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DargonZine Volume 18 Issue 03
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 18
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3
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DargonZine Distributed: 4/2/05
Volume 18, Number 3 Circulation: 613
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
The Lost Opportunity 1 Dave Fallon Yule 20-Yuli, 1018
Liberated Hope 1 Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Yuli 24-26 1018
========================================================================
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 18-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 2005 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue <bdonahue@fuse.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>
A couple weeks ago, I had the pleasure of obtaining a free cup of
ice cream, thanks to Yahoo! Inc., which celebrated the tenth anniversary
of its founding by teaming up with Baskin-Robbins in a huge ice cream
giveaway.
I, of course, had to smirk a bit, because DargonZine was on the net
ten years before Yahoo!, having celebrated the 20th anniversary of our
first issue several months ago. Since we're twice as old as Yahoo!,
perhaps we should give all our users *two* free ice creams! Of course,
we can't, because DargonZine doesn't have the immense number of users
that Yahoo! does.
It's actually difficult for us to detemine how many readers we
really have, despite the fact that a circulation number appears in the
masthead of each issue. While we send out six or seven hundred copies of
each issue, some people read the zine via the Web and never subscribe,
and sometimes it's difficult for us to separate search engine "crawlers"
from real users. Other readers periodically download a bunch of issues
from our ftp site.
Another reason why we don't know how many people read DargonZine is
our RSS feed. RSS is a way for publishers to announce new material to
the world, and several people subscribe to our RSS feed, but not to
DargonZine directly. Unfortunately, although we create and host our RSS
feed, and although it is one of the most-requested files on our Web
site, there's simply no way for us to identify or even count the people
who read it.
From a publisher's standpoint, that's a very annoying shortcoming
of RSS, but on the other hand it reminds me of the early days of the
Internet and Stewart Brand's quote that "information wants to be free".
Once a story is published in DargonZine, it's out there for the general
public to view, and we've relinquished a certain degree of control over
it: including -- surprisingly -- the ability to know who or how many
people have looked at it!
Having said that, I want to state that we heartily encourage people
to use our RSS feed. If you already read a customized list of weblogs,
My Yahoo!, or use any other syndicated feed aggregator, subscribing to
our feed is an easy way to be notified whenever new issues come out. A
detailed description of how to use our RSS feed can be found on our Web
site, at <http://www.dargonzine.org/rssfeed.shtml>.
Of course, if you don't use a news reader, you can still get new
issue announcements by email by signing up for a "notification-only"
subscription. In fact, even if you do use a news reader, we encourage
you to maintain a notification subscription, both because the email
notices come out more quickly than the RSS notices, and because it helps
us get a handle on how many readers we really have.
But upon this, our 20th anniversary, I'm afraid I can't offer you
any free ice cream. But maybe if you stick around for our 30th
anniversary ...
This is the third issue in our ongoing Black Idol story arc, and
now that the background has been set, we're ready to get into the meat
of the storyline.
Having already printed Rich Durbin's stories and the first chapter
from Liam Donahue, we now transition to two different writers. This
issue begins with Dave Fallon's arc contibution: the first chapter of
"The Lost Opportunity", which introduces Dourgam Finn, one of the more
desperate residents of the accursed town of Northern Hope. And I'm
naturally satisfied to round out this issue with the first chapter in my
own "Liberated Hope", in which Northern Hope welcomes the wizard Anarr,
whom you saw hired by the ambitious Parris Dargon in "Have You Ever Been
to Northern Hope?", in DargonZine 18-2.
I hope you enjoy both these stories, and that you will be looking
forward to the continuation of them both in our next issue, DargonZine
18-4, which should appear in your mailboxes (or your RSS news readers)
around the middle of May.
========================================================================
The Lost Opportunity
Part 1
by Dave Fallon
<dfallon23@yahoo.com>
Yule 20 - Yuli 25, 1018
Dourgam Finn gripped the handle of his axe tightly, feeling the
sweat and grit on his palms grind against the wood of the haft. The
forest around him was silent except for the buzz of gnats and the
distant creaking of wagon wheels echoing from further up the road.
"This is it," the older man beside Dourg muttered. "This'll be the
catch, lad, you wait an' see."
Dourg merely grunted in response and strained to see through the
woods. Early that morning, one of the bandits had returned from keeping
watch higher up on the hill, and had said that a three-wagon caravan was
coming past. He hadn't seen any guards, so the leader of their group,
Ailo, had told them to get ready.
Five years ago, Dourg would never have dreamed he would one day be
crouched in a ditch with bandits waiting to ambush travelers. But ever
since he had been forced to flee his home duchy of Pyridain after troops
from Beinison had marched on it, he'd had nothing but bad luck. He had
never killed anyone and didn't want to start now, but Ailo had said that
all they had to do was scare the travelers. Most would hand over their
valuables rather than face an unknown enemy. At the time, that was all
it had taken to convince Dourg. Now, as his pulse quickened in
anticipation, he wondered at his decision.
"I have a bad feeling about this," Dourg said softly. "No one moves
three wagons without some sort of guard." He thought back to his
father's prosperous trade business back in Pyridain and knew it to be
true. Only a fool would transport enough goods to fill three wagons
without some precautions. And a fool would never get enough goods
together to fill three wagons in the first place.
"Hush up, flit," the bandit said. "We've been in this ditch for
five days now with not a 'van worth dung to pick on. I'm not waiting
another five days eating bugs." He drew a long, rusty knife from his
belt and tied a piece of cloth to his face, hiding his features.
Dourg grimaced and sighed. He had to admit that the older man was
right. When he had first come to Nulain with the hundreds of other
refugees from the war, they had all been full of hope, so much so that
they had named their town Northern Hope. But their hope had been
stretched and stretched as the curse of Nulain bore down on them. They
all knew the land that they had been granted wasn't prime, but if it
hadn't been for the strange illnesses, fires, floods, droughts, and
attacks by plagues of insects and strange beasts, their efforts alone
would have made the small town into a prosperous city. As it stood,
however, even the most persistent effort was rewarded by disaster.
In the years since they had first settled in Nulain, some of the
former Pyridainians had given in to despair, while others merely
tightened their resolve to make the best of their situation. Dourg had
long been part of the latter group, struggling to start a trading
business like his father's in the budding community. His father, who had
stayed behind to die fighting the Beinisons, had given him a sizable
inheritance for that purpose when Dourg fled. Now, that inheritance was
almost gone, as was Dourg's hope. When his lover, Myla, told him she was
pregnant, he knew he would have to switch strategies if he wanted to
make money in the midst of a curse.
Letting the axe head rest on the ground, Dourg took a moment to
glance around at the rest of the outlaws who stood with him. They were
spaced out to either side of the road, many of them masked by strips of
cloth tied around their heads.
Amidst the growing din of the approaching caravan, a sharp snap
echoed through the forest and all of the bandits crouched down. The
first of the wagons had run over the dried sticks that they had laid on
the road earlier to alert them when it reached the last spot on the road
before their hiding place would be in sight. Within moments a large
wooden structure lumbered into view, its white sides gleaming beneath
the shadow of the canopy and its wheels creaking and clanking over every
stone and hole in the road.
Menes dragged on as the first wagon wound its way closer and the
two that followed it appeared. Dourg crouched down as low as he could in
the brush. Only a few paces from the road, he was certain that he or any
of the bandits could be spotted if anyone looked directly at them. But
no cry of alarm went off and Dourg continued holding his breath.
Then there was another snap as the first wagon reached a
predetermined point, and Ailo scrambled onto the road in front of it.
Holding his breath, Dourg peeked up to see the balding bandit leader
wave a longsword and shout for the driver to stop. The horses pulling
the wagon nickered and whinnied anxiously, but the driver calmly tugged
the reigns and clicked his tongue.
Dourg heard Ailo shout, "We've two dozen more men surrounding you
right now. Throw down your wares and any arms you have and we'll let you
pass in peace." To emphasize the point, Dourg and the rest of the
bandits stood up in unison then crouched back down, showing the wagon
driver that there were indeed more people in the forest, but hopefully
preventing him from counting their number.
The driver, a squat man with beady eyes, gave the bandit leader a
sardonic glare, then brought two fingers to his lips and blew out a
shrill whistle. Immediately, the doors of the second wagon flipped open
and armored guards began emerging, wearing the tabards of Asbridge and
carrying cocked crossbows.
Dourg felt his blood turn to ice even as he heard Ailo shouting and
the bandits around him standing up and rushing to fight. "There's only
four of them!" Ailo bellowed. He started to rush at the emerging guards
but one of them aimed and fired a bolt that took him in the leg. He
stumbled to the ground with one last shout.
