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DargonZine Volume 20 Issue 02
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DargonZine Distributed: 4/28/07
Volume 20, Number 2 Circulation: 624
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
The Sea Hag's Daughter Jim Owens Seber 27, 1018
The Great Houses War 6 Nicholas Wansbutter Yuli 23-Ober 30 901
========================================================================
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 20-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 2007 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-nc-nd/2.5/ 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 always easier to write an editorial when there's interesting
news to share. But sometimes there's such a wealth of news that it's a
challenge to keep the editorial from taking up more space than the
stories. Fortunately for you, this month's issue is already packed with
great fiction, so I'll have to be brief, even though there's a lot of
news to share.
The first item is that we recently returned from this year's
DargonZine Writers' Summit, which took place in exciting Las Vegas,
Nevada at the end of March.
As always, the nine people who attended split our time between
working sessions, sightseeing, and eating, with very little time left
over for sleep. Our expeditions included touring the immense Hoover Dam,
crawling around the massive canyons of the Valley of Fire, and hiking up
and around Mount Charleston, where there was still snow on the ground
despite the 80-degree weather in town. Food included Ethiopian and a
Japanese teppanyaki "performance", as well as Vegas' signature native
cuisine: the casino buffet. We did visit the Strip and enjoyed the downs
and ups at the gaming tables, but no one got married while we were
there.
In the working sessions we explored where story ideas come from,
and what it means to be an aspiring writer. We also spent a lot of time
writing and coordinating a series of stories that will show many of
Dargon's key people and locations. If you're new to DargonZine, these
stories should help you get an overview of the city and the characters
who live there. Look for them to start appearing in DargonZine issues
around the end of the year.
The Summit is always a great experience. We accomplished a lot
and came away energized, and got to spend time with great people and see
the sights in another cool location, all thanks to Dafydd's diligent
planning and gracious hosting.
As usual, we've selected several photos and added a write-up that
will help you get to know us a little better and get a feeling for what
this year's Summit was like. You can find those at
http://www.dargonzine.org/summit07.shtml
In other news, we've made a couple noteworthy improvements to our
web site recently. We have completely rewritten our Online Glossary's
search page, which should now be easier to use and produce better
results. There are additional search enhancements planned, but we
decided to publish what we've done with it so far, rather than hold it
back until all the little tweaks are done. The Glossary page can be
found at http://www.dargonzine.org/glossary.shtml
In addition, Carlo's been busy updating our set of maps to reflect
all the changes we've made in the past few years. Be sure to use
DargonZine's map page as a reference when trying to figure out what's
where, whether you need a street-level view of Dargon or a description
of all the neighboring kingdoms on the continent of Cherisk. They can
all be found at http://www.dargonzine.org/maproom.shtml
So that's a little bit of what's been up with DargonZine. Now let
me take a moment to introduce the two stories that appear in this issue.
First, Jim Owens, one of DargonZine's founders, returns to print with a
short story called "The Sea Hag's Daughter". Then, as has been our
practice for the past few months, we round out the issue with the newest
installment of Nick Wansbutter's "Great Houses War" serial, which will
continue for several more issues.
I hope you enjoy them, and thanks for your continued interest in
the fiction we offer.
========================================================================
The Sea Hag's Daughter
by Jim Owens
<gymfuzz@yahoo.com>
Seber 27, 1018
Atop a piling, the figure sat motionless in the darkness and stared
at the ship docked nearby. Anyone who looked in the direction of the
piling from the ship would have seen at most an inky blot. They would
have missed the blue skin, the iridescent scales, the eyes aglow with
reflected light. They would also not have seen the fish clutched in
taloned hands, or the look of anguish on the wet face.
Danae could smell the fish's blood running down her cold hands and
across her scaled thighs. She wanted very badly to raise that fish to
her thin lips and rip it apart with her pointed teeth. She could all but
taste the metallic tang of its flesh on her tongue. In her mind,
however, words of warning chanted angrily, telling her not to, warning
her that it would be the last thing she ever did. So she sat, and
watched, and waited.
Blen Sailmaker lifted the brush up off Danae's smooth, brown skin
and set it back in the inkpot, steadying the small vial against the sway
of the waves.
"That'll do it, I think."
Danae stood up, craning her neck around to view the spot on her hip
where her shipmate had been working. She turned her torso to better
catch the thin, autumn sunlight that was streaming in the porthole of
the Friendly Lion. The lines he had drawn on her hip still glistened
wetly, but she could see that they were well placed.
"Straight, that'll do it." She set a Drin down on the table before
him in payment. "Don't drink it too fast."
"Do you have anything else?" he asked, eyeing the coin with a
slight frown. "Sometimes I have trouble spending Shapkan."
"Hernorala could spend it," Danae replied offhandedly as she
reached for her shirt. She had stripped down to her maiden cloth so that
Blen could wield his brush. She watched as his face lit up at the sound
of his sweetheart's name.
"That she could," he said, taking the coin and flipping it into the
air. "Spending my coin is the one thing she is very good at."
"Just the one thing, Blen?" Danae asked, stepping into her
breeches. She tested the ink on the last of the repaired lines before
pulling her pants up. It was still just a bit tacky, so she left the
canvas trousers set low. The rest of the drawing was dry. She admired
the cleanly drawn images of fish scales that adorned her dusky flanks.
"If one thing is all she's good for then why do you seem to spend your
every waking moment with her when we dock in Dargon?"
"Oh," Blen replied quickly, not seeming to catch the tease in her
voice, "she's good for lots of things." He stood, pushing the cork back
into the ink bottle as he did. "Her cooking's the best in Dargon! How
else do you think Sandmond can keep that inn of his open? And she can
sew too, not like a sailor, but fine, lacy stuff, seamstress-like. And
--"
"Straight, straight," Danae interrupted. "I was just teasing you,
not asking for a manifest."
"Why don't you get that drawing tattooed on?" Blen asked as he put
the ink and brushes away. "This is the third time this trip I've redrawn
that for you. And those black lines don't show well against your dark
skin. I know a woman in the Old Town who can tattoo in white. She could
put it on so it wouldn't ever wear off."
"No thanks," Danae replied. "I like it just the way it is. Thanks
for the thought, though. I don't trust Kodo, and Kitley's hand shakes
too much."
"You can always ask the captain."
Danae hesitated, then replied softly, almost to herself. "You're
right. I don't know why I don't. He just ..." Her voice trailed off.
"He likes you," Blen replied. "He does. You'll see."
Danae nodded, then returned to the earlier topic. "Why don't you
just marry her?"
He frowned. "No, this is no life for her. She likes her job. She
likes the land."
She rolled her eyes. "That sounds like an excuse to me."
"No, no ..." he said, eyes downcast, voice dropping.
"Well, why don't *you* ...?" Danae left the question unfinished.
She knew the answer. Just then Kodo's voice bellowed out from the bow.
"All hands!"
Silently the two left the cabin and returned to work.
Docking at the port of Dargon went uneventfully, as did the task of
relieving the Friendly Lion of the cargo she had hauled up from Armand.
Captain Tennent soon distributed the pay to his crew and released to the
streets all but Kodo, who was to take first watch. The captain then
headed up the pier, stopping on a nearby dock to trade news with the
captain of another merchant vessel. Pay in hand, Blen was gone in a
instant, bee-lining up Commercial Street for the Street of Travellers
and Sandmond's Inn, where he would meet with his sweetheart. Kitley
followed, albeit more slowly. His aged feet were taking him up the
street towards the burned out piers where rumor had it a new bathhouse
was being built, along the lines of the ones in Port Andestn. Those
baths were fed by ancient aquaducts with water from natural hot springs
leagues away, and were known for their healing qualities.
Danae doubted the new baths would be quite as impressive, but also
was curious and wanted to investigate. She resolved to follow Kitley,
curious about these baths, wondering if they were like the ones she
remembered from her own home, far to the south. Her pace was measured
and even, nonetheless. It was an unusually warm day for Seber, and the
air was still and filled with the smells of the city. She wandered
slowly along the road, observing stevedores laboring, street vendors
peddling, merchants dickering. About her swirled a pageant of dress and
dialect and diction. Her own dark skin drew little notice, unlike deeper
into the city where her unusual appearance might be the occasion for
unwelcome attention.
