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+-+--+-+--+-+ VOLUME SEVEN NUMBER THREE
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+___________+ FFFFF SSS FFFFF N N EEEEE TTTTT
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| ++ | F S F NN N E T
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| ++ | FFF SSS FFF N N N EEE T
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| | F S F N NN E T
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|_________| F SSS F N N EEEEE T
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/___________\ ==========================================
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| | BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
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___|___________|___ X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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CONTENTS
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X-Editorial 'Orny' Liscomb
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*Through the Veil: Atros 5 Joseph Curwen
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*Duty John White
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Date: 021687 Dist: 274
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An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
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All original materials copyrighted by the author(s)
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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X-Editorial
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Welcome comrades to glorious issue VOL7N03 of electronicheski
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magazine FSFnet, hot on heels of last very glorious issue.
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Unfortunately, due to inexplicable and unforseen circumstances,
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many readers did not receive their issues until several days after
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the issue had been sent. Hopefully, the situation will not continue.
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In this issue, you've really got a treat. For those of you who
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have been following Atros, there is a pivotal installment in this
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issue, and an excellent well-spun tale by John White. I'm sure you
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will all enjoy the issue.
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-'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE @ MAINE>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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Through the Veil: Atros 5
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Atros dreamed for the first time in many weeks. It had taken a
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great effort of will to break the bonds of the nepenthe still
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tainting his blood, but Atros had succeeded. Still, there was much
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more to been done, much more to experience. Atros should not relax
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now that he had overcome the first, and possibly the easiest, barrier.
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In spite of this, for several moments Atros hesitated to open
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his eyes. He needed more time to solidify his resolve. Atros let his
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attention turn inward. He knew that he was dreaming. Something deep
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in side him sensed it, but he also knew that this was a dream unlike
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any other. His mind was clear, unclouded by the fog of uncertainty
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or forgetfulness. Not only could Atros remember his identity as a
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rogue scholar in Dargon, but Atros could also recall in detail a
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hundred other lives that he had led in previous dreams. This
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terrified him. He remembered the pain and loss, but he also
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experienced a sense of detachment that helped support him against
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the pull of insanity. His mind was very clear, his thoughts precise.
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>From a solely inward inspection, Atros could be certain that he had
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arrived where he had wanted to go. It was very difficult to believe
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that this was only a dream.
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Atros slowly opened his eyes. He lay on a vast floor composed of
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huge, gray stone blocks. Above him was a high vaulted ceiling
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sloping gradually down to the floor on two sides. The stone ceiling
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bore criss-crossing arches whose shadows gave the chamber an eerie
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organic feeling. There was a distant light in one direction and
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darkness in the other. Atros raised himself to his feet before
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noticing his clothing. While he bore the same body that had settled
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to sleep in Pravo's house, he now wore a soft white robe belted with
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a thick black ribbon. He felt very healthy and strong. There was no
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trace of the fatigue or wounds that he had received in the street
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fight only hours before.
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Atros' course seemed obvious. Though he was suspicious of being
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led, he set out in bare feet across the coarse stonework toward the
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distant light. After several hundred yards, Atros could dimly
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discern a figure standing before the light source. Impatient to
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finish this destined meeting, Atros quickened his pace.
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The figure was that of a healthy old man. His face was ridden
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with the wrinkles of age but he stood tall and straight. He too was
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dressed in purest white with a belt of black. Atros took a long look
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at the man's smiling countenance then glanced down as he approached,
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unwilling to face him.
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"You have found what you have sought. Though you don't know what
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that is," the man spoke mirthfully. His voice was deep, fatherly.
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"I thought perhaps you were gods?" Atros suggested rather weakly.
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"No, Atros, we are not gods. We are something other than that,"
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He pronounced and then lapsed into quiet contemplation for long
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moments. "Do you remember reading Fendle, Jung, Carstoe, Van Keltii,
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Reinhelm, and the others?"
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"...yes..." Atros replied in a hollow whisper.
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"We are a fraction of Siger's world-soul, a splinter of Byron's
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oversoul, an isolate disembodied collective subconsciousness. We are
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a collective entity which germinated in minds such as your own but
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has grown to surpass such boundaries," he paused for a moment.
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"Well, at least partially. Your and our mind overlap in a region of
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your subconscious, though only a small part of ourself is yourself
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and vice versa. You understand that I use the pronoun 'we' only
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because such constructs as 'I/we/you' are very awkward in your
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language. I am an individual, a collection of individuals, and a
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portion of your own mind. I am empowered to speak for each of these
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entities. You have many questions which I now will attempt to answer."
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"What are you called?" Atros' mind was struggling with these
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ideas. He cast out this question to buy the time he needed to adjust.
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"We could ask the same of you. At this instant you could
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rightfully answer to half a thousand names, which you remember
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bearing during some part of your existence. Yet none of those names
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adequately describes the individual that you are now. We are much
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the same. We have both too many names and no suitable name, but if
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you prefer, you may call us Morpheus as that might best describe us
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from your point of view." Morpheus' tone seemed almost too friendly.
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"What is this place?" Atros asked. He had decided that if he had
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to meet his maker, he did not wish to show weakness. And yet, he was
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still confused. Too much seemed to be happening too quickly to
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follow. Perhaps, he should have waited until he was better prepared
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for all of this.
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"A creation based on patterns deep within your own mind. We have
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gone to the trouble of making everything appear as closely as
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possible to the way you inwardly expected it to appear. Even my own
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appearance is drawn from your own imagination. We chose to craft
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forms that would be meaningful to you, literally and symbolically.
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We wished to convey our message with the least amount of confusion
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or fright." Morpheus spoke without gestures.
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"Then you can eavesdrop on my thoughts?" Atros asked suddenly
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feeling vulnerable. He sought to conceal his fright by straightening
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his shoulders, raising his head, and peering deeply into the black
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eyes of the man/enigma before him. In the long verbal pauses, Atros
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could hear only the sound of his own breathing.
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"On that portion of your mind that is part of us already, yes.
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With the rest, let us just say that we can do a fair job of
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anticipating your mind," Morpheus answered meeting Atros' glare.
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"What do you want of me?" Atros asked trying to sound defiant.
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"Very simply, we would like you to join us. To allow us to
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experience a greater portion of your mind and to allow you to
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explore our being as well. We wish to live with you, teach you, and
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work with you. We have need of you and we have much to offer in
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return." Morpheus' tone was even and his voice smooth. He portrayed
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no emotion except fatherly concern and fatherly strength.
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"What do you offer?" Atros was tempted to sneer but he realized
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that it probably wouldn't be convincing.
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"Power, knowledge, a near infinite number of new experiences,
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and an end to your loneliness," Morpheus offered smiling. His
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mention of loneliness struck Atros as a blow.
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Atros spoke before he was fully recovered from this, "You must
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know that what you imply frightens me. The alienness of it...the
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loss of individuality."
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"Individuality will still be possible in a fuller, more
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integrated sense," Morpheus pronounced with a glistening polish.
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"Integrated individuality? How can that be possible?"
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"You are accustom to thinking of life and consciousness in
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discrete organic units. The separation between souls is much less
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distinct. Yes, your consciousness would lose its boundaries but the
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center of your consciousness, its seat, can preserve its
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individuality untarnished," Morpheus replied.
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"After all that you have done to me...the torment...the anguish,
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do you seriously believe that I will join you willingly?"
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"Perhaps we know you better than you know yourself. In time, you
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may see things differently. Until then, you need not commit yourself."
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"But why? Why have you led me into cycles of love and loss, fear
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and hatred?" Atros' shield of cool intellect was cracking.
