textfiles/magazines/DARGONZINE/dargonz.151.txt

  DDDDD                              ZZZZZZ                //
  D    D  AAAA RRR  GGGG OOOO NN  N      Z  I NN  N EEEE  ||
  D     D A  A R  R G    O  O N N N     Z   I N N N E     || Volume 15
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
  D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Number  1
  DDDDD   A  A R  R GGGG OOOO N  NN  ZZZZZZ I N  NN EEEE  ||
                                                           \\
                                                             \
========================================================================
 DargonZine                                     Distributed:   3/9/2002
 Volume 15, Number 1                            Circulation:        737
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Baern and the Magic Ball     Dave Fallon            Janis 17, 1018
 The Measure of His Love 2    Jim Owens              Naia, 1007

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

 DargonZine 15-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2002 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>. All rights reserved.
 All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
 and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
 without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

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

     Well, I have to tell you, it's good to be back! For those of you
who didn't notice, it's been eleven weeks since our last issue came out,
back on December 21st. That's the longest lag we've had between issues
since 1996!
     Well, it's been an eventful three months, I must say. During the
last portion of 2001, we'd run out of stories to print, so we weren't
able to put out as many issues as we wanted, nor as frequently as we
would have liked. Then, over the holidays, we took our usual end-of-year
hiatus to step back and look at our goals for the coming year. And just
as soon as we got through that, we suffered a catastrophic hard drive
crash that made it impossible to put out issues until now.
     But now the goalsetting is done, the pipeline of submissions is
looking much healthier, our hardware has been replaced, and our files
restored, so we're ready to get back to work printing stories for you!
     But before I let you jump into the issue, let me tell you about a
couple other changes that also took place while we were away.
     First, there have been some great enhancements to the Web site. Our
"New Readers' Introduction to Dargon" page has been completely
rewritten, making it more organized and more up-to-date. And our new
"Map Room" page features five brand new maps, which are available both
as flat images as well as Javascript-based annotated versions.
     Most of those enhancements were driven by Carlo Samson, our
longtime illustrator and cartographer, who joined the project way back
in 1986. Unfortunately, Carlo recently decided to move on, and we wish
him lots of success in his future endeavors. We'll be trying to find
other sources of illustrations for future issues.
     Finally, you may notice that as of this issue, we have a new email
address: <dargon@dargonzine.org>. This long-overdue change will allow us
to have a single email address that won't have to be altered every time
we change Internet service providers.
     That's all the news for this issue, save for celebrating the fact
that this is the first issue in our 18th season online. As you can see,
we've had some ups and downs in the recent past, but we fully plan to
continue our mission of helping aspiring writers develop their craft,
and sharing the results with you.
     This issue pairs up one of our founders, Jim Owens, with our newest
writer, Dave Fallon. It's very fulfilling to be able to reward a new
writer's enthusiasm and hard work by publishing his or her first story
in DargonZine. Dave's been great to work with, and he brings a lot of
energy to the group. His "Baern and the Magic Ball" is paired up with
the conclusion of Jim Owens' fascinating "The Measure of His Love",
Jim's 22nd story to appear in DargonZine. I'm sure you'll enjoy them
both.
     And rest assured that you won't have to wait three months for
DargonZine 15-2 to arrive! We've already begun production, and expect to
distribute the issue in early April. It will feature a major new work
from P. Atchley, and the wonderful conclusion of Victor Cardoso's "Jakob
Sings of Monstrous Things". So we'll see you again in just a couple
weeks. Or, as they say in Dargon, "sennights"!

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

                        Baern and the Magic Ball
                             by Dave Fallon
                         <dfallon23@yahoo.com>
                             Janis 17, 1018

     G'veldi carefully guided her girth between the heavy tables in
Belisandra's quiet main room. Over seven months pregnant, every step she
took felt like a thousand. Her feet ached terribly despite the expensive
soft slippers her husband, Nicholas, had bought her, and her back felt
her newly gained weight with a dull fire. Carrying a comfortable chair,
the young woman made her way towards the large fireplace in the back of
the room.
     There were no regular patrons in the tavern this day, what with the
storm raging since before dawn. Even now, though it was only barely past
the first night bell, the sky outside was as dark as midnight and the
heavy snow, still falling with a fierce vigor, threatened to collapse
many roofs and damage the docks. It had only been a bell and a half ago
that the snow had let up enough for people to begin cleaning up. Most of
the local men and women hale enough to help were busy knocking snow off
of roofs or shoveling it from doorways and the docks. G'veldi, wishing
to help out as best she could despite her physical limitations, had
eagerly volunteered to watch some of the neighborhood children.
     In a rough circle around the fireplace in the rear of the tavern,
the twelve children lay huddled in blankets. Many of them had sniffles
and coughs, and G'veldi knew that cold-wrought sickness in children,
apart from making them miserable, could be very deadly if they were not
kept warm and dry. So, with as much tenderness as she could muster, she
had gotten each of them a blanket from the storage room and had given
them each a cup of mulled wine and hot porridge to eat while she tidied
up the tavern. Now, as she sat down gingerly and tossed another log on
the fire, she prepared to watch over them until the townsfolk returned
from their labors.
     G'veldi had always considered herself a kind and caring woman, and
she knew that many a patron had loved her from afar as much for her
tenderness as for her beauty. But still the prospect of being a mother
frightened her a little. Nicholas had often told her that she got all
the practice she needed the way she mothered some of the patrons who
drank too far in excess, but she knew that actual children were another
matter entirely. Now, as she watched the children around her, she felt
that fear rise up again. She couldn't make them feel any better than she
already had, and so she really didn't know what else to do from here.
They lay chatting with each other, but their discomfort was obvious by
their hacking coughs and constant sniffs.
     One of the children, Caitlin, was regarding G'veldi from her
blankets. The daughter of G'veldi's friends, Katherine and Sven, Caitlin
had just had her third birthday and was bursting with curiosity about
everything. She was fascinated with G'veldi's pregnancy and was
constantly staring at her large belly. For herself, G'veldi didn't mind
the interest, but she wasn't always sure how to answer the young girl.
She smiled at her now and waited for the slew of questions that would
inevitably follow.
     "Aunty 'Veldi," Caitlin said with a cough. "How'd the baby get in
your belly?"
     While the question didn't completely take G'veldi by surprise, she
worried over the answer. She didn't think it was wrong to be honest with
children about where babies came from, but she also didn't think it was
appropriate for her to explain the details to her friend's daughter. So
instead, she simply answered, "Why, it was magic, honey."
     Caitlin's little face screwed up in an angry pout. "Magic," she
said, indignantly. "Magic doesn't happen to ordinary people. It happens
to kings and wizards."
     G'veldi frowned at the little girl. Three years old and she already
knew when someone was trying to avoid answering the question. G'veldi's
mind raced as she thought of what to tell the child. "Well," she said,
opting to change the subject, "obviously you've never heard of Baern."
     Caitlin's frown vanished and her eyes sparkled with curiosity. Many
of the other children turned in their blankets to watch also. "No,"
Caitlin responded. "What's Baern?"
     "Baern," G'veldi smiled now as the idea for a story took shape in
her mind, "was a young boy who thought that magic never happened to
ordinary people, just like you do. But that was before he was given a
magic ball." Now she had all of the children's rapt attention. Shifting
slightly in her chair to find the most comfortable spot, she spoke in a
voice both deep and rich, like the voices she had heard bards use when
telling their stories, "Listen, then, children. I'm going to tell you
the tale of Baern and the Magic Ball ..."

     Baern was a quite ordinary boy. He lived a quite ordinary life in a
quite ordinary small town far far away. In the summer, he and his
friends would race through the dirt streets. They would shout and call,
leap and run, always looking for fun. They might find it playing tag in
the alleys or watching the farmers lead oxen and horses in the fields.
Or they would catch crickets in the gullies or watch for hawks on the
wing over the nearby forest. Every day was different, but never did
Baern or any of his friends see anything magic. Baern knew about it, but
felt that only wizards and kings ever saw magic in their lives.
     One day, as the troop of running lads passed through the streets of
the town, Baern noticed an old woman walking alone amidst the mid-day
traffic. She was carrying a heavy satchel over one shoulder and a stout
walking stick, which she used gingerly with every step. With her
beak-like nose, bent posture and heavy threadbare cowl, she looked like
a hoary old bird.
     Baern paused in the street and watched the lady with a strange
fascination, letting his friends race ahead without him. There was
nothing very remarkable about her, but for some reason she captivated
him, and when she paused to put down her satchel and wipe the sweat from
her forehead, he came over to her. "Would you like some help carrying
that?" he asked.
     Now, Baern was not known to be so bold, especially around
strangers, so his face immediately went red as she regarded him with a
kindly gaze. "Oh, you are such a dear," she said, "but it's a long way.
I'm going to board a caravan across town." Her voice was crisp and soft
like dried wheat falling. Up close, Baern could see that she had eyes
like brown berries, almost perfectly round in her wrinkled face.
     "I don't mind, honest," he said. He could not figure out why he had
offered to help this woman, but when she agreed he took up the heavy bag
and trotted along beside her, glad to have a mission to take him away
from his embarrassment. As they walked, the woman asked about the town
and events of the past year. Baern answered eagerly, though he thought
it strange that neither he nor the lady offered introductions. When at
last they had reached the caravan, the old woman turned to him and
smiled, taking back her bag.
     "You have done me a kindness, lad. And in turn I will do you a
kindness." She opened her bag carefully and hunched over it, as if to
conceal its contents from any wandering eyes. From its depths, she drew
out a leather ball, stuffed to the point of stiffness, but with enough
yield to make it the perfect kick-ball. She looked at it for a moment,
then handed it to Baern. "This is no ordinary ball," she said.
     Baern looked it over and saw that it was indeed very well crafted,
not something an apprentice leather tanner would have carelessly sewn
together just to give the local children something to occupy their time.
No, this leather was rich and dark, and recently oiled to give it a soft
texture. The thread woven through it was a pale white, and looked like
nothing so much as a string of bright silver winding itself through the
contrasting darkness.
     Baern thanked the woman and turned to go, but she put a hand out to
restrain him. "This is no ordinary ball," she repeated, and her hand on
his shoulder suddenly felt like a great weight. "It is magic. I'm giving
it to you as a kindness but also as a responsibility." As she looked
down her sharp nose at the boy, her deep brown eyes seemed to bore into
him. "Take great care never to lose this ball."
     Flinching in sudden fright, Baern pulled away. The old woman let
him go, but stood still, watching him as he retreated hesitantly.
Slowly, and with great care, she bent and picked up her satchel and
staff. Coming upright once again, she gazed calmly at Baern and said, in
a soft voice so that only he could hear in the crowded street, "Take
care, Baern." And with that, she turned and marched across the street.
     Baern watched the bent old figure disappear into one of the wagons,
then he frowned down at the ball. "Crazy," he murmured aloud. Everyone
knew magic didn't happen to ordinary people, least of all young boys and
old women. Still ... As Baern stared at the toy in his hands, the
leather surface seemed to swirl in the sunlight, like a thick broth
being stirred.
     Intrigued with the illusion, the boy tried staring harder at the
ball when he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He jumped and yelled, then
turned to see the laughter of his friends all around him. Collin, the
boy who had startled him, spoke through his giggles, "Where have you
been, Baern? Aslin Hemdrel just kissed Gaely in the town square in front
of everyone! We were all there and saw it!" Suddenly, he noticed the
ball in Baern's hands. "Hey, where'd you get that?"
     The other boys crowded around to get a better look, and Baern
explained to them briefly, "I helped an old lady with her bag and she
gave me this." He handed it to Collin.
     "Hey, this is great," Collin said, inspecting the toy. "Let's take
it to North Field!" There was a general *whoop* of agreement among the
others as Collin turned and ran through the streets. He tossed the ball
back to Baern with a call, "Come on, Baern! And don't stop to help any
doddlers this time!" Baern followed enthusiastically as they scampered
like playful rats to the abandoned field just outside of town.

