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DargonZine Volume 21 Issue 01
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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 1
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DargonZine Distributed: 03/22/08
Volume 21 Number 1 Circulation: 663
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Contents
Editorial Liam Donahue
The Great Houses War 9 Nicholas Wansbutter Ober, 903 - Vibril, 904
The Game 1 Mark Murray Firil 15 - Naia 20,1018
and Pam Atchley
Walking the Venilek Dafydd Cyhoeddwr 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 21-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2008 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>
Welcome to the first issue of Dargonzine for 2008. This issue
brings you three Dargon stories: Great Houses War part 9, The Game part
1, and Walking the Venilek. But first, there is big news in the Dargon
Project! One of our writers, Mark Murray, has published his first book,
Warders of the Gate. The book was published by Arctic Wolf Publishing,
and is available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. You can read more about
Mark's book at www.rhillai.com.
Our first story in this issue, Great Houses War 9, is the
conclusion of Nick Wansbutter's epic history that takes place over 100
years prior to the "current" time in Dargonzine's shared world. For this
series Nick brought to life characters and events that had previously
only existed as brief references in other Dargon stories, or as notes
kept by former authors. I am sad to see the series coming to the end,
but also quite pleased to be able to share it with you.
The other two stories in this month's issue represent beginnings
rather than endings. Mark Murray, a former Dargonzine writer who
rejoined the group a while back, picked up a work-in-progress that Pam
Atchley had left behind when she left the group, and completed it,
bringing his own style to the tale. The story, called The Game, will be
presented in four parts over the next several issues.
The final story, Walking the Venilek, was written by longtime
contributor Dafydd Cyhoeddwr as part of an exercise that we started at
last year's Dargonzine summit, held in Las Vegas. It is fitting that
Daf's story is the first story from that exercise to be published, since
he was the one to challenge us to write something to bring to the
summit. The challenge was to write a simple story set within the
confines of Dargon. Daf even gave each of us assignments to write about
different areas of the city. At the summit, we added a twist and agreed
to interweave the stories a bit. So, as you read these stories over the
next several issues, look for characters and events from one story to
appear in another.
So, you can look forward to future installments of the game, along
with more interwoven stories from our Las Vegas summit, as well as a few
other things that we have brewing. For now, though, I hope you enjoy
this month's issue.
========================================================================
The Great Houses War
Part 9: The Queen of Baranur
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<NWansbutterEsq@gmail.com>
18 Ober, 903 - 29 Vibril, 904
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-6
Part 8 of this story was printed in DargonZine 20-4
"How did they get behind us?"
"To arms! To arms!"
Queen Dara, ruler of Baranur, was jarred suddenly awake by voices
shouting outside of her pavilion. She looked about blearily. By the
light of the single candle illuminating her tent, she could not see
anything out of the ordinary. Her sword leaned up against the trunk with
her clothes in it, her chainmail gambeson was draped atop another trunk.
She decided that she had been dreaming and snuggled back under her
blankets.
"Damn you, get up you codswallops! To arms!"
"J'Mirg's Bones, they're almost upon us!" That was Sir Zephrym
Vladon's voice! The last time Dara had heard such urgency in the voice
of the captain of her household knights had been during their escape
from Magnus nearly four years ago. The situation had been dire then, as
news that Dara's husband, King Caeron, had been killed defending the
capital city, and the only hope for the realm was spiriting her to the
safety of the northern marches before the insurrectionists could capture
her.
"To arms!" Now it was Duke Sumner Dargon's voice she heard. It
seemed that all her battle lords were running about the camp shouting.
She heard the clatter of wooden bows and spears hitting one another
and the clank of metal on metal. Light from torches flickered along the
side of Dara's pavilion. She hopped out of bed and nearly jumped as her
feet hit the cold, sharp grass. Gasping, she grabbed her breeches and
hurriedly pulled them on.
A gust of cold night air hit her as the flap to her pavilion flew
open and the shaggy, grey-haired head of Zephrym Vladon thrust itself
inside. "My lady queen, you're awake. Good."
"What on 'diar is going on?"
"We're under attack, my queen, by the traitorous Duke Northfield."
Zephrym kicked Dara's squires, who were sleeping on the ground near the
entrance. "Wake up you codless crowmeat! My queen, grab your sword and
prepare to defend yourself; no there isn't even time for armour!"
Dara grabbed her sword and ran out of the tent, following closely
behind Zephrym. Being under attack was hardly anything new, as this
civil war, which some called the "Great Houses War", had been raging for
nearly seven years. Shouts rang throughout the camp. To her left Duke
Dargon pointed with his sword and shouted for torch-bearing soldiers to
follow him in that direction. To her right, a man-at-arms in his full
armour, carrying a sputtering lantern, led two men wrapped in blankets
and a dozen others wearing only breeches and carrying naked weapons in
another direction. Horses pounded past the other side of the tent and
Dara caught only flickering torchlight out of the corner of her eye as
they passed. Dara drew her sword and prepared for the worst.
"This way, my queen!" Zephrym took off at a sprint towards the
centre of the camp set up two days march south of Irskin Castle. The
castle had surrendered a sennight earlier without much of a fight once
the garrison there realised that Aendasia, the Beinisonian pretender to
the throne, would not move from the walls of Magnus, which she was
besieging, to come to their aid.
Zephrym and Dara reached a large fire with more men and women
gathered around it than Dara could quickly count. She hoped that this
was the bulk of the army.
"Form a line you scrud-suckers!" Grethock Dargon, younger brother
of Duke Sumner Dargon, roared. He grabbed a young girl with a chain
hauberk on backwards and shoved her into place beside an older man in a
dirty tunic carrying an old spear. He ran over to a blond boy staring
blankly into the darkness and holding a bow. Grabbing him roughly by the
hood of his cloak, Grethock shoved him towards the other side of the
fire. "Archers over there!"
"We think it's Northfielders," Zephrym said to Dara. "As far as we
know, Baron Narragan is deployed somewhere to the north, and Duchess
Welspeare to the west, but none of the runners we sent made it back. We
don't know what size of force is attacking or what our losses are."
"Your majesty!" The deep, rumbling voice of Cyruz of Vidin brought
a little relief to Dara. "Why, you're dressed in only a nightshirt;
here, put this on!"
Dara obeyed, dropping her sword and allowing the monk to slide a
chain hauberk over her head. Cyruz was a trusted friend, a holy man who
had once met the Stevene himself, and she was happy of his presence and
attention.
"Thank you, Father," she said.
"Of course, your majesty." The tall monk bowed slightly. "But I
cannot tarry. I hear the cries of the wounded; I must help them!"
Before Dara could utter a protest, Cyruz' towering form had
disappeared into the darkness. She started to shiver with the cold and
with fear. Despite the fires, it was so very black. She couldn't see
what was happening beyond a few fathoms. She grabbed her sword off the
ground and took several breaths to calm herself.
"My lady queen, your horse!" One of her squires ran up, holding
Dara's white stallion by the reins. She pulled herself up into the
saddle and tried to survey the chaos around her. Grethock had formed a
line four soldiers deep and a few dozen wide, but several soldiers still
wandered about the fire. She looked to the northwest and saw about a
dozen torches accompanied by a rumble of shouting voices.