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"We have tried to explain that. You remember the dream of the
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forge?" Atros confirmed this with a nod. Morpheus' voice took on a
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lecturing quality. "Pain and suffering are the only true sources of
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wisdom and strength. Think of what you have undergone as a
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necessary, if painful, initiation."
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"An initiation I did not chose to undergo," Atros accused.
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"No one truly chooses their role in life. We believe free will
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to be be even more of a fallacy than it obviously appears."
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"You believe? You do not know?" he said with a touch of mocking.
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"We are not omniscient. Not nearly so. Proof of the existence of
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absence of free will is far beyound our means. We accept our
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beliefs, and in fact all our knowledge, as provisional.
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Interestingly, though we doubt the existence of free will, we
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recognize the force of will as the source of our power. If one
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considers it, this is not contradictory. But even if it were, we are
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not above a bit of hypocrisy if such a stance is the only pragmatic
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solution." Morpheus remained unresponsive to Atros' jibes.
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"How do I know that everything you've said isn't a lie and your
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proposals a trap?" Atros proposed.
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Morpheus' expression suddenly changed. He burst into a heavy,
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haunting laughter that echoed through the hollow chamber. Atros'
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anger grew with this obvious mocking, but he kept silent until
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Morpheus abated and spoke more, "Excellent! We have crafted you well."
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"You desired cynicism and distrust?" Atros asked angrily.
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"No, we desired that you be wise enough to continually question
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and doubt, so you can be an independent thinker. We do not need
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slaves. We have enough of those and we can always fashion more
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Gilmans. We need equals...partners." Morpheus used his eloquence in
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an attempt to soothe Atros.
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"You could still be lying to me," replied Atros.
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"Yes, Atros, we would delude or misdirect you to obtain own
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desires and we have done a bit of that in your past, but now we are
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truthful. Though we realize that what we say might frighten you,
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truthfulness now is best in the long run."
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"You can see the future?" Atros asked incredulous.
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"Only its possibilities. But that is usually enough."
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"You still have not given me sufficient reason to join you."
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"You are already with us. You have been so since birth. Your
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subconscious has always been with us. Much of what your
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consciousness is comes from your association with us. We are lodged
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deeply in your being."
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"Then I can escape you only in death," Atros stated in a whisper.
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"No, Atros. We will go beyound that barrier with you. There is
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no escape. What happens between us is destined to be. It cannot be
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avoided." There was just the slightest hint of sadness and regret in
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Morpheus' voice.
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"I could keep increasing my dosage of nepenthe. I could evade
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the dreams," Atros suggested clutching at faint hopes.
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"But surely you realize that these are more than just dreams.
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Already it intrudes on your waking life. How long will you be able
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to withstand attacks like the one you experienced last night?"
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"What do you know of that!?!" Atros' anger flared. Only reason
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prevented him from bodily attacking Morpheus.
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"Calm yourself, Atros. Remember that it was our servant Gilman,
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whom we sent to watch over your safety, that came to your rescue."
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"Yes, that is true," Atros admitted.
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"Many more such attacks are possible. It seems your connection
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with us has been discovered by an enemy of ours. It seeks to hurt us
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through harming you or perhaps converting you to their cause."
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"What is this enemy?"
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"It is a collective consciousness much like ourself but slightly
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weaker and younger. We are rivals for the same resources."
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"And it has attacked me and Darla because of you?" Atros accused.
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"Our enemy is a bit irrational and blood thirsty. It will
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continue harassing until you until it succeeds or grows bored. It is
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a threat to our continued existence and growth as well. We need your
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help in combating it as surely as you need us."
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"How could I aid you in fighting such a thing?" Atros asked.
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"We will teach you how to use your undiscovered talents. This
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instruction comes with no obligation. Do you consent to let us teach
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you to defend yourself against our mutual enemy?"
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Atros hesitated a long while. But his mind kept returning to the
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a single question: How else could he protect Darla and himself?
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Finally, on this basis he decided, "Provided that I may withdraw
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from these lessons at any time I choose."
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"Of course. Even if you will not join us now, we have no desire
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that you be killed or enveloped by our enemy. Go now. Rest. Prepare
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your mind, your lessons will begin in several days." With Morpheus'
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pronouncement, the scene began to quickly fade. Atros began the slow
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return to wakefulness.
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-Joseph Curwen <C418433 @ UMCVMB>
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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Duty
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Morion caught himself staring at the moon again, and turned his
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attention back to the roll of parchment on his desk. He snorted in
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disgust when he realized that he had read the first paragraph at
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least four times without understanding it. He hated having to wade
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through legal documents. They were written in the most obscure and
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lengthy terms so that lawyers were never done out of a job by
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someone with the ability to read. He trusted the lawyer he employed,
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but he refused to sign anything until he understood exactly what he
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was signing. Elaref, his lawyer, had explained over and over the
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basic terminology, but Morion was a fighter, not a scholar, and it
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took time and practice to master those knotted words. Grimacing and
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steeling himself for the effort, he went back to the thick parchment
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with the intent to get through it this time. It was the last one he
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had to sign and seal.
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Half an hour later, he was startled out of a reverie concerning
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the signet ring he wore on his left forefinger and how he had come
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to bear it by a knock on his chamber door. He glanced at the scroll
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and realized with dismay that he had only read to the second of six
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paragraphs. Rolling it up to do tomorrow, he said, "Come!", and
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turned his attention to the door.
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He had been expecting his seneschal, Riachon, calling him to his
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late and probably cold supper. The water clock in Morion's study
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worked perfectly, and Riachon hated it when people ignored
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appointments, even dinner ones. His seneschal always made sure that
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Morion got dinner if he didn't come down by himself. But, he made no
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guarantee as to its condition.
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The figure that stood limned in the torchlight of the hall was
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not the middle-aged and somewhat portly one of Riachon. The tall,
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slim, young man that stood there was wearing the official tabbard of
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the Falcon Herald of Baranur, colored gold and green with a blue
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falcon displayed in the center. His long black hair was held back
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with a silver circlet bearing one small stone in the center of his
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forehead. An amethyst of that deep and pure color was very rare. It
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identified him beyond doubt as Coridan the Falcon Herald. The stone
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had been a gift of the Queen when Coridan was given the Tabbard, the
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Staff, and the Keys to the Great Books of Arms upon ascending to the
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position of Royal Herald of Baranur. Coridan was not dressed in
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riding gear and Morion wondered how long the herald had been in the
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castle before knocking on his door.
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"Castle Pentamorlo is honored in receiving you, Master Coridan.
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Please, enter and have a seat. Shall I have some wine or other
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refreshment brought for you?" asked Morion.
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"Thank you, Baron. Perhaps a little of that wonderful Huulon
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wine, if you kept any for yourself. I must thank you again for the
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wagonload you gave me - it is the best wine I have ever tasted."
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Morion stepped over to the dumbwaiter, wrote his wishes on the
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slate inside, and sent it down to the kitchens. "Come, Master
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Coridan, let us sit before the fireplace and be a little more
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comfortable." The young herald settled himself while Morion poked up
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the fire until it was roaring. Little bells in the dumbwaiter
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jingled, and Morion retrieved the tray bearing two crystal goblets
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and a cool bottle of the golden wine of the type that he had given
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to Coridan as an Elevation gift.
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After he had poured the wine and settled into a chair across a
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small table from the herald, Morion said, "What brings you to my
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school, Coridan?"
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Coridan sipped his wine and smacked his lips. "As good as ever,
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Baron. Ah, but my news. Well, it seems that the King needs your help."
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Morion's ice-grey eyes narrowed, and his mouth compressed into a
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thin, hard line. He had anticipated Coridan's words, echoing as they
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did almost countless other pleas from the Crown he had received
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month after month for years. But, the King had never sent so
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important a person as the Falcon Herald to ask his futile question.
