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DargonZine Volume 18 Issue 02
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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 2
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DargonZine Distributed: 2/20/05
Volume 18, Number 2 Circulation: 673
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
End of the Line 2 Rich Durbin Sy 20-21 1015
Have You Ever Been to
Northern Hope? 1 Liam Donahue Yule 22-24, 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 18-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright February, 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>
As you know, the Black Idol story arc which began in our last issue
has been nearly two years in the making. Everyone involved in the arc
has put forth a tremendous effort to make it happen, and this month I'd
like to tell you the story of one of the arc writers who appears in this
issue.
Rich Durbin joined the Dargon Project in January 2003, just three
months before the Black Idol story was outlined at our Austin writers'
gathering. Rich actually didn't attend that meeting, and thus didn't
think that he would be involved with the Black Idol at all.
However, by December, the arc was facing a major crisis. Two
authors had left the project: the ones who were responsible for the
arc's first two stories, which related the history of the Black Idol.
Rich's project mentor had picked up the broken pieces and begun drafting
an ambitious replacement, but hadn't gotten anywhere with it. Rich began
working with her, but it soon became apparent that she wasn't going to
be able to complete the stories. She too left the project shortly
thereafter, leaving Rich -- a new writer -- to write both the idol's
early history, and the story of the abandoned settlement that brought
the storyline up to Dargon's present-day.
So eight months after we'd begun the arc, it had lost three of its
original writers, and the entire first portion of the arc was in
shambles. Worse yet, all the people who were writing events that took
place later in the timeline were angry because they had been forced to
change their downstream stories every time the authorship of the first
two stories changed hands.
With everyone's emotions running high, Rich agreed to write the
introductory stories himself. He set aside the story he'd begun with his
mentor, and agreed to write a new story that produced the outcomes that
were dictated by other stories which had already been written. It was
like working backwards, trying to create a jigsaw puzzle piece that
matched the ones around it. He had to produce his story under incredible
pressure and within a very short time, despite having never printed a
Dargonzine story before!
Three months later, he gave us the first drafts of "End of the
Line", which concludes in this issue. Rich responded to the pressure and
produced not just a fine first story from a new writer, but also put the
entire Black Idol effort back on track. Although there's been many
heroic efforts in the creation of the Black Idol, his is one that stands
out as the most critical to the arc's success, and we all owe him a
great deal of thanks for his contribution to this massive collaboration.
Without his effort, we would not be printing Black Idol stories today.
Rich isn't our typical new writer, however. In a sense, he's not
new at all, having written one story for FSFnet during a brief stint
with us way back in 1987. However, very few of our readers will remember
back eighteen years ago, so I think a bit of an introduction is
warranted.
In 1987, when university mainframes were the only computers
attached to large networks, Rich was attending Miami University (of
Ohio). His roommate, who worked in the computer center, set up an
account for him, and Rich began reading several of the electronic
magazines that originated at the University of Maine, such as the
"Nutworks" humor zine, and DargonZine's predecessor, FSFnet.
Glenn Sixbury's "Destiny of Tara n'ha Sansela" storyline
particularly intrigued Rich, and when Glenn left the project, he joined
the Dargon Project to try and continue it. The one story he published,
"Two Journeys", appeared in FSFnet 7-5. Looking back on it, Rich writes,
"For such a short story, I am amazed at the relatively large impact it
had on Dargon. The main character, Tara, was featured in a number of
stories. Captain Koren was mentioned first by someone else, but I was
the one who decided he was captain of the town guard rather than a
ship's captain."
When Rich graduated, he lost network access. After a few years, he
opted to serve in the US Navy on a guided missile frigate, where he
began a career in computer work that continued into his civilian life
back in Ohio.
Here's how Rich says he rediscovered DargonZine:
In the fall of 2000, while unpacking some old boxes, I ran across
my old notes from '87. I had started to build a Dargon database on
greenbar paper, much like what became the Online Glossary. Out of
idle curiosity I googled "Dargon", and was quite surprised that it
still existed. I read most of the "About Dargon" and "About
Dargonzine" pages that night, and poked around the rest of the
site. I decided then that I wanted to get involved again. In
reading the Writers' FAQ I was struck by this line: "Ideally, you
should read all the back issues, but we realize that's expecting a
little much". I felt that if I were serious about this, then
reading the archive wasn't "too much". So I read the archive, but
didn't contact the magazine until I had completed my reading. I
think that took me about eighteen months.
Rich finally rejoined DargonZine in January 2003, but things are
very different today from the old days of FSFnet.
Back when I first wrote for FSFnet, the process was pretty
informal: write a story, send it to the editor. It would get a
cursory proofreading, then it would be published. It wasn't
"anything goes", but it was close. You can tell the FSFnet writers
were not paying too much attention to the rules of milieu.
Today it's very structured, with submitting stories to the writers'
list and multiple rounds of critiques. Presently the stories are
much more technically sound. Stories are grammatically correct,
structured well, and logic holes are closed.
And how difficult was it picking up the Black Idol story arc and
writing "End of the Line"?
The hardest part about writing "End of the Line" was developing the
premise, particularly in that I had to end it essentially as
described in the subsequent stories: a mountain hamlet in ruins
with a dead body in a cottage, and a nearby statue. I was pondering
this when I finally arrived at the idea of a wizard kidnapping a
villager. Once I had the motivations worked out, I was ready to go.
Now, with his first stories in print and his Black Idol committment
behind him, Rich has begun work on subsequent pieces. One is called "Out
With a Bang", a story about an alchemist whose knowledge exceeds his
wisdom. He is also in the process of outlining a series of stories about
a former Dargon town guard and a sailor, with a working title of "Coin
of the Realm".
We're delighted to have Rich back with the project, and indebted to
him for coming through with the first two stories of the ongoing Black
Idol story arc. We hope that you enjoy his work.
========================================================================
End of the Line
Part 2
by Rich Durbin
<whelk@netscape.net>
Sy 20-21 1015
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-1
Sala awoke to the nighttime sounds of the forest. The crickets were
chirping, and occasionally the hoot of an owl echoed through the
darkness. Silvery moonlight shone down, illuminating the clearing in
which she lay. Out of reach she could see the sleeping form of the
ancient priest who had kidnapped her. He was dressed in a hooded red
robe, and clutched his walking stick even in his sleep.
She turned her attention to the rope that bound her hands together.
It was in turn tied to the leg of an enormous statue which was half
again the height of a man, and carved in the form of a warrior, with
intricate detail etched in the armor and muscles. The face was a smooth
featureless surface. Every time she gazed upon it she felt unnerved and
her stomach clenched upon itself. She thought back to the beginning of
this horrible ordeal, just a few days prior ...
Broken mud-brick masonry crashed down upon her, shocking her out of
a deep slumber. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. That was
what so disturbed her: the utter silence of it all. Her mind felt
muddled, as if her senses were wrapped in a thick wool blanket. The
great statue strode into her father's home through the breach it had
smashed through the wall. It gently lifted her off her sleeping mat and
bore her away in its massive arms. She drifted in and out of
consciousness, sometimes feeling the hard thumps of the statue stepping
though the plowed furrows as it carried her across the fields of grain,
away from the village of Gorod, and to where farmland met trees. It was
hard to see anything by the starlight except the even darker edge of the
forest.
She was set down at the edge of the woods, where an old man waited
for her. While the stone giant held her in place, the red-robed ancient
produced an amulet, in the form of a sunburst, from beneath his robes.
He waved it slowly over her head and before the giant's face, all the
while mouthing some strange silent prayer. All at once Sala was able to
hear the sounds of the forest, and she felt the clarity of her thoughts
return as if a fog had lifted. Her heart shriveling in dread, she
screamed her terror with such force that her throat burned raw, and the
old man stepped back as if slapped.
"Parado!" he said, then paused a moment, and then continued, "Stop
it." His voice was harsh, like scraping a rusted piece of iron. "They
..." he pointed towards the village. "They are too far to hear. My ears
hurt; be silent, or we will tie your mouth," he said, slowly and
uncertainly, as though having difficulty wrapping his tongue around
unfamiliar words.
"Why are you doing this?" she wept.
The man gently caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. "I am
sorry, child. All is at risk. I bear you no malice. I only do what I
must," he said. He then gestured to the giant and said simply, "Taelda."
The stone giant picked Sala up, set her in the crook of one arm,
put the old man in the other, and marched into the forest, towards the
mountains.
"Who are you?" Sala asked.
"I am Zaladris, the last priest of Gow. Sleep child; we have far to
go."
The stone giant, or "Servant of Gow" as Zaladris called it, marched
tirelessly through the night and much of the next day. They only stopped
briefly a few times over the next two days. Zaladris showed no interest
in speaking to her as they traveled. When she tried to question him, he
only gave her a sad little smile, and refused to discuss anything
further. He kept both of them fed with dried fruit and shared water from
his flask.
The journey had fatigued the old man, though. She could see that he
was badly worn out. Sala had been surprised that a man of Zaladris'
advanced years had even been able to attempt the task of abducting her.
If it were not for his control of the Servant, he never would have been
able to make the journey.
Sala interrupted her reverie to try once again to free herself. She
tugged on the rope that tied her hands together and to the leg of the
Servant. Her pulls only served to tighten her binding, and with her
wrists bound, she was unable to work the knots. Annoyed, she pulled the
line taut and bit down on it. She hoped to chew through it while her
captor slept. She had barely begun when a burning sensation tore through
her mouth. Sala couldn't stop herself from groaning in pain as she
rapidly panted, trying to cool her tongue.
She saw the old man looking at her, his eyes twinkling with mirth.
