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DargonZine Volume 19 Issue 01
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DargonZine Distributed: 1/21/06
Volume 19, Number 1 Circulation: 649
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
The Darningfly Caper 3 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Sy 12, 1018
Idol Hands 3 Jon Evans 12 Sy 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://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted
to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 19-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright January, 2006 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>
It's another new year here at DargonZine, and the beginning of our
twenty-second year of publishing fiction on the Internet. In addition,
this issue also includes our 400th story to take place in the world of
Dargon, an accomplishment that sets us apart from the plethora of
shared-world projects both online and in print.
We're rightfully proud of those milestone achievements, which is
why I often mention them here, but longevity isn't our primary reason
for existence. Two and a half decades is pretty impressive, but what are
we trying to achieve? Since we've got a goodly number of new readers,
I'd like to step back and tell you what DargonZine is all about.
When I founded FSFnet, I was living in northern Maine, with no
other writers to talk to. I longed for some kind of writing group, but
there were none nearby. I wanted someone to share my ideas with, people
with whom I could trade writing tips and techniques, and friends who
would support me through my trials and understand my victories.
I guess I was lucky in that my isolation coincided with the very
beginnings of the Internet. In a very literal sense, an entire new world
of connections with highly literate people appeared at my fingertips!
The marriage of the Internet and writing groups might seem completely
obvious now, but back in 1984 there were no such groups. At a time when
the Internet was little more than a list of email addresses, a
network-based magazine and writing group was an innovative idea that
captured people's imagination.
Our most central goal is the same today as it was then: to create
an Internet-based group for aspiring amateur writers. It's interesting
to trace how the element of "community" has evolved. During FSFnet's
first year, almost all our interaction was of the writer-to-editor
variety, but it wasn't long before we realized the value of a true
community of writing peers. That coincided with the creation of the
Dargon Project, the shared world that we write about today. However, we
soon realized that we had strictly working relationships. We only
interacted through the fairly anonymous and tepid medium of email, and
we knew very little about one another as people. So we decided to bring
our contributors together face-to-face by holding annual writers'
Summits. That helped us create strong, lasting friendships that have
brought a new, vibrant dimension to our writing group.
Of course, all that could have been achieved without creating a
magazine. However, one of the obvious benefits of writing for the
Internet is that we can reach a lot of appreciative readers, and make it
easy for readers to give feedback to our writers. That's an important
part of DargonZine's mission, too; it's great to write stories, but it's
even better to complete the circle by having people like you read and
react to our stories. It's a great model, because you -- the readers --
get to tell us what makes a story great, and we -- the writers -- do our
best to provide you with a regular stream of the best stories we can
produce. We get great feedback, you get great stories, and all of it is
completely free!
DargonZine is a child of the Internet; the Internet is how we
achieve our goal of bringing writers together, and sharing our art with
our readers. Obviously, the Internet has changed a whole lot since
1984's text-only terminals and email-only interaction. Over the years,
DargonZine has tested and adopted various new technologies in order to
further our mission. We began distributing issues through Listserv, then
embraced the Web when it began taking off. We've added a tremendous
database-driven Glossary of Dargon characters and places. We frequently
look at current community-building technologies that might help us
better serve our writers and readers.
As a case in point, over the holidays we made a very major change:
we moved our Web site to a new hosting company. The previous company
hadn't updated their servers in years, and our new host has many new and
improved services for a third the cost. You can look forward to a bunch
of updates and improvements to our Web site, and we're really excited
about the new features that we'll be able to bring you as a result of
changing Internet service providers. With that as introduction, I'd like
to announce the first two such changes.
For years we've maintained an ftp site where the public could
download all our back issues. However, our readers had to go to an
obscurely-named site and negotiate an unintuitive directory structure to
find those back issues. Thanks to our new ISP, readers can now go
directly to ftp.dargonzine.org and find our back issues easily. In
addition to individual issues, we've also just made the entire back
catalog available in one zipped-up archive for people who don't want to
have to manually download all 175 issues.
The other recent change is that we have finally acquired the
dargonzine.com domain and pointed it at our Web site. No, having a
dot-com address doesn't mean we're going commercial; we just want people
to be able find our site even if someone is not aware that we -- being a
non-profit group -- are actually dargonzine.org.
Those are overdue changes for us, and they herald much larger
updates that will be unveiled later in 2006. It's a new year, and we're
approaching it with renewed energy and an eye toward a number of new
possibilities.
Last year at this time brought big changes, too, as we printed the
very first story in our longstanding Black Idol story arc. We begin this
year a little more than halfway through the arc, with stories from two
of DargonZine's most enduring writers: Dafydd Cyhoeddwr and Jon Evans.
The Black Idol series is now in high gear, and we'll be bringing you a
lot of action in the coming months. It's shaping up to be a really fun
year, and I hope you enjoy the changes as much as we've enjoyed bringing
them to you!
========================================================================
The Darningfly Caper
Part 3
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Sy 12, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-6
Part 2 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-7
The noise was what drew Darrow outside. Not the peal of fifth bell,
mid-day of the 12th of Sy, but the screams, then the resounding crash
coupled with the splintering of wood, the rumble of falling stone, and
then more screams sounding even more frightened and desperate than
before.
Darrow's home was near Dargon's causeway over the Coldwell river;
the threadbare apartment next to the marsh beside the river was all he
could afford. Ordinarily, the causeway and the Street of Travellers that
ran from it into the city contained orderly traffic that didn't make too
much noise. This was not an ordinary situation.
When Darrow got outside, chaos greeted him. People were running
around, mostly to little purpose. He could see the same at the ends of
the causeway itself, and even on the Old City side of the river. It took
him a few menes to make his way close enough to the Coldwell, which
seemed to be the focus of everyone's attention, to learn what was wrong.
He could scarcely believe his eyes when he could finally see the
water. The barge, the very craft he had been on only a few bells ago,
had crashed into one of the piers of the causeway. He had noted
scaffolding around that pier earlier; now a large portion of the pier
had crumbled away, taking a section of the roadway above with it. Darrow
could scarcely believe the scale of the destruction. How could a single
barge, even fully loaded and in the grip of a rain-swelled Coldwell,
have done all of that?
The barge itself had split in two, with the aft section already
sinking though the bow remained afloat. Darrow lost himself in the
spectacle of the disaster for a few moments before remembering that his
best friend was somewhere in the middle of that danger.
That thought made him recall why he wasn't in the river with
Murlak. He and his friend had been sent on a mission by Sferina. They
had gone to Kenna to intercept Rancin Fer, and they had retrieved a
stolen darningfly charm mold, as well as ten Marks and a letter with the
sigil of Tyrus Vage, an unscrupulous merchant who was a rival of
Sferina.
They had been delayed in beginning their voyage back, and had
worried about pursuit. Accordingly, they had obtained disguises before
leaving Kenna: Darrow's blond hair had been dyed black and his face was
covered by a full beard; Murlak's beard had been shaved, his hair
shortened, and he had been given a strangely lumpy nose. Rancin had,
indeed, boarded the barge; the disguises had fooled the man but not
deterred him. Darrow had taken a huge chance on a bit of luck, and had
hidden the three objects where Rancin would never think to look: inside
a statue belonging to another group of passengers on the barge.