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"For what?" Morion demanded. "He has an army, and a whole legion of
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instructors. I wouldn't teach his soldiers anyway. What could he
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possibly want that I would give him?"
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Coridan looked at Morion, his aquamarine eyes seemingly wide and
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innocent. He said, "He needs your help, Baron. It IS your duty."
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Morion shouted, "No it is not!" and slammed his goblet down on
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the table between them hard enough to snap the thin stem and shatter
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the base. He looked at the broken goblet in his hand. With a
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muttered, "Sreth!" between clenched teeth, he hurled the bell of the
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goblet into the fire where it smashed loudly.
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He stood and whirled around behind his chair, an angry scowl
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marring his face. Less loudly, but no less angrily, he said, "When
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is Haralan going to understand that I pay fealty to no one. My lands
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are my own, not held in fief for the Crown. You know as well as I
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that I and my family received special dispensation from King Nun as
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reward for a personal service I rendered him. That parchment was
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sealed in turn by Arenth, his brother, when Nun died and Arenth
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received the Crown, and then by Haralan, Arenth's son and present
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King. That third seal made the dispensation permanent and
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irrevocable. My lands are my own and my family's, with no
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requirement for fealty to anyone. The taxes I pay, I pay out of
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courtesy. I owe the King or Crown nothing. And no one calls me Baron
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- I gave back the six-pearled coronet to Nun, to Arenth, and to
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Haralan when they each tried to give me that title, with all the
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strings that go with it. I will not help!" His knuckles were white
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on the back of the chair by the time he finished.
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Coridan bore Morion's outburst with the air of one expecting it.
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He patiently waited while the older man ranted about the severing of
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his feudal obligations to Crown and King, granted and affirmed by
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the past three Kings. He knew about Morion's refusal to bear the
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identifying coronet of a Baron, but a King's award could not be so
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easily denied. The fighter had refused the obligation of further
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fealty to the Crown by refusing the circlet and title, but Coridan
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was a herald, and titles were important to heralds - especially
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acknowledging with respect one who bore a title, at least on paper.
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When Morion was finally done, the herald said, "I must apologize
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for not making myself clear, my Lord. The duty that the King calls
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upon is not that of vassal to liege, but a duty that you, yourself,
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have taken on - the responsibility for those you have trained in
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this thriving school of yours.
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"Reports have been coming in for several months now of trouble
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to the south. At first, the news was of what seemed to be an
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unconnected series of outlaw raids on caravans and other travelers.
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But, the attacks were not robbery. In every attack the travelers
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were killed to the last draft animal and all of the posessions were
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burned or broken and left behind.
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"Then, three months ago came word of the first village
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destroyed. As with the caravan raids, everyone in the village was
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killed, and the buildings were set afire. The villagers didn't have
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a chance.
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"The attacks have been getting more and more frequent, from two
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a month to almost one a week. King Haralan has had legions of the
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army in the area, but the outlaws attack randomly and the King has
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had no success at all in even spotting them.
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"However, our best seers have located the outlaws' hideout. In
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the valley where the Zyaran river flows out of the Skywall Mountains
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there is a vast lake that Zyaran feeds and flows from. On an island
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in the lake's center there is now a fortress without window or door,
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nor is there a bridge or causeway that links land to fort. Even
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knowing the location of the outlaws' stronghold is no help to the
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King for the island is unassailable. Also, the leader controls a
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magic that is able to transport his men and himself directly to the
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scene of their attack. The few surviving observers have likened this
|
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magic to a giant floating mirror that the outlaws ride into, but not
|
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out the other side.
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"The leader of these outlaws names himself BlueSword, and we
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have learned that he is a former pupil of yours. Two weeks ago in
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the ruins of a small village he had just sacked, the King's men
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found a man, cruelly mutilated but still alive. He bore a message
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branded into his flesh. It was a challenge. BlueSword wants to fight
|
|
you, Morion, and he intends to kill you, and then to destroy Baranur
|
|
little by little. King Haralan asked me to deliver this news to you,
|
|
in the hopes that I would at least get to your ear before your ire
|
|
got me thrown out. It seems that he did choose the right messenger,
|
|
although just barely."
|
|
Coridan's open smile eased the sheepish tension in Morion, and
|
|
the teacher returned to the comfortable side of the chair and sat
|
|
down. He sat silently thinking for a time, then said, "I must
|
|
apologize for my outburst, Coridan. I was just fed up with Haralan's
|
|
incessant petitioning of my talents to 'mold his fighting men into
|
|
an unbeatable force.' I...ah, souls and swords, I just never
|
|
expected this of Kyle. Something is strange here." He was silent for
|
|
several moments more, trying to fit his memories of Kyle, who had
|
|
been nicknamed BlueSword while learning here, to what he had just
|
|
been told. Finally, he remembered his duties as host, and said,
|
|
"Please accept the hospitality of my house, Master Coridan. If you
|
|
can stay until lunch tomorrow, perhaps we can talk further, but now
|
|
I must think on this. Thank you for bringing me the news. If I don't
|
|
see you tomorrow, you can assure the King that I will respond to
|
|
BlueSword's challenge to the best of my abilities." Both men rose,
|
|
and shook hands, and Morion walked the herald back down to the Main
|
|
Hall. Grabbing a platter full of dinner leftovers, Morion then went
|
|
back to his study to think about Kyle, now known as BlueSword.
|
|
Once again seated comfortably in the chair before the fire,
|
|
Morion idly nibbled at the food on the tray, sipped from the leather
|
|
flagon of mead he had brought up with the tray, and stared into the
|
|
fire remembering Kyle. Young, mid-twenties, of an age with Coridan,
|
|
fair haired, open-faced, very likeable and pleasant. He had come to
|
|
the school with just enough money, mostly in small denominations, to
|
|
cover the entry fee. But, he had exhibited plenty of raw talent and
|
|
Morion had accepted him readily. He had taken to training like a
|
|
goat to a mountain side, rapidly climbing the ladder of ability that
|
|
Morion privately used to grade his students. In three and a half
|
|
years, he had learned all he wished to, and had graduated with
|
|
appropriate honors. He had left a little more than a year ago, and
|
|
now it seemed that he had turned into some kind of monster bent on
|
|
death and destruction. That just didn't sound like him.
|
|
BlueSword. A nickname given to him by his fellow students, and
|
|
for good reason. He had painted the blade of every one of his wooden
|
|
and rattan practice swords a deep, almost purple blue. He didn't
|
|
tell anyone why until he passed the test of beating Morion himself
|
|
using a large shield and a long sword against the teacher's single
|
|
short sword. At the simple ceremony after dinner that night, Kyle
|
|
had brought out a magnificently wrought sword, said it had been in
|
|
his family for generations. It had a simple yet elegant silver and
|
|
gold hilt, with gently curved quillions and a large polished ball
|
|
for a pommel. It also had a beautifully blued blade; a deep,
|
|
metallic blue that rivaled the twilight sky. From then on, BlueSword
|
|
wasn't a joke any more - Kyle had earned it, and carried it proudly.
|
|
It bothered Morion that this should fall to him to resolve. He
|
|
had no worries about beating Kyle BlueSword on the field. Morion's
|
|
skills had been earned over long and hard years of practice and use.
|
|
Kyle's months at the school and the months after could not have made
|
|
him a match for the former soldier. Except for the thing that had
|
|
turned Kyle into a madman. Morion almost fell asleep staring into
|
|
the fire and wondering on that point, his mind circling the problem
|
|
endlessly. Riachon finally came up and herded him off to bed,
|
|
clucking absently about the leftovers that Morion had wasted by not
|
|
eating what he had taken to his room.
