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 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 10/03/1999
 Volume 12, Number 10                           Circulation:        701
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Visitation Rites             Ornoth D.A. Liscomb    7 Firil, 1016
 Talisman One 4               Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Spring, 2347 ID
 Beck's Next                  Tim Guba               Yuli 1016

========================================================================
 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 12-10, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright October, 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>

     Bitnet. In all likelihood you've never heard of Bitnet. It kind of
sounds like the name of an ISP, doesn't it? "Become a Bitnet customer,
and get 80 free hours!"
     But back in 1984, it was all the rage at universities from Iowa to
Israel. Bitnet was a network that linked computers at thousands of
universities throughout the world, allowing students and staff to
exchange email, programs, and interactive messages, and the network was
experiencing explosive growth. And in 1984, when DargonZine was founded,
Bitnet was our distribution channel.
     At that time, there were several such networks in existance,
including NSFnet, UUCP, ARPAnet, Fidonet, and others. All these networks
were separate because they had been created by different organizations
and used different protocols for talking to one another. Around the time
DargonZine was born, gateways began springing up which allowed email to
pass between these disparate networks, and DargonZine became one of the
first "Internet" magazines.
     Over time, one network protocol became the standard: TCP/IP, which
was originally used to link Unix machines on ARPAnet. Once TCP/IP became
widely available to the Digital VAX and IBM mainframe systems that made
up Bitnet, many of those sites began to maintain presences on both the
TCP/IP network as well as Bitnet's NJE-based network.
     Over the past ten years, Bitnet sites have gradually transitioned
to TCP as their sole connection to the Internet. Many DargonZine
subscribers have changed their email addresses to TCP/IP domains. And
each time a new DargonZine issue is distributed, we learn of a handful
of sites which have let their Bitnet connections expire. The trend has
continued to the point where there are barely a half-dozen DargonZine
subscribers still using Bitnet addresses.
     Today, it looks like Bitnet is living out its last days in
obscurity. Few people remember that it once was a substantial global
network of university computer centers that was one of the predecessors
of today's Internet. Even the articles and books which document the
history of the Internet often don't bother to mention the network that
had instant messaging back in 1982, that gave us the first chat machines
(which eventually were ported to the Internet in the form of IRC), that
gave us the first email list processors in the form of Listserv (which
has also been ported to the Internet), and which served as the host to
many diverse information systems and services, including DargonZine.
     For those of us who grew up on Bitnet, its impending demise is like
the loss of a close friend. Those who remember Bitnet have many fond
memories to recall, and feelings of melancholy and sadness. The Internet
has lost an important part of its history, and DargonZine has lost its
childhood home.
     Back in 1984, I would hardly have thought that DargonZine would
outlive Bitnet, yet here we are. Unlike Bitnet, DargonZine is more
robust than ever, and this issue is a great example.
     In this issue we conclude Dafydd's second "Talisman" story. It's an
excellent series, and I hope you don't let its size intimidate you.
Dafydd is one of the best writers we've ever had, and "Talisman" is his
most ambitious work to date. We also feature the debut of a new writer,
Tim Guba; I hope you enjoy his story, which follows a retiring merchant
captain. And finally, we print the first story in five years from one of
our veterans: myself, Ornoth. New writers, old writers, and lots of
super stories; while Bitnet's glory days are past, DargonZine will
continue to thrive and bring you the best fiction we can for years to
come.

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

                            Visitation Rites
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                           <ornoth@shore.net>
                             7 Firil, 1016

     The rain, like an old friend too rarely seen, had been much
anticipated when it arrived in Dargon. In the spring, the rain cleansed
the city. It knocked down the clouds of dust that haunted the streets
and sprang out of nowhere to throw grit in the eyes of even the most
humble priest. It raised verdant and, in time, bountiful fields and
gardens from land left barren by long winter snows. And it rinsed the
rubbish and sewage that had accumulated in Dargon's gutters and alleys
out into the river and sea. So welcomed had been this spring rain that
the storm had lingered in Dargon for well nigh a fortnight. But did it
have to be so bloody damp?
     So thought Courtney, the Euilamon of the goddess Araminia, as she
and her companion trod the puddle-strewn cobbles of Layman Street.
     "How are your feet, Palmer?"
     Her companion, a fellow Euilamon, grinned and looked down at his
mud-stained toes through the soaked leather thongs of his sandals.
"Actually, I think I'm faring better in my sandals than you in those
boots, your grace! And besides, I like to feel the mud between my toes!"
he said as he did a squishy little dance in the middle of the muddy
street.
     Courtney sashayed away from any danger of being splashed, and the
two companions walked on; one preoccupied with reliving a youth that
should have been long past, the other lost in thought.
     "Do you think the gods might be angry with us, Palmer?"
     Interrupted, the chief minister of the blind god Risheera cocked
his head to one side before smiling at the woman who accompanied him.
Her tied-back hair made her appear more like a young schoolteacher than
a senior priest. "Have you done something to incur the anger of the All
Creator, Courtney?"
     "No, I just have this feeling ... like something is going to
happen. I can't describe it."
     Her companion wasn't in a mood to be serious. "Something happen?
Like what? The end of the world?"
     "Well, no. Nothing that drastic. I hope."
     Her wooden response had the desired effect; Palmer faced her, his
expression turning from frivolous to serious.
     "Now you're working *my* congregation! Risheera has taught me to
heed such portents. It could be that there is a reason for the feelings
you are having. Perhaps Araminia knows something you and I don't."
     Courtney nodded. "But Palmer, this foreboding hardly seems
appropriate for the goddess of healing and good fortune. What could it
mean?"
     "I don't know, but I think you'd best listen to your heart, and
double your prayers at temple this morning!"
     As quickly as it had departed, Palmer's exuberance returned. His
ephemeral moods weren't quite in keeping with the temperament of his
grim patron, Risheera Omenbringer, but Courtney admired him for it. She
let him continue to lead her through Dargon's confused streets toward
Temple Street and their respective houses of worship. Meanwhile, she
concentrated on what her vague sense of premonition might imply; but
however lengthy, her walk to the Temple of Araminia brought her no
closer to an answer.

     Although his monk's cowl kept the rain from his face, the weight of
his rain-soaked woolen robe weighed Coryndon down as he puttered. As a
young acolyte, he was charged with the care of the Sailors' Shrine that
occupied a small green patch just north of the city's docks. But the
never-ending rain had dampened his enthusiasm for the task, and he had
delayed walking down to the shrine until late in the afternoon. Upon
arriving at the little greensward that housed the shrine, he had been
further dismayed at the amount of leaves, branches, and bracken that the
storm had brought down. However, he had worked into the early evening
cleaning up the mess, for the upkeep of the Sailors' Shrine was a solemn
task. Although few sailors would admit it, they needed what reassurance
and comfort could be provided by faith in the gods' favor. Because of
this, the Sailors' Shrine was one of the most-frequented shrines in the
city, even though the only formal observances held there were occasional
ship launchings and the seasonal blessings of the fishing fleet.
     Now, however, the shrine had been cleaned up and looked as tidy as
it could under the circumstances. Furthermore, although the Firil
evening was chilling in his damp robe, the young acolyte could look out
over the open ocean to the west and see breaks in the clouds that had
smothered Dargon for over a sennight. The evening sky was boldly painted
in umber, indigo, and sable, and Coryndon paused to watch as the horizon
cleared, silently appreciating the All Creator's craft to the extent of
his own humble abilities.
     Finally, Coryndon heard the faint ringing of the third bell of
evening tolling from the tower of Dargon Keep on the far side of the
Coldwell. Moments later, it was echoed more loudly on the near side of
the river by the bell atop the Harbormaster's Building. His reverie
broken, Coryndon turned from the evening spectacle and made his way back
toward the priory on Temple Street.
     As he left the greensward and set foot on the cobbled street, he
was met by a sailor who was walking determinedly up the small rise to
the shrine. Coryndon had often made the acquaintance of sailors who
frequented the shrine, although he did not recognize the man walking
toward him. Furthermore, although most tended to keep to themselves
rather than acknowledge their superstitions, this man took Coryndon by
surprise by directly approaching and hailing him.
     "Priest!"
     The man seemed embarrassed for a moment by his own audacity, and
paused briefly before his words came out in a rush. "Priest, have you
seen the light?"
     Coryndon, not sure how to respond, ventured a tentative "Uh ...
no?"
     "Well, I have something you need to see. There's a light in the
sky!" While Coryndon tried to follow the man's speech, the sailor was
pointing toward the sky. Seeing the confused expression on the priest's
face, the sailor looked up. "Oh! That squirmin' cedar is in the way;
come down here!"
     The sailor led the way down the street back toward the
infrequently-used northernmost dock. As they approached the dock,
Coryndon could see more of the clearing night sky, including a great
ball of a star followed by a long milky trail like a smeared blot of
white ink that the scribes used in their illuminations. Although
Coryndon was no student of the positions of the stars, he had never seen
anything like this in his life. Although it wasn't half as large as
Dargon's moon, Nochturon, it was nearly as bright, and lit not only a
portion of the sky, but gave the docks the semblance of an ominous
silvery daylight.
     "Well, priest? Do you know what that is?" Coryndon could hear the
anxiety in the sailor's voice clearly now. He knew that something this
noticeable would certainly cause concern among the sailors, whose
superstitions ran deep, and whose lives depended on the reliable and
predictable positions of the landmarks in the sky.
     Coryndon wasn't quite sure how to respond. Neither his schooling
nor his experience provided any insight into the cause of this
visitation. He knew that the sailor was seeking reassurance from him,
but Coryndon was only a young acolyte, and had never found himself in
such a position before. Yet this sailor would not be alone in seeking an
explanation; he would return to his friends and pass along the priest's
words, and those words would be carried further still. He had a
responsibility to give as reassuring an answer as possible.
     Seeing the priest in thought, the sailor had waited patiently, but
the expression of urgency and inquiry never left his face. Finally the
priest of the shrine spoke.
     "I do not know what it is, sailor, but I don't think any ill can
come of it. It just seems to hang there."
     The sailor seemed skeptical. "Could it not be an omen of the All
Creator's displeasure? We sail for Armand on the fourth bell's tide, and
I must know whether this thing," gesturing skyward, "bodes ill fortune."
     Coryndon responded immediately. "I think not, sailor. Or if so, it
must bode ill for the whole of Dargon, not for your small vessel. I
should think that the wisest thing you could do would be to set sail as
you have planned, without regard for this manifestation."
     The sailor thought for a while before thanking the priest and
walking back down Commercial Street toward the docks, but not without
several looks over his shoulder at the radiant object that had suddenly
taken up residence in the normally placid and predictable nighttime sky.
     For himself, Coryndon stood on the pier for a few moments, staring
at his own shadow cast by the silvery star. He hoped that his words had
calmed the sailor, and that the sailor's calm would help keep others
from panic. But the man had sparked doubt in Coryndon's own heart, and
with a silent look and plea sent to the nearby shrine, he turned away
and headed back to the priory to bring the matter to the attention of
his Euilamon.

