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DargonZine Volume 18 Issue 01
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DargonZine Distributed: 1/22/2005
Volume 18, Number 1 Circulation: 666
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Little Yorgai and the
Beast of Leagues Liam Donahue Janis 12, 1015
End of the Line 1 Rich Durbin Sy 17-20, 1015
========================================================================
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 18-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright January, 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>
Hi, remember us? It's been a long time: nine months, in fact. In
case you don't remember, we're DargonZine, that fantasy fiction zine
that you subscribed to.
Let me begin by apologizing for our long hiatus. In our last issue,
I wrote, "It will be a few months before you hear from us again", and
that wound up being a pretty egregious understatement.
The nine-month gap between last April's DargonZine 17-3 and today's
first issue of 2005 is the longest hiatus we have ever had, and you can
rest assured that it's not usual. In fact, over our 20-year history, we
have on average put out a new issue every six weeks.
DargonZine has never adhered to a regular publication schedule;
issues are distributed whenever there are enough submissions from our
staff of amateur writers to fill one. Unfortunately, there haven't been
many submissions lately, because nearly all of our writers have been
preoccupied with a huge story arc that we planned back in May of 2003.
As a result of everyone's singleminded focus on the arc, there has been
nothing else to print.
That took far longer than we anticipated, and we couldn't begin
printing the arc until a substantial chunk of it was complete. So let me
once more offer our apologies for the recent lack of issues; it's very
atypical.
In more promising news, I can officially guarantee that we won't
have another lapse like that in the foreseeable future, precisely
because most of the aforementioned story arc is now complete.
I cannot begin to tell you what that means to our writers and
myself. Imagine trying to coordinate a 30-chapter story written by
twelve different authors, over a period of 18 months (and still
counting), during which four of the writers left the project. It is
certainly the biggest collaborative work the Dargon Project has ever
attempted, and with the most participating writers. At the same time, it
is also the the most tightly interwoven collaboration in our history,
where all the writers had to work together very closely to make the
overall storyline come together. It has truly been an immense
undertaking, and we hope you enjoy the result.
That result -- those thirty stories -- will appear in issues
throughout this year, certainly into 2006, and perhaps even longer,
since the arc is currently projected to fill fourteen issues. We chose
not to begin printing the arc until (1) every story in the first section
was done, (2) every story throughout the entire arc had been posted in
first draft form, and (3) we had performed an end-to-end read-through of
the entire arc, to make sure that everything worked together.
At the present time, the next four issues, which comprise the first
section of the arc, are ready to roll, and another four more -- the
second section -- are awaiting a few final edits. Finally, all the
stories in the third and final section are also well on the way. There
will be no more long waits between issues.
I will let the arc unfold itself over time, rather than attempt to
summarize it here. However, I will say that every one of our writers
poured a ton of effort into bringing it about. We are all very proud of
this accomplishment, and after all that work we're absolutely giddy
about seeing it in its final form. At long last we're able to share with
you the story of the Black Idol, which begins in this issue, with part
one of Rich Durbin's ironically titled "End of the Line".
However, the story arc isn't the only thing that has happened in
the past nine months. The rest of this Editorial contains a run-down of
some of the things that we've been up to since you last heard from us.
Last summer, founding author Jim Owens hosted our annual Dargon
Writers' Summit. It took place in a cabin on the slopes of Oregon's Mt.
Hood, and featured a blacksmithing demo, writing exercises, a major
initiative to relate our stories more closely, a waterfall tour, disc
golf, a meditation session, and much more. Photos and a write-up of the
2004 Writers' Summit can be found at
<http://www.dargonzine.org/summit04.shtml>.
Another piece of business at the Summit was that Liam Donahue was
nominated to be our new Assistant Editor, replacing longtime project
leader Jon Evans. Jon has scaled back his administrative duties as a
result of his career and recent marriage. Everyone wishes Jon and Liam
success and happiness in their respective new jobs.
Also at the Summit, we recognized another longtime project leader
by giving Dafydd a plaque with our first Lifetime Achievement Award.
Dafydd has published no less than 58 stories in his 18 years with the
project, and also was the editor of DargonZine for six years during the
early '90s. Most recently, Dafydd has taken a leadership role in
figuring out how we can apply the tightly related and integrated kind of
writing we did for the story arc to all our stories. Neither DargonZine
nor our writers' group would be what it is today without Dafydd, and
we're pleased to publicly recognize that fact with this award.
In other news, DargonZine now publishes an RSS syndication feed.
What that means is that you can now have announcements of new issues
appear on your My Yahoo! page, in your weblog, or in any RSS-capable
news reader. Details are at <http://www.dargonzine.org/rssfeed.shtml>.
We conducted a design contest at a Texas graphic arts school, which
produced several potential designs for posters and flyers. Shortly
thereafter, we printed our first flyers, which were handed out at the
World Science Fiction Convention in Boston.
On a disappointing note, the illustration that you see for the
Black Idol story arc will be the last one from our talented artist David
Nelson. During his brief time with us, his works really enhanced our
issues, and we wish him luck in his future endeavors.
There's also a new Web site enhancement to announce. If you use our
Online Glossary very much, you'll notice that we have begun adding
cross-reference links in the textual definitions of each Glossary item.
This will enable you to jump from definition to definition, making the
Glossary a more useful tool in understanding the milieu and the
thousands of people, places, and things that inhabit it.
Finally, there's one more event to tell you about, and it tops all
the others. Shortly before New Years, DargonZine became the first and
only electronic magazine on the Internet to celebrate the 20th
anniversary of its founding.
Twenty years ago, the idea of using the nascent international
computer network as a medium for a writers' group and electronic
magazine was revolutionary. Thanks to the dedication of our writers,
DargonZine thrived and has led the way all that time. Our heartfelt
appreciation is offered to all our past and present contributors whose
labor and faith in this writing group got us to this prestigious
milestone.
I'd also like to once again thank our readers for being here with
us, whether you've stuck with us for all those years or whether this is
your very first issue.
Despite our lengthy absence, we enter our 21st year in very good
shape. Thanks to our forthcoming story arc, there's plenty of excellent
fiction coming your way, and we plan to continue to produce stories that
are more closely related than anything you've seen in our pages in the
past. I hope you'll stay with us, because as good as DargonZine has been
so far, from here forward it gets much, much better.
Now let me finally introduce you to the work we've all waited so
long to see: the Black Idol.
========================================================================
Little Yorgai and the Beast of Leagues
by Liam Donahue
<bdonahue@fuse.net>
Janis 12, 1015
Two small, hooded figures trudged through the dark, snowy streets
of Dargon. Their clothing, while not quite rags, was tattered and
threadbare and did little to ward off the bitter cold. Strips of torn
blanket were wrapped around the outside of their shoes, but the cloth
was soaked through and their feet were numb. The larger, a stocky
teenaged boy with a lock of blond hair protruding from beneath his hood,
turned to his smaller companion.
"You had better be right about this, Tanner."
