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DargonZine Volume 19 Issue 08
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 19
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 8
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DargonZine Distributed: 11/18/06
Volume 19, Number 8 Circulation: 642
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Fears Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Seber 12-16, 1018
The Great Houses War 3 Nicholas Wansbutter 4 Deber-8 Janis 899
========================================================================
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 19-8, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright November, 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>
As we reach the home stretch of a very productive year, I find I
can look back and divide 2006 into two very distinct segments. The year
began with a frantic push to publish the final dozen pieces of the
immense Black Idol series, a 27-chapter monsterpiece that took ten
writers three years to write, 18 months to print, and filled 14 issues.
After all that effort, it wasn't very surprising that most of our
writers felt the need to take a bit of a break in this latter half of
the year.
At the same time, right after our June writers' Summit the group
went through a number of unexpected changes brought about by the need to
more widely distribute the responsibility for leading the Dargon
Project.
Because of those two factors, DargonZine had a very quiet summer.
Nearly every one of our writers needed some time for themselves for one
reason or another, and traffic on our internal discussion list slowed to
a trickle.
Fortunately, there's still a healthy bunch of stories for us to
print. Some of our writers, like Dafydd, had quickly finished their
Black Idol commitment and begun other stories that couldn't be printed
until after that series was finished. Such is the case with this issue's
"Fears", which is mysteriously linked with DargonZine 19-5's "Dancing",
as well as his forthcoming "Sea-eyes" and "Twist". Knowing how Dafydd
works, I can tell you that it'll all culminate in dramatic fashion when
the storyline eventually reaches its final resolution.
At the same time, we had a couple other writers who weren't
involved in the Black Idol series at all, but who were busy writing
other things. Nick Wansbutter is at the top of that list, and his
nine-part "Great Houses War", which began in June's DargonZine 19-6 and
resumes in this issue, will continue to appear in issues throughout
2007.
So although things have been quiet lately, you can continue to
expect a stream of issues with great new stories. Dafydd and Nick will
both appear again in our next issue, which will be out in mid-December,
after which we'll take a brief holiday break before beginning our world
record 23rd year of bringing you the best amateur fiction on the
Internet.
========================================================================
Fears
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Seber 12-16, 1018
"Loop a past gain, fall oh hid by tail." Meekee's fingers followed
his words as he made the twine move like he'd been taught. He could
barely see them, but his dad and brother had learned him good. He bent
his neck further and looked at the finished knot on his shoulder. The
scrap of cloth he had found behind Margant's rag-shop, with only a few
holes and a tear in it, was going to make a perfect cape now that it was
attached to his shoulders by the right knots. Lots of overs and unders
and crosses, nice and showy, and nice and tight. Like his kin had taught
him, before their ship hadn't returned.
Meekee twisted his neck the other way and grabbed up another bit of
twine. Biting his lip between chanting his moves, he tied a second knot
just as good as the first. He swung his shoulders and felt the cape move
on his back. He knew he looked just like the captain of Dad's ship,
standing in the wind, cape flapping behind him. Important people wore
capes, so it must be true that you were important if you wore a cape.
Meekee knew he was important, and now so would everyone else.
He looked around the empty room he lived in. Candle stubs,
scavenged like his rag-cape, burned in all four corners and showed how
clean the space was. Meekee didn't like clutter or dirt. His mother had
taught him to clean before she'd died, told him how important clean was.
Once she'd left, he had cleaned for his dad and brother, waiting for the
day he could go to sea with them. At six he'd been too young. At seven,
they'd disappeared. At nine he was a shadow boy, keeping his abandoned
room clean so the rats and spiders couldn't hide and sneak up on him.
Meekee didn't like rats and spiders, and he didn't like being
alone. But he didn't like the dark more, and it was dark now. Barlid,
the shadow boy he shared his lair with, was out in the dark on an
errand. Meekee hoped that when he got older, like Barlid, he wouldn't be
afraid of the dark anymore. Or afraid of spiders, or horses, or the sea,
or death.
The room's door creaked as it opened, and Barlid walked in with a
huge smile on his face. He said, "Still cowering in your den, eh,
Meekee? Well, we'll have to do something about that!"
Barlid was tall and good looking, and he was good at keeping his
clothes tidy and his hair neat. He made a good role model for the
younger Meekee, who had learned all about being a shadow boy from him.
Most nights, Barlid came home from his errands with a bag of pickings,
but this time his hands were empty. Meekee wondered why Barlid was
smiling so much if he hadn't scavenged anything. Then he noticed the
round, puckered, red wound on Barlid's right temple that gleamed wetly
in the candlelight.
"You ... You did it, didn't you?" he asked.
Barlid's fingers went to his temple, and he nodded. "I did, Meekee,
I did. It was painless and quick, and I feel fantastic!"
"The Kiss of Courage," said Meekee with awe in his voice.
Barlid's smile calmed and an intensity came into his eyes as he
looked at Meekee. "It's all they said and more. It's a feeling of
lightness, of freedom. Like you're a giant, invincible! Come with me,
Meekee, come with me right now. They said to bring my friends along.
You'll love it. Trust me!"
Meekee trusted Barlid, but he didn't know if he trusted the Kiss.
There were all kinds of rumors in the shadows, and they weren't all
good. Not to mention that he would have to go out in the dark.
Meekee felt something on his hand. He looked down and saw a
longedy-leggedy spider crawling on the back of his hand. He shouted in
disgust and flicked his hand hard against the wall. The spider flew off
before he hit the jagged bricks and scratched himself. Barlid roared
with laughter, strode over, and stomped the spider without hesitating.
Looking at the stain on the floor, Meekee made his decision.
Lord Janid sat at his highly-polished desk in his richly-appointed
office and carefully inked the date -- Seber 13, 1018 -- into his
ledger. It was part of his nightly ritual of noting his profits, a
pastime he thoroughly enjoyed. He had a goblet of fine wine to his left,
and a plate of bread and slices of meat and cheese to his right as a
late snack. In front of the ledger was a pile of purses and pouches,
each one lumpy with coin and marked with a different symbol. If all went
as it usually did, he would be up past the fifth bell of night counting
his spoils.
Janid began to work through the piles of bags. He lifted one, the
symbol on its side telling him that it was from Sir Bansk. He spilled
its contents out and rapidly totaled up the value of the coins, then
picked up the folded parchment, opened it up, and read the small, neat
letters it bore. Nodding to himself, he inked his quill and made the
appropriate notation of the bribe in the correct column of the ledger.
He opened the proper drawer in his desk and put the coins inside,
slipping the refolded parchment into the slot reserved for requests he
had decided not to honor. Then he drew out a small slip of parchment and
noted on it that Sir Bansk had contact with the Children of Oak, a
fringe faction who desperately wanted to put their views before the
duke. He sanded the parchment to dry the ink, then put the slip into his
drawer of secrets for further investigation.
The symbol on the next pouch he examined told Janid that it had
come from the custom house on the deep-water docks. It contained several
rolled sheets of parchment along with both copper and silver coins. He
quickly read the parchments, making notes of his own from the
information his agent had provided on incoming and outgoing goods, as
well as rumors from other lands. For Janid, information was as useful as
money in his quest to climb the ranks of nobility.
Janid continued opening and cataloging the bags. He paused at times
to sip his wine or take a bite from a leftwich; he was in no hurry to
finish. In one, along with the proceeds of the sale of one of the forged
authentication documents that his agents sold to merchants with goods of
questionable quality, was a rumor about Lady Samkar, the wife of Lord
Casolis, who was one of the more popular and influential members of the
duke's court, carrying on shamefully with her bodyguard. Janid hastily
wrote out several notes of his own: one indicating Samkar as a blackmail
subject; one to remind him to let Lord Stangol, who had an interest in
Casolis' wife, know, for the right price, that Lady Samkar was not
totally loyal to her husband; and one to let the right parties at court
know of the problems of both Lord Casolis and Lord Stangol, at the
appropriate time, of course.
Janid's influence at court was steadily rising thanks to
judiciously applied rumors like that one. He intended to get himself a
title that came with a grant of land so that he could move away from the
squalor of life in the city of Dargon. He intended for his future
children, once he found a suitable wife, to receive an inheritance worth
having.
His plate and goblet were empty, and the pile had dwindled almost
to nothing when Janid lifted the pouch identified by the symbol for the
Court of Trees. He chuckled to himself at how inappropriate that name
for the Old City marketplace was now; a low marble plinth had replaced
the last dying tree just a month ago, during the troubles after the
causeway accident, when it had toppled over onto a stall of glassware.
The plinth joined the score of others marking the alders that had given
the space its name. He opened the drawstring and emptied the contents
onto his desk. His practiced eye counted eight Bits and two Rounds, even
as his attention was caught by something that looked like no coin he had
ever seen. It was the size of a Round, but it was a dull grey, like
lead, and not silver or shiny grey like it should have been. It did
glint, but with a sickly, green sheen.
Janid reached out and plucked it up between two fingers. He could
feel some kind of markings on its dull sides and he brought it up to his
face to examine the thing more closely. As he did so, he felt something
crawling on his hand. He looked and saw a longedy-leggedy spider there.
Even as he wondered where such a childish term had come from, another
spider appeared, and another, and another. Before he could react they
were crawling out of the round thing by the score, crawling up his arm
and down his body and all over him.
He tried to drop the strange coin and shake them off, but somehow
he was covered in webs and couldn't move a muscle. Writhing in disgust,
spurred on by terror, he tried to fight the paralysis, straining to move
his fingers, his arm, his mouth; nothing worked. The spiders scuttled
around and over him, their legs scritching and scratching his skin,
their bodies brushing against his eyelids and nose and lips.
