touched it, his whole body convulsed
briefly. A moment later, he withdrew three items from the man's body: an
old book with a blue cover, a small rock, and a stone cup. He reached
for Voesh's hand and removed a silver ring with a blue-grey stone from
his finger.
Standing, Shan stashed his discoveries in his belt pouch and got
back up onto his horse. He sat for a moment, and then, kicking his horse
into a trot, he rode around the bend, putting a look of fear onto his
face. He found Yera and Joal standing next to Bresk's dead horse. Bresk
himself was lying limply against a nearby tree.
Shan said breathlessly, "Bandits attacked us. We killed the three
of them, but Voesh died in the ambush. I was checking his body when I
heard hoofbeats from around the other bend. We need to get out of here,
now!"
Joal said, "But, what about the bodies? What about Bresk? His horse
broke its leg on these ruts the bandits must have dug, throwing him into
that tree. We don't have a leader now without Voesh either."
"We can decide who leads later, Joal," Shan said, frowning. "Those
robbers aren't going to give us time to vote right now. Let's go!"
Yera and Joal hurried into their saddles, the latter staring in
concern at Shan's frown. He said, "Wait, Shan. When did you get a scar
in the middle of your left eyebrow? It looks just like Voesh's."
"Ride," said Shan, ignoring Joal's question. The three galloped
away, Joal hesitating slightly, leaving the bodies behind.
"As soon as we knew Rhonwn was alive, we started leaving signs for
him," said Leedlan. Ganba of the Rhydd Pobl was receiving the young
man's scouting report while the bantor, or wagon group, she led rolled
down the road toward her target: Lacsil and some members of the Bloody
Hand of Sageeza.
"At first, we only left one or two, hoping he would see them,"
Leedlan continued. "We soon realized that the men with Lacsil have no
woodcraft whatsoever. They never even noticed the blazes, so we started
leaving them all over the most likely campsites they might use. Finally,
six days ago, Rhonwn contrived to leave us an answer that let us know he
had seen our messages."
"That's good news, Leedlan," said Ganba. "How far ahead are they
now?"
"Two days, three at most. It seems as though Rhonwn has begun
leading them slightly astray; they're no longer heading due east, but
slightly north, even though eastern paths exist. I think he's trying to
slow them down."
"He may well be," Ganba mused, "but he doesn't have very much
leeway. They are, after all, following maps. Still, whatever he can do
will only help. Thank you for the news, Leedlan. Replenish your supplies
and get back out there."
The young man grinned, nodded, and rode off. Ganba turned to
Yawrab, who was sitting next to her on the driving bench of the wagon.
She told the middle-aged, non-gypsy passenger with the mismatched eyes,
"We are gaining steadily. It won't be much longer before we catch
Lacsil."
"And then?" asked Yawrab.
"And then we eliminate the threat." Ganba didn't relish that
thought, but Lacsil and his men had attacked her uncle, Bobere, and his
son, Rhonwn. Bobere had died; Rhonwn had been taken captive. From what
her scouts had reported, Rhonwn was not being unduly mistreated, though
he was wearing a splint on his leg.
Beyond her personal feelings, there was the threat that Lacsil
posed to the annual gathering of her people at Eariaddas Hwl. Bobere had
reported before he died that Lacsil and the Bloody Hand of Sageeza
intended to attack that gathering with as many of their followers as
they could muster. The maps that Lacsil had in his possession made the
threat a real possibility.
The bantor passed the rest of the day as routinely as it had the
last month and more. They reached a suitable campsite just before
sunset. Ganba called the bantor to a halt instead of pressing on into
the evening as they had for the past fortnight, a practice that, along
with early morning departures and well-chosen trails, had helped close
the distance to Lacsil. She had planned an early halt even before
Leedlan's news of how close Lacsil was; it was the autumnal equinox and
the gypsies would be celebrating the change of seasons that night.
Long practice had the camp set up quickly, and soon the evening
meal had been cooked and consumed. As the stars appeared and the moon,
nearing its first quarter, rose, musical instruments were brought out.
Skirling pipes and pounding drums soon filled the clearing with wild
gypsy music.
Ganba joined her fellow travelers as they danced in
celebration of summer and anticipation of autumn.