Delays had struck the barge, and the normal four-day journey had
stretched double. Darrow had left the barge the night before under the
pretense of getting some help to distract Edmond, the person guarding
the statue, so he and Murlak could get their objects back. Darrow had
also been eager to get away from his friend, who had not taken well to
being cooped up on the barge during the emergencies that had detained
it. Lastly, Darrow's dyed hair was beginning to show its roots, and the
danger of Rancin recognizing him had grown accordingly.
Darrow had reported all of this to Sferina that morning. She had
instructed him to return the letter to her above all, and she had
increased her promised wage to a full Mark each, plus half of the coins
recovered from Rancin. He had returned to his home to get a few more
bells' sleep before gathering his help and making his way to the
Coldwell docks. He had only managed to get the sleep before the noise
had drawn him outside.
His first thought was to dive into the river and try to help. He
watched a few others give in to that impulse, and be dragged away by the
heavy current before getting close to the wreckage. He then looked
around for some other way to get to the barge. The causeway was the
logical choice, but the city guard was already mustering to shut the
damaged span down, blocking both entrances and working to herd those
already on it to either end. He thought of hiring a boat downstream, but
worried that the current would be too strong to allow him to get to the
barge. Then he thought about finding one upstream, but what if he then
lost control and only added to the danger? He found himself moving in
short dashes one way and then another as idea after idea hit him and was
discarded, and he realized that the people running about weren't
confused or stupid, but probably in the same predicament he was: trying
to figure out how to help, and failing.
Darrow had started to count off the people he could call on for
more effective help when he spotted a familiar figure dragging itself
out of the river. He raced over, along with three of four other helpful
souls, and helped Murlak away from the slippery and crowded bank. A
blanket appeared and got draped over Murlak's shoulders, and then
everyone else turned to help other survivors out of the water. Darrow
drew his friend away from the activity so he could make sure that Murlak
was all right.
Murlak recovered quickly, not at all haunted by his brush with
death as far as Darrow could tell. As soon as it was seemly, Darrow
asked the second question he really needed to know the answer to: "What
about the statue, Murlak?"
"I was watching it like you said, Dar. Right up until ... No one
found our stuff in it, but I don't know where it is now."
"Do you think it sank?"
"I don't know! I was watching the shed where Edmond was watching
the statue, and then there was this crash and I was in the water. The
next thing I knew, I was on the bank."
Darrow thought for a moment. "Well, if it sinks with the barge,
that's good. We'll just have to find a way to fetch it before Edmond can
do the same. And it's safer down there anyway, 'cause no one can find
our stuff with it there. Straight?"
"Straight, Dar, but look."
Darrow followed Murlak's pointing finger, and saw Edmond climb out
of the river very close to the causeway. He had a rope in his hand,
which he proceeded to haul on, a determined look on his face. His
efforts were rewarded shortly when the rucksack that Darrow knew
contained the statue appeared out of the river at the other end of the
rope. The man paused for a moment, patting the bundle, catching his
breath. He finally slipped his arms into the straps of the rucksack and
stood, wincing slightly. He started to walk away from the river, the
determined look back on his face. He didn't seem to be bothered by the
chaos and misery around him, and didn't let anyone or anything get in
his way as he walked, dripping water and draped with plants, toward the
city.
Darrow jumped up belatedly, pulling his friend up beside him. He
started to chase the statue on the back of the man, but had less luck
ignoring what else was happening. He tried to go around lines of people
shifting blankets from a wagon to the bank of the river. He had to
detour frequently around little knots of people who were comforting
survivors or mourning victims. He did his best to avoid completely the
contingents of priests who flocked like murders of crows to the
disaster.
He lost sight of Edmond quickly, but continued gamely on. It wasn't
until he heard sixth bell ring and realized that he hadn't even gotten
as far as his own apartment that he realized his chase was futile.
Rancin Fer stood in front of the door to his boss' office,
gathering his courage. He had been dreading this moment ever since
pulling himself from the river after the crash. Despite his fears,
though, he had delayed this confrontation only long enough to get some
dry clothes before heading directly for the docks and this office. He
had his polished agate in his cheek so he wouldn't stutter in front of
Tyrus Vage; his news was bad enough without looking like a fool
delivering it. He took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped
through.
Vage was standing on the balcony at the back of his office, looking
out at the view. Rancin strode to the desk and stopped, waiting. Through
the open door he could hear the sounds of frenzied activity, even more
than normal on the docks, as the news of the disaster of the causeway
reached the extremities of the city and people began to respond. He was
about to clear his throat to catch Vage's attention when a cry went up,
followed by a splintering crunch. He thought it sounded like some cargo
slipping off its wagon.
Vage turned away from the view, a slight frown on his face. Rancin
looked relieved to see his boss in his normal mood. Vage limped back
into the room and said, "Welcome back, Rancin. What took you so long?
Where's the signed letter?"
Knowing that it would only hurt more to drag it out, Rancin said,
"I'm sorry, boss. I was mugged in Kenna, and the two that did it stole
the mold, the money, and the letter. I followed them onto the barge to
Dargon, but couldn't find them or the goods, and I looked everywhere."
Vage turned away then, and Rancin paused a moment, shifted his gaze to
the desk, and continued. "I didn't give up, boss. I searched everywhere,
every single day and night, and I had plenty of time to do so, since the
barge was delayed by freak accidents and strange happenings. Then today,
the Shuul-damned thing crashed into the causeway ..." He knew he had
only spoken the truth, but he realized how far-fetched -- lame, even --
it all sounded.
There was a crash directly in front of Rancin, which made him
stagger back a step. The business end of a gaffing pole was buried in
the center of Vage's desk. Rancin followed the pole of the tool to his
boss, whose face was a livid purple. "You stupid, stuttering whoreson!"
The pole was lifted and it crashed into the desk again. "You diseased
flea on the back of a scabrous dock rat!" Splinters began to fly as the
hook at the end of the gaff dug into the wood. "I send you on a mission
that Salamagundi's monkey could have completed --" Another crash, and
then a groan of protest from the desk as the point had to be wrenched
free. "-- and you tupping fail!" A final smash, and then Vage threw the
pole aside. Rancin watched it crash into a set of shelves before his
boss' voice drew him back.
"How could you lose that letter?" Vage leaned on his desk, which
responded with an ominous creaking that he ignored. "The mold isn't
important, and I can even deal with the loss of the money, though just
barely." The desk groaned, and then split in half and crashed to the
ground. Vage stumbled, recovered, pushed the halves out of his way and
strode right up to Rancin. "But the letter could cost me plenty. If the
wrong people find it, I could be sanctioned by the council. Being fined
would be the least result; they could insist on oversight of my business
dealings, and once word got out all of my partners would renegotiate
their contracts, and not in my favor.