     Baern screamed a primitive battle cry as he charged across the
field and gave a tremendous kick, sending the ball careening at the rock
pile the other team had declared as their goal. It shot true and even
scattered a few rocks with the force of its impact, emitting a loud
smack. The surrounding boys either groaned or cheered and began filing
back to their respective sides for another match.
     They had played throughout the afternoon without tiring. The game
had no clear rules, and as often as not both teams would end up crowded
together in a mob fighting to kick at the ball. Still, for all that
brute strength counted in such a game, small Baern scored more goals
than anyone else did. Even Collin, who stood a good hand's span taller
than any other boy in the town, had gleaned a grudging respect for the
smaller boy's skill.
     Baern's team had just reached their goal, a rotted old tree stump,
and turned to wait for the other team to start kicking the ball across
the field, when they heard a gruff voice from the road below. "Come
away, boys!" the man's voice shouted. The boys turned to see a row of
men and women standing on the edge of the road. They were field hands
and travelers who had paused in their trek to the town to watch the
game. The man who had shouted spoke up again, "Come away now! It's
gotten late and your mums will be worrying." His calls were echoed by
the other travelers who beckoned and began to resume their tired march
home.
     Baern hadn't noticed how late it had gotten. The sun hung in the
western sky barely a breath above the horizon, and for the first time he
noticed that the field was bathed in the orange glow of dusk. With slow
reluctance, the boys paused in their game. Then, one by one they turned
to trudge along with the farmers and traders back towards the town.
     Collin, however, kicked the ball aggressively at his retreating
teammates, apparently not yet ready to give up the field. He shouted at
them to play just one more match, but they had all lost interest in
favor of their grumbling bellies and in fear of the lambasting their
mums would give them if they were out after dark. Frustrated, he gave a
tremendous kick at one of the goals, but the ball sped awry. Collin and
Baern watched with dismay as it arched through the air and disappeared
into the brush of a nearby wooded dell.
     Baern cried out in anger but Collin grunted as if he had meant to
do just that. He looked for one instant at the spot where the ball had
vanished, then turned on heels and marched back towards town. "C'mon,
Baern," he shouted over his shoulder. "We'll find it tomorrow."
     But Baern did not immediately follow. He continued to stare into
the dell as the shadows slowly lengthened on the trees. He did not want
to go in search, for many a tale had been told on chill nights of the
perils that awaited boys who wandered into those woods after dark.
Still, through his head again and again he heard the mysterious lady's
words: "Take great care never to lose this ball." And abruptly he was
running, not towards the town, but away from it into the brush and
through it into the woods.
     Once in the depth amongst the boles, the darkness seemed to triple
as well did the silence. Gone was the constant wind that swept the
field, and the sounds of insects and birds. Here there was a strange
sort of peace. The air was still and the forest seemed to have an
anxious sort of presence, as if it were holding its breath. Disturbed,
he paused a moment before pressing on.
     He had gone but a few steps when an explosive *screech* made his
heart freeze. He turned slowly, his eyes wide with fright, to see a
large owl perched on a dead branch that jutted high above the ground.
The bird looked directly at him and emitted another grating call. Baern
blinked and took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. As he
exhaled, his eyes fell upon the ball! It rested directly under the bird
in a little nook formed by two roots. With a cautious glance up at the
creature, the young boy began advancing slowly so as not to disturb it.
     Baern kept his eyes on the owl, and to his surprise, the owl kept
its eyes on him! The two watched each other warily as the boy slowly
approached. He was not excessively afraid of the large bird, but saw no
reason to frighten it away with any fast movements. The owl watched him
with a serenity that seemed almost haughty, until he was nearly
underneath it. Then it apparently lost interest in him and turned its
gaze elsewhere. Baern relaxed, but as he reached down to grab the ball
he heard the screech above him again. Still stooped over, he looked up
just in time to see the owl spread its wings and launch itself from its
bough with a little bounce. The heavy branch gave a tremendous crack
then fell straight from the tree and smacked Baern smartly on the
forehead. The lad went down under the tangle of branches and lay staring
at the winged form of the owl sailing swiftly between trees and away
through the forest.
     Baern sat dazed for a long while. He kept blinking his eyes and the
world seemed to come in and out of focus. He was aware of the last of
the sunlight slipping away, though the sky still glowed with dusk.
Around him he heard the return of forest sounds like little birds and
insects. Slowly and painfully, he disentangled himself and pulled most
of the branches off. He brought a hand to his forehead and winced in
pain, but it came away dry. At least he wasn't bleeding. With a groan he
picked himself up and brushed off bits of bark and rotten wood from his
clothing, then turned to find the ball.
     But it was nowhere in sight. It had just been within his grasp mere
moments ago, or had it been longer than that? Baern shook his head
gingerly and looked about. In the darkness he could see nothing but
vague outlines of his surroundings, but he felt certain he would be able
to see the outline of the ball. Then a sudden light sprung up from
behind him. He turned with a gasp, and there was the ball, glowing like
the full moon a short distance away. Baern blinked and rubbed his eyes
but there was no mistaking it: the ball lay amongst brush and dead
leaves emitting a soft white light. So the ball was magic after all!
     Slowly, the boy tested his balance. He was still a little dizzy
from the conk on the head, but he found his legs supported him so he
took a few steps towards the ball. At each step, however, it rolled a
few feet back. Puzzled, Baern paused. The ball stopped too and nestled
in a pile of leaves. When Baern started towards it again, it again began
to roll away.
     Abruptly the boy's temper won out over his wonderment, and with a
frustrated "Hey!" he began chasing after the ball. It rolled faster and
faster through the forest with seemingly no clear destination in mind,
only to avoid being caught. As Baern's fury grew, he chased until his
young legs could run no more. Winded, he knelt panting amongst the brush
and brambles of a part of the forest that seemed darker and deeper than
he had ever imagined. The ball stopped a short way from him, casting its
cool glow on the trees.
     Once he had caught his breath, Baern stood up and looked at the
ball. "Maybe there's a magic word to make you stop running away," he
said aloud. The ball did not answer, of course, but Baern kept his eye
upon it as he chanted every magic word he had ever heard in fairy tale
or bard's song. "Blithin!" "Kaplan!" "Abranadan!" "Silliumpump!" At each
word he spoke, he took a step nearer to the ball and the ball rolled a
pace away from him. When he had run out of words he threw up his hands
and said, "Oh stay still, will you!" And at his next step, the ball was
still.
     Puzzled, Baern stopped again and looked skeptically at the ball.
"Stay still?" he asked cautiously and took another step forward. The
ball remained at its spot, glowing quietly in the night. His confidence
renewed, Baern strode calmly towards the ball and bent to pick it up.
     Just as he was bending, he heard an explosive roar behind him! He
turned so fast he fell flat on his back to stare up at a gigantic bear,
its sleek mass highlighted by the glowing of the ball. It stood but a
stone's toss away and glared at him with all of the menace that such a
beast could wield. The boy's eyes opened wide as his mouth worked to
find some sort of cry, but all that came out was a tiny whimper. As if
that whimper were a cue, the bear started forward, coming to stand on
its hind legs before the boy and releasing another ferocious roar that
seemed to split the forest's eerie silence asunder. Baern scrambled
backwards like a crab, grasping behind him for anything he could use to
put up some sort of defense. His hand closed evenly around the glowing
ball, and with a panicked heave, he flung it at the bear's snout.
     The ball connected with a loud smack, but the bear was not slowed
in the least. It slashed out viciously at Baern, clipping him on the
forehead and bringing a bright sting of pain. He spun to the ground and
hastily tried to get up and run, but he was dizzy and instead he rolled
clumsily over onto his side and turned his head to stare, terror
stricken, at the bear.
     But the great beast was not looking back at him. Its snout was in
the air, curious, as if distracted by something. Baern then noticed that
the light was flickering and bouncing around. The bear looked for the
source of the bouncing light when, without warning, the glowing ball
launched out of somewhere unseen and bopped the bear on the head. Angry,
it growled and slashed at the ball, but it flew away, out of sight. In
another instant the ball appeared again, this time from a completely
different part of the forest, and smacked the bear on the shoulder. It
roared angrily and snapped its jaws, but the ball evaded it a second
time.
     Baern stared unbelievingly as the bear turned a complete circle
looking for its unseen assailant. For a third time the ball flew from
somewhere to hit the bear's flank, and just as that ball was flying away
again, another appeared and pummeled the bear's snout. As Baern watched
in astonishment, dozens of balls abruptly flew from the forest to beat
on the bear heartily, driving it down and away from him. The bear
cowered as low to the ground as it could and looked at the boy, and then
through paws raised to protect its tender nose, it spoke! "Baern!" it
cried desperately. It had the voice of his father, and as it spoke,
Baern felt an explosion of pain in his head where the bear had hit him.
His vision blurred until all he could see were the dancing lights,
beating the bear mercilessly.
     "Baern!" the voice called again, louder this time. And then there
were other voices, those of people calling his name. One of the dancing
lights grew brighter and closer and he felt a weight lifted off his
chest, which he hadn't noticed was there. He blinked dazedly through
eyes too teared-up to focus. But even blurred, his vision recognized the
form of his father, standing above him and waving a glowing lantern.
Baern tried to shake his head to clear it but a fierce pain in his
forehead made him wince and moan audibly.
     "Easy there, lad," Baern's father said kindly, pulling branches off
of the boy. "You've had a nasty bump on yer head. Seems this branch fell
straight on you."
     "That he has," came another voice, that of Collin's father. "Seems
it knocked him right out." The young boy turned his head carefully to
look at the branch his father had indicated. It was much larger than it
had at first seemed. Images and fragments of what had happened spun in
his head.
     Suddenly Baern remembered the ball. "Is the ball still glowing?" he
asked his dad, looking around but careful not to move his head too fast.
     "Glowing ball?" His father looked both troubled and confused, then
abruptly he smiled and said, "Ah! When I found you your eyes were on the
moon, boy. There's your glowing ball for you! You were dreaming you
caught the moon, were you?"
     Thoughts were beginning to take more shape in Baern's head. He
looked up at the moon and realized that it did indeed look exactly like
the ball as he had chased it through the forest. He was relieved, but
also disappointed. He had dreamed the whole thing after all.
     Collin's father was poking around where the boy had been. "But
there is a ball here as well. Collin told me you'd gone into the woods
after it and when your dad said you hadn't returned for supper, we came
looking for you." He picked up the ball and handed it to Baern. The
other lights were moving towards the three and Baern could make out the
concerned and relieved faces of townspeople.
     "Straight," Baern's father answered. "And lucky we did, too. Word's
been from the farmers that a great mountain bear has wandered down from
the highlands and has been picking their cattle. Never wander off like
that again, boy. I'd get ye another ball!" He was trying to sound stern,
but his voice and expression betrayed how relieved he really was to have
found his son. "Come on, now, Baern. To home we go." And with that the
three turned and walked towards the other searchers amidst the
exclamations of relief that the boy had been found alive and safe.
     Still, as the whole party moved towards the town, eager to be in
their warm beds at this late bell, Baern could not shake the feeling
that the dream had been more than just that. Turning his head slightly
to see behind him, he saw, clear as could be, a great owl regarding him
from a high off branch. And in the fading light as the lanterns were
carried away, it seemed to wink one large eye at the boy before
spreading its wings and flapping away into the darkness of the forest.
Baern had never believed magic happened to ordinary people before that
day, but from then on he believed that magic could happen to anyone, or
that perhaps no one is really so ordinary as they believe.