"Marabinga's Girdle!" Zephrym shouted. "Defend yourselves!"
Blue-clad soldiers poured into the firelight and slammed into the
line of Dara's soldiers. Dara nudged her horse with her knees and the
creature charged forward. A Northfield soldier swung his polearm at her,
but she ducked, the wind from the weapon's passing cool on the back of
her neck. She stabbed the man in the throat and he toppled backwards,
gurgling. She urged the horse onwards, into the enemy soldiers, knocking
them down with its powerful chest. A woman screamed as the destrier's
hooves crushed her leg. Dara parried a sword, redirecting the force of
the swing so that the attacking soldier turned his back to her. She then
brained him with her own sword.
Another nearby soldier turned and ran into the darkness, as did his
fellows, until only loyal troops remained in the firelight once again.
"Hurrah for the queen!" several of them cheered.
"Zephrym, where are you?" Dara called.
"Here, my queen." Zephrym emerged from the crush of bodies.
"We seem to have driven at least this group off. Send more runners
to find Duchess Welspeare and Baron Narragan. And what of Duke Dargon? I
saw him --"
"Your majesty!" A soldier with dirt blackening both cheeks nearly
ran into her horse. "Duke Dargon sent me to tell you that he's driven
off more of the enemy, it looks as if they are breaking off the attack
from where he's positioned."
"Good. Zephrym, where are my household knights? I want them
armoured and mounted as quickly as possible."
"I'll see to it." Zephrym grabbed Duke Dargon's runner by the
scruff of the neck and took off into the darkness.
The night seemed to quiet; there was certainly a lot less shouting
and only a little moaning from wounded. Dara shuddered violently. What
was she doing out here, in the middle of the night, giving orders? She
found that she was better at it than she had expected. It helped that
she wasn't worrying about what an idiot she must look like to her lords,
until she thought of that. Now that she had time to think, she wondered
if she'd done right to send Zephrym off; she felt suddenly alone and
unprotected without his presence.
Grethock moved up from her left and she jumped when he spoke.
"Queen Dara, I've reformed the troops into something resembling a battle
line. We should be better prepared if they attack again."
"And the archers?"
"For the little good they can do in this blackness, I have them set
up just over there." He gestured to a position to the rear of the
assembled foot troops.
Dara got no more sleep that night as her lords charged about trying
to get the entire army organised and ward off further attacks from the
Northfielders. There were only a few small skirmishes the rest of the
night. Dara used her household knights to stop any gaps that were
created in the lines until daybreak mercifully came and the
Northfielders were nowhere in sight.
Dara dismounted her horse and winced at the pain. She'd been in the
saddle all night and her muscles were not happy about it. She stepped
over a dead body with a blanket wrapped around it: one of hers. Many
other bodies littered the slopes of the grassy plain that the encampment
had been set up on. She saw Duke Dargon approaching, dark circles under
his eyes and a bloody bandage wrapped around his left forearm.
"Your majesty." He stopped and bowed curtly. "Our losses aren't as
bad as they could have been, but the initial counts are still several
hundred dead. We didn't take nearly as many Northfielders with us, I'm
afraid. They attacked Baron Narragan's position without warning and he
suffered the heaviest losses. Fortunately his squire was able to make it
back in time to warn us before we were caught unawares also."
"They attacked from the north? Monrodyans out of Thanailde Castle
perhaps? But no, they wore Northfield livery." She looked down at a
corpse lying face down beside the body she'd stepped over. It bore blue
Northfield heraldry on its bloodstained tabard.
"Aye, your majesty," Sumner said. "They somehow got around behind
us -- must have snuck through Wherwell Forest, of all the ironies."
Wherwell was the forest that Dara had used for cover in her escape
from Magnus nearly four years ago. Dara felt anger boil up inside her.
"We can hear the gossip from the insurrectionist camp about Valeran
Northfield's disgrace and banishment from the Duchess' court over his
tryst with some minor noble, but we can't learn when he's moving an army
around our flank?"
"It was a masterfully and boldly executed move, your majesty. We
had no way of knowing. He *was* still encamped outside Magnus only a
sennight ago."
Dara let out a long breath. Sumner was right, and at any rate, it
wasn't his fault that this had happened. "Anything else?"
"I'm afraid so. Baron Narragan was guarding the baggage train. The
rebels made off with a good portion of our provisions before they
withdrew."
"And now that they've got position on us to the north," Dara said,
"there's no way new supplies will reach us."
30 Ober, 903
Queen Dara hungrily tore the last strips of rabbit meat off the
bone she held between her two hands. One of her squires had been able to
snare the creature earlier in the day and it was the best she'd eaten in
a fortnight. There wasn't much foraging to be had this time of year,
especially since it seemed that Aendasia had cleared out all the local
storage sheds for her siege on Magnus.
Dara sucked the last bits of marrow from the bone then tossed it
into a nearby bush with orange and yellow leaves. Her stomach growled
and she put a hand over it. Despite the rabbit, she felt as if there was
a gaping pit in her stomach, and she had been eating much better than
most of her soldiers.
A furlong down the hill, a group of her men had just finished
digging a large hole in the ground. They tossed their shovels aside and
began picking up bodies which they dropped into the makeshift grave.
Insects buzzed about them as they worked and buzzards glided lazily
overhead.
A tall man dressed in the white habit of a Stevenic monk broke from
the group once the last body was laid in the ground and moved up the
hill towards Dara. She stood from her seat on a clothes trunk outside
her pavilion and moved to meet Cyruz of Vidin.
"Good day, your majesty," he said in his deep voice, like thunder
echoing amidst the Skywall Mountains. "Another fine day we have, out
here on the plains of the realm, is it not?"
"If I didn't know you better, Father," Dara said, "I'd think you
were being sarcastic."
"Oh, it isn't as bad as all that," Cyruz placed a hand on her
shoulder. "As I said to Baroness Fennell when she had similar thoughts,
no situation is ever too dire as long as we have such good and dutiful
friends among us. And what friends! Your majesty, these lords and
peasants have followed you the length of the land and have never
faltered."
Dara nodded. "That's true, but the disease, starvation ... How much
more can they take?"
"My lady queen." Zephrym approached from behind the pavilion,
holding a rolled piece of parchment in his hand. "I fear I have more bad
news."
"What worse could possibly happen?" she asked. She'd been unable to
break through Duke Northfield's lines for two sennights now. Earlier in
the sennight, he'd lured a portion of her force over the Laraka and
decimated them, forcing her to pull back further south and further away
from a chance at getting food from Irskin Castle. Duchess Arval was
still nearly a fortnight away and unable to assist her.
"It's a message from Greg Jorym," Zephrym replied. Dara stiffened
at hearing the name. The mercenary captain had offered her his services
in reparation for abandoning Caeron unto his death four years ago. Had
he already reverted to his cowardly ways? "He and his troops have moved
out of the swamps in southern Equiville and are making their way to
Magnus. However, while passing through Equiville they learned of more
troop movements from the southeast. It is his estimation that the
Beinisonian Emperor has sent fresh levies to assist his mother."
Dara's hand went to her throat in the Stevenic sign of piety. "God
protect us! Did he say how far ahead of them he is?"
