Copy Link
Add to Bookmark
Report
DargonZine Volume 19 Issue 07
DDDDD ZZZZZZ //
D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE ||
D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 19
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 7
DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
\\
\
========================================================================
DargonZine Distributed: 9/23/06
Volume 19, Number 7 Circulation: 639
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
A Cure for Hiccoughs Trey Holliday Yuli 10, 1018
Tough Healing Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Melrin 5, 1018
Liam Donahue,
and Jim Owens
The Great Houses War 2 Nicholas Wansbutter Seber 897-Deber 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 19-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 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>
Sometimes I have the opportunity to help current or former Dargon
writers grow their writing careers outside the structure of DargonZine
and the Dargon Project. It's always a pleasure to give back to the
people who have put so much of their time and energy into making
DargonZine a great zine and the Dargon Project such a successful
community of writers. So I'd like to share with you some great news from
two former contributors that you might enjoy hearing about.
Carlo Samson joined DargonZine way back in 1985, in the very early
days of FSFnet. At first he just contributed stories, but over the years
he became more involved in running the group. When the zine went online
he did the website artwork, and he provided our story illustrations for
many years. In fact, Carlo graciously offered to produce the
illustrations we have in this issue, so you'll see more of his artwork
as you read this month's stories.
Mark Murray came to us in 1995 and immediately became one of our
most prolific contributors. In addition to writing, Mark instituted our
first new writer mentoring program and assisted Carlo researching and
developing Dargon's maps.
Between the two of them, they published fifty stories in FSFnet and
DargonZine before they each left the group to pursue other interests.
Both Mark and Carlo felt constrained by the limitations placed upon them
by the low-magic shared world of Dargon, and wanted to do something that
required fewer compromises.
The years passed, and they stayed in contact with one another,
talking about their respective writing and artistic projects.
Eventually, their discussions turned in the direction of starting their
own electronic magazine, and the first issue of their new zine -- Arcane
Twilight -- appeared in February. Since then, they've also put out a
second and third issue, and they're looking for both interested readers
as well as potential contributors.
I sat down and had a brief exchange with them, and thought you
might find the discussion interesting.
DargonZine: I suppose the first question a reader might have is how
Arcane Twilight differs from DargonZine.
Carlo: Arcane Twilight prints more than just fantasy -- we're also
interested in science fiction, horror, even subgenres like
steampunk. We primarily want standalone stories, but also have a
shared-world setting called Hyzathra that others can write about.
Mark: DargonZine has a niche in the low-magic fantasy genre. So, instead
of reinventing the wheel, Arcane Twilight was started with
everything else in mind. If you're going to write low-magic
fantasy, DargonZine is the best place. But if you want to write
horror or sci-fi or high fantasy, then Arcane Twilight prints those
stories.
Mark: The one thing that I think makes Arcane Twilight stand out over
other zines is that we're looking to publish animation vids, flash,
comics, art, and words. Rather than trying to equal the printed
world, we're attempting to utilize the tech to go beyond that. So,
Arcane Twilight is opening the door to allow readers to not only
read, but also to view and hear.
DargonZine: What has been the most fun part of running your own zine?
Carlo: It's probably the aspect of having creative control over
everything.
Mark: I think the most fun part is that there are very few boundaries.
We can publish animation vids, comic formats, art, flash, audio,
and words. Plus, the genre range is horror, sci-fi, and fantasy.
It's like having a ton of play dough and a super wild imagination.
DargonZine: And what's been your biggest challenge?
Carlo: Right now, it's getting submissions! The issues thus far have
contained our own material, but we'd like stories from other folks
as well. Authors will be paid $5.00 if their story is accepted.
It's not much, but one has to start somewhere, eh?
Mark: It's weird, but you'd think that the immediate plan for an e-zine
would be to get out there and get advertised somehow. But I'd have
to agree with Carlo: the short-term need is to attract authors.
DargonZine: And what are you most proud of about Arcane Twilight so far?
Carlo: I really like the webcomic I'm doing called "Magic, Maiden and
Mist". I started it without any idea of how it's going to end,
which is unlike how I usually do things.
Mark: I'm proud that it has lasted this long!
DargonZine: It sounds like you guys are having fun with Arcane Twilight,
and everyone here definitely wishes you all the success in the
world. One last question about your experience with DargonZine: how
would you describe DargonZine to a new writer thinking about
joining?
Carlo: It's a great place for the beginning writer to practice their
writing skills. It has a ready-made setting, a built-in audience,
and a group of supportive fellow authors who provide valuable
feedback.
Mark: Wow. A tremendous opportunity. A rich writing environment that
will sharpen and hone anyone's writing skills while at the same
time giving a writer the challenge of writing in a collaborative
project. I attribute the biggest leaps in my writing to DargonZine.
It has improved my writing tremendously.
So if you'd like to see some ambitious work by two former Dargon
writers who slipped their leashes, go check out Arcane Twilight, and
give them lots of feedback on what you'd like to see more of. And if you
feel inspired to contribute something to it, by getting in at the ground
level you might well have a major impact on its future direction. Keep
up the good work, guys!
Meanwhile, this month's issue of DargonZine features a trio of
interesting stories. We begin with "A Cure for Hiccoughs", a delightful
first story from Trey Holliday, our first new writer to appear in
DargonZine in three years. Trey's been notably patient while his story
was delayed until the big Black Idol story arc was finished, but we're
very pleased to finally be able to introduce you to him.
Our second story is the first three-way collaboration we've ever
printed. "Tough Healing" is the result of an optional writing exercise
that Jim Owens led during our 2004 Mt. Hood Writers' Summit. It, too, is
another story that has sat on the shelf for a few months while we
churned through the immense volume of material produced by the Black
Idol series.
And we end this issue with Nick Wansbutter's second installment of
his new Great Houses War storyline, which takes place about 200 years
before DargonZine's current time frame. The plot definitely thickens in
this episode, and we look forward to bringing you more Great Houses War
stories in our coming issues.
========================================================================
A Cure for Hiccoughs
by Trey Holliday
<treyholliday@gmail.com>
Yuli 10, 1018
There were many things that Rayce Barring did not like. He hated
the rain for all of the warm summer days he could have spent playing
with his friends on the city streets. He absolutely despised how all of
his favorite toys ended up either lost or broken. So, when other people
talked about things they hated, Rayce found it very easy to relate. But
there were other things, too. Even worse than how tired he felt all the
time when he had gotten sick, and even more horrible than when Dakin
Goms had stolen one of his toys, he hated his hiccoughs.
He had known hiccoughs to come and go, especially when he had
gotten really thirsty and drank water too fast. He knew other people who
occasionally had brief fights with hiccoughs for other reasons, too. His
hiccoughs were different, though. For a whole fortnight, Rayce had been
having problems with hiccoughs constantly. They plagued him when he was
eating, woke him when he was sleeping, and when they were at their
worst, made it impossible for him to speak without a loud hiccough
interrupting nearly every sentence.
The hiccoughs would slow at times, but never really go away, much
to the alarm of his parents. The hiccoughs persisted so badly that Rayce
found that he could hate things so much more than he'd thought. The
summer rains were simply an annoyance, the food he didn't like were
something he could drudge through, and losing anything only meant that
he would make a game out of finding it. He not only hated his hiccoughs,
but despised them with such a vengeance that he wished the hiccoughs
were something he could push into the river and watch them drown.
For the last few days, he had even stopped talking. He couldn't
stand to hear a hiccough work its way into a sentence. The loud "hic"
would echo in his ears as he could feel himself flush with
embarrassment. All of the kids his age made fun of him constantly,
prodding him to talk so that they could hear his hiccough and laugh at
him some more. He could hardly bear any more of his hiccoughs, but his
parents didn't have enough coin to pay healers. His parents absolutely
forbade him to work, saying that maybe next year, after his tenth
summer, they would help him find a way to earn his own coin. They had
never said that he couldn't ask other people for help, though. So he
waited for a very fine day when he could set out and find his cure, even
if he had to do it himself.
When that day finally came, Rayce set out on his journey. He had
asked everybody he could find, and he knew that he could go to healers.
Since he was by himself and had no coin, he would find them himself.
By the second bell of day, the city was already bustling with
beggars and merchants, crowding the streets so badly that it was
difficult for Rayce to even see the shops through the adults who were
pushing past him. He felt like a fish trying to swim up a swift stream.
Many times he called out for help, and received no more attention than
the annoyed looks of passersby. Wandering around aimlessly, he finally
bumped unexpectedly into a town guardsman.
The guardsman looked around with surprise, and took a moment before
he finally lowered his eyes to Rayce. "Ey, what have we here?" The
guard's sword clinked against a nearby wall as he turned, and the sound
gave Rayce a fright.
Rayce had prepared for this moment, but he just hadn't anticipated
the difficulty he was having navigating the city streets. Suddenly, he
was looking directly back at the guard, trying to find the words he had
rehearsed.
"Excuse me, sir, I need to find a healer," was the phrase he had
practiced. Those words, however, had difficulty escaping the lump that
had risen in Rayce's throat. As an alternative, he merely said, "H--
(hic) ... healer!"
The guard smiled warmly. "Having a problem talking? You should go
to the abbey. They should fix you up nicely. Do you know where it is?"
After silently accepting directions from the guard, Rayce went on
his way. He was fighting the crowds once again, with an odd feeling that
he was walking in the opposite direction of everybody else on the
street. After searching for several menes, Rayce found the abbey.
