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DargonZine Volume 16 Issue 04
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 16
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 4
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DargonZine Distributed: 10/17/2003
Volume 16, Number 4 Circulation: 663
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
The Pirate Conclave Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 4-5, 1014
Our Secret Shore Nicholas Wansbutter Yuli, 1007
Mixed Results Jim Owens Firil 20, 1016
========================================================================
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 16-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright October, 2003 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@cox.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>
Not very often do we have the opportunity to bring you an issue
full of short stories that stand alone. Much more often, our writers
choose to write longer works whose multiple chapters span two or more
issues.
DargonZine usually requires that our writers split up any story
that exceeds 50,000 words. We imposed that limit about ten years ago,
during DargonZine's earlier days, at a point when 100,000-word stories
that filled an entire issue were common. After four such "single-story"
issues in quick succession, we learned that those issue-filling works
were ponderous and awkward for our readers. Instead, printing two or
three different stories at a time gave each issue more variety and made
them much more pleasant to read. We wanted to allow longer works,
because they give the author room to produce deeper and more interesting
storylines. Therefore, we decided that from then on exceedingly long
stories needed to be broken up and serialized.
However, splitting lengthy works into multi-volume sets can make
for disjointed reading. It can also frustrate new readers when their
first issue features part two of one storyline and part three of
another. For these reasons, we have tried to ensure that each part of a
longer series is able to stand on its own, having sufficient backfill to
bring even new readers up to speed on what has occurred in any previous
chapters.
Our writers' preferences unquestionably run to lengthier pieces,
and for the most part serialization has worked very well. However, our
issues are regularly filled with serialized stories, and that can get a
little tiresome if none of the stories in an issue reaches a climax or
conclusion.
However, about once per year we are able to schedule an issue
without any multi-part stories. I consider issues like this one, where
we have three standalone works, a rare treat. Our regular readers don't
have to try to recall the details of previous chapters; our new readers
can enjoy their first issue without feeling like they've come in partway
through a film; and every story reaches its conclusion, giving the whole
issue a satisfying sense of closure.
And we have some wonderful short works in this issue. We lead off
with the rarest of treats: a short story from our longtime master Dafydd
Cyhoeddwr. Dafydd is by far DargonZine's most prolific writer. His
motive when he joined the Dargon Project back in 1986 was to try his
hand at writing short stories, for even then his tendency was to write
voluminous works. Well, that experiment hasn't been terribly successful;
of the amazing fifty-four stories he has printed in our pages, only two
were not serialized, and both of those were still tied into his other
works, and appeared more than fifteen years ago! Therefore, I take great
pleasure in sharing with you the first standalone short story that
Dafydd has printed in decades, and the shortest of his three attempts.
Of course, those of you who are familiar with Dafydd's work will know
that he's not cured yet: his Talisman epic continues. Ironically, we
plan to make an exception to our own rule and next year we will devote
an entire issue to the final chapter in this 38-part saga.
Following Dafydd's story is another, very short piece by Nicholas
Wansbutter. In his five years with us, Nick has published four
serialized stories totaling nine chapters, but this, too, is his first
standalone story to appear in DargonZine. While Nick hasn't been with us
as long as Dafydd, it's still exciting to see each of our writers
expanding their boundaries and growing as writers.
Jim Owens, one of DargonZine's founders, provides this issue's
final piece. Unlike Dafydd and Nick, for whom this is new ground, Jim is
our undisputed master of the one-part story. In his many years with the
project, Jim has given us seventeen single-part stories and only two
serials. Jim's very active imagination fuels his writing, and you never
knows quite what you'll find inside one of his works, but it's
guaranteed to be delightfully unique and memorable.
As these dedicated writers will tell you, writing great short
stories is much more difficult than logic would lead you to believe. I
hope you enjoy this issue, because it's a very rare and special treat
for us to be able to print an issue with a collection of shorts from
these gentlemen, unquestionably some of our best writers.
========================================================================
The Pirate Conclave
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Yuli 4-5, 1014
The slap echoed through the noisy common room. The ensuing laughter
covered the thud of the woman's body hitting the floor.
Waaj winced in sympathy as the pirate named Bronak, dressed in
slovenly gaudery, disciplined Tora, the newest barmaid at Jo'nass'
Tavern. He sidled closer to his fellow employee as Bronak shouted, "When
I ask for spirits, I don't want ale! Got that, ya stupid slattern?"
The other pirates, who filled the room, went back to their raucous
activities, the amusement of Tora's humiliation being short lived, so
Waaj was the only one who saw the look of utter hatred on Tora's face as
she started to pick herself up. Bronak, still standing above her, wasn't
in position to notice the grimace. The chief pirate said, "Now, go get
me spirits, even if you have to break into the owner's stock. Or I'll
give you and Jo'nass more of the same!"
Waaj took Tora's arm and helped her gain her feet. He was surprised
at the strength he felt under the barmaid's sleeve; her arm was rock
hard and bulged with muscle. He looked at Tora with amazement and
wondered if maybe she had formerly worked for a blacksmith.
Once she was standing again, Tora shook off Waaj's arm firmly but
with a hasty smile of thanks and turned toward the back room. Waaj
mumbled placatingly, "Be right back, Captain Bronak, sir," before
following.
The heavy curtain dropped behind him and dulled the noise from the
common room of the tavern. Waaj found Tora searching harshly through the
cabinets, shoving jars aside and poking into piles of produce. He said,
"You won't find any private stock here, Tora. Jo'nass always said his
type of custom don't have the tongue for spirits."
Tora turned her furnace-hot glare on him, and he threw up his hands
in mock surrender. "I know, I know, Bronak won't lie down for that. I
can get some hard stuff, no trouble. Relak's bar's just a few blocks
away. He's gone now, and no one's been in there since, for true. Not
after he just vanished in front of our eyes ..."
Tora dropped her gaze to the floor as Waaj trailed off into
silence, remembering that singularly strange day three fortnights past.
The moment stretched awkwardly, and he was about to quietly leave when
Tora said, "At least they're finally all here."
"Who?" he asked.
Tora lifted her head and said, "The pirates. I heard Bronak say
that the last of his new captains just sailed in this afternoon, and now
his new fleet is all here. Now it can ... Er, well, now their occupation
of Port Andestn is complete. If they're gonna stay, they can't keep
acting like animals, right?"
Waaj nodded in agreement, and then remembered a question he had
been wanting to ask. "So, Tora, just what were you before you came to
Port Andestn?"
Tora looked at him with eyes gone suddenly doe-soft and wide.
"Serving tables and cleaning rooms, Waaj, just like you. Now, weren't
you going to go get some juice to make Bronak happy and keep me from
getting slapped again?"
When she looked like that, she was very pretty, and Waaj let
himself be seduced away from his question. He smiled at her, grabbed a
lantern, and left the tavern, determined to eventually find out just
where she had come from.
Waaj walked toward Relak's bar through the quiet, dark streets of
Port Andestn and thought about the way things used to be. It was only
the third bell of the night, but the city seemed deserted. That was not
how it once was. He wondered whether the city would ever recover.
He remembered that night in the month of Naia, sitting in the tiny
corner bar with no name other than the owner's. He had been sitting in
the dim room, sipping a wine sweet enough to unpucker a lemon,
commiserating with his friends about how the war had hit them so hard.
True, the fighting hadn't yet come close to their port town, but the
levies and musters had stripped the bulk of the fit population away.
And then it had begun. First the barmaid, crossing the room, had
walked into the shadow of a pillar and not walked out, just a short
scream marking her passing. Then two patrons had slowly dissolved, their
anguished yells persuading most of the people in the bar to leave before
the strange plague struck them too. The pot boy vanished next, writhing
against a wall and then disappearing as if falling piece by piece
through it. Finally, Relak himself had gone, shouting in surprise rather
than pain and fading away quickly. The tankard he had been filling
dropped to the floor to smash amidst the ale pouring out of the open
tap.
Waaj hadn't lingered after that, and he had yet to return. He
learned eventually that several score of the port's residents had also
disappeared that night, further crippling the city.
He crossed the wide, empty Merchant's Lane and his eyes went
automatically to the right, toward the harbor. There was enough light
from the moon and stars for him to see the masts rocking there, but they
didn't provide the comfort the sight usually did. Port Andestn lived on
trade, and a forest of masts in the harbor normally meant markets full
of goods and taverns full of people, but these weren't the masts of
trade ships.
The pirate invasion hadn't been sudden but it had been
irresistible. They came and never left. He remembered the first ship to
sail into the harbor with a yard of scarlet rope tied to its tallest
mast, and how everyone had marveled at the audacity of its captain to
openly flaunt the pirate standard. That ship, Bronak's own, had arrived
a fortnight ago. Others had soon followed. The pirate crews had filled
the city and the taverns, right enough, but their coin stayed in their
ships and they supplied the markets with nothing. No one could find the
strength to stand up against their taking ways.