Janid felt the first nip at his fingertip, and then they were
biting him all over, everywhere, even through three layers of cloth. He
tried to scream, but no noise left his throat. He nevertheless continued
to shriek in silent terror, on and on, until his heart burst and he
didn't need to scream any more.
Cefn an'Derrin walked down the street in the bright Seber morning.
His fear of the stares he usually garnered in public had wrestled with
his fear of the emptiness in his townhouse, and the latter had won. Some
days he could bear the echoing silence, but this wasn't one of them.
Cefn was a mage of some power, and he had lived in the city of
Dargon for many, many years, which had still not been long enough for
everyone to get used to his appearance. As he looked out of the cowl he
always wore in public and saw the shocked stares of the people walking
by, he knew that they saw nothing but blackness inside that cowl. He
often wished he had a better way of protecting his magic-damaged eyes
from light, but that ostentatious symbol of strangeness was all he had
yet managed.
As he looked back at the starers, he thought again how separate
they all were from him. They didn't know his face, only his robed form.
He walked like a specter through the city streets, causing fear as he
went but seldom interacting with any but a few. It was almost as if he
lived in a city of his own, never actually coming into contact with the
place those gawkers dwelled. He might well inhabit his own order of
form, the different levels of reality he at times explored with his
magic that existed coterminously with the physical world.
He knew his thoughts were mere fancy, only illusion. It couldn't be
denied, however, that the number of people who knew what he looked like
without his cowl was diminishing. Once, his apprentice, Mahr, had lived
in his townhouse with him and known his face as well as he'd known hers.
Then had come Je'lanthra'en: first a means to an end, and then a
companion and friend when Mahr had been lost between those different
layers of reality called the orders of form. He rarely welcomed casual
visitors to his home because of the secrets and artifacts he hoarded,
though there had been a few callers: several of the city's information
gatherers, returning favors or seeking aid; and once, the duke himself.
At the end of an otherwise successful adventure, Je'en had been
poisoned; the quest to cure her had failed, leaving the townhouse empty
save for him. Other friends and acquaintances had died, both before and
after Je'en; just a month past, the information gatherer and physician
Aardvard Factotum had been killed by renegade gypsies, and two of his
drinking friends had been killed in the causeway accident. He wondered
if it were possible that he would cease to exist if there was no one
else who knew his face.
Shouts brought Cefn's attention back to the present. He found
himself walking through the Venilek Market on the eastern edge of the
newer section of the city. He looked around and saw that a man who was
selling apples out of a cart was yelling at a dirt-covered boy who was
standing by his cart eating an apple as if he didn't have a care in the
world. Two Town Guards rushed over and grabbed the boy by the arms. The
only protest the child made was that he couldn't get his apple to his
mouth any longer.
Cefn stared as the guards carried the boy away. Seeing a thief in
the market wasn't unusual -- nor was the fact that the child was
probably a shadow boy, from the torn and stained condition of his tunic
and trews -- but to see a shadow boy thief stand still long enough to be
taken like that was unique in Cefn's experience. The three-person parade
went right by him, and Cefn noticed a strange, puckered wound on the
boy's right temple.
The wizard turned away from the boy, wondering whether that scar
was familiar or not. He continued across the market and into the next
street, having just decided to head for the Inn of the Panther. During
his time with Je'en, he had developed a habit of spending time there,
and it was a good place to meet clients who were too intimidated by his
reputation to venture to his door. These days, sometimes Cefn had to
force himself to fall back into such habits, and it was sad, especially
when once he and the silver-masked Je'en had been as much a fixture
there as the namesake stuffed head over the fireplace.
Cefn had turned onto Nochtur Street, heading for Main Street where
the inn was located, when he heard the clatter of wheels on the cobbles
of the road and a gruff voice shout "Ware!" He looked up in time to see
another child walk into the street in the path of an oncoming wagon.
Cefn gasped and started to run toward the boy, who turned his head to
look at the horse bearing down on him, and then look away again as if it
didn't matter. The horse slammed into the child, knocking him across the
street, and then went down itself, whinnying and twisting frantically
between the shafts as the wagon lurched behind it until the yoke
snapped.
Cefn reached the boy before anyone else. He noted the torn,
threadbare clothes, and the rag the child had tied with complicated
sailors' knots to his shoulders like a cape. He noticed the same
puckered scar on the boy's right temple as he touched the child's throat
and then cupped his mouth and nose.
He shook his head; there was nothing he could do for the boy. He
stood and turned away, his attention drawn to the other victim. The
wagon driver was looking at his spilled load of dried beans and a broken
wheel, ignoring the horse as Cefn knelt beside it. He reached for its
head, but it shied away, its one visible eye rolling wildly. Cefn
reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a tiny coral-colored ball.
When he touched it to the horse's nose, the beast quieted and its eyes
closed. He then pulled out a thin rod of what looked like blue crystal
and touched it to the horse's broken leg. As the blue stick seemed to
melt into the animal's leg, Cefn wished he had magic enough to restore
life. Then he thought about his old enemy Vard and necromancy, and took
back his wish.
When the blue stick was gone, he stood up. The crowd that had
gathered had realized that the boy was dead and were cautiously poking
at the spilled beans. The driver shouted at them, then turned and
started to shout at Cefn, but the wizard just turned his dark cowl on
the man, who shut up and took a step back. Cefn looked at the healed
horse, which was struggling back to its feet, and walked away. The image
of the boy's scar stayed with him, nagging at his memory all the way to
the Inn of the Panther.
Tarmit paused on the dim landing to catch his breath. He shifted
the heavy sack he carried to his other hand, and as he began to descend
the uneven stairway, he sidled to the opposite wall so that his now free
hand could guide him. As the lamp's feeble glow receded behind him, he
made a mental note to refill it with oil on his next trip down.
After four more dim landings and five more flights of stairs --
each of which descended more than a man's height into the ground --
Tarmit pushed his shoulder against the door into the temple. It wasn't a
large temple, nor was it lavish, and the deed to the house he had
inherited six months ago made no mention of it. He had discovered it
when the foundation of the south corner had collapsed and revealed a
broken doorway behind a supposedly solid wall. That had been just a day
after the causeway collapsed, crippling merchant traffic in the city and
creating a price gouging festival among the ferriers on the Coldwell
River. The once-hidden doorway opened onto a passage which led to
another door, not hidden but with the rubble of some kind of
rune-decorated seal at its base. That door opened onto the stair into
the depths.
Tarmit set his burden down next to the door and walked across the
well-lit room. The room was furnished with two chairs and a small table
that he and his friend Fesh had brought down, and the crucible on the
far side of the room that had been there when he'd first stepped into
the temple. The walls were covered with curly lines grouped together as
if they were words, but whatever language they represented was lost to
time. Fesh had copied some of the lines down, but he hadn't found anyone
in the city who had been able to read them. If it hadn't been for the
book they had found, neither of them would ever have learned what the
crucible could do. Luckily, the effort of taking the book around the
city from sage to sage, as well as the days it had taken for the
translation, had turned out to be well worth it.
Tarmit stopped beside Fesh, a small, sallow-faced man with sunken
cheeks that were constantly covered by a scrubby beard, who was kneeling
in front of the crucible. The strange, ancient device was shaped like a
tall, narrow, straight-sided urn made of some dark metal that looked
soft but was very, very hard. It had five legs extending from its bottom
that held it about two hands above the dais and which also, according to
the book, anchored the device deeply into the rock below the platform.
At the moment it was glowing a dim orange that gave off no heat,
for all that it looked like a furnace, and the tube that projected from
its front was throbbing as if it was alive. The other end of the tube
was pressed against the temple of the dirty little girl that lay on the
crucible's dais. The girl's eyes were closed and she was whimpering, but
a moment after Tarmit arrived the tube stopped pulsing and fell away
from her temple with a small, moist tearing sound. The girl fell silent
as she relaxed into what Tarmit knew was sleep, and the tube retracted
all by itself back into the crucible, leaving only the pointed end
sticking out. At the place on the girl's head where the tube had been
touching was now a small, puckered, red wound.
The artifact began to hum faintly as green bolts of energy started
to flicker about its top. Tarmit counted under his breath, and when he
reached thirty, a small, round object oozed out of the top of the
crucible, looking just like a Round except that it was grey and glinted
with a strange, green sheen. The orange glow and green bolts faded away.
Tarmit picked up the tiny wicker basket and the tongs on the table
next to him and went to stand next to Fesh. He picked up the grey coin
with the tongs and dropped it in the basket, where it clinked dully
against the one that was already there. He returned the basket and tool
to the table, and watched as Fesh made sure that the urchin was
comfortable before standing.
"That one's for Genarvus," said Tarmit, "and our list is dry.
What's next?"
Fesh looked at him with a grin, and said, "We branch out, my boy.
We've got our revenge. Now we need to get our future." The slight man
walked up and patted Tarmit on the shoulder, then picked up the sack
with both hands and staggered the few steps back to the crucible.
"What do you mean?" Tarmit asked.
Fesh pulled a grey brick of lead out of the sack and dropped it
onto the flat top of the crucible. As the metal began to melt into the
artifact, Fesh said, "Money, Tarmit. Our little secret here is going to
become a literal gold mine."
Another brick went onto the crucible. Tarmit spent a few moments
trying to guess what Fesh meant, then asked, "How?"
Fesh lifted another brick and said, "The same way we got rid of our
enemies: we make more coins. There's a whole city of shadow boy fears
out there for the crucible to distill. We use those coins to clear our
way into strong-rooms and counting-houses. I was once an accomplished
rooftopper in Magnus; I think I can break into the houses of a few
nobles in this backwater."
