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 the Best of DargonZine                         Distributed: 01/18/1995
 Part One: the Best of FSFnet                   Circulation:        627
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 A New Life                   John L. White          FSFnet Vol 5 Num 3
 Consummate Love              James Owens            FSFnet Vol 8 Num 3
 Legend in the Making         Ornoth Liscomb         FSFnet Vol 8 Num 3

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondance to <dargon@wonky.jjm.com>.
 Back issues are available from ftp.etext.org in pub/Zines/DargonZine.
 Issues and public discussion are posted to newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 The Best of DargonZine (Part One of Two) (C) Copyright January, 1995,
 the Dargon Project. Editor Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@wonky.jjm.com>.
 All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual
 contributors. Stories may not be reproduced or redistributed without
 the explicit permission of the author(s) involved, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues, in part or as a whole, for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

                               Editorial
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                         <ornoth@wonky.jjm.com>

     The Dargon Project was founded in 1985 to bring amateur writers
together to collaborate on original fiction for publication in FSFnet,
one of the first electronic magazines on the Internet. Between FSFnet
and DargonZine, we've printed over 1600 pages of narrative in some
150-odd stories, and are the longest running emag on the Internet. By
any measure, the Dargon Project has succeeded beyond anyone's
expectations. Thanks go to all our readers for their support.
     And special thanks go to the exceptional people who have been
Dargon writers. Writing is a very thought- and time-intensive process,
and these people have given a great deal of themselves, expecting little
in return. Collaborative writing also requires that the individual
author be able to provide and receive criticism maturely. It hasn't
always been a placid trip, but we've all learned a great deal through
working with one another. I've had the good fortune to meet over a dozen
of the Dargon writers in person, and I must admit that I'm honored to
have worked with such wonderful folk. They each deserve special
recognition and thanks for their part in shaping not only the shared
landscape of Dargon, but the early landscape of the Internet, as well.
     "The Best of the Dargon Project" is our way of recognizing
excellence. The current writers held a vote, and the six stories that
will be reprinted represent what we feel to be our best works from our
best authors. This first part contains three works from the golden olden
days of FSFnet, while the second part, to follow in a couple weeks, will
contain three works from DargonZine, which picked up where FSFnet left
off in 1988.

     This part begins with "A New Life". Printed in 1986, this was John
White's first Dargon Project story -- he would become the project's most
prolific writer during the FSFnet years, and would become the editor of
DargonZine when FSFnet ended publication in 1988. This story introduces
us to Je'en, whose story unfolded in several subsequent stories,
including "the Dream", "Gasmelyn Llaw", and "the Treasure". John
recently exchanged his editorial responsabilities to do more writing for
the project, and we eagerly look forward to his new works.
     The second story in part one is Jim Owens' "Consummate Love", which
first appeared in 1987. It was his fifth Dargon story, and the climax of
a two-story series that began in his "Ornate Love". Jim was one of the
founding members of the Dargon Project, and his works were among the
better early stories. Jim dropped off the net in 1987, and wasn't heard
from again until I looked him up and met him last year. Today, Jim has
rejoined the project, and is pursuing new storylines with the same
enthusiasm that made him one of FSFnet's most valuable writers.
     Interestingly enough, the third and final story comes from the same
issue as "Consummate Love": FSFnet Vol 8 Num 3. It is my own "Legend in
the Making". This story was at least partially inspired by people
referring to me as a "net.god" for founding FSFnet and the Dargon
Project and my work with CSNEWS, an early Bitnet information service,
back in the dawn of network time. I felt unworthy of such a title, and
that their adoration was misplaced. That emotion provided the basis for
the ironic plight of Captain Smith in "Legend in the Making". After
turning the project over to John White and the a five-year hiatus that
followed, I regained network access, visited most of our active writers,
reassumed editorial responsabilites, and am writing Dargon stories once
again.

     Well, we've got a pretty packed issue for you, so enough talk. I
hope you enjoy these stories; we think they're well worth a second look.
And watch your mail queue for part two of "the Best of the Dargon
Project"!

========================================================================

                               A New Life
                            by John L. White
                      <white@duvm.ocs.drexel.edu>

     What does a Bard do when she can no longer sing?
     Two years. Two years was a long time, but not long enough. Never
wouldn't be long enough. Two years since the incident...

     It was really her fault. No matter how much she wanted to blame
someone else, the primary fault lay totally with Je'lanthra'en. If only
she hadn't been so proud, so sure her status would provide as much
protection as a full phalanx of Baranur's army. Bards were very
respected, but, in the black of night, where no one else could see, even
a Bard could be attacked.
     Je'en had been in Magnus for an annual meeting of the College of
Bards. She had stayed out late one night, and, in deciding to take the
fastest way to her lodgings, had set her horse onto one of the three
"tunnels" that led thru the Fifth Quarter - the sometimes called
Thieves' Quarter: really the slums of the city. The "tunnels" - the only
properly-wide, glow-globe lighted, patrolled (if irregularly) streets in
that Quarter, the light creating a 'tunnel' of safety thru the darkness
and danger of that Quarter - were the safest way thru the Fifth Quarter
during the day. But, midway between the dark of the night and the first
light of day, nowhere within the boundaries of the Fifth Quarter was
safe. Je'en felt, however, that her green cloak and hood, the
silver-embossed leather harp case on her back, and the harp on yellow on
green of her horse's trappings would ward off any evil-doers: not only
was a Bard the most respected non-Royalty possible, but there were
rumors (not unfounded) that some Bards could do magic! Je'en couldn't,
but no one else could know that. She felt herself so safe, that she
didn't even make sure her sword was limber in its sheath, and ready to
draw - in fact Leaf-killer was peace-bonded into its sheath because the
Inn she had been at had required that precaution.
     Totally unconcerned with the shadows beyond the meager illumination
on the "tunnel" she had chosen, Je'en was caught off guard by a shape
that hurtled out of the darkness and knocked her from her horse. She hit
the ground hard, but managed (by luck) to land on her attacker, so she
was able to recover quicker than he. She was on her feet, cloak back,
and Leaf-killer out and ready, by the time the man in tattered clothing
(but a nice and shiny sword) was able to face her. Unfortunately, he had
some friends with him - five to be exact. Self-protection was a skill
all had to learn in this semi-civilized world, and Je'en could protect
herself, but not as well as some (due mostly to the demands of her
profession - she spent more time perforce at singing and harping than at
sword-drill), and not well at all against six determined vagabonds,
attracted by her rich trappings, and emboldened by their numbers. She
put up a good fight - she actually incapacitated two of them, killing at
least one - but they knew what they were doing. She felt an iron point
score her cheek perilously near her right eye, and she was temporarily
blinded by frighteningly profuse blood. Then, another sword scored on
her leg, slicing into her thigh and buckling it. And, almost
simultaneously, another edge caught her under her right bracer, cutting
deeply into her right wrist, causing her to drop Leaf-killer as she sank
to the ground.
     Helplessly unarmed, and weak from pain and blood-loss, Je'en
watched as her horse was looted of the few resaleable goods she had.
Irritated by the meager haul, the leader of the ruffians turned on
Je'en, and noticed her fine green cloak and the harp. She was relieved
of those, and the few items of personal jewelry she wore (including the
pendant of her Rank in the College), and it was harder for her to see
her harp, Soft-Winds, in the hands of the thieves than the thought of
her battle-loss was. Until the attention of the leader was turned on her
person.
     "Pretty," said the leader. "A little more money from the slavers,
to make up for the trouble we've had wit' you." His leer was pure evil.
     "She'll take too much time, be too much trouble, Skar!" said one of
the survivors. "I know someone'll give us 5 Crowns for this 'ere
neck-chain - 'e needs it for a job 'e's got: 'personatin' a Singer, it
is. Five Crowns's more'n we'd get fer her and all the rest o' her stuff,
plus she killed Han, and probably Charet, too. Let's kill 'er, Skar!
Real slow like, too."
     Skar was a man of action, but he knew his men well enough to listen
to them. Five Crowns was more than the skinny girl would fetch, and the
fact that she was a Bard, a Singer in the slang, could complicate
matters. So, he decided. He drew his knife, and knelt next to the ever
weakening Je'en. Then, casually, he placed the knife to her throat, and
slashed quickly and cleanly.
     The new pain pushed Je'en over the edge. As blackness closed over
her mind, she felt herself being dragged into the shadows at the edge of
the "tunnel", heard some rude comments about what they were going to do
to her before she cooled down too much, and then there was an odd
honking noise just before the blackness claimed her.

     The 'honking' had been the Quarter's Early Warning System. It
signaled a patrol, and said it was close. Skar was forced to leave Je'en
behind, but he was long gone, with all the loot, by the time the patrol
found the wounded Bard.
     The City Patrol, while in existence to keep order, also did its
best to help people in need, when such aid wasn't directly dangerous.
So, when Je'en's body was found, a stretcher was fashioned, and four of
the patrol escorted her to the nearest Healer.
     Magnus, like most cities of the Realm, licensed its healers,
insuring a minimum level of competency in the healing craft. But, some
Healers bearing the gold-covered, city-seal-embossed, iechyd leaf (a
simple pain-alleviating remedy when boiled in water) in their front
windows were little more than potion-mixers, having no magickal
knowledge whatsoever. Of course, the Court had claim to the best of the
healers, but the other Healers thruout the city had no rating other than
the gold leaf of minimum ability. Advertising by word of mouth generally
led people to the best Healers, but the Patrol didn't have time for such
shopping around. The moved rapidly thru the well lighted streets of the
merchant quarter looking for the nearest gold leaf they could find. Of
course, had they known she was a Bard, they would have made best speed
to the Castle - a Bard was 'royalty', and would be treated as such.
     The healer living in the house they found was irritated at being
awakened in the middle of the night, but when he saw Je'en, he shut up
(after a short utterance in plea of aid) and went to work.
     The healer, unfortunately, was a potion-mixer. He knew three chants
of healing: two to ease minor back-pain, and one to stop bleeding in the
head area - i.e. only one of particular use. But he did know his herbs
and potions, and he used his knowledge swiftly and surely to save
Je'en's life. But, he just didn't know enough of the craft to return her
to her former full health.
     When her life was no longer in danger, she was taken to a
recovery-house. All but the most wealthy of healers operated from their
homes, which usually didn't have enough room to house patients who
required extended care. So, there were the Recovery-houses, large
dormitory-style hostels where patients could receive the care necessary
to help them to recover.
     She wasn't there long. Only four days, during which time she was
unconscious, her body healing itself as best as it could with the help
of various potions prescribed by her Healer. When she woke up, finding
herself within the easily recognizable curtained-walled bed of a
recovery-house, she called out - painfully and not very loudly - for an
orderly. When one came, she said, "Rydw i Canur." The words were barely
recognizable, and they hurt her throat like swallowing fire, but the
peculiar resonance inherent in the almost-magical phrase conveyed their
meaning, and the orderly went hurrying after someone in charge.
     Shortly thereafter, she was transferred to the Castle, and the care
of the Royal Healer, Master Enowan. He immediatly set about implementing
further healing using the more powerful magicks at his command, but he
was too late to be must help. Once the body accepts a pattern of health,
it takes massive magic to change that pattern. Most normal healing
serves to help the body restore its normal pattern. But in the case of
traumatic injury, special healing is necessary to force the body to
survive, and thereby create a new life-pattern. Such had been done to
Je'en, and not even the skills of Master Enowan could reverse the
process now - it had been too long, and Je'en's life pattern had
accepted tha injury to her throat and wrist as natural. Enowan was able
to eradicate the scar on her leg, but he could only smoothe out the scar
on her face, make it a little less ragged, and heal it as far as it
would go. The damage to her throat - her windpipe, and therefore her
voice - was irreparable, as was the damage to her wrist.
     When she awoke from the healing sleep that master Enowan had placed
her in, she found herself in a private recovery room within the Castle,
with an apprentice healer attending her. As soon as she was fully awake,
the apprentice raced off to get Master Enowan. While she was alone,
Je'en tried out her voice and then her hand. Her throat still burned a
little, feeling a bit like an incipient cold just lingering at the back
of her throat and tickling her with an unreachable itch. But, when she
coughed to relieve the itch, it set her whole throat to such aching that
she strove to ignore the minor discomfort to avoid the major pain.
     When she looked at her hand, the only evidence of injury was a
small diamond of scar tissue at the center of both sides of her wrist.
But, when she tried to flex her fingers, she found that she had almost
no fine control over them - she could bend them all together, but not
one at a time. And, when she reached for the pitcher at her bedside to
pour herself a cup of water, once she was able to grasp the handle, she
found that she couldn't lift it. There was absolutely no strength in her
hand at all.
     Totally dispirited, she sank back on her pillows to await the
Master healer, already afraid of what he would say.
     Master Enowan arrived, smiling the false-and-not-very-reassuring
smile of a healer, and took her pulse at her throat and left wrist.
Then, after lifting her eyelids to look at her eyes, he crossed his
palms an inch above her chest, and closed his eyes. His hands began to
glow, and Je'en knew that he was examining her deeply, the way only the
best calibre of Healers could.
     When his hands stopped glowing, Je'en said, "So, how am I, Master
Enowan?"
     The healer opened his eyes, and said, "Alive, and as well as can be
expected."
     "But, what about my...my voice, and my hand? Will they heal?"
     "I'm afraid not, Je'en. The scar on your voice box will never be
gone, tho it will stop hurting shortly. And your hand will never be as
dextrous as it once was, tho it, too, will recover some. I...I'm sorry,
Je'en, but there wasn't anything more we could do. We tried..."
     Je'en's eyes closed on her tears. She knew, somewhere deep down,
that she would never sing again. When she was pronounced fit, she would
go to the local College, and get tested, but she was sure she would
fail. And, when you've been one thing all your life, how do you change?

