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DargonZine Volume 20 Issue 04
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 20
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 4
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DargonZine Distributed: 11/05/07
Volume 20, Number 4 Circulation: 638
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Contents
Editorial Liam Donahue
A Father's Gift Liam Donahue Yuli 23, 1019
The Great Houses War 8 Nicholas Wansbutter Naia 902 -
Janis 904
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted
to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 20-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright October, 2007 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue <bdonahue@fuse.net>.
DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-
NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute
unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions
of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Liam Donahue
<Liam_the_red@dargonzine.org>
Another year is drawing to a close for us here at Dargonzine. It
wasn't our best year in terms of production, with only four published
issues to show for it (though we may try to get another one out in
December). It was a big year of change for us, with both a turnover of
leadership and a lot of reflection on what we were about. This brought
us to some realizations and ultimately to a fairly major change.
Ornoth has posted enough about our history in these editorials that
I won't go into a lot of detail (but if you want the detail, go to A
Brief History of Dargon on the About DargonZine page). The zine has been
around for 25 years, having started as FSFNet: a magazine that included
articles and reviews alongside works of fantasy and science fiction. The
Dargon Project, a group of writers creating stories in Dargon's shared
world, began a year later. For two more years, Dargon stories shared
space with non-Dargon stories. Then FSFnet became Dargonzine, and only
published stories from the shared world.
Along the way, something interesting happened. A peer review
process developed. It was, I think, necessary in a shared world to
preview each other's stories before publication to avoid conflicts
(which didn't always work, I'm told), but it became more than that, as
the writers began to help improve one another's writing. That is
something that stayed with the project, and became part of our vision:
"Aspiring writers helping to improve one another's writing, and having
fun doing it." This went on for a long time. Writers joined the group,
wrote Dargon stories, reviewed each other's writing, and had fun doing
it. Some stayed for a short time, and some for a long time.
Over the past several years, though, we've developed a problem. The
number of active writers is shrinking. We've always had writers leave,
but there have also always been new writers to replace them. So, what
happened to our new writers? Were they not joining? No, we had plenty of
people sign up and join the group. The problem was that they weren't
being published. In fact, since I joined in 2002, only two new writers
have actually been published. I'm one of them. The other one just left
the group. And very few of those who did join even submitted a draft
story for review.
So, what's going on? It took a long time for us to realize it. The
Dargon Project actually has two goals: to write in the shared world of
Dargon, for our own enjoyment, and to help aspiring writers. For a long
time, those goals worked hand-in-hand. Two things changed over time, too
slowly for anyone to notice. The first is that the shared world, which
was originally almost a blank slate, has developed a vast and
complicated history. While (we think) that is a part of its appeal, it
is a daunting task for a new writer to go learn that history, or at
least enough of it to write a story. This challenge was compounded by
the second change that occurred: the quality of the writing improved.
While that may sound obvious, given that we were *trying* to improve our
writing, or even arrogant, it's certainly true. Read some of the early
issues, and you will almost certainly see what I mean.
We finally recognized that our new writers were faced with a double
hurdle: the shared world and the writing quality. What were we to do?
Lose the shared world and become just another generic fantasy zine?
Certainly an option, but not one that sat well with most of us. Lower
our standards for writing quality in the zine? Kind of hard to credibly
say that we want to improve each other's writing if the quality of the
zine goes down. We decided another solution was required.
Dargonzine, as the publication vehicle for stories set in our
shared world, will continue, with no reduction in our standards. But to
both help new writers become acclimated, and to be able to offer help to
aspiring writers who may not want to write Dargon stories, we have
created the Dargon Project Writers' Workshop, or DPWW for short. What is
the DPWW? That will be answered in detail in a large FAQ that I am going
to finish up over the next week or so. In brief, though, it is a
(non-published) forum for aspiring writers to join and submit their work
for peer review. This will be done without the constraint of the shared
world (even non-fantasy fiction is welcome) and without an eye toward
getting the story printed in the zine, so the feedback should be more
geared toward the needs of each writer. There will be no charge to join,
only the expectation that members will be open to feedback and willing
to review each other's work. It's our hope that some of the writers from
the Workshop will come write for DargonZine, but that is not required.
For more info, go to www.dargonzine.org/dpww/. There is a (very)
abbreviated FAQ there at the moment, along with some other features.
Okay, enough about the DPWW for now. This issue brings you two
stories. The first is an offering of mine called "A Father's Gift",
which I hope you enjoy. The second is the penultimate chapter of Nick
Wansbutter's Great Houses War.
Enjoy.
========================================================================
A Father's Gift
By Liam Donahue
<Liam_the_Red@dargonzine.org>
Yuli 23, 1019
As the young man entered the Rogue and Quiver, bright Yuli sunlight
streamed in. The common room was mostly empty, not surprising since it
was still three bells until nightfall. A few early drinkers, sailors by
their salt-stained garb, eyed him like wolves regarding a fat hen. Even
in his traveling clothes, he was too well dressed for this place. There
was nothing he could do about that, though. His other clothes, tucked
away in his saddlebags, were finer than those he wore. And he could not
leave the tavern; he had business here.
He was looking for a man -- no, not just a man: a wizard, although
he had no idea why a wizard that was powerful enough to help him would
be in such a disreputable place. He scanned the room, until he found a
likely candidate. Toward the back, away from the other patrons and in a
corner that the afternoon sun didn't reach, sat an old man. He was
hunched over the table, studying something intently.
"Probably some ancient tome," thought the young man. Hope rose in
him that he had found his wizard. As the young man approached the table,
though, his hope began to dwindle again. The old man was hardly the
picture of a wizard from the tales he had read in his father's library.
Instead of rich robes, he wore a simple tunic and breeches. His hair,
not silver or lustrous black, was merely brown, touched with gray. It
was no tome that held the focus of the man's attention, only a King's
Key board.
Crestfallen, the young man stopped short of the table, wondering
what to do. He had been told that the man who could help him would be in
this tavern, just past the seventh bell of day. Could he be this shabby
old man? Or one of the sailors? Or had the information been wrong?
As he stood watching, a strange thing happened. Something furry
emerged from the shadows on the opposite side of the table and moved one
of the pieces on the King's Key board. The young man blinked, wondering
what he had just seen. The afternoon was too warm for someone to be
wearing fur gloves, and he could only see one set of feet beneath the
table. Had the old man conjured some strange hairy creature as an
opponent? Confident once again that he had found his wizard, he
approached the table.
"I --" he began, and then the words stuck in is throat. Both the
old man and his opponent were looking up at him. The "opponent" was a
longhaired cat, with silver-shaded white fur, and a short snout that
gave its face the appearance of being pushed in. The cat blinked its
golden eyes once and moved to the corner of the table closest to the
young man, who realized his mistake immediately. The cat had not been
playing King's Key, but only batting at one of the pieces.
"Yes? Do you need something, boy?"
The youth turned his gaze from the cat back to the old man. He was
certain that a wizard would have known his business, or at least his
name. That was the way it had always happened in his father's books.
Still, there was no harm in asking.
"I am Ashe Leavenfell," he said. When the old man failed to react,
he continued. "I am the rightful heir of the Leavenfell Barony. My place
was stolen from me through the use of magic, and I hope to use magic to
regain it. I am seeking a wizard named Tasrein. Are you he?"
The old man turned away, but not before Ashe saw his eyes widen
slightly. "I know of no one named Tasrein. My name is Greymoor."
The cat chose that moment to nudge Ashe's hand. He absently began
to pet the creature while he considered what to say next. Clearly, the
old man was lying, but he did not think it wise to call a wizard a liar
directly. He decided instead to appeal to the man's sense of honor.
"Please, my lord, I've nowhere else to turn. I spoke to a gypsy
woman named Madame Zeefra, and she told me to seek the help of a wizard
named Tasrein, and that he would be here at this day and time."
The old man looked back up at Ashe. "Did she, now? Well, Sefera
always did have a sense of humor. Did she charge you much? Don't answer
that. You might as well sit down, since it looks like you aren't going
to go away until we talk this through."
Ashe pulled out the chair opposite the old man and sat down. "So,
you are the wizard Tasrein?"
The old man grumbled. "I go by Greymoor now. And I'm retired. I
don't do magic any more, particularly not if politics are involved. It
seems that someone always thinks he's been cheated out of a barony or a
kingdom. I've found that it's best to stay out of such disputes."
