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DargonZine Volume 19 Issue 02
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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 2
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DargonZine Distributed: 2/18/06
Volume 19, Number 2 Circulation: 659
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Have You Ever Been to
Northern Hope? 2 Liam Donahue Sy 12-14, 1018
Out of the Rubble 2 P. Atchley, Sy 12, 1018
Dave Fallon,
and R. F. Niro
========================================================================
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 19-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright February, 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>
Publishing a magazine containing fiction written solely by unpaid
volunteer authors provides some interesting challenges.
In a volunteer organization like the Dargon Project, where people
write at their own pace, it's often difficult to predict from month to
month how much material there'll be to print. Sometimes we have enough
stories to fill half a dozen issues, but there have been times when
we've gone six months or more without anything to print.
Recent history provides a good example of this. In 2004 we printed
three issues, then ran out of submissions. Everyone was busily working
on their Black Idol stories, but none were ready to print yet. Nine
months passed before we were able to send out another issue; that was
the longest publishing hiatus we've had in our 22-year history.
On the other hand, things changed dramatically once our authors
started completing those Black Idol stories. Over the past half year, we
produced an issue every month, and there's another six months' worth of
stories just waiting to be printed!
Of course, sending all those stories out at once would be a
problem. In general, people expect a magazine to come out on a fairly
regular, predictable schedule, and our readers wouldn't like it if we
didn't produce an issue for an entire year, then put out three issues in
a single month, then waited another nine months for the next.
So that's my big challenge as editor: to gaze into the future and
predict how many stories will be ready to print, then figure out how
often we should send out issues. Sometimes, when there's nothing to
print, I have to ask our writers to hurry their stories along.
Alternately, when there's plenty of material, sometimes it makes sense
to send issues out gradually, so that we don't run out of material and
have long gaps between issues.
We're fortunate that our writers have been very productive over the
past year or two. Right now, we have enough stories to last through the
end of 2006 and into next year, too. However, having too many stories
raises another problem for the humble editor: writing interesting
editorials!
When submissions trickle in slowly, there'll be enough time between
issues for plenty of events worth discussing to happen. But if several
issues come out one right after another, as we've had recently,
sometimes there's nothing new to report. And if you're an astute reader,
you may have already figured out that this is one of those times.
It's ironic that sometimes I have to nag my writers to finish their
stories, but when there's a lot to print, I'm the one who has to hurry
my writing. Of course, I could point out that each of our writers only
has to produce a story every couple years, whereas DargonZine needs a
new editorial nearly every month. And I've written nearly 150
editorials, when very few of our writers have printed more than a couple
dozen stories ...
Still, the magazine's not about my missives; it's about the
stories, and this month we have two excellent contributions to our
ongoing Black Idol story arc. If you're new to DargonZine, I'd heartily
suggest you go back and start reading with DargonZine 18-1, when the
first story in the Black Idol series appeared. It's by far the biggest
and most successful collaborative storyline we've ever done.
And you can look forward to another new issue next month, which
will feature more Black Idol stories, and an editorial that will
hopefully will have a little more interesting news to share!
========================================================================
Have You Ever Been to Northern Hope?
Part 2
by Liam Donahue
<bdonahue@fuse.net>
Sy 12-14, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-2
Parris Dargon sat at a table outside Grey Talka's and watched the
barge docks. He had been spending a great deal of time watching the
barge traffic on the Coldwell River for the past five days, and he had
grown more nervous as each day passed. Behind him stood the immense wall
of human flesh that was Rilk, his bodyguard and servant. Rilk didn't
share his master's concern. As long as the coins in his master's purse
held out, Rilk would be quite content; of that, Parris was certain.
Parris wished for a moment that his life were as simple as the
great oaf who stood over him. Rilk had nothing to worry about beyond
following his lord's next order. Parris dismissed the thought; he was
the rightful duke of Dargon and had no time for self pity. Few even knew
of his claim to the duchy and fewer -- himself, and perhaps Rilk --
recognized it, but that was going to change very soon. That was why he
watched the docks, and waited.
Several months earlier, he had been traveling Baranur searching for
a means to depose his cousin Clifton, the one-armed war hero who
currently ruled from Dargon Keep. Parris had learned of a town called
Northern Hope, where everything went wrong. The locals had told him that
the town was cursed. Thinking that he could find whoever had laid the
curse upon the town and persuade him to cast something similar upon his
cousin, Parris had paid a gypsy witch to divine the source of Northern
Hope's misfortune. She had been able to tell him that the curse emanated
from some object, but nothing further. That was when Parris had formed
his current plan.
He would find someone more powerful than the gypsy witch, and pay
him to find the cursed object and bring it to the city of Dargon.
Clifton would be unable to put a stop to the disasters that befell the
city and would lose the support of the nobles. When Parris arrived with
a claim to the duchy and the means to lift the curse, the nobility would
rally around him.
He had been elated, if somewhat surprised, six days earlier when a
bird had spoken to him in the voice of Anarr, the mage he had hired to
find the object and return it to Dargon. The bird, or Anarr, had
reported that the object, a statue of the god named Gow, had been
located and was in transit to Dargon via barge from Kenna. Anarr had
even told Parris how to replenish the ward that kept the curse in check
should the mage arrive late.
Parris had planned to watch from the causeway for his barge to
arrive that morning, as he had for the past five days, but a large crowd
had gathered there to observe the recovery of a corpse from the river. A
one-armed body had been sighted in the Coldwell earlier that day.
Parris' cousin Clifton was supposedly missing, which had fueled rumors
of his death. The rumors, in turn, had drawn the crowd. The throng of
Dargon's unwashed citizens had driven Parris to abandon the bridge in
favor of Grey Talka's, away from the stench of the crowd and speculation
about the identity of the corpse. Whoever the dead man was, though, it
couldn't be Clifton. Parris could never have such good fortune. That was
why he was making his own.
Parris looked away from the Coldwell and immediately wished that he
had not. Tyrus Vage, the source of his nervousness, was walking up Dock
Street toward him. Parris had approached Vage with his plan upon
returning to Dargon two months earlier. Vage was a wealthy merchant and
an old friend, and Parris had required funds to pay Anarr and to support
himself until the statue arrived. In return, Parris had promised to let
Vage know when the curse would strike and when it would be lifted, thus
allowing the merchant to profit from Dargon's misfortunes.
"It's still not here, is it?" demanded Vage as he approached
Parris' table.
Parris looked up into the merchant's scarred face and shielded his
eyes from the late morning sun. "Would I be sitting here watching the
river if it were, Tyrus?"
"I'm losing money with each day of delay, Parris. My ships should
be plying the ocean, not sitting idle."
When the bird had arrived, Parris had told Vage to prepare for the
curse. The merchant had sent his ships to sea loaded down with food,
medical supplies, building materials, and whatever other goods he could
gather. They waited at anchor more than a day's sail to the northwest
for word from Vage to return. Parris knew his former friend's patience
was wearing thin, and wondered what would happen if it failed.
As Vage gently eased himself into the chair across the table,
Parris saw that the merchant's own bodyguard, Edril, had accompanied
him. Edril was Vage's secretary as well as his guard, and lately Vage
had brought him to every meeting with Parris. Edril was a small,
narrow-faced man with a dancer's build. He was unfailingly polite, but
Parris nevertheless had begun to think that this man would sooner kill
him than clasp his wrist in greeting. Edril was the reason that Parris
had dismissed his other servants and hired Rilk. The huge ex-sailor was
easily twice Edril's size. Parris wondered why it was that when the two
locked eyes, it was always Rilk who looked away first.
"It has to get here soon, Tyrus," said Parris. "It's only a four
day trip from Kenna."
"And the barge left eight days ago."
"Maybe they ran into some trouble. All the rain has swollen the
Coldwell, after all."
Vage stroked his bearded chin a moment, glaring at Parris. "Flooded
rivers move faster. The barge should have been here in less time, not
more." The merchant spoke as if he were lecturing a child.