Dargon Abbey was a stone building nestled among the many temples,
which stood tall against the shops which were squeezed in between the
temples wherever they could fit. He approached the gate in front of the
building cautiously, in case the monks weren't friendly. Peering around
the corner of the stone wall, Rayce was surprised to hear somebody clear
his throat. Rayce turned around carefully, to see a tall man with a
crooked smile leaning on a cane behind him, wearing the white gowns
which marked him as a monk.
"Can we help you young sir?" the man asked.
For just a moment, Rayce forgot why he had come. After a moment,
the realization hit him, and he said nervously, "I ... I have (hic) ...
hiccoughs."
The man looked confused for a moment. "Hiccoughs?"
Rayce nodded, still a bit shocked that he hadn't noticed the monk
approach from behind him.
"I see. My name is Lev, one of the healers here. What's your name?"
"Rayce."
"Rayce, let's just try something."
Rayce nodded. Lev selected a small pouch from his pocket, and when
he removed his hand, it was coated in a green salve, which he rubbed on
Rayce's throat. It immediately began to feel warm.
"Well?" Lev looked at Rayce expectantly. "Did it work?"
"I don't-- (hic)! I guess not." Rayce looked down and kicked at the
dirt.
Lev smiled. "Not to worry, young sir. I suppose God did not mean
for your journey to end with me. Pray, and you will find what you seek."
Rayce swam back into the sea of people crowding the streets,
thinking that there were more healers in the city. He'd try to find help
at the next place he found. After walking for a little while, he managed
to stop a woman who was hurrying down the road.
"Pardon me, miss, but I need to find a healer," was the phrase
Rayce had practiced, but what came out was "Par-- (hic) ... need to find
a healer."
The woman frowned for a moment, looking at Rayce questioningly.
"Have you been to Dargon Abbey?"
Rayce nodded.
"Oh. Then have you tried Rebecca?"
Rayce shook his head with a wide smile.
The woman smiled back at him. "She's just around the corner. She
has a yellow door; you shouldn't miss it."
"Thank -- (hic) you," Rayce said.
"It's no problem dear. Take care now!"
Rayce nodded and happily made his way through the crowds to the
corner. He felt like skipping, thinking that he was most certainly going
to find a cure for his horrible hiccoughs.
It didn't take long for Rayce to find Rebecca's shop. Walking
bravely to the doorway, he found not one, but two women. The younger of
the two was looking through a book, and the other, older woman was
dusting a cabinet full of bottles. The younger woman noticed Rayce
standing in the doorway. She smiled at him and beckoned him inside.
"Hello there, young man! I'm Lilike."
Rayce couldn't help but smile at Lilike. "Hello, I'm Rayce," is
what he wanted to say, but with his excitement, all that would come out
was "H-- (hic) ... Rayce."
Lilike giggled. "Well, hello Rayce. Can I help you?"
Rayce hiccoughed again and swallowed hard. He pointed at his
throat. Lilike frowned at him with a questioning look. He pointed at his
throat again and hiccoughed extra loud.
"Oh, goodness. You have the hiccoughs!"
Rayce nodded violently.
"Well, we'll just have to see about that. Um ... Rebecca?" Lilike
looked over at the older woman, who was just then filling a bottle with
a green liquid.
Rebecca didn't turn to look, but simply asked "Yes?"
"Do we have anything for hiccoughs?"
Rebecca furrowed her brow. "Hiccoughs," she said, as if she hadn't
noticed the conversation Lilike had already had with Rayce. Rebecca
looked at the ceiling in thought, and then turned towards Lilike. "Ah,
yes, hiccoughs. Witch hazel and sage should do the trick. Let him smell
the embers."
Lilike smiled at Rayce. "See, we'll take care of those."
"Oh," Rebecca said, "it only works sometimes." Rayce felt his hopes
dim.
"Well, we'll try it anyways," said Lilike. "Just sit right here."
Rayce sat down as Lilike grabbed a bundle from the cabinet, removed
a small handful of twigs, and then dripped some strange looking liquid
over them. Lilike tied the twigs together with some string, and then lit
the end of it with a candle. After letting it burn for a moment, Lilike
blew it out and walked over to Rayce.
"Here, hold this and take a deep breath."
Rayce accepted the small bunch of smoking twigs. The smell reminded
him of the woods. Following instructions, Rayce inhaled the smoke
deeply. Suddenly, he began to cough hard.
Lilike patted his back. "That's all right. Just try again."
Rayce tried again, and didn't cough this time, but he could feel
the smoke pass through his throat. He smiled as he could feel his throat
open up a little bit.
Lilike smiled. "All better?"
Rayce nodded. "Yes. Yes! Oh, thank -- (hic)!" He gasped at the last
bit, and clamped his hands over his mouth.
"Oh goodness!" Lilike rubbed Rayce's back. "I'm sorry it didn't
work." Rayce handed the twigs back to Lilike. "Rebecca? Do you think Jak
might have something?"
"He might, but I doubt that it would be free," said Rebecca.
Lilike looked at Rayce. "If I give you a note, will you promise to
take it right over to Jak?"
Rayce nodded. Lilike smiled at him. She scribbled on a piece of
paper and handed it to Rayce. "Jak is on the north side of town. It's a
little way to walk, I guess, but he might be able to help you." Rayce
nodded again, and listened carefully as Lilike gave him directions to
get to Jak's place.
Rayce was surprised to find that the sun had worked its way high
into the sky. He hadn't thought he had been out that long. His parents
would be worried. As he walked along the street, he hoped Jak would be
able to help him with his horrible hiccoughs. He walked for what seemed
to be a very long time, until he reached the northern part of the city,
following Lilike's instructions as best he could.
Rayce found Jak lingering in a doorway leading to a stairwell. Just
like Lilike had told him, Jak's shop was not in the best area of town.
Jak himself did not look that reputable. Rayce guessed that Jak could be
one of those men his parents told him to stay away from. But Lilike had
told Rayce that Jak was a healer. If Rayce wanted a cure for his
hiccoughs, he would have to explore the possibility that even a man that
looked dangerous might be able to help him. As Rayce paused to consider
all of this, Jak noticed him standing there. After waiting for a moment,
Jak waved Rayce over. Rayce walked silently up to Jak with Lilike's note
held in front of him. Jak looked down at him curiously and then read the
note.
"Free?" Jak held the note at an arm's length. "I'm supposed to do
this for free?
Rayce had no idea how to respond. Many of his friends had ways to
make money, but his parents wanted him to wait until he was older. If
Jak wanted to be paid for this, Rayce had no way to.
Jak looked Rayce over. "Boy, you mention two words of this to
anybody, and I will take my payment through your skin. Do you
understand?"
Too afraid to say anything, Rayce nodded.
Jak gestured up the stairwell. "Then come upstairs. Let's be quick
about this so I don't lose a paying customer."
As Rayce walked into the little room and found a chair to sit in,
Jak walked past him and around a corner where Rayce couldn't see what he
was doing. "You just stay in there," Jak said. Rayce heard the clink of
glass bottles as Jak worked. "I'll have you done in just a moment."
It seemed like half a bell must have passed before Jak emerged,
holding a clay cup towards Rayce. "There you go. Drink it all at once,
or it won't work."
Rayce looked down at the dull-green looking liquid and back at Jak.
Jak laughed. "If you think it looks bad, wait until you taste it."
Rayce didn't find Jak's comment to be very encouraging. After taking a
few breaths to prepare himself, Rayce held the cup up to his lips and
turned it up.
He couldn't have expected anything this horrible. To begin with, it
was disgustingly bitter, worse than any vegetable his parents had ever
tried to feed him. His throat burned more with each swallow, but the
thought of being rid of the hiccoughs kept him going. When finally he
had finished it to the last drop, he put the cup down, breathing
heavily.
Jak looked at him expectantly. "Well?"
Rayce took a breath. "I think it might have -- (hic)!"
Jak said some angry words that Rayce hadn't ever heard before.
"Well, if that didn't work, then there's not much hope for you, is
there? Just go home, have a drink of water, and the hiccoughs will go
away on their own. You can't expect much more for nothing, you know."
Rayce didn't want to contradict Jak. He'd already waited far too
long, had drank numerous cups of water, and the hiccoughs still
remained. Dejectedly, he walked back down the stairway and turned back
down the lane to go back to his house. His hiccoughs had won.
As Rayce got closer to the Street of Travellers, his defeat was
starting to eat his hopes away. He was more frustrated than he had ever
been before. As he walked, he kicked a stone lying on the ground as hard
as he could. He looked up suddenly as he heard someone say, "Ouch!"
Standing there was a man carrying a heavy sack over one arm. His other
arm seemed to be missing. His eyes, though, were looking right at Rayce.
"I'm so sorry, sir, please -- (hic)!" Rayce felt his face get hot
as he closed his eyes, embarrassed first by the fact that he had
hiccoughed, and then because he couldn't even manage to completely
apologize.
"Hiccoughs, eh?" The man had a bit more sympathy in his eye as he
looked at Rayce. "Say, would you help me with this bag?"
Rayce nodded. It was the least he could do after kicking a stone at
the man. He took the bag by both hands and slung it over his shoulder.
The bag felt really wet and heavy, and smelled worse than both Jak's
elixir and Lilike's smoke.
"Thank you. I'm Alsandair, by the way. What's your name?"
"R-- (hic) Rayce." Rayce looked at the ground. Not only had he hurt
Alsandair, but now he was really starting to feel like he'd never be rid
of his hiccoughs.
"Well, Rayce, help carry my bag up this hill, and I'll see what I
can do about your hiccoughs."
Rayce looked up. He had tried so hard today, and so many people had
tried to help him, but it just felt like his hiccoughs were now
permanent. It couldn't hurt, though. Besides, Alsandair only had one
arm, and losing an arm must be much more difficult than having the
hiccoughs.