Tanner, who appeared to be several years younger than his blond
friend, looked up and grinned. "Am I ever wrong, Darrow?"
Darrow pursed his lips in thought, although he knew the answer.
This was an exchange the two friends frequently shared. "Still, if you
are wrong this time, we're in for a very cold night. It's a good bet
that all the decent blankets and the best spots by the fire are gone by
now in all the hideaways." The hideaways were temporary shelters, mostly
vacant buildings, where members of the shadow boys, Dargon's loosely
organized street children, spent the night in bad weather. "We'll
probably end up crouched in the stables at the Inn of the Serpent,
hoping Ballard Tamblebuck doesn't come out and run us off."
Tanner laughed. "Now, why would you want to sleep curled up on the
stone floor of some drafty, half-ruined old house when we could go to
bed on a floor piled high with carpets, where the fire's in a hearth
instead of a pit, and the soup's got some solid bits in it that aren't
rat?"
Darrow's stomach rumbled at the mention of food. "Soup? Why didn't
you mention that before?"
"Because I didn't think I'd be able to keep up with you the whole
way here if I did!" Tanner said as he struggled to maintain pace with
Darrow, who had sped up at the thought of soup without rat in it. "There
it is, on the left."
The pair climbed a short set of stone steps that belonged to a
scribe's shop. Tanner knocked on the heavy wooden door. The two stood,
stomping the snow off their blanket-wrapped feet, and waited.
Darrow felt doubtful. "What if he's not home?"
"Where else would he be on a night like this?" Tanner rolled his
eyes. "It's not like he frequents the taverns. He likes talking about
books and playing King's Key with his scholar friends. I've never seen
him out past first bell of night, and it's already third."
"What if he's asleep, then?"
"We'll just have to wake him up, straight?" Tanner beat on the door
even harder.
After a few moments, his efforts were rewarded by the sounds of
feet descending wooden stairs and irritated muttering in some foreign
tongue.
The door opened, and the shop's owner, a swarthy man with a dark
moustache, peered out at them, scowling. "Eh? What's this?" he asked,
his voice thick with an accent from a distant land. "Beggars on my
doorstep? Skulking shadow boys, no doubt." Darrow's stomach sank at the
man's tone. He and Tanner would be sleeping with the horses for certain.
The man began to shut the door, when Tanner pulled his hood back,
revealing thick brown hair and a face almost as dark as the scribe's.
"Genarvus, it's me."
The shop owner's face brightened immediately. "Taneris! I haven't
seen you in a sennight or more. Come, come in!" He threw the door wide,
and gestured for them both to enter. As they did, Genarvus looked Darrow
up and down, one bushy eyebrow raised suspiciously. "Who is this,
Tanner? Looks like a shadow boy to me."
Tanner brushed some snow off his shoulders. "He is, but he's a
friend. This is Darrow."
Genarvus' eyes lit up, and he favored Darrow with the same grin as
when he had recognized Tanner. The skin around his eyes crinkled into
laugh lines as he did. "So, this is the brave young man who helped you
save your sister, eh?" He slapped Darrow lightly on the cheek, twice.
Tanner had warned Darrow that he might do that. Apparently it was a sign
of affection in the scribe's native land. "You're a good boy, then, and
welcome in my home." The scribe abruptly clapped his hands together.
"Tanner, get some wood to build the fire up! I will find you boys some
food and blankets. Darrow, you sit and be comfortable!"
As Tanner and the scribe bustled out of the front room, Darrow had
a chance to take in his surroundings. The front of the scribe's home was
his place of business, but also his sitting room. It was dominated by a
great desk, strewn with writing instruments and scrolls. On one wall was
a hearth, its fire low, casting a dim light. Several cozy-looking chairs
stood in front of it, and the floor, as promised, was piled thick with
carpets. He felt uneasy sitting while his friend and his host worked, so
he wandered around the room instead.
His attention was soon captured by an enormous tapestry that
covered most of the wall opposite the hearth. It depicted a green
countryside dotted with farms and villages, bounded by mountains and the
sea. Through it all wound an enormous serpent. As Darrow's eyes adjusted
to the light, he could see knights in brightly colored armor attacking
the creature from horseback.
Tanner returned, bearing an armful of wood, which he started
loading into the hearth. As the fire began to burn brighter, he turned
to his friend. "Found Yorgai, did you?"
Darrow realized he meant the tapestry. "Yorgai? Is that the name of
the snake?"
Tanner laughed. "No, that's the Beast of Leagues." He grabbed a
candle off the mantle, lit it in the fire, and carried it over to the
tapestry. He brought the candle close to the serpent's tail and pointed
to a tiny figure nearby. "That's Little Yorgai. He slew the beast."
Darrow thought that was unlikely. Yorgai was small even compared to
the knights, who were in turn miniscule beside the Beast of Leagues. A
tiny crimson dot near Yorgai's head drew his attention. "What's that
supposed to be?" he asked, pointing at it.
Tanner looked closer. "I don't know. I never noticed it before."
"Boys! Come sit!" The scribe had returned with blankets draped over
each shoulder, and bearing two large bowls with steam rising from them.
Darrow's stomach rumbled hopefully.
In moments, the three were gathered by the fire, wrapped in
blankets. Darrow was enjoying a thick, savory stew, redolent of spices
and with potatoes and chunks of beef floating in it. Beef! After seven
or eight mouthfuls, he finally remembered his manners. "Thank you for
the stew, sir; it's delicious!"
"Don't thank him too much," Tanner said, with a wink at the scribe.
"He'll make us work it off in the morning. That's why I don't stay here
more often. I almost wish I'd never let you teach me how to write,
Genarvus. Darrow, last time he made me copy the same letter, from some
Olean priest warning about the dangers of the Manifest religion, four
times!"
Genarvus laughed. "Can you write, Darrow?"
Darrow shook his head and looked down into his soup. One didn't get
much chance to learn reading and writing while growing up on the streets
of Dargon.
"No matter," said the scribe. "I am sure I can find something else
for you to do tomorrow. It is the custom of my country." He gestured
with an upturned palm.
"What country is that, master scribe?" asked Darrow between
mouthfuls.
"Oho!" Genarvus exclaimed as his eyebrows shot up and he wagged a
finger at Tanner.
The dark-haired young man shook his head. "I didn't put him up to
it."
Darrow looked back and forth between the two. It was obvious that
he had missed something.
"He won't tell me where he comes from," Tanner explained. "He says
that if I were a good gypsy, I'd be able to figure it out." Tanner was a
member of the gypsy folk called the Rhydd Pobl. He had been living in
Dargon for two years, since his father and brother had been slain by the
same people from whom he and Darrow had rescued Tanner's sister. Tanner
had remained behind to spy on these enemies: a group known as the Bloody
Hand of Sageeza.
The scribe grinned behind his thick moustache. "And what would your
people think of your seeking shelter in the home of one of the 'rooted
folk'?"
"My people," Tanner shot back, "are generally smart enough to go
south before it snows!"