"Three more days, Tyrus, please. If it's not here by then, I'll
... I'll go talk to my cousin." Parris owed Vage twenty gold Marks. He
had borrowed ten when he originally approached Vage and another ten when
Anarr and his own expenses had proven to be more than he had planned.
"Two days, Parris. I've already lost enough money to your
foolishness. You should be thankful that all you are losing is your land
and not your head."
Vage had made him sign a note promising his lands as collateral.
Parris would have to explain to Clifton how Vage had come to take
ownership of some Dargon family holdings. The alternatives were
unthinkable: he could confess his plan to Clifton and face execution or
imprisonment, or he could not speak to Clifton at all. If that were to
happen, he was certain that Vage would arrange for his death and then
collect on the note himself. He had seen that quite clearly in Edril's
eyes.
"Ol's balls!" exclaimed Rilk. It took Parris a moment to realize
that the burly man was not reacting to Vage's words, but instead to
something happening upriver. His head whipped around to follow the
sailor's gaze just as the sound of distant rumbling reached them. The
causeway was collapsing! Parris watched with his jaw gaping as a section
of the enormous span crumbled and fell into the river. Chunks of stone
and the bodies of spectators rained down into the water and onto two
barges. One barge had split in half and was quickly sinking. The other
spun out of control.
"They'll be needing some help, yer lordship!" Without waiting to be
dismissed, Rilk charged up Dock Street, joining a crowd of shouting
peasants who were rushing toward the causeway. He moved with surprising
speed for all of his bulk. Parris rose in confusion, unsure if he should
follow.
"That's an unlikely bit of bad luck, wouldn't you say, Edril?"
Vage's voice was surprisingly mild in the face of the disaster on the
causeway.
"Straight, sir. Most unlikely." Edril had stepped behind Parris. He
placed his hand on Parris' shoulder and gently but firmly forced him
back into his seat.
"Where is it, Parris?" asked Vage with more than a hint of menace
in his voice.
"Where is what?"
"The statue. Don't tell me it's not here. That causeway collapsing
isn't just coincidence. You were trying to cut me out of the deal."
The gravity of his situation began to creep into Parris' numbed
mind. He was in a public place, but with the chaos on the riverbank, not
a single person would notice if Edril slit his throat and dumped him in
the Coldwell.
"Tyrus, please. I would never try to cheat you. If the statue were
here, I'd be making plans to take over at the keep, not sitting at the
docks pretending to wait for a barge."
The merchant's dark eyes met Parris' for a long moment. The sounds
of chaos from the river seemed to fade as Parris' world narrowed to that
little table outside of Grey Talka's.
"You were never a good liar, Parris. I'm surprised your cousin
didn't find you out years ago." Vage glanced over the nobleman's
shoulder. Parris tensed, waiting for the thrust of Edril's blade, but
instead the pressure of the small man's hand on his shoulder was
released and he moved to his customary place behind the merchant.
Vage rose painfully from his seat. "You may not have the statue,
Parris, but it is in Dargon. You have two days to find it. If not, I am
quite certain that I can convince your cousin that I only just learned
of your plans. I've no doubt that he has the resources to find this
statue once he learns of its existence. My ships can still return to
save Dargon once the curse is lifted; no matter who the duke is, my
fortune is secure."
Parris heaved a sigh of relief as he watched Tyrus Vage limp away
down Dock Street. The sound of blood rushing in his ears was fading,
replaced by the shouts of the crowd hurrying toward the causeway. As his
heartbeat slowed, Parris realized that the merchant was probably
correct: the statue was in Dargon.
If that were true, Clifton's bad luck had begun. Perhaps the
one-armed body in the river was Clifton's after all. What could be worse
luck for his cousin than drowning in the Coldwell on the day that such a
disaster befell his beloved city? He began to smile, then realized that
if the statue were in Dargon, and unwarded, then something had gone
awry. Anarr should have brought it to him immediately and with the wards
in place. Had the wizard decided to play his own game?
Parris tried to remember if he had noted any other ill luck prior
to the barge crashing into the causeway. Nothing came to mind, which
meant that the statue had just arrived. Could it have been on one of the
barges involved in the disaster? He briefly considered going to the
causeway, but decided that he would have little chance of finding Anarr
or the statue there, and a much greater likelihood of being pressed into
a rescue detail by the town guard. He decided to return home and wait
for Anarr.
Halfway down Murson Street, Parris passed a burning house. With
most of the town guard at the causeway, the flames destroyed a
considerable portion of the home before a bucket brigade formed and
managed to get it under control. He stayed to watch as the fire was
finally doused and the family began looking through the charred and
sodden ruins for whatever belongings they could salvage. Parris thought
about how magnanimous he would appear when he offered to rebuild the
family's home after he became the duke.
As Parris crossed the marketplace, a bee-stung mule broke loose
from a cart, which tipped. The contents of the cart, glazed pottery from
Madenee, crashed to the ground and shattered. The sound further agitated
the mule, which plowed through six vendors' stalls before his owner got
him under control. Parris had to fight hard not to chuckle as he walked
past the enraged traders. When he arrived at his rented home on
Merchant's Way, he was greeted by the sight of a scaffold collapsing and
dumping several workers, who had been refinishing the face of the house
across the street, two stories onto the cobblestones. Parris waited
until he had shut his door behind him to laugh. The masons' broken bones
were a small price to pay for having their rightful duke restored, but
Parris doubted the men would feel that way.
By nightfall, his elation had begun to drain away. He was certain
that the statue was in Dargon, but it would do him no good if it were
not under his control. There had still been no sign of Anarr, nor any
further communication from him. Parris had grown tired of looking up at
the sound of every bird cry, wondering when another message from Anarr
would arrive.
Rilk had arrived after ninth bell, soaking wet and covered in mud
and blood. Greedy and lazy as the sailor was, he was loyal to his own
and had spent the day pulling bargemen and other victims from the river.
Parris hadn't even rebuked the big man for running off and leaving him
at Vage's mercy. Instead, he ordered Rilk to get cleaned up and man the
front door in case Anarr showed up.
As the evening wore on, Parris' patience continued to thin. Had
Anarr in fact betrayed him and decided to use the statue for his own
designs? Or had the mage fallen victim to the curse himself? A thought
suddenly struck Parris: Anarr and the statue might well be at the bottom
of the river! Parris grinned for a moment at the idea of not having to
pay Anarr the balance he was owed, until he realized that if that were
the case he had no way to get his hands on the statue himself.
He sat in silence, wondering how he could recover the statue from
the bottom of the Coldwell, when heard voices coming from his entryway.
Had the mage arrived at last? One of the voices was Rilk's deep
baritone. The other was a young man, but clearly not Anarr. Moments
later, Rilk escorted a bloody and bedraggled man with a tattered and
equally bloody rucksack into Parris' sitting room.
"Says 'e works for Anarr. Name's Edmond," said Rilk.
"Is that so, young man?" asked Parris, trying to fight back a
smile.
"Yes, milord."
"And is that the object Anarr promised to deliver to me?" Parris
nodded toward the man's threadbare pack.
"Yes, sir, it is. Have you seen Anarr?" The look on Edmond's face
was half exhaustion, half hope.
"Don't worry about Anarr. I can pay you." Parris' good fortune
continued. The statue was being delivered from the river into his hands
by this bumpkin, and he wouldn't have to pay Anarr even if the mage were
alive! He took four silver Rounds from a small cash box in his desk and
handed them to Edmond.
"It's not the money," Edmond said, though he did deftly pocket the
coins. "It's the statue. The curse has been released again. It needs to
be warded!"
Parris smiled at the young peasant's statement of the obvious. "I
can take care of that, Edmond. Don't worry about that now."
Parris listened as patiently as he could while the guilt-wracked
Edmond related his tale of being lured away from his post by a pair of
dice, and how two boys had managed to swap the statue's ward for
something they had needed to hide. After the barge had crashed into the
causeway, Edmond had dragged the statue ashore. He had then been mugged
by the same two boys while he searched for Parris' home. Some time
later, he had discovered the statue in the hands of another barge
passenger, whom he had then slain. The boys had coshed him a second time
and taken the statue, but had explained themselves and returned it,
minus their own items, after Edmond had caught up with them.
