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DargonZine Volume 21 Issue 03
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 21
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3
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DargonZine Distributed: 08/23/08
Volume 21 Number 3 Circulation: 624
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Jon Evans
Uprooted Rena Deutsch Seber 1, 1018
The Game 3 Mark Murray Firil 15 - Naia 20,1018
and Pam Atchley
The Stone Man Liam Donahue Seber 1, 1018
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted
to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 21-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright 23 August, 2008 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Jon Evans <thegodling@verizon.net>,
Assistant Editor: John White <john.white@DREXEL.EDU>.
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 Jon Evans
<thegodling@verizon.net>
Welcome to a new DargonZine!!
Well, okay, not really. But it is a new face to the zine. After
many years of consideration and evaluation and subjugation and
retribution and all the wonderful things that come with site redesigns,
a lone voice in the group stood up and said, "Let's make it look like
this." And so we did. And that lone voice was returning author Victor
Cardoso, to whom I am greatly indebted. Well done, Vic! The site
redesign is intended to be much more geared toward an online magazine,
and to show off the authors and their work with a more modern appeal.
Please feel free to send us feedback on the redesign; we definitely want
to hear about it! E-mail can be sent to "dargon@dargonzine.org".
Meanwhile, some of you might be asking "Who's this Jon Evans
person, and why is he writing the Editorial?" Well, after two years of
being both an Editor and running the production side of the business,
Liam Donahue decided he was more happy doing the production side. He
asked if I would be willing to step up to the job, having been involved
in the project for almost 20 years, and I said "Yes." Fool that I am. :)
To be honest, I don't know much about running a magazine. But we have a
very competent support staff for me to stand on. We even elected a few
new offices into existence just to help me out. The Assistant Editor is
still John White, whom you might know as author Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, our
premier author of incredible quality, insight, and volume. Hard to get
those three things together in an author, particularly one who writes
for no better reason than because he wants to. The roles of Secretary
and Treasurer, which I previously held, are now being taken over by
Liam. We switched. But we also realized that "production" probably falls
under the realm of "secretary" so we forced it on him. Additionally, we
voted into office two more permanent positions: Mentor Leader / Dargon
Project Writers Workshop leadership is being run, still, by our
distinguished author, Jim Owens. He is a writer of great personal
relationships, and is rather well suited for the personal work involved
in that role. Finally, we formally established a Marketing Leader, and
assigned that role to Victor Cardoso, who as previously mentioned, is
also working website redesign.
So, what's different for the readers and writers? The truth is, we
hope you see a new energy in the zine. It may not be apparent
immediately -- most of the stories in our current publication schedule
were written in the months and even years prior to these changes. But we
have had ongoing discussions on our new authors' forum -- which we
intend to make public in the future -- about changes in the environment,
how we deal with literary devices such as magic and villains, and even
the website's redesign. We hope to reach out to more interested readers
and writers that want to join our crazy little group of writers. We want
to remind people why it is we have been around for nearly 25 years, why
we have received so many awards and praises for continuous literary
quality and integrity. And I hope our own authors themselves are
reminded what excellent work they do. I urge all of our readers -- first
timers and long-time fans -- to provide feedback to the authors, either
through our simple web-based tools or through personal e-mails. We write
because we enjoy it. But we publish because we hope that you do, too.
So, to the new issue. We have three stories to offer this month:
"Uprooted" by Rena Deutsch, which was part of our slice-of-life series
we created during last year's Summit Challenge; "The Game, part 3" which
continues the series that Mark Murray and Pam Atchley co-authored; and
Liam Donahue's "The Stone Man," also a result of the 2007 Summit
Challenge. Before I let you go, I give you three commands: Read, enjoy,
and let us know how we did.
Best, -J
========================================================================
Uprooted
By Rena Deutsch
<luv2rite@dargenzine.org>
Seber 1, 1018
"Get up you lazy runt!" A bucket of cold water was emptied over my
head. It quickly dispersed any notion I might have had to keep my eyes
closed a while longer. Even worse, a boot now connected forcefully with
my thigh and sent a wave of pain through my body.
"I'm up! I'm up," I said. I tried hard not to show how much that
kick hurt and attempted to stand up. My tormentor pulled on the blanket
I'd been sleeping on and I lost my balance. I fell hard on the ground
and hit my head on the now empty bucket. I felt blood trickle down my
cheek and saw little black spots dance in front of my eyes. I managed
not to scream in pain, knowing fully well that if I did, it would
encourage him to hit or kick me further. I forced back tears and used
the sleeve of my torn tunic to wipe my face.
"You forgot to milk the cows last night and now there isn't enough
milk to send to the keep this morning. Don't you know that if you don't
milk the cows twice a day, the milk dries up? Do you know anything, you
stupid brat?"
"I'm sorry, uncle," I said meekly. I smelled rum on his breath and
knew that arguing wouldn't do me any good. I hadn't forgotten to milk
the cows, but the three animals didn't have much milk to give. I was
getting blamed for everything that went wrong in my uncle's household,
whether it was my fault or not.
"Sorry isn't good enough!" he yelled and kicked me once more before
he left the stable.
I reached for my blanket, folded it carefully, and then hid it in
the back corner under the hay. I had overslept. I heard the second bell
of day and sighed. Slowly, I made my way to the well for my morning
ablutions. I washed my face and noticed drops of blood trickling onto
the stone. Carefully, my fingers felt for the source. I flinched, but
the wound didn't seem too bad, more like a scratch. The bleeding would
stop. I'd have another scar on my face. If I could find time, I'd seek a
healer who would give me something to treat my wound in exchange for
some work, as I had no coins. I depended on the goodwill of my aunt and
uncle.
"Greetings, Kathara."
I turned and saw a boy walk towards me. His hair was as black as
burnt wood and stood in every direction. I smiled. "Greetings, Nilson.
What brings you here this morning?"
"Oh this and that," he replied, grinning from ear to ear. "I found
something. Come and I'll show you!"
"I can't. Not right now anyway. My uncle's angry and I've work to
do."
"Straight. I can help and you'll be done faster. Mother told me to
give you this." He held out his hand, showing me a piece of bread and
some cheese. I realized just how hungry I was.
"Thank you!" I said and halved the food, putting the larger portion
in my food pouch and eating the rest.
"What happened to your face?" Nilson asked when I'd finished
breakfast.
"I fell and hit my head on the bucket." I didn't lie, but I
couldn't bring myself to tell Nilson just how much my uncle mistreated
me day after day. Nilson was twelve, one year older than I was, and
lived with his parents in the oldest part of Dargon, the Old City, as we
call it. His father was a guard and his mother worked at the keep.
Nilson didn't have any brothers or sisters and I figured that was the
reason he sought me out. He protected me when we explored the Old City
streets or took my uncle's cows outside the city walls for fresh grass.
He also helped me with my work in the stable and the barn.
It took us nearly a bell to milk the three cows, feed and water
them, and put fresh straw in their box after removing the old. I carried
two buckets with milk to my uncle's kitchen and informed my aunt that
I'd be taking the cows outside the city wall for some fresh grass. She
nodded and handed me an apple and a piece of bread, which I added to the
bread and cheese in my food pouch.
"Make sure you feed the chickens and gather the eggs as well," she
said and returned to her cooking.
"Straight, Aunt Sally. I'll be back with the eggs shortly."
My uncle's house stood against the south wall near the rocky
outcropping, just underneath the keep. It had once been the home of a
noble and had a stable, a barn, a pigeon coop, and a hen house on its
property. While the main house was well built and needed no repairs, the
barn and the hen house needed some fixing. The stable's roof had caved
in during last year's heavy snow. My father had been rebuilding it.
Much of my father's time had been spent working on the bridge over
the Coldwell. When the causeway accident happened, he'd fallen into the
river. His dead body had washed ashore near the harbor the following
morning.
I ran to the hen house, fed the chickens, and collected the eggs. I
was thrilled when I found three more eggs than we had hens. When I told
my aunt, her eyes lit up. We'd have more than just vegetables and bread
for dinner that night.
I found Nilson in the barn and he helped me guide the cows out and
lead them towards the south gate. It was an easy task these days. Since
the causeway had collapsed, few people came across. To cross the
Coldwell by ferry required coins. I had heard talk about rebuilding the
causeway, but nothing had happened yet.