     Courtney took a deep breath before raising the iron knocker. It was
rare for the chief priest of one of the All Creator's gods to feel
anxious, but tonight there surely was cause. The whole town was abuzz
over the strange star in the night sky, and pandemonium was taking place
on Temple Street, which had become a gathering point for those who
feared the wrath of the gods. Her own clergy looked to her for answers,
but she had none, and had elected not to share with them the vague sense
of foreboding which had visited her of late.
     But these were not the cause of her immediate concern. She had been
summoned -- summoned! -- to a meeting of all the Euilamon of every deity
in the Creator's Pantheon, at the home of the only person in Dargon to
whom she might defer in spiritual matters: the Euilamon of the All
Creator himself.
     Such meetings were exceedingly rare. The various temples were run
independently by each Euilamon, and most interaction between them
occurred at the lower levels of the clergy. The Euilamon were headstrong
and accustomed to exercising unquestioned authority. They were the
ultimate embodiment of their gods in Dargon, and didn't tend to interact
with one another very much. Like the mythical group of rodents known as
a Rat-King, bound inescapably together through the accidental knotting
of their tails, a meeting of all the Euilamon had very little likelihood
of running smoothly.
     Even on the rare occasion where meetings between the Euilamon took
place, they usually had been held at the priory of the All Creator on
Temple Street. It was a little intimidating to have the council summoned
to the private residence of the All Creator's Euilamon, but it had
ostensibly been done to avoid the turmoil on Temple Street, and Courtney
was glad to escape that chaos.
     A young man in a simple tunic opened the door and bowed to
Courtney. While he led her through the house to the room where the
meeting was to be held, she wondered whether he was an acolyte or merely
a servant. His clothing was plain and unobtrusive, as befitted both
roles. Was there, after all, really much of a difference between those
who served a divine lord and those who served an earthly lord?
     Arriving at the meeting room, she stopped at the threshold to
appraise the chamber and the people assembled there. The room was broad
but dark, surrounded by shelves full of books, scrolls, ledgers, and
ornaments of religious meaning to those who worshipped the All Creator.
Opposite the doorway was a large bay window, flanked by smaller
bordering windows of stained glass depicting the myths of the Creator's
Pantheon. Glass in itself was a precious rarity in Dargon, either as
artistic stained glass or in clear sheets large enough for such a
window, and it would be a marvel when seen during the day. Courtney
appreciated the sensitivities of a mind which spent such large sums on
something to elevate the spirit and encourage philosophical thought. The
room itself was dominated by a large, heavy table. Courtney concluded
that this room served its owner as study, chapel, council room, and,
probably all too often, as dining room.
     That owner sat in a heavy, straight-backed wooden chair at the head
of the table, his back to the bay window. As the Euilamon of the All
Creator, Jarett was the father figure of the Creator's Pantheon, and
even the headstrong Euilamon of the other gods listened to his counsel.
His mentorship was paternalistic, but also sometimes as inscrutable and
unpredictable as only a father could be. However, at the moment Jarett
seemed to be quietly and politely listening as others spoke. He silently
acknowledged Courtney's arrival, and returned his attention to the
speaker.
     Courtney, meanwhile, circumnavigated the room to find herself an
open chair next to Palmer, one of the few Euilamon whom she considered a
friend, rather than a rival. As she sat, he leaned toward her
conspiratorially.
     "It seems there is only one topic of conversation tonight. Jarett
hasn't even called the meeting to order, but I don't think he needs to;
the wandering star is still the topic of every conversation."
     "Has he said anything yet?" Jarett could usually be expected to
express a strong opinion in most instances.
     "No. I think he's letting the group give voice to their fears."
     Courtney turned to Jarett. He was listening to Tasia, the
plain-looking Euilamon of Randiriel, as she described the scene in her
temple. Courtney studied the Euilamon who spoke for the most powerful of
the gods a moment before turning back to her companion. "I don't think
he has any more idea what that thing is than any of us."
     Palmer nodded slightly. "Possibly not. So, what now of the omens
you had this morning, your grace?"
     That didn't make Courtney feel any better. "I just don't know. My
feelings may well have heralded the arrival of this wandering star, but
it still doesn't tell us what it means!"
     Quan, the Euilamon of Sbeppo, seated on the other side of Courtney,
had overheard, and chimed in. "Your grace, I have two hundred people in
my temple, demanding to know exactly that: what this light in the sky
means!"
     Tasia turned to them from her conversation with Jarett. It seemed
the separate conversations were coalescing around them. "There are
crowds in all the temples, and most of the open squares and
marketplaces. The crowds on Temple Street have gained voices. We must
pray to our gods to reveal their intentions to us. But whether we know
the truth ourselves or not, we must tell the people what we can to
reassure them."
     The rest of the group seemed to assent, and several looked toward
Jarett in anticipation of his counsel. He sighed heavily, allowing the
rest of the group to accede to his authority before speaking.
     "I fear I have no more information than you do. However, if
anything like this has happened in the past, we shall find record of it
in our archives. I have already set six scribes to scour my temple's
archives for any knowledge of something like this ever happening before.
I suggest we each do the same. And knowing the breadth of the archives
of Sbeppo, patron of scribes, I would treble that number for you, your
grace," indicating the man next to Courtney, who nodded ingratiatingly.
Addressing the room as a whole, he continued. "We shall meet here to
discuss our results at dawn. Come the morn, we must share what insight
we have with the people, and I shall have to advise Lord Clifton."
     "And what are we to tell the crowds which gather outside our
temples now?" demanded the Euilamon of Randiriel.
     "For now, little more than the truth: the wandering star appears to
signify no immediate peril, and we are looking through our records to
see if anything like this has ever happened before. And meanwhile, I
shall be praying to the All Creator for an indication as to the meaning
of this mysterious light in our sky."
     "As will we all."

