textfiles/magazines/DARGONZINE/dargon.v12n1

  D     D A  A R  R G    O  O N N N     Z   I N N N E     || Volume 12
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  D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Number  1
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 DargonZine                                     Distributed:   2/6/1999
 Volume 12, Number 1                            Circulation:        692
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                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 In at the Kill               Cheryl Spooner         Ober 28, 1016
 Jeela's Song                 Stuart Whitby          Janis 12, 1017
 Talisman Zero 1              Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Mid-fall, 2216 ID

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
 on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues
 are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
 public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 12-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright February, 1999 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>

     We begin our fifteenth year on the Internet with a bit of fanfare:
the DargonZine Web site has moved, and can now be found at the URL
www.dargonzine.org!
     Sometimes you're ahead of the pack, and sometimes you trail it.
DargonZine was a pioneer of Internet publishing back in 1984, and in
1985 was among the first users of the Listserv software that today
supports tens of thousands of email distribution lists. On the other
hand, DargonZine did not have a Web presence until 1995, and we are
certainly a late comer in obtaining a vanity domain name.
     We have done everything we can to ensure that your transition to
the new site will be as easy and as painless as following a new link or
updating a bookmark. We've avoided making any major changes to the site
during this time, and our writers have thoroughly tested the new site,
so you shouldn't encounter any problems. And if you somehow get pointed
at the old site, we've created an intelligent error handler which should
redirect you to the new location of the page you were looking for.
     Although this change may seem minor, the work that went on behind
the scenes to make it happen was substantial, and there are always bugs
which go undiscovered in testing. If you do find errors or have any
difficulty with the new site, please drop us a note at
     <dargon@shore.net> so we can fix it.
     Of course, this change doesn't affect email subscribers, and you
should note that we haven't changed our email address or the location of
the ftp site which contains our back issues.
     This new URL also paves the way for other changes we have planned.
We are presently developing and testing a more sophisticated database
backend which will provide you with more information about our issues,
stories, writers, and the people and places that make up our milieu.
We're doing everything we can to make it easier for new readers and new
contributing writers to get up to speed on Dargon.
     So welcome to the first of many changes that we hope to make in
1999, our fifteenth year on the Internet. And if you have any ideas
about how we can serve you better, please let us know by dropping an
email to <dargon@shore.net> or visiting the Feedback section on our Web
site.

     One more thing you can expect in 1999 is: more!
     Back in 1991 we printed 10 stories in 4 issues, a mere 300k of
fiction. Every year since then (except one), we printed more material
than the year before. In fact, last year we printed nearly three times
the volume we did back in '91, putting out a record 30 stories in 10
issues, amounting to 850k of text! And the most consistent feedback
we've gotten from you is that you want more!
     Well, true to form, we plan for 1999 to surpass even 1998's mark.
As you can see from our publishing schedule, we are currently planning a
record 12 issues this year, thanks to the steady output of new writers
such as Cheryl Spooner and Stuart Whitby who appear in this issue, and
the continuing contributions of our long-timers such as Dafydd, who
begins an incredible epic series in this issue.
     With plans to print more stories than ever before, a new domain
name, and many more Web enhancements planned, it looks like 1999, our
fifteenth year publishing amateur fiction on the Internet, will be
bigger and better than ever! Thanks for doing your part in helping us
get there!

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

                             In at the Kill
                           by Cheryl Spooner
                     <cheryl@towngate.force9.co.uk>
                             Ober 28, 1016