The High Road, which leads from south gate to the keep, passes by
my uncle's house, the last one on the way up to the keep. The other road
leading to the keep, the Street of Travellers, bypasses the Old City
completely. Instead it leads to Coldwell Height through the rocky
outcropping east of the keep.
The outcropping is a dangerous area, full of large boulders with
sharp edges. It is difficult to climb or hide in it. I once tried to
hide from my uncle in there and cut my hand badly on one of the rocks. I
was not allowed to go to Coldwell Height where some of the nobility
live.
We reached Gateway Avenue and headed towards the South Gate. It's
the only gate in the old city wall that travelers are able to use. The
northern city wall protects the city from intruders coming from the
river. On the west side are cliffs so steep that landing a ship is only
possible in the old port, but the docks there haven't been repaired in a
long time. All the ships dock in the harbor on the other side of the
Coldwell in the newer parts of the city.
Only barges can land on the northern beach we call Mermaid's Lair.
I've heard stories where a woman's voice lured boys and men into the
water there, never to return. My father told me not to go swimming at
the northern beach, in case the mermaids wanted a girl instead of a boy
one day. Many of the boys though think of swimming at Mermaid's Lair as
challenge and do it anyway.
The climb from the beach to the Old City is steep. I liked using
the old port and Mermaid's Lair as refuge areas whenever my uncle was in
one of his moods. I felt safe there and most of the time Nilson joined
me. He knew about my uncle's drinking and bad temper. I don't know if he
was aware of how much my uncle hurt me.
The southern wall guards the city from intruders approaching from
the southern beach, called Fisher's Realm, or coming by land. The
northern wall has three lookout towers; the southern wall has four and
there is a guardhouse with double sentries at the gate. Gateway Avenue
goes from the market directly to the guard posts and through the south
gate. My father once told me that if you follow Gateway Avenue it will
take you to Winthrop Keep.
Today, Nilson's father stood guard. With him were three other men,
two of whom I'd seen before, but I couldn't remember their names, and
one I didn't recognize at all.
"Greetings Kathara, Nilson. I see you're taking the cows out to the
field. Just be careful. We heard wolves earlier."
"We will," Nilson and I said in unison. This struck me as funny
and, for the first time in sennights, I giggled.
"We'll stay close to the city wall," I promised.
"That's good," Nilson's father replied. He ruffled his son's hair
and then looked at my face more closely. "What happened to you?" He
turned my head, carefully, so he could see better.
"I fell this morning." I blushed. I was not used to the attention.
"Nilson, why don't you run home and ask your mother for a salve for
Kathara's wound?"
Nilson nodded and complied with his father's wish. I felt the gaze
of the other two men on me as well and wished I could just keep on
going.
"Your uncle do this to you?" Nilson's father asked quietly.
"I fell," I insisted and looked to the ground. It wasn't a lie, but
I couldn't look him in the eye. He gently lifted my chin and looked at
me for a mene.
"You're not that clumsy, Kathara. What really happened?"
"I ... he ... he pulled on the blanket while I was standing up and
I fell and hit my head on a bucket," I whispered, tears welling up in my
eyes.
Nilson's father nodded grimly. "I heard your uncle yell this
morning when I made my way to the keep. I had a feeling he was taking
his anger out on you."
Before I could reply, Nilson came running back, holding a small jar
in his hand and I was spared from further questioning. I breathed a sigh
of relief.
"You're a fast runner, Nilson," I said when he handed his father
the jar with salve, "but not as fast as I."
"Ha," Nilson laughed, "we'll just have to put this to the test."
"I'm not afraid --" I began and winced as Nilson's father applied
the salve to my face.
"All done," he said and handed the jar back to Nilson. "Go and take
it back home, son."
"Straight," Nilson said and turned to me. "I'll be right back."
I nodded towards Nilson and then thanked his father.
"Do you have any other relatives nearby?" Nilson's father asked
when his son was out of earshot. I shook my head.
"My aunt and uncle are my only family since father drowned," I
said, trying hard to keep my voice steady.
"And your uncle resents this." He gently placed his hand on my
shoulder and rested it there for a moment before he withdrew it again.
"He said that I have to do some of the work now to earn my keep," I
said softly, looking to the ground again.
"What do you have to do?" he asked quietly, so only I could hear
him. I didn't immediately answer and he repeated his question.
"I'm back!" Nilson yelled as he ran towards us. I breathed a sigh
of relief. I was again spared from answering his father's question. As I
turned, I noticed that the cows had partially blocked the road and
prevented a wagon from passing. Two women were sitting in the wagon. I
recognized May, the owner of Spirit's Haven, who was holding the reins.
I'd met her when I helped my father make deliveries to her inn. What
took me by surprise was the lady who sat in the wagon. She was
beautiful! She was dressed all in white, and the dress was made of a
shiny material I'd never seen before. Even her jewelry was white.
Strange creatures were embroidered on her gown, animals of a kind I
didn't know. The lady sat very straight and I could see a wide sash
around her middle. Her face was mostly hidden behind a beautiful white
fan, but I could see that even her make-up was different than the noble
ladies'.
I stood and stared until Nilson's father reminded me to get my
animals off the road. I slapped the hind leg of the cow closest to me
and urged her off the road and onto the grass alongside the city wall.
Both Nilson and his father helped to get the cows going again and soon
we were away from the gate.
"I'm glad you're a fast runner," I said, smiling at Nilson. He
grinned and brushed his hair back with his left hand, a gesture I'd seen
his father do as well.
"What did you want to show me?" I asked.
"It's on the other side of the city. You may have to wait until
later tonight. We can't take the cows with us." His face now showed a
huge grin. Obviously he was pleased that he could keep me in suspense
for a while longer and tease me with it.
"It better be good," I said.
"Oh, it's good all right. You just have to trust me."
"Phhhht." I stuck out my tongue at him and ran. He followed,
chasing me halfway to the last lookout tower. I tripped and landed in
the grass, laughing. Nilson dropped down next to me, catching his
breath. For a while we just lay there and waited for the cows to slowly
catch up with us, then Nilson had an idea.
"Let's see if Lisl is by the trees with her goats," he suggested.
"Maybe she'll watch the cows for a bell so I can show you what I found."
I got up in an instant and ran to the group of trees where my
friend Lisl and I met up whenever we took the animals outside the city.
I wasn't disappointed; she was there, as were Jamie, Allara, and Hayden.
Jamie was also herding goats, but unlike Lisl, who only brought her
family's two goats, Jamie collected the goats from several families in
the Old City and took them outside the city gate for the day and
returned them at night. He got paid for this. Allara had brought a thin
wooden board, a charcoal stick, and paper. She was drawing a picture of
the goats. Hayden was watching her.
"Lisl," I said, "will you watch my cows for a bell? When I come
back I'll watch your goats."
"Jamie already said he'll watch my goats later on so I can run to
the beach for a while," Lisl said, "Got any food? I only got a carrot
this morning and a bit of goat milk."
"I've some bread, cheese, and an apple, and I can milk Bessie for a
cup of milk if you like," I offered. I opened my food pouch and showed
her its contents.
Lisl took the smaller of the two pieces of bread and the cheese.
"Thank you," she said and began to eat.
"Don't worry about your cows," Jamie said, "I'll watch them, too."
"Thank you." I gave him a huge smile and handed him my apple. He
accepted it with a nod.
"Let's go," Nilson said. "We'll be back in a bell or so." I barely
had time to close my food pouch when he reached for my hand and pulled
me away.
"Race you to the gate," I yelled as I freed myself from his grip
and ran as fast as I could. By the time I reached the gate, Nilson had
long overtaken me and was standing next to his father laughing.
"What took you so long?" he asked. I was out of breath so I stuck
out my tongue. Nilson just grinned. "Come on, this way." He pointed
towards the market. "We need to go across the marketplace, then take
Wall Street until we reach the city wall again."
"But there's nothing aside from houses that are even older and more
broken than the ones near my uncle's house."
"But there is, and I'll show you, if you want," Nilson said,
smiling. "Come on! I'll race you."
"Only if you run along Thistle Way, or better take Garden Path, and
I'll meet you at Corambis' house," I challenged him.
"Why would I want to do that?"
"'Cause you have sandals and I'm barefoot," I said. "And I have to
make my way across the market."