"You must get that letter back, Fer. I expect you to get it all
back, but if you don't retrieve that letter, your balding head will be
on that wall over there before you can petition your precious Shuul for
mercy. Am I clear?"
Rancin nodded. He knew his boss wasn't exaggerating. He had seen
this kind of rage turned on others, and had hoped never to be its focus
himself.
"Good. Get moving!"
Rancin turned and left. He knew he had to get that letter back. All
he had to do was figure out how.
Darrow stood on the steps of the fifth bar he had visited and
nodded to Murlak, who was dried off and back in his normal clothes.
"They said he went up Thockmarr Street, Murlak. We finally know where he
is. Well, was."
Murlak smiled and asked, "How long ago?"
"Not long," said Darrow. It was eighth bell, and he had been
searching for Edmond and the statue he carried for most of those two
bells. They had taken some time to get Murlak cleaned up and into dry
clothes, and then a little more time to round up some help in the form
of their friends. Lacking any better plan, the whole group of them,
seven in all, had begun canvassing the various watering holes and
gathering places in an arc that spread out from the causeway. Darrow had
hoped that the larger than normal crowds out today would have helped
their search, but most people were more concerned with the causeway
tragedy and the various minor accidents that seemed to be springing up
around the city than with one rucksacked stranger.
Finally, though, Darrow had gotten the lead he needed.
Unfortunately, he didn't know how to capitalize on it.
Murlak voiced his dilemma. "Thockmarr is a long street, Dar. How
are we going to catch up to him when he could turn off anywhere?"
"We can't take the time to gather our people for this," said
Darrow. "I suppose we'll just have to trust to luck, Murlak. Our good
luck, or his bad."
"We could maybe get more help," Murlak said. "Ask some of the
shadow boys to help us search. There's sure to be some about."
"No," said Darrow firmly. "You know better than that. They'd figure
that if we were chasing Edmond, there would be someone else who would
pay more to know about him. It's happened before, after all." Darrow
sighed and said, "Come on, Murlak. We've got a statue to catch."
Rancin decided to start his search back at the wreckage of the
barge. He had hoped, though not very strongly, that his boss would have
reacted more reasonably and given him some help for his search; instead,
he returned to the causeway alone, but intent enough for five.
On his way down the Street of Travellers, though, he spotted two
figures on the other side of the street that seemed familiar. He
recognized the faces of the juggler and the monk from the barge, but
they were dressed in tunics and trousers, not like they had been on the
voyage. His curiosity was piqued, and he turned aside from his path to
follow them. He hoped that he wasn't wasting his time. With luck, he
wouldn't be.
Murlak stood with his hand over his mouth hiding his huge grin,
bouncing on his toes with excitement. He had been the one to spot Edmond
not more than a quarter bell ago, and he was still feeling smarter than
Darrow over it.
The two of them had followed Edmond for just long enough to figure
that he wasn't going to leave Murson Street any time soon. Then they had
used their knowledge of Dargon's side streets and alleyways to get ahead
of the man, and now they were waiting for him to catch up with them.
Darrow was looking around the corner. Murlak kept his eyes on the
hand that Darrow had behind his back, waiting for the signal. Two
fingers twitched, and Murlak stopped bouncing and reached for the stick
leaning against the alley wall. His grin faded into an intent smile, and
he readied his weapon.
Another finger twitched, and Murlak stepped forward just a little.
Finally, all five fingers clenched together and then Darrow leaned
forward just as Edmond stepped across the alley's mouth. Darrow grabbed
Edmond's arm and pulled the man right into Murlak's swinging stick.
Edmond gasped, his temple bled a little, and then he fell to the ground
and stopped moving.
Murlak stepped over the body as Darrow began to remove the rucksack
from the limp figure. Murlak checked Murson Street, and it was still
empty. He kept his eyes on the street until he felt the touch on his
back. He turned and Darrow, the rucksack in his arms, motioned with his
head. Murlak followed his friend and the statue down the alley. They
were heading for Sferina's office now, and soon he would have
half-a-Mark to spend on whatever he wanted. Perhaps a sennight in the
Mother of Pearl?
Rancin could hear his quarry approaching the alley he waited in,
and he tensed in readiness. He had watched the pretend monk and fake
juggler ambush Edmond and take the rucksack from his back. He wasn't
absolutely certain that the pair were the ones who had mugged him in
Kenna, but the way they had stalked and attacked Edmond, combined with
the coincidence of all three of them having been on the barge, made
Rancin want to see what was in that rucksack that the pair wanted so
badly.
The black-haired, bearded man and the red-haired, lumpy-nosed man
walked across the alley mouth without looking down it. Rancin pounced,
grabbing the backs of both tunics and pulled them into the shadows.
Before they could react further, he released the tunics and reached up
to slam their heads together. The thunk of skull against skull was like
a sweet song to Rancin. Both thieves slumped to the ground without even
a groan.
As Rancin leaned over the black-haired man to take the rucksack, he
noticed that the roots of the man's hair were blond. He looked closer at
the red-haired one and imagined him with a full beard. As he
straightened up with the rucksack in his arms, Rancin briefly
contemplated taking out his frustrations on the two bodies before him.
He imagined feeling bones break, watching blood spurt, making them pay
for the danger he had been put in thanks to them. They deserved it,
after all, for starting all of this back in Kenna. He had killed for
less reason than being assaulted and robbed!
Thoughts of his own safety won out over his need for revenge. He
knew that Vage needed to have his letter, the sooner the better. He
could always find these two again, and have his revenge then.
He walked away from the pair and pondered whether to take the
rucksack, which was one of the few things he hadn't searched on the
barge, directly to Vage, or to inspect it himself first. Either way, he
was pretty sure that his head was now safe from his boss' wall.
Rancin felt the sword pierce his chest, and he fell heavily against
Edmond, the man who held that weapon. Pain tore through him, and the
impossibility of having tripped to his death forced a plaintive "How?"
from his lips. The agony swiftly faded as his blood ran out of his body,
warming his chest as it flowed.
When Edmond had challenged him moments ago, demanding the rucksack
less less than a quarter bell after Rancin had acquired it himself, he
hadn't feared the outcome of any impending conflict. He had taken the
measure of the man in a glance, from the clumsy way he held his sword to
the fear and uncertainty in the young man's face. He couldn't believe
how differently it had all turned out.
Rancin's last thoughts concerned luck. The luck he had had in
finding the pair who had mugged him, the ill luck of his foot finding a
loose brick, and finally the Shuul-blessed luck of not having to face
Tyrus Vage's wrath.
And then he died.
Two bells later, Darrow sat on a stool next to Murlak and stared
into his ale with a feeling of hopelessness. Murlak was just as gloomy,
though for less reason since Darrow hadn't told his friend about
Sferina's increased reward. There was no reason to now. Darrow had no
idea who had stolen the rucksack from him, so he would never be able to
collect that reward. He hoped that Sferina would understand. He was more
concerned about failing his employer than the loss of money, though. He
wanted to retain her trust.