     Kierann Brooke rose from his bed and opened the shutters at his
window. He stretched, yawning, then smiled in satisfaction as he looked
out into the bright, cold morning. Today would be the day. The animals
had been ready for over two sennights, but each morning had brought mist
and rain, along with ever-deepening disappointment. Today, however, the
wintering sun had risen in a pale, cloudless sky and his disappointment,
like the rain and mist, evaporated. Yes, he smiled again as he closed
the shutters, today would definitely be the day.
     As he dressed in his warmest clothes, sounds of movement from the
bed behind him made him groan, and he turned to see his wife Elinor,
sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. His euphoria lessened
immediately. He had been hoping to leave before she awoke.
     "I shall be out for most of the day," he said casually, as she rose
and wrapped herself in a thick, woollen robe. "So have something warm in
the pot for when I return. I'll need it."
     "Will you be bringing anything back?" Elinor asked, yawning and
running her fingers through her short, dark curls. "I mean, should I
light the fire in the smokehouse?"
     "That won't be necessary," Kierann replied with a tight smile.
"There is enough meat in the smokehouse to last us the whole winter." He
held his breath, hoping that Elinor would take the matter no further,
although he guessed that he would have no such luck.
     "You're not taking those *things* with you?" Elinor's grey eyes
widened. "If you let them loose, there's no knowing what havoc they
might cause. What about Milek's sheep and Sarn's goats? You can't risk
it Kierann! You can't!"
     Kierann let out his breath on a groan and shook his head.
     "They will not touch Milek's sheep, or Sarn's flea-bitten goats, my
dear," he said calmly, forcing himself to smile, although his eyes spoke
his impatience. "I raised those animals myself, almost from birth, and
they will hunt only as I have trained them. Besides, the prey I hunt is
far more likely to harm the livestock."
     "They haven't, so far," Elinor argued. "They haven't bothered the
livestock at all, or Milek and Sarn would have hunted them down already.
There are enough deer roaming free around that forest to keep them fed.
You know that Kierann. You're just using it as an excuse."
     "So?" Kierann demanded, stepping forward, his blue eyes narrowed in
sudden anger. "I'm hunting because I want to. Because I enjoy it. All
right?"
     "No!" Elinor cried. "It's not all right! It's wrong Kierann! Who's
going to do all the work around here while you're off chasing a whim? I
can't do it alone, and it's not as though we can afford to pay someone."
     "I can afford a day to myself once in a while, surely?" he tried to
reason. "The harvest's in now, and I'm sure you're quite capable of
feeding the pigs and milking a couple of cows."
     "It's still not right!" she countered, "A grown man running round
the forest playing at hunting! And those things you keep in the shed are
wild animals, not hunting dogs! It's all wrong Kierann! It wouldn't be
so bad if we could make use of the beast you're trying to catch, but we
can't. It's just a waste!"
     Kierann could tell by the light in her eyes that it would be
useless to argue. No matter how much he tried to explain his fascination
for hunting, she would never understand. Best just to go.
     "I'll see you later," he said with forced calm. "Don't forget to
keep something warm in the pot for me."
     As he spoke Kierann moved towards the door, turning his back to
signify that the argument was over as far as he was concerned. He had
awoken feeling so good, the excitement of what was to come fizzing
through his veins, and he was not going to let anything spoil that
anticipation. Why shouldn't he hunt? Who said that hunting had to be
done for food, or to protect the livestock? What was wrong with hunting
for the sheer thrill of it? For the pride of outwitting your intended
prey? For the excitement of being in at the kill? Hunting deer and
rabbits was all well and good, but nothing like the feeling of tracking
a worthy opponent: another hunter whose wiles and cunning matched his
own.
     He left the house, whistling to himself as the excitement returned.
Today was going to be the day, and Elinor's pessimism wasn't enough to
spoil his mood. Of course his animals weren't going to run amok on his
neighbours' land. He had prepared for this day for over two years now,
and nothing had been left to chance. He had reared those cheetars by
hand, taking them from their mother when their eyes were still closed,
so that they would recognise him, and him only, as their leader. He had
trained them so thoroughly -- with more care and patience than any man
would show his finest hunting dog -- that they were a part of him, an
extension of his being. They would hunt only at his command.
     As he walked towards the building that housed his cheetars, he
thought of his intended prey. He had been watching one particular
creature for a couple of years, biding his time as he waited for the
cheetars to reach their peak. He knew it was the same animal because he
had watched it closely and knew every marking on its shaggy coat, and
every movement, right down to the way it held its head when it sniffed
the air. It was a crafty adversary and had almost caught him unawares
once or twice, when he had been out hunting deer. He had loosed his
crossbow at it on more than one occasion, but it had always been too
fast for him, disappearing even as he took aim.
     It had been after one of those misses that he had come up with the
idea of using other animals to hunt the creature. His dogs would have
been no match for its ingenuity and speed, and so -- while visiting his
brother near Valdasly -- he had gone out one day to find something else,
something that could outwit, outrun and outfight his chosen prey. He had
more or less stumbled across the cheetar cubs whilst looking for
shivarees, which had been his original choice. The large, weasel-like
shivarees were fierce, and with enough of them he would probably have
been guaranteed a kill, but finding the cheetars had put an end to that
idea. The cubs had been left in the undergrowth by their mother,
probably while she hunted. There had been two, each no bigger than a
new-born puppy, their eyes still closed and he had swiftly thrust them
into the sack he carried, hardly able to contain his excitement as he
had hurried away before their mother returned.
     He opened the door of the windowless building that was home to his
cheetars, then squatted on his haunches. He wrinkled his nose at the
acid smell coming from within as he waited for them to come forward, out
of the darkness to greet him. Two shapes emerged, approaching cautiously
at first, then with affectionate recognition. Two sleek black shapes,
with eyes that glowed like amber fire, converged upon him, butting their
heads against his body in greeting.
     "Aah, my magnificent fellows," he breathed, as he stroked each head
before straightening up. "Today you will taste warm blood, and it shall
be as though I taste it myself. Today you will make me proud."
     As he took two leather collars, each with its own length of leash,
from the back of the outward-opening door, he congratulated himself once
more on having the genius to choose cheetars for hunting animals. They
were swift, agile and so fierce that no prey -- except perhaps the
luckiest -- could escape their teeth and claws. He fastened a collar on
each one, something they had become used to from the moment they opened
their eyes, then led them out into the bright morning.
     His wife, along with most of his neighbours, had thought him insane
when he had told them his plans for the cubs he had brought back from
his trip. They hadn't believed that he would be able to train the
creatures to obey him. He looked at them now, as they padded silently
beside him, not even straining at their leashes, and gave a soft,
self-satisfied chuckle. Fools, all of them! Today he would show them how
wrong they had been. Today he would bring home the head of the prey that
no one believed he could catch and then he would hang it over his door
as a trophy for all to see.

     Cara Shem Fenib lifted his head to sniff the crisp air, tasting it
for the scent of prey. He could smell each of his brothers. They were
close by. He could smell the mothers and the weak, in their hiding place
where the trees grew thickest. He could smell Not-Prey close by, in a
tree. He ignored it. Not-Prey would leave the Fenib alone. If the Fenib
challenged Not-Prey they would fight and cause hurt, and his clan were
few. There had been more Fenib, before the cold time began. Some had
been old and weak and had gone with Black Fenib. Some had been given to
Black Fenib by the flying stick. At least Cara Shem Fenib thought that
was what had happened. He had seen the flying stick hit them, but he had
not seen them again.
     He could smell something else. Something faint and far away, but
coming near. It was Spara Klani. They that walked on two legs and used
the flying stick to kill. Spara Klani were the enemy of the Fenib. This
Spara Klani had used his flying stick on Fenib, Cara Shem knew. If he
and his brothers hunted this Spara Klani the clan would feed, and there
would be one less flying stick. He sniffed again, rising up on his hind
legs. There was one Spara Klani, and something else. The other scent was
something he had known before. Something that could cause hurt.
Something that could bring Black Fenib. It was other Not-Prey, but
bigger than that in the tree and of another kind. It was Hunter. He
barked to his brothers, his tone warning. What would Hunter be doing
with Spara Klani? He couldn't smell fear, and the Spara Klani would fear
Hunter. Cara Shem Fenib felt puzzlement, curiosity. He would wait. He
would watch and wait, from the safe, high place, where he could see all
who came.

