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 DargonZine                                     Distributed:  5/26/2001
 Volume 14, Number 5                            Circulation:        740
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Triskele: Genesis            P. Atchley and         Vibril 20, 1018
                              Rhonda Gomez
 Flingers                     Rena Deutsch and       Seber 10<31>17, 1017
                              Cheryl Spooner
 Death Has a Pale Face 1      Nicholas Wansbutter    Seber, 1017

========================================================================
 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 correspondence to <dargon@shore.net>or visit us
 on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at
 ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
 discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 14-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright May, 2001 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
 All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
 and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
 without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

                               Editorial
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                           <ornoth@shore.net>

     If you read the HTML version of DargonZine, you should already know
about our Online Glossary, which lists every character, place, and thing
in the Dargon world. So for example, if you were to follow a link in one
of our stories to the Glossary entry for the shadow boys, you'd be
presented with an encyclopedia-like description of that group, and a
list of every story that they appear in. You will also get a description
of the role they play or what happens to them in each of those stories.
     If you've been using the Glossary recently, that might not be news
to you; all our new stories have provided this information for more than
a year. However, it's only now that I can say that the job of filling in
reference data for all our back issues is finally done. There are now
reference details for every single appearance of every Dargon element in
every story we've ever published!
     One reason why that's worth noting is how useful that information
is. For our readers, having reference details allows you to more easily
follow your favorite characters and things through all their appearances
in the magazine. By knowing whether the shadow boys play a major role in
a story or are just a passing reference, you can more easily decide
which previous stories you might want to go back and read. For our
writers, that same information makes it much easier for them to research
what's already been written about Dargon elements that they might want
to use in the stories they're presently writing or outlining. In both
cases, knowing not just what stories something appeared in, but also a
summary of its role in the story, is valuable and useful, and we're
pleased to be able to make that information available to everyone.
     The other reason why the completion of our "Reference Update" is
noteworthy is because it was an immense job that required lots of effort
and time from a large number of people. To create this information, we
had to re-read more than 300 Dargon stories and write over 8,000
reference descriptions. That effort began more than four years ago, and
its completion has been a top priority of ours since 1999. Our writers
don't join the Dargon Project to become researchers, but many of them
voluntarily put a lot of their spare time and energy into pushing this
goal forward, in the interest of helping both our readers and future
writers.
     You might not think of it at first, but the Reference Update is
perhaps the single biggest project we've undertaken as a group, and
after years of pushing, it's immensely gratifying to be able to say that
it's 100 percent complete. I hope it helps our writers create more
interestingly interwoven stories, and makes reading DargonZine a better
experience for you. I want to publicly thank and recognize the many
writers who donated their time to this effort. And having this finally
behind us should free up resources that we can use on additional
projects to make DargonZine even better!

     In this issue we begin with two stories, each which has two
authors. We begin with the first of the three-part "Triskele", which was
written by P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez. The second story is "Flingers",
a cooperative effort between two people who live 8500 kilometers (and
eight time zones) away from one another: Rena Deutsch and Cheryl
Spooner. Co-authoring has once again gained popularity amongst our
writers, with six stories among seven writers being published jointly in
the past 18 months, and there are more on the way. Co-authoring will
also be a major theme at our upcoming writers' Summit. The the first
half of Nick Wansbutter's "Death Has a Pale Face" rounds out the issue.
I hope you enjoy them all!
     Our next issue will continue both "Triskele" and "Death Has a Pale
Face". It should appear in late June, and also feature a debrief from
the 2001 DargonZine Writers' Summit, which is being held this year in
sunny California!

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

                           Triskele: Genesis
                     by P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez
               <dpartha@usa.net> and <RhondaGmz@aol.com>
                            Vibril 20, 1018

