1445 lines
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1445 lines
84 KiB
Plaintext
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DDDDD ZZZZZZ //
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D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE ||
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 13
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-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 11
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DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
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\\
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\
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========================================================================
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DargonZine Distributed: 11/03/2000
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Volume 13, Number 11 Circulation: 742
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========================================================================
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Contents
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Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
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Magestorm 5 Mark A. Murray Ober, 1017
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Beloved Mark Murray and 1017
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Rena Deutsch
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A Fine Blade Mike Adams and Seber 17, 1017
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Victor Cardoso
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Talisman Seven 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 1-5, 1013
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No Pity to Spare Rhonda Gomez Naia 1015
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========================================================================
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DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
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collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
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We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
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Please address all correspondence to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
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on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues
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are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
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public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
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DargonZine 13-11, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright November, 2000 by
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the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
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Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
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All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
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and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
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without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
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of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
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Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
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========================================================================
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Editorial
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by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
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<ornoth@shore.net>
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I made some promises in recent Editorials. I promised an issue with
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five new stories by six different writers. I also promised to balance
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out our recent preponderance of multi-part serials with more single-part
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short stories. Well, it's time for me to deliver, and this issue should
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do the trick. It's filled with a diverse collection of short fiction
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from a number of writers. I hope you enjoy it! Here's what you have to
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look forward to ...
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The first story is the conclusion of Mark Murray's ongoing
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"Magestorm" serial. Having reached a surprising climax in the previous
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issue, this chapter concludes the series from a different point of view.
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However, this won't be the end of the storyline, as Mark has further
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plans taking form even now.
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Mark also teamed up with fellow writer Rena Deutsch on "Beloved", a
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poignant story told in one of Dargon's sketchier taverns.
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That story is followed by the second co-authored piece in this
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issue, "A Fine Blade". This story was partially complete when original
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author Mike Adams left the project due to lack of time. However,
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collaboration doesn't necessarily have to occur at the same time, and
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the story was picked up and finished (with Mike's blessing) by
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contemporary Dargon writer Victor Cardoso.
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The only other serial in this issue is the first part of Dafydd's
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"Talisman Seven", which begins a new thread in his very lengthy
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"Talisman" saga. After twenty-four chapters you may be wondering if
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this series will ever conclude; I can tell you that Dafydd has an
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outline of the remaining chapters, and there is an end in sight. Still,
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it's great writing, and if you haven't read the previous episodes, I can
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heartily encourage following its thread through our back issues. The
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storyline began two years ago in DargonZine 12-1.
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And the issue wraps up with our second piece from Rhonda Gomez,
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the haunting "No Pity to Spare".
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This issue exemplifies what DargonZine is all about: bringing new
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writers together, and presenting their stories to you. I hope you enjoy
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the artistic work they have freely shared with you through the medium of
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this magazine.
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So having fulfilled all my promises, I suppose it's time to make
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some new ones! Our next issue, DargonZine 13-12, will follow very
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closely on the heels of this one and will feature our third new writer
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of the year and the return of a writer who had dropped out of sight for
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a while. And if everything works out according to plan, we should have
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the unexpected pleasure of a thirteenth issue before the end of the
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year. I'll keep working on that, but for now you should just enjoy the
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great stories we have for you in this issue.
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========================================================================
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Magestorm
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Part 5
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by Mark A. Murray
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<mashudo@netzero.net>
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Ober, 1017
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Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-9
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"Free!" I yell as the rush of magic twists and warps around me like
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a tornado dancing upon the plains. It is wild magic at first, but as my
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prison walls weaken, I grab handfuls of that harsh, life-giving energy
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and swim in its cold, hard currents.
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My soul is free! *Free!* As I stand upon the solid rock stairs and
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gaze down into the room below, I search for a body I can possess. The
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physical air nestles my soul like an old lover's soft touch.
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They stand there so fragile, so delicate, not knowing the power
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just above them. The female has been here for a short time. She has
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long, wavy red hair, high cheekbones, a small nose, and full lips. Her
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eyes glow a stark green against her pale skin. She has a round, curvy
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figure and she moves with an effortless grace. Megan. No, I decide. That
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body would not last long.
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Embraced in her arms is a strong man. Raphael. Just a bit taller
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than her, he is wider at the shoulders, more muscular, and radiates
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danger. Silver with red lights is flowing through his aura. No, I
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decide. I would be fighting him all the while I possess him.