Rayce followed Alsandair up the hill to a small house. By the time
he had reached the house, he felt exhausted. The bag landed heavily on
the floor as Rayce let it go. Alsandair turned around and looked at
Rayce.
"Well, I suppose you can rest for a moment, but I really need for
you to put that bag in my cellar where the fish will stay cool. Once you
come back up, I can see about helping with your hiccoughs." Alsandair
pointed at a door to Rayce's right. Rayce nodded and picked the bag up
again, opened the door, and carried the heavy bag down the stairwell
into Alsandair's cellar, which was quite cool. By the time he had made
it back up, Rayce was struggling to catch his breath.
Alsandair looked at Rayce. "I suppose that was exhausting. Here, I
poured you a cup of water." Rayce nodded his thanks at Alsandair as he
took the water and drank it. He realized he was very thirsty after
carrying the fish up the hill to Alsandair's house, down into his
cellar, and walking back up again. Before he knew it, he had finished
every drop of water.
Alsandair handed him another cup. "There's plenty here. By all
means, drink up. I need your help with one other thing, and then I'll
take care of your hiccoughs, straight?"
Rayce nodded. He had a feeling that Alsandair didn't really have a
cure for his hiccoughs, but just needed the help since he only had one
arm. After finishing the water, he waited for Alsandair to tell him what
his last task was to be. He stared at the opposite wall, where a locket
was hanging by a nail.
Alsandair walked back into the room and looked at Rayce, and then
at the locket. "You like that? It belonged to a friend of mine, a long
time ago." Rayce nodded his appreciation. "Now, if you could, bring in
one of the logs from outside. I'll need it to cook some meat tomorrow."
Rayce nodded, and went back out the front door. He hefted one of
the heavy logs that were lying beside the house, and carried it back
inside. Rayce felt his cheeks get hot from the strain. He carefully put
the log on the hearth, panting heavily. He sat there, catching his
breath again, until Alsandair finally sat down.
"Thank you, Rayce. Now, let's see about those hiccoughs. I used to
be a healer. Did I tell you that?"
Rayce shook his head. Alsandair hadn't mentioned it, but it gave
Rayce some hope. This man might be able to do what all the others
hadn't.
"Oh, I was, but I don't do it often any more. I've helped many
people, but it's getting harder every day living with just the one arm.
A little hard work, though, is sometimes the best healing." Alsandair
seemed lost in his own memory. "Oh, I was going to help you with your
hiccoughs, wasn't I?"
Rayce nodded, looking up at Alsandair expectantly.
"Straight. I just need you to hiccough for me, so I can hear it."
Rayce breathed with his mouth open. He couldn't force the hiccoughs
to come, but they usually did when he gave them enough time. But almost
a mene passed, and still Rayce hadn't hiccoughed.
"Try again. Just hiccough for me."
Rayce remembered that the worst time he had was when he tried to
speak. "I'm trying." Rayce sat there, breathing with his mouth open.
Once again, he found himself looking at the pretty locket hanging from
the wall. "Whose locket was that?"
Alsandair followed Rayce's eyes to the locket. "A friend of mine
named Liosliath. He served in the war with me."
Rayce looked at Alsandair. "You were in the war?"
"It was how I lost my arm."
"And Liosliath, did he die in the war?"
"No, he died about a year ago. He helped me become closer to my
father, though." Rayce noticed that a tear rolled down Alsandair's
cheek. "I'll always remember him. It's why I keep his locket here."
Rayce regarded Alsandair. He had been in a war and had lost his
arm. He was most certainly the bravest man Rayce had ever met. Rayce had
always thought that bravery meant not having to cry, but here Alsandair
was, crying.
Alsandair patted Rayce on his knee. "It's getting late, Rayce. You
should run on home now, before it gets dark."
"But what about my hiccoughs?"
Alsandair looked at Rayce questioningly. "What about them? I
haven't heard you hiccough since we got here."
With all of the work he had been doing, Rayce hadn't noticed that
he hadn't hiccoughed once while he was carrying the sack of fish or
putting another log on the fire. Alsandair hadn't tried using a salve,
made him breathe in acrid smoke, or made him drink vile medicine, but
his hiccoughs were gone.
Alsandair smiled. "I told you, I used to be a healer. Sometimes a
little work can go a long way."
"Oh, thank you, sir!"
Alsandair shook his head as he escorted Rayce to the door. "You can
call me Alsandair, but you'll have to call me that next time you come
by. Off with you now!"
Rayce waved his thanks once again as he ran down the street towards
his house. His legs didn't feel tired any more, and he was smiling and
laughing cheerily all the way home, making sure to say hello to as many
people as he could, just happy to hear his voice without a trace of
hiccoughs.
========================================================================
Tough Healing
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Liam Donahue, and Jim Owens
Melrin 5, 1018
Lilike walked toward the gates of Dargon Keep late on the last day
of the mid-year festival of Melrin. She watched wistfully as
well-dressed couples wandered happily away from the keep; she would have
loved to have attended the Melrin Ball as they had, but as the mere
apprentice of Rebecca the healer, she wasn't one of those who was
privileged enough to receive an invitation. Cavendish the scribe, whose
house she was watching for the sennight, had given her permission to use
his, but she had nothing fancy enough to wear and she knew she would
have been out of place. She would not have even come to the gates,
except that at the last mene she had been asked to perform a task.
Lilike turned away from the tall doors at the front of the keep and
went around to the servants' entrance on the south side. People were
going in and out of that small door with intent looks on their faces and
she had no trouble slipping through without comment. She made her way
between the passing servers, falling in behind one who carried two
buckets of water on a yoke. She followed him through the twisting
passageways and up a winding staircase into the ballroom.
In the ballroom, the festive decorations hung over the banquet
tables, which were still groaning with untouched food. The stage at one
end of the hall was empty of all but chairs, and Lilike wondered what
the musicians had played, and how elegant the dancers had looked moving
to it. The Melrin festivities were always lavish, even in the poorest
sections of town where she had grown up, and the Melrin Ball on the last
day of the holiday was always the most spectacular, but the nobles
celebrated in a fashion that Lilike couldn't even imagine.
She scanned the room and found her goal. "Oh, there you are,
Cereid!" Lilike called as she approached her friend. The young Olean
priest was looking uncomfortable as he stood there in his robes, and
Lilike knew why: he had a rash somewhere beneath them. Despite her
occupation as a healer, he had refused to show her the rash, even while
asking that she make a salve for it. She knew it was because of his
growing affection for her; it made him very self-conscious whenever they
were together. She had spent all day concocting the healing balm and had
come to deliver it.
"Do you have it?" he asked anxiously.
"Lovely to see you, too," Lilike said sarcastically, enjoying the
way it made Cereid squirm. Unable to keep a straight face, she grinned.
"Here it is. But I had to borrow this pot from Cavendish, so you can't
keep it. You'll have to put the salve on here."
Cereid began to stammer nervously, shaking his head, and then
Lilike saw his eyes widen. He pointed over her shoulder and said, "Over
there." She turned and saw a window alcove with a curtain bunched up to
one side. Cereid strode over to it and reached for the curtain. As
Lilike followed, he said, "Please keep an eye out while I apply this."
She nodded as he pulled the curtain closed.
Lilike turned her back to the curtain and stood there, trying to
look inconspicuous as servers passed back and forth across the hall,
cleaning up. In her boredom, her imagination turned to Cereid's hands
applying salve to his backside, where she assumed the rash was. The
image was pleasant, and she savored it. A smile burst onto her face when
she realized that she had started to imagine his hands on her backside
instead. She was interrupted from this thought when someone next to her
said, "Well, Tasia, once again a fruitless debate has cost us
celebration time."
The clearly heard response, "Sorry, Courtney, but you can be so
stubborn about your convictions!" made Lilike turn her head to find two
priests of the Creators pantheon -- she thought they were of the
highest, or euilamon, rank -- standing right next to her. She let out a
little squeak of surprise, and while both women directed their gazes at
her she frantically tried to think up an excuse as to why she was
standing there. Her heart started hammering as the plain one reached
toward her with a frown on her face. Lilike breathed a sigh of relief
when the woman's fingers grasped at something behind her. She turned her
head and glimpsed the raveled thread dangling from a section of subtle
embroidery on the curtain. The euilamon pulled on that thread and the
entire curtain tumbled to the ground.
The two euilamon calmly said, "Oh my," as Lilike turned around to
make sure that Cereid had not been hurt by the falling curtain rod. She
echoed the "Oh my," as she saw him standing there with his robe tucked
under his armpits, clay pot in one hand, his other hand halted in
mid-application of the salve, not to his backside, but to his front. Her
eyes met his red-faced gaze. She remembered her daydream of a moment
earlier, and blushed.
Cereid gave voice to something inarticulate and anguished. He
dropped his robe and ran out of the alcove, passing the pot to Lilike in
passing. She watched for a moment, and then chased after him. As she
raced away, she heard one of the euilamon say, "I told you so, Courtney!
Olean priests are not all eunuchs!"
Lilike rounded the back of the stage and found Cereid leaning
against the wall, his robe back in its proper position, his face
returning to its normal color. She stopped a pace away, wondering what
to say to make him feel better. Knowing how shy he was, she decided to
take the blame. She took the last few steps and said, "I'm sorry about
that, Cereid. That woman pulled a thread and knocked down the curtain
before I even knew they were there. I'm so embarrassed --"
Cereid looked at her with a scowl and said, "You're embarrassed?"
