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1614 lines
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DDDDD ZZZZZZ //
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D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE ||
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 14
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-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 9
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DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
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\\
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\
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========================================================================
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DargonZine Distributed: 12/21/2001
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Volume 14, Number 9 Circulation: 731
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========================================================================
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Contents
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Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
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Jakob Sings of Monstrous
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Things 1 Victor M. Cardoso 2 Ober, 1018
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The Measure of His Love 1 Jim Owens Naia, 1007
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========================================================================
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DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
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collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
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We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
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Please address all correspondence to <dargon@shore.net>or visit us
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on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at
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ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
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discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
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DargonZine 14-9, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright December, 2001 by
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the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
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Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
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All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
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and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
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without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
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of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
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Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
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========================================================================
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Editorial
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by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
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<ornoth@shore.net>
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With the approach of the new year, it's time for us to celebrate
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another anniversary of DargonZine's founding by looking back at the year
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gone by. 2001 really wasn't a bad year for us, but it doesn't compare
|
|
very well with our annual performance since 1995. Perhaps we just needed
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to take a little rest after five consecutive years of growth!
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The Dargon Project's health can be measured in a number of ways,
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but they all center on our two main constituencies: our readers, and our
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writers.
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Twelve months ago, it looked like we were doing great with our
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readers. We had a record number of subscribers, and we were getting more
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feedback than ever from them via the new story rating system we'd
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implemented. With that in mind, last year we planned to put a great deal
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of effort into bringing new readers to our site through press releases,
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print advertising, and so forth. Unfortunately, the only Dargon writer
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with any public relations experience, Brandon Haught, had to leave the
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project at the end of January, so that initiative never took place. To
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make matters worse, our primary means of publicity was taken away from
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us when our ISP forbade us from posting issue announcements to fantasy
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and writing newsgroups such as rec.arts.sf.written, an action that we
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still strongly disagree with. Because of that loss of visibility, our
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rate of new subscribers has dropped for the first time in five years,
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and our circulation has contracted slightly. With fewer than 750
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subscribers, we go into 2002 needing to find a new way to reach fantasy
|
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fans who will enjoy our stories.
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2001 presented similar challenges in terms of our writers.
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|
Typically, we have two to three dozen writers on staff; about half are
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longtime participants, and the other half are writers who have recently
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joined the group. Despite having established a mentoring program back in
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1998 that encourages new writers by pairing them up with Dargon
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veterans, only two new writers had stories published in the magazine in
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2001. In addition, the shortage of stories from our freshman class was
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matched by an unprecedented lull in contributions from our
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upperclassmen. All year long, it seemed like every one of us had
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something going on which took precedence over writing and the goals we'd
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set for ourselves. On top of that, in February we lost two of our most
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productive veteran writers: Max Khaytsus and Mark Murray. With very few
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new stories to print, we abandoned our publishing schedule in the latter
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half of the year, putting out four fewer issues and ten fewer stories in
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2001 than we did the year before. Similar to the situation with our
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readership, we enter 2002 with a sparse pipeline of stories, and the
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hopes that things will pick up again soon.
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Of course, 2001 wasn't all negative. After about five years'
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|
effort, we finally finished adding 17 years' worth of information to our
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reference database; after writing descriptions for 8500 appearances of
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characters and places in our stories, our Online Glossary is now
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complete. We also enhanced our mentoring program by creating a FAQ to
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help new mentors understand their responsibilities, and provided them
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with a forum for exchanging advice and opinions with other mentors. And
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we helped our writers in several other ways: by giving them a new CD-ROM
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|
with every available bit of Dargon reference material, producing a
|
|
detailed and insightful FAQ about co-authoring, and starting our first
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interactive online chat sessions for our contributors.
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But despite these accomplishments, 2001 was still a year of
|
|
challenges. We have been challenged to find new and better ways of
|
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accomplishing our mission: getting the word out to prospective readers,
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nurturing our new writers, and keeping both our new and veteran writers
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productive. In 2001, our old methods broke down, and now we must stand
|
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up and address these issues in the coming year, our 18th year on the
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Internet. Shortly after this issue is distributed, our writers and I
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will be discussing our goals for 2002 and how to do a better job at what
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we do. Since you, our readers, are a large part of what makes the
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project work, we'd love to hear any suggestions you have regarding these
|
|
specific challenges. Please send any thoughts on this topic to
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<ornoth@shore.net>, and I will share them with our writers.
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In the meantime, I'd like to introduce the first chapters in two
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fabulous new two-part stories.
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"Jakob Sings of Monstrous Things" is a wonderfully eerie and
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haunting story. It is Victor Cardoso's third story, after having joined
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the project back in 1999. And veteran Jim Owens brings us a fascinating
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parable in his two-part "The Measure of His Love", which has taken
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nearly four years to make its way into the pages of DargonZine. I hope
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you enjoy these stories as much as I did.
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For the conclusions to these and other great stories, stay with us
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in 2002 and beyond, as we continue to share the wonderful stories
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written by our staff of aspiring writers.
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========================================================================
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Jakob Sings of Monstrous Things
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Part 1
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by Victor M. Cardoso
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<viktor@mac.com>
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2 Ober, 1018
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A heavy gale stormed its way through the narrow valley of poplar,
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setting trees flailing and whispering huskily as if startled by the
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intrusion. From their branches fell brittle, autumn leaves that covered
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the woodland floor like fiery snowflakes, mingling with the sprawling
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bracken and dying ferns. The valley's western slope rose lazily to
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become the squat, bleak peak of Gor Gariner, which cast a shadow in the
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late dusk over the forest at its back.
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"He who walks with cautious steps and withheld breath deceives
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himself ..."
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Wolcott Thyle faced the chill wind that came off the ill-regarded
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mount of the Darst Range and recalled those words as he walked
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determinedly through the underbrush of mulched leaves.
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"For in the heart of every man lies a beast whose home is the dark
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sanctuary of the forest."
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Pillars of trunks stretched before him, each one a possible hiding
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place for the fugitive.
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Wolcott's gray eyes watered unexpectedly, shedding a tear that
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streaked across his weathered and white-bearded face. He wiped at it
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with a callused hand. The wind's insistent presence masked any sounds of
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movement, and there had been scarcely a trace found of the man that he
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and the others from Kenna had pursued all afternoon. The morning had
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revealed a hastily beaten path along the Coldwell's banks, headed
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southeast into the forest and mountains. Their prey should have been
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more careful than that, as any local would have used the well-worn gully
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further upstream. It was a sign as obvious as a smoking fire.
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A hand grasped his shoulder and Wolcott turned quickly, hunting
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knife drawn. A younger man with curly brown hair and the beginnings of a
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beard stepped back. Wolcott sighed. It was Feddoran.
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"Come with me," the boy shouted over the wind, "Willit found
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something."
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The woodsman backtracked and climbed after his friend up the
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valley's slope. Under a ledge that wound its way like a scar on the
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landscape, some of the undergrowth had been cleared and a pit hollowed
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in the rocky soil. Blackened leaves and twigs filled the depression.
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Wolcott kneeled and stuck his fingers in the ashes. They were faintly
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warm.
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Across from him, one of the men looked on with hunched shoulders,
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as if it took all his strength to keep his hands still. And while the
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man's square jaw projected an image of steadiness, muscles twitched just
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beneath the skin.
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"He can't hide forever."
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"No," Wolcott agreed, brushing his fingers clean. "He can't."
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There were tracks continuing eastward in the soft earth, staying
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close to the ledge. Rising to his feet, the old man wondered numbly how
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this had all come to pass. A sennight prior, there had been no hunt, no
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worry, no distrust ...
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"Heave!"
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A dozen arms tensed. Grunts escaped tightly clenched lips. The old,
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grizzled trunk rose begrudgingly from its rest as men on either side of
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it lifted it from the ground.
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Wolcott came forward to throw a broad leather strap, blessed by a
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wizard for strength, over the end. The strap fit snuggly, and he worked
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to pull it down further on what would become one of the two central
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posts for the new dock. Around him, the men strained to keep the thick
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trunk upright.
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"C'mon, Wolcott," cried a voice in the distance.
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The woodsman ignored the jeer and continued his work. The strap had
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to be placed an arm's length from the top of the trunk, to be later
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covered with rope that would help bind the pillar to the beam nailed to
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it.
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"Are ya' going to strap it or fark it?" the voice interrupted
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again.
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Wolcott became increasingly aware of the strained breathing of the
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surrounding men. Giving one final tug, he pushed the strap down to the
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appropriate position. He stepped back and motioned to the group. The men
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groaned and let the beam thud to the ground, a cloud of dust lifting
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with its impact.
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Wolcott's taunter was revealed as the dust blew away, a comely,
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fair-haired lad stripped to his waist, who sat atop one of the finished
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posts in the riverbed.
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"Hylan," the woodsman yelled back. "Remind me again why I dunnit
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take my hammer to your thick head?"
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"Because you'd ruin a good hammer," Feddoran answered from behind.
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The gathering of men laughed. The building of the new dock was a
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fairly light-hearted affair. Most of the workers came from the lands and
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fields surrounding Kenna and were eager to help in the construction. The
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new dock would help accommodate growing river traffic on the Coldwell
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and bring more trading to the young village. Already, a new merchant's
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house was going up on Main Street in anticipation of the dock's
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completion.
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"What's going through your mind, Wolcott?"
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Feddoran appeared at the woodsman's elbow, the youth wiping a film
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of sweat from his brow. He was a small lad who came up just above
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Wolcott's shoulder. Being on the younger side, Feddoran was prone to
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being pushed around by the others and Wolcott had struck up a fatherly
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relationship with him. The woodsman's own children had never lived out
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of childhood.
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"Just a lot of nonsense, Feddoran," Wolcott sighed. "It seems only
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a sennight ago Elijah and Mariel Kenna were setting up their trading
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post here ... Now look at the place." He motioned to the throng of
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children that were playing at the water's edge, the dozen other men
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involved in the cutting of planks and splitting of lumber for the dock.
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"Times change," Feddoran agreed, although the young man was hardly
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of the age to remember the old days. "My father says that maybe, at some
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point soon, Kenna will be larger than Dargon if it keeps growing at this
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pace!"
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Wolcott shook his head at the lofty vision. "No, times aren't
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changing that fast," the old man muttered. "And I wouldn't want them to.
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There are some things better left in Dargon that I wouldn't want in
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Kenna -- and that you would not want either." Feddoran was too young to
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know the harshness of the world, or what its harshness did to others.
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A few catcalls and whistles interrupted their conversation. Wolcott
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turned to catch Naris, Hylan's girl, walking towards the group, a
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stranger in tow. Skirts in hand, she picked her way among the wood chips
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and logs, shooting a disarming grin at a number of admirers who returned
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the gesture happily. She was an image of beauty -- a delicate chin and
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full lips beneath soft, brown eyes crowned by long lashes. Wolcott
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chuckled as he saw Feddoran straighten his posture.
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"Naris, who's yer new beau?" someone called out.
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"Looks like he delivers more'n Hylan can offer!" another cried.
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The stranger behind her smiled tentatively, his eyes moving from
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unknown face to unknown face. He was thin of build with rough-cut black
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hair and ragged boots. The mended pack and unshaven face stood in sharp
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contrast to his pale blue eyes, alert and scrutinizing the scene around
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him. This was a man who knew the harshness of the world.
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"What's this?" a voice called out. Hylan's face appeared amidst the
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crowd and he rushed determinedly towards Naris, lifting her off her feet
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and throwing her over his shoulder. She squealed and beat her hands
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against his rump, much to the delight of the gathered men.
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"Put me down, Hylan!" she yelled.
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"What? Who said that?" Hylan asked. He turned around mockingly,
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looking for the source of the voice. Laughs burst out in the crowd.
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"You know perfectly well who said that," Naris replied, "and if you
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dunnit put me down this instant, you won't ever get a chance to put me
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down again, if you get my meaning!"