     By the time Coryndon returned to the Sailors' Shrine, the fifth
bell of evening had rung: midnight. Only his familiarity with the
greensward enabled him to walk among the trees and rocks of the little
park without tripping and falling, for he had often come to the shrine
at night to meditate. Beyond the actual shrine and the spruce and cedar
grove where it resided, the land fell away to the sea in a crash of
lichen-covered granite boulders and kelp. The shrine was built upon a
headland which served to protect the port from the open ocean, so while
the lee of the rocky outcropping was calm and quiet, the seaward side
was wild and washed by a monstrous surf.
     The pale light of the new star continued to give the semblance of
an eerie silvery twilight to the rock-strewn shore, enabling Coryndon to
scramble down the hillside to the crashing surf which was his favorite
place to sit and think. Using a dry cloak he had taken from the priory,
he made himself comfortable on his favorite rock.
     Looking up, Coryndon noticed that the star had moved considerably
away from where he had seen it earlier in the night. It seemed odd to
him that it hadn't moved forward, as if the smudge which trailed it were
a tail, but sideways. Worse yet, he thought it had moved in a somewhat
different direction than the rest of the stars around it. What could it
be?
     His tired gaze returned to the pounding nighttime surf, which had
always facilitated his meditation. As he stared at the endlessly
churning ocean, he mentally replayed his trip to the priory. All of
Temple Street had been awash with a rising tide of people, and Coryndon
had waded through that tide to reach the Temple of the All Creator.
Recognized by his priest's cowl, he had been set upon by anxious
citizens and tossed about in the crowd. Finally, he had cast himself on
that shore where waves of people, finally coming into contact with the
priests of the temple, crested and withdrew. He had quickly recounted
his story to the priest who seemed in charge, and learned that his
Euilamon had summoned a rare meeting of all the Euilamon of the
Creator's Pantheon to determine what the light in the sky signified.
     After that, Coryndon had fought his way out of the confusion of
Temple Street and returned exhausted to the quiet solitude of the
Sailors' Shrine, where he could study the wandering star and where the
endless power of the surf and the tides encouraged contemplation of the
limitless power of the gods of the Creator's Pantheon and the
insignificance of man.
     Coryndon's tired eyes stared at the open ocean, seeing little
ripples on top of bigger waves on top of bigger waves still, moving in
concert with wind and current. Waves, some as small as an ant, some as
big as a temple, piled atop one another and all struggling to move in
different directions. What kind of beings could create something so
complex and so powerful and so large and so eternal as the ocean, and
also create the ageless strength of the granite stones which had opposed
it for aeons beyond measure?
     The susurration of the surf seemed to Coryndon to have murmured the
answer since time immemorial: the same beings who could cast a wondrous
sparkling light in the sky.
     Despite his fatigued body, Coryndon's mind continued onward: but
what might the light signify? What might it mean to mankind, whose frail
tenancy of the land could be measured in little more than two score
lifetimes? What reason might the gods have to create such a display as
that which traversed the sky so spectacularly? A premonition of
disaster? Another war? A plague? A curse? The celebration of a victory?
A marriage? A death? A birth?
     A birth.

     Courtney returned to the home of the All Creator's Euilamon shortly
before dawn. At the door, she was met by a different page, who led her
to the same meeting room. As she entered, Jarett broke off his
conversation with the other two Euilamon in the room to address her.
"Euilamon, have your scribes found anything in the archives of the
temple of Araminia which might give us guidance?"
     Courtney echoed the words Brother Pewdar had spoken to her less
than a springtime night bell earlier. "What records we have do not
depict such an event in history's memory, and are insufficient to
explain this visitation."
     Jarett nodded thoughtfully as Courtney took her same place at the
council table and waited for the others to arrive. She took the
opportunity to observe the room more thoroughly, beginning with the
stained glass windows which flanked the clear center bay window like a
triptych. The left pane contained scenes depicting the All Creator's
fashioning of the heavens, the oceans, and the land, and Da'athra'a and
Randiriel's command of the armies. The right pane depicted Thyerin's
stewardship, and the liaison between Sevelin and Courtney's patron,
Araminia.
     The other three sides of the room were bordered by shelves full of
books and ledgers. At higher levels, the shelves contained various
religious artifacts. Just as each of the other gods had their own
domains, the All Creator was the patron of creation, and the shelves
contained artifacts which reflected this: richly decorated pottery and
ceramics, illuminations, calligraphy, paintings, and small sculptures,
as well as the tools for creating them.
     As each Euilamon from the different temples arrived, they were
asked the same question in turn: whether their efforts had uncovered any
record of a similar visitation. And all had responded similarly. Even
Quan, whose patron was the god of scribes, shuffled his feet as he
reported.
     "Your grace, my scribes have found descriptions of stars that
streak across the sky in moments, and the so-called curtain lights that
can often be seen in the north, both of which offer mixed portents. But
nowhere have we found any mention of anything like this tailed light
that hovers in the sky and moves like the moon. Nor have I discovered
any other knowledge about what this might be, nor what it might mean."
     When the assembly was complete, Jarett addressed the leaders of his
religion in Dargon.
     "You have heard one another's reports. For my own temple, our
research has yielded nothing to share with you." The room fell silent.
Courtney felt the gravity of their situation weighing on her; Lord
Clifton and all of Dargon looked to them for spiritual insight and
practical guidance, and this was a true mystery that even they, the very
representatives of the gods in Dargon, could not explain.
     Apparently the Euilamon of Randiriel felt the same tension, for she
spoke up with emotion in her voice. "But surely we can tell the people
that we have had converse with our gods, and that they have reassured us
that the wandering star is no herald of catastrophe?"
     Jarett smiled as he turned to Tasia. "Perhaps, but I have something
more to share with you. As I indicated last night, after setting my
scribes to search the archives of my temple, I spent the remainder of
the night in prayer. Even as I prayed, one of my acolytes was also in
private prayer, and claims to have been visited by a vision. He came to
me a short while ago; his name is Coryndon," he motioned to the entry.
"He speaks with modesty, but I am convinced of the veracity of his
tale."
     At that, the doorway admitted a sight. The young man was blond and
fair, but no more so than any other lad might be, Courtney thought. He
wore a sodden monk's robe and his eyes wore the heavy signs of having
been awake all night. His feet were bare and both they and the hem of
his robe were dirty with juniper and spruce needles.
     The boy's anxiousness and humility were obvious as he made several
short, nervous bows to each of the Euilamon, while Jarett beckoned him
to the front of the room. There, before the fabulous glass window, at
the prompting of the Euilamon of the All Creator who stood at his
shoulder, Coryndon began his tale.
     "If it please your graces, I have tended the Sailors' Shrine two
years come Melrin, and sometimes I sit by the ocean there and pray. Last
night, after I saw the gods' work in the sky, I went there and prayed
for guidance. I mean no blasphemy by it, your graces, but in the
darkness, the surf spoke to me in a voice like the ocean itself."
     Courtney looked about the room to see the other Euilamon listening
intently to the boy's story. In the boy, Courtney could clearly see
something: was it lunacy, or rapture? Surely one wouldn't return the
same after a visitation by the All Creator.
     The boy had stopped, staring silently at the ground. Jarett, at the
boy's side, had to prompt him to continue. "What did the voice say,
Coryndon?"
     Still looking at the floor, "Forgive me what I say, your grace, but
the voice said that the gods, even the All Creator, sometimes live and
die like us, or wax and wane like the moon, and that the only thing that
goes on without interruption is the world itself."
     Jarett nodded and reassured the boy. "That's true, acolyte. While
the Stevenics claim their prophet Cephas lives forever, we are taught
that the gods of the All Creator come and go, or change their
manifestations from time to time. What you speak is no blasphemy.
Sometimes it may seem to us that a new god has been born, yet after
consecrating a new temple we discover that such a god was worshipped in
aeons past. It may seem to us that a god may abandon us, and his temple
be orphaned, only for him to reappear decades or centuries later. For
what are our lives but the briefest moments to the gods, who oversee
eternity?"
     Courtney was convinced that the boy believed what he was
recounting, but she was eager for a more complete answer. She leaned
forward and tried to gently prompt the young man to continue. "And what
did the voice say about the star in the sky, Coryndon?"
     At this, the boy looked at Courtney, who despite all her years of
compassion and empathy could not have put a name to what his expression
held. "It said that the star was the birth of a new god. A god of
contests and gambling, and brother to your grace's patron, Araminia."
     Under that gaze, Courtney felt a lump growing in her throat. She
coughed before responding, "Araminia has always been loved as the
goddess of healing, for there is such desperate need for those arts. But
few now remember that Araminia is also the goddess of good fortune and
luck. If this new god takes contests as his domain, then I, as
Araminia's representative, will welcome him."
     Jarett smiled and nodded before asking the boy to continue.
"Coryndon, did the voice tell you the name of this new god we shall
welcome to the world?"
     The boy looked down at the floor again. "It did. I was told he is
to be named 'Adanico'."
     Jarett patted the boy on the back. "Well, it would seem we have a
new temple to consecrate, and news to share! And," making sure he had
the boy's attention, "a new Euilamon to induct!"
     At this, the boy's expression took on the flush of surprise and
panic. "Surely you don't mean me, your grace!"
     Jarett beamed like a father. "Ah. Just so, your grace."