"The ropes are soaked in enflama pepper squeezings. It keeps the rats
from chewing them." He tossed his water flask to her, and settled back
to sleep.
Sala flushed her mouth with the water and savored its coolness.
After a few menes the heat on her tongue receded, allowing her to relax.
She lay back down and stared up at the luminous disc that was the moon
Nochturon. "How am I to escape this madman?" she mused silently. "There
must be a way!"
A sleepless night would do her no good though. Sala resolved to get
some rest. Perhaps an opportunity would present itself tomorrow. She
spared a thought for Gorod, her village, her family, and Elton, her
betrothed. Would she ever see any of them again? She and her captor had
come so far, so fast. Even if she managed to escape, could she find her
way home? Filled with trepidation, she gradually drifted into a fitful
sleep.
Sala shivered against the cool morning air as she and Zaladris rode
the statue up the mountain paths. Fortunately the old priest had cached
some woolen blankets along their route. He had taken care to wrap one
around Sala's shoulders so that it would stay in place, even though she
could not hold onto it with her hands tied. They forded a fast-running
stream that rose waist high on the Servant of Gow. The water was flowing
so swiftly that even the massive stone servitor had to move gingerly to
keep from losing its footing. From there, they followed the river gorge
up the slope for much of the day. Leafy trees gave way to evergreens,
and soon even these dwindled in number, until little but hardy shrubs
grew. Zaladris grew more animated as a small cluster of buildings hove
into view.
As they came closer, Sala realized that the buildings were little
more than ruins. A forty-foot hemlock tree grew out of the center of
one, while the rest were either falling over, or were nothing more than
the forgotten stone circles of ancient foundations. The one exception
was a moderate-sized cottage with an ivy-covered thatched roof that
stood near the edge of the remains of the settlement.
The Servant ground to a halt in front of the lone cottage, and set
its burdens down. Zaladris gently unbound Sala's hands and urged her, at
knife point, into the building. He then barred the door from the
outside, locking her in.
Sala looked about her new quarters. She quickly determined that
there were only three rooms: a common room in front, an adjoining
pantry, and a bedroom in back. The windows let in some light through
cracks in the shutters, which were barred shut from the outside. The
flagstone floor ensured she could not dig her way out, just as the stone
walls were also impervious to her efforts.
The common room had a table and some rough stools. When she sat on
one, it wobbled badly. The table was worn and had a wooden bowl of fruit
set in the middle. The bowl was canted to one side where it was perched
on the uneven seam between two wooden table planks. Against the front
wall, beneath the window was a low bench with a few cushions thrown on
it. It sagged in the middle and settled with a groaning sound when she
put her weight upon it. Sala noted too that the walls were devoid of
decoration. Even a peasant hut would have a bundle of wildflowers
displayed, she mused.
To one side was a pantry, which was filled with foodstuffs. Herbs
hung from the rafters and full barrels of potatoes and beets stood on
the floor. Its shelves were stacked with small earthen jars. Closer
inspection showed them to hold all manner of fruit and vegetable
preserves.
In back, the bedroom held a comfortable-looking straw bed, which
was finer than the sleeping mat to which Sala was accustomed. At the
opposite end of the room, beneath the window, was a shelf built into the
wall. There were arrayed several objects which aroused Sala's curiosity.
A colorfully patterned cloth covered the smooth surface of the shelf,
and upon it sat a blue and black pottery vase, a small wooden figure,
and a pallid white orb.
Sala examined the wooden figure; it was a duplicate of the stone
statue standing outside, except in scale, even to the disturbingly blank
space where a face ought to have been. The orb was heavier than she
expected, and when she looked more closely, it appeared very much to be
in the image of the full moon Nochturon. It even showed the pattern of
light and dark that she was accustomed to seeing. She hefted it, feeling
its weight. It was the size of an apple and perhaps twice as dense.
Maybe she could hurl it at the old man. The cloth was an abstract
mixture of bright colors with fringed edges. Sala didn't know what the
pattern represented, and when she picked it up for a closer look, she
overturned the vase, spilling its contents to the floor. She wrinkled
her nose in disgust from the odor of the brownish sludge. It smelt like
the butcher's yard shortly after a slaughter.
As the sun set and shadows swept across the ruined settlement, the
old priest allowed Sala to emerge from her cottage prison and take a
seat on a rough stone bench next to the cook fire. She accepted a haunch
of roast rabbit and some vegetables that Zaladris had fried for both of
them. She was unbound, but the old priest did not trust her with a knife
with which to eat her supper. He had warned her that if she tried to run
off, the Servant of Gow would simply bring her back again. She meekly
sat by the cook fire with Zaladris and ate quietly.
"You deserve to know why you are here," the priest stated flatly
with his strange, thick accent. He stared into the fire, not looking at
Sala for long menes. She began to wonder if he had fallen asleep, when
he finally spoke again in the cadence of a sermon.
"Long ago, when the world was young, and men were but feuding
tribes, the gods themselves came to blows. Amante, the god of love and
beauty, came to love Alana, the goddess of the night, and of the moon.
She however only had room in her heart for Gow, the protector, the noble
lord of all who are honorable. Amante could not accept this, and sought
to woo Alana, bringing her gifts and using all his divine wiles to seek
a place in her heart. She denied him, and betrothed herself to her
beloved Gow. This Amante could not bear. Filled with anger, he went to
his mother, Erida, the goddess of death, and his sister Moire, the
goddess of the sea, to beg their help. His mother doted upon him and
could deny him nothing, while his sister was envious of Alana's beauty.
Together they decided Amante and Alana would be wed by trickery and
force.
"Amante's mother disguised herself as a mighty sorceress, who was
powerful enough to threaten the gods. Gow the protector was sent to
destroy her. While Gow was deceived, Amante went to Alana, and carried
her away. With the help of his sister, Amante hid Alana in a secret
place where even the gods could not find her. Gow was stronger than
Erida could have imagined, and utterly destroyed her sorceress form. He
took from her the Moon-Jewel and the Star Mantle, her symbols of power.
Terribly wounded, Erida crept back to her husband, the lord of the gods,
who healed her, but made her forswear further acts against his son, Gow.
"Gow returned from battle and sought his love Alana. He scoured the
heavens and searched the land but found no trace of her. Desperate, he
sought his father's counsel. Contrite from her defeat at her stepson's
hands, Erida, told where Amante had hidden Alana. She was in the caves
by the castle of the sea goddess. Enraged, Gow flew there, where he
found his beloved Alana and her captors. Amante and Moire battled to
keep the goddess of the night in their dominion. Gow warred upon them,
shattering the castle and stirring the seas into a terrible storm. Gow's
might was matched by Amante's wiles and Moire's power. Their battle
raged for days and spanned the sea and the land. While her captors
fought Gow, Alana broke free from her watery prison. The clamor of
combat drew the goddess to her beloved's aid. She seized the Moon-Jewel
from Gow and hurled it at Moire, striking her down and making the
sea-goddess and her domain ever subservient to the moon. Gow gained
advantage on Amante, and struck a mighty blow to Amante's face with his
sword of flame. The god of beauty became, with that one ringing blow,
the most hideous monster.
"Amante went to the lord of the gods, begging justice, but the
lord, knowing Alana had truly been the one wronged, denied him. Rather
he chose for Alana to mete the punishment for Amante's crime. The moon
goddess declared that Amante would forever wear a mask, to hide his
shame and his hideous scars, and that he would never again be the ruler
of love, for he knew nothing of it. Further the lord of the gods
declared that Erida would never again hold the Moon-Jewel. Instead it
would become Alana's dowry, giving her some power over the seas and the
rivers so that Erida and her daughter would never forget the wrong they
had done.
"Amante wore his mask, but raged against Gow ever after, always
blaming the protector for his ruined face. In time Gow forgot about
Amante, having no interest in listening to the fallen god's impotent
bleating. Amante did not surrender his vengeance, though. He stole into
the home of Gow's brother, Gaoth, the god of chaos, and seized his
scepter. Amante used this wand to pass a curse on the world. Since no
worshipper could look upon his face again, then no longer would any
mortal look upon the face of Gow! He cast the mighty curse down upon
Makdiar, and all who were near an image of the protector where his face
was visible suffered terrible plagues and misfortune. The ground shook;
clouds of locusts brought famine to the people. Gow's own worshippers
desecrated those images of Gow that survived the horrors of the time of
troubles. So it was that the face of Gow left the world. That is why no
image of Gow has a face, not even the Servant of Gow," Zaladris
concluded, pointing at the statue.
"So, anyone who gazes on an image of Gow's face becomes cursed?"
Sala asked.
"Worse. When an image of Lord Gow has a face, all who are in its
region suffer from Amante's wrath." Zaladris continued, his voice rising
and his eyes rolling wildly, "At first it seems as simple misfortune. As
time passes though, spilled tea becomes a scalded lap, to raging storm,
to drowning flood."
"That's a fascinating story," Sala said, "but I don't understand
what it has to do with me. I'm just a baker; I've nothing to do with the
affairs of strange gods. I'm subject to Cahleyna, none other."
"Your false god is of no concern to me. The true gods are those of
Beinison. I care naught for others," Zaladris replied with annoyance. "I
am the last legitimate priest of Gow, the keeper of the one shrine that
preserves the face of Gow in the realm of men!" he said with rising
vehemence.
Cowed, but not defeated, Sala interjected, "You just told me there
were no images of Gow's face, that they're all cursed."
"Yes," he said, deflated, "it is true." The old man lapsed into
silence. He closed his eyes, lowered his head, and massaged the bridge
of his nose for a few moments. "My lord's statue is cursed, but there is
a warding that keeps the monstrous evil of Amante's curse at bay."