"Ol's balls," Dourg swore and turned to run down the hill away from
the road.
"No you don't, lad," came the voice of the older bandit behind him
and a hand grabbed his arm. "You'll stand with us or die running!" He
brought the knife up threateningly but then his expression went from
anger to surprise as a crossbow bolt ripped its way through his back and
stomach. Dourg, now thoroughly panicked, kicked the dying bandit away
and fled.
He thought he was running downhill away from the road, but at a
turn he found himself going uphill. There was a shout behind him and he
pushed his legs to give another burst of speed, when he stepped on level
ground and realized he had run back out onto the road.
Turning wide-eyed to his left, he saw the wagons barely fifty paces
away. Bodies of bandits and at least one of the guards lay in the road
grasping at gushing wounds, and a knot of bandits struggled with the
remaining guards near the back of the lead wagon.
The driver was still sitting and calmly clicking to his horses. He
spotted Dourg staring at him and he raised a crossbow from the seat
beside him. Even with the distance between them and the noise of the
battle, Dourg heard the click of the trigger as if it were the only
sound in the forest, then a snapping twang as the crossbow string broke
and lashed the driver's hand. He howled in pain and dropped the weapon.
Dourg didn't wait to watch what happened next; he turned and plunged
into the brush at the other side of the road.
In the back of his mind, he realized that running uphill was not
advantageous in a chase, but all of his attention was focused on keeping
his legs moving and avoiding the twisted trees. He could not avoid
smaller impediments, though, and he tripped several times, scraping his
arms and knees and almost dropping the axe. Finally, he tripped over a
raised root and fell sprawling forward, losing his grip on the axe and
knocking the breath from his lungs.
For several moments he lay there struggling to breathe. The forest
around him was silent. There were no shouts from the guards or sounds of
them rushing to overtake him. Moment after moment dragged by until Dourg
felt a wave of relief. He choked in a breath and actually guffawed
roughly before the pain from his bruised ribs forced him to breathe more
normally again.
He sat up slowly and gazed around himself at the forest. He was
still on a sharp incline, in a gully apparently carved by spring flows
from higher up and then left dry in the summer. Downhill, the ditch
weaved between trees and rocks, a path so treacherous that Dourg would
hardly have attempted it at a normal pace. He couldn't imagine how he
had survived racing up that way while carrying his axe.
At the thought of his axe, he hurriedly turned to find it. It was a
poor tool; the iron blade had quickly dulled on the tough trees of
Nulain and the haft was splintery and uncomfortable. Still, it felt good
to have some sort of weapon now that he found himself alone. He saw its
handle hanging over the side of the gully and recovered it.
His first thought was to go back down the hill to the road. Whether
or not the ambush had failed, he could perhaps find something of value.
But then he immediately abandoned that thought. If some of the other
bandits had survived, they would probably have the same thought, and
desperate as they were they might kill Dourg, too. So, he decided to
return to Northern Hope alone. The bandits wouldn't bother him there and
perhaps in a few sennights they would have forgotten his lack of loyalty
and invite him to join them again.
But which way was Northern Hope? He had never been this far south
of the town before, and only came here with Ailo's group, who had preyed
on travelers in this area before. He didn't want to return to the ambush
site, so he decided to continue up the hill. It seemed reasonable to
assume that if he climbed to the top and then down the other side again,
he would meet up with the same road where it wound around.
After four more bells of walking, Dourg had reached the other side
of the hill and the road was nowhere in sight. The sun had been close to
noon at time of the ambush, and as it now neared the horizon behind him
he began to worry that he would not find the road again before
nightfall. He had flint and steel in a pouch in his tunic, but without a
torch or lantern it would be nearly impossible to travel through the
forest at night, and his bruises and cuts were beginning to ache
furiously, so he decided he'd be better off finding a place to bed down.
As he walked, he noticed a flatter area to his right flanked on
either side by sharp slopes: a mountainous canyon. Hoping to find a
cave, he turned and pushed through the thick growth. He emerged in an
area where the trees were much smaller. Here and there rock columns
thrust from the soil at odd angles, and in the waning light it was
difficult to tell them apart from the trees.
Gradually, Dourg became aware of the sound of water running
somewhere further up the canyon. Realizing how thirsty he was, he began
walking more quickly when, at one step, his foot met no resistance and
he fell forward and down through what he had thought was solid ground.
He had just enough time to shout before he landed in a thorny bush and
the breath was knocked out of his lungs for the second time that day.
He couldn't say how much time had passed before he opened his eyes
again, but the light of the sun had long since gone. Instead, the bright
light of the moon cut through the tightly woven branches above his head.
With a groan and a muttered curse, Dourg pushed himself into a sitting
position and checked himself for injuries. He must have rolled through a
thorn bush before passing out, for all over his back and one arm were
scabbed over cuts, some of which began bleeding again as he struggled to
rise. He didn't seem to have any broken bones, but as he put his weight
on one of his feet a searing pain told him he had twisted an ankle.
"Damn curse," he muttered to himself as he stood on one leg
wondering what to do. He felt despair creeping up on him but he shrugged
it off. He had known nothing but bad luck since coming here; why should
today be any different? With a sigh, he lowered himself back down and
looked around.
The moon was bright enough for him to see the thorn bush he had
fallen on. It appeared well crushed and he realized it had been dead,
possibly for some time, when he had fallen on it. Though the sound of
water running still echoed somewhere nearby, many of the smaller plants
around him looked stunted.
He looked up to where he had fallen from. The walls of the
depression were unnaturally steep and most of the plants at the bottom
were much smaller than the plants growing around the edge. He had seen
such things in Pyridain before: sinkholes that opened unexpectedly when
the ground simply collapsed in one area. Dully, he wondered if he was so
cursed that the hole had opened right under his feet, but the plants
that struggled to grow here told him that the sinkhole was at least some
years old. Instead, it was a weave of vining branches from the small
trees that had blocked his view of the hole. He had thought he was
stepping on fallen branches, but they were in fact the tops of trees.
Dourg reached into his tunic and took out the pouch that held his
flint and steel. He had never been a woodsman while living in Pyridain,
but he knew enough how to start a fire in the best of conditions, and
the hard life of Nulain made everyone learn certain skills they had
never needed before. He piled up twigs from the crushed bush, mindful of
the thorns, and struck sparks to the pile until a thin stream of smoke
rose from it. Then he blew on it frantically until flames appeared.
Casting about, he found enough larger branches to feed the weak fire.
It wasn't cold out, but the light of the flames gave him comfort.
Except for the sound of running water, the sinkhole had an eerie silence
to it that made him think he was being stalked. In the flickering light
he could see that the thin trees were a little more dense around him,
such that he couldn't clearly see how large the hole really was.
For what wasn't the first time since he had followed Ailo and the
bandits to their ambush site, Dourg thought of Myla. "If she hadn't
gotten pregnant, I wouldn't be out here," he grumbled to himself, then
felt an instant pang of regret. Besides being his lover, Myla was also
the only person who was still friendly to Dourg. Over a year ago, when
his last attempt at starting a trading business had bitterly failed,
most of the people of Northern Hope had begun avoiding him for his
darkening moods. But Myla had kept coming back to him, even when he was
sometimes mean to her. Little more than three sennights ago, she had
told him she was pregnant. The prospect of being a father scared him a
little, but what scared him more was bringing up a child in this cursed
land.
On the other hand, if he had any more run-ins with guards or fell
into any more sinkholes, his child might not ever get the chance to meet
its father. With that in mind, he set about chopping at one of the thin
trees, awkwardly swinging his dull axe from a seated position until he
separated the trunk from its roots. Using the newly-made staff to lever
himself up, he put his weight on it and took a few experimental steps.
Though dull pain shot up his leg with each step, with the help of the
staff he could at least walk.
But he couldn't climb. If he was to ever see Northern Hope and Myla
again, he would have to find a more shallow area of the sinkhole to get
out. Despite having spent the preceding day walking, Dourg was too
thirsty and restless to sleep, so he decided to explore his surroundings
and try to find the source of the trickling and splashing sound. He
picked up a shorter stick and set the top of it alight in his small
fire. It made a poor torch, but the light it gave off, combined with the
light of the rising moon, was enough for him to see the path in front of
him as long as he moved slowly.
He carefully made his way though the fence of small trees and into
a wave of damp heat. Beyond the trees the floor of the sinkhole
descended into a shallow bowl shape, in the center of which a small pond
had formed. Gouts of steam rose up from the rippling water, signaling
that the pool was being heated from beneath. Dourg stood and stared for
a moment, for though he had heard of such things, he had never seen a
naturally heated pool. Then he picked his way down to the water's edge.