Darrow was enjoying the exchange, but he knew better than to let
Tanner think too long about the Rhydd Pobl. His friend's thoughts would
eventually turn to the death of his family. "I bet there's not much snow
in your homeland, is there, sir?" he asked.
Genarvus turned back to him, his finger in the air once more. "Ah,
but there is. In the mountains. My village was in the mountains. We
would sometimes be snowed in for a sennight or more."
"A sennight? What would you do to pass the time?"
"Ah, we would work. My uncle, too, was a scribe. He would give me
piles of scrolls to copy. In the evenings, we would play a game like
your King's Key, or tell stories." Genarvus clapped his hands together.
"Perhaps I could tell you boys a story!"
Darrow shrugged, eager to hear a story, but trying not to appear
childish. "I think we're a little old for --"
The scribe held up his palm and shook his head in negation. "Vosh,
you are never too old for a story, Darrow." He stroked his chin. "What
tale shall I tell ...?"
Tanner swallowed a mouthful of stew and looked up. "How about
Little Yorgai and the Beast of Leagues? Darrow and I were looking at
your tapestry earlier."
Genarvus clapped his hands together again and shook them. "Ah,
Little Yorgai, of course. Tanner knows, Darrow, Yorgai was my boyhood
hero."
Ages ago, in a house near the tiny village of Yamaran, there lived
a boy named Yorgai. He lived there with brothers Sergai and Anatov, and
his mother, who loved him very much. His brother Sergai was tall and
strong, and a fierce warrior with a sword. His brother Anatov was lithe
and swift, and famed for his skill with a bow. Yorgai was none of these
things, and much younger than his brothers, so they would call him
"Little Yorgai", cuff him on the head, and make him brush their boots
when they returned from hunting.
Yorgai's father, it is said, was a mighty warrior in the prince's
army, taller even than Sergai, and twice as fierce. Yorgai did not know
if this was true, for his father had been away in the prince's army for
as long as Yorgai remembered, but his brothers told him so. Yorgai would
often wish that he would grow to be like his father, so that he could
cuff his brothers on the head and make them brush his boots.
One day, the magistrate came with terrible news. Yorgai's father
had been slain in battle. A huge serpent, which stretched longer than a
horse could ride in a day, was attacking the country. Its coils could
crush a house like kindling wood, its mouth was wide enough to swallow
an entire flock of sheep, and its fangs dripped deadly poison. The Beast
of Leagues, as the creature had come to be called, was coiled about the
prince's castle, yet it was still able to attack the nearby towns. The
prince's army had fought with the beast for sennights and not managed to
wound it.
Yorgai's mother wept at the news of her husband's death, but she
wept even more at the other news brought by the magistrate. The prince
had decreed that the eldest son of each family must serve in the army
and fight the Beast of Leagues. She pled with the magistrate for Sergai
to be spared, but Sergai, who had heard all of this, went to his
father's closet and donned his father's old armor, put on his father's
old helmet, and girded his father's old sword over his shoulder. He
looked magnificent in the armor, which was lacquered in purple and gold
and only a little too big for him.
"I am not afraid, mother. I will go fight the Beast of Leagues, and
slay it to avenge my father," he said.
Yorgai's mother was sad to see Sergai leave, but she gave him a
sack full of bread and cheese, kissed him on the cheek, and said
goodbye.
Yorgai was sad to see him leave, too, but he knew his brother was
strong and fierce with his sword. If anyone could slay the Beast of
Leagues, Yorgai knew it would be Sergai. He watched as his brother set
off on the road to Yamaran. As Sergai passed the tall bariya tree that
stood beside the path, a kukri bird landed in the highest branch. The
kukri bird, like all of its kind, had bright red feathers, a long tail,
and a cry that sounded like laughter. The kukri bird cried its laughing
cry. Sergai, who did not like to be mocked, ignored it as he strode
beneath the tree in his father's old armor, which was only a little big
for him.
Days passed, and then sennights, with no word from Sergai. Finally,
the magistrate returned with terrible news. Yorgai's brother Sergai had
been slain in battle with the Beast of Leagues, and the prince had
declared that the next eldest son of each family must serve in the army.
Anatov, who had heard all of this, went to his father's closet and
donned his father's old leather jerkin, put on his father's hooded
cloak, and strung his father's mighty bow.
"I am not afraid, mother. I will go fight the Beast of Leagues, and
shoot it in the eye to avenge my father and my brother," he said, as he
slung the bow across his back.
Yorgai's mother was sad to see Anatov leave, but she gave him a
sack full of bread and cheese, kissed him on the cheek, and said
goodbye.
Yorgai was sad to see him leave, too, but he knew his brother was
swift and skilled with a bow. Anatov had never missed his target. If
anyone could shoot the Beast of Leagues in the eye, it would be Anatov.
He watched as his brother set off on the road to Yamaran. As Anatov
passed the tall bariya tree, the kukri bird landed in the highest branch
and cried its laughing cry. Anatov, who did not like to be mocked, shot
an arrow at it as he strode beneath the tree. He missed, and the kukri
bird laughed at him again.
Days passed, and then sennights, with no word from Anatov. Finally,
the magistrate returned with terrible news. Yorgai's brother Anatov had
been slain in battle with the Beast of Leagues, and the prince had
declared that the next eldest son of each family must serve in the army.
Yorgai, who had heard all of this, went to his father's closet, but his
father's closet was empty except for an old walking stick.
Still, he went to his mother and magistrate and said, "I am not
afraid, mother. I will go fight the Beast of Leagues, and slay it to
avenge my father and my brothers."
When the magistrate saw this he smiled and said to Yorgai's mother,
"Is this your eldest son? He is far too small to fight the Beast of
Leagues." He patted Yorgai on the head and went up the road to deliver
terrible news to another family.
Yorgai's mother was relieved that her youngest son did not have to
go fight the Beast of Leagues, but Yorgai was not. He was determined to
go fight the monster for his brothers who had mocked him and the father
he had never known.
The next day, Yorgai stole a pair of shears from his mother while
she was at the market. Then he took an old carpet from his family's
common room and dragged it out to the barn. He laid the carpet on the
ground and cut a strip from it that was as wide as his shoulders and
longer than he was tall. He cut a round hole in the middle of it, poked
his head through so that it hung almost to his knees, and tied the whole
thing around his waist. It didn't look as magnificent as Sergai's
lacquered armor, nor was it as stout as Anatov's leather jerkin, but it
would have to do.
Setting aside his carpet armor, Yorgai returned to the house,
replaced the shears and put back the rest of the carpet. He went into
the cupboard where his mother kept her iron pots. He tried almost all of
them before he found one that fit his head comfortably. It would not
protect him as well as Sergai's helmet, nor shade his eyes from the sun
as well as Anatov's hooded cloak, but it would have to do.
Yorgai piled the pots back in the cupboard, set his helmet beside
his armor, and went back to his father's closet. The old walking stick
was not so mighty as Sergai's sword or Anatov's bow, but it was sturdy
and came almost to Yorgai's chin. It too would have to do. Yorgai
returned to the barn and began to gird himself for battle.