"Straight, no race then," Nilson said, took my hand, and pulled me
along. Soon we were running, but not racing, and within a few menes we'd
reached Corambis' house. We took a small path that led to the north wall
and then below the guard tower next to the rocky outcropping.
"I'm not climbing in there," I said and pointed at the pile of
boulders below Dargon Keep.
"You don't need to. We need to go around the guard tower to the
other side of the wall and we're almost there."
"What's there?" My curiosity got the better of me. "Won't the guard
see us?"
Nilson laughed. "The guard only looks at the river and the town
across, but not right below."
I followed his lead. We kept close to the city wall. Soon we could
see the river and feel the wind blow hard on the other side of the wall.
The grass was high; it reached all the way to the wall. I found it
difficult to make my way alongside it. I feared that I would slip and
fall into the river. I held Nilson's hand tight.
"We're almost there," he said. A moment later, he pulled me inside
a hole in the city wall. My eyes took a bit to adjust to the sudden
darkness. Nilson guided me deeper inside and light from the outside
illuminated part of the room. I looked around and noticed a couple of
chairs, a table, and a bed.
"Who lives here?" I asked after my initial surprise passed.
"No one," he replied. "I found the hole in the wall a fortnight ago
and thought it would make a good hideout. I took the chairs, table, and
bed from one of the abandoned houses and carried it here. Do you like
it?"
I nodded. "Who else knows of this place?" I inquired.
"You and me, no one else," Nilson said and I could see his smile.
"It's our secret. Our place to hide if we need to."
I returned his smile and hugged him briefly, then sat on a chair
and tried out the bed.
"Comfortable," I said, "but we need some blankets."
"And a door," Nilson added. "I don't think we can make a fire here
or light a candle. The guards would see it."
"Straight. It's a nice place though," I said and got up. "I need to
go back."
Nilson led the way and a few menes later we were back at Corambis'
house. We ran towards the market; Nilson was soon ahead of me. I had
just passed the Red Falcon, a tavern at the corner of Thistle Way and
Wall Street, when I was tripped and fell. I landed hard on my knees.
Tears shot in my eyes. I felt a rough hand grab my arm and yank me to my
feet. I looked up and into my uncle's face. I could see the anger in his
face. Suddenly, I felt cold.
"What are you doing here?" he said with barely suppressed rage. I
remained silent and he repeated his question, hitting me in the face at
the same time. I stumbled backwards, but kept my balance. My uncle
raised his hand again and I turned and ran before he could strike a
second time. I'd have to pay for this later, but for now I was safe. I
heard my uncle yell something, but couldn't make out the words. I had no
intention of returning to his side right now.
I made my way back to the pasture. I walked slowly once I left the
confines of the city. Nilson was already there. He looked up.
"You're bleeding again," he said, pulling out a piece of cloth. He
gently dabbed my face.
"I fell. Just past the Red Falcon," I replied and pointed at my
knees. I sat down and began picking gravel out of the wound. Lisl handed
me her cup with water. I drank half of it and used the other half to
clean my knees.
"Thank you," I said and gave the cup back.
"I'll get more water," Nilson said, taking an empty water bag and
returned to the city.
"Where are Allara and Hayden?" I asked Lisl.
"They left ha'bell ago," she said. "The scullery maid came looking
for Allara with a message from her father." Lisl giggled. "I think
Hayden fancies her. He follows her around like a puppy."
I grinned. "Allara's pretty," I said and Lisl nodded. We looked at
each other. We both had long, brown hair that was wind tossed, clothes
that were mended many times and still had holes, and bare feet that were
always dirty. Neither Lisl nor I wore socks or shoes once the snow
melted.
"We're pretty, too," Lisl said. We laughed. From afar we heard the
seventh bell of day. I hadn't realized it was that late already.
"I better take the cows back." I stood up, picked up a stick, and
encouraged the animals to get up and walk back with me. I was almost at
the gate when Nilson returned with the water.
"I'll take this to Lisl and then come and help you," he said. I
smiled. Nilson was true to his word. I had just turned to take High Road
when he caught up with me. Together we returned the cows to the barn,
filled buckets with water for them, and added more straw to their box.
"Another bell and it's time to milk them again," I commented and
dropped onto the hay I usually slept on. Nilson sat down beside me.
"Kathara!" The loud voice of my uncle Ilias reached us only moments
before he entered the barn.
"Hide," I whispered and piled hay on top of Nilson. I was
frightened and didn't want to find our what would happen if my uncle
found us sitting on the hay together. Within moments, Nilson disappeared
from sight. "And don't let yourself be seen, no matter what happens!"
"Straight," he said softly.
"Kathara!" Ilias yelled again. "Answer me!"
"I'm here," I said meekly.
I swallowed hard when I saw that my uncle's face was red with
anger.
"How many times do I have to call you before you answer?" Ilias
said; his voice sounded cold. I just stood there, shivering, not saying
a word. Ilias raised his hand and hit me. I bit my lips so I wouldn't
cry out.
"What were you doing at the Red Falcon?" Ilias voice sounded
threatening.
"Nothing," I said, knowing he wouldn't believe me. "I was just
passing by." Ilias struck me again.
"I don't believe you! You were spying on me, weren't you?"
"No, I wasn't."
"Then what were you doing there?"
"Nothing," I whispered, my voice trembling.
"Answer me!" he yelled and hit me again. I felt blood run down my
face, became dizzy, and stumbled backward. My head hit a beam as I fell,
darkness enveloped me, and then there was no more pain.
"Answer me!" Ilias yelled again and kicked the girl's body. She
didn't move; no sound escaped her. Ilias gave her another kick and
Nilson couldn't take it anymore. He jumped out of the hay and pushed him
away.
"Leave her alone!" he shouted. "Leave her alone!" To his surprise,
Ilias left the barn. Nilson knelt next to her body and shook her gently.
Her eyes were closed, her face white. Blood trickled slowly from the
wound on her left cheek. He took a small piece of cloth and carefully
wiped her face. Her hand slid to the ground.
"Kathara," he said softly, "he's gone." He stroked her face, her
arm, but she didn't react. And then he noticed a pool of blood
underneath her head.
"Kathara?" He lifted her head and felt for the source of the
bleeding. He felt nauseous when his fingers reached a hole at the back
of her head. He pulled his hand out and realized it was smeared with
blood.
He didn't know how long he stared at her as she lay there, not
moving. His face was wet with tears. He wiped it with his sleeve and
looked around the barn. The cows stood in their box as if nothing had
happened. A cat was moving slowly in search of mice. He remembered
seeing a hand wagon next to the cows and went to retrieve it. He made a
bed of hay on the wagon and laid her on top, covering her with a blanket
he'd found in the hay.
No one stopped him when he pulled the hand wagon out of the barn
and made his way towards his parents' home. He would tell his father
what had happened. He would see to it that Ilias got punished and hoped
his mother would heal her.
He reached his house as the ninth bell of day sounded. His father
sat outside on a bench, smoking his pipe, watching his son's approach.
Something in Nilson's face must have alarmed him. He took a closer look
at the cart, then got up and lifted the blanket. A moment later, he let
it fall back and it covered her body once more.
"Mother can heal her, can't she?" Nilson asked.
"No, son," his father said solemnly, "No healer in all of Cherisk
can help her. Kathara is dead."
"No!" Nilson screamed, "No, no, no!" He knelt next to the girl,
pulled the blanket from her face and stroked it gently. Her face was
cold now and he realized his father was right. He choked back his tears
and let rage take over. He clenched his fists.
"He'll pay for this, that bastard! I swear --" he began, but his
father interrupted him.
"Stop, son! Don't say things you'll later regret."
He felt his father's hand on his shoulder and shrugged it off. He
didn't want his comfort; instead he wanted to give in to the rage he
felt. He got up, patted his pocket to assure himself that his dirk was
there and started back to Ilias' place. He hadn't taken more than three
steps when he felt his father's hand on his upper arm, pulling him back.
"No!" he howled and struggled to free himself. His father pulled
him into a tight embrace and waited until he calmed. Nilson's screaming
had drawn some of the neighbors. A few words from his father and the
curious retreated.
"What happened to Kathara?" His father asked when Nilson had
himself under control again and he told him.
Three days later, they sent my spirit on. A funeral pyre had been
built and Nilson held the torch that would set it afire. Allara, Hayden,
Lisl, and Jamie were there, as were Nilson's parents and a few citizens
of the old city. My aunt had left the town the day before; my uncle
hadn't been seen since he'd left the barn after he had killed me. The
guards had been searching for him, but hadn't been able to find him. He
probably fled town.