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A number of the men chuckled and Hylan's eyes grew wide in mock
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fear. He squatted to let Naris down, and as she regained her balance she
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thumped him heartily on the chest with a balled fist.
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"Ow!" Hylan answered, catching her wrists. "Well, dearest, how do
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you expect me to react when you bring a new man about?"
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"This man is for Wolcott," she stated, her cheeks flushed.
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"Ho, ho!" Hylan replied. He let go of her and stepped back to throw
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a sweaty arm around Wolcott's shoulders. "That's right nice of you,
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Naris! The woodsman doesn't seem to have much luck with the ladies!
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Perhaps a man would serve him well."
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A few more whistles cut the air.
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The girl came forward and put a hand on Wolcott's face, patting it
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gently: "He stays away from the ladies because I keep 'im well
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satisfied, love."
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The gathered crowd roared in response.
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Wolcott rolled his eyes and shrugged off Hylan's embrace. "Enough
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of this, you two! Ol's Balls, if you talk this much when alone it's a
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wonder you ever get a chance to kiss!" He turned to the stranger.
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"You'll excuse your welcome, sir. My name is Wolcott Thyle, a woodsman
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who has to put up with these runts. How do men know you?"
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The stranger grinned at Hylan and Naris, appearing amused by their
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antics. "By the name of Graham Walker, sir."
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"Well, Graham, how can we be of help?"
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"He comes from Dargon," Naris volunteered.
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"Yes," Graham answered, nodding to her. "I heard upriver that there
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was need of men in Kenna to help build a bridge?"
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"Dock," Wolcott corrected, "but we need carpentry skills
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nonetheless. Do you have such skills?"
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Hylan came forward and poked Graham's arms. "I dunnit know,
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Wolcott," the man tsked. He circled the stranger and looked at him as if
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he were appraising a horse. "Thin arms, flat chest ... You know them
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Dargonites. He dunnit look like he has enough skill to nail a board."
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Without missing a beat, Graham met Hylan's gaze and replied: "Why
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don't you ask Naris? She knows my nailing quite well."
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The men surrounding them laughed hard at Hylan's shocked look and
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Naris came up to Graham and intertwined his arm in her own.
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Wolcott extended a hand in friendship to the newcomer at once,
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saying: "Any man who can make Hylan eat his own words is welcome in
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Kenna, my friend."
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"My friend ..."
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Darkness had fallen across the wood, and the band from Kenna had
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camped for the evening after following a trail haphazardly east and
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south deeper into the mountain range. They caught no glimpse of the
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fugitive, and his tracks were lost from time to time among the scree and
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crags. The group had spread themselves apart, Feddoran and Willit
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bringing up the rear and occasionally scouting behind to see if their
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prey had looped back.
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Wolcott sat across from Hylan, a fire between them. The younger
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man, once a source of endless jokes and pranks now stared vacantly into
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the flames, casually breaking twigs at his feet and throwing them into
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the crackling mass. The laughing, jovial Hylan had been broken, much
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like the twigs in his hands, and his remains cast into a flame that
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could not be so easily extinguished.
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"We should cut a trail southward tomorrow," Wolcott said suddenly,
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breaking the silence which had prevailed since setting camp. "It's
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possible we may get ahead of his trail once he realizes he cannot cross
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Marrow's Gorge."
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Hylan shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.
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Wolcott watched the darkness that gathered about his friend's
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shoulders and face. It was deeper than merely shadows cast from the
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surrounding forest. Bits of the woodland leaves and twigs littered
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Hylan's blonde hair, emphasizing a look of madness. The woodsman
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couldn't recall ever seeing the youth look this way.
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"It wasn't your fault, Hylan," Wolcott offered across the distance.
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Hylan raised his eyes from the fire. In their depths smoldered a
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deeper flame.
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"Isn't it?" he asked simply. He looked to say more but then closed
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his mouth, tightening his lips against his teeth.
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"We seek the man who performed the wrong," Wolcott countered.
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"Oh, I know who committed the greater wrong, woodsman." Hylan
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nodded slightly, drawing his knees up to his chest and hugging them with
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broad arms. "But there are other wrongs to account for."
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Wolcott didn't answer, unsure of how to respond.
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"There was a wrong of jealousy," Hylan continued, moving his gaze
|
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back to the fire. "A wrong of mistrust and of leaving her to walk home
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-- " his voice choked and he stopped speaking, swallowing with
|
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difficulty.
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There was a rustle from the darkness and Feddoran came into the
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fire's light. He moved his gaze from Hylan to Wolcott uncertainly, aware
|
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that he had walked into a conversation.
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"What do you want, Feddoran?" Hylan asked thickly, his eyes glassy
|
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but fierce.
|
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The younger man squatted by the fire's edge, again turning his
|
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head, first to Wolcott, then to Hylan. "Willit and I didn't spot any
|
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fires in the distance ..." he started hesitantly. "And I was thinking
|
|
about our pursuit ... about which way we should go in the morning.
|
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Wolcott and I spoke of this earlier. I know he's of the mind to try and
|
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cut the fugitive off. But I wondered if we should not go south but
|
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instead travel east?"
|
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Hylan glared at him contemptuously. "We go south," he answered.
|
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"But the trails show him going east," Feddoran protested. "If we go
|
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south, we may lose him."
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"Marrow's Gorge will stop his passing," Wolcott said. "And he will
|
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not dare the higher peaks to the north. Other men from Kenna were sent
|
|
to warn the brothers of Coldwell Abbey. They know to be on the lookout
|
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for his passage. It also seems likely that the fugitive knows there are
|
|
pursuers. If we travel south, we'll intercept his passage."
|
|
"But won't a madman dare anything to prevent capture?" Feddoran
|
|
asked.
|
|
"Your decision-making isn't worth Nehru's Pointy Nose, Feddoran,"
|
|
Hylan snapped. "You've been incompetent since the day you were born.
|
|
Leave the decisions to the men."
|
|
Feddoran's face turned red, noticeable even in the firelight. "Well
|
|
at least I'm doing something to help, Hylan."
|
|
"Help?" Hylan shouted. He rose to his feet, fists bunched. "You
|
|
question my contribution?"
|
|
Wolcott rose quickly, intercepting Hylan's movement towards
|
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Feddoran. It was a feeling of helplessness that drove this argument.
|
|
"Hylan," he commanded. "We are all helping in this quest. Dunnit get
|
|
angry at Feddoran for simply making a suggestion."
|
|
There was murder in Hylan's grimace and his fists trembled. He
|
|
lowered his arms and swallowed heavily. Wiping his eyes with haste, he
|
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stumbled toward the forest and disappeared from sight. Feddoran was left
|
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shaking by the fire.
|
|
"Thank you, Wolcott," he said.
|
|
"Dunnit mind me," the woodsman replied sharply, "mind your tongue.
|
|
Hylan should not have come with us in this state. I should have had the
|
|
presence of mind to forbid it, but he's here and there's naught we can
|
|
do now. His memories are clouding his thoughts, driving him to act. It's
|
|
best that we all look to not anger him further."
|
|
Feddoran nodded. "I kn-know," he stuttered, "I didn't mean to make
|
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him think ..." his words drifted into the night.
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Wolcott continued to stare in the direction Hylan had gone.
|
|
Memories were dangerous things, lurking in the back of one's mind. The
|
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woodsman had his own memories to deal with, trying to determine where
|
|
his judgement had gone wrong ...
|
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|
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"How goes the dock, boys?"
|
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"It goes, Elijah."
|
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Wolcott and Hylan sat in the back of the River's Edge, a tavern on
|
|
Kenna's Main Street. The two drank ale while mopping the remains of
|
|
their stew with last night's bread. Elijah Kenna, one of the city's
|
|
founders, took a seat between them, producing a flask from his satchel
|
|
and placing it squarely on the table.
|
|
"What's this?" Hylan asked, greedily taking the bottle into his
|
|
hands.
|
|
"Sarna's Blood," Kenna answered. He reached over and took the flask
|
|
back. Unstopping the cork, he poured some into the two men's cups.
|
|
Wolcott made a movement to stop him, but Hylan pushed his hands away.
|
|
"Come on, woodsman! You spend your day ordering us about, playing
|
|
at lord, enjoy some of the rewards!"
|
|
"Hylan has a point," Elijah agreed. "Let's celebrate somewhat,
|
|
Wolcott. I've been to your home in the woods, I know you enjoy a good
|
|
drink." He winked conspiratorially. "Besides, it seems that you and the
|
|
men make good progress."
|
|
"If you call the jokes and the pranks progress ..." Wolcott
|
|
muttered between bites.
|
|
"They're harmless, Wolcott!"
|
|
"What pranks?" Kenna asked.
|
|
At that moment the newcomer, Graham, entered the empty tavern, his
|
|
clothes thoroughly drenched. He'd been with the group for several days
|
|
now and unfortunately had been the butt of many a joke.
|
|
Wolcott groaned and pointed towards the stranger. "Throw you into
|
|
the river again, Graham?"
|
|
"One could say that," Graham replied. He pulled off his shirt and
|
|
walked towards the group. The back of the tavern was where most of the
|
|
out-of-town workers slept.
|
|
"We all know Dargonites like to keep clean," Hylan chuckled under
|
|
his breath.
|
|
Wolcott glared at his friend. "Elijah," he asked, changing the
|
|
subject, "have you met our newest man, Graham Walker of Dargon? I dunnit
|
|
believe he was here last you came 'round."
|
|
Graham bowed while undoing his trousers. "You'll excuse my state
|
|
milord, I don't usually bare myself to strangers on our first meeting."
|
|
Elijah laughed, "It's all right, Graham. When you're through, sit
|
|
down and have a drink with us!"
|
|
"Yes, Graham," Hylan said, "Elijah's broken out the heavy brew!"
|
|
The Dargonian rummaged through his belongings and pulled off his
|
|
trousers. "No thanks, gents. I'll take a glass of ale, but I'm just as
|
|
happy to stay away from the stiffer drinks. I roamed Dargon at the
|
|
bottom of a cask for a few seasons. It's a familiar poison I could do
|
|
without."
|
|
"Graham," Elijah Kenna called, "What is that mark you bear?"
|
|
Wolcott had noticed it as well, at another time when the man had
|
|
been thrown into the river. A fist-sized blossom lay on his waist with
|
|
something that looked like lettering at its center. The woodsman
|
|
couldn't read, so he had no idea what it said.
|
|
"Just a mark, my lord, nothing more."
|
|
"I'd hardly recognize it if I hadn't spent some time in Magnus,"
|
|
Kenna said to Wolcott. "Isn't that a mark of the Bardic College?" he
|
|
called out.
|
|
"Yes," Graham said, throwing his wet clothes into a corner, "but I
|
|
have never attended. 'Twas a joke -- from some comrades who remarked on
|
|
my singing ability and took advantage of my drunken state."
|
|
"Does the naked bird sing?" Naris' voice interrupted. She stood at
|
|
the door to the tavern, leaning against its threshold and grinning
|
|
wickedly.
|
|
Graham grabbed a shirt and covered himself hastily while the other
|
|
men shouted at her.
|
|
"Naris!" Hylan yelled and rose to his feet. The girl winked before
|
|
ducking back out. Graham pulled the shirt over his body and shook his
|
|
head. "That girl is a handful, Hylan."
|
|
"For all her flirting, Graham, her heart belongs to me," the
|
|
fair-haired man responded, still frowning at the door.
|
|
The Dargonian pulled on a dry set of pants, and only Wolcott
|
|
noticed the sly smile on his face. "She has a queer way of showing it,"
|
|
Graham remarked.
|
|
|
|
"What do you see?"
|
|
Wolcott lowered his hand from his eyes. "Not enough," he answered.
|
|
The Darst woodlands still held too much foliage for him to glimpse
|
|
any details beneath their canopy. Wolcott was not used to hunting men.
