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 --   DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 3        02/16/90          Cir 964    --
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 --                            Contents                                --
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  Materia Medica I            Max Khaytsus           Ye. 3 - Yi 19, 1013
  Sons of Gateway III: Death  Jon Evans              Yi. 7 - No. 2, 1013
  When the War-God Weeps      M. Wendy Hennequin     26 Deber, 1014
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1                            Materia Medica
                                 Part 1
                             by Max Khaytsus
               <b.c.k.a. khaytsus%tramp@boulder.colorado.edu>

      Liriss  looked out  the window  at the  people rushing  about the
 street. It was  late afternoon and the traffic of  midday shoppers and
 travellers filled  Dargon's streets as  always. He sipped at  the wine
 from the  glass in his hand,  wondering how to deal  with the problems
 that surround  his life.  Rebellious workers  were becoming  the norm,
 rather than  exception and he worried  greatly about how to  get order
 reinstated in his ranks.
      Ever since Kera  left without being brought back,  it seemed that
 discipline had become lax and the  activities of the men centered more
 and more around pleasure, instead of work. Liriss turned around at the
 sound of  the door  opening. "Kendall,"  he hurried  to greet  the man
 walking in.
      Kendall  nodded in  acknowledgement and  pulling up  a chair  sat
 down, knowing full  well that Liriss would consider it  rude. "What do
 you want?"
      Kendall was quite right in his assumption and Liriss stood in the
 middle of the room, staring at him for a long moment, before returning
 to the window. He took another  sip from the glass, wondering just how
 much he should try the assassin's patience, then sat down at his desk.
 "Do you remember Kera?" Liriss asked.
      "Quite well. She was popular among your men for a time."
      That time, a  little over a year before, Kendall  did another job
 for Liriss, one  that forced Liriss to swear that  he would never hire
 this man  again, but as  circumstances would  have it, the  town guard
 forgot the incident  and the need for reliability  once again exceeded
 cautious instincts. "A  little under two months ago  she joined forces
 with a man  who has caused me  much grief," Liriss said.  "I'd like to
 arrange a termination."
      "My fee hasn't changed," Kendall hinted.
      Liriss  pulled a  pouch  from  a desk  drawer  and  tossed it  to
 Kendall. "Take  a look  at the  coins. Kera stole  these from  the man
 before joining him."
      Kendall drew the  strings on the pouch open and  poured the coins
 into his hand. "Very old. Expensive. He could certainly buy her."
      "At least two  centuries old," Liriss said,  ignoring the remark.
 Kendall was  a professional assassin  and as  such he could  often get
 away with comments  that would cost a mere worker  a good flogging. Of
 course even Liriss  believed that there was  a limit of what  a man in
 his employ,  no matter  how temporary,  could get  away with  and this
 temporary hire was  approaching it fast. "Kera  stole fifty-seven from
 that fellow," Liriss  continued. "I am sure these five  will more than
 cover your fee..."
      "They are  sufficient," Kendall answered, returning  the coins to
 the pouch. "Give me a description of the man."
      Liriss nodded. "I got one from the  survivor of a party of four I
 sent after them." His gaze became hard. Tilden was a reliable man, but
 a bad job  forced him to snap. He hardly  deserved the punishment, but
 failure should be discouraged in a  business such as this. "The guy is
 about six foot, blond with grey eyes. Somewhat muscular."
      "That's all you know? Where?"
      Liriss  honestly didn't  know.  "They were  headed  out of  town,
 towards Tench, but that was almost two months ago."
      Kendall stood up. "I'll let you know."
      Liriss stood  up as well. "Kill  him, bring Kera back  alive," he
 gave his final instruction and Kendall stopped.
1     "No. I  am not a chaperon.  Once the money is  down, they're both
 dead."
      "Whatever,"  Liriss slumped  back in  his chair  as the  assassin
 left. It wasn't really that important  to get Kera back alive, but for
 the sake of self indulgence, Liriss  wanted to kill her himself. Maybe
 kill her, maybe not. There might still be a use for her...

      "...Maari's death does not trouble me," the old warlock Natay was
 saying. "I don't know anyone whom she  could call a friend and I doubt
 she knew anyone  well. What I see  as a problem is  that strangers may
 know our secrets."
      An old woman on his right whispered in his ear and he nodded. "My
 judgement," Natay  continued, "is  that the book  must be  located and
 returned and those who took it, killed." He stood up, casting one last
 glance  around the  table, challenging  the  members of  the coven  to
 comment, then,  when the  room remained silent  long enough  to assure
 that there would  be no descent, disappeared through a  doorway at the
 back of the room.
      Other members  of the coven  started getting up,  quietly talking
 among themselves and  leaving. "Mija, Alicia," the  old woman, Tsazia,
 called.  The two  young witches  approached. "I  will instruct  you on
 executing your job. Be prepared to go tomorrow morning."
      Mija and  Alicia waited for the  room to empty, then  sat down at
 the table again.
      "So much for that job Maari had for us," Mija said.
      "My heart  wasn't set  on it anyhow,"  Alicia answered.  "I could
 never stand the  way she looked at me. Come  tomorrow we'll be hunting
 people for her."
      "That's stupid," Mija said. "We're going to be killing people not
 for killing  Maari and not for  stealing, but because we  suspect they
 may know something, which is down right stupid! Most people can't even
 read!"
      "Maari always  wrote in Old  Script," Alicia added. "I  doubt too
 many people can read that. Maybe  a few mages and scholars... Maybe we
 won't have to kill..."
     "We'll have to kill," Mija reassured her.  "You know how it works."
      The two fell  silent as Tsazia returned and placed  a sack on the
 table. "What are you sitting around for?" she asked. "I told you we're
 leaving in the morning. Go get ready!"

      "Didn't I tell you not to come here?" Taishent demanded of Rien.
      "You did," Rien admitted, "but  that does not lessen my necessity
 of speaking with you."
      Taishent stepped outside and closed the door behind him. "I don't
 want my  granddaughter exposed  to either your  disease or  the people
 looking for your friend. Go or I'll call the town guard."
      "Sir, I don't  think that anything you or the  town guard will do
 to me can be worse than what I've been through this past month."
      "Why are you  so stubborn?" the old wizard shook  his head. "What
 is it you want?"
      Rien looked  about and although  the street was  almost deserted,
 said, "You might want to step inside for that."
      Taishent shook his head. "I don't think so."
      "Very well," Rien produced a thick black leather covered book and
 handed it over.
      The mage looked  at the cover, then opened it  to the first page.
 The book instantly snapped shut. "Where  did you get this? Do you know
 what it is?"
      Rien nodded. "A shadow book," he said, not changing his tone.
      Taishent looked about. "Step inside for a minute."
1     Rien calmly followed the old man into the house.
      "Where did you get it?"
      "That old woman  you sent me to find. She  wasn't very friendly,"
 Rien said.
      "So you killed her?"
      "No. Someone who had a much older conflict with her did that."
      "Do you know what this is worth?"
      "I can imagine," Rien said. "A cure most definately."
      "So you came back to me?"
      "I came to you," Rien said,  "because it's written in Old Script,
 something my education  did not provide. I want to  trade the contents
 for a translation."
      Taishent thought for  a while. "All right, it's  worth the risks.
 Leave the book here, come back in a week."
      With a slight hesitation, Rien thanked  the mage and left. It was
 somewhat of a risk  to leave the book behind, but it was  no more of a
 risk that  he took  with Terell  and at this  point promptness  was of
 great importance.  As he walked  down the  street, a small  dark shape
 jumped off the roof and followed him in silent flight.