As he was slinging the walking stick over his shoulder, Yorgai's
mother returned from the market. "Little Yorgai!" she cried from inside
the house. "What have you done to this carpet? What have you been doing
with the pots?"
As his mother came out of the house looking for him, Yorgai emerged
from the barn wearing his carpet armor and his iron-pot helmet. The
walking stick was slung over his shoulder, but it was so long that the
end dragged in the dirt. "Mother," he said, almost tripping over his
stick, "I am ready to fight the Beast of Leagues."
He had prepared himself to be brave when his mother cried and to be
firm when she begged him not to go, but his mother didn't cry or beg.
She smiled and touched his cheek. "Of course you are, Little Yorgai."
She went back in the house and emerged with a sack of bread and
cheese. This she gave to him as she kissed him goodbye. He wondered why
his mother did not cry, but decided that she, too, was being brave.
Yorgai set off on the road to Yamaran. As he passed the tall bariya
tree, the kukri bird, which had been perched in the highest branch,
cried its laughing cry. Yorgai, who did not mind being mocked, stopped
and broke off a piece of bread, which he cast upon the ground for the
kukri bird to eat. The kukri bird followed him all the way to Yamaran,
laughing each time he tripped over his stick.
Yorgai found the magistrate and asked where he could find the Beast
of Leagues. The magistrate patted him on his iron-pot helmet and smiled.
"Little Yorgai, the Beast of Leagues is to the west, but you are too
young and small to fight it. Go home. Your mother will be worried about
you."
Then Yorgai knew the truth: his mother had not cried when he had
left because she did not believe that he would reach the Beast of
Leagues. She expected him to get tired and return home. "It is not my
fault that I am so young and small," he thought, as he left the village
of Yamaran. "I deserve a chance to fight the Beast of Leagues, just like
my brothers."
He followed the sun as it made its way through the sky toward
evening. That night he made camp and prepared a meal from the bread and
cheese his mother had given him. He slept soundly, wrapped in his carpet
armor.
The next morning, he was awakened by a mocking laugh. He opened his
eyes and found himself staring into the golden irises of the kukri bird,
which was perched on his chest.
"Good morning, kukri bird," he said. "Have you come to laugh at me
again, or would you like some breakfast?"
The bird hopped off his chest but continued to stare at him. Yorgai
opened his sack and tore off a piece of bread for breakfast. He tossed
part of it to the kukri bird, which ate it hungrily.
"Come along, kukri bird. I think we will have a long walk until we
find the Beast of Leagues. Or I will have a long walk. I suppose you
will just fly, and laugh at me."
Yorgai walked for most of the morning, and saw no sign of the Beast
of Leagues. Near midday, he found himself beside a dry riverbed. Mounds
of dirt lined the banks. Yorgai thought that the river must have been
swift when it flowed; the riverbed was smooth and rounded, and was lined
with flattened trees and shrubs.
Because the riverbed was smooth, and wound its way toward the west,
Yorgai decided to follow it. He walked along the rounded river bottom
for the rest of the day. When evening came, he climbed up on the banks
to make his camp. If the river started flowing again, he did not want it
to catch him asleep in its bed. He had another evening meal of bread and
the last of his cheese. He shared some more of the bread with his
red-feathered companion.
"Good night, kukri bird," he said as he wrapped himself in his
carpet armor. "I hope you are not growing as tired of bread as I am. It
is all we have left to eat."
The following morning he was awakened again by the bird's laughter.
When he opened his eyes, though, the bird was not perched on his chest.
Instead, it was sitting in a bush, staring at him with its golden eyes.
As Yorgai watched, the kukri bird dipped its head into the bush and
plucked something off it. Yorgai looked closer. Blackberries! Yorgai
jumped up and ate his fill, being careful not to have too much. He had a
lot of walking to do that day and couldn't afford a sick stomach. When
he was done, he plucked some more berries and put them into his sack
with the rest of his bread.
Cheered by his breakfast, Little Yorgai climbed down into the
riverbed and continued his journey. As he walked, he realized that he
had not tripped over his walking stick in more than a day. At first, he
thought he might have grown taller, but then he realized that the end of
the stick still dragged in the dirt. He had just gotten used to it being
there. Still, that was better than tripping over it all the time, so
Yorgai was happy.
Shortly after midday, Yorgai noticed a hill ahead of him. He was
surprised to see that his riverbed ran up the hill instead of winding
around it. "That's odd," he said to the kukri bird, which had perched on
a branch beside him. "Why would the river run up a hill?" This puzzled
him, until he realized that the river had probably run down the hill. He
laughed at himself for being so foolish, and the kukri bird laughed with
him.
Not wanting to abandon his fine, smooth path, Little Yorgai decided
to climb the hill. It was difficult going, because the hill was steep
and the riverbed went almost straight up it, twisting only a little.
Yorgai's chest was heaving beneath his carpet armor when he reached the
top. Sweat ran from underneath his iron-pot helm.
The kukri bird landed beside him. It had flown up and was neither
breathless nor sweating. "Kukri bird, this is odd," Yorgai said once he
had caught his breath. "The riverbed goes right down the other side of
this hill. Why would a river climb up a hill and back down again?"
A sound like thunder filled the air, and Yorgai looked up. The sky
was free of clouds, and the afternoon sun shone brightly. He heard the
distant rumbling again, and with it something else. He listened
carefully, for his hearing had always been quite good. Between the
sounds like thunder, he could hear the distant cries of men and horses.
A battle!
Yorgai realized that the prince's troops must be engaging the Beast
of Leagues somewhere ahead of him, but he could not see any sign of it.
Looking ahead, he saw an enormous green hill flecked with gold that he
thought must be flowers. It was even larger than the hill on which he
stood.
Thinking that he might be able to see the battle from there, he set
off down the hill running. Halfway down, the walking stick that he had
become so accustomed to wearing slipped between his feet. He tripped,
and fell tumbling the rest of the way down the hill. As he landed, he
heard something snap. Afraid that he had broken a bone, Yorgai felt his
arms and legs, and then his ribs. He was bruised from the fall, but
nothing was broken. Then he looked on the ground and saw what had
snapped. His father's stout walking stick had broken into several
pieces. Sighing at the loss of his fine weapon, Yorgai picked up the
largest piece of it and stuck it in his belt. It would have to do. At
least he would not trip over it.
Yorgai realized that he could no longer see the big green hill, but
he knew the river had run toward it, or away from it, so he started
running along the riverbed. He ran and ran until he was out of breath,
but he still didn't see the green hill. Finally, as his lungs were
burning and his legs were about to give way, he spied the green mound in
the distance.
He stopped to catch his breath and bent over. When his chest
stopped heaving, he looked up. The green hill was moving! He took a step
forward and rubbed his eyes in disbelief. Then he understood. What he
stood in was no riverbed, but the track of the Beast of Leagues. The
green mound flecked with gold was the beast itself.