|
|
Bears and wolves, those were his usual fare and their actions were
|
|
predictable: find the lair or the watering hole and lay in wait; you'd
|
|
be likely to find the prey then. But here he was laying traps and
|
|
guessing the mind of a criminal in the foothills of the granite range.
|
|
Hylan hadn't returned that night, but instead appeared as the camp
|
|
was being disbanded. Wolcott had dreamed of the man searching the forest
|
|
by moonlight, trying to find the source of his distress and twist its
|
|
dark-haired head from its body. The woodsman wasn't even sure what he'd
|
|
do when they found Graham. Could he really prevent Hylan from exacting
|
|
his revenge? Didn't the Dargonian deserve his fate?
|
|
Feddoran stood a dozen steps behind, surveying another expanse of
|
|
land. The wind, blowing from the direction of Gor Gariner, had picked up
|
|
again in the morning, as if conspiring against them. It whipped past the
|
|
two men on the outcrop even now, making hearing any noises from the
|
|
valleys below impossible. Marrow's Gorge, several peaks north and
|
|
visible only as a grim, jagged line from this distance, should have
|
|
stopped Graham's progress. That is, unless the madness which prompted
|
|
his crime also drove him to commit suicide. The chasm's walls were steep
|
|
enough to prevent crossing unless a traveler hiked far north or south to
|
|
find a natural bridge. It was unlikely Graham would risk coming across
|
|
them by traveling north.
|
|
"You know, I still have nightmares," Feddoran said unexpectedly.
|
|
Wolcott turned. The younger man surveyed the land before him
|
|
without emotion, almost unwilling to meet the woodsman's eyes.
|
|
"It was a horrible sight," Wolcott replied.
|
|
"Naris' body, yes," Feddoran said, nodding. "But I also mean of
|
|
Graham's tale that night. The hunting ... the restlessness ... I've
|
|
never heard a song of that ilk." Almost level with them, a hawk circled
|
|
above one of the valleys, riding the currents of the mountains expertly
|
|
and almost lazily. It, too, was hunting. "Do you ever feel what Graham
|
|
spoke of?"
|
|
Wolcott thought about the question for a moment. Had he ever felt
|
|
that way? He stooped to pick up a rock at his feet. "Of murder? No,
|
|
Feddoran. But the passion, the feeling of something within? Yes, lad, I
|
|
do. I think every man does at some point in his life." He threw the
|
|
stone out above the colored mantle of the forest, watching its journey
|
|
as it fell among some of the trees further out. "The human soul is full
|
|
of passions, not all of them of good intent. If it's any consolation, it
|
|
lessens with age. Come on, let's head towards the river. He couldn't
|
|
possibly pass us higher."
|
|
The wind whistled at their backs as they descended, its melody a
|
|
dark song, just as puzzling and seductive as Graham's on that fatal
|
|
night ...
|
|
|
|
"Heave!"
|
|
The group of men brought the tankards to their lips, slamming back
|
|
the contents, some of which splashed about their chins and down the
|
|
fronts of untucked, unlaced shirts. The evening's revelry had started a
|
|
bell prior.
|
|
Wolcott and Naris stood at the door to the River's Edge, taking in
|
|
the scene before them.
|
|
Hylan sat at a table by the hearth's side, drinking greedily with
|
|
the group. He brought his tankard down first, thumping its bottom
|
|
against the table and wiping his mouth while laughing. "Now that's what
|
|
I call work!" he announced to the men around him.
|
|
Graham also sat at Hylan's table, albeit slumped with a mug spilled
|
|
by his arms. Wolcott approached and sat down across from him while Naris
|
|
took a seat beside the Dargonian.
|
|
"Graham?" Wolcott called. The man raised his head slowly. "Hylan,
|
|
what's the meaning of this? I thought Graham didn't drink heavily?"
|
|
"He didn't, up until a bell ago," Hylan winked. "The boy asked for
|
|
some ale and that's what we gave him, more or less ..." The men around
|
|
him broke into laughter. "It's a shame our pretty Dargonite can't hold
|
|
his liquor better."
|
|
"Oh, Hylan!" Naris scolded. She started to pat Graham's cheeks to
|
|
awaken him but Hylan grabbed her arms and pushed her away roughly.
|
|
"Dunnit touch him!" Hylan growled, his eyes full of anger. "He'll
|
|
be fine." He put a friendly arm around Graham's shoulder. "How do you
|
|
feel, Dargonite?"
|
|
Graham shook his head, his eyes unfocused. "What's going on?" he
|
|
asked. More laughter from those at the other tables.
|
|
"We're hoping Graham will sing for us," Feddoran shouted from
|
|
across the room. Naris' eavesdropping had made its way around the
|
|
workers the day before. Now the men in the tavern started banging their
|
|
cups against the tables in unison, chanting loudly "Sing! Sing! Sing!"
|
|
Graham stood up unsteadily, a severe look on his face.
|
|
"Stop!" he shouted, but the chanting continued. "I do not sing," he
|
|
declared. But, for a moment his strength sapped and he leaned one arm
|
|
heavily against the table. "I mustn't ..." he mumbled, as if pleading to
|
|
Wolcott and Naris.
|
|
"Aw," Hylan chided. "What's the matter with our Dargonite bard?
|
|
What's happened to your golden tongue, Graham? Did some pretty pussy
|
|
trap it?" He took another long draught and looked accusingly at Naris.
|
|
"I'm warning you, Hylan," Graham snarled.
|
|
"Ah, he probally wannit any good at it anyway," someone else chimed
|
|
in.
|
|
At that remark, Graham's back straightened as if an invisible hand
|
|
had jerked the strings of his pride. "Any good at it?" he shouted. He
|
|
let out a laugh, a look of incredulity on his bleary face. "Good at it?"
|
|
he repeated. "Oh you idiots!" His laughter changed into a shriek.
|
|
"All of you! Look at you!" he declared. He picked up his discarded
|
|
mug in a fist and threw it at one of the men at another table. "You sit
|
|
in your safe little houses, your cozy groups of friendships. Has any of
|
|
you ever been to Magnus? Been beyond Dargon?"
|
|
Some of the men in the room stirred, muttering amongst themselves,
|
|
but no one answered the question.
|
|
"I didn't think so," Graham replied derisively. "You act all high
|
|
and mighty here in Kenna, under the watchful eye of Elijah and Wolcott
|
|
-- but this is no city, no destination worth traveling to. You fool
|
|
yourselves in your naivete!"
|
|
"Graham," Naris pleaded, pulling at his arm. "Please, sit down."
|
|
"No," Hylan called from his seat, his eyes glittering dangerously.
|
|
"Why dunnit you enlighten us, Graham? Share some of your worldly
|
|
wisdom." Around the room, a few of the other men echoed Hylan's
|
|
statement.
|
|
Graham stood there, his fists clenched, as if holding an internal
|
|
debate. But as the taunting calls for his wisdom grew, his fingers
|
|
eased, as if some battle had been resolved.
|
|
"My worldly wisdom," he snorted. "I have no worldly wisdom to
|
|
share, Hylan. I have stories: stories of men's cruelties, wives'
|
|
infidelities, and the world's ideas of justice. I have despair, Hylan,
|
|
that's what I have."
|
|
He stumbled away from Wolcott and Naris, over to the neighboring
|
|
table and took a man's tankard straight from his hands. Gulping down the
|
|
contents, he tossed it onto the rough planks of the floor and kicked it.
|
|
"Each of you knows despair, don't you?" he asked, almost cheerily.
|
|
"Or perhaps you're too simple-minded for it. You know lust, don't you?"
|
|
At the mention of the word lust, some of the more drunken men stirred.
|
|
Graham nodded smugly. "There's an easy emotion. Yes, each one of you
|
|
knows that. I've seen it in your eyes from time to time. But have any of
|
|
you ever acknowledged it? Acknowledged how deeply it courses within
|
|
you?"
|
|
Graham stopped in the middle of the room and lifted his head to the
|
|
bare, wooden supports of the tavern. From his throat issued a song the
|
|
men could not identify, but in its sweet melody and haunting notes it
|
|
spoke of darkness. Dangerous shadows grew in the corners, and the
|
|
roaring fire burned more intensely behind the Dargonian, transforming
|
|
him into a silhouette of a man, a demon borne of the hearth's anger.
|
|
Wolcott could not tear his eyes from Graham's form; his growing terror
|
|
would not allow it. Around him, at the other tables, the fidgeting and
|
|
drinking stopped. The room's attention focused on Graham utterly.
|
|
The vocals from the song ceased, but the would-be bard did not drop
|
|
his eyes from the ceiling. Graham looked up with a fierce passion, the
|
|
lines of his neck strained. "I once knew a man who knew lust," he
|
|
hummed. "A lust so strong it would choke any of you who tasted it.
|
|
"He went by the name of Delial Barrond. A simple man, much of the
|
|
likes of all of you. He had no family worth speaking of and lived in a
|
|
village, much like this sopping pit in the center of nowhere. He worked
|
|
hard, he drank with his so-called friends, but in his breast he harbored
|
|
a secret. A deep secret that he shared with no one. Not his father, not
|
|
his friends, not even with the occasional wench that shared his bed."
|
|
Graham dropped his gaze, leveled it at Hylan. "In every man's heart
|
|
lies a burden, a secret self: the dark side, which fills his loins and
|
|
fires his fists." Graham's silhouette boxed playfully before the hearth.
|
|
Those nearest to his wild lunges flinched. "He who walks with cautious
|
|
steps and withheld breath deceives himself. All men fight to contain
|
|
their wild selves, this is no new knowledge. But do you know Barrond's
|
|
secret? That which he wished no one to know?"
|
|
He paused dramatically. "His secret? Barrond had ceased that
|
|
struggle! He could not quench the lustful thoughts that filled his head
|
|
while about his work in the village, the rage that boiled his blood when
|
|
he was put in his place within the pecking order.
|
|
"There were nights," Graham dropped his voice to a murmur,
|
|
"restless nights when Barrond turned within his linens, when the cloth
|
|
felt like straps that restrained him, unable to let him slumber in the
|
|
solace of darkness.
|
|
"Aye men, you know the feeling, don't you?" Graham leered, drawing
|
|
close to some of the tables and staring deep into the faces that watched
|
|
him. "Those nights when the sweat gathers at your temples and you're
|
|
aware of every muscle in your body? The nights when the moon's blood
|
|
courses within you, raising the heat between your legs? Those were
|
|
Delial Barrond nights."
|
|
Another burst of song issued from Graham's throat, sharp and
|
|
unexpected. Wolcott felt his stomach clench at the sound and, for the
|
|
first time in years, a deeper heat blushed within him: a heat of youth
|
|
that he had misplaced or forgotten. He turned from Graham for a moment
|
|
to catch a glimpse of Naris and felt an old stirring between his legs.
|
|
"He took to walking the forests when the mood became unbearable,"
|
|
Graham continued, drawing Wolcott's attention back. "For in the heart of
|
|
every man lies a beast whose home is the dark sanctuary of the forest.
|
|
He stalked things in the wild woods: buck, boar, and wolfhound. There
|
|
were nights he could not even remember. There were mornings when Barrond
|
|
would awaken on the floor of his home naked, his body littered with
|
|
bruises and scratches, sometimes with dark stains under his fingernails.
|
|
"Until one early morning, when he awoke and tasted the heavy,
|
|
coppery taste of blood on his lips ... smelled blood on his chest and
|
|
arms, on his cod. And it was not his blood."
|
|
The crackling of the fire filled the absence of sound. Graham
|
|
hummed softly, weaving his song, but spoke no words. One of the men,
|
|
Willit, finally dared the question: "Whose blood was it?"