      "Rumor has it Liriss brought in an  out of town sword for you and
 your friend,"  Ellis whispered to  Kera. "He's been nosing  around the
 market place,  asking questions. Lot's  of people are willing  to sell
 you, if only they knew where you are.  Most have no more to go on than
 a bad description."
      "I was hoping  to learn more," Kera said. "Who  is he? Where does
 he stay?"
      "Sorry," Ellis responded. "He asks  a lot of questions, but keeps
 a low  profile. I don't  think anyone has  really seen him.  Each time
 it's a different person that asks."
      "What else's new in Dargon?"
      Ellis shrugged.  "The Duke got  married to some girl  from Magnus
 just a few  days ago. Luthias Connall was made  Baron...have you heard
 about the war?"
      Kera shook her head.
      "There are rumors of a Bichuese  invasion by the end of the year.
 Everyone's ready  to panic.  Everyone except Simon,  that is.  He said
 they'd be  crazy to  come this  far. There's  plenty of  good pickings
 elsewhere."
      "An invasion..." Kera repeated.
      "Don't  worry about  it," Ellis  hurried to  say. "I  don't think
 anyone's coming before winter."
      "Like there  aren't enough problems  as it is," Kera  sighed. She
 glanced around to make sure no one  was too close. "I don't know where
 I'll be in  the mean time, but  keep your ears open, huh?  I'll try to
 stop by again soon."
      "No  problem," Ellis  answered. "There's  plenty of  talk on  the
 streets."
      "Great," Kera smiled. "I really appreciate what you're doing. See
 ya." She  turned away  from the  cart and  quickly disappeared  in the
 crowd.
      As a city of over ten thousand souls, Dargon had plenty of crowds
 to  assist people  in need  with  escaping the  unwanted attention  of
 others. As the crowd thined out  towards the edge of the market place,
 Kera took a side street off Traders' Avenue and made her way down back
 alleys to the docks. She spied a  crowd gathering as a large ship made
 its way into  port and stopped to watch. The  ship swung around wildly
 in the heavy current at the mouth of the Coldwell and to the cheers of
 the sailors on shore, neared the dock.
      In the moment of anticipation of watching the ship dock, Kera was
1startled by  a hand landing  on her shoulder  and throwing her  to the
 ground at  the mouth of  the alley. The hood  of her cloak  fell back,
 completely  revealing her  face. Above  her stood  a muscular  sailor,
 smiling, holding up a belaying pin.
      "Don't reach for  anything," he said, noticing the  dagger in her
 belt. "Keep  those arms spread out."  He reached down to  grab hold of
 the dagger  and brought it up  with a jerk, without  releasing it from
 the belt.
      The blade cut completely through  the belt and the sailor's smile
 became vicious. "So what would you be  good for? Or should I just turn
 you over to someone?"
      The dagger went  flying across the alley and  Kera pushed herself
 back, a little  closer to the wall.  She still had a  second dagger at
 her side, currently hidden by the folds of the cloak.
      "I think  you've got the  wrong person," Kera said,  knowing full
 well this man  knew she was bluffing. Even in  Dargon accusations like
 this would not happen so casually.
      "No, I'm  pretty sure  it's you they're  looking for,  bitch. You
 think the  town guard or  Liriss would pay  more for you?"  the sailor
 continued asking.
      "Suppose someone offers  more than either of  them?" Rien's voice
 sounded from behind the sailor.
      Kera was grabbed by the waist  band of her pants and remainder of
 the belt  and shoved  up against  the wall. "I  don't think  you could
 afford it," the sailor eyed Rien.
      Rien flashed  a few gold coins.  "How much would it  take to make
 you forget you ever saw her?"
      The grip  on Kera  increased as  the sailor  eyed the  coins. She
 quickly pulled the second dagger from beneath the cloak and planted it
 squarely in his side.
      With a  scream the sailor brought  his staff around to  strike at
 Kera, only  to have  it blocked  by Rien's  arm. With  a twist  of the
 staff, the sailor's arm was forced back down.
      Kera, in the meantime, pushed  the dagger forward, cutting almost
 a quarter circle on the sailor's  body, before pulling it out. Another
 strike at his arm convinced the man to let go of her as he sank to the
 ground.
      "How much  do you  think you're  worth to  the town  guard?" Rien
 knelt before  the sailor. "That's  what I thought," he  said, watching
 the man's face  contort in pain. "Here," he tossed  a coin. "Give this
 to the healer if you manage to make it to one."
      Rien got up  and pushing Kera ahead of himself,  hurried down the
 alley. "We're not splitting up in this town again."
      As they ran down the alley, a small black creature jumped down on
 the dying  sailor and picked  up the gold  coin. The seaman  stared in
 horror at  the grotesque  little man with  wings standing  before him,
 then fell to the ground, gasping from the loss of blood.

      "What do you think?" Kera spun about, showing off her new belt to
 Rien.
      "We're in more trouble than a few coins could take care of."
      "Relax! No one saw us!"
      "It's not that  we may have been seen. We  have a bigger problem.
 This town looks to have a bounty out on you."
      Both fell  silent as they approached  the store clerk to  pay for
 the belt. The man eyed Kera suspiciously while making change, but said
 nothing.
      "I found  out Liriss brought in  an out of town  assassin to kill
 me," Kera  said as  they left  the counter.  "He's been  asking around
 about me. Bad strategy, I'd say."
1     "Is it?" Rien asked. "Looks like the whole town is on the lookout
 for you. If  he is being paid to  make sure the job is  done, the best
 thing for him to do is spread the  news, then lean back and wait for a
 return of the information on where you are."
      "There  isn't anything  we can  do then,"  Kera said.  "Sooner or
 later someone is going to recognize me again."
      "We have to keep you hidden," Rien agreed. "Perhaps there is also
 a way to lure the assassin out into the open..."

      "Pardon  me,"  Taishent  pushed  his way  between  Thuna  and  an
 apparently potential costumer into Corambis' market place booth.
      "Hey! Wait your turn, geeb!" the  girl shouted after him, but the
 door slammed shut  before the girl could follow.  "Old geezer...!" she
 started  on a  lengthy  string of  explicatives,  making the  customer
 retreat to the street.
      "You'll never  believe what  I have!"  Taishent said  to Corambis
 breathlessly inside the small casting room.
      "What?"  Corambis  stood up,  surprised  at  the intrusion.  "You
 didn't pick up another orb from that crazy old gypsy, did you?"
      "No, no! Look!" Taishent unwrapped  a large cloth bundle, pulling
 out a thick leather tome.
      Corambis  picked up  the volume  and carefully  opened it  to the
 first page. "Esch  ed aur. Er ols,  er kalt," he read.  "Where did you
 get this?" His stern gaze focused on Taishent.
      "That young man who was bit by the wolfling I found brought it to
 me. Do you realize what we could learn?"
      Corambis thought for a  moment, mumbling "the risk...the risk..."
 then, putting  the book on the  table, went to the  door. "Thuna, make
 sure no one disturbs us. I'm closing shop for the day."

      "If we keep this  up, I might as well wear a  sack over my head,"
 Kera complained to Rien.  "Why don't we just go to  the city guard and
 tell them there's an assassin after me?"
      "Announcing this to the guard would only disclose your location,"
 Rien said. "If this assassin is as good as you said, he is waiting for
 us to seek outside help as well."
      Kera sighed,  staring at the plate  of food before her.  "I'm not
 really hungry. Let's go do something."
      "Like what?" Rien asked.
      "You're not planning to spend a whole week at this inn, are you?"
      "Is there something else we need to do?"
      "I've done things more exiting than eat wrapped in a cloak."
      "Don't think  I'm comfortable," Rien  said. "And I  haven't heard
 any better ideas.
      "We can go look for the assassin," Kera suggested.
      Rien shook his  head. "That would only call more  attention to us
 and alert him."
      "I don't want to spend another evening watching you stare out the
 window," Kera protested.
      "I was meditating," Rien explained.  "The assassin is waiting for
 someone to announce  that you have been  caught. I could do  it, but I
 expect he is looking for me as well."
      "Then why don't  we go upstairs, relax, have some  fun and forget
 about all this?" Kera asked.
      Rien smiled,  but caught himself.  "I already told you;  not when
 someone is hunting us."
      Kera smiled too, remembering the episode in the forest. "We're in
 an inn that has locks on the doors," she laughed.
      "No," Rien  said sternly. "I am  not willing to take  a risk like
 that." He turned to  face the common room door and  froze looking at a
1man who was looking at him. "Oh, not now..."
      The man, dressed in chain armor and carrying a sword at his side,
 started towards the table and Kera pulled out her dagger.
      "Put that away," Rien said as the man approached.
      The warrior was  young, clean shaven and  noticeably both excited
 and in a hurry. "My Lord," he saluted Rien and handed him a parchment.
      "The seal is broken," Rien noted, unrolling the paper and staring
 at the man sternly.
      "I am sorry, my Lord," the  man answered. "It was to be delivered
 to you before  the first of Melrin,  but because I was  unable to find
 you, I was forced to read it to see how urgent it was."
      Rien did  not respond. He read  the message, then returned  it to
 the messenger. "Can you find someone  else to take care of this? There
 is no indication of urgency."
      "I was told to deliver this to you specifically, sir."
      "You indicated you  were willing to deliver this  to someone else
 if you ran  out of time," Rien  said. "Take it to Sharks'  Cove -- the
 trip should take about a month."
      "Are you sure, my Lord?" the courier asked.
      "Positive," Rien nodded. "I came here on vacation and haven't had
 much rest  yet. I shall  forward a  message as soon  as I am  ready to
 resume my duties."
      The courier bowed and hastily departed.
      "You want to tell me what's going on?" Kera asked.
      "Not really," Rien  said and Kera frowned. "My work  caught up to
 me in an inopportune time."
      "What  do you  do?"  Kera  asked. "Even  a  lord  makes a  living
 somehow."
      Rien sighed,  beginning to  tell a story  which would  not reveal
 much. In  the rafters above him  the little black man  with wings bent
 forward to hear better and somewhere across town three witches watched
 a pair of water filled cups displaying the common room of the inn.
      "See the cheek  bones?" Tsazia asked. "The  straight forehead? He
 is elven."
      "He  looks  normal  to  me,"   Alicia  said.  "I  don't  see  the
 difference."
      "Neither do I," Mija said. "I think he looks as human as anyone."
      The old witch  shook her head in disappointment  at her students'
 blindness. "It may be a good idea to take him alive so you can examine
 him closely. You watch. I'll begin the preparations."

      Back at the inn Kera looked at Rien with a confused expression on
 her face. "You're a mercenary? Bounty hunter?"
      "Not really,"  Rien said  after some thought.  "I don't  have the
 authority to  transport criminals.  I have to  deal with  them through
 other means."
      "Like what?"
      "Kill them, give  them something new to worry about  so they keep
 out of the way. Even set them up to be arrested. Any means to keep the
 peace."
      Kera still  looked confused. "But  that's what the town  guard is
 for. Why  would someone do something  like that? Most people  are just
 happy with  their money  and take  care of  problems when  they affect
 them. I can't imagine anyone paying for something like this."
      "As you can see," Rien  answered, "someone does invest money into
 it. To be  more precise, my employer  found it would cost  him less in
 the  long  run  to  invest   money  in  troubleshooters  and  practice
 preventative measures rather than wait for the problems to mature."
      "Who do you work for?" Kera asked.
      "I can't  tell you, but you  can easily eliminate all  the people
1who would not be able to afford my services."
      Kera was, again, dissatisfied with the answer.
      "If you're done playing with  your food," Rein prompted her, "I'm
 more than ready to go."