     Once Kierann considered himself to be a good distance within the
forest, he let his cheetars roam free. He could have done so as he
crossed the fields of his neighbours, but he knew how they all felt
about having wild animals crossing their land and it wouldn't do to
antagonise them. The cheetars wouldn't bother their livestock; he had
told them that on many occasions, but had never managed to convince
them. His cheetars had been fed on nothing but rabbits, deer and
occasionally wolf-meat. They would not think of his neighbours'
livestock as prey.
     Obtaining wolf-meat had been more difficult than he had
anticipated. He had managed to disable one or two with his bow, and drag
them back home for his cheetars to kill, before using the hides to train
them. The wolves had been of the same kind as the one he sought today:
bigger and stronger than any wolves he had known before, with shorter
snouts and larger skulls. Their ears were smaller too, and they were
smarter -- much smarter. Of course, the ones he had managed to kill with
his bow had been old and lame, and they hadn't provided much sport for
his cheetars, but it had given them a taste for the meat and the hunt,
and now they were going to taste the blood of a worthy opponent.
     When they reached the bottom of a steep incline, the cheetars began
to sniff the air and Kierann tensed, sensing that they had found
something and hoping that it would be the one he sought. He shaded his
eyes with his hand and looked around him, but could see nothing. Then,
movement caught his eye at the top of the hill, and he squinted, trying
to see amongst the trees. He caught a brief glimpse of the outline of a
dark, grey-brown head before it was gone, and it was all he could do to
keep himself from crying out in triumph as he recognised the
white-tipped ears of the leader of the wolf pack.
     He knelt between the cheetars and grasped each one by the loose
skin on the back of their necks. Two pairs of amber eyes burned into his
as they turned towards him, and Kierann stared back, unblinking, in a
show of superiority. Then he took a deep breath and with a soft cry, he
let them go. As one they leapt forward to climb the hill, with Kierann
in close pursuit. He had thought about using a horse to follow the hunt,
but his stallion, Athron, couldn't bear to be near the cheetars. He
would just have to keep up with them on foot.
     As he followed the cheetars up the hill his heart began to pound
and he smiled to himself, knowing that it was not merely due to
exertion. The excitement he had known he would feel at being part of
this hunt was beginning to have an effect. It was happening! It was
finally happening! Then, as the cheetars cleared the top of the hill, he
felt himself slip on some loose earth. He reached out, trying to grab
hold of something -- anything -- to prevent the fall, but in vain. He
called out to the cheetars as he slid, beginning a tumbling descent of
the hill.
     At the bottom, Kierann lay rubbing his bruises and trying to get
back his breath. Again he called to the cheetars, demanding that they
return to his side, but they either could not -- or would not -- hear
him, because they remained out of sight. Tears of frustration stung his
eyes as he thought of the missed opportunity. His cheetars would get
their prey -- of that he had no doubt -- but he would no longer be part
of it. He would no longer be in at the kill.
     He heard the crack of a twig nearby and smiled, thinking for a
moment that his cheetars might have returned. Then he shook his head
with a soft groan as he realised that the stealthy hunters would have
made no such give-away sound. He looked up and instead of the cheetars,
he found himself staring at a woman. She was young and slender, with
long black hair that hung loose to her waist. Her eyes were a light
brown, almost amber colour, and her lips were dark red and curved in an
amused smile. The most unusual thing about the woman however, and the
thing that made Kierann's stare so full of astonishment, was the fact
that she was utterly naked. Her skin was pale -- almost translucent --
and covered by nothing but her luxuriant hair.
     He watched her walk towards him, hips gently swaying, smile
casually enticing, and her eyes sparkling promises that fired his loins.
She stopped just in front of him, smiling enigmatically as he rose to
his feet.
     "Who are you?" he whispered hoarsely as she placed her hands on his
shoulders, her touch sending messages of delight down his spine. He let
his own hands clasp her waist, revelling at the cool silk of her skin
beneath his fingers. She lifted her head to look him in the eye, her
wide, amber gaze suddenly thoughtful.
     "I have known many names," she said, her voice breath-soft. It
matters not. Only that I am here."
     A thought of Elinor passed through Kierann's mind as the woman
reached up to caress his jaw. He could see his wife's face, and the hurt
that would darken her clear grey eyes at such a betrayal. But the
woman's fingers were stroking his face and her velvet-soft voice was in
his ears, and he found it increasingly difficult to think of anything
but the promise of ecstasy in her strange amber eyes. He leaned forward
to kiss her, catching the musky scent of her hair, and her arms snaked
around his neck, holding him fast. The kiss seemed to last an eternity
and when she finally let him pull away he was left gasping for breath,
although she seemed strangely unaffected. She turned then and began to
walk away, her movements slow and mesmerising. Kierann followed, unable
to do anything else. And so it went on, for what seemed like hours: him
catching up with her and kissing her, each kiss lasting longer and
arousing him further, until he felt that he would either explode or
suffocate, then her breaking away and leading him ever deeper into the
forest.
     Eventually they came to a clearing and when he kissed her again,
she laughed and broke away, only this time she took him by the hand and
pulled him with her as she sank to her knees amongst the rotting leaves.
     "Now my fine hunter," she whispered, her mouth curved in a
maddening smile. "Claim the reward you have earned."
     Kierann needed no further encouragement, and he grasped her
roughly, kissing her deeply, hungrily. His vanity couldn't resist the
urge to open his eyes and see how the kiss was affecting her and when he
did, he felt puzzlement. She was still smiling, but her amber eyes were
misted with unshed tears. He started to speak, to ask her what was
wrong, but she blinked back the tears and shook her head.
     "There's nothing you can do," she said softly, caressing his cheek
with silken fingers. "Nothing at all."
     Kierann was at a loss. He still wanted to ask her what was wrong.
He wanted to know what had made her so sad, but her hands were moving
like whispers over his body and there was nothing he could do but give
in to the insistence of her lovemaking.

     Cara Shem Fenib stood growling at the two black shapes that were
stalking towards him through the trees. When he had seen the Spara Klani
release them at the foot of the hill, he had barked an order to his
brothers, to make them lead the mothers and the sick away from the
danger. Then he had run, as fast as he could to lead the Hunters away
from his clan. It had worked and now his clan were safe, but he was not.
He was at the bottom of a high rock, with no place to climb up and the
two Hunters were coming at him from either side. He could not run and
although he would fight to the last, he knew it would not be long before
Black Fenib came for him.
     He turned his head from side to side, growling and watching them,
his hackles raised. He would hurt them bad when they came close enough.
They were coming nearer and he could smell the hunger on their breath.
Then, as he thought his last fight would begin, they stopped and raised
their ears. Cara Shem listened, and heard a strange sound. It was a
calling. The Hunters kept on staring at him. Then the sound came again,
louder and stronger. The Hunters looked at each other, then back at him,
and all the time Cara Shem kept growling. When the call came for the
third time, the hunters turned and ran through the forest away from him.
The call was so strong now that Cara Shem almost followed. He stood for
a moment, trying to remember what he should do. Then he turned and ran
as fast as he could towards the place his clan would be waiting.

     Kierann collapsed, panting, as his strange lover slid out from
under him and rose lithely to her feet to survey him with an expression
of profound melancholy. Bewildered, he tried to speak, but all he could
manage was a dry, husky sound. His throat felt tight and sore, probably
due to the damp forest air.
     "Listen fine hunter," she whispered sadly. "They come!"
     Kierann wondered briefly why the rustling of the undergrowth
brought a surge of fear that made him want to turn and run for his life.
He tried to get to his feet, but when he tried to straighten his back a
sharp pain made him lose his balance and he suspected that his earlier
fall had left him with a pulled muscle. He tried to ask her to help him
up, but again all that would come out of his mouth was an inarticulate
sound. If he could just reach his flask and drink some water. Again he
tried to stand, and again the pain made him fall. His legs felt strange
too, but he couldn't think what might be wrong. In fact, thinking was
becoming more difficult with every passing moment, as the urge to flee
grew stronger.
     When the cheetars erupted from the undergrowth, he turned to run,
irrational panic thudding through his veins. He tried to scramble out of
the path of the black hunters, but they turned, coming straight at him,
their blood-hungry eyes triumphant as they fixed upon their quarry. He
felt cruel teeth fasten on his leg, and on his shoulder, pulling him
back as two slavering, panting bodies converged on him. The pain as they
began to tear hungrily at his fur-covered flesh, was like nothing he
could ever have imagined and he raised his head to scream, knowing
before the sound came that it would be an animal howl. He had long
dreamed of being in at the kill, but not like this. Not like this!
     Then, as his senses began to fade, he heard the woman's voice issue
a command in a language he did not understand and he saw his two
beautiful cheetars following meekly as she led them out of the clearing.
As his sight began to darken she stopped and turned towards him, resting
her amber gaze upon his spoiled body as she shook her head sadly.
Kierann knew at last the reason for her sadness and the regretful smile
on her scarlet lips raked his heart, even as it faltered to a stop.