Murlak said, "We could ask around anyway, Dar." Darrow ignored his
friend. They had woken up less than half-a-bell ago but had already had
plenty of time to discuss their options as they made their way to this
Nochtur Street tavern. They could, indeed, ask around after someone
carrying a rucksack, but Darrow didn't fancy their chances of getting
any reasonable answers from anyone. People seemed to have more important
things to think about than strangers with rucksacks walking by. As he
thought that, the barman cursed and said, "The rat-kissing tap's broke!"
Darrow looked over the bar to see an ale barrel gushing fluid all over
the floor.
Suddenly he was yanked off his stool and toward the door. Murlak,
who had his arm and was dragging him, said, "I saw him, Dar! Come on!"
"Saw who, you fool?" asked Darrow as he tripped over a chair and
halted their advance across the taproom.
"That guard guy. Edmond. With his sack! He just walked by the
door!"
"Impossible!"
"Swear, Dar! It was him!" Murlak helped Darrow to his feet, but he
resisted when his friend tried to pull him out of the bar again.
"I don't believe you. We left him unconscious; it couldn't have
been him who attacked us. How could he have the statue again?"
"Don't know, Dar." Murlak looked pleadingly at him and said, "You
can see for yourself, but only if you hurry."
Darrow realized the logic of that and said, "Lead on."
The second ambush went just as smoothly as the first, or so Darrow
thought. He and Murlak had followed Edmond, unaccountably possessed once
more of his rucksack, along Nochtur Street past Travellers toward Main.
They had circled around the man, set up the ambush, and added another
gash to the poor man's face.
As Darrow was slipping Edmond's arms out of the rucksack's straps
for the second time, however, the man started to groan. Even panicking,
Darrow thought to stop Murlak from hitting Edmond again, since he had no
intention of killing the man and too many blows to the head were
dangerous. He wrenched the rucksack off off Edmond's back, staggered for
a moment under its weight, and then started to run, Murlak's booted feet
echoing behind.
Darrow sagged against the side wall of the Inn of the Serpent and
panted. The statue was heavy and awkward to carry, and he didn't know
how much further he could go with it. Murlak knelt beside him,
annoyingly fresh and smiling. "He's still following us," the redhead
said, and Darrow grimaced in response.
"If only this thing wasn't so heavy," said Darrow. "Well, maybe it
will be easier to carry on my back. Help me get this thing on, Murlak."
"You know, Dar," said Murlak as he grabbed the rucksack from
Darrow's lap. "It sure would be easier to carry if our stuff didn't have
a statue around it."
"By Ol's outsized feet, Murlak, you're right!" Darrow grabbed the
rucksack back from Murlak and started frantically working the buckles
and straps. "Come on, help me," he cried. Soon the strange black statue
of a man sitting tailor-fashion with a silver sword across his knees
appeared from within the canvas.
He poked and pulled at the statue for a moment before remembering
the secret. He stuck his elbow into the mouth of the statue, declining
to injure his fingers this time. The pointed ivory teeth drew blood
quickly, and Darrow smiled at Murlak's gasp as the jaws of the figure
gaped wide. He reached carefully into the newly-wide opening and grasped
the bundle inside the throat. He withdrew his arm slowly and within a
few moments the package was out of the statue. Darrow opened the
oilcloth pouch for a quick look: the contents, especially the letter,
seemed safe and dry. He bundled them back up again.
"What do we do with the statue now, Dar?" asked Murlak.
Darrow didn't need to think of an answer, as Edmond appeared around
the edge of the inn at that moment. "Put it back," the man said, drawing
his sword. "Do you realize what you've done?"
"Just taking what's ours, Edmond," Darrow said. He eyed the sword
being brandished seriously in the man's hand and wondered whether the
knife-fighting tricks he had learned from his Rhydd Pobl friend Tanner
would stand against a sword.
"Those ingredients are talismans," Edmond said. "You have to put
them back!"
It took a moment for Darrow to realize what the guard was talking
about. "Talismans?" He fingered the oilcloth bundle, and then remembered
the slimy package he had removed from the statue to insert his own loot.
He smiled at Murlak, then turned back to Edmond and said, "Those
talismans went overboard six days ago! Thanks for the use of the hiding
space, though."
A stunned look appeared on Edmond's face. "What?" he said. "How?
When?"
Murlak answered before Darrow could. Shaking his cupped hand like
there were dice within, he said, "When you were taking my money, Ed!"
Darrow watched his friend's eyes narrow, and he continued, "Speaking of
which ..."
Darrow grabbed Murlak's shoulder and said, "Let it go, Murlak.
There's plenty more when we deliver this." He backed away from the
statue, pulling his friend with him. He looked at the staring guard and
said, "See you, Edmond!" He squeezed Murlak's shoulder and they turned
in unison and sprinted away.
"I'm proud of you boys," said Sferina, looking up from the three
objects that Darrow had placed on her desk. Murlak felt good to have
Sferina praising him. He decided to forgive Darrow for not telling about
the money his friend had found in Kenna. This feeling was better than
anything he could have done with his five Mark share of those coins.
Sferina opened the letter and read it, her smile turning into a
predatory grin that made her even prettier to Murlak, even if she was
older than the shepherd, Lidala. "Yes," she said, "this is exactly what
I'd hoped it would be. Vage's plans are set out here for anyone to see.
He'll regret his darningfly caper now!"
Murlak watched as the merchant reached into a drawer and pulled out
some coins. She opened the black pouch that Darrow had set before her,
counted out three Marks and then three more, setting a stack in front of
him and Darrow. Then she stacked five silver Rounds from her drawer on
top of the gold Marks. Murlak stared at the money, forgetting the
wonders of Sferina's trinket-filled office, holding back from grabbing
his stack until Darrow let him know it was all right to do so.
"Here's your pay, boys," Sferina purred. "Money well spent, and
none of it mine! Now, don't spend it all in one place!" Murlak heard
Darrow laugh and he looked up to see Sferina smiling indulgently right
at him. "Perhaps you might invest a Mark or two, boys, for your future.
I understand that Fifth I Merchants has a reputation for good return on
investments." Murlak wondered whether investing, whatever that was,
would be better than spending three or four months sampling every house
in the red-lantern district.
"Now, boys," Sferina continued, "I have another proposition for
you. How would you like continuous employment? I have positions that
would be perfect for each of you ..."
========================================================================
Idol Hands
Part 3
by Jon Evans
<thegodling@comcast.net>
12 Sy 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-5
Part 2 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-6
The dark night felt warm with Isabelle's body pressed against him.
He rolled in a plush feather bed, soft blankets pushed down to his feet,
while the air dried the sweat from their bodies. She rolled onto him,
kissing him, her lips sweet as Lederian wine. He could only feel her
body: his eyes were stubbornly closed. He tried to open them, but could
only catch glimpses of his lover: her neck, a smile in her eyes, her
breast as he reached for it. Then she became aggressive, hungry. She
kissed him harder, biting his lip, digging her fingers into his
shoulder. He moaned. She gasped. She felt so warm and soft. His
excitement mounted; he was so close to ecstasy. Something in the room
gave out a tremendous crashing sound, and she threw him from the bed. He
was soaring through the air ...