"A sennight at most."
"Then we'll have to move on Magnus at once," Dara said. She felt as
if she'd been stabbed in the chest.
"But your majesty, maybe with Duchess Arval reinforcing us --"
"No, there isn't time. We wasted too much time retaking Armand for
Baron Narragan in the spring, and now we have run out of that precious
commodity here. The emperor wouldn't have sent a small force, and
they'll be Beinisonian professionals. No, our only hope is to finish it
at Magnus now, before they arrive. Pray that King Hadrus has finally
taken Thanailde Castle and has a clear route along King's Road."
"You're most likely correct, your majesty."
"Thank you Zephrym. I'd like some time alone with Father Cyruz
now."
Zephrym bowed and, without a word, walked off down the hill towards
the main part of the encampment. Dara felt suddenly weak and had to lean
on Cyruz for support. The monk, who had been silent throughout her
conversation with Zephrym, took her by the shoulders and directed her
over to the chest and had her sit on it again.
"You are tired, my queen."
"I'm tired, yes. Tired of all the killing, tired of the treachery,
tired of being alone. Cephas' boot, Father, how has it come to this?"
She could feel her throat tightening and her lips began to quiver. Tears
heated her eyes.
"Such times must be faced by all those who defy injustice and evil,
my child." Cyruz sat down on the ground next to her and Dara had to look
down only slightly to see into his dark, kindly eyes.
She looked away and covered her face as tears broke forth. "So much
suffering. My loyal soldiers dying of disease and starvation, and she
who killed Caeron, that miserable Duchess of Northfield who's already an
Empress of Beinison, wants his crown ... What does *she* get? More
reinforcements from her son. Her husband, still around to warm her bed
..."
"Is an unfaithful husband so much better?"
"Anything is better than a dead husband!" Dara allowed herself to
sob a few moments. She then collected herself and looked at Cyruz again.
"How did it all go so wrong, Cyruz? If God wanted Caeron to be king, if
Baranur is meant to be free, why did he fail?"
"He did not fail!" Cyruz' stern tone of voice surprised Dara, for
she had never heard it from him. "No, he did not fail. He succeeded in
keeping the crown out of the clutches of the Beinisonians. He succeeded
in passing the succession to you and, God willing, to Prince Brad one
day. He passed just laws and ruled the land well ere he died. No, that
is no failure, unless one measures a good king only by the number of
years he reigned.
"King Vulpa, now there was a king whose reign was long indeed. Nigh
on forty years he ruled over Baranur and one of the most disastrous
forty years our realm has ever known! Now, he wasn't an evil man and he
was well beloved by the people for his kind and gentle manner, but he
constantly gave in to false advisors and self-serving lords. His
inability to stand up for good and make the necessary sacrifices led to
much ruin.
"Mayhap it was precisely because Caeron did what was right, even
when it was not expedient, that this all came to pass. Aye, men never
learn from one age to the next. They resist good when it does not suit
them, and embrace evil when it is easy. Thus it was in the time of first
kings of Baranur who fought their children and siblings as often as
foreign invaders. Thus it is now, when a good king is killed at the
walls of his capital. Thus will it be in the future, but we must never
give up, for there is good in the world too! So much good, and men and
women who are willing to strive for it despite hardship. But it is
because many other men are wicked, or perhaps merely lazy, that we must
fight."
Dara dried her eyes and looked down the hill at the tents and
clumps of soldiers that dotted the hillside. A cold breeze swept over
the hill, blowing orange and red leaves over the brittle brown grass.
"We *will* fight, and one way or another, this war will end."
11 Nober, 903
The ground was blanketed in a thin layer of pristine white snow,
interrupted only by the dark shapes of war machines and pavilions that
the besieging forces had set up. Dara could see those same forces
clearly across the plain, arranged for battle, having abandoned their
siege weapons. Dara had positioned herself on the western bank of the
Laraka so that she could see the hill to the southeast where Caeron had
made his last stand. To Dara's north and west, Duchess Welspeare
commanded her portion of the army.
She was shivering so violently that she felt she might fall off her
horse. She couldn't feel her feet, but she could certainly feel her
stomach, which felt like a gaping wound. She clenched her teeth together
in an attempt to keep them from chattering.
She examined the forces arrayed against her with what now felt like
a well-trained eye, compared with her ignorance of warfare only a few
years ago. Row upon row of foot soldiers dressed in the blue of
Northfield and the gold of Blortnikson stood across the smooth white
plain, their helmets and weapons glinting in the mid-afternoon sun.
There were also large numbers of cavalry, each adorned in their own
unique heraldry, save the Knights of the Dragon and the Star who wore
the colours of their orders. The Knights of the Dragon Dara spied with
special attention, swearing to herself that if nothing else, she would
ensure those honourless butchers who had put so many towns to the torch
would not leave the field alive. Duke Sumner Dargon, positioned on her
south flank with the bulk of the cavalry, would see to that, as she had
ordered.
For the moment most of the enemy cavalry were on her side of the
river, but she had ordered Greg Jorym to launch his attack from just the
other side of the Laraka. Thus far, he had shown himself good to his
word to redeem himself for his betrayal.
The enemy troops shuffled about, perhaps against the cold, but also
perhaps because the pipes of the Lederians under King Hadrus, Caeron's
cousin who had pledged to support the Tallirhan cause, could be heard
sounding to the east, and Comarrian heavy cavalry could be seen to the
southeast. Aendasia's forces still outnumbered Dara's significantly, but
Dara had surrounded them, evening the odds somewhat. There was still
Duke Northfield to worry about, but Dara's scouts reported that he was a
couple bells' ride away. They could only succeed if they broke the
insurrectionist forces here at Magnus before he arrived.
A thin mist escaped Dara's mouth as she took deep breaths to calm
herself. She flexed her muscles to stop the convulsive shivering. It was
not nearly as cold out as it had been on that Deber morning when Caeron
had fought his last battle, she told herself. She closed her eyes and
whispered a prayer to the Stevene. She also promised her husband that
she would take the hill upon which he had died, and to build a
magnificent tomb for him there if she succeeded.
"Brave soldiers of Baranur," she shouted, moving forward and
turning around to address her troops. "You have fought and bled with me
across the great vastness of this realm. You have shown your worth time
and again so that the crown that rightfully belongs to House Tallirhan
will remain so, and Baranur will remain in the hands of Baranurians, not
Beinisonians!
"I now call you to make this last stand for the kingdom and for
truth and justice in our time. One way or another, this war that has
torn our land apart and pitted brother against sister will end. How it
shall end is up to us, and how we conduct ourselves this day!
"Be mindful of the great Knights' Charge at Balkura, where the
knights of Fennell sold their lives dearly so that justice might survive
in this land. There are things worth fighting for in this world, and
worth dying for even. If we determine to die for this cause, as did the
Fennell knights, then we will be victorious! Fight with me today! Fight
for King Caeron! Fight for Baranur!"
A cheer rose from her troops. Raising their weapons in the air,
they cried, "For Baranur! For Queen Dara!"
Beinisonian drums and Baranurian horns sounded, and Dara turned
back to face the insurrectionists. The enemy soldiers were advancing.