He placed his brick on the empty top, and continued. "We build up
some funds, and then maybe we branch out. With enough coins, we could
take over a castle, maybe even the keep itself. If we work hard, we
could have enough coins to do some serious damage by the King's Birthday
Ball the duke holds every Ober. One month might not be enough time,
though. I wonder how many coins we'd get if we took away the fears of an
adult?"
Tarmit said, "You know better, Fesh. Remember that sixteen year old
we took in back at the start? That convinced me that we should pay
attention to the book. It says that the crucible can only contain a
small ration of fear before needing to distill it into a coin. I only
wish it had a similar limit on the lead it needs; I still can't believe
it takes all those blocks to make one coin!"
Fesh laughed as he placed a fifth block of lead on the artifact.
"Don't worry, my boy. Soon enough we can hire someone to carry the lead
down here. Go on back up now and see to the delivery of those two coins.
I'll bring the girl up in a bit."
Tarmit grabbed the basket and left the temple. He'd been lucky to
inherit this property, but he'd been luckier to have met Fesh. He'd
never have thought to make the kind of plans Fesh did.
Cefn made his way to the house of Genarvus Kazakian the day after
the horse had killed the boy, intent on pursuing his uneasy feelings
about that strange occurrence and the red scar. He was hoping that the
scribe's copious collection of information would serve to jog his memory
and provide the key to his own chest of tomes and the knowledge therein.
Those books, gifted from his teachers the Elders, and collected since,
were very specialized and very dense with facts. Cefn had a general
knowledge of the kind of information in each, but not of their
specifics. Thus he tended to use the broader lore of those like Genarvus
the scribe, Corambis the fortune-teller, and the late Aardvard the
physician to give him the specific clues he needed for his own further
research.
He was within sight of the doorway of the scribe when he saw a man
dressed in a serviceable tunic and trews glance furtively around, stoop
down as he passed the scribe's doorstep, and then hurry away. Cefn
hurried over to Kazakian's door, keeping his eye on the man. He glanced
down and saw nothing on the step, so he figured that instead of leaving
something the man had taken something. Cefn darted after the thief, who
had just turned a corner into an alley. His magic-riddled eyes were able
to pierce the gloom of the close-walled alley even before he entered it,
and he saw the man upend a small cloth pouch onto his palm. Cefn saw
what looked like a coin fall from the bag. As soon as it touched the
thief, the man's eyes widened and he began to dance around madly,
flailing his arms as if he was fending off a swarm of insects, though
Cefn could see no sign of anything assailing him. The thief's mouth was
open wide; clearly he was trying to scream from the look on his face,
but no sound was being made.
Cefn had slowed at the first sign of strange behavior, wondering
what was happening. The thief's flailing turned into contortions as he
slapped at himself at the same time as he ducked and dodged and even
kicked himself in the shins with first one foot and then the other. The
macabre dance soon took the man out of the shadows of the alley, where
he immediately began to draw attention. Before anyone's helpful
instincts could overcome their unease at the man's behavior, the thief
tripped himself up in his gyrations and he fell face down onto the
cobblestone street, making no effort to stop his descent. There was a
sickening crunch as face hit stone, and blood began to ooze out across
the street.
Cefn strode up to the body, saying, "Stay back!" in his most
commanding voice. He knelt beside the thief and reached out to touch the
neck, finding no pulse there. He lifted the body onto its side, viewing
the damage. So much harm from such a short fall!
He saw the coin still in the man's hand beneath his body. Cefn
reached for it, then thought better of the action. He looked around and
found the cloth pouch a short distance away. Retrieving it, he returned
to the body and, lifting it again, he plucked up the dull grey coin with
the small bag to shield his fingers. He looked at it closely as he stood
up, noting that both sides were marked in some way, but whether the
markings were runes or just scratches he couldn't tell.
"Get on, now. The excitement is over," said a gruff voice.
Cefn looked up to see a Town Guard shooing the gathered gawkers
away. She was short and stocky, with a hard face that even so showed
compassion. When everyone was moving again, some very slowly with
constant glances back, the woman turned to him and said, "Master Cefn,
what happened here?"
"I saw this man lift something from the stoop of the Master
Kazakian over there. I followed as he ducked into that alley, where he
began to dance about most insanely, until he spun himself out of the
alley and then down on his own face. I believe that this is what he
took; it may also be the cause of his madness."
Cefn showed the guard the grey coin, balking when she made to take
it from his fingers. "It may yet be dangerous!"
"No, no, Master Cefn, and thank you for the thought. If this is as
we've been told of ... ah, yes, those markings are the same ... there is
no danger any longer.
"This is not the first time one of these death-coins has struck,
though it is the first out in public like this. To date, we have
recorded eight such deaths among merchants, information gatherers, and
even minor lordlings in Old City. Mind, the guard has only been able to
glean information from the corpses left behind 'till now, but each death
looked to be borne of terror and all had a death-coin just like this one
in hand."
Intrigued, Cefn asked, "Do you have any leads in these deaths? Any
idea where these coins have come from or what they are?"
The guard shook her head. "No one seems to know. No one even seemed
all that worried about it until Lord Janid was found dead in his
counting room. Not as worried as they were about what else they found in
that room, mind! But now some are of the idea that there is something
sinister going on."
"Something sinister, indeed," said Cefn. "Might I keep this coin,
then?"
"Surely. We've plenty, and they're naught but lead anyway."
"Thank you. If you don't need me here any further?"
"Well, do you know what these death-coins bode, Master Cefn?"
"Nay, not yet. But ideas are gathering, glimmerings of
remembrances. Could I request to be kept informed of any further
incidents?"
"Of course. I'll bring news myself! I'm surprised that the captains
haven't enlisted your aid before now."
"Thank you, again. Fare well."
Cefn walked away, acknowledging the guard's salute. He passed
Genarvus' door without slowing. He was already turning the facts -- the
red puckered wound, the strange behavior of the children, the
death-coins -- around in his mind, trying to fit them together into an
image that he could almost see.
He was literally jerked from his reverie as someone tugged hard on
his belt pouch, hard enough to make him stumble and nearly fall. He
glanced around in surprise to find himself once again in the Venilek
Market, near the far end where Traders Avenue split from the Street of
Travellers. He looked down and found a young girl with a dirty face and
a ragged tunic grasping his belt pouch with both hands. Cefn knew there
was no way she could get it off his belt; the large pouch was a tempting
target, but it contained things more valuable than coins, and no one was
going to just steal it from him that easily. The child yanked again and
frowned up at him, as if it was his fault that she had failed in her
attempt. As her greasy hair fell back from her forehead, Cefn saw the
now-familiar red, puckered wound on her right temple.
"Give it me!" the girl shouted, and tugged again.
Cefn slapped at her hands and said, "What do you think you're
doing, child? I'm looking right at you! I could lift you off the ground
with one hand and shout for the Town Guard without any difficulty at
all. So why aren't you running away?"
The child sneered at him and said, "I ain't 'fraid of you, you big,
faceless freak! You were just walking along wi'out paying mind, right
through my lanes. And that means this belongs to me, so give it!"
Cefn slapped at her hands again, then grabbed a small wrist as the
girl reached for his belt buckle. He yanked her other hand off his
pouch, lifted her off her feet, held her away from him, and said, "Go!"
He swung her just a bit and let her go, knowing she wouldn't fly far
enough to get hurt. As she fell on her rump, he turned and began walking
away at a fast pace.
"Come back here, coward!" she shouted after him. "I ain't 'fraid of
you, or the guards, or anyone! Come back!"
Cefn turned, and the child, who had regained her feet, held her
ground. He took a step toward her, and she just glowered at him. He
turned back around and started walking away, ignoring the insults,
pebbles, and brick chips the child hurled at him.
He had almost left the marketplace when he noticed a number of
people looking up and pointing. Cefn followed the fingers, and saw a
tiny figure standing in one of the large openings at the top of the
market's bell tower. The person must have climbed up the outside of the
tower, since the ringer inside wouldn't have let anyone into it. Enough
silence had fallen on the marketplace that Cefn could hear a faint, "I
can fly!" as the figure stepped off the sill and into the air. The bell
began tolling the time as the small figure fell straight down, hitting
the ground three floors below before the second of the six rings
sounded. Cefn didn't have to go look to know that the body would have a
puckered, red wound on its right temple.
Fesh slipped out of the window, his bag of swag over his shoulder.
He climbed quickly over the wall that surrounded the silent, dark house,
and landed lightly in one of the streets of Coldwell Height.
He made his way cautiously along the street, his feet moving
silently on the cobbles, sticking to the shadows, darting across open
intersections as fast as he could. He knew that he didn't belong here,
among the houses of the rich and noble, and he knew that it wouldn't
take a guard more than a moment to tell that. At least they didn't have
street lighting in Dargon, like they did in some places in Magnus.
Fesh worked his way out of Coldwell Height without being seen, and
made his way back to the causeway. It was unfortunate that the span was
still closed to traffic after dark. He didn't have any fears about
crossing it, even with the memory of the accident still fresh, but the
two men that guarded each end weren't going to permit him to take the
risk.
As he made his way down to the Coldwell River's edge, Fesh wondered
whether all of this trouble was worth it. The bag that bounced against
his back was woefully light; despite the size and furnishings of the
house he had just left, he hadn't been able to find more than a few
Rounds hidden in what had probably been the servants' quarters. All of
that family's wealth was probably tied up in the tapestries on the walls
and the fine furniture that filled the rooms, but Fesh was looking for
coin, not goods. The candlesticks and rings that weighted the bag down
were the kinds of things he could get coin for on any street corner, but
his haul wasn't nearly what he'd hoped it would be. It was barely worth
the effort producing the coins that had cleared his way through house
guard and owner.