Cereid interrupted, looking at her with a scowl. "I'm the one that got
exposed!" He lowered his gaze and said, contritely, "But that wasn't
really your fault, was it?" He grimaced for a moment, then continued,
"Who were those two, anyway?"
"Two Creators priests by their dress. Euilamon, I think."
"You're kidding!" Cereid said. "By Ol's huge nose, could this
possibly get worse? If they take this story back to my superiors, who
knows what will happen?!" He winced yet again.
"We could find them and explain," suggested Lilike. "By the way,
how is the rash?" Lilike asked.
"No, no, we should just avoid them, not complicate matters." Cereid
gasped in pain and shifted his feet farther apart, then continued, "The
rash is ... Well, it hurts more, actually." He pulled his robe out and
away from his middle.
"Really?" Lilike asked, concern filling her. She mentally reviewed
the ingredients and the mixing process, and found no mistakes. "The
salve should have worked immediately. You're sure it was just an
ordinary rash, straight? How did you get it, anyway?"
"Well ... ah ... I don't think that's really important," Cereid
said, grimacing again. "Ol's big feet, that hurts!"
Lilike wracked her brain for something to help her friend. "You
weren't in this much pain before, Cereid, so the salve must have made it
worse. Go wash it off."
Cereid hesitated, then nodded and dashed off. Lilike watched him
go, still worried about why her salve had burned him. She knew she
should have insisted on seeing the rash. What did Cereid know, after
all, about such things? Instead, she had let his modesty and her own
feelings for him sway her judgment into accepting what he had asked.
"Excuse me, my dear, but could I offer you some advice?"
Lilike whirled around and found one of the euilamon from the
curtain disaster standing next to her. Her mouth dropped open in shock
and all she could manage to say was, "Ah ..."
"Good, good. Let me introduce myself," the plain woman said. "I'm
Tasia, the Euilamon of Randiriel, the god of lovers. As such, your
plight touched my heart. When I saw you and that nice young man in such
an odd, and awkward, position, I knew that I could bring happiness to
your lives by giving you instruction from Randiriel."
Lilike's mouth remained open. Tasia's monologue was fast-moving and
forceful, and the euilamon barely looked at her as she spoke. Before
Lilike could try to interrupt the woman, Tasia continued.
"Young people these days have the most shocking ideas about how
lovers should behave. I'm sure there was a good reason that you thought
that having your man apply grease to himself in public while you didn't
watch was stimulating, and perhaps it was. But Randiriel teaches that
lovers of any age should experience one another's body directly and not
be shy about each other. She also states that both partners should be
equal, that pleasure is not one or the other's responsibility but should
be shared by both, given and received equally by each of you.
"Now, let me recite from Randiriel's Manual of Ritual Pleasure.
First you --"
"Please, stop!" said Lilike in horror. If there was anything she
didn't need at that moment, it was a lecture on sex from a total
stranger. "You have the wrong idea. Cereid and I are not lovers; we were
not engaging in some strange kind of foreplay!"
"There's no need to be embarrassed, my dear," Tasia said.
"Randiriel passes no judgments, so neither do I. This incident will not
become gossip in our temple, despite what you may have heard about us. I
could tell that there are feelings between the two of you, and if you
insist on expressing them in that manner, it is all the same under
Randiriel's eyes. But she has lessons to impart, and I know that you two
could benefit from them if you only gave her teachings a chance.
"As I was saying, the Manual of Ritual Pleasure's first rule
involves --"
Lilike resisted the urge to stick her fingers in her ears, scrunch
her eyes closed, and hum loudly; she wasn't a child any longer. She
changed tactics instead, saying, "Thank you, Euilamon Tasia, for showing
me the error of our ways. I'll tell my ... lover ... of your advice. I'm
sure it will improve relations between us. And if we have any more
questions about the mechanics of ... pleasure ... I'm sure that we will
come to your temple first.
"Now I need to go find him to give him the good news. Many, many
thanks! I'm so glad that you crossed our path. Farewell, and happy
Melrin's End!" She darted away before the nosy priest could utter
another word, glancing back once to see the woman walking away with a
satisfied smile on her face. Lilike thought that it was nice that
someone had gotten pleasure out of the last several menes.
Lilike slipped out of the ballroom and into the servants'
corridors. Cereid had come this way, and she was sure she knew where he
had gone. The only place certain to have water available was the
kitchens. As she walked, she realized that her embarrassment was as much
for the euilamon's assumptions as her own fantasies about those
assumptions coming true, fantasies that had gained fodder from the
accident. A moment later she turned a corner and found herself face to
face with the other euilamon.
"I'm glad I found one of you," the prim young woman said. "I
followed your client back here, but got lost. If I --"
"Client?" Lilike shouted, outraged. "And which Creator's god looks
after prostitutes, then? I told your friend that Cereid and I are not
lovers, even if she didn't believe me. How dare either one of you assume
anything from just a glance?"
The euilamon smiled placatingly. "Tasia can be presumptive, but no
more than yourself I think. I am Courtney, Euilamon of Araminia, who
numbers healing among her attributes. I recognized the scent of that
salve the young acolyte was applying to himself, and I recognize you as
the apprentice of Rebecca, who is known as a fine healer. Since the
young man handed you the pot very carefully despite his haste to depart,
I thought that you were his healer."
Lilike felt her face heating up again. She felt like kneeling and
begging forgiveness from the woman. Instead she said, "I apologize for
my outburst, Euilamon Courtney, but this evening has not been one of my
best." Lilike stared helplessly at the woman for a long moment, at a
loss for words. "And Cereid, the acolyte, is not my patient; he's a
friend who had a need I could fulfill."
Courtney frowned and said, "I don't think you were fulfilling it
particularly well. Why were you letting him apply the salve himself?
Have you even inspected his rash?"
"N-no," Lilike replied, ashamed to be suddenly stammering, "but
he's my friend, and I could tell how embarrassed he was."
The euilamon arched an eyebrow. "He must not be that good a friend,
if you care so little for his health. Either that, or you are not that
good a healer."
Lilike bristled at these disparaging remarks against both her
ability and her friendship. She had already lashed out at the euilamon
once, though, and suspected that a second outburst might not be
forgiven. Instead, she looked at her own feet and murmured, "I'm not
sure I understand what you mean."
Courtney laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. When Lilike looked up,
the older woman met her eyes and said, "You did not give your friend the
full benefit of your abilities."
Lilike's mind cleared as the words registered, and she saw respect
in the woman's eyes. "So, I shouldn't let my feelings for someone
interfere with the proper treatment?"
"You are blessed with the understanding of Araminia," Courtney
said, beaming. "Your highest calling is to heal. If that means treating
someone badly because they will not follow your instructions, then you
must harden yourself to take those steps."
"Even if it means embarrassing him?"
"Which is worse, my child, a little fresh air on his loins, or
prescribing the wrong medicine for the problem?"
Lilike looked at Courtney's serene face and felt almost as if
Araminia herself was speaking to her through the young woman. She
remembered Rebecca's lessons on matching cures to ailments and realized
why her teacher had taken so much time to drill them into her. She also
realized what would happen if someone put her salve on an injury that
wasn't the right kind of rash.
"Thank you, Euilamon Courtney, for sharing your wisdom with me. I
will never forget what I have learned. Now I must find Cereid and do
what I should have done at first to make sure my friend is healed." She
bowed awkwardly to the priestess and pressed on to the kitchens.
Lilike entered the cavernous kitchens of the keep. The center of
activity was the large washtubs where the help were cleaning plates,
trays, pots, pans, and serving utensils. She looked around and quickly
spotted Cereid in the corner by the pantry door, with a pail, a rag, and
a large wet spot on the front of his robe. She walked over to him and
asked, "Do you feel better now, Cereid?"
The acolyte glanced up and then quickly back down. "Yes", he said.
"I had to draw the water directly from the well, and it was very cold,
but it made me feel much better."
"Good," she said sharply, taking his hand. She drew him into the
pantry, and from there into the well room to the side. "Now get that hem
back up to your chest so I can finally see what we're dealing with
here."
"But, Lilike --"
"No excuses or evasions, Cereid. You asked me to give you healing
salve, and it didn't work. It should have, so there must be some reason
for that. I can't find out what that reason is without seeing the rash
itself. So, lift your robe."
Cereid turned his head, crimson streaking over his cheekbones, but
his hands didn't move. Lilike said more gently, "Come on, do it. After
all, I've already seen it."
Cereid's eyes squeezed tightly shut as his hands reached for the
hem of his robe and slowly lifted it all the way to his chest. Lilike
hunkered down in front of her wounded friend. She couldn't help smiling
as she took a good look at what she had only glimpsed earlier in the
ballroom. Judging by the size of the serpent's forked tongue the water
had been cold indeed. Then she pressed those thoughts aside as Euilamon
Courtney's words came back to her, calling on the professional in her to
assert itself.
At first the light of the single lamp revealed only the obvious
shapes. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness she saw the redness in the
creases of his crotch and down the insides of his thighs. She looked
closer. The skin was roughened. Carefully pressing the organs aside, she
gingerly traced the outline of the redness. Cereid flinched, and she
swore. "Cereid, you dolt! That's no rash, it's a burn! Tell me truth,
how did you get this?"
"Well," Cereid said, then paused. Finally, he continued, "Do you
recall yesterday morning when I was helping you with your potions? Well,
between the flux elixir and the sleep easer, whatever that one was, I
spilled one of the ingredients on my lap as I was passing it to you. It
was such a stupid move that I didn't want to tell you about it, not to
mention that I wasted half of the phial. It wasn't so bad then, but it
got worse when I got back to the temple. I couldn't go to our healer,
since I was supposed to be mucking out the stalls while I was with you.