Waaj had learned by listening that Bronak had decided to take
advantage of the war by attacking shipping on the eastern coast of
Baranur. Heartened by the easy pickings, he had started to take over the
ships he attacked, building a fleet of pirates by doling out his own
officers to lead his new crews. The fledgling pirates had learned their
trade quickly, and soon Bronak and his fleet dominated the waves. Then
one day Bronak had sailed into Port Andestn, intending to make the
crippled city his headquarters, a goal he had easily completed.
Waaj continued past Merchant's Lane, leaving the view of the harbor
behind. His mind drifted back to childhood games of floating chips of
wood with leaves for sails, and pretend assaults against other fleets,
or armies on shore. With a secret grin, he fantasized about solving the
port's current pirate problem by assaulting the harbor with a fleet of
giant bark-and-leaf ships crewed by acorn-armored ants firing pine
needle catapults loaded with blackberries that exploded into flame on
impact.
He pushed through the unlocked doors of the bar that Relak had
owned, ignoring the squeaking of rats scurrying for cover. There were no
signs of looting, just tables and benches and a dried stain around the
bar from a drained keg of ale. Waaj wasn't surprised; there wasn't any
sign outside, nothing to reveal the place as a business of any kind. It
had been a regulars' bar, and all of the regulars had been well and
truly frightened off.
As Waaj crossed the room, his thoughts turned back to Tora. He
wondered again where she had come from. He couldn't recall ever seeing
her around before; she had arrived at the same time as the first of the
pirates. As he rummaged behind the bar for Relak's stash, he imagined
that she had been fleeing from something horrible, hence her reluctance
to tell about it, like an attack on her tiny fishing village, where she
had been the blacksmith's only child and so apprenticed to him. A pirate
ship, emboldened by their successes raiding the trade lanes, had decided
to despoil her village. She had watched them slaughter everyone she had
ever known, and had fled in terror. It had only been sheer bad luck that
she had just accepted Jo'nass' job offer when Bronak's ship had sailed
into Port Andestn.
Waaj smiled to himself. He collected up an armload of bottles and
started back. He knew that he was only dreaming, but he decided to
provide Tora a safe haven from the wreck of her former life, even amid
the very scum who had enacted that ruin.
The harbor of Port Andestn was a large, rough oval of calm water
well protected from the ocean's storms and tides. A narrow cliff
extended out in a long arc from the southern part of the city to form
one breakwater. On the north side, a shorter, thicker stonework mole had
been built out from the city. A modest fort capped the tip of that mole
to command the quarter-league gap that gave access to the dredged depths
within the two arms.
While the serving man from Jo'nass' Tavern walked the dark streets
of the city out of sight of the harbor, a small boat rocked gently
against the tip of the southern breakwater. Six black figures occupied
the boat, watching the shore. Suddenly a light appeared in a window of a
building just beyond the wharves. It winked out and then brightened
again. A moment later, it briefly stuttered, shone steady again, and
then went out.
The six figures started moving. One slipped around the ledge at the
waterline until it and its unlit lantern were hidden from the city by
the cliff. Another eased a long, wide board with four handles on its
edges into the water, and then joined three more figures in entering the
bay, grabbing a handle, and slowly propelling themselves and their float
toward the ships at dock. The last opened the door of a dark lantern,
flashing light briefly back at the third story window a few blocks from
the water.
More than a bell had passed since Waaj had returned to Jo'nass'
Tavern. Bronak was happy with the selection Waaj had provided and the
other pirates were even more drunk on Jo'nass' ale. Tora had thanked him
when he'd returned, but he hadn't seen much of her since. When he
thought that the crowd in the room wouldn't notice his absence as well,
he slipped up the stairs to find her, imagining himself providing
comfort to the poor refugee.
He had to climb to the third floor before he found her standing in
front of a window that faced the water. He came up behind her and
thought he saw a flash of light from out across the bay. He caught sight
of her reflection in the glass and saw her smiling as she gazed into the
night. Then her eyes lifted and their reflected gazes met, and she
whirled around and said, "What?"
"I just wanted to see ... where you were," he answered. "You've
been gone for a while."
Tora frowned and said, "Has Bronak been looking for me?"
"No, no. I don't think anyone but me noticed. Ah, what were you
doing up here, looking out to sea like that?"
Her frown vanished, but she didn't answer right away. She seemed to
be concentrating on the center of his chest. Finally she said, "Thinking
about before, wishing about after."
Waaj wasn't exactly sure what she meant, but he took a step closer
to her and said, "I'm sure everything will be fine, Tora. One way or
another."
"One way or another?" she repeated, her voice hard with anger. As
she continued, though, it quickly softened to a scared whisper, her head
bowed, face hidden by her hair. "How many ways are there, Waaj? This
city is filled with pirates and no one to rescue it 'cause of the war,
and that isn't fine, now is it, Waaj?"
Waaj hesitated, raising his arms to embrace her, then dropping them
again. When she just stood there, he took one more step and wrapped his
arms around her. She stiffened for a moment, and Waaj smiled, imagining
her blacksmith's pride asserting itself. He didn't clutch at her, and
was rewarded by having her arms come up around him and her head press
into his shoulder.
"We could always run away, Tora," Waaj said softly after a bit.
"Find another town to settle in, buy an inn where you could run the
stables and I could manage the bar."
Tora gave a short, strangled-off laugh, and said into his shirt,
"We could flee, sure. But that wouldn't help everyone else in Port
Andestn, now would it?"
Waaj liked how Tora felt, pressed into his front, her breath
warming his shoulder, her arms lightly clasped around the small of his
back. He wanted to stay like that for a very long time, but he didn't
know how. Tora would never be happy with him. How could she? She had
courage and ideals. She had survived the destruction of her family and
tried to start a new life, and now wasn't willing to leave the port to
its fate. He hadn't done anything more exciting than live in Port
Andestn his whole life, drifting from job to job, wherever unskilled
labor was required. No, Tora needed a hero, someone to save the city and
win her heart. If only ...
"Maybe ..." he ventured.
Tora looked up, her brown eyes wide. Her voice was gentle when she
asked, "What, Waaj?"
"What if we, or just me, ran ... or, rather, left to get help? Take
word to the duke, or even the king. If they knew about Bronak, knew what
he was doing to Port Andestn, surely they would send an army, or ships
to bottle the pirates in the harbor and execute them all?"
She shook her head, her pretty lips turned down in a rueful frown.
"Not possible right now, Waaj. The war with Beinison is straining the
kingdom's resources. Duke Monrodya's soldiers are all fighting the more
dangerous enemy with the rest of the king's armies in Pyridain and
Magnus and Kiliaen. And the duke's ships, the entire eastern fleet, are
all sailing north, around the top of Cherisk by Dargon, to join the
conflict with Beinison's navies. We are alone in this, Waaj, at least
until Beinison is no longer a threat. Of course, by then, Bronak might
have a real, unified force, instead of eight ships with new captains and
green crews plus his own seasoned men and women. In other words, it
might be too late."
Waaj wondered how a barmaid in a nest of pirates knew so much about
the business of the nobility. As he was about to ask her, though, she
began to run her finger along his jaw and he forgot his question to
concentrate on the feeling. After a moment he turned his attention to
finding another way to be Tora's hero.
"How about an uprising? I could talk to some friends, spread the
word, try to gather together people willing to stand up to the pirates.
I'm sure we could find enough to rout those misbegotten scum right out
of here!"
"Shh!" hissed Tora, looking around. "Not so loud. Come, this way."
She deftly slipped out of his arms and, grabbing his sleeve, started
down the corridor and away from the window and stairs. She dragged him
around a corner and into a room that seemed already prepared for sleep
with linens on the bed and candles already lit. She let his sleeve go
and climbed onto the bed, sitting tailor-fashion near the wall. She
gestured to the bench at the foot of the bed, and Waaj sat. Smiling
sweetly, she said, "Now, what were you saying about finding support in
the city?"
Disoriented from the abrupt location change, Waaj fumbled for an
answer. He was unfamiliar with going from idea to execution, so he fell
back on his imagination. His eyes unfocused and he began to speak.
"Whispers and suggestions first, I suppose. Feel out sentiment, figure
out how to separate spirit from bold words. Organize slowly, keep groups
of rebels small and separate. Learn capabilities, count numbers, and
eventually begin to plan."
Waaj focused on Tora to find that she was staring at him, her eyes
and mouth narrow. "Very good, Waaj. Time consuming, but good.
Unfortunately, the time you take building your rebels is time the
pirates are consolidating their hold on the port."
Waaj nodded, seeing the truth of her words. He opened his mouth to
provide another option, but she continued, "Suppose, however, that you
have organized some people. You have a double-handful, fifteen at the
most, of your best rebels, and you know you have to strike now. Your
rebels against nine pirate ships, Waaj. How would you do it?"
Waaj wondered why she was asking him this. She didn't seem
frightened and looking for reassurance. She looked more curious, if
anything. He pondered her question, and realized that she was playing a
game with him. Of course, that was it! A game of question and answer,
and if he won, well, the setting predicted the reward, didn't it?
He turned his imagination to answering her question, and found
himself stumped. Fifteen rebels against nine pirate ships and their
crews was an impossible proposition. Then again, this was only a game,
straight? Waaj recalled the stories he had heard all of his life,
stories that sailors told, that entertainers and bards recited, that
grandpas told their children's children. This was just another story.