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

                              Jeela's Song
                            by Stuart Whitby
                          <stu@sysdrill.co.uk>
                             Janis 12, 1017

     A knock sounded at the door. Sild Jesson, Master of Song for the
Bardic College in Magnus, looked up from the folio he was reading, then
bade his visitor enter. His deep voice carried easily through the heavy
door, which opened to reveal a confused-looking songwarder.
     "Master of Song Jesson," the man opened quietly in greeting, his
whispers finding echoes in the cool chamber.
     "What can I do for you, Songwarder?" he asked, binding his grey
hair behind his head before shuffling his bulk into a more formal
position in his chair.
     The visitor walked hesitantly up to the desk, obviously unsure of
what he wanted to say. "Well master, it's about this song. I found some
of the aspirants looking at it, and they say that it was found near the
wreckage of a ship that washed ashore. It's not up to the level that I
would expect from any of our aspirants, but I believe that there could
be some truth to the story itself, so I was wondering, well, if it would
be worthy of entry to our library. Purely on the grounds that we are
also the keepers of knowledge, of course." So saying, he placed a
charred and water-stiffened piece of parchment on the master's desk.
     Jesson gingerly picked up the page, holding it between two fingers,
and read to himself, quickly picking up the rhythm of the piece.

     One day in Dargon a girl did appear,
     Her manner was frantic, her eyes full of fear,
     Then she sat herself down, and I bought her a beer,
     While she told me a tale of terror.

     It seemed that her father, a hard drinking man,
     Had offended quite badly a mage called Kilan,
     Who decided to summon a Cloud of Veran,
     To kill her entire family.

     A cloud did appear the very next day,
     From whence lightning poured -- setting fire to the hay,
     Which thatched the hut roof, where the family lay,
     Asleep, unaware of their peril.

     But Jeela, the daughter, was milking the cows,
     And could only watch, as down burned her house,
     So she headed for Dargon, spooked like a mouse,
     To petition a temple for safety.

     She spoke to the priests, who called her a loon,
     So she asked for the duke,  and was told 'Come back soon,'
     Then she came to the bar where I made up this tune,
     And I told her that she should not worry.

     Then from out of nowhere a thund'ring arose,
     And a tipsy young Jeela, she jumped to her toes,
     Shouting, "Those are the lightnings, my magical foes,"
     Before grabbing a sword, and fleeing.

     I set out behind as she ran ran up the hill,
     But collapsed half way up, my lungs for to fill,
     Then down through my spine coursed a terrible chill,
     As she challenged the skies to take her.

     From a dark cloud above her the lightnings did fly,
     And Jeela let loose a mighty warcry,
     Before one struck the sword, and proud she did die,
     A charred husk, on the rocks above Dargon.

     The moral of this, my shipmates and friends,
     Is that if you cross swords with a mage, make amends,
     For I now think her curse follows me to the ends,
     Of this world, to decant its vengeance.

     "Hmmph," Jesson snorted, nonplussed. "Well, as you said, it's
hardly of the quality we would expect from our aspirants, never mind
being good enough to be considered a bard's work and entered into the
college library. I can picture it being read, but I can't see it being
put properly to any music other than a 'ditty' between each verse. What
makes you think that there's any truth in it?"
     The warder approached, saying "Well, if I may have the piece a
moment ..." He picked up the parchment and started to roll it gently.
Jesson raised an eyebrow at the possibility that the stiffened parchment
might crack, but decided that anyone of the rank of songwarder would not
be doing this without good reason. The man explained himself as he
finished rolling it. "The writer mentions a Cloud of Veran. As I'm sure
you know, Veran is the Beinison god of summer and fire. Given that fact,
it's not implausable to say that a cloud of Veran would be a summer
stormcloud -- meaning plenty of thunder and lightning." He aligned the
burns carefully along the edges of the paper. Once satisfied, he held it
up for the Master of Song's inspection. "Bearing that in mind, you see
these marks around the scroll?" The master nodded. "Well what do they
look like to you?"
     Jesson took the scroll and examined it. It took only a moment for
his eyebrows to narrow in suspicion, another for his eyes to blink in
disbelief as he turned the scroll over in his hands. However, the
evidence could not be ignored.
     "This ..." Jesson started, pointing shakily at the corruption on
the edge of the scroll. "This looks like ... like a burned in
handprint." He looked to the songwarder, hoping for some sort of denial
in his eyes. There was none, no matter how long the old master bard
searched. It was some time before Jesson's gaze dropped, and he thrust
the scroll back toward its deliverer. "Go then, yes, college library."
His voice echoed around the stark chamber. The songwarder left the room
in silence as the old bard tried in vain to return to his reading. The
pages trembled in his grasp.

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

                             Talisman Zero
                                 Part 1
                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                        <John.White@Drexel.Edu>
                           Mid-fall, 2216 ID

     Author's Note: This story takes place slightly more than a thousand
     years before the founding of Baranur, during the time when the
     Fretheod Empire is beginning to fall from the height of its power.