|
|
"A maiden's!" Graham responded gleefully, his teeth bared in the
|
|
firelight. He was back by the table with Graham and Hylan. "Barrond
|
|
found her in his bed, her clothing torn, her pale, supple skin ravaged
|
|
with gashes and wounds, her throat bloodied with the marks of human
|
|
teeth." Graham turned to Naris for the first time, taking her chin in
|
|
his thin, long fingers and studied her with sad eyes. "She was beautiful
|
|
and innocent," he uttered softly. "A woman who knew not her danger, the
|
|
threat from the man who harmed her."
|
|
"Was she dead?" Naris asked, her eyes tearful. Her arms were
|
|
crossed over her breasts, as if she were trying to hide her femininity.
|
|
"Most certainly," Graham replied. "Barrond was not enough of a man
|
|
to control himself. Or perhaps he was too much of a man. That is the
|
|
deeper question. His next thought was to escape -- to run away before
|
|
the maiden's family discovered her absence, but he was a fool. He was
|
|
found and chased to his death by the very men he once called his
|
|
friends."
|
|
The room fell silent again. All at once, the color drained from
|
|
Graham's face and his shoulders sagged, as if he had just released an
|
|
enormous burden. Wolcott thought the stranger was going to be sick.
|
|
Graham tried to seat himself on the ground but fell clumsily. Wolcott
|
|
rose and came to his aid, but was pushed away roughly.
|
|
"What have I done?" the Dargonian whimpered.
|
|
"Nothing, Graham, come," Wolcott said. "We'll get you to bed."
|
|
"I can't go to bed!" he shouted. "I must walk. I must ... get out
|
|
of here." He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the nearby tables for
|
|
support, and bolted from the room.
|
|
Naris turned to her boyfriend, her arms still held defensively
|
|
before her. "Are you pleased with yourself, Hylan?"
|
|
Hylan finished his draught and stood uncertainly. Without a word he
|
|
stumbled between the tables and out of the room, venturing out a
|
|
different door than Graham into the night beyond.
|
|
Looking after him, Naris shook her head, then shuddered. "Wolcott,"
|
|
she asked, rising to her feet. "Will you walk me home?"
|
|
|
|
"Westward!" Hylan's angry shout echoed like a mandate through the
|
|
quiet, dying woods. And Graham appeared to be listening. The wind had
|
|
quieted a bell before dusk, and in the newfound silence they had heard
|
|
their hunt's shambling footsteps in the forest's cover of brittle
|
|
leaves. Gor Gariner could no longer shelter its kindred spirit.
|
|
Wolcott saw Graham in the distance, a small skittering figure
|
|
climbing desperately over fallen limbs and around rocks. The woodsman
|
|
and the others followed mercilessly, Feddoran the closest of them all,
|
|
running through the forest and attempting to cut off any chance of
|
|
escape. But the fugitive was being driven upwards, up the flank of a
|
|
peak. There was no chance of his escape in those craggy heights.
|
|
"He was found and chased to his death by the very men he once
|
|
called friends ..."
|
|
Wolcott had walked the girl home to her door, returning to the
|
|
River's Edge afterwards and falling into a restless sleep. But that had
|
|
not been enough to protect her. Naris' body had been discovered in the
|
|
woods the morning after the tale, her pale, beautiful skin ravaged with
|
|
scratches and gashes, her fingernails caked in blood. Her throat ...
|
|
Wolcott's mouth tightened at the memory. Graham was nowhere to be found.
|
|
Why the stranger had chosen to enact his tale was anyone's guess.
|
|
"Graham!"
|
|
Feddoran's cry cut through the mountains. Wolcott found a last
|
|
measure of strength to hurry his pace, scrambling around a boulder to
|
|
find Hylan, Feddoran and Willit perched at a cliff's edge. They turned
|
|
as Wolcott approached.
|
|
"So this is the end of the story?" Wolcott asked grimly.
|
|
"Chased to his death ..." he thought.
|
|
He went to the edge and saw that down below, the closer bank of the
|
|
Coldwell cut near the side of the mountain, with rocks and shallows
|
|
abounding.
|
|
"He couldn't survive that," Feddoran whispered, his face stricken,
|
|
just like the morning the villagers had found Naris' body.
|
|
"We will find the remains," Hylan answered, his eyes never once
|
|
leaving the surface of the river.
|
|
"Very well," Wolcott said. "Hylan, you stay here to watch the
|
|
river. Feddoran, Willit, and myself will go down below to start combing
|
|
the banks. Alert us if you see any movement. Once we find the
|
|
Dargonian's body, we can put this sad tale behind us."
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
|
|
|
|
The Measure of His Love
|
|
Part 1: Wounding
|
|
by Jim Owens
|
|
<Gymfuzz@yahoo.com>
|
|
Naia, 1007
|
|
|
|
"I'm still not sure I understand," commented Daruk, his sandaled
|
|
feet kicking up the summer dust as he trod alongside the other archers.
|
|
"What do you mean you don't know when we will be back?"
|
|
The Carver frowned, the scars on his face bending into curves.
|
|
Daruk felt uneasy, like the Carver was trying to hide something. "The
|
|
emperor has not yet negotiated a redemption price for our services," he
|
|
said. "He had expected to do so by now, but there was a delay."
|
|
"My father is expecting me back within the year," Daruk replied. "I
|
|
must complete my training for the Order of the Dragon."
|
|
"Count Ruuga knows that there have been some ... problems ... in
|
|
setting a final term of service. These things are never expected to go
|
|
well." His tone was not as polite as his words. "He will have to accept
|
|
that you will be with me until I am finished here." His tone lowered,
|
|
getting more of an edge to it. "You are pledged to the emperor's
|
|
service. This is his will."
|
|
Daruk's lips pressed tight together. "Long live the emperor."
|
|
The Carver walked on. Daruk waited until the man was several paces
|
|
away before continuing himself. It bothered him that such an important
|
|
detail would be left until they had already nearly completed such a long
|
|
journey. For months now, ever since they crossed border from Beinison to
|
|
Baranur, Daruk had been expecting that this would be merely a year of
|
|
service and travel, a break from the rigorous training in the Order. To
|
|
find out now that there was no end in sight was unsettling. While he had
|
|
excelled in his military training, he had no great love for the martial
|
|
life, preferring instead to travel and learn the wisdom of other lands.
|
|
Daruk paused for a moment in the road, allowing the others to pass him
|
|
by. He covered his eyes to block the glare of the sun, and stared
|
|
intently at the castle walls ahead. He thought he could detect movement
|
|
atop them. The Carver reappeared at his side.
|
|
"What do you see, Daruk?" the older man asked.
|
|
"Three people, atop the wall. A large man, dressed fine. A smaller
|
|
one ... wearing chain mail? And leather. The third ..."
|
|
"That would be Baron Claywall, and his steward, no doubt. And his
|
|
daughter, I wager. I hear she's always meddling in his affairs." The
|
|
Carver spat in the dust.
|
|
Daruk stared at the daughter. She had long blond hair, unlike
|
|
Daruk's dark curls, and fair skin. Used to the swarthy maidens of his
|
|
native Beinison, Daruk was awestruck.
|
|
"She's beautiful!" he breathed.
|
|
"And you're a mere archer, and don't you forget it," commented the
|
|
Carver. "She'll have nothing to do with the likes of you."
|
|
The Carver continued on after the rest of the caravan, leaving
|
|
Daruk to ponder that statement. Why just an archer? Surely the son of a
|
|
count rated more, even this far from his home. But the Carver had
|
|
insisted that all the archers were to be treated equally under his care.
|
|
Daruk shook his head and lifted his eyes to watch the castle walls a
|
|
moment more before running after the rest.
|
|
|
|
High above the gate, the three people Daruk had spotted were deep
|
|
in discussion.
|
|
"... put them in the stables, but then we'd have to find a place
|
|
for the horses," the steward was saying as he and Baron Claywall looked
|
|
down at the approaching caravan.
|
|
"What about the firing platforms? There should be enough space
|
|
there for a few days," countered Claywall as he also watched.
|
|
"I don't trust the mortar on most of them. The workmen are due to
|
|
start the repairs in a few days -- once the wells are finished -- and
|
|
until then I'm not allowing more than a lookout in each."
|
|
"Just bed them in the court and be done with it, Father,"
|
|
admonished Fennla, tossing her long, blond tresses. "The new quarters
|
|
will be up soon, and besides, they're soldiers. They're *used* to
|
|
sleeping on the ground."
|
|
"Just so," Claywall agreed. "Put them in the court. Toughen them up
|
|
some. This isn't some hot Beinison garden they're living in now. They'd
|
|
best get used to it."
|
|
"Well, they are supposed to be the best archers money can buy,"
|
|
countered the steward, whose name was Gefaron. "With these men, we're
|
|
almost at full strength."
|
|
"Close enough for me," replied Claywall. "Begin the maneuvers. I
|
|
want the men ready by fall." With that he turned and headed for the
|
|
stairs down. Fennla followed.
|
|
"So you're really going through with it?" she asked him as they
|
|
walked down.
|
|
"Of course. Those villages are unallied. If I don't take them now,
|
|
someone else will, and then I'd have either Dross or Callen on my
|
|
border. Land is wealth and security, Fennla; don't you forget it. My
|
|
grandson will rule one of the biggest estates in the north, and secure
|
|
borders around them."
|
|
"But what of Dargon? Surely he won't just let you grab so much land
|
|
without saying something."
|
|
"By the time he finds out it will be long done." Claywall chuckled.
|
|
"You're learning fast how to manage the land, Fennla, but you have a
|
|
thing or two to learn about court politics. He'll fuss and fume and then
|
|
all will be forgotten. No, I just need to make sure I move before either
|
|
of the other two do."
|
|
"But isn't Dargon rather fond of the Barels? Won't he take
|
|
exception to you taking them?"
|
|
"He hardly ever sees them, except when he wants a miracle, or
|
|
perhaps a loan. No, he'll make a fuss, but will do nothing."
|
|
They had reached the court, and watched as the caravan moved into
|
|
the small enclosure. Fennla's gaze followed the Beinison archers as they
|
|
moved off to one side as a group.
|
|
"They're so dark," she commented.
|
|
"The sun is hotter down there. It burns their skin," replied
|
|
Claywall.
|
|
"How much did we pay for them?"
|
|
"Too much," grumbled Claywall. "But I understand they're worth it."
|
|
Fennla stared appraisingly at the group of men. "We'll see. Well,
|
|
I'm off to tend my gardens. I'll see you in the morning."
|
|
Without waiting for further comment, she left him and walked to the
|
|
stables. Her horse was ready, with a pack prepared for her trip. She
|
|
mounted up and rode off. The summer sun sparked and shone off every leaf
|
|
of her family's holdings, urging the land to greater productivity. She
|
|
had been urging as well, directing the planting, monitoring the herds,
|
|
and corralling the peasants into proper action. Her father had set his
|
|
heart on the adjacent lands, and preparations for the campaign had
|
|
consumed all his time. Fennla's mother, the baroness, was no planner,
|
|
and in fact had little heart for any public appearances at all, so
|
|
Fennla had stepped in to fill the gap. It left less time for her own
|
|
projects, but she was still able to get out to her gardens occasionally.
|
|
She reached the small cluster of huts by early afternoon. She
|
|
dismounted, and was met by Drow, her peasant farmer, his wife Getta, and
|
|
their daughter Flew. Each bowed properly, then Drow took the horse while
|
|
Getta offered Fennla some water. As Flew took the pack off the horse
|
|
Fennla stood and surveyed the land the trio worked.
|
|
"Show me the gardens," she instructed.
|
|
Getta took Fennla on a tour of the garden, which had grown to
|
|
several acres of trees, shrubs, herb beds, and paths. Fennla walked
|
|
along behind Getta as the woman pointed out the various sections. Fennla
|
|
listened attentively. The pair ended their tour back near the hut,
|
|
beside a wall that she had previously instructed Flew to make. Flew and
|
|
Drow were waiting there.
|
|
"I'll be staying here for the evening, so please prepare my
|
|
bedchamber," she instructed Drow, who scuttled off to comply. She turned
|
|
to Getta and Flew next. "Why hasn't this wall been completed?"