Straight.
"First, we block the harbor mouth," he said, "so no one can get in
or out. We conjure a stone spirit, who makes the cliff flow down to join
the fort wall on the mole to the north ..."
Out on the moonlit bay, the two figures on the end of the northern
mole climbed the wall of the fort situated there. A few moments later,
they exited the fort again from a shadowed niche at the base of the
wall, carrying a thick coil of rope between them. They piled its length
into a boat, one end trailing behind them back into the niche. They
climbed in after, and began rowing across the mouth of the bay, paying
the rope out behind them.
Reaching the other side of the harbor's mouth, the two black-clad
figures clambered out of the boat, carrying the rope with them. They
looped the rope around the narrow middle of the bollard, keeping its
length taut. Then they began to haul on the rope, its loop maintaining
the tension. Back on the northern mole, the other end of the rope
appeared out of the niche in the wall, fastened to a chain with links
that were each the length and width of a hand.
Pulling hand-over-hand, the two figures dragged on the rope which
drew the chain across the water. Soon, Port Andestn's defense chain was
securely blocking its harbor mouth.
"Next, deal with the ships themselves," Waaj said. He remembered
more sailors' tales, and continued, "Nine ships to sink quietly,
stealthily. Find some Mandrakan fire starfish and affix a few to each
hull. Give each some slow poison, and when they die, boom! Silent bombs
just waiting to go off.
"Or maybe some heat-seed to feed to the barnacles, so they'll burn
through the hulls and ignite them? No, that would take a sennight or
more. Well, you could just hole them direct. Some drill-nose sharks ..."
Out on the bay, the four figures with the board float had long
since reached the docks after moving with agonizing slowness across the
harbor so as not to attract any attention. They singled out one ship
with "Stars Standard" lettered plainly on it. Two went to the bow, two
to the stern. In each position, one slowly climbed the side of the ship
to affix a small oilskin bag inconspicuously near the deck rail. The
other used a well-oiled wide-bore auger to drill a hole through the
planking of the hull well above the waterline. When the hole was
complete, another oilskin bag, trailing a length of rope, was pushed
through.
The scaling figures came back down, tacking a length of rope down
the side of the ship with gum. At the waterline, these ropes were joined
with the interior rope, and then the pair at the bow began to tack their
rope along to the stern, where all four ropes were joined. A hand-span
wide balsa wood box was fixed to the rudder and the ropes were fed into
it.
Finally, the four figures grabbed their float and began to
gradually drift across the bay again.
"Wait, Waaj," interrupted Tora. Waaj set aside his mental catalog
of tall-tale creatures and listened. "Your rebels don't want to sink all
of the ships if they can help it. The pirates have been hard on
shipping; their ships would help restore it."
Waaj frowned and thought harder. Sinking was out. What then? Those
sailor tall tales flashed through his mind, and he came up with an idea.
"Separate the officers from the ships first," he said. "Lure them
all together, maybe with some treasure, or hints of secrets to be
revealed. Lock them up in a dungeon somewhere, with chimeras and
gryphons and cunning, magical traps for guards, secure from everyone."
"Go on," Tora said. Waaj realized that she was no longer sitting
up, but lying across the bed, her head next to his elbow. He stared,
then realized that she was smirking at him. She said again, "Go on," so
he did.
"Well," he said, "sailors are a superstitious lot. Pirates are
sailors, and from listening to the crowd below these past sennights it
is clear that there isn't a more superstitious sailor than a pirate.
With their officers locked away, the common crew of the pirate ships
will be very vulnerable to anything out-of-the-ordinary. With the right
incentive, they should be easily persuaded to flee their ships for their
lives."
Tora had begun stroking Waaj's arm. She said, "And what incentive
did you have in mind?"
"It occurred to me that the legend of Prayan's Revenge would work."
Tora laughed and rolled off the bed and to her feet. She stood in
front of Waaj, pulled him up, and kissed him. She dragged him over to
the bed and tossed him into it. Climbing back onto the bed and
straddling his hips, she said, "Tell me about that one, Waaj."
He found it very difficult to comply, since Tora was proceeding to
undress herself and him by turns. He found his situation very exciting,
almost too much so, and he realized that he needed to concentrate on
something else very quickly.
"Prayan was a wizard a long time ago," he said. "He lived in a
tower by the sea and had a grown daughter. One day his daughter was
coming to visit when her ship was attacked by pirates. She was taken by
them as part of the ship's treasure."
Waaj forgot what came next when Tora's blouse came off. She stopped
and stared until he resumed his tale. "Ah ... Prayan ... learned of the
theft, and set out to right the wrong. He conjured up an ancient ship
from the depths of the sea by his tower, a giant ship with oars and a
beak. He sailed it alone, with only his magic to row and steer. He
chased the pirates down, but the effort cost him: his magic had driven
him mad. He destroyed the ship, but without rescuing his daughter first.
His grief further twisted his mind, and they say that he and his ship
roam the seas, looking for his daughter and taking revenge upon all
pirates."
Had there been any more of the story to tell, Waaj couldn't have
told it. He was far too busy concentrating on his body, and Tora's, to
put any effort into tale-telling. He enjoyed his reward greatly, and he
knew from Tora's screams that she did, too.
When silence had returned, except for heavy breathing, Tora slipped
from the bed. Waaj sleepily looked around, wondering where she'd gone.
He found her standing beside the bed, several scarves in her hand.
She leaned down and kissed his forehead, then took his wrist and
began fastening it with a scarf to the bedpost. She said, "I like your
thinking, Waaj. You have an amazing imagination. But just at this
moment, that imagination needs to be kept in check." She worked on his
other wrist, then moved to his feet. Waaj was too confused to protest.
Tora continued, "I don't think your guesses would do any harm at the
moment, but I don't like to take chances either."
She was back at his side, leaning over him again, smiling into his
confused face, a last scarf in her hand. "Everything should be over by
fourth or fifth bell tomorrow. I'll come back up here then and let you
go and tell you how your predictions went. Maybe I'll let you be my
second mate, should I decide to take up the pirate life for good.
"By the way, you didn't have any of that ale downstairs, did you?"
Waaj let himself be gagged without resistance. His fantasy of
Tora's past had slipped away, but he didn't know what to replace it
with. She had been a pirate? Then why had she let Bronak slap her
around? And what would be over by the middle of tomorrow? He hadn't been
predicting anything, just playing a game with her.
Tora dressed quickly in dark, tight-fitting clothes completely
unlike her barmaid uniform and walked out of the room, leaving the
candles burning on the shelf by the door that she shut behind her. Waaj
wondered, yet again, just who she was.
At two bells to dawn, an enormous ship sailed into Port Andestn's
harbor. Those on watch on the pirate ships had never seen anything like
it, nor had any of the rest of the hastily-roused crew. Its deck was as
high as the lowest yard on the deepest-draw of the pirate ships, and its
stern-castle mounted several decks above that. Three banks of oars
protruded from either side of the hull, and the two huge masts had a
single lateen sail each. It had large, luminous eyes painted on the bow,
and a wicked, sharp spike jutted out just at the waterline. The entire
ship was black, from sheets to sails to hull.
An alert pirate noticed that the ship had no bow-wave nor wake.
Another realized that the oars made no splash as they dipped and rose,
nor did they move water. It was not an hallucination, not with every
single pirate seeing the same thing. The whisper of "ghost ship" was the
only logical conclusion.
The pirates all milled about in confusion, not sure what to think
or do. The senior watch on Bronak's ship, the Stars Standard, debarked
and hurried through the streets to Jo'nass' Tavern. She found the place
utterly silent, all of its windows and doors boarded up from the inside.
She tried to break through one, but an eerie moan from the docks drew
her back to her ship.
A figure had appeared on the ship. A shining white man in a white
robe with flowing white hair stood on the stern castle, calling out in a
loud voice, but no one could understand the language he spoke. He raised
a hand as his voice grew harsher, more angry, and lightning flickered
around him. He pointed and exclaimed, and all heads turned to see
another ghostly figure on the deck of the Stars Standard, a woman
hovering above the deck.
More angry shouts from the huge, black ship. Demands sounded, more
lightning flashed. The hand pointed, a command rang out, and the Stars
Standard exploded. No one noticed the arrow that flashed from behind the
luminous eyes, hitting the balsa wood box on the rudder with a spark
which completed a complex bit of sorcery, made the four ropes shine
briefly, and ignited what was in the four oilskin bags. The archer's
platform was a small, rocking boat, and his sight lines were obscured by
the illusion that surrounded him, but his skill was up to the challenge.
The desertions began slowly. As the crews nearest the Stars
Standard tried to keep their own ships from catching fire, those
farthest from the conflagration began to slip down the gangplanks and
vanish into the city. When the ghostly woman appeared on another deck,
that ship emptied before the shining man's hand could begin to point.
Leaderless and frightened, the pirates deserted the docks in ever
greater numbers. Seeing the regular pirates fleeing, the conscripted
crews didn't take long to follow. A few hardy souls made attempts to
free their captains from Jo'nass' boarded up tavern. Silent, dark, and
deadly figures, one with a bruise on her face, darted from the shadows
to make sure no one succeeded.