     When her voice fell silent, G'veldi noticed for the first time that
all of the children around her were asleep. She had been so lost in her
own telling of the story as she made it up, that she hadn't noticed when
her audience had ceased to listen. She smiled at the soft breathing all
around her and sat back more comfortably in her chair. With one hand
draped protectively over her belly, she thought to herself for the first
time that maybe she'd make a good mother yet.

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

                        The Measure of His Love
                            Part 2: Healing
                              by Jim Owens
                          <Gymfuzz@yahoo.com>
                               Naia, 1007

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-9

     Fennla rode out through the gates with Daruk close behind. She
could almost feel the stares focused on them as they rode, some curious,
some hostile. She relished the attention, secure in the knowledge that
she would not be challenged. Daruk also sensed the attention, and wished
he could crawl away and hide. He had given his word, however, and he
would now live with it. He had promised his manhood for a place at her
side.
     As they rode from the courtyard they passed the spot where the
Beinison archers practiced. Daruk had come from the sunny south to the
colder north with them, and they watched as he passed. After the gates
closed, once again sealing the courtyard from the outside world, the
Carver and his archers closed ranks, huddling around a well-riddled
target billet.
     "He's out of touch, then, is he, Carver?" asked the tallest, Yarak.
     "Aye, we'll not be able to reach him," agreed the Carver. "So we
plan around him. From here on, consider him as one of them."
     "Then he's to know nothing of it?" asked Knot, so called because of
his early clumsiness with stringing a bow.
     "Not a word," agreed the Carver. "The less he knows, the less he'll
be able to betray. We may call on him when the time comes, but until
then he knows nothing."

     Daruk and Fennla rode for a bell before she reined her horse in
near a stream in a field. She slid to the ground, with him at her side
almost immediately.
     "I wish you would allow me to help you down, Milady," he commented.
"I'd hate to have to explain to Lord Claywall how you twisted your
ankle, if it came to that."
     "I'm not going to be twisting any ankles," she replied, smiling
wryly. "I've been riding this horse ever since I broke him to saddle."
She removed a small, wooden cage from her saddlebag. "Let's see if you
lost your skill with a bow when you lost your arrow. Draw and wait," she
commanded. She opened the door to the cage without waiting for him and
released a gray pigeon, which took to flight. "Shoot it down," she
commanded.
     Without a word he fired. The shaft passed through the bird, sending
it tumbling out of the air. She walked over to where it lay flapping on
the ground. She picked it up and wrung its neck, then spread its wings,
examining it carefully.
     "Not a square hit, but good enough. How long have you been an
archer?"
     "Since I was old enough to watch my father and brothers doing it,"
he replied.
     "You were the youngest?" she asked.
     "Yes."
     "That explains why you are here, and not at home making more
noblemen."
     Daruk paused. "Why do you say that?"
     "That you are of noble blood?" she countered, smiling. "No mere
peasant would ever be able to shoot like that. That takes years of
training, not just some farmyard marksmanship." She returned to the
saddle, stuffing the dead bird back into the cage and taking another
cage down. "This time, you will wait for my mark before firing." She
again opened the cage without waiting and released the bird. His bow
creaked as it bent, but he held his mark, tracking the bird.
     "Now," she said, and the bow snapped. The shaft missed, the bird
flying on. He slapped another into place and fired. This time the bird
tumbled and fell.
     "Again, good enough," she said. "Fetch the bird." She mounted as he
ran off. She gathered his horse and trotted over to meet him. He stuffed
the bird away as she waited.
     "So what will your father say now that his son is a capon?" she
asked, a malicious glint in her eye.
     "As the youngest, it's my duty to find my own way in the world," he
replied easily. "It is of no consequence to him how I do it. He already
has an heir, who has an heir, and brothers, and nephews, all ready to
take his place when he should die. Anything you have taken from me was
merely for my benefit."
     "Have you ever had a woman?" she asked.
     "No," he replied. "I never had the time in the Order."
     "And now you never shall," she commented, quietly. "Doesn't that
make you angry?"
     "I surrendered all that so I could serve you, Milady. So I guess
you can say that I have had a woman." He looked her in the eyes. "I have
you."
     The look in his eyes gave her pause. She actually swallowed hard
before continuing. "Some men would be vengeful after what I did. You
could kill me now, and get away before my father found out. Have you
ever thought about that?" As soon as she said that she regretted it.
Suddenly she felt exposed, and very, very vulnerable.
     "Never," he replied, and his honesty made her feel immediately
ashamed of her own fear. "I gave it up, if you'll remember, of my own
free will. This was my choice."
     "Of course it was," she agreed quickly.
     "In fact, had it occurred to me first, I might have cut them off
myself, to serve you."
     "What?" She was genuinely surprised.
     "I have wanted to serve you since the first day I saw you, Milady,"
Daruk explained. "It is a joy and an honor to serve as your bodyguard. I
would do it all again if I had to."
     For once, Fennla didn't know what to say. Uncomfortable with the
silence, she spurred her horse into a gallop. Daruk did likewise,
keeping pace with her without ever seeing the strange tear that gleamed
in her eye.

     The two rode in silence to the peasant farm where Fennla's own
personal garden was tended. The whole family, Flew, Drow, and Getta, met
the two as they arrived. This time Fennla waited for Daruk to assist her
in getting down. She noted the satisfied look in his eye, filing it away
for future reference. She toured the garden again, noting with
displeasure that weeds were threatening to choke several species. She
scolded the couple, instructing them not to rest until the weeds were
cleared. She also noted that the wall, though it now stretched across
the front of the garden as she wanted, was not tall enough. She directed
Flew to begin churning mud immediately. As an evil afterthought, she
directed Daruk to assist. She almost laughed at the sour expression in
his eyes as he joined Flew, laying aside his clothes. Flew's eyes grew
wide as she examined this strange specimen.
     "What sort of woman are you?" she asked, taking in his
measurements.
     "I'm no woman," he stated. "I'm a man."
     She looked him over, comparing the smoothness of his anatomy to her
own. "No you're not!"
     "He's a eunuch," Fennla commented, as she again exchanged her fine
dress for a peasant skirt. "He's like a man, but he keeps his parts in a
bottle!"
     Flew's eyes grew wide. She made a sign against evil, trodding the
mud beside him, but keeping her distance.