     Two weeks later, the verdict was in. She could no longer sing, and
her voice was deemed unsalvageable. She could no longer play, and her
hand was also deemed unsalvageable. The Masters of the College ruled
that she could remain a Bard if she so chose - but she did not.
     She stood in the anteroom waiting for the Hall of Ceremonies to be
prepared. The Ceremony of Leaving was seldom performed, and there were
special preparations to be made. She wore her finest tunic and breeches,
and a new green cloak, and Rank pendant. The sword at her side wasn't
Leaf-killer, and the harp on her back wasn't Soft-Winds, but she would
never see those artifacts again anyway. These replacements had been
given to her out of the stores of the College, tho she would only be
keeping the sword after today. It was a fine weapon, well crafted
without being showy, and she was glad to have it (but it couldn't
replace Leaf-killer, that had been in the family since her father's
father's father's mother's time). She was in all ways prepared for the
ceremony - her lines were memorized with a Bard's meticulous skill, and
she had steeled herself not to get emotional (at least not under the
eyes of the whole College).
     Finally, two journeymen bards opened the great doors of the Hall,
and beckoned her to enter. She did so, and began walking down the aisle
formed by the huge, floor-to-ceiling Screens of Privacy - intricately
carven wooden screens that narrowed the vast hall to a small lane that
led from the doors to the Dias at the far end. Behind the Screens, the
whole College-in-attendance was gathered, silent and mourning for the
loss of a sister.
     As Je'en walked the aisle, she looked up at the huge escutcheon
that hung behind the Dais. The blazon ran thru her mind - Vert, a bend
or, over all, a bard Harp, proper: the green background for the World
that was the Bard's home, the gold diagonal stripe for the allegeance
the College paid to the kingdom of Baranur, and the Harp that signified
their profession. She would miss being under the protection of that
proud coat-of-arms.
     She reached the steps to the Dais, and mounted the leftward ones as
was proper (normally, the rightward steps accessed the dais, but she was
leaving, so it was reversed for her). The two journeymen waited at the
steps until she was on the Dais, then they turned, and walked back down
the aisle and out, closing the doors behind them.
     Je'en was alone on the Dais save for the Master of the College in
Magnus, Master Heagn. The somewhat old man still had a fine voice for
all his years, and his hands were as sure as a new journeyman's on his
harp. He looked fondly on Je'en, and sadly, too. Tho Leavings weren't
totally unheard of, usually the Leaver was one who had made a bad choice
early in life, and found the College not quite right for them, or
something came up that changed their lives in a happy way, and led them
away from the College. The tragic nature of Je'en's Leaving was
accentuated by the fact that, in Heagn's estimation, she had had the
potential to one day become the Master of the College.
     When the doors were closed, the Ceremony began. Je'en advanced to
the podium standing between herself and Master Heagn. On the podium was
the Crystal of Oathes, an Artifact as old as Bards themselves, on which
all promises within and to the College were made. Je'en placed her hands
on the conic, multi-faceted, clear Crystal, and said, "Rydw i Canur,"
which meant 'I am a Bard' in the ancient language of the first Bards
ever. As the words' resonance filled the chamber, she could feel the
vibration travel down her arms and into the Crystal, which, after a
moment began to glow softly, infusing her hands and arms with a pearly
opalescence, and soothing the ache that still lingered in her throat
when she spoke.
     Master Heagn then said, "Je'lanthra'en, Journeyman of the Eighth
Stave, you and I have met here to dissolve your allegiance to the
College of Bards. Is it your intention to continue with this course?"
     Swallowing from more than the discomfort of her throat, Je'en said,
"Yes, Master Heagn."
     "Then let it be known that Je'lanthra'en is leaving of her own
accord, and her own choice. Should circumstances change, or any aid ever
be needed, the doors of this College, and all other Colleges united in
the fellowship of all that is Bardic, shall not close their doors unto
you, and readmittance will never be barred from you.
     "Now, return unto me the symbols of your former calling." Je'en
took her hands away from the Crystal, but they continued to glow. She
swiftly slipped off the harp's strap, and handed it to Master Heagn. If
it had been hers, as had Soft-Winds, she would have been able to reclaim
it from him after the ceremony, but she would leave this one with the
College. She next unfastened her cloak, and handed it also to the Master
Bard. And, lastly, she took off the chain that bore her Rank. That
Master Heagn also took, and Je'en returned her hands to the Crystal.
     "Now, say the words that will release you from your vows and set
you free of us and our ways," said Master Heagn.
     Je'en hesitated, swallowed again, and finally said, "Didw i ddim
Canur." meaning 'I am not a Bard.' And the glow of the Crystal faded,
finally going out. She felt a slight push against her hands as the
Crystal emphasized her apartness now, and she lifted them from its
surface. Oddly, she didn't feel any different - but maybe that was
because she had long since accepted the fact that she was leaving, and
this was just the confirmation of that fact.
     Master Heagn offered her his hand before bidding her farewell, and
as she descended the rightward stairs, those behind the Screens began a
minor key chant of parting that did more to bring on her tears than the
actual ceremony had. She was now, finally, on her own, no longer a Bard,
and no longer protected like one, either. What was she to do?

     Revenge was the first thing she thought of. Those six thieves had
ruined her entire life. Two had already paid for it, but there were four
more to catch, and torture, and eventually kill.
     But, Je'en wasn't vengeful. Another might have taken out at least a
little frustration on that first healer who hadn't known enough to save
her life as it had been before the accident. But she knew that it wasn't
his fault, and she sent him a gold arm-band she had been given once for
stopping a revolt in one of the western duchies by satirizing the
upstart so well, and so scathingly, that his followers all left him,
laughing. The arm-band was enough payment for a years worth of
bone-setting, and ache-curing, and ague-warding for a wealthy family,
and the healer immediatly moved into a better neighborhood (one not so
close to the Fifth Quarter) after thanking her for such a generous gift.
     So, since revenge, as such, was really out of the question, she
decided to join the city guard, and help protect others from what had
happened to her. But there was one problem. She wasn't a very skilled
fighter, and what she knew applied to right-handed techniques, which she
could no longer use, of course.
     She had heard about a training school outside a little village to
the northwest run by a retired adventurer who had quite a name as both
an adventurer and as a teacher. It was said that those who survived his
school were the best swordsmen around. His fee was high enough that he
wasn't inundated by students, and his policy of a one week trial period
to determine trainabilty, after which one could be rejected without a
refund, kept the idle rich from cluttering up his practice yard.
     Je'en had a lot of money - she had kept most of it at the College
in Magnus, and of course it had all been returned to her when she left.
So, hoping she had the talent to go with her money and drive, she packed
up and headed north-west. Besides, she thought, even if I'm not
accepted, I'll be two-thirds the way to Dargon, where my brother Kroan,
lives. I could always just keep on, and pay him a visit - haven't seen
him in years.