By the time the Stars Standard sank a bell later, the decks of the
other eight ships at dock were empty.
Waaj managed to free himself from Tora's knots eventually. He
wondered whether she had purposely left them loose, or perhaps her
mention of being a pirate was just another tale.
He left the room and encountered daylight. He found the window Tora
had been at earlier and looked out on change.
The first thing he saw was a ship moored by the northern mole's
fort, outside of the harbor. It was flying the flag of the Duchy of
Monrodya, and from the end of a yard of dangling scarlet cord was a
bannerette indicating direct ducal sponsorship.
Only eight ships floated dockside, every deck empty. Waaj could see
over the warehouse between him and the water well enough to see the
masts of the ninth ship jutting up out of the water at an angle;
apparently that ship had sunk. He could see no other damage to account
for the abandoned ships.
The next thing he saw made him stare in disbelief. Standing at the
land end of the largest dock was a small group of people backing Tora.
She wasn't dressed like a barmaid any longer, nor in the dark clothes of
the night before. She wore leather leggings and tall boots, with a white
shirt under a tightly laced leather vest. She had a sword at her side
and a dagger at her knee in the top of one of those boots. She looked
commanding, menacing, beautiful. Waaj knew by her bearing, and by the
standard of Monrodya that one of those behind her bore, that she was the
captain of that ship by the fort and therefore the author of the
destruction on the docks.
In front of her were the bound and gagged bodies of the officers
and captains of every pirate ship in the harbor. Waaj could see that
Captain Tora was talking, but he couldn't hear her. When she lifted her
arm to point at her captives, he imagined that she was berating them all
for trying to band together under Bronak, and not her. Their punishment
would be banishment from the water until they could raise the funds to
buy new ships. And until then, she would be Queen of the Ocean!
She pointed at the bound officers, her arm moving up then chopping
down. He only watched what happened next for a moment. His gorge rose,
and he turned from the window doubled over, clutching a hand over his
mouth. He knew that he would never forget the image of Tora standing
there gazing impassively as her order was carried out, blood pooling
around her boots.
He straightened and glanced around, unsure of what to do next. His
foremost thought was to find someone to protect him from the
refugee-turned-ruthless Captain Tora. A tear formed in his eye as his
dream of being her hero finally died. Then he bolted out of Jo'nass'
Tavern and out of Port Andestn.
Thornodd, who had masqueraded as Tora the barmaid as well as the
captain of the carrack anchored just outside of the bay, stood in front
of her captives and the demoralized, broken remnants of the crew of the
ships behind her. Her mission, given her by the son of the duke, was
over. She no longer owed Masrobak a favor.
She had already given her speech, decrying the worthless cowards
before her, denouncing their attempt to band together in the face of the
kingdom's crisis of war, decrying their abuse of Port Andestn,
condemning their wholesale assault on the shipping along the east coast
of Baranur just when the kingdom needed it most. She could see how
dispirited the few remaining crewmembers were as they stood there, bound
together and well guarded by her people. But she could also see the fire
and hatred in the eyes of those bound before her, the captains whose
ships she had won, the officers whose men and women she was haranguing.
Then again, perhaps they were simply angry at how they had succumbed one
by one to the dosed ale. Even Bronak, who was now lying directly in
front of her, hadn't escaped; she had simply slipped the same potion
into the bottles that funny, fanciful Waaj had brought back for him.
She gave the order as her arm chopped down: "Kill them now." Her
own sword left her side and repaid Bronak for the slap of the previous
night. Her "crew", her raiders, stepped forward and completed the task,
ending the threat of every bound officer before her. Not one of the
standing pirates moved or made a sound.
When the killing was over, she looked at the remaining flotsam and
nodded. The score or so bound pirates were herded along by her people;
they would be freed on the outskirts of town. She saw no reason to kill
these few who had been slow, or unlucky, enough to be caught. They had
simply chosen the wrong people to follow. Maybe some of them would end
up going south or west to join the fighting against the Beinison
invaders. Some would surely remain in the area to cause more trouble,
but she would deal with those consequences later.
She led her raiders to Jo'nass' Tavern to celebrate their victory.
She thanked Rhand for contributing his excellent archery to the success
of the illusion of the ghost ship, then sent him up to the third floor
to release Waaj. She directed Dzory to be sure to remove the bad ale keg
before giving everyone a drink. Just as she was about to question Jerek
about his performance as a legendary wizard, Rhand returned.
"There's no one there, Thornodd. Every room above us is empty."
"Thank you, Rhand. I wonder what got into him?" She looked at her
raiders sitting around the common room, cleaning blades and drinking
ale, and muttered, "Maybe my reality and his fantasy just don't mix."
========================================================================
Our Secret Shore
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<ice_czar@hotmail.com>
Yuli, 1007
"... and so, we commit these our friends to the Pit of Rise'er,
ever prayerful that Ol will have mercy on them and make their stay in
Gil-Pazulyrken short."
The priest bowed his head at the conclusion of his sermon, as did
the large gathering around him. Devron looked at the ground for a moment
in prayer, then raised his eyes back to the funeral pyre upon which a
good two dozen bodies had been placed. Acolytes of the Olean temple
touched torches to the carefully laid logs, which quickly took to the
flame.
"Goodbye, Fiona," Devron whispered. The flames would see that his
beloved wife and all the others on the pyre with her made it to
Gil-Pa'en, the fiery, burning pit where all souls went to meet their
judgement. It seemed intensely unjust that after suffering so much
through the Red Plague that she should now be served as food in the
Feast of Rise'er -- punishment inflicted on those in Gil-Pa'en until
they became truly repentant -- before she could finally take her rest in
the pleasure of Kisil-Doon, the gods' realm.
His eyes heated with tears. He closed them and listened to the
crackling of the fire, accompanied only by the wheezing coughs of those
gathered around him. Why did Ol have to take his Fiona away from him?
How on 'diar could he go on living without her?
He looked over to where Fiona's parents stood. They were not
wailing and pulling their hair the way they had when Fiona's younger
sisters had died in Yule. Like everyone else, they had seen so much
death that they only stood and stared at the funeral fire. Devron could
not go over to them, for he did not know what to say. He was ashamed of
his tears as well; he had only lost a wife, while they had lost four
children this summer. He wondered if a wife could ever be "only".
Who was that standing just behind Fiona's parents? Devron had not
noticed anyone standing there before. Like everyone else, she wore
mourning blue and had a shawl wrapped around her head so that he could
not see her face. He shifted his position to get a better look, filled
with a sudden and unexplained sense of curiosity. This woman seemed to
be family; indeed, she placed a hand on Fiona's mother's shoulder in
comfort. Then she looked in his direction and he could see her face.
Sad, but still very, very beautiful. Pale and sickly, but
unmistakably Fiona. Devron froze and he stared. He felt as if his body
had been suddenly encased in ice. Only his eyes could move, growing wide
in disbelief.
"Fiona?" he mouthed, for he could make no air pass his lips.
No, she was on the funeral pyre! He had nursed her through the
last, terrible days of the Red Plague ... In the end she had been so
feverish that she didn't even recognise him. And yet, there she was. She
still bore the telltale rash of the plague, but stood otherwise alive, a
hand resting on her mother's shoulder. Could she have returned to
Makdiar as a ghost?
She saw him, her gaze locking with his. Her eyes, too, widened as
if in surprise. Her ashen lips parted as if to say something ...
Devron turned and ran as fast as he could away from the funeral
grove and the people gathered around it. The city of Dargon was not far
to the south, and he sprinted towards the protection of its buildings.
It didn't take long for him to reach the outskirts of the city at Murson
Street, then the busier Traders Avenue.
His heart pounded in his chest as he scrambled past a dog and a pig
fighting over a discarded bone lying in the gutter. The dog abandoned
its claim and barked at him as he passed, but it did not pursue him. He
pushed his way through the crowded streets of Dargon until he was lost.
He huddled in an alley that stank of excrement and death and cried.
What fear had gripped him so at the sight of the one person who
might give him comfort? He looked out onto the street where a body cart
trundled past, men in blue walking beside it striking pieces of metal
together and bellowing for people to load the recently deceased of their
households on the wagon. People hacked and coughed as they shambled by;
peddlars loudly announced the sale of rare ointments that could cure the
dreaded plague; and self-proclaimed prophets exhorted people to repent
of the wickedness that had brought the plague. What could possibly be
worse than this life, that he would run in terror?
The Feast of Rise'er could be worse. Devron shuddered. It was an
old tale that he had been taught from childhood, that husbands and wives
would sometimes return shortly after their deaths to retrieve their
loved ones and take them to the Feast of Rise'er -- to Gil-Pa'en -- with
them, there to be feasted upon by the ancient tyrant, then brought to
life again and served once more as one of the thousands of courses in
that never-ending and unholy banquet.
He had never been a particularly religious man, but now that he had
seen Fiona, raised from the dead, he believed with terrible certainty.