Edmond awoke in mid-air, disoriented. In an instant, the memory of
the dream faded away to the all-too pressing present. He was on a barge,
heading to Dargon to deliver an ancient artifact: the cursed statue of
Gow, the Beinison god of love and chivalry. Isabelle was still in
Northern Hope, waiting for his return. Anarr, a magus of great renown,
had hired him to watch over the artifact and ensure it was protected
from harm. A moment was all the time it took for these facts to come
racing back into his mind. It was all the time he had, as his mid-air
flight was abruptly and painfully halted by the crate he landed on. The
sound of splintering wood accompanied a fierce, fiery pain in his back.
He caught a fleeting glimpse of the statue -- Gow's black face screaming
at him -- and then his view was obscured by barrels and crates falling
on him.
"What the hell was that?" Edmond wondered. "We must have hit
something." He realized he was talking to the statue. In fact, over the
past two days he had been talking to it more frequently. He would open
the rucksack enough to reveal its head -- Gow needed to breathe, after
all, didn't he? -- and stare at it for bells at a time. It had become a
friend. He liked the statue, and he felt certain that it liked him, as
well.
Water leaked through the floor of the barge and Edmond was brought
back to the present. He could hear yelling voices, cargo shifting, ropes
snapping. Water began to flood into the room, and Edmond knew the trip
had come to an end. "Time to go," he said.
Suddenly the room shifted wildly -- one end of the floor rose
steeply while the other dropped -- and he knew the barge was sinking.
The barrels that had been on top of him rolled off, soon to be replaced
by a heavy crate that slammed hard into his chest, knocking the wind out
of him. He was trapped and could barely breathe. The water rushed in at
an alarming rate, soaking his clothes and swirling around the statue
that now rested on the floor. It was wrapped tightly in the haversack
that Edmond had been using to transport the idol, but its head was
sticking out, yelling with desperation, fearing its demise.
Edmond gritted his teeth and put his hands against the crate that
pinned him to the floor. He cried out as he gave a powerful shove. The
crate shifted; there was a pulling feeling in his abdomen while his
muscles strained to free him. The barge buckled again, and he took a
quick breath as water rose over his head. The crate had moved enough,
and he wedged himself out from beneath it.
He stood in the remains of his makeshift cabin, surrounded by the
chill waters of the Coldwell. The tarp that had been the ceiling began
to sink, weighted by additional crates that Edmond had placed on top of
it to keep it firm during travel. That ceiling had become the confines
of his coffin, and as it succumbed to the weight of the containers, its
sinking marked the time when his air would run out. He would hold his
breath for as long as possible, his eyes bulging and his chest burning,
wanting and needing fresh air, but eventually he would let go, and
chilling waters would surge down his throat, choking him, forcing his
body to spasm and thrash as the water invaded his lungs. It was a lousy
way for a guard to die, he thought.
He looked at the statue one last time, and noticed the light
gleaming off of its jeweled eyes. Sunlight! Looking up, he saw that part
of the tarp had flown from between two crates. He could escape through
that gap. "We're getting out of here," he said to the statue. He moved
as quickly as he could in waist-deep water, grabbing a length of rope to
tie around the statue. He thought momentarily about leaving the rope,
but realized the statue would be easier to pull out of the water after
he had made it to the surface ... *if* he made it to the surface. The
water was at his chest and rising quickly. Edmond had no idea how deep
the river was at this point, or indeed how close they were to shore or
Dargon.
He hoped they were not far. He looked down at his stomach and
realized the pulling sensation he had felt earlier had been a splinter
of wood breaking off from the crate that had pinned him to the floor.
The rest of it was lodged under his bottom right rib, and he was
bleeding. He tied the rope around the statue, finishing the knot
underwater as the water rose to his armpits, then his neck. He wrapped
the loose end of the rope around his wrist and took a deep breath. Pain
stabbed into his side as his wound complained, and he immediately lost
the air in his lungs. He took another breath, not so deep this time, and
began.
He bent below the water line and pushed the statue out from beneath
the tarp and into the light. It dropped off the edge of the barge,
beginning its descent to the river bottom. He did not know how long the
rope was, or how deep the river; he prayed briefly that the rope was
long enough to keep the statue from dragging him to the bottom. His
lungs were already aching with effort, and blood swirled out of his
wound and around his body. He was bleeding badly. The cold water of the
river shot into his wound causing it to throb with excruciating pain. He
barely maintained the strength to hold one end of the rope as he allowed
his body to rise to the surface. A glint of metal flashed by his eyes,
and he grabbed at it when he recognized its shape; his sword was his
only worldly possession.
Edmond broke the surface of the river and found he was near the
eastern bank. The river flowed quickly, but he was able to pull himself
to the shore, the muck and mire sucking loudly at his limbs as he moved.
He tried to use his sword as support, but its blade only sank into the
mud. Reeds and grass covered the bank of the river, with a few scattered
rocks jutting out from under the surface. Upriver, a giant bridge
stretched between both banks. Dozens of bodies littered the western
shore where the bridge had been damaged. Perhaps a hundred paces upriver
on the eastern shore lay another barge, beached on a sand bar. Two men
were scrambling off of it and running back up toward the bridge. Edmond
felt an urgent desire to help, but he was exhausted. He rested a moment
before realizing he still held the rope in his left hand. His sword had
fallen to the mud at his feet.
Edmond climbed the shore, stepping among the reeds, until the rope
tightened and he knew it would reach no further. Then he began to pull,
hoping the rope would be strong enough, and that the water would lighten
the statue's weight. He could carry the statue of his own accord, but he
felt weakened by the swim and his wound. He gritted his teeth, and hand
over hand he pulled on the rope, trying to ignore the stabbing pain from
the wound in his side.
As Edmond pulled, the statue of Gow slowly rose from the depths of
the river. It broke the surface, and the head of Gow seemed to curse the
skies. Water and sludge spilled out of its mouth, and Edmond's efforts
slowly brought it to rest on a rock at the river's edge.
Edmond stared at the scene on the river. The remains of scaffolding
on the bridge was evidence that the bridge had been in the process of
being repaired. Stone crumbled and broke away from a pylon and the
section it supported, falling dangerously close to the people swimming
in the water below. They fought the current, trying to grab onto a pair
of barges that were hauling people out of the river.
All of the misfortunes that had played upon the raft and its
inhabitants over the past few days had culminated in its sudden and
accidental impact with that bridge. If Edmond had not known that the
curse of Gow had been lifted, he would have sworn Dargon was suffering
from the same ill luck that had befallen Northern Hope. A sudden dread
overtook him, and he peered down the mouth of the statue. He sighed in
relief when he saw a small bundle still occupied its place, though now
covered in black mud. That bundle, according to Anarr, was full of
mystical elements, and was necessary to keep the statue's curse
restrained.