Still, it was something. Perhaps he needed to be more careful in
his choice of victims. He had thought he could apply what he had learned
in far off Magnus here, but it seemed that not everyone who lived in the
privileged section of the city called Coldwell Height kept large sums of
money on hand. He thought he could probably have done better at one of
the warehouse complexes down by the docks on the other side of the
river!
Fesh arrived at the base of the causeway by the riverbank. He had
chosen the northwest side, the undamaged side, to make his climb easier.
The stones of the construction were rough enough to provide ample
anchorage for someone of his talents. It was annoying to have to cross
the river by crawling along the side of the causeway like a lizard, but
it kept his fingers in shape for rooftopping.
He double-checked that the bag was secure, then flexed his fingers
and reached for his first hold on the stone. Suddenly, a grating, deep
voice spoke behind him. "Fesh." He whirled around and saw a tall figure
in a dark robe with its hood up and completely concealing the figure's
face. As disconcerting as that was, Fesh could see glimpses of the rock
behind it, as if the figure was made out of smoke. He knew that he could
have passed his hand through the image before him, though he had never
tried, fearing what that kind of disrespect would draw down on him.
"Well met, Fesh," the voice said.
"Likewise, your lordship," Fesh replied. The man had never revealed
his name, and Fesh was pretty sure he wasn't actually noble, but it
never hurt to be respectful of your employer.
"How goes the plan?"
"Well," Fesh said. "To schedule."
"Genarvus survived. That is not 'well'."
Fesh looked down nervously and said, "I don't know what happened,
sir. I delivered the coin as you instructed. Perhaps someone stole it
before the scribe could get it."
"Mayhap that failure will not be significant," the deep voice said.
"While the authorities have, of course, noticed the results of your
actions, they don't understand the significance. Nor do I expect them to
figure it out, either. Other schemes move apace: the Island Winds and
its special cargo will arrive in two days, and soon after the barge from
Kenna will arrive bringing another grim surprise. Soon enough, chaos
will grip this place. You will be ready by the appointed time?"
"Oh, yes, your lordship. We will have enough coins by the ball."
"Good, good. Do not let your greed distract you from our purpose."
A bony finger pointed at the sack on Fesh's back. "Be discreet."
The figure vanished, smoke drifting away in wisps. A chittering
noise drew Fesh's attention to his feet, where he saw a rat with
red-glowing eyes staring up at him. It seemed to nod knowingly, looking
him right in the eye, before scurrying away.
Fesh shuddered as he turned back to the side of the causeway. It
was bad enough to be beholden to someone, but it was much worse when
that someone was a wizard! He stretched up for his first handhold and
began to climb. At least you could slip a knife into the back of your
annoying employer or unwanted partner, but could you even kill a wizard
with an ordinary knife?
Fear.
The shadow girl saying that she wasn't afraid was what had
triggered Cefn's memory, putting together the scar with the foolish
risks and the death-coin. He now knew what he was looking for.
He spent most of the night doing his own kind of research. He
combed a few tomes before finding the correct one, and then he read up
on the only remnants of a strange religious sect from beyond time, the
artifacts that had been dubbed "Crucibles of Fear".
The information he was reading was second hand, produced by the
research of another ancient culture. As such, there was little available
but the basic facts. The artifacts were always constructed in deep, deep
caves, and anchored even deeper into the rock they sat upon. They were
totally indestructible by normal means, as well as immovable. They
worked by absorbing a base metal, the baser the better, and then
removing the fear from a subject and distilling it into a coin. The
fear, intensified by the distillation process, would be released into
anyone who then touched the coin. That described the effect he had
witnessed. It also seemed as if someone had wanted to scare Genarvus to
death.
The document indicated that children were the best subjects for
fear removal, and that the removal process produced a scar on the
temple. It instructed that no one older than about fourteen summers
should be subjected to a crucible, citing a limitation in the amount of
fear that could be converted to a coin at any one time. The warning made
Cefn wonder what the original creators had used the crucibles for.
Cefn spent the rest of the night trying to determine where the
crucible was. He attempted all of his divination methods, but got
nonsense answers and directions: the strange disturbances that had
disrupted the portents for about a month -- ever since the middle of Sy
-- were still keeping him from getting any good readings. He
contemplated getting some guards to quarter the city and search, but he
didn't know what to search for. The crucible had to be far underground,
or else it would have been discovered long ago. For the same reason,
there weren't likely to be any hints to its whereabouts on the surface.
He plotted and planned, discarding idea after idea. Then his thoughts
returned to the shadow girl, and he knew who would be able to lead him
to the artifact: those who had visited it.
Cefn left his house at about second bell the next morning. He
strode right over to the Venilek Market and looked around. Commerce was
just moving into full swing, with most of the booths and stalls opened
and staffed, wares laid out. Customers moved purposefully along, guards
made their presences known, and the growing noise nearly drowned out the
tolling of the time as second bell finally rang out.
Cefn probed the corners, the shadows, the hiding places where his
quarry usually lurked, hunting for the fourth strata of the marketplace:
the beggars and shadow boys and girls. He had taken the time to figure
out his best approach, since his most potent weapon, intimidation,
wasn't going to work on the fearless. He knew, though, that greed owed
nothing to fear, and it was a rare shadow boy who wasn't subject to it.
Cefn spent at least a quarter bell searching for a marked child
before he realized his mistake and stopped looking for shadow boys who
were hiding. He still had a difficult time finding one, and he was glad
that there weren't enough of them affected by the crucible for them to
be easy to spot. Finally, though, he saw an older boy bearing the mark.
The boy was standing against a building at the edge of the market,
looking with undisguised avarice at the fine wares out of the Corathin
Pottery that graced a sturdy and well-maintained booth.
Cefn walked casually over and leaned against the wall next to the
boy. The dirty and ragged shadow boy looked him over and then turned
back to the pots.
Cefn said, "Nice goods over there, huh?"
"Straight," said the boy.
"Which one do you like most?"
"Blue jug, or maybe green bowl," the boy answered.
"Want one? Or both?"
The boy looked at Cefn with a sneer and said, "For what?"
"Nothing hard," Cefn answered. "Just take me to where you got that
scar on your temple."
The boy looked back at the pots and was silent for a moment.
Finally he said, "I could just go take one."
"Of course you could. But then they would chase you and you might
drop it."
"Wouldn't run. Not afraid of the guard."
"Then they'd just walk over and take it away from you. They're not
afraid of you either."
The boy looked back at Cefn. "The man said the Temple of the Kiss
of Courage was a secret. He'd be mad if I showed it to an oldster. Said
only to show other shadow boys."
"So?" said Cefn, trying to remain calm. "What can he do to you?
You're not afraid of him, are you?"
"But he might not give the Kiss to any more of my friends."
"So? You got yours, straight? And now you aren't afraid of anyone!
Maybe I want to be just as full of courage. All it will cost you is some
knowledge, and you'll get that jug and that bowl. Sound fair?"
The boy was silent again, staring at the ceramics. Cefn waited,
knowing that even if this boy turned him down, he was still on the right
track. Someone would eventually fall to greed.
Finally the boy said, "Deal."
Cefn went over and bought the two pieces. He handed them to the
boy, then said, "Lead me to the temple."
The boy nodded and began walking, cradling the jug and the bowl.
Cefn was prepared to be as quick and cunning as the shadow boys who
usually moved through the city nearly unseen, but the boy was more
concerned with his new acquisitions than with stealth. Or maybe he just
didn't care about hiding.
Cefn followed east, and then south. He was surprised to find
himself nearly retracing his steps to his own house, and wondered if the
boy was playing with him and just wandering aimlessly. They passed his
own house on the hill that rose between Merchant's Way and the Street of
Travellers, and continued around the end of the hill nearly back to
Merchant's. The boy stopped in front of a once well-to-do house that
stood back a short way from the road, and pointed to an entrance near
the back.
"There," said the boy. "There and down. Thanks for the goods."
Cefn watched the boy walk away and wondered if he should have asked
his name. The boy didn't seem as wild as the other marked children, and
Cefn wondered if the boy's age had anything to do with that. While the
younger children let their lack of fear free them totally, the older boy
had enough common sense to know that fear had its uses, and enough
knowledge to perhaps compensate for his false courage. Cefn had an idea
that the boy would probably survive to regain his fear, or learn to live
without it.
Cefn turned his attention to the doorway. He walked over, keeping a
watch for anyone in the area, but there seemed to be no guards. There
was no door blocking the opening, and he saw nothing but a small, empty
room with another door when he looked in. That door led to stairs, which
led to a basement and more stairs, which finally led to an opening where
a wall had collapsed to reveal another doorway. In the rubble around
that opening, Cefn saw some fragments that didn't look like building
stone. He bent down and saw that one piece had Fretheod runes inscribed
into it. From what he could translate of the undamaged runes, the item
had been some kind of seal that had probably prevented the discovery of
the doorway it had hidden, at least until it had been broken.
He wondered what had broken the seal as he walked through the
once-hidden doorway. He found more steps, lots more steps leading deep
into the ground.
Cefn descended cautiously, having no trouble seeing despite the
relative dimness of the few torches that were spaced out among the
landings; the magic within his cowl adjusted to the sparse illumination.
He wasn't sure what he would find at the bottom, nor was he sure what he
intended to do if he did locate the crucible. He knew that he wanted to
disable it, but he had no ideas about how to do that yet.