Danae found herself standing at the corner of Commercial Street and
the Street of Travellers. She considered going up the road to Sandmond's
Inn for a drink, but decided against it, and kept walking. Somehow the
idea of meeting Blen and his girl seemed somewhat odd. Even after a year
and a half on the Lion, Danae still felt like an outsider. The ship had
docked at Sharks' Cove for repairs after a pirate assault had damaged
her rigging and killed one of the crew. Blen had met Danae on the
street, and she had signed on, eager to leave that blighted city. Life
onboard was not as hard as life on the street. Her work consisted of
cleaning and mending and whatever else needed to be done. She got along
with all the crew well enough, and with Blen best of all, but she wasn't
completely comfortable around any of them.
Danae continued to walk the length of Commercial Street. At the end
she found a small crowd that had gathered. Danae worked her way close
enough to see what was happening. It turned out to be the site where the
new baths were being built. Warehouses had once stood there on a long
pier, but had burned down. The wreckage left over from that fire was now
gone, and the frame of the new building was going up. At the far end a
huge fireplace was being erected. A steady stream of workers were
hauling stones for the furnace down from the shore in carts, and then
carrying them up ladders to the masons. It didn't look like harder work
than Danae had just done in unloading the ship, but it was probably much
less interesting.
Danae noticed several women in the stream of workers hauling stone.
One in particular stood out due to her young age. Her pale skin was
coated with dirt and mud, leaving it almost the color of Danae's. Seeing
this girl at work on a construction site reminded Danae of being a young
woman in a strange city for the first time, doing odd jobs for food. It
had been exhilarating and terrifying in equal measures for Danae, who
had just left her home. Life and death had seemed much closer together
back then. This girl was younger than Danae had been, though, and better
fed. She would no doubt be going home at sunset. This job was probably a
way for the girl to earn her family some extra coin, and was perhaps
even a diversion from a less exciting apprenticeship. Danae had not
returned home, and indeed had left that small city for another further
up the coast, which she in turn left for another one. Danae had not had
a home in a long time. She watched the workers with their stones for
several menes before turning back toward the city.
The coin Captain Tennent had distributed to the crew was generous,
but the prices in Dargon always seemed designed to most quickly part a
sailor from her wages. Danae was careful to visit the shrine of
Cirrangill before the marketplace, knowing that she would tend to spend
more money than she wanted to if she kept it on her person. She paid the
customary price for a length of rope from a widow at the door, then tied
it to an old fish net draped over the idol inside. Cirrangill was not
who she had worshiped as a child, but she had left her southern gods
when she left her home. Her duty done, Danae turned her feet and
attention to the nearby market. Captain Tennent provided basic
provisions for his crew, but a diet of biscuit and pulse was always
better when mixed with some salt and spice. Danae quickly found both,
along with thread and fine needles, honey and balm. She bought a small
mirror, to replace one lost at sea, and paused at a stall selling rugs.
"What is this?" she asked the keeper, fingering a mat with a
fanciful image embroidered on it.
"Three Royals, not a Penny less," came the swift reply from a
sharp-eyed woman seated on a three-legged stool.
"I meant the image," Danae replied. "What is it?"
"That's a ship being pulled under by the great sea hag. Surely a
sailor like yourself should know that." The woman eyed Danae critically.
"I've never seen one," Danae replied. "Of course," she hastily
added, "no one who does lives, straight?" She turned away to hide a
smile.
"True that is," the woman replied. "Now then, that's a very fine
piece, there, suitable for the finest company. I used real gold thread
in the tentacles of that one, I did."
Danae peered at the rug closely, then backed away. "Too dear for my
purse," she explained, and went on her way.
Danae's purse was much lighter by the time she found herself once
again at the corner of the Street of Travellers. By then it was dark,
and she didn't hesitate to set her feet straight toward Sandmond's Inn.
There was a small knot of sailors and other evening drinkers clustered
in the yellow light at the door. She recognized one or two from previous
visits to Dargon, and she gave a very familiar whack to a somewhat
familiar rump as she went in, propelled by a burst of rowdy laughter.
There was an empty place on the end of the long table, near the kitchen
door, and she took it. She glanced into the kitchen as she did, but, as
she expected, neither Hernorala nor Blen were visible. They were no
doubt off on a quiet rendezvous.
Danae obtained a flagon of ale and settled in for dinner. The
barmaid brought a bowl of fish soup, and Danae cooled it with a splash
of her drink. She slipped her hand under the waistband of her trousers
and touched the painted fish scales on her hip. She closed her eyes and
muttered something under her breath. She then lifted the bowl to her
lips and drained it. The next time the barmaid passed by, Danae
requested stew. When that arrived, Danae again cooled it with her ale
and ate it hastily. She drained her flagon and ordered another, with
more soup. It went down just as fast. Once done, she again touched the
lines and uttered a phrase. She ordered still more stew, but this she
ate hot. Next came buttered bread and root paste, followed by sweetmeat
pie and wine. The server offered fruit pie, a slightly incredulous
expression on her face, but Danae held up her hand. "That'll do."
"That'll do." Those had been the first words Danae had ever heard
from Captain Tennent's mouth. She had been standing in the cabin of the
Friendly Lion, where Blen had led her after first meeting her on the
docks at Sharks' Cove. Those words weren't what she had been expecting,
or hoping for. He had treated her kindly enough, and that had sustained
her in the months of hard work that followed, but she still felt that
hollow spot in her soul. She knew why, and in her mind she dismissed it,
but every time she looked at him, she saw her father for an instant.
Tennent had treated her fairly, and the crew welcomed her presence.
She was different enough from Frog, their former crewmate, that she
didn't feel like a replacement. Danae was becoming used to the crew,
too. The last storm they had met at sea had strained their bonds,
though. She still remembered the shock of the cold water when she had
dived overboard to rescue Tennent when a wave took him. In her mind she
could still hear his screams from when she had found him, so far from
the ship. She tried to push that thought from her mind, but she
couldn't. He had fought her all the way back to the ship, not knowing
what had seized him. None of the others had known she had gone for him
-- she had made sure of that. She had wanted to tell them, but she could
not, and that secret now lay between them.
"Another one, sailor?" Danae looked up at the barmaid. She was a
different one, young and skinny. Danae studied her face for a moment.
There was a gauntness to it, as if the days had not been kind of late.
There was a peculiar hunger in the woman's eyes. The barmaid met Danae's
eyes, and swallowed hard. After a moment's hesitation, the barmaid
awkwardly touched her neckline, exposing a finger-breadth's more bosom.
Danae smiled grimly at the misunderstanding. "Ale," she replied
huskily. "One more before I go." The barmaid smiled with relief and
left. Danae shook her head at the wave of memories that came to her,
grateful that they were not as steeped in misery as that poor girl's
must be. Danae had found a home on the Friendly Lion before the deeper
hunger had set in. It was not just a hunger for food, either, although
her stomach's painful calls had beckoned all too often enough.
Danae looked around her. She was surprised to see that the tavern
was much emptier than when she had come in. She wondered why, then
realized how much time had passed. Had she missed her watch? No, she
consoled herself, hers was the early watch, many bells away. Captain
Tennent would be taking this next watch. No, she had just been lost in
thought, that was all. The long table was empty save for a couple of men
at the far end. The barmaid reappeared with a mug and a smile. Danae
quietly rewarded her with double coin and a sympathetic nod, which
elicited a happier smile. Danae stared out into the emptying room as she
drank.
"Blen."
Danae's attention peaked at the sound of her fellow sailor's name.
She looked around. There was no one nearby, but the kitchen door was
nearby and stood open.
"And you think they will?" This voice was different than the first,
and came from inside the kitchen.
"Wouldn't you?" This was the first voice again, a man's. "Away at
sea for months, and then here you are at night with your lover?"
"You don't know that they're lovers," countered the second voice, a
woman's voice.
"Oh, come on, don't be such a virgin! They'll be at it 'til dawn!
Ever since he left, Hernorala's had nothing but his name on her lips.
It's driving me nuts!"
Danae stirred herself up and stood, wobbling only a bit. She
suspected the ale was watered after a certain bell, when the sailors
were too drunk to notice. She took a step toward the kitchen door,
intending to enter the conversation.
"So, what did you do to her?" Danae froze. This was the second
voice.
"I didn't *do* anything *to* her," countered the first voice, a bit
petulantly. "It's not like that."