"But sir," Ashe said, "I think when you hear my tale you will see
that I am in the right and feel compelled to help me."
Greymoor barked a short laugh. "Boy, what did 'Madame Zeefra'
actually say to you? That I can help you, or that I will? It's not like
her to lie, but she can twist words with the best."
Ashe felt cold in the pit of his stomach. Had the fortune teller
tricked him, and led him to someone who was able to help him but
unwilling? As he struggled to remember the gypsy's words, the cat nudged
his hand again and he began to stroke its fur, which was quite soft. The
cat began to purr loudly. Ashe felt his tension ease, and he thought
back to his meeting with the fortune teller. He remembered her words
clearly.
"She said ... she said that 'Tasrein will solve your problem'."
When Greymoor just glared at him, he decided to try to get on the
wizard's good side and added, "Your cat is beautiful, lord wizard. What
is her name?"
Greymoor's scowl only deepened. "*His* name is Bastien, and believe
me, he knows how pretty he is. Don't feel too honored by his affection,
boy. He'll rub up against anyone who will pet him.
"So, Sefera said that I will help you, eh? Not like her to lie." He
put his finger to his lips in thought for a moment. "Perhaps you should
tell me your story. But you're buying the beer." He motioned for the
barkeep, who brought over two mugs. Ashe paid him and took a sip of his
beer. It was bitter and watery. Greymoor drank as well and then set his
mug down and looked at Ashe expectantly.
"As I said," Ashe began, "I am the heir to the Barony of
Leavenfell. My half-brother, Roderick, stole the barony from me through
magical means --"
"Half-brother?" interrupted the wizard. "Is he older or younger?"
"Older, by two years."
"Older? He's the son of your mother, then?"
"No, my father, but he --"
"So your mother was married to the baron, and Roderick was a
bastard?"
"No, sir, that's not it at all. You see --"
The old man interrupted him with a harrumphing noise. "It's quite
clear, boy. He is the eldest legitimate son of the late baron's
bloodline, and therefore heir to the barony. Perhaps the problem Sefera
referred to is that you don't realize you're an idiot. So, I'll tell
you: you're an idiot. There. Problem solved."
Ashe felt his cheeks reddening. "There's more to it than that,
sir."
Greymoor just glared at him expectantly.
"My father was married twice. His first wife was cousin to the
Baron of Shipbrook. She died giving birth to my half-brother. My father
never loved her, though. He loved my mother, who was a maid in the keep.
Father wed her not long after the baroness died."
Ashe took a swig of beer to ease the lump that was forming in his
throat before continuing. "My mother fell ill with the Red Plague during
the epidemic. My father tried to keep me away from her so I wouldn't
catch it, but ... well, he took the risk himself, too. I was in her room
the night she died, hiding in a closet. My father was with her. Her only
thoughts were for him and for me. She made him promise to make me his
heir. He swore to her that I would have the life that she wanted for me
-- those were his words -- and then he wrote two letters. One he gave to
my mother. The other was for Duke Clifton: the father of Clifton that
rules Dargon now.
"When my mother passed later that night, I took her letter. My
father never knew I had it." The hand that had been petting Bastien went
to Ashe's shirt pocket, where he felt the reassuring crinkle of
parchment. The cat glared at him angrily until Ashe resumed petting him.
"In the years that followed, my father taught me many things:
hunting, riding, swordsmanship, reading, and writing. I knew that he was
preparing me to be the baron, even though he didn't know that I knew. We
particularly loved to spend time in the library, reading heroic stories
and histories. His favorite was always the Knights' Charge at Balkura,
because it combined both."
Greymoor snorted. "Apocrypha. So few could never stand against so
many. Where was your brother during all of this?"
Ashe had been expecting this question. He smiled. "Father sent him
away shortly after my mother died. Roderick came here to Dargon to study
at the duke's court."
"Did he, now?" Greymoor motioned for him to continue.
"Father and I spent twelve happy years together. A month ago, he
fell ill. A fortnight later, he was dead. Malthus, his castellan, took
charge after his death and sent word to Dargon. I bided my time, waiting
for a messenger from the duke to confirm me as the baron. A messenger
came: no less than Lansing Bartol, the bard. I was not surprised that
Roderick was with him. After all, he was father's son as well. I was
surprised, though, when Bartol named Roderick the new baron of
Leavenfell. I asked about my father's letter to the previous duke, but
the bard knew nothing of it. So, I produced the letter that father had
given to my mother."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment.
"This letter. Only it was still sealed. I showed Bartol the seal before
I broke it -- he confirmed that it was father's -- but when I opened the
letter, it was --"
"Blank?" asked Greymoor.
Ashe felt a surge of joy. Finally someone would believe him. "Yes!
You know the spell, then? I knew then that Roderick had somehow
intercepted father's letter to Duke Clifton, and had paid someone to
magically erase my mother's letter. I did a foolish thing, then. I
attacked Roderick. Knocked him down and started punching and kicking
him. It took Bartol and two guards to restrain me.
"When it was all done, Roderick left me only my sword, my horse,
and whatever I could carry. He gave me a purse of coins and promised to
pay me three Crowns a month as long as I stayed away from the barony. My
barony!"
Greymoor nodded. "I begin to understand. Remarkable man, your
brother."
"Half-brother," Ashe spat. "And if he were not my blood ..."
Visions of horrible suffering inflicted upon Roderick went through his
mind. Then he considered Greymoor's words. "You said you understood.
Does that mean you will help?"
"I may be able to help you," the wizard said, "but first you need
to understand why I think that anyone who mixes magic and politics is a
fool."
"But Roderick used magic to take the barony from me. Surely it's
not wrong to use magic to set things right."
Greymoor shook his head. "It's not about right or wrong, Ashe. It's
about wisdom or folly. I'll have to tell you about the last time I got
involved in succession for you to understand."
Before I retired, I was reckoned a powerful magus. That is the
correct term, Ashe, not 'wizard' or 'mage'. Like many of my brethren, I
sought knowledge rather than wealth or power. Unlike most, though, I did
not spend my time only in musty books. I traveled and studied the
magical places in the world. Few who claim to have walked half of 'diar
have traveled as widely as I have.
There are many such places, hidden away from where men dwell. Why,
there is a place, not far from here, where time moves so quickly that an
oak will rise from an acorn, grow to a towering height, and then fall to
the ground and rot to nothing in the time that it takes the sun to rise
halfway to midday.
Several years ago, I was in a distant land, studying a place called
the Marshes of Madness. The locals called it the Grey Moors, in their
language, and they called me the Madman of the Grey Moors when they
spoke to me, which was rarely. It is said that if a man spends the night
in the Grey Moors, he will lose his mind. I spent many nights there,
with no effect, though some might argue that I was mad when I arrived.
As I said, the locals mostly left me alone. So, I was very
surprised when a half-dozen young men and women approached me. They were
dressed in fine clothes, finer than yours, in fact, but not made for
traveling. They certainly looked like they would be more comfortable at
court than in a swamp, but in a swamp they were, and looking for me.
Fool that I am, I decided to hear them out.
A tall young man with dark hair separated from the group. "My lord
magus," he said, "My name is Reynaldo. My companions and I, we seek your
help in undoing a great evil."
Of course, I was flattered, but I asked, "How do you know that I am
a magus? And even if I am, how do you know that I will help you?"
"We heard tales of the Madman of the Grey Moors, and how you come
and go from the swamps as you please. Only a magus who is truly mighty
could accomplish such a feat. And if you do not help us," he bowed his
head, "then we are lost, and our beloved land will fall into darkness."
He had my interest, right then, and he knew it. "What darkness
threatens your land?" I asked him.
"An evil magus, my lord, named Sirnon. He has taken our city as his
own. He transformed our prince into a horrible beast and locked him away
in the dungeons, where he practices unspeakable tortures. The noble
families he either executed or cast out. Now our fair city is a pit of
despair, and all the surrounding region suffers under his foul yoke."
I didn't know much about the local culture, but I did know that it
centered around large cities, each ruled by a prince. If one of those
cities had fallen into evil hands, I knew that the suffering would be
great. The idea of helping a band of brave heroes rescue their prince
and restore order appealed to me.
"Very well, Reynaldo," I said, "but I will need time to prepare.