     From my vantage point in a tree on the highway from Dargon to Kenna
I watched as the wagon crawled through the muck and mire. A brief thaw
had made slush of the king's highways and even though spring was nigh,
it was still blisteringly cold. I forced myself to stop clenching my
jaws; the chill and tension from the forthcoming violence had set my
teeth on edge. The air around me had that brooding, heavy quality of
approaching twilight and I hated the forest at nighttime.
     We had picked a bend in the highway where the forest pushed up
directly against the road and the trees were dense, providing excellent
coverage from which to stage a raid. Yet I had to keep reminding myself
that we had plenty of time to complete our business before nightfall.
     "Ol's piss!" the wagoner cursed as the wheels of the wagon dipped
into yet another deep rut.
     Mentally, I echoed the curse. I was feeling strangely anxious even
though holding up caravans on this road was something my band had done
countless times before. My cohorts and I had endured an extra-hard
winter and this was the first wagon we had seen in over two months. The
booty we could get from this robbery would pay for food and some
much-needed leatherskins.
     The two tired-looking horses pulled out of the dip, causing the
entire cart to shake. I wondered what had made the wagoner agree to
drive his passengers from Dargon at this time of year, especially since
the recently melted snow had made every road close to impassable. Very
few people were foolhardy enough to travel this early in the year,
mainly because of the weather, and honestly, I was a little surprised to
find this caravan on the road. Money, I supposed -- something even a
sane wagoner couldn't turn down.
     Suddenly the wagon came to a complete stop, mired in the mud. It
was close enough to me that I could make out the color of the dirty
scarf the wagoner wore. I watched him lean over the side of the wagon to
stare at the wheels and frown. A gust of wind whipped through his hair
and he shivered.
     Up in the dense leaves of the hemlock tree I shivered too. It was
close to the seventh bell of the day, and the cold sank through my skin
easily. I looked up and saw but a few white clouds marring the darkening
sky. I whistled a loud call and was quietly pleased to see that the
prearranged signal went unheeded by the driver; it never ceased to amaze
me how incredibly easy it was to fool travellers.
     I continued to watch the tableau unfolding before me. A head peeked
out of the cloth-covered wagon. It was a boy, and when he spoke, I could
hear the words faintly over the brisk Vibril wind.
     "What happened, Tobias? Why have we stopped?" The boy was older
than I had thought at first: a young man with long hair that swung
around his thin face like that of a girl. He sniffed, and I guessed that
his eyes and nose were watering in the cold wind.
     "We're stuck," the wagoner, Tobias, explained. "In the mud," he
added helpfully.
     "Oh," said the young man, blinking rapidly. Abruptly he pulled his
head back inside.
     The distant sound of approaching hooves alerted me to expect my
companions. The occupants of the wagon heard as well. I didn't wait any
longer and slid down the tree trunk just as my three companions burst
onto the scene. All of the men dismounted easily; one of them, Nuru,
vaulted onto the front of the carriage near the wagon driver. "Don't
move!" Nuru snapped at Tobias. "Hold the horses, man!"
     "What do you want?" Tobias growled, trying to calm the restive
horses.
     Meanwhile, I circled around from behind so that I could ensure no
one from the wagon ran off with any of the valuables.
     "Jelani!" It must be the wagoner shouting, I guessed, at the young
man.
     With the tip of my sword I flipped open the fabric that covered the
rear of the wagon and said sharply, "Out!"
     The young man jumped out of the wagon with a huge sword in his
hand. "Bandits! I will kill you!" He brandished the weapon rather
ineffectually. I wasn't an expert swordsman of any level, unlike the
chief of our little band, Kamin, who was quite the fencer. Still, it was
the work of a moment to disarm the younger man. I caught at his blade
with my own, rotating my wrist deftly. The other's grip loosened almost
at once and within moments his sword fell into the slush. I ran my blade
into the younger man and then realized I had an audience. An old man and
a young woman had been watching my little disagreement with the pretty
young man, and when the girl saw Jelani die, she screamed in short,
shrill outbursts. My teeth ground together and momentarily, I regretted
the fact that I had killed the young man in front of her.
     "Hush, daughter," the old man tried to calm her. "Gaia, be calm."
She was young, maybe thirteen or fourteen, her figure showing the
promise of curves to come, with hair the color of wheat and eyes that
were tremendously blue. She'd make a fine woman in her time.
     I would have been more circumspect if I had realized that a girl
had been watching. But since it couldn't be helped now, I told myself it
didn't really matter. The chances of this girl remaining alive were
slim. At least she wouldn't have to live with the nightmares. Nightmares
were something that I had intimate acquaintance with, thanks to my late
master, Mon-Haddar the mage. I felt a tingle along the flesh of my back
and had to resist the urge to reach over my shoulder and rub the itch.
The mage's lessons had been burned into my brain and onto my back during
my youth, as a result of which there were many things that I was not
likely to forget. Really, she was better off dead, I consoled myself,
and then shrugged the regret away. "Out! Move it, now!"
     Father and daughter stepped out of the wagon obediently. The old
man's face was blue with cold, and he stumbled. I gave him a mighty
shove, and he moved forward and fell face-down into the snow on the side
of the wagon near the front of the carriage. The girl knelt by him
rubbing his chest, trying to ease his breathing.
     Kamin came up behind me. "Well, old man, where's your money, hmm?
Tell me." Kamin was the younger son of a noble, although no one knew
which one, and perhaps because of this, his manners and language were
exquisite. I had often wondered about Kamin's past and what opprobrium
had caused him to throw in his lot with the robber brotherhood.
Sometimes I had even found myself imitating his gentlemanly manners. He
had an air of authority, and somehow without even realizing it, everyone
obeyed him. While his orders were always given as requests, no one made
the mistake of treating them as such. He could and would kill as easily
as he breathed and sometimes his kills had not been as quick as I could
have wished for the unfortunate victim.
     I remembered an incident about a year prior, when we had stopped
two men travelling on horseback. One of them had offered to fight with
Kamin on condition that if he won, he and his companion would be allowed
to go free. Perhaps he thought he recognized a gentleman in Kamin, I
don't know. Of course, Kamin, being the fencer he is, won. He took a
sennight to kill them -- probably the longest sennight in their lives,
the bleeding snuppers.
     Now Kamin brought out a tiny dagger and waved it at the old man. I
felt my stomach heave as I recognized the dagger: it was the one he used
to persuade others to his way of thinking. The persuasion usually
involved the dagger and the blood and pain of the poor sod.
     "Kamin," I said, allowing a hint of disapproval to lace my voice. I
realized that this was why I'd felt anxious at the beginning of the
raid. We had been cooped up for a long time without any activity and I
knew that Kamin would feel the need for a little needless ... diversion.
The robbery of these people would go without a hitch, but I dreaded
Kamin's later activities.
     He glanced at me. "Ah, our little Yellow is a little yellow." He
laughed softly at his own bad joke. "Now, now, my dear, the old man is
going to die anyway, so why can't I have a little ... eh ... practice,
hmm?" He drew the knife in a downwards motion along the old man's cheek
and then abruptly pushed it into his shoulder. The old man screamed.
Kamin left his knife in the wound and smiled gently at me.
     I glared at him. Kamin knew I hated my name, one that had been
given me during my time with Mon-Haddar, because of the bright yellow of
my hair. The unfortunate connotations of the name had dared me to do
things in the past which, on my own, I would rather have not; even now
it never failed to sway me into actions which were against my nature.
The first time I had killed had been because of a taunt. But no taunt
had yet been enough to make me torture another person, and I frequently
prayed that nothing ever would.
     "Old man, tell me where your gold is," I said sternly. I brought
out my own knife and held it against the old man's neck. "Talk!" I could
feel Kamin's approving glance as I threatened the old merchant. To my
mind, there was really no point in all of this drama, but Kamin needed
it, and I -- well, I hoped to save the poor old man from Kamin's
attentions. Surely a clean death by my hand was better than a lengthy
one at Kamin's hands.
     The girl screamed, "No, Father, don't give these thieves anything!"
     "Fine. Kill them, Yellow," said Nuru, who was standing in the cart
with a knife at Tobias' throat.
     Kamin walked around to me and gestured me towards the wagon. "Go
and check inside. Find the money."
     I slid my knife back into its sheath and hurried over to the wagon,
sparing a glance behind me. Kamin had a smile on his face, one that,
more often than not, gave me nightmares. I recognized that smile; it
reminded me of Mon-Haddar. The two of them shared a quality that I
hated, which made them enjoy the helplessness of others -- more, the
pain and terror of others.
     I quickened my steps and jumped into the wagon, throwing the
cushions to one side, searching for the strong box I knew I would find.
Within moments I rushed back out. "I found it in the back," I said
breathlessly. "It's there."
     "The goods are in the back, gentlemen. I'm getting them out. Nuru,
please deal with this lot. Kill them." Kamin turned and went to the back
of the wagon.
     "Please, no. Take whatever you want, don't kill us. Please," Gaia
begged. "My father's old. Please don't kill us."
     Draage, standing next to Gaia, gave her a push and she fell
backwards with a cry.
     "What did you do that for?" I snapped at him.
     "She was in the way." He pulled a long rag from his belt and
slipped it around the old man's neck.
     "No, no!" The old merchant began to struggle.
     "Here, leave him alone," Gaia yelled. She sat up and screamed,
"Tobias, help him." She stood up and rushed toward Draage, but I moved
forward and held her immobile. I tried to twist her body to one side so
that she would not have to see her father die, but she fought me. I
watched Tobias stare unblinkingly at the girl, who watched her father
die strangled by Draage. Poor girl, I thought again. She would be better
off dead.
     "No!" Tobias tugged at the reins and the horses moved. Nuru lost
his balance and fell heavily. I threw my knife at Tobias, but in the
deepening gloom I was unsure if it had hit its mark. As I moved toward
the wagon, Gaia screamed.
     "No, no. Leave me alone. No!" There was the sound of clothing being
torn. Gaia sobbed. "No!"
     I turned abruptly from the wagon and hurried toward the girl.
     "Quiet!" It was the gruff voice of Draage. "Be quiet, girl."
     I had always found something abhorrent about rape, perhaps because
of my own close shaves with it; my time with my master had left more
than just physical scars. One of the guards the wizard had employed had
delighted in tormenting me and I'd also been the subject of the mage's
... experiments.
     Now I said harshly, "Draage, why don't you leave her alone? We got
the loot. Let's just kill her and go."
     "Yellow by name and yellow by measure," growled the other man. "I'm
not leaving until I've had my pleasure." The grin that covered his face
made my stomach turn and I felt my head begin to throb.
     Gaia was weeping softly now, with little outcries. Suddenly she
screamed again.
     I couldn't bear it any longer. "That's it. Enough!" I reached for
my knife, and found it gone. But Kamin's knife was still in the dead old
man's shoulder. I bent, grabbed it, stepped forward and, in one quick
motion, slit the girl's throat. Gaia gave one last sob and then there
was silence. My vision blurred and as she fell to the ground, I saw her
face meld into another's. For one sharp yet fleeting moment, she
appeared to be a much older woman, with startlingly black hair and big
eyes of bottomless brown. In the next instant, I saw that I had been
mistaken; it must have been the deepening gloom. Absently I rubbed the
knife against my tunic and slid it into the sheath that lay against my
side. At least this girl wouldn't be in my nightmares, which didn't need
any more new faces.
     "What did you do that for?" Draage shouted.
     "I don't hold with rape," I said shortly. She would be at peace
now. Really, I had done her a favor in killing her, I thought.
     "That's it, Yellow, I've had it with you. Who do you think you are,
son of a bleeding guttersn--" Draage rushed me and succeeded in shoving
me to the ground.
     I rolled away from him in the direction of the woods on the far
side and came up fast, throwing a punch where I expected Draage to be.
It connected to his abdomen with a satisfying thud. Both of us were
equally fit, although I was the taller of the two. We were evenly
matched and had frequently sparred together in practice bouts, something
which Kamin had instituted among our little band, much to the annoyance
of two of our group; Kamin had killed one for failing to practice and
the other, Piet, had run away.
     I knew I had to be careful, for Draage gave no quarter. He threw
one punch after another, gaining the advantage. We moved backwards, and
I heard a loud roaring sound. I spared a corner of my mind to wonder
what it was, but my attention was on Draage. I knew that I was fighting
for my life. Kamin was probably still counting the money, and even if he
had realized that Draage and I were fighting, he would never interfere.
I knew that he would cheer the winner and go off with him. I was on my
own.
     Suddenly Draage tripped on a stone that lay behind him and fell
backwards, but he rolled to the side almost immediately and I, though
I'd intended to jump upon him, found myself sitting on the ground
instead. Both of us jumped up agilely, and began to circle around.
     At that moment, I recognize the sound: it was the river, Thyerin's
Run, named for the god of the elements. I hadn't realized we were so
close to it. An idea sprung into my mind. If only I could lure Draage to
the water ...
     My break in concentration cost me. Draage's punch connected; my
nose began to bleed copiously. I only hoped it wasn't broken. I now
found myself on the defensive. Draage was throwing punches that I
managed to block almost at random. Another one of his punches connected,
this time to the abdomen, and I doubled up momentarily. Taking advantage
of my bent position, I moved forward, hit him in the stomach with my
head, and jumped backwards immediately after hitting him. I knew that
although he was holding his belly, Draage sometimes feigned injury. True
to form, his right leg kicked out in a circular motion that failed to
hit its target. He regained his balance quickly and began to punch me,
pressing me backward towards the river.
     I allowed myself to be pushed in the direction of the river,
letting a corner of my mind plan out what I wanted to do. I would let
Draage think he had me, and that I was weakening. Draage was very good,
but he could only think one move ahead. In that respect, without vanity,
I knew I was better than him. I weaved artistically, aware that I really
needed to judge the distance behind me. I took a deep breath and let
another one of Draage's abdomen punches connect. My breath left me in a
whoosh and I shoved him to the ground with my shoulder. Quickly I turned
and saw that I was barely a stride from the river's edge. But I had
underestimated Draage. By the time I turned back, he was at me with a
knife.
     I danced backwards and to the side, but it was not enough. He
struck and I felt the knife slide into me. It rent the skin on my side
with ease, like freshly churned butter. The pain grew inside me like a
living thing, growing, consuming, devouring me. I took the pain and fed
it to my rage and fear, rage that Draage, woman-raper that he was, might
best me, and fear that this time, I might die. Fury enveloped me and I
reached for my knife. The knife was my weapon. It was something that I
had wielded to good effect in the past, even when I had apprenticed with
Mon-Haddar. The mage had taught me where to strike to kill instantly,
and Kamin had taught me where to strike so that the victim lived. I
chose to give Draage no chance at life. I thrust my knife at Draage
forward and up. He fell backwards, blood pooling at his lips, a wry
expression in his eyes. I sighed and stepped backwards away from the
corpse.
     "Oh. Aaaah!" I had not paid attention to where I was. My last step
had been on the slippery banks and the furious waters had grabbed me for
their own. It was so cold that my teeth were chattering. Chunks of
frozen water floated past me, with me -- I felt as if I was becoming one
of them. I couldn't feel the wound in my side because the icy Run had
numbed it. I couldn't even feel my arms or legs.
     I tried to paddle, but not only was the river flowing too fast, I
was losing my senses. My best option would be to let the river do what
it would. I felt keenly the irony that Draage had bested me even in
death. I embraced the rage and fury in my mind and tried to use it to
fight Thyerin's Run. My efforts were too flimsy to win against something
that could swallow a dozen of me. My head bobbed up and down on the
surface of the river, and I tried not to swallow the water. It was a
wasted attempt, for I could control nothing. Thyerin's might was
absolute. It was then that I remembered the falls that crossed the
river. The cold was affecting my head so that I was no longer certain
which way was up or which way was down, but I knew what the roaring
sound was. A single thought, straight and clean as an arrow, shot
through me: I was going to die.

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

                                Flingers
                   by Rena Deutsch and Cheryl Spooner
             <Rena3@hotmail.com> and <roar_gb@yahoo.co.uk>
                           Seber 10<31>17, 1017