Gypsy dancing didn't have set steps or even partners. The dancers
moved their arms, legs, and bodies to the beat of the drums and the
rhythm of the music. Ganba let herself be moved by the sounds that
surrounded her and wondered how anyone could think that anything else
was truly dancing. She knew that dancing among Yawrab's people was more
formal and ritualized, but she had heard that some of the young folk of
Baranur had taken to dancing like gypsies, calling it 'dervish dancing'
to separate it from its origins.
Ganba danced briefly with everyone, including her brothers and
Ruthodd. When she danced with Yawrab, the Baranurian woman grinned and
gyrated like a born gypsy. Ganba noticed that she was being flirted with
as well, which she found very encouraging.
The leader of the bantor soon separated herself from the
celebration and sat by the fire. She watched the revelers, keeping an
eye on both her brother Hiranw and Yawrab. As she had suspected, the
pair seemed to be more friends than the lovers they had been. Hiranw
spent a fair amount of time dancing around Lewro, the only other woman
in the bantor, while Yawrab spread her attentions around equally. Ganba
was pleased to see how uninhibited Yawrab was acting; it was a huge
change from the dour, serious woman whom she had first met.
She watched as Yawrab excused herself and came over to the fire.
Yawrab said, "You gypsies certainly know how to celebrate!" As the woman
settled into one of the sling chairs next to Ganba, the gypsy made up
her mind to act.
Ganba reached over and set her hand on Yawrab's shoulder. Leaning
close, she put her other hand on Yawrab's knee and said, "It is a night
of endings and beginnings, and we always celebrate such." She slid her
hand up Yawrab's leg slightly, watching her face and smiling when she
didn't react negatively to the motion. Ganba continued, "Beginnings more
than endings, usually," and leaned closer, sliding the hand on Yawrab's
shoulder around to the back of her neck. She began moving her fingers in
a slow circle, caressing the bare skin, slightly sweat-slick and warm.
Yawrab's eyelids closed halfway as a look of pleasure came over her
face, and Ganba smiled wider.
Leaning even closer, whispering breathily into Yawrab's ear, Ganba
said, "I was wondering whether you might like to celebrate a beginning
tomorrow?" She slid her hand on Yawrab's leg back to her knee, cupping
the joint and then running her hand down Yawrab's shin. Her fingers
still moving on Yawrab's neck, she said softly, "In my bed?"
Yawrab turned her head so that they were nose to nose. She said,
"That would be ..." She tilted her head slightly to the side and moved
closer, and continued, "... perfect."
Ganba felt their lips touch, and she knew it would be.
Aldan and Nakaz came upon the bodies three days after leaving the
cave-in site. Aldan recognized one of the four corpses that were
scattered across the path as Voesh, the man who had visited his and
Nakaz' table four nights previously. The other three were roughly
dressed, with unkempt hair and scraggly beards.
Nakaz dismounted and examined the bodies. "I'd say they died
sometime today," he said. "Bandit attack. There's something different
about Voesh, though." Aldan didn't notice anything different. He watched
as the bard searched all four bodies and then remounted, shaking his
head.
"Whoever killed these four, they were in a hurry to leave. No one
has been stripped, save that Voesh is not carrying the book or any other
artifact, not even the silver ring. I wonder why they felt they had to
leave without burying their companion?"
Aldan frowned as he followed Nakaz along the path, worrying at the
new mystery. They were on the trail of a group of people who were trying
to resurrect an ancient evil called the Margre Chalisento. Thanks to the
bard's tracking skills, he and Nakaz had been able to follow them, but
that was all they could do. Nakaz' maps didn't show the trails they now
followed and the dense trees meant that they couldn't travel very long
after dark to try to close the gap.
Aldan didn't begrudge the detour. Though it was taking him away
from his primary goal of reaching the city of Dargon, he knew that it
was important to stop these people: more important than his own need to
locate the men he was following.
They rounded a bend and found two more bodies, a man and a horse,
along with ruts cut across the path. Nakaz checked quickly and reported,
"The horse was lamed by the ruts, probably throwing the rider. The curse
Meelia mentioned seems to be taking its toll."
Nakaz was soon moving forward again, and Aldan followed silently.
He felt useless in the chase, since he couldn't track and had no more
knowledge of the paths in the area than Nakaz did, but he wanted to find
the people who had so casually left their companions behind almost as
much as he wanted to find those who had murdered his bride-to-be.