     Kendil clutched his hammock as the _Typhoon Dancer_ lurched again,
and yet another shiver of fear ran through him. He opened his eyes
resignedly; there was no way he could sleep through this storm.
     He swung his legs over the edge of the hammock and hopped the short
distance down to the deck. Thunder crashed outside and a bolt of
lightning illuminated the hold, revealing hammock after hammock of his
fellow ship-based soldiers, the alkaehran, all sleeping peacefully.
Kendil lamented the fact that he hadn't fallen asleep soon enough to be
oblivious to the storm. Another wave rocked the ship, causing him to
fall against the port wall, and he slumped to the deck despondently. He
wished for the millionth time since the storm began that he had never
taken this one last posting.
     Kendil had chosen to become an alkaehra when he had reached the age
to enter the mandatory term of military service that everyone in the
empire served. He had naively thought that an alkaehra's job was one of
the easiest of the available choices. If he had only known what it was
really like to be aboard a ship spending weeks and sometimes months out
of sight of land, he would have chosen differently.
     Once the choice had been taken, however, Kendil stuck with it. He
had been one of the emperor's alkaehra for the past seven years, which
meant that it was his duty to serve as part of the fighting force aboard
whatever ship he was posted to. And over all those years he had never
quite reconciled himself to having to go to sea because of it. He still
thought it was unnecessarily dangerous to trust his life to a floating
box, miles and miles from the safety of land. Now the danger was even
greater, as ships now had to weather storms.
     Prior to this voyage, he had only once had to suffer through a
storm while at sea in five years of duty. So far on this voyage, he had
already endured three of them, and the trip wasn't even half completed.
The difference was easy to determine: it was because of the anhekovel,
or rather, their loss of power.
     Once, the might of the empire had been such that a ship only
encountered a storm at sea by the grossest of accidents. Captains had
once been able to locate storms far over the horizon and take action to
avoid them, by using the power of the anhekovel, those magical staves
that were linked to the great master staff Yrmenweald. The anhekovel had
also been able to actually turn a storm if the need was dire enough. No
one knew exactly where the master staff had drawn its power from, only
that anyone bearing an anhekovel had access to that power. The anhekovel
had been the secret to the might of the empire, and now they were
powerless.
     Two years ago, while the anhekovel still functioned, Kendil had
been given the perfect excuse to leave the sea behind. His sister's
husband, also an alkaehra, had been killed in a native uprising in a
colony province. Kendil had been allowed to relocate back to his home
province in the south to help his sister and niece through their loss.
He had been given an administrative job in the Admiralty's shipyards
there, along with commensurate promotion in rank. He was sure he'd never
have to go to sea again, but Cherdisarme, the three-faced god of Fate,
stepped in.
     In the middle of the previous year, 2215, civil war had erupted in
Frethemak, the imperial city. The battles had not reached far beyond the
limits of the imperial province of Frethehel, which meant that Kendil
had never been directly endangered by the war. But the Yrmenweald -- and
as a result, the anhekovel -- had been destroyed in the war, which was
to have enormous consequences for everyone in the empire.
     New rules began to flow out of Frethemak, rules designed to shore
up the might of the empire in the wake of the passing of the Yrmenweald.
Military encounters no longer had foregone conclusions. Ships were no
longer certain to arrive at their destinations. The world had become a
more dangerous place for the Fretheod Empire after the civil war, and
the emperor was dealing with the problem the only way he knew how. If
the Yrmenweald no longer gave the empire's forces an advantage, then
sheer numbers would have to suffice.
     All across the empire, changes were happening in the military.
Mandatory service was lengthened to ten years. Service posting terms
were lengthened, and garrisons were doubled or trebled. Bonuses were
promised for extended service. All measures to bolster the military
might of the empire.
     One of these new rules affected Kendil directly. In order to
persuade people to continue to crew ships while voyages were becoming
increasingly dangerous, the Admiralty began requiring a minimum number
of voyages as a prerequisite for attaining any rank. Which meant that
Kendil no longer qualified for his promotion. Kendil's new rank had come
with a comfortable rise in pay, as well as quarters large enough for his
sister and niece as well as himself. While it was true that it would be
still be possible to find lodging and food for the three of them on his
former pay, their circumstances would worsen dramatically in that case.
     Kendil only needed one more voyage to meet the new requirements.
His rank would stay in place if he accepted another posting, and there
were promises from above that any further regulation changes would not
be applied retroactively. His boss, and friend, at the shipyard had
informed him of the new regulations, and had advised him to take the
demotion rather than go to sea again without the protection of the
anhekovel. In the end, it was Kendil's duty to his sister and his niece
that prompted him to ignore his boss' sage advice and accept one final
voyage.
     He had failed to consider the time of year, however. The _Typhoon
Dancer_ had left the dock three weeks ago, well into the first month of
fall. In that short amount of time, this was the third storm they had
sailed into. Knowing that the captain and crew had successfully brought
the ship through two other storms eased his fear slightly, but he still
regretted making that choice to leave dry land. He had been told that
the ship was only half way to its destination of Wudamund, the
watch-keep in the north of the continent of Cherisk, so he knew that
more storms were going to be encountered. He found himself, despite the
odds, fearing that he would never see dry land, or his sister and niece,
again.
     Kendil huddled against the wall for a little while longer, until
the storm seemed to abate somewhat so that the ship's lurches were no
longer sufficient to throw him around the cabin. He decided that he
might find tea soothing enough to lull him to sleep, so he went
carefully out the door and down the corridor aft to the galley.
     When he arrived in the large room situated over the keel of the
ship, he went straight to the stone stove and checked the stone tea
kettle bolted to its closed-top warmer at the back. It was about
half-full, and the coals in the warmer were still doing their job,
because the brown liquid was as warm as he liked it. He ladled some tea
into a thick ceramic mug, turned around to go to one of the bolted down
tables, and almost dropped his mug when he realized that he was not
alone in the galley.
     Seated up against the aft wall of the galley was one of his
land-based counterparts, the teraehra, that the _Typhoon Dancer_ was
taking to help garrison Wudamund. Kendil thought that the man looked
young and tall, even though he was leaning over his own mug of tea. He
seemed to be from one of the northern provinces, with such white-blond
hair and an eagle-beak of a nose -- or at least, he had to have some
north-province blood in his family.
     Kendil had seen the man on deck a few times before, usually playing
either a strange flute or an ocarina. Kendil remembered that the
musician was usually alone, which had caused him to wonder, considering
how handsome the young man was. In fact, remembering those
Northern-handsome features brought a smile to Kendil's face despite the
still-raging storm.
     He took a seat opposite the teraehra, but whatever the northerner
saw in his tea was so absorbing that Kendil wasn't noticed. Then again,
the little noise he made was easily covered by thunder, and the slight
wobble of the table as he gripped it to ease himself over the bench seat
could as easily have been caused by yet another lurching roll of the
beleaguered _Typhoon Dancer_. So, when Kendil said, "Pardon me ...," the
northerner jerked erect, surprise written on his face and enticingly
light green eyes wide, then nearly fell from the bench as he was caught