     The School of Lord Sir Morion was quite impressive. It was set ten
miles from the village of Tench, in the forest that covered most of the
area. It looked like a citadel from the outside - massively walled, with
great square towers at each of the five corners, and a huge ironwood
drawbridge to span the fifty-foot deep, twenty-foot wide chasm that
surrounded it. The drawbridge was down, and the portcullis up when Je'en
arrived in the afternoon. The forest was cleared for a mile on all sides
of the citadel, and the clearing was filled with activity - several
neatly-planted fields were being tended to; one of three oval tracks was
being used to race horses, and another hosted a foot race. Elsewhere,
there were roped-off squares wherein two, and sometimes more, people
fenced with wooden swords, and all manner of other weapons. From the
number of people around that she could see, Je'en hoped that Sir
Morion's school wasn't filled.
     She stopped by one of the roped enclosures, and watched the two
people fencing within. They seemed very good as judged by her knowledge:
they at least put on a good show. Finally, one of them, in all-black
armor with a very stylised gryphon painted on the breastplate and
wicked-looking silver trim around the eyeslits of his helm, executed a
slashing backhand that caught his opponent in the side. Action stopped,
and then the one in tattered blue slumped across the other's sword as if
slain. He layed on the ground for a minute, then rolled over and sat up,
took the hand offered him, and got helped to his feet. Both men removed
their helms and began discussing the finer points of the battle.
     Je'en caught the attention of one of the similarly armored young
men around the ring, and asked, "Where can I find Sir Morion, please?"
     "O, din tye know? Tha' one, in ta black. Tha's t'Lord o' tis place,
miss. An' t'oter one, tha's Ironfist. Goin to graduate soon, 'e is. Real
soon. Gonna miss 'im, too. Come on, lemme int'r'duce you to 'em both.
Foller me, now, quick. Tey get away and a' talking, tey won't be back
'fore supper."
     Je'en followed the rather jovial, if hard to understand, fellow
over to where the two combatants were talking away while two younger men
removed their armor. Je'en's guide stepped right up to them, and said,
"Hey, 'Fist, Bull, great match, eh? I bet you'll beat the Bull before ya
leave, 'Fist - i know ya can do it! Yer gettin' beter every day! O, hey
guys, this here little lady was askin' after ya, Bull. I'll leave ya to
'er: almost my turn in the ring. Bye, now."
     "Take care, Kyle," said the man who was still wearing black even
tho his armor was all in a neat little pile at his feet. "And watch
March's third-return: remember the counter I showed you." He turned to
Je'en and said, "Hello. My name is Morion, but most of my students call
me Bull. How do you do."
     Je'en shook his hand, and gazed at the man. He was tall, and
full-bodied, with broad shoulders, and a thick chest, arms and legs. His
hair was raven-black, his face handsomely aristocratic, and he had the
oddest eyes she had ever seen - they were ice-grey, so light that there
seemed to be something wrong with them.
     She said, "I'm fine, Sir." Her throat had ceased hurting by now,
but her voice was still a bit gravelly, and she still swallowed a lot.
"I was wondering whether you have room for one more student in your
school, Sir. I...I have had to leave by previous profession, and I
thought perhaps I could be a guardsman, or a mercenary, or something,
now.
     Morion looked at Je'en carefully. She was rather tall for a girl,
and she was in rather better condition than average. She obviously
wasn't some maid, or tavern-girl, out to make something of herself. And
then there was that terrible scar across her face. She had a history,
and a reason to come here. "You know the rules?"
     "One week trial, fee in advance and non-refundable."
     "Yes. Well, if you have the money to spend, I'll take you in.
Either Ironfist here, or myself will work with you each day, and you
will know whether we will let you stay seven days from now. I'll show
you to your temporary quarters - if you'll follow me?"
     The next week wasn't what she had been hoping for. She had
practiced while traveling from Magnus, trying to get used to using her
left hand to fence with, but it hadn't been easy. And, she appeared
truly clumsy when she was sparring, especially since either Ironfist or
Morion was usually her partner. She refused to explain anything about
herself to them, tho, at least before she was accepted, and so they let
her try to fight with what was obviously her off hand. But, she did her
best at everything she was told to do, and that included some of the
other work around the school, as well as running, jumping, climbing, and
horse-back riding (which she was rather good at, even left handed).
     By the end of her trial period, she was sure she would be heading
on to Dargon the next day, minus about half of her accumulated wealth.
She hoped there were plenty of jobs for an unskilled wench in Dargon -
she didn't want to live on her savings, and they wouldn't last all that
long, anyway.
     Still, she was out in her practice armor and wooden sword, a wooden
shield strapped to her arm in such a way that her wrist didn't come into
play when moving it, and faced off against Sir Morion (she couldn't
bring herself to call the man Bull - it just didn't fit him, tho she was
sure that he had a good reason for keeping such a nickname). She had
learned a few things in her week, and she wasn't quite so clumsy
anymore. She had a good stance, and a good grip on the sword, as well as
one good power-shot that was, unfortunately, all too easily blocked.
     They sparred, her sword-and-shield against Morion's single-sword
(at which he was a master). She held her own, tho Morion was keeping his
attacks down to a good novice level. She kept her eyes on his sword, and
not on the distraction of his helm and its decoration, and she moved her
whole body in response to his movements - the "rooted" technique was for
superior strength or skill, and speed was one of her advantages. By the
end of the match, she was sweating (tho Morion was as dry as an old
bone) but feeling very good about herself, and how she had done.
     She removed her helm, and, more slowly, the rest of her armor (she
didn't rate personal squires). As she did, she saw Morion, out of his
armor, Ironfist, and the ten other farthest along students come her way.
'This is it - time to get told to leave' she thought, and her good
feelings vanished like smoke in a good wind.
     Morion stopped before her, and the others gathered around her. He
said, "Je'lanthra'en, you have been here your seven days. What do you
think of your performance in that time?"
     Je'en said, "Sir, I really cannot answer that. Firstly, I am rather
too prejudiced to judge my own fitness, and secondly, I am no judge of
skill in any case. I...I think that I tried hard, but...was probably not
good enough to be taught here."
     Morion wore a thoughtful expression thruout Je'en's little speech,
and he said when she was finished, "Well, judge or not, some of what you
said is true. You did try hard. And, we are judges, and we all think
that you may someday make a very fine fighter, and an even better one if
you train here, with us."
     Je'en's elation was echoed in Morion's twinkling eyes as she jumped
up and down, and flung her arms around him. After being hugged for a
long time, he disentangled himself from her, and said, "Put those things
back on - you're doing first and second drill for at least two hours:
we've got to strengthen up that left arm of yours. Go, get busy, you're
my pupil now, and I don't like slackards!" There was no sting in his
voice, tho, and neither of their smiles lessened a bit as he helped her
back into her armor.

     The first thing she did, once she was accepted, was have a suit of
practice armor made for her. She did that for two reasons - first, the
loaner set she had been using, while adequate protection, didn't fit
very well, and looked really silly; and second, she had an obstacle to
overcome aside from her awkwardness: one of pity. All during her trial
week, only Ironfist and Morion had treated her as an equal, testing her
fairly and objectively. The other students, after seeing the scar on her
face, and the way clumsy way she used her left hand, began to feel sorry
for her, and treated her very gently, like china. So she decided to
build for herself an image that would make the others forget about her
disabilities. Thus: her new armor, flashy-green, ornamented, daunting in
aspect, and another addition - a silver half-face mask to match the one
on her helm, and which she never removed except to sleep (and only when
alone). It didn't take long for the students to replace the 'poor thing'
image she had with that of the formidable 'Green Blade' (as she came to
be known, which was sometimes shortened to 'Greeny').
     And so the months passed, almost unnoticed. She was finding that
learning to fight was hard, but also exciting. And, once she got used to
using her left hand (which did take a while), she was good at it. She
became Morion's star pupil, and the darling of the school. There were
few women in training there, but that didn't affect her status - rather
she attracted a following of the same type as Ironfist had: people who
were inspired by her ability, and wished her well for it.
     There was more to do than fight, too. There was the other training;
physical fitness, riding, and such, skills to compliment that of the
sword (or other chosen weapon). There were the chores - tending the
garden that helped feed the school, keeping the citadel clean and in
good repair, keeping the practice armor and weapons in good repair, too.
And, aside from work, there was fun, too. She learned some games, and
listened to stories that the others told (tho she steadfastly refused to
tell any of her own). She learned that the citadel was the ancestral
home of Lord Morion, and that its name was Pentamorlo. Many were the
tales of that House, and, tho she burned to tell some that only she
seemed to know, she kept to her resolve not to, fearing to venture
anywhere near the realm of Barddom.
     Of all the people - teachers, students, and servants - at Morion's
school, she told only three her full story. Two were Morion, and
Ironfist, and she told them for their kindness to her, and so that they
would know her well enough to trust her, and maybe to like her. Both
were sympathetic to her pain and sorrow, without being pitying. The
third was a young man named Timirin, who was usually called Oak. He had
been Ironfist's student, and was near 'Fist's equal when she arrived.
Came the time for Ironfist to graduate, Oak sort of took his place. He
took over teaching Je'en, going at her own pace, but never going easy.
In time, they grew close, as she never had to anyone as a Bard, who
usually felt too far removed from other people, and too busy to
cultivate a relationship with fellow Bards. But, she was free of that,
and Timirin was handsome, intelligent, and an excellent swordsman. It
was easy to fall in love with him, if love it was. And, one night when
they were alone in one of the towers, and he began to get a little over
eager, she told him her story. If that had been meant to scare him off;
it failed. They became faster friends, then lovers.
     But, they were not in love. Eventually, it was time for Oak to
leave, and there wasn't enough between them to persuade Je'en to go away
with him. He had helped her immensely, tho, giving her confidence in
herself as her skill grew, and she thanked him for that, and then said
farewell.
     She was a very fast learner. By the end of her first year, her
reflexes had been retrained, and her left hand was now as capable as had
been her right. She had all the basic moves of sword-and-shield and
single-sword combat drilled into her until they were second nature. And
she had begun to learn special defenses and attacks - those things that
lifted an ordinary fighter into the realm of the special. She learned
the 'rooted' technique, wherein one planted oneself in one spot, and
tried to draw strength from the earth itself to protect and to attack.
She also learned the 'lightning' technique, where one stayed in one
place as little as possible. That was a variation of what she had
originally learned, but there were subtleties that turned mere swiftness
of foot into deadly force. And there were other techniques, some named
for a phenomenon of nature that they resembled, some named for the
person who invented it, or made it famous. Some were strictly for
defense, some only for attack, some for certain special conditions, some
to be used at all times, even with other styles and techniques. She also
learned to use several other weapons well, tho not expertly - mace,
staff, polearm: she was limited in the use of two handed weapons, of
course, and a second hand weapon as well, which was why she concentrated
on the simple sword, and shield. Eventually, the shield had to go,
because of the time it took to put it on properly with her bad hand, so
she became even more expert in single sword. By the time she ws ready to
graduate, she could hold her own in single combat, even against Morion's
famed double-sworded 'Windmill', and in a melee, alone against up to
three, and more if she had someone or something to protect her back. All
in all, in just under two years, she had become a most accomplished
Swordswoman, and when she graduated form Morion's school, she went with
all honors, and the well wishing of all in Pentamorlo.
     Before she left, she discussed her plans with Morion. She told him
that she intended to return to Magnus, and join the city guard. Morion
said, "That is a noble idea, but perhaps not a good one. You have spent
months here creating for yourself a new life, and have been very
successful, too. Magnus can only hold bad memories."
     "What else is there, then?" she asked.
     "Well, for starters, you could stay here and teach."
     Je'en smiled, and shook her head.
     "Okay, okay. I know it gets a little dull around here, and you want
to do something with your youth. Why don't you go visit your brother in
Dargon? That is a good city for adventure - you could join its guard, or
hire out with a caravan, or on an exploring ship. There's plenty to do
in a frontier city like Dargon. And, if you find nothing, well, you'll
have had a nice visit with family, and you can move on, even back to
Magnus. But give something different a try, first. It'll be good for
you."
     And, Je'en took his advice. When the ceremony of her graduation was
over, she mounted her packed and ready horse, and rode away from
Pentamorlo to the northwest, and Dargon.