The pool was being fed by two streams that ran from opposite
directions. Dourg quickly found that one of the streams was scaldingly
hot, while the other was cold. He drank deeply from the cold water and
then decided to follow the colder and deeper stream uphill.
The climb was difficult, especially with his injured ankle. He
carried his axe in his right hand, braced each step with the staff under
his right armpit, and raised the guttering torch with his left hand as
high as he could. After what seemed like several bells of walking, he
noticed that the walls of the canyon had widened considerably, and the
vegetation grew less and less dense, despite the stream that he followed
providing plenty of water. The padding of generations of fallen leaves
underfoot turned into a thick mat of needles as the types of trees
around him changed. Also, the short weedy plants gave way to tougher,
woody shrubs that grew in small clumps where sunlight must have made it
through the high limbs. Dourg decided he was probably out of the
sinkhole by now, and stopped to catch his breath and contemplate finding
a place to rest for the night, when he realized he was standing in the
middle of a ring of stones, which he recognized as the ancient
foundation of a small building!
The discovery shocked him so much that he almost dropped his torch.
He crept closer to one of the edges and lowered his light source to
double check. There was no mistaking the roughly circular outline of a
building, the chimney flue still standing where the walls had long since
fallen away.
As amazing as the find was, Dourg quickly got over his interest in
order to concentrate on his more immediate need of shelter. Where
buildings had once stood, there was a far greater likelihood of finding
someplace safe to rest the night.
He continued searching until he came to a rock wall, and there an
arch-shaped opening gave the promise of a cave. Cheered, he began
hurrying to the passage before coming to a hesitant stop. He had heard
of bears and wolves using such caves as lairs, but there was something
more that made him pause here. Though he was several paces away, he
could feel cool air emanating from the opening, raising goose bumps on
his arms. There was a subtle smell to the air, sticky sweet like the
smell of cattle rotting in the field after having died during the night,
musty like a diseased tree when you hit it with an axe. Dourg shivered
and felt a spasm of pain from his ribs, then resolved to ignore his
fancy.
Fortunately, the light of the setting moon was behind him as he
entered the cave, so with the aid of the torch he could see fairly well.
Beyond the opening, the floor was slightly uneven but appeared to have
been smoothed like a footpath and the walls ballooned out to form a
roughly round space. The ceiling also rose thirty hands from the floor,
its uneven expanse was white and covered with thin stalactites, most no
longer than his finger, some actively dripping. Dourg was so relieved to
have found shelter that, carefully holding the burning branch to one
side, he spread his arms underneath the falling water, letting it
splatter on his shoulders and face.
Still standing with his arms outstretched, Dourg froze when
something in the back of the cavern glittered. The milky illumination
from the moon stretched midway across the cave floor, but did not
illuminate any further. From within the darkness, he again saw a strange
red glint. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his
eyes widened as he tried to see what stalked him.
For a full mene he stared and held his breath, water splattering
over his hair and down the back of his shirt. He kept thinking he heard
deep, raspy breathing, but it might have been the night wind. He kept
thinking he saw subtle movements in the darkness, but they might have
been his imagination. Finally, when his shoulders were burning and his
chest throbbing with pain, he lowered his arms and gripped the axe in
one hand and the burning branch in the other. "Hello?" he called out,
but only his echo responded.
Creeping awkwardly forward, Dourg's eyes adjusted to the darkness
and he became aware of a form on a rough pedestal, like a very small man
sitting cross-legged. Strange flashes of colored light suggested the
figure was wearing something shiny, and as Dourg finally stood close
enough that his torchlight reflected off of it, he confirmed that the
figure was a statue with large rubies for eyes and a silver sword. It
took only a moment for the reality of what he was seeing to catch up
with him, and after rubbing his eyes to make sure he was not dreaming,
he stared gap-jawed at a fortune.
Dourg took another step forward and reached out a shaking hand to
touch the statue. The figure was of a demon, its head thrown back in a
fierce howl as if baring its long fangs at the sky. The strange black
stone was frigid, so cold that for an instant when Dourg touched it he
felt as if he had been burned, pulling his fingers back hastily and
blowing on them. But the pain faded so quickly that he decided he had
imagined it.
He realized with a certain amount of pride that a lesser man would
have embraced the statue, carried it back to Northern Hope, and tried to
trade it for all the ale he could drink. Dourg actually smiled at the
idea of plopping the statue down on the counter in front of Moritan the
bartender and asking for ale. No, Dourg saw that this random find, this
amazing stroke of luck, would be his ticket to a new life and freedom
from the curse.
His father used to have trade agents in a town called Kenna, in
Duchy Dargon, only a few days' travel from Northern Hope. If he could
get the statue to them, he was certain they would help him sell it for
enough money to start a new business. But Kenna was many leagues away,
and the statue looked heavy. He could never carry it all the way there
without any supplies, especially with his twisted ankle. He would have
to go back to Northern Hope first and get a mule, some food, and a map
for the journey, and he'd have to rest until his ankle healed.
All of these things would take time, he estimated a month or more
to do it right. Meanwhile, he could not be seen walking into the small
town with such a large bundle that the statue would make. Not even the
plague could spread as fast as rumor there, and Dourg couldn't risk the
community's leaders claiming the treasure for their own. So, with one
last reluctant look at the artwork, Dourg wedged his torch in a niche on
one wall, hefted his axe to his shoulder, and prepared to smash it into
smaller parts that could more easily be concealed.
His first blow landed at an angle on the neck of the creature.
Dourg hadn't used all of his strength, fearing that the unknown stone
would shatter like glass and he might damage the seemingly flawless
rubies. The axe connected with a resounding snap and blinding sparks
flew out at every direction, causing Dourg to throw one arm up to
protect his eyes. When he looked again, the statue was undamaged; not
even a scratch showed where the attack had been made.
Frowning, he tried again, this time lifting his tool high above his
head and bringing it crashing down on the silver sword. The soft metal
should have yielded easily to the axe, but instead it seemed to deflect
the blow, and Dourg felt as if the axe had bounced in his hands,
throwing his arms away from the statue and unbalancing him. He tried
again and again, but the result was always the same: the statue would
not be broken.
"So how do I bring you home?" Dourg asked the statue. He stared at
it, as if waiting for the demonic lips to answer him, then released an
exasperated sigh. The only answer was to take the whole statue to Kenna.
As the plan shaped and refined within his mind, he realized that he
would have no choice but to leave the statue here. "Tomorrow, then," he
said, speaking again to the statue. "Tomorrow I'll go back to Northern
Hope, and soon I'll be back to get you. This is one opportunity that
Dourgam Finn will not lose."
"I'm sure Carron and the rest of the villagers could use your help
getting the millstone out of the river," Myla called from across the
empty taproom of Lord Araesto's Cat. Dourg grunted without looking at
her. "He might even pay for help ..."
"Bits while I break my back," Dourg said, giving her a sour glare.
"Carron should have known things would go awry in cursed Nulain." He
tipped up his mug and took a swallow of ale.
"If it's the curse you blame, then why not help out? You've
certainly had your fair share of bad luck over the years. A curse is
only as good as you let it get to you."
Myla finished cleaning one of the tables with a tattered rag and
turned to Dourg with her hands on her hips. "How many days are you just
going to sit around doing nothing? You blame the curse for your bad
fortune, but I say there's a fair bit of laziness to blame as well."
"Watch your tongue," Dourg said. "I've tried and tried to make good
here. In Pyridain, everything my family touched turned to gold. If
anyone would pay a Bit for something, my father could have made a
hundred Marks with it. But here ..." He cast his arms around
despondently. "Here everything turns to sh--"
"That's your answer for everything," Myla interrupted. "What about
me? When I'm in your arms do I turn, too?"
Dourg angrily held her stare for a moment then dropped his eyes.
"You don't know how close I came, Myla ..." He took another swallow of
ale, letting its bitter taste remind him of his biggest failure. After
finding the statue more than a month ago, he had gathered all the
necessary supplies and set out to get it. He had been careful, so
careful, knowing how the curse could turn all that's good to rot. He had
gathered food and water, gotten a mule and rope, and even managed to get
a crude map to Kenna from one of the passing traders. All these he had
carefully checked again and again until the day he was to leave. Then,
trudging away from Northern Hope, he had quickly realized that he no
longer knew where the cave was. It was as if the memories of the trip
back after finding the statue had shriveled up like crops in the sun. He
had searched the forested hills of Nulain for three days until, tired
and almost out of food, he had solemnly led his mule back to town. Now,
a day after having lost the biggest opportunity of his life, he lifted
his mug again as if to celebrate.