     "Sian! I'm home!"
     Aren listened as he opened the door and stepped inside, but the
house was unusually silent. There were no answering cries, no sound of
children playing and squabbling, or Sian's laughter or scolding. His
voice echoed in the quiet as he looked around. Everything was in its
place and he saw no sign of them having left in a hurry, yet it was rare
for everyone to be out all at once.
     "Sian? Kerith? Briam? Finn? Where are you?" He went to the room he
shared with Briam and Finn, some of Sian's other foster-children. Even
that was tidy, which was a strange thing in itself. It rarely looked
this neat except when Sian had just cleaned it. He moved to the room his
sister Kerith shared with Oriel, the latest addition to their family of
orphans, but again it was empty. The rag-doll Sian had made for Kerith
lay on the floor between the girls' beds, and Aren picked it up, idly
fiddling with its woolen hair as he wondered where they might all be.
Glancing out through the window, he noticed the laundry drying on the
lines. A strong wind was blowing now, moving grey clouds quickly across
the sky.
     "I'd better get the laundry in before it starts raining," he
grumbled to himself. Sian would scold him if he left it out to get wet.
With a sigh, he dropped the doll on Kerith's bed and hurried down the
stairs and outside to gather in the laundry.
     "Aren! Aren! Come and see!"
     Aren turned, arms laden with clean laundry, to see his sister
Kerith, brown curls bobbing as she skipped towards him. Her blue eyes
were wide as she tugged on his arm, her voice high-pitched, almost
squealing in her excitement. "Aren! Go and put that laundry down and
come and see!"
     "All right! All right!" he laughed. Why were seven-year-old girls
so excitable? He dropped the clothes into the basket he'd taken out with
him, then picked up the whole load and took it into the house, with
Kerith tagging along, urging him to hurry. Once the laundry was safely
deposited on the table, he took Kerith's hand and let her lead him
outside, shaking his head and chuckling at her breathless excitement.
     She led him out the back door, across the yard and out into the
street. In the distance, coming up the road, were Sian, Briam and Finn
pulling a wagon, with Oriel pushing from behind. The wagon appeared
heavy, because they were moving slowly, as if it was taking them all
their time and effort just to move it.
     "Come *on* Aren! Come and see!" Kerith jumped up and down and
tugged on Aren's hand. "Come on, hurry up!"
     "What has you so excited, little sister?" Aren looked at her. Her
mouth curved in a little smile and she shook her head and touched her
nose as she skipped alongside her brother, deliberately jumping in all
the puddles. "Just wait 'til Sian tells you what we got and what we'll
be doing."
     "Now I'm curious! What did Sian bring this time?" Aren asked,
noting the smugness of her smile with a grin. So, his little sister had
something to tease him with for a change.
     "I'm not telling you that we got big baskets!" Kerith giggled.
     "All right then don't tell me, but what are the baskets for?" Aren
smirked, he knew how to make his sister tell him everything, and sure
enough, it worked.
     "We'll put flingers in them and then sell them at the festival!"
     "Flingers?" Aren wasn't quite sure he'd heard right, but then he
remembered. "Oh yeah, flingers! That should be fun! Do you remember what
to do with flingers?"
     "What do you do with flingers?" Kerith looked at him as though she
wasn't quite sure what a flinger was.
     "You pick one up, throw it as hard as you can on a rock," Aren told
her. "When it breaks open you let a fortune teller read your fortune,
and then you cook it and eat it. So, we're going to collect some and
then sell them at the festival? Who's doing the fortune telling?"
     "How did you know we're going to sell flingers?" Kerith cried, her
eyes wide as though she couldn't believe her brother already knew all
about it.
     "You just told me, sis," Aren laughed, ruffling her hair. "You
never could keep a secret around me!" Kerith looked at him, her eyes
suddenly huge and her lip trembling as though she was going to cry. Aren
quickly comforted her. "I won't tell Sian you told me. It'll still be a
surprise." He smiled at her, and her smile returned. He chuckled to
himself as he hugged her, amused by the way her tears were so easily
forgotten. "Race you to Sian!" he grinned. "One, two, three, go!" Aren
watched his sister run ahead and then followed her quickly, taking care
to stay just behind her so she "won" the race.
     "Hi Sian," he said as he approached. "It looks like you could use
some help. What's under the cover?"
     "Oh, I'm so glad you're here, Aren. This thing is such a weight!
Here, take this and I'll go round back and push with Oriel and Kerith."
Sian brushed a stray lock of her long hair back from her eyes as she
handed Aren the rope. "I'll tell you all about it when we're at the
house. That is if Kerith hasn't already spilled the beans."
     "I didn't spill any beans, Sian! I didn't even go near them!"
Kerith stood in front of Sian, hands on her hips, her eyes indignant.
Aren and Sian laughed out loud.
     "What's so funny?" Finn asked.
     "Nothing Finn," replied Sian, "You and Briam keep pulling the
wagon. With Aren's help we'll be home shortly and I'll warm some stew."

     When they were all sitting round the table, enjoying stew and warm
bread, Aren again asked Sian about the contents of the cart, now safely
stowed in the outhouse.
     "We hauled the biggest kettle you ever saw, Aren!" Briam
interrupted excitedly.
     "Straight," Oriel chimed in, "Not even Jahlena has one that huge!"
     "Where'd you get it?" Aren asked curiously.
     "Rebecca, the midwife, let us borrow it," Oriel answered quickly.
     "And we get to go down to the beach t'morrow, real early, and catch
flingers for the festival!" Finn added through a mouthful of bread.
     "You'll help me catch the most flingers, won't you Aren?" Kerith
pulled her brother's shirt, "Won't you? Won't you?"
     "I didn't think this was a competition, Kerith," Sian said. "We'll
all work together."
     "Won't you tell me what's going on?" Aren looked at Sian, his
eyebrow arched quizzically. "I'd really like to know what I've been
volunteered for."
     Sian laughed, "No one volunteered you for anything, and I can
understand if you have to help out at the inn that day. The big festival
with the blessing of the fleet is in less than a sennight and the
children and I decided that we could catch flingers for the festival and
sell them. Rebecca agreed to read people's fortune, but she's too old to
go catching flingers and doesn't want to cook them afterwards either."
     "We're going to get up real early in the morning and go to the
beach to catch flingers. Are you coming too Aren?" Briam looked at his
friend.
     "Sure he's coming!" answered Kerith before Aren could say a word.
     "He'll help *me*!"
     Aren laughed, "Sounds like I don't have a choice."
     "Straight!" answered Kerith.
     "Well then, you four eat up and go to bed!" Sian looked at Briam,
Finn, Kerith and Oriel. The four younger children finished their stew
and went to bed, for once without having to be told a second time.
     "I almost forgot," began Aren and pulled out his little purse. "I
got paid today." He placed four Bits on the table.
     "Keep them, Aren. You've been such a help those past months, and
even fifteen-year-old young men need a little money to spend now and
then." Sian got up and collected the dishes. A big yawn escaped her.
"I'd better go to bed as well. The rain should bring the flingers to the
shore. With some luck we'll find enough tomorrow."
     "I'll come with you. I don't have to be at the inn until
lunchtime."
     "Will you see to the fireplace and make sure it's ready for the
morning?" Sian asked him, yawning as she stood and walked towards the
foot of the stairs. "I'm rather tired."
     "I'll do that, Sian. Good night." Aren turned to the fireplace,
took shovel, and started clearing the ashes.
     "Good night, Aren," Sian, called, already halfway to her room.

     A heavy thudding on the door had Rebecca awake with a groan. "Cease
your banging!" she grumbled as the thudding sounded again. "I'll be out
in a moment!" She sat up, pulling her shawl around her to keep out the
chilly night air as she fumbled for her tinderbox to light the lamp that
stood on her dresser.
     "Rebecca!" a young voice shouted. "Hurry!"
     She opened the door, facing an anxious boy. "What?"
     "It's mother!" he interrupted, hopping from one foot to the other,
"Baby's coming! Hurry!" He reached for her hand, trying to pull her with
him.
     "I need my bag," Rebecca muttered and turned around to get it.
     "No!" the boy yelled. "We need to go now!"
     "Not without my bag!" she snapped at the boy, silencing him
momentarily. Rebecca slipped into her shoes, tied them, pulled her shawl
close and then reached for her bag, tossing it to the boy. "You can
carry it. Now lead the way!"
     The boy clutched the bag to his chest and hurried down the path.
Every now and then he stopped to see if Rebecca was still following him.
As they approached the house, they could hear the screams of a woman.
     "That's my mother," the boy cried and pulled Rebecca's arm. "Hurry,
please. Help her!"
     Rebecca stopped at the door and placed her hand on his shoulder. "I
will help her. You have brothers and sisters?"
     "Yes," he nodded. "A brother and two sisters."
     "Take your siblings and bring them to your neighbor. Stay there!"
     "Straight," he answered, swallowing his tears, and opened the door.
     Screaming greeted Rebecca as she entered the room. A woman covered
with blankets lay on a mound of hay. Her husband stood next to her
looking helpless. In the far corner were three children cuddled
together, looking frightened. Rebecca now recognized the couple; she had
delivered all their children. Not wasting a moment, she stepped to the
bedside and silenced the screaming woman with a firm yet controlled slap
to her face.
     "Save your strength for later, you need it to bring your baby into
the world!" Rebecca commanded the woman, then turned to the husband.
     "Sengar, I need some hot water and a clean blanket, and get Morgana
some water to drink." Without a word Sengar did as he was asked. Rebecca
cleaned her hands then turned to Morgana who was breathing heavily.
Rebecca lifted the blanket and all color drained from her face. There
was a tiny foot sticking out. "Not good, not good," she muttered to
herself.
     "What is it? Rebecca?" Morgana called out, "Tell me what's wrong! I
can feel something's not right!"
     Sengar, who had been standing behind Rebecca, answered his wife.
"There's a foot sticking out."
     "The baby's backwards, I have to pull it out," Rebecca said after a
moment of thinking, "It's not going to be easy. Babies aren't supposed
to come feet first."
     "Can't you turn it?" Sengar asked
     "Too late to turn," Rebecca answered, "I would have been able to do
that before her water broke." She reached into her bag, pulled out a
root, and handed it to Sengar. "I need you to sit behind Morgana,
support her head, and hold the root so she can bite into it." While
Sengar took his place, Rebecca removed the blanket and instructed
Morgana to pull her legs up.
     "I want you to push with all your might when the next pain comes,"
Rebecca told Morgana. The woman nodded briefly, biting on the root.
Rebecca placed her hand on the woman's swollen belly. She felt it
tightening.
     "Now! Push!" While Morgana pushed, Rebecca pulled on the baby's
leg. The whole leg became visible and soon the second leg dropped out.
     "Stop pushing!" Rebecca instructed Morgana while she felt her way
along the baby's body to its shoulders. Carefully, she pulled each arm
downward and gently aligned the baby's arms with its body then told
Morgana to push again. Rebecca pulled on the baby's body, but it
wouldn't move any further. Pearls of sweat started forming on her
forehead. Impatiently, she wiped them away.
     "Push! Morgana, push with all the strength you've got!" Rebecca
commanded, pulling on the baby's body, yet she made no progress.
     "Why isn't my baby coming out?" Morgana asked, breathing heavily.
     Rebecca looked directly at her, "The head is stuck. I ..." She
interrupted herself when she noticed the worried look on their faces and
then finished confidently. "I'll get him out." When she felt the
tightening of Morgana's stomach again, Rebecca pulled, but to no avail.
She slid her hand alongside the baby's body and felt for his jaw.
Hooking her fingers into the baby's mouth, she forced the head down.
     Morgana screamed, then her face went ashen and she fell silent. Her
limbs flopped to the side.
     "Pull her legs back, Sengar!" Rebecca commanded. "The baby's almost
out." While Sengar did as he was told, Rebecca pulled one last time and
the baby was free of his mother. She lifted the little one by his feet
and tried to make him cry yet he remained still. Rebecca shivered. She
took a cloth and began rubbing the baby's back, drying him. She yelled
at the baby, "Breathe!" but nothing happened.
     "Leave him be, Rebecca," Sengar said quietly after several menes.
"He wasn't supposed to stay with us."
     Rebecca looked at Sengar and nodded. She cut the cord, wrapped the
lifeless baby into a piece of cloth, and handed him to his father. He
pulled his son close for a moment, a single tear in his eye, then placed
him in a box by the fire.
     "The afterbirth is coming," Rebecca said, turning her attention
back to Morgana. Gently pulling on the cord, she eased the purple mass
out and placed it in a bowl. A stream of blood followed, which soon
slowed to a trickle. Rebecca looked into the puddle of blood and felt
the color drain from her face. For a moment she saw a man's face. The
face changed into a flinger and then vanished. Swallowing hard, she
finished her work. Rebecca looked into Morgana's face and noticed her
color had returned. She was sleeping now, breathing normally.
     After cleaning herself, Rebecca reached into her bag and pulled out
some herbs. She ground them into a fine powder and gave them to Sengar.
     "When your wife wakes, make her a strong tea with this. It will dry
up her milk. Let her see the baby if she wants to. Send your boy if you
need further help."
     "Thank you," Sengar replied and reached for a small bag attached to
his belt. Rebecca shook her head.
     "Keep it," she said, "You'll need it for the Rattler." Grabbing her
bag, Rebecca left the house and made her way home, shaking her head and
muttering to herself, "'Tis not good, not good at all."