Nilson looked pale; his eyes were red and every now and then his
hand quickly wiped tears from his face. I could tell he missed me. His
dreams, his plans, anything he had hoped for lay there with me. As he
held the torch to the funeral pyre and watched it burn, I vanished.
========================================================================
The Game Part 3
by P. Atchley <deepartha@yahoo.com>
and Mark A. Murray and <wv_mark@yahoo.com>
Firil 15 - Naia 20, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 21-1
Part 2 of this story was printed in Dargonzine 21-2
"You paint a fair picture of yourself, Delex," Nusa said to me, a
lowly prisoner in the Dargon jail. "You work as a prostitute for Eliza
Tillipanary at the Lucky Lady. You have women pay you to do disgusting
things and you take pleasure in it. You are charged with murdering a man
and with attempted rape. The picture that others have painted is a far
different one than yours."
"Will you not try to find the truth?" I asked. "Otherwise, why are
you here?"
"I came here only because ... well, let me fill in parts of your
story that you do not know ..."
There was a thundering sound, and Nusa Abarris started from her
bed, heart beating almost as loudly as the noise that had awakened her.
Again it sounded, and she realized that someone was almost beating the
door down. She could tell that it was still early, for the single window
that she had left open still let in the darkness of night rather than
light of day.
"I'm coming," she called, standing up and straightening her tunic
before going to the door. She was a tall woman, still shapely despite
her age, and a member of the Town Guard.
When she opened the door, a young man was standing outside, hand
raised to knock again. He looked disheveled and shock and fear were
clearly writ upon his face. He was good looking, with big blue eyes and
blonde hair.
"You!" Disgust dripped from her voice. It was her younger brother,
Masian. There was a striking similarity between them. Yet she was not
the prettier of the two, for where his hair was golden, hers was just
the color of straw; where his eyes were the brightest of blues, hers
were but pale and watery. They had become estranged about three years
past when he had decided to go to work at the Lucky Lady, a hostelry
that was well known for its people of pleasure, or, in more stringent
terms, prostitutes.
The night Masian had told her of his decision had been a nightmare
for her, a devout Stevenic. Of all the professions open to him, he had
chosen one which she could never accept. That was the night she had
disowned him, when she had told him outright that she had no brother.
For her, it had been more bitter than when their mother had died,
leaving the young boy to her guardianship. Masian had been more son than
brother to her.
She made as if to shut the door, but he was too quick for her. He
stepped inside, crowding her, and she instinctively stepped back inside
the large, single room that was her home. "Masian, get away from me. I
can and I will hurt you."
"Nusa, please. Listen to me. I need your help." There was a quaver
in his voice, and it tugged at her heart.
She had to quash the old instinct of running to his aid. He was a
grown man and he had made his choice. "I cannot help you," she said
harshly. "Begone!"
"I won't go. Nusa, you're my sister, and nothing can ever change
that. I need your help now, so don't send me away. Besides, it isn't
even for me!"
That stopped Nusa, and she swallowed the angry words unsaid.
Her silence was enough for Masian, and he poured out his story. "My
friend Delex -- they're saying he killed a man, and he would never do
that. You have to help, Nusa, please. He's such a good man, so kind.
He's always helpful. Please, Nusa."
"Masian ..." She knew when he said "friend" whom he meant; she was
sure it was that bald-headed man who always accompanied Masian when she
happened to run into them on the streets that she patrolled. The friend
was another of those wretched men of the night. There was no way that
she would ever lift a finger to help one like that.
"No," Masian shook his head. "I won't let you say no. You always
told me to help other people, to do the right thing. Well, you're not
doing the right thing here. Delex is innocent, and you won't even listen
to me just because you don't approve of my job. Is that what the good
Stevene would have wanted?"
His question hung in the sudden silence between them, and Nusa was
forced to ponder it. She had always hated his job, still hated it, but
...
"You're assuming that Delex did it just because you disapprove of
what he does for a living." Masian threw another verbal bolt at her.
Was he right? Was she assuming that the man, whoever he was, was
guilty simply because he did something that was sinful for a living?
Masian continued his assault. "Nusa, you can't punish sins; only
God can. Besides, remember that the Stevene said, 'Judge a man not, for
God is the final justiciar'."
Nusa turned away, her mind in turmoil. She didn't know what to do.
Masian was silent, as if he sensed that he was about to get his way. She
knew that she had to listen to his story, even though her every instinct
screamed at her to avoid it; yet a tiny voice within her spoke of
justice at all costs, of doing the right thing for its own sake, and she
listened to that voice that was both so small and so strong.
"Tell me what happened."
It was apparent that Masian had been waiting for just that
invitation, for the words spilled out of him like a raging river. The
story was quite simple. Her guess had been right: the friend was the
bald man she had seen with Masian. Apparently, a client had sent a
runner requesting his presence in her own home, and the man, Delexand,
had gone. It turned out to be the house of the wrong woman. Here, the
story got convoluted, but Nusa let Masian talk without interruption. At
the house, the client's male assistant had been murdered and the client
had been molested. The client had been scratched in various places upon
her body and her clothes had been torn. Two guards had arrested Delex
and taken him away.
"How do you know he's innocent?" Nusa raised a hand to stop Masian
when he opened his mouth, and she continued, "She was his client. What
if she changed her mind? What if he really did molest her? What if he
really did kill the young man? How do you know he's innocent?" she
repeated.
"How do I know he's innocent?" Masian parrotted back to her in an
astonished voice. "Nusa, if someone told you I'd killed a man, would you
believe him?"
Nusa didn't answer, and Masian didn't bother to wait for a
response. "That's how I know. I know him, Nusa, and he didn't kill
anyone. And I'm pretty sure he didn't molest that woman either."
Nusa nodded, and began to pace, thinking about what Masian had told
her. The story had more holes than a torn blanket in an old orphanage.
She asked slowly, "You said that a runner came to invite him to a
client's house."
Masian nodded.
"Straight, then why did he go to someone else's house?"
Masian frowned. "I don't know, Oosa."
The old nickname had slipped out, and Nusa felt her eyes tear. He
had called her Oosa when he was younger and still learning to speak. He
had been so cute and innocent then. She turned away, swallowing, and
opened her eyes wide to prevent the tears from falling out, hoping he
wouldn't notice.
He didn't. "Straight. If Grana Baugar's runner came, then how come
he was at Jande Tes' house?" Grana Baugar was the client, and Jande Tes
was the woman who had been molested and in whose house the murder had
been committed.
Nusa composed herself and turned back to face him. "We have to go
to see him. When was he taken away? Do you know where he is now?"
Masian nodded. "The runner came last night. Apparently he was taken
away to the guardhouse around the first bell of night. I didn't find out
until this morning because ..." His voice trailed away and he glanced at
her before continuing, "Eliza told me."
Nusa ignored the implication and said briskly, "We'll go to the
guardhouse now." As if the good God and the Stevene were agreeing with
her, she heard the first bell of the day.
Nusa and Masian entered the guardhouse where a page sat on a small
stool. She was a little girl and was just waking from a nap. When she
saw Nusa, she slid off the stool and smiled widely, revealing a gap
between her front teeth.
"Hi Nusa," she said in a high-pitched voice.
"Hello, Enid. Are any of the sergeants in?" Nusa asked.
"I dunno. I fell asleep," the little girl said sheepily.
Nusa smiled, told Masian to wait for her, and went inside. On one
side of the corridor was the stairwell that led upstairs to more
offices, and the justiciar's hall above, and downstairs to the dungeons.
She went up to where the offices were: the captain's at the far end, one
room for the lieutenants, and a few for the sergeants. It was far too
early in the day for either Captain Koren or Lieutenant Darklen to be
in, but some of the sergeants were present.
She poked her head into one of the big, roomy, shared offices.
"Caisy, have you been here all night?" Although Caisy had been promoted
to lieutenant, he'd continued to use the desk he'd had as a sergeant.
The man she addressed looked up from the ledger he'd been
painstakingly studying. "Yes. You need something?"
Nusa entered and approached his desk. "It seems they brought in a
man named Delexand on suspicion of killing somebody and attempted rape."