Myla was still staring at him, but her hard expression softened and
she came forward to sit next to him. She still wasn't showing the
pregnancy through her loose gown, but Dourg had seen her sick in the
mornings and had known that perhaps six months remained before his child
was born. Putting a hand on his knee, she said, "I know you tried,
Dourg. I know ..." Dourg didn't look up. "But all I'm saying is that you
have to try again. If you refuse to give up, there's always hope."
Dourg grunted out a bitter laugh, but he couldn't help sharing
Myla's smile. With her straight, limp hair, dull hazel eyes, and
sapling-thin waist, Dourg knew Myla wasn't the prettiest girl in
Northern Hope. But beyond her looks, there was something amazing about
the woman in her strength and character, something he respected and
admired more than anything else.
When she saw Dourg smile, her own smile broadened. "Listen," she
said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Moritan told me an
interesting thing when I came in to start work. He said a stranger's
come to town."
"Oh, how interesting that is." Dourg said, not bothering to hide
his sarcasm.
"This stranger *is* interesting, boy. Listen, now. Moritan said
this man is a wizard, young by the look of him, but fabulously powerful.
The wizard said he'd come here to find the cause of our curse and get
rid of it!" Her eyes lit up as she spoke.
"A young man comes to Lord Araesto's Cat and says he's a wizard
who's going to stop the curse, eh? Well, then, when Moritan comes back
tell him I'm the son of Ol and maybe he'll give me a free drink, too."
He tipped his mug to show it was empty. He had no coin to buy more,
having spent nearly every last Bit of his inheritance on supplies, and
he wasn't feeling compelled to listen to silly rumors.
"This man paid for his drink, Dourg." Myla's tone was icy.
"I'm just saying that any road-weary tot can saunter in and say
he's this or that and ol' Moritan will believe him."
"Is that so?" Myla said, arching a slender eyebrow, her most
attractive feature. "As a matter of fact, Moritan didn't believe this
man either, and so the man put his hands on the counter and caused it to
burn!"
"Moritan told you that? He's been drinking his own wares, girl."
Dourg smirked but Myla still did not get angry.
"If you think so then go and look at the counter. You can still see
the burn marks where his hands were."
Dourg did not particularly feel like standing up, but some part of
him harbored a hope that if he humored Myla, she might get him a free
ale. With an exaggerated grunt, he stomped both boots on the floor,
stood up, and trudged over to the counter. There he could clearly see
the scorched wood in the shape of two hands on the public side of the
counter.
"See?" Myla called from where she was still seated.
"Aye," Dourg said. "There's ten long burn marks that look like
fingers, but couldn't Moritan have done that himself with a hot poker?
He was probably bored here all day with everyone out helping Carron."
"If you still don't believe it, you'll have the chance to talk with
the wizard yourself soon. He was asking about things southwest of
Northern Hope, the caves and such, and Moritan told him you were down
there a lot and could probably help him find what he was looking for."
For an instant Dourg's eyes opened wide and he had a flash memory
of the statue. Of course! That must be what the wizard was after! But he
couldn't remember exactly where he had found it ... Still, if he
couldn't find the statue himself, maybe he could make the wizard pay for
what little he knew.
"Save it," Dourg snapped, enjoying the look of haughty disbelief on
the face of the young man whose introduction he had cut off.
It was the evening after his conversation with Myla. The stranger
had come into the busy Lord Araesto's Cat a few moments before and had
spoken briefly with Moritan. The burly bartender had pointed at Dourg,
and the man had gracefully strode over.
It wasn't hard for Dourg to believe that this man was the "wizard"
named Anarr that everyone had been talking about. A stranger was a rare
enough sight in Northern Hope, but this man was also wearing rich robes
and was tall and handsome.
What Dourg had trouble believing was that this man was really a
wizard. He couldn't be more than thirty years old, and he had a look
about him more like a spoiled noble than a powerful magus. Dourg and his
father had dealt with more than a few spoiled nobles in Pyridain, so he
knew the trick was to know when to bow and when to snap. Right now, it
was time to be snappy.
Anarr tried again to start the conversation. His voice was as rich
as his robe, full of well-rounded pronunciations like someone too
important to speak with a common accent. "Perhaps you misunderstand me.
I would like to ask you --"
"I said 'save it'," Dourg said. "Myla told me about your
conversation with the bartender." He nodded toward the girl, who was
busy serving another table. She was bad at pretending she wasn't
watching them, though, and when he nodded at her she looked up and
flashed him an encouraging smile. Something about that smile irritated
him, like she was his mother encouraging him to lace up his boots for
the first time.
"She's a nice girl," the wizard said. "Are you planning on marrying
her?"
"Hah!" he forced himself to guffaw. "What's she to me? She's just
another roll. I'll do better."
Anarr did not share his laugh, but raised an eyebrow placatingly.
For an uncomfortable moment, the wizard simply looked at him. In
Pyridain, when his father had met with business partners and nobles,
there would always be small talk exchanged before the dealing was done,
but Dourg felt this conversation with the wizard was going terribly.
Maybe he was being a little too snappy. Annoyed, he decided to get
straight to the point.
"So, you want to know what's upstream from here," he said. "How
much are you willing to pay for it?"
"Pay for it?" The wizard was almost aghast, as if amazed to think
someone would request payment for his troubles. "I'll not pay a Bit for
it! Dourg, you have one opportunity to make something of yourself. Look
around: people are already gossiping about why I am talking to you,
instead of anyone else in this village. Tell me what you know, and you
will look like a hero to everyone in this town. But if you don't, I'll
find the artifact that's causing this curse, and do it without you."
Dourg listened to this lecture with bored impertinence clear on his
face. Apparently, to wizards, being a hero was important; but being a
hero didn't make one wealthy. "And what if I go and fetch it and destroy
it or remove it myself? Then I'll be the hero!" he said threateningly.
Instead of the outrage Dourg had been expecting, Anarr simply shook
his head. "No, Dourg. If that were so, you would have already done it.
You can't do it, and you know it. You need me to figure out how to get
rid of it. Think about all the things it has done to your town already.
How many people have died? I've already interacted with it myself, and I
know how perniciously evil it is. You have little hope if you pit
yourself against such power alone."
"You've seen it?" Dourg blurted out, suddenly. The idea that Anarr
had seen the same statue perked a memory in his head. After days of
trying desperately to remember the way to the cave, this tiny fragment
of a memory completely overcame his desire to deal.
"No, I said I've interacted with it," Anarr was saying. "I've seen
its power, and have an idea what and where it is. I will find it, with
or without you."
"You know what it is?" Dourg asked. The memory was just below the
surface of his thinking. He grasped for it desperately.
"I used a divination spell to get a general idea of the item's
location." Anarr said. "It's in a valley about twenty leagues southwest
of here --"
"Twenty leagues?" Dourg frowned. "Is that all? That can't be right
..." He suddenly remembered the walk back, it had seemed endless. He
remembered seeing the settlement outside of the cave in the daylight and
noticing that one of the buildings still stood, if just barely. He
remembered skirting around the sinkhole that he had fallen in the night
before.
"Straight, it's probably at the old settlement. It's a good five or
six bells' travel through the hills. It might be twenty leagues as the
crow flies, but it's a lot more on foot. And you'll never find it
without my help ..."
"That's true, and that's why I've come to you. It's quite an
interesting artifact. I am rather curious to see it.
"What does this place look like?" Anarr asked, leaning forward
slightly.
Dourg answered as if in a spell. Before he could stop himself, he
had spilled out every detail that he could not remember just a few bells
ago. Finally, feeling wrung out and limp, he fell silent. Anarr's face
held the same impassive expression it had had the whole time he was
talking, but Dourg detected a slight look of satisfaction in the young
man's features.
"You have done yourself a service," Anarr said and made as if to
stand up.
"Wait!" Dourg said, trying to sound fierce but his voice coming out
in more of a strangled whisper. "Did you use magic on me to make me
talk?"
For the first time, Anarr's thin lips twisted into a knowing smile.
He stood up, turned, and walked straight-backed to the stairs that led
up to the rented rooms.
Dourg stared after him with murder in his eyes. He had been
tricked! Through black magic or treachery, it didn't matter. Now the
wizard knew exactly where to find the statue and Dourg hadn't gotten any
payment for it.
He cursed loud enough that the other patrons in the room turned to
glance curiously at him. Myla hurried to his table and sat down next to
him. "What did he say?" she asked excitedly.
Dourg continued staring as if he hadn't heard her. "Damn him and
all wizards like him," he said. "I've worked too hard and waited too
long to let some cocky boy-mage walk off with my statue."
"Dourg?" Myla said. "What are you talking about? What statue?"