     Later that evening, as the peasants cooked the two dead pigeons for
dinner, Daruk silently drew water for Fennla and himself to wash with.
Not until she was almost finished did he speak.
     "Why do you work in the dirt with them, like a peasant?"
     "I must," she replied, flicking the water from her hair with quick
movements of her fingertips. "They must be shown how to do the tasks
correctly, as only I know how."
     "Surely they know how to grow things," Daruk said. "They've been
doing it all their lives."
     "But not always the best way," she commented, motioning for him to
pour more water. He did so silently, watching as she again brushed the
drops from her skin and hair. Flew approached, offering her skirt to
Fennla, who dried herself with it. "A noble must always be willing to
teach the peasants the right way, whether in gardening, or in war, or in
worship. That is the duty of a noble."
     Daruk walked silently beside her back to the hut, pausing to
retrieve his clothes on the way. As they walked he again spoke.
     "Why did you embarrass me in front of Flew?"
     Fennla looked at him, as if startled that he would ask such a
question. She knitted her eyebrows together in irritation. "Why do you
care? As a soldier, and as my bodyguard, you will do as I ask. Why
should I explain myself to you?"
     "You know I am the son of a noble, now, and yet you treated me like
a mere archer. Which is it to be?"
     She stopped and gazed on him, appraisingly. He stopped and waited,
the last of the water dripping cold from his limbs.
     "You are my eunuch," she said finally. "There is no other
category." With that she turned to enter the hut, and he followed
obediently.
     "Drow," she began as she entered, I've noticed that we're missing
something from the garden."
     Drow cast a worried glance at Getta. "What's that, Milady?"
     "We have no tree-laurel," she replied, taking her seat at the head
of the table. "The large, bush one, with the white flowers."
     "We've never had any, Milady," Drow assured her, his brows knitted
with worry.
     "Oh, of course, I know that," replied Fennla dismissively. "I'd
like you to get some."
     Drow ducked his head obediently, while Getta got a puzzled
concerned look on her face. Fennla continued.
     "I happen to know that there are some bushes growing up past
Tinker's Hollow. If you leave tonight, you could have one back by the
morning."
     Getta's and Drow's worry turned to near terror. Getta took a step
toward Drow, who himself turned to Fennla with pleading in his face.
     "Tonight, Milady? There are wolves in the forest near Tinker's
Hollow. Could I make the trip in the day?"
     "Ah!" Fennla half-laughed, cutting into her roasted bird. "There
are no wolves that close to the keep. You'll be fine."
     Drow glanced at a worried Getta, then his face lightened. He turned
back to Fennla.
     "Perhaps Milady would like several of the bushes." He carefully
stepped a bit closer, his tone cajoling. "They are quite nice when they
bloom." His tone lowered. "Perhaps if your man there came with me,
together we could bring back several."
     "My *man* must stay here to guard me," Fennla explained firmly,
with a hint of heat in her voice. "One will do, and I will be displeased
if it is not here by tomorrow." She did not look up from her food.
     Drow ducked his head and set about gathering some cord, a shovel,
and some scraps of bread. Daruk watched, appalled at the callous display
he had just seen. Fennla continued to eat, pointedly ignoring the
emotion in the air. Getta was in tears by the time Drow stopped to give
her a hasty kiss goodbye. Daruk stopped him briefly as he passed through
the door. He clapped the sturdy peasant on the shoulder and stealthily
passed him a dirk, the companion to Daruk's own sword. Gratitude showed
through the anxiety in the man's eyes, then he was gone. For a long
moment the only sound in the hut was Fennla's cutting.
     "Daruk, pour me more wine," Fennla ordered. Daruk moved to do so,
looking hard into her face. She refused to meet his stare.

     The day dawned clear and warm. Fennla and Getta resumed the
gardening, with Flew and Daruk returning to the mud pit. Several bells
passed and there was no sign of Drow. They labored in silence, Fennla
pointedly avoiding anyone's gaze, with Getta and Flew becoming more and
more agitated as time passed. Daruk and Flew mixed and applied several
batches of cob for the wall, stopping only when the straw ran out early
in the afternoon. As Flew picked up her skirt and headed into the field
for more hay, Daruk stepped into the hut to fetch Fennla some wine. As
he did, he saw a figure slowly approaching from the north. It was Drow.
With a shout Daruk dashed to meet the peasant. Drow was barely able to
stand, with a small laurel bush lashed to his back and many severe
gashes on his arms and legs. Daruk helped him into the hut, as Getta and
Flew began a worried wail.
     "The wolves," Drow muttered as they lay him on the cot. "They came
out of nowhere, silent like. If I hadn't seen them first ... I got one
with the knife, but there were so many ... " He looked at the gashes in
his hands. "They were at me all over. " He looked up at Getta with pride
in his eyes. "I knew you would want me to come home, so I fought them
off. I climbed a tree." He smiled an exhausted smile as they pulled off
his tattered clothes and began washing and bandaging his wounds. "They
tried, but they couldn't reach me. You'd have been proud, Getta."
     "Oh, Drow," Getta cried.
     "You've lost blood, Drow," Daruk said, examining the man's wounds,
"but these wounds can heal. You need to drink some wine, now." He held
up the jug he had fetched for Fennla. As Drow drank, Daruk looked up to
see Fennla staring at the tableau. As he watched, she turned and walked
away, a blank look on her face. When Drow finished drinking the wine,
Daruk eased him back down. "You need to drink some water, too. I'll go
get some. Getta, cover him with the blanket."
     Daruk dashed for the well. On the way back, he met Fennla, still in
the peasant skirt, astride her horse, with the reins to his horse in her
hand.
     "Daruk, saddle up. We must go." Her face held no expression, her
voice no intonation.
     Daruk looked up at her for a long moment, then set the bucket on
the ground and stepped up to the side of her horse. He reached up and
seized her by the waist. With a sudden yank, he pulled her off the
horse, which sidled skittishly away.
     "Wha ... what!? Daruk!" she exclaimed loudly as she landed on her
hands and feet, roughly. "What are you doing?!" She stood up and angrily
confronted him. "I said we are leaving!"
     "No, we are not," he replied firmly. "You made this mess, and
you're going to see it cleaned up."
     Fury flashed into her eyes. "You dare disobey me!?"
     "You have made me your guardian, to care for your life," he
replied. "Well, I intend to care for your spirit as well as your body. I
cannot allow you to do something this horrible and then just walk away,
as if it didn't matter at all."
     "You dare!" she lashed out, the palm of her hand crashing against
the side of his head. He stood there a moment, a stern look on his face,
then his arm flashed out, sending her to the ground. She looked up at
him, first in astonishment, then in fury.
     "I'll have your head!" She leaped to her feet, only to have his
hands clamp like iron vises on her upper arms, fixing her in place.
     "You are welcome to it, if I do not protect you from yourself
today!" So saying, he dragged her into the hut, thrusting her at the bed
where Getta and Flew wept with Drow. All looked up, startled, as the
pair arrived.
     "This is a man, just as I ... am," Daruk began, his words marching
out as if to war. "He has dedicated his life to serving you, as I have.
He serves you, and he serves his family, and his family serves you, and
you have nearly thrown this away with your foolish request." He paused,
breathing deeply in his fervor. "He has suffered wounds for you, Lady
Claywall, grievous wounds, as have we all," he commented, noting that
she flinched at that last, "so that he might serve you, so that we all
might serve you." He drew her close to him, but she turned her head
away, refusing to look. When he spoke again, his tone was quieter,
pleading. "Please, Milady. Honor our wounds." She stood there, tense in
his grip, not looking. The four held their breath, waiting. Slowly,
Fennla drooped, her head falling to her breast. Daruk continued. "Honor
our wounds, and help us to mend them."
     Slowly, slightly, without looking up, she nodded. Daruk released
her, carefully stroking her arms where the white marks of his fingers
stood out. "He needs water. I drew some earlier in the bucket. If you'll
fetch it, I will wash and bind his cuts." She nodded, and walked out.
     Fennla walked to where the bucket sat beside the patient horses.
She looked back into the hut, where Daruk and the others were huddled.
Tears of grief, anger, frustration, shame, and guilt all welled up in
her eyes. She placed her hand on her horse's saddle. She moved to face
the horse, preparing to mount, to ride back to claim her vengeance. But
those tears would not be denied, and all her woe poured out, blurring
her vision and drowning her in remorse. Her rage at Daruk turned to
loathing for her actions, and grief for the hurt she had given to Drow,
and Daruk. A shuddering sob heaved up her throat, and she covered her
face. Then, steeling herself as she imagined her father would, she bent
to pick up the bucket, and headed back to the hut.