Caisy nodded. "Yes. This guy works at the Lucky Lady." He smiled.
"Garay and Tarb were patrolling the streets there, and it seems the
lady's runner came out screaming something. When they went in, they
found him with the body in his arms."
Nusa frowned. "Are they here? I'd like to talk to them."
"They went off duty about ha'bell ago. Any particular reason you're
interested?" Caisy's voice took on an inquiring tone, but she knew he
wanted an answer. He was her immediate supervisor, after all.
She shrugged. "The man's best friend came to see me, convinced that
the guy is innocent. I agreed to talk to him, that's all."
A quizzical look appeared on Caisy's face. The two of them were not
close friends, but Nusa got along with him well. He was scrupulously
fair and had an acerbic wit that appeared at strange opportunities. Nusa
liked him, for he was a kind man, although he kept that trait well
hidden. Now he merely said in a dismissing tone of voice, "The guy is in
a cell downstairs."
Nusa nodded and exited the room thoughtfully. She knew that Caisy
would now keep an eye on this case, for he had been intrigued by her
interest. It occurred to her that this case would be the focus of gossip
and laughter in the guardhouse; for some reason, most people seemed to
wink and smile when the topic of pleasure houses came up. For Nusa
herself, while she disapproved of such houses, the thought of their
inmates and their lifestyle had a much more personal and negative
impact.
She reached the cell where the prisoner had been confined. It was a
small room, bare of anything save a chamber pot in one corner. The
corridor outside the cell had a narrow window high up that did duty as a
skylight; occasionally the feet of passersby could be seen through it.
This early in the morning, the rosy light of day crept through.
Through the cell door, the man sat on the floor, leaning against a
wall with his feet outstretched, hands loosely clasped in his lap, and
his eyes closed. He had removed his tunic, which lay neatly folded
beside him; the reason was obvious from the bloody tear on top that she
could see from outside the cell. His chest and upper arms were muscled
without being overly so, and his trim hips were hidden beneath a pair of
clean and shiny breeches. His bald pate accentuated his facial features:
a narrow face with a pointed chin, a well-defined nose, and ears that
lay flat against the side of his head. He looked to be a few years her
junior.
He must have sensed her presence, for he opened his eyes. In the
dim light, she could not make out their color. He said nothing but
continued to watch her with an unnerving intensity.
For a moment, Nusa wondered what she was doing. She disapproved of
pleasure houses for had not the Stevene said of physical pleasure, 'Let
that which is special to the marriage bed remain within'? And this man
was not only a sinner but he was also a friend of Masian's, probably
encouraging him to remain within the profession. She would listen to
him, but her promise was only to hear this man's story, not to help him.
"You are Delexand," she said.
He nodded.
"I am Nusa Abarris."
His eyes widened at that and he rose and approached the bars that
separated them. She saw that his eyes were brown, and his skin seemed to
glow like copper in the golden light of the morning.
"Why are you here?" His voice was soft and deep, its pitch
inquiring without any other overtones, while the expression on his face
was neutral.
Nusa supposed rather bitterly that, given his profession, he must
know how to act well. "Masian came to see me."
He laughed softly, but it seemed to Nusa that it was humorless.
"That, I realized the moment you introduced yourself. So, you have come
to pass your own judgment on me before ever I get to the justice hall,
happy to see one more sinner hung for his sins."
"I am here to listen to your story."
"Oho, are you now? Tell me the truth, Nusa. Are you willing to even
face the possibility that I might be innocent? That my choice of
professions does not automatically make me a killer?" He paused and
looked at her.
She was frowning and had taken a step back as he spoke. Seeing her
move, he nodded with a sarcastic smile and continued his tirade.
"I thought not. Tell me, Nusa, why *are* you here? You disapprove
of my and Masian's profession. You ignore him and snub him when you see
him in church. If that is any indication of your affection for him, I do
not see any reason for your presence here." His voice had grown bitterer
as he spoke.
Nusa felt the words come boiling up from within her as he spoke,
the feelings his statements evoked too hot and angry for control. "And
what do you know of affection, you who works as a man of the night, you
who corrupts men and women without a thought for the moral questions
behind your actions? You have no right to question me. I may disapprove
of your profession, but I will not allow my own feelings to obscure what
is right and what is wrong. If you really killed that young man, Delex,
I will make sure that your trial takes you speedily to the noose. And if
you did not, then I will be your advocate." Her breath was coming
harshly by the time she finished speaking, and then silence descended.
He did not reply, but stared at her with an intensity that she
would have found unnerving had she not been so very angry. Finally he
gave a curt nod. "So be it," he said and his next words were measured
and spaced out evenly. "I did not kill that young man."
"Tell me what happened," Nusa ordered.
"And I've given you all I know," I said. "Will you help me?"
"It doesn't sound right," Nusa said. "Why did you go to her house?
You've never done that before. Why did the man die in your arms with
blood all over you and not her?"
My hopes crashed to the floor and despair hit me in the gut. I felt
the noose around my neck. It was not long now, I knew.
========================================================================
The Stone Man
By Liam Donahue
<Liam_the_red@dargonzine.org>
Seber 1, 1018
"You must be Liat." Cael smiled and held his hand out to clasp
wrists with the man who had just joined him in front of Dargon's Old
Guard House. Both men were dressed in the blue and grey uniform of the
Town Guard. Cael's uniform, which had cost him more than he would earn
in his first few sennights as a guard, was new. He had spent several
bells the previous night preparing it: shining his boots and buckles and
trimming off the loose threads.
The other man scowled down at Cael's hand for a moment before
giving a perfunctory wrist clasp. "Why must I be? Because I'm the only
one fool enough besides you to be standing out here before first bell?"
The man's gaze traveled up from Cael's hand to his face.
Cael felt his smile falter under the older man's scrutiny. He was
suddenly nervous about his appearance, despite the time that he had
spent the night before, and despite the fact that his companion's
uniform looked even more careworn than the man who wore it. Liat's boots
looked particularly battered and worn. Cael thought he might be in for a
very long day.
Cael had arrived in Dargon only the day before and, after several
bells spent searching for Murson Street and the Old Guard House that
stood on it, had presented his letter of reference from Sir Harbid
Heahun to the sergeant. Cael knew that the letter described him as a man
with a strong, logical mind, who would benefit much from service in the
Dargon Town Guard and in turn provide great service to the city. The
sergeant, a man named Cepero, had asked him a few questions and then
told him that he would spend the next day patrolling with Liat before
taking over Liat's patrol. From what Cepero had said about Liat wanting
to be reassigned, Cael had assumed that Liat would be pleased to meet
him.
He realized that the older man was still staring at him.
"Straight," he said with a nod, trying to regain his smile. It faltered
again as he saw the other's eyes narrow. "N-n-not that I think you're a
fool," he stammered, "but Sergeant Cepero told me to expect you here,
and, well, here you are."
"Hmmph. Well, I am Liat." His eyes traveled up and down Cael again,
the look of contempt on his face growing. "Shiny new boots, eh? You'll
regret that. It's a long walk."
Cael swallowed. "I'll be all right," he said, feeling the pride
about his new uniform beginning to slip away. Eager to move the
conversation beyond his uniform, he asked, "So, what do we do first?"
"First," replied Liat, "you'll check in with the night sergeant,
but I've already done that. Told him I was glad I wouldn't have to look
at his ugly face again for a while, too." He chuckled.
"But won't you have to check in prior to your new watch?"
"Straight, but not this early. My new patrol will be down by the
barge docks. I'll be seeing Sergeant Cepero, and at a decent bell. Bet
you were wondering how you managed to land a day patrol when you're the
newest guard, huh? You're about to find out. Like I said, it's a long
walk. And we'd better get started or we won't be back by midday, and
Cepero'll have my ass, and yours, for being late for afternoon duty."
Liat turned and began to walk northeast on Murson Street. Cael fell
into step beside him. He was suddenly very aware of the stiffness of his
boots.
"What do we do for afternoon duty?"
Liat snorted. "Whatever Cepero tells us! Why don't you worry about
the morning? Afternoon will come soon enough. For now, we have a patrol
to make, so get moving."
Cael followed behind him. "What should we be doing?"
This evoked another snort. "Guar-ding," Liat replied, pronouncing
each syllable carefully.
Cael felt his cheeks redden and was glad the other man could not
see his face. He decided to refrain from further questions, at least
until he could come up with one that wouldn't be met with derision.