|
|
Flew curtseyed nervously. "The straw has run out, Milady," she
|
|
explained. "We've been waiting for the villagers to bring more by."
|
|
"Don't wait for them -- get your own straw," she instructed. She
|
|
waved her hand at the surrounding land. "There's grass everywhere. Just
|
|
cut it, and use it to make the brick." She raised her tone commandingly.
|
|
"I expect to see this wall done when I return next. Now go cut some
|
|
grass and churn a batch of mud -- I want to see if you're doing it well
|
|
enough."
|
|
"Yes, Milady," Flew responded, and hurried off. Fennla watched her
|
|
go, congratulating herself on how well she had handled the situation.
|
|
Her father had taught her to be firm and clear with the peasants, and
|
|
she was getting much more practice at it now. She turned back to Getta.
|
|
"Let's get to work."
|
|
Fennla exchanged her travelling dress for a coarser skirt offered
|
|
by Getta. The two women and Drow began working in one of the nearby herb
|
|
beds, Fennla instructing and showing, Drow and Getta nodding and
|
|
mimicking the younger woman in her movements. They worked until Flew
|
|
returned, her tattered skirt holding several armfuls of newly cut grass.
|
|
Fennla left Getta in the herb bed and walked over to where Flew was
|
|
untying the bundle, while Drow ran to get Fennla more water. Fennla made
|
|
Flew count out the measures of sand, grass, and water that went into the
|
|
pit. She watched carefully as the young woman jumped in and trod the
|
|
ingredients together. After several menes of stomping, Fennla reached in
|
|
and felt the batch. Clucking with displeasure, she gathered her skirt
|
|
above her waist and jumped in the pit with Flew, stomping the mud and
|
|
lecturing the bemused peasant girl on the finer points of cob
|
|
construction. Only when she was satisfied that Flew was again correctly
|
|
kneading the mix did Fennla climb out. Despite the fact that she was
|
|
covered more by mud than cloth, she refused the water Drow offered her
|
|
to wash with, insisting instead on returning to the herb beds.
|
|
When dusk fell Fennla finally allowed the peasant family to begin
|
|
preparing supper for her. While they labored in the hut, Fennla walked
|
|
to the well to wash. She laid the peasant's skirt on the ground for a
|
|
mat, and began to peel the cob from her skin and hair, loosening it with
|
|
handfuls of the water Drow had drawn earlier. She looked up as Flew
|
|
approached.
|
|
"Shall I get your travelling clothes, Milady?" she asked.
|
|
"Yes. Wait ..." Fennla took the soiled water she had used and
|
|
poured it over the girl's head. Flew gasped in shock, and Drow looked
|
|
out of the hut, concerned. "You're filthy," Fennla explained. "I don't
|
|
want you getting my clothes dirty. Wash that mud off." Flew nodded,
|
|
sputtering, and obeyed, pouring more water over her own head, washing
|
|
her torso and legs. Once she was clean, she drew more water for her
|
|
mistress, helping her scrub until the blue of her blood could again be
|
|
seen. Flew then ran to the hut for the travelling dress, scooping up her
|
|
own skirt on the way. She returned with both garments: the travelling
|
|
dress for Fennla to wear, the skirt to dry Fennla's hair. The two then
|
|
joined the older couple in the hut, where Fennla presided over the
|
|
coarse meal as her father would over a state banquet. After the meal,
|
|
Fennla assumed the couple's straw mattress, while the peasant family
|
|
retired to a night under the stars.
|
|
|
|
As Fennla returned to the keep the next day, she was surprised to
|
|
see a number of her father's men riding up to the castle with a man
|
|
bound and slung over a horse. Interested, she rode in after them, to
|
|
find her father being briefed by the leader of the pack.
|
|
"... this man riding through our fields, southwest of the keep."
|
|
The man had the air of a person who was reciting a poem. "When we
|
|
attempted to question him, he tried to ride off, so we bound him and
|
|
brought him back here for you to judge."
|
|
Claywall took the man's hair and lifted his head roughly. His
|
|
features mocked surprise.
|
|
"Put this man down! Don't you know who this is?" He motioned to the
|
|
riders, who dismounted and set the prisoner on his feet. He was a young
|
|
man and appeared in good health save for a few recent bruises. His hair
|
|
was ruddy and he wore no beard. His clothes indicated wealth, but were
|
|
of a strange cut.
|
|
"Master Barel, I'm sorry to see you enduring such rough treatment
|
|
from my men," remarked Claywall. "Surely you have done nothing to
|
|
warrant it," he leaned forward inquiringly. "Have you?"
|
|
"I assure you, Lord Claywall, I have done nothing more than ride
|
|
across your borders, as your own men have so many times across ours," he
|
|
replied, glancing sourly at his captors.
|
|
"Well, these are tense times here in Clayhold," remarked Claywall.
|
|
"A dispute between myself and your southern neighbor, Dross, have
|
|
required that I maintain a careful watch over my lands." He eyed Barel,
|
|
cocking his eyebrows suspiciously. "So, what business brings you to this
|
|
area?"
|
|
"I was on my way to visit Baron Callen, to your north, when your
|
|
men intercepted me. Although," he again eyed the riders unhappily, "I
|
|
seem to remember the questioning coming after the binding rather than
|
|
before."
|
|
"Callen, eh?" The suspicion in Claywall's eyes was quite genuine
|
|
this time. "Another troublemaker. What are you doing for him?"
|
|
"Or what is he doing for me," replied Barel. "I was going to pick
|
|
up some iron he had promised us. He's late on the payment."
|
|
"I'd have less business with him if I were you," Claywall growled.
|
|
"He's just plain trouble." He emphasized the last word, then his face
|
|
brightened up. "In fact, I have a bit of business I'd like to pursue
|
|
with you. You're Levy, aren't you? The Elder's third son, am I right?"
|
|
"Yes, you are. I believe we've met before." Levy shrugged his
|
|
shoulders, as if to remind Claywall that he was still bound.
|
|
"Indeed, I do remember you. You've done quite a bit of studying,
|
|
under some quite brilliant men, as I recall. Done a thing or two for
|
|
Dargon himself even."
|
|
"I'd be more than willing to discuss it with you, Baron Claywall,"
|
|
Levy replied, quite obviously fidgeting now, "but couldn't we do this as
|
|
free men?"
|
|
Claywall frowned. "I have a right to be suspicious." He stared at
|
|
Levy hard for a moment, then nodded at his men, who stepped forward and
|
|
unbound Levy. Claywall glowered darkly at him while Levy rubbed some
|
|
life back into his hands and arms. Claywall then turned to Gefaron, who
|
|
had by this time joined the growing crowd. "Master Barel will stay with
|
|
us this evening." Levy's eyebrows arched, and he swallowed hard.
|
|
Claywall looked back at him. "Won't you?"
|
|
Once Levy was installed in a secure room high in the keep, Fennla
|
|
cornered her father in the main hall.
|
|
"So you caught him," she said simply.
|
|
"Of course I did. He's a craftsman, not a crafty man," he replied,
|
|
savoring the play on words.
|
|
"So how will you convince him to do it?" she asked.
|
|
"It should be obvious to anyone that he needs to make me happy
|
|
while he's in my ... care." He gave Fennla a meaningful look. "It won't
|
|
take him long to see that I can do a lot before Dargon steps in. He'll
|
|
work for me rather willingly."
|
|
"I don't trust the work of a man coerced," she replied, her tone
|
|
low and steady. "I don't trust *him*. I don't like this."
|
|
"He's smart but not wise, dear Fennla. Leave this to me." Claywall
|
|
turned away, confident. "It'll work out."
|
|
|
|
As was the case for all in the barony, Daruk's life was bound up in
|
|
Baron Claywall's schemes. As the baron had said, it didn't take much to
|
|
induce Levy to work in Clayhold; it was obvious that the entire Barel
|
|
clan was hostage to the man's whims. Similarly, the baron pushed his
|
|
troops to train more vigorously than was warranted by an otherwise calm
|
|
summer. The Carver also was driven, and between Claywall's insistence on
|
|
constant target practice, and the Carver's insistence on other forms of
|
|
training, Daruk and the other archers had little time for anything that
|
|
was not martial.
|
|
Nonetheless, Daruk somehow found time to make his way into the keep
|
|
almost every day on some pretext or other, hoping for a look at the
|
|
beautiful Fennla. His attraction to her was entirely unrequited; she was
|
|
utterly unaware of his existence. Her beauty aside, Daruk himself was
|
|
unsure of exactly why he wanted to see her so much. It wasn't her
|
|
reputed character, to be sure; she and Claywall set the mood for the
|
|
entire holding, lending a chilly air to the otherwise sunny area. Daruk
|
|
had been raised to be fair of word and deed, and had made it his goal to
|
|
embody those ideals. His behavior set him apart at Clayhold. More than
|
|
once he found himself carrying a thankless burden simply because its
|
|
rightful owner knew that Daruk would not refuse to accept it. He had
|
|
long ago accepted that his was a life of service, however, and he
|
|
thrived on it.
|
|
It was on one of these errands that Gefaron hailed him and pressed
|
|
him into service. Daruk found himself hauling boxes up to the second
|
|
floor for a visiting dignitary. One other unlucky archer, Knot by name,
|
|
also ended up playing the porter, along with a number of other servants
|
|
and laborers. As the son of a count, Daruk had a bit more experience in
|
|
the world than some of his companions, and he recognized the arcane
|
|
markings on some of his loads. He didn't recognize the visitor, but he
|
|
was clearly a mage of some sort. Claywall was leaving no stone unturned
|
|
in his quest for power. After many trips up the stairs Daruk was not
|
|
unhappy to find the carts finally empty. The drill grounds were empty,
|
|
the archers gone to eat. The kitchen door was nearby, and Daruk stepped
|
|
in and appropriated a small loaf. He stepped outside to eat it. He
|
|
shared the space with a little kitchen maid, who sat in the dust
|
|
carefully pulling small bits off her own loaf and tucking them into her
|
|
mouth, concentrating on the chewing with intensity. Daruk watched her
|
|
eat, noting the fading bruises on her cheeks and the rips in her only
|
|
garment, a shirt that barely reached past her thin belly. He found it
|
|
hard to guess her age, for although she was as tiny as a toddler, her
|
|
face spoke of more years than her frame. She finished her bread and
|
|
continued to sit there, her face expressionless but her eyes alive with
|
|
interest, following the movements in the courtyard. Daruk tore a chunk
|
|
off his own loaf and bent down, holding it out to her. She flicked quick
|
|
eyes at it, then looked up at him, a startled look on her face. He
|
|
smiled. After a moment she returned the smile, and took his offering.
|
|
"It won't do you any good to fatten her up," a voice behind him
|
|
said. He arose and turned to find Gefaron behind him, also holding a
|
|
loaf. "Unlike Beinison, Baranur does not hold with virgin sacrifices."
|
|
Daruk gave the man a perfunctory salute. "Only the barbarians of
|
|
old did that," he replied, "and they were more likely to sacrifice
|
|
virginity than virgins. Not that there is much difference, I suppose.
|
|
Without her maiden's proof a girl's life isn't worth much." He looked
|
|
down again at the girl, who stared back unabashed.
|
|
Gefaron grunted. "You are still barbarians. You discount half your
|
|
own people just because of their sex." He bit off another bite. "It
|
|
makes you weak. You should learn the lesson of Alanna and Lottio."
|
|
"I don't worship Alanna the Dark."
|
|
"Pity. You could learn from her example. A woman can drive as hard
|
|
as a man when she knows what she wants. That's why we allow our
|
|
daughters to inherit with our sons. You Beinison should too."