The realization that Gil-Pa'en existed -- oh gods! If only he could live
long enough to appease Ol and the other gods, that he might be feasted
upon by Rise'er for but a little while before moving on to Kisil-Doon.
"Oh, Celine," Devron prayed to the goddess of tranquillity. "Please
give my wife your peace; send her to Kisil-Doon; let me live a while
longer before facing the terrible meal!"
Devron stood in the stone-flagged kitchen of his home some time
later. He wasn't sure exactly how long it had been since the funeral. He
had lost track of time, wandering the streets aimlessly before arriving
back at home somehow. He supposed his feet had walked the streets of
Dargon so many times before that they could find their own way to the
dilapidated three-storey building with its black timbers that framed
dirty, white-washed walls.
He stood over the hearth, staring at the cold ashes lying at the
bottom. He should start a fire and prepare some food, but he was not
hungry. He was not cold either. He could not muster the energy to do
much of anything except stare into that wispy, grey soot that had once
burned with the flames of life.
He felt as if a part of him had been cut violently from his chest,
leaving a large, empty hole there. He had known life with Fiona for so
long, nigh on five years, that he now felt like a ship without a rudder.
He didn't know what to do.
The single door to the little cabin banged against the wall a
couple of times, blown by the wind. Devron realised he must have
neglected to close it properly. He turned around to come face-to-face,
once again, with his beloved Fiona. Her hands moved up to cover her
mouth, and her eyes welled up with tears. As when he first spotted her
at the pyre, Devron could not move.
Fiona was garbed in the mourning blue that he had seen her in
before. She did not speak, but only looked back at Devron. He had never
seen a ghost before, having only heard of them in tales meant to scare
children, but he was amazed at how lifelike she looked. The same as
before she had succumbed to that last fever: her large, dark eyes as
deep and inviting as always, her pert lips ... Of itself, his hand
reached out to touch her, but she drew back like a timid dog.
Of course, Fiona knew the legends as well. If she had allowed him
to touch her, he would have died and gone to Gil-Pa'en at once. Devron
nodded his head in understanding and closed his eyes, whispering a quick
prayer of thanks to the father, Ol. Fiona's ghost turned away and moved
over to where a small shrine to Olean gods rested in a niche where two
walls of the house met. She knelt there in prayer.
"Yes," Devron thought. "Repentance is the only way out of
Gil-Pa'en, and up to Kisil-Doon. I believe now, father! Give me but a
while to show you!"
He moved beside Fiona and knelt before the grouping of statues. He
begged Celine to set Fiona's spirit free and take her up to the
celestial castle, Kisil-Seed, and release her from her captivity here
and in Gil-Pa'en.
Devron opened his eyes. Apparently he had fallen asleep while
praying, for he was now lying on the cold flagstones that made up the
floor and what light there was trickled in from an east-facing window.
He rose to his feet and looked around. Fiona's ghost was not beside him
any longer. In fact, she -- it -- was nowhere to be seen. He was alone
once again.
He hugged himself and looked down at the rushes that were strewn on
the floor. He could feel the searing heat of tears forming in his eyes
and his vision began to blur. By Ol, how was he supposed to live like
this?
A muffled thud from upstairs interrupted Devron's thoughts. He
looked quickly towards the narrow stairwell; perhaps Fiona was still
here after all, visiting their bed chamber one last time before going to
Rise'er? He scurried up the stairs, only to find the room empty, save
for the meagre belongings that he and his wife had shared: two chests,
only one that they owned; three stools, one broken; a lavarium; a few
changes of linen; and a faded wall hanging showing Balphiryon and
Hengnra that had been given to Fiona by a client of hers who had not
been able to pay his fee otherwise.
On one of the plaster walls hung Fiona's striped lawyer's cloak.
Devron walked over to it and took the heavy gown in his hands. He held
it to his face; Fiona's gentle scent still clung to it. He could
remember her putting her lawyer's uniform on each day and heading down
to the Harbourmaster's Building where she would loiter for bells, trying
to attract custom. Devron looked up at the ceiling. She would often sit
for bells up in the garret under the eaves, which served as her study.
If they had finally been able to conceive, that was going to be the
children's room.
At that thought, Devron could feel a tightening in his throat. Then
he hurriedly replaced Fiona's cloak on its hook and returned to the
narrow passageway where stairs led both up and down. Perhaps the sound
he heard had come from Fiona's study. He wouldn't touch her if he saw
her, but should he see her again, if only for a brief moment, he would
talk to her this time and tell her how much he loved her. Then, maybe,
she could return to Gil-Pa'en and speed her journey to Kisil-Doon.
Unfortunately, the small room was also abandoned, but it bore more
familiar smells that made it seem as if Fiona had not left. Though he
did not know how to read or write, the parchment, vellum and leather
were a comfort to him because of the smell. He moved over to the small
desk and sat at the chair behind it, looking at the finely honed quills,
thin cutting knife, and grey stone of pumice for smoothing the
white-scrubbed parchment beneath.
He noticed that there was something written on the piece of
parchment lying at the centre of the desk. It bore only a few lines. He
wondered if it was perhaps a document she had been preparing for a case.
But no, she had been too sick to have any clients for some sennights
before she finally succumbed. In fact, Devron suddenly realised that he
had carefully packed all of Fiona's parchment away while she was sick,
fearful that rats might get at it.
How had this gotten out here, he wondered. Perhaps Fiona -- Fiona's
ghost -- had taken these things out in remembrance of her life? He took
the parchment with writing on it and, after carefully folding it, placed
it in a pocket on the front of his jerkin.
On his way outside he considered taking some bread from the
cupboard on the way out, but he was not hungry. He wasn't even sure why
he left the house, except that there seemed nothing better to do. The
street was full of the regular noise and bustle of the city. A group of
the local children were tossing around an inflated pig's bladder, while
two clerks hastened past the game towards the castle. A woman emptied a
chamber pot out an upper-storey window only to be cursed roundly by a
passing couple who were nearly hit by the cascade. Devron's neighbour,
John Mawsby, stood just opposite Devron's house, shouting at his
apprentices who scurried back and forth with bales of cloth, leather
belts, purses, and other clothing.
John did not look Devron's way, and Devron moved quickly down the
street before the merchant noticed him. He did not wish to talk to
anyone, let alone his wealthy neighbour with his large, healthy family
and overly cheery smile.
Devron wandered for a time through the dirty Dargon streets before
finding himself on Temple Street. He had to step off the road to avoid a
cart as it trundled by, bodies piled high on it. The men pushing the
cart shouted loudly for people to bring out the bodies of household
members who had died in the night. An acolyte from the Manifest shrine,
who was not very healthy-looking himself, staggered up to the cart
carrying a body wrapped in fine robes. He kicked aside a large rat that
tried to nibble at his toes and tossed the corpse atop the others.
Devron shuddered and wondered to himself if he was not already in
Gil-Pa'en.
He continued down Temple Street, eventually coming to the gates of
Dargon Abbey. As with the other houses of worship along the broad
avenue, it was surrounded by a bustle of activity. At the best spot for
attracting custom, right next to the open gates, sat a middle-aged man
on a stool with a small wooden table in front of him. On the desk were
several inkwells, quills, and piles of paper and parchment. Devron
recognised the man as Tozak, a notary and friend of Fiona's who had
sometimes assisted her in drafting complex writs or warrants.
Devron remembered the parchment in his pocket and he removed it. He
looked down at it for a few moments, examining the graceful curvature to
the letters Fiona had drawn on it. He had never been able to read, but
he still appreciated the gentle touch she'd had with a quill. He
approached Tozak and placed the parchment just to one side of something
the notary was writing.
The older man didn't bother to look up, but continued to scribble
with his quill. "My fee is nine Sterling for transcription," he mumbled.
"I don't need a trans-- whatever," Devron said. "I just need you to
read it for me."
Tozak didn't react, but instead continued working on his document.
"Sir," Devron said. "You knew my wife, Fiona. I was hoping that you
could just take a mene to read this for me."
Devron had never felt ashamed of his inability to read before. As a
miller, he had no need for the skill, and besides, on the rare occasion
that there was anything that needed to be read, Fiona would do it. But
now, being ignored by the notary, he felt his cheeks heat.
"I accept payment in kind if you haven't any silver," Tozak said,
still not looking up from his work.
"Ah, go roll with yourself!" Devron growled, his embarrassment
turning to anger at the pompous scribe. "I'll get someone else to read
it for me. It's not like you're the only one on 'diar that can cipher!"
As Devron reached for the parchment, a soft breeze pushed it away
from his finger and onto Tozak's document.
"Oh, all right," the notary adjusted the glasses perched on his
nose and took Fiona's parchment into his free hand. "Let's see what it
is, anyway, then we can discuss a price:
"'My love has gone away, but I will see him again soon, at our
secret shore' ...
"What is this supposed to be, poetry?"
Devron could hear the scribe continue to speak, but the miller was
already walking swiftly away, losing himself once again in the crowd.
"Our secret shore" was a little inlet in the Coldwell River, not far
from the causeway that linked the Old City and new, where Devron had
asked Fiona to marry him. It was hardly secret, but it was a quiet place
where they had often been able to spend time alone together.