Yorgai rushed forward, crying out his brothers' names. As he
rounded a bend in the beast's track, he came upon the monster's tail,
where the massive wall of green and gold scales came to a tapered point.
He dropped his sack, tore the broken end of his father's walking stick
from his belt, and began to strike the Beast of Leagues with all of his
might. He slashed and stabbed the Beast, but the monster's scaly armor
was too strong. The kukri bird landed in the branches of a tree that had
been overturned in the monster's wake and laughed at him.
Little Yorgai threw down his stick and sat down heavily, exhausted
from his run and from his futile efforts to harm the creature. "The
magistrate was right, kukri bird. I am too young and small to fight the
Beast of Leagues. The only reason that I am still alive is that it did
not even realize I was attacking it."
The kukri bird cried its mocking laugh and flapped up to a higher
branch.
Yorgai stood up and dusted himself off. "I did not come all this
way to avenge my fathers and brothers simply to turn back in defeat. The
scales of the beast are too hard for me to pierce. If I could reach its
eyes or mouth I might be able to hurt it there, but its head is leagues
away. Besides, that is where much of the prince's army must be attacking
it. That is where Anatov went to shoot the monster in the eye with his
bow. What could I possible do with this broken walking stick when I
can't even hit it hard enough for it to notice?"
Little Yorgai pondered this for a moment. "Perhaps, kukri bird,
that is the answer. I am too young and small to do battle with the Beast
of Leagues. But if I am so young and small as to be beneath the notice
of the beast, I do not need to attack."
He picked up his stick and walked back deliberately to the tail of
the beast, which had moved some distance away while he sat. Instead of
slashing and stabbing at the creature, as he had done previously, he
stuck his fingers under the trailing edge of one of the creature's
scales and pulled up. He immediately cried out in pain and pulled back
his hand, which was bleeding. The edges of the beast's scales were
sharp!
Yorgai pulled off his carpet armor and wrapped the edge of it
around his hand to protect it while he pried back the scale again.
Underneath, he saw soft green skin, much lighter in color than the
scales. He took the pointed end of his walking stick and drove it as
hard as he could into the beast's flesh. It penetrated no more than a
finger's width. The beast's flesh was much tougher than it looked!
Not needing to hold the scale up any longer, Yorgai released it and
his carpet armor. He had barely pierced the Beast of Leagues, but it
would have to do. He took his iron-pot helmet from his head and began to
hammer the stick in deeper. He hammered for almost a mene before
anything happened. Then the ground began to shake.
The trembling increased, throwing Little Yorgai from his feet. He
landed on his back and looked up, just as an enormous shadow blocked out
the sun. Yorgai could see why his brothers and the prince's army had
been unsuccessful attacking the beast's head. No mere serpent, the Beast
of Leagues had an enormous golden crest around its head that shielded
it. The jaws of the beast gaped wide as it prepared to strike, and
Yorgai saw that its mouth was indeed wide enough to swallow an entire
flock of sheep, and its fangs dripped deadly poison. Seeing that he
could not escape, Little Yorgai stood bravely.
The Beast of Leagues dipped its head and struck down toward Little
Yorgai. As it did, a flash of red darted in front of its eyes and Yorgai
heard a cry like mocking laughter. The kukri bird! It could not harm the
beast, or stop it from striking, but the bird did distract it. The Beast
of Leagues missed Yorgai, and buried its poison fangs in its own tail!
Darrow raised one eyelid and peered at the scribe, who had stopped
speaking. "What happened next?"
Genarvus grinned through his thick moustache. "Ah! So you are not
asleep after all."
Darrow shook his head groggily. The warmth of the blankets, the
fire, and the soup in his belly had made him sleepy, but he was certain
that he had stayed awake through the story.
"I'm not asleep either," said Tanner thickly, from the opposite
chair. "What happened to Little Yorgai?"
Genarvus spread his hands with his palms up. "That depends who you
ask. Some say that there was no way Little Yorgai could have survived
the death throes of the Beast of Leagues, and that he died having
avenged his family. I always ask them how we could know Little Yorgai's
story if he did not survive. Who would have told it, the kukri bird?
Others say that Yorgai was brought before the prince as a hero. They say
that the prince ordered the Beast of Leagues cut open, and that Yorgai's
father and brothers emerged from the belly of the beast unharmed, but
..." Genarvus waved his hand dismissively. "Vosh. That ending is so
happy that it rings false.
"I always prefer the ending that my uncle told me. Little Yorgai
returned to the tiny village of Yamaran and to the house where he lived
with his mother. The kukri bird went with him and lived for many years
in the highest branches of the bariya tree. Yorgai always remembered to
leave some bread out for the kukri bird, especially in the winter when
the berries were off the bushes. Years passed and Yorgai grew tall and
strong, but the kukri bird still mocked him when he was being foolish,
and Yorgai never failed to heed the bird's advice. In time, he became
the magistrate of Yamaran, and never once did he tell anyone that they
were too young and small to do anything."
Genarvus rose and stretched. "Good night to you, boys. The bell is
late, and there will be much work for you do to in the morning."
As Genarvus' footfalls receded up the stairs, Darrow turned back to
his friend, whose eyes had shut again. "Tanner? Do you think that story
is true?"
Tanner opened one eye and yawned. "It's probably based on something
true. You know how tales grow in the telling. Like that tale we heard
the other day about the gypsy boy that faced the entire Bloody Hand of
Sageeza to save his sister."
Darrow laughed. "Straight. There were only two of the Bloody Hand
there that day, weren't there? So, you're not quite the equal of
Yorgai."
"I guess not. Still, I felt like him that day. I was alone in a
strange city, and it seemed like my enemies were everywhere. In a way,
it was almost as daunting as facing something as vast as the Beast of
Leagues."
"You weren't alone that day, though," said Darrow, recalling his
own part in the rescue of Tanner's foster sister.
"True," said Tanner, as he nuzzled deeper under his blanket, "but
neither was Yorgai." The young gypsy, smiling contentedly, closed his
eyes and turned his head to one side.
Seeing that the conversation was done, Darrow let his own eyes
drift shut, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the blanket. Then a
thought occurred to him, and his eyes popped open. "Tanner, did you just
call me a kukri bird?"
========================================================================
End of the Line
Part 1
by Rich Durbin
<Whelk@netscape.net>
Sy 17-20, 1015
In the darkness of a cave lit only by the rays of the setting sun
the high priest Zaladris sliced the flesh of his arm on the teeth of the
god Gow. His blood spilled into the god's throat. He sang of the glory
of Gow, and called for his divine protection, for although Gow was the
Beinison god of lovers, honorable warriors, and war, he was best known
as the protector. Zaladris stepped back from the black stone idol that
was the sacred image of his deity. The idol's fanged mouth opened wide,
allowing the high priest to insert his offering into the statue's
gullet: a freshly dead rat, wrapped in fustian leaves. He stepped back
and ended his song.
The statue closed its mouth, resuming its normal aspect. The figure
was of darkest black obsidian, mined from the heart of Mount Voldronnai.