"You said you were going to get rid of her."
"I did not! I just said she would be leaving soon!"
"And then you would be head cook."
"Look, I'm not trying to hurt her, or him. She wants him to stay
here with her, and I bet he does too, but you know these sailors. They
got the wanderlust, and just can't keep their feet dry. I'm just giving
her an excuse to go with him, that's all."
"So what did you do?"
Danae pressed herself against the wall beside the kitchen. She
looked out at the rest of the room, but the eyes that saw her were
dulled with drink and indifference. She quieted her breath to hear
better.
"Well, your virginal Hernorala came back from the market with a
tiny, little, pink bottle today."
There was a small, delighted gasp. "Maidenkeep?"
"Or something like it. And you saw what she changed into before she
left. There was so much lace in this kitchen you'd've thought we were
the Lucky Lady!"
"Ol's balls!"
"Blen's balls, more like it."
"So what did you *do*?"
"I swapped it."
"What? You swapped what?"
"The Maidenkeep, or whatever it was that was in her little, pink
vial. I dumped it out and poured in some of this."
There was a pause and another happy breath.
"Nightfruit brandy! And a great bottle of it! What are you doing
with this much love potion?"
"Sandmond keeps this bottle behind the meat cabinet," the first
voice explained. "I expect he sells it to the occasional barmaid who
wants to earn a bit of extra coin."
"Sandmond wouldn't do --"
"Or, whatever, I don't care. All I care is that when they drink
this, they'll be climbing the beanpole until dawn, and she'll be as
knocked up as a thirteen-year old bride after Melrin."
"Oh, Sandmond won't have that. You know how he likes us to have a
figure." There was a pause. "But by the time she's showing he'll be long
gone. What's she going to do until he gets back?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, how's she going to get by without the work?" There was a bit
of heat in this question.
"What, that's not my problem, now is it?"
"What do you mean, not your problem? This whole thing is your
doing!"
Danae didn't wait to hear any more. She headed for the door. She
burst out into the night and started running up the street towards the
docks. It wasn't until she got to the corner of the Street of Travellers
that she stopped, realizing that she wasn't sure where to go. She had
thought to warn the amorous couple, but they wouldn't be at the ship.
They most likely were back at Hernorala's place. She turned around, and
bounced right off Captain Tennent.
"What's your hurry, sailor?" he boomed at her. "I saw you running
up here and I thought you might have the guard after you."
"No sir. Have you seen Blen?"
"Yes, just a few menes ago. He was in a rush too, him and that
woman of his."
"Where were they headed?"
Tennent pointed up the docks. "Is there some sort of trouble?" His
expression grew a bit stern, and for a moment he was Danae's father
again.
"No sir," she hastily replied. "I just need to tell him something
important."
"Go quickly then," he replied, his expression softening. "You might
still catch him. He was looking for a boat to rent."
"A boat ..." she said, then ran off up the street.
Danae considered her words as she ran. Why hadn't she told Captain
Tennent? Surely he could help. She slowed to go back, but the image of
her father appeared in her mind, stern and unforgiving. Captain Tennent
was not like that, she knew, but she just couldn't make herself go back.
She ran on, scanning the gloom at the water's edge for a familiar face.
She ran the entire length of Commercial Street and ended up back at
the ruins of the old burnt docks. The skeletal frame of the new baths
stood out pale in the gloom. She stood there, helpless. She had not seen
either of the two in the many faces she had passed on the street. She
stamped her feet impatiently as she caught her breath. She remembered
the conversation she had shared with Blen. She could imagine him,
feeling trapped between a woman he wanted and a life he loved. She
wanted to go back and punch that cook in the face, whoever he was, but
then she remembered her last conversation with her father and calmed
down.
Danae froze as a tinkling of laughter came to her ears. It was a
man and a woman, laughing together. She again stilled her breath, and it
came again, along with a few faint words, unintelligible. The voice she
recognized, though: Blen. She spun about, looking into the dark. The
sounds came again, from offshore. She cast her gaze seaward. The area
near the docks was punctuated with the tiny lights from ships at anchor.
The glassy sea reflected the lights like dancing fireflies. Drawing
closer was one ship that was quite well illuminated, a passenger barge.
It glowed with many lanterns hidden behind oilskin screens. Many figures
moved on its deck: it was hosting a party of some sort. Again came the
voices, low and indistinct, but not from the barge. She turned and
followed a nearby line of charred pilings with her gaze. There, about
five chains offshore, between her and the barge, a small light
glimmered.
Danae walked to the edge of the water. Here the seawall was gone,
and the shore sloped gently into the water. There were no people or
boats at this end of the docks. The construction workers had left,
taking the onlookers with them. There were no boats here to borrow.
Danae stared out at that tiny light for just a moment, then began to
strip. She pulled off her sailor's garb, tossing each item over a nearby
piling stump. Once bare, she paused a moment, closed her eyes, touched
the lines Blen had painted on her skin that morning, and muttered a
short phrase. Then she ran out into the water. The shock of the cold
brought back the startled look of Tennent's face as she had grabbed him
in the storm and waves, and then she disappeared beneath the waterline.
It had been her grandmother, her father's mother, who had taught
her the spell and had first drawn the lines on her body. Her father had
been livid when he had seen them, the overlapping black lines that
formed the fish scales on her skin. Danae had been standing on the pier
with her grandmother, shivering naked in the evening air, when her
father stormed down the beach and confronted his mother. Danae had stood
there, shaking and crying, as the two argued. She had thought that her
father would be pleased that his mother had chosen her to receive this
family secret. After the passing of Danae's mother, Danae had gravitated
toward her grandmother, learning many things from her, and this had
pleased her father. But he had not been happy that day. The argument had
ended when Danae's grandmother turned and pushed Danae off the edge of
the pier. Danae had screamed as she fell, and the cold water filled her
open mouth when she hit. In that instant she had learned the truth.
It was that truth that filled Danae's awareness as she swam out
into the sea. That truth was always most obvious near the surface. No
matter how rough or cold the water, when the enchantment held her, the
air seemed more harsh. The water was more soothing, more friendly, more
like home. Beneath the surface her limbs seemed more free, as if the
water supported them better than the land ever could. And she was fast.
Danae held her head above the water just long enough to get her
bearings, then struck out in the direction of the light. With powerful,
easy strokes she slipped through the water. To her eyes the sea was
actually better lit than the world above, the water glowing with a deep
emerald hue.
She could hear for leagues, and the tastes of the ocean were like a
long tale told by a master storyteller. The pilings slipped past in
rapid succession. As she drew near her goal the light from the sole
lantern flooded the water, opening up galleries of wonders. Danae almost
turned away, to head seaward, to head home. Her mammal mind still ruled,
however. She turned and slipped upward into the night.
The fire that had demolished the old warehouses had spared just one
corner of the old pier, and it was too far out to be demolished. Above
her a triangle of slats blotted out the dim glow from the night clouds.
Beside the last piling was a small boat, and a rope ladder that led
upward. Danae squeezed her eyes hard to clear the blurriness from them;
it was so much easier to see underwater. She coughed out a mouthful of
water, then another. She listened. From above came small, happy sounds.
She called Blen's name.
The sounds stopped. "Hello?" came the tentative reply after a
moment. Danae ducked back down under the water, diving deep before
turning back toward the surface. She pushed hard against the water,
gathering as much speed as possible, and leaped upward in a fountain of
water. She cleared the edge of the platform with ease, drawing herself
forward with her hands. Drawing her legs under her, she settled down
onto her haunches, taking in the scene. There were old nets heaped up
against a piling, with canvas atop that. Light from a lamp revealed Blen
reclining on the canvas. His shirt was open, and his canvas pants were
rolled up under his head like a pillow. His legs were covered instead
with Hernorala, who was resting her head on his thigh. Both gave a
started yell, and then clutched each other.
"Stop," Danae said. She tried to focus her eyes on them, but her
eyes turned instead to the darkness, toward the sea. She could feel the
heat radiating off their bodies. How odd, that a body would be warm like
the sun, and not cool like the water.
"W-what!? W-who are you?" Blen stammered. "What ... what are you
doing here?"