Early this morning I decided to ask you to cure my rash, but I guess
that wasn't the right thing to do, was it?"
Lilike was only half-listening to Cereid's story even though she
was glad to get it out of him. The burn wasn't serious, but it had
blisters here and there, some of which were broken. It was no wonder her
salve had burned him. She felt a small flare of irritation at him for
concealing his actions. She knew she had to apply the proper cure and
quickly, as those kinds of blisters could become infected quite easily.
Lilike had learned about burns from Rebecca. She knew that it would
take her a day or more to gather the proper ingredients -- bark and
herbs -- to make a tincture to speed the healing of the burns, but she
didn't have that long. Anger at her friend and worry for his injuries
wavered in her mind as she stared at the burn. Suddenly she remembered
the servant who had come to Rebecca to replace her employer's kitchen
stock of burn-sop. Rebecca had explained that large kitchens usually
kept the tincture prepared and ready should a pot boy or clumsy server
have an accident around the fireplace or stoves. Of course, Dargon Keep
probably had a magical healer within its walls, but would that worthy be
bothered by every scald or blister?
Standing, Lilike moved back into the kitchen and quickly examined
the hot areas. She found no wax-sealed jugs or covered dishes there.
Then she glanced at the pantry door and stepped back inside, where she
found what she was searching for, marked just as Rebecca had marked the
one for her client. Lilike grabbed the jug, a jar of honey, and some
clean rags. Returning to Cereid, she saw that he was still standing with
his robe held high, a pitiful and vulnerable look on his face. Her heart
melted then. Friend or not, here was someone suffering because of her
mistake. Tears of shame welled in her eyes, and she had to bite her lip
as she knelt in front of Cereid.
She wetted down one rag from the jug and began gently blotting the
burns in front of her. She took care with the blisters, but she made
sure to be thorough. Next she slathered honey all over the same areas,
and plastered the rest of the rags as best as she could on top of the
wounds.
As she stood and pulled the hem of his robe down for him, she
marveled at how Cereid had transformed from a love interest into a
patient as she had administered her cure. She returned the borrowed
ingredients, and then asked, "Do you feel better now?"
Cereid was finally smiling again, his red cheeks gone. "Even better
than after the cold water. That was wonderful, Lilike."
"Thank you, Cereid." Lilike closed her eyes and let her feelings
for him back into her heart. She bowed her head. "I feel like I don't
really deserve your thanks." She looked up, taking his gaze. "I should
have insisted on seeing the burn."
"Oh, no, I couldn't --" Cereid started, but Lilike placed her hands
firmly on his chest and he stopped.
"You have to realize that even though I'm still an apprentice, I
know more about healing than you," she continued softly. "If you had let
me see your injury from the start, or better yet not hidden your
clumsiness from me, I could have helped you immediately."
Cereid looked abashed, and said, "Straight. I'll be honest with you
next time."
"Good." Lilike lowered her hands and stepped away from him,
noticing his warmth and aroma only as she left it. She looked away,
towards the door, grateful that they had not been interrupted. "We've
both learned something today." She began to leave, and then stopped with
a bright smile on her face. She looked over her shoulder and said, "And
perhaps the next time I ask you to lift your robe it will mean something
entirely different." With Cereid's astonished look in her memory she
continued on her way out of the keep.
========================================================================
The Great Houses War
Part 2: The Noose and the Falcon
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<NWansbutterEsq@gmail.com>
2 Seber, 897 - 3 Deber, 899
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6
King Caeron surveyed the meadows to the southwest from his vantage
point on a tall hill. Fremlow City was just beyond the horizon, he knew,
but the army of Duke Valeran Northfield was all that he saw. All the
blue Northfield banners bore black falcons, however, indicating that the
duke himself was not present. If he had been, there would have been a
white falcon to mark his position. Caeron's own heraldry flew on a large
banner just behind him, held aloft by one of his squires.
"If we can achieve a decisive victory here, we may be able to win
this war ere it begins in earnest," Caeron said, looking over at Sir
Zephrym Vladon, who sat astride his horse to Caeron's right.
"We can only pray, my lord," Zephrym replied.
The first blood of the so-called Great Houses War had been spilt
when a Northfield army launched a surprise attack and took Fremlow City
a month earlier. Duke Valeran Northfield, husband of Caeron's rival
claimant to the throne, Aendasia Blortnikson, had thus dashed Caeron's
last hopes of a diplomatic resolution to the disputed succession.
Aendasia believed that she was the rightful ruler of Baranur, as King
Stefan II had illegally named her his heir out of spite towards Caeron's
conversion to Stevenism. Caeron, however, was the rightful Tallirhan
heir, being Stefan's grandson, while Aendasia was only a niece, and
Caeron had been crowned ruler of Baranur earlier in the year.
After receiving word of Fremlow's fall, Caeron had abandoned his
original plan of defending his crown by invading Equiville, and had made
haste into the Duchy of Welspeare, hoping to engage the Northfielders in
open field. If they could be defeated, the other insurrectionist houses
would be likelier to capitulate, as Aendasia was also Duchess of
Northfield. This likelihood was further enhanced by the fact that
earlier in the day, Caeron had received a herald from his cousin Hadrus,
king-consort to the queen of Lederia, pledging his support of Caeron's
kingship, meaning more enemies for the insurrectionists.
Caeron had received reports that the treasonous Duchess of Arvalia
was leading troops south to Port Sevlyn. Fortunately, the Skywall
Mountains would slow more rebel troops from Monrodya long enough for
Caeron to win a few quick victories and negate the numerical advantage
the insurrectionists would have.
"The enemy does not seem ready for us," Caeron said. Indeed, the
Northfield troops below appeared to be in disarray, scrambling to move
from a marching formation into battle lines. "We attack swiftly."
"We won't be able to use our archers," Zephrym said. "They aren't
in position yet."
"We'll have to make do without, this time," Caeron replied. "We
can't afford any delay. Lady Milverri, if you please."
"Your majesty." The High Mage drew her horse up beside the king's.
"What would you ask of me?"
"Can you use your magic to order Commander Jorym and his Comarrian
mercenaries forward?" Caeron asked. Having never been in a battle
before, he was unsure what the mage's abilities were. "They are a good
league to the north and it will take time to send runners ..."
"I can, your majesty," Milverri Rhihosh said. "But I must warn you,
my powers are not unlimited. Even the High Mage of Baranur can cast but
a handful of spells before she is spent."
"Others with your skill are present on the battlefield, are they
not?"
"They are. I will send your message, majesty."
Caeron watched in fascination as Milverri Rhihosh began to move her
hands in the air, in motions like those of some long-forgotten dance.
She chanted in an unfamiliar language. Caeron looked north towards the
Comarrian position, but saw nothing untoward. He saw only the branches
of a few trees move in the breeze, and a dark-coloured bird fly out from
a berry bush. He wasn't sure what he expected out of the mage, but after
a few moments of apparent inaction, he looked to summon one of his
runners after all. It seemed that magic really was just a children's
tale.
Just as one of the squires pulled up astride his steed, Caeron
heard the High Mage let out a cry. He looked back to see her slumped in
her saddle, her tight pink skin shining with perspiration. Her eyes were
closed and she swayed to one side. Before she could fall from the horse,
one of her fellow mages reached out a steadying hand.
"We are fortunate that the enemy army has no mages of its own,"
Milverri said. "Otherwise they might have countered my spell. As it is,
this was among my least powerful magics, yet I am still tired."
Caeron suppressed a laugh at that. As far as he could tell the mage
hadn't done anything. Then he caught movement out of the corner of his
eye, and looking to the north, he could see an armoured warrior on
horseback, holding the Comarrian's colours aloft, charging from the low
ground in which the mercenaries had been waiting. Quickly behind him
came a mass of horses and men. For a brief moment Caeron was stunned,
but he quickly gathered himself and looked back to Milverri Rhihosh.
"I see now that I must be very scrupulous in calling on your
powers, Lady Rhihosh," Caeron said. He turned to Zephrym. "Order the
advance. The Comarrians should be able to break the enemy's north flank,
but we will need to be there to make good the assault."
"Very good, my lord," Zephrym said.
Caeron took his helm surmounted by a gold crown from one of his
squires with shaking hands. He moved his horse closer to Zephrym so that
he could speak to his captain in secret. "How are you so calm, Zephrym?"
The old knight smiled, creases forming at the corners of his eyes.
"I am just as scared as you, my king," he said, "but I have many years
of experience in hiding it. You are doing a fine job."
Caeron nodded, though he was not certain he believed Zephrym could
be as scared as he was. He had trained for many years for war, but this
would be his first real battle. Despite the coat of plates and chain
mail suit he wore, he knew from history that kings could die in war as
surely as any other man could. But why should he worry? He looked up at
his banner, held by a faithful squire. Emblazoned atop the traditional
Tallirhan family heraldry, he'd had a noose added in honour of his
devotion to the Stevene's Light. If God wanted him to be king, surely
God would not end his reign so soon. And yet, Dara had been beside
herself with fear when Caeron had left Crown Castle sennights ago.
He looked to his left, where the Duchess of Kiliaen was commanding
the vanguard. She waved to show she was ready. Other barons and their
household knights, men-at-arms, and peasant soldiers stood at the ready.
He hefted the heavy helm onto his head. Though it bore eye slits
that he could easily see through, he had waited until the last moment,
as all warriors did, because it weighed nearly thirty pounds. He raised
his lance in the air and swung it towards the enemy army.