She reached out a hand to get his attention, but he stood up so
fast his chair fell backwards behind him. "We'll see what his magic is
all about," he said. Then he turned and stormed from the room, leaving
Myla staring blankly after him.
========================================================================
Liberated Hope
Part 1
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@rcn.com>
Yuli 24-26 1018
Pain lanced through Darvale's sweating body as a half ton of solid
rock balanced precariously on his shoulders.
The smith took another rapid breath and yelled, "Heave!" The edge
of the disc-shaped millstone bound for Carron's new gristmill nearly
caught the edge of the dock; another hand width and they could rest the
stone on the dock and slide the rest of the millstone off the barge. It
was foul luck that the river was low because of the lack of rain. Had
the barge been riding higher, it would have been much easier to get the
millstone up onto the dock.
"This is it! Heave!" The stone moved a hand-span onto the dock,
which creaked under the weight, while the barge rode a bit higher in the
river than it had before. Darvale and the three men helping him unload
the stone could rest their aching muscles for a moment.
Until now, the people of Northern Hope had laboriously ground their
meal by hand in a quern, or used their dwindling supply of coin to
import bread and meal from the downstream towns of Asbridge. Carron,
with the help of many of the settlers, had built a new gristmill, and
everyone in town had parted with silver to have the millstone ferried
upriver from Miass.
The rest of the stone slid easily onto the dock. The final bit of
work was to have a team of oxen lift the disc so that it stood on its
edge like a wheel and could be carefully rolled out to Carron's new
mill.
The workers wedged an iron bar the thickness of Darvale's arm
underneath one side of the stone, then looped a rope from the oxen
through the hole in the middle. Two men were ready to lever the wheel
with the iron bar, while Darvale and another man stood by to steady the
stone on its way up. All was ready for the oxen to pull the stone up
onto its edge.
Darvale signaled to Carron, who was tending the team. He got the
oxen moving with a stinging blow from a heavy whip. The rope tautened,
everyone heaved, and slowly the edge of the millstone rose to a
45-degree angle.
Darvale moved under the stone and pushed with one hand, while
signaling encouragement to Carron.
"Heave!" Carron's whip cracked as Darvale used both hands to lift
and guide the stone. As the stone came closer to vertical, the lifting
got easier, and Darvale signaled to Carron to stop the team.
Darvale watched as the stone balanced on its edge, barely
registering one more crack of Carron's whip. The oxen were still
pulling, threatening to yank the millstone right over!
Knowing he was already too late, Darvale yelled, "Carron! Stop the
team!" as he watched the millstone, now standing taller than the tallest
man in the village, tilt, teeter, and topple. The hundred twenty-five
stone grinding wheel crashed through the wooden dock, accompanied by the
lightningbolt crack of half a dozen wooden beams shattering under its
impact. Everyone scattered, and the men either fell or jumped into the
river as their footing collapsed beneath them.
As quiet returned, Darvale walked up to the jagged edge of the dock
and peered down through the hole the millstone had made. Beneath the
remains of the wooden platform, the muddy water roiled with silt. As he
watched, the silt gradually washed downstream to reveal the millstone
lying flat on the bottom of the river, less than a fathom beneath the
surface. He looked back up the landing toward the town's main street,
choked by frustration and anger at the ill luck that had befallen the
refugees from Pyridain in this chilly, inhospitable wilderness.
Anarr followed the boy who had offered to carry his belongings from
the barge he had arrived on. The lad trudged up the dusty road and
approached a wooden building with a sign depicting a cat standing on its
hind legs, wearing a white tabard with a scarlet letter 'A'. The young
porter stepped ahead of Anarr to hold the door and announced, "Welcome
to Lord Araesto's Cat, milord!" After arranging for his stay and
ensuring that the boy had delivered his things to his second storey room
intact, he gave the lad a couple Bits and went down to the tavern on the
first floor.
Anarr stepped up to the bar and waited for the bartender, an aging
man who was in the midst of a conversation with a local. Interested in
learning what he could about this town, Anarr used the pretense of
waiting for the bartender and listened in on their conversation.
"But is living here any better than living at home with a Beinison
lord? They've occupied Pyridain, but at least we wouldn't be living
under a curse! It's only a matter of time --"
"But this is where King Haralan put us," interrupted the bartender.
"We are his subjects, and he has mandated that we settle here. We can't
just go somewhere --"
A head was poked into Lord Araesto's Cat. "Hurry! Darvale needs
help; the millstone fell into the river!"
As the head was withdrawn, the handful of occupants of the tavern
rushed outside: the burlier ones to assist, the remainder to gawk and
gossip. In moments, the only people remaining in the emptied room were
the bartender and Anarr.
The former looked at the latter and laughed, a little sadly. "Can I
help you, young master?" Anarr huffed in response. While he was pleased
to have recently been restored to the vigor and strength of his youth,
it frustrated him when people more than 130 years younger than he
treated him as their junior. It also reminded him of the damnably
inexplicable events that had given him his black hair and his smooth
olive skin, after he, then a feeble, elderly man, had finally accepted
the inevitability of his approaching death.
"A mug of brown ale -- your best." When the order came, Anarr
engaged the bartender. "So, does this kind of thing happen often?" he
asked, nodding toward the door.
The bartender sighed. "I'm afraid it happens more often than it
should. Sometimes this town really does seem cursed to fail, much as we
all hate to admit it."
Anarr feigned idle curiosity. "Cursed? Surely it isn't as bad as
all that?"
The bartender shrugged. "You can decide for yourself, young master.
We've had houses fall into sinkholes, fires, storms, animal attacks, and
now this happens. We're already in the middle of a drought; we haven't
had rain in a month, and we haven't been able to take water from
Carron's Stream, because we dammed it up to fill the mill pond above his
new gristmill." He set his elbows on the bar and spoke quietly and
conspiratorially, "I really do wonder how long we can survive here."
Anarr nodded. "Do people have any idea why these things are
happening?"
The bartender's shoulders sagged. "No. It's a mystery. I guess it's
possible that someone in Asbridge might be upset about our being here,
but really this was all just a wasteland before King Haralan settled us
in this place. It's poor land for crops and husbandry, and no better
hunting than any other patch of wilderness out in the mountains. Who
would even notice that we were here? But no, no one has found any reason
for the curse."
"Can no one do anything?"
The bartender snorted. "Who can we turn to for help? The king has
more pressing concerns than the ill luck of a small refugee settlement.
We're deep in the woods, well into the foothills of the mountains, with
only the river to connect us to the rest of Asbridge. We're too tiny and
remote for the duke of Asbridge, and he resents that King Haralan carved
Northern Hope out of his duchy. The king said that we wouldn't be
beholden to any duke, but that means that we also aren't under any
duke's protection. The nearest barony is tiny Castigale, but we don't
have much business with them, since they're over by the Valley of the
Thumb, and there aren't any other settlements nearby. And where will
this town find anyone who can lift the curse?"
As Anarr nodded and sipped his ale, the bartender narrowed his
eyes. "So, sir, you seem awful interested in our town and its problems.
What's your business here? We don't get visitors much up here."
Anarr nodded again. "I'm going to solve your village's little
problem."
The bartender frowned before offering a little chuckle. "And what
do you hope to gain by doing that?"
Anarr thought back to his conversation with Parris Dargon, the
second cousin of the ruler of Dargon. The man's intent had been utterly
transparent to Anarr; his ineptitude had only been surpassed by the
arrogance of his desire to use the town's curse for extortion. Still,
one thing the fool had was gold, and Anarr needed money to continue his
research. Parris would play his little game and maybe blackmail his
betters, but Anarr would soon be able to resume looking for an
explanation of what had happened to him that night on his deathbed.
He turned his attention back to the middle-aged bartender and gave
him the same line Parris had offered him. "I have a friend who owns some
land near here. His holding also suffers from this curse you have talked
about. He asked me to come set things right."
"Ha! And what makes you think you can do anything about it, lad?"
Anarr frowned. Whatever his appearance, he was not going to
tolerate being treated like an adolescent. He stood and rested his hands
on the bar, bringing him face to face with the skeptic. "I don't think
you understand, boy," flinging the bartender's erroneous word back in
his face. "Two hundred leagues from here, in Dargon, I heard rumor of
your town and its travails. I am fully capable of finding the source of
your problem and removing it; I am just as capable of razing your
village to the ground at a word." As he said this, the wood around his
hands gave off a burning smell and a little smoke. When Anarr stood
back, the impression of his two hands had been permanently seared into
the wooden bar.
The bartender stepped back, then stared down thoughtfully at the
evidence burned into the counter before him. "Milord, if you can do what
you say, you'll have the lifelong gratitude of these thirty score
souls."