unawares when the deck tipped again.
     Kendil had the table to brace himself against the contrary movement
of the ship, so he reached out and grasped the northerner's shoulder to
keep him from falling to the deck. The ship steadied and the blond man
regained his balance, then secured himself back into his seat by leaning
against the aft wall and bracing his free arm against the edge of the
table. Once so steadied, he looked up again and smiled shyly.
     Kendil had to force himself not to laugh at the mishap he had
almost caused, then felt the curious need to blush when the northerner's
shy smile illuminated that handsome face. To cover himself, he coughed
artificially, took a sip of his tea timed between rolls of the ship, and
finally said, "So, you couldn't sleep either?"
     The blond man looked back into his tea, and said, "Um, no. No, the
ship is just rolling and lurching too much. I've never really liked
sailing -- too much water under you, too much nothingness up on deck.
Just blue and blue and blue, sky and sea, and maybe a bird or a
porpoise, but nothing else different for days and weeks and months
sometimes. That's why I didn't enlist under the Admiralty when I had to
choose for mandatory service and ..."
     Kendil was quickly captivated by the northerner's rambling speech
patterns. His voice was almost musical, and his thoughts seemed to
follow one another with barely a logical connection between them. Even
so, Kendil soon found his attention drawn to the man more than the
words, staring in fascination at the movements of the man's mouth,
shaping word after word with those amazing lips.
     "... *this* storm started, I tried to take to my bunk early in
hopes to be asleep before the worst hit. But I wasn't terribly
successful. So I came in here to have some tea. Also, I find it very
secure in here with the stone fixtures and the solid walls. The galley
is after all in the center of the ship and ..."
     Kendil found himself panting as he listened to the northerner, as
if he was unconsciously trying to breathe for the young man -- or maybe
there was a more primal reason for his reaction? He wrenched his eyes
away from those red, mobile lips and got them caught again in the
crystal clarity of the blond's startlingly grass-green eyes that were
fixed firmly on his own face. They stared at each other for a timeless
moment, with the northerner's voice still rattling on and on.
     "... seen you around on deck now and then, with the other
alkaehran. Have you ever had to fight on a ship? I've been in a couple
of battles on land, nothing momentous or anything, but what with all the
chaos fighting brings I just can't imagine doing it on the moving deck
of a ship. Oh, um, by the way I'm Nikkeus, from a *very* small town in
Nirmalel province. Nice to meet you." Nikkeus trapped his tea mug
between his non-bracing arm and the aft wall of the galley, and extended
his now free hand across the table.
     The silence in the room seemed so complete that Kendil had to
concentrate to notice that the storm noises still raged outside. He
blinked a couple of times and broke the eye-contact that had enveloped
him completely in a world called Nikkeus. He looked down at the large,
fine hand that was extended toward him and he clasped it firmly and
pumped it up and down. But once that greeting-handshake was over, he
found himself unwilling to let go. He could feel himself smiling
foolishly, the corners of his mouth beginning to ache with it, and he
could also feel a warmth slowly rising up his neck and across his
cheeks. Blushing again? He hadn't felt so immediately affected by a
person since ... since that first crush during his initial training all
those years ago.
     Before he could decide whether he wanted to act on his feelings,
unsure as he was about the reaction Nikkeus might have to them, the ship
listed hard to starboard again. Kendil had to fling Nikkeus' hand away
so that he could grab onto the table and keep from falling to the deck.
Once the ship had righted itself, he found himself laughing in relief at
not falling down again. Or was it at being free of the disturbingly
intense contact with Nikkeus? He started to introduce himself, but his
nervousness tangled up his thoughts between mind and mouth, and all that
came out was an awkward choking mumble.
     He blushed a bit once more, cleared his throat, and tried again.
"I'm Kendil, from Afranlel province in the south. Well met under
Aelther's aegis. I'm not terribly happy to be at sea again, either, but
you just have to do your duty to the emperor, don't you? Erm ..." Kendil
found that all of his normal self-assurance had fled, and he couldn't
think of a single thing to ask this handsome young man. He fished around
in his mind, and finally came up with, "So, ah, how long are you going
to be at Wudamund?" He fervently hoped that Nikkeus had not already told
him that during those times when he wasn't actually listening to the
northerner, but just watching him.
     "They tell me, my squad mates that is, that off-continent postings
used to be no more than half a year. But now with the new rules as have
come out after the war, I am supposed to be over there for a year and a
half. Eighteen months! But I don't suppose it will be too bad. There
aren't any enemies in the area after all. It's not like there will be
constant battle, or even much danger at all. Except maybe for the voyage
there and back, right? And ..."
     It didn't take Kendil long to get lost in Nikkeus' words again.
Soon, he was staring at the young man, mesmerized. Fleeting thoughts
tried to impose themselves on his consciousness. Should he really be
thinking about getting involved with someone who was slated to be on
another continent for a year and a half? Even for the short term, would
it be wise to start something on board a ship? There wasn't a great deal
of privacy, if things didn't work out, after all. He spared each
distracting thought only enough time to consider it and dismiss it as
irrelevant at the moment, faced as he was with the handsome features and
endearing qualities of the northerner.
     "... on my 23rd birthday -- that was 2 years ago -- my lover,
Marakus, gave me this really lovely figurine. He was a sculptor; he had
made it himself and it was just exquisite. I keep it with me always. It
brings me good luck. I only wish Marakus had had one when he took that
guardian job. Their caravan made it intact, the bandits all died, but so
did Marakus ... anyway, I was reminded of him the other day when I saw
you carving something on deck, and I wanted to go over and talk to you
about it, but I was too nervous. And then Jenkil called you all to drill
and ..."
     Kendil definitely caught those comments, and his heart started to
beat faster and faster, while his stomach started to knot with
nervousness. Nikkeus wouldn't by all evidence be averse to what Kendil
was wishing and hoping for. Not only that, but the northerner had
noticed him up on deck and had been nervous about approaching him, which
might mean that Nikkeus was maybe attracted to him too. Then again, he
had seemed like the nervous type in general, but there was no need to be
pessimistic about it after all, right?
     "... waited more than half a month for it to be ready, but the
ironmonger was dragging his feet or something, because it took almost
two months longer than it was supposed to ..."
     Kendil was beginning to wonder when Nikkeus' monologue was going to
run down. The man was talking just too fast to interrupt, but Kendil was
getting more and more impatient even though he was learning some
fascinating things about Nikkeus. But when would the beautiful young man
shut up so that Kendil could ask him what he wanted to ask him?
     "... just before _Typhoon Dancer_ left the docks. And there was
Rikky, youngest child of the owners of the rooming house I had just
vacated, running after the ship waving something. Fortunately the boy
was fast enough, and had a good enough arm, to throw the small bundle to
me at the rail because it ..."
     Would he ever stop? wondered Kendil. What am I going to do? Wait,
why not just ...
     Without a thought for either of the dangers he was facing -- the
still storm-tossed ship lurching under him, or Nikkeus being mortally
offended by his impending action -- Kendil stood up, leaned over the
table, and kissed Nikkeus on the mouth.
     Wonder of wonders, that managed to shut the young blond man up! And
the activities that followed kept him shut up for a good long time, and
neither of them even noticed when the storm ended.