Zaladris paused and stirred the fire until it was blazing again.
Changing his tone from that of a temple priest instructing his
students to one like that of the village graybeard telling a tale,
Zaladris continued. "Long ago, this last and most skillfully crafted
idol of Gow rested in his prime temple in the imperial capital, Cabildo.
His majesty, Eireik Blortnikson, had just united the Beinison Empire
under his imperial aegis a few years before. But then the curse fell and
the time of troubles came. The empire was struck by famine and outbreaks
of pestilence. The people wailed in their despair, and the empire came
to the brink of destruction. The statues of Gow in the hinterlands were
all ... defaced, and peace came to those lands. But the statue in
Cabildo was the finest avatar of our nation's patron deity, so the
priesthood could not bear to allow it to be destroyed.
"In desperation Emperor Eireik called upon the mightiest mages of
the land and offered a great reward for our succor. Finally the
unbeliever Mon-Millia, a wise and learned magus, came to Cabildo to take
up the challenge. He arrived with a wagon loaded with magical tomes and
enchanted devices. The priests were scandalized when he drove directly
into the temple, horses and all. He sent everyone from the temple, and
sealed the doors. It is said he studied his tomes and tried many spells.
"After several days the disasters ceased, and Mon-Millia emerged,
announcing that the curse had been placed under a warding. The magus
showed the priesthood that the statue was unharmed. He told them that
the curse was very powerful, and that the warding had to be maintained,
else the spell would fail against the curse's divine strength. He
instructed the priests of Gow in the ceremony and method of servicing
the idol, and then he collected his reward and departed the known lands.
"Even though the idol was now safe, the emperor still feared its
curse. Over the objections of the faithful, Emperor Eireik ordered it
taken away from the city and that it be loaded aboard the empire's
fastest vessel. So that it might never threaten Beinison's coasts, the
emperor commanded that it be sailed around the Cape of Wudamund and
hurled into the depths of the great Cirrangill Sea.
"That very night, the priesthood of Gow seized the idol and their
relics: the Servant of Gow and the Moon-Jewel. They assembled a caravan
and left the imperial capital under the cover of darkness, bound for the
wilderlands to the north. They finally settled here, on this remote
mountain where the emperor would never find them, and where they could
protect the last idol, undisturbed."
Zaladris paused and met Sala's gaze. "I am the end of the line of
the priests of Gow. Even though we have been faithful my people have had
fewer children with every generation, until they finally died out."
"I still don't see what this has to do with me," Sala said
plaintively. "Surely you don't think you can make me a Gow priestess? I
have my own goddess." Another thought occurred to her, and she flared in
anger. "And don't think you can force me to bear you a child. I'd rather
die," she said defiantly.
"No, young one," he said mournfully, "I'm sorry, it is much worse
than that. If I cannot continue to placate Amante's curse, the
consequences are beyond imagining."
Sala began to feel the grip of fear again. The old man had started
to seem harmless, even kindly, in spite of having kidnapped her. Now his
talk was scaring her.
Zaladris looked at her, the light of the cook fire revealing the
intensity in his face and dancing in his staring eyes. "I must make the
ritual of the intercambrino ... um, the transference. I must take your
life to extend my own that I may serve my god and safeguard this land."
Seeing the horror on her face, he quickly continued, "It's for
everyone's good, girl. If I do not do this, everyone will suffer. The
curse will return and, in time, it will sweep across all the lands you
know, bringing misery and death. For a thousand years this warding has
been kept. I must not fail now!"
Sala stood, thinking that perhaps she should run for her life. The
giant statue didn't seem so fast. Then she gasped as the old priest
gripped her wrist with enough strength to make her feel pain. She tried
to pull away, but Zaladris twisted her arm behind her back, and she soon
found herself locked within the cottage again. Sala looked around at her
prison's walls, and wondered how she could possibly escape. In
desperation she hurled herself against the door, but was rewarded only
with bruises. She used the stool to beat against the shutters furiously.
They rattled with each blow, but they were stoutly made and well barred
from the outside. Her shoulders burned and her hands stung from the
effort.
Pausing a moment to think, Sala pondered her avenues of escape. The
flagstone floor and rock walls were impossible to dig through, and the
door and shutters were too stout for her to break. Sala looked upward to
pray to Cahleyna for succor. As she began her prayer, she noted the
ceiling was made of thatch. After finishing her devotion, she moved the
stool to the back wall of the cottage in the pantry. She stepped up and
stretched to reach the thatch. It was just out of her grasp. She could
touch it if she jumped slightly, but that threatened to overturn her
support and send her tumbling to the floor. The longest tool she could
find was an old, stained, wooden spoon with a handle that was so worn
that it shone. Sala jabbed the straw ceiling in several places.
Everywhere she tried, she met with resistance. It took her a full bell
to dig a hole through the thatching in one spot, where she found the
roof was woven tightly together with gnarled vines of ivy. Many of the
branches were thicker than her thumb. Perhaps she could have chopped
through them with a hatchet. She was certain that a spoon was not
adequate to the task.
For a moment she allowed herself the luxury to imagine that Elton,
her fiance, would come for her, but she dismissed that thought. What
chance was there that a village stonemason would challenge an insane
hermit wizard? "None at all," she thought. "None at all."
Elton's heart pounded and he labored to breathe. He dragged his
sleeve across his brow to mop up the sweat of his effort. In many places
he had been unable to discern any sign of tracks from those who had
taken his fiancee from her bed. Often even his companion, Urtose, the
village idiot, had been baffled, despite his trailcraft. Bruce, however,
rarely hesitated and strode confidently through the woods and into the
mountains. The gigantic beast-man was half again as tall as a human and
covered in fur. The series of growls the Kushago used to identify
himself were unpronounceable by the stonemason and the idiot, so they
had settled on calling him "Bruce". His long strides made for good
speed, forcing the two villagers to struggle to keep up.
Just three days ago Elton had been starting a normal day watching
over his master's apprentice stonemasons. Xakim, the father of his
betrothed, Sala, had interrupted him. She'd been taken by someone who'd
been able to smash through the wall of her home. To Elton's dismay, none
of the other villagers of Gorod had been willing to help seek her
rescue. None but Urtose, who had joined him at the forest's edge. Elton
had wrongly believed that a Kushago had kidnapped Sala, because of the
giant footprints leading away from Gorod. He had been shown his mistake
when Urtose had summoned Bruce to rescue him from being buried in a
landslide. Elton had accepted the beast-man's help gratefully, and they
had resumed the hunt.
It wasn't long before the trio had climbed high above the forest,
and followed a little-used path into the heart of the mountains. The
mason noted the growing agitation of the Kushago, and his hopes began to
rise that perhaps they were drawing near to their quarry. He thought it
was likely that Bruce's rapid pace had made up for his and Urtose's slow
march through the forest. Shortly before midday they reached the edge of
a fast running stream, which flowed down a ravine, and then turned
across its mouth. The stream's surface frothed with the speed of its
passage.
Elton stepped up to where Bruce stood on the bank, hesitating to
enter the water. Puzzled by the beast-man's reticence, he knelt down to
dip a cup into the stream for a cool draught. He gasped as his hand was
immersed in the stream. The cold of the runoff was biting, and Elton
could scarcely imagine trying to wade through it. He was certain they
would be swept away if they tried. He looked at Bruce with new respect;
the Kushago had known the danger without even touching the chill water.
"A bit nippy, it is," Urtose said. "From the snow melt, aye, might
freeze us in an instant."
"We have to find a way across. We can't let this delay us. Perhaps
if I enter upstream, I can swim across before I'm washed too far?" Elton
asked.
"Heh, heh, ye got to get out of the village sometimes, rock buster.
That cold? Ye wouldn't be able to move for more than a few deep breaths
afore ye were froze. Nay, there must be a better way," Urtose replied.
The mason sat on a small boulder to ponder the situation. Ideally a
fallen tree could bridge the small river. The only one he had seen was
already too rotted to use. Unfortunately he had not brought an ax with
him. Maybe he could cut a tree down with Master Oramond's sword? He
abandoned that idea, but it occurred to him that he had packed his
mason's tools; out of habit, he supposed.
Elton rose and studied the edges of the ravine where the stream had
run hard into a stone outcropping and abruptly turned, cutting off the
gorge. With the practiced eye of a man who was intimate with rock, he
found a fault and traced its path. Satisfied with what he had found, he
fetched his hammer and chisel from his bundle. Checking his placement
twice, Elton set the chisel against stone and raised his hammer.
"What are ye doing rock-buster? The sun got to ye, has it?" Urtose
interrupted.
The mason glanced over at the idiot, mirth in his eyes. "I'm fine,
Urtose, I just thought I'd bust some rocks." He turned back to his task
and struck the chisel with one of his hardest blows. A crack now ran
from the ground and up the stone to well over his head. Elton smiled,
pleased that the shear line had been exactly where he thought it was. He
struck another blow, and a pillar of rock broke away from the lip of the
ravine. Elton felt as if time slowed down while he watched it fall
across the stream. He held his breath and hoped the stone would hold
together when it landed, and not crumble into the river.
The column bounced twice when it landed. To the mason's relief it
stayed in a single piece, forming a narrow bridge across the water.
Gingerly they crossed it, Elton first, followed by Urtose, with Bruce at
the rear. The stone shifted and threatened to break apart under the
Kushago's weight. Several pieces fell into the stream and discernable
cracks were left near the center, but it held. The mason checked the
bridge and was relieved that it looked to be holding firm. It would be
in place for their return trip.