She could not hear the thunder of the horses' hooves as they trotted
towards her, as they were drowned out by the shouts of her own troops.
The horns sounded again and the enemy soldiers began to charge.
"Premature," Sir Zephrym Vladon said calmly. "They will tire
themselves out ere they reach us. Aendasia must not know what to do with
armies attacking her from all directions. Look, the Knights of the Star
are moving back across Kheva's Bridge to face the Comarrians. I wonder
if they've actually named that new bridge after Kheva? The original was
destroyed at the beginning of the war, after all."
Only the unflappable Sir Zephrym Vladon could make such a mundane
observation with enemy soldiers charging towards him. Dara let the enemy
soldiers charge until they were quite close before ordering her own
trumpeters to sound the charge. As frightened as she was, she felt a
certain amount of relief that it would all end at last. She pulled her
great helm on and readied her lance.
"Charge!" Dara screamed as she urged her horse forward.
Loyally, her troops raised their voices even higher in a war cry
and they surged forward. It seemed to take bells for the two forces to
collide. Dara waited to lower her lance until she could see details on
the soldiers' faces. When she saw the jagged pink scar down the side of
one man's dirty and stubbled face, the man beside him with eyes wide and
white with fear or rage, braced her feet against the stirrups. She
nearly fell backwards as her lance impacted with the chest of the
scar-faced soldier. It continued through him and impaled the beardless
young boy behind him.
Dara gagged at the sight and dropped her lance. What had Caeron
thought of killing his own subjects? She drew her sword just in time to
parry a spear thrust that came from almost behind her; the momentum of
her horse had carried her deep into the enemy ranks. Zephrym was beside
her still, and he hacked at the arm of the spear-bearer. Another foot
soldier slammed into Dara's leg as he backed away from one of her
knights. She plunged her blade into his shoulder. Still another enemy
stabbed at her with his spear. She redirected the blow into a footman
beside her, then dispatched the spearman with a slash to the throat.
After a time -- she did not know how long -- Dara was able to break free
from the melee and take stock of the situation.
She was shocked and gladdened to realise that her horse now stood
on the hill where Caeron had made his last stand. The snow had been
thoroughly trodden by the soldiers' fighting, such that brown grass
could be seen. The snow that remained was stained bright red. Even after
years of fighting, the sight did not fail to turn Dara's stomach. The
many battles had honed her ability to see out of her great helmet, and
she looked quickly over the battlefield. The Comarrians had driven the
Knights of the Star back and they were trying to squeeze over Kheva's
Bridge. She saw one knight fall from his horse and into the icy river,
while his fellows' horses writhed about in apparent panic. Only one or
two made it to the other side, while the others appeared to be jammed in
place. Greg Jorym's banner fluttered above the heads of knights at the
west bank of the bridge.
The gatehouses leading into Magnus had been opened, and
townspeople, armed with butcher knives, bill hooks, and blacksmith
hammers were swarming out alongside garrison troops wearing royal
colours. On the east bank, Duke Dargon and his knights were pressing the
Knights of the Dragon back to the base of Kheva's Bridge. A Knight of
the Dragon collided with a Knight of the Star and both toppled from
their horses, disappearing under the hooves of their comrades' mounts.
The gold banner of Blortnikson, accompanied by a forgery of the royal
arms of Baranur, was being buffeted about in the middle of that
confusion of horses and armoured men.
The group of soldiers that Dara and her household knights had been
fighting broke and ran, and Sir Zephrym galloped up alongside her. "We
may yet carry the day, your highness."
"Mayhap," Dara said. "But look to the north-west!"
There, she could see a blue banner surmounted by the white falcon
of Valeran Northfield at the head of a column of cavalry moving towards
Duchess Welspeare's yellow banner, surmounted by a red diagonal bar. A
large portion of Northfield's force was holding, without moving, a
little further to the west.
"Why does he not engage the rest of his force?" Zephrym wondered
aloud. "Those troops to Northfield's west could easily move here to
reinforce the duchess."
"Beinisonians are a proud people," Dara said. "We heard the rumours
of Valeran's infidelity. Could it be that Aendasia doesn't even want him
on the same part of the battlefield?"
"If that's so, then we can't expect it to last long. Valeran is not
stupid; it would be mindlessly outrageous for him to honour such courtly
niceties while in the middle of a battle."
"Indeed, which is why we must capture Aendasia as quickly as we
can, ere Valeran comes to his senses! If we can force her to yield, the
rest of the army will!" She signalled for Zephrym and the knights to
follow her to Kheva's Bridge. As she rode, the city dwellers who had
come out of the gate nearest Dara recognised the Tallirhan banner one of
her knights bore. They cheered and waived their arms in the air, then
with a great bellow charged after Dara towards the Knights of the Dragon
and the Star.
The fighting that followed was the most vicious that Dara had
known; the Knights of the Dragon knew they'd get no quarter, and offered
none themselves. Dara knew that her crown hung on the outcome of this
battle within a battle and summoned what strength she had left. A Knight
of the Dragon, his face hidden by a great helm, swung his massive
morningstar at her. She threw herself backwards and the heavy spiked orb
swished in the air bare inches from her face. She nearly fell backwards
off her horse, but grabbing the saddlehorn, she pulled herself upright.
The morningstar whipped through the air again, smashing into Dara's
shield, causing it to slam into her shoulder. She slashed with her
sword, but the blow was knocked aside. Out of the corner of her eye, she
saw a sword flash. She was able to deflect it and redirect the momentum
towards the morningstar-wielding knight. He blocked it with his shield
and swung at Dara's head with his weapon. She was unable to duck fast
enough, and a loud clang assaulted her ears.
Reeling from the strike, Dara had to grab the cantle again to keep
from falling and fought to still her vision so she could see what she
was doing. She held out her sword blindly and it was knocked roughly
aside. She felt a new flash of pain to her sword-arm shoulder and
tumbled from the horse onto the hard ground. She scrambled to her feet
instinctively and tore her helmet off.
Her vision was still a bit blurry, but she could make her opponent
out from the other dark shapes that surrounded her. Her head felt as if
his mace were continually pounding her skull. Her whole body ached; she
could barely lift her sword and shield into a fighting position. The
Knight of the Dragon's arm moved back for a final blow. Would it end
here? No! Dara dove forward and rolled. The morningstar sliced through
the air above her; she jumped to her feet and stabbed the knight in the
kidneys with what force she could muster. It did not pierce his armour,
but he let out a cry of pain and dropped the morningstar nevertheless.
Sensing someone behind her, Dara pulled the blade back and whirled about
just in time to block a strike with her shield, though the impact
knocked her down onto one knee.
For the first time, Dara was face to face with her enemy of seven
long years: Aendasia Blortnikson. She was caked in mud and blood, a
heavy two-handed mace clutched in her fists.
Dara's first thought was that Aendasia was both stunningly
beautiful and much taller than she was. Aendasia had luxurious blonde
hair that flowed free of a helm that must have been knocked off earlier,
and a clear, pale complexion despite the ravages of war.
The Duchess of Northfield hefted the giant mace over her head and
swung. Dara threw herself to the right and heard the thud as the mace
slammed into the ground.