Just as Parris hoped the man was finishing his tale, he began to
rehash it. "If I hadn't been gambling --"
"Then they would have hit you over the head -- as they've done
twice today already -- and put their contraband in that way." Parris
could only take so much. He considered having Rilk cosh Edmond yet
again, but decided to take a more civil tack. "Don't worry, Edmond,
really. You've done a spectacular job getting the statue here, and I've
even given you an extra Round for your effort. I'll take care of the
statue from here."
"You have the ingredients?"
"Yes, yes." Parris began to edge Edmond toward the door. "Don't get
all caught up in guilt, now. At least you made some coin out of it, eh?"
Parris tried to smile, but he knew it looked forced. Why wouldn't Edmond
leave?
He finally got Edmond to the front door and he had to restrain
himself from shoving the peasant out into the street. Instead, he
clapped the man on the shoulder in a way that he hoped was companionable
and sent him on his way.
With Anarr's servant gone at last, Parris turned his attention to
what the man had delivered. He unfastened the buckles on the rucksack
with trembling hands. The canvas slid aside to reveal a black stone
statue of a muscular man sitting tailor fashion. A silver sword was laid
across the figure's knees. The man's head was thrown back in a cry of
rage, red eyes glaring, and mouth open to reveal sharp white teeth.
"So this is Gow." A touch of awe crept into Parris' voice.
"Ugly feller, in't he?"
"No, Rilk. I think he's beautiful." Parris reached out to caress
the statue's face, being careful to avoid the teeth, which he knew were
intended to draw blood. He briefly considered sending word to Tyrus Vage
that the statue had arrived, but decided against it. In his current
mood, the merchant was likely to try to take the statue from Parris and
use it for his own ends. It would be better to have the idol in a safe
location before informing Vage. He turned to the sailor. "Rilk, I need
you to take this to the keep tomorrow, as a gift to the duke."
Rilk's brow furrowed, and he tugged his lower lip fretfully. "A
piece almost the width of the causeway fell in the river, milord. What
little's left of it the guard's not letting no one cross."
Parris sighed. In his delight at finally obtaining the statue, he
had all but forgotten the causeway disaster. He hadn't expected the
statue's ill luck to affect his own plans. Gow was in his possession
now, though. "Take a barge, Rilk," he said, trying not to let
exasperation creep into his voice.
Rilk reached down and lifted the statue, testing its weight. A
sudden vision of Rilk holding the statue and leaning over the railing on
the barge came to Parris' mind. "Rilk, I want you to get a cart and tie
the statue in the center of it. Take no chances delivering this gift to
my beloved cousin."
Rilk finished lashing the statue to the cart he had rented and
muttered an oath as he watched Lord Dargon check all his knots. How dare
his lordship check the rope work of someone who'd been a sailor for
almost ten years? Still, the man did pay well, mostly for having Rilk
stand around and look imposing. After working for Parris Dargon for a
few sennights, he would have enough coin to stay at the Mother of Pearl
for ... well, for more days than he could count!
After Lord Dargon had checked each knot twice, he lectured Rilk for
at least the eighth time about being careful with the statue. Rilk took
it stoically. The admonishments of the dainty cousin of the duke were
nothing compared to the tongue-lashings he had received from the
captains and first mates he had served under. Once Lord Dargon was
satisfied, Rilk lifted his huge frame up into the cart. He looked
ruefully toward the sun, which was approaching midday. He had lost the
better part of the morning renting a cart and a mule, and the rest of it
to his lordship. With a mournful sigh for the lunch he'd never get to
eat, Rilk flicked the reins to get the mule moving.
He ran into trouble on Murson Street, where the town guard had
blocked traffic. Further up the street, Rilk could see flames licking up
the side of a building. It was the third such house fire he had heard of
in the past day. He was reminded of the warehouse fires that had plagued
the city a year before. Seeing that the crowd was pressed too closely
for him to turn the cart, Rilk climbed down. He took the mule by the
reins and cleared the way for the cart to turn with angry glares and an
occasional rough shove.
His luck was no better on Nochtur Street. A wagon full of barrels
had overturned, blocking the way to all except those on foot. He spied
an alleyway that passed behind a smithy; he was sure it came out beyond
the overturned wagon. He was quite pleased with himself as he led the
mule down the alley, until the cart stopped short with the crunch of
wood grinding against stone. The mule brayed angrily at Rilk for tugging
too hard on the reins.
Rilk sighed in exasperation as he saw the reason the cart had
stopped short. The wall of the smithy was uneven, and the cart had
become trapped between it and the next building. He thought about trying
to force the cart though, until he noticed that the alleyway was
narrower ahead than behind. He briefly considered cutting the mule loose
and tying the statue to it, but he knew that Lord Dargon would dock his
pay for disobeying orders if he discovered it. Besides, the cart would
doubtless be stolen while he was delivering the statue, and that, too,
would come out of his pay.
"Ol's balls," he muttered, "I left the sea so I wouldn't have to
bust my arse." With a grunt, he shoved his considerable weight against
the front of the cart to break it loose. After a moment's hesitation, it
moved, eliciting another angry bray from the mule.
"Quiet, you," Rilk said, as he surveyed his situation. The cart was
loose, but the only direction to go was back. He didn't see any way to
get the mule to push the cart. He could unlash the mule and lead it
around to the other side, but there would be no way to get the beast
past the mess on Nochtur Street. He was also unwilling to let the statue
out of his sight. Lord Dargon would have him killed for that! Realizing
there was only one thing he could do, Rilk unlashed the mule from the
cart poles, and tied its reins to the front of the cart. Then the burly
sailor began shoving the cart backwards.
Grunting and sweating, he emerged onto Nochtur Street. He had lost
almost a full bell in the alley. The wagon blocking the street was still
overturned, or, apparently, overturned again, since it was facing a
different direction. It provided no clearance for his cart to get
through. Rilk caught a whiff of ale from one of the smashed barrels. It
saddened him to see good drink soaking into the ground when it could
have been in his empty belly.
Rilk hitched his mule up again, turned back up Nochtur Street and
onto Traders Avenue, and headed toward Commercial Street. He figured the
wide road, open on one side to the shipping docks, would provide clear
passage. He was wrong. Halfway down Commercial Street, he found his way
blocked by sacks of grain piled one on another. A gang of dockworkers
were scrambling in and out of a warehouse, bearing the grain sacks out
into the street. Rilk climbed down from his cart again, and bent to pick
up a sack, grunting as his back protested against further abuse.
"Here, now, where are you going with that?"
Rilk looked up to see one of the dockworkers, a squint-eyed young
man, standing over him. The sailor straightened, ignoring another twinge
of pain from his back, and stared down at the man. "I'm not goin'
nowhere with it, ye wretch, except to clear it out of my way. Why can't
you lot watch where you're piling this mess?"
Squint-eye opened his mouth to retort, but then seemed to think
better of it as he took in Rilk's bulk. He settled for a half-hearted
glare with his good eye before turning back to the warehouse.
"Hey!" Rilk called at his back. "What's going on here, anyway?"
The dockman turned back and said, "Wharf rats. Dozens of 'em. Some
of 'em bigger 'n a cat. Whole place is overrun with 'em."
Rilk shuddered at the thought of having to go into a warehouse full
of hungry rats, glad that his only task was to transport the statue
across the river. He shoved a few more sacks out of his way, remounted
the cart, and headed for Dock Street.
At the barge docks, Rilk found the street choked with carts and
people, all eager to cross the river to return home or conduct their
business. With the causeway closed, the crowd was too much for the
regular ferries. There was even more traffic than could be handled by
the barges and various small craft whose owners thought to make some
extra Rounds from the city's misfortune. Rilk waited with his cart for
another full bell, growing hungrier and angrier, until he noticed that
those with the most coins were getting across the Coldwell the fastest.