     When Fennla returned with the bucket full of clean water, Daruk was
tending Drow's wounds, listening to Getta talk as she smoothed Drow's
brow and clasped his hand tight.
     " ... just moved into the area and I hear she's good and I think I
know where she lives by Hammer Stream and knows how to heal this if
she's home because Sadie is having her third and it's a hard one they
say but we could just go to Sadie's to get her if she'll come ..."
     "Flew, do you know where this stream is your mother is talking
about?" Daruk asked, interrupting Getta. The young woman nodded. "Could
you run there in a bell?" Again she nodded. "Go then. Hurry. Promise her
an extra few Nobles if she hurries." Flew jumped up and dashed out,
pausing only to snatch up her skirt from the pile of grass as she ran.
     "Where do you want the water?" Fennla asked meekly. She half feared
a harsh answer, and she knew she deserved one.
     "Oh, Milady, thank you," Daruk replied, taking the bucket from her.
He set it on the ground beside Drow's head.
     "Getta, why don't you get a cup, and give Drow a drink of water?"
Daruk said, more instructing than asking. Getta nodded and ran for the
cup. Then Daruk surprised Fennla by kneeling at her feet and kissing her
hand. She pulled it away, ashamed, but he stood and embraced her,
pulling her outside the hut and kneeling again.
     "Thank you, Milady, for hearing my words."
     Fennla didn't know what to say, and wasn't sure she wanted to hear
what he had to say, but he continued on.
     "For a noble, giving your life for someone means more than just
being willing to die for them, and it means more than just being willing
to give up your freedom for them," he said, looking longingly into her
eyes. "When I give up my life for you, I do it so that you can have more
life than you had before. Not just more life, but a better life." He
stood, lowering his voice and clasping her hands in his. "When I see
evil attacking you, no matter where it comes from, I will defend you,
even if that evil comes from inside of you. I can do this because I know
that you are not truly evil, and that you want to do good even when that
good is not in your power to do."
     Fennla began to weep, and Daruk put his arms around her. They stood
a moment before Getta called from inside the hut for further
instructions. He led Fennla back to Drow's side, where Daruk began to
carefully unpack the bandages he had applied and began to wash Drow's
cuts. Drow suffered silently, but his eyes were aflame with agony.
Fennla saw, and took Drow's hand.
     "You're a good man, Drow," she said.
     Drow looked at her in wonder. "Thank you, Milady. Thank you
indeed."
     Fennla felt tears running down her cheeks and breast again, and
tried brushing them away, but the day's dust mixed with them, and she
smeared mud across her face and torso. "Oh, Drow," she wept, "I'm sorry
I made you go. I never wanted this to happen." She began to weep again,
and Getta joined in. Drow stroked Getta's head, and, when Fennla laid
her head on his shoulder, he stroked hers too, although uncomfortably at
first. For many menes they stayed there, the women weeping, Daruk
washing and binding, and Drow the center of it all.
     Fear and anxiety had given Flew speed, and soon she reappeared at
the homestead, riding behind the young healer on her horse. The two
assembled inside the hut beside Drow's bed. The young woman examined
Drow's hurts quickly.
     "These are bad, but not too bad," she commented, patting the older
man on the thigh. She re-examined each one more slowly, listening to his
breath quicken when she pressed too hard, noting when and how the blood
flowed. As she worked, Getta and Flew moved in to watch, their anxiety
visibly diminishing. Daruk took the opportunity to pull Fennla outside.
The sun was beginning to set.
     "Milady, you should wash now, and prepare for the evening," he
said.
     "I'll not leave his side until his is well," she admonished,
wanting to go back. Again, Daruk would not let her go.
     "Milady, you have stepped down from your office today, so you could
undo an evil you had done," he said quickly, not wanting to anger her.
"That was right, and good. But you cannot stay down with the peasants
too long, for you have other roles to play." He saw confusion in her
eyes, and hastily explained himself. "You have cried with the hurt, and
have salved their wounds, as you should. But they still need a
noblewoman, Milady, to guide them and lead them." She wasn't fully
understanding yet, so he continued. "You yourself said that it is the
duty of the noble to teach the peasants the right way. You cannot do
that as a noble unless you act like a noble. The peasants must see you
acting as a noble acts."
     She finally nodded in agreement, but stared longingly back into the
hut where Drow lay.
     "Now, let me draw water for you, so that we can wash you clean, as
a noblewoman would be."
     She agreed, and they moved off to the well, leaving the others to
their consolation. But this time, Fennla insisted that Daruk be clean
too.

     Two days later, dawn found the Carver and his men practicing with
quarterstaffs in the courtyard. Daruk stepped out of the keep and
advanced on the group. They stopped as he drew near. The Carver stepped
forward as Daruk approached.
     "Greetings, Daruk," he said, looking his former charge over
appraisingly. His eyes lingered predictably over Daruk's smooth crotch.
"How are you feeling now?"
     "Better, Carver," he replied. "The healer is really quite good."
     "And how is the lady?"
     "She sleeps yet, so Lord Claywall is permitting me to rejoin
practice, so long as I return before she wakes."
     The Carver looked around at the other archers. What he saw were
vacant stares. He turned back to Daruk.
     "Are you sure you're up to it, Daruk? We'll be going pretty hard at
it, you know."
     "I must maintain my skills even more, now that I am Milady's
bodyguard," he replied, stepping past the older man and taking his old
staff off the rack. He did not notice the frowns in the group as he did
this, nor did he note the Carver's eyebrow as it arched up his forehead
at the younger man's disagreement.
     "Well," remarked the Carver, "I can see that you're going to join
us anyway." He glanced out at his men, his eye lighting on one of the
older archers. "Maybe you can spar with Yarak, then." He nodded, and
Yarak stepped out of the group, a hard look on his face. "Yarak, why
don't you run through a few of the drills with Daruk, here. You do
remember them, don't you, Daruk?"
     "Of course, Carver," Daruk replied smiling. He did not notice Yarak
winding up for a blow. "How could I ..."
     Daruk hit the ground hard when Yarak's staff struck him behind the
knees. He was up in a moment, staff in hand, circling, facing his
opponent.
     "Are you sure you remember them all, Daruk?" the Carver chuckled
humorlessly. "Seems to me you've already forgotten one of the more
important ones."
     The two men circled for a moment, then Yarak swept in, staff
singing. Daruk blocked, but this blow was no mere tap, as in the
customary training spar. The shot landed hard, driving Daruk back,
raking the knuckles of one hand. A few of the other archers chuckled
quietly. Daruk backed up a step, anger in his eyes, and blocked the next
attack, a short jab. But Yarak was giving no quarter, and in a moment
Daruk was on the ground, stars in his eyes from a solid strike to the
forehead. His training saved him a further blow, as he flailed about
from the ground in a feint, driving back Yarak. Then Daruk was up again,
the set of his jaw showing that he finally understood what he was being
given. When Yarak came in again, it was Yarak who landed in the dirt,
his blood gracing Daruk's staff. Again they circled, and Daruk took a
painful rake on the ribs. Then Daruk counter-attacked, and with a hail
of blows fueled by fury he sent Yarak's staff flying. Yarak stepped
back, taking himself out of combat, and after watching his opponent
concede, Daruk turned back to the Carver.
     "Training with you is always a good thing," he snarled. "I'd like
some more. Perhaps two this time -- one just wasn't enough." He spat in
the dirt and spun his staff. The Carver's mouth was set in a tight line,
and he nodded at two other archers. They came at Daruk, who proceeded to
assail them with a cold ferocity that found him being truly creative
with the staff for the first time in the Carver's memory, bringing his
sword training and his knife training into play with a style that
neither of the other two could decipher or match. When it was over one
lay in the dust, blood running from his scalp, the other hopping away on
one foot, cradling his right hand in his left. Daruk turned back to the
Carver, determination and ice in his eyes.
     "I'd best be going now," he commented, looking over the group. "My
real work awaits me. I've no more time to spend with you." With that he
set his foot against the staff and snapped it in half, tossing the
halves at the Carver's feet. He turned and headed back for the keep.
Behind him the other archers clustered around a silent Carver. As Daruk
walked away, he glanced up at Fennla's window. She stood there in her
evening robes, watching silently.