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Ah, poor Niatha, looking lost and confused. You still don't know
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who or what you are. You were a plaything I had created, a small piece
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of dirt beneath my feet that I had trampled on. If I had not found a use
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for you, I would have destroyed you and created something else. Perhaps
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I still shall, if I get out of this accursed tower.
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There! The boy. Lylle. Young, sturdy, and open. He is the one! He
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is a street rat that knows only hardship and has no knowledge of the
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arcane arts. His body will hold the magical energy that I need. And he
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yearns for power and magic. Yes, he will do.
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I open my senses to the tower to test the last remaining prison
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walls. They hold true. Augh! It will not be! I will be free and I will
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kill every Eelail I see. They imprisoned me here during our war with
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them. They had no right to leave me here! I'll burn them from within and
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without. I'll rot their hands and feet and watch them crawl in their own
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vomit.
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I feel my rage push against the magical wards still left on the
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tower. My soul takes humanoid form and glows. I start down the stairs
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towards my human receptacle.
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"Illiena?" the mage asks, taking a step towards me. I had entered
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his dreams and made him believe I was his goddess Illiena. The pathetic
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fool! The other humans turn to me with confusion and fear spread widely
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across their faces.
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"No!" my brother Aechrose yells from somewhere above me. I would
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have killed him long ago, but I had thought I would need his help to
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break free.
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"Yes!" I reply. "We are free!"
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"What?" Merrif, the mage, asks, shocked and frozen. "You're not
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Illiena!"
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"You pathetic thing," I say. I should kill him now, but the look of
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betrayal on his face is worth keeping him alive. "No, I am not Illiena.
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I used your dreams to bring you here to set me free!"
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"Nathrod!" my brother yells. He is coming down the stairs behind
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me. "We are free! Don't walk down the same road as before."
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"Do you believe," I say, turning to look up the stairs, "Aechrose,
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oh, brother of mine, that the Eelail will let us go?" If I manipulate
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him, he will aid me in breaking the wards.
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"It has been a long time," Aechrose stops and replies. "They will
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never forget, but they may forgive."
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"They won't!" I yell. You're a whimpering fool, I curse mentally. A
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weak, useless creature that pretends to be a mage. If I didn't need all
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of my energy, I'd kill you right now.
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"I will not be imprisoned again!" I hiss at him. I can feel the
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Eelail now. They are rushing to get here. No time! I race down the
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stairs and run straight into Lylle. It is pathetically easy to lure his
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spirit down into a black void with dreams of magic and power and then
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take over his physical body.
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"Young again," I sigh with pleasure. A myriad of colors assaults my
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eyes as I look about me. These are more pastel to the stark contrast I
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was used to. Tingling, itching, and sometimes painful sensations travel
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from my skin to my mind. I have forgotten what it was like to have a
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physical body. Before I can get comfortable with the various senses, I
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feel the Eelail mages' probing of the tower. "I'm leaving. Are you
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coming with me, brother?"
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"I won't let you go," Aechrose threatens.
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"The Eelail are close! Come, let us flee together!" I reply as I
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start for the door. I will have need of his magics to battle the Eelail.
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I feel Aechrose move, but don't look back to see where.
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"You must let me in," Aechrose pleads. "I can't do anything to stop
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him without a host body. You must let me in."
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"They made me!" Niatha screams. "I remember now! They created me!"
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"Yes, little one," I answer as I step through the doorway. Wood
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planks creak under my weight. "We did and you are what set us free." I
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arrive at the other room and stop. Dopkalfar warriors stand in front of
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the outer doorway. My muscles tense and a grating sound echoes
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throughout my mind. I'm grinding my teeth as I gather magical energies.
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"You are in my way! I am a god here!" I scream at them. With a
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popping sound in my ears and a chill down my spine, I release magic.
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"Die!" Flinging my hands outward, a funnel of wind sweeps straight for
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the door, heading outside, taking Dopkalfar with it. Bodies tumble and
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crash as the wind rips them from the room.
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"I can't enter without permission!" Aechrose pleads. He is begging
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a human in the other room. Begging! Fretheod do not beg! Fretheod mages
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take what they want! I will kill him after I kill the Eelail. "You must
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let me in! We can't let him get out of the tower!" he screeches.
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More Dopkalfar stand in the doorway to replace the ones blown away.