"Straight," Elton said, "We'd best have our lunch now. I'd prefer
to have a full belly when we climb this ravine." He packed away his
tools, marveling at how lucky he'd been. The stone bridge had worked
better than he could have ever imagined. Cahleyna must be smiling upon
him; surely he could not fail his lady now.
Sala watched the dawn break through the slits of the shutters to
her prison. The glow in the eastern sky grew as she considered what the
day might bring. During the journey from her village, the old priest had
always made a point to stop and pray during sunset. She thought it was
curious that he prayed with his back to the light, though at the time
she had been too frightened to think about it. While she pondered this,
she continually probed every part of the cottage for a weak point that
might enable her to escape the building.
By noon she was despairing of any chance of escape. The small
building was rustic, even by her standards, but very robust. While
searching, she'd had time to think and as the bells passed she became
more certain that sunset was to be the time of her execution. It made
sense to her that a significant ceremony and Zaladris' holy time should
coincide. That would only give her the afternoon then, to think of a
plan.
Sala considered and discarded many ideas over the course of the
day. Some were impractical, others impossible, and a few were merely
unlikely. "He's an old man," she finally thought. "Certainly I can
outrun him. If I can hit him with something, get a few moments' head
start, surely that will be enough to get away?" Sala sighed in
resignation. "It's not a great plan, but I have to try," she thought.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and considered the Servant of Gow. The
statue would be certain to pursue her. It was slow, but tireless. How
could she defeat it? She decided that she had to hope to get enough of a
head start that she could obscure her trail before Zaladris ordered the
servant after her. Sala composed herself, looked skyward, and said a
prayer to Cahleyna, asking for a blessing in making good her escape.
She then searched the cottage again, seeking a weapon. She rummaged
through each room, overturning furniture and tearing apart anything that
might conceal something useful. After ransacking the pantry, and
partially dismantling the kitchen table, she found herself in the
bedroom. The small urn and the wooden warrior were of little use to her,
but the white opal fit her hand just right, and seemed like it might be
useful as a small missile, or if she were fortunate, she could use it to
bash the priest in the head. Sala looked closely at the gem, which did
truly look like an image of the moon. She speculated that this must be
the Moon-Jewel the old priest had mentioned. A smile twitched at her
lips at the thought of doing in her abductor with one of his own holy
relics. Carefully, she secreted it in her clothing, where she would be
able to reach it when an opportunity came.
After putting away the jewel, Sala noted something else that stuck
out from beneath the shelf: a book. She pulled it out for a better look.
It was leather bound and had a feeling of age to it. Opening the book
showed pages of spidery handwriting. Though she had never learned to
read, Sala paged through the book, curious, looking with interest at
several diagrams and pictures that were within. The book was only half
filled, but it was the last written part that was the most frightening.
The page before the last had a crudely drawn picture, which showed what
looked to be a robed man, holding a heart aloft. Before the man laid a
body with a hole gashed in its chest, and a spirit, which was rising out
of the body and diving into the priest. Sala shivered; surely this was
what Zaladris had in mind for her. Angrily, she tore the last two pages
out of the book. She held the crumpled pages tightly in her left hand.
She resolved that these evil notes could be used no further, and that
they would be destroyed.
Sala woke up with a start. She grumbled to herself at having fallen
asleep while waiting for the afternoon to while away. It was only the
rattling of the front door when Zaladris had entered the cottage that
had awakened her. A quick glance through the shutters confirmed that
sunset was near; it must be time.
"Come girl, we have a ritual to attend to," said the priest.
"I ... I don't think I want to," replied Sala. "Why don't you go
without me?"
The priest moved forward into the cottage, leaning heavily on his
walking stick. He paused to survey the wreckage of his home and shook
his head. "Such bravery to the end. You have great spirit, girl. Gow
will be pleased with the offer of your essence."
Sala looked directly into the old man's eyes. "Killing me is evil,
master priest. Please, just come back to my village. We will treat you
as an honored elder. We would welcome you with a feast and our finest
ale." Sala moved closer, surreptitiously feeling for the Moon-Jewel
hidden in her clothes.
"I'm sorry, child," the priest said as he flicked his wrist and
threw a golden powder in Sala's face.
Sala recoiled, shutting her eyes and coughing. After several
sneezes she found herself leaning against the wall, but still standing
unsteadily. She felt detached though, as if the world was merely
something she watched. Even when Zaladris took her arm, she was only an
observer, and had no will to resist him.
The priest guided her from the cottage and out of the ruined
village. She was taken to a nearby worn path that lead out of the
settlement. It went further up the mountain ravine though the sparse
woods. There was only a short walk before they came to the mountain
stream, and then to where the path stopped at a vine-covered rock face.
The priest then pulled her into the entrance that was there and led her
underground. The setting sun shone directly into the cave, enabling Sala
to see deep within, where she could make out something glittering at the
end. Inside, the footing was somewhat uneven, but worn smooth from
centuries of use. Two dozen paces brought them to the end, which widened
into a semi-circular chamber. There was something in the center she
couldn't quite see, the light being obscured by their shadows. When they
stepped aside, light streamed in and illuminated the object that had
sparkled. In the center was the strangest statue Sala had ever seen.
There was a rough pedestal of similar construction to the ruins of
the settlement surrounding the monk's cottage. Atop that was what Sala
assumed to be the statue of Gow that Zaladris had described. Its base
was of a polished gray stone, while the statue itself was the darkest
black she'd ever seen. Its ruby eyes scintillated in the rays of the
dying sun, and its teeth were bone white. The figure sat tailor style
with a silver sword across its lap. Its face was turned skyward, and its
mouth was open as if screaming in rage, or perhaps agony.
Zaladris guided Sala into a prone position on the cave floor in
front of the idol so that she was lit by the rays of the sun beaming in.
He drew a dagger from his belt, jerking it from side to side to work it
out of its sheath. The pommel was golden, and its blade was polished
bronze. Rather than being straight like ordinary knives, the blade
undulated from the quillons to the point. Zaladris began waving the
knife over her, and started a song in a strange language. Sala couldn't
help thinking that he had a lovely singing voice.
Elton, Urtose, and Bruce charged up the ravine at an exhausting
pace. The Kushago was eagerly on the scent, obviously excited. It took
them most of the afternoon to march up the ravine and the sun was
setting as they reached the old settlement. Bruce led them through the
ruins and past the remains of collapsed building with a large tree
growing through it. They followed the trail until they reached a small,
well-maintained cabin. In front of it burned a small cooking fire. Next
to the front door stood a gigantic statue of a warrior, except instead
of a face there was only blank space. Elton stared at the statue for a
moment, admiring the detailed craftsmanship in its carving. The blank
spot where a face should have been puzzled him. He was uncertain whether
the statue had ever had a face, or if it had been chiseled off, and the
remainder polished.
Bruce sniffed around the area for a few moments, giving particular
attention to the small house. A brief look inside informed Elton that
the place was a shambles; debris was strewn everywhere. He watched the
Kushago explore the perimeter of the settlement. Bruce bent over at
spots, and sniffed there. Abruptly, he caught the scent and dashed to
the beginnings of a path that led into the stunted trees and further up
the ravine. Elton and Urtose leapt into pursuit. The Kushago's
single-minded focus made Elton certain that they were almost upon their
goal. He clenched his jaw and redoubled his pace to keep up with Bruce.
Despite his shambling gait, even Urtose managed to keep up.
The path led to a fast-flowing stream, the parent of the one they
had crossed that morning. From there they followed another path to the
ivy covered cliff wall. Quickly they spotted a low cave entrance, from
which they could hear a voice raised in song, though they could not
understand the words. The cave entrance looked to be too small for
Bruce, and he appeared nervous anyway. The Kushago edged back from the
cave, shaking his head.
"He don't like something in there," Urtose gasped. The long day's
climb, and the rush up the path had taken the wind out of him.
Elton drew his sword and took a few deep breaths. "This is my
fight. Sala is in there, and I will see her free!"
He ducked into the cave and, hugging one wall, quickly made his way
down to the end, where he could see the prone form of his lady, and
standing over her, an old bearded man in a red robe who was brandishing
a strange-looking dagger while singing an otherworldly song.
Zaladris' throat began to burn as he approached the end of his
song. Tears flowed from his eyes at the thought of slaying this young
girl. He had done this once every century for the past three centuries,
and still the guilt never left his heart. If he passed on, the warding
against the curse Amante had inflicted on Gow's faithful would fail, and
the consequences would be calamitous. He had long sought another way,
but there had been only failure. With his people long gone to dust,
there was no one to apprentice, no one who would be loyal to Gow. So
once again he had to harden his heart, and follow his duty.
The priest thought he caught a hint of movement in the glare of the
light streaming in. A man stepped forth and raised a sword that was
blazing red, as if aflame with the light of the setting sun. "Lord Gow?"
Zaladris whispered in awe.
In answer, the man bashed the old priest in the head with the flat
of the blade.
Elton watched the old man stumble back and grab the ugly statue for
support, blood streaming from his scalp. Elton cursed himself for the
poor strike, and steeled himself to attack again. He leaped over Sala
and thrust the blade at the priest. This time he ran the sword clean
through the old man. As the priest fell, Elton tugged the sword free. He
glanced askance at the strange statue. Had its mouth opened? "No
matter," Elton thought, and turned to his lady.
Urtose was already ministering to Sala, and Elton knelt down beside
them. "Does she live?" asked the mason, worry in his voice.
"Aye, she be living. I don't like the look in her eyes though. Best
we get her fresh air I'm a-thinkin'."
"Straight," Elton agreed. "Take my sword. I'll carry Sala." The
mason gathered the girl in his arms, and bore her out of the cave. "Back
to the fire; it isn't far."