She was summoning him; it seemed fitting that he would join her in
the afterlife at the place where their life together here on Makdiar had
begun.
The giant bells in the tower behind Dargon Abbey's stone walls
began to clang loudly. Devron looked up to watch them swing mightily
back and forth, sending forth a rich clamour. The buzz of the crowd
around him changed in tone, and the flow of traffic seemed to swirl
around the main gate. He turned to look back at the gate and noticed
that people were making a path leading out of the abbey.
Of course, he thought, the tune the bells were playing was for a
wedding. He had not recognised it immediately, since worshippers of Ol
preferred to mark marriage with lutes and drums. But sure enough,
through the gates emerged a young man and woman clad in traditional
yellow clothes for marriage. A few of the Stevenic monks, wrapped in
their white habits and black cloaks followed behind, along with throngs
of dancing and singing family members. They threw flowers in the air and
hugged and kissed the onlookers standing on the street.
It was a lovely sight; it made Devron remember his and Fiona's
wedding, and how wonderful things had been. For at least a brief time,
the people here had forgotten the ravages of the plague, the struggles
of daily life ...
Devron turned and ran through the crowd; he rushed down Atelier
Street, then followed the Street of Travellers until the causeway was in
sight. He didn't pause for a breath the entire time he ran; somehow he
felt light on his feet and his legs did not tire.
"I am coming, my love!"
He broke off the street and hurried through the bushes and trees.
He finally emerged into a clearing that led to a small, sandy beach.
Beyond the beach he could see the Coldwell River, and Dargon Keep
standing proudly on its cliff. And there, waiting on the shore, was
Fiona. He ran up to her, stopping but a few hand-widths away from her.
For the first time since he had seen her ghost, she spoke, "Devron,
I prayed to Ol and he led me here. And you have come."
Devron marvelled at how beautiful she was. The marks of the plague
were gone from her face and a slight blush warmed her cheeks. Her dark
eyes, no longer glazed-over with fever, were a marvel to behold.
"Fiona," he said. "I can't be without you any longer. Even if it
means going to Rise'er's Feast to be with you, I welcome it!"
They came together and kissed as passionately as on their wedding
night.
"You say this is Fiona, the lawyer?" Mariam Byer, captain of the
town guard asked.
"Yes, it certainly is," Tozak, the notary replied. "Why, I saw her
only yesterday, a sennight after her husband was taken by the Red
Plague."
Captain Byer moved around the lone body laying peacefully on the
sand, but did not draw too close. "Did she also suffer from the plague?"
"She did," Tozak replied, "but she was one of the fortunate few who
recovered. Last I saw her, she appeared quite healthy! Do you suspect
foul play?"
Now Mariam knelt and turned the body's head so she could examine
it. As the notary had indicated, it was free from blemish. There were no
signs of violence, either. In fact, quite the contrary, for the dead
woman looked content, a hint of a smile at the corner of
her lips.
"Foul play? I doubt it." Mariam looked up at Tozak. "Have you ever
heard the Olean legend about spouses being reunited in death?"
========================================================================
Mixed Results
by Jim Owens
<Gymfuzz@yahoo.com>
Firil 20, 1016
Nain looked out across the flat floor of the valley at the distant
light of the other furnaces and frowned. Behind him he could hear the
crackling of the clay in his own furnace as the howling flames beat
hotter and hotter. He turned back to look at it. As he did, the accursed
wind caught his heavily greased hair and flapped it against his face. He
slicked it back into a queue and frowned even deeper, fingering the
heavy silver plates of his necklace. The morning was not going to be a
good one.
The contest had started out as it did every year. Tobol had
approached Nain as soon as the last of the monsoon rains had dried,
asking him if he planned on entering. As the new village smith, Nain
appreciated his father's deference. As village elder, Tobol could have
merely ordered it, but instead had approached his son as he might an
equal. Nain had replied that he would build his furnace even bigger than
the furnace from last year. Tobol was no smith, and had offered no
objections. The villagers had been curing the ore all during the monsoon
season, and piles of charstone were ready to be shoveled into baskets.
Everything seemed to be leading to a great victory. Now that victory
seemed in doubt.
Marah ran up to him, her skin glistening with sweat. "Father, the
fire is below the top flue. Should we add another charge?" She stood
beside him, rubbing her newest tattoo absently. Nain looked down into
her upturned face, but had no reply. He looked out into the early
morning darkness to avoid her gaze, and was startled to see a figure
approaching. His heart sank. It was Jarusalah, the master smith.
The contest was hardly the only time that Nain met with the master
smith. The old man had a circuit he traveled continuously, passing from
village to village in the red, desert valleys of Thool, on the eastern
coast of Mandraka. Jarusalah's title belied his importance. It was his
word that set the price for the steel each village would make, and it
was his word that called the traders in each year to buy the steel. His
word was not disputed, for only he knew the tongue of the seafaring
clans, men from such remote places as Baranur and Kimmeron. Without his
favor a village would be reduced to digging for jamot roots for food,
rather than buying pressed dates from Beinison or salted mutton from
Lord Farley's high oasis. He decided disputes between the villages, and
had final say over who held what office. The people of Thool had no
king: they had a master smith. Nain enjoyed good favor with Jarusalah,
and was happy to see him any other time of the year. Now his presence
sent dread into Nain's heart.
Nain looked back down at Marah's face, his fingers nervously
stroking the necklace that was his badge of office. Although she had
only seen ten summers, Marah was wise enough to know that things were
not going well. He wondered how she would react when he lost the
contest. She had never known anything but unmatched success from him and
his work. She had grown up in a world of luxury and prosperity, as had
all the children of the village. What would they see now? He adjusted
the heavy silver necklace, but still its weight pressed against his
collar bones. How did the other smiths bear such weight? Nain didn't
think he would ever be comfortable with the burden.
"How goes the burn, Nain?" Jarusalah's voice came from behind him,
and Nain turned to face him, genuflecting reflexively. Marah followed
his example with a deeper bow of her own, dropping to her knees and
touching her wet forehead to the ground.
"Differently," he replied, then turned back to Marah. "Yes, add
another charge. Be careful you don't get burned. Wet your head before
you go up." She nodded and ran back to the furnace.
"Only one other time have I ever heard such a noise of burning from
a furnace, Nain," Jarusalah said.
"Eye of the Sun," Nain replied, nodding, following the older man as
he walked down the slope toward Nain's furnace.
"Yes," agreed Jarusalah. "Not that yours is that hot yet, mind
you," he added. "I don't think, anyway. You would need to build twice as
high and use bellows like no one here has ever seen. But yes," he said,
squinting into the glare from the fire, "I think you are too hot."
"It's the wind," replied Nain, looking up at the cold, unmoving
stars. "I had not expected this much wind."
"The others are happy for the extra heat," Jarusalah said. "But I
think you built just a bit too high this time."
The two men stood a chain or so away from the furnace. It was built
up the side of the small hill that Nain's family had used for decades of
contests. Nain and his daughters had raised the flue of the furnace
higher by a head than the actual top of the cliff. Now the bricks at the
top of the flue glowed red in the night. Nain could see where bits of
the topmost row had actually eroded away in the intense heat. In his
mind's eye Nain could see the ore inside burning away, leaving behind
not the normal bloom of sponge iron, but instead a less valuable melt of
moon iron.
"I see that Tobol has blessed you with office," Jarusalah said,
pointing at the wide silver plates lying across Nain's collarbones.
"Yes," Nain replied, stroking them self-consciously. He fingered
the large black and green stones set into the metal plates, noting again
the worn runes carved into their polished surfaces. "Bororel has spoken
his last."
"He is dead, then?"
"Not dead," Nain replied, glancing up briefly. "Not yet, I don't
think. But the poison has finally taken his mind. Father granted me the
title and badges to go with the duties."
"You don't wear them well." Nain looked up, stricken, but Jarusalah
continued, "But then neither did Bororel, when he first wore them."
Nain relaxed a bit. "No?"
"No. He took his responsibilities seriously also."
Nain considered this for a moment. "One ought to. When our iron is
our food, a smith can starve a village."
"Or feed it. And Bororel did. That's why Bororel now has an
apprentice as wise and responsible as Nain." Nain looked up at him, but
Jarusalah was focused on the furnace. "I assume you have stopped working
the bellows."
"Yes, I told the girls to stop pumping a watch ago."
"You could knock down that extra stack," Jarusalah said, pointing
upward with his staff.
Nain shook his head, releasing his tense grip on his smith's
necklace and straightening his leather apron. "I would, but what you
don't see is that the back of the furnace is made with long slabs of
stone. If I try to knock the top off, the whole furnace would come
down."
"Ah." The two men stood watching as Marah worked the pulleys to
dump another charge into the core. A cloud of sparks flew into the air,
and the roar of the flame edged up another note. "Have you tapped it
yet?"
"No."
"You will need to, you know."
"I wanted to ask ... talk to you first."
Jarusalah nodded. "You are a cautious man, Nain. Very wise of you.
But you will need to tap it."
Nain nodded, then turned and cupped his hands to his mouth.
"Beelah! Bring water!"