Dara leapt up and swung with her sword. Aendasia blocked it with
her mace and they were locked in a struggle for advantage. Dara looked
up into Aendasia's eyes.
"Yield, damn you!" the Beinisonian Empress Mother shouted. "The
crown is mine; your husband stole --"
"You know you have no right to it!" Dara tried to shove the taller
woman back, but it was like pushing a wall.
"Why all this death? Stefan named me, Dara!"
Dara felt a hint of pity seep into her heart. She could see in
Aendasia's eyes the same pain Dara felt at the loss of loyal subjects
and friends, at the mindless destruction of her homeland. But no,
Aendasia had not lost nearly what Dara had, and Baranur was not her
home. King Stefan II had named Aendasia heir only out of resentment
towards Caeron's conversion to Stevenism and perhaps out of madness. No,
the crown belonged to Tallirhan, and Caeron belonged to Dara!
"You killed my husband!" she shrieked, and kneed Aendasia in the
groin. The woman staggered backwards. Dara gripped her sword with both
hands and hacked at Aendasia with it as hard as she could. She kept
swinging and swinging; her shield broke free of its straps and fluttered
away. Finally, her sword broke over the shaft of the mace, but Aendasia
fell backwards to the ground.
Dara jumped on top of the insurrectionist leader and pulled a
dagger from her belt. She moved to plunge it into the woman's eye, but
stopped just before doing so. Killing her would not bring Caeron back.
If she could use mercy to bring the battle to an end, saving as many of
her subjects' lives as possible ...
"Order your army to surrender now, and I will spare your life!"
Aendasia looked at the dagger blade, less than a finger away, for
several moments, then turned her head to the side. "Raimundo, order our
surrender!"
"Exalted one!" An olive-skinned man moved into view. "You can't --"
"It is over," she said. "Order our surrender now!"
Dara stood and looked to the northwest where she heard hooves
pounding the ground. Between two of her household knights, she could see
in the distance the banner of Duke Northfield approaching. She stood and
looked about desperately for her sword. If Aendasia' trumpeters were too
slow in issuing the order she'd need to defend herself. Her search was
interrupted by the beating of deep drums and the sounding of horns. The
approaching hooves slowed and stopped.
A lord with a stately white falcon atop his great helm forced his
way through the knights. He tore off his helm, revealing copper-coloured
hair and a handsome face: Duke Valeran Northfield.
"Exalted wife, what in the name of --?"
"It is ended, Valeran," Aendasia snapped. She stood and turned her
mace such that the shaft pointed towards Dara, and she offered it to the
queen.
Dara was grateful at the offer; far, far too many lives had been
lost already. She would demand what was rightfully hers, however. Thank
the good God that Aendasia had enough sense to put an end to it when she
was beaten.
"It is proper for a queen's subjects to kneel before her and offer
their fealty," Dara said.
She could see tears welling up in Aendasia's eyes. The Beinisonian
empress bit down on a quivering lip, then slowly dropped to a knee and
lowered her head. Valeran Northfield, too, dismounted his horse and
lowered himself to a kneeling position. Dara handed the mace to a knight
that moved to her side. She looked about the ground and found her sword.
Wiping the blood off of it with the hem of her surcoat as best she
could, she offered it to Aendasia. The other woman paused for a long
moment, looking at the broken blade, then finally took it in her mailed
hands and kissed it. Dara heard the clanking of metal and when she
looked around, she could see that all of the knights around her were
kneeling.
She turned around and surveyed the battlefield and, amidst the
stiffening corpses that littered it, everyone was kneeling in homage to
her. The Great Houses War had been won.
29 Vibril, 904
Seven years to the day after King Caeron had been crowned by his
half-brother, Cyrridain, in the magnificent Magnus Cathedral of the
Stevene, Dara strode down an aisle of deep red carpet that ran along the
centre of the great hall in Crown Castle. A choir of men and women sang
a solemn Stevenic hymn as Dara moved past the assembled lords, knights,
and townsfolk who packed the massive chamber. Red and grey banners of
house Tallirhan adorned the great stone pillars and walls.
She looked up at the vaulted ceiling high above her head and
whispered a quick prayer of thanks. She felt an odd calm as she neared
the dais where the throne of Baranur, with the sovereign's crown resting
on it, waited for her. After all that she had gone through to get here,
the coronation ceremony seemed somewhat anticlimactic. She also
remembered the beautiful Stevenic ritual coronation she and her husband
had had, but knew that she had to assume her place as sovereign ruler in
the traditional manner, as all the rulers of Baranur had before her.
Cyrridain had been quite indignant at her decision, but Dara knew some
compromises had to be made if peace were to reign for years to come.
She realised she was drifting off into her own thoughts yet again;
a weakness she would have to work on, she reminded herself, and a brief
smile crept across her face. She reached down and took the
jewel-encrusted gilt crown in her gloved hands. Turning to face those
assembled, she recited the words of regency.
"By accepting this crown, I take upon myself the duty to rule and
protect our mighty kingdom of Baranur; may its enemies never overtake
her. I swear to protect her citizens, both noble and commoner, of all
faiths and lands. Behold your sovereign and ruler, Dara."
She then placed the crown on her head and felt the floor shake
beneath her as the crowd erupted with thunderous applause and cheering.
Knights held their swords in the air and cried, "Long live Queen Dara!"
Now, officially, she was queen and sovereign of Baranur, her homeland.
She knew the honour ought to have made her glad, but she felt only
sorrow that Caeron were not there as her king. She still wore mourning
blue, even on this ostensibly joyous occasion, and the tears that she
cried were not those of joy but of sorrow. The people would take them to
be tears of joy and pride, like the ones that had trickled down her face
in the great cathedral seven years ago, and that was just as well. She
knew that nothing, not even a crown, could fill the emptiness inside of
her.
Rather than being locked in a dungeon or otherwise punished for
their treason, Queen Dara had mercy on Aendasia Blortnikson and Valeran
Northfield, and they were banished to Beinison. The Northfield lands
were handed over to Valeran's eldest son of his first marriage. Arvalia
was divided and a new duchy, called Narragan, was bestowed upon the
loyal Baldwin Narragan. Monrodya, too, was cut up and a new duchy,
Leftwich, was created out of its southern lands. Sir Zephrym Vladon was
given governance of these lands as steward until the eldest child of
Baron Leftwich, who had been boiled alive by Aendasia for his loyalty to
Queen Dara, was old enough to rule.
Queen Dara reigned for twenty years and was much beloved by the
people. Many of them called her "Dara the Great". However, the wound of
losing her husband was one that never healed, and finally the burden of
that deep and abiding emptiness became too much for her to bear and she
stepped down, giving the crown to her only son, Brad. She then retired
to the Barony of Fennell in the Duchy of Dargon where her long-time
friend and advisor, Cyruz of Vidin, had created a monastery for Stevenic
monks. Dara lived there the rest of her days and was finally reunited
with King Caeron in 946.
Her other most trusted and beloved advisor, Duke Sumner Dargon,
lived the rest of his days ruling his duchy with wisdom and justice. He
remarried and bore heirs, whose descendents include Duke Clifton Dargon
II who, like his great-great-grandfather before him, fought valiantly
for House Tallirhan when one of Aendasia's descendents, Beinisonian
Emperor Untar II invaded Baranur.