He realized that he hadn't asked Lord Parris for more than a few Rounds
to rent the cart and pay for passage, and most of that was gone. Sunset
was less than a bell away when he shoved his way to the front of the
line. He pled his case with one of the bargemasters, saying that he had
a delivery for the duke and offering most of his remaining coins: four
copper Bits. The bargeman wouldn't take anything less than two Rounds.
Rilk balled his fist and thought about striking the man, but then he
noticed the angry glares of the men he had pushed past. He decided to
accept that he would not be reaching the keep that day.
He made his way back through the crowd, which parted more readily
for him as he moved away from the barges. He grabbed his mule by the
reins and started tugging at them to turn the beast and cart around.
Halfway through the turn, he heard a loud creak of wood on wood. He
glanced over his shoulder in time to see the cart tip to one side with a
crash. The left wheel had fallen off.
"Nehru's blood," he swore, putting his fists on his hips and
scowling. The wheel had slipped off its axle and lay on the cobblestone
street. The cart was tipped to one side. The statue, its only load, was
still secured in the middle of it, fortunately. Rilk was certain that
Lord Dargon would have him flayed if the statue were shattered.
The sailor pondered this for a moment, one hand on his chin and the
other on his hip, then looked toward the crowd. No one met his eyes, and
one person muttered, "Serves him right." Realizing that he would get no
help, Rilk bent and lifted the cart upright. He tried to free one hand
to pick up the wheel, but he couldn't keep the cart steady. He dropped
it three times, once on his foot, before giving up in frustration.
"Here, let me help," said a young, dark-haired man who stepped up
beside Rilk. The young man tipped up the wheel and rolled it toward the
cart. Rilk, seeing what he intended, picked the cart up again. In a
moment, they had the wheel back on its axle.
"Thank ye, lad," Rilk said, as they clasped wrists. "I'd best be
gettin' back to his lordship. He'll be mad this here statue din't get
delivered, but as soon as he's done yellin', I can get some dinner in my
belly. Straight?"
"Straight," replied the dark-haired man, as he bent to pick up a
small stone. "Here, this should help." He wedged the stone into a crack
at the end of the axle and pounded it in place with a chunk of loose
cobblestone.
"Thank ye, again." With a sigh of frustration, Rilk finished
turning his mule around and made the long trip back to Merchant's Way.
Parris blinked his eyes and stared in disbelief at the statue of
Gow, still encased in the bloodstained rucksack and lashed to the cart,
instead of spreading misfortune from his cousin's keep. He felt rage
building within him as Rilk told the story of his failure at the docks.
Parris berated the incompetent oaf for several menes before he calmed
down enough to think clearly. He ordered Rilk to unload the statue for
the evening, and to pay the cart's owner for another day.
After Rilk was gone, Parris unwrapped the statue again and sat on
the floor facing it, with his legs crossed like Gow's. He looked at the
god's face, thrown back in either fury or anguish. Parris thought that
he and Gow had much in common.
Parris recalled the family tale that had been passed on to him by
his father, a weak and bitter man with no ambition. Duke Cedric, the
great-granduncle of both Clifton and Parris, had been unable to conceive
a child with his wife. He had decreed that he would name his first niece
or nephew as his heir. His two sisters, Giselle and Alexis, had both
been with child at the time. The healers had agreed that Giselle was due
to give birth first, and preparations had been made to name her child as
heir at the birth. Then Alexis had fallen down some stairs. The trauma
had caused her to go into labor early, and her son, Cabot, had been born
a month early. He had become the duke at Cedric's death. Giselle had
sworn on her deathbed to Parris' grandfather Cecil that Alexis had
thrown herself down the stairs to precipitate the birth.
Parris had vowed that he would not be like his father. Rather than
bemoan his fate to his future children, he would make them heirs to his
duchy. He had devoted his life to undoing his great-aunt Alexis'
duplicity. Rather than be a simple land-holder and distant cousin to the
duke, he would regain his rightful place as Dargon's lord.
After watching Rilk load the statue on the wagon again the
following morning, Parris began to plan his rise to power. He didn't
want to leave the curse on Dargon longer than necessary -- it *was*
going to be his city -- but he wanted to be sure that his actions were
not too closely connected with the start of the misfortunes. Having
Clifton missing complicated matters. If his cousin were truly dead, it
would be easy for Parris to step in and claim his birthright, especially
backed by the ability to lift the curse. However, if Clifton were to
return at the wrong time, many would look to him as a savior. Parris
decided to wait a sennight before making his first move.
He began writing some letters to deliver to several of the nearby
barons, reminding them of the need to rally around a strong leader with
a clear right to rule. He explained his own claim to the duchy, and
called for those loyal to the Dargon family to rally around him rather
than Clifton's wife Lauren, who would surely try to rule the duchy until
her daughter was of sufficient age. He would send those letters only
when he was sure that Clifton was dead.
Parris was on his fourth letter when there was a furious pounding
on his front door. He set aside his writing supplies and went to the
door, wondering what calamity had befallen Rilk this time. To his
surprise, it was not Rilk on the step but a red-faced and winded Anarr
covered with bits of wood and smelling like eggs. The mage brushed past
Parris and strode into the house.
"The wards have been removed," Anarr said between breaths, as the
natural color returned to his features. "The curse is active. Do you
have the statue?"
"I have it, Anarr." Parris suppressed a smile. Anarr hadn't spoken
to Edmond, and the peasant was no doubt on his way back to Northern
Hope. The mage had no way of knowing that the statue had been delivered.
Relief flooded Anarr's face. "Where is it? We must see to the
wards."
"The statue is no longer your concern, Anarr. I can see to the
wards. Your bird messenger gave me the instructions. As for your
payment, I think four gold Marks should be sufficient instead of the
promised eight. You did, after all, fail to deliver the statue to me. I
had to fish it out of the river."
Anarr had begun to redden again and his eyes had widened in anger,
but at Parris' final words, the mage's face fell. "The river?"
"Yes. The statue arrived unwarded, and the barge carrying it
crashed into the causeway, making it collapse. Many died. When I
discovered what had happened, I had my man find the statue in the
wreckage." Parris was pleased at how he was weaving together truth and
lies. He hoped Anarr would decide to take his money and go, rather than
get involved in, and potentially be blamed for, the causeway disaster.
The mage's reaction was not what he expected. Anarr's shoulders
sagged and he whispered, "Simona ..."
Before Parris could figure out how to usher Anarr out of his home,
Rilk came bounding through the open doorway. The sailor's massive chest
was heaving. "Yer lordship! The statue! It's been taken!"
Anarr's head whipped around, and both he and Parris exclaimed,
"What!?!"
"It's true, sir," said Rilk, gulping for breath. "I tried to go up
Nochtur Street, but it was blocked again, so I headed down Atelier, and
--"
Parris, used to Rilk's rambling explanations, held up a hand.
"Where was the statue taken?"
"The docks, milord."
"Then start your story there."
"Aye, milord. I got to the barge docks around fifth bell. I slipped
a barge cap'n them Rounds ya gave me and he said I could go on his next
run. As I was bringin' the cart toward the gangplank, the left wheel
fell off again. The statue came free of the lashings and slid offa the
cart."
Parris felt his anger rising. "I told you to check those knots!"
"An' I did, milord! The knots held fine, but the statue slipped out
from under the ropes. I din't figure the wheel'd be fallin' off anymore
after that young fella fixed it for me.
"Well, the same young fella as helped me yesterday comes up outta
the crowd. Fine stroke of luck, I thinks. He picks up the wheel, and I
lift the cart up like I did yesterday. Only instead of puttin' the wheel
on the axle, he runs off with a woman who picked up the statue while I
was holdin' the cart up. By the time I get the cart set down again, they
had hopped into a sailboat and cast off. I yelled for them to stop, but
they just ignored me. The woman was a bard, too. Didn't think they went
around takin' what din't belong to 'em."
Anarr's voice was surprisingly calm. "A bard, you say? Did she by
any chance have long black hair and blue-painted lips?"
Rilk gave the mage a dumbfounded look. "Aye, that she did, sir."
"Simona." The mage's lips curled into a smile.
Parris felt the situation beginning to slip away from him. "A
friend of yours, Anarr? Did you send her to steal the statue back from
me?"