     On the day of the festival, Sian woke the children early. They
would have to make several trips to get all the baskets to the docks,
even with Aren's help. May had given him the day off work and he was
looking forward to the festivities, and to helping Sian sell the
flingers. They'd gone out every day to collect flingers from the beach,
until all the baskets Sian had brought were full of the reddish-hued
animals. He was also proud that they'd managed to keep them all alive by
covering the baskets in water-soaked cloths -- something one of the old
fishermen down by the docks had told him about. The morning was
unusually cool for the month, and fog engulfed the docks and those parts
of town closest to the docks. Despite wearing a warm cloak and pulling
the heavy wagon, Aren shivered in the chill morning air.
     "I'm cold!" complained Kerith to no one in particular.
     "We all are," Aren told her. "Once we have the fire going for the
kettle you'll warm up quickly."
     The group reached the site at the docks Rebecca had mentioned to
Sian when they'd bargained. It was a good place to attract customers:
everyone attending the festival had to pass by them and Rebecca had
always had her tent there. People would remember it simply because it
had always been there.
     Quickly, the children unloaded the wagon. Aren, Briam, and Finn
made their way back to pick up the remaining baskets of flingers while
Sian, Oriel, and Kerith built the fire. When the boys returned, the
fireplace was set and extra firewood was stacked within reach. After
unloading the baskets the boys took buckets to haul water for the
kettle. No sooner did they return when the first people came walking
down the street. Aren noted that the women wore gaily colored dresses,
far different from the everyday drab browns and greys they would
normally wear around the city. The men too were dressed in their best,
with brightly colored tunics over their breeches. Children ran, skipped
or walked alongside, eyes bright as their clothing with excitement for
the coming festivities. Aren smiled to himself as Kerith started jumping
from one foot to the other in anticipation.
     "Where is Rebecca?" Aren asked, ruffling Kerith's hair. "Her tent
is all set up, but it's still closed."
     "Why don't you run up to her place and see if she needs help,
Aren," Sian suggested.
     Aren hesitated for a moment. As the oldest of the boys, almost a
man as Sian kept saying, he felt it his duty to stay and take care of
the others. On the other hand, he didn't think it would be a good idea
to send any of the others on such an errand. Finn would get sidetracked,
Briam would get impatient and the girls were too young to send off on
their own.
     "All right Sian, I won't be long," he replied eventually, taking
one last look to make sure everything was as it should be before turning
in the direction of Rebecca's house.

     Rebecca sat at the table, drinking tea and staring into the hearth.
Flames danced on the logs and sparks swirled in the smoke like
fireflies. In the midst of the flames she saw the face which had
appeared in the vision the previous night. It had haunted her dreams,
making her fitful and restless, and yet it was no one she knew. All she
did know was that the face, appearing as it did at such a bad time, was
not a good omen. She was getting too old for all this, she decided with
a sigh. Too old and tired to be troubled by visions and what they meant.
It was time she retired ... and yet, what would she do? Midwifery was
all she'd known. Could she ignore the knock in the middle of the night?
Refuse to assist in a birthing? Rebecca shook her head. She could no
more do that than stop the visions from bothering her. They'd troubled
her for as long as she could remember, even as a child. Sometimes they
were good things, but most often they foretold of tragedy.
     Rebecca shook herself and pulled her shawl about her shoulders as
she rose to clear her mug and mend the fire. It would be time to go
soon. She would have to shake this mood and get ready for the fortune
telling at the festival. Fortune telling was easy; she just told them
what they wanted to hear. No visions involved there, just a gift of
being able to read a face and know by the eyes what their hopes were. It
wasn't real. Not like the visions. The visions came unasked for, and
more often than not were unwanted. Worse still, there was nothing she
could do to alter the outcome. Useless things!
     She placed another log on the fire, damping down the flames a
little with the remains of her tea so that it would burn slowly and keep
the house aired while she was gone. As she did so, a knock sounded at
the door. Time to go, she mused with a heavy sigh. All at once a shiver
ran up her spine, raising the soft hairs on the back of her neck and
making her shudder. A sense of panic overwhelmed her and she suddenly
didn't want to go. The knock sounded again and she froze, biting her
lip.
     "Foolish old woman!" she told herself angrily, trying to shift the
feeling of dread that had chilled her, bone-deep. It was all she could
do to move, to force herself to answer the door, but she crossed the
room, slowly, feeling for all the world as though she was walking
through cloying mud. "Get a hold of yourself Rebecca," she muttered,
shaking her head to try and rid herself of the dark thoughts. "It'll
happen whether you're there or not, so just get on with it." When she
finally opened the door she found Aren waiting there, smiling nervously.
     "Sian sent me to help you," he said, and she nodded, not trusting
her voice. She picked up her bag from the table and handed it to him,
closing the door behind her as she stepped out into the street. She
didn't speak the whole of the way to the harbor, but listening to Aren's
cheerful whistling as he walked alongside helped her to focus on
something other than the vision. By the time they reached her tent the
sense of panic and dread had passed, and she felt able to deal with
whatever the day would bring.
     "It's good to see you, Rebecca," Sian greeted her warmly, the
younger woman's light grey eyes smiling with relief.
     "Good to see you, too, Sian," she replied, and she meant it. Sian
was always so pleasant, and the way she cared for those children she
took in impressed Rebecca. "Thank you for sending the boy to help me
with my bag. A very polite young man." She turned to Aren "Thank you
lad."
     Aren bowed. "You're welcome, Rebecca."
     "It's good to see a boy with manners. Would you please help me to
my tent? I can take care of the rest myself then and you can send the
first people with their flinger to me."
     "I wanna be first! Me first!" Kerith jumped excitedly from one foot
to the other. "Please, can I be first?"
     Rebecca turned around and looked at the little girl, smiling. It
was nice to see such untainted excitement: blue eyes so big and wide in
wonder at anything and everything. She had been that way herself once,
many, many years ago, before the accursed visions had come and put an
end to innocence and wonder.
     "Come on then little one, bring your flinger," Rebecca said,
turning to walk into her tent, leaving an excited Kerith to pick her
flinger. Once inside, Rebecca let her smile slip, rubbing her eyes
wearily. Sounds of excitement from outside and the sound of a flinger
being hurled against the rock had a false smile on her face in an
instant. It wouldn't do to let the children see her this way ... and
hopefully, the vision she had seen would not come to pass today.
     "Sit down child," Rebecca instructed, as Kerith hurried into the
tent, holding the broken flinger out eagerly. Rebecca took it and placed
it on the table between them, giving Kerith her most mysterious look.
"Now, pretty one, let's see what the future holds for you."
     She studied the flinger, the position of its legs, the crack in the
shell, and told Kerith she would grow up to be a beautiful woman, have
many children of her own, and live a happy life. Of course, the answer
wasn't really in the flinger; it was in the child's face. Rebecca merely
had a knack for reading eyes and faces, and knowing what they wanted to
hear. The fortune-telling using flingers was merely a way of earning
money, a show for the visitors, her real gift was in the visions, and
was a gift she'd never wanted.
     Kerith smiled when she heard Rebecca's forecast and thanked her,
picking up her flinger to rush outside, calling out excitedly to Sian
and the others about the fortune Rebecca had told for her. Then came
Briam, a nice enough lad, but a trifle lazy, Rebecca thought as she
studied his face -- a far more important action than studying the
flinger. She told him what she saw in his eyes. He would be a guard,
just as he wanted, as long as he worked hard. His face fell a little as
she made the statement, and she smiled to herself. He'd wanted to be a
guard, but not liked the part about working hard, she sensed.
     Oriel entered the tent as Briam left. Rebecca looked at her,
remembering the fire that had killed the girl's mother. She studied her
eyes, then looked down at the flinger in front of her with a smile. This
youngster could be anything she wanted, judging by the willpower Rebecca
had seen in her eyes. She told Oriel that she would do very well for
herself, in whatever she chose to do. Oriel thanked her and left,
smiling. Next into the tent was Finn, and Rebecca suppressed a chuckle.
The carrot-headed youngster was so full of life and mischief it shone
from his hazel eyes as she read his face, despite his obviously trying
to be calm and nonchalant. This one would get himself into scrape after
scrape as he was growing up, although there was a lot of good in the
boy, deep within, and he would make a fine man. She told him he would
have a life of adventure and his eyes lit up like beacons as he jumped
up and hugged her.
     "Oh get away with you, scamp!" she laughed as he kissed her cheek
and ran out of the tent. Rebecca shook her head, chuckling to herself.
Perhaps today wasn't going to be such a bad day after all.
     Aren slowly approached the kettle, looking pensive. He hadn't been
in to have his future foretold, but wasn't sure if he shouldn't turn
around and ask Rebecca to read his flinger. He decided to go with his
first decision, threw his flinger in the kettle, and watched it turn
red. While he waited for it to cook, he took a look around. Finn was
drawing little lines in the dirt, his permanent grin even wider than
usual. Kerith, Oriel and Briam, were busy talking to the people walking
down Division Street, telling them about their flingers, and inviting
them to have their fortunes read for a Bit. Soon the first customers
lined up outside Rebecca's tent. The day was chilly. A brisk wind moved
white and grey clouds across the sky. Every now and then the sun broke
through and showed the docks and the brightly decorated ships of the
fleet. Whenever a few customers were waiting to have their fortunes
read, the children took a break and stood around the kettle to warm
their hands.
     "Sian, how much longer do we have to sell flingers?" inquired
Kerith.
     "'Til we've sold them all, Kerith," replied Sian. "We only have one
more basket; that shouldn't take too much longer."
     "And then we can go and look at all the ships?" asked Briam.
     "Yes, then you can go. Aren will take you. Now go and find some
more people, there's only one person waiting right now." Dutifully,
Oriel, Briam and Kerith went back to work. Aren followed, wanting to do
his share of getting customers for Rebecca. He watched as Kerith
approached an old man who was walking slowly down the road.
     "Good day, sir," Aren heard her greeting the man. "Would you be
interested in buying a flinger? I have lots and Rebecca the midwife will
read your fortune. And then you can come over and cook it in the big
kettle Sian has set up. They taste really good." Kerith held up the
flinger for the man to see.
     "Don't want my fortune read, girl," replied the man and continued
on walking.
     Kerith was persistent. "They're only a Bit, and if you don't want
your fortune read you can always cook it; they taste ever so good." The
man stopped and looked at Kerith. "What's your name, girl?"
     "Kerith."
     "You don't give up Kerith, do you?"
     Kerith smiled. "It's fun to have Rebecca tell you about your
future. She told me earlier. And the flingers taste good. What's your
name?"
     "I'm Drew Molag. What did Rebecca tell you about your future?"
     "She said that I'll be beautiful when I grow up." Kerith
straightened herself. "And for only a Bit she'll tell you about your
future." She held up the flinger.
     Drew Molag let out a short laugh. "All right, I'll buy your
flinger. Where is Rebecca's tent?" He handed Kerith a Bit and took the
flinger from her.
     Aren looked proudly at Kerith while she pointed to Rebecca's tent.
No one was waiting now. He watched as Drew slowly walked towards the
tent, then turned to his sister.
     "Well done Kerith!" he praised her and ran his fingers lightly
through her hair. Kerith beamed at him, then skipped to the baskets,
picked up another flinger, and approached a woman.