|
|
After his morning workout and several sparring sessions with his
|
|
pupils, Morion sought out Coridan and they talked over a light
|
|
lunch. The herald said, "The note BlueSword left named a time and
|
|
place for the duel. 'MeredsDay of LastSummer' is what it said. What
|
|
might MeredsDay be, if you know?"
|
|
"Kyle's people have many gods and they name each day of a month
|
|
by one or another of them. MeredsDay is the 15th or 16th day of the
|
|
month, depending on the month. LastSummer is next month by their
|
|
reconning. Not much time - just a little over two weeks. Where?"
|
|
"The east end of the lake that holds his island. He wants you to
|
|
come alone. Don't." Coridan's face was sincere, and even a little
|
|
apprehensive as he gave the teacher his advice.
|
|
"I'll leave tomorrow. Two weeks leaves little leeway to travel
|
|
so far, but Staarion is a fine horse. We'll make it, and hopefully
|
|
with enough time to rest up a little before the battle. I will go,
|
|
and hope that his honor hasn't been lost along with his sanity."
|
|
"Fare well, Sir Morion. May all of Kyle's gods smile on you, as
|
|
well as all of Baranur."
|
|
Morion just smiled as he went to talk to his two assistant
|
|
teachers, to tell them of their impending responsibilities. Morion
|
|
was a man who believed in himself and little beyond that. The gods
|
|
had little or no place in the reality he perceived. Still, he was
|
|
glad the young herald wished him well. He would need all the luck he
|
|
could muster if there was more than Kyle behind the upcoming duel.
|
|
|
|
Nine days of perfect riding weather ended in a thunderstorm so
|
|
fierce that it forced Morion off the road. Huddling in a makeshift
|
|
camp under some trees, using Staarion for the little shelter the
|
|
horse could provide, he spent the balance of the day, and all night,
|
|
soaking wet and miserable.
|
|
The next day, he tried to ride on through the still hard rain.
|
|
But just before noon another heavy thunderstorm forced him into camp
|
|
again. Morion began to worry about having lost two days so far. He
|
|
fervently hoped that the morrow would be drier.
|
|
It was, but not by much. The rain still fell, hard and fast, but
|
|
the violence of the thunderstorm had passed. It was not traveling
|
|
weather, but Morion had no choice. The rain would slow him down to
|
|
less than half his normal speed, and that wasn't enough time to make
|
|
it to the lake. Morion mounted Staarion and, pushing the animal to
|
|
the limits of safe movement, rode off trough a grey-walled world of
|
|
chill wetness.
|
|
Around mid-morning Morion suddenly had company in his wet and
|
|
short-horizoned world. The strange horse and rider loomed up out of
|
|
the hissing raindrops to his left and stopped athwart the road,
|
|
halting Morion's slow progress.
|
|
The horse was larger and so captured his attention first. Once
|
|
it did, he stopped calling it a horse. There was something
|
|
distinctly goatish about the mount - the cloven hooves, the tufted
|
|
tail, the ears, and the little growth of hair under its chin that
|
|
gave a name to the way some men wore their beards. It was easily as
|
|
large as a horse, with the glossy fine hide of a horse as well. And
|
|
then, Morion saw the flickering of a white, horn-shaped flame that
|
|
hovered over the beast's forehead. Unicorn.
|
|
Immediatly, the fighter's attention was drawn to the rider. She
|
|
sat tall in her saddle, back stiff and straight. Her face was turned
|
|
toward Morion, appraising him as he examined her. She had long hair
|
|
that seemed in the uncertain light to be pale blue, bound back by a
|
|
thin copper wire around her head that bore a small, dangling
|
|
ornament at each temple. Her face was long and thin, much like the
|
|
rest of her, and her eyes were the strangest color. Red, not like
|
|
the washed-out pink of an albino, but a deep, fiery red, like a fine
|
|
ruby. Her nose was long, her mouth small and almost lipless. Her
|
|
long throat was hidden by a thin, silklike scarf that matched the
|
|
rest of her clothing. She rested her hands on the high cantle of her
|
|
saddle; there didn't seem to be any halter or reins on the unicorn.
|
|
Her long, slim legs came out from under her skirts and went into
|
|
soft high leather boots, which rested in large stirrups. A flowing
|
|
cape attached to her tunic by copper buttons reached down her back
|
|
and across her mount's whithers. And, most amazingly, she seemed
|
|
totally dry.
|
|
She opened her mouth to speak and strange, music-like sounds
|
|
came out. But, the song of her words did not fit the movements of
|
|
her small mouth. When the song reached his ears, words he could
|
|
understand popped up in his mind.
|
|
The words in his head said, "The Dance of Ahar'yKinel enters its
|
|
second mode. Thyerin's webs have drawn you into your proper place in
|
|
the pattern of the Dance, which will end with the freeing of a
|
|
spirit too long held captive, and the end of an evil that could
|
|
unmake this world."
|
|
With the words came an understanding of their meaning, so that
|
|
Morion 'knew' that Thyerin the Weaver was a god from a pantheon he
|
|
had never heard of. Apparently, he had been drawn into some kind of
|
|
scheme by this Thyerin, a plan that the god and this woman named a
|
|
Dance. As the woman spoke/sang, the magic of her words enabled
|
|
Morion to almost see the pattern she mentioned the way she saw it,
|
|
like a half-finished piece of cloth on a loom, with part of its
|
|
pattern finished and showing, but the rest of it hidden in the
|
|
strands that would go into its making.
|
|
However beautiful the imagery, Morion resented the implication
|
|
that he was subject to the whim of an idea some people called a god.
|
|
Also, he was being delayed even further in his mission by this
|
|
woman, and he had no idea why she had stopped him. He said, "My good
|
|
Lady, while I would at some other time love to discuss this fantasy
|
|
of yours, I am late for an important meeting and have no time to
|
|
waste on mythical gods and the many ways stories are told about
|
|
their intervention in mortals' lives. If you would pardon me?" He
|
|
put his heels to Staarion to ease his mount forward, but his horse
|
|
refused to budge.
|
|
"Your belief in Thyerin does not affect his reality. Everyone
|
|
believes in something, even you, Sir Morion. The code of honor you
|
|
serve is as much a god to you as Thyerin is to those who follow him
|
|
under that, or any of his many other names. Even believing in
|
|
nothing is believing in something.
|
|
"I am named Kimmentari, and I know of your appointment. It is
|
|
part of the Dance, the meeting between you and Kyle BlueSword. I
|
|
have come to tell you three things. First, Kyle and his raiders will
|
|
attack the village of Belliern, which is just over a day away if you
|
|
shift your path to the east from here. Your King has been informed
|
|
of this by another agent and has sent two companies of the Army to
|
|
meet you there. If you meet Kyle there, and defeat him, the King's
|
|
soldiers will take care of the rest of his outlaws. If you wait
|
|
until the time and place that he has chosen, then there is no place
|
|
in the pattern for your victory.
|
|
"Still, wherever you choose to meet BlueSword, beware. He is not
|
|
the man you knew. Do not take for granted the skill you believe him
|
|
to possess. Also, you must kill him. The path that he has taken he
|
|
cannot be delivered from except in death. Do not let your former
|
|
friendship blind you to what must be done.
|
|
"And, lastly, when he is dead, remove from his left wrist the
|
|
bracer he wears and place it upon your own left wrist. For a short
|
|
time thereafter, you will be able to enter his citadel as he did
|
|
through a dimensional lens. Once within, you must find a
|
|
silver-bound crystal circlet that he had made for himself. It is
|
|
unfortunate that he never had a chance to use it, but it has a
|
|
further purpose. When you have the circlet, you must take it to
|
|
Dargon and deliver it unto one of your former pupils, the one named
|
|
Je'lanthra'en. She, too, has a part in this Dance and the circlet
|
|
will be of immeasurable aid to her.