========================================================================

                            Consummate Love
                             by James Owens
                            <j1o@delphi.com>

     Levy trembled as he poled the raft closer into shore. The cedars
towering above his head shaded what little sun the early winter
provided, bringing a chill to Levy's body. The water soaking his pant
cuffs was cold, as was the air. It wasn't the cold, so much, that was
making Levy shiver, however, but nervousness. Finally, after almost five
months, he was going to see Sarah again.
     Levy still recalled that day in early summer when he had stood on
the dam at the end of the lake. He could still remember the shock he had
felt when the wave swept him over the face of the dam, and the look on
Sarah's face as she watched him being swept away by the flood waters.
The months had dragged by, at first, as he recovered from the wild ride
down river. Then, as he worked to earn enough money to make his way back
north to where Sarah lived, time suddenly seemed to speed up. It has
only a few weeks ago that the trader had showed him the utensils,
ornately carved like the ones Sarah had in her house. Once he tracked
them to the town, it was only a few days searching before he once more
found the artificial lake that surrounded the island Sarah lived on.
     Levy guided the raft up to the dock. He tied it to the mooring,
then climbed onto the dock and ran to shore. He ran up the steep path
towards the house. As he ran he called.
     "Sarah!" Levy watched the slatted windows in the house above as he
ran. "Sarah!"
     He reached the house and ran to the door. He found it heavily
latched and tied. He ran down to the workshop where Sarah made her
crafts. It too was locked. He stood there, his heart sinking to his
feet. Now he knew why there had been no smoke, even on those cold days
while he was building the raft. Now he realized that he had not seen her
boat below at the dock. Sarah was gone.
     Levy searched the whole island. Finding nothing, he returned to the
house. Cutting the cords that tied the door shut, he entered. A search
showed that Sarah had taken all of her clothes, and all the household
goods. The food was all taken as well. Levy re-sealed the house, and
with a heavy heart, returned to the raft.
     Levy poled the raft back to his shoreline camp. It was dark when he
got there. He started the fire again, and fetched his stuff from the
tree where he had stashed it. He ate a cold supper, and then went to
sleep.
     The next day Levy broke camp. He loaded up his horse, and began to
lead it around the lake. He reasoned that Sarah had to hide the boat
somewhere, as she could not leave it out in the open, nor could she take
it with her. Therefore, somewhere along the lake there were marks where
a large object was pulled from the water. He had gone about a mile when
he spotted the trail. It led right up the clay bank, and to a small
clump of trees. There, hidden under a large pile of dead branches, was
the boat. Levy quickly found hoofprints, and the chase was on.
     For days Levy followed the tracks, cold and wind his constant
companions. Finally the tracks turned onto a small path. At the end of
the path Levy found a small house. When he reached it, he found it too
boarded up. A larger path led south from the house. Levy followed it
down into a small village. One simple question to the local innkeeper
told him what he wanted to know. One week ago, Abel, the owner of the
small house, had shown up in town with his sister, Sarah. He had asked
the innkeeper, an old friend, to watch his house. The two had purchased
traveling goods, and had ridden west. Levy thanked the man, and started
off.
     Levy rode hard for a week. He stopped in the towns along the way,
asking questions and buying supplies. In each town he found people who
remembered a man and a woman traveling together, and through these
references he managed to close to within two days of them. By that time
they had changed directions, and were headed south. By that time also,
however, snow had started to fall.
     As Levy started into his second week of trailing Sarah and Abel, he
ran into a blizzard. He rode for a day and a night solid to get to the
next town. By the time he got there he was almost frozen. He spent two
days in the inn, waiting for the snow to slow enough for him to travel.
He used the opportunity to earn some money repairing the old town clock.
By the time the snow let up, Levy was itching to be off. He thanked the
innkeeper, and started riding.
     Levy's luck turned bad after that. Halfway to the next town he
reached a fork in the road. He chose the southern fork, assuming Sarah
and Abel would have also. When he reached the next town, however, no one
remembered two recent travelers. Levy then rode to the next town, hoping
that the town's people just didn't remember them, only to find no trace
of them there, either. Heavy with worry, Levy turned back. One day out
of town another storm hit, forcing Levy back to the safety of the inn.
It was three days before it lifted, and by then Levy had caught cold,
and couldn't travel. When he overcame that, he headed back up the trail.
The snow made travel hard, and it was a week and a half before he made
the fork again. A day later he rode into the first town along that road.
     Levy rode up to the inn. He tied up outside, and strode into the
main hall. He found the innkeeper tending fire.
     "Good Sir! Might I have a word with you?" Levy was slightly out of
breath.
     "Of a certainty, young man. What might I do for you?" The innkeeper
stood up straight, wiping his hands on his apron.
     "Have two travelers passed this way recently, a man and his sister?
It might have been some days now."
     "Any reason in particular you'd like to know?" The innkeeper eyed
Levy carefully. Levy was used to such reactions, having gotten such from
other innkeepers.
     "I must speak to the lady of very personal matters. I've trying to
find her for six months now, and I lost them back at the fork in the
road. Have you seen anyone like what I'm looking for?"
     "I'm sorry, young man, but of a truth, I've not seen any man and
woman traveling together for almost six months. I believe you mean them
no harm, and I'd like to help you, but I can not. If they came this way
at all, they must have ridden right on through, as I'm the only
innkeeper in town." The look on his face was one of sincerity.
     "Thank you. Thank you very much." Levy's whole body drooped. He was
exhausted, cold, and no closer to finding Sarah than he was before.
"Might I spend the night? It'll be dark after a while; I've no stomach
for riding further today."
     "But of course! Take your horse to the stable, while I make room
for you." The innkeeper walked off.
     Levy ploddingly unloaded his horse and released him to the stable.
He carried his gear to his room, and sank into a deep, sorrowful sleep.