And I will need you to find a way to take Sirnon by surprise."
"That is easily done, my lord magus. We all grew up at the palace,
and we know its secret ways. We would have confronted Sirnon already,
but we know that steel is useless against a magus."
Of course, that's not true. Anyone is vulnerable to a sword or a
knife, but I didn't tell them that. They seemed like such idealists that
I was worried they'd run off and attack Sirnon immediately. If they
didn't take him by surprise, he quite likely would have killed them.
Besides, I had my own plans for him.
I don't know if you've ever heard tales of duels between magi, but
they are ugly, unpleasant, and dangerous to the magi and those nearby.
It's even worse if the magi are dueling to the death. Even the victor of
such a conflict is often severely wounded in body, mind, or spirit. I
was concerned about the outcome if Sirnon and I met face to face. That
is why I needed to surprise him, and why I needed to prepare. I decided
to use my new allies to help me.
"Reynaldo?" I called.
"Yes, lord magus?"
I'd had about enough of that. "Look, we're going to be spending
quite a bit of time together, and I can't have all of you lord-magusing
me all the time. My name is Tasrein."
"Tasri -- Tasray --" Reynaldo was an eloquent speaker, but try as
he might, he just couldn't get my name right. None of them could. I
think the sounds just didn't go together that way in their language. We
needed something for them to call me. They'd been referring to me as the
"Madman of the Grey Moors" while they searched for me, but that wouldn't
do. I didn't much care for just "Madman", so we settled on "Greymoor". I
decided that I liked it, so I translated it into Baranurian when I came
back here to retire. "Greymoor" in their language sounds vulgar here.
I set my band of worthies to collecting what I needed, while I
started meditating to prepare my mind for the spell I was going to cast.
This served a double purpose. Preparing for a powerful spell always
gives me a headache, and the spell I was planning to use was quite
potent. I knew I had to keep them away from the camp during the day and
too tired to disturb me in the evenings. Noise always makes the
headaches worse.
I will give those young nobles credit, they worked hard for a
sennight collecting what I needed and weaving it together. Finally, they
were done. They were covered in dirt and scratched up from crawling
through thick undergrowth; some of them even had bite wounds. They were
far better off than I was. I had spent the sennight concentrating on a
single phrase, burning it into my brain and instilling it with power. My
head was throbbing in agony, and the pain increased whenever I moved. I
was ready.
We stole into the city after nightfall, and true to Reynaldo's
word, they knew a secret way into the palace. We found no guards within
the walls. There was a magical warding upon one door, but even in my
impaired state I was able to see it and defeat it. We found Sirnon
snoring peacefully in his bed. Reynaldo and another of the young nobles
fell upon him and wrapped him in the cloak they had woven for him. I had
actually been surprised that they found that much tree rat hair in a
sennight, but as I said, they were motivated.
I spoke my words of power, and Sirnon changed. I don't know if he
was even awake enough to know what was going on. One moment, he was a
man, the next he was a tree rat. Reynaldo scooped him up in his fist.
"What do you think of that, Sirnon?" he demanded. I was puzzled.
"He can't understand you, Reynaldo," I said. "He is a tree rat,
body and mind."
"But our prince could talk after he was transformed."
I shrugged. "Must be a different spell." Actually I was more than a
little surprised. True, I was on the other side of the continent from
Baranur, where the study of magic is very different. Still it was hard
to fathom why Sirnon would go through the extra effort to enable Bastien
to talk. I wondered if Sirnon had to endure a headache for a sennight
before casting his spell.
"Where's the fun in that?" Reynaldo demanded, sounding like a
petulant child. As if to reinforce that image in my mind, he cast the
tree rat aside in disgust. The terrified creature scampered out the
door.
"We've won!" exclaimed a young noble named Kayli, while she jumped
up and down and clapped.
Reynaldo turned his disgusted look on her. "Not quite yet. We have
to find the prince and have Greymoor transform him back before anyone
discovers what's happening."
At the mention of turning the prince back to himself, I groaned. I
was just getting over the headache of preparing my spell for Sirnon.
Undoing another magi's work always makes me nauseous.
"Fan out!" said Reynaldo to his companions. "Find the prince. He
must be in one of these rooms!"
As they scampered off to do his bidding, I turned to Reynaldo. "I
thought you said your prince was locked in the dungeon."
He looked away from me, embarrassed. "Well, er, the palace doesn't
have any dungeons, really. But I am sure he was enduring unspeakable
torture."
It was Kayli who found the prince. She returned bearing him on a
pillow. It turned out that the "horrible beast" he had been turned into
was a cat, of all things. And he didn't show any signs of "unspeakable
torture". In fact, his coat was quite sleek and he looked well-fed. She
set the pillow down before Reynaldo and me. Prince Bastien stared at us
for a moment before he stretched and --
"Prince Bastien?" Ashe interrupted. "Did you name this cat after
the prince, then?" The cat in question had his head cocked to one side,
obviously enjoying the feeling of Ashe rubbing his left ear.
"No," said Greymoor, shaking his head. "That cat is the prince."
Ashe blinked in disbelief. His hand stopped petting the cat, who
ceased purring and looked at him in annoyance. "This cat ... is the
prince? So, couldn't you change him back into a man?"
"He changed me back, alright," said a soft voice near Ashe's hand.
It took him a moment to realize the source.
"Cephas' boot!" he shouted as he leaped to his feet, his chair
clattering to the floor behind him. "You can --"
He cut himself short as he realized the spectacle he was making of
himself. The few customers in the Rogue and Quiver were staring at him
as he talked to a cat. Red-faced, he picked up his chair and sat back
down.
"He can talk?" he asked Greymoor in a loud whisper.
"Of course I can talk," said Bastien.
"I don't believe it," said Ashe, still looking at the magus, who
was wearing an amused grin. "It's a trick. You're using magic to make
this cat talk, just to make a fool of me. This story is all a lie for
your amusement."
Greymoor's smile faded. "Nothing of the sort, boy. I am telling
this story to make a point. If anything, the fact that my cat can talk
should make it more believable, not less."
"But you -- he -- said that you changed him back. So why is he
still a cat?"
"I'm not still a cat, Ashe," said Bastien. "I am a cat *again*. And
I would appreciate it if you would stop talking about me as if I'm not
sitting right here. It will all make sense when you hear the rest of the
story."
"Would you like to tell it?" Greymoor asked the cat.
"No, you go ahead," said Bastien, lying down and crossing one
forepaw over the other. "This next part is a little embarrassing. Oh,
and Ashe? There's a spot under my chin that needs scratching, if you
wouldn't mind."
Now that he knew the cat was really a prince, Ashe was hesitant to
touch Bastien, but both the magus and the cat were staring at him, so he
began to scratch beneath Bastien's chin. As the cat began to purr
happily, Greymoor continued his story.
I studied the spell that Sirnon had placed upon Bastien. It was
quite elegant, really. Much more complicated than my spell, yet undoing
it was pure simplicity. To put it in terms you can understand, it was
like untying a slipknot. I wondered why Sirnon had made the spell so
easy to break, but there was no way to find an answer while the magus
was a tree rat. Within menes the spell was removed, and Bastien was
restored.
"You are as handsome as I remembered, your majesty!" squealed
Kayli. She wrapped a robe from the closet around him, and then began to
caress him.
"Thank you, Kayli," the prince responded absently. He was still in
a daze from his transformation. He pressed against the young lady for a
moment, clearly enjoying the attention. Then Reynaldo cleared his
throat. Bastien blinked a few times and his blank expression melted
away. He focused his eyes on me. "And thank you, lord magus. You have
saved me, and my city, from a horrible fate. You shall be rewarded, of
course. For now, we must ..." the dazed look returned.
"Gather together the others, and alert the palace guards that you
have been restored, majesty?" Reynaldo ventured.
"Yes! By all means, gather the others and inform the guards," said
Bastien.
"You are most wise, your majesty," Reynaldo replied, with a bow. "I
shall see to that immediately. And then, perhaps, a celebration?"
"Oh, yes! A celebration!" Kayli gushed. She turned to me. "Oh,
Greymoor, we used to have the most wonderful celebrations after Bastien
became the prince. Until that horrible Sirnon came along, anyway."
"Certainly we shall have a celebration," said Bastien. "The people
need to know that their prince has been freed."