Anarr glared at Parris. "Nothing of the kind. She was a traveling
companion. I told her of the statue's curse. She no doubt realized that
the curse was affecting Dargon and, unable to find me, decided to get
the statue away from the city."
"Straight, then. Send one of your birds after her. Tell her to
bring my property back."
"It's not that simple, Parris. A bird would never be able to find
her within the influence of the curse. We will have to pursue her."
"Beg yer pardon, milord," said Rilk. "They coulda gone anywhere
with that boat. How will ya find them?"
Anarr gave Rilk a haughty look. "I am a magus and I say that I can
find the statue. That is all you need to know."
"I'm not paying you any extra for this, Anarr," said Parris. "This
is still part of the original deal. Come, Rilk. Let me give you some
coins to rent us a boat."
Parris walked into his office with the burly sailor at his heels.
He pulled open his desk drawer and counted out his coins. He had nine
gold Marks and several silver Rounds: barely enough to pay Anarr the
eight Marks he was owed on delivery of the statue. He glanced up at the
sailor.
"How much will it cost me to rent a boat to catch that bard and her
friend?" He spoke softly, so Anarr could not hear him from the
entranceway.
"Quite a bit, milord, and you'll have to put down a fair amount
more to makes sure ye return it."
Parris nodded. "Straight. I'll need you to steal us a sailboat,
then. With everything going on in the city, it'll take days for anyone
to know it's been stolen. I'll make it right when I'm the duke."
Rilk hesitated. "I don't know, milord. In't right to be stealin'
from another man of the sea. I'd feel like a pirate."
Parris dropped a gold Mark on the table. "Be a pirate, then."
Rilk licked his lips and reached for the coin, but Parris scooped
it up. "Not yet, Rilk. Get me the boat and help get back the statue you
lost, then you get your payment."
Rilk hung his head at the mention of the lost statue. "Aye, milord.
What about that mage? He comin' with us? I don't like the way he looks
at me."
"I don't like the 'magus' much either, Rilk, but we need him to
find the statue and talk that bard into giving it up. We can attend to
Anarr as we sail back to the city." He opened his palm to reveal the
coin again and was pleased to see that Rilk's eyes went to it avidly.
"Time enough for that later. The sooner we track down the bard and her
friend, the sooner you will get your payment, and for that we need a
boat. Go."
Rilk nodded. "Aye, milord. I'll have a boat ready to set sail by
the time you and the wizard reach the docks. In fact, I know just the
one." The huge sailor turned toward the door, fingering the handle of
his knife as he left.
========================================================================
Out of the Rubble
Part 2
by P. Atchley, Dave Fallon, and R. F. Niro
<deepartha@yahoo.com>, <dfallon23@yahoo.com>, and <OrionFarr@aol.com>
Sy 12, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-8
Tom hurried towards the causeway that linked the two sides of the
city of Dargon. He tried not to worry, but he could feel the tension in
his muscles with every step he took. He looked up at the cloudless early
evening sky as he turned onto the Street of Travellers from Merchant's
Way. His eyes still up cast, he collided with another man going in the
opposite direction.
Tom stood stunned for a moment, blinking into the bright orange
light of the setting sun, and rubbed his chin where the top of the
smaller man's head had hit him. He tasted blood in his mouth: he had
bitten his tongue. The other man was lying in the street on his back,
with a slight cut above his eye.
Tom knelt at his side. "Are you hurt? I'm so sorry. I was hurrying
--"
"To the causeway, I'd guess." The other man, whose graying hair
suggested that he was at least a decade older than Tom, managed a weak
smile as he propped himself up on one elbow. "Straight, son, I'm fine.
Today has been a day of confusion for everyone. Since that barge crashed
into the causeway, nothing has been normal for any of us."
Tom nodded. "I'm sorry. I'm going to look for my neighbor's boy."
"I understand. I just found my nephew. His arm is broken, but the
healer says that he'll be fine. I was running home to tell my wife.
She's been sick with worry." The man sat up, moving his neck gingerly.
"Sounds like you'd best be on your way. I'll be fine."
"Can I help you up?" Tom offered an arm muscled by years of working
in the gardens of Dargon Keep.
"Yes, thank you." The man used the assistance to lever himself back
to his feet. Then he shook Tom's hand before letting go. "Good luck,
son."
Tom continued on his way, thinking of his beautiful neighbor, Sian,
who took in orphans and provided them with a home. There were only three
of them living with her now: Finn, Briam, and little Kerith. Two others,
Aren and Oriel, had found apprenticeships.
A few menes ago, he had seen Sian walking towards her home. Her
tearstained face and dazed expression told him instantly that something
was wrong. When he had approached her, she had told him that Oriel had
come home that afternoon for a half day and she had sent the girl with
Finn, Briam and Kerith to market. Somehow, the children had ended up on
the causeway instead. Briam, along with many other onlookers, had fallen
into the river during the barge accident. Sian had spent a few bells
searching for him and had returned home unsuccessful when evening
approached. When she finished telling him this, Tom had told her to look
after the rest of her children and that he would continue searching for
Briam.
He reached the causeway, catching his first glimpse of the
devastation, and he had to blink to make sense of the image. The bridge
had originally spanned the Coldwell River and connected the two sides of
Dargon: the southwestern side where the keep and Old City were situated,
and the northeastern side where the seaport and river port were located.
When the barge had hit the causeway, it had partially collapsed
lengthwise across the middle, with only a narrow section connecting both
banks of the river still standing.
From where he stood, the part that remained upright looked barely
wide enough for two people to cross abreast, and its sturdiness seemed
highly questionable. The Dargon town guard had blocked access to the
bridge so there was no activity on the normally busy byway. As Tom
watched, a raft on the river began to cross from the other side.
Dusk would arrive soon and he could hear distant wailing from the
riverbanks. The thought of what it meant made him shudder. The damage
had not been confined to the causeway, for it had been filled with a
crowd when the accident occurred. Briam was one of many lost, injured,
or killed. Since Sian had already searched all along the near side of
the river, Tom's destination was the far side. With the bridge closed,
the only other way to get to the Old City and the keep was by barge, so
he approached the guard who seemed to be in charge.
"Hello, sir. My name is Tom Madden. I need to get to the keep side
in order to look for a lost child ..."
Tom expected the guard to deny his request immediately, but the man
surprised him. "You're not the only one. I can't let you cross the
causeway, but there are some people waiting for a ferry to return." The
guard motioned tiredly towards a crowd standing just upriver.
"Thank you." Tom joined the group. He didn't think that he would
have to wait too long, since the raft he had seen departing the other
side was approaching from upstream, and he realized that it wasn't a
raft but a small barge. As it came abreast of the group, two crewmen
jumped off to tie her down. Tom waited until some of the people around
him had clambered aboard before he moved, but soon he was standing near
the bow, with little space to himself amid the throng, wondering at the
greed people sometimes displayed. The price that he had been charged for
passage was twice the normal fare. Luckily, he had not had to wait for a
barge; he supposed it was because it was so late in the day.
The last bell of day tolled as they cast off. Tom looked at the
wounded city, using his height to his advantage. He could see the
commotion dying down, and the gawkers leaving, probably to their homes
for dinner. The city was going to take a long time to recover.
Tom stared in awe as the barge floated past the damaged section of
the causeway. The huge rent in the stonework made the whole structure
look unstable. The fallen masonry lay piled above the waterline. One
rescue barge was still anchored in the gap, but all of the men on its
deck seemed to be moving at half speed. Tom was not sure if it was from
despair or exhaustion, but it occurred to him that it was probably both.
The barge passed under an intact arch and landed just downriver
from the causeway. Tom hopped off the craft and made his way down to the
banks. He hurried, since dusk was turning to night, and searched one aid
station after another with no success. Although a few healers were still
working on the few remaining injured, he did not find Briam. Finally Tom
realized with a sinking heart that the only place left to check was
where the guards had been laying out the dead on this side of the river.
Would he have to return to Sian with the news of Briam's death?