Cyrridain Tallirhan remained Master Priest of the Stevenic High
Church in Magnus until his death in 932. In that time he recorded all
the events of the Great Houses War and the lives of King Caeron and Dara
in a seventeen volume account now known as the Anabasis of Cyrridain
Tallirhan.
========================================================================
The Game
Part 1
by P. Atchley <deepartha@yahoo.com>
and Mark A. Murray <wv_mark@yahoo.com>
Firil 15 - Naia 20, 1018
The room was dark and damp with but a single candle to light the
way. The bed was hard and mostly filled with old straw that reeked. It
wasn't anywhere near what I was used to, but for the moment I had no
other choice. I had been asked to tell my story and so I sat on the
small stool, took a long breath, and started.
I stepped out of the bathhouse just behind Masian, a young man who
was my friend and worked in the same house as I. He had washed his long,
corn-colored hair and it hung in damp strands. From movement out of the
corner of my eye, I saw a passing woman stare at him. When I looked at
her, the lust in her eyes was palpable, for he was a beautiful man.
Masian, unsurprisingly, didn't notice. He had been preoccupied since he
had returned from worship at the Stevenic Church that morning.
The woman's eyes met mine, and I winked at her. "You can visit him
at the Lucky Lady," I said. Her eyes widened, and her gaze went back to
Masian. This time, I could see calculations run through her mind. I knew
she would be amongst Masian's customers that night.
By this time, Masian had gone ahead so I raised my voice and said,
"Hold up." When I reached him, he was at the corner of Layman Street. He
had stopped and I looked to see why. He was staring at two guardsmen who
were standing and talking near the street corner. I looked and saw two
women, one older and one younger. They were Dargon Town Guards.
"Nusa ..." Masian said.
The older woman turned and when she saw us, her face closed. "Move
along now. No loitering," she said abruptly.
Masian opened his mouth, but the guard beat him to it. In a sharp
voice, she repeated, "I said, no loitering."
Something was obviously wrong, but I had no intention of allowing
Masian to anger the town guard. Some of them had an annoying tendency to
take it personally. I took his elbow and pushed him forward. "Come
along, Masian. Don't vex the guard. We're going, mistress." He allowed
himself to be pushed away, but as I glanced at his face, I saw the
downcast expression turn to sorrow.
"What's wrong?" I asked as we reached the back entrance to the
Lucky Lady, where we both worked and lived. It was a bar that catered to
the very rich. The proprietress, Eliza Tillipanary, had been gradually
working her way up the ranks of society where her clientele were
concerned, and we were now known as one of the more classy
establishments in Dargon. She had always had a few men in her house for
her female customers, although we had lost some in the past months. One
of the men had, of all things, fallen in love with and married the
seamstress who worked for Eliza. Now there was just Masian Abarris and
me, Delexand.
Masian had reached the top step of the staircase and he turned to
face me, saying, "That was my sister, Nusa." I understood. Nusa Abarris
had raised Masian after their parents had died, and as such, the two had
been closer to mother and son than siblings. When he had chosen the
game, as we called it here in the Lucky Lady, as his profession, it had
caused a rift between the two. Since Nusa was a strict Stevenic and had
raised her brother the same way, the rift had widened. That always
puzzled me, how Stevenics who didn't believe in fooling around before
marriage could choose to join the game. Eliza always said that it was
because Stevenism leached all the fun out of life. She was an atheist,
and I disapproved, for I was a devout follower of Osiniana myself. Even
though Stevenism was different, there was no need to disrespect it.
I followed Masian into a large room with shabby armchairs, and a
couple of desks with chairs against one wall. This was the employee
common room and was decorated with older furnishings. The rugs were worn
and the drapes that covered the open windows were thin. In the winter,
the curtains were no match for the weather, so we ended up closing the
windows against the elements. The fireplace was rarely lit, for our
nights were spent in the far nicer rooms that were reserved for clients.
I had expected at least some of the women to be in there, but the room
was empty.
Masian flung himself into an armchair. "I saw Nusa at the church
this morning," he said, reaching up and separating his wet hair, strand
by strand.
I sighed as I sat down by one of the desks. In one of the drawers,
I kept the little carvings I made. I opened the drawer and picked up the
one I was currently working on. It was of a shivaree. I liked to make
little carvings for my friends. This year, I was making one for my most
important client, a woman named Grana Baugar.
"She wouldn't even look at me."
"Masian," I began, trying to think of a way to cheer him up, but
also to help him deal with this. "Tell me, why did you join the game?"
He was silent for a moment as if searching for the right words. "I
wanted to know what it meant to become a man of the night. I wanted to
experience everything that my body had to offer. And it's fun!"
I chuckled. That last had sounded more real than anything else he'd
said. He still enjoyed his work. So did I, but there were some days when
I never wanted to see another female breast again. Masian didn't mind
being with either sex, so he had fun and variety. As such, he was very
popular with a lot of people. He brought in a quite a bit of money to
the Lucky Lady, and Eliza liked him for that reason. I couldn't have
done it, but I was older than Masian by about a decade and I'd been in
the game for a very long time. I sometimes reached a point when I
couldn't do it any more. When it happened, I'd go to Eliza and ask for
time off. Then I'd pack a little food and take off for a sennight, just
wandering through the forests outside Dargon without seeing another
person. It refreshed me in ways I couldn't begin to describe.
"Why won't she understand?" he muttered.
"Masian, a lot of people don't think of the game as a job," I said.
"Before you joined the game, did you ever think of prostitutes as people
at all?"
"No," he said sulkily. He had finished separating the strands of
his hair, and in the summer heat, it was almost dry. He had big golden
curls, and his dark eyebrows and eyelashes framed large, blue eyes. His
high cheekbones and lean face gave him an ascetic look. The entire
effect was androgynous.
I sighed again. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Masian. Look,
what we do isn't for the fainthearted. You have to be bold, and willing
to accept the game for what it is. It's a job, no more, no less. A lot
of people don't think of it that way, and you have to accept that too.
You can't force others to think of the game as we do."
Masian rose and went to one wall where there was a small mirror. It
was the one thing that Eliza had paid for, and I'd been the one who had
convinced her it was a worthwhile expense. I watched as Masian removed
his tunic and looked with a critical eye.
The door opened and two women, twin sisters, came in chatting.
"Delex," said Shea. "The door to the mirror room is stuck again. Can you
fix it?" They were both the same height but Shea seemed to be a bit
curvier in the hips. The hair on Shea's right side was colored red to
offset her blonde hair while Enia's hair on her left side was colored
red. This was today but who knew what color hair they would have
tomorrow. They were young and full of curiosity.
"Where's Bat?" Masian asked. Bat was the only servant in the Lucky
Lady who worked directly for us, and he'd been extremely efficient in
the past. During the past year, he'd begun drinking and I'd found him
lying dead to the world in the kitchen more often than not.
"Drunk again," Shea answered in disgust. "Aren't you coming down
tonight, Delex?"
I nodded. "Yes. I don't know if Grana will be here, so I'll
probably see who's around. I'll fix the door in a bit."