I've never been one for celebrations, though, so I made my excuses
and departed while Bastien and his friends were still restoring order. I
was eager to return to my work in the Marshes of Madness, and, although
my headache was gone, casting the spell on Sirnon had left me feeling
drained.
Reynaldo, astride a magnificent grey stallion, found me several
days later on the edge of the marsh. He had also been transformed by the
prince's restoration. His tattered finery had been replaced with elegant
silk. He was clean-shaven, and jewels sparkled from his fingers, belt,
and left ear. It was hard to believe he was the same man I had met in
the marshes a few sennights previously.
"Lord Greymoor," he said, "you left without receiving your payment.
Prince Bastien insisted that I find you and ensure that you are rewarded
properly." From his belt he produced a small pouch filled with coins,
which he tossed down to me. I argued with him, or at least I tried to.
He wouldn't hear of it, and rode off on his fine new horse without
saying another word.
I didn't need the money, but I wasn't fool enough to leave it. The
coins were gold. I added them to my own, and didn't think of it further
until a month later, when I went into a nearby town for supplies. The
coin I pulled out to pay for my goods was one of the gold ones I'd
received from Reynaldo. The shopkeeper's eyes went wide at the sight of
it.
"I can't give you change for that, my lord." A tone of respect, or
perhaps fear, crept into his voice. "Times are hard now. I'm sure there
isn't enough coin in the village to give you change for that."
I was surprised. "Surely things have gotten better since Prince
Bastien was restored."
He scowled at me then. "His lordship is making a joke, I suppose.
I'm sure it's funny, too, if you're a man walking around with gold in
your pocket."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, but I was afraid I already
knew.
He explained to me about the depredation that had been occurring
since Bastien had been returned to the throne: new tax levies, nobles
coming into villages demanding goods and services but paying nothing,
and celebrations at the palace while the surrounding country was
devastated.
I thanked him and paid him in silver. He had told me that the gold
coin was worthless to him. There was nowhere he could spend it, and he
would doubtless have been charged with a crime and the coin taken from
him if he tried.
I did confirm what he said with others before taking any action.
Everywhere the story was the same. Bastien and his nobles were stripping
the country bare. Sirnon's rule had been a blessing to the population.
He had thrown down the regime of a ruler who cared nothing for his
people, and only loved the praise and attention of his sycophants.
Bastien's return was actually worse for the population than when the
prince had ruled before. It seemed that his noble followers -- whom I'd
thought brave heroes, ha! -- now sought to strip the land of all its
wealth, presumably to prepare for Bastien's eventual dethroning, either
by an angry mob or one of his neighboring city-states.
My course was clear, but difficult. Have you ever tried to find a
tree rat? Not just *a* tree rat, either, but a particular one who thinks
you are an enemy? I searched for over a fortnight, using every spell I
could think of with no luck. Finally, he found me. Must have retained
just enough of his mind to know that I was his enemy. Bit my hand, and
would have done worse except that I managed to pop him in a bag. A right
fool I must have looked, too, trying to calm a wriggling sack. He
settled down eventually, and I was able to turn him back. I apologized
profusely and explained the situation. We spent the night planning, and
the following day in deep concentration, preparing.
So I found myself, once again, with a throbbing headache, stealing
into the palace through Reynaldo's secret door. The arrogant fools
hadn't even posted a guard. Apart from them, I was the only one who knew
where it was, and I had been paid and sent on my way. Most of the guards
actually joined our little coup once they saw Sirnon. A few, officers
mostly, fled when they figured out what was going on. I later learned
that they had been lining their pockets since Bastien had come back.
When we found Prince Bastien, he seemed relieved, almost
grateful--
"But how did he become a cat again?" Ashe asked.
"At his request," Greymoor replied.
"He asked you to do it?"
Bastien shrugged under Ashe's hand. "Some people are better suited
to rule than others. I made a better cat than I did a prince. Besides,
it was really my only way out of the city alive. There were -- are a lot
of angry people there who want to boil me alive. It was a gift, really.
I've enjoyed myself much more traveling with Greymoor than I ever did on
my throne."
Ashe shuddered, remembering tales of whole villages being boiled in
oil by the insurrectionists during the Great Houses War. "What of the
others?"
"I left them to Sirnon's justice," said Greymoor. "It was his city
again. Their fate is not the important part of the story."
"Straight. I can see why you might want to think before mixing
magic and politics."
"More than that. I simply won't do it. But what I really need you
to understand is that like Bastien, you've been given a gift --"
Ashe started at Greymoor's words. "What? You think that I'm unfit
to rule? My father --"
Greymoor raised his voice above Ashe's, drawing some stares from
the sailors in the bar. "Your father never intended you to rule!"
Ashe lowered his own voice again, hoping to avoid unwanted
attention, and suddenly aware that he was arguing with a powerful magus.
"But he told my mother that I would become baron, and he trained me."
Greymoor waved a dismissive hand. "Swordcraft and horsemanship.
Heroic stories. Where was the statecraft and strategy? Did you ever
attend him while he met with delegates from neighboring baronies, or
from the duke? Did he ever teach you how to dispense justice to the
peasants, or how to determine what taxes to levy?"
"No, but --"
"Why, he didn't even send you off to train as a page in another
noble's court!"
Ashe almost raised his voice again. He could feel his face
beginning to flush. "But what of his oath to my mother? He would never
have lied to her."
Greymoor pointed a finger at Ashe. "Ah, but what were his words?
'The life that she wanted for you', you said. She was a peasant girl
married to a backwoods baron. She knew nothing more of being a baron
than -- than you do! When she was with your father, he was engaged in
his pleasures: hunting, riding, and reading. That was the life that she
truly desired for you. He knew it, and gave it to you."
Ashe sat, mouth agape, unsure of what to say. He had lived almost
his whole life thinking that he would be Baron Leavenfell once his
father passed. Now this wizard, and his cat, were telling him that this
was not so. His first impulse was to lash out, as he had done with
Roderick. He restrained himself, though. Greymoor might not be as
forgiving as Roderick had been. Ashe wondered, not for the first time,
why Roderick had allowed him to leave, even paid him, rather than having
him imprisoned or executed. It didn't make sense after all the
difficulty he had gone through to steal the barony.
A new thought came to Ashe. Was the wizard perhaps an agent of
Roderick's? Perhaps the very same one who had magically erased his
father's letter? Roderick could have paid Madame Zeefra to send Ashe to
Greymoor, in order to have the wizard trick him into believing that his
father had lied to his mother. An image of his father came to mind, and
with it, some advice his father had given him on more than one occasion.
"Seek not for complicated answers when simple ones will do."
Ashe dwelled on these words for a moment, while Greymoor and
Bastien gazed at him in silence. His father had often called himself a
"simple country baron". His joys had come not from ruling his barony,
but from riding through the forests of Leavenfell, and spending time
with his wife and son. That would have been the life that Ashe's mother
saw, and the one that she wished for her son. His father had truly kept
his promise.
Finally, Ashe nodded slowly, realizing the truth of Greymoor's
words. His father had always sent him off to his studies whenever "some
boring twit from the capital" came to visit. He had learned nothing of
taxation or peasant justice. His father hadn't taught Ashe the slightest
thing about ruling a barony.
"What am I to do now?" Ashe asked the wizard.
It was Bastien who answered him. "Whatever you want to do, you
dolt! You have a horse and a sword, and an income! Travel! Or stay here
in Dargon. Find something that suits you, and do it. Greymoor's right.
You have been given an incredible gift."
Ashe smiled, stroking the cat's silvery white fur once more before
he rose from the table. "I suppose you're right. I *was* always a little
unsure of what father actually did as a baron. I'd just assumed that
what he was teaching me would prepare me for it. I've no real desire to
dispense justice and levy taxes, though. It will be strange living
outside of Leavenfell, but I've a whole city -- a whole world! -- to
explore and no obligations. Thank you, Greymoor."
Seeing the cat's irritated glare, he added, "And thank you,
Bastien."
========================================================================
The Great Houses War
Part 8: The Turning of the Tide
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<NWansbutterEsq@gmail.com>
12 Naia, 902 - 6 Janis, 904
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6
Part 7 of this story was printed in DargonZine 20-3
Queen Dara stood at the back of the Olean shrine in Dargon Keep,
near the entrance, while a priestess devoted to Ol and a few robed
acolytes conducted an unfamiliar ritual in the centre of the small room.