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They are holding swords and daggers, and behind them there are more
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waiting to enter. "Augh," I scream mentally in exasperation. There are
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too many. There has to be another way out! I push my senses out to the
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tower itself. There are windows here to allow my physical body an access
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out and the magical barriers on them are not as strong.
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"Let them kill you!" I yell as I turn and fly up the stairs of the
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tower. "I will be free!" As I gain the third floor, I find a round room
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where a tear exists in the magical fabric that was my prison.
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"No!" The tear isn't large enough to let me through and it won't
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widen. I can feel the Eelail mages holding it together. Heat spreads
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throughout my body and my vision blurs at the edges as I rage against my
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prison.
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The room is circular with two windows looking out into the bright,
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sunny day. I strike a pane and it vibrates with my physical abuse, but
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does not break. "Is there no end to my torture?" I scream. Looking
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around, I try to find something to use to break the glass, but the room
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is empty. Running, I leap at a window and curl into a ball. The window
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resounds with my body and throws me back onto the floor. Rough wooden
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slats rake small thin furrows along my arm. I get up and push at the
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glass, only this time I use a fire magic. Perhaps I can melt it.
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I feel my brother enter the room. He is inside the old mage,
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Merrif. "There are too many of them for me alone," I say. Maybe I can
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use his energy to break through this window. "Together, we can break
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free."
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"The world has changed, but we have not," Aechrose says. "It is not
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our time now. We should have died long ago. Even now, we use other lives
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to prolong ours." I hear the door shut and a bolt slam into place. Small
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scratching sounds come from the other side of the door: Niatha. Has my
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brother shut the door to save Niatha or just to keep me in?
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"We can be free!" I urge, trying one last desperate attempt to gain
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his cooperation. I can kill him later.
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"We can never be free in this life," he replies. "I want to live as
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much as you, but not like this. I don't want to use other people like
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this, forever sharing thoughts and memories. And I will not go back to
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the prison we just left! The only other choice is to walk on to another
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life!"
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"To die!" I hiss and turn around. Energy crackles around me. Small
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arcs of fire flare up and then die around my fists. "Don't make it sound
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like it is something nice!" He will not help me.
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"To die, then," he agrees. "What else is there?"
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"To live! We can find our people and once again be part of the
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empire!"
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"Our people are an empire no longer!" he yells. "You've picked up
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the strands of thought from your host. You know it is gone!"
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"I will not go back to that prison!" I shout, rage building inside
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me. I feel energy play with my hair. "I will not die! I will live!"
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"I won't let you leave here!" he says.
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"You won't have --" I begin. A bolt of magic strikes me in the
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chest and I am thrown to the floor a second time. There will not be
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another! Gasping, I manage to stand and look at him. I can't believe he
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has actually struck me. Perhaps my brother is a mage after all.
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"Don't," he pleads. I am ready for him this time and as he sent
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another bolt, I knock it aside. I've had enough. Twirling a small pocket
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of fire, I shoot it into his face. He screams. I smile. Poor little
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brother doesn't like to play with fire. I feel almost whole again as I
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gather all the magic about me and suck it inside.
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Walking over to Aechrose, I pick him up and throw him against the
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wall. I have chosen well as this body is fit and healthy. As I start
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toward him, Lylle's essence surges upward and fights to be free.
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I had thought Lylle to be lost amidst the darkness, but I was
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wrong. He had been biding his time to strike and I forgot about him.
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Lylle pushes his way into this body's consciousness and tries to force
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me out. I try shoving him away, but he is strong. Aechrose tosses a ball
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of energy at me and I fling it aside, but it costs me. Lylle takes
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control and steps back. I divert my energy to him and finally dislodge
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him from the body. His screams cause me to smile as I turn back to my
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brother.
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Aechrose is walking toward me when the door behind him flies open.
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Dopkalfar stand poised to enter the room. They are surveying us. As
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Aechrose attacks me with a magical blast of energy, I block it and watch
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the Dopkalfar strike. They are taking us down one by one. Swords pierce
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Aechrose's back while magic twists his soul. He staggers to his knees
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and I watch in fascination. The Dopkalfar's magic is a different kind
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than I remember them having. I study what it does as my brother falls to
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the floor and dies.
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Flinging fire from my hands, I burn one and he falls screaming to
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the floor. Pushing outwards, I send a wave of magic through their
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bodies, ripping and rending anything I can inside them. Screams
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reverberate off of the glass panes as a few of them die.
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They try to physically reach me, but I light the air with fire.