As one, Caeron's household knights and the supporting infantry
moved forward, down the hill towards the meadow. Ailwyn Meadow, Caeron
thought it was called. With his helm on, he could not see to the sides,
but he knew that the rest of the army was moving forward as well. His
horse was anxious to spring forward, but he kept it reined in at a trot
so as not to outpace the infantry.
While only halfway down the hill, he heard the high-pitched war
cries of the Comarr free-lances ring throughout the valley as they tore
into the surprised Northfield troops. The attack worked better than
Caeron had hoped and the enemy troops began to break and run.
"Charge!" Caeron cried. He was now close enough to allow his horse
to break into a gallop. They reached the enemy soldiers with impossible
speed, it seemed. One of the enemy soldiers screamed as Caeron's lance
impaled him. As the king stared at the soldier writhing on the ground, a
horrible thought came to his mind: that was one of his subjects! It was
one thing to fight a foreign invader in the defence of Baranur, but to
be killing his own people? He felt bile rising up in his throat, but
quickly swallowed it as he instinctively blocked an axe being swung at
his shield. Then the world exploded in the cacophony of battle: swords
clanged against one another, men and women screamed.
Another soldier was able to strike Caeron on the side of his helmet
with a billhook. The impact made Caeron's ears
ring for a moment and his
head throb in sudden pain. The pain turned to anger and he lashed out at
the attacker with his shield, breaking the man's arms at the elbows.
Caeron's horse reared up on its haunches and lashed out with its
front hoofs. Caeron pulled his sword from its scabbard and hacked down
at the foot-borne enemy around him. "Where is the enemy cavalry?" he
wondered.
Soon the entire enemy army was in full retreat. "Death to usurpers
of the throne!" Caeron shouted. His blood was up now; he wanted to
destroy these traitors. Who was the Duke of Northfield to defy Caeron's
rightful rule?
Caeron and his troops chased the enemy down, slaughtering them as
they ran. Caeron rode down a peasant, wearing what must have been the
same clothes he wore every day as he tended his fields. They were his
people, Caeron reminded himself. He reined in his horse and found
himself in a small village just beyond Ailwyn Meadow. He pulled off his
heavy helm and sucked in a deep breath of air. Had he held his breath
during the fighting? He couldn't remember breathing, but looking at the
sun's position in the sky, it was over a bell since the attack had
begun, so he must have.
He roared for his bugler, who was fortunately close to hand. "Halt
the charge, by Cephas' boot!" he shouted.
The trumpeter did as he was told, and soon the pursuit of the
fleeing Northfield troops was halted. Then the tune for the army to
reorganise on the king's banner was sounded. The rear ranks of foot
soldiers were in fact just catching up with Caeron and the faster
cavalry, and were filling the village quickly. Caeron realised he was
parched and reached for his wineskin.
To his left, he heard a woman scream. His head snapped in that
direction to see a man wearing the livery of the loyal baron of Bindrmon
forcing a peasant woman to the ground. When the soldier started to pull
down his pants, Caeron realised what he was doing. Loyalist or no, the
Stevene's Third Law was clear on what punishment a rapist deserved.
"Animal!" Caeron did not even warn the man off; he did not deserve
it. Instead, with one swift stroke of his sword he beheaded the Bindrmon
soldier and watched the body fall to the ground.
The peasant woman pulled her skirt down so that it covered her legs
and crawled backwards until she rested against what was presumably her
house. Several other men and women from the royal army were now standing
around, staring at the king.
Caeron wondered whether he had done the right thing. Perhaps he had
allowed the violence of the day to affect him too much. No, he simply
couldn't accept such actions and he had to correct them as quickly and
harshly as possible. If a rapist were brought before him in the courts
for justice, he would have ordered the man be hanged in a moment.
Because the culprit in this case was a soldier in the heat of battle
made little difference as far as Caeron could see.
"I will not tolerate such behaviour!" he shouted. "You are fighting
to free these people, not to do them harm. And if any of you tries to
protest of the 'heat of battle', I swear by the Stevene's sacred pizzle
I'll castrate you myself!"
"My lord, are you all right?" Caeron heard Sir Zephrym Vladon's
voice to the rear. "What is happening here?"
"Apparently I need to instruct our soldiers on how to behave,"
Caeron said through a constricted throat. This was not the way wars were
meant to be fought. How could soldiers fighting for a just cause do such
a thing?
"Your majesty!" A squire bearing the Duchess of Kiliaen's quartered
red and yellow livery charged into view astride a lathered horse. "More
Northfielders, to the south! I was barely able to escape to bring news,
but their cavalry will be here in moments!"
"Cephas' boot!" Caeron cursed. The enemy must have been right on
the boy's heels, for he could feel and hear the thunder of horse's
hoofs. He looked about frantically; he had with him most of his
household knights and a couple score foot soldiers, but only God knew
where the rest of his army was. "Find the Lady Milverri Rhihosh, boy!
Tell her to find me!"
He pulled on his great helm and led his troops out of the village.
He could now see enemy knights bearing down on him. Caeron spurred his
horse. Since when the king was a little boy, Zephrym had taught him that
attack was always better than defence. He slammed into the oncoming wave
of enemy cavalry and was nearly knocked off his horse as a lance
punctured his shield.
Caeron tossed the now useless shield to the ground and gripped his
sword in both hands. His left shoulder hurt from the impact, but the
lance had not penetrated his coat of plates. For the next bell he fought
desperately as the enemy's superior numbers began to tell. Eventually,
Caeron found himself unhorsed and fending off two mounted opponents. One
of them came too close and the king was able to slam his blade into the
man's side where the armour was weakest. As the enemy knight groaned and
slid from his horse, the other one smashed his spiked mace into Caeron's
back.
Dazed, the king toppled to the ground. Unable to get any air into
his lungs, he tore the great helm off his head. The knight swung again
with his mace. Caeron parried the attack and impaled the man on his
sword. Still trying to catch his breath, Caeron scrabbled up against a
nearby tree as his latest victim flailed about on the ground, screaming.
He looked to the south and could see more enemy soldiers closing in.
Duchess Kiliaen must have been destroyed or withdrawn, he thought. How
could he be losing this battle?
"Majesty, I am here," a soft whisper said in Caeron's ear.
"Lady Milverri!" Caeron gasped, shocked at the sudden appearance of
the mage and finally able to take a breath. "You must work your magic,
turn the tide of this battle back in our favour so I can rally the army
and --"
"I have not the power to win this battle for you, majesty," the
High Mage said. "I doubt even the Beinisonian sorcerers wield such
power. I can perhaps delay the enemy long enough to allow you to
escape."
"Escape? I will not!"
"There will be other battles, my lord," Zephrym said, approaching
from Caeron's left. Even with men and women dying mere strides away, he
sounded as calm as if he were enjoying fine wine in Crown Castle.
"Very well, do what you can, High Mage." Caeron filled the title
with scorn, hoping Milverri's pride might make her bring forth powerful
enough magic to win the day, as he suspected she could.
The High Mage gestured and a couple of other mages linked arms with
her. Together they began chanting unfamiliar words and the ground began
to shake. With a loud groan, a large piece of the earth in front of the
approaching enemy reinforcements opened and a pit consumed several of
those in the front rank. Others turned and fled as their horses spooked.
The three mages toppled to the ground.
"Cephas' boot!" Caeron stared down at the mages, who had rivulets
of blood creeping out of their ears and noses. "Are they dead?"
"I do not know, majesty," Zephrym said, "but we must make good our
escape ere the Northfielders realise they are not badly hurt and finish
us!"
With reluctance, Caeron ordered that the retreat be sounded.
5 Seber, 897
"I can't decide whether that battle was a victory or a defeat,"
Duchess Quinnat said.
Caeron stared down at the map spread out over the table in his
pavilion in the camp Caeron's army had set up in the foothills northwest
of Beeikar. The map, held down at the corners by two goblets, a dagger,
and a rock, showed the southwest portion of Baranur. Around him the
lords and ladies of the King's Army stood, a few of them bearing fresh
wounds, as it was only three days since the battle at Ailwyn Meadow.
"Probably a bit of both," Caeron said, looking up. "We wiped out
large portions of the Northfield army in the initial charge, but after
that they were nearly able to encircle me, and we lost significant
portions of our own force."
"My mercenaries are still fit to fight, milord," Greg Jorym said in
his thick Comarrian brogue.
"And our archers escaped the battle nearly untouched," Zephrym
said. "We may not have gained the resounding victory we'd hoped for, but
Duke Northfield *has* halted his advance into Welspeare."
"Yes, only to pull back to assist Duchess Arval's campaign in
Quinnat," Caeron said. "Let us hope that the insurrectionists' choice to
ignore Dargon and concentrate their forces in the south will benefit us
in some way. For now it means we're outnumbered."
Caeron traced a route on the map as he spoke. "We'll rest another
day or two here, then move north as well. If we can draw Northfield into
a battle on open field, we can deal him the defeat hoped for at Ailwyn
Meadow. That done, the insurrectionists will be much the weaker. Our
downfall at Ailwyn was that we pressed our advantage too hard and left
ourselves open to counterattack. With a little more caution and some
better terrain, I am convinced we can defeat them easily."
The lords and ladies all nodded in agreement and Caeron left the
tent. Some ways down the hill from his pavilion, another large tent had
been set up by the physicians and clerics that moved with the army's
baggage train. The king entered and was struck by the smell of rot and
filth, masked by not quite enough incense. The wounded lay spread about
on the grass of the hill. A few tables had been set up; at one of them
he could see several monks trying to hold down a man as a physician
sawed through the soldier's wounded leg.
Caeron caught sight of the tall form of Cyruz of Vidin moving about
the wounded, stopping to speak or pray with any that called out to him.