They were placing stalks of meilore on a stone slab and kissing each
other in ritualistic fashion. Observing the sensual performance, she was
mindful of many of the reasons she had converted to Stevenism after
meeting Caeron. On the other hand, she also recalled what the Stevene
had taught: "Judge not the pagan, for he might still have good in him."
It was with that teaching of tolerance in mind that she tried to show
the openness of Stevenism by attending the religious celebrations of all
her subjects when invited, not just the Stevenics.
Her beloved Caeron, now dead for the better part of four years, had
in part precipitated the civil war that ravaged Baranur -- called by
many the Great Houses War -- by allowing his half-brother, Cyrridain the
Master Priest of the Stevenic High Church in Magnus, to crown him.
However, few of his subjects outside Magnus were loyal to the Stevenic
creed, and many took that crowning as a move to subjugate their faiths.
Dara knew that her husband had never had any such intent and she had
agreed that allowing Cyrridain to crown him was the right thing to do.
God had clearly paved the way for Caeron's coronation despite the
pitfalls left by his grandfather, King Stefan II. Stefan had left the
crown to his favourite niece, Aendasia Blortnikson, because Caeron and
Dara were Stevenics. As well as being Duchess of Northfield, Aendasia
was also the Empress Mother of Beinison and so the people and many of
the dukes had sided with Caeron as the rightful successor.
Many had not, which was, in a roundabout way, why Dara and all
those in the shrine were standing. They had been under siege, trapped
inside Dargon Keep, the last castle under her command, for more than
half a year. Over the winter they had been forced to use a good portion
of the furniture in the keep for firewood. The long pine benches in the
shrine had been among the first to go. She remembered Duke Sumner Dargon
saying something about it being proper for Oleans to stand while they
worshipped anyway.
Her only child, the crown prince Brad, fidgeted next to her and
tugged at her elbow. He was nine years old now; Dara could hardly fathom
where the years had gone. At once it seemed like a lifetime ago and like
only a few sennights since Brad and been an infant and Caeron was still
alive. Dara still felt as if a cold, empty pit dwelt in her heart with
her husband gone from this world. She had worn mourning blue since the
day he died and would probably wear it the rest of her life. While most
people who had not yet reached thirty took joy from their youth, Dara
wished she had fewer lonely years ahead of her. Her son, on the other
hand, hardly remembered his father and, blessedly, bore far less pain
than she. Brad had been five when his father had been killed outside the
walls of Magnus, while he and his mother were being spirited to safety
by the brave Sir Zephrym Vladon. Even then, he hardly knew the man, as
Caeron had been fighting to keep his crown for the last two years before
he died.
Dara shushed her son and made it clear he could expect a lot more
than that if he continued. He was getting old enough, in her estimation,
that he could stand through this celebration without any complaint. He
was well into his training as a page by now, and was already an
accomplished rider and bowman. He was much like his father, strong,
brave, and energetic, but he also tended towards a bit of Caeron's
impatience. As far as Dara was concerned, standing through unfamiliar
religious ceremonies was part of his training towards one day being
king. Baranur was a diverse land of many creeds, and he couldn't afford
to be as single-mindedly Stevenic as Caeron and Dara had been, no matter
what Cyrridain might say.
The Olean ritual came to an end and the two dozen people began to
disperse. Most of them were soldiers or knights, but a few nobles of
higher rank had attended, among them Duke Sumner Dargon. He approached
Dara.
"Your majesty," he said, "I am glad you accepted my invitation. I
admit I hadn't expected to see you here."
"The Stevene's Light teaches us to tolerate all faiths," Dara said.
"Though his Light contain the fullness of truth, there is much verity in
others. Stevenics are still but a small portion of the kingdom, so I
must embrace this teaching as much as any other, lest I alienate my own
people as the Beinisonian Aendasia has."
Sumner nodded and Dara caught a glint in his eye and an upturning
of his mouth through his beard, the sort of look a proud father might
give his daughter. He did add to what Dara had said, though. "That is
true for the time being, your majesty, but I daresay if your Cyruz the
bard has his way, we will all be Stevenics soon!"
It was now Dara's turn to smile at the thought of the kindly
Stevenic priest, renowned for having met Cephas Stevene himself once, as
a boy. Cyruz had been a trusted advisor and friend of both Dara and
Caeron from the time they had met him, when they had first arrived in
Magnus after King Stefan's death. She couldn't think of him without a
touch of sadness as well, however, for she had heard nothing of him
since he and Baroness Fennell had been separated from Connall Dargon's
army following a skirmish with Baron Coranabo nearly a sennight ago.
Duke Dargon had turned his attention to Prince Brad. "And good day
to you, my prince."
"Good day, Duke Dargon," Brad responded respectfully, as Dara had
taught him. "Your Olean liturgy was interesting, but I will continue to
pray that you'll accept the Stevene's Light."
Sumner Dargon smiled and ruffled the prince's hair. "Mayhap, lad,
but not today."
Dara smiled. Despite her annoyance with Brad a little earlier, he
was a good son and would one day make a good king, she was sure.
"Today," she said, "the Lord Dargon must meet with me and the rest of my
council to plan our next move in the war. And you, I believe, have your
letters to practice with Brother Tomek."
"But mama, couldn't I go to your war council?" Brad asked. "I've
been doing well with my letters, and I also need to learn how to fight
wars."
"Let us pray that as king you shall never have to," Dara replied.
Her son was a smart one, all right, and he was probably correct. Dara
had known nothing of any martial matters when she had become ruler of
Baranur at Caeron's death. She had learned slowly and painfully over the
years, confiding often in Duke Dargon. As a dutiful teacher, he had
forced her to make her own decisions, after offering his advice. That
had been the most painful lesson of all, but in the end the most
important.
Her nobles had disagreed vehemently with her decision to ransom
Thanailde Castle in return for the faithful Sir Zephrym Vladon's release
from insurrectionist captivity. But since she had made it, they had
respected her more due to her show of strength. It also helped that her
forces had won a decisive victory shortly after that when she had
ordered them to sally forth from the castle and attack their besiegers.
She has calculated the effect that sending Cyruz to speak with Duchess
Arval might have, but to this day she was not certain how she had known
the precise moment when to attack, save that the Stevene's Light had
shone on her that moment. Too soon and Arval's troops would still have
been ready to fight; too late and the Asbridgers would have reorganised
to cover the gaps left by Arval. Nevertheless, her order had proved
perfectly timed such that her army had caught the insurrectionists in
the midst of the confusion caused by Duchess Arval's sudden decision to
withdraw from the siege and eventually swear fealty to Dara.
"Mama, does that mean I can go to the council or no?" Brad asked,
once again bringing Dara out of her reverie. She realised that her
tendency to drift into deep thought and remembrance was a weakness she
had to battle against if she were to be even half the ruler her husband
would have been had he survived the war.
"Yes, very well, you may come," she said, "but you must go and tell
Brother Tomek first."
"Yes mama!" Brad exclaimed and dashed off down the corridor to find
his teacher.
Dara sat in one of the few remaining chairs in the great hall. Her
war council was significantly smaller than it had been in times past.
Galina Fennell was dead, Barons Talador and Coranabo had defected to the
insurrectionist side, and Connall Dargon was still moving about Dargon.
Duchess Arval now fought on behalf of the loyalists in Asbridge. Dara
did still have by her side Duchess Annora Quinnat, Grethock Dargon,
barons Oleran, Shaddir, Bindrmon, and Baldwin Narragan, and of course,
Sir Zephrym Vladon and Duke Sumner Dargon, her two most trusted vassals.
A series of maps and letters were laid out on the table in front of
her, one of the few that remained intact in the keep after a long siege.
The assembled lords discussed the situation loudly. Most of them stood,
though there were still a few chairs left, including her own: a
high-backed, dark-stained oak chair which had served as a makeshift
throne since her arrival at Dargon Keep in the spring of 899. Brad stood
at her side, watching what was going on with interest.
Dara remained quiet for the most part, though not as much as she
had in the early days. It was not that she felt that much more
confident, but more that she understood better the duties of a queen and
had to force herself to assert authority. As she did several times a
day, she cast her eyes up towards the timbered ceiling of the great hall
and silently asked her God why he had taken Caeron and left her to rule
the kingdom.