He came to the bottom of the stairs and found another door. He
pressed his ear to it, but couldn't hear anything on the other side. He
drew his sword, prepared himself, and pushed the door open.
The small room beyond was occupied. Two men stood on the other side
of the room next to a tall, narrow metal urn that was glowing with a dim
orange light. On the floor in front of the urn, presumably the crucible,
was a very young boy, and a strange, flexing, metal tube was stretched
from the artifact to the right temple of the child.
Cefn hesitated for a moment, taking in the scene. Fortunately, it
seemed as if his entrance had completely startled the two men as well.
The shorter one, who had sallow, sunken, beard-scruffed cheeks, said,
"Your lordship?" in a surprised voice. At the same time, the other one,
taller and more aristocratic looking, picked up a dull grey brick and
charged at him.
Cefn sidestepped as the taller man swung his improvised weapon,
then lashed out with his fist, connecting with the man's jaw. The metal
brick and the man both dropped to the floor. Cefn pointed at the other
man with his sword and said, "Get him out of that!"
"But, your lordship, the crucible is almost finished. We need all
the coins we can get if your plan is to work!"
"What plan? Who do you think I am?"
The sallow man said, "Ah, you're not --? But, then who --?"
"I said, get him away from that thing before I put a permanent end
to your questions!"
The short man moved toward the boy, but just then the metal tube
separated from the child of its own accord and withdrew into the
crucible. It began to hum faintly, and green bolts of energy started to
flicker around the flat top. Cefn darted over, pushed the small man
away, picked up the boy, and dashed back to the door. He opened the
door, set the child down on the other side, and then went back into the
small room.
The sallow man was waiting for him, a set of tongs in his hand, a
small, dull grey coin clutched in it. With a sneer, the man tossed the
coin at Cefn, saying, "Take that!"
Cefn didn't. He used his sword to bat the coin back toward the man,
who dodged it like it was a flaming ember. Cefn closed on the man
without difficulty, considering the size of the room. The sunken-cheeked
man flailed away with his tongs despite the longer reach and sharper
edge of Cefn's sword. Clanging filled the room for a bit as the two
metal items knocked together. The fight wouldn't have lasted as long as
it did had Cefn not wanted to keep the little man alive to find out
about the hinted plans. In the end, his intentions weren't enough to
keep the desperate tong-wielder from fairly spitting himself on the
sword. With a little gurgle, the conspirator fell to the floor, dead.
Cefn dragged the corpse over by the door and laid it next to the
other conspirator. He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a small
red capsule. He broke it under the nose of the one he had punched, and
then sheathed his sword, knowing that the man would be asleep for some
time.
His search of the room took very little time. He found a basket
with three coins in it, a stack of what looked like lead bricks in the
corner next to the crucible, a table by the door, and the tongs. There
was nothing else in the room except for the two men and the coin in the
corner, which Cefn eventually picked up with the tongs and put in the
basket. And, of course, the crucible.
He walked over to it. It had stopped humming and glowing, and the
metal tube was now just a point sticking out of the front of it. The
sides of the crucible had no markings, but he realized that the walls
were covered with strange glyphs and runes the like of which he had
never seen before. He briefly wondered whether Genarvus would be able to
translate them.
Cefn gave the crucible a push, but it didn't budge. He got behind
it, braced himself against the wall and heaved at it, but still no
movement. He figured that the information he had read was right: the
thing was well anchored.
He drew his sword again and chopped at the artifact. He looked at
the side of the crucible, and found not even a scratch. He looked at his
sword, and shook his head at the mark on it. Sheathing the damaged
sword, he tried to think of anything in his belt pouch that might be
effective against the artifact. Nothing seemed appropriate.
Cefn looked at the artifact, and especially at the point sticking
out of the front. He recalled what he had read about the Crucible of
Fear. It couldn't be destroyed by normal means. The Fretheod had done
the next best thing by hiding it, but their method hadn't been
permanent, and Cefn couldn't think of a more durable method of
concealing it.
The limitations on who was to use the crucible intrigued him. The
book hadn't said what would happen if the restriction was exceeded, but
it had been a warning. A possible solution seemed almost within his
grasp.
Before Cefn could follow his thought through, a sound from behind
him made him whirl around. The blood-covered body of the short man stood
behind him, metal brick upraised, eyes glowing red in a slack-jawed
face.
Cefn flinched away, reaching for his sword, but in his surprise he
moved too slowly and the heavy brick slammed into the side of his head.
His vision hazed over, and he fell to the ground. He tried to get back
up, or at least move away from another brick-smash, but his arms shook
feebly and it took most of his concentration just to keep from fainting
away.
A strange, halting voice issued from the dead throat above him.
"Not. Kill. Use. Your. Fear. First."
Cefn felt hands roll him over, and then he felt his cowl pulled
from his head. A metallic slithering sound came, and then there was a
brief flash of heat and pain at his right temple that swiftly faded
away, taking his struggle to stay conscious with it.
The corpse with the glowing red eyes stood above the once-cowled
magus and watched the Crucible of Fear do its work. The being that rode
the corpse, which had entered the room riding behind the red-glowing
eyes of a rat, wondered how many coins this man would generate from the
artifact. If a child produced one, then someone like this could surely
be counted on to create half a dozen, maybe more!
The body-rider didn't know the rules of the crucible; his minions
had not informed him of such trifling details. The artifact had not been
loaded with metal after draining the boy, for one thing. For another, he
had no idea of the limitations of who it could draw the fears from.
The tube pulsed, and the crucible glowed orange. That glow changed
first, becoming brighter and redder as the crucible found nothing with
which to blend the absorbed fears. Then it began to vibrate, and jags of
green light flickered up and down its entire length as more and more of
its victim's fears flowed up the tube into its inner workings, reaching
and exceeding its limits.
The crucible was unable to fulfill its function. It spewed its
collected fears out of the top in a single torrent of green light that
fell like water from a fountain and flowed across the floor. The
standing corpse was hit first, and the animating being was forced out of
it by the wave of magic. As the again lifeless body fell, the wave
reached the far wall, sweeping over the unconscious man, whose heart
ceased to beat in an instant, and the dormant rat, whose eyes were just
beginning to again glow red, causing it to give a final squeak and
expire. The four coins in the basket vibrated and came apart. The wave
lapped against the far wall once, and then vanished.
The urn had quietly melted in the meantime, slumping inward and
deforming. The metal tube turned to ash. Its last victim lay, unharmed,
before its ruin.
Cefn woke up feeling different. He lay in the small room with odd
smells all around him, and he tried to tell what was so strange about
the way his head felt. He sat up and looked around. He noticed first
that the crucible was now a heap of slag. He pressed his hand to it and
found it cool to the touch. He realized that he should have hesitated
before laying his palm flat on the melted metal because it could have
been hot, but he hadn't given the possibility a thought.
Then he saw it: the difference he was feeling was a complete lack
of fear. It was an odd absence, hard to notice at first, but so obvious
thereafter. He grinned to himself, but then the grin faded. He had seen
how dangerous this feeling was, watching street kids die because they
were no longer cautious, no longer afraid. He thought for a moment, and
realized that he still understood consequences. He knew that wagons were
dangerous, and that he would die if he stepped off a roof into thin air.
His knowledge was intact. He had to believe that it would serve in place
of fear to keep him alive.
Cefn stood up from behind the ruins of the crucible and looked
around again. He saw the two bodies, the one he had killed unaccountably
close by, and the other still by the door, obviously not just sleeping.
He saw the rat in the corner with the burnt-out eyes and wondered where
it had come from. The rune burned into the rat's side had to mean
something so he memorized it: one circle only three-quarters complete
with a chevron in the center of it, crossed by a horizontal line with a
circle on each end. He walked to the door and saw that the basket was
now empty of coins.
The boy he had placed outside the room was gone. Cefn wondered how
long he had been unconscious. He climbed the stairs, squinting more and
more as he approached one of the torches until he realized that his cowl
was around his shoulders and not covering his face. He replaced it, glad
to know that pain still functioned normally.
He climbed and climbed, and finally walked through the last door
and outside, and found that the sun was still up. He decided to go home,
where he could reflect on his new state in a safe environment. He walked
to Merchant's Way and turned right, then stopped, amazed by what he saw
there.
A person was walking along Merchant's Way, leaving a wake of
staring people behind. The individual was wearing an outlandish garment
of what looked like round plates of stone draped across the shoulders,
down the arms, and across the body down to the knees. These plates
clicked and clinked together as the person walked, and were decorated
with some kind of pattern picked out in blue.
The person's nose, mouth, and ears were covered by a mask of some
kind. Long, dark hair covered the head, and the eyes were edged in blue
with long, black lines that ran down from the corners and beneath the
mask. The figure walked steadily, unhurriedly, with some purpose and
uncaring of the stares of those the person passed.
Cefn decided to get a better look, and he dashed down a side street
so as to avoid the gathering crowd of people and get in front of the
figure again. He crossed an intersection and heard a shout. He looked to
his left and saw, maybe four paces away, a wagon being pulled by two
horses coming directly toward him.
Cefn knew that the wagon was a bad thing, but he hesitated for a
moment. Should he dart forward out of the way, or should he step back to
get clear? Or was there, perhaps, another option ...?
======================================================================== The Great Houses War
Part 3: The Stealthy Guardians
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<NWansbutterEsq@gmail.com>
4 Deber - 8 Janis, 899
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6
Part 2 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-7
Sir Zephrym Vladon, captain of the king's guard, clutched Crown
Prince Brad tightly to him as he rode through the Wherwell Forest, ten
leagues west of Magnus. A light snow was falling, but did little to
obscure vision. Zephrym wished that he had the blossoms of spring
filling out the forest rather than the dark skeletons of winter, so that
they could be shielded from view. He knew that insurrectionist soldiers
ñ- those who sought to uncrown King Caeron and replace him with the
Beinisonian Empress Aendasia Blortnikson ñ- would be looking for them
and could not be far away.