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

                              Talisman One
                                 Part 4
                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                        <John.White@Drexel.Edu>
                            Spring, 2347 ID

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 12-7

     Kendra rose from the table along with everyone else, as the
servants started to clear the plates and serving platters away. The
dinner had been full of memories for her. She recalled when she had sat
at the high table with the duke, presiding over dinners and
entertainments, parties and ceremonies. The celebrations among the
Siizhayip were seldom as elegant as a formal dinner in Plethiss, but
those formal dinners were seldom as wildly exuberant as even the
smallest Siizhayip gathering.
     The tables were cleared away, except for the one holding the
desserts, everything from syllabub to delicate pastries, from cakes to
marzipan molded in fanciful shapes. The musicians in the gallery on the
second floor, overlooking the hall, began to play dance tunes, and a
section of the hall cleared as couples and sets gathered. And, when the
music came around to the beginning, the dancing started.
     Kendra watched the revelry from a spot by the wall. She noticed
Nikorah leave the hall, and she saw her son Bralidan leave a while
later. She watched the dancers, she watched the musicians, she watched
the nobles talking to each other in constantly shifting groups. But most
of all, she continued to delay making her decision.
     Eventually, Duke Bralevant would reappear, and the delegation from
the Siizhayip would be summoned to the formal audience chamber again.
And once he made his decision known -- once he denied the petition to
grant access to the Rihelbak Plains to the Siizhayip -- then she would
be too late. The mission she had been set by the Elder Speakers to
ensure, by whatever means required, that the Treaty of Rihelbak was
canceled, would be over. Unless she acted first.
     Finally, Kendra left the room. Too much noise, too much revelry --
whatever the reason, she couldn't think in there. Her feet instinctively
traced a path to a location that was almost guaranteed to be isolated,
and she found herself atop the outer wall of the mansion's defenses,
looking out across a landscape brightly lit by the light of both moons
to the village which rested at the foot of the hill that Plethiss stood
on.
     She pulled a small phial out of her belt pouch and stared at it. It
had been secreted inside a puzzle box that morning, awaiting her
assessment of the need for its use. Duke Bralevant had to die, and she
had to kill him. And she still didn't know if she could do it.
     If it had meant only killing a man, she would have had no qualms,
even if that man was someone she had loved once. Even if that man was
the father of her only child. Death was a natural part of life on the
steppes. The herds had to be thinned for the good of all life on the
steppes. Sometimes, even the grasses had to die, had to be burned, in
order for new life to continue.
     But killing Duke Bralevant wasn't a sure solution. The Elder
Speakers believed that the duke's successor would grant access to the
Rihelbak Plains. But that successor was her son, Bralidan. Who was in
love with, and loved by, Nikorah. If Bralidan had to become duke, then
the love between Nikorah and him was doomed, just as the love between
her and Bralevant had been doomed. The Siizhayip couldn't live for long
within the stone walls that the Kuizhack, the People of the Stone,
seemed to require. Bralidan, as duke, would never be able to leave
Grahk, and Nikorah could never leave the steppes.
     Beyond that, of course, was the question of whether Bralidan would
really rescind the Treaty of Rihelbak. Being in love with a Siizhayip
didn't necessarily mean understanding the Siizhayip. And even though he
had Siizhayip blood in him, Bralidan had been raised to be his father's
heir.
     There was the essence of her dilemma. Was killing Bralevant really
the only means of gaining the extra territory that the Siizhayip needed
to sustain their growing numbers? Would the duke's death actually grant
them the Rihelbak Plains?
     Kendra held the phial of poison in her clasped hands and raised her
eyes to the sky. She called out into the darkness, "Oh Great
Anhilizharnoh, speak to me. Give me guidance, grant me wisdom. Tell me,
am I doing your will?"
     She waited, her heart and mind open, knowing she wasn't a shaman,
knowing she wasn't a Speaker either. Two heartbeats of silence passed,
and then the sky changed.
     Something was different. She looked around, and saw that Wykuza's
Attendant, the smaller of the two moons, was on fire.
     The Siizhayip believed that Wykuza was one of the Sky Lords, the
Anhilizharnoh. She was embodied by the larger moon. Her Attendant, the
smaller moon, was a lesser Sky Lord, a servant to the rest. When the
long spear of flame shot from one side of the Attendant, the Siizhayip
believed that the servant was entertaining its master.
     But in this case, it meant something more, at least to Kendra it
did. Even though she wasn't a shaman or a Speaker, she knew that
Wykuza's Attendant was telling her that she was doing the right thing.
She couldn't have asked for a clearer sign.
     She bowed her head over her still-clasped hands, and said a prayer
of thanks to the Anhilizharnoh. Then she turned away from the spectacle
in the sky and set herself to completing her mission.
     Kendra's first destination was the great hall. When she reentered
it, she was surprised to find it almost totally quiet. No music, no
dancing, no chattering nobles. Everyone was clustered around two people
in the center of the room.
     She moved closer, and saw that those people were her son, Bralidan,
and his brother Biralvid. The room was quiet enough that she could hear
what was being said.
     Biralvid said, "What?" His face, that looked so much like
Bralevant's, wore a look of utter disbelief.
     Bralidan said, slowly and clearly, "I want to abdicate my position
as heir to you."
     Biralvid shook his head. "You can't be serious. Why would you want
to do something stupid like that?"
     Bralidan just smiled. He said, "Because I have finally admitted
what I have known all along: I don't want to be duke. I might make a
passable ruler of Grahk, with hordes of counselors and advisers
surrounding me and essentially making my decisions for me. But you,
brother, you have the makings of an excellent duke. We took the same
classes, learned the same things. But beyond that learning, there is an
instinct in you that is not in me. I want to correct the accident of the
order of our birth. That's all."
     Biralvid looked around at the assembled nobles and visitors,
somewhat nervously. Kendra thought she saw a change come over him as he
stood there and surveyed his listeners. He straightened up, and the
general air of party attendee he displayed evaporated into a more
serious expression, one of studiousness and concentration.
     He said, "Bralidan, you can't just do this on a whim. There have to
be reasons. Good reasons --"
     "Yes, I know. And aside from the very good reason, to me at least,
of my incompetence for the position, there is also the reason that I am
leaving Grahk to go live on the steppes with my intended mate, Nikorah."
Bralidan glanced over his shoulder at the blond Siizhayip and smiled.
     Biralvid shook his head. "Those aren't acceptable reasons, brother.
As happy as I am for you and our pretty visitor, these are still whims.
The law doesn't allow for whims, and you know it."
     "You are beginning to sound like father," Bralidan said, a hint of
disdain in his voice. "Tradition reserves this law for only the most
serious of circumstances, like a crippling accident, or a mortal wound
on the battlefield. However, if you recall the letter of the law, no
such stipulations exist. The means for transfer are set down, but no
restrictions on the reason. I suppose that our ancestors felt no one
would simply wish to give up their position voluntarily."
     Biralvid was silent for a moment, and then a smile spread across
his face. "You are correct, brother. So much of our heritage is
tradition, based on how it was always done, that I let those traditions
color my memory of that law. It seems that the only way I could get you
to remain heir would be by refusing to participate in the ceremony."
Biralvid paused, then continued with a laugh, "Which I won't do. I
accept your reasoning, and will accept your role. Begin the ceremony. We
have plenty of witnesses."
     Kendra watched the ceremony of transfer begin with elation. She had
trusted to the Anhilizharnoh, and they had been right. Her son, who had
found love with Nikorah, would not be trapped by her actions. And
Bralidan felt his younger brother would make a good duke. She only hoped
that Biralvid would be the kind of duke who was sympathetic to the
Siizhayip's problems. But that was for the future that she was on her
way to create.
     Kendra quietly walked over to the dessert table and grabbed a
bottle of wine and two stone cups. She left the great hall and started
walking toward the ducal quarters. Halfway there, she stopped for a
moment in order to empty the phial into the wine. She continued on her
way, taking another moment to drop the empty phial down a garderobe.
Finally, she arrived at her destination and knocked on the door.
     Osirek opened it as usual. He said, "Oh, ah ... greetings, Lady
Kendra. I don't believe the duke was expecting you. He is just about
ready to return to the great hall for the formal announcement ..."
     "Yes, yes, I know," she said, pushing her way into the antechamber.
It was normally Osirek's job to keep unwanted people out of that
antechamber, so Kendra could only assume that either he was still more
used to her being a resident, as she had been twenty-five years ago,
than a visitor, or she was not an unwanted guest. She continued, "I have
some business with the duke that has a bearing on the announcement. Why
don't you go on down to the party? I'm sure that any last moment
preparations Bralevant requires won't be beyond my skills."
     Osirek protested, but it didn't take much to persuade him to take
his leave. Once the personal aide had left, Kendra took a deep breath
and walked through the reception room and once again into the duke's
quarters.
     Duke Bralevant stood in front of a silver-backed mirror that stood
on the floor in an ornately carved wooden frame. He was carefully
inspecting his clothing and how it fit. Kendra said, just slightly
dryly, "Your tailor continues to outdo himself, Alev. Your new clothes
look quite nice."
     Bralevant turned and smiled, still posing as if for the mirror. He
said, "Ah, welcome, Kendra. You've left your decision quite late,
haven't you? I must admit that I had almost given up on you. What made
you change your mind?"
     Kendra wasn't surprised that the duke assumed she was here to give
in to his demands. What other reason could he expect her to have for
visiting him in his quarters like this? She played on his expectations,
and said, "You left me no choice, did you? I waited until after dinner,
just in case, but finally I had to surrender to the inevitable."
     Bralevant walked over to her, smiling in a smug way. He took the
wine bottle and cups out of her hands and said, "I suppose that your
status as my soon-to-be mate excuses the rudeness of your lack of
enthusiasm. At least you brought something to celebrate with. Shall we
drink a toast to our joining before I go downstairs to cancel my planned
announcement?"
     Kendra forced a smile, and said, "Of course, Alev. But why cancel
your announcement? I thought that if I agreed to your terms, you would
cancel the treaty."
     Bralevant had taken the bottle over to a small table set beneath
one of the windows in the bedroom. He opened and poured the tainted
wine, then carried the cups back to where Kendra was standing before
replying. "Of course I will cancel the treaty now ... but not before we
are joined. It will have to be a temporary joining at first, of course.
We can't hold the proper krovelathan ceremony until the summer solstice,
and that's still a month away. Once your capitulation is official, I
will honor my side of the bargain. But not before.
     "So, drink up! Drink to tomorrow, when your delegation will get
what it came for. Drink to tonight, when I get what I want. Drink to the
future, and may our future together fare better than our past together."
     Bralevant grinned a self-satisfied grin and drained his cup in one
gulp. Kendra could see the triumph in his eyes. She knew that he thought
he had completely fooled her. He had always underestimated her. Like
when he had been carrying on with Omelli, thinking that he could keep it
from her. Kendra might have been raised in a way that he considered
barbarian, but she was no fool and she had come to know him very well.
     She pretended to drink to his toasts, but didn't let even a drop
pass her lips. The poison was powerful, and she wanted to be there when
her son and Nikorah were paired. Bralevant walked back to the table and
poured another cup of wine, and downed it in three long swallows.
     He said over his shoulder, while pouring a third cup of wine, "I
should get downstairs now, Kendra. They're holding back the best of the
evening's entertainment until I've made my speech. Why don't you make
yourself comfortable on the bed and ... uhn!" Bralevant grimaced in
pain, and staggered slightly against the table.
     Continuing to play her part, Kendra said, with as much false
concern as she could muster, "Are you all right, Alev?"
     The duke set the bottle and cup back on the table and turned
around, a look of confusion on his face. He said, "I ... uh, I don't ...
ah!" Another grimace was followed by him doubling over, clutching at his
stomach. He knocked into the table in the process, and the wine bottle
teetered, and then fell over. Wine spilled out as the bottle rolled to
the edge of the table, and fell to the floor with a crash of shattered
glass.
     Bralevant's confusion was short lived. Kendra saw his head lift,
pain still in his eyes as they stared into hers. "You!" he hissed
between clenched teeth. "Poison! How could you?!"
     "It's only one life, Alev," she said calmly. She didn't actually
feel as calm as she sounded, though. Death she could accept, but this
was almost like torture. But she wasn't doing this for revenge, or for
any personal reasons. She was acting for the Elder Speakers, and she
wanted to carry herself in a suitable manner.
     Bralidan straightened up and started toward her. His feet splashed
through the spilled wine, and Kendra stared at the puddle around his
feet with an odd fascination. She wasn't worried; judging from his
reaction at the table, the poison was even stronger than she had guessed
and he would surely succumb to it any moment.
     He was on her before she realized that he wasn't falling down. His
hands closed about her neck and began strangling her with startling
alacrity. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to be part
of the sacrifice. She had things to live for. Her son was getting
paired!
     Kendra looked into Bralidan's mismatched eyes, blue and brown,
staring with a murderous intent into her own eyes. She saw his struggle
with the pain of the poison, and his fight to stay alive long enough to
take her with him.
     She drew her knife and thrust it into his chest as her vision began
to narrow. She struggled to breathe, but the duke's hands were clutched
tight around her neck. She started to kick and scratch him when it was
obvious that the knife in his chest wasn't hampering his efforts to
strangle her, but nothing had any effect.
     Finally, the light went out in Bralevant's eyes, but it happened
too late. The duke was dead, but Kendra found that she was too weak to
pry his hands from her throat. She tried -- it wasn't in her to give up
-- but it was so hard to lift her arms. And then once her hands were
hooked over his wrists, she couldn't manage to pull. Too little, too
late.
     Her last thought was that she had been wrong: it hadn't been only
one life, it had taken two.