Caeron waved to the priest whom the king considered a holy man; Cyruz
had actually met Cephas Stevene himself many years ago.
Caeron knelt beside a soldier who tried to stand at sight of his
king.
"Rest easy," Caeron said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. The
wounded soldier was many years Caeron's senior, with greying hair and a
scruffy beard.
"I'm sorry, your majesty," the man said, lowering his eyes.
"You've nothing to apologise for," Caeron said. "I thank you for
your loyal service to your king. I pray God will give you a quick
recovery."
Caeron wandered about the tent, exchanging words with soldiers as
he passed, trying to give them what encouragement he could and thanking
them for their loyalty. He eventually made his way to a separate tent
just outside the one where the wounded were gathered. A young novice
mage standing outside it opened the flap and allowed Caeron into the
dark interior. High Mage Milverri Rhihosh lay on a straw bed within.
They exchanged pleasantries, but as soon as Caeron was seated on a trunk
beside her pallet, the mage got right to the point.
"I think perhaps my warnings against a Stevenic coronation have
proved correct, majesty," she said through chapped lips. The mage gave
in to a long bout of coughing, after which the handkerchief she took
from her mouth bore blood stains.
"Why then do you support my kingship," Caeron asked, "and use your
magic at personal expense to aid me?"
"Because I know that with a Beinisonian empress on Baranur's
throne, Baranurian mages would be no more. The Beinisonian college would
overtake us. That ... and I respect you. I think despite some failings,
you may be a great king."
Caeron raised an eyebrow. With the possible exception of Zephrym,
no one dared such candour with the King of Baranur. He looked down at
Milverri. Her eyes were surrounded by dark shadows and she was pale.
"Will you recover?"
"In time," she replied. "The spell I cast at Ailwyn Meadow was not
my most powerful. But when Empress Aendasia comes with Beinisonian
sorcerers in her army, it will be even more difficult. More likely,
even, the magic will be in her favour. The Beinisonians have powerful
mages."
Caeron nodded. Things were not going well. Messengers had notified
him earlier that Port Sevlyn was under siege. How could this be
happening? He was the anointed king of Baranur; he should be winning.
Perhaps Milverri was right. Perhaps he had made a mistake.
"Your majesty!" A breathless squire burst into the tent and bowed
hastily.
"What news?" Caeron asked, feeling ice form in the pit of his
stomach.
"I-I bear evil news, I am afraid, your majesty," the boy stammered.
"Beinisonian troops have laid siege to Pyridain City!"
Caeron shook his head and looked down at the map so that his lords
would not see the dejection on his face. For Aendasia to be at Pyridain
City with Beinisonian troops so soon was evil news indeed. He was losing
the war already.
27 Yule, 898
Seven months later, King Caeron sat astride his horse, surveying
what would soon be yet another battlefield. The insurrectionist forces
besieging Port Sevlyn had formed into battle lines about half a league
away. The lands here were plains, green grass with only the occasional
copse of trees adorning the countryside. For an attacker with superior
numbers, it was good land.
Caeron could see the halved blue and yellow heraldry of Arvalia and
the solid blue of Northfield troops. Yet again, Caeron could see, his
nemesis Valeran Northfield had eluded him. It was nigh on two years now
that the king had been attempting to draw him into battle but to no
avail.
Sharks' Cove had fallen to these same forces earlier in the spring,
threatening to choke off the Laraka River. The river was an important
link in the supply chain that fed Caeron's armies and those subjects
that remained loyal. With a victory here, he could split his army,
sending a portion to retake Sharks' Cove and reopen the supply route.
"You heard the news this morning, your majesty," Zephrym said, atop
his own horse to Caeron's right. "Westbrook --"
"Yes, being invaded from three sides by a second Beinisonian army,
and combined forces from Bivar, Redcrosse, and Othuldane," Caeron nodded
grimly. "I fear that we may not be able to include the Westbrooks among
our allies much longer ... and Pyridain is all but lost."
A sennight after he had received the message of Pyridain City's
fate, Caeron's stomach still turned. When the citadel that defended the
city and held Duke Sebastian Pyridain finally fell, Aendasia had issued
a most barbaric order. The city had been razed to the ground. Caeron
could almost hear the screams and the crackling flames of the city as
her army raped and pillaged their way through the streets.
Caeron felt suddenly very tired. Save for the winter respite, he
had been at war almost continually since being crowned by his
half-brother Cyrridain the Stevenic Master Priest in Vibril of 897. He'd
killed more of his subjects with his own hands than he cared to count,
to say nothing of the deaths his orders had brought. Looking across the
field at the army before him, ready to take his crown from Caeron's very
head if they could, he knew he had no choice.
Caeron's battle commanders looked at him expectantly. He cast one
more glance at the enemy army, then addressed his lords.
"I think we can agree that morale is our biggest weakness.
Therefore we need to strike quickly and keep their archers away from our
infantry. On the other hand, we have discipline on our side; the King's
Army has seen more war than most. Jorym, I want your Comarrians to draw
the Arvalian cavalry out; after months in a siege, they'll be spoiling
for a fight."
Caeron outlined a plan for the rest of the commanders in the
battle, having the bulk of his cavalry move up the centre of the field,
supported by the infantry. The Northfield bows were of some concern, but
Caeron had more bowmen and if his plan with the Comarrians worked, he
would be able to take the enemy cavalry down piecemeal, paving the way
for a massed assault with his own knights as had won him several battles
before.
Caeron moved out in front of his army to give them his customary
speech. He knew that his army was as weary of battle as he was, but
trusted them to do their duty once again.
"Brave soldiers, I have called upon you time and again to serve
your king, and you have done so admirably. Once more, we face the forces
of those who would have a Beinisonian rule our realm, a Beinisonian who
ordered the sacking of Pyridain City and the massacre of all its
inhabitants. Women, children, the elderly: none were spared by the
ravages of those barbarians! This is the fate that awaits all Baranur if
we do not rise to do our duty. March now, into battle once again! Avenge
your fellows! Defend your families! Protect Baranur!"
With the soldiers properly stirred, Caeron returned to his position
in the centre, at the lead of his household knights, and ordered the
advance. He kept the bulk of his forces moving at a walk towards the
enemy while Greg Jorym and his men moved out ahead. The sell-sword
executed his manoeuvre perfectly, and the anxious enemy knights fell for
the ploy as Caeron had counted on. Soon the enemy knights were within
range of the king's archers, who loosed volley after volley, blackening
the sky. The Arvalian charge died out, and soon their knights were
fleeing.
By this time, arrows from the enemy bowmen were reaching Caeron's
troops. He donned his great helm and prepared to order his own troops
forward. To his rear, an arrow made its way between the armoured plates
of one of his household knights and the man fell from his horse
screaming. To the right, the horse next to Zephrym's was struck and
crashed to the ground.
"Steady," Caeron shouted to his men. A premature charge would be
disastrous. With his helm on, he couldn't see what was going on with the
rest of the battlefield, but trusted his lords to follow the plan.
Finally, they were close enough and he ordered the attack.
"Charge!"
As one, the armoured knights surged forward, leaving the infantry
behind. The deep green grass parted before Caeron as he stood in the
stirrups, urging his destrier ahead. The distance closed, then he was in
amidst the enemy soldiers. They broke almost immediately, and Caeron
ordered for the charge to be halted. Unlike at Ailwyn Meadows, his
knights stopped and regrouped. Caeron guided them on a tight left wheel
and charged into the next unit of enemy. Soon, the insurrectionists were
fleeing in all directions and Caeron stood with his knights not far from
Port Sevlyn.
He pulled the chainmail coif and padded arming cap off his head and
attempted to wipe some of the sweat from his face. He could feel beneath
his heavy armour that he was drenched in sweat, but for the moment the
elation of victory kept exhaustion at bay. One of the knights offered
him a wineskin and he drank deeply.
"Your majesty," Duchess Quinnat hailed him as she pulled up on her
horse. "A worthy victory; it's a shame we aren't able to deal with more
of the insurrectionists in this manner, but they just have too many
armies scattered about!"
"They do," Caeron agreed, "which is why we can't waste any time
savouring this victory. We can rest here for the night, but on the
morrow I want you to start your forces moving down the Laraka to Sharks'
Cove, while I take the remainder of the army back into Magnus."
1 Deber, 899
"This new year does not bring with it good tidings, love," Caeron
said, holding his wife close to him. They were alone in the royal
bedchamber of Crown Castle: the only place where he could openly show
the doubt he was feeling. Nearly six months had passed since the victory
at Port Sevlyn and he was now back in Magnus.
"You are the rightful king; you will triumph in the end," Dara
replied.
"I am not so sure anymore. Most of the loyal houses have fallen.
The enemy is nearly at the walls of Magnus, my capital." He kissed his
wife's hair, and breathed the sweet scent of jasmine that adorned it.
"Perhaps I was not meant to be king."
"Don't even think that," Dara said. "Baranur must be ruled by a
Tallirhan."
"It was proud of me to ignore Duke Dargon and allow Cyrridain to
crown me."
"Shush," Dara said. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Caeron on
the lips. The kiss was followed by several more and soon clothing was
being discarded.
As Dara pulled him down onto the royal bed, Caeron said, "I love
you. I ever will."
They made love tenderly. Caeron felt that this might be his last
night with Dara. He placed kisses on every part of her, memorising every
curve, the softness of her white skin. He gazed into her dark eyes,
wishing he could hide inside their protective seclusion.
The next morning, news reached him that armies from Northfield and
Monrodya were approaching the city, and would be at Magnus' mighty walls
by midday. Aendasia's Beinisonian army was known to be close to the
south as well. Few commanders would be willing to wage a winter campaign
like this, Caeron knew, but he imagined that the insurrectionists could
smell victory and thought they could end the war soon. Perhaps they were
right.