Danae squeezed her eyes hard and shook her head, letting her hair
whip about. She heard Blen and Hernorala protest as cold water hit them
both, but Danae needed to clear her mind. The spell was strong because
it had to be, but Danae now needed to speak as a human, not swim as a
fish. She opened her eyes again. Hernorala was now hidden behind Blen,
who was shielding her.
"It's alright ... it ... me," Danae said. "Danae. I came ... warn
you."
"Danae?" There was shock and wonder in Blen's voice. Danae watched
his eyes as they darted back and forth, up and down, covering her entire
body. She saw recognition and awareness bloom in his expression.
"Hernorala, it's Danae, from the ship." He sat up. "Warn us? Why?"
Danae again closed her eyes for a moment. She shivered once, the
spell waning a bit. By the time she opened her eyes Hernorala had
retrieved her skirt and was using it to cover Blen's midsection.
"That ..." Danae pointed at the pink bottle of potion. "Pink ...
don't use ... Hern ... Hernorala," Danae said. "Someone ... switched."
Words were difficult, as if her throat was not meant for speaking.
"Switched ... switched the bottle?" Hernorala replied. "What do you
mean?"
"The cook. He wants your job." Danae swallowed hard to clear her
throat. "He saw ... your pink bottle. He dumped it, refilled it.
Nightfruit."
"Why would Jase do that?" Hernorala asked. A detached part of
Danae's mind filed the cook's name away for future reference.
"He wants you pregnant." Danae returned their blank stare for a
long moment, forcing herself to continue caring about these two
warm-blooded land dwellers. "He thinks if you ... are pregnant ... you
will lose your job."
Hernorala and Blen looked at each other for a long moment, then
Hernorala rested her head on Blen's hip. Blen turned toward Danae, a
slight smile on his face.
"He's too late," Blen said. "We got married tonight. We came out
here to celebrate."
Danae blinked. Her shivering stopped, and a slow smile graced her
blue lips.
"I love Blen," Hernorala said, "and I already have Captain
Tennent's permission to join the crew. I'll be coming with you. Jase can
have my job."
"And as for the pink potion," Blen added, looking down at his wife,
"I think we can work around that." Hernorala smiled broadly and kissed
his hip.
"Good." Danae found herself staring out to sea again. Suddenly the
urge to swim hit her like a mallet. She turned toward the edge of the
ramshackle shelter and leaned forward.
"Thank you, Danae!" Blen's words caught her before she could dive
over. She turned back to the entwined couple. "Thank you for warning us.
I'm glad you can be happy with us."
Danae stared at the two, but they were just two land animals now,
hot and strange. She turned back to the water. Below her, she caught
sight of her own reflection in the dancing water. Dusky blue skin and
wide, slitted eyes stared back at her. Her hair was matted and green,
and the slope of her shoulders and breasts were plated with iridescent
scales. She looked just like her grandmother had looked, the last time
Danae, or anyone else, had ever seen her. Now Danae leaned over and
slipped back into the water.
Danae turned and swam away from the pilings. Her initial task
complete, she now felt a different urge: hunger. Danae knew that the
spell only lasted so long; the soup and the stew she had fed it would
keep her alive only for a while in the frigid sea. The spell had to be
fed, and what it was fed determined what future the spell bearer would
live. Flesh or fowl, root or leaf, all these foods were fine, so long as
they grew above the waterline. But fish or seaweed were a different
matter.
A memory flashed across her consciousness: her grandmother bobbing
in the waves, green hair flowing across her bare shoulders. She'd had a
distant look on her face and a fish clenched between her teeth. Danae
had known even then what her grandmother was feeling, having felt that
same urge herself. Now that same hunger seized her again. Over and over
she repeated in her mind the warnings her father had given her of not
eating fish while under the spell, but the words seemed more and more
strange, mere sounds without true meaning. Her fish mind didn't care.
She was free now, free to swim and taste the world. Ahead the water was
lit again, and she was there in a thought, circling around the strange,
slow thing. She bumped it and scratched it. Dimly her mammalian mind
told her it must be the passenger barge, coming in to dock. Cold
curiosity seized her, and she surfaced to take a look. The lights burned
her great eyes, and the water called again, but curiosity held her aloft
for a long moment. The revelers onboard stood stunned, drinks in hand,
and stared back. The one woman dropped her glass and pointed.
"Nisheg!" She screamed. "It's the nisheg!" The call was taken up in
an instant by the others, but Danae didn't care. She dropped back into
the water and swam off.
Danae didn't remember catching the fish. She remembered heading for
shore, and she remembered leaping easily from the water to the top of
the piling. It was only then that she noticed the fish in her hands. It
was still wriggling, impaled on the talons that her fingernails had
become. It was otherwise intact, but only part of her mind cared about
that now. She was going to eat it. She looked across the water at the
ship docked not a chain away. It was the Friendly Lion. Captain Tennent
stood on the deck, staring in her general direction. He must have heard
the splash she had made, but he could not see her in the darkness. Danae
didn't want him to see her, even though she had come to bid him goodbye.
Her father had yelled and screamed when she had left her village as
a girl of fifteen. Standing on the deck of the monthly trading ship as
it pulled away from dock, she had watched as he helplessly shouted and
cursed at her. His curses turned to pleading as the distance grew, and
then to wailing, and then faded away completely. The last words Danae
could make out were the ancient chant of warning against eating fish.
Then he was gone. Now Danae was leaving again, but there was no one to
call for her, no one to warn her. All that lingered were deep, cold
thoughts that didn't want to be warned, that just wanted to eat and go,
but still she sat and watched.
"It was inevitable," Danae's mind told her. "The women of your
family always leave. Your mother left you when she died, your
grandmother left for a life in the ocean, and you left your father
behind. You have no choice, really; it's in your blood. You always
leave."
But there was still a part of her that didn't want to leave, not
really. She hadn't wanted Blen to leave; that was why she had gone out
to warn them. Now he wouldn't be leaving, but he would bring in another
person to the crew. What would she be then? Did the Friendly Lion really
need two junior crew? It was probably best if she left. The sea would
welcome her home.
With a fluid motion Danae dropped off the piling and into the
water. She slipped over to the side of the Friendly Lion, touching her
hull and tasting the flavor of her wood in the water. Danae could also
smell the blood from the fish still in her hand. Slowly she drifted to
the surface, her head breaking the waterline just beside the anchor
rope. There she floated, lost between two worlds. She wanted to swim
away; she wanted to go back onboard and continue her life. She wanted
the sea; she wanted warmth and dry clothes. She wanted an end.
A movement caught her eye. From the darkness a rat swam into sight.
It was coming from shore, and was heading for the nearby anchor rope. As
Danae watched, the rat reached the rope and hauled itself out of the
water, climbing upward. It hesitated at the old ratcatcher, sniffing
about for a hole in the oft-mended device. It wants in, but it doesn't
want to get caught, Danae thought, just like me. She then slipped back
under the water, leaving behind only a ripple.
The rat looked down briefly, then continued to search for a way in.
Suddenly, below it, the water erupted. There was a squeak, and the rat
was gone. After a moment Captain Tennent looked over the railing. All he
saw was a dead fish floating on the water.
Dawn found Captain Tennent mending sails just outside the cabin
door. The docks were quietly busy, and the sky slate grey. He turned
when the cabin door opened. In the dimness of the small cabin stood
Danae. She paused there a moment, shielding her eyes with her hand, then
she looked down at her body. The morning light revealed dusky brown skin
from chest to feet. Here and there were traces of black lines. Once
continuous, they were now only fragments.
"Welcome back," Tennent said simply.
Danae stared at him a moment. "Captain."
"I fetched your clothes for you. They're under my bunk."
"Thank you."
"Blen came by to ask about you. I told him you came back early last
night." He tugged the needle through the canvas.
"I ..." Danae ran her hand through her short hair, plucking out
seaweed. "Thank you."
Tennent looped the needle back through the sailcloth. "You hear
such crazy things on the docks these days. There's a rumor going around
that a bunch of drunks from the Old City saw the sea hag's daughter last
night down by the new baths. Said she came right up to their barge and
nearly swamped it. Crazy, huh?"
"Yes, sir. Crazy."
"Of course those landlubbers called it a nisheg, but what do you
expect, eh?"
"Sir?"
"Never mind. I also wanted to mention that Hernorala will be
joining the crew as cook. You'll be in the rigging now." His voice
softened a bit. "If you don't mind."