     A few days after that Fennla and Lord Claywall headed down the road
to the great hall of Arno, their neighbor to the south. While Claywall
drank ale and discussed policy with Arno, Fennla joined Arno's daughter
in her apartment in entertaining some guests. At Arno's insistence,
Daruk remained outside with the rest of Claywall's men. He bided the
time by making the acquaintance of Arno's bodyguards. They knew of his
unique state, but as men of war they were used to seeing their comrades
with strange wounds, and they were far more accepting than Daruk's
travelling companions. Before long they were instructing Daruk on some
of the finer points of ieonem wood as it related to the making of bows,
and sharing in some of his Beinisonian wine.
     Claywall and Arno ended their drinking early, as Arno got sick and
began vomiting violently. Claywall and his guards saddled up and readied
to ride as the last of the light hung in the sky. Claywall studied the
sunset for long moment before turning to Daruk.
     "Fennla will no doubt want to stay late," he growled, "and I have
no desire to fight with her over it. She might win." He wheeled his
horse about, heading for the road. "See to it she returns straight to
Clayhold. Dross won't come this far east, and you make sure she goes no
further west." He glared down at Daruk, who merely nodded
acknowledgment. Then the three were off down the road.
     Daruk checked his horse, stood for a while, checked his horse
again, listened to Fennla's laughter from above in the apartments,
checked his horse again, then finally surrendered to boredom and
wandered about the barn. Except for a single guard posted in the loft,
no one was about. He moved from room to room, trying to pick out objects
in the dark. At the rear of the barn, he passed an open window. Through
it drifted a voice.
     "... can't wait to tell Dross about it in the morning!" a man was
saying, and quiet laughter erupted from without. Daruk froze. The barn
was darker than the outside, and he had not been seen, so he backed up
into the darkness and listened.
     "Straight!" another male voice was saying. "Dross loves to hear
those sorts of stories! Especially if you really build them up!"
     "Let's see," the first replied, "we could say that they fought a
lot ... "
     "No," replied a strong, female voice. "That doesn't work. They're
supposed to want it, remember?"
     "Oh, straight," replied the first. "So, maybe we could say that the
one was so drunk, she started doing it with the other woman too!"
     "That'd be a good one!" the second man agreed. "He loves to hear
that sort of thing!"
     "You two are even sicker than I am," replied the woman. "I mean, I
can handle setting up a couple of highborn bitches to whelp a bastard or
two, especially for what Dross is paying, and I don't even mind lacing
the wine to make the pudding run hot, but I just can't stomach the idea
of those two coming onto each other, no thank you."
     "That's just 'cause you're a woman," the first man said. "Just
imagine it's two men."
     "That's even worse!" That brought more laughter.
     "Does it really take three men to get two women pregnant?" griped
the second man. "I could do a couple all by myself."
     "Got to be sure," replied the first. "Dross wants her fat when he
goes up to Dargon. If one misfires, the others will cover him!" More
snickers.
     "So how're we supposed to know it's over?" asked the second.
     "They'll stage it," the woman said. "Ordelly and Garen will hang
out the window, like they're going at it, yelling to attract attention.
That's when we come running up and discover them in the act."
     "Are you sure Arno's down for the night?"
     "We put enough in his wine to keep him heaving for a sennight."
     "Are you sure that's safe? I ..."
     Daruk wasn't waiting for more. He dashed out of the barn and to the
great hall. The guard at the main door moved to block him.
     "I must take a message to Mistress Claywall!" he exclaimed.
     The guard wavered, uncertain, and Daruk dashed in. The main hall
was empty, so he ran down to the kitchen. A few cooks looked him over
suspiciously.
     "You must get help," he blurted out. "Arno's been poisoned, and
Mistress Claywall is in danger!"
     "Who are you?" demanded an older woman, reaching for a large knife.
"I've never seen you before!"
     "He's one of those Beinison," commented a younger cook, and the
guard stepped in from outside.
     "What are you doing in here?" he demanded, but Daruk was already
moving. He dashed back into the main hall and up a staircase. It opened
out into a hallway. On a hunch, he chose the most ornate doorway. It
opened onto a strange tableau. A naked woman was dancing on a low table,
with three men and two women sitting around it. All were mostly
undressed. All had wine glasses in their hands. One of the women was
Fennla. As Daruk burst in, one of the men stood up.
     "Who the hell are you?" he demanded, but Fennla staggered to her
feet.
     "Straight, straight," she admonished, unsteady on her feet. "He's
just my bodyguard." She giggled. "He can't hurt us, and he can't help us
either." She snickered, covering her mouth with one hand while swinging
the wine goblet around with the other.
     Daruk sized up the situation. The three men all had weapons within
easy reach, and he could hear the guard coming up the stairs behind him.
He had to leave with their blessing, and he needed to do it soon.
     "Milady," he stated firmly and clearly, "Lord Claywall has charged
me with getting you safely back to Clayhold. Tonight."
     The three men looked at each other in consternation. Fennla took
another swig of wine.
     "Nonsense," she giggled. "I'm to stay here tonight. Isn't that
right, Garen?"
     One of the men nodded, uncertain. "Yes, we're all staying here
tonight."
     The guard clattered up behind Daruk, but at the sight of his
mistress in an advanced state of nudity, he snapped to attention, and
swung away, taking up station just outside the door.
     "I'm afraid that's changed, Milady," Daruk replied firmly. "We
really must leave, now." He stepped forward and took her hand.
     "Mind your place, man!" snapped one of the other men, but Fennla
waved him away.
     "Don't worry," she said, in a deprecating tone. "He's my eunuch, he
sees me like this all the time. Don't you, Daruk?" She patted his groin.
"He doesn't care anymore." He could smell wine on her breath, but it
wasn't strong enough to account for her giddiness. She had been drugged.
     "Milady, we must go. *Now*." He wrapped his arm around her waist,
trying to catch her eyes. "Your father has already left. We can't let
him get too far ahead of us."
     "You're right," she replied suddenly, "we can't let the old crow
get ahead of us." She frowned suddenly. "Where's my dress?"
     The dress was not to be seen, but the younger Lady Arno cheerfully
donated a blouse, to the disapproving frowns of the other four, none of
whom looked even slightly intoxicated. Daruk tried not to notice,
hustling Fennla off under the watchful and leering eye of the guard. He
got her onto her horse without much difficulty; she retained most of her
facilities, if not her judgment. As they rode into the darkness, he saw
three figures also scrambling in the barn for their horses. He whipped
both their horses to greater speed for a way, then suddenly stopped,
veering off the road and taking to the fields. He stopped and
dismounted, hauling Fennla down as well.
     "Why are we stopping?" she asked, just a hint of ire in her
otherwise cheerful voice.
     "We need to stop for a moment, to let some riders pass. They must
not hear us," he admonished. She nodded, and they led the horses behind
some bushes. They stood there quietly, and soon three horses thudded
past. They stood quietly for a while longer.
     "I have to pee," whispered Fennla, and giggled. Daruk nodded,
impatient, watching the road. Behind he heard silence, then splashing,
then more giggling. "Straight, I'm done. Your turn." She giggled, then
stopped. "Oh, that's right, you can't pee. I've cut off your prick!" She
convulsed with quiet laughter. "Hey, I'm starting to feel hot." Daruk
was suddenly worried: what if the drug was poisonous?
     "Let me feel your head, Milady," he said, pressing his hand to her
forehead. If anything, it felt cold.
     "Mmmmm, not there," she said, taking his hand and dropping it down
between her legs. "Here!"
     He snatched his hand back. "We need to be quiet, Milady. They might
come back."
     "I want to go back," she moaned. "We were going to have fun."
     "We can't go back, Milady, the riders will see us."
     Suddenly she was pressing against him. "Do you ever want me,
Daruk?"
     "Milady, please. We must be quiet."
     "Oh, go screw yourself," she suddenly said. "You can't screw anyone
else. I'll ride my horse." So saying she climbed back on her horse, and
began rocking back and forth against the saddle. Daruk shrugged, and,
taking both horses by the reins, began to lead them into the night.
     The next day was a chilly one, even though the weather was warm.
When Daruk and Fennla returned to the castle with their story, Claywall
was furious. They had met the baron in the courtyard that night as he
was gathering a search party to look for his tardy daughter. He didn't
believe Daruk's story about the plot to rape Fennla, and he was angry
with Fennla for getting involved in the plot, which he didn't believe
in. Fennla didn't believe Daruk either, and refused to let him in her
apartment. Daruk slept that night in the hall outside Fennla's door. He
awoke when Fennla left her room early and stepped on his head. That set
the pattern for the next few days, some of the least pleasant of Daruk's
life. Then came word that Mistress Arno had gone into seclusion for
reasons unmentioned. Daruk was reluctantly welcomed back into the
apartment, and Claywall stopped spitting on him every time he passed.
     A few sennights passed, and Fennla was back out at Drow's hut. Drow
was healing nicely, and Fennla was much more careful about the work she
assigned the peasant people. She also was looking at Daruk with new
eyes. After the evening meal they all settled into their places for the
evening: the peasants outside, Fennla in the cot, with Daruk on the
floor by her side.
     "Daruk?" she asked quietly.
     "Yes, Milady?"
     "Do you remember when we stood in the field, after Arno's?"
     "Yes, Milady?"
     There was a pause. "I ... I'm sorry I abused you so, that night."
     There was another pause. "It was my pleasure, Milady."
     "No," she rolled up onto one arm, "it wasn't. No man would enjoy
that sort of abuse."
     "Milady, my pleasure comes slowly, over time. That night you asked
me if I wanted you. Milady, I make love to you every day -- by serving
you with all my effort. That is how I want you. I want you to let me
serve you."
     "Daruk, if I could give you back your manhood, would you leave me?"
     "Milady, I would give it up again, so that I could serve you
longer."

     Even as Daruk and Fennla slept in a peasant hut far away, the guard
posted in the courtyard of Claywall's keep listened with annoyance to
the sounds coming from the makeshift barn where Levy Barel was housed.
Since being kidnapped by Claywall's men, Levy had been working loudly in
his makeshift prison. Claywall came every few days, demanding to see
progress in the construction of the engines of war he was forcing Levy
to create, and Levy would drag out various parts and show them. Then he
would go back to his banging. Tonight the sounds had continued past the
fall of darkness, unlike other nights when the sounds had ceased at
nightfall. Finally the guard could stand no more, and walked over to the
rickety building. He pounded on the slatty door.
     "Ho, you in there!" he shouted. "What's all that racket?"
     The noises stopped briefly. After a moment Levy's voice could be
heard from the other side.
     "Just finishing up the day's work," he said calmly. "I'll be done
soon."
     "See to it you are," admonished the guard. "I can't properly keep
watch with all that commotion. Anyone could attack, and I wouldn't hear
it!" So saying, he returned to his post.
     Inside the barn, Levy shook his head. If anything, the guard's
complaint made Levy want to make more noise, not less. Nonetheless, he
was almost finished. He continued his arrangements, finishing within a
few menes. When he was done he stepped as far back as possible, admiring
his handiwork, amazed that Claywall had been stupid enough to give him
free reign and secrecy inside the locked barn. Claywall would soon
regret his foolishness. Levy carefully filled a large gourd with water,
noting how fast the water dripped out a tiny hole in its bottom. He then
hung the gourd on a balance beam, asked a prayer for success, and fell
asleep.
     The morning dew had not yet fallen when the gourd had finally
drained enough to overbalance the delicate arrangement Levy had set it
in. The balance tipped, spilling a handful of string onto Levy's face.
He gasped, awaking and bolting upright on his cot. He stared into the
darkness for a moment before remembering where he was. Once awake, he
got up and set his plan into motion.
     Levy Barel walked to the door, peering out the slits at the
courtyard, checking for any movement. Next he trimmed the lamp, which
had burned quite low, to have a larger flame. He then walked to where a
heavy cord descended from above and was tied to the ground. He took a
pitcher of fluid and poured it over the cord. The cord immediately began
to smoke. Levy then hurried to where two large, iron kettles lay on
their sides, mouths together. He pushed them apart and climbed inside.
He took a rope from nearby and threaded it through the handles of the
kettles. Settling himself into the straw that lined the kettles, he
pulled on the rope, drawing the two kettles together. Once they were
tightly bound, silence fell on the workshop. That silence was broken
only when the smoking cord parted with a loud snap, setting off a
pandemonium chain of events.
     The burnt cord had connected to a series of ropes, wound about
pulleys as in his earler demonstrations for Claywall. At the other end
of the ropes hung a massive stone block, suspended from two upright
posts that reached to the roof of the barn. So massive was the block
that it had taken two teams of oxen to draw it into the courtyard for
Levy's use. With the cord broken, the block was free to drop. A series
of ropes connected the block to the keep's exterior courtyard wall,
however, so instead of merely falling it swung down at the stone
barrier.
     The keep wall was designed with an outward curve, to resist a
pounding from an external force; it was not so well equipped to resist a
blow from the inside, however. It bore the weight of Levy's stone block,
even as it swung down from its previous perch, but the wall could not
resist the thunderous impact of that same stone. With a loud roar the
falling stone and the standing stones all shattered, bringing a large
section of the keep wall tumbling down. Helping in the destruction were
two beams Levy had laid against the wall, laden with weights and tensed
against it with taut cords. Once the wall failed, these two beams pushed
it out, helping to bring down an even greater span. Not only that, but
one of those beams was attached to Levy's cast iron cockleshell. As that
beam fell outward, laden with a heavy burden of stone, it tossed the
metal sphere clattering and clanging out through the ragged hole. The
stout iron resisted the occasional blow from falling stones, and came to
rest at the bottom of the dry moat surrounding the keep.
     As a finale to the evening's symphony of destruction, Levy had
lined the walls of the barn with straw, and had positioned a cruse of
oil where it would upend into the brightly burning lamp. Before the last
beam had fallen, fire was already spreading fast, wiping out the last
vestiges of Levy's handiwork, denying Claywall the very thing he had
imprisoned Levy to create. As the flames began to appear through the
shattered walls of the barn, Levy emerged from his ferrous shell,
bruised but unbeaten. He ran off into the darkness as soldiers arrived
from both inside and outside the keep.
     Claywall awoke at the moment the block struck the wall. Indeed,
most of the keep awoke at the resounding boom. In an instant Claywall
was at the window of his room, watching in horror as the wall was
breached. His voice blended in with the general alarm that sounded. He
thrust himself into fighting gear and soon emerged from the great hall,
armed and armored, to lead the investigation. Word quickly came to him
that Levy had been seen riding north on his horse. Claywall ordered the
keep gates opened and rallied his bodyguard around him. They mounted
their horses and set off in pursuit. Within mere menes, quiet again
settled on the keep. This time, however, it was the court of Claywall
that slept uneasily.