     Bralidan thought that Biralvid looked good sitting on the throne in
the main audience chamber, wearing the ducal coronet. Bralidan stood
just behind the rank of Siizhayip, who stood before the Duke of Grahk,
awaiting the resolution of their petition.
     Bralidan reflected that he had done the perfect thing in abdicating
his position as heir to his brother that night. The night his father,
and the mother he never knew he had, had killed each other.
     He remembered how Osirek had come running into the great hall,
crying "He's dead, he's dead!" Bralidan had known who Osirek meant even
before the personal aide had been calmed down enough to speak
rationally. Both Bralidan and his brother had raced to their father's
quarters to find two dead bodies: the duke and Kendra. For some reason,
Bralevant had strangled Kendra, and it looked as if her futile struggles
to free herself had resulted in the duke's death in turn.
     Bralidan had been grief-stricken at the death of his father.
Biralvid, despite his own grief, had taken up his duties as heir quickly
and competently. The investigation that followed was brief, but as
thorough as possible. The evidence was clear, even more so when Osirek
revealed that Kendra had once been the duke's wife and was the mother of
Bralidan. Their history, in addition to the tenseness of the situation
with the Siizhayip delegation, led to obvious conclusions about the
motives involved. Biralvid could have summoned a diviner to determine
the actual facts of the case, but he didn't see the need to send a rider
all the way to the next duchy and wait for their diviner to make the
return trip. No one objected when Biralvid closed the matter.
     The duke's funeral had been carried out in full Fretheod ceremony.
Bralevant had been interred with all of the other rulers of Grahk, in
the section of the catacombs beneath Plethiss that were still fulfilling
their original purpose instead of housing the archives. Bralidan had
said farewell to his father in proper Fretheod fashion and had felt
better afterwards.
     Kendra's funeral had been held outside the walls of Plethiss, in
proper Siizhayip fashion. Her wrapped body had been placed on a raised
platform, where it had lain for three days while mourners draped
embroidered or painted farewell cloths over the edges of the frame. Then
a fire was built under the platform, and Kendra's body and all of the
farewell cloths were burned amid invocations of and offerings to the Sky
Lords.
     The ceremony was unfamiliar to Bralidan, but moving anyway. He had
never known his real mother, and hadn't had much opportunity to get to
know Kendra, but the manner of Siizhayip mourning still managed to help
him deal with her loss.
     Biralvid had been confirmed as duke soon after the funerals. There
had been no opposition; everyone had seen the abdication ceremony at the
dinner. Two days had passed while the new duke sorted out the affairs of
Grahk: appointing a castellan, confirming counselors, affirming fealty
among the nobles. And just as soon as he was able to, Duke Biralvid made
an appointment with the Siizhayip delegation.
     Bralidan listened while Nikorah restated the petition of the
Siizhayip delegation. Her words were well-rehearsed, and had been
refined over the last week and more through practice and his help. But
the essence of them remained simple: return the Rihelbak Plains to the
Siizhayip.
     Duke Biralvid stood when Nikorah had finished, and stepped down
from the small dais the throne rested on. He strode toward the
delegation, and stopped in front of them. He placed one foot on the
white-banded orange rug, which had been explained to Bralidan, and
thence to his brother, as a symbol of petition. The foot placement was
the proper gesture in response to a petition.
     Biralvid said, "I wish to apologize to this delegation for the
actions of my father, both in keeping you all here much longer than
should have been necessary, and for taking the life of one of your
number.
     "My apology, though, has no bearing on my decision on your request.
If I thought that granting your petition was not in the best interest of
the duchy, all of the regrets in the world would not suffice to sway my
response.
     "However, this is not the case. The Rihelbak Plains add nothing
except territory to Grahk, and it is territory that we do not need. So,
I hereby revoke and renounce the Treaty of Rihelbak."
     An aide walked up to Biralvid then, carrying a scroll box carved
with the seal of Grahk. The duke opened the box and removed the scroll
within. As the aide walked away again, Biralvid slipped the metal seal
off of the scroll and unrolled it. He displayed it to the delegation,
and to the assembled nobles behind them: it was the genuine treaty.
     Biralvid then tore the parchment in half. Another aide came up to
him on the other side, carrying a smoldering brazier. The duke dropped
the halves of the scroll into the brazier, where it caught fire and was
reduced to ashes.
     That aide left as well, and the duke said, "The Rihelbak Plains are
once again free to the Siizhayip. Your petition is granted."
     Bralidan joined in the cheering that began. Nikorah turned around
and leapt into his arms, and her kiss silenced him. They were soon
separated by people offering congratulations on the delegation's
victory, and Bralidan began to contemplate what his life was going to be
like out on the Great Steppes with this wonderful woman. He didn't know,
but he couldn't wait to find out.