Earlier that day, a reverberating crack had woken Joliana from her
nap. She lifted her aching head off the pitted table when she heard the
sound. It was loud enough to intensify the pulsing behind her eyes. She
let her loose and stringy hair fall over her face to try to shield it
from the light that filtered through the closed curtains. She guessed
from the angle of the sun that it was a little after midday and she had
another four or five bells of sitting around their small house before
her husband, Aviato, would return from his work at the docks.
Joliana gazed around with little interest in the cause of the
noise, although she was reasonably sure that it hadn't come from inside.
Everything in the room looked in order. The cabinets and countertops
near the door of the room were lined with the jars of liniments and
ingredients she used in her work as a healer. She couldn't keep herself
from searching the labels for the one substance she knew was not there.
Two days back, she had run out of ardon, kept in a small jar on the
corner of one shelf and marked only with a picture of a sun and a moon.
With her thinning business, she had not had the money to purchase any
more.
Deciding that the noise wasn't worth her interest, Joliana laid her
head back on the table and tried to drift back to sleep. It had become
her normal way of passing the innumerable bells of the day. Immediately
a knock at her door startled her. This time the pain was like a knife
being shoved in her temple. She groaned.
The door opened at her audible but wordless response, and a young
boy pushed his head into the room. Eyes wide, he looked surprised at the
scene before him, as if he had expected something else. Joliana
recognized him as the son of one of the other healers living along
Atelier Street. She stared at him, the longing for a child still raw in
her heart after all these years. If she had been able to have a child,
would he have been like this fresh-faced boy?
"Mistress Joliana." His voice rose with excitement as he spoke.
"There's been an accident. The causeway broke and fell into the river.
The guard has sent for every healer that could be found. My pa said to
knock at every door."
Joliana sat upright languidly, processing the boy's comments.
"Thank you," she drawled, as much a dismissal as a confirmation. The boy
read what she put into her tone and hurried out the door, shutting it
loudly behind him.
She rubbed her temples and sat for a moment. All it had taken was
the one boy to remind her of her deep, open wound, the scar that she had
yet to heal within herself. The only cure she had found was ardon, and
that was a temporary -- and expensive -- salve at best.
Without knowing why, Joliana stood and walked over to her counter,
pulling her leather bag, already stuffed with medicines and bandages,
from the cabinet. The thin layer of dust on top affirmed the length of
time that had passed since the bag had last been used. She stared inside
it at the equipment of her trade and wondered if she could really be of
any help.
A good part of her wanted to go back to sleep and forget the
strange interruption. Curiosity got the better of her. She had been born
and raised in Dargon, and the causeway was an integral part of the city.
The bridge crossed the Coldwell River, connecting the keep side and the
port side of Dargon. Many citizens crossed it every day. She simply
could not conceive of the causeway falling into the river. It was true
that, in the past, barges and sailboats had hit it, causing minor
damage. However, those cracks had usually been repaired at once. This
time the boy had made it sound serious. She couldn't imagine a disaster
in which they called upon every healer in the city.
Joliana walked out her front door and merged with the foot traffic
heading towards the river, drifting off to one side out of other
people's way. Most of them were hurrying, while she could barely find
the energy to walk, squinting against the painful glare of the full sun.
It had been days since she had ventured out of her shop. Her husband had
taken to bringing home food for them and leaving again for one tavern or
another before she could even finish her half-hearted attempts at
eating. He was away most nights now and Joliana couldn't blame him. It
was her fault; it had all been her fault. She'd destroyed his dreams, as
well as her own.
After only a few menes, Joliana reached the riverbank and stared
open-mouthed at the scene before her. The entire bridge hadn't fallen
into the Coldwell as the boy had claimed, but a huge span of it
certainly had. From where she stood, she could see that rescuers
thronged the fallen stone, and it seemed as if all of Dargon were in
that small area where she stood, the best place to view the chaotic
activity.
Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself pushing
through the crowd of observers, mumbling, "Healer. Let me pass. Let me
pass." She was even more amazed when people moved out of her way.
A guard came up and led her down to the river where another man
stood, directing the efforts of the rescuers around him. The guard who
led her didn't seem to realize how much she needed his strength to keep
from stumbling with fright.
When at last the other man turned to face the two of them,
Joliana's guide said, "Sergeant Cepero, this here's another healer."
"Thank you, Rieqen. Come with me, mistress." The sergeant turned
and led her towards the beach and behind a small rise. "Already some of
your compatriots are working at the causeway and barge, but we don't
have enough healers on the other side of the river near the Old City.
Here's a small boat ready to take you across."
They had arrived at the water's edge, and the sergeant helped her
into a skiff. He gave quick orders to the guard manning the oars and
pushed them off. The guard on the boat did not seem inclined to speak as
he fought against the current, and Joliana was happy for the silence.
She sat with her head down, staring at the fast-moving water that rushed
around the boat.
Panicked, she realized that the safety of her house was falling
away behind her, leaving her with no escape. Mixed with her turbulent
thoughts, an odd clarity formed. This was it. She'd stand up, jump out
of the boat, and be swept away by the current. She looked into the face
of the guard across from her. He only looked at her with mild curiosity
and the urge to move faded away. If she stood up the boat would swamp;
she couldn't bear to endanger this quiet guard. So she continued to
watch the water eddy and swirl. It reminded her of her first experience
with ardon.
A sailor she had treated had not had the money to pay her, and
seeing her bleak face and exhausted eyes, he had given her ardon dust as
payment. "You look like you could use this, lady. It will make the pain
go away, but only for a while." She had not refused his offer, although
at the time she had never intended to use the drug.
She had stashed it away in the back of her ingredient shelf,
convincing herself that she might need it some day to help treat a
patient. She had let it rest there for two days; on the third day, she
had been sitting in her room, her heart swamped with despair. Unable to
bear the hopelessness for another instant, she had opened the container
and sampled the ardon.
The colors, textures, and movements around her had awoken as the
drug had taken effect. Her desolate existence had transformed into
something new and vibrant. She had spent the day studying the wonders in
the loops and whorls of her rough-hewn table, forgetting all that had
occurred in her life. The entire day had passed without the painful
reminders of her barrenness interfering. The problem, she realized
later, was that when the ardon wore off, the world looked even more drab
than it had before.
The bump of the craft hitting the opposite shore signaled their
arrival. The guard hopped out and pulled the boat onto a small sandy
patch, helping her out onto the grass. They had drifted a good distance
downriver from the causeway. Joliana turned away from the river and
looked around. A stone's throw away, a healer tended a woman. Three
people near the water were lifting more injured from another boat.
Joliana wandered down the shoreline, feeling lost. Then, her
professional instincts coming to the fore, she knelt near a young man
whose left arm lay at an awkward angle; he also had several cuts and
bruises, but he was awake. She sighed as she opened her bag and began to
extract items from it. She felt like a spirit watching her body perform
of its own accord while her mind dully echoed its need for ardon and to
crawl into its warm embrace.
"Drink this," she ordered and held a small vial to the young man's
mouth. He drank.
"The bridge fell," he said between gasps, with horror in his voice.
"The barge ... crashed ..." His voice trailed off as the decoction took
effect. It was a strong potion made from her mother's recipe. The
starter solution was ale, strengthened with a touch of the orangeheart
flower. The berries of the orangeheart plant were poisonous, but the
concentrated smell of the flowers could send a grown man to sleep for a
bell or two. "... into the bridge," the young man said dreamily. His
eyes were huge globes of blue in his white face.
Joliana searched around the beach for a moment, losing focus. Then,
seeing a small piece of wood in the grass, she picked it up and slipped
it into the man's mouth. "Bite down," she said disinterestedly.
Remembering her training, she moved her hands to his left elbow,
gripped, and pulled hard. The man groaned, and his discomfort brought
Joliana back to reality. She frowned, puzzled; the decoction was
supposed to dull all pain. Glancing at her
hands, she saw that she'd
pulled the arm even further out of alignment. She quickly tugged again,
this time feeling it slide into place as a muffled whimper came from her
patient.