"Not at all." Her voice was still rough, and she could taste salt
on her lips.
"Thank you for your efforts last night. Blen explained what you
did."
Danae tried to stifle a yawn, then surrendered to it. It felt good,
felt animal.
"He would have done it for me."
"As would we all."
She smiled. "Thank you, sir."
He nodded. "Good. That'll do."
Danae stood a moment longer, tracing the faded, broken lines on her
thighs. She took a deep breath. "Captain?"
"Yes?"
"Would you mind doing me a favor?"
========================================================================
The Great Houses War
Part 6: Master of the North
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<NWansbutterEsq@gmail.com>
Yuli 23 - Ober 30, 901
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6
Part 5 of this story was printed in DargonZine 20-1
Duke Valeran Northfield was thoroughly soaked with rain water by
the time he reached the sheltered confines of his pavilion. Despite the
downpour, he had wanted to ensure that the sentries were posted and his
army's encampment safe. He had been satisfied with the results of his
inspection, and thought that, with any luck, the enemy did not know that
he was here. If things stayed that way until dawn, he calculated that he
could launch a devastating surprise attack and win an important city for
his wife Aendasia's cause to rescue the crown from the usurper Dara, her
late cousin Caeron's wife.
It was still quite warm, as the rain had only begun while the army
was setting up camp. He did not mind a summer soaking too much after a
long, hot, dusty day of marching. He threw his drenched cloak aside and
stood over the map laid out on a table in one corner. After the disaster
the previous summer at Dargon Keep, where Emmeline Arval had withdrawn
her army and Duke Asbridge had been soundly defeated by Duke Sumner
Dargon in the ensuing confusion, things had looked troublesome for those
loyal to the as yet uncrowned but true Queen of Baranur. Duchess Arval
now campaigned on the side of the pretender queen, Dara, and had
completely removed loyalist forces from the northern marches, which was
why Valeran now had to move north away from Magnus.
Valeran had been enraged at the insult of insurrection that had
been hurled at his beautiful wife Aendasia. Before marrying him, she had
been wife to the Beinisonian Emperor Alejandro VII, and still bore the
name Blortnikson. Partly because of this, and partly because Caeron
Tallirhan was a clever bastard, several of the Great Houses had rejected
Aendasia as their queen, despite the fact that King Stefan II had named
her his sole heir. Instead, the dead king's grandson, Caeron, had taken
power. Even when he was killed at Magnus, nigh on three years ago, his
wife, Dara, would not relinquish power. The common peasants derided
their true queen, Aendasia, when she conquered their towns.
But in the spring of 901, thanks to Emmeline Arval's treachery,
Valeran had left his wife, who was now besieging Magnus once again, to
put paid to Queen Dara's last strongholds in the northern marches. In
the past months, he had liberated what little remained traitorous of
Quinnat and most of Arvalia. He had but one task left before he turned
his eyes to the final prize in his campaign.
"So, you plan to assault Armand at first light, milord?" The soft,
dulcet tones of Lady Charissa Ethros broke his line of thought.
Valeran turned to address his vassal who must have just entered the
tent. "Indeed, I do. Ever since I received word that troops from
Lederia, under Caeron's uncle Hadrus, had moved into Othuldane this
spring, I've known that we must end this war as quickly as possible, ere
the tide that has carried us since Magnus is turned against us."
Charissa Ethros merely nodded and moved further into the tent,
letting the flap close behind her. She removed her cloak, tossed it onto
a nearby chest, and ran her fingers through her long, silky hair that
was a charming auburn only a few shades darker than Valeran's own copper
locks. Valeran's heartbeat quickened as his vassal looked at him with
her large, blue eyes. By Shilsara, she was a fantastically beautiful
woman, even more so than Aendasia ... but of course, Valeran had been
away from the marriage bed for some months now, and it seemed to take
less and less with every passing sennight to make his blood run like
molten metal through his veins.
The corner of Lady Ethros' perfect mouth crept up into a smile, or
was it a smirk? She cast a quick glance back at the tent flap, but said
no more.
Images flashed through Valeran's mind of grasping her in a
passionate embrace, tumbling to the floor and -- No, as tempting as the
image was, Valeran knew his wife was not a woman to be trifled with. He
bit his lip. Aendasia would cut his cod off with her own knife, no
doubt. Then she'd boil him in one of those dreadful cauldrons she'd
brought from Beinison, one of the same cauldrons Sir Arnulf Bankroft had
perished in after he had surrendered Narragan Keep to Aendasia. On top
of it all he'd spend more years in Gil-Pa'en being feasted upon by
Prince Rise'er than any woman was worth.
Valeran cleared his throat, which was now dry, and reached for cups
and a pitcher of wine that had been set up on another of the chests by
one of his squires. "Charissa, can I offer you a drink?"
"Of course, your grace." She took a few graceful steps forward and
reached for the brimming cup that Valeran poured.
The Duke of Northfield took a deep drink from his own cup. He
cursed having to leave Aendasia for so long. When they were together,
they could set their bed sheets afire with their passion, but when apart
for months, he felt like a man starving to death while sitting in the
centre of a banquet.
"Well, I'd best start to sum, er, things up to show the lords what
I ..." Valeran could feel the tension in the tent as if it were a
palpable thing, and could take it no more.
He let his voice trail off. Ol's blood, he sounded like a
stammering youth. For Shilsara's sake! He had bedded his first maiden
when he was but fifteen, nearly twenty years earlier. He'd known many
women in his time, but thanks to the forced abstinence, an overbearing
wife, and a distance of many leagues, he was reduced to this.
Mercifully, a small group of his barons and knights barged their
way into the tent much sooner than he had expected. He cast a dark look
at the lady Ethros. Had her plan been to seduce him, so that he could be
caught red-handed by his barons? Had Aendasia perhaps ordered the
dazzling young noble to test his resolve?
"Right." Anarr, one of Valeran's most seasoned battle-captains,
wasted no time on pleasantries. "What is your plan, your grace?"
By now most of the lords, ladies, and knights that had accompanied
his army north were assembled. Using a stick, Valeran traced a rough map
of Armand on the ground. "As you all know, Armand sits on the delta of
the Grenweir River, which is what makes it such a busy and profitable
port of trade. This also makes it a well-defended place, as it has
tributaries of the river protecting it on all sides. There are four main
gates, all of them stone, plus two motte-and-bailey keeps behind timber
palisades; one defends the ocean approach, the other the land approach."
"A formidable undertaking," Sir Lucien Enion said.
"But with the element of surprise, we have a definite advantage,"
Anarr said, nodding his head. "Port Sevlyn was better defended, and we
took that, albeit with the help of magic. Would that we still had some
sorcerers with us. But at least the traitors don't have any, either."
Yes, the loss of Isidoro Mon-Orthanier, Beinison's most powerful
sorcerer, was a blow. He had disappeared after casting a cataclysmic
spell that had helped to make a breach in the walls of Quinnat Keep and
started a fire that set much of Port Sevlyn ablaze. Even so, Valeran
felt that Anarr overstated the loss. In the overall view of things,
magic played a marginal role in battles. Far more important were things
such as morale, manpower, and bread.
"Take it we shall," Valeran said, daring any of those assembled to
contradict him. "I intend to make Baron Narragan pay for his treachery,
for defying his own liege-lady and joining with the traitors. What
better way to repay him than to take his baronial seat?"
Valeran especially wanted to punish the recalcitrant baron because
Aendasia had not allowed Valeran to attack Hawksbridge and attempt to
capture Duchess Arval. She had said she still counted the duchess among
her allies, as she did not wage open war upon Aendasia's forces.
Withdrawing her armies from the war seemed treasonous enough, Valeran
thought, but perhaps the outcry over the boiling of Bankroft and the
hanging of his garrison had forced Aendasia into a more merciful
mindset. Valeran was convinced, however, that the only way to make
Baranur finally swear fealty to their true queen was to crush all of his
wife's opponents with as much brutality as possible.
"And what of the people of Armand?" Charissa Ethros said, arching a
perfect eyebrow at Valeran.
"Malicious wanton!" he thought. Even so, he couldn't help a cursory
glance up and down her lithe body. He grit his teeth and warned himself
not to even begin down that path.
"The citizens of Armand," he sighed, "are almost as loyal to Dara
as the stubborn rabble of Magnus are."