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

                              Beck's Next
                              by Tim Guba
                          <timmyg@bblink.net>
                               Yuli 1016

     His enthusiastic grin progressively widened as the clink of each
coin reached his ears. Slowly stroking his gray, stubby beard as the
last few coins dropped into the pouch, he eyed the buyer with
contentment. Finally, when the last coin settled into place, he drew the
cords on the pouch tight and tied them into a secure knot. With one hand
clutching the worn leather pouch, he reached the other into his vest
pocket and withdrew the title of ownership to the _Dame Sarina_.
Although he was pleased to finalize the sale of his ship, he was just as
sad to be losing it. A look of absolute capitulation appeared across his
face, then -- just as quickly -- it was gone.
     "Lad, 'twas good doing business with you," the old sea captain said
trying to smile as he handed the buyer the title of ownership. "Take
care of the old girl and she'll always bring you back to port safely."
The buyer, with his newly acquired captain's medallion hanging from the
leather strap around his neck, took hold of the document and, quickly
looking it over, beamed with the pride of a new father.
     "Yes, of course Captain Sephlin. Thank you sir," the buyer said as
he offered his hand to formalize the closing of the deal. "I'll make
sure the _Dame Sarina_ continues its rich history and good service to
all the ports she frequents." The old captain's smile gradually faded as
he slowly accepted the other man's hand.
     "Aye. You do that, lad. You do that." Turning sharply toward the
rear of the ship, Captain Sephlin strode assuredly across the wooden
deck of the _Dame Sarina_, recalling his first day aboard. It had been a
sunny day, much like today. The wind had been gently invading the land
from the sea. The sails had a soft luster that reflected the sunlight as
they hung with dignity from their masts and the expertly strung rigging
had looked strong and tight. He also recalled the briny smell of the sea
and the groaning creak of the ship. All of these sensations, combined
with the gentle swaying of the ship, suddenly caused Beck Sephlin to
want to turn back and reclaim his beloved ship. But he knew that this
was the final decision. He had thought long and hard about it for many
months. After all, he was getting on in years and felt that he wasn't
able to carry out the position of captain to *his* satisfaction. He was
beginning to second-guess his decisions, thought his judgements were
less than mediocre, and considered his reactions to be much too slow.
     Pausing by the starboard rail, Captain Sephlin turned to look once
more at the familiar world he was leaving. The warm sea breeze swirled
around him, taunting him with its uncaring caress. Across the horizon,
dark storm clouds had begun to collect, threatening to swallow up the
skies. He descended the rope ladder to the dory that was awaiting him.
As the oar man slowly pushed the small boat away from the _Dame Sarina_
and began rowing toward the docks, Beck looked for the last time upon
the heavy freighter.
     The anchored ship looked weathered, but still seaworthy, in the hot
midday summer sun. The hull had turned from a rich brown to a
silvery-gray, and the sails had begun to display tattered edges, but
only slightly. As the distance grew between the small boat and the _Dame
Sarina_, Beck could feel his heartache grow with increasing melancholy
and he gripped the coin-filled leather pouch even tighter for
reassurance. He would certainly miss the old ship, love of his life, and
the only valuable possession that he had ever owned.
     "What is to become of me?" he said quietly to himself, shaking his
head. The very same question he had been asking himself ever since the
notion of ending his career crossed his mind. To sail the seas was all
Beck had ever wanted. He had spent nearly his entire life on the water,
hauling cargo from port to port on board the _Dame Sarina_ and had
savored every moment. Now all he had were the treasures of those
memories.
     All too soon the small boat bumped into the dock, jarring Beck back
into reality. Fastening the pouch to his braided leather belt, he turned
and pulled himself up the steep ladder. Once reaching the top of the
dock, he slowly made his way down its length, looking out at other
anchored shipping vessels. Most of the ships he recognized as long-time
competitors. There was one cargo ship that he had not seen before.
Slowing his pace further, he began admiring the beautiful lines of the
newcomer to Dargon harbor. The rugged canvas sails were being rolled and
stowed until the next time she would set out to sea. The rigging was
being secured and the decks were being cleared. There were no markings
on the ship, so it must have been a newly built vessel, awaiting its
captain and crew. With a deep, slow sigh, he continued onward down the
dock and stepped onto the wide expanse that was Commercial Street.
     Across the broad open area stood taverns, brothels, and merchants
of every variety placed between the huge dry storage warehouses where
the cargoes from all the ships were kept. The area was teeming with
activity. Mobs of dock workers bustled back and forth loading and
unloading cargo from the ships. Most of the innumerable cargo was being
loaded onto wide, flat ox-drawn carts to be moved into the warehouses
while other carts were being loaded for transport to local businesses.
Still other carts were delivering freight to the docks for export. And
all over the area, laborers swarmed like flies, packing and unpacking
the carts. Then there were the street vendors in their ramshackle
booths, selling everything from common spices to rare textiles to mystic
artifacts. Virtually anything could be had on Commercial Street, for the
right price. People from every walk of life could be found here, from
innocent children and curious clergymen to seedy low-brows and
indifferent harlots. Beck had always considered the activity on
Commercial Street to be pandemonium at best, but there was a certain
unidentifiable rhythm to it that touched his soul.
     Just a stone's throw from there was the Harbormaster's Building.
Beck seriously considered for a moment not going in to see the
harbormaster, but figured that his last honored duty as a well-respected
captain should be done with dignity and pride. Beck Sephlin stepped
boldly into the throng and deftly wove his way through the masses to the
other side of the wide avenue.
     He found himself standing in front of an older building that was
well maintained and had an air of dignity about it. A brass bell hung
over a ship's wheel that was mounted on the wall. Under the wheel was a
polished brass plate on which was inscribed, "Harbormaster -- Port of
Dargon." Beck reluctantly ascended the stairs and placed his hand on the
door handle to the Harbormaster's Building and gave it a shove. The door
seemed to weigh as much as an anchor, although it never had before.
Stepping through the doorway, he paused to admire the varnished wooden
floor in the hallway. It was obvious that great pride was taken to keep
this building in top condition. Beck continued down the hall until he
came to the entrance of the harbormaster's office. Opening the door, his
senses immediately became aware of the aroma of pipe tobacco. Across the
room was Jocco Kehlar, the Port of Dargon's harbormaster. Jocco lifted
his gaze from the logbook he was writing in and slowly straightened.
     "Good day to you, Beck," the harbormaster said, his pipe still
clenched between his teeth.
     "Kehlar," he replied with a nod of his head. The old captain
crossed the room and dug into his pocket. Taking out a small disk, he
gently placed it onto the counter. "I'm officially turning in my
captain's medallion, as required by Baranur maritime code. I don't
suppose I'll be needing it anymore."
     "Aye, you old sea shark. And you'll be missed along the trade
routes," Jocco returned, removing the pipe from his mouth, a ring of
smoke undulating above his head.
     "I hardly think so," Beck said with a chuckle. "Those rat-packing
sea pigeons couldn't wait to gobble up my accounts. Why, they
practically trampled over themselves scrambling to get to those pitiful
floating tubs of theirs when word of my withdrawal from service went
out."
     "Well, I will surely miss you," Jocco stated as he offered his
hand. Beck clenched his jaw and squinted at him.
     "Aye, lad. And I'll be turning to dust in the near future I would
assume," he groaned as he took the harbormaster's hand in friendship --
and farewell.
     "Beck, surely it's not all that bad," Jocco retorted, taking a draw
on his pipe. Beck just stared back at him, silently whispering to
himself that it wasn't Jocco that was ending his career.
     "Nevertheless, time has already taken its toll on my weary hide."
The old captain looked down at the shiny brass medallion and then back
up at Jocco. With a sigh of resignation, Beck spun around and walked
briskly across the harbormaster's office, turning back to Jocco at the
doorway.
     "Take care, my friend. One day, you'll be in these boots," he said.
With a wink and a nod, Beck Sephlin departed.
     When he emerged onto the street, Beck stopped abruptly. With a
shrug, he let out a deep sigh of disheartenment.
     "For Cirrangill's sake, I'm a damnable landlubber," he grumbled to
himself. "I don't have anyplace to go. I don't own any land, not even a
house. All I ever really had was the _Dame Sarina_. And now, she's gone
forever." Then he simply grunted to himself and shook his head,
realizing just how silly he was being. Beck looked out over the harbor
and noticed the approaching storm. In the distance, jagged ribbons of
lightning pierced the brooding sky. He took a deep breath and lifted his
head. "Bah," was all he said before marching off down the street.
     At the end of Commercial Street, Beck turned the corner and found
himself in front of Sandmond's, recalling the many nights spent there
spinning tales, downing beers, and groping after the wenches. Sandmond's
was one of the few remnants of his old life that he still had left. His
ship had been his home, and that was now gone. A shiver of melancholy
coursed through him as he began to wonder how his old shipmates were
faring and where they were. He wondered if their paths would ever cross
again. His captain's medallion had confirmed his standing in the world,
and that was now gone too.
     At once he became aware that he was beginning to feel quite empty
inside. He reasoned to himself that since he was standing in front of
his favorite tavern he might as well stop in for a platter of food and a
tankard of ale to lift his frame of mind. Beck headed for the entrance,
smiling at the familiar sign over the door that carried the simple
symbol everyone knew was Sandmond's. He ambled past the massive wooden
doors that were open to let the stale air out and the fresh air in. As
he entered the dimly lit common room, Beck scanned for his favorite spot
in the corner and found that it was empty. He took occupancy of the
heavy bench behind the thick wood slab table and settled down with a
groaning sigh. As the barmaid approached, he pulled out a rag from his
vest pocket and daubed at the trickle of sweat that dribbled down his
wrinkled forehead.
     "Care for a bite to eat, sailor?" she asked, smiling sweetly. Beck
looked up at her with a blank expression on his face and slowly nodded.
     "Tonight we have spiced beef and steamed vegetables."
     "That agrees with me, lass," he finally responded, stuffing the rag
back into his vest pocket.
     "Spiced beef and steamed vegetables it is, then," she repeated.
"Care for a drink with that, love?" Beck thought for a moment.
     "A tankard of ale would be fine," he answered.
     "My pleasure. I'll be back in a mene," she answered. The woman was
not particularly attractive, Beck thought, but he had seen worse. He
studied her as she walked away, her long dark hair flowing behind her,
seemingly in rhythm with her long, frayed skirt. He thought that he had
known her in the years that had passed, but dismissed the idea with a
snort and a grin.
     He examined the room, looking for someone recognizable, but it was
mostly empty. There were only a couple of patrons finishing a meal and
two men drinking ale at the bar. He reminded himself of the crowds that
packed into this place during the spring festival. The room would be
filled with the smells of smoke and stale ale as the echoes of laughter
and revelry reverberated from the rafters. The woman who had taken his
order returned with a mug of ale and set it down in front of him.
     "I'll be back with your meal, dear," she said with a wink and
headed back to the kitchen. Beck eyed the mug and lifted it to his
parched lips, taking a long, satisfying draught. Setting it back onto
the table, half emptied, he began to reminisce about the days spent in
various ports with his shipmates, drinking and singing and laughing and
generally carrying on.
     He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to visualize the endearing
moments in his life that were now only memories. When he opened his
eyes, the slight smile that had crept to his lips began to fade slowly
away. He looked around, recognizing nary a soul and watched as two of
the patrons exited the tavern. The bartender quietly hummed a tuneless
song as he busied himself moving an empty barrel of ale from its stand.
Outside, a crack of thunder had boomed and rolled overhead. Beck sighed
deeply, floundering in self-pity with a modicum of distress.
     "What is to become of me?" he thought to himself. Beck began to
think of the perpetual creaking of the ship and the slapping of the
water against the hull, almost burned into his ears after so many years
at sea. He had dreaded the day that he would end his career, although he
knew that one day, it would come. Now, here it was, right on top of him.
Of all his shipmates that had signed on to other carriers, only a few
had chosen to remain with the _Dame Sarina_. His friends had since moved
on, or were killed in the war.
     The rest of his family had passed on years ago. He still
recollected the fight he'd had with his parents when he was only
sixteen. His father, Kettering Sephlin, had wanted Beck to follow in his
footsteps, as most fathers do. Kettering had been one of the region's
most respected farmers, although owning only a small wheat field in
Dargon. Sarina, Beck's mother, had wanted whatever her husband wanted,
and so had been no help to Beck's cause. But as the years progressed,
time eventually had healed the wounds opened by that fight and all had
been forgiven.
     From then on, Beck would always visit the family homestead whenever
he was in port and for many years his family would sit together around
the table and talk about the comings and goings-on in Dargon between the
months that he was at sea. In turn, Beck would recount his adventures
from port to port, always adding in a bit of embellishment for good
measure.
     Just then the kitchen door banged open and the waitress appeared,
carrying a tray in his direction. Beck sat up straight and sniffed back
his darkening mood.
     "Here ya go, love. Spiced beef and steamed vegetables. How're you
doing on that ale?" She lifted her brows in anticipation of an answer,
but none ever came. Beck looked at her and tried to say something, but
found that he couldn't utter a sound. He simply nodded at the mug,
trying to indicate that he wanted another. She cocked her head and
feigned a charming smile as she grabbed the mug and began to walk away.
All Beck could do was watch her as she walked back to the bar.
     "What is it about her that ties my tongue so?" Beck thought to
himself. He had never found himself at a loss for words before. He
stared at her behind the bar, refilling his mug. He pondered for a long
while about whom she reminded him of. He first thought of a woman he met
in a small seaport in eastern Baranur. Then he had the notion that she
reminded him of a woman who stole his heart at the Melrin festival once.
     "Perhaps she reminds me of my mother?" he thought to himself. "No.
Ma had blonde hair. Ma was a hand taller too. Ma would have told me to
get off my sorry rump and fetch the ale myself," he answered himself
with a snort and dismissed the thought.
     The bartender reached over and slapped the wench on the behind with
a bawdy laugh. She gave a yelp and slapped at him playfully before
grabbing the mug and heading back to Beck. She set the mug down and
before taking her leave said, "Let me know if you need anything else,
love."