     It was late the next day before Fennla and Daruk again rode into
the keep. They were greeted by a scene of chaos. The steward Gefaron
greeted them, babbling almost incoherently. Fennla made him stop and
begin from the beginning.
     "Last night, Milady!" he sobbed. "Barel! He knocked down the wall!
Your father, he went after him! He ..." Gefaron sobbed, more from fear
than sorrow. "He went after him! At night. They say he reached the
northern woods in the dark. They say he had almost caught him. They say
     ..."
     "Gefaron!" Fennla shouted, a sudden fear dawning in her heart.
"Where is my father?"
     "In the great hall, Milady," he cried, actual tears finally falling
from his eyes. "He's dead."
     Fennla did not hear any more of the man's words. She was running
into the hall, not aware even of dismounting or of her own mother
wailing beside her father's vacant seat. All she could see was the black
gloom, all she could smell was the final odor of death and blood, all
she could feel was her own heart beating in her chest, as her father's
never would again. Indeed, there he lay, sightless eyes cocked up at the
ceiling, savage gashes in his neck sealing forever any hopes that this
was some simulacrum of death, a mere sleep of sorts. The soldiers had
not even attempted to bind his wounds, nor had anyone tried to close his
eyes. They had laid him in state they way they had brought him: cruelly
killed.
     "They say the wolves came at them in the dark, silently," explained
Gefaron. "Your father was in the lead, and they pulled him from his
horse. He never had a chance. By the time enough soldiers arrived to
fight off the wolves, he was dead."
     Fennla swayed, but remained upright. "Where are those who were
supposed to protect him?" she asked in a dead voice.
     "There," Gefaron replied, pointing to the foot of the great table.
Fennla followed his glance, expecting to see bound prisoners. What she
saw were mangled bodies. "The wolves killed all your father's party
before those following could help."
     "And Barel?" Fennla's eyes were beginning to water.
     "They did not even find a body."
     The enormity of it all finally overwhelmed Fennla. She found
herself sobbing uncontrollably. In an odd, detached way she listened to
herself cry, wondering why she was crying, trying to stop. Then she
actually thought about her father, dead, and all her world dissolved
into loss, hopelessness, grief. All was gone. When next she looked up,
Daruk was beside her in the great hall, his cloak around her shoulders,
his arm cradling her. She looked up into his eyes, expecting
condemnation, triumph, contempt. Instead she saw compassion and grief.
She steeled herself and arose, handing him back his cloak. Gefaron arose
from his knees where he, too, had been crying.
     "What has been done?" she asked him.
     "Men are standing ready to attack," he replied, a thin, hot note of
anger emerging in his voice. "The Barels will pay for his death!"
     "Don't be a fool," she replied, coldly. His jaw dropped, and he
hastily ducked his head, ashamed. "The last thing we need to do is mount
a raid against one of Dargon's prized villages with a breach in our wall
you could ride a battalion through. We must repair the breach,
immediately." Gefaron nodded submissively as she continued. "We dare not
wait for our enemies to hear the news. If we are lucky, Dross and Callen
will not find out for a few days. Maybe we can have a short wall up by
then." She turned back toward her father's body and almost collapsed
again. "Call for the surgeon. Have him embowel my father for burial."
She stepped up to her father's side, taking his cold hand and pressing
it to her lips briefly before closing his eyes. With Daruk at her side,
she took her mother's hand and led her, weeping, back to her chambers.
     There followed several tense sennights. Men and women worked
continuously to raise the wall back up, to protect Clayhold. Fennla
directed the effort, with Gefaron leading the building teams and with
Daruk directing the remaining men-at-arms. All the patrols were pulled
back, with as many peasants as could be gathered poured into the
construction teams. Finally a single wall of stones was in place, and
the patrols were again released. The first one had hardly been gone a
bell when it came riding back into the keep.
     "There's a column of men approaching from the south!" came the
shout as the two rode back through the gates. Trumpets blared, and the
battlements were manned. The gates were shut the moment the patrols were
back, and another tense wait commenced. This one ended when the column
hove into sight. At the head of the column was Clifton Dargon, his
banner fluttering in the breeze. The gates were opened, and Daruk rode
out.
     "Greetings, Lord Dargon," Daruk said as he was allowed to approach.
"How may we be of service to you?"
     "We have come to help you bury your dead," Dargon stated plainly.
Daruk was speechless, so Dargon continued. "We received news a sennight
ago that Lord Claywall had died. We came to bury him, and to name his
successor."
     Daruk nodded, stunned. "Lady Claywall has asked me to tender our
gracious hospitality to you and your men."
     "Thank you. I accept." With that, Dargon and his advisors followed
Daruk into the keep.

     The funeral was as elaborate as Fennla could stand. Claywall
himself had not been one for spending money on the dead, and she had
inherited more than just his castle. Indeed, after interviewing the
unnaturally placid elder Lady Claywall, Clifton Dargon quickly and
simply named Fennla the successor. He then rode back to his ducal seat,
leaving Fennla to fend for herself.
     Late that evening, after Dargon had left, Fennla returned to her
chambers. She walked to her bed as Daruk closed and locked the doors.
She allowed the chambermaid to undress her, as she often did, but then
shooed her out before the lamps could be extinguished.
     "Daruk, thank you for helping me get through today," she said, not
looking at him.
     "You're welcome, Milady." He arranged his cushions and settled down
to polish his sword, wondering only slightly why she was staying up.
     "There were times I was not sure I would make it," she remarked
quietly. Daruk got up and knelt at her side, taking her hand and patting
it.
     "Daruk, I must ask you now to help me again," she continued.
     "With what, Milady?"
     "I need a husband. I cannot keep this holding alone. I need a man."
     Daruk nodded. "I agree. What do you want me to do?"
     "I want you to marry me."
     There was a moment of silence. "Milady, that's not possible."
     "Yes, it is."
     "Milady ... there is more in a marriage than ..."
     "Than what?"
     "Than ... well ..."
     "There is more in a marriage than love?" She took his hand and
stood, pulling him to his feet. "There is nothing more in life than
love, Daruk. What else could a man bring me?" She continued as he tried
to speak. "I don't need a man to tell me what to do. My father tried and
never managed it. This is my holding and I intend to keep it that way. I
don't need a man to protect me. I have a whole army to do that now. And
I don't need a man to tupple me -- if my saddle worked in the field,
it'll work for me here." She stared into his eyes. "I need a man to love
me, to help me, to counsel me, to support me. And I don't know any man
better to do that than you, Daruk. So I want you to marry me." She
swallowed hard. "Please."
     He gazed into her face for a moment. "Nothing would please me more,
Milady."

     The next day Fennla announced her intention to wed Daruk to her
mother and to Gefaron. Her mother took the announcement with the same
lack of interest that she displayed toward all events that did not
directly involve her. Gefaron was aghast. For only the second time in
memory he raised his voice to Fennla. By the end of the day he was gone
from the keep, on a badly packed horse headed south. By that time the
news had left the keep and had reached the neighboring villages. The
resulting stir in the surrounding holdings was unprecedented. That Daruk
was a gelding was well known; that his emasculation was complete was
also well known. Within three days all of Dargon was abuzz with
speculation.
     Fennla was watching the guard spar in the courtyard six days later
when Daruk approached her with a scroll in his hand. He handed it to her
silently and waited as she broke it open and read it.
     "He approves," she said simply, glancing up at him. She stared at
him intently for a moment. "But you knew that." She glanced back down at
the scroll, fingering the freshly broken seal.
     "The courier was unusually polite to me as he delivered it," Daruk
replied.
     They stood there for a long moment, studying each other's face.
Then, carefully, Fennla moved close to him, reaching out with her arms.
Daruk took her gingerly and kissed her lips. They held each other that
way, and the sound of sobbing began to fill the room.