Two days later, the pair were riding along as fast as they dared
when Aldan heard a strange noise to the south of the trail. It sounded
like running water, but not quite like a river: more like a hard rain
even though the sky was clear.
In moments a southward path came into view and with it, the source
of the sound. The path only extended for a few paces before it vanished
into an area of roiling grey, like a cloud that touched the ground. This
area extended to either side of the path and upwards for a short
distance before curving away at maybe three man-heights.
Aldan turned down the path and approached the strange, grey area.
As he got closer, he saw that it seemed to be raining within the limits
of that region: a downpour fit to drown an ox. There was no runoff,
however; all of the water stayed inside. A few dead trees stood in the
rain, little more than rotted stumps. Nothing else besides mud and water
seemed to exist within.
Aldan rode right up to the edge of the region, fascinated by the
aberration of nature. He watched the rain as it pounded down, splashing
off of the dead trees and the standing water. He was reaching toward the
edge of the area when he heard the word, "Magic," right next to him. He
started violently, making Firesocks fidget, and looked over to see
Nakaz, who had ridden up beside him. The bard continued, "Ancient,
strange magic."
Blushing from being startled so badly, Aldan turned away. He stared
at the unnatural rain for a moment before asking, "What kind?"
"I don't know. No one does. The vaults of the College of Bards
contain the answers to a great many mysteries and legends, like the
Margre, but the origins of these magical loci are not recorded there."
Nakaz turned to go back to the main path. "People have studied
them, written books full of theories. I've even heard of an unsuccessful
attempt to recreate one. So far, they remain utterly unexplained."
Aldan continued staring for a time, before eventually following the
bard. He realized that of all of the new experiences he had had since
leaving his father's keep, this was the weirdest. He grinned, wondering
if he would get to see any more of these loci.
Two nights later, the pair made camp a bell after sunset. Thinning
trees and a waxing moon almost to its first quarter provided enough
light for that much extra travel. When dinner had been prepared, eaten,
and cleaned up, Aldan sat comfortably by the fire listening to Nakaz
play his lute.
After a particularly sprightly tune, the bard said, "Do you know
what day this is?"
Aldan thought carefully, trying to count, but found that he had
lost track some time ago. "I've got no idea, Nakaz. Why?"
"Because it's the 30th of Sy, the autumnal equinox. Last day of
summer."
"You're not serious, are you?" asked Aldan incredulously. "You
mean, I've been chasing the Menagerie for half a season?"
"The Menagerie?" asked Nakaz.
"Ah, never mind," Aldan said, flustered. "So, um, do bards
celebrate the seasons in any special way?" He looked away from Nakaz'
penetrating stare.
The bard said, "No, not really. But in Bivar, where I was born, we
have a tradition of bonfire jumping, for luck, you know, and the
traditional king of summer festivities. Nothing very unique, really. How
about your home?"
"Bindrmon isn't much different from the rest of Welspeare," said
Aldan. "We have a large harvest celebration, even though harvest doesn't
really begin for a fortnight or more. There are rites to propitiate the
gods of growth and the weather, intended to earn a good harvest before
the fact. Lots of food and dancing, but no bonfire jumping. I've heard
they do that down south, though."
Halfway through Aldan's reply, Nakaz stopped plucking his lute and
stood. Aldan watched the bard fetch something from his saddlebags and
return to the fire with it. Setting it between them, Nakaz returned to
his playing.
Aldan looked at the item curiously. It was a wedge-shaped fragment
of something larger, perhaps a third of the plate-like original, judging
by the curve of the outer edge. The stone of the base was topped by
interwoven strands of silver and gold metal and what seemed like glass.
On the outer edge of the piece were relief carvings of a stylized cat
and fox facing each other.
Aldan said, "What is this?" as he reached out to run his fingers
along the glass band.
"A memory," Nakaz answered. "A memento. It belonged to Shorel; when
she died, I took it to remind myself of her."