|
|
Daruk shook his head, watching the little girl eat. "There are many
|
|
things about both our societies that I would change." He gave the girl
|
|
the rest of his bread. "There are too many who serve because they have
|
|
no choice, and too many who are served just because of who their
|
|
father," he glanced up at Gefaron, "or mother, was." Daruk looked back
|
|
down at the girl. "I do not worship the foolish gods of my people. If
|
|
they do exist, which I doubt, then they are nothing but people grown
|
|
large, with the same evils and weaknesses as anyone else. If something
|
|
is worth worshipping, then it must stand for more than mere pleasure and
|
|
politics. I have sworn to myself that I will only worship that which is
|
|
higher than what I see around me."
|
|
"The word of a southerner," Gefaron sniffed. "Not worth the air it
|
|
blows on."
|
|
Daruk straightened, his brow furrowed. "I keep my word, even to my
|
|
own hurt. Can you say the same of all the men of Baranur?"
|
|
Gefaron took one more bite from his loaf then tossed the rest
|
|
aside. "Men are pigs and women are dogs. Remember that and you will do
|
|
well."
|
|
Behind Daruk came a quiet muttering. He turned to see Knot emerge
|
|
from the keep, his last load delivered. Shaking his head and scowling,
|
|
he headed for the drill grounds. He had only gone a few steps when a
|
|
voice called out from the stairwell.
|
|
"You! Archer!" Fennla emerged from the door and approached Knot,
|
|
whose scowl deepened. "I need supplies carried up to the wall. Come with
|
|
me." She turned and walked off briskly, Knot following behind. Daruk
|
|
watched her go, his eyes taking in the roll of the hips, the set of the
|
|
shoulders, the sway of her hair.
|
|
"You can put away your blade," Gefaron said dryly. "That's one
|
|
sheath it'll never slip into."
|
|
Daruk looked down, frowning. "I'll have you know I never drew it."
|
|
Gefaron snorted. "I don't know why you're looking at her, anyway.
|
|
She's a perfect example of what I'm talking about. Fennla intends to
|
|
have the holding when Claywall is gone, regardless of who she's married
|
|
to or who comes of out of it. No man has any place in her plans, except
|
|
maybe for a roll, and until the baron picks her a husband she'll never
|
|
even get that."
|
|
Daruk looked at him. "I thought you said that men and women inherit
|
|
equally. Why would Claywall care who she beds?"
|
|
"Claywall's grip on his title is weak enough as it is. He doesn't
|
|
want to waste his only heir on some commoner." Gefaron noted the
|
|
puzzlement in Daruk's expression. "Didn't you know? The baron was not
|
|
born a Claywall: his wife was. The baron was born a mere knight, albeit
|
|
one with more than his share of ambition. He managed to turn the Lady's
|
|
eye when she was young, and rode her for all she was worth. The Lady,
|
|
see, she's kind of soft, and not just between the legs, if you know." He
|
|
tapped his temple twice. "The baron married into this holding, and runs
|
|
it like it was his, but he knows his claim is less than tight. The Lady
|
|
ripped delivering Fennla, so she's not going to be whelping any more
|
|
pups for him. So he's keeping the young bitch on a tight leash until she
|
|
gives him a litter he likes. So you can forget getting any of her love.
|
|
The only thing going between her legs is a saddle."
|
|
Daruk's upper lip curled slightly as he listened. "You have a low
|
|
tongue for your office, Gefaron. I'd have expected better, even working
|
|
for a usurper like Claywall."
|
|
Gefaron glowered. "Remember your place, archer, and your tongue. I
|
|
was once a commoner, walking in the dirt like you. But I know how to
|
|
seize an opportunity. Baron Claywall is rising fast, and I intend to
|
|
rise with him. I'll be noble before long, one way or another."
|
|
"You may have a title soon, but that will not make you noble,"
|
|
Daruk said, rising. "You cannot get nobility from marriage, or
|
|
promotion."
|
|
"Ah!" Gefaron smiled unkindly. "We have a dreamer in our midst!
|
|
Tell me more of your wisdom, dreamer!"
|
|
"It doesn't take a wise man to know that you will never be noble
|
|
until you rise above who you are today."
|
|
"And you will lead us into this grace, I suppose?"
|
|
"I can only lead if I seek it myself."
|
|
"So now you would seek to be noble also." Gefaron laughed coldly.
|
|
"You're an idiot. A naive idiot. I'll say this last, and then I expect
|
|
you never to speak to me again unless I speak first. In this life we get
|
|
what we can take for ourselves, nothing more, nothing less. To expect
|
|
anything from anyone other than sheer self-interest is a losing bet."
|
|
With that he turned and walked toward the keep gate.
|
|
Daruk watched him go, and eventually started for the drill grounds.
|
|
After his first step he spied the discarded loaf Gefaron had tossed
|
|
away. Daruk looked back at the kitchen girl, who was standing in her
|
|
tattered shirt, watching him. He picked up the bread, dusted it off, and
|
|
handed it to her.
|
|
|
|
The archer's quarters were made and the firing platforms
|
|
strengthened by the time the next caravan passed through the keep's
|
|
gates. This caravan was much smaller, though not by design. Gefaron
|
|
rushed up, his hands on his head and shock on his face.
|
|
"What happened?" he shouted as guards pulled bodies off the
|
|
blood-streaked wagons.
|
|
"Bandits," grunted the lead driver as he slid off the seat, his
|
|
right arm protecting his left, which was bandaged. "They feathered us
|
|
from the bushes, then toppled the carts and sacked the goods. We killed
|
|
one, but they carted the body off with them."
|
|
"Why didn't they kill you?" demanded Gefaron, facing the man
|
|
angrily.
|
|
"They *did* kill us," snapped the driver, waving his good hand at
|
|
the carnage, "those that they wanted to. Once we were down, they hit the
|
|
goods and ran. They were after plunder, not blood. We just got in the
|
|
way."
|
|
"We hired you to bring us food and cloth," countered Gefaron, "not
|
|
dead bodies. Why didn't you hire guards?!"
|
|
"We did!" shouted the man. "They lie there now!" He pointed at the
|
|
pile of dead.
|
|
Gefaron stepped back, apoplectic. "Pay them for what they have,
|
|
then send them off," he ordered his clerk, who stood by.
|
|
"What?!" The driver lunged at Gefaron, but the guards held him.
|
|
Gefaron ignored the invective that poured out of the driver's mouth as
|
|
he stormed back into the tower. He met Claywall and Fennla coming out.
|
|
"What is it?" demanded Claywall.
|
|
"Bandits. Probably Dross and his men," replied Gefaron. He stared
|
|
out at the shouting merchant. "The fool probably never had a chance."
|
|
"Twice Dross rides my border, and now he hits my cargo. This is too
|
|
much," muttered Claywall. "Order all the patrols doubled, and post extra
|
|
watches. No one goes alone, and each man carries a signal horn. They
|
|
blow at the first sign of anything, clear?" Gefaron nodded, then walked
|
|
off to accomplish the task.
|
|
"Looks like your garden will have to do without you, Fennla,"
|
|
Claywall told his daughter.
|
|
"What!? Why!?"
|
|
"I want you to stay inside the keep from now on."
|
|
"I will not! I can take care of myself!" Her eyes flashed.
|
|
"Nonsense!" snapped Claywall. "They killed half a caravan! No one
|
|
goes out alone!"
|
|
"So I won't be alone!" she replied. "Give me a bodyguard!"
|
|
"I can't!" He spun to face her. "I have no more women -- they're
|
|
all watching your mother and that blasted old wretch you call
|
|
grandmother, and I'll not hire another just so you can stretch your
|
|
legs."
|
|
"So give me one of your men!" she replied, exasperated.
|
|
"Oh, no. No, no, no," he replied, waggling his hands. "It's bad
|
|
enough that I have Dross and Callen sniping at my birth every time I
|
|
turn around, the *last* thing I need is some bastard grandson running
|
|
around here," she gasped in disgust at that, "mucking up the inheritance
|
|
and causing me pain! No, you're going to stay closed until we find the
|
|
right family, and I'll not have the chance of that ruined by some guard
|
|
just so you can get some fresh air!"
|
|
"Father!!" Fennla shouted. "Have you lost your *mind*? I'm
|
|
practically lord here as it is, and do you really think that *I*..."
|
|
"No, no, and don't ask!" he barked, and she shut up. He stared at
|
|
her for a moment, turning away to walk back into the keep. "A bodyguard
|
|
I could live with, but you're not having a man hanging around you with
|
|
nothing to look at but you, and nothing but his piece on his mind!"
|
|
Fennla stared at him, her face red and her fists clenched. She spun
|
|
on her heel, and started off down the corridor, fuming, then paused. She
|
|
cocked her head for a moment, as if listening to his words again, then
|
|
her lips tightened and she headed back out into the courtyard. She
|
|
walked purposefully to where the new archers were training with practice
|
|
swords. As Fennla walked up she passed a servant carrying water. She
|
|
took the servant by the arm.
|
|
"Fetch the surgeon," she told her, then continued up to the
|
|
archers. They came to attention as she approached.
|
|
Daruk couldn't help but stare as she approached. So often he had
|
|
watched in awe as she appeared in the distance, usually with her father,
|
|
but rarely had he gotten close to her, and never this close. Her beauty
|
|
all but took his breath away. He glanced at the other archers to see if
|
|
they also were experiencing such bliss, but most of them were merely
|
|
looking fatigued, sweat dripping off their skin as they stood,
|
|
dust-encrusted and baking in the summer sun.
|
|
"Carver," she called as she approached. The Carver stepped
|
|
respectfully forward and gave a slight bow.
|
|
"I have need of a bodyguard." She looked the archers over. "I'd
|
|
like a volunteer."
|
|
Daruk was stepping forward before the Carver had even turned
|
|
around. "Does anyone want to volunteer for bodyguard duty?" Carver
|
|
asked, his eyes falling on Daruk.
|
|
"I'll do it, Carver," Daruk replied. He looked around. None of the
|
|
others had stepped forward. His heart thrilled when he realized the job
|
|
was his by default.
|
|
Fennla looked the man over almost pityingly. "It's not going to be
|
|
an easy job," she remarked coldly. "It will require great personal
|
|
sacrifice." She frowned slightly. "You may even have to give your life
|
|
for it."
|
|
Daruk's chest lifted more than slightly. "I'll do it, Milady."
|
|
She looked around at the other archers. None moved forward -- in
|
|
fact several were regarding her with looks of disdain. She had never
|
|
really spent much time around the Beinison, and now she had even less
|
|
desire to. Not that she worried about their feelings for her; they were
|
|
mere soldiers, and would do as they were ordered.
|
|
"It would seem that you have an easy choice, Carver," she remarked,
|
|
surveying the group.
|
|
"Aye, so it seems," agreed the Carver. His eyebrows lifted slightly
|
|
as the surgeon joined them.
|
|
"Please follow me," Fennla said, and turned toward the nearby
|
|
smithy, a chamber built into the wall of the keep. The Carver motioned
|
|
to the other archers to resume practice, and he, the surgeon, and Daruk
|
|
followed Fennla into the dim room.
|
|
"Leave, and close the door behind you," Fennla commanded the smith
|
|
as they entered. He did so with a curious glance at the foursome. The
|
|
forge burned brightly, and skylights further illuminated the room.
|
|
Fennla stepped over to a table that held a number of swords recently
|
|
forged.
|
|
"What is your name, archer?" she asked, lifting one of the heavy
|
|
blades.
|
|
"Daruk, Milady."
|
|
"Will you swear an oath of fealty to me, in addition to any oath
|
|
you have to my father?"
|
|
"I swear, Milady."
|
|
"And will you swear that you will protect me, and give your life
|
|
for me, if necessary?"
|
|
"I swear it, Milady." Daruk's heart was thudding in his chest for
|
|
excitement and joy.
|
|
She looked at him, one eyebrow canted. "Your word and your oath?"
|
|
"On my honor."
|
|
"You really want this, don't you, Daruk?" Fennla's voice held
|
|
almost a note of wonder.
|
|
"Yes, Milady."