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Breathing in for them becomes a burning sensation and they fight to
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negate my magic. There are only two left when I sweep one aside with a
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small whirlwind. The other can't withstand the previous magic and falls
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to the floor.
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I thought I had some time to break free when another Dopkalfar runs
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straight toward me. I build a line of fire between us, but he pays it no
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mind. His hair sizzles and his skin blisters as he plows into me.
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The wall slams into my back as something inside me cracks and pops.
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Pain and fire explode inside my head. As if that wasn't enough, I see
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through my slit eyelids that a Ljosalfar enters the room. Ice forms
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around him and slides along the wall towards me.
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The Dopkalfar holds me against the wall. I push fire down into him,
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but he doesn't move. Freezing pain lances through me and I see steam
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burst from my mouth as I scream. Icicles pierce my arms and legs and
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gut. The fire within meets the cold from without and fizzles.
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A blue haze covers my eyes as I cough and spit. "Enough!" I scream
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mentally. "I will not die here!" I reach out, gather some residual
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magic, and fling it outward as the Dopkalfar spins away. Both Eelail are
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stunned and I gather a final spell to kill them.
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Fangs and claws and fur assault my face and I have to turn my
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attention to Niatha. The creature I had created wraps itself around my
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head. "Not now," I think, panicking. "The Eelail will recover and I will
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be trapped again." Pain rips down the sides of my head and teeth sink
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into my cheek. I start to scream when something pushes through my chest,
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followed by a heavy body forcing me back against the wall.
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I scream, but Niatha's body muffles it. I bite down hard into
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Niatha and feel him let go. "Free," I think. "I want to be ... free." I
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won't die here. There are other ways to be free; I can't see, pain is a
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sharp throb throughout my body, but I still command magic. And it will
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set me free.
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Gathering all that I can, I push and pull the magic of the tower
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until it splits and bursts. If I could move, I would have broken the
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window to escape. It is too late for that now, but not too late to suck
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the life and soul from the Eelail and then spiritually inhabit one of
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the empty bodies. "Free ..." I whisper as I raise my hand.
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I feel the magic working as Dopkalfar spirits are rent from their
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physical bodies. I can feel other magic battling my own and I push
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against it one final time. It is time to go. I start to shake loose the
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physical body so that I can find another, more suitable one.
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Sight returns to one eye as part of my soul gains its freedom. It
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is one last look at the room and I shake in horror to see the Dopkalfar
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in front of me, knife raised.
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"No!" I scream, but no one hears. "Not now, not when I am so close!
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So close ..."
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========================================================================
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Beloved
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|
by Mark Murray and Rena Deutsch
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|
<Mashudo@netzero.net> and <Rena3@hotmail.com>
|
|
Dargon, 1017
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|
With a sigh, Nai reached out to grasp the thick wooden latch. As
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his large hand closed around it, a smaller, more delicate hand touched
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his arm. Soft, smooth fingers traced paths through his black hair until
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a cool, dry palm rested on his skin.
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Looking to his right, he waited for his companion to speak. Her
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head was tilted up to look him in the eyes while a mass of wavy black
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hair danced in the wind. Small freckles along her cheek accented her
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small, upturned nose and full lips. Some sort of blue dye painted her
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lips to match her bright blue eyes. Most men found her dazzling and
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charming. His love only had room for one woman, and she was gone.
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"We can always play another song, Nai," she said.
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"No," he replied. "It helps me remember her. I don't want to forget
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her."
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Looking past Nai at their other traveling companion, she pleaded,
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"Kal, it's too sad. We want to get paid and if they're all crying,
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who'll pay us?"
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Nai looked to his left at Kalanu to see what his opinion was. Kal
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always had something to say about everything.
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"Simona's right, Nai. We need to get paid. And you won't forget
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her; she'll always be part of you." Taking Nai's hand, Kal placed it
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upon Nai's chest. "She's right here!"
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"Straight." Nai nodded. Turning to Simona, he asked, "Will you play
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her song before we go to sleep tonight?"
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"Tonight I'll play it just for you, Nai." Simona patted the lyre on
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her side. "I have one in mind that will do nicely."
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Nai pulled the latch, opened the door, and let his companions enter
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the Shattered Spear ahead of him. The inn was dimly lit; it took his
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eyes a few moments to adjust.
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"Close the door!" A voice bellowed from the left side of the room.