     Rebecca stood up and reached for her basket as her latest customer
left the tent. She pulled a water flask out and took a sip. She was
about to step out of her tent when she noticed a man approaching. For a
moment she thought she had seen him before, but couldn't remember.
     "Crack your flinger on the stone next to the tent and then enter,"
she called out and went back to her chair. She listened for the cracking
noise, nodding when she heard it. The flap opened and an old man stepped
inside. He placed the flinger on the table and seated himself before
Rebecca could ask him, and introduced himself as Drew Molag. Rebecca
nodded, reaching for the flinger.
     Carefully, Rebecca examined the flinger, her finger tracing the
small cracks on the outer shell. She closed her eyes halfway, and was
about to raise her head to look into his eyes, to see what his hopes
were, when the face of a woman appeared before her. Rebecca gasped,
clutching the flinger tightly as the face changed into the face of a
girl, then a young woman, and again into a girl. Each face was
different, but all had three crossing lines on their forehead. Through
the years, and her visions, Rebecca had come to recognize those lines as
a sign of death. Then the face changed again. This time it was the face
of a man and Rebecca recognized it immediately. She had seen it before!
She had seen it when Morgana's baby was born. It belonged to the man
sitting in front of her! The face in her vision was surrounded by blood,
a faint death sign on the forehead.
     Rebecca paled. Grateful for the dim light in her tent, which
wouldn't betray her shock over the revelation, she steadied herself.
What was she going to do? She couldn't tell him the truth. How could she
tell someone that they were going to die? And yet, how could she not
tell him. Perhaps if she forewarned him it might not come to pass.
Rebecca's heart sank like a stone in her chest. She had tried to change
the outcome of her visions before, but with no success. Why should this
time be any different? The man coughed, bringing her out of her
thoughts.
     "I can see you've been through a great deal of pain," she began,
carefully wording her response, "It all seems to come to an end, but it
is not very clear. I see you lost sisters and daughters ..."
     "Don't dwell on the past," interrupted Drew, "I'm more interested
in what is going to happen. Will it end? I'm on a quest to end the
suffering of my family. Will I be successful?"
     Rebecca turned the flinger in her hands and moved her fingers over
the cracks. A brief shudder rippled through her body as she fought the
urge to blurt out what she'd seen. It would do no good. "Your suffering
will end soon," was all she could say.
     "Tell me more about it," demanded Drew, as though he noticed
Rebecca's hesitancy. "Go on woman."
     "There isn't anything to add," replied Rebecca quietly, "That's all
I can say."
     "You're lying!" shouted Drew, "You saw something and you won't tell
me what it is. I know you did!" He jumped up knocking the chair down.
     Rebecca also rose, facing him calmly, although inside she was
trembling. "I don't have anything to add," she said. "Please leave." She
picked up the flinger and held it for Drew to take.
     Drew took the flinger and threw it out of the tent. "Tell me what
you saw," he demanded one more time. When Rebecca refused to add
anything to her prediction he knocked the table over. "What did you
see?" he yelled, grabbed her by her shoulders, and shook her.

     Aren was on his way to bring Rebecca some food when he heard
yelling inside her tent. He rushed to the entrance and was hit by a
flinger coming from within. It hit him squarely in the chest and for a
moment he stood there unsure what to do. Inside the tent the yelling
started again. Aren looked around, noticed a young man nearby, and
recognized him as Tom Madden, their neighbor's son.
     "Tom!" Aren called out and gestured the man to come near when he
had his attention. "Hurry!" Tom walked towards Aren with long strides.
     "What ..." Tom began, but was interrupted by yelling from inside
the tent. He nodded towards Aren and stepped inside the tent. Aren
followed.
     "Do you need any help, Rebecca?" Aren's eyes swept the tent, and he
grew alarmed as he noticed the overturned table and chair. "Hey mister!
Leave her be and go. If Rebecca has nothing to add, then there is
nothing to add."
     "What do you know, boy?" Drew retorted angrily and turned his head
for a moment to look at Aren without letting go of Rebecca's shoulders.
"She's withholding the truth from me, I know it!" Without missing a
breath he turned back to Rebecca and in a low voice repeated: "Tell me
what you saw! Tell me!"
     "There is nothing else to say. Let go of me and leave. Now!"
Rebecca tried to shake herself from Drew's grip, but without success.
"Tom, help me, please." Rebecca had recognized the young man who'd
stepped into her tent with Aren.
     "Let her go!" Tom moved closer and reached for Drew's arm. Drew
swung his arm backwards and managed to push Tom backwards, but only
momentarily. Angry as he was, he shook Rebecca, and when she didn't
answer, he hit her in the face. Rebecca screamed. Tom rushed to her side
and pulled Drew away from Rebecca. "Leave her alone!" he yelled at Drew.
     "Don't touch me!" Drew swung his fist and hit Tom on the chin. Tom
only shook his head and rubbed his chin. When Drew set out to punch Tom
for the second time, Tom stepped to the side and Drew's fist only
reached empty space. The momentum of the intended blow made Drew stumble
and fall. He hit his head on the table and was unconscious by the time
he hit the ground. Blood was pouring from an open wound on his forehead.
Aren stood motionless, staring at the man on the floor, then Tom and
Rebecca. No one said a word.
     "What happened?" Sian broke the silence as she entered the tent, "I
heard Rebecca scream." Aren pointed to the man on the floor and Sian
bent down to see if he was all right. A large puddle of blood had formed
under the man's head. Sian let out a deep breath, kneeling next to Drew.
Aren noticed the man was barely breathing. Rebecca joined Sian, bringing
her bag. Together the women tried to stop the bleeding. Rebecca opened
her bag and pulled out some rags and herbs, while Sian applied them.
Quietly, Rebecca told Sian what had happened. Drew moaned softly, then
lay silent.
     "Can I help?" Aren asked softly, looking at the man then Sian.
     "No." She replied without looking up.
     "His breathing is shallow and slowing with each passing moment,"
Rebecca remarked and Sian nodded. Aren shuddered, realizing the man was
going to die. He had never seen anyone die before.
     "Wake up!" Sian yelled and shook Drew by the shoulder. The man
didn't respond. Aren watched as Sian moistened her fingers and held them
over the man's open mouth. Shaking her head, she placed her fingers on
his neck.
     "I can't feel him breathing, nor do I feel the life pulse within
him," Sian whispered. Aren barely made out the words. With a solemn
expression on her face Sian stood up.
     "He's dead," she announced.
     Tom looked at her in disbelief. "He's what?"
     "He's dead, Tom," Sian repeated softly. "There is nothing I can do.
We need to call the guards."
     Tom nodded in agreement. "I'll be right back."
     Aren held out his hand to help Rebecca get up. Her small hand
gripped his and she gave him a thankful nod. Her face was pasty white
and to Aren she suddenly seemed very small and frail. She tucked a stray
strand of graying hair behind her ear with trembling fingers.
     "I'm sorry, Rebecca," began Sian, but Rebecca shook her head.
     "Please ... just close up the tent for me ... I won't be telling
fortunes any more," she said quietly.
     "But Rebecca ..." Sian said, "You can't quit because of this, it
wasn't your fault."
     "Yes it was," Rebecca said dully. "I spent all day telling people
what they wanted to hear, and the only real fortune I saw, I couldn't
tell." With that she picked up her bag, wrapped her shawl around her
shoulders and walked out of the tent.

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

                         Death Has a Pale Face
                                 Part 1
                         by Nicholas Wansbutter
                         <ice_czar@hotmail.com>
                              Seber, 1017