     The day of the wedding came and went. Few other nobles attended.
Dross sent a gift of flowers -- with all the petals removed. Nonetheless
the day itself passed as it should. Just as Lord Claywall's funeral was
small, so was Fennla's wedding. Substituting a gown of her family's
colors for the traditional wedding garb, Fennla presided over the
ceremony herself. There was a banquet in which all the keep
participated, and gifts were distributed to the peasants. Afterward,
little changed. Daruk had always slept in her bedchamber after being
cut. The only difference was that now he slept in her bed. But still he
kept his blade ready.

     It had been barely a sennight since the wedding, and the night was
dark. It happened gradually at first, with no noise or commotion. One by
one, the guards disappeared. Finally there were few enough left that the
guise of secrecy was dropped, and a few, short screams echoed through
the courtyard. Only then did the Carver and his archers emerge from the
shadows where they had been picking off the other men-at-arms. Silently,
they moved to the ground floor of the keep, stopping at certain doors
that were seldom locked, opening them, and killing whoever was behind
them. They reached the first level with some difficulty -- there were
many men on the ground floor, and most were armed. Surprise was a great
weapon, though, and only three archers died on the ground floor. The
assassins paused on the landing on the first floor. The Carver turned to
his men.
     "The young bitch and her gelding die, but save the old woman
Claywall. None of this will work without her."
     The first door on the first floor belonged to Fennla. With most of
the fighting men dead, the raiders were more bold. They smashed open the
door and moved in with a hail of arrows. They found a bed riddled with
shafts, but no Fennla. They rushed down the narrow chambermaid's hall,
only to get caught in a deadly hail from a murder hole above. They
hastily backed down the hall, leaving behind two more of their number.
     "He's taken them up to the next level," the Carver explained,
pointing to the stairway up. His men took the steps in bounds, but they
were met by several fast, well-aimed arrows, and they backed down, at
the cost of a man. They huddled at the end of the hall, wondering what
to do. It was only then that they noticed the Carver was missing.
     The ledge outside Fennla's first floor window was quite strong and
relatively wide, having served as a walkway during the keep's
construction. The Carver ran down it now. He leaped for and caught a
drain-pipe, shinnying up it to gain the next level. He could see a light
in a window ahead, and could hear talking. He slipped his bow off his
shoulder and nocked an arrow. He crept up to the window and leaned in,
bow drawn. Fennla was inside to his right. As he aimed a hand grabbed
his bow and pulled him in the window. The Carver fell in onto the floor,
rolled, and came to his feet, his knife out. He was facing an open door
leading to an outer chamber which held several determined, female
bodyguards and two startled, older women. He immediately decided to keep
them out of the fight, so he slammed the door with his foot, putting his
back to it. The latch, spring loaded, clicked shut. He found himself
facing Daruk and Fennla, alone. Daruk had a sword, and Fennla looked
unarmed. The Carver hesitated only a moment before throwing the knife at
Daruk.
     Daruk saw the throw coming. Instinctively he tried to block it, and
he succeeded, but found himself with a knife stuck through his right
forearm. There was no pain immediately, only shock. As the Carver
charged across the room, Daruk felt the strength drain from his arm, and
his sword-grip loosen. Only when the blade fell from his hands did
Fennla finally scream. Daruk dropped his right arm out of the Carver's
reach, and twisted his body to the left so that the Carver's lunge would
not strike him. He lashed out with his left arm at the Carver's face.
The Carver, intent on seizing the knife again, took the blow and
stumbled. As the Carver thudded into the wall behind Daruk, Daruk kicked
the sword away toward Fennla.
     The impact with the wall had disoriented the Carver. He turned back
around fast but Daruk's left hand was around his throat, slamming him to
the wall. The Carver snapped his knee up hard into Daruk's crotch. Daruk
smiled a nasty smile and fell back, dragging his assailant by the throat
and throwing him across the room. As the Carver tried to stand, Daruk
kicked him hard across the face. The Carver rolled over and saw Daruk
reaching down for him with both hands. The Carver snatched the knife out
of Daruk's arm and raised the blade over his head. He might as well have
been moving in slow motion; before he could strike Daruk's arm lashed
out, and the world banged shut like a coffin lid.

     Yarak stalked up the stairs slowly, holding a crossbow out in front
of himself. His finger was on the trigger, pressing lightly. He knew
that there were two archers above, with short bows. Behind him came
three of his own archers, carrying crossbows. Attack had a cruel math to
it. Four crossbows against two short bows equaled four dead people, with
two to spare. The rest of the archers followed behind, arrows nocked. It
would be a slaughter, to be sure, but Beinison had the numbers now.
Victory was assured. All that remained was the counting.
     Step by step Yarak drew close to the top landing. He crouched low
as he reached it, the crossbow aiming down a hallway he knew had to be
there. He reached the last few steps, took a deep breath, and popped up,
ready. Before him stretched a hallway. It was empty.
     "Go!" he whispered, waving his men ahead as he aimed his weapon
down the hall, ready to pick off anyone who might appear. The three
fanned out against the wall, aiming their weapons at the various
doorways that opened off the corridor. Below, the crowd of remaining
archers pressed upward. Yarak stood and waited for them to reach him. He
knew an ambush awaited behind one of those doors. He did not want to die
in it, but he wasn't going to just wait for it either. The night would
not last forever. A creak came from nearby, and the nearest door began
to open. Four crossbows focused on it. It swung inward, leaving behind a
dark opening. Just a moment too late, it occurred to Yarak that the dark
was just a bit too black.
     Daruk stepped out of the door, and four crossbows snapped. The
bolts thudded into something behind that dark opening, but Daruk kept
coming. A moment later, another Daruk also stepped out of the door.
Yarak's heart skipped a beat, then began thudding double hard as if to
make up for it. Magic.
     "Come on!" He shouted to the men coming up the stairs below as he
himself tossed the crossbow aside and reached for his own bow slung
across his shoulders. A third Daruk appeared, following the first two.
The lead Daruk was assailed by the first of the crossbowmen, who swung
his empty crossbow in an overhead arc. The weapon and the bowman passed
harmlessly through the phantom. The third Daruk threw something at
Yarak, who ducked. It was a ball, dull and rough. The ball struck the
landing and cracked with an odd sound. Suddenly the air around Yarak was
filled with flashes of red, green, blue, and gold. He covered his
dazzled eyes to shield them from the glare, but even with his eyes
closed, he could still see the flashes. Suddenly he knew this was just
an illusion. Somehow the Claywalls had arranged for some sort of magical
defenses. His training took over, and he raced forward, arrow nocked,
staring hard past the blinding lights. The strategy worked. He was past
the cloud of confusion, and suddenly he could see Daruk and two women,
kneeling in the corridor with empty bows. Yarak suddenly stumbled,
falling to his knees as the trio reloaded. He tried to aim at Daruk, but
his left arm failed him, dropping the bow. He watched it fall, suddenly
noticing the feathers of three arrows sticking out of his own chest. He
looked up to see the last of the three shoot past him, and then he fell
on his face.

     It felt to the Carver as if only a moment had passed, but when he
next opened his eyes Daruk was gone, and it was Fennla leaning over him.
He knew his first impulse ought to be to attack, but it was as if his
body had gone, leaving his mind behind. Fennla stared down at him. He
waited for the death blow, but it didn't come.
     "Why did you do it?" she asked. Her voice seemed almost irrelevant,
and he didn't reply at first. From outside he heard screams. His men
would be in soon to finish the game, he knew.
     "An outpost. For Beinison."
     "But why?" she asked, more distant now. "Why here?"
     "For the war," he replied, getting tired of the wait. "Hide here,
and wait. Hide ... with old Claywall." Then he had a question of his
own.
     "Why? Why marry ... the eunuch?"
     Fennla looked sober for a moment before replying. The Carver felt
beyond caring, beyond concern. It didn't matter now. He barely caught
what she said.
     "Because he loved me before I ever loved him."

     Three seasons later, the bloodstains were gone, washed away. The
tower chamber had been transformed into Daruk's aerie, a place to watch
the land and think. He stood there, wondering how much had changed in
the last year. The keep was again populated, the summer was again
beginning, the wall had been fully repaired, and Barel had even emerged
from the cold north with a bride of his own. A year of marriage had also
restored Daruk, but in ways he wasn't quite able to see. Still, he could
think about it.
     Behind him a door opened. He turned to see Fennla's maid bowing to
him.
     "I've come to take Betta to her lessons," she said.
     "She's in her room," he replied, gesturing to a door. The maid
nodded and went to the door. Daruk turned back to the window for a
moment, looking back when the maid emerged with a young girl. They both
turned to face him and dipped in a neat curtsy. Daruk frowned a bit at
this, then nodded back. He watched as the maid led the girl out. When he
had persuaded Fennla to adopt the slave girl from the kitchen, she had
been cheery and bright, but lately she had begun to withdraw. He would
have to talk to Fennla about it. But at least she had begun to grow
again, starting to catching up in size with the children her own age.
Like the whole barony, she needed time to recover from the effects of
Baron Claywall's rule. Fortunately, time was something they all had.
     Daruk heard footsteps behind him, and he turned to look. It was
Fennla. He took her in his arms and embraced her. They moved to sit in
the window, holding each other. Daruk looked in her eyes.
     "Are you all right?"
     "I love you, Daruk."
     He kissed her, happy. "And I love you too, Fennla."
     She gave him an odd look. "Did you once swear that you would give
your life for me?"
     "Yes, I did. Why?"
     "Do you know that you have done it?"
     "I have?" he smiled.
     "Yes," she replied. "I never had life until I met you. Now I have
all the life I need."
     Together, they sat in the window and watched the land grow.

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