Aldan started to ask about Shorel, but before he could voice his
question, Nakaz stopped playing and reached for the sculpture. He
touched the iron banding, and Aldan felt the strangest sensation vibrate
into his fingers where they rested on the glass strip. Aldan heard music
through his skin where it rested on the fragment, but even stranger was
that he could feel the sound entering Nakaz' arm as well. The notes were
wild and strange, like no song he had ever heard before, and they seemed
to flow up his arm and into his body, filling him with an ethereal
melody.
As the music filled him, he felt it fill Nakaz as well. It was as
if he rode with the notes, occupying space within the bard along with
the music. It wasn't until the melody entered the bard's head that he
realized that Nakaz was within him as he was within Nakaz.
The song reached its crescendo and Aldan felt his mind merge with
Nakaz'. He knew the way it felt to make music; he understood the
knowledge that Nakaz had absorbed in his studies and his travels; he
grasped how Shorel's death had left the bard feeling sad but not
heartbroken.
The melody ended and the connection broke. Aldan lifted his hand
from the sculpture in awe; he knew that the stone fragment was much more
than just a broken decoration. He also knew that Nakaz was more than
just his guide to Dargon. He felt more complete than he ever had in the
past, but he knew that there was still something missing: something or
someone he still had to search for. He knew that Nakaz felt the same
need, and he knew that he wouldn't be searching alone.
"That way leads north, and that's where we should go!"
"The path is too narrow, Joal," said Yera, "and I don't think I
like the look of that clearing. We should continue west until we find a
better path."
"Shan, you decide. You're the one in such a hurry to get to Dargon
after all." Joal scowled petulantly as he eyed his lover, who had been
acting very strangely since the death of Voesh five days past.
"I agree with Yera," said Shan. "There's something strange about
that trail."
"Are you kidding? I mean, it leads north and we want to go north.
Why go around? Look, there's nothing odd about that clearing at all.
See?" Joal started to ride along the narrow path, heading for a very
bare clearing several paces away from the main path.
"Wait!" called Yera. "Stop, Joal! Look closely: there's nothing at
all in that clearing, not a stray tree, no grass or flowers, no animals
at the edges. Just bare dirt."
Joal didn't register Yera's comments until he had already ridden
his horse into the clearing. He looked around and realized that she was
right; nothing encroached on the circular area of the clearing at all,
and that did seem very unnatural. His horse pawed at the ground
uneasily, raising a low cloud of dust, far more than even the very dry
trails they had been riding had produced.
An eerie sensation rippled up Joal's spine, and he felt the hairs
on the back of his neck stir. This clearing was wrong, and he needed to
get out of it. A flicker of motion behind him made him turn in the
saddle, and he saw a little plume of dust fountaining up from the center
of the clearing. The plume sank back down, and a ripple darted out to
the edge of the area forming a line. The ripple started to move,
sweeping around like Shan using a compass to scribe a circle in one of
his illuminations. The ripple passed under him and he shuddered as every
hair on his body lifted and fell again.
Joal shook himself when the sensation had passed, and gathered up
the reins of his horse. He kicked at its flanks, ready to quit the
strangeness, but before the horse could react, a shivaree howled out of
the brush at the edge of the clearing right at him. The large,
weasel-like predator leapt at the horse, causing it to rear. Joal tried
to hang on, but the best he could do was control his slide from his
mount's back. He ended up on his back, but the fall hadn't hurt.
The ripple had circled around again and it swept over Joal as he
lay in the dust. This time the uncanny sensation as it passed lasted
longer than before. He climbed to his feet and backed away from the
still battling shivaree and horse. He got his bearings, helped by Yera's
frantic shouting, and started towards his companions.
The ripple passed Joal again, but this time the weird feeling
didn't stop. He continued running, but when he got to the edge of the
circle, he ran into something he couldn't see. He hadn't been moving
fast enough to hurt himself. He tried to exit the clearing again and
again, but he couldn't move past the edge of the empty space. He looked
to Yera and Shan, but they didn't seem to be moving at all, though there
was a concerned look on Yera's face.
The sounds behind him changed from two animals fighting to fright
and then silence. He turned around and saw the two combatants standing
next to each other, shivering. The horse's ribs were showing beneath a
sway back, and the shivaree's fur seemed to be falling out in clumps.
The horse's mane and tail grew long and shaggy, and its knees grew all
knobby as its fetlocks seemed to shrink. The shivaree got thinner and
thinner under its mangy fur, its eyes rolling in fear.