It had eyes of ruby, and a polished silver sword, which it held in its
lap as it sat tailor style. The most striking feature of the idol was
its face. Unlike its handsome body, the face was turned up to the sky,
screaming in rage, its mouth rimmed with razor sharp ivory teeth.
Zaladris was at eye level to the statue, although it was only half a
man's height. It rested upon a polished gray stone dais, which in turn
rested upon a rough-hewn pedestal.
His ceremony completed, the priest wrapped a bandage around the
small cuts in his left forearm. He sighed. His joints were hurting, as
they often did in recent years. Usually it was a sign that the weather
was changing. So fierce was the ache in his knees that he had barely
been able to make the short climb to the shrine. "My lord," he said to
the statue, "the years are hard upon your humble servant now. The pain
grows; my eyes fail. Forgive me, lord protector; I pray thee give me
strength that I may carry out the sacrifice, that thy service may be
continued."
The high priest made his way out of the cave, looking into the
remaining bit of the setting sun. Pausing, he turned to the north. He
considered for a few moments what he recalled of the world away from his
shrine. There was a small village that might be of use, he mused. Gorod,
it was called. With a plan forming in his mind, he clutched his
red-hooded robe about himself to ward off the cool mountain breeze. His
long, gray beard flapped in the wind as he made his way down the worn
path, taking much support from his walking stick.
Elton groaned as he tossed the light blanket aside. He rubbed his
eyes and glanced out the window, noting the predawn light. When Master
Oramond had made him journeyrank stonemason, Elton had been very proud
of the honor. However, the task of being first to rise, in order to
rouse the apprentices, was less pleasing. He pulled on his tunic and
breeches, and splashed water on his face. Then he picked up his
betrothal pendant, an artfully shaped piece of polished copper on a
leather strap, which he tied about his neck.
It had only been the previous sennight that Sala had paraded the
matched set of necklaces through Gorod, signifying her desire to take a
husband. Elton had been finishing his work for the day when she had
arrived, followed by cheering villagers. He'd been delighted to drop to
his knees, so that she might present him with the token of betrothal. To
further mark the occasion, Master Oramond had chosen that evening to
raise Elton to journeyrank stonemason. Oramond had later admitted that
Sala had forewarned him of her intentions, and so he had decided to time
Elton's promotion for the same day.
Awake now, Elton pulled aside the rough cloth curtain that
separated his alcove from the apprentices, and strode out into the main
room. The apprentices lay on their mats arranged against each wall,
leaving an aisle for Elton to walk down the middle. All were still
asleep, ranging from Adnar, who was the youngest of the group, to
Quella, the eldest. At sixteen summers she was the most senior
apprentice, only three summers junior to Elton. He went to the end of
the room, where there was a large gray block of granite with an
iron-headed hammer atop it.
"Wake up! Wake up masons; it's time to greet the sun," Elton called
as he hammered the granite block. He had always hated it when Yanek, his
predecessor, had used the same method to shatter his every morning. He
had to admit, however, that it was the most efficient way to get a half
score youngsters moving.
After seeing that the apprentices were each given a small loaf of
brown bread and a draught of water, Elton marched them outside to begin
the labors of the day. He smiled, pleased at the clatter of hammers and
chisels tinkling as the young masons worked at carving their rock. The
masons' work area was less a building than a shelter to keep the beating
sun off the sweating apprentices. Rough poles at the four corners and
halfway along the sides supported a sloppy thatched roof. Arranged
within were the young apprentice masons, each carefully carving raw
stone into square blocks suitable for building. Elton checked their
work, correcting deficiencies where he saw them. Then he set up his own
tools, preparing for the finer work merited by his status.
Elton inspected the image of the pockmarked moon, Nochturon, which
he had carefully chiseled into the limestone rock. It was to be a facing
on the temple to Cahleyna that was being repaired. Just as he set tool
to stone, a voice crying out drew his attention. He stepped out of the
mason's enclosure and looked east down the street where, silhouetted by
the rising sun, he could just make out the source of the voice. With a
quick word he put Quella in charge, and trotted down the dirt avenue to
where a small crowd had begun to gather. He craned his neck to see over
them.
"My daughter! My daughter, my daughter has been taken!" lamented
Xakim, the baker, a fat, bald man wearing a white smock. The spirit in
Elton's breast froze. Xakim was the father of Sala, his beloved and
betrothed. He forced his way through the crowd to confront the baker.
"What is it, Xakim?" Elton shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders.
"What do you mean 'taken'?"
"I don't know. Sometime in the night," he said, tears rolling down
his cheeks. "Something broke its way into the house and took her. It --
it tore down the wall, and we heard nothing."
"Tore down the wall?" Elton repeated, aghast.
Xakim shuddered, "Yes, a hole so large that Yetta's cart would fit
within it."
Shocked, Elton turned from Xakim and rushed through Gorod to the
baker's home, his heart pounding with anxiety. Elton's breath was coming
in ragged gasps as his sprint ended. Located at the edge of the village,
Xakim's bakery was a large mud-brick building with the wood-fired ovens
in front, adjoining the dirt street, and with his home in the back
rooms. Elton dashed through the bakery to the family's living area.
"Sala! Sala, where are you?" he called despite knowing there could
be no answer.
In the back of the building he found the family sleeping room. It
was dominated by the immense hole rent in the rear wall. The only sign
of Sala was her empty sleeping mat, the light autumn blanket lying cast
aside. The mud bricks had been torn from their courses and were
scattered outside. Elton looked amazedly at the hole, which rose from
the floor to the roof and was wider than the span of the mason's arms.
It faced out on the fields where farmers labored over their crops. Far
in the distance he could make out the edge of the forest, and beyond
that were the rising mountains of the Darst Range.
The dirt floor near Sala's bed had some odd marks near it, where
something had disturbed the hard-packed earth. Elton followed the mess
to the breach, and saw well-defined footprints in the soft ground
outside. He crouched down for a closer look, and noted that each track
was longer than his forearm, and nearly half a hand deep. It looked like
a man's bare footprint, but one that was much larger and heavier than
the largest man he had ever seen. A small crowd of villagers gathered
around while Elton studied the scene.
"Look at the size of them," Quoll, the thatcher, muttered.
"What could it be?" asked Yetta, who had just arrived to deliver
flour from the mill.
"Kushago," breathed Fardis, the hunter, aghast. "The man-beast of
the northern woods. Covered in hair, as large as a bear. I see their
tracks sometimes."
"I've heard stories of them," Elton said with a shudder. "What
could one want with Sala, though?"
"Something vile, I imagine," said Fardis. He looked up at Xakim,
his face grave, "I'm sorry for your loss, Xakim."
"Hold," said Elton. "We don't know that she's dead. I see no blood
here. We have to go after her. She needs us!"
Fardis shook his head sadly. "No Elton, it's too late for her, and
too hazardous for us. Kushago are smarter than bears. I dare not hunt
one."