      Alicia tapped  one of the cups  to disturb the image  of Rien and
 Kera walking  upstairs in the  inn. "Go find  the two old  mages," she
 instructed.
      The  view in  the two  cups dropped  down and  concentrated on  a
 partially open shutter  high above the bar. The  window quickly neared
 and bright blue sky and white clouds rapidly came into view.
      "Let's get  the book back tonight,"  Mija said. "We can  kill the
 mages and have  only the elf left  to worry about. I want  to see just
 how different these creatures are."
      "What about the girl?" Alicia asked.
      "I  don't know.  Kill  her, experiment  on  her. Whatever  Tsazia
 says."
      "You know," Alicia  said after some time of  watching the running
 image in the  cups, "I never killed anyone. I've  watched it done, but
 I've never done it..."
      Mija looked away from the image in the water as well. "I did only
 once. Just don't think about it.  Treat it like sacrificing an animal.
 As a matter of fact, it's just a sacrifice without a ceremony..."
      "I have problems sacrificing animals too. They all look so cute."
      "But you've done it."
      "I didn't like it."
      Mija thought for a moment. "If you start on a job and whoever you
 are going  to kill knows you  will kill them, they  will retaliate and
 only one side will survive. Does that make it easier?"
      Alicia nodded, although deep down inside it still felt wrong.
      In the two  cups an enclosed booth in the  market place became an
 obvious destination as it rapidly grew in dimensions.

      The  dark creature  swooped  over the  wooden  shingled roof  and
 catching  itself on  the edge  tried forcing  itself inside  through a
 narrow crack between the roof and the wall.
      "Bah!  How do  you expect  to finish  this in  a week?"  Corambis
 looked at Taishent.
      The old mage looked up from the book. "If we work quickly and..."
      "Fifty  years and  your  handwriting hasn't  gotten any  better!"
 Corambis grumbled.
      "Do you want to read mine or Maari's?" Taishent asked.
      "Yours," Corambis answered after shuffling some notes before him.
 "I've been working on reading it for too many years to give up now."
      The two men returned to work  in silence as their uninvited guest
 made his way along  a fold in the cloth that  protected the booth from
 rain and settled comfortably by the main beam.
      Another  few  minutes  of  silence  and  Corambis  spoke  "What's
 `laht'?"
      "I think it's seaweed," Taishent said.
      "Indeed," Corambis acknowledged. "Seaweed soup?"
      "What?" Taishent looked up.
      "You tell me.  You copied it. Two quarts water,  pinch of garlic,
 four carrots, laht, two live mice, pinch of ginsing..."
      Taishent  madly flipped  a few  pages back  as Corambis  went on,
 "...birch bark, poplar leaves..."
      "Sorry," Corambis  interrupted him. "Four carrots,  half pound of
 potatoes, beet  juice...that must  be the soup."  He turned  the page.
 "Then here it  talks about flying potions. Water  parsnip, sweet root,
 cinquefoil, laht, two  live mice, pinch of ginsing,  poplar leaves and
1250  drams  of cannabis  Indica.  Boil  for  half  an hour  and  drink
 immediately."
      Corambis frowned. "The mice too?"
      "Doesn't say,"  Taishent answered.  "This sounds pretty  bad, you
 know."
      "It's bound to make one crawl before flying," Corambis noted. "If
 Thuna gets out of hand again, I may have her try it."
      Silence fell in the room again. The two men continued to work and
 their uninvited guest to watch. The view of his eyes still appeared in
 the two cups  of water as the witches studied  their targets. "They're
 learning far too much," Mija said. "Let's go dispatch them now."
      "No," Alicia stopped him. "Not in broad daylight in the middle of
 the  market. It  will keep."  Secretly she  hoped it  would keep  much
 longer.

      Kera  lay horizontally  across the  bed,  staring at  Rien as  he
 undressed. "You sure you won't change your mind?" she asked.
      "Positive,"  he answered,  laying his  tunic and  pants across  a
 chair. "Don't you have any will power?"
      "Sure," she said. "I can go all night long."
      Rien  sat down  on the  bed. "That's  fine. I  intend to  rest. I
 suggest you do the same."
      Kera got  up and started  removing her clothing. "Are  you sure?"
 she asked again.
      "Positive,"  Rien  repeated  himself. "What's  gotten  into  you,
 anyway?"
      "What if  there is nothing  in that book  to help us?  Maari said
 there was no cure..."
      "Then we'll have to work on  an alternative. A little quicker and
 more to the point."
      "What  about  whoever you  work  for?"  Kera asked.  "Aren't  you
 supposed to be a good investment?"
      "We don't  have the time to  reach Magnus," Rien said.  "We never
 did. Besides, in Magnus solving this problem would be a lot easier due
 to the sheer number of doctors and sages."
      "But shouldn't your employer at least know?"
      "He is aware  that I can die  at any time because  of the dangers
 involved in my job. My profession is filled with risks."
      With a sigh Kera finished undressing  and got into bed. "At least
 you're warm," she said, blowing out the candle.
      Rien picked up a pillow and  muffled his companion. "I don't want
 to hear it," his voice sounded in the dark.

      It was  a little past  midnight when  the two young  witches made
 their way  to the  market place.  They observed a  dim light  from the
 cracks in Corambis' booth, indicating that work was still going on.
      "I was worried we'd be too late," Mija said. "Let's hurry and get
 this over with." He produced a pearl from a leather pouch on his belt.
 "This is one expensive spell. I hope it works."
      He started walking  down the street, when Alicia  grabbed his arm
 and pulled him into the bushes.
      "Wha...?" Mija begun  to say as her hand clamped  over his mouth.
 She pointed  in the  direction of  the booth,  not twenty  yards away.
 Before it now stood a half dozen armored men.

      Lieutenant Kalen  Darklen looked at the  shimmering light dancing
 on  the ground  through a  crack in  the wall.  "This is  strange," he
 commented to the guard next to him. "Come along. You four wait here."
      Kalen and his  men started their shift a short  while before, and
 as usual, having taken the road from the main gate up Traders' Avenue,
1they were planning  to check out the market place  and proceed down to
 the docks.  For the last  few days, due to  unrest in the  local crime
 organization and  an outpouring of bloody,  sometimes viciously killed
 corpses,  the patrols  were  raised from  three or  four  people to  a
 minimum of six.
      Kalen and  his assistant made  their way  to the entrance  of the
 booth and knocked.  After a second, louder knock, the  door was opened
 by  Corambis. "Yes?"  he looked  at the  Lieutenant of  the Guard.  "I
 regret to  say, sir, I  am unable  to make a  casting for you  at this
 hour, but if you come back during the day..."
      A smile  spread on  Kalen's face.  "I was  checking to  make sure
 everything was all right, sir," he explained. "It's very late."
      "Well, yes,  yes," Corambis  said. "We,"  he gestured  to someone
 inside,  "we're working late.  Everything  is  just fine,"  and  began
 closing the door.
      "May I offer you an  escort home?" Kalen asked, stopping Corambis
 from shutting the  door completely. "I'd prefer not to  have people to
 worry about this close to the docks at night."
      "Dyann,"  Corambis called  inside, "this  young man  wants me  to
 close up the shop for the night."
      There was a shuffling of  papers before the response. "Let's call
 it a night. I was beginning to fall asleep anyway."
      "I'll leave two men to escort  you home," Kalen said. "I am sorry
 for the intrusion."

      Off in the bushes Mija released an aggravated growl. "Damn them!"
      "Be glad  we came  late," Alicia whispered.  "We could  have been
 caught." As Mija got up to return to  their inn, she let out a sigh of
 relief -- there would be no blood spilled tonight.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                           Sons of Gateway
                             Part 3: Death
                        by Jon "Grimjack" Evans
                       (b.c.k.a. v047kfz7@ubvms)

      The summer sun  shone brightly on the clearing in  the woods. The
 four  huts of  the Nar-Enthruen,  Qord's, Ne'on's,  Jordan's, and  the
 horses' stable,  radiated the green  of summer grass. Qord  smiled. He
 always enjoyed the sight of  new-weaved roofs in the summer. "Jordan's
 been keeping up with the chores," he said.
      "So I  see," said Ne'on, frowning  while he shaded his  eyes from
 the sun. "I suppose it's time we returned to ours."

      Much happened  in the following  months. Ne'on's power  and skill
 grew as  the voice held more  and more sway  over him. It grew  to the
 point where Ne'on  almost could not distinguish his  own thoughts from
 those of, he believed, his darker side.

      In Yuli, "Ne'on" decided poison was the best way to kill Kald. He
 chose oberum  for its quick, yet  painful, results. Also, he  found it
 amusing to employ a drug of the  same name as the month he intended to
 use it.

      Come Sy, Ne'on was tested for  his "Branch". This time, it was an
 illusory battle between Qord and himself. The battle raged for an hour
 and  Ne'on glimpsed  several  moments when  he  could have  triumphed.
 However,  these opportunities  lacked  a certain  something Ne'on  was
 looking for, a certain . . . malice. Finally, Ne'on found his victory.
 Qord conjured a halberd and flew it  toward Ne'on to put him off guard
 for Qord's next attack. Instead  , Ne'on increased the halberd's speed
 until it was just upon him.  At the last instant, Ne'on teleported the
 polearm from  directly in  front of himself  to directly  behind Qord,
 striking   him   brutally   in   the  spine.   Qord   collapsed   into
 unconsciousness.