Anarr nodded. "That is as it should be, but also no concern of
mine. Now, what more can you tell me of this? Is there any particular
area that seems more cursed than the rest?"
This question stumped the bartender for a few moments. "Well, now
that you mention it, the worst problems have been upriver, which is the
southwest end of town, but then again, there was Vern's barn. It burned
four months back, and it's on a pond half a league north of the river."
"What's the land like upriver? Is there anything different about
it?"
Again the bartender paused, thinking. "Well, there's a series of
cataracts on the river itself, and I haven't been beyond those, myself.
I hear some of the townsfolk, like Dourg and Darvale and Kael, the
regent, have been out there. Their word says that there are some big
caverns out there, but they're not safe, and there's caves throughout
these hills. Dourg -- he's courting Myla, a girl who waits tables here
-- he's a failure, but fancies himself an explorer and has been up that
way as much as anyone. He's said that there's an old settlement way out
in one of the valleys at the foot of the Mariencap, but that's most of a
day's journey, and a hard day at that. But that's about it. I imagine
the rest of it's all just trees and rocks and whatever beasts can thrive
on a diet of trees and rocks." He smiled.
"Where can I find Dourg?"
"Oh, he's here pretty much most nights. Hasn't got much to do of a
night but drink and gamble and stare at Myla, and she'll be working
tables this evening, so I expect he'll be hanging about."
"Thank you." Anarr drained his mug and began to head upstairs to
the room he'd been given. "Have a pitcher of that sent up to my room in
two bells' time." He was partway up the stairs before the bartender
called up to him.
"Sir?"
Anarr paused and acknowledged him on the first landing.
"Sir, my name's Moritan, sir. If there's any way for the townsfolk
to assist you in your work, anyone here would jump at the chance."
Anarr could see both the desperation and the sudden hope in the
man's eyes and wanted to reassure him. Once again, he felt pride in
being needed and able to bring the mysterious forces of the world to
heel. "Yes. I do not anticipate needing assistance, but I will certainly
make my needs known."
With that, he turned and continued up to his room.
The sun was well down when Anarr stood alone in a dark pasturage, a
covered, boxlike package on the ground beside him. The familiar stars of
the firmament provided a glittering backdrop for the large ovoid disc of
Nochturon, which provided sufficient light to see.
Anarr stooped and swept away the black felt that covered the
object, revealing a construction of thin metal bars that glinted in the
moonlight. He opened a small door and thrust a gloved hand into the
cage, grasping two short lengths of leather that were tied to an inky
black bird. The bird flapped agitatedly, but the thongs, which were tied
to the bird's talons, held it so that it had to perch atop Anarr's
gauntleted wrist. He wouldn't normally have caged the bird, but such
precautions had been necessary during his journey from Dargon to
Northern Hope, and served the additional purpose of hiding his methods
from the curious townsfolk.
Having withdrawn the bird, a small hawk, from the cage and secured
it to his arm, Anarr fumbled in a pocket and withdrew a small item that
cast a feeble glow. Using his free hand and his teeth, he tied a small,
translucent green stone to the bird's leg. With a slight bob of his arm,
he lofted the hawk.
Anarr watched as the Daeltis hawk climbed out of sight. He hardly
needed the help of some peasant refugee to locate the source of the
curse. The little night-loving Daeltis was perfectly suited for scouting
the many mountain valleys, and equally suited to hosting the fragment of
Anarr's consciousness that was necessary to register what the bird saw.
After sitting down in the field, Anarr began to meditate, willing
his eyes to see what the hawk saw, and his ears to hear what sounds came
to it. As those senses came into focus, he also began to feel the wind
as it rippled and flowed beneath his wings, something the magus had
always enjoyed.
Anarr turned his attention to the stone that the hawk carried. It
was a carefully selected gem that would function like a lodestone that
sought magic. It would guide the hawk unerringly to the source of the
town's curse. At present, the bird was acting on a compulsion that
located such magic a number of leagues west-southwest of the village,
confirming the bartender's report of the curse being more prevalent in
that direction.
Anarr felt the hawk use a few quick strokes to gain altitude so
that it could get a more precise idea of the object's location. Just as
Anarr turned his attention to it, the bird's compulsion inexplicably
disappeared and reappeared in another place, almost beneath him. That
was something Anarr, in his hundred and sixty years of life, had never
heard of, or even imagined possible. The normally graceful hawk suddenly
swerved in mid-air, losing control momentarily as it responded to the
sudden change in course that the stone had directed.
Anarr felt the hawk pull
its wings back into its body and dive
through the air. He was able to place the source of the compulsion down
near the new and half-filled mill pond, but as he plummeted downward,
its position moved once again, reappearing near the newly completed mill
itself. Again, the hawk bobbled in confusion for a moment before its
flight adjusted to the new direction by pulling out of the steep dive.
Anarr felt its wings aching with the strain.
The bird was flying low and very fast, passing close by one wall of
the mill. The inexplicably-moving object was just ahead, and in just a
moment Anarr would finally know what was causing all of Northern Hope's
problems! As he glided past the water wheel that would soon power the
town's gristmill, the object suddenly shifted upward and to the right.
The rapidly-moving bird attempted to recover and give chase, its hunting
instincts fully activated, but the maneuver caused it to strike the
water wheel's paddle with a resounding ponk.
"Damn it!" Anarr rolled onto his side and clutched his head in
pain. "Stupid, idiot bird!" He lay in a ball, holding his head, and it
was several menes before the throbbing ache subsided enough for Anarr to
analyze what had happened.
Although he'd initially concluded that the object could move from
place to place at will, that obviously wasn't right. The movements,
themselves an enigma, when considered together added up to a clear
intent to lead him to harm.
However, the real question was whether he had learned anything
about the object's location. Was the initial position southwest of the
village a reliable indicator? It seemed that Anarr might want to have
that talk with Dourg, after all.
By the time Anarr had retrieved the lodestone and made the painful
trip back to Lord Araesto's Cat, the tavern had filled up with locals.
Everyone wanted news of the millstone's recovery, the damage to the
dock, and not least of all the combustible stranger who had promised to
lift the curse.
As Anarr went toward the stairway, he felt the eyes of a dozen men
following his every move. He stopped by the bar and caught the
bartender's eye. "If Dourg makes an appearance, please have someone wake
me."
The bartender pointed toward an angry-looking man at a side table.
"That's yer man right there, sir."
Anarr rubbed his temples a moment before straightening. "Bring out
another mug of that brown ale. Its quality is surprisingly tolerable."
He straightened his attire and put the ache in his head aside, then
strode purposefully over to the table that Dourg occupied.
"May I speak with you, Dourg?"
The man at the table only nodded, indicating the other chair at the
table.
"My name is Anarr. I --"
"Save it."
The magus did a double-take. "Perhaps you misunderstand me. I would
like to ask you --"
"I said 'save it'. Myla told me about your conversation with the
bartender." He nodded toward a scraggly, thin girl darting between
tables.
Anarr nodded. The news of his arrival had spread among the locals,
even to this disreputable little thug. As he watched the man's eyes
follow the woman across the room, Anarr remembered that the bartender
had said that Dourg and Myla were a couple.
"She's a nice girl. Are you planning on marrying her?"
The derisive laugh came out in a sudden burst. "Hah! What's she to
me? She's just another roll. I'll do better."
Anarr laughed just as heartily and condescendingly on the inside,
but showed none of it. Clearly the boy was pretending to be worldly, but
all he'd seen of the world had been the view from a caravan of refugees
fleeing their homeland.
"So, you want to know what's upstream from here. How much are you
willing to pay for it?"
"Pay for it?" Once again, the baseless arrogance of this peasant
boy surprised Anarr. He clearly thought he was treating with a bumpkin
like himself, rather than a magus bearing the accumulated wisdom of more
than a dozen decades.
"I'll not pay a Bit for it! Dourg, you have just one opportunity to
make something of yourself. Look around: people are already gossiping
about why I am talking to you, rather than anyone else in this village.
Tell me what you know, and you will look like a hero to everyone in this
town, but if you don't, I'll find the artifact that's causing this
curse, and I'll do it without your help."
The scrawny young man looked around the room, clearly calculating.
"And what if I go and fetch it and destroy it or remove it myself? Then
I'll be the hero!"
Anarr shook his head. "No, Dourg. If that were so, you would have
already done it. You can't do it, and you know it. You need me to figure
out how to get rid of it. Think about all the things it has done to your
town already. How many people have died? I've already interacted with it
myself, and I know how perniciously evil it is. If you pit yourself
against such power, they'll bury you just as surely as the others who
have fallen afoul of its curse."