Elton led the way down the path. Despite bearing the weight of Sala
in his arms, the walk back to the settlement was easier for being
downhill. Urtose and Bruce followed him down, stepping carefully behind
him. Once they reached the cook fire he laid Sala down and bundled his
cloak to serve as a cushion for her head. After giving her some water,
the girl seemed to revive.
"He ... he's dead?" she asked.
"The old man? He's won't be troubling us anymore, I should think,"
Elton said.
The three villagers and the Kushago spent the best part of a bell
resting by the fire. Sala was at first frightened by Bruce, but relaxed
when she had been assured that he had been critical in finding her.
Still, being sniffed by the massive Kushago was something she found
unnerving. They talked through the twilight as they related their tales
to each other. Soon their only light was that of the dwindling fire, and
the rising full moon.
Elton was sitting tailor style in front of the fire. He held Sala
in his lap, his arms wrapped around her, and her head against his
shoulder. Urtose had just added fuel to the fire in anticipation of
raiding Zaladris' larder for a meal, when they heard a voice cry out.
The old man, soaked in blood, stumbled down the path, yelling in his
strange tongue.
"Servatantos eg Gow, risotos," the old man called out. "Slay them,
but I need the girl, whole -- now!" Spent, Zaladris fell to his knees,
holding his belly wound, and trying to keep his guts from spilling out.
The giant statue began to move towards the villagers, its hands
clenching and unclenching. Urtose dropped the faggot of wood he was
holding and stared at the giant, slack jawed. Sala rolled out of Elton's
lap.
"It obeys him!" she shouted.
"What is it?" cried the mason in surprise. "How does a statue
move?"
"It's called the Servant of Gow," Sala answered. Elton struggled to
his feet and snatched his sword up from where it was leaning against a
stone seat. He held the blade in front of him while motioning Sala
behind. He had often attacked stone with a hammer and chisel, but never
before had stone attacked him.
Urtose had recovered his spear, a gnarled stick with the end worn
to a point, and charged forward. He stabbed at the Servant of Gow, but
the point struck and skittered off to the side. Surprisingly fast, the
statue whipped around and sent the idiot flying with a massive backhand.
Elton backed away, keeping Sala behind him. He tried to think how he
could possibly fight the thing. The mason recognized the stone of the
statue as a sort of granite, tough to work in the best of circumstances.
He doubted that his sword would even scratch it.
"We can't fight it, Elton. It isn't very fast. We have to run,"
Sala pleaded.
"I'm not going to leave Urtose," the mason said, his voice tight.
The idiot had been invaluable and had saved his life after the
rockslide. He was even, Elton grudgingly admitted to himself, a friend.
The servant turned from Urtose to advance upon Elton and Sala, but
was intercepted by Bruce. The Kushago let out a guttural roar and
charged the stone giant, beating it with his massive fists. For several
moments the statue gave ground, the fury of Bruce's attack driving it
back. Soon though, the Servant of Gow recovered its balance and pressed
its own attack.
Elton and Sala pulled Urtose to his feet, but he was hurt. His
breathing was ragged, and he clutched at his chest. Elton suspected that
Urtose's ribs were broken. The mason had seen an injury like that
before, when an apprentice had taken a tumble while quarrying marble.
The stone giant and the Kushago wrestled for long moments, until
the statue managed to wrap its arms around Bruce. The Kushago tried to
fight his way out of the bear hug, but the servant was unrelenting.
There was a final sickening crack, and Bruce went limp, his head lolling
back, lifeless. The servant dropped the Kushago's carcass and once again
moved towards the villagers.
Seeing he had no hope of fighting the monstrosity, the only option
left to Elton was to flee. He and Sala grabbed Urtose and draped his
arms over their necks, and rushed downhill as fast as they were able.
Under normal circumstances they could run much faster than the stone
giant, but Urtose's injuries slowed them greatly. He was having
difficulty breathing, and if he were not being helped, he would have
fallen before even escaping the settlement. Staying just ahead of the
pursuing stone giant, the trio of villagers fled away from the
settlement and down the canyon, towards the icy stream.
Pain ripped through Zaladris' body. He had lost so much blood; he
didn't know how long he would last. Agonizingly, the priest dragged
himself to his cottage; he had to lie down in shelter, where no
wandering beast would make a meal of him. Inside the cabin, he was
appalled at the mess the girl had made. Too tired to move any further,
he collapsed on the front room floor. He hoped the servant would return
soon with the girl. He was certain that he would die of his wounds
before long. His only hope now was to complete the ritual of the
transference, if it wasn't even too late for that.
So tired, Zaladris lay on the floor unmoving. He closed his eyes
and let out a final rattling breath.
The villagers spent the rest of the night fleeing down the
mountain. Elton and Sala carried Urtose between them, and would march as
far as possible until the injured man cried out for respite. They would
pause until the Servant of Gow was nearly upon them, and then they would
retreat at the best speed they were able. They repeated this all the way
down the mountain, their rest period getting shorter each time. As dawn
broke they reached the mouth of the ravine where the stream they had
been following crashed into the canyon wall and turned. It crossed the
ravine, cutting off their path.
Elton and Sala were dragging Urtose along when they reached the
small river. The tireless statue was drawing near again. Their progress
had been slowed greatly by their near exhaustion. Elton was relieved to
see that the stone bridge he had laid the previous morning was still in
place.
"Sala, go across now! I'll handle Urtose," Elton barked.
Sala gingerly walked across the narrow span, nearly losing her
balance twice, when the makeshift bridge shifted. Reaching the end, she
leaped lightly ashore.
The mason ducked under Urtose's arm, and then stood straight,
draping the man on his back. The idiot's body weighing him down, he
started to carefully cross the makeshift causeway. As he reached the
middle, the bridge began to sag and buckle. He could hear the underside
cracking and dropping stones splashing into the water below. The mason
tried to dash the remainder of the way across before the stone slab
broke, but he was not quick enough. Elton was nearly to the other side
when the span broke in the center, dumping him and Urtose in the icy
water.
The mason heard Sala's scream as he plunged into the stream. He
couldn't help crying out from the cold smashing into his body like a
great hammer blow. He was barely able to keep his grip on the
unconscious Urtose as the fast rushing water carried the pair several
yards downstream. Sala dove forward on the stream bank and extended her
arm out to the river. Elton grabbed her by the wrist and she grunted as
his progress downstream was halted with a jerk. He could see the agony
in her face, but she held on to them against the power of the stiff
current. Elton pulled himself along her arm until he could switch his
grasp to a tree root jutting from the bank.
Sala struggled to her feet and helped Elton pull himself out of the
water. Together they were able to drag Urtose ashore. Elton could only
lie gasping. The cold had numbed his limbs and sapped the energy from
his body. He was able to rest for a few menes before the giant reached
the far shore.
"Maybe the stream will stop it," the mason rasped. "It will have to
go find a ford to cross."
"No," said Sala bitterly. "It was able to wade though when it
brought me here."
"Ol's piss," Elton groaned. "I don't think I can go much further.
I'm afraid we're not going to escape." He didn't want to admit his
despair after coming all this way, but he was out of ideas, out of
allies, and too tired to continue.
Anger and frustration painted Sala's face, and her hands were
balled up into fists. "No, I think there may be a way." She reached into
her clothes and pulled out a whitish object, a little bigger than her
fist. She showed the pallid orb to Elton, who noted that it was a fine
example of opal.
"An opal?" he asked. "How can this help us?"
"That monk told me a story. He had said that Gow used a Moon-Jewel
to destroy the goddess of the sea. Maybe it has some power," she said.
"How can a simple opal destroy a god?" he asked. "It can't be
anything more than a legend."
"And how can a stone monster hunt us? How can a beast-man sacrifice
his life for us? It's our last hope."
She had a point, Elton realized. He had seen so many impossible
things already this sennight. Maybe this would fall in his favor too.
Elton tried to stand, but couldn't get his numb legs to obey his
will. He looked up at Sala and saw her staring defiantly at the charging
statue.
"Curse you Gow, curse you Amante, Zaladris! Curse you all!" she
roared. The baker's daughter reared back and hurled the milky orb with
all her might. The jewel arced over the water and hit the Servant of Gow
square in the chest. The Moon-Jewel rebounded from the Servant's torso
and fell harmlessly into the stream. The statue paused briefly, as if it
were puzzled, then stepped forward, returning to its relentless pursuit.
"Cahleyna preserve!" Sala cried in anguish. She stood helplessly,
staring at the statue. Then she pointed at the water. "Elton, look!"
Elton looked where she was pointing. About where the orb had sunk
into the water, a silvery glow was appearing.
The statue stepped into the stream, directly upon the glowing spot.
It rested its weight on that foot and swung the other forward. It
stopped in place, looking down where it was standing. The water roiled
and bubbled around the statue and steam rose, obscuring it from view.
From his vantage point on the far shore, Elton could see the
Servant of Gow become enveloped in mist. The Servant looked as if it
were struggling to get free when it was pulled straight down beneath the
surface of the water and was replaced by large jet of steam.
For a mene, all was quiet, and then where the statue had
disappeared, a whirlpool formed, and it grew. It spread until it reached
the shore, which collapsed into a sinkhole. It was a growing sinkhole.
The ground shook, and portions of the ravine broke apart. The crashing
of falling boulders echoed through the ravine.
His body feeling as if it were being pricked by thousands of
needles, the mason
forced himself to move. "I don't like the looks of
this. Best we get as far away as we can." With Sala's concurrence, they
took the unconscious Urtose's arms, and dragged him away from the
growing hole.