     From then on life held little joy for Levy. Town after town he
stopped at, but no one had seen or heard of two travelers like Sarah and
Abel. The winter grew deep, and the snow with it. He wondered if he
shouldn't backtrack, in hopes of finding the trail again, but he just
couldn't stir himself to turn back. Weeks plodded by as Levy worked his
way further southwest.
     It was a grey afternoon when Levy sighted the bloodmarks in the
snow. The road was well trampled, but lonely. Levy hadn't seen a
traveler since morning. When he saw the crimson drops, he stopped
immediately. They lay on the side of the road, in unmarked snow. He
looked around carefully. Seeing no one, he dismounted quietly and
examined the marks. They were drops, as if someone had cut their hand,
and then shaken the blood off onto the ground. There were no other marks
around, however, so Levy remounted and rode on. He hadn't gone far when
he saw the tracks leading off the road into the woods. He dismounted,
and examined them. It was no great surprise to him to find copious
bloodmarks in and around the tracks.
     Levy sat there, torn. It would just be asking for trouble to follow
the tracks into the trees, away from the public road. On the other hand,
a known danger can be dealt with. It was naive to believe that someone
who struck once would not strike again. Levy thought for long moments on
the question. Finally it was the thought that perhaps he could help
someone that prodded him off the road and along the trail.
     Levy carefully stalked along the trail. For the first few hundred
feet, the trail appeared normal, except for the small traces of red.
Once the road faded from view, however, normality vanished. Levy was
horrified to see a large blotch of blood spread across the snow. Levy
quietly pulled his sword from his saddle. He looked at it for a long
moment. Levy had used a sword before, but had never killed a man. Dozens
of stories ran through his mind, stories of fights, stories of battles.
He hesitated, then carefully slid it back into its sheath. He bent his
head for a moment, in silent prayer, then continued. He didn't have far
to go. A few hundred feet further in he found a body, sprawled across
the snow, a sword wound across its head. It had been stripped of
everything but its blood-soaked clothes. There was no horse, although
from the tracks leading away from the body the man had been mounted.
     Levy stood there, shaking. He didn't recognize the man, but death
is a frightening thing even in anonymity. Finally, Levy got himself
moving again. He looked around, to be sure the attackers were long gone,
then began digging a grave. As the winter was already deep, he finally
found a good use for his sword: breaking through the frozen top layer of
sod to get to the softer soil below. Once the body was interred, Levy
started following the tracks. He reasoned that the last thing he wanted
was to be wondering where the murderers were.
     Levy tracked the murderers for the rest of the day, and the morning
of the next day. Just after noon the trail came to a stream. Levy
followed the tracks down the stream. Soon Levy could see the stream was
coming up to a small pond. Leaving his horse tied to a tree, he crept up
to within sight of the pool. Around the pool was gathered four bandits.
They were speaking in a dialect so thick Levy couldn't understand half
of what they said. They had a small fire going, and they were roasting
some small game. One of the bandits got up and walked to the road, to
check for travelers. Levy quietly drew back into the trees.
     Levy quietly returned to where his horse was tied. He untied it,
and started leading it westward through the trees. After a bit, he
turned north again. Levy led his horse quietly to the roadside. He
wanted to give the thieves as wide a berth as possible. He came out onto
the path about fifty yards west of where the pool formed. Cautiously he
poked his head out of the trees. The path bent, and he was only able to
see the pool area. There, by the water's edge, stood a lone figure.
Levy's heart almost stopped. It had been many months, but he still
recognized the figure at the pool. It was Sarah.
     Levy's mind and heart started to race. He snatched his sword,
scabbard and all, from where it was stuck into his pack. He started
running back towards the pool, along the path. Sarah, oblivious to him,
walked out of sight along the pool's edge. Levy doubled his already
pounding pace. As he neared the pool, he caught sight of Sarah again,
alone still. She looked up in surprise, and then broke out in an
astonished and delighted smile.
     "Levy!" Sarah started to run toward Levy. The two met, and caught
each other. Sarah started crying, but Levy had no time for a tearful
reunion.
     "Keep quiet! Don't make any noise!" Levy whispered loudly into
Sarah's ear. "Let's get out of here!"
     The two turned to leave, but Levy found the way suddenly blocked.
Two bandits stood there, grinning. Levy started to turn to run back into
the woods, when something hit him, and he blacked out.
     He came to on the ground. He started to sit up, and caught sight of
Sarah struggling in a bandit's arms. He started to get up faster, and
was rudely yanked to his feet by strong arms. He was whirled around by
two more bandits to face the fourth.
     "Well, what have we here?" The man grinned a dirty smile. Levy
never found out what the man considered him to be, for there came a
hoarse yell from behind him. The bandits all turned to look, and Levy
twisted around as well. There stood Sarah, watching as her previous
captor struggled in the grip of a newcomer. The man was short, and
dressed in black leather. His short, dark hair was the picture of
perfection. He took the burly bandit by the shoulders, and shook him
savagely. Then, faster than Levy could follow, the man in black lifted
the bandit straight up, and then threw him in the pool, where the bandit
floated lifelessly.
     One of the bandits holding Levy let go, and stepped towards the
newcomer. The other, finding himself alone to handle Levy, smashed Levy
in the face with a forearm, knocking Levy to the ground before moving
himself to take on the stranger. The forth bandit stepped over Levy as
well.
     Levy, cradling his aching head, watched as the first bandit drew
his blade and slashed at the man with one stroke. The blow was clean,
aimed right for the man's midsection. The only problem was, when the
blade reached the man, the man wasn't there any more. With a blurringly
fast move, the stranger ducked UNDER the blade, then threw himself at
its wielder. The two crashed back into the third bandit, who fell. The
swordsman steadied himself, then tried another swing. This the man
merely blocked, grabbing the sword arm, pulling and twisting it. The
bandit stumbled forward, doubled over. There was a loud crack as the
newcomer delivered a savage kick to the thief's throat. The stranger let
go as the murderer fell in a heap.
     The bandit who had fallen got to his feet. The black-clad man
approached him. The thug stabbed at the other's midsection, but the
other twisted away, grabbing the base of the blade in his bare, right
hand. The stranger pulled on the blade, dragging the murderer forward.
The stranger then twisted the blade around, dragging the arm with it,
and plunged the sword into its owner's back. The newcomer released his
grip as the body fell.
     The last bandit had watched the whole affair from several steps
back. He now drew a small dagger. He drew back his arm, and was felled
by a blow to the head from Levy, who swung his sword without even taking
it out of its sheath. Levy stepped back as the man in black stepped up
to retrieve the dropped dagger. Levy watched in shock as the man calmly
slid the blade between the criminal's ribs.
     Levy just stood there, as Sarah ran up, and embraced the stranger.
Levy looked around at the four bodies. Rarely had he ever seen so much
death in such a short time. His stomach started to churn, but with an
effort he pushed it down. Levy stepped over the inert forms to where
Sarah was hugging the man. The stranger extended his right hand. Levy
took it, noticing that there were no cuts on it at all.
     "Thank you. You saved my life, and Sarah's. I'm ..."
     "Levy. Levy Barel. I know. I'm Abel."
     Levy reeled. He had expected Abel to be a farmer, not a vicious
fighter. Still, Sarah was showing no discomfort around him. Abel
released Sarah and turned to the horses. "Let us go. This is not a good
place to be, anymore." Levy followed, not having any argument.
     They mounted up and started to ride. Sarah leaned over and gave
Levy a hug. "I've found you! You don't know how I worried!"
     Levy returned her embrace awkwardly, afraid he was going to pull
her from her horse. "I was looking for you, too. I...kind of left in a
hurry." Why do I feel so awkward all of a sudden? thought Levy. All this
time I've been looking for her, here she is, and now I don't know what
to do! "You were looking for me then?"
     "Yes. After you got washed away, I couldn't rest until I knew what
happened, so I packed up and went to my brother for help."
     "How did I get ahead of you? I know we didn't pass on the road..."
     "We stopped at a friend's house just after the big fork. We spent
over a month there before moving on."
     "Well, I'm glad we found each other. We...need to talk."
     The three of them eventually camped for the night. Levy found
himself sleepless, however. All he could think of was actions in the
fight. Finally he sat up, running his fingers through his hair. He put
on his shoes and squatted by the fire. He turned at a sound behind him,
only to find Sarah stepping up beside him. She kneeled down beside him.
     "What's wrong? Couldn't sleep?" She herself had that soft look that
told Levy he had awoken her.
     "No. Something is bothering me. Something I did today." He poked
the fire with a thin branch.
     "If you mean that fight at the pool, there was nothing else to do.
Even Abel was fighting. Normally Abel wouldn't hurt a fly." Sarah rubbed
Levy's shoulder.
     "That's fine for Abel. But what about me?" Levy paused, gathering
his thoughts. "I first found signs of that group yesterday. There was
blood on the road, and a trail leading into the trees. I followed the
trail, thinking it was the best action. The blood got heavier, and I
drew my sword. Then I started thinking. Who am I? What was I going to do
with that sword?" Levy huddled down closer to the ground, and Sarah put
her arm around him. "Could I rely on myself to fight off someone? And
what gives me the right to decide that my life is more important than
someone else's? I could only come up with one answer: I put the sword
back. And yet, when I saw you standing there, by the pond, with those
murderers all around, the first thing I did was grab my blade."
     "You wanted to protect me. Anyone would have grabbed a weapon."
     "Yes, but what had changed? I was still the same man, I hadn't
changed. No one had appointed me as judge over those men. What good are
all my fine truths if I only use them when it's convenient?" Levy looked
at Sarah. "And yet...I couldn't have let them hurt you..."
     Seeing the expression on his face, Sarah spoke. "We all do what we
think best at the time. Sometimes we regret it later, but it's done. We
just must live with it, and go on." She stood, and started to go.
     "Wait." Levy took Sarah's arm and eased her back down "We're alone
now, probably the last chance we'll get for a while. I want to talk to
you." Sarah remained silent, so Levy continued. "After I was washed down
the river, I spent a long time recovering. Not only did I have to get
well, but I had to pay off my debts to those who nursed me, and earn
enough money to buy a horse and some stuff. Then, the first thing I did
was go down to Dargon, to an old friend of mine."
     Levy paused. He felt so unsure of himself, he didn't quite know
what to say next. Sarah just sat there with questioning eyes. Levy stood
up, and stepped over to where his pack stood. From it he took a roll of
leather. Sarah stepped up beside him and put her hand to his side, as if
to stabilize him. Levy led her back to the light.
     "I asked him if I could go through the old records. He allowed me,
and so I looked all through the old records, and I found this. It's the
family crest that we had before we got our present one."
     Levy unrolled the leather. On it was inscribed a colorful image, a
family crest. Sarah gasped.
     "...but that's...that's MY family crest!"
     She looked at him, suddenly expectant. Levy stood, feeling panic
coming on. He knew what he had planned to say, but now he wasn't so sure
he wanted what he had planned to ask for.
     "What's so interesting that it must be discussed at night? Night is
for sleeping, not talking." The two turned to see Abel approaching. He
too looked like he had been awakened from comfortable sleep. He squatted
by the fire, warming his hands.
     "Levy couldn't sleep. He was thinking about that fight today."
Sarah laid her hand around Levy's shoulder.
     "I know how he feels. If I hadn't been told what to do, I would
feel the same way."
     Levy looked down at Abel. "What do you mean?"
     "I saw, in a dream, a man telling me I would meet bandits along the
way today." Abel's voice lowered. "He said that I was not to let them
live. I have no authority to take life," Abel paused for a moment, "but
the one I serve does. I only kill for him."
     The three sat in silence for a moment, than Levy returned to his
bedroll, his thoughts only on what Abel had said. Sarah followed him,
silent. Abel was still by the fire when Levy fell asleep.
     The next day the three saddled up, and continued southwest. Travel
was safer, but the weather got worse. The trio had only gotten a few
days down the road when another heavy storm stopped them. Once more Levy
took the opportunity to repair the town clock.
     Levy stood inside the old town hall, staring at the mechanism. It
was a water-powered clock, and over a hundred years old. Like many of
the time pieces in the area, it had been built by a wandering group of
clockmakers. Few people knew how to set it, and no one knew how to fix
it. Levy had studied clocks under one of the best clock makers in
Dargon, but even so the workings of the device appeared intricate and
mysterious. Sarah had accompanied him to the hall, and she now sat near
one of the many lanterns, watching him.
     Levy hefted a broken cogwheel. "This has to be the key. Every other
cogwheel is in place. But where does it go?"
     "Look for an empty spot." Sarah hugged a blanket closer around her
damp shoulders.
     "I have...there aren't any. Maybe this is a spare or something."
     "Then it wouldn't go anywhere. Maybe something else is wrong."
     "Clock makers don't leave spare parts. Everything has a place, so
therefore this has a place. But where?" He set the broken wheel down,
and picked up a replacement he had cut in the village smithy. He started
walking around the device, examining the mess.
     "Well, I'm sure you'll find where it goes." Sarah's voice was
quietly confident. "Levy, what was it you were going to tell me, that
night, after that fight by the pond?"
     Levy stopped for a moment, without looking at her, then continued
his search. "I wanted to show you that I had found your family crest,
and that we are actually related."
     Sarah got up, and started to follow Levy as he circled the clock.
"For some reason that doesn't surprise me. You remind me a lot of my
father."
     Levy stopped and looked at her. "I do?"
     "Yes. You're both so confident, so good at making things work,
making things happen. When I'm with you, I think of him." Sarah's voice
softened at the mention of her deceased father.
     Levy looked up at the mechanism as Sarah looked away. Suddenly his
eyes widened. "Ahah!" He ran around the clock, grabbed a stool, and then
ran back. He placed it on the floor in front of a particularly large
gear, and climbed onto it. He stared intently upwards for a moment, then
sagged. "No, there's already a gear under there." He climbed back down.
     Sarah looked at Levy for a moment. "Do they put gears underneath
other gears?"
     Levy turned and looked at her. "Yes, they do. Why?"
     Sarah led Levy around to the other side of the clock, and pointed
upward. Levy followed her finger. There, high above the floor, was a
large gear. Sarah grabbed one of the lamps from the floor, and shone its
light upward. There, just visible between the gear's teeth, was a stout
rod.
     Levy seized the ladder, and climbed up. He took the gear he had
made, and carefully levered the larger gear out a bit, exposing the rod.
He then carefully slid his gear onto the post, meshing its teeth with
the larger gear's second, inner set of teeth. He had to tug on another,
large, spoked gear to make the new gear fit, but it did, dropping
cleanly into place. Levy then jumped down, and released the power shaft
brake. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the clock moved back into motion.
Levy grabbed Sarah in a big hug, which she returned.
     "It works!" Levy held Sarah at arm's length, looking into her eyes.
"However did you see that?"
     "I was studying the movement too, when you asked for that light
before, and I just saw it. I was wondering what it was for, but didn't
know until you told me about that other, hidden gear."
     Levy looked at her for a moment. "Sit with me, please." The two sat
of the cold wood floor. Levy took Sarah's hands in his. "Were you ever
betrothed to anyone?"
     Sarah looked confused. "What does it mean to be betrothed?"
     Levy swallowed, his arms starting to tremble. "We you ever promised
to anyone in marriage?"
     Sarah's eyes sparkled. "No..."
     "Will you marry me?"
     Sarah only paused a moment. "Yes."
     The two sat there for a moment, then fell into each others arms.