"Now that we've run out of those carrier pigeons that Duke Dargon's
servants kept," Annora Quinnat said, "we've no way of knowing what is
going on beyond these walls, save the odd ship that makes it close
enough to fire a message to us by arrow. Who knows who still stands for
us?"
"Well, let us go over what we had last we knew, for Prince Brad's
edification," Grethock Dargon said, winking at the young prince. "Much
of Dargon, Quinnat, and Arvalia had been laid to waste, though Fennell
Keep and Barel still stood. Magnus still held out, and I think we can
expect it still does; even if the duchess of Northfield made it through
the city walls, Crown Castle could hold out 'til the gate to Kisil-Doon
is found."
"King Hadrus of Lederia has made significant advances in the east,
and we know that Duchess Welspeare is still about somewhere," Baron
Shaddir added. "Not all of her lands had fallen, last we heard, and her
army was still afield. It seems that the Duchess of Northfield has
concentrated all her energies on keeping Magnus under siege and
conquering the northern marches."
"We can count on Aunt Katrina," Brad said. The comment was intended
for Dara, but the other lords appeared to have heard, for they now
looked to the queen.
She forced a bit of a smile and said, "Yes, my sister, Duchess
Welspeare, is a great warrior. It would be folly to count her out of
this war."
"Aye," Grethock said, "but who knows where she is? And the southern
marches are a long ways off. Have we accounted for all that remains
loyal to the queen? Magnus, Dargon, a few castles and cities here and
there? While that Beinisonian ... woman ... rules the rest?" Grethock
would have undoubtedly used harsher language had he not caught himself.
It did not do for one to swear in front of his queen and liege-lady
after all.
"And what of the morale of our troops?" Baldwin Narragan said. "We
still cling to life by but a thread."
"Our soldiers' morale does not trouble me overmuch," Dara said. She
could feel heat creeping into her face as the assembled lords once again
looked at her and silence descended. She swallowed and searched her mind
for the sort of thing Caeron might have said. "As long as their queen
holds, they will, and as long as we keep faith, God will deliver us."
That didn't seem to convince them as well as she'd hoped. She had
to remind herself that Stevenism had not made its way up to the northern
marches before she and Cyruz had arrived here, and most of the lords
here assembled ruled northern lands. She felt her confidence flagging,
but looked at Duke Dargon who had fixed her with that strong gaze of
his. She had seen the look before, when he expected her to stand up and
prove herself the queen he thought she could be. She still remembered
the shouting argument she'd had with him in the garden two years before.
She looked at her son, Brad, who was looking at her with expectant eyes.
If she couldn't do what needed doing for herself, at least for him she
could. Mustering what strength she had, she rose from her chair and
spoke with strength she did not know she had.
"We will not fail, I promise you that. A Beinisonian empress will
never rule this land! Whatever it takes, we shall win this war and
Prince Brad will one day be your king!"
"And we shall follow you to whatever end, your majesty," Duke
Dargon said. "Long may House Tallirhan rule over us!"
16 Naia, 902
"With respect, your majesty," Sir Zephrym Vladon said, holding a
wooden shield and sword in his hands as if they smelled badly, "I should
have never started to train you how to fight."
"You promised me you would if we won the battle against the
Asbridgers," Dara said, calling to mind the attack that had lifted the
first siege of Dargon. Indeed, Sir Zephrym had made that promise to keep
Dara from leading the sally herself. At that point she had been totally
untrained. "And win the battle we did. So, now you must continue my
training, lest I be unable to defend myself."
Sir Zephrym's face rarely showed any emotion, but Dara could read
his eyes after knowing him for many years as the captain of Caeron's --
now her -- household knights. She could see worry in them, like that a
father might have for his child. "Your majesty, I swore to protect you,
not bludgeon you!"
"How else am I supposed to learn, unless you spar with me in
earnest?" Dara, too, held a wooden shield and sword. The two of them
stood in the sandy arena in Dargon Keep's inner bailey that the squires
used for their weapons training.
"Your majesty, we both know you are small and thin; you don't have
a warrior's build. That is precisely why you did not become a page when
you were seven, but instead --"
"Well, now I'm queen -- queen in a time of war who must lead her
subjects into battle as every monarch before me."
Dara was not as quiet and subdued with Sir Zephrym as she was with
the less familiar nobles who served her. He knew it, and knew that she
would press the point until he gave in. So, like any commander who knows
when surrender is the best tactical option, he shrugged and repositioned
the weapon and shield in a proper manner for combat.
Dara copied him as she had been taught. At first they circled each
other, kicking up small clouds of sand with their feet. Dara's heart
pounded in her chest and she had a hard time gripping the wooden sword
hilt as her hands grew slippery with sweat. She fought to keep her body
from quivering with fright. As much as she wanted to learn how to fight,
she didn't relish the idea of being thrashed by the wily old knight.
She took a half-hearted swipe with her sword and it was roughly
knocked away by Sir Zephrym. "Come now, majesty, you must strike me
harder than that!"
As if to underscore the point, he lunged and struck her shield with
such force that it sent Dara scrambling backwards. She nearly fell, but
at the last moment regained her footing. She saw Sir Zephrym was
standing more erect and lowering his weapons.
"I'm sorry ma--"
Dara charged him before he could say any more. She did not want him
to go easy on her, for her enemies certainly wouldn't. After a few more
slashes and parries were traded, Zephrym got under her guard and dropped
Dara to her knees with a blow to the midsection. She crumpled up as the
air escaped her body with a wheezing hiss. For a few terrible moments,
she feared that she might never breathe again. When breath finally did
return, she gulped it greedily and nearly swallowed a mouthful of sand
in the process.
"Your majesty, I'm terribly sorry!" Sir Zephrym cried. He knelt
next to her.
Dara managed a weak smile. "Don't apologise; this is what I need to
learn to be a proper warrior."
"My lady queen!" A squire dashed from one of the towers and onto
the training ground. "My lady queen, you must come quickly!"
"What is it?" Dara asked, getting to her feet while brushing away
Sir Zephrym's attempt to help her up.
"Your majesty, sails have been spotted to the west!"
Dara felt as if a ball of ice had formed in her stomach. Her first
reaction was to fear the worst; more Northfield vassals had been
rumoured to be moving north to reinforce Valeran Northfield's siege
force. Perhaps it could even be Monrodyans who had broken off from the
siege of Magnus? Beinisonians were even possible if Crown Castle had
fallen. She dropped her sword and shield and hurried towards the squire,
her aches from the training forgotten.
"Where are they from?"
"We haven't been able to see their colours yet, your majesty."
"Very well, let's get to the battlements then!"
Dara rushed into the tower and climbed the stairs as quickly as she
could. Once there, she could see Duke Dargon, his brother Grethock, and
a couple other knights peering off into the distance. Dara reached them
and scanned the deep blue horizon. Sumner Dargon pointed and she was
able to make out the white rectangles of sails approaching. She clutched
the rough stone battlement in anticipation.
"If those are Beinisonian warships ..." Grethock sounded less than
optimistic.
"Shush!" Sumner Dargon said.
Dara could hardly blame him for feeling the way she had scant
moments earlier. She bit her lip as the menes slowly crept by. She
looked
away from the horizon only when Zephrym approached and cleared
his throat.
"Your majesty, I have another surprise for you."
"A surprise?" Dara turned, wondering what on 'diar could happen
next. She was startled to see a boy not much older than Brad, with wet,
straw-like hair, standing a few steps behind Zephrym, wearing muddy but
clearly blue livery of one of the Duke of Northfield's vassals. "What's
this? Is Duke Northfield offering new terms?"
"No, your majesty," Zephrym said. "He claims to serve Baron
Bastonne, who is not among the Northfield lords taking part in the
siege.
"May I approach, your majesty?" the youth asked breathlessly.
Your majesty? "Of course."
He moved swiftly and knelt before Dara. "My lord, Baron Bastonne,
commanded me to tell you that he has forsworn fealty to the Empress
Aendasia and wishes to be accepted as your vassal. He waits with Lord
Dargon --"
"My vassal? What in the name of --?" Dara was stumbling over her
words. She forced herself to stop and speak calmly. "But how did you get
through the Northfield camp and into the keep?"