     He finished his meal in silence and drained the mug of its
contents. With a meal in his belly, he felt a mite better, but his mind
began collecting dark and dismal thoughts.
     The rain had begun to fall outside, pelting the old tavern with its
cold wetness. The bartender lumbered over to the doors and pulled them
closed to keep the rain out. Setting the empty mug down, he stared into
it, recalling his years as a youth. Ever since he could remember Beck
had loved the sea. The relaxing sound of waves crashing onto the beaches
and the mesmerizing sparkles of sunlight that were sprinkled across the
water. Even the smell of the ocean was heaven to Beck. He recalled the
ships with their fluffy white sails that had billowed in the wind that
drove the ships across the waters. Those were the glorious sailing
vessels that had traveled to all corners of the world -- carrying exotic
merchandise from port to port.
     He recalled when his Uncle Richard used to visit the family. The
stories he had told of sailing and ship's camaraderie had held Beck's
attention like a clamp. Beck had been totally spellbound and realized
that sailing was his destiny.
     At every chance, Beck had spent as much time on the docks in Dargon
as he could, watching the ships dock and unload. He'd learned all the
shipping lanes and travel routes of the waterways around Cherisk. He had
even gotten Joor, his older brother, interested for a while.
     His younger brother, Corin, had steadfastly taken root as a farmer
and never strayed from that path. Beck's mother had been killed when she
was repeatedly raped by a band of brigands when Kettering was away
fighting in the war, where he was killed. Joor had been long since gone
when died suddenly.
     Beck paused for a moment, ruminating about Corin's funeral. He had
been standing in the rain, wishing Corin could come back -- now he
wished they could all come back. He didn't want to be alone. Almost
everyone he had ever known was gone. Beck was the sole survivor, a
wealthy and successful ship's captain, to be sure, but nevertheless --
alone. All he'd had was his only love, his only mate, the heavy
freighter _Dame Sarina_.
     "Perhaps I'll feel better after another wee bit of ale," he mumbled
to no one in particular. He looked around and found the place was empty
now, except for the bartender; not even the barmaid was to be found. The
bartender -- a burly bear of a man -- was busy wrestling a full barrel
of ale into place and humming quietly to himself. Beck pushed himself
from the table and stood slowly.
     He was just about to walk to the bar to acquire another tankard of
ale when the front door creaked open. A tall man stood in the doorway,
dripping from the rain. He was wearing sailor's rain gear with the hood
drawn up, causing a shadow to fill in his face.
     "And how was your meal, sir? I hope everything was to your liking,"
the big man behind the bar said in a deep, booming voice. Beck, turning
his attention to the bartender, advanced closer toward the bar.
     "Aye, it was an agreeable meal, lad. Quite agreeable indeed." He
glanced at the stranger again. "However, I'll be needing another tankard
of that ale. Perchance you have a trifle more in that barrel?" The
bartender coaxed the barrel into its final position and smiled broadly.
     "Methinks there be enough to brim over another for you," the
bartender thundered, proceeding to tap the barrel. The stranger crept
closer to the bar. Beck cocked his head and eyed the man cautiously.
Where there had once been a leg now protruded a stump of wood tapering
down from his knee to the floor.
     The stranger took another step closer to the bar, the wooden leg
making a dull scraping sound on the floor.
     "Don't you take anything from this pile of seagull droppings for
payment, good sir," the stranger spoke to the bartender. "I'll take
accountability for this sorry excuse for a wharf rat's expenses."
     Beck stiffened and glared at the man, his hand reactively clenching
to a fist.
     "Who is this person hurling insults at me," Beck thought to
himself. The stranger reached up to his face and carefully pulled the
hood down from his head. His hair was cut short and was mostly gray,
except for a sparse peppering of black. He was sporting a long, ugly
scar that ran up his cheek and under an eye patch to his forehead. The
scar on the newcomer's face gave him a particularly menacing look. The
other eye was open only partially, making the man appear to squint
ominously.
     Beck suddenly burst with laughter and quickly stepped up to the
stranger.
     "Hatchet, you old jack tar. What in Cirrangill's name are you doing
here?" The man with the scar moved up to the bar, holding out two
fingers to the bartender indicating an order of two ales while tossing
two coins onto the counter. The kitchen door swung open and a barmaid
appeared, carrying a full tray of mugs.
     "Cap'n Beck Sephlin, in the flesh no less," Hatch said. "I just
bought passage from down the coast. Heard of your withdrawal from
service and had to come to Dargon to see it with me very own eye, else I
would never have believed it."
     "If only the trade winds blew with the ferocity of prattle and jaw
gas such as that," Beck replied shaking his head. The bartender placed
the two mugs onto the bar as the barmaid grabbed a rag and made her way
to the common room to wipe down the tables. Beck snatched the two mugs
and led Hatch to his table.
     "Hatchet," Beck said as he took his seat at the table, "The last
time I saw you was Melrin, two years ago."
     "Aye, I was chasing a fair lass into my arms as I recall," Hatch
said with a smirk.
     "Sounds like the same old Hatchet," Beck returned, shaking his head
with a wry smile. Trevor Hatch was several years Beck's junior and also
the best first mate the _Dame Sarina_ ever had, according to Beck
Sephlin.
     "Hatchet", as Beck affectionately called him, had obtained his scar
and lost his right leg in the same accident onboard the _Dame Sarina_
six years prior.
     During a sudden storm that swept in from the north, Trevor had been
securing one of the mainsail riggings amidship. The waves had reared
angrily out of the sea and slammed into the hapless ship. The winds had
roared with rage and the driving rain had stung as it swept across the
deck. Beck had a death-grip on the rudder wheel as he had tried to guide
the craft into less seething waters. Trevor had been making one last
sweep of the deck to make sure everyone had been accounted for, when a
bolt of lightning struck the main mast of the _Dame Sarina_, severing it
in half. Beck remembered looking up to see the heavy, splintered timber
falling upon him. Trevor had rushed over, diving at the last moment, and
had knocked Beck out of Death's grasp.
     However, in his attempt to spare Beck, the splintered mast had
slashed across his face and impaled his leg, shattering the bones. Beck
had tried everything he knew to help save Trevor's leg, but the doctor's
best and only choice was to remove the leg below the knee, effectively
ending Trevor's maritime career. Beck had silently placed the blame on
himself for the loss of Trevor's leg and career. Four years later, the
pair had met up again during the Melrin festival in Dargon.