|
|
"Once that is accomplished, your part in the Dance will be over,
|
|
and you can go back to your ways of not believing. From here, the
|
|
choice is yours. If you do not go to Belliern...that, too, is in the
|
|
pattern, and we will have to get someone else to play your part.
|
|
Farewell, Lord Sir Morion. I shall see you again. Until then..." And
|
|
she rode swiftly back into the greyness and vanished.
|
|
Morion stared after the strange woman for quite some time. He
|
|
couldn't quite believe the matter-of-fact way she had dictated the
|
|
next couple of days of his life to him, giving him the option to
|
|
reject her counsel but expecting him to follow it. Long after she
|
|
was gone, he still sat and thought, already so wet that he could sit
|
|
in the rain for days and not get wetter. Finally he decided to heed
|
|
her advice. More for practical reasons than anything else. He
|
|
suspected that Kyle would have something devious planned for their
|
|
proposed meeting on the shore of his lake. Even if he didn't, and
|
|
Morion succeeded in killing him, there would still be his outlaws to
|
|
contend with. If Kyle were truly going to attack Belliern, then
|
|
meeting him there with the King's men would be the smartest move he
|
|
could make.
|
|
He urged Staarion into motion again, and rode on thoughtfully
|
|
through the driving rain.
|
|
|
|
Morion propped himself comfortably against the lip of Belliern's
|
|
public well and looked around. The village was deserted and had been
|
|
since the King's men had arrived to tell them of BlueSword's coming
|
|
attack. Not a single resident of the village had elected to stay.
|
|
The infamy of BlueSword had spread swiftly, and no one wanted to
|
|
challenge it.
|
|
The village square, which should have been the busiest spot in
|
|
Belliern, was lifeless except for Morion and a few hidden sentries.
|
|
The shops that faced the square were closed and shuttered. The four
|
|
main spokelike streets were empty, as were the alleys that poked
|
|
between shops around the perimeter of the square. The day was
|
|
overcast, grey and cool for the end of summer. A gentle wind stirred
|
|
the dust on the ground and the sparse brown and green grass
|
|
scattered about the square. There were very few natural noises to
|
|
break the unnatural stillness of the village.
|
|
The two companies of the King's army were hidden in strategic
|
|
places around the village waiting for the attack that would occur
|
|
sometime that day according to Commander Rian's information.
|
|
Sentries were posted to carry information on Kyle's coming to the
|
|
ready soldiers. The waiting was the hardest part for them, of
|
|
course. Even after two days of good sleep and fair food at the
|
|
village's largest inn, waiting in hiding for an uncertain attack was
|
|
wearing on the nerves and body. They were at the mercy of Kyle whom,
|
|
if this day went right, they would never have to worry about again.
|
|
Morion sighed, and settled himself a little more comfortably on
|
|
the well's wide edge. He had resigned himself to this combat over
|
|
the days since he had diverted to Belliern. He had answered or
|
|
pushed away any hesitations and questions in his mind about whether
|
|
this was the right thing to do. As he drew his sword and settled it
|
|
across his knees, he thought about his reluctance to kill. He picked
|
|
up the whetstone and soft cloth lying beside him and began to hone
|
|
the blade that had been his livelihood for many years. He had done
|
|
his share of killing, both in the service of the King and on his own
|
|
later when he became a mercenary. And somewhere in that time, he had
|
|
become tired of killing. So often there had been no wrong or right
|
|
in the battles he had fought, just a desire for land, property, or
|
|
blood, and a sum of money to buy swords to fulfil that desire. It
|
|
had eventually become more than he was willing to deal with, and he
|
|
had packed away his blade forever. But, the inactivity was almost as
|
|
bad as the killing, so he had opened his school, trying to instill
|
|
in his students more than just the ability to destroy. As part of
|
|
his philosophy of 'restrained violence,' he tried to teach when it
|
|
was right to fight. He had finally convinced himself that this was
|
|
such a time and that he wasn't engaging in this duel for himself.
|
|
Kyle was destroying whole communities and killing innocent,
|
|
defenseless people. Someone had to stop him, for the innocents' sake
|
|
at least. Kyle had issued the challenge, and Kyle would have to face
|
|
the consequences.
|
|
Polishing and sharpening his sword calmed Morion. His world
|
|
narrowed to that blade and the coming fight. The simple activity
|
|
pushed moralizing out of his mind and got him ready to fight, made
|
|
his body and mind one. Soon, he was again the fighting machine of
|
|
his sellsword days and ready to duel Kyle BlueSword.
|
|
Shortly after noon, Morion felt a tingle, faint and subtle, move
|
|
like a wave across the square. He looked up, putting his polishing
|
|
materials down, and turned his gaze to the east-facing main road of
|
|
Belliern. He saw a thin grey line draw itself from the ground up to
|
|
ten feet in the air. It broadened into a thin, pointed-ended oval
|
|
which hovered for a moment and then twisted strangely,
|
|
eye-wrenchingly, like a lens of glass seen first edgewise then
|
|
turned broadside to vision. It twisted until it was a large grey
|
|
circle that filled the near end of the street. With a shiver and a
|
|
ripple, it flashed a bright silver, mirrorlike but reflecting nothing.
|
|
After another ripple brushed across the its surface, Morion saw
|
|
a shape begin to bulge out of the lower portion of it. It looked
|
|
like a man walking through a sheet hung on a line to dry. The
|
|
surface of the mirror stretched around the advancing form, then,
|
|
silently broke away from it to reveal a man dressed in fancy, fluted
|
|
blue plate armor with a lightning bolt on the breastplate that shone
|
|
like real gold. He wore no helm unlike his men who were armored in
|
|
ganbezons of leather. They were popping out of the mirror behind
|
|
their leader and forming into ragged ranks around him.
|
|
Even though the leader's head and face were uncovered, Morion
|
|
had some difficulty identifying Kyle. If not for the sword he held
|
|
naked in his right hand, Morion could not have been certain at all.
|
|
Kyle's face was darker, coarser, with a scraggly beard that altered
|
|
the planes of his face. There was something subtly twisted about the
|
|
face; something that made Morion think that perhaps Kyle had been
|
|
driven insane. And, the man's eyes glowed with a pale green light
|
|
plainly visible in the muted daylight. Only the sword assured him
|
|
that the leader was Kyle - it was the heirloom that Kyle was so
|
|
proud of.
|
|
|
|
Kyle BlueSword stepped through the dimensional lens into his
|
|
latest target, Belliern. Kyle immediatly noticed that the village
|
|
square was deserted but for one. He recognized the black armor and
|
|
the stylised gryphon on the breastplate. He recognized the black
|
|
helm with the silver decoration around the eye-slits that the man
|
|
was lifting from the edge of the village's well and settling on his
|
|
head. Lord Sir Morion of Pentamorlo, his former teacher.
|
|
He laughed, and said, "Ah, Teacher! You want to duel now? Fine,
|
|
just fine! Men, you know your jobs. Get to it while I take care of
|
|
this fool. I'll join you in a minute or two. Hah hah!" He waited a
|
|
moment to watch his outlaws slipping away in twos and threes down
|
|
the lanes of the village, destruction and mayhem on their minds.
|
|
After setting the lens to vanish, he walked to the square to meet
|
|
Morion. Kyle was as confident of victory as he sounded even without
|
|
the little surprises he had set up for the pre-planned duel.