Joal watched, sickly fascinated, as the two animals became more and
more gaunt, bones showing under shrinking skin. As he stared, he felt a
tickling at his ears and his neck. He brushed absently at the sensation,
and noticed that he was flicking hair around that was far longer than it
should have been. He looked at his hands and gasped to see his nails
curling well beyond the tips of his fingers.
Joal's hair grew down over his eyes just as he noticed the shivaree
fall over dead, its corpse shrinking in on itself, looking mummified
before the decay continued. He panicked and curled his hands into fists,
wild nails cutting into his wrists, and hammered on the solid air in a
frantic bid to escape. Before he could bruise himself futilely, he felt
his elbows and knees begin to ache, and a gnawing hunger in his middle.
He fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around his stomach, and thought
he felt his spine creak in the process. He was trapped and he was dying,
and he didn't even know why!
His horse died next, whickering out its last breath and falling to
its side next to the bones of the shivaree. Joal began to crawl toward
the corpses, confused, his vision beginning to cloud and his gums
hurting abominably. His arms grew suddenly weak and, with a sob, he
collapsed into the dust. He levered himself back up and turned to look
at his companions, still frozen on the outside of the circle. He held up
an imploring hand that looked like sticks inside a thin glove, and
called out, "Help! Shan, help me!" He heard his voice weaken and crack
even across those few words.
Yera watched, horrified, as Joal aged before her eyes. His hair
grew long, as did his fingernails, while his face and body grew gaunt.
She slid down from her horse and ran over to the area, but she had no
more success trying to get into the circle than Joal in trying to get
out. She watched him collapse to his knees as his skin seemed to shrink
around his bones. When he fell over, he was no more than a withered
skeleton, sunken lids covering eyes that could no longer see.
Yera backed away from the magic circle, a scream struggling to
escape from her throat. Eyes wide, she turned and looked at Shan, Joal's
lover, but the large man was just staring stone-faced. He blinked
slowly, then turned away from the sick spectacle to look at Yera.
"We go west," he said, and started in that direction. Yera stared
after him and shook her head. She debated turning around and going back
to Valdasly and finding work at an inn. This quest was too strange and
too costly. Four of her companions were dead, and the one she had left
wasn't acting like himself at all. Furthermore, these woods were
dangerous, what with the bandits and the strange magic that had killed
Joal. Nothing was worth this. Eventually, she started after Shan, still
pondering.
Later that afternoon, Yera still hadn't decided whether to leave or
stay. Suddenly, she heard hoofbeats at a gallop behind her. She turned
in her saddle and saw two men ride into view. One was blond and wore the
trappings of a bard; the other was brown-haired and seemed fit. She
looked closer and realized that they were the pair she and Voesh had
petitioned for help back in Valdasly. The bard called out, "Stop! We
know your purpose and you must abandon your quest for the Margre
Chalisento!"
Shan's eyes narrowed, and he cursed. "We need to split up," he
said. "Go!" He spurred his horse to a gallop and sped away.
Yera cursed in turn, at her luck and at Shan. For all that she had
been contemplating desertion, she was angry that she had just been
abandoned; there was no way that she and Shan could meet up again unless
it was in Dargon itself.
The bard and his friend were still behind her. Yera kicked her
horse's flanks, urging it to follow Shan. She took the first side path
that presented itself, and the next one after. She looked behind her to
check the pursuit, and when she turned forward again, she was just in
time to see the low tree bough that knocked her from her horse and into
the next life.
Shan rode hard, his former companions, even his lover, forgotten.
He had a quest, and now it was his alone to fulfill. He rode with little
care for his ultimate heading, only that it be away from his pursuers.
He needed to get to Dargon, but the Margre was in no hurry and at the
moment his freedom was more important.
Shan continued his random direction changes, knowing that at least
for a time the bard and his friend would be too busy trying to catch up
with him quickly to take the time to actually follow his tracks. He
hoped that his flight would throw them off completely; at the very
least, he was gaining ground on them with every mene he ran.
He made a late, cold camp that night and slept uneasily. The next
morning Shan set out early, somewhat more confident but still sticking
to no set direction. Just after midday, he unexpectedly came upon a
group of travelers. They had one wagon and a number of riders, and the
man driving the wagon was dressed all in green.