Elton looked at him, shocked. "I'm going after her then," Elton
snarled. "Who is with me?" He looked at the faces of his fellow
villagers. None would meet his gaze, not even Xakim, her father. "Xakim,
you'll help me won't you?" he pleaded.
Xakim's eyes were downcast. Slowly he brought his head up, and
looked at the young mason. "I cannot, Elton. Sala is lost. You know no
one has seen a Kushago and lived to tell of it. I must look after the
family I still do have. I must guard them against suffering." He
gestured toward the breach, "What could I do against such a beast? And
winter comes as well. How can I leave my wife now, with a bakery to run
and a home to repair? I'm sorry Elton, we must accept what is, not what
we wish it to be."
"Fark! Old man," Elton cried. He stormed away from the bakery and
made his way back to the masons' hall. Though angry, he was also worried
about what he was going to do. Xakim was right about one thing at least:
a monster that could tear down walls would be more than a match for one
man. What else could he do, though? He had known Sala ever since they
had been children playing in the mud. He fingered his betrothal pendant
as he walked. Elton's resolve stiffened. He didn't want to know life
without her now. He just had to hope fortune and Cahleyna would smile
upon him.
Quickly he gathered some of his belongings, and wrapped them in a
blanket in the manner of a traveler. He settled the pack on his
shoulders and took a look around his quarters one final time before
departing.
"Elton," a voice called, "hold a moment." Oramond, the master
stonemason, was a wide, squat man, much like the marble blocks he
carved. He was shorter than Elton, but much more massive. The light
streaming through the window lit the highlights on his bald head, and
his black beard flowed down his chest. The master grasped Elton by the
shoulder and steered him to his workroom. There he sat across from Elton
and said, "I heard about Sala. It's a terrible thing, but don't spill
your tools over it."
"She's my betrothed, Oramond. I have to go after her. I'll go alone
if I must," Elton said. "Don't consider stopping me; this is something I
must do."
"Calm down boy, I understand. All I'm saying is to keep your wits
about you." Oramond gestured to a white stone block, which sat upon a
worktable. "What is that, Elton?"
Wrinkling his brow in puzzlement, Elton answered, "It's white
marble, from our southern quarry?"
"Is it?" Oramond asked, "Perhaps it is a rearing stallion, a simple
cornice, or maybe even part of Cahleyna's altar."
"Well, yes, it could be all those things. Is there a point to this,
master? I need to depart."
"Elton," Oramond sighed, "you need to look beyond your nose."
Oramond shook his head and walked over to his workbench. "My heart is
with you in this, Elton. I cannot accompany you, but I offer such help
as I have." He moved aside a few small boxes and pulled out a sword in a
scabbard from a shelf above his workbench. He blew some stone dust off
of it, revealing the scabbard and pommel that extended out of it to be
rather plain and somewhat worn. "My great grandfather fought in the
Great Houses War. This was his sword, passed down through the
generations. I've had no use for it, but this, I think, is a noble
cause." He presented the sword to the surprised Elton, who gratefully
took it in both hands.
"But master, a family heirloom?"
"Bah, my chisels and hammers are my heirlooms. That sword is just a
memento of deeds long past. Just take care that you come back whole."
Elton clasped forearms with Oramond. "Thank you, master. I will
always remember your kindness and your wisdom." He departed the masons'
hall, and began his quest.
Elton made his way to the village's edge and briskly trotted to the
fields. At first, his sword slapped against his thigh and threatened to
tangle his legs as he jogged. He removed the sword from his belt, and
rolled it into the middle of his blanket pack, which resolved his
problem. He found that if he stretched, he could grasp the sword's
pommel and draw it. In the field he found the giant tracks in the soft
dirt and followed the broken and stomped crops up to the beginning of
the forest.
He stopped and squared his shoulders, looking into the shadows
beneath the forest canopy. The villagers of Gorod seldom ventured away
from their fields. The wilds held little allure for them, with the
exception of such hardy souls as Fardis. Like most of the people in his
village, Elton had never been more than a dozen leagues from his home.
He took a deep breath to steel his nerves and after a moment he exhaled
and said aloud, "Very well now, step forward. It's just a forest." He
made sure his sword was held fast in its scabbard, and then adjusted his
pack. "Straight, forward into the forest."
"Are ye goin' or no?" a croaky voice said.
Elton yelped and jumped backwards. His foot caught on a shrub, and
he windmilled his arms, flailing for his balance. It was to no avail;
down he went painfully on his rump. Looking wildly around, he saw a
short, squat man with snaggley teeth emerge from the brush.
"Laying about like that is no good. No, no good at all," the man
said.
"Urtose, you fool!" yelled Elton. "What in the name of blessed
Cahleyna are you doing out here? You're like to scare a year off my
life, popping out of the woods like some Shuul-damned beast."
Urtose bobbed his head and giggled. He shuffled over to Elton and
tried to help the mason to his feet. "Heh, thought ye were gonna stand
there all day, I did. Never gonna catch up like that. Heh."
Elton waved off Urtose's help and struggled to his feet. "What are
you talking about, Urtose?" he asked.
"She was taken, aye. Gotta find her. This way they went, they did.
Ye comin', or no?" Urtose answered.
Elton closed his eyes and sighed. "Blessed Cahleyna," he thought,
"I know I prayed for help, but what were you --?" Elton paused and took
a moment to clear his mind before he became blasphemous with his deity.
The mason looked at Urtose grimly. The halfwit must have heard
about Sala's being taken. Elton had asked for help in the village, but
no one had stepped forward. Now here was his volunteer: Urtose, the
village idiot. Urtose was harmless enough, though he occasionally
disappeared for months at a time. Elton knew Sala often gave the fool
scraps from her father's bakery. He supposed that must be why Urtose
fancied himself a rescuer. Elton shook his head and looked at the
scruffy vagabond, who was dressed in mismatched leathers and homespun
while carrying a long stick with the end crudely sharpened. "I think you
had better stay here, Urtose. This could be dangerous, and it will take
all my attention."
Urtose looked at Elton with a lop-sided stare, and then snickered.
"Attention? Yes, lots of attention. Ye know the forest then? Ye have
eaten worms and slept in the rain, have ye?" He bounded to the woods
with a couple of hops, and looked back at Elton. "No more talk. Further
away she's gonna get. Gotta go, gotta go." He scrambled into the forest,
following the tracks towards the Darst Range.
"Urtose, wait!" called Elton, and dashed into the underbrush after
him.
Elton, with Urtose following, carefully picked his way along a
rocky path. It wound its way through the forest as they slowly
approached the roots of the Darst Range, which cut its way through the
heart of Baranur. He and the fool had followed the trail where, away
from the soft soil of the farmlands, it had dwindled to almost nothing.
Once in a while Elton would see a clear footprint in a muddy spot, but
for the most part they were left searching for clues. Much to Elton's
surprise, Urtose had proven invaluable on this quest. Several times when
the trail had seemed to disappear entirely, Urtose had been the one to
discover minute clues: a broken stick, bent-over grass, or a few
overturned pebbles which had been enough to return them to their path.