The boy cast a glance down at his blue livery. "I bear the colours
of a lord whom Duke Northfield still believes to support the
insurrectionist cause, your majesty."
"Your majesty, the ships ..." Grethock directed Dara's attention
back to the Valenfaer Ocean. The ships were closer now, such that she
could make out pennants on the tops of the ships' masts. They appeared
mostly red, but it was hard to tell from this distance. Insurrectionist
Monrodyans? Did she dare believe that they were anyone else?
"Squire, you said that Connall Dargon and your lord are not far
away?"
"Aye, your majesty."
"Then make your way back to them with all haste, if you can. Tell
them to prepare to attack at once, and that we shall sally forth from
this castle. We shall meet them on the field!"
The squire turned and ran obediently, disappearing down the
stairwell.
"Your majesty," Duke Dargon said, "perhaps we should plan --"
"No, there isn't time! If the ships bear enemies, our only hope is
to break the Northfield army ere they land, lest we be set upon by an
even larger force. With Connall and now Bastonne, we have the best
chance. If they're friendly, then they'll have to fight their way
ashore. So quickly, we must arm ourselves!"
She dashed towards the door that led to the stairwell. She could
hear Sumner, Grethock, and Zephrym's feet scurrying over the stone floor
behind her. "Majesty!"
As she nearly tumbled down the stairs in her haste, Dara realised
that in all the excitement she'd forgotten her usual reserve around her
lords. It felt good not to feel a fear of speaking around them for a
time. She felt confidence flow through her, and it was a heady feeling,
like drinking too much wine too quickly. She called out for her squires
and knights as she dashed down the stairs. She burst into the great
hall, where she found most of her lords, whiling away the long bells of
siege. Annora Quinnat was sitting in a window seat reading a book from
the castle's library. Baldwin Narragan looked up from a King's Key board
as she charged in.
"Hurry my lords!" Dara exclaimed. "To arms! We must get to battle
quickly!"
As she hurried past, she could hear Baron Shaddir exclaim in
surprise. She rushed through another door that took her to the ducal
bedchamber, which had been hers since she had arrived in the keep years
ago. Then Baron Narragan shouted, "Duke Dargon, what's happened? What's
going on?"
Dara didn't hear the response, for she was already on the stairwell
and soon in her room. There, her squires and other household staff
scrambled to get her dressed in her armour. Sir Zephrym burst into the
room.
"Your majesty, you aren't going into battle, are you? You're not
ready!"
"I am," Dara answered to both charges. "So don't bother trying to
stop me. I know this is right."
"Surely yes," Sir Zephrym said, "but ... Ah, we've trusted you this
far, we ought to trust you now!"
With that, he dashed off, his shouts for the household knights and
their squires to rouse themselves echoing off the walls of the winding
stairwell. Before long, Dara was in the outer bailey atop the white
steed that had been selected for her. The chainmail gambeson she wore
weighed heavily on her shoulders. She felt as if she could barely move
beneath the weight of the many chain links and the hardened leather and
padding beneath. She was shaking as if it were the middle of winter,
though fortunately it could not possibly show through the thick armour
she wore. Indeed, she felt nearly twice her normal size with the
cumbersome armour on.
"My lady queen!" A man in a white habit -- Brother Tomek, Prince
Brad's tutor -- shouted from a window. "The ships, they bear not the
heraldry of Monrodya!"
"Who then?"
"It's Aunt Katrina, mama!" Brad's head appeared in front of Brother
Tomek, showing just above the bottom of the window sill. "A gold ducal
crown and a black unicorn on a red field!"
"Thank God, those ships are from Welspeare!"
Around her, the lords loyal to house Tallirhan, their knights, and
what foot soldiers had not accompanied Connall Dargon, cheered at the
news. Dara's elation gave way to fear and doubt however, and she
shivered anew as she remembered that she must still lead her supporters
forth from the keep. No, she could not falter now. She set her jaw, and
with effort, lifted her arm to signal for a squire to give her the great
helm she would wear into battle. The crown of Baranur did not surmount
it, as it had Caeron's helm, but Duke Dargon had given her his ducal
crown, and Cyruz had fashioned for her a crest of a woman in a long blue
dress bearing sword and shield before he had left with Galina Fennell.
Before donning the heavy helmet, Dara gave a last word of
encouragement to those around her. "For Baranur; let a Beinisonian
empress never rule her!" To her own ears, Dara's voice sounded shaky and
weak, but the soldiers around her raised up a cheer.
Shouts of "Long live Queen Dara!" were added to her own
pronouncement. With quaking hands, Dara hefted the helmet and lowered it
down over her head. The weight of it felt as if it were cutting into her
shoulders, and her neck and head began to throb dully. It was dark
inside the helmet, as Dara only had two small slits through which she
could see. She depended more on her sense of hearing -- which was also
impaired due to the cloth arming cap, chainmail coif, and steel of the
helmet -- than on her sense of sight to know that the drawbridge was
lowering. She felt someone press a sword into one hand and a shield into
the other.
The portcullis reached the top of the gate mechanism with a loud
thump and, without thinking, Dara dug the spurs on her boots into the
side of the stallion beneath her. The beast lept forward with such force
that Dara nearly fell off the horse. She was a good horsewoman, however,
and despite the bulky armour she was able to stay on and keep the horse
moving forward. Then she heard shouts and, tilting her head down,
realised she was among the houses of the Old City already, and the enemy
soldiers who were sheltered among them. She swung her sword at man with
a flat-topped kettle helm and felt the blade connect, though she
couldn't be sure what damage she did with it as she had to parry a
billhook swinging towards her face. A horse hemmed her in on either side
and she was swept along the street by their impetus and the small world
she could see through the narrow slits dissolved into a blur. Next she
knew she was outside the town walls, for she could see the green fields
that surrounded the city of Dargon.
It was very difficult to concentrate on what was going on outside
her helmet, for as soon as she focussed on one attacker through that
tiny field of view, she felt a strike on her shield and whipped her head
over to see another soldier pulling his axe away for another swipe. She
stunned the stubble-chinned culprit with the flat of her sword and
directed her horse with her knees to move away from an approaching
knight bearing heraldry she hadn't time to examine. She wondered how
seasoned warriors were able to grow used to this. She looked down and
could see blue-clad soldiers on all sides. Her horse surprised her as it
reared up to lash out with its hooves, sending a pair of men-at-arms to
the ground. Again and again Dara swung her sword at the blue-clad men
and women running about her. Every so often she would glimpse the
heraldic colours of Sir Zephrym Vladon and Duke Sumner Dargon,
reassuring her that they stayed near.
Pain exploded on her side as she felt something sharp hit her very
hard. She couldn't see where the spear had struck, but saw the shaft and
the man who wielded it. She swung her sword down and cracked his head
open. Blood spurted out and Dara had to fight to keep from vomiting
inside her helmet. A cacophony of sounds tormented her ears, but she
heard voices yelling, "The pretender! Capture Dara Tallirhan!"
Greedy hands grabbed at her tabard and her arms and her legs,
attempting to drag her from the horse. She fought to stay on and forgot
the horror of smashing that one soldier's skull as she thrashed about
with wild terror. Other shapes flashed around her and she could hear the
clash of blades; her household knights were defending her desperately
from enemy knights. She didn't know heraldry as well as someone who'd
been raised for knighthood since childhood, but she was certain that was
what was happening.
The hands were no longer grasping at her and Dara was able to break
free from the melee. She heard Duke Dargon shouting, "To the south --
there's Lord Connall, lads!"
"And Bastonne!" Dara added, as she could see a banner to the south,
bearing the same device as the squire that had approached her on the
battlements.
Everything after that was a wash of blood, both the sight and the
smell of it; intense pain in not just Dara's head, neck, and side, but
many other places; clashing swords and screaming men and women; and
above all, confusion.
Finally, after Dara knew not how long, it all stopped, and she
could feel the horse steady beneath her. A strong pair of hands lifted
the helm from her head, and it felt as if she would float up into the
clouds without that terrible weight on her. Around her were Sir Zephrym,
Duke Dargon, Katrina Welspeare, and many other dirty, bloody, but
grinning faces.
"We've won the day, your majesty!" Duchess Welspeare cried.
"Th-thank the Stevene," Dara managed through chapped lips and a
mouth as dry as any desert.