|
|
"Then you will be my bodyguard," she replied, turning around, blade
|
|
held firmly in her hands, "once you are gelded."
|
|
There was a pregnant pause.
|
|
"What?" asked Daruk, incredulous.
|
|
"Milady ..." the Carver started, shock on his face.
|
|
"My father will allow me a bodyguard," Fennla interrupted, "but I
|
|
may not have a man in my bedchamber." She stared into Daruk's eyes. "You
|
|
swore you wanted to be my bodyguard, that you would give your life for
|
|
me. Do you take that back now?"
|
|
Daruk stared back, fear in his eyes. He swallowed hard.
|
|
"Because," Fennla continued, sensing Daruk's dilemma, pressing it,
|
|
"I cannot have a man guard me who cannot even keep his own word."
|
|
Daruk stood, frozen, his eyes wide. He opened his mouth and his
|
|
lips moved silently. The Carver looked at him, uncertain. Finally Daruk
|
|
found his voice. "I swore."
|
|
Fennla looked around, her eyes settling on the table behind her.
|
|
She stepped to one side and pushed the clutter back, exposing the
|
|
corner.
|
|
"Lay your parts up here," she instructed Daruk. She turned to the
|
|
surgeon. "Fetch your kit to bind the wound."
|
|
"But Milady, this is not ..." started the surgeon, but she raised
|
|
the blade to his face.
|
|
"I did not ask your opinion," she stated firmly, in a voice very
|
|
like her father's. "Do as I said."
|
|
The man stumbled off through the door and ran for the keep. Daruk
|
|
stood, paralyzed, Fennla's words, and his own, ringing in his ears. The
|
|
Carver, a man of the sword and used to blood, stepped up to Fennla, his
|
|
hands clasped in supplication.
|
|
"Milady, be reasonable. Surely there is something, some other way
|
|
to do this," he asked, his voice even.
|
|
"Such as?"
|
|
"Well," stammered the Carver, "we could set up a rotation, or, or
|
|
assign you a, a couple of men, or ..."
|
|
"We are short-handed as it is, Carver," she explained, "and my
|
|
father has a campaign to plan. He cannot spare but one person for me,
|
|
and I am certainly not going to wait for a woman to be found who can
|
|
safeguard my life outside these walls. No, I need one man, and I need
|
|
him trained and strong, and I need him *safe* and I need him *now*. And
|
|
Daruk wants the job, don't you, Daruk?"
|
|
"But that was before he knew ..."
|
|
"I gave my word," Daruk replied in a dull, leaden voice.
|
|
"Shut up, fool!" snapped the Carver. "Milady ..."
|
|
The Carver continued to argue his case, but Daruk was not
|
|
listening. He slowly undid the knot that held up his trousers. Once
|
|
free, the loose clothes slipped easily to the floor, exposing the items
|
|
in question. Daruk cradled his balls in his hands, trying to imagine
|
|
them gone. The Carver saw this and snatched the trousers up, lifting
|
|
them back into place.
|
|
"Now wait just a moment," he started, but just then the surgeon
|
|
reappeared, kit in hand, his face gray.
|
|
"Enough, Carver. Let's get to it," Fennla commanded. The Carver
|
|
looked in her eyes and saw determination. He looked in Daruk's eyes, and
|
|
saw both resignation, and joy. He looked in the surgeon's eyes, and saw
|
|
only terror. He let the trousers fall, and stepped back.
|
|
"Place them here," Fennla commanded, tapping the blade on the
|
|
corner of the table.
|
|
"Milady, there are better ways to do this," stammered the surgeon.
|
|
"The proper way ..."
|
|
"Silence, or you'll be next," she hissed, anger in her eyes. She
|
|
turned and watched as Daruk stepped over the trousers, and positioned
|
|
himself at the table. He gingerly laid his testicles on the wood,
|
|
pressing his male organ up out of the way against his belly.
|
|
"No, all of it -- my father will allow nothing," she ordered. Daruk
|
|
shot her a wide-eyed look, then dropped his hands to his side, allowing
|
|
the penis to fall. Fennla glanced at the Carver. "Hold him."
|
|
The Carver hesitated a moment, then resolve entered his eyes, and
|
|
he came at Daruk hard, pinning his arms behind him and pressing him
|
|
against the table.
|
|
"Hey," Daruk said, indignant, as if to protest and profess his
|
|
willingness.
|
|
*THUNK*
|
|
The deed was done in a stroke. The heavy blade cleft cord, tissue,
|
|
and skin, pinning the injured cluster to the wood. Daruk and the Carver
|
|
staggered back, trailing blood. Daruk's legs gave out, and the Carver
|
|
eased him to the floor.
|
|
"Milady," whispered Daruk before his eyes rolled back in his head
|
|
and he passed out in shock.
|
|
"Bind his wound," Fennla ordered. The two men closed in over the
|
|
bleeding archer, wielding bandages. She turned to the table, where the
|
|
blade still stuck. The severed genitals, more crushed than cut, pressed
|
|
tight against the blade, the pinched member erect in a sad mockery of
|
|
life. She wrenched the blade from the wood and they collapsed in a
|
|
crimson pool. She set the sword down and lifted the cluster by its
|
|
bifurcated foreskin, examining it carefully. Satisfied as to its
|
|
completeness, she turned and headed for the door.
|
|
"Take him to my chambers when you're finished," she admonished. The
|
|
surgeon, stooped by the fire with a hot iron in his hands, merely
|
|
nodded. She closed the door behind her. As she walked away she wrung the
|
|
last of the blood from the items. Behind, in the smithy, there erupted a
|
|
howl of agony. The archers, startled out of their routine, ran for the
|
|
small room. She continued on.
|
|
Fennla walked the corridors to her father's study. The door was
|
|
open, and she walked calmly past the guards to her father's desk. He did
|
|
not look up from the document he was writing. She dropped the severed
|
|
genitals on the parchment. He exploded back in shock and terror.
|
|
"Ol's balls, woman!" he bellowed.
|
|
"Actually, they came from one of your archers," she explained
|
|
calmly as he clawed his way up and out of his chair, his eyes fixed on
|
|
the wet mass.
|
|
"You whore," he exclaimed quietly, horror on his face. "You
|
|
wouldn't dare."
|
|
"You said I could have a bodyguard, as long as it wasn't a man."
|
|
She looked him in the eyes, her gaze unwavering. "Well, he's not a man
|
|
anymore."
|
|
"You bitch." His voice was rising in volume as the shock left him.
|
|
"For this you ruined one of my men, one of my prized archers?!"
|
|
"Ah," she exclaimed, rolling her eyes, "only a man would consider
|
|
this ruined. It's not like I cut off his fingers."
|
|
Claywall came round the table, eyes locked with hers. "You always
|
|
have to be pushing, just a little bit more, don't you? You always have
|
|
to be grabbing just a bit more control."
|
|
"What else would you want me to do, father?" she asked, not giving
|
|
an inch. "How else have you taught me to rule?"
|
|
His face hovered a mere fingerbreadth from hers, his breath
|
|
caressing the fine hairs on her upper lip. "You want a bodyguard? Fine.
|
|
You've got one now. If I ever see you without him I swear I will hang
|
|
you." He drew a ragged breath. "He will sleep with you. He will eat with
|
|
you. He will bathe with you. He will *shit* with you. He will be a
|
|
second skin to you and you will *never*, *ever*, be out of his sight. Do
|
|
you understand, my dear daughter?"
|
|
"Once he's up and about, that shouldn't be a problem."
|
|
Claywall's words almost choked him. "You're just sorry it wasn't me
|
|
you shortened."
|
|
Her eyes never flinched, never wavered. Her tone was smooth as
|
|
milk, sweet as honey. "I'm glad you could see things my way, father. So
|
|
nice to talk to you."
|
|
Claywall's face flushed red and his brows knit. The only sound was
|
|
his uneven breath. They stood nose to nose for a long moment, then he
|
|
shoved her aside and stormed out. She straightened up and smoothed her
|
|
dress, smiling. She casually retrieved her bloody tokens and walked off
|
|
past the silent, trembling guards.
|
|
Three bells passed before she returned to her quarters to find her
|
|
normally smooth bed roiled by the quavering body of the gelded archer.
|
|
Her white sheets were stained with his sweat and blood. He was moaning
|
|
quietly, his hands clasped over his vacant groin, his eyes closed with
|
|
pain and loss. She was actually unprepared for the sight; it took her
|
|
aback a bit.
|
|
"Oh, this won't do," she said aloud. "Here, archer," she knelt on
|
|
the bed beside him, setting her hand on his shoulder. "I need you to get
|
|
off my bed." He stopped shaking and slowly sat up. "I should have told
|
|
them to bring you up here after you've recovered from the operation. Why
|
|
don't you go down to the infirmary? Do you know where it is?"
|
|
"Yes, Milady," came the quiet reply. He slowly stood up and began
|
|
shuffling for the door.
|
|
"Oh, what is your name?" she asked.
|
|
"D-daruk, Milady," came the soft reply.
|
|
"Good, Daruk. Go on." He nodded, and shuffled off, closing the door
|
|
behind him slowly. She shook her head as he went, then surveyed her
|
|
ruined bed. Shaking her head some more, she took and shook the bell to
|
|
summon her chambermaid.
|
|
|
|
The next day Fennla was awakened by a quiet knock on her door. She
|
|
arose, wrapping her robes around her. She opened the door and peered out
|
|
inquisitively. To her surprise, there stood Daruk.
|
|
"You're up!" she exclaimed.
|
|
"I'm here to serve you," he replied. His voice was stronger than
|
|
when she had heard it last, but there was a breathy quality to it, as if
|
|
his breath was too hot to contain.
|
|
"Are you able?" she asked, noting his stance. He looked as if it
|
|
were requiring effort to stay up.
|
|
"The surgeon has stitched ... my wound ..." He spoke these words
|
|
with great control, his eyes not meeting hers. His hands were pressed
|
|
tight against his sides, and he stood at attention, although painfully
|
|
so. "A soldier must be at his duties as soon as he is able."
|
|
"Indeed," Fennla replied, shaking her head at the whole male
|
|
gender. "So I've been told." She surveyed his attire, noting a certain
|
|
limpness at the crotch. "Let down your trousers for me."
|
|
A flash of pain and anger sparked in his eyes. "Please, Milady. It
|
|
is not proper for a lady to be looking at a mere archer so."
|
|
"Oh, please," she replied, stepping outside into the hall, "as if I
|
|
don't anyway. It was proper enough when I cut you short yesterday. Off
|
|
with them. I want to see the stitches."
|
|
His lips went tight and his face went red, but his hands moved to
|
|
his waist and his trousers hit the floor. Fennla bent down to examine
|
|
the wound. She unwrapped the bandage and traced the sewn edges with her
|
|
finger. The surgeon had cut away the hair, and now Daruk's loins were as
|
|
smooth as those of the kitchen girl. The surgeon had drawn the remaining
|
|
skin together around what seemed to be the protruding stub of a thin
|
|
bone. A closer look showed it to be a boiled feather quill. Fennla noted
|
|
that his flesh was very warm, almost hot to the touch. As she crouched
|
|
there, the chambermaid stepped out of the apartment.
|
|
"Och, Milady," she gasped, her hand to her mouth, "isn't it a bit
|
|
early for that?" Her eyes widened when she saw the vacancy in Daruk's
|
|
loins. "Oh, so he's the one you did, is he?"
|
|
"Yes, I'm checking to make sure I got it all," Fennla replied,
|
|
oblivious to Daruk's deepening shame and embarrassment.
|
|
"So this is your Lottio," the maid said, getting down beside Fennla
|
|
and peering at Daruk's wound.
|
|
"Lottio?"
|
|
"You know, from that old story. Wanted to show pure intention, so
|
|
he sent his bits to his lover in a box, but she turned out to be a
|
|
goddess, and so she put them back on for him. Alanna the Dark, I think
|
|
it was."