Edmond sighed resignedly, and determined to finish his task here in
Dargon. He closed the rucksack over the statue, and tied it. The sack
had two shoulder straps that made it easier for Edmond to carry, despite
his injured state. He reminded himself that he only had to make it to
the docks where Anarr would meet him. He set his jaw, lifted the sack
onto his shoulders, and began walking into the city. He was wet, muddy,
and bleeding as he entered Dargon for the first time.
Edmond wandered wearily for a time; how long he walked the streets
of Dargon, he did not know. His intention was to find the docks, but he
found his inability to focus his thoughts -- not to mention attempting
to fight the crowds that were pressing toward the bridge from every
direction -- impeded his progress. He was lost. The sack weighed heavily
on his shoulders, and his side was causing him great pain. He staggered
through the muddy streets of Dargon, unable to take in the sights and
sounds of the renowned city. All around him people were moving in the
opposite direction, trying to get to the bridge to see the excitement. A
group of priests ran by, but none stopped to help him; they were too
intent on getting to the bridge.
Seeking solitude from the crowds and a place to rest, he leaned
against a post that held up the wooden awning of a tavern. The sweat
poured from Edmond's uncovered head, plastering his dark hair to his
scalp. He glanced at the tavern's sign: a spear broken in two. He
noticed a red-headed woman with green eyes exiting the tavern. He stood
up straight to smile at the woman, taking his weight off the post. For
an instant, Edmond again heard the familiar sound of wood cracking, and
then the entire awning came down with a mighty crash and buried the
woman underneath!
Edmond heard a soft moaning sound, and then a cry for help. He
dropped the haversack and rushed to the spot where she had been standing
moments before. He strained to lift the broken boards, feeling the
wooden splinter stab at him more with the effort. When he lifted the
boards sufficiently, he chanced a quick command to her: "Move!" He felt
his side rip open more, blood now pouring down his waist. As she crawled
free, he collapsed and dropped the timbers beneath him.
He awoke a few moments later, soft hands caressing his face. He was
lying flat on the remains of the awning, while she knelt beside him.
"Rest easy," she said. "My name is Raneela." Edmond sighed, but he still
felt the pain in his side. "You're in luck," she said. "You rescued the
right person: I'm a healer."
Raneela reached into a bag she carried at her side and removed what
appeared to be a small tube of blue light. "Thank you," she said. "Now
let me return the favor. I need to do this right the first time, though;
this is the only cure-stick Cefn gave me." Raneela pulled his shirt up
from his waist, exposing his wounded side. She paused for a moment.
"This may hurt a bit," she said. She inserted the blue tube into his
wound.
The initial insertion of the tube felt like a soft prodding, and
comforting warmth melted into his side. He felt his strength returning,
slowly. Edmond could not imagine how she thought it might hurt. Then she
grasped the end of the wooden splinter and ripped it suddenly from his
side.
Edmond let out a short cry as a brief stabbing pain jutted through
his rib cage. "Sorry," Raneela said, "but the cure stick closes the
wound quickly. I had to remove this piece of wood as soon as I could --
that wound was severe. How did you get it, anyway?" she asked, but she
did not seem to want an answer. She took a rag from her bag and wiped
the blood from her hands. "You should be fine in a few bells. Meanwhile,
rest easy." She glanced at the rucksack. "And don't strain yourself with
too much lifting for a while."
"Wait," he called to her as she got up to leave.
She looked back at him. "I have to go to the causeway," she stated.
"I'm needed there." And then she was gone, merged into the crowds of
curious people moving in the direction of the fallen bridge.
Edmond lay on the remains of the awning, feeling clear-headed for
the first time since the barge had crashed. He realized he had been
walking dazedly through the streets, weary with blood loss. He had
intended to go straight to the docks to meet Anarr, but had landed here,
outside a run down tavern. Judging by the direction Raneela was headed,
he had been walking the wrong way for a long time, possibly a full bell.
A short, fat man stepped through the door of the tavern and stared
at him. "Gonna get off that, or shall I call Jahlena? She'll throw yeh
off."
"Sorry," Edmond managed to say as he gained his feet. He went to
the rucksack and, heeding Raneela's words, simply stood by it for a
moment. "Have you any hot food inside?" he asked the man.
"It's a tavern, boy," the man replied gruffly. "You've stumbled
onto the best place Dargon has for hot food. Least you could do is buy a
meal and a drink to help pay the cost of this blasted thing," he added
as he kicked at the wooden remains of the awning at his feet. He looked
curiously at Edmond and then the rucksack. "Don't know what you've got
there, but if it's gold, we've got women as can lighten it for you."
Edmond only hesitated a moment. The wisdom of telling a complete
stranger the value of the item he carried determined his reply. "Stone,
actually. Damned heavy. Can you give me a hand?"
The man snorted. "Carry it yourself, boy; I've work to do." Then he
turned and entered the tavern, calling out to Jahlena, "Pub's falling
apart, Jahl. Get someone to move this debris, would you?"
Edmond entered the tavern, dragging the rucksack behind him. The
room was hardly ornate, seeming more run down than he had expected from
a big city's offering. It reminded him, in fact, of Lord Araesto's Cat,
only dingier ... and dustier ... and a bit creepier. He approached the
bar with some trepidation.
The barkeep appraised him quickly before speaking. "Stranger in
these parts, are yeh? Yer talk's funny."
"I'm from Pyridain, originally, but my people were moved to
Northern Hope after Beinison occupied it."
The man smiled quickly and introduced himself. "I'm Jamis, part
owner of this rat trap. You say yer from Northern Hope? Where's that?"
"Up the river a few days, and over the Darst Range."
"That's a ways off. What kind of money are yeh carrying?"
"Royals, of course."
"Well, don't have many Royals myself; Dargon uses the Rand system
mostly. Three Bits for two Florens; so six Bits for soup, three for
ale."
Edmond looked around the tavern and noted its decrepit appearance.
The shutters hung loosely on the windows, and the stools at the bar were
in need of repair. He gave the barkeep a skeptical look. "Seems a bit
pricey ..."
Jamis smiled like a hungry cheetar. "Well, I'm also exchanging your
money for you, at no fee."
"Fine," Edmond said, and reached into his pouch. He did not mind so
much; after all, most of the money he was carrying he had won rolling
dice with the juggler on the barge. But he had the feeling he was being
cheated: Jamis kept smiling.
Edmond noticed some noises coming from the rooms above him. "Kind
of loud, aren't they?"
"Someone's getting a real treat, they are. Like I says earlier, if
yeh've got gold, I've got women."
The noises persisted, getting louder. The timbers of the ceiling
shook, and dust sprinkled down between the boards. Jamis raised his
eyes. "He didn't pay *that* much," he muttered to himself. There was a
creaking noise, and a splintering of wood. Suddenly a gaping hole
appeared in the ceiling. Through the hole fell a naked man and a
half-dressed woman, amidst a shower of goose feathers, wood splinters,
and dust. They crashed roughly on a table, splitting it cleanly in half,
and landed on the floor below. Both were stunned from the fall, though
the woman had the presence of mind to cover herself. The man's naked
backside was face-up and exposed to the bar.