     A cool breeze washed over the line of troops as they made their way
along one of the many winding roads of Dargon, moving in ragged
formation like some giant caterpillar. Their unpolished helmets and
pike-blades shone dully in the red light of the setting sun. At the head
of the column rode the company's commander, Lysander of Connall,
followed closely by a standard bearer with the vibrant, if somewhat
tattered, banner Duchy Dargon. Riding beside the commander was a
Stevenic priest named Orto D'Outremer, clad in simple black robes and
borne by an old pony. Near the centre of the troop three large wagons
trundled along behind ageing horses. Within the confines of one of the
carts lay a religious manuscript that the priest Orto was transporting
to the High Church in Magnus, along with the duke's annual tribute to
King Haralan with twenty-five Dargonian soldiers as escort. At Orto's
request, Duke Dargon had allowed the priest and his tome to accompany
the small convoy.
     Morgan Derkqvist paid little mind to the item the soldiers had in
their care. He was more concerned with the rumbling in his belly and the
blisters on his feet. He was glad of the soft wind as it blew across the
croplands to the soldiers' left, however. The day had been hot, and the
bells of marching had left him drained and looking forward to setting up
camp for the night. The chainmail hauberk, heavy leather boots and
gauntlets he wore in addition to the weighty helmet had done much to add
to his fatigue. There was still some marching to do before they rested.
Being near the front of the column, he could hear Orto D'Outremer
conversing with Commander Connall, and he listened out of boredom.
     "... It's really quite amazing, Lord Connall ... I am certain that
the text was written around the time of the Stevene himself," the priest
said in a deep, husky voice. "But what is most amazing is that it is
written in Beinisonian, which leads me to believe the Stevene also
travelled in the lands of our southern neighbours. The scholars in
Magnus will verify this, I'm sure, and translate the good words that are
written on the book's pages. Would that I could read them myself ..."
     "Bah!" Morgan spat. "More religious drivel."
     "I suppose we'll be hearing enough of it this trip," Bayard
Marckennin, the man marching next to Morgan, grumbled. "He'll make no
convert of me, though."
     "Straight," Morgan agreed. "Religion is what nobles pretend they
have and old men grovel in front of. I'll not follow any such scrud."
     "Be careful what you say about nobles, Morgan," Bayard said.
"There's one not too far away."
     "Commander Connall?" Morgan shrugged. "I don't mind him much. As
for the duke, he pays my wages, and I'll fight for him and enforce his
laws ... but not much more."
     The party stopped to rest for the night only a few leagues further,
as the sun was just beginning to disappear behind the thick trees of the
forest ahead. The wood in question split the northern half of Baranur
from the south. There would be no choice for the troop but to travel
through it on their way to Magnus.
     "Rest well tonight, troops," Commander Connall said. "We've a long
day ahead of us tomorrow. I intend for us to move on through the next
night that we may navigate the great forest without having to camp in
it. Who knows what bandits lurk in its confines, so be vigilant."
     With that he turned away from the assembled troops and went to
brush down his horse. The soldiers broke formation and headed in several
directions, some standing around talking, others searching for a
suitable place to build a fire.
     Feeling the call of nature, Morgan moved away from the rest of the
soldiers in search of a suitable place where he could squat and lighten
his load a little. Only when he was finished with that task did he move
to where the soldiers had gathered.
     Morgan sat down next to his friend Bayard, who had already gotten a
fire going and was warming some stew in a pot over the flames. The
youngest of the troops, Louen, and a few others were also sitting around
the fire. Morgan tugged at his heavy boots. His feet felt like they had
been branded with hot irons. The relief was instant as the boots came
off and the mild evening air caressed his worn soles. He examined the
bottoms of them in the firelight, and was pleased to find that no new
blisters had developed during the day's march, and that the old
callouses had not fallen off. He wriggled his toes about for a bit,
relishing the soothing coolness of the air, then pulled a dry crust of
bread from his belt pouch.
     As he nibbled at it, he noticed the priest Orto approaching. The
Stevenic was quite a rotund man and waddled when he walked. Shaggy grey
hair hung from his head, and a thin, stubbled beard covered his ruddy
cheeks. He blew his bulbous nose on a dirty handkerchief as he drew
near, making an enormous trumpeting sound.
     "Cephas' boot!" The fat priest stumbled over one of the soldiers'
pikes laying on the ground, and knocked over one of the men's cups in
the process. He ponderously bent over and picked it up, patting the
man's shoulder in an act of repentance. "My apologies, son."
     "Oh, scrud," Bayard said to Morgan. "I think he's coming over
here."
     Indeed, he was. Somewhat out of breath, Orto placed a fleshy hand
and much of his weight on Morgan's shoulder and lowered himself to the
ground with a sigh. "Thank you, my son. May God reward you for your
kindness to an old priest."
     Morgan just grunted and continued about his business. He hoped that
the priest would go away if he saw that he wasn't welcome among the
soldiers. Instead, Orto once again placed a hand on Morgan's shoulder
and attempted to initiate a conversation.
     "What is your name, my son?"
     "Scrazz, old man!" Morgan pushed the priest's arm away. "I'm not
your son."
     "Hmmmm ..." The priest picked up Morgan's waterskin and poured
himself a drink in the tin cup he had carried with him. "That is an
unfortunate name, but as the Stevene said --"
     "Save your wind for someone who cares, priest!" Morgan's biting
tone succeeded in silencing the priest, out of whose chubby hands Morgan
snatched the waterskin. Now he was in a bad mood, and it was all the
priest's fault. Why couldn't he just leave Morgan and his friends alone?
They were all the same: always preaching their religious wind, trying to
tell all of the poor souls about how they should live. It angered Morgan
as few other things did. As a soldier, he was trained to take orders and
obey them. That was one thing, but to be told how to live outside of the
duke's livery was quite another. A man ought to be able to do what he
wanted with his life, without a religion controlling him like an
overbearing parent.
     An overbearing parent like his father. Morgan's mouth twisted
slightly as he thought of his days growing up under the stern gaze of
his father -- one of the strictest and harshest men Morgan had ever
known. He had been especially austere in his religion, constantly
quoting Stevenic scriptures and condemning anyone who did not live up to
the very letter of them. Morgan remembered beatings for even the
smallest of infractions, such as when he forgot his prayers before bed
after a hard day's work on the farm. Morgan was jostled from his
thoughts when a hand grabbed his shoulder and shook him.
     "Hey Morgan, d'you remember those barmaids back at the Shattered
Spear in Dargon?" Leave it to good old Bayard to lighten the mood.
     "How could I forget?" Morgan laughed. "The wenches must like the
uniform or summat, because they were sure willing to oblige us!"
     "Aye, that they were," Bayard chuckled.
     "And young Louen here was too codless to give one of 'em a roll,
eh?" Morgan ruffled the young boy's hair playfully.
     "Do you remember the blonde one?" Bayard asked.
     But before Morgan could reply, the priest Orto spoke up. "The
sexual act is a sacred gift of pleasure given to us by God, according to
the Third Law, and not to be taken lightly, my friends."
     "Fark!" Morgan shouted with explosive fury. "Be silent, you old
codswallop! Can nothing be fun with your self-righteous Stevene?"
     "No, Morgan," Louen said. "I think he's right. I think that there's
more happiness to be found in marriage than in --"
     "Be silent, you!" Morgan said.
     "Straight," Bayard said to Louen. "You're too young for all of this
religious scrud. Youth is for having fun and adventure. Go grovelling to
Stevene when you're an old man. You know, I think your problem is that
you're too stiff. Here, have a swig of this; that'll loosen you up a
little."
     Bayard passed the boy a small flask that he carried in his belt
pouch, and bade him drink. Louen took a half-hearted sip and contorted
his face in disgust. "It tastes bad."
     That brought forth a new bout of laughter from Bayard, but Morgan
was still fuming. Why wouldn't the bumbling old priest leave them alone,
and take his religious prattle with him? Him and his 'the sexual act is
sacred' -- was there to be no fun in life? Like Morgan's father, the
priest seemed to forbid anything enjoyable in life, all for the sake of
being 'good'. No, that wasn't quite fair; this priest seemed patient and
gentle compared with the stern reprimands Morgan's father had meted out.
Morgan shook his head. Why was he sympathising with this priest? He was
still of the same faith, and just the same as his father. What right did
the priest have to judge him for enjoying life? What right did anyone
have to judge him? A hand on the back of his neck brought him out of his
reverie.
     "What's wrong, Morgan?" The hand belonged to a female soldier named
Lara, a different sort of friend to Morgan than Bayard was. "I heard
shouting over here."
     "Ah," Morgan gestured towards the Stevenic priest, who promptly
interrupted him.
     "Well, I must be off, my friends." The priest grunted loudly as he
hefted himself up and began to totter away from the fire. "May Stevene's
Light shine on all of you."
     "Oh, the priest," Lara said. "Who cares about him? He's no better
than any of us."

     Morgan was back in the Shattered Spear with his friends, enjoying a
tankard of ale and good company. He laughed heartily at one of Bayard's
jokes and slapped his friend on the back in good humour. The
ministrations of a pretty barmaid were not lost on him despite the
merrymaking. Her long blonde hair caressed the side of Morgan's face as
she leaned over to place another tankard in front of Bayard. The
tight-fitting bodice she wore nicely enhanced her voluptuous figure; it
was so low cut that it seemed she might fall out of it and into his lap.
     The next thing Morgan knew, he was up in one of the inn's rooms,
with the barmaid lying beneath him on a straw mattress. His ale-numbed
hands laboriously untied the lace bow that held her dress together. Then
he was inside of her, revelling in the ecstasy of the moment. But
suddenly, it didn't feel good anymore. He was in intense pain, as if his
manhood had been wrapped in thorns.
     He opened his eyes, and instead of a beautiful maiden, a grotesque
monster lay before him, laughing in a deep, raspy voice. It had sharp,
dagger-like teeth, and a thick purple tongue dripping with thick saliva.
Instead of the soft, cream coloured skin of the serving wench, the
creature had grey, leathery, scaled skin like that of a snake. Its eyes
were completely white and pupil-less, covered in a grey slime that oozed
forth like tears. Morgan screamed, but no sound came forth from his
mouth. A jaggedly clawed hand shot up and grasped his throat.
     A warm liquid splashed in Morgan's face. The bitter metallic taste
of blood met his lips as it dripped down his face. Morgan looked around
the room in panic. He didn't recognise it; it was large and dark, its
cold walls and floor made of stone. There was carnage everywhere. His
friends, the soldiers from the guard, were strewn about helplessly. A
creature like the one before Morgan straddled his friend Bayard. More
blood splattered Morgan as the beast tore Bayard's arms off and tossed
them aside. Screams of agony perforated the room as more guardsmen were
ripped apart. Blood and gore streamed through the air as they died
horribly.
     Lara, the bottom half of her body missing and her skin a deathly
blue-white, crawled up to Morgan's bed, leaving a bloody trail behind
her. "Hello, Morgan. Want a throw?"
     Morgan screamed again as the monster beneath him tore open his
chest and grabbed his heart with its tongue.