|
|
|
|
Morion walked calmly to a position midway between the well and
|
|
the now vanishing mirror, ignoring Kyle's bluster. He watched the
|
|
outlaws moving away into the village. He hoped that the sentries had
|
|
alerted the soldiers. However, that was in the hands of Commander
|
|
Rian. He had a duel to fight. He located a level patch of dirt and
|
|
planted his feet firmly, shifting them slightly until he felt the
|
|
feedback of solidity that made him almost part of the ground. It was
|
|
a part of his favorite and best technique, the Rooted Form, a
|
|
fighting style that made the fighter immobile, rooted to the ground;
|
|
a rock in the face of his opponents. Morion lifted his blade in a
|
|
loose two-handed guard and waited, ready for anything.
|
|
Kyle strolled toward Morion, sword held loosely, point down, in
|
|
one hand. But, barely ten paces from his former teacher, Kyle
|
|
blurred into action faster than an eye could track. In an instant he
|
|
brought his sword up into a guarded attack position and began to run
|
|
at Morion, full speed from the first step.
|
|
He moved much faster than Morion thought possible. It was all he
|
|
could do to wrench himself from his rooted stance, move his sword
|
|
between himself and Kyle's blade, and dodge as Kyle barreled through
|
|
the space where Morion had been standing. Morion whirled around,
|
|
shuffled his feet until he found the feedback of the proper stance
|
|
and faced Kyle again. He was more prepared this time for the rush
|
|
that Kyle was already mounting. Part of the Rooted Form involved
|
|
stopping and engaging an opponent to keep him from darting in and
|
|
out and around one. With a skill that almost surprised Morion
|
|
himself, he leaned into Kyle's attack, feeling the strength of his
|
|
stance pour up his legs and into his body. With a darting sword and
|
|
a braced body, he let Kyle crash into him. Morion watched as the
|
|
speeding man simply bounced off of the front that he put up, the
|
|
inertia of Kyle's rush absorbed and syphoned off.
|
|
Kyle recovered with the same lightning swiftness that he had
|
|
charged with, and soon Morion was encased in a web of flashing blue
|
|
light from the multitude of blows that rained down at him from
|
|
Kyle's impossibly fast arm. It took all of his skill to keep himself
|
|
from being wounded. Morion had done his best to eliminate any
|
|
prejudging of this contest by what he knew of Kyle's skill and
|
|
ability because of what the strange woman Kimmentari had said. Now
|
|
he had to rethink his moves in terms of this incredible speed. He
|
|
gradually came to realize that he could not possibly defeat Kyle if
|
|
he stayed in one place. He knew that it was just a matter of time
|
|
until his reflexes didn't respond fast enough to block one of Kyle's
|
|
blows. The speed of BlueSword's attack left him no time to riposte.
|
|
The smile on Kyle's face told Morion that the outlaw had him
|
|
right where he wanted him, almost as if he had expected Morion to
|
|
use the Rooted Form and knew that it was futile. Morion decided to
|
|
use a change in tactics to surprise Kyle to perhaps gain an advantage.
|
|
He gradually eased his feet free, surprised by the increased
|
|
difficulty he now had blocking Kyle. He hid any differences from his
|
|
opponent, making it seem that he intended to stay Rooted until he
|
|
was killed. He gathered his resources into himself, storing them up
|
|
until he felt he could manage a fast burst of action, blocking with
|
|
more and more economy he hoped would seem to Kyle like weariness.
|
|
Finally ready, Morion sped into action. Judging his moment to
|
|
the half-second, he dodged to the left under an almost-patterned
|
|
blow. In the slight hesitation Kyle made when his blade didn't meet
|
|
the expected resistance, Morion was able to bring his blade around
|
|
and under Kyle's defence. He swung with all of the force in his body
|
|
and connected with the armor under Kyle's right arm and dented it
|
|
enough to at least bruise if not break some ribs. Continuing the
|
|
motion smoothly, Morion slipped out of range and took up a light,
|
|
shifting stance, ready to move, dodge, run, or whatever else was
|
|
necessary to defeat BlueSword.
|
|
Something was wrong. Kyle wasn't charging after Morion. He stood
|
|
and turned just enough to look at his former teacher. Morion noticed
|
|
that the swarthy look and the glowing eyes were gone, as if a mask
|
|
had lifted, leaving a very bewildered, weary and recognizable Kyle.
|
|
Kyle took a hesitant step toward Morion, and said, "H-help m..."
|
|
The return of the mask cut off his plea, and once again Kyle was the
|
|
dark-skinned, evil-eyed man who had walked through the mirror. "Good
|
|
try, teacher," he said. "First blood to you. I didn't think you
|
|
smart enough to leave your stance even when it was killing you. But,
|
|
you still have no chance of victory. I shall not be caught off
|
|
guard, and I am better than you! Diiiieeeeee!!" He charged with the
|
|
same speed as the first time, not even slightly slower. It was as
|
|
though the minutes of fighting hadn't tired Kyle in the least.
|
|
Although feeling the fatigue that Kyle was not, Morion was more
|
|
ready this time than before. He spun and swung with Kyle's rush,
|
|
moving with the midnight-blue armored man so that he didn't have the
|
|
time to turn and run again before Morion's sword was there to be
|
|
blocked. Kyle attacked in a flurry of blows that Morion blocked. Now
|
|
that he wasn't hemmed in by his useless stance, Morion recognized
|
|
that there was more speed than skill in Kyle's attack. There was
|
|
also a fatal tendency to attack in a pattern. As he and Kyle fought
|
|
back and forth across the village square, Morion grew more and more
|
|
certain that, given half a chance and enough time to discern the
|
|
pattern in Kyle's attack, he could win.
|
|
Neither dueler noticed when the fighting in the rest of the
|
|
village reached the square. The King's men had reacted swiftly to
|
|
the advent of the outlaws, ambushing and slaughtering the small
|
|
groups as they searched the village for something to kill. Of the
|
|
original two and a half score only ten survived the initial attacks.
|
|
With the advantage of more experience in guerilla tactics than the
|
|
soldiers, the outlaws, though few in numbers, managed to take a high
|
|
toll on the King's men as they slipped through the alleys and houses
|
|
of the village. Finally the outlaws were driven into the square
|
|
itself by the numbers of King's men alone. There, one by one, they
|
|
fought and died, outnumbered but not surrendering.
|
|
Morion finally got his chance. He backed Kyle up against the
|
|
well with a flurry of hacking blows that seemed wild but were not.
|
|
Using every trick he knew to keep Kyle from breaking away from him,
|
|
he studied Kyle's pattern, even going so far as to take a hit or two
|
|
to judge the man's reaction. When he was sure, he made his final play.
|
|
He attacked, and Kyle followed up as predicted. Another
|
|
half-dozen blows, all as planned. One more, two, three, and - as
|
|
Kyle's blade came up from terce in a backhand return, Morion moved.
|
|
His blade went down, forcing BlueSword's to slide up and out. His
|
|
blade came up from the same place and angle that his opponent's had.
|
|
It caught the man in now-dusty blue just under the lower edge of his
|
|
breastplate, cutting deeply. He recovered the blade quickly, and,
|
|
while Kyle was staggered with the first blow, he swung with all his
|
|
might, leaving himself dangerously open, and struck home deep into
|
|
Kyle's left side, his blade piercing the armor and sinking deep into
|
|
Kyle's chest.
|
|
Kyle's face twisted even more as he grimaced in pain. For a few
|
|
moments, there was nothing left of Kyle's features, but rather
|
|
something out of a nightmare. Fangs, horns, pointed ears, excessive
|
|
hair, no eyes but rather twin orbs of flickering green light nestled
|
|
under its brows; the green light that had shone through Kyle's eyes.