Some menes later, the ground beneath them had calmed, and the
forest was quiet once more. Elton and Sala sat enjoying a quiet embrace,
their legs dangling into the huge lopsided crater that had appeared
where the Servant of Gow had met its end. On the high side, a long
stone's throw away, the rushing stream had become a waterfall, its mist
forming a pale rainbow under the light of the early morning sun.
"I think it is ended," Elton sighed.
Sala leaned her head against her beloved's shoulder. "The old man
spoke of a curse. What do you suppose will happen?"
"Happen?" he answered, "Very little I think. Curses are tales for
children. Nothing more."
Her gaze met his. "Like walking statues, wizards, and jewels that
make giant holes?"
Elton looked away for a few menes, lost in thought. "Let's go home.
I think it's best not to mention all this to the others. There's no need
for the village to think us mad."
In a cave, on a mountain, far away from human settlement, a strange
idol closed it mouth. A rat in the cave feeding on a grasshopper might
have noted a malignant glare in the idol's eyes, were rats concerned
with such things. Rather it chewed obliviously on its meal. Above it a
stalactite that had been held fast in the rocky ceiling for a millennium
fell loose and plummeted to the floor. The rodent died under the
crushing stone, the first victim of the now unbound curse of the black
idol.
========================================================================
Have You Ever Been to Northern Hope?
Part 1
by Liam Donahue
<bdonahue@fuse.net>
Yule 22-24, 1018
There was no reception when Parris Dargon arrived in the city of
Dargon. There was no reason for a reception -- Parris was only Duke
Clifton's second cousin -- but that did not keep him from feeling
resentment. It was, after all, only a matter of happenstance that
Clifton, and not Parris, was the duke. Parris had devoted his life to
correcting that mistake of history.
All of his previous attempts to remedy the situation had failed.
His idea for a coup, backed by several minor but ambitious noblemen, had
never made it beyond the planning stages. He was unable to get past the
fact that the king would have him killed for deposing Clifton once word
reached Magnus. The wizard that Parris had paid to curse Clifton with a
wasting disease had developed moral issues with doing harm to the duke.
His morality apparently did not extend to the duke's cousin; he had
taken Parris' money and fled.
After his failure with the wizard, Parris had left Dargon. He had
roamed Baranur for several years searching for some secret means of
removing Clifton and claiming the duchy. He had heard rumors of what he
hoped was the answer during a visit to some unprofitable holdings in the
south. He had returned to Dargon seeking help to unearth that solution.
Parris hated being in Dargon and having to live under Clifton's
auspices. He half-suspected that Clifton knew of his intentions, despite
the fact that the duke was unfailingly polite and always welcomed him to
the keep. It rankled to stay in the guest quarters when he knew he
belonged in the master suite.
He arrived at the offices of an old friend, Tyrus Vage. The
building was not what he expected: it was slightly shoddy looking and in
need of a coat of paint. When he had last seen Tyrus, several years
previously, the man had been a wealthy merchant. His fortunes had
apparently faded. Parris smiled. It would serve his needs if Tyrus was
desperate, as long as he wasn't too desperate.
He entered, and smiled a bit more at the disrepair of the interior.
The differences were subtle: a slightly worn carpet and brass fixtures
in need of polish. Only someone who knew Tyrus' meticulous tastes would
notice.
A small man with wiry muscles and a dancer's grace rose from a desk
as Parris entered. His tone seemed polite enough when he spoke, although
his hand went to a slim sword at his belt. "May I help you, sir?"
"I am here to see Tyrus Vage. Is he in?"
The guard's eyes scanned Parris from head to toe before he replied.
"He is, sir, but he has asked not to be disturbed. You can leave a
message with me, and I will see that he gets it. I can write."
Parris' estimation of the guard rose a bit. Not only was this man
literate, but he was savvy enough to offer his services without risking
offense by implying that he thought Parris might not be able to write.
He hoped the man was smart enough to know when to question his master's
orders.
"I think he may want to be disturbed for me. Would you please tell
him that his old friend Parris Dargon is here to see him?"
Parris' opinion of the guard rose even further; the man's eyes only
widened slightly at the mention of the Dargon surname. "I'll speak to
him. Please wait here."
Tyrus Vage scowled as his office door opened. He looked up from his
ledgers and glared at his secretary and bodyguard. "What is it, Edril?"
he demanded, but not too harshly. He knew Edril would not disturb him
without good reason. It was not the interruption that had fouled Tyrus'
mood; it was the dwindling contents of the ledgers.
"Sorry to trouble you, sir, but there is a man here who claims to
be an old friend of yours. He says his name is Parris Dargon. Shall I
send him away?"
Tyrus blinked and stared at Edril, wondering if he had heard
correctly. What did Parris Dargon want after all these years? Money was
no doubt the answer. Tyrus debated having Edril send the man away, but
decided against it. The good graces of a Dargon cousin, even a worthless
one like Parris, might prove advantageous. "No, send him up, Edril, and
see that we are not disturbed. Come back up when we are done. You and I
need to discuss the Sferina issue." Sferina, another merchant of Dargon,
had been making a considerable amount of money in the marketplace
selling magical trinkets. Tyrus wanted to claim some of those profits
for himself.
"Very well, sir."
Tyrus looked thoughtfully at Edril as he turned to go. The man had
proven himself invaluable time and again. In fact, Edril's arrival had
been the only good thing to happen to Tyrus since the encounter with the
gypsy brat that had left him maimed.
Tyrus turned at the sound of a rasping bird cry from his balcony.
The doors to the balcony were wide open as he usually kept them. Many of
Tyrus' peers kept their offices near the marketplace or in the Old City,
but Tyrus preferred to stay near the docks and listen to the sounds of
the ocean as he worked. He just wasn't used to those sounds being quite
so close; a screegull had alighted on the balcony and was regarding the
merchant with its shiny black eyes.
After he recovered from his initial shock, Tyrus smiled and watched
the bird. The gull screeched again and advanced a step toward the
doorway. It was a common belief among Dargon's sea-folk that a screegull
crossing the threshold was a sign of a change in luck. Although Tyrus
had once been a sailor, he put little stock in that myth; he believed
that a man made his own fortunes. Still, if there was such a thing as
luck, his needed changing, so he watched to see if the gull would enter.
"Hello, Tyrus." The merchant glanced back to see Parris Dargon
standing in the doorway to his office. The gull gave a final screech and
flapped away. Tyrus watched the bird fly off, surprised at his own
disappointment, before turning to face his guest. He was dressed well,
as Tyrus remembered he always had been. The Dargon family crest was
conspicuously absent from his clothing, though.
Tyrus rose and limped painfully around his desk. His right knee
still ached horribly even after five years. The gypsy's knife hadn't cut
deep enough to completely lame him, but he had never fully recovered
from the wound in body or in spirit.
Parris Dargon stepped forward, his eyes going from Tyrus' limping
gait to his right cheek, where another scar from the same fight
stretched from his right ear almost to his nose. "Great Ol, Tyrus, what
happened to you?"
Tyrus' finger traced the ugly scar on his face. "I surprised two
thieves in one of my warehouses. They slew one of my men and did this to
me, but we drove them off." That was the story he had told to the city
guard, and it would do for Parris Dargon as well.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Tyrus," said Parris. "Maybe you should sit
down?"
Tyrus scowled, frustrated at showing infirmity in front of this
weak incompetent. "No. I have learned to live with it." He clapped
Parris on the shoulder. "Come. Let's step outside and you can tell me
why you have decided to visit an old drinking companion after all this
time." He deliberately chose to refer to the least of their involvements
in order to distance himself from Parris. He could have said
"comrade-in-arms", or even "co-conspirator".
Forgoing the use of his cane, Tyrus limped through the open door
and out onto balcony, only allowing himself to wince once his back was
turned to his guest. He inhaled deeply, enjoying the sharp tang of the
sea air.
As Parris stepped up beside him, Tyrus asked, "Beautiful, isn't
it?" He could have meant the view of the coast spotted with greenery,
the tall prominence of Dargon Keep standing watch over the city, or the
sunlight shining on the Valenfaer Ocean. He meant none of these things.
What was beautiful to Tyrus Vage was the commerce: ships being unloaded
of rye flour and golden fruits from southern Baranur and dyed silk from
distant Mandraka, or laden with stone from Dargon's quarries and
hardwood from the northern forests; wagons hauling the food and textiles
to the marketplace or to the barge docks where they would be hauled
upriver to be sold for a hefty profit; even an old sailor selling fish
leftwiches from a cart. Tyrus was certain that his meaning was not lost
on Parris Dargon.
"Do you remember our dreams, Tyrus?" asked Parris. When Tyrus had
been a mere sailor he had eagerly befriended the young nobleman, distant
cousin to the duke's heir, hoping to improve his own station. The two
had often shared their dreams over mugs of bitter ale in the seedier
taverns of Dargon.
"Of course I do, Parris," Tyrus replied, wondering if there was a
point to this visit. "You were going to reclaim your birthright and take
Clifton's place as the duke. I was going to become captain of my own
ship."
"What happened to us, Tyrus? Where did our dreams go awry?"
Tyrus had to cough to suppress a chuckle. Was this man actually
trying to compare their lives? He decided to dispense with subtlety and
state the obvious. "You never became the duke, Parris, but I have
exceeded the insignificant dreams of my youth. I may never have
captained a ship, but I own almost a dozen, and their captains report to
me. I don't see how you can make the comparison."
Parris' face reddened at Tyrus' blunt comments, but he quickly
composed himself. "It's true, Tyrus, that you have advanced your
fortunes much more than I have. Yet I remember when your name was
attached to a score of ships. What I don't recall is a time when you
would allow yourself to wear such threadbare clothes. Perhaps your
misadventures with the thieves extinguished your fire."