Anarr and Lucien Enion nodded grimly, as did the others.
"Why on 'diar are people so loyal to a pretender?" a young knight,
Adele Bastonne, blurted out.
"Dara, and her husband Caeron before her, have always enjoyed the
support of the towns, even ere they were crowned," Anarr said. "I'd say
it's mostly because they think she favours trade; Caeron was generous in
granting them charters, and Dara has continued to court the guilds
without shame."
"Mostly at the behest of Duke Dargon, I'd warrant," Enion added.
"Word has it that he's been making the real decisions in her court."
Anarr shrugged. "I have heard the opposite said as well, that it
was Dara who masterminded the defection of Arval and the sally from
Dargon Keep that sent Duke Asbridge running with his tail between his
legs. Regardless, Armand has prospered since their lord, Baldwin
Narragan, switched sides. Thanks to his timing, the city has been spared
much of the destruction of the southern marches. Armand has seen little
war."
"Moreover," Valeran said. "They've always been generous with boons
to the cities. If I remember correctly, when the hospital of Holy John
of Pyridain burned down in '94, Caeron and Dara paid to have it rebuilt
with their own money. Not long after Caeron's so-called 'coronation',
they founded that Cephas' Mercy Leper Colony, not far outside Magnus'
walls. Ha! Caeron certainly didn't lose an opportunity to proselytise
while he was at it, did he?"
"Mayhap the people of Baranur are more easily won over by kindness
than by butchery?" Charissa asked.
Again, Valeran looked at the seductive noble darkly. "Empress
Aendasia has been more than generous to those who are loyal. Betrayal
does not deserve any mercy. The empress doesn't confuse religion with
politics and you'd do well to remember that."
"So, will we give Sir Thomas Pyenson, the castellan of Armand, even
the chance to surrender?" Anarr asked, tactfully changing the subject.
Valeran looked at his old ally appreciatively, "I think not. The
hills surrounding Armand will allow us to get quite close to the city
ere we are noticed. With a little luck, and some guidance from Nehru, we
can storm across the bridges and take the city before the defenders have
time to organise. Warning Pyenson by offering our terms will only keep
the city in traitorous hands longer."
Yuli 24, 901
When morning came, the rain had stopped, though the ground was
still soft and moist from the previous evening's deluge. Astride his
destrier, which pawed the ground impatiently, Valeran gave the final
orders to his battle captains and household knights. Today's battle
would be won through speed and cunning, rather than bravery, so he
declined to give to his soldiers the usual rousing speeches that reviled
the enemy and predicted victory.
The army was arrayed in an unconventional manner, with all of the
cavalry at the fore and the infantry behind them, all in a narrow
formation that looked better suited to marching than fighting, but it
would provide him with the speed he needed. His scouts had confirmed
that Armand showed no signs that anyone was aware of the Duke of
Northfield's presence, nor that of his army.
"Straight, lads," Valeran said. "The moment we crest the hill, it
will be a full gallop towards the closest gatehouse crossing the
Grenweir. Push your steeds as hard as you can; our success depends on
the cavalry making it into those gatehouses so we can keep the
drawbridges down for the infantry to cross."
His knights nodded and mumbled assent; everyone had been ordered to
keep as quiet as possible lest their presence be detected. Valeran then
looked to Anarr. "Ready, my friend?"
"Always, your grace," Anarr said without a trace of fear in his
voice.
"We move," Valeran said.
"Your grace?" One of his squires pulled up alongside the duke on
his horse, bearing Valeran's great helm which was surmounted by his
ducal crown and the Northfield white falcon crest. "Your helm?"
"Put it away, lad," Valeran said. He couldn't be encumbered any
more than need be, and on the mad gallop to the gates he'd need all of
his vision. With the gods' grace, his chainmail coif would be enough to
protect him.
He spurred his horse to a trot and moved along the road towards the
crest of the hill. As he neared the top, he could see the keep of the
motte-and-bailey castle that defended the land approach to Armand. Then
he could see the wooden palisade surrounding it, then the gatehouse that
was his target.
"For Northfield! For the empress!" he shouted, and dug the spurs on
his boots deep into his mount's sides, sending the creature forward into
a gallop. Valeran stood in the stirrups and guided the horse towards the
gatehouse. The thunder of hooves filled his ears as the knights
following him joined in the charge. A cool wind washed over Valeran's
face at the speed with which the horse charged onwards. His heart began
to pound in his chest as he drew nearer and nearer to Armand.
Peasants working the fields around the city looked up at the
rolling thunder created by hundreds of pounding hooves. A farmer
directly ahead of Valeran dropped his hoe and turned to flee towards the
city. Others scattered in all directions, trying desperately to escape
the charging army. Valeran saw a plump young farming girl fall; she then
disappeared below the closely-pressed bodies of horses.
Valeran's steed was strong, the best warhorse that one of Baranur's
most powerful dukes could procure. He started to pull away from his
knights, but he dared not slow his pace any. He was but a hundred
strides away from the gatehouse before he heard the clanging of bells
over the din of the charging horses. The drawbridge leading into the
gatehouse jerked and began to move upwards.
Valeran urged his horse onward, with both spurs and words. He
shouted a wild battle cry as the beast leapt up over the lip of the
partially raised drawbridge. Next, the clatter of iron-shod hooves on
wood reached Valeran's ears as his horse and several others charged down
into the belly of the gatehouse. Soldiers dressed in the white and blue
colours of Baron Narragan lunged at him from both sides.
Valeran dispatched the closest with a quick thrust of his sword to
the throat. The man fell backwards gurgling, a splash of bright red
blood making macabre artwork on the stone wall. Another soldier grabbed
for the reins of Valeran's horse, only to have his skull caved in by the
flailing hooves of the frantic destrier.
He looked about him and counted that only about a dozen of his
knights had made it into the gatehouse. Expecting that Armand's
gatehouse was designed in the same fashion as most, he ordered a
contingent of his men to one of the gate mechanisms while he found his
way towards the other. He had to duck as his horse carried him down a
side corridor. The soldiers manning the drawbridge were still turning
the cogwheel that raised the bridge. Valeran slashed, breaking the arms
of one soldier below the elbows, then cracked the other one's pate with
the backswing. The man-at-arms who'd had his arms wrecked thrashed about
on the ground, screaming.
"Traitors deserve no better," Valeran thought. He hopped off his
horse and released the winch that sent the drawbridge thundering to the
ground again. Shouts and the clamour of booted feet charging down the
corridor reached his ears. A few enemy must have made it past his
knights. His horse whinnied and lashed out with its hind hooves to the
accompaniment of screams of a different timbre.
Valeran swung about to face his opponents. He removed his shield
from the horse's saddle and moved in. His mount continued to kick
backwards with something approaching panic as it was cornered. Two more
of the Narragan soldiers were knocked down by the blows, leaving only
one, whom Valeran knocked unconscious with a whack from his shield.
He could hear the clatter of hooves and the shouts of more of his
own troops as they entered the gatehouse. Then the grinding of the
drawbridge on the other side of the gatehouse being lowered reached his
ears.
He guided his horse backwards down the hallway, then remounted in
the main part of the small keep. He cheered his knights on as they
rushed past him into the city. Anarr pulled up next to him.
"Excellent work, your grace!"
"Mayhap we don't need magic after all!" Valeran shouted back.
"Ensure those
battering rams get through here quickly; I want the wooden
palisade of the first keep breached ere we lose the surprise."
Before long, the duke's battering ram was rumbling along the
drawbridge and into the city. Valeran had taken up a position at the top
of the gatehouse that he'd captured. From that vantage point, he could
see one of his knights chasing down a group of three Narragan
men-at-arms. They fled between the buildings that had grown beyond the
protection of the bailey that defended the city. One of Valeran's own
men-at-arms kicked in the door of a shop and charged inside, while
others lit torches and hurled them at the palisade and onto thatch
roofs. Next to one plaster and timber house, a skilled Northfield archer
dressed in blue livery took aim and loosed his arrow, dropping a
defending bowman on the wooden palisade. His place was taken by another
Narragan archer who fired a crossbow bolt back at the attackers. Flames
erupted on the wooden palisade that protected the keep not far away as
flaming arrows struck it.