      By  mid-Seber, the  south-western winds  began to  blow, and  the
 forest floor  was covered  with leaves, acorns,  and twigs.  Ne'on had
 collected the oberum,  but he was unsure of its  exact effects, or the
 time required for it  to work. He decided to test it.  Not on Qord, he
 rationalized, for Qord  still had much to teach him.  It would have to
 be Jordan, and it would have to look natural.
      It was,  and it did.  Late one  night, Ne'on snuck  into Jordan's
 room and  "fed" him the  root. For  a few moments,  Jordan experienced
 great pain, then shuddered and died. Ne'on thanked the gods Jordan was
 mute from his Draining, for no normal human could help but scream from
 the pain Jordan had evidently  experienced, then "cleaned up" Jordan's
 quarters for Qord  to discover the next morning. It  is truly a crime,
 the way people can die of natural causes in the prime of their life...

      At sunrise,  on the twentieth  day of  Ober, in the  one thousand
 thirteenth Year  of Baranur, two men  awoke at exactly the  same time.
 One was an ambitious young student  of the arts arcane with visions of
 power and conquest; the other was  a master of those same arts, having
 studied under the single most powerful mage since the Fretheod Empire.
 One of them was deeply troubled.
      He had just  had a dream; a very disturbing  dream. An old friend
 had been ferociously  murdered by a being of pure  evil. If this dream
 was another vision . . .  His countenance changed from one of distress
 to one of strict concentration. He must remember the dream.
      Hurling the heavy  blankets aside, he stepped out of  the bed and
1onto the warm, carpeted floor. Sitting with his legs folded under him,
 he tried, once more, to recall the dream. Images flickered and flashed
 across his mind's eye: scenes of grass huts, fire, and death.
      "Qord," he murmured. "My crystal ball."

      Ne'on awoke quickly, feeling none of the morning drowsiness which
 usually accompanied the cold winter's  dawn. Of course, the first snow
 had yet  to fall, but  it wouldn't be  long before Lady  Winter solved
 that problem. He looked about his meager hut and re-checked, mentally,
 everything which was packed. Today he would leave for Gateway.
      Gnawing on a slab of day-old bread, he pulled his robes about him
 and  stepped out  to  the well  for some  water.  After quenching  his
 thirst,  he filled  the nearest  bucket with  the ice  cold water  and
 entered Qord's hut.  'Nothing like a cold  wash to wake you  up in the
 morning,' he thought,  and dumped the contents of the  bucket all over
 his slumbering instructor.
      "AAAHHHHH!!" Qord's  scream echoed through  the trees as  the old
 mage leapt  to his feet,  eyes bulging,  soaked to the  gills. "Hppht!
 Wha- What  in Rise'er's Feast was  that for, boy? Do  you realize it's
 winter?  Hellfire! I  could catch  my death  of cold!  Fetch me  a dry
 blanket before I freeze!"
      "No." Qord's  eyes bulged even farther  out of his head,  if that
 was  possible.  With a  thought  and  a  gesture, Ne'on  silenced  the
 disbelief of  the old mage.  Surprized by  the audacity of  his pupil,
 Qord attempted  to dispell the  bond of  silence only to  find himself
 further bound by rings of force emanating from Ne'on's hands.
      "Master,"  Ne'on  sneered,  "I  come  seeking  the  answer  to  a
 question. If one wizard defeats  another in mystical battle, the first
 is obviously more  powerful than the second, yes?" Ne'on's  face was a
 mask of bitterness  and contempt. He had learned all  Qord could teach
 him and more, and now it was time to be rid of the eccentric fool.
      At the moment,  Qord could not speak,  but he was not  sure if it
 was from Ne'on's spell or his own fright. Before him stood Ne'on, more
 powerful, more evil, than Qord  had ever dreamed, hell-bent on causing
 some  nastiness to  Qord's being.  In answer  to Ne'on's  question, he
 nodded: yes.
      "So  I  supposed.  Which   means,"  continued  Ne'on,  his  chest
 beginning to swell with power lust,  "after I slaughter you, I'll have
 passed my Leaf!" Ne'on grinned. Red flames licked the edges of Ne'on's
 hands as he reached  for Qord. "You're going to be  much more fun than
 Jordan. Much more."

      The image  faded with his  disbelief. He slouched; his  lips grew
 taught  and his  eyes  closed tight.  A  lone tear  wet  the cheek  of
 Marcellon Equiville.

      The hard  ground crunched  under Koros' hooves  as he  bore Ne'on
 home. The  farmlands about the keep  were stark and barren,  pale grey
 with frosted  flora. The  first snow  had yet to  fall, but  the cool,
 crisp air bit harshly with the wind at the river's edge.
      Where the Laraka  turned west from its northward  flow, joined by
 its tributary from the mountains to the east, stood Gateway, the stone
 manor of the Winstons. For the second  time in only half a year, Ne'on
 entered the house of his father. This time, he would not be leaving so
 soon.
      "Welcome home, Lord Winston," one  of the guards greeted Ne'on as
 he entered  the first gate.  "I'll take your  horse from here,  if you
 like."
      "No, I do  not like!" Ne'on's reply caught the  sentry off guard,
 and now  he stood there,  unsure of what to  do next. "No  one touches
1this horse besides me. Do you understand? No one."
      "I- I-I-I-I'm sorry, milord," stammered  the shaking guard. "I- I
 didn't mean-"
      "Enough! Stop your  quibbling, you over grown  river weasel." The
 guard fell silent  and lowered his head, fearful of  his lord's anger;
 he had  spent the last several  months working hard trying  to get off
 the night shift,  and he wasn't looking forward to  returning to it. A
 thought danced across Ne'on's mind.  This time, he spoke gentler, more
 aloof. "Actually, there is one thing you could do for me."
      The  guard raised  his head,  eyes wide  and mouth  hanging open.
 "Yes, milord. Anything! I-"
      "Do you know where Luke McLeod is stationed, at the moment?"
      "Sergeant McLeod? Yes, milord! He-"
      Again he was  cut off by Ne'on.  "Tell him to gather  his men and
 join me  in my study.  I'll expect  him before dinner."  Ne'on spurred
 Koros on to the inner keep as the guard raced off with his assignment.

      His grey  stone room was  almost as  large as his  father's; but,
 with  much less  trappings, it  looked  more expansive.  A desk,  bed,
 closet, and a large  bookcase on the west wall was  all he needed. The
 rest of the room was bare, and easily accommodated the twelve men when
 they arrived. Luke stood in front, the other eleven behind him.
      Ne'on walked about the men,  inspecting them while he thought. It
 was time to be  rid of Luke. Bartholemew was ready  to take his place,
 and he served  only Ne'on. He had  his guard; soon, he  would have his
 title.
      Ne'on stood face to face with Luke, the men at Luke's back. "Turn
 about and look at the men, Luke." As he did so, Ne'on quietly drew his
 knife from  its sheath. Speaking  to the group,  "take a good  look at
 Luke, men. Do you desire his  position?" Ne'on's hand raised the blade
 behind Luke's back, ready to strike. "Now, watch."
      Ne'on's hand fell,  the setting sun glinting red  off steel. Luke
 fell in  a pool of  red, struck just above  the neckline of  his chain
 armor. Ne'on shut his eyes and  summoned the power within him. A black
 cloud emitted from his mouth and nostrils and settled over the corpse.
 As it absorbed the  blood and flesh and bone of what  used to be Luke,
 it turned from black, to maroon, to  a deep red. Ne'on raised his arms
 and the cloud came to him, settling on him, and seeping into his skin.
 Then, it was gone.
      "Obey me," spoke Ne'on, his green eyes glinting with malice, "and
 you'll not share his fate."