     Captain Eldinan stood in the pilot house and looked out over her
ship. The _Typhoon Dancer_ had survived the previous night's storm
without any major damage. A few torn lines and a chipped spar, nothing
more permanent, for which she had already spent most of the morning
gratefully thanking every god she thought might have had an interest in
aiding her ship's survival. She only halfheartedly believed in most of
the gods whose altars she had sacrificed oil, wine and grain on, but her
grandfather had taught her to always dog all her hatches: she never left
anything to chance.
     Her crew had already stowed the gear that had been tossed around by
the stormy seas, and were now making the necessary repairs. Maka'arn,
her stone-wizard, was still asleep, exhausted by his battle to use the
ship's ballast stones to help keep the ship from capsizing. She could
only hope to Aelther that he would recover before another storm blew up.
     Eldinan's gaze drifted to her anhekova, resting comfortably and
uselessly in its cradle next to the ship's wheel. Her grandfather had
carved the wood himself when he had been a ship's captain, and the
careful detail in that carving was absolutely beautiful. A thin line of
Geronlel knot-work consisting of heavily interlaced lines woven together
in deceptively simple patterns, created by the indigenous people of the
north-western province of Geronlel, wound its way up from the pointed
base to the palm of the staff. A close inspection would reveal the
nautical themes that were interwoven into the knots. Cupping the milky
ovoid of cwicustan, the magically-receptive crystal that was the heart
of any anhekovel, was another carving of an octopod that grew from the
knot work almost organically.
     It was beautiful -- a craftsman's delight -- and it was just so
much wall-hanging art. Once, it had almost been part of her. She once
could use it to see her course across the sea, and plot the movements of
any storm in her path. It had certainly taken time to get used to its
abilities, but once she had done so they had been like an extra sense.
And now that its power was broken, she felt almost crippled without it.
     She blamed Osgeofu, as did everyone. Osgeofu had been emperor
briefly, and he had destroyed the Yrmenweald, and so the anhekovel. He
had been the elder of the twin sons of Earnfled, the emperor throughout
most of Eldinan's life, and so destined to be her heir. This did not sit
well with the noble elite of the empire, who felt that Osgeofu's
brother, Tilgeofu, would make the better ruler. Osgeofu's excesses as
heir apparent had been so outrageous that the normally conservative and
tradition-bound nobles had actually begun to petition the emperor to
change her heir.
     The elite polarized into two parties: the traditionalists and the
revolutionaries. Eldinan's sympathies had been with the revolutionaries,
even though she wasn't one of the elite, or even one of the lesser
nobles. But she thought that, had she known the outcome of the division
beforehand, she would have done everything in her power to make sure
that the traditionalists succeeded.
     Emperor Earnfled had died more than a year ago, in the summer of
2215, and Osgeofu took the imperial throne. The revolutionaries turned
their attention-getting disturbances into an all-out civil war. Tilgeofu
had taken no part in the actions of the revolutionary faction until it
became clear that they were determined to carry out their agenda and put
Tilgeofu on the throne whether he wanted it or not. Facing the
inevitable, and sure of the might of the faction he was joining,
Tilgeofu eventually joined in. Months passed, and finally Tilgeofu
confronted his brother in the throne room of the imperial palace in
Frethemak. With the will of the people -- the people that counted,
anyway -- behind him, he had ordered his brother to relinquish the
throne to him. Osgeofu, faced with imminent defeat, had, in a fit of
spite, smashed the sphere of cwicustan crystal atop the Yrmenweald
staff, breaking its link to the source of its power, and destroying the
power of the anhekovel in the process.
     She remembered the previous night. Her first thought as the storm
had begun to lash at her ship was that she had mistakenly forgotten to
check the weather. She had rushed to the pilot house to do a quick check
of how far the storm extended and whether they could steer around it. It
had been a shock to touch the milky cwicustan crystal and not feel the
mind-expanding touch of the power behind the Yrmenweald. But the crystal
was no longer linked to the master staff. She could no longer forecast
the weather. Which was why the _Typhoon Dancer_ had been sailing into
those clouds rather than around them.
     She shook her head and resumed gazing out the pilot's window,
across the quarterdeck, and down onto the main deck. All that activity
heartened her. It showed her that it wasn't a piece of magic rock that
kept her ship afloat: it was people. _Typhoon Dancer_ would persevere
because of her crew, with or without the Yrmenweald.
     She checked her maps, and then took their heading off the compass.
Their current heading seemed fine, as long as the storm hadn't blown
them too far off course. She would have to wait until tonight, when the
night watch could read their position by the stars, before she would
know for sure. She hoped it would be a clear night.
     Once again, she blessed the methods that had stood common fishers
and traders in good stead all these years. Maps and charts were a
cumbersome replacement for her former abilities, but without them travel
by sea would be far more of a gamble than it had yet become.
     Her thoughts about how clear it would be that night brought a more
immediate concern to mind. She leaned out the open window of the pilot
house and called up to the woman on stormwatch, "Weather sign?"
     Mooribek gave the whole circle of the horizon a scan before
replying. The slender, willowy woman with the lovely dusky skin perched
carefully on the small platform at the top of the main mast. Her long
dark hair billowed in the wind that bellied the sails. "Horizon white,
Captain," she shouted. "Fair travel as far as the eye sees."
     Eldinan called back, "Thanks, 'watch." She grinned as Mooribek
flashed her a smile of white teeth and gave her a jaunty salute before
returning to her weather watch.
     Eldinan returned to scanning the main deck, feeling somewhat
restless. Last night had been all action: keeping the ship turned into
the waves, overseeing the deck crew's activities, doing her best to make
sure _Typhoon Dancer_ stayed afloat. It had been a terrifying and
exhilarating experience, one she was getting better and better at
handling. But everything was so quiet and normal now that she found
herself almost wishing for something a little out of the ordinary.
     As her eyes moved over the deck, she spotted one of the ship's
compliment of alkaehran standing by the port rail out of everyone's way,
carving carefully at a block of wood. The man had caught her attention
before. He was of medium height, and of generally swarthy looks: olive
skin, brown hair kept short, handsome features. He was fit, of course,
and the lines of his body had been mildly distracting when he drilled
with the rest of the squad. It wasn't just the way he looked, though,
but something about the way he moved, the way he carried himself, even
the way he interacted with the others in his squad.
     Being captain, she was used to making instant decisions. And while
there were reasons she shouldn't go down and strike up a conversation
with the man, there were just as many reasons she should. Her time was
her own; she had no assigned duties like the rest of the crew. The ship
was her responsibility, but her crew knew its business and she was only
needed on deck in emergencies. And the gods saw fit, there would be no
emergencies for a while.
     So, she checked that the wheel was locked and everything else was
in order, then she stepped out of the pilot house. Corrik, her second
mate, was standing there on the quarterdeck, waiting to resume his duty
in the pilot house. Corrik was her nephew-in-law, and very young to be a
second mate, this being only his second year at sea, but his father was
an admiral, and Eldinan hadn't been able to keep the boy off of her
ship. Fortunately, so far he had proved to be up to the task and was
well on his way to earning the position he had been gifted with.
     She saluted Corrik smartly, and accepted the return salute. He
moved to take up his proper position as she walked slowly down the
stairs off the quarterdeck and over to the whittling soldier.
     The man didn't look up from his carving, and Eldinan didn't
interrupt him when she saw how carefully he was working. She was
intrigued by the result of his efforts; it looked like he was trying to
carve a chain out of a single block of wood, and as he was about half
done, it was obvious that he was doing quite well. About half a dozen
interlocked ovals of wood already spilled from the whittled-at block,
with each end of the chain ending in a half-link that disappeared into
the wood.
     She watched as he carefully cut away at the wood around one of the
half-links. As his knife moved, she could almost see the shapes he was
working towards. She automatically began to unravel the pattern involved
in his carving. As she watched, the mystery of the interlocking links
came clear to her. She nodded in self-satisfaction, her supposition
borne out, as slowly, the other half of a link of the chain appeared as
the wood was chipped away, already interlocked with that first
half-link. A few delicate probings of the knife, and the new link fell
loose, now part of the wooden chain instead of part of the block of
wood.
     The man relaxed for a moment, moving the knife safely away from his
delicate carving, and Eldinan chose that moment to speak. Even though
she had intuited the mystery of the links herself, she knew that it
still took skill to carve them successfully. Acknowledging that, and
with some obvious flattery, she said, "You have amazing hands, alkant."
     The soldier looked up and smiled. "I thank you, Captain. Just a
hobby, something to pass the time ..."
     "You must have a great deal of time to pass, to become so well
practiced at your hobby." She smiled broadly to show that she was
kidding and praising, and continued. "I normally make it a point to get
to know everyone who travels on my ship, but this voyage has been
somewhat hectic, and as you came aboard at our last port, I don't yet
know your name. What should I call you, besides Master Carver?"
     The man hesitated a moment, grinning a bit as if to himself and
looking at his hands somewhat nervously. Then he shrugged slightly,
looked up directly into Eldinan's eyes, and said, "I'm Kendil, which,
when properly pronounced, is shouted at the top of your lungs,
accompanied by gasps and moans and sighs of pleasure." His grin was
downright lascivious, and his eyes never left hers.
     Eldinan laughed delightedly, and said, "Oh my, handsome and
impudent too! And I dare say that your 'amazing hands' have other
applications than setting knife to wood, eh, Kendil?"
     "Ah, well, I wouldn't want to brag. Perhaps the captain would
rather find out for herself?"
     As the banter continued, Eldinan found herself growing more and
more intrigued by this alkant. She wondered whether she should throw
caution to the fishes and drag the brash soldier down into her cabin. It
would cause talk, but not for very long. Maybe she just would ...