|
|
"Never heard it," Fennla said, straightened up. As she did she
|
|
handed Daruk the top of his trousers. "It's quite clean, then. I expect
|
|
you can get started immediately," she said, fixing her gaze directly on
|
|
him as he fumbled with his knot, his eyes averted. "I'm planning to ride
|
|
out to my garden today. You will accompany me." Daruk murmured something
|
|
affirmative, not quite looking at her as she stepped back into her room.
|
|
She peeled off her robe and handed it to the chambermaid. "Now come in
|
|
here and close the door." When she saw his startled look her brows
|
|
furrowed. "Well? Step to it! You're a eunuch now; start acting like one!
|
|
I didn't cut your prick off just so I could pickle it!" She turned and
|
|
walked away from him, leaving him to close the door, sealing away from
|
|
the world his pain and shame.
|
|
Once Fennla had bathed and dressed she and Daruk went to the
|
|
stables for two horses. She noted with irritation that Daruk seemed to
|
|
grow more distant, slower to respond, less sure with his actions. She
|
|
grew impatient, snapping at him, ordering him to hurry. He seemed
|
|
oblivious to her concerns. The two were finally saddled and riding out
|
|
when Daruk just folded in the saddle, pitching off onto the dusty
|
|
courtyard. Fennla wheeled her horse about, startled in spite of herself.
|
|
She sat there, unsure what to do. Daruk lay unmoving. "Is he dead?" she
|
|
wondered "What should I do?" She felt uneasy at the thought, certain
|
|
that Claywall would have a fit if Daruk died because of her initiative.
|
|
The surgeon came running across the courtyard and placed his hand
|
|
on Daruk's chest. He spun to face her, furious.
|
|
"What's he doing out? What did you do?" he demanded.
|
|
"I did nothing," she protested, not feeling the certainty she
|
|
forced into her voice. "He came to my door. We were going riding."
|
|
"You can't just castrate a man and expect him to walk away from it
|
|
like it was a simple fall!" he shouted at her. "I've ordered him to bed!
|
|
He has a fever! He could die from this!" Almost as if to contradict him,
|
|
Daruk stirred, trying to rise. The surgeon lifted him up, half carrying
|
|
him. "I'm sending for Taithleach." Without waiting for her reply he
|
|
began to drag Daruk back toward the infirmary.
|
|
|
|
Taithleach arrived within a few menes. Fennla walked into the
|
|
infirmary as he completed examining Daruk.
|
|
"Are you the Lady Claywall?" he asked somberly, his tone accusing
|
|
and condemning. Fennla nodded, hesitant to reply. Her father's military
|
|
buildup had resulted in a number of rather severe injuries, and Claywall
|
|
had recently retained the healer because of his renown and expertise. It
|
|
cost quite a bit, however, and Fennla had never liked the man. He seemed
|
|
far too haughty, and now her involvement in Daruk's predicament made her
|
|
feel a surprising and unaccustomed defensiveness. The healer glanced
|
|
about, then looked askance at Fennla and the surgeon. "Did you keep
|
|
Lottio's Proof?"
|
|
The two silently turned to stare at a small crock on a nearby
|
|
table. Following their gaze, Taithleach peered inside, then carefully
|
|
fished out Daruk's severed genitals. He examined them carefully, the
|
|
preservative brine running down his wrist.
|
|
"Not quite a godly set, but quite nice." He cast a disapproving eye
|
|
at Fennla. "But then there are no goddesses here. Certainly no weeping
|
|
Alanna." Ignoring the angry huff from Fennla, Taithleach carefully laid
|
|
the cluster back in the brine, then turned to the waiting pair. "I am
|
|
able to heal him, but he will not be able to perform as a man for a
|
|
year."
|
|
"You mean ..." the surgeon began, but Fennla cut him off.
|
|
"No!" she ordered. "I don't *want* you to heal him like that! He's
|
|
*supposed* to be a eunuch!" She glowered at the healer.
|
|
"To protect your cosmic virtue, I suppose," he stated evenly,
|
|
meeting her stare.
|
|
She shoved her face into his. "Like Lottio, he offered it. Unlike
|
|
Alanna, I accepted."
|
|
"The healing magics are not always predictable," he intoned.
|
|
"Sometimes things grow back on their own."
|
|
"Then I'll cut them off again!" she thundered, on the edge of
|
|
hysterics. She felt her world slipping out of her control, and she
|
|
needed to get it back. She took a few deep breaths, staring into
|
|
Taithleach's cold, gray eyes. "Look, you're one of the best healers
|
|
around. You're *supposed* to know what you're doing." She noted with
|
|
approval the glint of anger in his eyes. She felt her grip coming back.
|
|
"I want you to heal him as a eunuch, so that it can't grow back and
|
|
won't grow back." She studied his expression. "Now, can you do that or
|
|
can't you?"
|
|
He locked eyes with her. "I can do that, Milady."
|
|
It was she who looked away. "Then do so. Take the fever from him,
|
|
along with any hope of his ever being a man again." She looked down at
|
|
Daruk, stirring fitfully in a fevered sleep. "I need him ready as soon
|
|
as possible."
|
|
|
|
Six days passed, and Fennla was watching out the window of her
|
|
room. It overlooked the courtyard, where her father and Gefaron were
|
|
gathered with a small crowd, watching Levy Barel.
|
|
"... guest, but I really do need to be concerned that I'm getting
|
|
something useful from all that food I've been feeding you," Claywall was
|
|
admonishing, in what seemed like a genuinely concerned tone. "Perhaps
|
|
you could show us just what it is you've been working on?"
|
|
Barel had been housed in a hastily erected barn, built against the
|
|
outer wall of the courtyard. He stood now in front of its slatty door.
|
|
"It hardly seems like a day since I've arrived to test your
|
|
hospitality," Levy replied in an arch tone of voice, "and I feel like my
|
|
labors here have barely begun." He paused for effect. "But even so I had
|
|
expected that you would want to see some of my work, so I have arranged
|
|
a demonstration." He turned toward the barn, then paused and turned
|
|
back. "Do you have some small children here? I need a few for my
|
|
demonstration."
|
|
"Children?" scoffed Claywall. "I've asked for some engines of war!
|
|
I know that children can be destructive, but how do you expect to use
|
|
them, throw them at the enemy?" His entourage erupted in callous
|
|
laughter at his humor, and Levy returned a chill smile.
|
|
"Not at all, sir. I just need them to show something, for a
|
|
contrast, as you will. Surely a holding as large and prosperous as yours
|
|
has a few children around?"
|
|
Claywall motioned and an aide gathered up six of the watching
|
|
youngsters, herding them toward Levy. He took them in tow, instructing
|
|
them quietly as he led them into his workshop.
|
|
"See to it they're well cared for," called Claywall after them, to
|
|
the appreciative chuckles of his men. They waited a mene or so, before
|
|
the children came out, carrying long bundles of rope arranged in
|
|
peculiar ways. Levy followed them, directing them to the side of his
|
|
barn, where two uprights stood, with a large, square stone between them.
|
|
As the crowd watched, Levy had the children lay out the rope in front of
|
|
either post, reaching out into the courtyard. He passed some of the rope
|
|
through several large iron eyes set in the top of the stone, and then up
|
|
through two large iron loops affixed to the tops of the uprights. Once
|
|
he was satisfied with his arrangement, he looked over his little
|
|
helpers. He picked out the littlest one, the kitchen maid.
|
|
"So, little one, do you think you're strong?" he asked her, loud
|
|
enough so everyone could hear.
|
|
"Yes," she replied shyly, embarrased to be in the center of
|
|
attention.
|
|
"Do you think you could lift that stone for us?" Levy asked,
|
|
pointing to the large rock.
|
|
"No," she replied immediately, grinning in spite of herself at such
|
|
a silly question. The people laughed.
|
|
"Then I'll tell you what," Levy replied. "Go to that pile there,"
|
|
he pointed at a pile of rounded rocks by the wall, "and bring me a good
|
|
rock. Not too big, not too small, one that's just right."
|
|
She nodded timidly and dashed off to get a stone. The crowd watched
|
|
with interest, and Levy turned to address them.
|
|
"You see, she is stronger than she thinks she is."
|
|
The girl returned, small hands wrapped around a double-fist sized
|
|
rock. She dropped it at Levy's feet. He did a comic dance of avoidance,
|
|
drawing laughter from the crowd.
|
|
"Everyone wants to throw stones at me," he commented. Claywall
|
|
didn't laugh, but his eyes twinkled. "All right, my little one, take
|
|
that rock, and put it," Barel lifted a woven pouch at the end of the
|
|
laid-out ropes, "in here." She did so, and he transferred the pouch to
|
|
her. "Now, I want you to hold this stone, just so, and I want you to
|
|
walk backwards, away from that big rock, straight?" She nodded, and when
|
|
he released her, she did just that.
|
|
Fennla watched, intrigued, as the girl backed slowly away, hands
|
|
around the rock. The ropes, thick twine really, trailed her, and Fennla
|
|
could see now that they passed through an intricate arrangement of small
|
|
wooden holders before looping up to the posts and then down to the rock.
|
|
The girl kept backing up, and the ropes drew taut. She continued, and
|
|
Fennla gasped as the great stone began to move.
|
|
Every eye in the courtyard was watching as the little girl, who
|
|
weighted no more than a medium sized dog, walked backward and lifted a
|
|
block of rock that weighed more than a man. She continued backward,
|
|
drawing the crowd with her until it formed a corridor for her to move
|
|
through. Finally Levy motioned for her to stop, and the crowd broke into
|
|
applause.
|
|
"Well, my little giant," Levy told her, walking back to where she
|
|
stood, "you are a lot stronger than you think, aren't you?" She nodded,
|
|
beaming. "Well, I think you've done enough work for now. You can just
|
|
drop that little rock."
|
|
She did, but the rock didn't quite fall. Drawn by the pull on the
|
|
cord, it bounced off the ground and whipped up into the air, drawn by
|
|
the attached cord and the suspended block, which in turn fell to the
|
|
ground. Even Fennla, in the tower, could feel the thud of its impact. A
|
|
moment later, the small stone smacked into the stone keep wall, and
|
|
shattered into gravel. The crowd burst into applause. Levy turned to
|
|
Claywall.
|
|
"That is what I have been doing," he said, lips tight.
|
|
"Then I think I'll keep feeding you," grinned Claywall, and walked
|
|
away.
|
|
|
|
Fennla turned away from the window and returned to where Daruk sat,
|
|
his hands carefully folded over his bow. "You should have seen that,
|
|
archer. Barel had made an engine that can smash rock when wound by a
|
|
mere girl. Think what else he could make for us."
|
|
"Barel is a very clever man," Daruk replied neutrally. "Your father
|
|
would do well to watch him very carefully."
|
|
"Oh, he does, he does," she assured him. She returned to her
|
|
interrupted wardrobe, allowing the chambermaid to hold the garments as
|
|
she stepped into them. "Are you sure you're quite ready to ride with
|
|
me?" she asked, eyeing him carefully. "I can't have another incident
|
|
like the last time."
|
|
"I am quite well now, Milady," Daruk replied, his eyes never
|
|
leaving her. "The healer is quite skilled."
|
|
She noted his gaze. "Do you miss them?" she asked.
|
|
"Yes, I do," he replied frankly, understanding her question. "More
|
|
than you could know, as a woman. But," he added quickly, "I miss my
|
|
father and my home as well, and I left them gladly, to serve you."
|
|
"And you do serve me well, archer," she continued, shrugging on her
|
|
blouse. "Today we will ride out to my garden, after I have tested your
|
|
archery skills. Do you feel ready?"
|
|
"Yes, Milady."
|
|
Fennla smoothed the fine fabric, dismissing the chambermaid to
|
|
return to the elder lady's side. She turned to assess herself in the
|
|
mirror, then headed for the door.
|
|
"Come, archer."
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
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