Joliana sat back on her legs, wondering what she was doing. In
barely five menes, she had already proved that an ardon addict made for
a poor healer. All of her being screamed for her to return home before
she did any more harm, but she had to finish her botched job before she
could leave. She looked around and saw that someone had brought several
sticks and had them stacked a few cubits from her location. Getting to
her feet, she retrieved two suitable for her needs. Back with the young
man, she placed them on either side of his arm.
"What ... doing?" He had taken the bitewood out of his mouth, but
his words were slurred. The pain of her setting his arm was still etched
on his brow.
"I'm bandaging your arm. It's broken," she said, carefully wrapping
the long piece of cloth around his arm. When she was done, she said to
him, "Stay here until you feel a little better. Then go home, you hear
me?"
Standing up to leave, Joliana realized there were now three other
healers nearby. As she watched, two guardsmen brought more people ashore
for treatment. Even with four healers, the injured were beginning to
pile up. One of the guardsmen carried a body over to another area where
there was a small row of corpses.
Joliana realized that she couldn't leave. She went back to work.
She tended people with torn and bloody limbs, and set and bandaged
broken arms and legs for what seemed like days. She lost count of the
number of people she helped. Although there were no more mistakes like
her first case, each time she worked she had to force herself to
concentrate. The patients seemed to take her shaking hands and pale face
for deep emotion from the tragedy. Or maybe they were too much in shock
to even notice the telltale symptoms of her dependence on ardon.
Every now and then, Joliana paused to pull her recalcitrant mind
together. She glanced around, breathing deeply, watching the other
healers involved in their work. The number of people being brought
ashore was decreasing, but the guardsmen were still taking bodies away
and lining them up to one side. As a healer, Joliana was familiar with
death, but it was always hard to face the ultimate consequence of a
healer's failure, so she turned her gaze back to her work.
When at last there were no more new patients, she rose to her feet
unsteadily, looking around. Two of the healers had already left, and the
other one was helping his last patient stand. Near her, just outside the
enclosure, corpses were laid in a row nearly on top of each other. When
she looked at them, she wanted to weep. Suddenly, she saw a tiny form
between a tangle of two other bodies, and her instincts took over. With
reserves of strength she did not know she possessed, she rolled a body
aside to get to the infant. When she pulled it free, she realized from
its blue face that it was long dead, but still, she cradled it to her
chest and began to cry.
All she could see in its rag doll form were her hopes and dreams.
It was not her baby, but she mourned never having the opportunity to
love a child. She had been cursed to never be able to bear children.
Possibly it was the illness she'd had years ago or maybe she'd always
been destined to be barren. That one fact had ruined her life.
Wiping her eyes, she put the baby down at the edge of the line of
bodies and found a scrap of cloth to cover it with. None of the dead had
been attended to, so she began to drag them aside and place them in a
neater row, adjusting their legs out straight and laying their arms
across their chests. After a while, she paused to wipe the sweat from
her brow. Blinking her eyes, she realized that someone was approaching
her.
"What are you doing, mistress?" It was the senior guard who had
sent her to this side of the river earlier that afternoon. What was his
name? Cepero, she remembered; it was Sergeant Cepero.
"The dead need respect," she said shortly.
He nodded in understanding. She could see the exhaustion in his
eyes, but still he began to help her move the bodies. Silence reigned
for long menes as they continued to work side by side until a moan rent
the air.
"What was that?" Cepero asked, his voice sharp.
"It came from there." Joliana pointed to the far end of the row of
dead bodies.
He hurried over despite his limp. They heard another moan, and the
sergeant hastily rolled aside the corpse of a large man and reached for
a small body underneath.
"By Ol!" Joliana straightened as if she had been whipped and said,
"Get him to some open space where I can look at him."
Cepero picked him up and walked away from the rest of the corpses.
He laid the child on the ground, and Joliana knelt next to him. She
cleaned the scratched, bloody face with a rag. It was a young boy, no
more than thirteen. The man beside her gasped as he got his first full
look at the boy's face.
"You know him," she said, touching the unconscious boy's body
gently, checking for broken bones.
"Yes. His name is Briam; one of the orphans that Sian cares for.
She must be extremely worried looking for him." Cepero rose anxiously
and began to check the nearby bodies. "What was he doing here, in the
pile of corpses?"
"Someone probably thought he was dead," Joliana replied. "If we
hadn't heard him moan, we would have thought the same. His pulse is very
weak."
She concentrated on shutting out the guard's concern so that she
could focus on the boy. Her examination had brought her to the worst
injury: his left leg. It was a broken, mangled mish-mash of flesh, with
pieces of white bone sticking out between the darkening mess of what
used to be a healthy limb. Her heart sank as she saw it and she knew
what needed to be done.
There was another gasp beside her, and Cepero said, "Can you save
his leg?"
She looked up at him, and all the fear, affection, and worry that
he had carefully excised from his voice stared back at her from his
eyes. It was not within her power to deny what his paternal feeling
demanded of her. "I will try," she said, forcing her voice to sound
confident. "Get me some water."
The sun was close to the horizon, and as she finished speaking, the
town bell tolled the night's beginning. She reached for her bag of
medicines, pretending to look for something while she gathered her
thoughts. All the hopes of this tough man and this young boy rested on
her, an ardon addict, a wreck of a human being. To heal, to fix, to
doctor this ...
Maybe she should just find another healer to do the work. No, she
knew that she was the last one present and, based on the boy's shallow
breathing, that he could not wait long enough for another to be fetched.
The guard cleared his throat.
Joliana realized that, lost in thought, she had pulled one small
pouch from her pack and was staring at it. It was her bag of powdered
orangeheart flower. She glanced around vaguely and found that the guard
was handing something to her. She blinked and forced herself to
concentrate. It was a small earthenware bowl with water. She dropped
some of the powder into the dish, and immediately a pungent smell filled
the air. It was the same substance she had used over and over all day;
the amount she had just used would put an adult to sleep for bells.
"Don't breathe the fumes," she warned the sergeant. "Let this soak
for a bit."
Joliana looked down, trying to find the clarity of mind that she
needed for the job. She saw that the leg was broken badly. Just below
the knee, the flesh was torn and mangled, making her wonder if she could
save the leg at all. With both hands, she tried to gather the skin and
flesh together. The bones stuck out at an impossible angle, and as she
tried to maneuver everything into position, the foot collapsed. It had
obviously been completely crushed. Distantly, she heard someone gasp,
but she couldn't release her hard-won clarity if she had any chance of
succeeding in her attempt.
Logically, she listed out her findings in her mind. The foot could
not be saved because the bones were too crushed to knit together. The
knee joint was fine, but the skin was torn -- a minor problem that could
be fixed with a few stitches. The leg was broken below the knee, not
above, which was good. If the knee had been crushed, it would have been
an even bigger problem. So her only course of action was to cut off the
leg at the top of the shin, where the bone had broken.
Examination done, decision made, Joliana looked up. "Hold the bowl
under his nose. Let him breathe the fumes." Even though he was already
unconscious, Joliana did not want to take even the slightest chance of
him awakening; the flower's scent would ensure that.
Darting her eyes around the area, she immediately found what she
needed. She reached down and picked up a thick strip of bark from the
grass by her knees and handed it to the sergeant. "Put this in the boy's
mouth, between his teeth." If the boy tried to moan from the pain, she
didn't want him to bite his tongue.
Next she pulled out a clean strip of cloth from her bag, propped it
under the boy's leg, and then pulled out a rough leather strap. When she
looked at the sergeant, he just nodded grimly. Placing the strap just
above the boy's knee, she cinched it as tight as she could. Squinting in
the dusk, she reached into her bag for the last tool she needed and
pulled out a small hand saw, slightly rusty on one edge. Sighing in
exasperation, she took out a whetting stone, removed the rust, and
sharpened the saw.
She had been worried that the sergeant would react with anger when
he caught sight of the tool, but he merely said, "Are you sure this is
the only way?"