As Jarusalah watched, Nain tossed aside his leather apron and
picked up a heavier set of leather clothing, including long leather
gloves. The heat of the furnace was almost unbearable where he stood,
and he needed to get even closer. His daughter of eight summers waddled
up with a bucket filled with water, Nain's youngest tagging along
behind. Jarusalah took the bucket from her and held it ready. Nain
turned to Beelah as he tied the apron in back. Unlike her older sister,
Beelah was quick to earn her tattoos with her eagerness to accept family
responsibilities. "Take Talet to your mother and wait for me to come get
you. Go now." Beelah nodded, scooped up her baby sister, and ran off
into the darkness. Nain looked up as Marah skidded down the dusty
hillside and ran up. "Go get another bucket of water and stand here with
Jarusalah. I must tap the furnace, and I may need the water." She also
nodded and ran off.
"How much moon iron should I expect?" Nain asked.
"Hard to say," replied Jarusalah. "I have never actually fired a
furnace this large myself."
"You mean to say I have exceeded the grasp of the master?" Nain
bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile, but came out more as
a grimace. Under the heavy leather he was beginning to sweat
monstrously. The weight of the armor ground the smith's badge into his
collarbone, and he pulled it out and let it hang down across his
protected chest.
"That is every master's wish, Nain."
"But if all I make is moon iron ..." Nain began.
"Your children will not beg, nor dig roots," Jarusalah finished.
"Your village will survive."
Nain looked off into the darkness toward the cistern where Marah's
thin figure could barely be seen drawing water. "Even I cannot afford to
lose a bloom such as this," he said.
Jarusalah startled him by slapping him on the shoulder. "I know
you, Nain, son of Tobol. Your pride is rooted deep within you. Even if
you fail, you will not break. Your spirit is not brittle like moon iron.
You are much tougher than that." Marah trudged up, the bucket suspended
between her bowed legs. Nain looked from one to the other, old man and
young girl, then picked up his long iron staff from the dust. He nodded
to Jarusalah, who carefully and efficiently doused him with water. Nain
turned and approached the furnace.
The roar of the blast and the heat of the fire drove thought out of
Nain's head as he approached. He wanted to make the tapping a single,
smooth movement, requiring as little time near the furnace as possible.
The heat of even a small forge could blister, and this monster made his
forge at home seem like a dung fire. Jarusalah had said that it paled
compared to the great Eye of the Sun furnace, kindled years ago at the
great gathering of tribes in the center of Mandraka's eastern desert,
but Nain had never felt such a heat. He rushed at the arch and thrust
his pole at the small gate, jamming the chisel point of the staff under
it and levering it up.
The furnace was intended to burn the iron ore that Nain and his
brethren dug from the hillsides of the valley and convert it to bloom, a
mass of iron and slag that could be wrought into useful and clever
things. What instead flowed from the now open gate was moon iron, a
weaker metal formed when the furnace got too hot and burned the strength
from the ore. Blazing a brilliant white-orange, the liquid gushed out
into the small trench before the gate. Nain danced away from it as it
hissed and popped, throwing droplets of molten iron at his booted feet.
As he did so, the pole slipped and the gate fell back down, shutting.
Nain ran back to where Jarusalah and Marah stood. He was greeted by a
bucket of water tossed in his face.
"You will need to do it again, I fear," Jarusalah said quickly.
"From what I see there is much more inside. If you release it now you
may still get a small bloom when the wind dies down."
Nain nodded and hefted the iron pole in his right hand. He turned
back and rushed at the furnace. The pool of moon iron still glowed
before the gate, red encrusted with black. Nain saw that he had somehow
reversed the pole, and he spun it around as he approached the furnace,
accidentally smacking himself in the chin with the end as he did so. He
then leaned in, jammed the pole under the gate, and lifted. Once again
the molten iron poured out. Nain could feel it burning his forearms even
through the leather gloves, but he held his ground until the flow
slackened. Only as it slowed did he lean back, releasing the gate. As he
did he switched his grip on the pole, and saw a flash of silver. The
smith's necklace, his badge of office, had come loose when he hit
himself with the pole. As he watched, it fell directly onto the molten
iron.
Nain's skin was screaming, but when he saw the necklace fall he
forgot the pain and swung the iron staff down, trying to scoop the
precious item back up again. Instead the pole struck the badge and drove
it under the surface of the melt. Even as it went under, Nain could see
it fall asunder, melting like butter on a roasting lamb. Nain stood for
a fleeting moment, aghast. Then he saw that his leather clothing had
actually caught fire, and he ran.
By the time he reached Jarusalah, Nain had beaten the flames out,
but the edges of the leather were still glowing, and Nain stripped it
off. Jarusalah blessed him with a shower of cold water as he dumped the
smoking armor on the dusty ground.
"My necklace fell in the iron!" he shouted, immediately regretting
his tone and yet still feeling his anger and frustration. "I tried to
get it out but it melted!"
Jarusalah shook his head. "This night is evil for you, Nain.
Listen." He pointed skywards. Nain listened. The wind was blowing even
harder, and now Nain could smell a hint of salt in the air. "The wind
blows from the ocean tonight. Your furnace will run even hotter than
before now."
"It doesn't matter," Nain said, his shoulders sagging. "It took
most of my charstone to charge the furnace the first time; it's so big.
Even if I were to start over, I could not fill it full enough to burn a
bloom now."
"What will you do?"
Nain looked back toward the cistern. Marah staggered up with a
bucket of water, which Nain promptly used to douse the remaining embers
on his leather suit. He then dropped the empty bucket on the ground and
stood staring into the flames inside the furnace. The villagers had
labored all during the rains digging the ore and mining the charstone.
He thought about the days and days of hauling the baskets of rock from
the mine to the village, of the sennights of roasting the minerals in
preparation for this one day. The traders came into the desert only once
a year, at the time of the contest. How much money would a puddle of
moon iron bring? If he made more bloom later, he would have to brave the
dust of the desert and the mercy of the fishing folk to reach the
incomprehensible traders of the sea. Nain felt a touch on his skin and
looked down into the upturned face of Marah at his hip. Her wide eyes
carried her concern into his heart.
"I will decide."
The contest had three parts, each carefully watched by the master
smith. First, each village smith would build a furnace. The whole
village could help him. Then he would fire it for sponge iron. This
started at nightfall and only he and his children could attend it. Then
each smith alone had one day to take the sponge and forge a rough blade.
The master smith would judge the blades and declare the winner. Not only
was the contest a matter of pride, but the victorious village would win
the right of first choice of locations to mine that year. It was
capricious and arbitrary, but a better way than fighting for the mines,
as had been done in centuries past.
By first light, Nain was already working the ingots of moon iron.
Inferior in strength to the more ductile bloom, the moon iron was so
called because when it snapped, as it almost always did, the broken
edges showed gray and pale, like the light of the moon. He had broken
the iron into chunks and had carried them to his forge. Now he worked
sheepskin bellows with his foot, while with his arms he held the first
piece of iron to the flame.
Across the flat valley came the ringing sounds of metal being
struck. Nain glanced over his shoulder at the other forge sites. He
could see the other smiths working at their own fires, heating and
striking. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tobol coming up, his face
neutral.
"Forgive me, father, for not bowing," he said conversationally as
the older man approached, "but the iron is hot, and I must work it while
I can."
"As you should, as you should," came the reply.
Nain turned the ingot in the fire carefully. "Last night I dropped
the smith's necklace. It fell into the fire and was lost."
"So Jarusalah told me."
"Did he also mention that the bloom all burned into moon iron?"
"Yes, he did." Tobol was not a smith, but as a son of a smith in a
land of smiths he knew what that meant. "We have had many good years, my
son. Perhaps it is time for another village to earn the bragging
rights."
Nain blushed at the comforting tone in his father's voice. For
decades he had felt the glow of his father's affection and had never
truly felt worthy of it. Still, it was good to feel it now.
"They have not earned them yet," he replied with a grunt, lifting
the glowing iron from the fire. He dropped it on his anvil and gave it
an experimental tap. It tolled dully but did not snap.
"Well," Tobol replied, satisfaction his voice, "I can see you have
work to do. I'll go see what my granddaughters are doing."
Nain nodded and struck the iron again. Again it rang but did not
dent. He placed the metal back into the fire and worked the bellows. The
flame roared. The cold night air was gone, driven away by the heat of
his work. Nain waited until he felt the heat of the fire climbing up the
tongs, then set the iron back on the anvil and swung. The piece
shattered.
When Jarusalah arrived a few menes later, Nain was sitting amid the
pile of iron he had made. One by one he was picking up the bits,
examining them, and setting them back down. His unattended fire burned a
dull red. Jarusalah watched silently for a moment.
"So, will you sell your moon iron to any trader who will take it?"
Nain looked up, his hands still working the piece he held,
scratching it with a steel pick. He pursed his lips and stared into the
distance, deep in thought.
"If I have any left, yes."
"So you will still compete?" Jarusalah looked at the cooling forge.
"The others have already begun the welding. Issaret has nearly completed
a bar."