The idiot had even been able to snare rabbits and forage tubers and
berries enough to sustain them.
Three days' hard travel, from dawn to late in the moonlight, had
brought the pair up to the foothills of the Darst Range. The trail led
to a path that curved around a high, rocky hill with a steep dropoff.
The freshly bared soil and debris below suggested that the ledge had
been wider, but had sheared off when their quarry had passed over it. It
was now much narrower.
The narrowness of the trail forced Elton to rub one shoulder
against the nearly straight wall of the hillside, while the other
dangled over open space where the land rapidly dropped away. His careful
march was interrupted when the ground he
stepped on broke apart. Elton
tried to backpedal, but everywhere he stepped, his footing crumbled.
Abruptly he was tumbling down the steep slope, twisting desperately in
an attempt to avoid smashing into the larger rocks that projected from
the soil.
Elton wrapped his arm around a gnarled sapling that was growing out
of the slope and arrested his descent. The sudden stop nearly jerked his
arm out of its socket, forcing him to grunt in pain. He ducked his head
against the rain of debris that followed him down the slope. The
collapse of the path he had been using had started a small rockslide,
one that was threatening to bury him.
After several menes, he no longer felt stones pelting his back and
all fell silent. Elton tried to move, but was held tight by the weight
of the dirt and stones that had nearly buried him. He shook his head to
throw off the loose soil and blinked several times until he could see
again.
"Rock buster, are ye living?" Urtose called. "Glowin' mess this
be," he complained, and then started to gingerly climb down the slope.
"I live!" shouted the mason. "I'm here Urtose. I'm stuck fast."
Urtose reached Elton's resting place and dug furiously. A few menes
of hard work uncovered the mason's torso and arms, but his legs were
trapped under a mass of heavy boulders which were wedged tightly
together. The idiot worked for nearly a bell trying to free Elton's
legs. For every handful of dirt he scooped out, more flowed in to take
its place. Drenched in sweat and caked with dirt, Urtose finally quit
his futile task.
"Leave me," Elton said dejectedly. "Go rescue Sala; I am done for."
"Oh, a hero be ye?" smiled Urtose. "Ye be a shining knight, giving
yer life fer yer lady; just like the tale spinner's talk, eh?"
"It's ill enough that I die," Elton grumbled. "There's no need to
make sport of me for it."
Urtose threw the back of his hand to his forehead, looked to the
sky, and said, "Ooh the horror of it all! I must die so dramatically,
they shall sing songs of me." Urtose cackled as he shambled a ways up
the slope.
Elton fumed at the giggling fool. He could only hope Urtose would
find some way to help Sala. Eventually the animals would come to finish
him, he was sure. Perhaps he could fend them off for a time. Even if
Urtose went to Gorod for help, it would take him at least a sennight to
return. Surviving so long trapped here didn't seem likely.
A long, ululating wail caught his attention. "Ol's balls! What's
that fool up to now?" Elton wondered aloud. Urtose didn't return, so the
mason could do little but ponder his woes, while he heard the almost
animal-sounding wail occasionally in the distance.
Elton blinked awake. He had fallen asleep where he was trapped, as
the daylight had turned to darkness. The rocky slope was lit by the disc
of a nearly full moon. A clattering of stones drew Elton's attention to
the two figures nearing him. One he recognized as the hunched, shambling
silhouette of Urtose. The other was much larger, nearly half a man
taller than any man Elton had seen, its outline blurred by long wisps of
hair. Elton's eyes widened. "Kushago," he whispered. He tried to reach
for a rock, or a stick with which to defend himself, but none were near.
Elton struggled desperately, tugging hard against the boulders that held
his legs, while the Kushago advanced on him. "Beast!" snarled the smith.
"You took my Sala. I curse you. I will spit upon you from the heights of
Kisil-Seed, from the high tower of the gods."
"Heh heh, what are ye on about then?" laughed Urtose. "He's here to
help ye, rock buster."
"The Kushago took Sala, you fool. We've been following his trail.
Now you've brought certain death to us, and ended any chance she might
have had."
"Yer being silly. The beast-men no more want our women than ye want
to eat yer stone," Urtose replied disdainfully. He motioned the Kushago
over and demonstrated trying to lift one of the larger boulders. After a
moment it seemed to grasp Urtose's intention, and moved to help.
The rocks that had defeated Urtose and Elton earlier in the day
proved to be no match for the strength of the Kushago. The huge
man-beast gripped a boulder with both hands and, with a grunt, raised it
off the ground and tossed it away. In only a few menes the mason was
freed from his rocky prison.
Elton shook away the stinging sensation in his legs, which had gone
numb during his ordeal. They were scraped and bruised, but no bones were
broken, he gratefully noted. He decided that they should make camp right
where they were; he wanted to talk to Urtose about the Kushago. It
seemed to be friendly enough, or at least it wasn't threatening. The
beast shied away from the campfire and looked to prefer the trees to the
open. Urtose told the mason that he had encountered the Kushagos on his
frequent forays into the forest. He had, on occasion, lived among a
nomadic band of them for months at a time. He had learned the way of the
wilderness from them, and they had treated him as a member of their
tribe, something that could not be said of the villagers of Gorod.
"Can you ask him if he's seen Sala, or her captor then?" Elton
wondered.
Urtose shook his head, "Nay, they don't talk like that, they don't.
Hungry, help, hunt: things like these I can say. More than that, there
are no words."
"You said a Kushago didn't take Sala, but the tracks we've been
following --"
"Ye thought they were the steps of beast-men, did ye?" Urtose
interrupted, "Nay. Nay, those be the feet of a man."
"They're huge! They're too large for a man, Urtose," the mason
sputtered.
The fool just grinned his lopsided grin, shrugged his shoulders,
and replied, "Aye, so it's a really big feller, light footed too, to
cross the trail ye broke."
"Fark. We're falling behind. I fear we may never catch our quarry.
In these mountains I can barely see any kind of trail. We're certain to
lose them." Elton laid back, cushioning his head with his folded arms,
and sighed in frustration.
"Heh, we'll find 'em rock buster. Bruce has got a sniffer on him.
Aye he'll sniff 'em out," Urtose replied.
"Who is Bruce?" the mason asked, puzzled.
Urtose nodded toward the Kushago. "He is," he said. "Man can't make
the growl he calls hisself. I call him 'Bruce'." The idiot shrugged. "He
doesn't seem to mind, and he looks up when I yell it at him."
"I hope he can help us then, Urtose. We'll need that and good
fortune to rescue Sala." Elton lay back and stared up into the night
sky. A few moments allowed him to pick out his favorite constellations.
To the east was Aurus, the mistweaver, to the west was Pyrale, the
torch, and straight up was Valonus, the oak. He couldn't read the stars
like the fortune teller, and could only wonder what they held for him
and Sala. Perhaps now, with the Kushago as an ally, and Urtose his
friend, he really had a chance to rescue her after all.
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