Although the sun had not yet broached the horizon, the city had
begun to come to life. To the left, a shop door banged open as an
apprentice swept dirt from the floor out into the street. To the right,
a woman loaded up a cart with pots, pans, and various earthenware
containers, doubtless for the day's trade in some nearby market. Cael
tried to get the woman's attention in order to say "good morning", but
she glanced past him and his greeting died on his lips. After several
more failed attempts to catch the eye of a passing townsperson, Cael
realized his mistake. His home village of Heahun was so small that
everyone knew everyone, so it was natural for him to say "hello" to
everyone he met. Dargon, he realized, was so large that even a lifelong
resident would know less than three in ten people that he passed. Cael
supposed that he would eventually get to know many of the people on his
patrol, but a glance at Liat, whose gaze was fixed straight ahead, made
him wonder.
Reminded of the size of Dargon, Cael marveled at the buildings,
some two or even three stories. Before arriving in the city, Cael had
only seen one building over one story: the aptly named Heahun Inn in his
home village. Here they were packed so tightly that there was no room
between them, or at most a narrow alleyway.
Liat paused as they came to an intersection with another major
street. "This is the Main Street. Look there." He pointed to a sign with
large black boot painted on it. "You'll know it by the cobbler's sign,
there."
Cael nodded, but noticed a pole nearby with two hand-lettered signs
hanging from it. The signs, which hung at right angles to each other,
said, "Murson" and "Main". "Couldn't I just figure it out by reading the
signs, Liat?"
"Oho! Know your letters, do you?" Liat scowled, making Cael wonder
how the older man could have contempt for his being both stupid and
smart. "Don't let Cepero know, unless you want to spend your days
crouched in a dark room with ink-stained fingers, writing reports
instead of out on patrol. This way." Liat crossed Main Street,
continuing up Murson.
Cael followed, thinking that Liat was more concerned about losing
his replacement than about Cael's potentially ink-stained fingers.
Before long they came to another large intersection, where Murson met
the Street of Travellers. Cael remembered the name from his arrival the
previous day, but did not recall this intersection. Liat turned left and
proceeded up the Street of Travellers without pausing to speak or point
out any landmarks.
The Street of Travellers was wider than Murson Street, about the
width of four wagons, and quite a bit busier. Cael suspected that was as
much due to the approach of daybreak as it was the greater number of
shops on the street.
Before long, they passed Nochtur Street. Then the bustle truly
started to increase; daybreak had come, and they had entered a business
district. Cael wondered if they would pass through the marketplace, the
one with the foreign-sounding name, that he had passed on his arrival.
Then he caught a glimpse of the ocean ahead and realized his error: the
marketplace was at his back, the opposite direction on the Street of
Travellers.
Cael enjoyed the sharp tang of the salt air as they approached the
docks, even though it was mixed with the scents of tar and unwashed
bodies. He did not, however, enjoy the cold ocean breeze that was
blowing those smells toward him. The sun had barely crested the horizon
and the pace of Liat's patrol was doing little to ward off the chill air
of the Seber morning. Cael hoped that the guard's uniform included a
heavier cloak in winter. Then he began to wonder how much that cloak
would cost him.
"Pardon me, sir," a raspy-voiced man said to his left. Cael turned
to see a man festooned with baggage of all shapes and colors. Before
Cael could reply, the man continued, "Where might I find the home of
Aarvard Factotum?"
Cael, stunned by both the unusual name and by his inability to
help, could only stammer. Liat barked out some directions to the man
without even breaking stride.
Cael watched for a moment as the man continued up the Street of
Travellers lugging his burdens, and guessed from the man's rolling gait
that he must be a sailor. Amused that the only person, apart from Liat,
who had spoken to him on his patrol had also been a stranger to Dargon,
Cael chuckled and then ran to catch up with Liat. As he did, he recalled
that Liat's directions had included crossing the causeway.
"Liat," he said as he came abreast of his companion, "didn't the
causeway collapse into the river?"
Liat snorted. "He'll figure that out when he gets there. Still,
better directions than you would have given him, straight?" Liat laughed
then, a series of short barks, but stopped and scowled when Cael did not
join in. "Well, we can't be stopping to give directions to every stray
deck hand that comes ashore, and the sooner they learn it, the better.
Now come on. We have a lot of ground to cover."
Caught short by both the meanness of Liat's joke and the odd logic
that giving bad directions to one stranger would keep others from
asking, Cael said nothing and fell into step beside Liat. Soon the
Street of Travellers ended at Commercial Street, which was really just a
broad expanse between the docks and the various warehouses, shops, and
offices that lined the waterfront. As Cael followed Liat up Commercial
Street, he began to enjoy the warmth from the rising sun on the left
side of his face. It was difficult for him to take in the sights because
even though Commercial Street was no busier than the street they had
just quit, unlike on the Street of Travellers traffic seemed to come
from every direction. Cael had to focus his attention on dodging people,
carts, and vendors' stalls as he kept up with Liat.
The chaos receded as the docks ended. Commercial Street sloped
gently upward from there before ending itself in an intersection with
another street and a dirt path. Cael saw a signpost indicating Traders
Avenue to their right, and Sailors' Shrine to the left, where the path
led toward a rocky outcropping that overlooked the docks. Liat turned
right and Cael followed, making a mental note to visit the shrine at
some point so that he could enjoy the view of the city.
As they continued up Traders Avenue, Cael noticed that the
buildings on his left, a mix of shops and houses, had begun to get
smaller, and the spaces between them larger. Between the buildings he
was able to see a very large hill with two peaks, or perhaps one hill
with a larger one behind it. He began to wish that the hill wasn't
there, as the sun was now warming his back and he thought that the path
of their patrol might put the sun behind it.
He was still looking at that hill, which was looming larger and
larger, when he almost ran into Liat as the older man stopped short.
Liat turned and glared at him and Cael quickly stepped back.
"This," said the older man, indicating the collection of buildings
around them, which Cael quickly saw were arranged around a small green
with a great old oak tree standing in it, "is Foxmarten Square. You'll
no doubt be able to tell that by the sign." He flicked his hand
disdainfully at a battered old board that hung from a post. "Traders
Avenue keeps going through here, but we don't. That's Garay's patrol.
He'll be through here later, after meeting with Cepero at a decent bell,
and somehow he'll manage to make it back to the Old Guard House 'fore we
do.
"That, there," he indicated a dirt track that led off to the left,
toward the large hill, "is Ebbit's Road. We go that way."
"And is that Ebbit's Hill that it leads to, then?" asked Cael,
hoping that it wasn't.
Another snort. "Nope. Road's named for a farm. Ebbit's the farmer,
or was 'til those Bennies came through a few years back."
"Bennies?"
"Beinis--" Liat started pronouncing each syllable carefully, as he
had done with "guarding" earlier, but seemed to become stuck.
"Beinisonians?" Cael offered.
This earned him a glare. "Straight. Those bastards from the south.
Came up here and tried to take over, but we drove them off. They killed
Ebbit and his whole family. Lot of other people, too. Not much of a
farm, anymore. Ebbit barely made a living
off it, and no one else has
tried. There's better land to the east, I'm told. Less rocky."
Before Cael could ask where the road did go, he felt a hand on his
shoulder. He turned and found himself looking into the wrinkled face of
an old man. The old man's eyes stared wildly, and the skin around them
was so weathered and wrinkled that it made Liat's face seem that of a
young man. The corners of the old man's mouth were turned down and his
lower jaw trembled.
"What is it?" Cael asked. "What's wrong?" Behind him, he heard Liat
bark a short laugh.
The old man moaned. The wave of stench that emerged from his mouth
made Cael recoil, as did the sight of the old man's teeth, those few
that hadn't rotted away completely. "Can't," the old man said
plaintively. He shook his head and looked at the ground. "Can't lie.
Truth teller can't lie." He looked up and met Cael's eyes again.
"Can't," he added.
"No, they can't," Liat said, and plucked the old man's hand from
Cael's shoulder. Cael noticed that most of the man's thumb was missing.
"Truth tellers can't lie. And guards patrol. Now move along." Liat
pushed the old man away, gently, and he began to shuffle away.
"That's just Otar," said Liat, before Cael could ask. "He doesn't
say much else. Sometimes his name. Sometimes a little bit of a story
that don't make much sense. Whatever happened, he seems to think it's
his fault."