     It was a sunny spring day when the three finally rode into Levy's
village. The first place they stopped was at Levy's father's house.
There he presented his bride-to-be to his parents, thus completing the
first step of the ritual of marriage. The next step was to ask the
village Elder to marry them. As Levy's father was the village Elder,
they didn't have far to go.
     With the first round of formalities out of the way, the festivities
could start. It wasn't often the son of an Elder got married, and
especially not one as well known as Levy. Elders were rich, and could
throw good celebrations, and Levy had many rich friends, who could also
throw good parties. Further, everyone in town liked Levy, and they all
contributed to the festivities. Finally, after word got south, to
Sarah's relatives, many of them came north, and they were rich, and they
brought a lot of food, drink, and gifts. By tradition, the couple had to
wait a two months between announcing their engagement, and actually
marrying. Most couples hated that time, for it seemed to drag on so.
Levy and Sarah never even noticed it. By the time all the gatherings
were over, it was time to prepare for the actual ceremony.
     The morning of the wedding found Levy walking up the path to his
father's house. He was dressed in his formal, tribal dress, dark red
wool with brightly colored bands of needlework. Tradition had mostly
spared him, as the groom, from any wedding day rituals. He was grateful
for that, having spent the morning alone, preparing himself mentally. As
he neared the house, however, joyful squealing told him Sarah might not
be so solitary. He walked up to the door, and knocked. His mother opened
it, but did not come out, standing instead in the entrance.
     "What do you want, Levy?" She was in a good mood, but seemed to be
restraining herself.
     "I'd like to speak to Sarah, if I can." He tried to peer inside,
but his mother held the door even closer shut, only allowing her head to
show.
     "Levy!" Levy could hear Sarah calling from within. Her voice was
followed immediately by intense giggling, and then by a delighted
shriek. The window beside the door exploded with a shower of warm, soapy
water. Levy stepped back, barely avoiding getting wet.
     "I'm sorry, you can't see her until the wedding. We're giving her a
bath right now." From inside the house came more giggles, followed by
splashing, laughter, and the sound of someone getting slapped,
somewhere.
     "Uh, OK. Tell her I love her." Levy tried once more to peer inside,
in vain.
     "We will. Now scoot." His mother pulled her head inside, and closed
the door, leaving Levy to head off for the barn, where the wedding was
to take place.
     Levy found his father talking with the village fathers. He greeted
them all, and they all wished Levy well, and then he and his father took
a walk, to talk.
     "Are you ready, Levy?" Eli was also wearing his formal clothes,
which in his case were rather bulky.
     "No. Were you?"
     Eli laughed. "No. I don't think you can be. Sometimes I think only
married people should get married. I mean, it's the most important thing
in the world, and we leave it to total novices."
     Levy laughed. "I suppose. Well, this is it. As long as I can
remember I've looked towards this day, and now it's here. And I'm so
nervous I'm shaking." He held out a quivering hand, and his father
laughed at the sight. Levy dropped the arm back to his side. "It's
silly. After all, Sarah's just a woman. She isn't going to hurt me; she
loves me. Why else would she marry me?"
     "Right. Just remember to treat her like that. You have to live the
rest of your life with her...start it right."
     They arrived back at the barn, having walked a big circle around
the yard. By this time the guests had started arriving. Levy and his
father, as per tradition, greeted them at the door. As the barn started
to fill, noon crept up, and soon Levy was sweating under his wool
clothes. It wasn't all the heat, however.
     Soon it was time for Levy to move to the front of the barn with his
father. Mattan, Levy's younger brother continued greeting the guests.
With nothing else to occupy his time, Levy started to shiver in earnest.
He stood in one spot, not moving, rehearsing what was to follow in his
mind. His feet almost left the floor when he heard the shout from
outside.
     "Here comes the bride!"
     Levy turned to face the open door. People crowded in the way, but
they soon parted. There, leading the wedding party, was Sarah. She was
clad in her clan colors, also red, but a brighter shade. Tradition was
kind to her, allowing her a muff to hide her hands in. Levy's felt as if
they were going to fall off, they were so awkward. Sarah was smiling, a
nervous, but beautiful, smile. Seeing her, all alone in front of her
party, facing so many people, many of whom were strangers, Levy felt for
her, and, finally, stopped shaking.
     She joined him at the front of the crowd. He took her, and for the
first time, publicly kissed her. The crowd started chanting the word
'Amonta', an ancient word meaning 'lovers'. As the tempo and volume
increased, they parted, and then Levy leaped onto the platform with his
father. He reached down, and helped Sarah up as well. They turned and
faced the chanting but expectant crowd. Levy raised both arms and
shouted.
     "Listen all you people!" The words rang out above the chant. The
people, expecting this, immediately stopped. "This day I take this
woman, with her permission, as my bride! If there be any challenge to
this, speak now!"
     There was no answer. Levy hadn't expected one, but had there been
one, he felt ready to accept it. "Then she is mine, and I am hers,
forever!"
     Eli stepped forward and joined their hands. "Inasmuch as there is
no challenge, I now pronounce you man and wife." As the two embraced and
kissed, the roof rang with the massed shout of 'Issi!", another ancient
word that meant 'two, yet one'.
     Eli turned to step off the platform, when something hard and heavy
brushed up against him, almost knocking him over. He looked up, to see a
short stout man standing between him and the kissing couple. The man was
wearing shiny, black leather, and had immaculate, short hair.
     "Listen to me, now, all you people!"
     Levy and Sarah looked up startled. This wasn't part of the ritual.
Sarah gasped in shock.
     "Abel! What are you..."
     She stopped in amazement. Abel's eyes were shining brightly from
within. Levy stared at him as well, as a silence fell over the crowd.
     "Mark this day well! Mark it for many years! For I tell you a great
thing!" Dead silence reigned in the building. Abel's words echoed off
the walls. "Of this union shall come a child, a man child, and he shall
do many marvelous things! He shall be of great renown, and shall be a
blessing to many people!" Abel blinked then. Instantly his eyes were a
normal, dark brown. He looked out at the assembled crowd, who were all
staring at him. He paused, momentarily overwhelmed. The brief
inspiration that had led him to the platform was finished, and now it
was just him. Then he opened his mouth, and yelled what seemed to be the
right thing to say. "So let's celebrate!"
     The celebration continued well into the night, and would continue
for weeks to come. A delegation had arrived from Lord Dargon himself,
bringing enough food to feed the mass of people well for a dozen days.
The newlyweds, however, as most newlyweds do, had other, more pressing
business, and left shortly after dark.
     Levy and Sarah arrived at their new home just as the fireflies
started to come out. There they found a fire burning, their bed neatly
made, and the traditional nightfruit resting on a bare table. Together
they sat on the bed, and, as per tradition, together bit into the red
fruit. They then broke into soft laughter as the juice ran down their
chins, something that, if it wasn't traditional, was at least common.
     Levy leaned forward and licked the juice off Sarah's chin, ending
with a kiss. She reciprocated. They ate the rest of the fruit, and
kissed again.
     "It's finally over. We're married." Levy embraced Sarah firmly.
     "At last." She ran her hands over his back.
     "You don't know how long I've waited for this."
     Sarah chuckled sultrily. "Oh, yes I do."
     Just then came a knock at the door. Levy frowned, then got up. He
walked over to the door, and opened it. There stood the Ariel's,
neighbors from a mile away.
     "We wanted to congratulate you!" Abe Ariel shook Levy's hand
vigorously, and his wife gave Sarah a hug. "We're going home now. See
you tomorrow!"
     They then walked off into the dark. Levy and Sarah looked at each
other, and then laughed. Levy shut the door, and they walked back to the
bed. Levy grabbed Sarah and pulled her down on top of him. She squealed
happily, and then started kissing him. Levy kicked his shoes off, and
with his feet pulled hers off as well. She slid down beside him, and
they embraced tightly. Then there came another knock at the door.
     Levy got up. I hope this doesn't get to be a habit, he thought. At
the door there stood John, a fellow apprentice at the smithy.
     "Just wanted to congratulate you! And you too, Sarah!"
     "Thank you, John. Have a good night." Levy watched while John
disappeared into the dark, then shut the door.
     A few minutes later two more people walked up to the door. It was
two more neighbors, from across the next creek. It was a harried Levy
that opened the door, and a rumpled Sarah that accepted a hurried
embrace. The neighbors didn't seem to notice, however, and left
cheerily. A few minutes after, when yet another family stopped by to
give their congratulations, it was an empty house they found.
     Levy held Sarah's hand as he led her down the path to the quiet
brookside. There they found a small meadow, far from any houses. There
they spread the still-warm blanket, and there they lay down.
     After they kissed, Sarah whispered to her new husband. "You're a
wonderful, wise man, Levy."
     "You're a wonderful, beautiful woman, Sarah." He kissed her. "What
do you think your brother meant by what he said?"
     "I don't know." She kissed him, carressing the back of his head.
She lay back, on the blanket. "He said we're going to have at least one
child."
     Levy leaned across her. "At least one."
     Sarah put her arms around his neck. "How many children do you want,
Levy Barel?"
     "A thousand!" He started kissing her neck.
     "Well," she answered, smiling broadly, "we'd better get started!"

========================================================================

                          Legend in the Making
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                         <ornoth@wonky.jjm.com>

     Victor Kent quietly admired the schooner Victory Chimes as she
rested at dockside. She wasn't really an attractive ship, with her gaff
and boom rigging, but she was a ship that had filled Kent's childhood
dreams. In fact, she was a ship who filled the dreams of many, both
children and young sailors alike. For many years, the stories of Captain
Smith and the mysterious VC had been told by the men of Dargon to their
children, and Kent was one of those young lads whose heads had been
turned by the call of adventure. His father had been a merchant, and had
often returned from work with tales he had heard from the docks, and
more often than not the hero of the story was the derring Captain Smith
of the Victory Chimes, a swift three-masted schooner. When he was
seventeen, Kent had signed onto a packet ship as a galley hand, and got
his first taste of reality on the high seas. But now he was a man, and a
year ago, at the young age of twenty-three he had been given the command
of a merchant bark owned by the Fifth I merchant shipping firm. Yet now
he was about to give up his first command to become first mate on the
Victory Chimes. It had hardly been a fortnight since the word had gone
out - the VC was putting to sea!
     Despite the legendary accomplishments attributed to the vessel and
its captain, the Victory Chimes had performed little more than routine
merchant liner shipping within the rather limited memory of most people.
But the word was out that Captain Smith was going to take her on an
exploration mission, and that he needed crewmen. The tales of the
captain's bravery and wisdom echoed through every bar in the port
section, spreading through the town of Dargon proper even to Dargon Keep
and to the villages surrounding the port city. As quickly as the news
could spread, men came from far and near to become crewmembers for the
trip. Kent had listened to the rumors, and had decided to talk to Smith
about taking him on as first mate for the voyage. This was, indeed, a
dream come true.
     He carefully set his foot on the gangway, and stepped aboard.

     Captain Gordon Smith stood majestically on the castle as the
Victory Chimes was let from her moorings. He was dressed in attire
befitting a captain of a merchant vessel, and his white hair drifted
casually in the salt-tanged breeze. In the port, there was a very large
crowd gathered to watch their departure for unknown lands. Smith noticed
that it was no longer only children who came to see the VC off, as it
used to be. Today there were sailors, merchants, some warriors, and even
a few dignitaries, their eyes all focused upon his figure and his ship.
The harbor was filled with craft not only from Dargon, but from many
other nearby ports. As the VC slowly glided by, the onlookers excitedly
waved their caps at the crew, a few of whom returned the gesture.
Standing tall and aloof, Smith tried to give them the best show he
could, but his heart really wasn't in it. He thought to himself perhaps
he should have coaled his white hair earlier, but it was too late now.
     Soon enough they would be out to sea, and the few straggling craft
that followed the Victory Chimes would turn back towards port, and he
would be able to relax. The crowd's fascination with him had set him in
a dark mood, and he mused silently to himself as he let the mate, a
young man named Kent, guide the schooner from the harbor into open sea.