The boy prince, a mere six years of age, clutched at Zephrym's
surcoat with hands wrapped in warm mittens. Even through the thick wool
gambeson and chain mail hauberk, Zephrym could feel the warmth of Brad's
body pressing against him. Thank the All-Creator the child had stopped
crying for his father, the king, as it had torn at Zephrym's heart to
hear it.
A frigid breeze swept over him. It carried with it chilling voices
that whispered in a strange language. A grey mist moved with the voices,
dancing amidst Zephrym's knights then darting away. Zephrym reined his
in horse so that Queen Dara could catch up to him. She was not a skilled
rider; she and her ladies-in-waiting had slowed the escape from Magnus
considerably.
Zephrym's chest tightened as he remembered King Caeron ordering him
to abandon Magnus and take the royal family with him. Zephrym had been a
knight in the Tallirhan household for decades. He had taught Caeron how
to ride a horse and wield a sword. The king was his friend. Zephrym had
begged to stay with him in Magnus, but Caeron had needed someone he
could trust to protect the royal family and get them to safety.
"My lady." Zephrym's voice came out as a croak. He cleared his
throat and tried again. "My lady queen, stay close by my side. This is
an evil wind that blows. I fear it carries word to the enemy; it is the
eyes of Beinisonian sorcerers."
"Truly, you think so?" The queen's voice was a mere whisper, almost
the timbre of a young child's.
"I fear so." Zephrym nodded. He had heard many tales of the power
that Beinisonian mages could wield. Seeking out their enemies with
magical mists was among the least of their spells. "But do not trouble
yourself; we will protect you. With our lives if need be."
He looked around at the household knights of Caeron Tallirhan. He
was sure that they were the best knights in the land, each having been
hand-picked and trained by himself. They were all completely loyal to
the king, as well.
The crack of a dry twig breaking sounded to Zephrym's left and his
head snapped over to look in that direction. Through the sparse, barren
trees, he could make out several horses and riders. He narrowed his
eyes, trying to discern their heraldry. Were they friend, or foe? Before
Zephrym had left Magnus, the king had received word that a loyal army
from Welspeare was moving north to try to lift the siege on Irskin
Castle. However, he also knew that the insurrectionist houses had armies
in the same region and would undoubtedly have scouts looking for the
precious treasure Zephrym escorted.
He carefully reached into a pouch that hung from his belt and
pulled out a small acorn that he had carried for years. The mage who had
given it to him long ago had claimed that it could be used once to
determine if enemy or friend was nearby. If they were friends, it would
turn into a robin; if enemies, a crow. There was no better time to use
such an object, he decided, for when else would he be charged with
protecting the Queen of Baranur? He held the acorn to his lips and
whispered, "Friend or foe, who are they?"
He threw the acorn towards the riders ahead but it simply fell to
the ground and disappeared in the snow. Zephrym silently chided himself
for so foolishly trusting such a bauble. He had his own instincts that
he could rely on, and those told him that these were soldiers of the
insurrectionist camp.
"To arms!" Zephrym shouted, pulling his sword free of its sheath.
One of the ladies-in-waiting to his rear screamed as more brittle
branches cracked. He turned his mount to see another group of knights
plunging through the forest towards them. "A clever trap," he thought.
The high-pitched clang of weapons striking each other rang through
the forest as the attackers reached his knights. Holding Prince Brad
carefully with his left arm, Zephrym charged to intercept a knight
moving towards Queen Dara.
"Mama!" the prince cried. "What's happening?"
"Brad!" Queen Dara screamed back. Her horse spooked and skittered
out of Zephrym's line of sight.
With a powerful swing of his sword, he caught the knight on the
side of his helm and knocked him from his horse. Now Brad was wailing at
the top of his lungs. Zephrym's horse reared up and danced to the side
as more enemy knights darted around him. He knew the heraldries of all
the house guard well and so could easily identify his enemies.
He wheeled about and charged to Queen Dara's side just in time to
knock aside the hand of a knight reaching for her horse's reins. The
man's chainmail saved him from losing the hand altogether, but he
bellowed in pain all the same. Two more knights charged up and attacked
Zephrym from both sides. He deftly knocked their blows aside, but he was
beginning to tire.
Out of fatigue, he left an opening in his guard. He watched his
opponent's sword swing slowly towards Brad's head. Zephrym swung his arm
down to protect the child and the blade sliced into his chainmail
sleeve. Flames seared where he was hit. His sword dropped silently to
the ground, snow softening its fall.
His horse reared up in a defensive posture, allowing Zephrym to
wrap Prince Brad with his wounded right arm and reach down to his boot
with the other. He pulled a long-bladed dagger from it and, as his horse
dropped its front hoofs back to the ground, rammed the blade up into his
attacker's throat. With a gurgling sound the knight dropped his own
sword and slumped in his saddle.
Another knight wearing an old-style kettle helm charged in and
swung with her flail. Zephrym was barely able to duck the blow. He urged
his horse closer and, as his opponent wound up for another attack, he
threw his dagger. The blade caught her in the mouth and she toppled
backwards off her horse with a gurgled scream.
Zephrym looked around. The skirmish was over, bodies scattered
about between trees with pools of brilliant red seeping into the snow
around them. A handful of the enemy were fleeing, but most were dead.
Only a few of the king's knights had been laid low. Given a few moments
to gather himself, he was able to have a proper look at the heraldry of
the felled knights. They all appeared to be Northfielders, given the
prevalence of blue. Duke Northfield was Aendasia's husband, so Zephrym
was hardly surprised.
"Please, give me my son," Queen Dara said.
Zephrym realised that Prince Brad was still bawling in his arms and
wriggling to get free. Zephrym moved his horse close to the queen and
with his good arm took the boy by the back of his fur cloak and handed
him over. Queen Dara looked down at Zephrym's arm and gasped.
"You are wounded, Sir Zephrym."
"I am only a little weak," he replied. "Please, my lady queen, we
must continue on. These were but a small scouting party; I'm certain
there are more of them nearby."
"Surely by now my husband has defeated them at Magnus," she said.
Zephrym nodded silently. He hoped that she was right, but he could
hear the lack of conviction in her voice, and felt it within his own
heart. By the All-Creator, this was one time he should have disobeyed
his liege and stayed at Magnus to fight by his side.
He swallowed hard and dismounted to pick up his sword that still
lay in the snow. He wiped it off on the surcoat of one of the dead enemy
and sheathed it. He noticed a dark brown horse out of the corner of his
eye. He looked up to see Cyruz of Vidin, a Stevenic priest who had
insisted on accompanying the queen north.
"Lord Vladon," the priest said in a deep, rumbling voice like
thunder echoing in the mountains. "Perhaps it might be prudent for us to
travel only at night now that the enemy knows we are near."
Zephrym grunted. "I appreciate the advice, but we need to make good
speed if we are to find friendly forces before this entire region is
covered in Northfield troops. However, what we *should* do is divide our
contingent. The ladies in waiting slow us down too much, and frankly, I
hardly see the purpose in having them with us. They will make a good
decoy if dispatched in another direction with a few good knights."
The plan formulated in his mind, Zephrym gathered together two
dozen of his company and ordered them to take the ladies in waiting due
north. As that group departed, he stalked over to where the queen was
now sitting on a log, drying her son's tears. "My lady queen, we must
leave now."
"Must we, right now?" she whispered. "Couldn't we rest at least a
few menes?"
"No, it must be now; it's too dangerous to stay." Zephrym grit his
teeth at the weakness of the queen. One more breath of cold wind and she
might shatter like a piece of fine pottery. J'mirg's Bones, why was he
stuck out here with this little girl while King Caeron fought at Magnus?
He prayed that King Caeron was safe, that the realm would not be saddled
with this limpid child.
6 Deber, 899
"Your king is dead, Vladon!" shouted the young lord from fifty
yards across the field. Behind the lad stood a sizeable army flying the
green and red colours of the Great House Monrodya. They stood on a small
hill in a clearing of the Wherwell Forest, milling about in a sloppy
formation twenty deep.
Zephrym stood up in his stirrups as rage surged inside of him. He
had always been able to control his emotions, but at this rebuke he
suddenly felt heat rise and every muscle in his body begin to quiver.
"Silence, you young codswallop! By the Red Garter of Randiriel,
I'll not listen to your lies!"
"I do not lie, sir," the Monrodyan answered. "Your king was slain
at the walls of Magnus on the third. I received word --"
"You can receive my cod in your mouth, you lying son of a whore!"
Zephrym sat back down in his saddle, winded after that last
eruption. He took a deep breath and regained his usual composure. It
must have been the pain of the three-day old arm wound that made him
lose control like that, or maybe having to cart around a whelp of a
queen. He felt sudden guilt at that thought. What would Caeron say if he
knew Zephrym thought such things? He turned and looked at the queen.
"Please forgive my outburst, my lady queen."
"What are we to do, Lord Vladon?" Cyruz of Vidin asked. "There is
an army arrayed against us, and we with but a few score knights."
"The queen will not fall into their hands," Zephrym said. "You may
be sure of that." He paused in thought for several moments before
speaking again. "In a situation like this, often the best thing to do is
to attack. The enemy will certainly not expect it and we hardly have
anything to lose; they have us where they want us. However, if we can
get through their lines, the snow and the trees should slow them down
enough to prevent them encircling us. The terrain, at least, is on our
side."