      "My lord!" The page's cry  rang through the empty stone corridor,
 easily  reaching  Goren as  he  stepped  out  of his  room.  Sprinting
 forward, Thomas reached his lord before Goren finished turning the key
 in  the lock.  "Lord Goren,  Lord Keeper  says to  hurry or  you'll be
 hunting for  your dinner." Goren  answered the boy's statement  with a
 look of  surprise. "My apologies,  my lord.  Such was I  instructed to
 tell you."
      Goren  smiled and  looked  down  at the  boy.  Thomas was  Marcus
 Ridgewater's son  in every respect.  Only thirteen, he knew  enough to
 treat his  elders with  respect without  fearing to  speak on  his own
 accord. Nor  did he  count on  his father's  influence to  lighten his
 duties; he worked as  hard, if not harder, than the  rest of the young
 servants in the keep. Soon, he  would begin training as a guardsman in
 hopes of one day assuming  the responsibilities of Castellan, like his
 father before him.
      "Hunt for my own dinner? I  hunted for THIS one. Inform my father
 my arrival shall be swift. I have only just discovered where the flask
 he gave me for my fourteenth birthday was hiding all these months, and
1I intend to drink from it this evening."
      With a quick "Yes, milord.", Thomas was off and running. Down the
 hall and  to the right,  through the  iron reinforced doors,  into the
 main hall, and narrowly missing Sylvia, the serving woman. He informed
 Kald of  Goren's reply, but  was not himself dismissed.  Tonight, Lord
 Keeper Winston had a surprise for him.
      "Thomas, my boy,"  Kald began, his huge grin forcing  its way out
 from behind  his thick black  beard, "I want you  to sit down  and eat
 with us, tonight.  Your father and I have been  talking, and we're not
 entirely satisfied with the quality of  the work you've been doing. We
 think  you might  be  slacking off,  a  bit -  maybe  relying on  your
 father's position to help you through the ranks?"
      Thomas looked  up at  the Keeper of  Gateway in  utter disbelief.
 "Oh, no, my lord! I would never- I didn't- what do you mean?"
      This time it was Marcus, Thomas' father, who spoke to Thomas from
 his  seat at  the  hall  table. "We  mean,  Thomas,  you haven't  been
 accepting enough responsibility around here. Personally, I thought you
 should be  sent to  one of the  farms in  the area to  work for  a few
 months. That  would teach you  discipline and  build a few  muscles on
 those  arms of  yours, as  well! However,  my Lord  Winston has  other
 ideas."
      "Aye! I've  always believed  fighting was the  best way  to build
 strength, and  there's nothing like a  few years in the  town guard to
 build discipline! Seeing as you're  fourteen, now, I can recommend you
 for  a position  in the  guard. Starting  tomorrow, you'll  be eating,
 sleeping, and training with your sword."
      Thomas had  been very excited  when he  heard he would  begin his
 training. Then  it occurred to  him he  wasn't fourteen, and  his tone
 changed from  one of excitement  to one of disappointment.  He lowered
 his eyes. "But  my lord, - father  - I'm only thirteen!"  A heavy sigh
 escaped his chest as he lowered his head. "I can't believe..."
      "Only thirteen!"  Kald's voice  raged through the  hall. "Marcus!
 You  said he  was  fourteen! No  one  - absolutely  no  one! -  begins
 training as a guard before their  fourteenth birthday! Now what are we
 going to do?!"  Kald's smile began to show through  his mock anger; he
 quickly pulled his flask to his  mouth to hide his amusement. After he
 regained  his composure,  he  looked  squarely at  the  boy. "Ah,  the
 trouble you put me  in. Gateway is going to need  more officers in its
 town guard, and  I can't wait another year.  Unfortunately, there's no
 other boys  good enough  to begin  training, now.  What do  you think,
 Marcus? Shall we make an exception?"
      Thomas' eyes pleaded with his  father, but Marcus played his part
 better than Kald. "I don't know, Kald... I couldn't be responsible for
 the boy,  at his age...  on the other  hand, Gateway does  need him...
 well, alright! Just  don't come yelling to me when  he arrests his own
 captain!"
      Thomas let  out a shriek of  joy as the two  men laughed. Calling
 Sylvia  to them,  they had  a place  set for  Thomas at  Marcus' side.
 Marcus sat two  seats to the right  of Kald, and Goren  arrived to sit
 between the two. Ne'on sat at Kald's left, lost in his own thoughts.
      As Goren performed the ritual to Osiniana, Thomas looked from his
 father, to  Goren, to Kald, and  settled his gaze on  Ne'on. There was
 something different about Ne'on; but,  whether it was his longer white
 hair or  his wisened  green eyes,  Thomas could  not tell.  His father
 called for a toast, then, and everyone reached for their flasks.

      Goren  sat at  the dinner  table and  stared at  the food  on his
 plate. It was  good meat, taken off  an eight point buck  he had spent
 half of  yesterday tracking.  He hated  to kill  the aelofin,  but his
 father had decreed  there would be fresh meat tonight,  so Goren found
1himself trudging  through yesterday morning's  grass with his  bow and
 quiver. It wasn't easy. This late in the winter, it was difficult even
 to stumble across old tracks, let alone fresh ones. But Goren knew how
 and where to look, and it was no accident he spotted the small pack of
 wolves following the trail of a  large dinner. The difficult part came
 when he had  to convince the wolves  to search for other  prey. He was
 not unkind,  however, and had  brought along the carcasses  of several
 small animals he  had picked up along the way.  Unfortunately, he soon
 discovered the wolves thought him an  easier target than the deer, and
 he was  forced to kill  the three of them.  He hoped their  fresh meat
 would serve the purpose of some other hungry hunters.
      Looking up from  his plate, he watched Sylvia pour  red wine into
 his old flask. Nine years he  had drunk from that flask, excluding the
 past  few months  where it  lay  hidden beneath...  what? He  couldn't
 remember. He had just found it  today, after all these months, and now
 he  couldn't  remember. Well,  no  matter.  Tonight  was a  night  for
 celebration, for his father and for Thomas, if not for his mischievous
 brother who sat opposite Goren, lost in his own world.
      Ne'on seemed to  sense Goren's eyes on him and  slowly raised his
 own.  There  was  something   different  about  them,  now;  something
 fascinating.  Goren  lost his  awareness  of  the people  around  him,
 something inside him  screamed but he couldn't hear.  He heard someone
 call for  a toast -  was that  Marcus? - but  he didn't move;  he just
 looked deeper and deeper into Ne'on's eyes...

      "Welcome, Goren Winston," spoke a deep voice, "I have waited some
 small time for this moment."
      Goren blinked  and looked about  himself. He was stunned;  not by
 the blank, frozen faces of his father and friends, nor the ghastly red
 shade which  flushed his  brother's cheeks, giving  him color  for the
 first time  in his  life, but  by his new  environment. The  table was
 standing - how? -  on a monstrous slab of black  rock, darker than the
 deepest woods, which  floated impossibly on a sea of  flames, the heat
 licking at  the edges, crumbling  the stone  away piece by  piece, the
 stone somehow reconstructing itself where the flames retreated.
      "What the- where?"
      "Home, my  lord," the voice sneered,  and Goren saw that  it came
 from Ne'on. "This is Cintralu. Or rather,  it was, until I was born. I
 have brought you  here to show you  the fate of your  world because it
 please me to do so. It pleases  me also to inform you of your father's
 impending death."
      A smile broke out on Ne'on's face - it was unlike any human smile
 Goren had ever  seen, more as the  smiles of the hungry  wolves he had
 slain while tracking the deer. Goren  looked at Kald's frozen form and
 studied him,  noting his father's  extended arm, hand  reaching toward
 its destiny.
      "Yes, young  fool. You have  seen the way.  I once vowed  to slay
 Kald Winston  while you  stood helplessly  by- aargh!"  Ne'on twitched
 violently, his head  bowing to the table. Gasps of  breath escaped his
 lungs; he looked up at Goren, pitifully.
      "Goren," spoke  Ne'on, his voice  no longer deep  and thunderous,
 but painful, faint.  "Goren, you must stop him... stop  me, befo- no."
 Again, a  violent jerk racked  Ne'on's body. His jaws  clenched tight,
 his teeth  ground. A dribble  of blood  touched the corner  of Ne'on's
 mouth; and when he spoke again, it was the first voice which addressed
 him.
      "No,  Goren Winston.  I  do  not believe  I  shall  give you  the
 opportunity."
      The world  swirled around  him again, his  disorientation lasting
 only  long enough  to find  him back  at the  dining hall,  his father
1reaching for the flask. Goren knew what he must do.

      "Wait!" Everyone  stopped reaching  and stared at  Goren, looking
 slightly confused and unsure of himself. He was breathing very quickly
 and his usually  dark skin had turned pale beneath  his two day beard.
 He glanced  around for a moment  to make sure of  his surroundings and
 then he spoke,  "Father, I have a  proposition to make -  one only for
 our family.  I mean you  no discourtesy,  Castellan, but I  would like
 this toast to apply strictly to my family. May I, father?"
      Kald stared  expressionlessly at  Goren. Goren  knew he  need not
 make such a scene simply for a common dinner toast, and Kald could not
 fathom  the  reason Goren  placed  such  importance on  its  immediate
 action.  Indeed,  the  entire  group  viewed  Goren  with  an  air  of
 uncertainty. However,  this was  Kald's eldest son,  and heir,  and no
 matter how extraordinarily  he behaved, Goren would get  his wish. "If
 you wish it, Goren, then do so," he replied.
      Goren  continued, a  weight  visibly lifted  from his  shoulders.
 "Thank you,  my lord." Raising  his cup,  he smiled pleasantly  at his
 father, then  nervously over  his brother.  "Father, brother,  for the
 first  time in  many moons  we are  together, again."  The words  came
 sluggishly  from  his  mouth,  stumbling   out  like  a  newborn  pony
 attempting  to stand  for  the  first time.  "Let  us remain  together
 always, no matter how far apart we  may be." He reached out and traded
 cups first with  Kald, then with Ne'on, so that  each might have given
 their cups  to the  the person  on their  left. "To  make show  of our
 unity, let  us drink from  one another's  cups; I from  Ne'on's, Ne'on
 from  father's, and  father from  mine." He  held aloft  his brother's
 flask and smiled a sad smile. "To Life!" he cried, and they drank.
      Kald bolted upright  out of his chair, his face  red and bulging.
 He grasped desperately  for his throat, seeking to  confine some inner
 pain with the strength of  his hands. He stared confusedly, pitifully,
 at Goren  and gasped, "Why?" His  breath gone, he collapsed  face down
 upon the table; Goren's flask dropped loosely from his hand.
      Goren stood by, shocked with  the others, watching the quick, yet
 obviously painful expiration of his father. For a moment no one moved,
 then everyone reacted at once.  Sylvia screamed, dropping the tray she
 was serving, as Goren, Ne'on, Marcus, and Thomas pushed each other out
 of the way to reach Kald. Several  guards burst into the room: ten men
 and their captain.
      "Haven't you  done enough already?"  Ne'on, who had  reached Kald
 first, shoved Goren  away. "Keep away from  him. I may yet  be able to
 save him." As  Ne'on began conjuring a spell, Goren  stood behind him,
 stammering.
      "No, don't touch him," Goren cried, lunging forward just as Ne'on
 finished. Marcus grabbed Goren, restraining him.
      Ne'on  looked down  with eyes  full  of sadness.  "Too late,"  he
 murmured. Looking  up at  Goren, the  true hatred  in his  eyes struck
 deep. "Your  poisoned cup killed  him. And your interference  has just
 betrayed you, murderer."
      Marcus  released Goren  and  stepped back.  "Thomas,  go to  your
 room," he  said, his  voice think  and heavy. "None  of your  lip now,
 boy... go."  When Thomas had  left, Marcus stared at  Goren. "Goren...
 what reason...?" But  there was no reply, only the  cold, hard face of
 the man he had loved for so many years staring back at him.
      Goren  stared at  Ne'on,  still unable  to  believe his  father's
 death.  His vision  began to  close in,  to cloud  with water,  but he
 refused to  cry. His mind went  numb. He stared at  Ne'on's cold, pale
 face,  his triumphant  green eyes,  and never  resisted when  he heard
 Ne'on's command:
      "Guards, take him away." Goren didn't even notice the long blonde
1hair of  the captain as they  removed him from the  hall. Ne'on's eyes
 stayed with him  all the way to  the cell, and when  he finally spoke,
 several hours later, his words were unheard:
      "They're green."