Goose feathers continued to fall like snow from the upstairs while
Jamis screamed in rage and frustration. "Nehru's bloody nose! What in
the hell were yeh doin'? That'll come out of yer pay, slut!" Jamis
turned and yelled toward a back door, "Jahl, I'm telling yeh, this place
is falling apart!"
Edmond leaned forward over the bar. He could emit a presence when
he wanted to, and he made sure he flexed his neck and shoulder muscles
when he spoke to Jamis again. "Tell you what: give me the ale and
directions to the docks -- where the barges land -- and I'll just be on
my way."
Jamis was taken aback. He served up a quick tankard of ale and
handed it immediately to Edmond. "Sure, sure. Coldwell Street is here on
the corner," he said, pointing towards the door. "Take that down to
Oyster Street and that'll take you to Dock Street. The barges dock right
there." Jamis glanced quickly at the prostitute and her customer who
were still lying on the floor, but ignored them for the moment.
"Thank you," Edmond said. He lifted the tankard and drank quickly,
then set it down. "Have a wonderful day." He lifted the rucksack onto
his shoulders, winced at a pulling feeling in his side, then headed out
the door.
Edmond had been waiting at the river docks for over a bell, but
Anarr was nowhere to be found. The commotion at the causeway had finally
subsided, and business was returning to normal. Around him, longshoremen
were loading and unloading the barges, and separating cargo to be
brought out to the ships in the harbor. Lines of carts and carriages
hauled goods along the riverfront from one set of docks to the other, as
the river was too shallow for ocean-faring vessels, and the harbor's
waves too high for the barges. There was also a marketplace somewhere on
the harbor side, Edmond had learned, and many of these carts were
hauling goods there to be bartered or sold.
Finally, there was the small business of river ferries for the
wealthy, or those who owned their own craft. The bridge was for
commoners, mostly; it was inconveniently far up river for either
nobility or business, adding over a league of travel compared to taking
a ferry. But the bridge had been heavily damaged when the barge collided
with it, and now the people of Dargon were lining up at the docks.
Judging by the conversations Edmond overheard, prices had risen
dramatically in the past few bells.
Through it all, the humid, salty air of a sea side town soaked
everything and cleaned nothing. Edmond noted that his blood had stained
the rucksack in a very distinct pattern. "No amount of water will clean
that out," he thought. Somehow, he was sure, some bit of his blood was
now being carried into the sack, over the screaming skull of Gow, and
down his angry throat. Would that blood trigger the magical properties
of the statue, forcing its mouth to open? As a precaution, he
periodically checked the bundle in statue's throat; the little mystical
package was all that kept the statue's curse from unleashing chaos and
misfortune on the entire town. Noting its presence did little to assuage
his fears, however; all the commotion and accidents he had witnessed in
Dargon made him doubt Anarr's abilities as a mage. "Magus," he corrected
himself out loud. Meanwhile, he was stuck in Dargon, without Anarr.
Then he remembered: Anarr was not the final destination for the
statue. It was being brought to Parris Dargon, cousin to Duke Clifton
Dargon. Anarr had mentioned that on the barge. "Well," he thought, "if I
can't deliver it to Anarr, I can take it to his lordship. Then I can
think about getting home."
Edmond asked a few questions of the local tradesmen but learned
nothing. Finally, he met a sailor whose friend had gone to work for
Parris Dargon, who lived on Merchant's Way, in the north end of town.
So, having acquired basic directions, he hefted the sack onto his
shoulders and set off.
He walked to the end of Dock Street and turned left on Murson.
Murson was a long street that would take him all the way up to Parris
Dargon's residence. It was busiest near the waterfront, but the traffic
thinned as he travelled away from the water. He had crossed Main Street
and was continuing north when someone grabbed him from the side. He felt
his body jerked quickly into an alley, and then something hit him on the
head. Blackness took him quickly.
Again, he awoke to caressing hands. Grasping hands. Pulling hands.
He swatted them away, opened his eyes, and looked around. Two vagrant
men scuffled away into the corner, surprised. "Didn' mean nothin' by it,
sir," one of them muttered. "Thought yeh's was dead."
Edmond's head throbbed. He put his hand to his temple and found
blood trickling down. He looked around for the rucksack, but did not see
it anywhere. "Ol's blood!" he cursed. Then he looked at the vagrants.
"Where is the statue?" he asked. When they did not seem to understand,
he asked again. "The sack I was carrying. Where is it?"
One of the men pointed down the alleyway and said, "That way."
Edmond muttered some thanks and turned to run. He didn't know what his
assailants looked like, or how much of a lead they had on him, but he
could recognize his bloodied rucksack. Whoever carried that must be the
culprit.
Within a few menes, Edmond had spotted a man carrying his rucksack.
It was unmistakable: the blood stains were quite specific, and the
bundled shape within was characteristic of the statue. But he saw only
one man, and he would have sworn there had been two attackers ...
No matter. He followed the tall, balding man through a few alleys.
It was not difficult: the weight of the statue made it nearly impossible
to travel very quickly. The man stuck to the side streets and alleys,
avoiding the main ways. Edmond noted that the alleys he travelled
through were becoming increasingly disreputable; small piles of human
waste were interspersed with the trash that littered the ground. Most of
the windows of the buildings were boarded up, or barred. Edmond thought
he had better confront the man sooner than later; he had no idea where
he might end up, and if he had to fight the man, he did not want to do
so surrounded by enemies.
"Hold it," he called out, but the man kept moving, his balding pate
shiny with sweat. Edmond grasped a nearby brick from a crumbling wall
and threw it at the man, striking him in the back. The man stopped and
turned around. Edmond recognized him immediately.
"You were on the barge," he said. "Rancin."
"Edmond," Rancin acknowledged him. He seemed surprised.
"Give me back the sack, Rancin," Edmond said.
"I believe it contains something of mine," Rancin replied.
"Something I need very badly."
"No, Rancin. It only contains a curse."
Rancin raised his eyebrows. "Is that some sort of threat?" He
lowered the rucksack with his left hand, while he drew his sword with
his right. Edmond drew his own sword as well.
"I don't want to hurt you." Edmond said. The situation had
escalated very quickly. First he had been following a thief, and now he
was confronting a potential killer.
Rancin smiled bitterly. "You won't," he said. He advanced
quickly,
raising his sword. His blade was still, unmoving in the hands of one
accustomed to its use. Edmond held his sword nervously in front of his
body, its blade quivering with his fear. He had never actually used a
sword in combat, only as a practice weapon. Now he was likely going to
die. It briefly occurred to him that this was a fitting death for guard.
Rancin swung his sword once, back and forth, in a quick movement.