     Morgan sat bolt upright, a strangled scream on his lips. He glanced
about wildly, his heart pounding in his chest. But he was safe. The
ashes of the dead fire from the previous evening sat before him. All
around it, soldiers wrapped in their blankets slept soundly. Morgan's
breathing slowly returned to normal, as he listened to the gentle snores
that filled the night.
     He looked up to the sky to see a nearly full moon with more stars
than anyone could ever count. The cool white light cast by Nochturon
allowed Morgan to see for some distance. The forest was a black, ominous
shape on the horizon. About a furlong to his left, Morgan could make out
the two sentries, strolling lazily about the encampment. The wagon sat
serenely nearby, its canvas cover almost glowing in the moon's ethereal
light.
     Morgan was calm now, but still disturbed by the dream. He slowly
grew restless as he sat on the ground, however, and decided to get up.
He stood and put his boots and sword belt on, opting not to don his
hauberk until morning. Morgan wandered over to Griff and Jakob who had
drawn sentry duty and made smalltalk with them.
     "Morgan," Griff said. "What are you doing up at this time of
night?"
     "I don't know," Morgan replied. "I just couldn't get comfortable."
     "Ah," the other one, Jakob, said. "Thirsting for some bandit blood
in the forest, eh? I hate to disappoint you, but there aren't any to be
found these days. Commander Connall's just worrisome."
     Griff grunted with mirth at the comment. "Well, we've got our
rounds to do, so just don't cause any trouble while you're up,
straight?"
     "Don't worry about me," Morgan said.
     As the other two guardsmen headed off, Morgan walked towards the
forest. He stopped just past Commander Connall's tent, and sat down on
an old log that lay on the ground. Only a handful of furlongs away,
Morgan could make out the definition of individual trees against the
lighter backdrop of the sky. He watched the forest intently. He didn't
know why, but he didn't trust it. It was almost as if the trees would
uproot themselves and attack the sleeping soldiers behind him.
     Presently, his thoughts began to wander back towards his childhood
days, living under the severe rule of his father. Damn that priest;
Morgan had almost forgotten that period of his life. He had tried to
stay as far away from Stevenism as he could, to escape that long past
time, which was one of the reasons he'd joined the guard.
     Morgan's mother had died in giving birth to him, so he had been
left alone with his father on their farm just outside of Dargon for all
of his early life. Work had been hard on the farm, and had never seemed
to end. Even when the plowing and seeding was done, Morgan's father
would force him to pray and listen to long recitations of Stevenic
scripture. If ever he fell asleep or gave less than his full attention
to the work, it meant a beating. He remembered one day, during an
especially savage disciplining -- Morgan's reward for looking too
obviously at one of the local girls -- asking why his father treated him
so harshly. The old man had said, "if your hand does evil, it must be
hacked off, or an evil foot removed. I am only correcting you for your
own good!"
     His own good. Morgan felt as if he had a mouthful of meat that had
gone bad. He decided to direct his thoughts to the man responsible for
them, the priest Orto. Same religious rhetoric, yet somehow different,
softer ...
     He sat there pondering until his breech end began to get sore, and
he was about to get up and wander the camp when he heard a strange sound
coming from the forest. It wasn't very loud -- Morgan had to strain to
hear it -- but it was distinct. It was a muffled cracking noise, as if
several people were smashing rocks together. The cracks weren't in
rhythm however. They came in random groups, sometimes many at once,
other times a single snap. The sounds seemed to move about, coming from
several places in the forest at once.
     The blood in Morgan's veins turned to ice when a woman's scream
broke the crackling sounds. She was very far away as her cries were
quiet, but they were no less disturbing for it. Morgan looked behind him
to see if any of the other guards had been awakened by the noise, but
all was still in the camp. He looked back towards the forest and was
startled to see a dark, man-shaped figure standing in the grass roughly
halfway between Morgan and the forest. It did not move. It only stood
there, watching Morgan. He could feel its eyes boring into him. He ran
back to the safety of the camp as fast as he could.
     In his panicked state, he stumbled and fell several times in his
sprint towards the camp. He nearly ran headlong into Griff and Jakob who
were once again swinging around the camp.
     "Ol's piss, Morgan!" Griff hissed, grabbing Morgan by the arm.
"What's gotten into you?"
     Morgan took several deep breaths to calm himself before whispering,
"I saw someone back towards the woods, and --"
     Jakob looked over towards the woods. "I don't see anything."
     Morgan wondered whether or not he should mention the sounds. He
decided against it. He didn't even know how to describe them, and
besides, how crazy would such a tale sound?
     "Well, let's check it out," Griff said begrudgingly.
     The three of them trudged over to the log that Morgan had been
sitting on. For several long menes they stood there, scanning the
horizon intently. Morgan began to wonder if he really had heard and seen
what he thought he had. Maybe he had dozed off sitting on the log and
dreamed it all?
     "Come on, there's nothing here," Jakob said.
     "Shh ..." Griff held up a hand.
     Morgan jumped and nearly cried aloud as a pair of deer bounded
behind a bush and hopped off towards the trees.
     Jakob burst out laughing. "Morgan, those were deer you saw! A
little too excited about meeting bandits in the forest tomorrow, eh?"
     "Yes, I suppose so," Morgan grunted.
     "Well, enough of this scrud," Griff said. "Let's get back to our
patrol. You get some sleep, for Ol's sake, Morgan. If you're all jumpy
like this tomorrow, Lord Connall'll have your balls."

     The day began with the blasting of a loud tune on the company
trumpeter's horn. The harsh music hurt Orto's ears, and he flinched a
little when it began. He could hardly imagine waking up to such a racket
every day. Fortunately, he had awakened earlier to do his morning
prayers, and now waddled about the camp observing the soldiers. Many of
them were still wrapped in their blankets, unwilling to emerge from them
into the chilly morning. Others pulled on the grimy shirts that they had
been wearing for days and would wear for the rest of the trip, no doubt.
Unused to travelling, Orto's tired body was demanding more sleep, and
his eyes itched as if a bug had flown into them. He rubbed his eyes
absent-mindedly as the others bemoaned their summons to wakefulness.
     He moved towards the group with whom he'd spent a little time the
night before. Despite their hostility, Orto felt strangely drawn towards
them, especially the one named Morgan. That Morgan, he was the worst one
of them all, Orto thought, but something troubled the old priest. The
young man was too full of anger for there not to be a strong reason
behind it. He hoped that he could perhaps find that reason, and help to
ease the pain it caused.
     The soldier known to Orto as Bayard scratched himself and let loose
with a loud fart in the boy Louen's direction. "If that won't get you
out of your blanket in the morning, what will?"
     "Bayard," a female soldier -- Lara, Orto thought her name was --
scolded, "you're disgusting!"
     "Why thank you, milady." Bayard bowed with an overdone flourish.
     Orto chuckled at the brief exchange, and moved past the group and
in amidst the others. Ponderously, the soldiers all got up and pulled on
their chainmail hauberks and cloth tabards, accompanied by much
groaning, yawning and stretching. As Orto moved among them, he offered
some words of encouragement for the day, or a blessing. Most of the
soldiers were receptive to him, which made Orto very happy. He enjoyed
people, almost the way one might enjoy a finely rendered illuminated
text. He noticed that Morgan had not been with his group of friends when
Orto had passed by there, nor could he see the young soldier anywhere in
the immediate vicinity.
     "No matter," Orto said to himself. "I'm sure I'll see him again
later." Orto hoped he could someday soothe the anger that burned within
that lad, so that Morgan would accept Stevene's Light. Orto could not
understand such rejection of the love that God lavished on the people of
Makdiar. It all seemed so simple to the priest. God made the world. God
loved those that he created. To Orto's mind this surely meant that God
was worthy of thanks and praise for these miracles of life and love.
Yes, surely, there was something deeper, inside Morgan, that caused his
attitude to fester as it did.
     Orto's thoughts were broken as the dashing young commander of the
troop, Lysander of Connall, strutted into view. The young lord carried
himself with dignity and pride, his back straight as a lance and his
chin high. He wore his brown hair short, with a thin moustache under his
angular nose. Unlike his troops, he was clean and freshly shaved. A
smile graced his face as he approached Orto.
     "Good day, father."
     "And a good day to you, your lordship!"
     "Come," Lysander offered Orto a waterskin, "join me in a drink this
morning."
     Orto accepted, and poured some of the wine from the skin into the
tin cup that hung from his belt. "What has put you in such a radiant
mood this day, Lord Connall?"
     "I'm not quite sure ..." A mischievous smile curled the young
lord's lips. "I have a feeling about today. You know, I had a dream last
night that we encountered brigands in the forest and I dispatched them
as befits such dregs. Perhaps we may find some adventure in the woods
this day."
     Orto nodded his head sadly and looked down at the dirt. He
sincerely wished that Lord Connall did not take such pleasure in
bloodshed -- even the blood of bandits -- for he was otherwise a decent
man. Orto sighed.
     "Indeed we may, your lordship."
     "Come now, father." Lysander pounded Orto on the back. "No need to
be downcast. Have something to eat; we'll be leaving shortly."
     Orto bowed and shuffled away from the lord, back to the company of
the common soldiers with whom he felt more at home. It was at Lord
Connall's sufferance that he was with the troop, so he felt a duty to
spend time with the young lord, but at the same time it was the common
soldiers whom he enjoyed the most. The majority of them were now ready
for the day's travel, fully armoured. Orto saw Bayard spit on a flat
stone and move the flat of his dagger in circular motions over it,
creating a high pitched sound that was rather unpleasant to the old
priest. The soldier grinned and spat on the rock again when Louen
commented on the noise. Orto made haste to the pony that carried him on
the journey. From a bag hanging from its saddle he pulled a dry piece of
raisin-encrusted bread which he downed along with Commander Connall's
wine. It was far from the type of meal he was used to, but it was the
best he could do on such an expedition.
     Orto petted his flea-bitten pony before mounting it. "Well, Hubris,
we've another long day ahead of us."
     To the accompaniment of another blast of the trumpeter's horn, the
standard bearer took up his faded banner and rode past the milling
troops. In his wake, the soldiers fell into formation, leaving an
opening for the wagons. The soldiers riding the carts snapped the reins
of their horses and moved into position. Orto took his place at the
front with Commander Connall, and the company moved onto the road and
towards the forest.