     The first two weeks of travel went very well aboard the VC, Kent
thought to himself. He had been given complete command of the ship by
captain Smith, and he had revelled in commanding the legendary black
ship. The weather had been sunny and the winds equally favorable, and
they had made good headway, steering consistently west by northwest.
However, Kent noticed the beginnings of a storm coming up from the
southwest. Shortly after midday he had one of the crew notify the
captain in his cabin, and he returned with the order to maintain their
course if possible, and to come about high to the windward should the
winds come from the southwest.
     Within the hour the storm was upon them. Kent set the westerly
course and lashed the wheel down. He stayed above deck with three other
crewmen to take any necessary actions. Due to the westerly bearing, the
swells broke over the port bows, setting the deck awash with foam and
freezing spray, and Kent was forced to luff the ship and ease off the
sheets to keep her from capsizing. Kent tried to gauge their course, and
felt sure that they were being pounded leeward, far to the north of
their original position.
     By late evening the storm had subsided, although the seas were
still heavy and the wind drove consistently from the southwest. As the
night wore on, Kent maintained his course, although he was aware that
the ship was still being driven far north of where they intended to be.
When morning arrived the seas had calmed, yet Kent could feel a distinct
chill in the air. In fact, as day broke, several large ice formations
could be seen floating some ways off. They had, indeed, been blown far
off course, and were now much farther north than the port they had set
out from. Kent was in the process of trying to chart their position when
a cry rang up from the crew: land had been sighted!
     The conning mate, Lees, had sighted a mountainous island rising
from the sea several leagues to the north, yet he insisted that it
showed no signs of snow. As the captain came on deck, Kent climbed the
rigging up to the halyards and looked. The island was small but it rose
from the water directly into a large, forested mountain, and the slopes
were lush with vegetation. The sky about the island was tainted a
strange silvery color.
     When he returned to the deck, Kent reported to the captain. The sun
had warmed the chill from the air, and the captain immediately set sail
for the island. However, as they approached the island, the air grew
distinctly warmer, until Kent wondered how such a place could exist
within the cold climate so far north of Dargon.
     The island appeared to be the cap of a vast underwater mountain,
rising abruptly from the sea. The steep slopes rose in jagged cliffs,
making it very difficult to imagine that anyone could live there, though
occasional lush valleys ran towards the mountainous center of the
island. However, the most bizarre aspect of the island was the
vegetation. Kent could identify many plants he had seen growing only in
tropical areas in Baranur, far south of Dargon, and yet all the plants
and trees had leaves which had an almost-visible quicksilver sheen to
them. The captain decided to search for a suitable place to anchor and
proceed to explore the island.
     They hadn't followed the coastline for more than twenty minutes
when they came upon a suitable harbor. However, as the VC entered the
lagoon, around the edge of the woods there appeared a small collection
of primitive huts. There were people living on the island! In fact, not
long after the huts came into view, an indecipherable holler went up in
the woods as the ship was noticed by the inhabitants. Within minutes a
handful of dugout canoes were on their way across the lagoon and towards
the ship, the natives bellowing their greetings and gesticulating
comically. Kent laughed as he saw one man run into the shallow water and
leap awkwardly into a canoe, dumping himself and the two previous
occupants into the drink. The captain ordered the anchor dropped, as the
VC was soon surrounded by smaller craft, her deck overrun by curious and
anxious natives. Oddly, Kent noted that their skin, very little of which
was covered in most instances, was slightly dark, and that it also bore
a strong sheen of that unnameable hue. In fact, he noticed that their
eyes all were strongly shaded with the odd coloration. Kent watched as
perhaps fifty islanders ran from one item to the next, not doing much
damage. He watched as one man examined a capstan, then kicked it, then
moved on to the anchor ropes, then went to examine a doorknob. Kent
laughed heartily at the native's expression when Lees, the lookout,
opened the door and emerged from the galley, much to the islanders'
fascination and surprise.
     Each of the crewmembers was soon surrounded by several native men
and women. The ones around Kent rubbed their fingers through his dark
hair (which seemed to be their method of greeting), and then proceeded
to talk at him in their language and pinch and investigate his skin and
eyes. He patiently let them have their insistent way, and imagined that
his skin color somehow must be as strange to them as theirs was to him.
     As evening finally fell, the crew could see that a large fire pit
had been arranged by the beach, and that preparations for a huge feast
were being made. The captain had the crew gathered on deck and, upon the
urging of the natives, launched a boat for the island. Those crewmen who
could not fit in the dingy were gladly accepted as honored passengers in
tribal canoes. Despite Victor's opposition, the captain did not order
any of the crewmen to stand guard over the ship, reasoning that the ship
was within sight, and nothing could happen on it without their
knowledge. Besides, who would want to be left out of the evening's
proceedings?
     The trip to shore was chaotic, but uneventful. The crew was finally
assembled by the fire pit and guided to a large mat, made of fragrant,
freshly-cut grasses. There they were seated, each with a native upon
either hand, while the women brought exotic foods for their men and
their guests. Standing at the head of the 'table' was a large wooden
depiction of what appeared to be a bear. Stained with various colors,
the massive saurian watched silently over the feast. However, a cold
shiver ran down Kent's neck when he noticed that the bear's eyes had
been painted with a stain of that ever-present quicksilver glow he had
seen in the plants of the island.
     The feast went on, with each course outdoing the previous in
strangeness. One of the drinks the crew was introduced to was mildly
intoxicating, and many had drunk far too much of it. Several left the
area at the coaxing of buxom native women, but Kent spent most of his
time trying to talk with one of the natives. He had learned that the man
was named 'Zut', but that you had to accompany the sound with an rise in
tone and shrugging of the shoulders. It appeared that the natives used
the same words for several different ideas, and accompanying gestures
often made clear which word was correct. Just watching the natives
talking to one another had set many of the crew into gales of uproarious
laughter. Many had made comic imitations of the speaker, who then
addressed the individual again, apparently to correct the pronunciation
or gestures made by the crewman.
     Kent had tried to communicate with Zut, but hadn't achieved very
much. He had tried to ask the native about their chief, but Zut had
emphatically pointed at the bear statue, saying "Tsiti!" Kent figured
that the native had interpreted the concept of 'chief' as 'god', and had
shown him the totem of Tsiti, their animal-deity. He spent some time
trying to get the native to learn some words in his tongue, but only was
successful in teaching him 'Victor', 'victory', and 'skin'.

     The following morning, most of the crew were again assembled upon
the mat and fed. Kent was somewhat troubled by the fact that Zut was not
at the meal, and tried to ask another native why Zut was not present.
The native looked at him and babbled.
     "Zut! na'hai Tsiti!" While speaking this, he managed to somehow
shrug his shoulders, make motions like waves with his hands, and then
close his eyes. Apparently Zut had something to do with Tsiti. Kent
wondered. Perhaps Zut was a priest, though he carried no markings or
demeanor that differed from the other men. He tried to tell the native
to bring him to Zut.
     "Bal'oa nia tsapful," replied the native. Somehow Kent got the
impression that the conversation was ended, though he really had no idea
why.
     After breakfast the native urged Kent to follow him away from the
village and into the island. Kent talked Captain Smith into coming
along, on the basis that they would be exploring the island. Most of the
crew had all gone in separate directions, but would be back by
nightfall. With that, they were off into the mountainous and overgrown
island interior.
     They followed a worn footpath through the woods, but the existence
of a path didn't make the going much easier. The trails had been made
for bare feet, and were too soft and spongy for boots, which Kent and
Captain Smith soon removed. The guide had led them on a trail which led
high into the interior area of the mountain, and the going was very
steep and very warm. It was some time after noon when the guide
excitedly beckoned them towards a rise in the trail.
     As Kent climbed up the rise, what he saw was one of the most
beautiful and most bizarre scenes he had ever seen. They were standing
at the top of a huge cliff which fell away several hundreds of feet to
the sea. The view looked down upon the northern shore of the island,
which the VC had not scouted. The view was breathtaking, but even more
startling was the view to the north of the island. Several leagues
distant was another island, yet this one was nearly flat, and about it
there was a strong, visible aura of the strange color they had seen only
in shades in the plants and animals of this island. There was no
question that the northern island was the source of the unnatural hue.
     "What in hell is it?" came the captain's exclamation from behind
Kent.
     The native, seeming to understand, simply replied "Tsiti."
     Kent tried to describe his thoughts to the captain. "Apparently,
Tsiti is the bear figure we saw at the village. They seem to worship
this being, and that island is somehow linked with him. It's obvious
that they must think it's sacred. But that's about all I know."
     The captain pondered silently for a moment. "Damn. Well, we're
supposed to be exploring and adventuring. I guess we can't very well
turn away from something like this, can we? Let's head back to the
village and round up the crew." With that, he turned and began carefully
picking his way back down the path. Kent gave the native a reassuring
look and followed.

     The afternoon was cooling off, and the early twilight shadows were
beginning to lengthen as the group plodded down towards the village.
Captain Smith immediately had all the crew gathered by the beach, and
described what they had seen that afternoon. He planned to have the crew
spend that night on board ship, and in the morning set sail northward to
explore the other island.
     The crew had enjoyed their stay on the island, and weren't at all
pleased about returning to the Victory Chimes; however, they decided to
endure it after having convinced several native women to accompany them.
The night passed quietly, and the following morning the natives were
asked to leave the ship, and the VC set out from the harbor. They
skirted the coastline fairly closely for most of the way, and so it was
not until near midday that they began to see the strange color appear
pronouncedly in the sky to the northward. Finally they came around a
headland and saw the northern island. Many of the crew turned away from
the bizarre vision, yet many stood gaping at the unnatural sight. The
flatness and lack of vegetation on the island made it seem even more
alien than the rugged mountains of the southern island, and even Kent
stood dumbfounded by the potency with which the abnormal coloration had
contaminated the area surrounding the lifeless, featureless island.
     Kent could sense the tenseness of the crew as the ship left the
coastline and headed across the stretch of open sea between the two
islands. As the noontime sun beat down steadily, Kent began to see heat
waves rising from the water. His vision became more blurry and he
thought he had become sick, until one of the crew staggered to him,
complaining of the same symptoms. After asking several other men, he
concluded that the color was somehow effecting their vision. He stumbled
aft towards Captain Smith.
     "Sir, the crew can't function... the waves, the color is blinding
them!"
     Smith stood immobile and replied, "We'll make an anchorage soon,
Kent, and go ashore. I won't flee from a little sea-blindness!"
     Kent made his way to the rail and watched the island through his
blurred vision as they approached. It was broad and flat and lifeless.
He couldn't make out either the southern island or the sun clearly, as
his eyes began to burn and redden. Soon they dared not approach the
island any closer, so Smith ordered the anchor dropped a suitable
distance offshore.
     Captain Smith had the crew gathered abaft and addressed them. "I
have decided to send a party of men ashore to explore this island, and
find the cause for these weird lights. I shall be in charge of this
party, and the rest will stay behind at the ship. Now, who is willing to
venture ashore?" At this, the men began to mutter lowly between
themselves. At length, a voice spoke up.
     "Captain!" One of the crew, a man named Jason Black, stepped
forward. "Most of the crew don't want any part of this island. It's not
something honest men should go poking at. If you go messing around in
things like this," he nodded towards the island, "there's nothing but
harm going to come of it."
     The crew seemed to be in consensus, and Kent began to suspect that
a mutiny was brewing, but another voice spoke up, that of Lees, the
lookout. "Jason, when you and the others signed up for this voyage you
were all set for adventure and exploring. The captain has seen more than
his share of the world, and if he's not scared of this, then neither am
I. I'll go with Captain Smith, even if I'm the only one!" With that he
joined Kent and Smith before the group, who continued to favor Jason's
opinion. No one else stepped forward.
     "Very well, then. I shall go and explore this island with Kent and
Lees." Then, looking at Black, "I shall deal with your lack of
enthusiasm later. Now, prepare to lower the boat."

     Soon thereafter Lees was rowing the ship's boat towards the island.
The haze of the midday sun bore down upon them, and Kent found it
difficult to make out the shore. The captain sat in the dory, cursing
the crew and the island beneath his breath. They arrived at the
shoreline and stepped out onto warm, black sands. They pulled the boat
high out of the water, and headed inland, occasionally stumbling on
unseen rocks. Kent's vision became worse and worse, and their progress
slowed and became more arduous with each step. The heat waves blurred
his vision almost completely, making it difficult to see the terrain in
front of him. As they plodded forward the blinding alien color became
stronger, and it became more and more difficult to continue. Kent had to
fight the need to rest. He began to wonder why he had ever signed on
with the insane captain Smith. His feet seemed leaden, and his very soul
was dead tired. At length the captain ordered a halt and collapsed to
the ground.
     After a moment, captain Smith asked Lees to go forward a bit, to
see if anything could be seen, but not to go far. The lookout continued
on, and was gone from sight almost immediately. Kent sat down near Smith
and rubbed his burning eyes in vain. They weren't having any luck in
finding an explanation for the bizarre color, and he was about to
suggest that they return to the ship when he heard Lees cry out in fear.
He forced himself to his feet and joined the captain in stumbling
towards the sounds.
     Kent outpaced the older captain, who continued to stumble behind
him as Lees' yells turned to pain-maddened screams. Kent continued to
rush forward, and suddenly came upon a scene of sheerest terror. Before
him stood a huge monster, which had attacked the seaman. The beast stood
half again as tall as Kent, and looked vaguely bear-like. However, it
was covered with thick black scales, and its eyes were faceted like
those of an insect. In those eyes burned a searing flame of that color
which Kent knew was from hell itself. The beast had ripped off Lees'
right arm, and held him by his left. Kent tried to master the screaming
fear which was building up inside him, but he knew that Lees was already
beyond rescue.
     Suddenly, from Kent's left, captain Smith staggered forward and
into the beast, which turned and sent a powerful taloned fist in a wide
arc towards the old man's head. Kent leaped forward and tackled Smith,
taking him backwards and out of the range of the monster's blow. On the
ground, the captain immediately turned and ran, crouching low to the
ground. Kent followed, trying to keep within sight of his superior.
     After several minutes of blindly stumbling away, they began to slow
their retreat, but suddenly the beast came down from above them. As he
rolled to his left, Kent thought he caught a glimpse of leathery wings
behind the beast. Again the two ran in the direction they guessed the
ship lie, although now they did not slow their pace.
     Kent was never sure how long they stumbled around the island in
their color- and fear-blinded madness. Finally, they came upon the black
sands of the beach, and followed it until they came upon the Victory
Chimes' boat, which they quickly launched and returned to ship. There
Jason Black stood on the deck, waiting.
     "Where is your friend Lees, captain?"
     Smith didn't even answer him, but began giving orders to weigh
anchor and unfurl the sails. Kent looked at the seaman and said "Lees is
dead." Apparently the sailor saw something strange in Kent's eyes, for
he turned and began making ready to sail without further inquisition.
     Despite the onset of darkness, the VC made its way away from the
island and set a southwesterly course. The captain retreated to his
cabin and left Kent standing orders to continue on their present course
until they reached the islands of Bichu. Through the night Kent
reflected on the event, and thanked Mitra that no one else had been
killed by the hell-spawned monster.