Edmond saw him adjust the weight of the sack on his back. Then Edmond
was defending himself. Rancin's sword cut from side to side in quick
strokes, and Edmond nervously followed it with his own, attempting to
parry any attack. But the tip of Rancin's sword slowly got closer with
each movement as Rancin took small, careful steps through the detritus
in the alley. Edmond's attempts to parry were getting wilder as his
heart beat faster and his breath came shorter. His only option was to
retreat backwards, still following that weaving blade with his eyes. His
right shoulder bumped against the bars of a window as he backed up. He
stumbled briefly, and caught himself. Rancin feignted a cut to Edmond's
left, and Edmond stepped back again. His foot trod on something rancid,
and suddenly he slipped backward and fell on his posterior.
Rancin flashed a quick smile of triumph, and lunged forward. But
the rucksack on his shoulders -- containing the cursed statue of Gow,
Beinison god of chivalric battle -- caught on the barred window that
Edmond had bumped against. Rancin's lunge was pulled up short, his body
turned sideways and unprotected. Edmond desperately thrust his own sword
upward, stabbing toward Rancin's chest. But Edmond, in his prone
position, had neither the strength nor the reach to cause any harm, and
the sword point landed, merely pressing against Rancin's vest. Then the
rucksack came free, and Rancin suddenly tripped, fell forward, and
impaled himself on Edmond's sword, pinning Edmond beneath.
"How?" Rancin asked briefly, and then his eyes lost focus. A small
agate stone fell out of his mouth.
Edmond rolled Rancin's body to the ground and stood up. He pulled
his sword free with a sickening, sliding sound. He heard and felt the
steel of his blade scrape against bone as it came out. When the sword
had gone in, everything had happened so quickly he hadn't noticed what
it felt like, what it sounded like. His stomach turned. His knees gave
out, and he felt himself kneeling in the alleyway, vomiting the sparse
contents of his stomach. He had just killed a man. He retched again. He
had barely even used a sword before in his life. He had sharpened a few
edges for his former master. But to kill a man? An experienced ruffian
like Rancin? He did not understand it. One final dry heave and he knew
it was over.
Edmond wiped his mouth with his unbloodied shirtsleeve. He had to
get out of there. He still had a job to do. His legs wobbled as he
stood, but they held his weight. He wiped his blade on Rancin's vest,
and then looked at his own clothes. His right shirtsleeve was covered in
blood. Anyone with half a brain would figure out that he had just killed
someone. Edmond removed his shirt, and used his sword to cut the sleeves
off. It might not have been stylish, but at least he was no longer
advertising the deed. He put his shirt back on, and then hefted the sack
over his shoulder again. He was beginning to tire of carrying the damned
thing.
It was well after tenth bell when Edmond walked up Nochtur Street.
Night was close at hand, the red sky casting an eerie gloom over the
sodden streets.
For the second time that day, Edmond was grabbed and pulled into an
alley against his will. Another thump hit his head, knocking him to the
ground. Darkness crept into his eyes, but somehow he retained a
semblance of reason. He felt the rucksack torn off his back, and heard
footsteps retreat.
"No!" he thought. "I'm so close!" He willed himself back up,
commanding his legs to move despite their lack of strength, and fighting
the bass drum that pounded relentlessly in his skull. He could still
hear his assailants running. He placed one foot in front of the other,
determined to go on. As he moved, he gained speed. His vision cleared
slowly, and his legs returned. His head still throbbed, though. At a
turn up ahead, he glimpsed a familiar red blood stain in the scarlet
light of dusk. He followed, picking up the pace. When he turned the next
corner, he could not believe his eyes.
In front of him stood the monk and the juggler, both passengers
from the barge, now dressed in common clothes. The rucksack was open,
exposing the head and shoulders of the statue, and the monk had just
removed the bundle from within Gow's mouth.
"Put it back!" Edmond demanded as he drew his sword. "Do you
realize what you've done?"
"Just taking what's ours, Edmond," the priest answered.
"Those ingredients are talismans," Edmond insisted. "You have to
put them back!"
"Talismans?" the priest asked. Then he smiled at the juggler, who
was brandishing a long knife to keep Edmond at bay. "That dead rat
wrapped in leaves? Went overboard six days ago! Thanks for the use of
the hiding space, though!"
"What?" Edmond stood in shock. "How?"
The juggler made a quick motion, like rolling dice in his hands.
"When you were taking my money, Ed!" He seemed to think about that for a
moment, then said, "Speaking of which ..."
The priest put his hand on the juggler's shoulder. "Let it go,
Murlak. There's plenty more when we deliver this." He pulled Murlak
away, then looked at Edmond. "See you, Edmond!" Then the two of them
sprinted away, faster than he could have hoped to catch.
Edmond stared at the statue. What had they done? What had *he*
done? All those accidents in town, the barge crashing, fires destroying
homes and businesses, had happened because he had been distracted by the
dice. "A man died because of this," he said aloud. "Worse. The entire
city of Dargon is now burdened with the curse of Amante, because of me.
Hundreds could die."
Edmond sheathed his sword. The curse of Gow had been unleashed upon
the city, and if this statue was not warded soon, more people would die.
Entire city blocks might crumble; commerce would come to a halt. How
much damage had he done? He closed the rucksack over the statue, and
lifted it back on his shoulders. Where was Anarr during this desolation?
If ever Dargon needed a hero, it was now. He resigned himself to
carrying this weight. He felt he would be carrying it for a long time.
Edmond made his way to the front door of Parris Dargon's home. The
guard granted Edmond admittance, despite his appearance, and escorted
him in to see his lordship. Parris Dargon was very pleased.
"Have you seen Anarr?" Edmond asked.
"Don't worry about Anarr; I can pay you." Parris replied. Parris
took four silver Rounds from a small cash box at his desk, and handed
them to Edmond.
"It's not the money," Edmond said, though he took it. "It's the
statue. The curse has been released again. It needs to be warded!"
Parris smiled. "I can take care of that, Edmond. Don't worry about
that now."
"But --" Edmond interrupted. He explained how he had been
distracted on the barge, and how the thieves had switched the bundles.
"If I hadn't been gambling --"
"Then they would have hit you over the head -- as they've done
twice today already -- and put their contraband in that way. Don't
worry, Edmond, really. You've done a spectacular job getting the statue
here, and I've even given you an extra Round for your effort. I'll take
care of the statue from here."
"You have the ingredients?"
"Yes, yes," Parris replied. He was getting more forceful now,
edging Edmond toward the door. "Don't get all caught up in guilt, now.
At least you made some coin out of it, eh?" Parris' smile was strained,
attempting to cheer Edmond up, and Edmond knew it.
"Perhaps he's right," Edmond thought as he left Lord Dargon's home.
He had plenty of coin in his pocket now, enough to start a new life with
Isabelle. Perhaps they would leave Northern Hope altogether, he mused,
to settle in Dargon?
These thoughts cheered him as he walked down Murson Street. All
around him, chaos reigned: a wheel fell off of cart, which spilled goods
into the street; a sign broke and landed on a man walking below it;
timbers creaked as a roof weakened and collapsed. None of it affected
Edmond. His blood and dedication to the statue had left him wrapped in a
bubble of protective luck.
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