"Issaret is a good smith. I have learned a lot from him," Nain
replied. "For instance," he said, setting aside the piece and selecting
another, "it was he who taught me how to scratch for steel." He went
ahead and did just that, scratching away bits of dross from the chunk in
his hand.
"Is there any in your batch?"
Nain shook his head. "No."
There was silence for a while as the older smith watched the
younger continue to sort the iron.
Finally Jarusalah spoke again. "Perhaps you might remelt it and
cast a blade."
"There is no time, and I haven't the charstone for it," Nain
replied. "But my arm is still strong, and the day is new. I will take
the best parts, and work it as I can." He looked up unblinkingly at the
older smith. "It is what I must do."
Jarusalah nodded. "May the one bless you," he intoned, and walked
away.
The sun was fully up above the horizon when Nain shoveled more
charstone into his forge and set the next bit of iron into the flame. He
did not have as much experience with the moon iron as with bloom iron,
but Nain had scratched enough metal to know that not all of his failed
melt was composed of the same metal. The pick had shown him that some
chunks were less brittle than others, and he had selected these for use.
When the iron was hot, he laid it on the anvil and struck it hard. It
flattened slightly. He struck it hard, again and again, as if daring it
to break. After it had cooled slightly, he thrust it back into the heat,
pulling it out when it glowed. Nain worked more cautiously now, but with
growing hope. He had tried working moon iron once before, and this was
different. With each blow it became more and more obvious that this was
something new. It was softer, more ductile.
Nain added a second chunk to the flame. Together he beat them,
welding the two into one. It went quickly, much more quickly than Nain
expected. In fact, the iron was softer even than a normal bloom. He
welded more bits to the growing ingot. Soon it was the right size for a
blade. Nain traded his heavy hammer for a smaller one, and his blows
became more precise. He shaped the iron with joy. By afternoon his arms
and legs were trembling from exhaustion, but he had a finished shape. He
heated it one last time and quenched the metal in a bath of sheep oil.
Nain drew the dripping blade from the oil and wiped it off on his
apron. Instead of the dull gray of moon iron or the darker color of
wrought steel, this metal had a silver hue. He rubbed it vigorously, and
was surprised to see it take a shine.
"What have you made, Nain?"
He turned. Jarusalah was standing behind him. Nain looked back at
the blade. "The moon iron tempered much better than I expected," he said
stroking the blade. "I've never even seen a bloom take a shine this
quickly."
"It's not moon iron," Jarusalah said, stepping forward, hands
outstretched. Nain nodded and handed him the blade. Jarusalah examined
it, turning it over, scratching it with an iron ring he wore, tasting
it. Finally he spoke. "It was your necklace."
"What?"
"Your necklace." Jarusalah tapped the blade against the anvil and
listened to it, damping the vibration with a careful finger run down the
rough edge. "It alloyed with the iron somehow." He tapped the blade with
a fingernail. "It won't take an edge."
Nain was taken aback. "No?" Jarusalah shook his head silently,
still frowning at the blade, and Nain felt a lump rising in his throat.
"Am I disqualified, then?"
"No, but you will not be able to win, I don't think." He handed the
blade back to Nain. "Issaret is making a fine blade of good iron, and
his will hold an edge much better than yours will. But we shall see,
eh?" He returned the blade to Nain and walked off.
Nain continued to work the blade, but Jarusalah was right. When
Nain began to grind an edge into the iron it just would not take. The
metal would not harden. When Jarusalah blew the trumpet to end the
contest, Nain knew in his heart that he would lose. He laid the blade on
the finely woven cloth he had prepared and carried it to where the
festival tents had been erected in the center of the valley.
The other smiths were leaving their forges, followed by their own
village elders. Tobol came down from the hillside and joined Nain as he
walked. The older man fingered the blade speculatively and glanced
curiously at Nain, who just shrugged. They walked silently to the tent
where Jarusalah sat, surrounded by traders.
Nain wanted to wait at the back of the small knot of men gathered
in the tent, but Jarusalah had other thoughts. As he approached
Jarusalah called out. "Nain! Bring your work forward!" Tobol nodded and
led Nain to Jarusalah's side. The traders eyed him with interest as he
approached the old man. "Give me your blade."
Nain offered and Jarusalah accepted the finished and polished
blade, and a quiet gasp arose from the crowd as the light glinted off
the blade. Nain smiled ruefully.
"Nain, you have made a beautiful blade in a miraculously short
time," Jarusalah said, "but I think at a higher price than you wanted."
He lifted a swatch of sheer fabric from a table at his side and slid it
across the blade. It slipped cleanly across without catching. Another
sigh escaped the crowd, but stopped suddenly when they saw the fabric
was still whole. Jarusalah tried again, and this time the fabric snagged
a bit on the blade but still did not cut. The master smith tried once
more, forcing the cloth against the blade, and it finally tore in two.
"As I thought, your blade looks beautiful, but does not hold an
edge." He laid the blade down on the table and looked up. "Issaret." The
smith, a thin man half again Nain's age, stood and carried his blade
forward. Unlike Nain's offering, his was very rough. It was black and
lumpy, with the only hint of polish where the edge had been cut into one
side. As proper iron it was hard and tenacious. Issaret had fashioned it
just enough to form a rough shape and sharpen it. Jarusalah took it and
tested it on a skein of cloth. This time the cloth fell apart with the
first stroke. "As you see, Issaret has made proper iron."
One by one the other smiths brought their entries forward. In the
end, it was Issaret's that was judged the best. Nain smiled and shouted
for him with the others, but his smile was not broad nor his voice free.
He watched from the rear as the other smiths hove the victor on their
shoulders and carried him away to the feast.
"Jarusalah is not entirely correct," a voice behind him said. Nain
turned to see one of the traders step up behind him, carrying the blade
Nain had made.
"What?"
"It does hold an edge, of a sort." The trader's accent was very
broad, and Nain had to listen to his entire sentence before he was sure
he had understood what the man was saying. "And it shines like silver."
"That doesn't surprise me too much," Nain replied ruefully. "You
speak our language."
"Yes. My name is Markus. I'm captain of the Singing Mermaid, from
Baranur. I've only ever seen a blade like this once before, and that was
presented to Lord Clifton, Duke of Dargon, in the north of Baranur. How
did you make it?"
Nain looked at his father, shrugged, and turned back to the man. He
opened his mouth to speak, but Tobol spoke first.
"We are happy that you like our iron," he said, in a tone reserved
for merchants. "Perhaps you would care to join us at the feast? Our
house would be pleased to host you."
"Thank you, I will," he answered. "May I bring the blade?"
"Of course." Tobol swept him away, casting a slight smile over his
shoulder at Nain.
As evening fell, Nain, Marah, and Beelah were playing an impromptu
game of King's Crown, using stones as pieces on a board drawn in the
dust. The girls were playing against Nain and were deep in a discussion
of what to move next when Jarusalah walked up. Nain stood, as did the
girls. Jarusalah motioned them back to their game, seating himself
beside Nain.
"Is my father still talking to that merchant from Baranur?" Nain
asked the older smith.
"Yes. It seems he wishes to buy your steel for a ceremonial sword."
"How much will he pay?"
"Four Astra."
"What!?" Nain's eyebrows soared. Jarusalah nodded. "So much?"
Nain's mind whirled. It was not as much as good iron would bring, but
much better than he had dared hope.
"Well, that was for the whole batch. After all, you made quite a
bit of that stuff. He's calling it silver-steel."
"Does he know?"
Jarusalah shook his head. "No. And I don't think that what you made
was just a result of the silver in the necklace. I will have to remember
what stones were set into that necklace. I will test them myself to see
what they add to the melt." He reclined onto one elbow, and Nain
obligingly lowered himself also. "And of course, your work on the blade
made him notice your steel. He would not have bought the raw ingots
alone." Nain nodded thoughtfully. They listened to the girls for a
moment before Jarusalah continued. "I am naming Jerel second in the
contest, with you third."
"Third." Nain kept his voice neutral, but he was pleased to be
ranked so high.
"They have chosen the deep mine, and the north mine." Jarusalah
watched Nain's expression.
"The deep mine is the best, but I would have expected Jerel to take
the black mine. Its ore is richer."
"The black mine is deeper than the deep mine. It is more work to
haul the ore up out of it."
"What else do we have to do in the rainy season?"
Jarusalah nodded. "An answer I would have expected from you." He
stood, as did the girls. "It will be a long day tomorrow. I shall retire
for the night." He started to go, then turned back. "Oh, and one more
thing." He reached around his neck and undid his own necklace, handing
it to Nain. "I made that necklace for Bororel, years ago, at the same
time I made this one. This should do until you make another."
"But ... only the master smith can make a badge of office. You want
me ... ?"
Jarusalah nodded, frowning for a moment. "Well, even I had to learn
how to do it once. And I need to teach someone else to do it now. When
it's done, bring it to me, and I'll put my seal on it." He turned away.
"Goodnight, Nain."
Nain watched him walk away, feeling the weight of the necklace in
his hand. He hefted it, looking at it. It felt heavier than his other
one, just a bit, but Nain felt he could stand it. He put it on, and went
back to the game.
========================================================================