      "My  Lord Keeper  Winston," began  Bartholemew, and  Ne'on smiled
 again at the minor pleasure it gave him to hear the phrase. Only three
 days had  he been ruling Gateway,  and with protests from  no one. His
 brother still  stared at  the four  corners of  his dungeon  cell; and
 Marcus, having lost  his oldest, best friend at the  hands of one whom
 he considered his  son, stood behind Ne'on simply because  he knew not
 what else  to do. It  was bound to  stop sometime, however,  and Ne'on
 knew it.
      "My  Lord  Keeper," Bart  repeated,  fully  aware of  his  lord's
 ability  to lose  himself  in  thought. This  time,  Ne'on replied  by
 raising his head and barely  glancing in Bart's direction. Bartholemew
 handed Ne'on a  long dry parchment, rolled up and  sealed with wax. "A
 message from Lord Equiville, of Magnus," he informed Ne'on.
      Ne'on took the scroll, unsealed it, and read it. It read thus:

               "My Lord Keeper Winston, of Gateway Keep,
          greetings from Lord Marcellon Equiville. It is with
          heavy heart I must inform you of your son Ne'on's
          treachery - the murder of Qord, Leaf of the
          Nar-Enthruen - and request your immediate assistance in
          confining Ne'on Winston until a trial of his peers can
          be arranged. In light of recent circumstances at court,
          of which no doubt you have become aware, it may be some
          time before the royal duchy can send forth its
          tribunal. It is the will of His Royal Majesty that you
          respond promptly to this request, and fulfill His
          wishes with all your ability.
                          Respectfully,
                                Lord Marcellon Equiville"

      Below his name was the symbol of a cup, horizontally crossed with
 a  single line.  It  was identical  to  the seal  which  had held  the
 parchment together.
      Ne'on stared  blankly at  the stiff, rolled  sheet in  his hands.
 "And who is this lord Equiville? What might he have to do with me?"
      These  were more  personal  thoughts than  questions, but  Marcus
 offered up  an answer that  would be sufficient for  public curiosity.
 "Marcellon  Equiville  is the  King's  High  Magician, or  Wizard,  or
 whatever you  call yourselves. If he's  askin' ya ta come  study under
 him, forget it.  You've got responsibilities here."  Marcus folded his
 arms under his chest resolutely,  adding, "Squirmin' waste of time, if
 ya ask me."
      Ne'on stared  at the wall  with deep concentration. "I  think you
 are right, Castellan. Captain Clay, summon the scribe."
      Bart repeated the command to a  younger guard, who then left in a
 hurry.
      "I don't see why you just don't write your own reply, Ne'on. Your
 mother  taught  you  how  to  read and  write,  didn't  she?"  Marcus'
 expression was quizzical, but soon  turned to embarrassment when Ne'on
 stared  back at  him, painfully  remembering his  mother's death  in a
 boating accident when he was just a few years old.
      "Castellan," Ne'on  replied in  his most  haughty voice,  "need I
 remind you to  whom you are speaking?  In this hall, I  am Lord Keeper
 Winston; not  your best friend's  son, but  your superior. And  it was
 Goren," he  added, "the treacherous  dog who poisoned my  father, your
1aforementioned best friend,  whom my mother taught to  read and write,
 not I."
      "Kald's Scribe, my lord." The  guard's voice rang out. The scribe
 stumbled forward,  quills, inks,  waxes, parchments, and  scroll cases
 filling his arms, and bowed before  Ne'on. When Ne'on nodded his head,
 the scribe stood and took a seat next to Ne'on.
      Ne'on  studied  the  scribe  carefully, as  he  did  all  people.
 "'Kald's  Scribe?'" The  small, thin  man nodded  his agreement.  "Why
 hasn't  your name  been changed?  Captain,  why hasn't  his name  been
 changed?"  Bartholemew  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  Marcus
 answered Ne'on's question.
      "My lord,"  Marcus struggled  with the  phrase. "his  title shall
 always be 'Kald's  Scribe.' Your father decreed it so  when he founded
 Gateway.  All  the best  scribes  who  live  in  our domain  shall  be
 addressed  so  for  years  to  come, as  will  Kald's  Healer,  Kald's
 Blacksmith, Kald's-"
      "Enough, Castellan."  I believe I understand."  Ne'on looked hard
 at the scribe. "Your first duty then, after I compose my reply to this
 Equiville person,  shall be to  formally rename each of  the employees
 who's  title begins  with  'Kald's-'. I  wish them  to  be named  'The
 Ruler's... whatever.'" Ne'on  looked through the scribe  for a moment,
 then continued. "As  far as that letter is concerned,  take this down.
 'My Lord  Equiville, of Magnus,  Lord Keeper Winston  sends greetings.
 Thank you for your message. We are already aware of the situation, and
 Kald's son is now sitting in  our deepest dungeon, preventing him from
 harming anyone  further.'" At this,  Marcus turned away. He  still had
 great trouble  believing Goren  was guilty, but  there was  only proof
 against him.  "'Unfortunately, my father was  murdered brutally before
 we could stop him. Please notify  milord Cameron Winston, my uncle, of
 Kald's death.  His ashes have been  scattered to the wind,  as per his
 request. Sincerely, Lord Keeper Winston.'"
      Marcus  excused himself  and  left the  room,  leaving Ne'on  and
 Bartholemew laughing to themselves. The scribe, once finished, excused
 himself to send out the message.  Ne'on's smile grew broader, his eyes
 a little greener.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                      When the War-God Weeps
                        by M. Wendy Hennequin
               <b.c.k.a. Hennequi_wem@CTStateU.BitNet>

                             Prologue

      "Where's the  Duke?" Myrande demanded,  her face ashen.  The blue
 ball room of Dargon Keep was in chaos; the body of Roisart Connall lay
 in state  across the  room, where dancers  would have  rather stepped.
 Next to  Roisart's corpse  was a  golden box  inlaid with  jewels. The
 Countess  of Connall  felt tears  on  her cheeks.  That box  contained
 Luthias' head.
      Myrande was tired; she had ridden  in haste from Connall when she
 heard the news that the twin lords of Connall had been murdered at the
 Melrin  Ball. She  would  see Roisart  and  Luthias--oh, God,  Luthias
 dead!--buried this before the next sunset.
      "Here, Sable,"  said Clifton, Duke  of Dargon. He reached  out to
 hold her.  His wife,  Lauren, stood  by his  side. She  put a  hand on
 Myrande's shoulder in an effort to comfort her.
      "How did it happen?" she  asked incoherently, clinging to Clifton
 as if he were her only link to life.
      "I don't know. When we looked, Luthias' head was cut clean off."
      "Myrande, quickly!"  the Countess  of Connall heard  someone call
 her.  Suddenly,  it  became  Marcellon's voice.  "Your  husband  still
 lives!"
      Myrande hastily severed Clifton's  embrace and followed the voice
 of the High Mage, Marcellon.
      She found herself in a white-washed  room. She was seated next to
 a  large, four-poster  bed. Sir  Edward, the  Knight Commander  of the
 Royal Armies, stood at the foot of the bed, looking gravely concerned.
 The shocked Duke  of Pyridain, whom she  had met once or  twice at the
 war council, stood across from her.
      In her  bed lay her  husband, as she  had never before  seen him:
 haggard, bearded,  and pale  as death. But  he was  breathing, shallow
 noisy breaths. He was breathing!
      "But  the Count  of Connall--"  the Duke  of Pyridain  began, his
 voice incredulous at the miricle.
      "Is he  going to be all  right, Marcellon?" she heard  Sir Edward
 say, as if he  were quite a distance from her and as  if he had spoken
 underwater. "Will he live?"
      Myrande awoke.  She stared into the  darkness of the room  in her
 townhouse in Magnus where she had been sleeping, then abruptly sobbed.
 Her husband, she knew, was dead, and the only chance of her seeing him
 alive again was in her dreams.