"Yes." She was not sure, but all her years of training and her
instincts as a healer told her that this was the only thing that would
save this boy's life. Yet a part of her doubted. Maybe her judgment had
been tainted by her longing for ardon. Maybe the drug was still talking
through her and convincing her of the wrong choice: to cut. Could the
leg be saved? Or would the surgery kill him even quicker than just
setting the leg? The inevitable bleeding could be fatal.
Joliana took a deep breath, deciding that she would do the best she
could. She was glad that the guard had been content with her first
answer and had not pressed her. She reached out for the bowl and poured
the contents onto the area where she planned to cut. It would numb the
pain some, although she was sure he would feel little.
"Hold him down," she commanded the sergeant, "at the shoulders. I
don't think he will wake up, but he might still move."
Joliana grasped the boy's leg above the knee and steadied herself.
She could not live with herself if this went wrong; but in a shining
moment of clarity she realized that, as things were, she would not have
lived with herself much longer anyway. For the boy's sake, and for the
fear in the eyes of the grizzled veteran beside her, she could not doubt
her decision.
She set the saw against the raw wound of the boy's leg and found
herself breathing unevenly. Looking down at her hand and the instrument,
she watched as colored spots danced in front of her vision. Everything
was out of focus and she mistrusted her placement of the saw. She moved
it once, found it too close to the wound, jerked it higher and found it
nearly resting close to the edge of the leather strap. She shuddered and
closed her eyes, trying to calm herself.
With her eyes closed, she moved the saw one more time and then
looked down. It was finally where she wanted it. Using her training as a
tether to keep her attached to the present and to dull her own pain, she
began to cut.
The boy shook as she worked, moaning in his sleep, but he did not
wake. She moved steadily, forcing every other thought out of her head.
In only a few menes, she was done and began pulling thread out to stitch
the torn skin. She looked up at the guard once. He was watching the
whole process, his jaw clenched and his lips waxy white. She pulled out
a jar from her bag and began salving the raw wound, hoping it would help
prevent it from turning gangrenous.
Finally, Joliana leaned back and turned wearily to the guardsman.
"I've done what I can. The rest is up to him. He will survive or not as
his body wills it. We should take him someplace where he can rest,
perhaps his home. Can you find some men to prepare a litter?"
"I'll see what I can do." Cepero turned and limped away.
She took the piece of bark from the boy's mouth and tossed it to
the side. She tilted the bowl, pouring the water on her hands, trying to
wash the blood and grime off. The remains of the orangeheart flower made
her hands tingle, but a moment of finger flexing brought all the feeling
back. Then she looked down at the boy and began to bandage the wound
with the last of the clean rags she had in her satchel. When she was
done, Joliana sat on her haunches and stretched her stiff neck back,
seeing the night stars above her for the first time. She wished life was
as black and white as the nighttime sky.
Soon, Cepero returned with two burly guardsmen carrying a litter.
Joliana supervised the lifting of the boy as the sergeant watched. He
snapped but a single admonishment before shutting his lips tightly.
"Gently."
When they had arranged her patient on the litter to her
satisfaction, Joliana rose, aching all over.
Cepero spoke to her as the others began to carry the boy off. "I'm
going with him. Will you accompany us to help treat him there? His
guardian lives on the other side of the river, and I can get us passage
across."
"There might be others here." Joliana could not hide the weariness
in her voice as she gestured at the grassy area, drenched in mud and
blood.
"I think you've done what you can for today. Sian lives on Murson
Street and will give you food and possibly a place to rest. You've
worked tirelessly for bells. You can't keep this up."
She sighed. He had no idea how she felt. After the grueling day of
healing, splinting, and now cutting off a limb, the futility of it all
overwhelmed her. The boy's injuries were so serious that even with his
leg removed she had faint hope. She did not want to go and watch the
child die, and she did not want to face the death of hope in the guard's
eyes.
Joliana sighed. "I should be getting home. There is little I can do
now."
The sergeant turned to face her. "Shouldn't you watch the wound?
You did the surgery. You know what the problems might be. What if he
needs your help?"
She shook her head. She knew what would happen, and she couldn't
bear to see it. Looking up at the dark sky, Joliana tried not to shake
noticeably. She knew that some of her unsteadiness was from exhaustion
-- it had been a long and trying day -- but most of her discomfort was
from her increasing need for ardon. The constant stress and movement had
blunted her need for the drug, or at least pushed it to the back of her
consciousness. Now it was pushing itself to the fore again.
All her senses screamed for ardon. It was not the taste, the scent,
or the feeling that she wanted; it was the whole bundle, the complete
assimilation of the drug into her being to the exclusion of everything
else, especially her pain.
She needed to focus on something else, and she wondered what her
husband had thought when he had returned home from the docks near sunset
to find her absent for the first time in months. Someone would probably
have told him that she had been summoned to the causeway, but what would
he have felt at her absence? Would he have been happy that she could
help? Would he have been sad to not see her? Or would he have felt
relief that he did not have to face her, at least for one evening?
Joliana looked at Cepero as they followed the litter to the barge.
The guard was correct: she had to at least see the boy to his house.
Then they could find another healer to treat the boy. "Sergeant," she
called to him. "Where did you say he lived?"
"Murson Street, ma'am."
"I live on Atelier Street. I'll accompany you as far as the boy's
house; it's on my way home. But then I'll turn him over to your care."
The last place she wanted to be was in another person's house as his
suffering unfolded in front of her, but she needed the passage back
across the river. She had enough problems of her own without facing
someone else's.
Abruptly the gnawing need for ardon returned and she knew what she
would do: after Murson Street, she would find someone who could sell her
ardon on her promise of payment. Then she would take enough to staunch
the flow of memories and dreams and sate the craving permanently.
Tom Madden looked around at the last aid station left for him to
search. At the far end, he could see the line of bodies someone had
pointed out to him. He stopped, fighting a battle with his emotions. He
did not want to return to Sian with no news; at the same time, he
dreaded the thought of telling her that her adopted son was dead.
Footsteps ahead of him caught his attention and he glanced up. From
the light of the torch one of his friends in the ducal guard had given
him, he saw Sergeant Cepero accompanied by two others carrying a litter,
and a thin, bedraggled woman bearing a satchel.
"Sergeant!" Tom hurried toward him. "Sergeant!"
Cepero turned. "Tom Madden! What are you doing here?"
"I came to look for Briam. Sian said he's missing ..." his voice
trailed off as he caught sight of Cepero's expression.
"How about the other children?" Cepero asked urgently. "Are they
well?"
"Yes, they're fine, they're fine. What about Briam? Did you find
him?" Tom knew that his words had been brusque, but the way Cepero's
eyebrows drew together in a frown was alarming.
"He's alive."
Tom sighed and shuddered. "Where is he?" Seeing the litter ahead of
them, Tom ran forward.
"Madden, wait!"
The insistence in Cepero's voice made new fear blossom in Tom's
mind and he increased his pace until he reached the litter. The boy's
face was as waxy and pale as Nochturon. His tunic was torn and bloody,
exposing the scraped skin underneath. His breeches had been torn off,
barely covering his groin. One leg was extended neatly upon the litter
and the other ... Tom stared, almost unable to understand what he was
seeing: the other leg stopped just below the knee.
He had stopped walking, and the litter bearers continued on their
way. The sergeant and his companion reached Tom.
"Tom," Cepero said, placing an arm on Tom's shoulder. "He's alive."
"He has no leg! Who cut it off? How dare they?"
"Calm down! He would have died if we hadn't done something." Cepero
was frowning at him, while the woman was giving him a pitying look.
"No! Who gave you the right to cut it off? He wants to be a guard.
You knew that, Cepero. How could you let a healer cut it off? We could
have gotten a physician who would've used healing magic to fix his leg.
How could you?" Tom sensed that he was losing control, but the thought
of the boy with the cut off limb, and the thought of the pain that Sian
would feel at the sight, was enough to push him over the line between
civility and anger.
"I cut it off," the woman said. "The boy would have died,
otherwise. He could still die."
She didn't say anything else, but her words acted upon Tom like a
dip in the Valenfaer Ocean in the cold of the month of Janis. Briam
could still die.
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