A young man that Dara did not recognise, with short dark hair,
strong, angular features, and wearing a dirty surcoat that identified
him as Baron Bastonne, approached. He dismounted his horse and knelt
with his leg resting on a dead body wearing Northfield livery.
"My lady queen." He bowed his head and did not raise it as he
spoke. "I beg your forgiveness for my treasonous allegiance to Valeran,
Duke of Northfield. I renounce my fealty to him and pledge my sword to
your cause."
"But why --?" Dara cut herself off. As rightful queen, she should
not ask such a question.
Baron Bastonne looked up and met her gaze with pure, green eyes. "A
sennight ago, my army faced the courageous Baroness Fennell and her
knights at Balkura. There were but three dozen of them, yet they charged
my army of over a thousand souls ... Their courage, their total devotion
to you ... The empress does not command such as these. Every one of them
lost their life, but they sold their lives dearly indeed!"
For close to a mene, Dara did not speak. She offered her sword to
Baron Bastonne to kiss. Licking her lips, she spoke with a tight throat.
"I accept your pledge of fidelity. Lord Bastonne. Rise, and tell me if
there was a Stevenic priest among --"
"Cyruz the bard!" Bastonne exclaimed. "He was among them indeed,
and rides with my baggage train."
Dara's hand went to her throat and she whispered thanks to her God.
"This has truly been a day of good tidings."
"Here, drink this, your majesty," Sir Zephrym handed her a
wineskin. She drank from it greedily, then collapsed with exhaustion
into his arms.
In the time it took Dara to recover from the injuries she received
at Dargon Keep's walls, Valeran Northfield moved with what few troops he
had, and headed south towards Magnus. He did not bother to try
garrisoning himself in any of the castles still under his control,
knowing that he hadn't the strength to stop the advance of an army that
had now been bolstered by the unexpected arrival of Duchess Welspeare.
So sure had Aendasia been that the duchess would come from the north,
based on the sorceror Draken Mon-Orthanier's scrying, that she had
neglected the duchess' troop concentrations and ship-building to the
south. Valeran only realised this afterwards, and this was how her ships
had been allowed to set sail and arrive in Dargon. Mon-Orthanier's
prophecies had been proven true after all.
Baron Narragan insisted on freeing Armand, the capital city of his
barony, and Queen Dara could hardly refuse him. Among her nobles, he had
perhaps sacrificed the most by turning on his liege, the Duchess of
Arvalia, who had sided with the insurrectionists. The defences at Armand
had not been fully rebuilt after the destruction Duke Northfield had
visited upon them a year earlier, and the town was quickly taken.
However, as it was far out of the way, the furthest Dara's army could
make it south before winter set in was Wachock.
6 Janis, 903
Cold winter winds howled beyond the shuttered windows of the great
hall in the castle that rested just outside of Wachock. It was one of
many castles that had sprouted up all over the Baranurian landscape
during the war. Dara's army had gone as far south as Arvalia before the
winter snows had forced them to stop the campaign. When spring came,
they would have to take Irskin Castle before they could move on to
Magnus and lift the siege there. Dara expected that what had come to be
called the Great Houses War would finally be decided there.
Now, however, she had a more immediate matter to attend to. She sat
uneasily in the great chair in what had served her as a court this
winter. Beneath the flowing blue dress she wore, ugly brown and yellow
bruises that still hadn't faded and fresh pink scars marked much of her
body. She felt as though the muscles in her shoulders and neck were one
massive knot that would never untie itself if she lived another hundred
years. If it hadn't been for all the armour she had worn into battle,
one of those bruises or scars would have been a death-blow, but all the
same she had never been so miserable in her life. Even the unending ride
to Port Sevelyn during her flight from Magnus after Caeron's death with
Sir Zephrym Vladon had been easier on her than leading armies into
battle had.
After all the victories that had come in the past year, many barons
and knights had shuffled into the great hall, shame-faced and downcast,
begging for her forgiveness and swearing undying devotion to her from
that day forward. She didn't really believe them, but she had to accept
their apologies unless she wanted the war to last forever. Not too long
ago, she had hosted the Duke of Asbridge, thus securing her claim on the
northern marches.
Today, the dirty and haggard man who knelt before her was no lord,
but the mercenary captain of a company of Comarrian freelances who had
sold their services to her husband Caeron at the outset of the war. Dara
felt like spitting merely at the thought of the man's name: Greg Jorym.
At Magnus, when Caeron had made his last stand, Jorym and his Comarrians
had fled the field of battle without so much as clashing swords with a
soldier under Aendasia's command. She was convinced beyond a doubt that
this cowardly act had cost Caeron his life, and she hated Greg Jorym
with every bit of her soul for it. When he had been brought into the
room, her first instinct had been to spring from the throne, grab a
sword from one of her guards, and run the Comarrian through with it.
She came close, but slaughtering or imprisoning this man who had
come to her under a banner of truce would make her no better than him.
"You dare to show your face after what you did!" she could hear the
anger in her own voice. Where had the meek young queen who had shied
away from Caeron's councils gone, she wondered? "My husband trusted you
and you betrayed him! Now he's dead!"
"I know," the mercenary hung his head.
"How could you abandon him like that? Even if your sword was
bought, you served with him in many battles and he saved your life more
than once! How could you? You owed him better than that!"
"I know," Jorym repeated. "That is why I have come to make amends."
"It is too late for that," Dara hissed. She leaned forward in her
chair and pain shot down her back. She fought to keep a grimace off her
face. "Why are you really here?"
The mercenary looked up, and shuffled towards her on his knees a
few paces. "I told you, I am here to make amends, my lady queen. I did
your husband ... I did *you* a grave wrong, and I want to make up for
that, if it is at all possible."
Dara chewed her lip. She could hardly believe what she was hearing.
Where had this scoundrel been hiding all these years? "I don't believe
you. If you indeed did have a conscience as you claim now to have,
you've kept it well hidden the past six years."
"Please, I beg you," Jorym shuffled a little closer and reached for
her hand. Dara retracted it. Jorym looked up at her with sorrowful eyes
and swallowed. "If I were not sincere in my wish, why would I not have
sold my sword to the highest bidder, the Empress Aendasia, ere now? She
certainly has the deepest coffers. Or why wouldn't I have remained in
Comarr?"
"I was sure that was what you *had* done," Dara replied. She could
feel the anger slowly seeping out of her veins. Could it be that he was
telling the truth? "If you are sincere as you claim, why did you desert
Caeron in the first place?"
"I am ashamed to say it, but I thought for certes the battle lost
ere it even began ... and I had not taken full measure of the man, not
until it was too late, when I heard months later how he refused to
either retreat or yield and fought to the death. With our crime weighing
heavily upon us, we waited for an opportunity to return and snuck back
into Baranur from Comarr last spring. Since then, my men and I have
hidden ourselves in the swamps of Equiville, waiting for a chance to
redeem ourselves. And now, now I pray you, my queen, let us have the
chance to do that."
"Why did my husband have to buy your loyalty with his blood? My
husband was a good and honest man before he died outside Magnus."
"Please, my lady queen." Jorym began to cry. The tears creeping
down his cheeks made Dara's eyes grow wide with surprise. He tugged at
the hem of her gown and sobbed. "I was blind, horribly blind. I beg your
forgiveness. I cannot undo what was done, but I can at least set it
right. Let me fight for you against Aendasia."
Dara was touched by the mercenary's display of humility and
anguish. She reached out a hand over his head. She was about to utter
words of forgiveness, but then she caught a glimpse of her son, Brad,
standing off to one side. Her son who would never see his father again.
Her son who looked so much like Caeron. She squeezed her eyes shut and
she could see Caeron, looking down on her with loving eyes, planting a
kiss on her forehead as he often did. She remembered their last night
together before he had fought his last battle. Never again would she
feel his warm caress. Ever would she bear that terrible emptiness inside
of her. She felt hot tears sear her eyes and creep out the sides of her
tightly closed lids. She closed her hand and withdrew it to her lap.
"No, I can never forgive you," she said unsteadily. She swallowed
and continued with a slightly stronger voice. "I can never forgive you,
but I will grant you your life though I would gladly throw you in a
dungeon there ever to stay. I will grant you your life and allow you to
fight for us, then return safely to Comarr, where I hope you will stay
the rest of your days."
"Thank you, my queen!" Jorym cried. She felt him grab her hand and
press his lips against it.
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