     As the evening progressed, the two ex-sailors quaffed ales, made
passes at the bar wench, and traded insults back and forth. But then
there was an awkward, prolonged silence. Trevor looked across the table
at Beck, staring at him and not saying anything. Beck returned the stare
and, with his brow furrowed only asked, "What?"
     "What are you going to do with yourself now you crusty old sea
pigeon?" Trevor inquired. Beck's expression faded to a blank stare as he
slowly sat up straight, and let a sigh escape between his pursed lips as
he looked down at the ale-stained table.
     "I don't know, Hatchet." Beck just blinked. And he blinked again.
"It's like I'm starting all over again." He thought for a moment. "I
could go anywhere, do anything, be anybody I suppose. I don't know." He
lifted his gaze to meet Trevor's. "I just don't know."
     "Oh come now, Cap'n, I've never known anything that could ever stop
you from doing whatever you set your mind to," Trevor offered. "In fact,
you're the one that taught me that nothing could stop a determined
person from doing anything." Beck paused a moment. He was right.
     "Well, you don't look like you've done too badly for yourself,
Hatchet, Beck said. "As matter of fact, I don't think anything short of
an army of miffed termites could stop the likes of you." Trevor gave him
a look of feigned indignation.
     "And they best be pretty big termites at that," he replied with a
nod of his head.
     "Just what have you been doing with yourself the past few years
anyway?" Beck asked. Trevor leaned back and scratched the side of his
nose.
     "I've been doing ship repairs, nothing significant of course.
Splicing rigging, mending sailcloth, patching small leaks with pine
pitch, you know, roustabout work," he answered. "Thing is, I've been
getting very busy as of late. I'm finding it difficult to keep up with
all the work. If I had two good legs and both my eyes, I could get some
very substantial work. Critical repairs, mast work, rudder fabrication,
and deck reconstruction. Total outfitting." Beck's eyes suddenly had a
faraway look in them. "I'd even consider going into shipbuilding, if I
could," he added.
     "But I'm just not capable, not with this peg-leg and empty eye
hole. What I could use is someone who knows ships inside and out."
     Beck arched an eyebrow and scratched his chin for a moment. Trevor
took a long pull from his mug and set it on the table, wiping his lips
with his sleeve.
     "What I could use," Trevor continued, "is someone who has many
years experience and a thick hide. Someone who is used to giving orders
and making sure that schedules are met. A person who knows the wordcraft
of contracts and can avoid the hazards involved with deal-making."
     "Someone who can put up with an old goat like you," Beck grumbled
with a grin. Trevor grinned as he guzzled his ale. Beck's heart began to
pound at the idea.
     "Just what are you saying, Trevor?" Beck asked in a low, even
voice. Hatch looked across the table at Beck, who seemed mildly amused.
Trevor slowly reached his hands out to grasp the edges of the table.
     "What I am saying to you, barnacle butt, is that I'd like you to
team up with me. Be my partner." Trevor stood up, his enthusiasm
overtaking him. "No one in the entire duchy knows ships the way you do.
Think of it, Beck. We could become the foremost shipbuilders of Dargon
Duchy."
     Beck's mind reeled. Was it possible that his life really didn't end
here? Could there actually be more to life than just the sea? Did a
direction exist for him after his years at sea? Was there really a need
for him? He surely knew more about ships than any other sailor in
Dargon. A need that would keep him in touch with what Beck loved best.
His first mate, Trevor Hatch -- the same man who had saved his very life
years ago, right by his side.
     Yes, it could be a great new adventure for him. Yes, this could be
a new career for him, one that could very well be Beck's next.
     Beck stood up and moved toward Trevor, reaching out and grasping
him by the shoulders. Beck looked him straight in the eye and smiled
from ear to ear.
     "Trevor, my old friend, it would be both my honor and pleasure to
become your partner," Beck announced. Trevor smiled broadly and grasped
Beck's shoulders, shaking him in agreement. "Come on Beck, let's get a
room at the inn and have a fresh start in the morning."
     "I'm for that, my friend," Beck said. The two men began to move
toward the door. Beck nodded his head and held up his hand to the
bartender. "Good eve to you, sir." The stocky man behind the bar grinned
and held his hand up in return.

     The two men stepped out of the bar and into the street looking up
into the sky. The rain had slowed to a slight mist, just enough to
dampen the cool night air.
     "You know, Trevor, this is the second time you've saved my life,"
Beck said.
     "Aye, Cap'n, but it's only the same you'd do for me," Trevor
responded.
     "Aye, my friend, that I most assuredly would," the old,
gray-bearded captain said.

     The street was quiet now, nearly shrouded in shadows. All of the
carts were stored in their respective areas; all the ships were anchored
in the harbor. A few lanterns burned along the street, providing the
only light by which to see. A dog barked in the distance at some unknown
annoyance. The sound of the waves slapping endlessly against the land
painted a background of sound in the darkness. A gentle breeze eased its
way in from the sleepy bay.
     Trevor paused a moment and looked out over the harbor. He thought
he could almost see the outline of the _Dame Sarina_ drifting out of the
harbor.
     "You know, Beck, as all things come, all things go," Trevor stated.
     "What's that supposed to mean?" Beck questioned. Trevor stopped for
a moment.
     "I'm not sure, but it sounded pretty good," he replied. Beck turned
to look at Trevor a moment and back again to the harbor. The _Dame
Sarina_ was nowhere to be seen. And then he smiled.
     "Come on, let's go get some shut-eye, peg-leg." And with that, the
two men rambled off, arm-in-arm, in search of an inn for a good night's
rest.

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