     The westward voyage had been a tiring one for Kent. They had spent
forty five days sailing southwest from the arctic islands, and Kent had
begun to understand why so few ships had made the crossing to Bichu. He
had not imagined there could be so much empty sea in the entire world.
The captain had remained isolated in his cabin, leaving the command of
the Victory Chimes to young Kent, who was somewhat angered that Smith
hadn't turned out to be the brave adventurer he had been portrayed as in
the now distant stories of his youth in Dargon.
     He gazed westward towards their destination, the mystical land
known as Bichu. Nothing broke the endless horizon, which completely
encircled them, blue upon blue. He had known of men who had gone insane
upon long voyages. They had stared at that unchanging horizon so long
that they were convinced that it was not the horizon at all, but a
tapestry hung to deceive them, and that it was closing in on them. His
thoughts were interrupted as Jason Black climbed up to the poop to speak
with him.
     "Any idea when we'll see land, Victor?"
     "Not yet. Maybe a week or so. Can't be much more."
     The seaman looked down nervously for a moment, then faced the mate
straight on. "Kent... you're a good mate. You know that the skipper
isn't fit to command a ship. All he's done on this voyage is sit in his
cabin and drink. He had us bring him another keg of brandy this morning.
And when he hasn't been drunk, he's led us into trouble."
     "Oh?" Kent knew that Black didn't trust the captain, but to speak
this way, he must have friends who felt the same way. The crewman read
his expression perfectly.
     "Most of the crew are with me. They saw what happened to men who
trust the captain - men like Lees, rest his soul. Now we know you're an
able commander, and we aren't going to die for the captain's mistakes.
You obviously should be in charge of the ship."
     Kent's thoughts raced. The captain obviously was not capable of
command under these circumstances, but Black was asking him to lead an
outright mutiny against the captain who was the hero of every seafaring
story in Dargon! "Look, Jason. I don't want you boys doing anything. Let
it be for now - the captain isn't doing us any harm so long as he's in
his cabin. I want to talk to him myself. Can you keep the crew from
doing anything?"
     "That I can do, at least for a while." With that, Black elbowed
Kent in the stomach and stepped down towards the bows, leaving the mate
wondering if it had been a gesture of friendship or of warning.

     Kent stood at the door to captain Smith's cabin. He had thought out
what he was going to say to the aging captain, and all he had left to do
was to gather his nerves and say his piece. After a few moments of
silently wishing that the problem would resolve itself, he rapped upon
the wooden door. From within a response came, and Victor Kent opened the
door and stepped inside.
     Smith's cabin was a mess. Of course, Kent had seen it before and
wondered at it, but as he thought about it, he realized that captain
Smith had lived in the same room for probably more than twenty years.
Spending that much time in one place, one could expect a man's home to
be cluttered. Smith sat in an upholstered chair, a goblet of brandy
close by, idly gazing at a huge chart upon the port bulkhead. The chart
showed the explored lands, and Kent had spent as much time as possible
examining it, using the excuse of plotting their course. Smith looked up
at Kent and motioned to another similar chair which stood back to the
wall with the chart.
     Kent sat down, dreading what must come. At length he began.
"Captain Smith, the crew has asked me to come talk with you." At this,
Smith's attention became focused. "They feel that you haven't properly
commanded this voyage, and that you've spent too much time in your
cabin. They think you made some bad decisions back at those islands."
     "And they've asked you to mention this to me?" Smith countered.
"And what do you think?"
     Kent hadn't considered his own feelings, but he tried to put them
into words. "Well, you're not the leader I thought you'd be when I
signed on in Dargon. You certainly haven't lived up to your reputation
for wisdom."
     Smith leapt up angrily and paced back and forth through the room,
thrashing the air with his arms. "Damn it! I left Dargon to get away
from those asinine rumors! Can't you people just let me be?" The
captain, recovering from this violent emotional explosion, sat back down
again. "Well, I suppose you're right. I was hoping when we set out that
it would be different, but I guess it's true." The captain paused, and
Kent wanted to speak, but he hardly knew what to say. Eventually Smith
went on. "Let me tell you a story. I have never told this to anyone, but
I suspect that it would be appropriate to tell you now." The captain
looked old and tired as he drained his goblet and motioned for Kent to
fill it from a decanter on the table.
     "Many years ago, I got my first command. I had been working as a
scribe before that, but I knew a friend in the harbormaster's office,
and I asked him to see if he could get me a ship to command, despite my
lack of experience or training. He finally came through, and I was
offered a position as captain of a patrol sloop called the Victory
Chimes. It wasn't this ship, mind you, it was smaller and older. So I
went about my duties of stopping suspicious vessels, and so forth.
     "It was during the annual summer Festival that it happened. A
pirate who called himself Soloman Banshee stole the Bard's Crown, which
had been given to the winner of the minstrelry tournament for the past,
oh, fifty years." Kent knew the object, for it was the centerpiece of
one of the most important events of the Festival. He also recognized the
story as the one where Smith had rescued the crown. However, he did not
interrupt Smith, as it might cause another outburst, and Victor was
intrigued at the possibility of hearing the tale in the captain's words.
     "At the time I was at sea, patrolling the northern coastline. My
mate saw Banshee's ship sailing northwards. They apparently saw us at
the same time, for they abruptly changed their course to put plenty of
space between us and them. My mate, a strong lad named Larson, urged me
to attack Banshee's ship, telling me that no pirate would run from such
a small craft unless he had something precious and illegal on board, but
I was afraid, and I gave the order to hold our course, despite the oath
I took as a patrol commander." This was something Kent hadn't heard in
the folk tales. Indeed, the truth was not quite the same as the myth.
     "That afternoon a storm blew up, and that night was a long and
difficult one. Early in the morning the ship ran hard aground on a rocky
headland that had gone unseen. In the morning, she lay hard on her side
during low tide. I ordered the ship abandoned and struck out southward,
hoping to come to a village.
     "Near noontime, Larson came back from scouting ahead. He had a
sword wound on his left arm, but his face was sheer ecstasy. He told us
that he had come across Soloman Banshee's camp, and dispatched the only
sentry there. Then he slowly drew forth from his cloak the silver Bard's
Crown.
     "We all wondered what to do, for surely Banshee would be back, and
would miss the crown. Despite other advice, I decided to take the camp
and wait for the pirates, and either destroy them or bring them to
justice. We set up our camp in the middle of theirs, but failed to
notice their arrival that evening. I was sitting by the fire, watching
Larson pick over the food at the pirates' table, when Banshee slashed
his back open from behind. I grabbed the pouch beside me, which
contained the Bard's Crown, and ran like mad, while my crewmen were cut
down behind me."
     Captain Smith paused, his hollow eyes staring blankly at the floor.
Kent sensed that Smith's reputation wasn't completely deserved, and it
appeared that the very event which caused his notoriety had not been one
of bravery, but of cowardice. Smith took a long draught of brandy and
continued.
     "I finally reached a village and bought a horse. When I returned to
Dargon, the Festival was still going, and I was received as a hero. I
was granted honorary barddom by the College of Bards, and Lord Dargon
himself insisted that he build me a beautiful ship, which is this ship,
the VC that everyone knows.
     "And so I was a hero to the people of Dargon. The tale grew more
and more preposterous each month. The Victory Chimes was built, and I
sailed ordinary voyages, but the legend couldn't be stopped. The
following year I overheard a story in a bar that I had come across a
chase between a pirate drumond and a merchant galley. The person had
mistaken my name for that of Simon Salamagundi, who had actually done
that." Kent started, and Smith noticed it. "Yes, Simon Salamagundi the
stew vendor. He was one fine captain. Do you remember the story about a
captain tricking a pirate king into forming an alliance with Dargon?"
     Kent nodded. The story he had heard said that that captain had been
Gordon Smith.
     The old man frowned. "No, that was Salamagundi, too. My legend is a
myth. It doesn't exist. I have never been a brave or wise man, I fear."
     "Then why did you undertake this exploration voyage?"
     The captain sat silently for a moment before answering. "Well, at
first I thought that after all these years, maybe I could command men
and a ship, and maybe do something good. Maybe after all these years, I
could do something to deserve that reputation. Now I know better. But, I
had another reason, as well."
     Kent looked puzzled.
     "I can't live in Dargon forever. I am a folk legend, not a man, and
legends do not go out quietly. When we dock in Bichu, I will stay there,
and live out my days there quietly and in peace, without young men
looking at me as if I was a god."
     "And what of the ship? And what of the crew? We want to return to
Dargon!"
     "And so you shall, Kent. When I leave you in Bichu, I will turn
over the command and ownership of the Victory Chimes to you. You've
commanded her well on this voyage, and she deserves a better owner than
I." Kent could hardly believe his ears. Here was his childhood hero,
saying openly that he wasn't a hero at all, and now the old man
suggested that he would be given the ship of his dreams as soon as they
made port! Kent tried to find words to say, but realized he wasn't even
sure what he was feeling. "But... what will we tell people when we
return to Dargon?"
     Smith smiled slightly. "Just tell them that I stayed behind in
Bichu. They will find a fitting ending to the story of Captain Gordon
Smith themselves, no matter what you tell them. He will die as a lord in
Bichu, or lost in some foreign land."
     Kent spent a long moment in thought.
     "I'm sorry, Captain Smith. I understand now. I'll let you know when
we make landfall."
     With that, he struggled to the door and left Captain Smith, a man
broken by his own legend.

     The Victory Chimes lay up next to a large pier on the shore of
Bichu, a mythical land with ways very unlike those of Dargon. They had
been there almost a week, and the crew had enjoyed the time on land, but
Kent knew that they would soon be restless to return home. They had been
told that Smith was to remain in Bichu, which drew some odd looks, but
no one had protested.
     Gordon Smith stood upon the wooden pier with the young captain,
Victor Kent. Smith noticed that Kent had matured since the time when he
had stepped aboard the VC to talk with Smith about being first mate for
the voyage, and he was satisfied that Kent would make a fine captain.
They said respectful farewells, and the young man boarded the ship and
cast off.
     Smith stood upon the pier, watching the ship he had never felt he
deserved move effortlessly from the port and towards her home, and he
felt good. Perhaps he had finally accomplished something right,
something worthy of a legend. With a deep sigh, he turned away from the
slowly receding Victory Chimes and from the legend of Captain Gordon
Smith, and walked quietly away.

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