Caeron knew that he had to make a stand at Magnus. He would not
hide behind its walls and hope he could outlast the insurrectionists. It
was time for him to discover whether he was truly intended to be king or
not. He would take his army outside the city walls and confront the
traitors as sovereign. He would not allow his family to take the same
risk, however. While preparations for the battle were being made, he
took Zephrym aside.
"Zephrym, you have been ever loyal to me," he said. "You taught me
as a boy how to use a sword and ride a horse. As I grew to manhood, you
have protected my household. I count you among my best friends, which is
why I ask of you this most important task."
"I will do whatever you ask, my lord," Zephrym said.
"You must leave Magnus immediately, and take my family to safety.
Dargon is probably the safest place, since the southern marches are all
but lost to us."
Zephrym's eyes widened. It was the most emotion Caeron had seen
from him in twenty-five years. "My lord, I can't do that; I have to
fight by your side. I can't allow you to fight this battle without me."
Caeron put his hands on the older knight's shoulders. "If I should
fall, Dara must be queen. You are the only one I can trust to guide her
safely away from here."
Tears were welling up in Zephrym's large, grey eyes. His lower lip
began to tremble and he bit down hard on it. He shook his head slowly.
"My lord, I ... I won't leave you. I've never --"
"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."
Zephrym squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head. Caeron stepped
forward and wrapped his arms around the big knight and squeezed him as
hard as he could. Zephrym in turn hugged Caeron.
"I will protect the queen, my lord."
3 Deber, 899
The following morning, a frosty wind screeched across the open
plains surrounding Magnus as King Caeron surveyed the battlefield. He
had positioned himself on the south-western edge of the city so that he
could confront the Duke of Northfield himself. To the north, Baron
Baldwin Narragan commanded the contingent from Quinnat and Kiliaen. To
the east, a huge mob of citizens of Magnus were commanded by their own
mayor, Contreela Sevind.
The people of Magnus were for the most part armed only with butcher
knives, billhooks, pitchforks, and other non-military weapons. Caeron
expected them to break and flee into the city without much prodding, but
he appreciated their loyalty and conviction in standing out on the
frigid field with him.
He examined the forces arrayed against him. Row upon row of foot
soldiers dressed in the blue of Northfield stood across the smooth white
plain, their helmets and lance tips glinting brightly in the mid-morning
sun. There were also large numbers of cavalry, each adorned in their own
unique heraldry.
His breath escaped in an icy mist as he called to his trumpeters.
"Sound the advance."
The snow crunched under his horse's hoofs as it lurched forward.
The snow was deep, coming up to the knees of the foot soldiers wrapped
in blankets and furs against the cold. Their progress was slow, but so
was the enemy's. Caeron could see that they, too, were moving towards
his position.
Thunder rumbled in the sky. Caeron looked back to where the
Baranurian mages were standing in a circle around the High Mage on a
small hill to his rear. Arrows blackened the sky as archers from both
sides loosed volley after volley upon their enemy. Several arrows fell
amongst the knights riding with Caeron. An arrow found its way just
below the helmet of a knight beside him, and she fell from her horse and
thrashed in the snow. Caeron squeezed his horse's flanks a little and
quickened the pace.
He could make out features on the enemy's faces before he decided
his troops were close enough that he could risk a charge without tiring
half way to the enemy and bogging down. It was now time to discover the
worth of his kingship.
"Charge!" he screamed. "For Baranur! For the Stevene!"
Loyally, his troops' voices rose in a war cry and they surged
forward. Duke Northfield, only a few strides to the left of Caeron's
position, gave a similar order and his army began to run through the
deep snow.
It seemed to take bells for the two forces to collide, but when
they did the same familiar sounds of battle rang out. Enemy and friend
alike swirled around Caeron. His household knights were with Zephrym,
but he still fought alongside several of his barons and their own
knights. They acquitted themselves well, but as the battle wore on, they
were forced back towards the castle gates.
At one point in the battle, Caeron was able to break free of the
melee and survey the situation. As he suspected, a charge by knights
from Equiville had broken the Magnus peasants and they were fleeing.
What he had not expected was to see the banner of Greg Jorym flapping in
the distance as he and his Comarrian mercenaries fled the field.
Caeron's jaw dropped. How could Jorym's troops have broken so
easily? They were his most elite cavalry, as they were all hardened
free-lances. He clamped his jaw shut and narrowed his eyes.
"That worthless cur!" he shouted. Jorym must have decided that this
was a lost cause and fled to save his own neck. Such was the danger of
allying oneself with a person whose loyalty was purchased with gold and
silver. Perhaps Aendasia had offered him a better sum of money, even?
With the Comarrians out of the fight, the situation looked grim
indeed. Caeron ordered his troops to withdraw back to the hill where
High Mage Milverri Rhihosh and her mages were gathered.
"You should retreat behind the safety of the walls, your majesty,"
Milverri said. "This battle is lost."
"It is too late for that," Caeron said. "The gatehouses have all
been sealed. I will make my stand here and prove my worth as king!"
Milverri nodded. Caeron dismounted his horse and waded into battle,
shoulder to shoulder with barons, knights, and foot soldiers. Blood
sprayed onto the pristine snow and seemed to shine like fire. A knight
wearing heraldry Caeron did not know thrust with his sword. The blow
sundered links of chain mail and Caeron's ribs burst into waves of pain.
He could see his own blood splatter onto the snow. His entire left side
went suddenly numb and he nearly toppled over.
He parried the knight's next attack, then slashed across his
enemy's throat, silencing him. Caeron backed off a little as he felt the
warmth of blood soaking the padded gambeson beneath his armour.
Suddenly, two of the mages burst into flames and flailed about
screaming.
"Stevene!" Caeron cried, looking back at the two human forms,
engulfed in sickly green flames that licked at them like the tongue of a
flanduil.
"The Beinisonian Empress has arrived with her sorcerers!" Milverri
cried. For the first time ever, Caeron could sense fear in the High
Mage's voice. "Their High Mage Mon-Orthanier is with them!"
More of the mages dropped to the ground, these without a sound.
Milverri seemed to be fighting an invisible opponent, as she thrashed
about in the snow, eyes wide with terror. Caeron swallowed hard and
looked towards the fighting only a few paces away. Few loyal troops
remained. A fortress of dead bodies surrounded him.
Caeron realised that his reign was at an end. There was no escape,
but he would die with glory and make Dara proud of him, and perhaps earn
a place with the Stevene in the afterlife. He had been a proud fool to
be crowned by his half-brother, Cyrridain. He understood that now. God
had shown him his error, but had given him a way to yet save the
kingdom.
"Dara!" he screamed and charged into the approaching knights with
renewed vigour. He hacked at them with strength not his own, cleaving
through one knight's helm and splattering his fellows with bits of brain
and bone. Caeron staggered to his knees as a blow sailed over his head.
He then disembowelled the attacker. The enemy soldiers hesitated and
drew back a little. Caeron regained his feet and was assailed by an ear
shattering scream.
He nearly fell over again, so powerful was the noise. He looked
back to see Milverri hovering a few hands off the ground, her mouth open
impossibly wide, her eyes squeezed shut. The wailing intensified and
several of the Northfield troops dropped their weapons and clutched at
their ears. A pink mist began to form around the High Mage, then it
solidified into the form of a woman and soared up into the sky. The High
Mage's body dropped lifelessly to the ground.
"This parting gift I give to you, King Caeron." He could hear
Milverri's voice as if she were whispering in his ear. "I will destroy
the Beinisonian sorcerers so that your wife may have a chance to rule.
Long live Queen Dara."
Far off to the south, Caeron heard a roar like a thousand
landslides all at once. A bright lance of pink light flashed in the
south, then a wave of howling wind and tormented voices swept over the
battlefield. He looked back at the Northfielders who were now staring to
the south with wide eyes. Several of them turned and ran.
The pain in his side returned, and he fell to a knee. One of his
lords -- he wasn't sure who -- suggested surrender as an option; perhaps
Caeron could later be ransomed? The king shook his head. No, Aendasia
would not ever ransom him; he would languish in a Beinisonian dungeon
until he rotted.
A pair of enemy knights regained their courage and charged in.
Caeron was able to deflect their blows weakly. Using the momentum from a
block he hamstrung one of his opponents. Then a blow from behind knocked
his helm off. He watched as it fell to the snow in front of him. The
snow had been packed hard and was now a mix of brown and red rather than
the pristine white it had been before. Caeron spat some of his own blood
out onto the ground.
With the last of his strength, he lifted his sword and slammed it
down on his helm, breaking the crown in half. He would not give Aendasia
the satisfaction of wearing it.
A booted foot hit him on the shoulder and he sprawled onto his
back. His entire body was awash in pain and he could not move. He only
stared up at the armoured form standing above him. The knight's surcoat
bore a white falcon on a blue background. He faced Duke Northfield at
last. The man removed his helmet to reveal a handsome face. Copper locks
stuck out from the chain coif he wore.
"You've lost, Caeron," Valeran Northfield sneered. "The crown you
stole will soon be on the head of its rightful owner."
"One cannot steal something that already belongs to him," Caeron
said. His vision was beginning to dim and he felt incredibly tired. He
had to finish what he was saying before he let death pull him into its
peaceful embrace. He coughed up more blood before he could continue.
"The crown belongs to house Tallirhan. I was too proud to deserve it,
but I have atoned, and Dara will wear it now. House Tallirhan will rule
Baranur ..."
========================================================================