|
|
In a voice that was deep and gravelly, and very loud, the thing
|
|
said, "You have won, mortal. But, I never forget. You will not be so
|
|
lucky next time. My time is limited on this plane now, but I shall
|
|
have my revenge. Beware, Sir Morion. Beware!" And, the alien
|
|
features faded leaving the now pale but familiar features of Kyle.
|
|
Kyle's body sagged, knees buckling, sword falling from nerveless
|
|
fingers. Morion released his own blade, still wedged in Kyle's
|
|
chest, and the body dropped lower until he was sitting propped
|
|
against the rim of the well. Morion dropped into a crouch beside
|
|
Kyle, bewildered by what had driven Kyle to this pass, and saddened
|
|
by his friend and pupil's imminent death. He briefly wondered if
|
|
Kyle could be saved, but from the amount of blood that was pooling
|
|
on the ground below him from the two wounds he had received, Morion
|
|
knew that Kyle was as good as dead.
|
|
Kyle's eyes fluttered open, and their grey-brown irises locked
|
|
on Morion. Weakly, he said, "M-Morion. Th-thank you. Really, thank
|
|
you. Y-you have released me. Th-thank y-y-y..." He slumped down,
|
|
eyes shutting again, not yet dead but not strong enough to speak.
|
|
Morion knelt beside him, wondering whether or not to help his friend
|
|
to a swifter end.
|
|
Then, the woman with the pale blue hair and ruby eyes was beside
|
|
him. Kimmentari touched Kyle's forehead lightly, and he seemed to
|
|
receive a jolt of energy from her fingers. As his eyes opened, she
|
|
said in her music-voice, "Kyle, explain."
|
|
"E-ex-x-plain?" quavered Kyle.
|
|
Kimmentari's fingers pressed more firmly on Kyle's brow, and
|
|
Morion thought he saw their tips glow faintly blue for a moment. In
|
|
response, Kyle's eyes regained some of their normal glitter, and he
|
|
drew himself up a little, ignoring the shaft of steel in his chest.
|
|
The strange woman said again, "Explain, Kyle. Discharge your duty,
|
|
and then go to a peaceful rest. Tell Sir Morion your tale."
|
|
"My tale." Kyle looked almost healthy, the color back in his
|
|
face. No more blood dripped from beneath his breastplate, but Morion
|
|
wasn't sure if this was because his wounds had been staunched, or
|
|
because he had no more blood in him. "My tale," Kyle repeated.
|
|
"I came to Pentamorlo School not..."
|
|
|
|
I came to Pentamorlo School not knowing exactly what I was going
|
|
to do with the training I might receive. My father had died four
|
|
years before, and my mother remarried into a family I didn't care
|
|
much for. I dearly wanted to be able to use the sword that was my
|
|
only heritage, so I sold everything I could and went to study under
|
|
Sir Morion.
|
|
One day, while I was visiting Tench, about a year after I joined
|
|
the school, I met a man named Mygrul. I liked him the first time I
|
|
saw him. There was a kind of energy, a happiness in everything he
|
|
did that drew me to him. We talked, bought each other drinks, talked
|
|
and drank more, and decided that we were buddies and planned to see
|
|
each other again. He was a mercenary who mostly hired out as
|
|
travelers' guard, so he knew when he would be in town again.
|
|
There was much in Mygrul that made me want to be like him. He
|
|
was good with the sword, learned mostly by a five year stint in the
|
|
King's service. He had managed to keep his sense of humor by taking
|
|
easy but lucrative jobs, ones that didn't involve a lot of
|
|
unnecessary killing. When we had gotten to know each other better
|
|
and had become friends, he offered to team up with me when I got out
|
|
of school. His reputation was such that he had the pick of guard
|
|
positions, and with me as part of the team, he could get even better
|
|
pay for both of us. I readily agreed. It was perfect, exactly what I
|
|
was hoping for.
|
|
When I graduated, I went to Tench to wait for him. A few days
|
|
later, the caravan he was escorting arrived. With a few words to the
|
|
master of the caravan, I was hired on the spot, and Mygrul and I
|
|
began our partnership.
|
|
That first caravan was uneventful, but during the second one we
|
|
hired out with, the train was attacked twice. Mygrul and I, with the
|
|
help of the sling-armed drivers, drove off nearly a score of
|
|
half-organized raiders. When we reached our destination, Mygrul and
|
|
I got drunk in celebration of our victory. He made some comments
|
|
about us being a perfect team. That got me thinking. Still a little
|
|
tipsy, I suggested we swear ourselves blood-brothers, knife-kin by
|
|
the custom of my people. He agreed, and we swore the never-parting
|
|
oath and sealed it with blood. Then, we went back to the taproom and
|
|
got drunk again.
|
|
My life was perfect after that. I had a brother, something I had
|
|
always wished for. I had a job that I loved, a purpose in life.
|
|
There wasn't anything I lacked, not even women - our gold and
|
|
reputations gave us free run of the red-lantern district in every
|
|
city we visited. Until four months ago.
|
|
Mygrul and I had just escorted a caravan from Baranur to
|
|
Easryun. As soon as we arrived, we had offers for a return trip from
|
|
a dozen merchants. But we wanted to rest, so we rented rooms in the
|
|
best inn in the city, paying a week in advance, and went out to
|
|
explore the city.
|
|
We were walking down one of the streets that opened off the
|
|
upper marketplace. Here the more prosperous merchants had shops that
|
|
had stood almost since the walls of the city were built. We stopped
|
|
by a trinket shop and were looking at the wealth in the window,
|
|
arguing about whether the jewelry was real or not, when we were
|
|
challenged by a quartet of young toughs with more steel than sense,
|
|
and more ale in them than both. They were well dressed, not part of
|
|
the underside of the city but probably merchants' or nobles' sons
|
|
out looking for trouble.
|
|
They taunted us, trying to goad us into a fight. Mygrul refused
|
|
to even draw steel, and kept me from drawing, too. He tried to
|
|
reason with them, and finally even offered them gold to leave. They
|
|
were intent on their evening's fun. They edged closer and closer
|
|
until one, probably the leader, lunged forward almost awkwardly and
|
|
skewered Mygrul low in the chest.
|
|
I cleared my blade a second later, and attacked. I didn't reach
|
|
Mygrul's killer because the other three were crowding me. With more
|
|
fury than skill, I disarmed one, knocked another out of line, and
|
|
disabled the last by nearly cutting his sword arm off. When they
|
|
realized that they were up against someone more skilled than
|
|
themselves, they backed away cautiously, and when I didn't keep pace
|
|
with them they turned and ran.
|
|
I went to Mygrul, who was coughing weakly, blood trickling from
|
|
the corner of his mouth. I tried to help, but the wound was too
|
|
deep. I thought of a healer, but I had never been in Easryun and had
|
|
no idea where I might find one. As I was ready to go for help in the
|
|
market, Mygrul said, "Ah, what a fool. Never trust bared steel. What
|
|
a way to d...." And he was dead.
|
|
Rage burned through me, rage and anger at those hotheaded fools
|
|
that had killed my best friend and brother, a lesser anger at Mygrul
|
|
for letting them kill him, for not wanting to fight. Vengeance was
|
|
what I needed, what I owed to Mygrul. It was my duty, what I had to
|
|
do. The oath we had sworn saw to that, as well as the nagging
|
|
thought that I should have protected him, even from his own folly.