The other woman, Enia said, "Her runner came by. Said to tell you
she'd be in tonight." Enia started helping Masian paint his nipples.
Masian, in the summertime, frequently went down to the client receiving
room in nothing but a pair of tight breeches.
Grana liked to send her runner, a young boy named Vennie, ahead of
time so that she could be sure I was available. It was unfair, but since
there were so few of us men working for Eliza, we were usually much
sought after. Grana never liked to wait. She said that she would rather
spend the time talking to me of this and that than sit in the receiving
room waiting for me, no matter how well-furnished it was.
I nodded to Enia, rose, went to the door, stuck my head out and
yelled, "Page!" As I waited for the young boy to come up, I asked idly,
"Where are the others?"
Shea answered, "Most of them are downstairs."
The page entered, and I asked him to bring some chrysanthemum wine.
As the boy scampered off, I thought about how young everyone looked. Was
I getting too old for the game? I couldn't think of leaving completely.
There wasn't anything else I knew how to do. The only thing I wanted to
do if I stopped being a player was to run the game. Osiniana knew, I'd
do a better job than Eliza. She had been a lot nastier way back when,
when Liriss had been around. But after the man disappeared completely,
she had mellowed. Most of the women were happy, as far as they could be,
I supposed. But Eliza didn't care about her employees. I always felt
that happy employees meant happy customers. If it were up to me, I'd
hire a full time physician, not just a healer. I'd make sure my people
were happy, well taken care of, and had plenty of time off.
The page returned with the wine and I took it from him. He
disappeared down the corridor and as I came back inside the room, the
two women and Masian left. I walked toward the window, leaned out and
took a deep breath of the sea-scented air.
My female client, Grana Baugar, was almost a friend. She liked my
body and said that we fit. I liked her too, for we frequently had
interesting conversations. She was a rich merchant and a poet in her
spare time. She liked to share her work with me. Mostly she wrote about
the sea, and some of her verses were indeed beautiful, but sometimes she
wrote about my body. Beyond that, however, I liked her open-handed
generosity, for she tipped on evenings when I had pleased her more than
usual. So now I took the trouble to swish some wine in my mouth and spit
it out the window so that my breath would smell of chrysanthemum.
Next I fetched appropriate attire from the cupboard where we kept
communal work clothing and went back to the mirror in the living room. I
took a good look at myself: smooth bald pate, dark eyes, clean-shaven
face, a work tunic and by that I mean one in beautiful fabric that was
sewn tight with the ties forming loops between which skin peeked
through. The material was thin enough that it delineated the muscular
lines of my body. I frequently practiced fighting with a quarterstaff,
and since I also did a lot of the heavy lifting around the house, my
muscles were sharp. I grabbed Masian's makeup box and dabbed a little
perfume behind my ears.
I went downstairs into the receiving room, as Eliza liked to call
it, which was a small well-appointed room. In a sense, it was more of a
lobby, because customers came into it and then went upstairs. When I
entered, there were a few customers and a few women talking to them. Two
couples went upstairs. I'd timed my entrance fairly well. Grana showed
up within a mene and with another female in tow. The two of them wore
dresses of similar cut. The short, tight bodices with deep, wide
necklines were so tight that their breasts popped up, nipples barely
concealed. Below the bodice, the skirt fell to the ankle, clinging to
their thighs -- I knew the fabric had been deliberately dampened to
create exactly that effect.
I went to Grana, a buxom woman with mousy brown hair and
honey-colored eyes that looked as if a stone had been thrown into a
still pond. Her dress was a shade of ocher and I wondered how much she'd
spent on it, for that color was expensive. She moved into me, and I
kissed her using more than just my lips. When I let go, a sultry voice
next to my ears was saying "-- introduce me, Grana?"
Grana looked a little dazed, so I turned to face the newcomer. She
looked completely different from Grana. Her hair was the color of golden
corn, but her eyes were a greenish-blue, the color of the Valenfaer
Ocean just before it rained on a fine summer's day. Smiling, she put out
her hand to be clasped, and I almost laughed aloud at the expression on
her face. She was almost as tall as me, and her dress was a dull gray,
but it was anything but drab. It was as if the entire ocean was in her
gaze, and it didn't matter what she wore.
"I'm Jande Tes." Her voice was smooth and low.
I shook her hand, bemused. This was a client. I gathered my
thoughts together and pulled her forward for a kiss. She kissed me back,
but it was a hesitant kiss. She even kept most of her rather thin body
away from me, unlike the way Grana had kissed me earlier. Curiosity
gripped me. I'd known Grana for a long time, but she had never brought
anyone in. I turned to face Grana and she was smiling at both of us in a
very proprietary manner.
She introduced us formally. "Jande, this is Delexand. Delex, this
is Jande Tes, a friend of mine." Then she turned to face me, pulling me
away. I saw Jande watch us and couldn't drag my gaze away. Then Grana
pinched my chest between one of the loops of my tunic and I turned to
face her, wincing.
"Sorry," she said, her fingers rubbing the skin smooth. "Jande lost
her husband recently and she's been moping. I thought a night with you
might cheer her up. Be extra nice to her, will you?"
I looked down at Grana, who was almost two hands shorter than me,
and nodded. "I will. What about you?"
She laughed. "Eliza says Masian will be down shortly. I'm curious
to see if he's as good as he appears." She pulled my head down to hers
and kissed me again. When she finally let me go, she was breathing so
hard that her bodice slipped, letting a breast pop up out of the fabric.
I absently pushed her ample assets back inside the cloth, and realized
that she had pulled out three ties on my tunic. I knotted them, smiled
at her and turned away to Jande, who was watching us with almost a
quizzical look in her eye.
Unsure what to expect, but knowing that whoever had paid for my
time would have arranged with Eliza to have me for the entire night, I
extended a hand to Jande, smiling. She placed hers gently in mine, and I
led her upstairs. The room that we entered was a small interior room
with no windows, but it was nicely furnished. A large double bed
occupied the entire room, and there was barely enough room to move
around. The mattress had a plush-looking coverlet with embroidery around
the edges, and in the center. There were beautiful tapestries on two of
the walls. An ornate carved sconce was mounted on the wall just above
the headboard, and two iron candle stands stood on the nightstands on
either side of the bed. I had brought a candle with me, and I proceeded
to light one of the other candles.
"Please light everything," she said.
I frowned as I lit every candle.
"The sconce
too, please."
I stood on the bed and lit it, then got down and went out of the
room to put the lit torch back from where I'd gotten it. When I returned
to the room, it looked beautiful. It had always been one of my favorite
rooms for this reason. Because there were no windows, the light from the
candles and the sconce lit the room with a golden glow. The ornate
carving of the sconce and the iron candle stands with the branches gave
the room a rich feeling that was augmented by the huge embroidered
designs on the pillow cases. Jande had folded the coverlet neatly to one
side, exposing the dull, but clean, sheets underneath. She was still
fully dressed, which surprised me. Then I reminded myself that she had
just been widowed.