Once the battering ram made it to the gate, Valeran knew that the
motte-and-bailey castle would not stand for long. He returned to the
ground floor, where a squire was holding his horse. Mounting it, he
charged across the bridge and rejoined the fray. The battering ram
smashed through the palisade gates and his troops surged into the
bailey.
The rest of the battle from that point forwards was a confusion of
blood, flames, and screams. The defenders of the stone keep had sold
their lives dearly, and Valeran and his men had had to fight from room
to room before the enemy finally succumbed. At one point he remembered
seeing Anarr cradling the wounded Lucien Enion in his arms. He wasn't
sure where or when he saw that, but he did remember thinking about how
Anarr and Enion were good friends who had grown up together, serving
Valeran's father before him.
He recalled the horrid stench of burning flesh as the defenders of
the second keep dumped boiling oil on his troops, mere paces away from
where Anarr fought with a knight wearing a tabard with a white field
parted per tierce with a blue bar.
The final memory he kept from that long day of battle was that of
Adele Bastonne standing atop the last gatehouse to fall, bearing aloft
the banner of Aendasia.
"Now all that lies between Aendasia -- and me, for that matter --
and the crown, is Dargon," Valeran said, placing a foot on a piece of
rubble and casting his gaze over Armand's harbour, now under his
command.
"Bah," Anarr spat, then thrust his sword into the ground. "What
does it matter, in the end? It's all death and destruction anyway."
Valeran was surprised to hear such a thing from his old comrade.
"Come now, Anarr, what kind of talk is that?"
Anarr looked up at him. "We've left bodies strewn across Baranur;
the stench of stiffening corpses has thickened the air for five years
now. It will continue for who knows how long ... I grow weary of it
all."
The Duke of Northfield had never seen such behaviour from his
vassal. Perhaps the war was getting long; Valeran knew he hated having
to live as a celibate for eight months out of every year while being on
campaign. "All the more reason to end it quickly."
"Perhaps if we still had magic --"
"Ah, you're not still on about that, are you, Anarr?"
"Fark!" Anarr stood and pulled his sword violently from the ground.
"Are we going to put this town to the torch, or shall we coddle this
particular band of traitors instead?"
"Anarr," Valeran put a hand on the battle captain's shoulder. "I
have never seen you thus before. Has the loss of Lucien wounded you that
deeply?"
Anarr would not meet Valeran's eyes. "Even a good shield will crack
after many blows of a heavy mace."
"That may be true, but I know you are made of stronger metal than
that. Think you that I've made no sacrifices in this war? And I will
make more still ere this war ends, but Aendasia *will* wear the crown,
as is her right."
Anarr merely grunted in response, and it was close to a mene before
he spoke again. "Well, are we going to put this town to the torch, or
no?"
Valeran cast a long glance over the tiled roofs of wealthy
merchants who had grown fat from the war; the gilt temples and churches;
the crates of goods and casks of fine Lederian red wine and Sarna's
Blood from Beinison piled high at the harbour. Yes, this city had
prospered from Baron Narragan's treachery. He clenched his fists in
remembrance of the citizens of Magnus, safe behind their walls, cursing
Aendasia for a queenie and a Beinisonian whore. He had little doubt the
people of Armand would have done the same if walls like those around
Magnus shielded them. Even so, they were only civilians. Most of them
were just following their lord. And what fate might meet Valeran in
Gil-Pa'en if he gave the order that was politically most expedient?
"I don't know, Anarr. Personally, I'm opposed to killing any
civilians, and yet we can't let rebellion go unpunished."
"Don't make Caeron's mistake of being led around by the
soft-hearted sympathies of religion," Anarr said. "Politics and religion
don't mix. Caeron learned that the hard way at Magnus."
"You're right," Valeran said. In a war, one had to do what would
lead to victory, even if it wasn't always right. "Raze it to the
ground."
"I'll do it," Anarr said. "My knights and I will stay behind while
you move the rest of the army out. Mightn't hurt to set them to a bit of
plundering first. That is, after all, the reason a lot of them follow
you into battle."
Valeran was about to rebuke Anarr and the grizzled warrior's
newfound cynicism, but knew that he was likely correct. "So be it. Then
on to Dargon."
Over the next two months, Valeran's army moved northeast through
the foothills dividing Narragan and Dargon, then into the lands of the
last of his enemies. Endeirion fell quickly to him. He razed the town
and scattered its inhabitants. When word reached him that Connall Dargon
was near Winthrop with an army, he veered off his course that would have
led through the Barony of Fennell and headed towards the Darst Range. He
was unable to draw Connall into a pitched battle, however, despite
chasing him for a fortnight.
Tired of the enemy's constant withdrawals, Valeran laid a short
siege on Winthrop Keep. This ended when Dyann Winthrop surrendered after
realising that Connall Dargon was not willing to engage the Northfield
forces and no other army could give him aid. Baron Talador moved north
from his lands with a modest force that he offered to Valeran. The Duke
of Northfield did not particularly trust the man, but accepted the fresh
troops willingly, for it gave him more than a large enough force to move
on the city of Dargon itself.
The east bank of the Coldwell River fell easily enough, as it was
not fortified, but even the Old City seemed within his grasp within a
sennight. Perhaps even Dargon Keep would fall soon, he thought.
Ober 30, 901
Indeed, the old part of the city of Dargon, the only portion of the
place that was fortified, save the keep, fell quickly to Valeran
Northfield's forces as he had expected. He now stood atop the
battlements of those very fortifications, looking up at Dargon Keep, his
battle commanders gathered behind him.
"How long will the second seige of Dargon Keep last, I wonder?" The
soft tones of Charissa Ethros' voice tickled Valeran's ears.
"Were we to storm the keep tomorrow morning, it would not be soon
enough," Valeran said darkly. He wanted the war and the killing over
with. He felt a pain deep in his stomach over what he'd done to Armand
and Endeirion. It was the right decision for bringing Aendasia the
crown, he was convinced, but he didn't feel justified.
"It is no small obstacle, to be sure," Anarr said. "Each of the
three main towers could withstand any assault our army could muster."
Valeran sighed, too quietly for his battle captain to hear, or so
he hoped. It would not do to show any lack of resolve. He turned his
back to the imposing castle and faced the assembled lords, ladies, and
knights. As ever, Charissa Ethros was at the forefront. Even in her
chainmail gambeson, he could make out the delicious curve of her hips
and long shapely legs. Swallowing, Valeran cast his glance over the
others assembled and returned his mind to the matter at hand.
"Nevertheless, this keep shall fall. We shall starve them out, for
they have nowhere to go. Connall Dargon does not yet have the forces to
lift this seige, and the Lady Dara is quickly running out of supporters.
Indeed, this is her last stronghold; she has nowhere to flee to."
"But as you say," Charissa said, "Connall Dargon does not *yet*
have a large enough force. He is likely calling out every last vassal
House Tallirhan has to call upon to lift this seige."
"That is of little concern," Valeran said, "for Baron Bastonne is,
as we speak, gathering my vassals and will be here before the next
Melrin festival, I trust. No doubt the empress will send a contingent of
her Beinisonians north with him, as we have the viper trapped in its
nest now."
"So, all that is left of this war is waiting, then?" Dame Adele
Bastonne said.
"The southern marches, save Magnus, are ours. All of Dargon, save
Dargon Keep itself and a few scattered baronies, is ours. Baroness
Fennell is trapped in her barony, unable to join with Connall Dargon.
Yes, it is but a matter of waiting."
Valeran purposely did not mention the Lederian forces that had
moved into Othuldane and now Redcrosse. On the twentieth of Ober, he had
received word that those forces had crossed the Winink River into
Redcrosse. As such, he and Aendasia could count on little support from
Monrodya or any of the other northern duchies allied with the royalist
cause. On the other hand, it would take a long time for King Hadrus to
fight his way west to Dargon, certainly much longer than it would take
Baron Bastonne to arrive.
His eyes fell upon Charissa Ethros; she was smiling at him. Perhaps
it was a knowing smile; she knew about the Lederians, as well. Or
perhaps she knew how she could bewitch men, Valeran not least of them.
"Your grace, look!" Valeran looked to the knight who had spoken and
followed the man's outstretched arm back to Dargon Keep. A man-at-arms
was waving a white flag from one of the battlements, signalling that
someone from within the keep wished to come out to negotiate. Perhaps
Dara had finally realised that it was pointless to fight any longer and
she sought to surrender?