"I know little of matters martial," Cyruz said, "but is this not a
very dangerous proposal?"
"It is," Zephrym said. "But it is precisely because it is such an
unexpected tactic, and because the Monrodyans are rightly confident of
capturing us, that it could work. Look at the young lord Monrodya's
army: they are not prepared to fight at all. His men are leaning on
their spears, stamping their feet to keep warm ... Yes, the time to
attack is now. Please, take the queen and prince into the centre of our
formation, priest."
When Zephrym drew his sword, the other knights did so as well,
sensing what was to come.
"Don't engage the enemy, just keep moving!" He pointed his sword
towards the young Monrodyan noble, whose eyes were now large with
surprise, and the knights surged forward. The snow proved to be light
and fluffy on this particular bit of ground and they closed the distance
more quickly than he had hoped.
They were on the Monrodyan soldiers and the sounds of battle echoed
off the trees once again. Zephrym urged his horse forward, its bulk
knocking aside the surprised enemy soldiers. It didn't take long for
them to overcome their surprise and fight back, however. The knight to
Zephrym's left was dragged from his horse. Zephrym knocked a spear
thrust aside and shouted instructions to his men.
"Keep the queen in the centre! Keep moving!"
More enemy soldiers, clad in furs and red-and-green livery, were
piling in now, threatening to halt the charge. Zephrym spurred his mount
and fought to keep it moving forward. Several spears lodged in the
horse's barding and snapped as it plunged forward through the massed
infantry.
Zephrym could see that only a few soldiers lay between him and open
space. His mount reared up and lashed out with its hoofs, sending
several of the men sprawling, then charged ahead onto open ground. To
his left and right he saw enemy soldiers running through the snow,
trying to block off his escape. If they could just make it to the trees,
they'd be safe, Zephrym thought. He urged his knights onward with shouts
and curses and they sped to the gallop once more. He saw cavalry passing
the enemy troops, but the trees were very close now.
They entered the forest and continued on despite the branches that
clawed at their cloaks. Zephrym risked a look back and could see that a
good number of his knights were with him, and, most importantly, so was
the queen. He returned his attention to the front and had to duck a low,
thick branch as his horse barrelled ahead. The crash of swords meeting
sounded behind him once again. He knew that the Monrodyan cavalry must
have caught his rear ranks. There was nothing for it but to press on as
fast as he could, lest more of the enemy catch up.
The sounds of battle grew less as they continued. When Zephrym
could hear them no more, he signalled to slow the pace and moved to the
rear to see how they had been able to disengage. He discovered that most
of the rear guard had stopped to delay the pursuing enemy, sacrificing
themselves to allow the rest to escape. Zephrym knew that they would all
be lost; he could only hope that many of them would be captured and held
for ransom rather than killed outright. How many friends' lives would
the queen cost him ere they reached safety?
After a few bells of travel, the Stevenic priest Cyruz of Vidin
pulled his horse alongside Zephrym's.
"Lord Vladon," he said, "we cannot keep this pace up; we must rest.
The queen is nearly asleep in the saddle and I must confess I myself am
about to fall from my mount."
Zephrym shook his head. "No, we cannot stop. Our best chance is to
travel on through night and gain some distance between that army and
ourselves. We can rest when morning comes."
He knew he was pushing everyone hard but there was nothing for it.
He tried to think of a way to encourage his charges to greater endurance
than they could normally muster. Queen Dara and many of the household
knights were Stevenics. He had never converted to the religion himself,
reasoning that something younger than he was had not yet proved its
worth, but he had heard whisperings in the royal castle that this Cyruz
was regarded as some kind of holy man. Perhaps he could do something to
assist their cause.
Zephrym turned to look at the priest. "Cyruz, it has been said that
you are oft called 'the bard'. Certainly then, you can sing prayers for
us, to lift our spirits and call on your god to help."
Cyruz nodded wearily. "It's true that I was a member of the Bardic
College ere I devoted myself to spreading the Stevene's Light, but I
don't know that I have it in me to ride and sing at this point."
Zephrym reached over and stopped the man from falling off his
horse. Cyruz's eyes were surrounded by dark circles and his pallor
seemed incredibly pale.
"Here, have some wine," Zephrym said, offering his wineskin. "That
should liven you a little. Now sit up straight, by Kurin's beard. Your
'Stevene's Light' will have to shine on us this night if we are to make
it through. Be a man and give us some encouragement with your song."
Zephrym knew he was being harsh; even the Tallirhan household
knights, hardened by nearly two years of marching and fighting, were
showing signs of exhaustion. Zephrym himself felt his legs tremble with
fatique in the stirrups, but he had to get everyone to keep moving
somehow.
Cyruz did what he could. He sang ballads telling of Cephas
Stevene's life and exhorted the Stevenics of the company to join him in
prayer. He began very quietly and slowly, but seemed to gain a little
strength as he got into the rhythm.
As they moved through the deep snow, Zephrym lost all concept of
time. He was certain that the sun would crest the horizon at any moment,
yet league after league it remained hidden. Several times the queen
almost fell out of her saddle. Zephrym took Prince Brad into his arms
once again and the boy seemed to catch small bits of sleep as they rode.
They moved out of the forest and continued along over open plains for
many bells. Zephrym kept as sharp an eye out as he could but saw no
movement on the horizon. As the night wore on, Cyruz's singing began to
trail off into a monotonous mumble. At one point he fell from his horse
and didn't wake up until hitting the ground. He was slow getting up, and
required the assistance of two knights. Zephrym realised that everyone
had reached their limit.
He guided the bedraggled group into a piece of low ground
surrounded by pine trees. It would provide cover from the wind and from
enemy scouts. They could not risk setting up tents or pavilions, so
Zephrym ordered everyone to sleep close together so that their shared
body warmth would ward off the cold. The knights tied all of the horses
up to trees before settling down close to one another. Under normal
circumstances, all involved would have been most embarrassed, Zephrym
was sure. As it was, they were too exhausted to care and within menes
were fast asleep, all except the queen.
Zephrym sat down wearily next to her. She was sitting cross-legged
on her fur cloak, cradling her son in her arms. The prince was in a deep
slumber. Queen Dara was even more pale than she usually was, and there
were dark circles like bruises around her eyes.
"Get some sleep," Zephrym whispered.
She shook her head. "I cannot. At least not right away." There was
a long pause before she spoke again. "I think that the Monrodyan was
telling the truth, that my husband is dead."
She stared down at the ground and bit a trembling lip. Hearing that
Caeron was dead from the king's own wife tempted Zephrym towards sorrow,
but instead he became angry. He didn't want to give Dara the right to
pronounce the king dead. If it weren't for her, Zephrym would have been
able to stand at the walls of Magnus with his king, and perhaps a
different result could have been reached. "King Caeron was a mighty
warrior; he would not have easily been vanquished."
"In my heart, I know it," she said, either not noticing or choosing
to ignore the bitterness that Zephrym knew his voice held. "I knew our
last night together that it would be our last. I can feel that he is no
longer with us."
She took a deep, uneven breath. Zephrym studied her. Even in this
drained state, there was no questioning that she was a very beautiful
woman. It was a tender beauty, a kind that struck Zephrym as almost
pathetic. And yet, she was not wailing and moaning as many a wife -- or
even husband -- would when contemplating the death of their spouse. He
grudgingly admitted that there might have been an inner strength in her
that he had never seen before.
"You will be queen and sovereign of Baranur," he said in a low
voice. "And continue the Tallirhan line."
The queen only nodded. Zephrym got to his feet and walked away from
the makeshift camp into the forest. When he was far enough away that he
was sure no one could see or hear him, he drew his sword and drove it
into the ground. He then sank to his knees before it. King Caeron was
dead. Queen Dara had convinced him of that. He did not know how, but she
knew. Perhaps Caeron's spirit, as it left his body, had stopped to say
goodbye to his wife before going to meet the All-Creator.
"Oh, my king," he muttered. "I should have been with you ..."
If he and the other household knights had been with Caeron at that
battle, surely the king would have lived. Caeron was like a son to
Zephrym. In the years Zephrym was married, his wife had never been able
to bear them children. When she died of the Red Plague along with
Caeron's parents, Caeron had become even more like a son.
Tears burned in his eyes, then forced their way out and onto his
cheeks. He clenched his eyes shut. He felt conflicted emotions: sorrow
at the loss of his son, rage towards Dara, guilt for hating Caeron's
beloved, and more anger towards her for making him feel guilty! He
didn't want Queen Dara; he wanted King Caeron! It seemed a very poor
trade to him, even if the girl had shown a little backbone earlier.
Finally, he could hold it in no more and the tears flowed unabated. He
fell to the ground, his body wracked by pain. He had failed to protect
the king. His only chance to redeem himself was to protect the king's
wife, his queen. But he didn't want the queen, he wanted Caeron back!
Why couldn't *she* have died rather than him?
He remembered Caeron's last words to him. "Zephrym, the best
service you can do me is to protect Dara and Brad. They are more
precious to me than any crown could ever be. If you are truly my friend,
you will do this for me." He nodded his head. If Queen Dara and Prince
Brad were that precious to Caeron, Zephrym would serve the king by
saving them. He buried the bitterness in his heart and resolved not to
be jealous of Queen Dara's being alive ever again.
For the next twenty-seven days and nights, the royal family, under
Sir Zephrym Vladon and the Tallirhan household knights' protection, fled
the pursuing Monrodyan army. The deep snow and the treacherous darkness
of night slowed their progress. Only once did Zephrym risk going near a
town. When he did, he ordered the house knights and royal family to hide
while he crept into the town to determine where exactly they were and to
hear news.