At that, Otar turned back to look over his shoulder at the two
guards. "My fault, for certain," he said and nodded slowly, before
resuming his slow shuffle.
Cael watched the old man depart, wondering why he was reminded of
his mother. There was nothing about Otar that was like his mother. Her
teeth had been strong and beautiful, her breath sweet, her mind clear,
and her gait strong. Her voice had been melodious, where Otar's was
rough and cracked. She had been, in fact, quite the opposite of Otar.
So, why did Otar remind him of her?
"Who is he? Where did he come from?" It was suddenly important to
know more about this strange old man.
"I told you, he don't say much else." Liat resumed walking. "Locals
take care of him, keep him fed. He does a little odd work in exchange,
as best he can, I suppose."
"Straight, I saw his thumb --"
"Thumbs." Liat emphasized the "s".
Cael considered that for a moment, before he realized the
implication.
"Someone used thumbscrews on him, didn't they?" Cael had heard of
that particular torture device, but never seen it used.
Liat stopped and looked him up and down again, only without his
customary sneer. "Straight, that's what I figured. Took a long time for
him to talk, too, if he ever did."
Cael took one more look at Otar. Whatever had happened to the man
had been horrible, but it could have nothing to do with Cael's mother.
She had been slain years ago, when a band of marauders had attacked
Heahun. She had been one of the group who drove the killers off, but had
died in the battle. Her example was one reason that Cael had decided to
come to Dargon and learn to be a guard.
"Don't worry about that old man, Cael. Let's get some breakfast
before we head up Ebbit's Road."
The mention of food drove all further thought of Otar from Cael's
mind. Liat led him to a vendor's cart on the square, where they enjoyed
a quick meal of fish leftwiches. The two guards quickly finished their
meal, washed it down with a dipperful of water, and crossed the green on
their way toward the dirt track known as Ebbit's Road. Houses lined the
road on both sides, but the spaces between them grew larger the further
they were from the square. Where the houses ended, a larger building
stood: an inn perhaps. Beyond the inn, Cael could see that the road did,
in fact, wind its way up the massive hill. To take his mind off the
impending climb, Cael decided to ask Liat another question.
"So what is a foxmarten?" he asked.
"It's a long story."
"You said it was a long walk."
Liat snorted again, but this time it was accompanied by half of a
grin. "Straight. Well, you've seen a fox, of course."
"Yes, we had plenty in the woods near Heahun."
"Do you know what a marten is? Like a big tree rat, only they eat
tree rats."
Cael nodded. He'd heard of martens before, but never seen one.
"Straight. Well most martens are brown like tree-rats, too. As the
story goes, there was a marten that was red, like a fox. They say it
lived in that old oak, in the square. The farmer who worked the fields
here -- years ago, before Dargon was as big as it is now -- they say he
saw the foxmarten in the oak, so he didn't cut it down. He thought it
was a good omen. In return for sparing his home, the foxmarten protected
the farmer and his family. When more people settled up here, they spared
the oak too. I figure it was either to gain the foxmarten's protection,
or maybe just to avoid being cursed."
The two men walked in silence for a full mene. Cael saw that the
space between the houses had barely grown in the time that Liat had
spoken. "I thought you said it was a long story."
Liat shrugged. "Try askin' someone who lives in the square about it
sometime. That is, if you have a few bells to spare. Me, I got no time
for it, or them."
Cael had no response. He continued to walk beside Liat, glancing at
the houses they passed, and keeping an eye on the road. It was deeply
rutted by wagon wheels, which made the footing treacherous. His
companion gazed steadily ahead, looking neither right nor left. The two
men walked like this for some time, as the houses to each side became
sparser. These homes were older and a bit smaller than those that had
lined the square. Occasionally, they passed someone at work in a garden
plot, or hanging laundry on a line. Cael ventured a friendly wave a few
times, but received only a nod or a sideways glance in return.
As the houses came to an end, Cael could tell that the larger
building was, in fact, an inn. It was small for an inn, though, only one
story. Cael supposed that it contained only a half-dozen or so rooms for
guests. There was no stable for horses, only a roofed area with a trough
and a bale of hay. Only one horse was evident, tied to a rail and within
reach of both food and drink. A sign above the inn's door gave the name
"The Piping Pig". Above the letters was a surprisingly well-drawn pig,
prancing on its hind legs and playing a recorder. A few musical notes
drifted about the pig's head. Cael thought it was an unusual place for
an inn: on a road that went to nowhere. Most visitors to Dargon would
have no cause to venture out on Ebbit's Road. Perhaps the owner liked
it quiet, though.
"Feet hurt yet?" asked Liat, ending Cael's speculation about the
inn.
"They're fine," replied Cael, but they weren't. His feet had been
getting warm for a while, particularly in one spot on his left heel. He
was certain that it was an indication of an impending blister. Still, he
would rather endure a little foot pain than more condescension from his
companion.
"Good, 'cause now's when you'll really get to break those shiny new
boots in."
Liat spoke the truth. The road ahead of them climbed steeply at
first, and then cut left and right in what looked like a series of
switchbacks. Trees obscured the path after the first turn, but Cael
thought he could trace a faint line zigzagging up the hill further
ahead. The two men began to climb, and what little conversation that had
passed between them came to an end as they saved their breath for the
climb. As they approached the end of the straight path, Cael could not
decide which burned more: his lungs or his feet. He was certain that
both of his heels had begun to blister, along with the big toe on one
foot and the smallest toe on the other.
The switchbacks, though less steep, were even more demoralizing: a
seemingly endless walk for very little progress. Not knowing how many
turns there were ahead made it even more difficult. Cael would not have
asked Liat, though, even if he'd had the breath to do so. Instead he
tried to keep track of the turns, so that he would know how far it was
the next day.
As they climbed, Cael found his thoughts drifting back to Otar.
What had happened to the old man that drove him mad? Was it the torture?
And why did the old man make Cael think of his mother? Not just his
mother, he realized. It was her voice that Otar brought to mind.
Something about the old man made him think of his mother's singing. Why?
Cael had loved his mother's singing. His favorite songs had been
happy, silly songs, like one about a rat and a toad sailing on the ocean
in a hollow log. Her voice had been prettiest, though, when she sang sad
songs. Cael had never understood why his mother had loved sad songs as
much as she did. Wasn't there enough hardship in their lives, without
telling stories about lovers who have their hearts broken, or people who
die when there's no need? The worst was that sometimes they started out
like a grand adventure, but in the end ...
Cael stopped in his tracks, just before the next turn.
Liat made the next switchback before he noticed, but then he
glanced down at Cael. "What is it, boy? Tired already?"
"N-no, I'm okay." Cael hurried to catch up.
He was far from okay, though. He had remembered a song, or part of
a song, that his mother used to sing. It was, in his mind, the worst of
the sad songs, because it told about a group of people with a marvelous
power who had been persecuted simply for trying to share the benefits of
their ability. He became so lost in thought about the song that he lost
track of the number of switchbacks. He didn't realize that they had
ended until Liat brought him to a halt in a small, almost level clearing
that was little more than a wide spot in the trail. The older man, chest
still heaving, pointed toward a smooth stone large enough for both men
to sit on.
Cael sat, regaining his breath. As the blood stopped pounding in
his ears, he realized that he heard a trickle of water. Liat, meanwhile,
was reaching into a hollow in a tree. He pulled out a carved wooden mug
and peered inside it. He turned the mug upside down and knocked it
against the side of the tree and peered inside again. With a satisfied
smile, he moved over beside the smooth stone, and brushed some branches
aside. The source of the trickling sound was revealed: a small spring.
Liat dipped the mug inside, drank deeply and passed it to Cael, with a
single word between gulped breaths. "Cold!"
Cael took the mug and drank. Despite Liat's warning, the coldness
of the water took him by surprise. It chilled his teeth to their roots
even as it refreshed him. He drank as long as he could, until he too was
gulping for air, and passed the mug back to Liat.
The older guard had regained his breath. "Not too much, you'll
cramp up. I carved this myself, after getting tired of my fingers
getting numb as I tried to get a drink here. I'll leave it for you. My
gift, for not having to make this cursed climb anymore."
Cael nodded. "Thanks. How much further?"
"Not much, but it's steep. And there's another good spot to rest at
the top. Then the long climb down the other way."