      I  spread the  maps before  the Duke  of Pyridain  and Marcellon.
 "These are the fortifications, your excellency," the Duke explained to
 me, pointing. "Beyond them are farms, a few villages."
      "They'll be in danger once Beinison invades," Marcellon murmered,
 running his finger  along the lines of the  fortifications. "We should
 do something about that."
      "I have some  of my men out training the  militia," I assured the
 High Mage. "I've  set every blacksmith for miles to  making swords and
 armor. We'll see  if we can't get some better  defenses, however. This
 Duchy will be the first attacked."
      "Indeed, your excellency," Pyridain agreed sadly. I felt for him,
 that  his home  would be  the  first place  ravaged by  this war.  No,
 second: Connall was the first,  losing father and sons, making orphans
 and widows before the war even  started. "My castle shall of course be
 difficult to take, but the countryside..."
1     "I shall  do all I can,"  I promised. "The army  under my command
 here  should suffice  until spring.  We don't  expect an  attack until
 then."
      Marcellon laughed  at me, the wisdom  of a teacher in  his tones.
 "We did not expect many things  that Beinison has already done. Expect
 everything, Edward. It is better to be disappointed than suprised."
      "As you  say, old man,"  I replied, and Marcellon  laughed again.
 Although old  enough to have  been my  father, the High  Mage appeared
 close  to  my  own  age.  "A winter  attack?  It  would  be  extremely
 difficult, but it  is possible," I conceded. "I shall  send out scouts
 when they arrive next week."
      One of my younger squires burst  into the room without so much as
 a knock.  "Courtesy!" I  shouted at  him angrily.  "Knock on  a closed
 door, sirrah. Knights do not burst into closed rooms."
      "Your pardon,  Sir Edward," the  boy apologized. "A sick  man has
 just arrived at the castle--"
      "In this storm?" I challenged, motioning to a window shaking with
 wind and sprayed with driven snow.
      "Aye, Sir Edward. He's very ill,  and we need the High Mage. He's
 half-frozen and speaks like a madman."
      "Bring him to  the guest room," Pyridain ordered.  "The High Mage
 will see him there."
      "I shall  go fetch my  things," Marcellon promised,  rising. "And
 start  water heating.  He'll be  cold," the  Royal Physician  surmised
 dryly, listening to the high winds of the blizzard.
      "Who is he?" I  asked my squire as the High  Mage rushed from the
 room.
      "I do not know  him, my lord. But even in  his madness, he speaks
 as an educated man."
      "Our language?"
      "Yes, my lord."
      "A noble?" Pyridain speculated.
      "He would have to be one of your barons, then," I replied.
      "One of  my barons?" echoed  the Duke.  "In such a  blizzard?" He
 looked toward  a window, where snow  whirled as if caught  in some mad
 dance. "It would be terrible news, then, to warrant sending a nobleman
 out on this day."
      Terrible news,  indeed. I thought  about what Marcellon  had just
 said about winter attacks. "We'd best go see him, your grace."
      I followed Pyridain  through the chilly halls of  his castle. The
 corridors twisted like heat-crazed snakes; no enemy would find his way
 easily in  this keep!  Finally, I caught  sight of  Marcellon slipping
 into a room. Pyridain motioned me toward the heavy door.
      I was greeted by a mumbling voice, hauntingly familiar, and I saw
 Marcellon slowly set his leather bag  on a bedside table. He looked at
 me, and in his eyes was a  rare thing: absolute suprise. The High Mage
 glanced at  the servants and  my squires,  who had brought  the water.
 "Send them away," he ordered me.
      I am first and most a soldier;  I know a command when I hear one.
 Marcellon's voice  had forbidden  arguement or  question. I  jerked my
 head toward  the door,  and my squires  bowed and  removed themselves.
 After a gesture from Pyridain, the servants did the same.
      "Edward," Marcellon  called me,  his voice odd  as he  sat slowly
 next to the patient, "come here and see him."
      The Duke  of Pyridian and  I approached the  bed. At the  foot, I
 caught glimpse of the man. He  seemed tall, though it was difficult to
 tell with  the blankets, and thin,  although he could have  been quite
 muscular  if  he hadn't  been  underweight.  His  face was  gaunt  and
 bearded, his skin  grey, and his hair  dark with a hint  of red racing
 through it. Abruptly, he opened his eyes and stared, unseeing, at me.
1     I gasped and took  a step backwards. I knew this  man; I knew his
 face.  I had  last  seen  it lifeless  and  disembodied. "Luthias?"  I
 breathed, staring at  first at the man who would  have been my squire,
 then at my friend the High Mage.
      It  was impossible  that he  could be  alive! Impossible  that he
 could be alive  like this! But then, the gods  granted miricles, and I
 was  glad  to  see  him.  Luthias  was  a  brilliant  fighter--a  good
 strategist. When I first saw Luthias, so long ago when I visited Lucan
 Shipbrook, I knew Luthias was going  to be invaluable to the army. For
 that--and for what he could  have been--I regretted his death--or what
 I  thought  was his  death.  But  he was  here,  alive,  and I  needed
 brilliant fighters.
      Pyridain  went around  the other  side of  the bed.  "I recognize
 him," he muttered  at Marcellon, who was, like me,  gazing at the man.
 "Did I meet him at the War Council?"
      "I  believe  you  met  him at  Duke  Dargon's  trail,"  Marcellon
 confirmed. "He is the Count of Connall."
      "The Count Connall?" Pyridain denied incredulously. Marcellon was
 staring at  young Luthias.  He held up  his hand, as  if to  quiet the
 Duke. "But the Count Connall--"
      I knew  what he was thinking;  the Count Connall's head  had been
 sent back to the King in a  golden box. I knew, for Marcellon had told
 me,  that head  was  false, but  I had  never  suspected that  Luthias
 somehow had lived. Still, alive he was, and I needed him. "Is he going
 to be all right, Marcellon? Will he live?"
      "Damn it! I cannot reach her!" Marcellon exploded abruptly.
      "Who?" Pyridain demanded.
      "Myrande." At Duke Pyridain's confusion, the High Mage explained,
 "The Countess.  She surely  has a  right to know  that her  husband is
 still alive."
      "How?" Pyridain made his second demand. "I saw that head."
      "Yes, and I knew it to be a fake," Marcellon revealed to him. The
 High Mage reached  out and felt the Count's sweaty  forehead. "This is
 Luthias,  the Count  of  Connall, and  he is  alive."  He reached  for
 Luthias' thin hand and searched for his pulse. "Quick and thready. Not
 good." Marcellon continued  his examination, looked up,  and asked me,
 "What's that in the corner?"
      "His  clothes, I  suspect,"  I answered,  looking  myself at  the
 haphazard pile that I supposed my squires had created.
      "Search them. Perhaps--" I nodded  and began. "There is no reason
 for this,"  Marcellon was muttering.  "He has  no fever. There  are no
 chills. He does not have the Plague or the ague or..."
      "Could it be something rare?" the Duke suggested.
      "I have only eliminated the Red Plague," Marcellon told him. Then
 suddenly: "Good God!"
      I turned  from the  ragged pile  to look. In  order to  listen to
 Luthias' breathing, I suppose, Marcellon  had pulled the blankets from
 his chest. A den of serpents,  burn scars, squirmed on Luthias' chest.
 I  grimaced, but  shrugged. "If  you  think they  didn't torture  him,
 you're an old fool."
      Marcellon  frowned, but  nodded  and  continued his  examination.
 "Yes,"  the mage  muttered. "I  should have  known. I  had hoped...but
 then, I know that Empire. They are not a gentle people."
      I returned to the clothes, dirty  and frozen with snow. "Look," I
 said, holding up the cloak. "It's a Beinison soldier's."
      "He had  to escape somehow," Marcellon  returned briskly, without
 pausing in  his examination.  "I do not  like this. It  looks to  be a
 reaction, but I can find no reason for it. He isn't injured--"
      A heavy pouch  dropped onto my feet as I  held Luthias' too small
 tunic  high. From  it seeped  some  blue powder.  "Marcellon," I  spat
1angrily, "perhaps I have found your  reason." The High Mage whirled; I
 lifted the bag. "Could this be ardon?"
      Marcellon ripped the leather pouch from  me and opened it. "It is
 ardon!" he cried. "He's withdrawing."
      I  scowled  and marched  toward  the  fireplace. I  hadn't  known
 Luthias Connall long, but I thought  I had known him better than that.
 Ardon robbed  one of control over  mind and body. Luthias  surely knew
 this.  Why a  warrior of  his  calibur and  his sense  of honor  would
 indulge in  taking ardon I  didn't know, nor  could I comprehend  if I
 knew it. I needed him. And yet he does this!
      I heard Marcellon mutter something, and  my hair stood on end. As
 if he had heard my  thoughts--and sometimes, Marcellon could--the High
 Mage said,  "Don't hold him  responsible, Edward. Luthias  would never
 take ardon of  his own will. And this," he  indicated the bulging bag,
 "is magicked.  There is  no way  he can cease  taking this  and live."
 Marcellon frowned, but his face  seemed more confused than displeased.
 "There is only one  living being besides me who has  the power and the
 knowledge to do this."
      "Styles?" Duke Pyridain asked, naming Marcellon's teacher.
      "Styles is long dead," Marcellon corrected. "It was he who taught
 me..." The High  Mage sighed heavily. "It was he  who taught my fellow
 apprentice, Mon-Taerleor."
      "The Beinisonian High Mage," I accused.
      Marcellon put a little of the  ardon on his finger. "The same. My
 friend, Alexander Mon-Taerleor." Gently, he put his finger in Luthias'
 mouth. "Easy," he soothed the Count quietly. "Easy. You will live."
      The Duke of Pyridian was shaking  his head. "What is happening to
 our  young men?"  he asked  sorrowfully. "First,  my son  and Princess
 Lysanda. Now, the young Count."
      I clenched my jaw. I agreed with Marcellon: Luthias Connall would
 never take  ardon--magicked ardon at  that!--of his own  volition. But
 what had  happened to Cydric Ariosto  was Cydric's--and Lysanda's--own
 doing. They did not deserve to be compared.
      Marcellon glanced at  the Duke. "The Count Connall  will need hot
 food, broth  if we  have it, and  quickly. Would you  see to  it, your
 grace?"  The Duke  looked  confused,  but nodded  and  left the  room.
 Marcellon  watched the  Duke leave,  then he  answered my  questioning
 face. "I do not want strangers here when Luthias awakes."
      "There  is nothing  we can  do to  free Luthias  from the  ardon?
 Marcellon," I coaxed,  squatting next to him, "I need  him. I need him
 to be a Knight. The war--"
      The High Mage looked at me sadly. "Edward, there is nothing."
      I snorted with contempt. "You cannot make me think that the great
 wizard Styles  would teach you how  to make this poison  and not teach
 you to cure it!"
      "That  is exactly  what he  did," Marcellon  returned curtly.  He
 grinned with a trace of bitterness. "I suspect he was keeping the cure
 to himself, in case he ever needed to use it on me or Mon-Taerleor."
      "There must be a way."
      "If there is, I do not know it."
      The bed  shook as Luthias  coughed. I stood. Marcellon  turned to
 his patient. The Count Connall slowly  opened his eyes and stared into
 the face of  the High Mage. "Marcellon?" I knew  that Marcellon smiled
 at  him, although  I  couldn't  see it.  Luthias  looked  at me.  "Sir
 Edward."
      "I am here," I replied, although that much was obvious.
      "Where are we?  Magnus?" the Count Connall  asked weakly, closing
 his eyes.
      "No, Pyridain," I told him. "You are in the Duke's castle."
      "Thank God," he groaned. "I'd die if Sable saw me like this, with
1the--" He  abruptly turned to Marcellon,  and his eyes were  angry and
 accusing. "You gave it to me, didn't you!" he screamed. "You bastard!"
 And the young Count began coughing again.
      "I saved your life," Marcellon snapped.
      "I would be better off dead!"
      "Don't say that!" I admonished him quickly. "Never say that."
      "It's true," Luthias argued bitterly. "Do you know what they have
 done to me? Do you know what I have done? Do you know what they did to
 me in Beinison?"
      "That's a  good place to  begin," placid Marcellon tried  to calm
 him. "Tell us. What happened when you arrived in Cabildo?"
      "They threw me into prison. They took Sable's portrait."
      Marcellon shot a  concerned glance at me. I had  an awful feeling
 in the pit of my stomach. A man with the power of Mon- Taerleor, a man
 who would  torture another  with a  magicked drug,  in possesion  of a
 portrait of Lady Myrande?
      Marcellon composed his face instantly  and quipped, "What a novel
 way to receive an ambassador. How long did they torture you?"
      Luthias looked away. "You're so certain they did?"
      "I saw the scars," Marcellon answered, his voice level. "How long
 did they torture you before giving you the ardon?"
      "Ardon?" Luthias asked mildly, looking  the High Mage in the eye.
 "So that's  what it is. I  had wondered." The Count  of Connall sighed
 deeply. "They tortured me a few  weeks, perhaps...I'm not sure. I lost
 the time in the prison." A shadow  filled his eyes. "And then they put
 the blue  spice in my food.  It drove me mad,  and I knew I  would die
 without it."
      "Unfortunate," Marcellon muttered.
      Luthias  looked sad  and  scared and  stunned,  then he  abruptly
 stared at me. "Sir Edward,"  he began urgently, "They were questioning
 me about  the fortifications  along the Laraka  River. I  didn't break
 under  the torture.  Of that  I can  give you  my word.  But the  blue
 spice--the ardon--I was going mad--I  don't remember what I told them,
 whether it was  fact or fiction, but  I told them anything  to get the
 blue spice."
      The Laraka? Damn! That means--
      And Luthias  finished my thoughts: "They're  probably planning to
 come down the river into Magnus."
      "I'll send  Sir Ailean,"  I promised, swallowing.  Beinison would
 attack Shark's Cove and send ships  down the Laraka! The High Mage had
 been right:  expect the  unexpected. Now  we would  have two  lines to
 fight: one in Quinnat, one here in Pyridain.
      Luthias turned his face from me. "I am sorry, Sir Edward."
      "There  was nothing  you could  have done,  Luthias," I  tried to
 comfort him. Something in his eyes made me think that nothing, no one,
 could console the young Count.
      "I  don't know  how  I  managed to  get  out  of there,"  Luthias
 continued, shaking his head. "I don't  remember very much at all." His
 jaw twitched,  and he dully held  out his hands. "There  was a man...I
 murdered him...for his gold...and the ardon." He stared blankly at his
 hands, hands  that had murdered. "My  wedding ring is gone,"  he noted
 without feeling. "I wonder what happened."
      "Luthias," I choked.  This man was to have been  a Knight! In its
 truest sense, Luthias Connall would have  been a Knight. And now this!
 Marcellon closed his eyes.
      "And there was  a woman, later," the Count  of Connall continued.
 "I don't  remember her name, nor  her face. But if  I didn't--she kept
 the ardon away until I did, until I couldn't help it."
      The High Mage's eyes snapped  opened angrily. "There's a name for
 that, you know," he snarled, fury in his voice.
1     Luthias didn't  face him.  "I know:  adultery," he  supplied, his
 voice hollow and devoid of interest.
      "No," Marcellon corrected crisply, "I'd call it rape."
      The young,  sick Count  looked at  the wizard  with shock  in his
 eyes, and then  he continued. "I don't remember what  happened after I
 managed to leave her." Connall sighed. "I remember running."
      "You're safe  now," I assured  him, taking a step  closer. "We'll
 take you back to the King, back to Myrande--"
      "What? Sable?  No!" he cried out.  "Go back to her?  Go back?" He
 stared at me, bewildered and pained. "My God, Edward! I've betrayed my
 country,  betrayed my  wife--Oh,  God--oh, God--  why  didn't I  die?"
 Luthias screamed finally, burying his head in his hands. "Why didn't I
 die?"
      I could stay  no longer. I am  a warrior, bred and  raised, and I
 have seen death more  times than I can remember. I  know death; I have
 watched my  friends butchered  and bleeding in  battle, and  when they
 finally expired,  there has been  rejoicing in the heavens  to receive
 their valiant spirits.
      But  when a  man  such as  Luthias,  a man  young  and brave  and
 honorable, is trapped in a living death such as this, even the war-god
 would weep.