I crawled onto the bed and sat, legs crossed. We stared at each
other. Her eyes were wide, lips slightly parted; I could see the quick
rise and fall of her slender bosom. I smiled at her gently and began to
very slowly untie the top knot of my tunic. She watched in silence. The
first knot was undone. Her eyes had fallen to my chest, and when my
hands moved to the second knot, she glanced up. I met her eyes seriously
for a moment, and then winked. She gasped in surprise and closed her
eyes, smiling. I waited until she opened her eyes before proceeding to
the next knot. I watched her watch me untie each knot ever so slowly,
and when I was finally done, I removed the tunic and threw it away
behind my shoulders. It landed on the ground between the bed and the
wall with a soft noise.
We stared at each other unblinkingly, and she made no move to
remove any clothing. When I leaned forward slightly, she leaned
backwards. I stayed where I was, but changed position so that I was
kneeling. Still holding her gaze, I unbuttoned my breeches and, without
removing them, crawled toward her. She moved backwards again a little,
then stopped and sunk back against the pillow, eyes widening. I placed
my hands on the bed on either side of her and bent to kiss her.
It was just as hesitant as the kiss we had shared outside in the
receiving room. She responded, but made no move to deepen it. I released
her and leaned back slowly. She was breathing heavily and stared into my
eyes with heavy lids. This time it was she who extended her arms to me
in invitation.
I came back to the present. The woman handed me a mug of wine. I
drank half of it, letting the tart taste fill my mouth.
"I had many experiences with women," I told her. "I know when
something is wrong. There was definitely something amiss with Jande. I
had thought it was because she had recently lost her husband. If I had
only pried into her life a bit more ..."
========================================================================
Walking the Venilek
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Seber 1, 1018
Donin looked up at the peaked top of the campanile as the bell
under that crest tolled for the fifth time. He thought yet again
about climbing the intricately patterned brick facing of the tower,
slipping through the arches just below the verdigris roof, and attaching
some metal slats to the bell just to change its tone for a while.
The noise of the Venilek Market that had ebbed during the
bell-sounding rose again to its normal levels. Donin's booth, solidly
built but not quite permanent, was on the Traders Avenue side of the
triangular market, across from the bell tower but farther up, closer to
Thockmarr Street. There weren't many permanent booths in the market, and
they were mostly at the Street of Travellers end of Thockmarr, but Donin
hoped to own one someday.
For now, he was solidly in the semi-permanent section, which meant
that he didn't have to pack up every night and tote his wares into one
of the storage bays on the other side of Travellers. That meant that he
could sell longer, not to mention the fact that pottery was heavy, and
not having to lug it around every day was a blessing that his back
appreciated.
Donin listened to the vendors all around him crying their wares. He
never bothered with the hawking any more; he was the only one selling
Corathin Pottery goods this side of the Coldwell River, and everyone
knew it. Corathin Pottery fairly sold itself, which was evident just by
looking at all of the gaps on his shelves. That was why Donin was
looking around so intently: the shipment from the pottery was late.
"Timbek!" Donin looked around for his shop assistant and found him
on the other side of the booth chatting to some pretty young women.
"Timbek, keep an eye on things. I'm going for a walk."
Timbek waved distractedly as the women giggled at something he'd
said. Donin smiled, shook his head, and slipped out of the booth,
wistfully remembering when he was young.
He walked roughly eastward through the neat lanes that existed at
this end of the market. The vendors were selling glassware, carved wood,
leather items, metal pots and decorations. The more permanent booths
contained more costly items like weaponry and jewelry. The merchants
weren't necessarily as durable as their stalls were: Donin recognized
Trills Candles and Hailibek's Leather, but several of the signs he
passed -- Glass by Rodina, Broins Hornware -- were new.
The farther east he went, the more temporary the booths became and
the less substantial the wares. By the time the booths vanished, to be
replaced by carts and finally blankets placed haphazardly about, they
were selling rags and scraps, which gave way to grains and roots and
vegetables at the pointed end of the market. In fact, down where
Travellers and Traders crossed Merchant's Way, the market spilled all
around the five-way intersection at least once a sennight when the
outlying farms brought in their surplus, more often during harvest.
Donin wove his way between the temporary selling spots and stood at
the point of the marketplace, scanning the distances for the wagon from
Corathin that should have arrived yesterday. Last day of the month, that
was how it always worked. But there were no wagons in sight.
He walked back up Traders Avenue, wondering whether the recent
small spate of disasters could have had anything to do with the late
delivery, what with the causeway being down. But the distant location of
the Corathin Pottery was on this side of the Coldwell River, so that
couldn't be the problem. The sounds of the market -- haggling, hawking,
rustling of wares, happy chattering of customers shopping -- echoed off
the pavers of Traders and the wooden fronts of the warehouses on Donin's
right. The smell of dirt from the vegetables was replaced by the scent
of spices, and then the scent of wood as he walked further north and
west.
He could see the gaping shelves of his booth when he heard a shout
of "Stop, thief!"
He looked around, but when the call came again he realized that it
was Timbek doing the yelling.
Donin sprinted up to his stall, arriving to find two city guards
already there. He was briefly glad to see the blue and grey uniforms,
but when he recognized the familiar visage of Liat, one of the guards
who regularly patrolled through the market, he was no longer quite as
happy: the dilapidated condition of Liat's uniform reflected the general
attention he paid his duties. The younger of the two guards, though,
looked interested in the goings-on and Donin wondered who he was.
Donin stopped next to Timbek, who pointed at a silver coin resting
against the wall on the other side of Traders at the feet of a
well-dressed gentleman. "I ... I dropped it, Donin, and it rolled over
there. That guy was just starting to look down, and I ... I didn't want
him to grab it, or ... or something ..."
Donin frowned at his assistant, then walked over to the gentleman.
"Your pardon, good sir," he said. "Did you drop that coin?"
The well-dressed man looked down, then looked back at Donin with a
haughty expression and said, "No," with an inflection that made it
impossible to believe that he had ever even seen such a low-value coin.
Donin stooped, picked up the coin, and smiled apologetically to the
gentleman. He looked over to reassure Liat and his companion that all
was well, but they had already walked on. He sighed, walked back to his
booth, slipped inside, and put the coin in the cash box.
When he looked up, the gentleman had walked over to the booth and
was looking at the shelves. Donin said, "Can I help you with something?"
"You're Donin, yes? I've heard you're the only one who sells
Corathin pottery on this side of the river, but I don't see much of a
selection here."
Donin's heart sank. He'd been afraid of this. No matter what he
said, this man would spread the word among his friends -- the high class
loved to gossip, everyone knew that -- and he'd have to pay some runners
to go spread the word when his stock was replenished or his customers
would never come back.
He opened his mouth, hoping inspiration would give him the right
words, when he heard the slow rhythm of wagon wheels on the pavers of
Traders. He looked to his right, and saw a very sweet sight in the form
of Kolen, the delivery person from the Corathin Pottery.
"Fortune smiles on you, good mi'lord. You will get the first choice
of the latest delivery, which is only now pulling up!"
The wagon drew up alongside Donin's booth. Two boys hopped off its
tail and began unloading it quickly and carefully. Each pot or bowl
passed through the hands of the gentleman after it was unpacked and
before it was placed on the shelves. Donin decided, as he placed a blue
jug and a green bowl on a shelf, that it was going to be a good day
after all.
========================================================================