     After about a bell's journey, Orto decided he would prefer to
travel among the soldiers instead of up with Commander Connall. Not that
he did not enjoy the lord's company, but he had spent almost the entire
journey thus far with the Count of Connall's cousin, and felt the urge
to spend some time with others as well.
     "Your lordship," he said. "This has been a rather interesting
journey, discussing the text I have brought with me and Stevenism as we
have, but I wonder if I might spend some time with the soldiers?"
     "Well, I see no harm in it," Connall said. "And I suppose I
shouldn't be keeping you all to myself -- you are the only cleric with
us after all."
     "Thank you, Lord Connall," Orto said, and promptly dismounted his
pony, Hubris. He found Morgan near the front as he had been the day
before.
     "Good day to you, my son!" Orto said, but the guardsman did not
reply. "It is a glorious day today, is it not?"
     "I suppose so," the soldier said, though he did not make eye
contact with Orto as he scanned the tree line.
     "Something troubles you my son. What is wrong?" Orto examined
Morgan. He was of average height and build, his face tanned by exposure
to nature, but otherwise free of any blemish. He had a handsome face;
one that Orto judged would attract many a lady, with a neatly clipped
beard lining his jaw. Like the other soldiers he was dirty and dusty
from the many days' travel. When no answer came to Orto's question, he
offered Morgan a piece of the raisin bread his pony carried in its
saddlebag. "Here, have some of this."
     The soldier took it, but did not thank Orto. He merely continued to
watch his surroundings, almost as if he expected something to emerge
from them. There was more to today's behaviour than religion-hating
sentiment, the priest thought. Orto slowed his pace, letting the column
pass him until he fell in step with a pretty guardswoman whom he
recognised as one of Morgan's friends.
     "Forgive me, my child, but I cannot remember your name."
     "Lara." The woman did not look at Orto as he spoke, but merely
shifted the weight of her mace as it rested on her shoulder.
     "Ah yes, of course," Orto said. "Now I remember. That is a fair
name. Do you hail from Dargon?"
     "No, I'm from Fennell."
     "Ah, Fennell. It is a fine city. I remember the monastery there
especially. It is a holy place."
     "I wouldn't know," Lara said.
     "Oh my dear child," Orto laid a compassionate hand on her shoulder.
"Have you never experienced the presence of God?"
     "I'll thank you not to place your self-righteous judgements on me,
priest!" She violently tore Orto's hand from her shoulder and looked at
him with fiery eyes. "That's why I left Fennell. They're always saying
'Stevene this' and 'Stevene that'. Always forgiving me for my 'lecherous
ways'! Well maybe I don't want to be forgiven! Maybe I'm happy the way I
am!"
     Orto stopped in dismay and sighed. "By Cephas, I am sorry my child.
I did not mean --" but it was clear she would have none of his
apologies. "What have I done? Would that I were a smarter man, Stevene,
that I could teach your light better. But alas, a slip of my
ever-wagging tongue and I have hurt rather than healed." He watched Lara
as she continued down the road with the rest of the company. Orto hit
himself on the head. "You dunderheaded fool!"
     Disheartened, Orto's pace was slower, and he gradually moved
towards the back of the column as it passed him. He had never been the
most intelligent of men; he knew this, and was accepting of it, as God
did not make everyone to be identical. Still, at times like this he felt
a pang of envy towards his fellow priests that were great orators. He
knew of one monk from Fennell, who though he spoke with a lisp, could
hold in thrall an audience of hundreds, and speak of the Stevene with
perfect clarity. Orto was not lacking in faith, but he could never quite
articulate it exactly the way he wanted to. It was like the words were
in his mind, but were jumbled on the way to his mouth. Sometimes, the
results were very bad, as they had just been with Lara. He had not meant
to sound judgmental, for he did not judge her, but to be sympathetic.
Oh, Cephas, the world was never an easy place.
     By midday they were well into the forest. Earlier, Commander
Connall had dispatched two soldiers as scouts half a league ahead of the
company, travelling in the trees, in hopes that they would spot any
brigands lying in wait, and report back to the commander before his
troops blundered into a trap.
     After another bell's travel in the forest, the company stopped to
rest and eat. While Hubris grazed on some grass off the side of the
road, Orto moved amongst the troops once again, swaying as he did so. He
put a hand to his growling stomach.
     "Be silent, you!" he admonished his belly, as if it were a being
unto itself. "You could afford to shrink a little."
     He caught sight of Morgan and his friends sitting in the shade of a
tree, and waddled over to them. "Hello again, my friends!"
     "Hello, father," Louen said.
     Orto patted the boy's dirty blonde hair in appreciation. "You are a
good lad. May God protect and keep you."
     "Come to forgive me for my earlier behaviour, priest?" Lara asked,
a sarcastic bite in her tone.
     "No, my child," Orto said. "It is I who needs forgiveness. I do not
judge you, and I am sorry that my words came across that way. Please
accept this as a small token of my contriteness." He handed her some
dried fruit that he had bought from a merchant in Dargon. He knew such a
treat to be a delicacy among soldiers living off of hard rations.
     "Th-thank you." The girl's eyes widened in surprise, and the hard
lines that had creased her face a mene ago disappeared. There was now a
softness about her that warmed Orto.
     Using the tree for support, Orto carefully lowered himself to the
ground. He let out a deep breath as his rump hit the ground. It was
refreshing to be seated after much of a day's travel despite the fact
that Orto had a rather irritated bottom from all of the riding. He was
more accustomed to a sedentary life in his church in Dargon, where he
walked but a few leagues in an entire sennight. He felt certain he had
already travelled as far on this trip to Magnus as he had in his entire
time as a priest.
     "I suppose all of you are used to this travel," Orto said. "But
it's a mite harder on my old bones."
     "I'm not *that* used to it!" Bayard said, pointing to a huge
blister that covered much of the heel of his foot.
     Orto grunted in agreement, but said no more. After a few menes, the
soldiers began to converse among themselves, and Orto watched them. They
were all young, healthy men and women: a condition that Orto could
barely remember. Louen was a slight young lad, who seemed to charm those
around him with his superstition and naivete. Bayard was not huge
either, and when other soldiers mocked him as being too wiry for a
proper soldier, he'd always puff up his chest and say being small made
for easier marching. He'd often back this up by saying he'd live longer
in a fight since he was a smaller target. Lara, whom Orto was reasonably
certain shared a bed with Morgan from time to time, was indeed a fine,
well-muscled woman. She had a large scar that went from her hairline
across her forehead and down her right cheek.
     Orto remembered her telling the story of the scar with great zeal a
few nights before. While on patrol in one of the rougher sections of
Dargon city, three drunkards had accosted her, thinking to have their
way with her. She had dispatched all three of them, with only the one
scar of her own to show for it. In Orto's younger years, such a creature
would have caused Orto to curse his religious values to remain chaste
'til marriage. Now such lecherous thoughts seemed mildly humorous to the
old man.
     Above all, Orto wished to befriend these people. He sensed they
were as good souls as could be found, despite their vehement resentment
of Orto's faith. After all, Stevene wasn't the only path to God, but a
good one, Orto reckoned. He only prayed that it would not be too late
before these young soldiers found their way ...

     Once the company resumed its journey after the late afternoon
break, darkness descended quickly, and a thin fog rolled in. Morgan
cursed; remembering the previous night's encounter, whether real or a
dream, he fervently desired as much visibility as he could have. The fog
was not one unbroken mass, but wispy, like long tendrils of some
ethereal plant that wrapped themselves about the trunks of trees and the
soldiers' ankles. It swirled about as a gentle breeze made its way
through the trees, cooling the air all the more now that the sun was
gone. The mist clung near to the ground, allowing the moon to light the
way as the wagons and their escort trundled along the forest path.
     Morgan felt as if a small creature were scurrying about in his
stomach. The soldiers around him likewise fidgeted and glanced around
anxiously. Bayard was uncharacteristically quiet, making no jokes as he
usually did, and Morgan could see Louen was shaking as if chilled under
his hauberk. Morgan himself gripped his sword tightly with fingers slick
with sweat, and he could feel a cool dampness on his forehead. His heart
nearly exploded within his chest when the loud cracks of several rocks
banging together sounded not far to the troop's left.
     "Ol's piss!" Griff exclaimed. "What the fark was that?"
     Morgan frantically clutched the hilt of his sword with slippery
fingers. He had told no one about the sounds in the forest the previous
night, but he wished he had now. More crackling emanated from the right
of the path now. Murmurs emanated from the soldiers, to the
accompaniment of the metal on metal music of swords clashing.
     "Look there!" Jakob pointed into the trees. Morgan caught a glimpse
of a dark shape disappearing behind a large tree. He searched the woods
feverishly, and saw other faint objects moving about in the mist, deep
within the forest.
     "Calm yourselves!" Commander Connall said, wheeling his horse about
and moving alongside the contingent of troops in front of the wagons.
"There is nothing out there! The scouts will let us know if they --"
     The young lord was interrupted by an impossibly loud, pain-stricken
scream from ahead.
     "Cephas' boot!" Morgan could tell that his commander wanted nothing
better than to charge headlong towards the screams, as Connall drew his
sword and his horse danced.
     "My lord!" The priest, Orto, clutched at Commander Connall's tunic.
"We must be careful. There may be much more afoot here than we think!"
     Lord Connall nodded in agreement, his jaw firmly set. More screams
shattered the ghostly night, which had become a nightmare. "I must
remain here. Morgan! Take three men and find the scouts!"
     "Your lordship?" Morgan felt chilled to his very core with fear.
     An impossibly long cry echoed among the trees. "Get moving!" Lord
Connall shouted.
     Morgan felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard Lara's voice, shaky
with fear. "I'm with you Morgan."
     "Straight." Morgan steeled himself, and drew his sword. "Jakob and
Konrad, you're with me, too."
     Leading the way, Morgan crashed through the bushes towards the
tormented cries up ahead. Who had been sent as scouts? He couldn't
remember, but more screams told him where they were. Whoever it was that
had been sent, they were dying slowly. Morgan's fear slowly gave way to
anger. Whoever was doing this would pay.
     The screams stopped with a sickening gurgling sound just as Morgan
and the others burst through the foliage into a small clearing. In it,
two soldiers in Dargonian livery hung from pikes driven into the ground,
a pool of blood quickly gathering beneath them. Both of their heads were
missing. In the pale moonlight, it somehow didn't seem quite real.
Morgan wished it wasn't. But where were their attackers?
     "Oh, fark ..." Lara gagged and nearly vomited as she beheld the
grisly sight.
     Morgan looked about the clearing desperately, searching for any
sign of their assailants. Had they been scared off by the arrival of
Morgan and his friends? He tried to quiet his breathing, and listen for
any sign of them. He could hear nothing -- not even an owl or a cricket.
Suddenly a cold gust of wind rushed through the clearing, bringing with
it a deep sound like that of bellows in a smithy.
     The bushes behind Konrad exploded as a dark figure mounted on a
massive horse emerged from the forest. Morgan was frozen at the sight of
the horrific creature, silhouetted against the moon, with huge horns
protruding from its head and flowing robes flapping about it. The
creature drove a lance clean through Konrad's torso and lifted him,
screaming and flailing, off the ground.
     "Konrad!" Lara swung at the creature with her mace, and though she
connected mightily, the brute appeared not to notice.
     Suddenly, more of the beasts were in the clearing, riding about the
beleaguered soldiers with dizzying speed. Morgan barely blocked a blow
with his shield, and nearly fell to the ground. Another mighty blow came
crashing down from above. He lashed out with his sword in all
directions, unable to focus on his attackers as they swirled around him.
He hacked the air many times before he was knocked to the ground by a
glancing blow to his back. His hauberk had saved him, but as he rolled
away from his attackers he knew he wouldn't live long if he didn't
escape. He tried to get up but was knocked down again by a giant horse
hoof that struck him in the chest. He lay on his back, winded, and saw
one of the creatures' faces for the first time. Amidst the flowing black
cloak that covered its body was a white skull with great horns
protruding from it. Not the skull of a human -- more like that of some
large lizard. Within the deep eye sockets only a frightening darkness
lay.
     Morgan scrambled away from the beast, which after a brief pause,
turned and headed back to the centre of the clearing. Morgan followed it
with his eyes and saw, to his horror, Lara pinned to the ground by
several large stakes. She was screaming, and tears streamed down her
cheeks.
     "Morgan!" he thought he heard her cry. "Morgan please help me!"
     Morgan couldn't even think. His mind was frozen with terror. All he
knew was that he had to get away, to run! He got his feet under him and
continued to run. His heart pounded within his chest like a hammer on an
anvil. He didn't look back as he tore through the bushes, but knew Lara
was dead when her screams suddenly stopped with a sickening crack.

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