                           Epilogue

      Marcellon watched Sir  Edward quietly leave, then  he reached out
 to young  Connall. "Easy," whispered  the High  Mage. "All is  not yet
 lost."
      Luthias slowly lifted his head.  He coldly demanded, "How can you
 say that?"
      "I can enchant the ardon. I can keep you alive."
      Luthias leaned back on the bed. "I need it, then, to stay alive?"
 Marcellon looked  at the  bare white  wall. "That woman  told me  if I
 stopped  taking the  blue spice  I  would die.  I hoped  that she  was
 lying."
      It was several moments before the  High Mage returned his gaze to
 Luthias. "She spoke truth," Marcellon admitted heavily.
      "There is no cure?" Luthias asked.
      "None that I know. But I will search for one."
      Luthias  sighed once,  then looked  in the  wizard's eyes.  "Then
 promise me something, Marcellon."
      "What do you want?" the physician inquired compassionately.
      The young  Count took a  deep breath.  "If after a  fortnight you
 cannot find a cure for me,  I want..." Luthias closed his eyes, unable
 to face the High Mage, and took a  deep breath. "I want you to give me
 poison."
      "Poison?"  Marcellon  leapt  from  the bed.  "You  wish  to  kill
 yourself? What about the war? What about Myrande?"
      "How can I  face Sable after what I've  done?" Luthias countered.
 "How could  I ever face  the King? God only  knows what I've  told the
 Beinisonians! No, Marcellon,  I'd rather die than live  like this. And
 Sable deserves  much better than  me." Luthias stared into  space. "If
 you only knew  what it was like,  Marcellon, to be like  this. I don't
 know when my mind will leave me,  when I'll do something I would never
 even  consider doing  when  I'm sane.  I'll murder...I'll..."  Connall
 faced the High Mage. "I'm not...I'll  never be a Knight now. How could
 Sir Edward ever knight me? How can  I be a decent husband for Sable? I
 can't even control myself anymore, Marcellon."
      The High Mage took a deep breath and exhaled it through his nose.
 "All right," he conceded. "I do not believe in keeping people in pain.
 No more can I let you live in hell."
1     "A fortnight, then."
      "A fortnight," Marcellon confirmed.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
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              ______________________________________

              A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion
              ______________________________________

 Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction.
 Published monthly,  each issue contains short fiction,  articles and
 editorials by authors around the world  and across the net.   Quanta
 publishes  in  two  formats:   straight  ascii and  PostScript*  for
 PostScript compatible printers.   To subscribe to Quanta, or just to
 get more info, send mail to:

                          da1n@andrew.cmu.edu
                           da1n@andrew.bitnet

 Quanta is a relatively new magazine  but is growing fast,  with over
 two  hundred  subscribers to  date from  seven different  countries.
 Electronic publishing is the way of the future.  Become part of that
 future by subscribing to Quanta today.
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  ******   *****            The Online Magazine              ***********
  ******   *****        of Amateur Creative Writing         ************
                        ---------------------------


      Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction
 written by the members of the online community.  Athene is not limited
 to any specific genre, but will publish quality short stories dealing
 with just about any interesting topic.

      The magazine is published monthly, and comes in two formats --
 ASCII and PostScript.  The content is identical across both formats, but
 the PostScript version is designed for printing on laser printers while
 the ASCII edition can be read online as well as printed.

      To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please) to:

                                Jim McCabe
                           MCCABE@MTUS5.BITNET

      Please indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript) you prefer to to
 receive.  Back issues, an index, and submission information are also
 available upon request.
1------------------------------------------------------------------------
    (C)   Copyright    February,   1990,   DargonZine,    Editor   Dafydd
 <White@DUVM.BitNet>. All rights revert to the authors. These stories may
 not be reproduced  or redistributed save in the case  of reproducing the
 whole 'zine for  further distribution without the  express permission of
 the author involved.