Dourg seemed to skip past Anarr's argument and focus on one fact.
"You've seen it?"
"No, I said I've interacted with it. I've seen its power, and have
an idea what and where it is. I will find it, with or without you."
"You know what it is?"
Perhaps now that he'd intimidated this thug, answering the boy's
questions might produce more cooperation. "I used a divination spell to
get a general idea of the item's location. It's in a valley about twenty
leagues southwest of here --"
"Twenty leagues? Is that all? That can't be right ..."
Anarr locked eyes with the youth, waiting for an explanation.
"Straight, it's probably at the old settlement. It's a good five or
six bells' travel through the hills. It might be twenty leagues as the
crow flies, but it's a lot more on foot. And you'll never find it
without my help ..."
"That's true, and that's why I've come to you. It's quite an
interesting artifact. I am rather curious to see it."
The following morning Anarr set off alone, the few belongings he
had brought to Northern Hope stowed in saddlebags borne by a donkey.
Although Dourg's guidance might have made finding the artifact a little
easier, he'd extracted enough information from the young man the
previous evening to find his way alone. Moreover, Anarr didn't know
quite what to expect. It might take some time to determine how to
properly ward the object, and the last thing he wanted was some
impatient or curious -- and obviously untrustworthy -- villager
distracting him. Only once it was clear that he had neutralized the
object would he return to Northern Hope and hire someone else to carry
it, if that even proved necessary.
The morning bells passed quickly enough, and Anarr enjoyed the
sunny, quiet stroll in the woods. The terrain became increasingly broken
as his path crossed or delved into the valleys between the ever-higher
peaks of the Darst Range. It was in one of these high wooded valleys
that Anarr came upon his first obstacle.
He'd already forded a handful of small mountain streams that had
crossed his path, but from the shade of a copse of evergreens that
thrived in one sheltered valley, Anarr looked down upon a small river
that raged at the bottom of a deep, rocky gorge. It would be impossible
to get the donkey down the sheer side of the chasm, even if the constant
spume from the cascading torrent hadn't made the rocks as slick as ice,
and then there was no way to ford the powerful current that swirled at
the bottom.
Anarr might spend a bell or two picking his way gingerly up and
downstream, looking for a place where he could cross, but if he had to
go back and forth finding places to ford every mountain stream between
Northern Hope and the Mariencap, it would take him -- as Dourg had
implied -- the whole day to get to the artifact; however, a hundred and
sixty year old magus had many ways to travel from Northern Hope to the
Mariencap faster than Dourg's walking pace.
For example, Anarr might simply leap across, where Dourg couldn't.
It was a simple matter of using magic to ensure that his momentum didn't
deteriorate after he leapt; however, the donkey, with its stubborn lack
of trust in magic, wouldn't find that so straightforward. It was indeed
a rare animal that would take a running leap across a forty-foot river
gorge.
"Stupid beast! It'd serve you right to make you find your own way
across, and I'll wait for you on the other side!"
There were, however, other ways of getting his ass from one side of
the river to the other. Anarr burrowed in his pack and brought forth a
small hand axe. After taking a moment to survey the trees in the little
grove, Anarr walked up to an immense cedar. After running a whetstone
along the blade and passing his hands above it several times, he took an
almost dainty swing at the mighty tree. The hatchet blade barely cut the
bark, but with a loud crack the tree was cleft nearly asunder. A second
crack came as Anarr took a second, higher swing. Where the two cuts met,
a large wedge of wood fell from the tree. With its trunk undercut, the
cedar began to fall directly toward the chasm. Anarr quickly stepped to
one side and watched as his bridge was made for him.
As the tree began to come down, a sudden gust of wind from
downstream slammed into Anarr's back, causing him to take two steps
forward to catch himself. The sustained force of the burst caught the
cedar just as it was beginning to topple, and pushed it away from the
river gorge. Anarr stared in wonder that rapidly turned to incredulity
as he realized that the tree was about to fall right where he'd tied up
his donkey.
The mage grabbed what strength he could at short notice and heaved
an immense magical blow at the tree in an attempt to deflect it. Nothing
happened! Impossibly, the tree kept coming down, in spite of the magic
Anarr had hit it with. The magus watched in disbelief as it crashed to
the ground, just missing the panicking donkey, which had torn its reins
loose from the sapling Anarr had tied it to.
He jogged quickly over to capture and calm his pack animal while he
thought things through. He couldn't recall any wind all day before the
sudden blast. It was possible that it had been bad luck, and it might
have been chance that nearly brought the tree down on top of his donkey.
However, the residents of Northern Hope had probably thought their first
misfortunes had been "bad luck", as well.
Whether the curse was to blame, as seemed likely, or not, Anarr had
to get across the river, so he applied himself to that problem. He
considered moving the fallen tree into place, but he'd exerted much of
his power trying to deflect its fall, and didn't want to tire himself
out with another half day of hiking ahead. Besides, the hatchet's charm
would still work for some time, so the most expeditious thing to do was
simply to fell another tree ... while he and his pack animal stood
safely behind another.
Anarr approached a second, slightly smaller cedar and felled it
with another pair of quick strokes. He watched carefully, but no gusts
caught it on the way down, and it landed perfectly, handily bridging the
chasm from one side to the other.
There was only one final step to perform. While Anarr could easily
walk across the tree trunk, its curved surface would be treacherous for
a donkey's hooves. The mage walked up to the stump-end of the fallen
tree and gave it a mighty whack with his little hatchet. With an immense
crack, the entire tree trunk split lengthwise and each piece fell to one
side, creating two broad surfaces to cross on, as perfectly flat and
solid as if they were a bridge made of finished wooden beams.
The wizard straightened his clothing and put the hatchet back into
the donkey's saddlebag, then led the animal up and onto his newly-made
bridge. It was certainly strong enough to bear their weight, and Anarr
began leading the donkey out across the canyon, walking beside it with a
firm grip on its bridle.
Since the top of the tree had fallen on the far side of the gorge,
the further along they went, the narrower their bridge became, and Anarr
stepped in front and began to lead the pack animal by the reins. As they
got three-quarters of the way across, Anarr could see that the trunk
hadn't split perfectly in two, and one half of it was not as well
secured as the other. The closer they got to the narrow end, the more
the trunk flexed, bouncing up and down as they trod on it. With each
bounce, the shorter of the two halves of the tree was sliding closer and
closer to the edge of the gorge!
Anarr felt the plank beneath him fall. It only fell a hand's span,
but it was obvious that it wouldn't hold long enough for them to get
across. After another step, the left half of their bridge fell even
further, now a foot lower than the stronger right-hand side.
Anarr coaxed the donkey up and onto the more secure plank, but as
the animal jumped, the lower plank dropped another foot. The burro made
it up to the safer surface and skittered quickly away toward the near
cliff.
That left Anarr standing on the nearly fallen plank. He took one
more step toward the far shore, but he could see that the trunk wasn't
going to bear his weight. When the donkey had leapt, his part of the
bridge had fallen so far that now he couldn't jump up onto the more
secure plank himself, but had to carefully backtrack to where the two
were closer together. After gingerly going back out over the churning
river, he was able to put one foot up onto the stronger span. As he
pushed off with his remaining foot, the lower trunk fell away behind him
and into the chasm.
His heart pounding, Anarr regained his balance and stepped lightly
but swiftly toward the shore. Meanwhile, the donkey had trotted to the
far end and was hopping onto the rocky outcropping the tree had fallen
on. However, that leap put so much weight onto the remaining half of the
bridge that it, too, slid down about three feet. Out in the middle of
the span, Anarr clung to the remaining tree trunk. Normally, his magic
would give him the confidence to leap right across; however, the
accidents and bad luck the curse had produced had left him questioning
his own powers. If the bridge failed, would he be able to save himself,
or would there be another sudden instance of "bad luck"?
Even as he stepped delicately toward the wooded slope that ascended
on the other side of the canyon, his mind was filled with loathing. He
hated being wrong, and already he had underestimated the pervasiveness
of the curse, and had repeatedly made the mistake of relying on his
magic, which was obviously subject to the curse's malevolent effect. One
didn't live more than a century and a half by making imbecilic errors
like that. He hated weakness of any sort, yet here he was, dangling
above a fall to his death, actually afraid to exercise the power that he
had spent lifetimes cultivating.
He tried to walk quickly but arhythmically, so that the oscillation
of the tree trunk would be minimized. However, the upper branches of the
tree began to slide down the side of the cliff face as he approached the
edge. In a final, desperate leap, he landed on an outcropping about ten
feet below the top of the cliff and had to clamber up, getting his hands
and clothes dirty in the process.