Tyrus grit his teeth. Parris' barb had struck true. He could trace
his decline to his encounter with the gypsy filth who had given him his
scars. "What do you want here, Parris?"
The nobleman met Tyrus' eyes. "What would you say if I told you
that I had found a way to restore your fortune and make myself the
duke?"
"I would say that I've heard you spout nonsense like this before,
and that I have business to attend to."
Parris ignored Tyrus' dismissal, and fixed the merchant squarely
with an unblinking gaze. For no reason he could fathom, Tyrus was
reminded of the gull. A long moment passed before Parris spoke. "Have
you ever been to Northern Hope?"
Northern Hope? Tyrus remembered the political furor at the end of
the Beinison War, when refugees from Pyridain had been given land
between the duchies of Dargon and Asbridge by the king. He had been
unable to figure a way to turn a profit from it, though, so he had given
the settlement little thought since. "No. I have had a few dealings with
the town, but none were successful."
"I'm not surprised. I have a small holding near there, and it's
never brought me a single Bit of profit. The locals all think the town
is cursed. I spent enough time there that I came to believe them.
Disasters are an everyday occurrence in that town."
Tyrus felt his impatience building. "And how will this luckless
town restore my riches and your title?"
"I did more than believe in the curse. I paid a small fortune to a
Rhydd Pobl witch who not only confirmed the presence of a curse, but
determined that it emanates from an object."
Tyrus kept his tone neutral. "You should avoid dealing with
gypsies."
"I know, Tyrus, but I believed this one. She said that she was
unable to find the object even when I offered to pay her more to do so.
She could just as easily have given me any item and been gone with my
money before I knew better."
Despite his hatred for them, Tyrus did not doubt the gypsies'
magical abilities. In fact, he was certain that magic had played some
part in his defeat at the hands of a gypsy child. "How does this object
figure into your plans, Parris?"
"It *is* the plan, Tyrus. If I can bring the curse from Northern
Hope to Dargon, it won't be long before the city turns on Clifton when
he proves unable to stop the ill luck. My problem has always been
Clifton's supporters. My dear cousin is a popular ruler; I wasn't lucky
enough to lose my arm saving the city, but if I could remove the curse
after Clifton failed, all of that would change."
Tyrus scowled again. Any plan that depended on Parris becoming the
duke was doomed to failure. He doubted that anyone at Clifton's court
would support the duke's distant cousin over a question of legitimacy
generations old. "I would ask what you want from me, but the answer is
quite obvious. You need money."
Parris put his hand to his breast. "Tyrus, you wound me. I value
our friendship for much more than your money. It's true that I'm short
on coin, but I could have gone to anyone with this idea."
"What's the money for, Parris?"
"The gypsy could not find the object, but that doesn't mean it
can't be found. I need to find a mage. I'll need some coin to spread
around to find one, and enough to pay him to find this cursed item and
bring it here. A mage that powerful won't come cheap and he's going to
want to see some of it when I hire him. And I'll need some to cover my
expenses in Dargon while we wait for him."
"Why not stay at the keep?"
"Tyrus, I can't very well plot against my cousin from within his
own house."
Tyrus failed to comment that Parris had done that very thing many
times in the past. There was no point in quibbling over the sum when he
was about to reject the proposal in its entirety. "What of the profit
from my investment? Must I wait until you become the duke for that?"
Parris smiled tightly and shook his head. "No, Tyrus. I know you'll
never believe I will be the duke until I rule from Dargon Keep. Consider
what a wise merchant could do with the knowledge of when disaster would
strike the city and when it would stop."
Tyrus put a finger to his lips to suppress a gasp. Had this
worthless dreamer truly produced this incredible idea? Assuming the
cursed item could truly be found, it could more than restore his wealth;
it could make him a fortune. The most likely outcome, though, as with
all of Parris' ideas, was complete failure. Could that failure be made
to serve his needs? Tyrus thought that it could. There was no risk here,
only profit to be gathered no matter the outcome.
"Straight, Parris, you have my interest. How much do you need?"
Tyrus fought to keep his tone neutral.
Parris smiled again. "I knew you would share my vision, Tyrus. I
estimate that I will need ten gold Marks."
"Ten Marks! That's ridiculous --"
Parris held up his palm. "Tyrus, I need to have enough money to pay
this mage, but more importantly I need to look like I have enough to pay
him or he won't take me seriously."
Tyrus scowled at Parris as numbers whirled in his head. He actually
had that much gold available, but might need it to resolve the Sferina
matter. He had a shipment of dyed cloth and spices due in a few days,
and another of local wines and steel implements made from iron mined in
the Darst Range due to leave that afternoon. He wondered if he could
delay payment for the steel and wine until the cloth and spices arrived.
He could bear a few days' interest and still make a profit, but if the
ship were significantly delayed it would cost him dearly. He decided
that Parris' idea was worth the risk.
"Very well, Parris, I will support you in this venture, but know
this: should you fail, the bonds of our old friendship will not protect
you. I will treat you as I do all of those who fail to pay their debts
to me."
"Of course, Tyrus. I wouldn't expect any less, and I won't fail."
Tyrus wondered if Parris realized what he had just agreed to. When
he was unable to pay this debt, Tyrus would be able to approach Clifton
and demand restitution from the family. Parris would have to remain
silent regarding Tyrus' complicity in his plot or face execution. As far
as Clifton would know, Tyrus would have financed Parris in a failed
business venture. The duke would force Parris to turn over all of his
holdings. Tyrus knew that Parris was so focused on becoming the duke
that he failed to recognize the value of his own lands. Properly
managed, they could generate considerable income. Clifton would likely
banish his errant cousin, thus eliminating the possibility of Parris
showing up on Tyrus' doorstep with his hand out again.
Tyrus returned to his desk and scribbled a brief note, which he
handed to Parris. "Take this down to my secretary, Edril. He will see
that you get your gold."
A few moments after Parris left, Edril knocked and poked his head
into the office. "Pardon me, sir. Was that ten gold Marks?"
Far from being annoyed at the interruption, Tyrus was pleased.
Edril was very thorough. He wished that he could send this man to attend
to the Sferina problem, but Edril was too closely connected to Tyrus
himself. His capture would immediately implicate his master. "Yes,
Edril, ten Marks is correct. Make sure the note references his lands as
collateral, and that he sees the gold before the note.
"When you are done with him, we need to discuss how to deal with
Sferina. She's cutting into my profits with her enchanted toys."
A smile creased Edril's narrow face. "I've given that some thought
already, sir. I was thinking Rancin Fer might be a good man for the
job."
Tyrus pursed his lips. He remembered Rancin Fer. He had employed
the stuttering oaf on occasion. Perhaps "oaf" was unfair. Rancin
generally produced results, even if his methods were a bit brutal. "I
don't want her killed, Edril. She's a fellow merchant of Dargon, not
some gypsy slut. I just want some of the gold her mystical toys are
bringing in."
Edril nodded. "Of course not, sir. Rancin does have other skills,
though, and he's done all sorts of unpleasant work for more than a dozen
of your fellow merchants."
Tyrus returned Edril's smile and slapped his hand on his desk.
"Good man, Edril. Rancin could steal the mold for one of Sferina's
little trinkets. Even if he's spotted, she'd never be able to prove that
I was involved, unless Rancin talks."
Edril's grin became predatory. "He won't say a word." Tyrus didn't
doubt it. Most of the people who worked for him feared this dangerous
little man.
"Straight, then. Have Rancin pay a late visit to Sferina's shop to
take one of the molds. Perhaps the rat-charm? No. Make it the
darningfly; that's her best seller."
"As you wish, sir." Edril bowed slightly and departed the office.
Tyrus smiled again. His fortunes were turning, gull or not. He supposed
that Parris Dargon was growing impatient downstairs, but he decided that
he didn't care.
Parris Dargon hurried down the Street of Travellers as the third
bell of the evening sounded. After his meeting with Vage two days
earlier, he had gone to see Aardvard Factotum, a local physician and
purveyor of information. Parris had been more circumspect in his
discussion with Aardvard than he had with Vage; the physician was known
to be loyal to the duke. Parris had little fear that Aardvard would
oppose him when it came time to seize power in Dargon, though. From his
opulent house and rich clothing it was clear to anyone that Aardvard's
true loyalty was to his purse, and to whoever could keep it filled.
Parris had disliked the man immediately.
Aardvard had demanded an exorbitant fee for the information Parris
needed: a full gold Mark. Parris had been reluctant to part with the
coin. He was painfully aware that his funds were limited. He still had
to pay the mage he would be sending to Northern Hope, and provide for
his own living expenses while he waited for the wizard to return. He
dreaded the idea of returning to Vage to ask for additional funds, or
worse, having to go calling on his cousin Clifton with his hat in his
hand.
Parris had paid Aardvard's price, though, because the man was the
best source of information in the city. He might have searched on his
own in Dargon for a month and spent twice as much without results. Two
days after their meeting, a messenger from Aardvard had arrived at the
house Parris had rented. He had brought word that a mage had been found,
and that he would be waiting to meet Parris in the back booth of the Inn
of the Serpent at the third evening bell. The messenger had even
provided the name of the mage: Anarr.
As Parris turned onto Nochtur Street, he tried to recall everything
he knew about Anarr. His name could be found in whispered tales that
were decades old. Legend said that he had been alive for well over a
century. He was known to be reclusive and cruel. Why such a powerful
mage might be in Dargon, Parris could not fathom. He wished that he'd
had more time before this meeting to collect his thoughts, but the
messenger had arrived well after the second bell.