     Nikkeus sat cross legged atop a cask up near the bow of the
_Typhoon Dancer_, playing the double-belled flute he had made himself.
His eyes were riveted on Kendil, who was amidships carving something. He
wished the alkaehra would come over and talk to him. He wasn't sure
whether the previous night had been anything more than just a moment --
well, many, many moments -- of passion in the face of the storm. He
certainly hoped it was more, but so far, Kendil hadn't so much as looked
his way.
     His fingers moved across the holes of his flute, producing music
that currently had something of a plaintive, wistful air. His thoughts
flashed back to last night: being kissed by the handsome man, kissing
him back, touching him, exploring and being explored, and all that had
come after. They had parted in the early morning reluctantly, with
kisses and whispers, wanting to get out of the galley before the cook
came in to start breakfast. Nikkeus had gone back to his hammock in the
teraehran hold and had even caught some sleep. All of his dreams had
been about Kendil.
     But their paths hadn't crossed again. Nikkeus was sure that Kendil
would come to see him, but it hadn't happened yet. So, he sat in his
usual spot and played his flute, and hoped.
     His music abruptly got more energetic, choppier and maybe a little
angry or jealous, as he watched Captain Eldinan walk out of the pilot
house, across the intervening decks, and stop in front of Kendil to
stare at him as he carved. Somehow the musician knew that the look of
appreciation on the captain's face was not just for whatever the
alkaehra was working on.
     As they began to talk, Nikkeus noticed the non-verbal communication
which also between them. Though too far away to hear their words, he
could tell that they were teasing each other, baiting each other,
seducing each other. The music coming out of his flute turned from
jealous to sad. It didn't look like Kendil would be seeking him out
after all.
     He thought briefly, in the midst of his growing melancholy, that
they made a nice couple at least. The captain was a good looking woman,
perhaps just a little too worn by her time at sea to be beautiful. Both
she and the alkaehra the same height, while Nikkeus had half a foot on
Kendil. Both the soldier and the captain were muscular and robust, while
Nikkeus was thin and wiry. And Nikkeus knew that if Eldinan, captain or
not, approached *him* and tried to talk him into her bed, he would be
just as responsive as Kendil was being right now.
     But he wondered as he watched the seduction what was wrong with
him. Kendil had been so attentive, so caring last night. But now, the
handsome soldier looked to have forgotten about him completely. Why
could he hold no one's interest longer than a night or two?
     He remembered his first girlfriend, who had pursued him, caught
him, persuaded him, and then rejected him. She had been his first, and
so traumatic that it had been three years before he had allowed himself
to feel for a person again. And that had been his first boyfriend, whom
he had met shortly after he had turned eighteen and begun his military
service. Nikkeus had been treated slightly better by him, but their
relationship had lasted only two days -- something of a record among the
pleasure-seeking teraehran he had been serving with at the time, but not
what he had been looking for.
     He rolled the names since then over in his head, remembering each
one with both pleasure and pain. The only one of his lovers who hadn't
left him for another was Marakus, who had left him by dying.
     So, what was wrong with him anyway?
     Nikkeus' attention was riveted again when the captain presented her
arm for Kendil to take, and the new pair walked off the deck through the
door under the quarterdeck. The music coming from Nikkeus' flute grew so
depressing that it made a few of the sailors working around him think
longingly and sadly of loved ones left back on Duurom's shores.

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