He wandered off to collect his ass, with redoubled resolution to
track down and conquer the source of this curse.
Although Anarr's path approached the Mariencap from the northeast,
Dourg had been very explicit in his directions when he'd explained it in
Lord Araesto's Cat the night before.
"You'll never find the settlement by chance or by climbing up the
mountain." He'd piled the mashed turnip on his plate into a watery hill
and tried to explain. "It's in a box canyon on the western face, and the
only way into it is through a sinkhole at the base. The only problem is,
the land around the mountain is pretty flat, so the sinkhole isn't
visible from the ground; you have to climb the shoulder of the mountain
in order to get elevation so you can see it. See?" He gestured with his
trencher at a promontory on the mound of turnip.
"From there you'll need to mark well where that sinkhole is,
because there's a gorge that runs all the way from there to the
settlement. No other way in, no other way out."
Now, sweaty and dirty after spending most of the day trudging
through the mountains like a common animal, Anarr gazed down at one of
the most extraordinary sights he had ever seen.
He stood upon the rimrock of the large, slightly lopsided sinkhole
that Dourg had described. At one side of the caldera was a mound of
earth with a bubbling puddle of grey water, which then spilled in
rivulets down a short slope into a much larger, restlessly churning pool
at the bottom of the sinkhole. A clear mountain stream cascaded in a
torrent down a ravine that led from the mountain, also flowing into the
large pool at the bottom. Above the pool where the stream met the grey
water, huge gouts of steam roiled, leaving the rocks that overhung the
sinkhole dripping wet.
Anarr picked his way carefully down to the floor of the canyon,
keeping his donkey in tow. As he descended, the air in the caldera
became more and more humid, dripping moisture, and Anarr was soon
sweating more than he had in many years. On his way down, Anarr had
another brainstorm: he'd leave his things near the canyon that led up to
the mountain, because it wasn't as humid on that side of the depression,
and wash the grime from his face and hands in the water of the pool. The
donkey would be fine, left to refresh himself from the mountain stream.
However, he was also intrigued by the bubbling grey water that fell
into the pool from the vent at the side of the crater. As he made his
way over to that fountain, the air grew noticeably warmer. He cautiously
bent and put his hand on the bare rock beside one of the rivulets, and
noticed how warm the rock was: as warm as if it had been in direct
sunlight all day. He put a finger in one of the rivulets for just a
moment, but it was still too long; he pulled his hand back quickly from
the scalding water, muttering to himself.
He moved quickly away from the oppressive air of the hot spring,
which took him toward the mountain stream, where he breathed in the
clean, cooler air. To soothe his slightly burned hand, he dipped it into
this second stream. It quickly numbed the pain of his burn, but the rest
of his hand quickly began to ache with pain from the extreme cold. This
water was frigid runoff, probably no more than half a bell away from
when it had been snow on the mountain's icy peak! Anarr pulled his hand
away, shaking his head.
However, Anarr thought, where two extremes meet, there's usually a
middle ground to be found, so he walked toward the pool where the two
streams met. The billowing steam soaked him as he stood there, leaving
him a little chilled. He put his hand into the pool's churning water,
and found it seductively warm. It didn't take long for him to shed his
clothes and step in.
With the mountain stream on his left and the rivulets from the hot
spring to his right, Anarr found that by moving left or right, the
temperature of the water changed noticeably. "Now this is just right,"
he sighed as he finally found the ideal spot. As he relaxed in the pool,
he daydreamed about how one day he'd return to the sanctuary where he
usually lived and instruct the students to equip his quarters with
streams of hot and cold running water.
Even despite the lengthy summer days, twilight had fallen by the
time Anarr reached the abandoned settlement. The climb had been
laborious, although not especially problematic. Anarr's route had been
clear: just follow the river gorge back up the mountain. It hadn't taken
long for him to trek above the deciduous tree line and onto the steeper,
colder slopes where only conifers survived. As the trees subsequently
began to give way to the hardiest shrubs, the gorge widened and become
shallower, and this was where Anarr had found the "settlement", as Dourg
had described it.
In truth, it was little more than one dilapidated basalt dwelling,
accompanied by a handful of stone circles that marked the foundations
where buildings had once stood. A forty-foot hemlock grew in the center
of what would have once been the largest building. Another tree had
grown out from underneath the wall of a second building, casting
foundation stones about at random. In a third, the rotten trunk of a
fallen tree had toppled a wall. Of the half-dozen buildings, only one
low, narrow doorway arch remained standing. Anarr avoided that building
entirely; his training in the occult warned him of the possible dangers
of mysterious doorways.
Then, incongruously, there was the single dwelling: the only sign
of recent habitation. It was a moderately-sized stone building with a
sagging thatch roof, from which were growing several small saplings.
Although the place might have been inhabited recently, the roof showed
that it had been neglected for several seasons.
Anarr poked his head inside and peered around. It appeared to have
three rooms: a common room, a bedroom, and a pantry. What little
furniture and belongings there were had been strewn around, as if the
place had been ransacked. And there was the skeleton of a man who had
been dressed in a cowled robe.
In the deepening darkness, Anarr didn't bother to investigate
further. Instead, he staked out the donkey and went about setting up his
campsite. He found some firewood piled against the remaining building,
built a fire, and laid his blankets out on the bare ground. It was
sufficient that he was here, in the place the curse emanated from;
solving mysteries would have to wait until morning's light.
Morning came slowly to the western slope of the Mariencap, as the
sun's ascent remained hidden behind the mountain's shoulder, but even
the half-light revealed much to Anarr. Further uphill from the
settlement was a large garden plot that had gone to seed. This year's
plants struggled to break free of the decomposing tangle of last year's
crops, their fruit having rotted on the vine. Whomever the corpse had
been, he had been alive just two or three years before.
Anarr walked the perimeter of the village to make sure that he
didn't miss anything. He came upon a well-worn footpath that led off
into the woods in one direction. Following it, he came upon the mountain
stream, now tiny, where he rinsed his hands and filled his water skin.
He also came upon a second path, which ran off toward the woods
lining the northern wall of the canyon. Here the path dead-ended at a
vine-covered rock face, and the low, arching entrance to a cave. Anarr
pushed the ivy aside and stepped over the threshold of the dark cavern.
Inside, the floor was uneven, but a footpath had been worn smooth.
The ceiling, about four feet above Anarr's head, was angled from right
to left, in the same direction as the mountain's slope. The cavern
continued beyond the few paces Anarr could see. The rising sun was still
on the eastern side of the mountain, but the setting sun might cast a
little more light into the cave later in the day. Still, that was of no
matter to a wizard like Anarr; conjuring up a foxfire had been one of
the first and easiest spells he had learned as an apprentice.
As his right hand orbited his left in the requisite gesture, a
sudden flash blinded him and went out. He couldn't see! Foxfire would
produce only a dim, blue light, having not even the strength of a
guttering candle; stupidly, he'd forgotten that the curse had affected
his magic ever since his arrival in Northern Hope.
After a few moments, Anarr's vision cleared enough to make out the
light from the cave's entrance against the darkness. He made for that,
vowing to fetch his lantern and return immediately. He felt certain that
this cave would reveal the source of the curse.
Half a bell later, Anarr returned to the cave with his lantern.
Once inside, there was a fairly regular passage, and as Anarr pushed on
he studied the smooth, half-spherical depressions in the walls and
ceiling. After a couple dozen paces, his light revealed a pedestal. Atop
the pedestal was a low stone dais, and atop the dais was a statue.
Approaching the platform, Anarr also noted that the cave ended
there. Then he slowly studied each of the three parts of the sculpture
before him.
The pedestal was rough, and hewn from the same stone as the
buildings of the settlement. It stood waist-high, and appeared otherwise
unremarkable.
The dais was slightly wider than the pedestal it sat atop. It was
of a lighter stone, and polished so smooth that it reflected the light
from the lantern. It was also very regular in shape, with a wide but
shallow depression in the center.
In that shallow depression sat a black stone statue of a man,
seated cross-legged. Itself nearly half a man's height, sitting atop the
pedestal the statue's head was a little above eye-level, bringing it
face-to-face with Anarr. A silver sword rested across the figure's lap,
but the most stunning aspect of the statue was the face: its upturned
visage screamed its anger unto heaven, its rictus agape, revealing ivory
white teeth sharpened to spiky points. It was somehow both primitive and
evocative, and Anarr smiled and nodded to himself in acknowledgement
that he'd finally found what he was looking for. The first part of his
job for Parris Dargon -- finding the object -- was complete.
The next step was the part that really appealed to him: determining
what it was, and what he could do about it.
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