Outside the Inn of the Serpent, Parris paused to catch his breath
and look at the statue from which the inn took its name. He admired the
craftsmanship of the sculptor; the detail of the serpent was excellent.
Unfortunately, the beauty of the statue had been marred by some fool who
had painted the statue in bright red and green. When he was duke, Parris
decided, he would have the statue restored and brought to his castle,
and have the idiot who had defaced it whipped publicly.
Feeling more composed, Parris pushed open the door and entered the
inn's common room. His senses were immediately assailed by loud
conversation and the stench of beer. As he stood in the doorway and
surveyed the room, a heavyset man behind the bar eyed him suspiciously.
The bartender spoke a word to a blonde barmaid, who approached Parris.
"Looking to join a game, are ya?"
"I, ah ... what?" stammered Parris, completely taken aback by the
question.
"A card game. Stranger comes in dressed as rich as you, he's
usually looking to join the carders."
"No, I'm not looking for a card game." Parris became even more
irritated at the lateness of Aardvard's messenger. If he'd had time, he
would have changed to less conspicuous clothes before going to a common
dive like this. Dressed as he was, he was vulnerable to being robbed or
recognized.
"What are you looking for, then? Bit of fun?" The blonde girl
winked in a way that Parris assumed the local ruffians found charming.
Parris knew the Inn of the Serpent was no brothel, but he'd been
propositioned by women in better places than this. He used to think it
was his looks, but he'd learned that a chance to increase their station,
or at least the weight of their coinpurse, was the typical motivation.
It was yet another disadvantage of not having been able to change his
clothes.
"No, nothing like that. I'm here to meet a man to discuss some
business. In the back booth?" Parris pitched the last as a question,
hoping the barmaid would point him in the right direction and then leave
him be.
"Oh, him." The girl rolled her eyes. "He's one cold fish. Good luck
dealing with that one." She turned to walk away, and then glanced over
her shoulder. "Up the steps, past the carders, all the way in the back."
Grateful for both the barmaid's directions and the absence of her
inane conversation, Parris followed her instructions. In the last booth
past the card tables sat a tall, black-haired man. A mug of ale sat on
the table before him. As Parris approached the table, the man glanced
up. His eyes were very dark, making the look of irritation on his face
appear menacing.
"I'm Amrin Tuel," said Parris. That was the name he had given to
Aardvard Factotum. It meant "true heir" in Lederian, a language Parris
had picked up in his travels. Parris had been quite pleased with the
name.
"Of course you are. You're late, Mister Tuel. Third bell rang some
time ago." As Parris got a better look at the man, he could tell that he
was too young to be a powerful mage. He had to be an apprentice, or a
messenger. Rather than annoyed, Parris was pleased by the situation. He
had been wondering why a mage as powerful as Anarr was reputed to be
would want to meet in a place such as this. This apprentice must have
been sent to convey him to some secret place, where Parris and Anarr
could discuss their business privately.
"Yes, I am late, but it was unavoidable. Factotum's messenger did
not arrive until after second bell. I came as soon as I could." Parris
failed to mention that he had practically run the entire way, since he
had been expecting to meet a mage and not some lackey.
"That is none of my concern." The man turned away. "I don't see why
I should do business with you at all."
This was too much for Parris. "Why *you* should ..." Biting back
his fury at this underling, he reached into his pocket and fished out
two silver Rounds. These he tossed onto the table. "I've no concern for
your thoughts on the matter. Your master and I have business to discuss.
I'll thank you to stop being an ass and convey me to him."
Rather than snatching up the coins and becoming solicitous, the
dark-haired man stared at them as if Parris had thrown a live fish on
the table. He looked up again. When those dark eyes met his, Parris
found it difficult to breathe. "My master, mister 'tuel'?" He placed an
odd emphasis on the name, making Parris wonder if his choice of
pseudonym has been as clever as he had thought. "My master has been dust
for over a century. I am the man you seek. Pick up your coins and sit
down. I will forgive your tardiness this once, but only because I am in
need of your gold at the moment."
As Parris sat he said, "You are Anarr? But you seem so young." As
soon as he spoke the words, he regretted them. Instead of becoming more
annoyed, though, the mage's gaze faltered for a moment and his hand went
to his throat. Parris thought it looked like the wizard was trying to
loosen a noose around his neck.
Anarr met Parris' gaze again, all signs of his discomposure gone.
"My magic preserves my youth, Lord Parris." The mage managed to say
"Lord" without conveying the slightest amount of respect.
Parris felt his cheeks flush at the mention of his real name. He
knew Aardvard Factotum was too discreet to have given it to Anarr, so he
must have revealed himself somehow. To hide his chagrin, he glanced
around the bar. "I am surprised that a mage of your ability would choose
to meet with me in such simple surroundings."
Anarr shrugged. The corner of his mouth curled up and amusement
danced in his dark eyes. He was clearly enjoying making Parris squirm.
"Tamblebuck, the owner, has a fine selection of ale. I'm very particular
about my ale."
Parris glanced down at Anarr's drink, eager for any opportunity to
avoid the mage's gaze. He noticed tiny drops of condensation on the
outside of the earthenware mug. His estimate of the Inn of the Serpent
rose considerably. He had only experienced chilled drinks outside the
winter months once, during a childhood trip to Magnus. He wondered how
the innkeeper was able to keep the ale cold.
"I don't care who you are." When Parris looked up at Anarr, all
traces of amusement were gone from the mage's face. "I only care whether
or not you can pay for my services. Two silver Rounds are not sufficient
to buy the time you have wasted thus far."
Relief flooded Parris; Anarr was willing to talk business. "Have
you ever been to Northern Hope?" he asked. When the mage shook his head,
Parris launched into much the same explanation as he had given Tyrus
Vage. He told Anarr about how ill luck seemed to plague the town, and
how he had learned that the misfortune came from an object, and that he
had not learned the nature of the object. He left out his plans for
Clifton's downfall, and instead said that he wished to increase the
value of his holdings near the town.
Anarr listened intently throughout Parris' explanation, taking an
occasional sip of ale. As Parris finished, the mage nodded once, and
said, "You want this object destroyed."
"No!" exclaimed Parris, instantly regretting his vehemence. He
wondered why he found speaking to Anarr so disconcerting. Trying to keep
an even tone, he added, "I want the object brought to me, here in
Dargon."
"I'll need to remove the curse, then. I care little for these
people, but I'll not bring such a destructive force into this city."
"Yes, obviously not. But I will need to be able to restore the
curse, if needed."
Anarr's voice was soft, but the undertone held menace. "And why,
Lord Parris, would you need to do that?"
Parris had been prepared for this question. He hoped his lie would
convince Anarr. "I wish to receive the gratitude of Northern Hope's
citizens. Without the object, and proof of what it can do, I might be
unable to convince them that I saved their town."
"By gratitude you mean, of course, payment. And I will be the one
who saves their town, not you."
"Yes, but in my service."
"Why, then, should I enter your service, and not just claim the
'gratitude' of Northern Hope myself?"
"You could do that, Anarr, but Northern Hope is a very poor town at
the moment. It will become prosperous once the curse is lifted, but it
will be years before they can show the proper amount of gratitude. I was
under the impression that you wanted payment sooner rather than later."
Anarr nodded, apparently convinced. Parris had worked hard on that
fabrication, making sure there was enough greed and selfishness in his
story to allay any suspicions of his true motive. "I will do as you ask,
Lord Parris, for the sum of ten gold Marks, in advance."
Parris gulped. After renting his villa, buying his wardrobe,
enlisting servants, and paying Aardvard, he had little over six Marks
left. Trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, he replied, "Five now,
and five when you return with the object." While Anarr was on his
mission, Parris would have time to convince Vage to part with the
additional funds.
Anarr shook his head. "Five now, and eight when I return."
Parris nodded. "Agreed." If he was going to have to go back to
Tyrus anyway, the additional gold would not matter. Parris counted out
the coins onto the table. Anarr scooped them up and stood.
As the mage turned to walk away, he looked back over the table and
pointed to his ale. "You'll get that, won't you?"
Parris watched Anarr make his way to the door. Once the mage left,
he let go a sigh of relief, then leaned back in the booth and laughed.
One of the most powerful mages on Cherisk had just stuck him with the
bar bill. Relief flooded him now that the interview with the mage was
over. He could not believe his good fortune. He had only been in Dargon
for three days and already his plan was in motion. He would be duke
before the first snowfall!
A shiver of doubt ran up Parris' back. He had meant to ask Anarr
for proof of his power: some display of magecraft. Aardvard had offered
him no guarantees, only to put him in touch with a mage who was looking
for work. Had that truly been Anarr, or some charlatan who had just
walked away with most of Parris' dwindling funds? There was that
menacing gaze, but that was no proof of wizardry. Parris' own father had
favored him with a menacing look from time to time.
As he sat there pondering whether or not to pursue the man and
demand proof, the blonde barmaid came to the table. "Can I get you a
drink, sir?"
A drink was just what Parris needed to calm his nerves and let him
think clearly. He glanced at the mug Anarr had left behind. He had
always enjoyed cold drinks when he could get them. "Yes, a mug of your
chilled ale, please, miss."
The barmaid's eyes danced, and Parris could see that she was trying
hard not to laugh out loud. "Chilled ale, is it? Does his lordship think
he is dining with the king himself this evening?"
"Ah, sorry. Just some wine, then, please."
The barmaid walked away, muttering "chilled ale". Parris was sure
that she would be laughing about that for a sennight. He reached across
the table. When his fingers encountered the drink Anarr had left behind,
Parris smiled. Anarr was the wizard he had claimed to be. The
earthenware mug was as cold as ice.
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