The news was not good. Magnus was under siege, held only by the
townsfolk, as the king's army had been destroyed. The Comarrian
mercenaries had betrayed King Caeron at Magnus and had fled into the
hills near Beeikar. King Caeron had died defending the walls of Magnus,
abandoned by his friends.
2 Janis, 899
The company bearing Queen Dara to safety had just finished crossing
the ice-bound Laraka when Zephrym spotted banners moving along the
eastern horizon. In almost a month they had travelled roughly one
hundred and fifty leagues west northwest and were now in the centre of
Duchy Quinnat. Sharks' Cove had fallen months ago to insurrectionist
troops from Arvalia, so certainly it could not be an army loyal to the
Duchess of Quinnat, or Dara for that matter, that was approaching.
Zephrym cast about for a place to hide. It was habit now, for
they'd been scurrying into bits of low ground and copses of trees at the
sight of any approaching people since fleeing Magnus. He quickly spotted
a suitable dip in the ground and directed the group there.
Once everyone was in the low ground, Zephrym ordered his knights to
spread the bolts of white cloth he had acquired in a town along the way
and disguise themselves as part of the landscape. It was far from a
perfect masque; anyone approaching within a few strides would easily
recognise the deception. They could only pray that no one approached
them.
Zephrym himself crept through the snow and hid behind a small copse
of pine trees. The approaching army was using the frozen Laraka as a
road, as its banks provided protection from the wind. The snow was not
as deep on the river as elsewhere, much of it having been absorbed while
the river was still flowing.
As they drew near, Zephrym was able to make out the banners that
fluttered in the wind at the head of the column. The largest was a red
field with a white bar cutting it in half diagonally. Those were the
colours of house Welspeare, one of the few Great Houses loyal to the
king that had not been conquered by the insurrectionists. As the army
drew nearer, he could make out the personal device of Duchess Katrina
Welspeare herself, that of a gold ducal crown and black unicorn.
He remained hidden, however, for he would not ignore the
possibility that one of the insurrectionist houses had captured the
Duchess Welspeare's colours and were flying them in hopes of drawing the
queen and her protectors out into the open. If they were willing to
betray a king and wage open war with him, they were certainly capable of
other treachery.
He was shivering with cold by the time the head of the column was
within a few strides of his position. He peered carefully between the
branches of the trees at the lords leading the army. In the centre,
there was one person wearing a surcoat that bore the duchess' arms.
Zephrym looked up at the woman's face and recognised Katrina Welspeare.
She bore an angry red wound on her left cheek, but the pretty, round
face and large brown eyes were certainly hers. Straight dirty-blonde
hair framed the face. Zephrym was impressed at how, even in the midst of
a war, Duchess Welspeare could remain looking bright and cheerful. He
stepped out from behind the tree and shuffled down the river bank.
"My lady!" shouted one of the barons riding alongside the duchess.
"An assassin!"
The metal-on-metal whine of swords being drawn from scabbards and
the rustling of dozens of arrows being nocked echoed off the embankments
as the lords and men-at-arms prepared to attack. Zephrym merely slowed
his pace to a casual stroll and continued toward the duchess.
"Wait." She held up a calming hand before her escort could charge
Zephrym. Then she burst out into loud, yet melodious laughter, clapping
her hands together with glee. "Sir Zephrym Vladon, I would recognise
that careless swagger anywhere! Is her majesty the queen with you?"
"She is, your grace," Zephrym said.
Duchess Welspeare beamed at him, a beautiful smile threatening to
overtake her entire face. "Praise God, the Stevene's Light yet shines on
us!"
"We have ridden long and hard, your grace. May I ask how you come
to be here in Quinnat, many leagues from Welspeare?"
"I took what forces I could gather north to retake Sharks' Cove. We
were successful in that task and now move to lift the siege on Port
Sevlyn. My brother defends Fremlow City." The duchess scanned the
horizon. "But tell me, where is the queen?"
"She is hiding with the remainder of the Tallirhan house guard,"
Zephrym responded. He turned and started to trudge up the embankment.
The duchess ordered the rest of her troops to wait on the river while
she and her barons and household knights followed Zephrym.
"The queen is like a beacon that mariners steer their ships by," he
thought, for even now, he was being followed for harbouring the most
sacred prize in Baranur. He stopped at that thought and turned to
Duchess Welspeare.
"Your grace, I have an idea of how we might strike a heavy blow
against both the Arvalians besieging Port Sevlyn and the Monrodyans
pursuing us from the south."
8 Janis, 898
"My lady queen," Zephrym pleaded, "you should not be with me; you
should stay back with the duchess' baggage train, away from the battle."
He looked nervously to the east, where he knew Port Sevlyn lay just
over the next rise. Between the city and him, on this snow-covered
plain, an entire army of Arvalians was encamped, though he could not see
them. The risk of death was severe even for armoured knights, let alone
the queen.
Fear was etched on Queen Dara's face, yet she kept her voice steady
as she answered. "The trap might fail if the insurrectionists realise
that I am not with you, Sir Zephrym. Besides, how can you protect me if
I am with the baggage train?"
"If I had known you would insist on being at the centre of the
battle, I would not have even considered this plan."
"But it is a good plan," she persisted. He noticed her eyes turn
watery and when she spoke again her voice was no longer steady. "And if
I die, then I shall be quickly reunited with my husband."
If the plan worked, then the queen would not have to fear death
again for some time. Duchess Welspeare had hidden her forces behind a
ridge just south of Port Sevlyn. Scouts had reported that the Monrodyan
army pursuing them from the south was near. The house guard was to ride
close to the city, making it look as if they had thought they might
enter, then veer towards the Welspeare army. Hopefully, both
insurrectionist forces would be drawn over that ridge, where they would
be ambushed by the duchess' well-laid trap.
"Very well, then," he said, "but stay close to me, my queen, so
that I can, as you say, best protect you."
She nodded in assent and Zephrym squeezed his horse with his knees
to get the creature moving. They ploughed through the thigh-deep snow at
the trot, and were quickly within view of Port Sevlyn.
The city's walls were pocked with small craters made by the
catapults that even now fired salvos of rocks at the defences. Since the
Laraka had been frozen, the army had been able to completely surround
it. Mangonels hurled piles of smaller rocks over the walls, hoping to
kill a few of the garrison inside. Smoke stretched up into the sky from
a building near the city walls, likely set afire by burning arrows. Even
so, the blue and green banners of Quinnat still flew from the city's
ramparts.
Much of the besieging army was sheltering from the elements inside
pavilions or gathered around large fires. Zephrym, the queen, and the
king's knights rode quite close to the army encircling Port Sevlyn
before they were noticed. When they were, a cry rose up through the camp
and soldiers tumbled out of tents as quickly as they could. Zephrym made
sure to take his force as close to the sentries as possible so that they
would spot the queen. When cries of her presence went up, he knew he had
completed his task.
He directed their path due south, where he knew the Monrodyans
would be. Presently, the green and red banner of Duke Monrodya could be
seen on the horizon. Zephrym pressed forward until he could see the face
of that young whelp who had told him of the king's death. The boy was
likely Duke Luther Monrodya's eldest son. Perhaps Zephrym would teach
the traitorous duke what Queen Dara's pain was at losing a loved one.
When the Monrodya army started to charge, he veered sharply to the
left and headed for the rise over which the Duchess Welspeare laid in
wait. Some of the horses stumbled and fell in the deep snow, or perhaps
over rocks and small shrubs that lurked under its calm white surface,
but he could not afford to slow. The enemy soldiers shouted a battle cry
as they ran behind. He looked over at Queen Dara. Of necessity, she had
become a much better rider over the past month, but was now clinging to
the neck of her horse.
"We are almost there," he shouted to her.
The horses staggered over the top of the hill, then thundered down
the rear slope. Zephrym chanced a glance backwards and could see that
the two enemy armies were no longer in any semblance of formation, so
eager were they to capture the queen. Their ranks had merged together,
so that one army could not be told from the other.
A high-pitched cry rose from Zephrym's left. He looked over just in
time to see Duchess Katrina Welspeare charge past him towards the enemy
army. Her eyes were wide and, as she let loose her cheerful battle cry,
a smile played across her lips.
The insurrectionist soldiers yelped in surprise and tried to stop
and face the enemy, but they were too late. The forces of house
Welspeare descended on them from two sides, as unstoppable as tidal
waters. The Arvalian and Monrodyan soldiers were in such disarray that
they stood no chance. In less than half a bell, the ground was littered
with dead bodies. The few survivors of the ambush fled to the south, but
even they were doomed, for without their army's baggage train to supply
them, they would soon starve or freeze to death on these barren winter
plains.
Duchess Welspeare let out a joyous shout and leaned over to wrap
Queen Dara in a strong embrace. "That will teach those traitorous
codswallops, will it not, my queen?"
She laughed loudly, but Queen Dara remained sombre. Zephrym rode up
to them. "With two large armies defeated, the Duchess of Northfield will
see the folly of continuing this winter campaign, for certes. We should
be able to stay at Port Sevlyn until the Laraka flows again, then on to
Dargon, where we can regroup. I fear that Port Sevlyn will be in danger
again soon."
Queen Dara merely nodded. As Duchess Welspeare released her grip,
the queen's shoulders began to heave as tears poured down her face. "I
just wish it could end! I wish I could have Caeron back!"
Yes, Zephrym had kept her safe physically, but no one could protect
her from the anguish of a shattered heart. Zephrym could only pray to
the All-Creator that her wounds would heal over the winter, for the
realm needed a queen. A Tallirhan queen, not the Blortnikson Aendasia.
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