"Why is this road here?"
Liat shrugged. "Might as well ask Ol," he replied. "The better
question is why do I -- no, make that you -- why do you have to patrol
it? We're Town Guards. We should be patrolling the town. Let them that
live outside the town look out for themselves."
Cael didn't know how to respond to Liat's indifference about those
he was supposed to watch over. He was not quite ready for the final
ascent, though, so he decided to continue the conversation with another
topic.
"I've been thinking about Otar, and I remembered something. Have
you ever heard of a song called the Truthteller's Lament?"
Liat took another sip of water, and then passed the mug back to
Cael. "Truth *Hearer's* Lament, I think you mean, straight?"
"No, I think it's --"
Liat continued as if Cael hadn't spoken. "I've heard it from three
different bards and at least twice as many other singers. You can't
think Otar's one of them. It's just a song, made up by some bard to
entertain you, maybe get you to buy him a meal. You might as well say
that Otar's a sea hag." The older man snorted at his own joke.
Cael felt his face redden. "It's not the same thing. In the song
I'm thinking of, there were people who could tell whether someone was
lying or not."
"And the first one to reveal herself went to work for the Duke of
Northfield, straight? I know the song. He became known as the wisest and
most just ruler in Baranur, and soon every noble in the country wanted
one, and truth hearers started to reveal themselves and go to work for
the nobility and the common courts. Only then they realized why they
used to keep themselves hidden in the first place. Dishonest men hated
them, straight, but it turned out that every man is a little dishonest,
not the least of which were the nobles. Ha! At least that part of it's
true."
Cael gaped, awed by Liat's ability to reduce a story that would
take Cael's mother almost a bell to sing into a few short sentences, and
to make the story sound ridiculous at the same time. "Yes, that's the
one. And they all went into hiding afterwards. So perhaps Otar is --"
Liat stuck out a finger, interrupting Cael again. "First, old as he
is, Otar isn't half old enough to have been one of the truth hearers in
that song. Second," he extended another finger, "he says he's a truth
teller, not a truth hearer. And third," another finger, "he can't be
one, because they don't exist! Now, let's stop talking about that old
fool and get climbing, or we'll be late getting back."
Scowling, the older man shoved his wooden mug back into the tree he
had taken it from, and stalked out of the clearing and up the trail.
Cael rose quickly to his feet and followed. The final part of the ascent
was every bit as steep as the beginning of the trail had been. Cael was
quickly out of breath again, but that did not stop his mind from
churning.
Was the Truth Hearer's Lament nothing more than a song for
entertainment, or was it true? He remembered asking his mother if her
songs were true or not. She had always replied, "For certain." He
recalled asking her why she never said "straight" like everyone else in
Heahun and in Dargon, but she had never answered him. Had she been
wrong? According to Liat, she hadn't even known the correct name of the
song.
Cael didn't like the idea that his mother had been wrong, but he
knew that it was possible. It was not like when he had been a child and,
like all children, thought his parents were perfect. That brought back
another memory, one of running home crying when another boy had taunted
him, saying that Cael's mother wasn't from the village. His mother had
chided him, even while wiping his tears. Of course she had grown up
somewhere else. Why had he thought that was a bad thing? He'd been
unable to answer, but the other boy had certainly thought that it made
her, and Cael by extension, somehow inferior.
Cael smiled at his own foolishness. What did it matter if his
mother had been wrong about the song, or thought it had a different
title? She had believed it, and that was for certain. It had just been
chance that Otar had used the same word, truthteller, to describe
himself. He wondered what had happened to the old man to drive him mad.
Was it the torture from the thumbscrews? Or was it the guilt from
whatever Otar blamed himself for? "My fault," the old man had said.
Cael stopped in his tracks again, chest heaving from the climb. No,
the old man had said, "My fault, for certain." Cael resumed climbing
with renewed energy. Was Otar's choice of words there a coincidence as
well? It seemed unlikely. What was it then? What was the connection? Was
Otar from the same distant place as Cael's mother, someplace where they
said "for certain" instead of "straight"? Did they also say
"truthteller" instead of "truth hearer"?
Did that make Otar a truth hearer -- no, *truthteller*? Could it be
that, aside from knowing when others were lying, truthtellers were
incapable of lying, themselves? That would explain much of what happened
in the lament. Of course the nobles would want someone who was capable
of telling them when someone was lying, but when it came to their own
lies, they would have wanted their truthteller to swear to the veracity
of their words.
But Liat had said that Otar was too young to have been one of the
people from the song, and that was true. Perhaps he was one of their
descendants. In the song, the truthtellers had kept the source of their
ability a secret, but it had to come from somewhere. Was it obtained
through inheritance? Apprenticeship? Cael decided that it did not
matter. If Otar was a truthteller, and they truly could not lie, Cael
thought he understood the source of the old man's madness. He must have
revealed something under the thumbscrews, perhaps something that led to
the death of another. He had maintained silence for so long that it had
cost him both of his thumbs. When he had finally been compelled to
speak, he had been unable to say anything but the truth.
Cael felt great pity for the man, but also a great sense of loss.
He imagined how much good could be done by someone who could always tell
when others were lying. What a great boon such a man would be to the
Dargon Town Guard, even to the duke himself! Cael imagined the
recognition he would receive for discovering Otar, who had been hiding
in plain sight for years. But what use was a truthteller who was a
lunatic? None, Cael supposed, unless he could be cured. Cael resolved to
find a healer once his shift was over to see if anything could be done
to cure Otar's madness. He knew that he would need a healer for his
feet, anyway.
"Here we are," said Liat. Cael realized that they had reached the
top of the hill. The climb had taken more than a bell. He leaned against
a mound of large rocks that was overgrown with vines, once again gulping
breath. Liat walked past him and pushed aside a branch, and Cael found
himself blinking in bright sunlight. He looked out, and down, onto the
town of Dargon. He could see the rooftops, and could make out some of
the major thoroughfares, including the Street of Travellers and Murson
Street. He did not know the names of some of the others. In the
distance, he could see the ruined causeway that spanned the Coldwell
River. Across the river, he could see the triple towers of Dargon Keep,
standing over the Old City.
Cael realized that the hill he had just climbed must be almost as
prominent a feature to the Dargon locals as the keep. "Liat," he asked,
"does this hill have a name?"
"Straight. It's called Stone Man's Hill."
Cael thought that was an odd name. "Who or what is it named for?"
Another snort. "You're leaning on him."
Cael started and leaped up, wondering if he was on someone's grave.
"They call that pile of rocks there the Stone Man, and say he's
supposed to watch over the town. Me, I never saw anything but a big pile
of rocks. Ha! I wonder if old Stony here protects the square, too, or if
he leaves that to the foxmarten. Don't see why they need to invent all
these magical protectors, anyway."
Cael thought that it might stem from the indifference of their
human guardians, but he said nothing. He stepped back and looked at the
pile of stones. As Liat had said, it seemed no more than a jumbled pile
of rocks, but ... Was that rock perhaps a shoulder and an arm? He
circled around, so that he was between the Stone Man and the city,
slightly off the trail. Atop the "shoulder", half obscured by vines, was
a rough-edged piece of granite. Cael could make out of a ridge of stone
that might be a brow, and below it, an embedded piece of quartz that
could be an eye. Cael stepped back further, peering beneath the leaves
and branches, and suddenly there he was: the Stone Man. The massive
figure was broad and squat, facing the city below in a crouch as if
ready to leap to its defense. From the vines and roots that bound him
into place, Cael could tell that it had been a long time indeed since
the Stone Man had leapt to do anything. Dargon would have to rely on its
human protectors, it seemed.
"See anything?" Liat asked.
Cael said nothing. He suspected that Liat's lack of imagination
would prevent him from seeing the Stone Man. The older guard would no
doubt mock Dargon's ancient guardian if he did see it, or mock Cael if
he did not. Silence, Cael decided, was his best alternative. Instead, he
followed Liat down the other side of Stone Man's Hill.
The descent was easier than the climb, but caused Cael's new boots
to rub his already blistered feet in an entirely different way. The
blisters were torn open and bleeding before they were halfway down the
hill. That evening, following an afternoon watch that thankfully
involved very little walking, Cael did find a healer to tend to his
feet. He made no mention of Otar, though. Of all the people in Dargon,
the old man needed his protection more than most.
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