|
|
A glow caught my eye as I thought those things. I looked up and
|
|
saw that one of the displays in the window was glowing. A polished
|
|
quartz egg sitting on a blackwood stand was giving off a bright,
|
|
pearly light. As I looked at it, I felt a pulling in my head, a
|
|
feeling that if I touched the egg, if I took it, I would be able to
|
|
get my revenge. The feeling pulled at me, feeding the rage and
|
|
hatred inside of me, showing me images of the dead and tortured
|
|
bodies of those Shuul-damned kids. It urged me to break the window
|
|
and take the egg. I tried to resist, but not for very long. The
|
|
images, the promises were too good to let go. I stood and shattered
|
|
the window with the hilt of my sword. I reached in and took the egg.
|
|
I stared into the depths of the egg as a voice said, "Pact.
|
|
Freedom for vengeance. Accept?" I didn't even need to say yes. When
|
|
it voiced the question, it gleaned the answer from my immediate
|
|
reaction, which was acceptance. With a flare of light that startled
|
|
me into dropping the egg, the creator of the voice flowed into my
|
|
arm, and then into my entire body. I watched distantly as the egg
|
|
shattered as if it was made of shell and not stone. When it did, the
|
|
thing in me laughed. It told me that my last hope had been that egg
|
|
and that now it would live in me forever.
|
|
That in me which was myself was pushed into a small corner of my
|
|
mind, able to see what the invader did with my body but unable to do
|
|
anything about it. I watched while the murderers of Mygrul were
|
|
hunted down and killed. I watched while the invader searched out
|
|
magic that was hidden in secret vaults. I watched as the outlaws
|
|
were gathered and as a citadel was built on an island in the center
|
|
of a lake. And I watched as the invader murdered and destroyed in my
|
|
name and finally challenged you; and, at the last, fought and lost
|
|
to you, Morion. Thank you again, and farewell.
|
|
|
|
Kyle sighed peacefully and died without pain, his body and soul
|
|
at rest. Morion turned to the blue haired woman who was sitting on
|
|
her knees a little back from the pair. As his eyes fell on her, she
|
|
said, "You needed to know. As a lesson. Do not let your honor or
|
|
your sworn word overwhelm your sense of right. I know that you try
|
|
not to, but I know that your honor is your life to you. Do not let
|
|
it be your death.
|
|
"One more meeting is given to us by Thyerin in this Dance.
|
|
Beyond that I cannot see, but I could wish for further contact.
|
|
Beware the citadel of BlueSword, Sir Morion. All is not as it seems.
|
|
Remember your friend's story and go warily. The circlet must get to
|
|
Je'lanthra'en by DorthsDay in Harvest to be of use to her.
|
|
Farewell." She lifted Kyle's sword gingerly by the hilt, took a
|
|
step, and vanished.
|
|
Morion stared after the woman wondering at her words yet again.
|
|
In his own terms, DorthsDay was the last day of Ober and over a
|
|
month away. More than enough time to get to the citadel, and then to
|
|
Dargon. He looked around the square and saw that the battle with the
|
|
outlaws was over. The King's men gathered in the square to report to
|
|
their captains on their individual fights. No one was looking his
|
|
way, probably, he thought, part of Kimmentari's work.
|
|
He looked down at Kyle appearing asleep rather than dead. Kyle's
|
|
tale had been strange, and he wondered briefly if all of this, from
|
|
Kyle coming to his school to this moment, had been arranged so that
|
|
a crystal circlet could be given to another former pupil of his.
|
|
Briefly, his temper flared at the thought of callous so-called gods
|
|
meddling deviously and catastrophically in mortals' lives. But that
|
|
anger caused him to abandon the thought as useless and dangerous. He
|
|
would never know, nor truly want to, just how much immortals dabbled
|
|
in his life and those around him.
|
|
Morion took hold of Kyle's arm and saw the bracer there. With
|
|
some difficulty he unlatched it, and slid it off. It was plain steel
|
|
except for a little sigil near the cuff that looked like a grey
|
|
lens. He closed it about his own left wrist and wondered how Kyle
|
|
had used it to control the mirror. However, just thinking that made
|
|
the little sigil light up, and he watched as the mirror opened up in
|
|
the street as it had before.
|
|
Now, the soldiers noticed him, the dead BlueSword and the travel
|
|
mirror. Commander Rian was striding over to him, but Morion didn't
|
|
feel like talking to the man. With the last of his tasks in mind, he
|
|
walked over to the mirror and stepped in.
|
|
It was strange walking inside the mirror, like traveling through
|
|
a mountain pass blanketed in heavy fog. He took two steps that
|
|
seemed to stretch for days, and then he was out of the greyness and
|
|
standing in a courtyard.
|
|
He looked around and saw the mirror vanishing. The courtyard,
|
|
castle on one side, protective wall on the other, was deserted.
|
|
Cautiously, Morion climbed the set of stairs that let to the top of
|
|
the wall and he saw, peeking between two merlins, the vast lake that
|
|
protected the citadel of BlueSword far more effectively than the
|
|
wall he stood upon.
|
|
As Morion cautiously explored the castle and out buildings, he
|
|
found the whole complex was as deserted as the front courtyard.
|
|
There were signs of occupancy - the outlaws were not very neat
|
|
housekeepers - but they left no one behind when they went on a raid.
|
|
Morion wondered briefly whether there were servants chained away
|
|
somewhere, but he found none.
|
|
When Morion was sure that he was alone in the citadel, he began
|
|
searching for the circlet. Remembering that Kimmentari had mentioned
|
|
a time limit of sorts on his use of the mirror at their first
|
|
meeting, he decided to be as methodical as possible in his search,
|
|
to be sure that he looked everywhere in as little time as possible.
|
|
He went through the cellars, where there was much treasure but no
|
|
circlet. He pried into every nook and cranny from the first floor
|
|
up, searching for secret panels and hidden rooms, anywhere that
|
|
valuable items might be hidden. He looked behind curtains and
|
|
arrases, under furniture and around shelves, even under the rugs.
|
|
Finally, on the top floor, in what had to have been Kyle's room,
|
|
Morion found a panel behind the bed's headboard. In the small
|
|
opening it revealed was the circlet, a thing of simple beauty,
|
|
resting on deep blue velvet. Also in the cubbyhole was a smaller
|
|
square of black velvet, on which rested a small, reddish stone.
|
|
Morion reverently lifted the circlet and examined the pure
|
|
craftsmanship in it. He lifted the blue velvet out and wrapped the
|
|
circlet in it, then set it aside for a moment. He picked the red
|
|
stone up off of its rest and held it cupped in his palm. In the same
|
|
instant that he realized it was egg-shaped, he felt needles spring
|
|
into his palm. The pricks weren't very painful at first, but fire
|
|
began to course through him from each needle tip, pain that raced
|
|
faster and faster throughout his whole body. He tried to shake the
|
|
red egg from his palm, but it seemed to be holding on as it pumped
|
|
poison into him.
|
|
Morion fell on the bed, body rigid with escalating pain. He
|
|
looked at the stone and could see the thing that had possessed Kyle
|
|
standing in a cloudy, grey place. The being said, "Sir Morion. I
|
|
said I'd get my revenge. You are dying, and with you dies the thread
|
|
that circlet would have woven. My masters will be pleased with me, I
|
|
think. Die slowly and in much pain, Sir Morion." The being's
|
|
laughter faded with its body into the greyness. A convulsive twitch
|
|
finally loosened the little egg from his palm, and it rolled onto
|
|
the floor. The last thing he saw as blackness welled up behind his
|
|
eyes was the blue-haired woman Kimmentari coming through the door
|
|
and stepping casually on the egg, a look of dismay and concern on
|
|
her face. She said something in her music-voice, but he couldn't
|
|
hear her through his pain. And then he knew no more.
|
|
-John L. White <WHITE @ DREXELVM>
|
|
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<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>X<>
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