One of the riders came up to him and said, "Greetings, traveler.
Who are you and what are you doing here?"
"My name is Shan. I am looking for the way north to Dargon. I lost
my guide four days ago and have been wandering ever since."
The rider looked over to the man in green, who nodded. "I'm sorry
for your loss. We can't turn away a man in distress. I'm Flane. We're
journeying to Tench and you're welcome to go with us that far. I'm sure
you can find your way from there."
"My thanks, Flane. I humbly accept your hospitality."
Shan had no idea who these people might be. They didn't act like
traders, or players, or any kind of casual travelers he could think of.
They kept to themselves and seemed fairly grim. He knew that there was
someone inside the wagon from the occasional groan he heard from there,
but that didn't tell him anything helpful about them either.
Fortunately, he didn't much care who they were. They would provide a
buffer between himself and his own pursuers as well as additional
security on the trail.
Flane stayed beside Shan as the augmented group continued on their
way. He was as dour as his fellows but Shan wasn't in the mood for
conversation anyway. The silence continued for bell after bell, until
shortly before sunset, as the shadows of the trees stretched long across
the path, that silence was shattered.
Ten strangers on horseback burst out of the trees all along the
path, crying out in a strange language. Waving clubs and swords, they
laid into the travelers. Shan saw two ride up to the back of the wagon
and disappear inside. Moments later they returned with a third man, well
trussed up, between them. One of them took the bound man and rode away;
the other joined his fellows in their assault.
Shan heard Flane mutter, "Filthy gypsies!" as the man drew his
sword and chased after the dark-haired attackers. Shan took the
opportunity to veer away from the confrontation, slipping between the
trees carefully, searching for a path away.
Flane saw his new riding companion dodge into the trees, and saw
one of the gypsies follow the man. He followed in turn, sword at the
ready. He wasn't in time to save the stranger from a club to the back of
the head, and he also managed to miss running through the gypsy who
dealt that blow. The gypsy rode back toward the fray. Flane thought to
follow, but suddenly he got the idea to search the dead stranger. He
worried when he could think of no reason for this notion as the man
hadn't exhibited any signs of wealth, but his concerns soon vanished
from his mind.
When he found the artifacts that the body was carrying, a new
purpose found him. Gathering the stone, the cup, the book, and the ring
to him, he remounted and started riding north. He forgot about the
Bloody Hand of Sageeza and his hatred of gypsies. Flane needed to get to
Dargon, for the Margre Chalisento was calling him there.
Lacsil watched as one after another of his men was cut or clubbed
down by the attacking gypsies. He should have anticipated pursuit and
set scouts, but he had been too proud, too certain that no one knew of
his mission: the mission that wouldn't succeed now.
His eyes rested on the scroll tube at his side, and he realized
that there was still a chance. Grabbing it, he leapt from the wagon,
cornered a riderless horse, and propelled himself into the saddle.
Taking up the reins and ignoring the blood on them, he spurred the horse
to a gallop and rode away from the carnage.
The path twisted one way, and then another. It was getting hard to
see in the gloom of twilight, but suddenly there was light ahead. He
steered toward it, hoping it would be help. He galloped around a tight
bend and saw a wall of flickering yellow and red in front of him. He
didn't even know what it was until he felt the warmth, like a small
fire. As he neared it, he saw little motes of color, bright bits of
flame that danced through the air like a strange reversal of snow.
He never realized the danger until it was too late; it was too
beautiful, and it didn't radiate nearly the heat it should have. But
once he crossed the boundary, his scream was brief as the fire consumed
him, his horse, and the maps. A new bit of flame joined the others
bobbing through the air.
Yawrab had ridden with her gypsy friends against the Bloody Hand of
Sageeza's men, but she hadn't participated in the ensuing carnage. Her
help hadn't been required, either, for which she was grateful.
Shortly after sunset, she sat on horseback beside Ganba as the
results of the raid were given. "We can account for all but one of the
Bloody Hand," said Ruthodd. "There are the right number of bodies, but
one is a stranger dressed in a scribe's robe. No one knows when he
joined the group, but he wasn't at last night's camp."
Ganba said, "You're sure Lacsil was not the one who escaped, yes?"