"Anarr, take some of your knights and escort whichever worthy comes
to speak with us to my headquarters."
For the first time in five years, since before the war started,
Valeran Northfield was face-to-face with Sumner Dargon, Duke of Dargon.
He was as Valeran remembered him: quite unremarkable. He was of about
average height, with brown hair giving way to grey, and a placid face.
It seemed ironic that the most influential lord in the usurper's court
would be so average.
"My good Lord Sumner," Valeran did not rise from his seat behind
the desk in the commandeered merchant's home. "I would greet you as a
friend, save that you have betrayed your queen."
"I have not betrayed House Tallirhan, the rightful rulers of this
land," Dargon replied.
That reply made Valeran's blood boil, but he maintained an
outwardly calm mask. "Come now, the last rightful Tallirhan ruler, King
Stefan II, explicitly made Aendasia his heir."
"We both know that no vassal is required to obey an unjust order.
King Stefan, may God assoil him, was half-made ere he died, and
vindictive towards his grandson and his heirs because they were -- are
-- Stevenics."
Valeran chuckled. "'May God assoil him' -- you are starting to
sound like a Stevenic, yourself! Could it be you have apostatised
yourself from the Olean faith as Caeron did?"
"I am true to Ol and the whole pantheon," Dargon countered, "and I
find it highly ironic that I am defending my faith to a man who has
burned and pillaged his way through Narragan and Dargon."
"Come now, Sumner," Valeran replied. "I keep my faith and my
politics separate, which is why I am on the side near victory. You can
save the high-and-mighty attitude; Oleanism has no place in running a
country."
Despite his outward bombast, Valeran felt that his adversary had
scored a hit there and it irked him all the more. Valeran remembered the
crackle of the flames over Armand and the scream of women as they fled
his troops. Was he any better than Rise'er the butcher king who now
ruled over the Olean underworld? He took several deep breaths before
continuing; he would not let Sumner Dargon get the better of him in this
exchange. Dargon, only a second generation duke, compared to Valeran who
was the forty-third duke of Northfield. This traitor who lectured him on
morals!
"Enough." Valeran waved a dismissive hand. "What is it you're here
for, Lord Dargon? To finally surrender to the rightful queen and end
this bloody war?"
Dargon pulled a face of mock surprise. "Why, my lord Northfield, I
had not expected you to give in so easily. But if you wish to surrender
to the rightful ruler, Queen Dara, then --"
"Don't play games with me, Sumner!" Valeran suddenly exploded. He
grit his teeth and clutched the arms of his chair. When he had seen that
his enemy's most trusted advisor had come to negotiate, he'd had hopes
that he might see his wife by year's end. How he longed for her! But
Duke Dargon's insults did not bode well. "It is Lady Dara's surrender to
*me* that we are here to discuss!"
"Is it?"
"If not, then what have you come here for?"
Duke Dargon cleared his throat. "I have been ordered by Queen Dara
to offer you a last chance to swear fealty to her. She has ordered that
if you repudiate allegiance to the Duchess of Northfield, she will
overlook your past transgressions and --"
"Now you really are joking, Dargon!" Valeran shot to his feet. "Has
Dara gone completely mad, or have you?"
"It is not madness," Duke Dargon replied. "We will win this war,
eventually. The queen is being most ... benevolent ... and offering you
this final chance."
"Let us be realistic, Dargon," Valeran said. "We both know that you
are on the brink of defeat. You are in no position to offer *me* terms
of surrender. Surely you can do better than that."
"We have both seen many campaigns," Dargon said, his tone becoming
more deferential. "Certainly we can reach some compromise."
"I can hardly think of anything I would accept short of your
surrender."
"Let Queen Dara leave Dargon Keep peacefully, and allow her safe
conduct to the lands held by King Hadrus of Lederia, and I will
surrender Dargon Keep to you." Duke Dargon had a pained look on his face
as he spoke the words, such that Valeran believed he spoke truth this
time.
"What manner of fool do you take me for?" he said, filling his
voice with venom. "The war is this close to being won. Why should I
allow Dara to escape my grasp?"
"What harm can it do you?"
"Allow her to prance about pretending she's queen a while longer?
Perhaps give her a chance to find some more allies? No, as unlikely as I
think there is any chance of that, I will not allow her to leave."
"Then I suppose we have nothing more to discuss," Duke Dargon said.
"Wait!" Valeran shouted. "You said something of compromise. I will
not allow Dara to roam free, but what if I were to promise that she
would not be harmed upon surrendering the crown, and could live under
house arrest in Crown Castle?"
He wondered whether Aendasia would honour such a deal. He didn't
have the authority to make such an offer, but he was willing to take the
risk if it meant getting home this year. He'd had enough of campaigning,
enough of being away from the marriage bed, especially with that wanton
Charissa Ethros lurking about like a hunting cat. Thinking of her made
his hands tremble as he clutched the table. No, Aendasia certainly would
not accept that! He'd spend the rest of his days as a eunuch, or worse.
"No, she is the true queen; she cannot surrender the crown," Duke
Dargon said simply, then strode out of the room before Valeran could say
any more.
"Ol's balls!" he cursed. Dargon had gotten the better of him; he
had gotten under Valeran's skin. Worst of all, Valeran had shown to his
enemy his weakness: that he wanted the war over. Dargon's resolve had
seemed like that of a stone. Valeran *would* have to starve Dara out of
that keep. Part of him wanted to vent his fury by ordering an assault on
the castle walls, but he remembered the result when his wife Aendasia
had done just that at Magnus.
"Damn them!"
"I take it the negotiations did not go as you had planned, your
grace?"
The seductive female voice was sweet to his ears as a good goblet
of claret was to the tongue. He didn't need to look up to know that the
lithe form of Charissa Ethros was gliding towards him through the
doorway. The scent of fresh jasmine reached his nostrils and he could
feel his chest tighten.
She slid onto the table, sitting on it, stretching one long leg
luxuriously along the far edge of it. She had changed from her chainmail
and tabard into a silky-soft green dress. Her auburn hair hung down to
rest on the table.
Now Valeran did raise his eyes to look at her. Her large, blue eyes
locked with his. His mouth and throat were suddenly very dry. Ol's
balls, why did she have to come here now? He swallowed with effort and
asked, "What do you desire of me, Lady Ethros?"
She leaned in a little closer and whispered, "All of you, your
grace."
By Shilsara! He felt flames leap into his loins. A battle raged
within him. Part of him wanted desperately to bed the beautiful and
wholly desirable woman before him. The other part of him had a sense of
what would be the end result should he give into the first part. On the
other hand, what did it matter? He'd set his army loose to commit what
amounted to brigandage all across the northern marches. Perhaps what
mattered was that it would be just as politically unwise as morally to
have anything to do with Charissa Ethros. "I am a married man, as you
well know, my lady. Married to your queen and empress!"
She did not say anything for a few moments; instead the smile, the
smirk he had seen before on her, crept onto those perfect lips. "Ah
well, perhaps you are right. Mayhap it would be better for you to wait
another six months before you make use of your manhood again."
"Shilsara's Bed!" Valeran cursed. "What is wrong with you? What do
you want? You could have any man in the camp!"
"I suppose that, milord, is the problem."
She moved off the table, but arched her back as she did so in such
a way that the shape of her wonderfully firm buttocks was made quite
apparent through the dress she wore. Valeran could take no more; he no
longer cared about consequences! He'd been seduced by this woman long
enough, fought the urge despite being away from Aendasia nigh on eight
months. He had done his duty; he owed Aendasia no more. It was her fault
anyway for ordering him to this faraway duchy while she remained in the
southern marches. He'd already given up every moral he'd held and
ordered the murder of countless innocents for Aendasia's crown.
He raced around the table, past Charissa Ethros, and slammed the
door shut. She let out a soft gasp, but as he turned to face her he
could see from the inviting smile that this was exactly in her plan. He
didn't care. May he burn in Gil-Pa'en for a thousand years, he didn't
care.
When it was all over, and Valeran's ravenous hunger finally sated,
he realised what he had done. The warm afterglow of the act receded in
an instant and he was left feeling both guilty and terrified. He'd done
exactly what he'd been so desperately trying to avoid: he'd mixed
religion with politics, allowing his Olean guilt to lead him into this
disastrous liaison.
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