Hiranw answered for Ruthodd. "I saw the man in green myself, and he
was carrying a tube in his free hand. He rode into an angwleridd, a
magic area, of fire. The eldritch flame faded soon after, leaving only
ash within. He couldn't have survived long enough to ride through it."
"The maps aren't here either," said Ganba, "but it stands to reason
that Lacsil would have had them with him, so they must have been in that
tube. I would say that we have succeeded in our mission. Without the
maps, a single fugitive isn't going to pose any more of a problem than
the Bloody Hand ever has."
"Then we should head for Eariaddas Hwl and the gathering,"
suggested Ruthodd. "We're not very far away, after all."
"I agree. Hiranw, you and Lewro remain here long enough to see the
bodies taken care of; you can catch us up later." Ganba then turned to
Yawrab and said, "Do you mind a detour? I did promise to get you to
Dargon."
Yawrab said, "I think I would like to see more of your gypsy
celebrations, Ganba. Also, I think that as Aldan has fled to Dargon to
hide, he intends to remain there for some time. We can search for him
after the festival." And she was looking forward to the additional time
with the gypsy leader.
As soon as Nakaz saw the pair on the road before him, he called
out, "Stop! We know your purpose and you must abandon your quest for the
Margre Chalisento." The large man in brown robes said something to the
woman with white hair whom Nakaz recognized as Yera, and galloped off.
The woman scowled, waited a moment, and then followed.
Nakaz urged Riesta to even greater speed, hoping that Firesocks and
Aldan could keep up. He followed the path the other two had taken. He
rounded two quick bends, but when the path straightened out again,
neither rider was in sight. He glanced around and spotted a side path
breaking the green to the left. He grasped at the possibility and
galloped onto it. Hugging Riesta's neck to keep himself below the
overhanging branches, he navigated the twists and turns of the new path
at an unwise speed. He cleared a final bend and saw the path stretching
away in front of him with no sign of his quarry. A gust of wind drew his
attention to another side path, and he chose that route.
Nakaz reined Riesta in hard when he made the second turn, seeing
the limb and the body at the same time. Aldan came to a halt behind him
as he checked Yera's corpse, and then her horse, which had come trotting
back. Turning to his friend, Nakaz said, "She's dead, and she doesn't
have the artifacts. The man must have them, and he must have taken a
different turn from the last path."
Nakaz was soon back in the saddle and on the path. He rode
frantically, but couldn't catch sight of the man. Worse, he couldn't
find a single track either; he must have lost the man's trail somewhere.
He returned to Yera's body, and took his time searching for the
man's trace. Nakaz and Aldan followed it until it was too dark, and then
continued the next morning. Late that afternoon, he found where the
man's trail joined another group of travelers. In the middle of the next
morning, both trails ended at the site of some kind of conflict.
As Nakaz entered the area of the trail where the battle had taken
place, he encountered two Rhydd Pobl, a young man and woman, who were
carrying stones to a cairn just inside the woods on one side of the
path. "Hail, brethren," he called out in their language. "What happened
here?"
The man said, "Greetings, bard. Our bantor encountered a group of
followers of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza and defeated them."
"Were any of your people killed? That's a large cairn you are
working on."
"No, good bard, none of our own were more than slightly wounded."
Nakaz knew about the enmity between the Bloody Hand and the
gypsies, and wondered what event had gathered so many of the fanatics
together. Then he remembered the joining of trails, and asked, "Did you
notice the presence of a large man with dark hair, wearing robes, among
the dead?"
The woman said, "Yes, that one was killed, though perhaps by
accident. He wasn't with the Bloody Hand yesterday according to our
scouts and there are no towns or inns in this area. He was probably just
a lost traveler and not part of our conflict."
"Was he carrying anything odd? A rock, a stone cup, or a blue
book?"
"He carried nothing on his person, good bard, and his horse had
only food and clothes in its saddlebags."
"My thanks, brethren. Clear trails to you!" He turned and rode back
to Aldan, who was looking very bewildered. Nakaz said, "They are Rhydd
Pobl, gypsies, and they told me that our quarry was killed in the
conflict that happened here. But he wasn't carrying the artifacts or the
book. I wonder what happened to them?"
Aldan said, "Perhaps they are on their way to Dargon. Just like we
are."
Nakaz looked at Aldan and nodded. "Just like we are."
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