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Nai quickly shut the door then took a look around the room. The inn
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was nearly full. His trained eye spotted an empty table in the far
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corner. He pointed it out to Simona and Kal and watched as the two made
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their way through the crowd. Nai looked around for Jamis, the innkeeper.
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It took him a few moments to locate the corpulent form among the people,
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but then he found him standing in front of a barrel, pouring a tankard
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of ale. Nai worked his way towards Jamis and tapped him on the shoulder.
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"What do you want?" The innkeeper sounded annoyed at the
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interruption.
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"I have an offer to make you," Nai began.
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"Why should I be interested?" Jamis put the tankard to his lips and
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gulped its contents without stopping.
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Nai waited until the innkeeper finished his ale before he
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continued. "I can help you make some extra money tonight." Nai could see
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the interest in Jamis' eyes and directed his attention to the table at
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which Simona and Kal were seated.
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"Money!" a loud, hard voice echoed behind them. Turning, Nai saw a
|
|
large woman staring at him. She was just a bit taller than he was, but
|
|
she seemed to tower over him. A long-sleeved dress covered most of her,
|
|
except for her hands, neck and head. A worn and dirty apron, which had
|
|
not caught all the spills that night, covered the front part of her
|
|
dress.
|
|
"Jahlena, please," Jamis said. Although his words were polite,
|
|
there was a hardness in his eyes. Nai looked back at Jahlena. Her stern
|
|
face softened a bit and a little smile played on her lips.
|
|
"I'll serve the ale," she huffed, her double chin jiggling
|
|
slightly. Grabbing mugs, she turned and made her way into the crowded
|
|
room.
|
|
"You mentioned money," Jamis said. His foot tapped the floor
|
|
impatiently.
|
|
"Yes," Nai agreed. "A bard is travelling with me. For a generous
|
|
twenty percent of our profit, she'll perform here tonight."
|
|
"Straight!" Jamis laughed. "And the king will dance before me
|
|
naked, too! You think I'm some wharf rat?"
|
|
"I think you're an innkeeper with an inn in the worst place in
|
|
Dargon trying to keep the whole place from burning down around you," Nai
|
|
replied, his muscles growing tight in his arms and neck. He hadn't
|
|
expected to argue his way to performing tonight and his short patience
|
|
was being tested. "Do you want a performance or not?"
|
|
"Twenty-five," Jamis said, not backing away from Nai. "And quit
|
|
puffing up like a sea-urlet. I've got enough trouble in here and you
|
|
don't need to add to it."
|
|
"Done," Nai said, relaxing. He held out his hand and they grasped
|
|
forearms. Letting go of Jamis's arm, he turned and made his way back to
|
|
the table where his two friends sat.
|
|
A young girl stood in front of Simona but Nai overheard them
|
|
speaking.
|
|
"... to attend the Bardic College," the girl said.
|
|
"Some day when you're older, make the trip to Magnus and ask them
|
|
to let you in," Simona said. "Practice every chance you get and they
|
|
won't turn you away."
|
|
"I'm practicing as much as I can, but father won't allow me to sing
|
|
here often. He says I'm supposed to make myself useful, clean tables,
|
|
and serve ale. I doubt he'll ever let me leave." The girl sounded
|
|
disappointed.
|
|
"Tira!" Jahlena yelled from across the room. "Get over here!"
|
|
"I better get going," Tira said. "Can I bring you a tankard of ale
|
|
and a bowl of stew?"
|
|
"Straight," Kal answered her and Simona nodded.
|
|
"For me, too," Nai added before Tira could walk away. "Who's the
|
|
girl?" Nai inquired when Tira was out of earshot.
|
|
"She's the innkeeper's daughter. Wants to be a bard, but doesn't
|
|
think she'll make it to the Bardic College. She saw my lyre and wanted
|
|
to know if I was a bard." Simona smiled as she summarized their
|
|
conversation. "What did the innkeeper say to your proposal?"
|
|
"He wants twenty-five percent of our profit. I agreed." Nai replied
|
|
as he sat down.
|
|
Simona drew in a deep breath. "Good thing the inn is so full
|
|
tonight. Let's hope the crowd is generous, too. We *need* supplies for
|
|
our journey. I don't want to delay much longer. I can feel my sister's
|
|
in trouble. I need to find her."
|
|
"We will have enough," Kal reassured her. "There are other inns
|
|
along the way where we can entertain and make some money. We'll find
|
|
your sister."
|
|
"Straight," Nai agreed and was about to say more, but Tira arrived
|
|
with their food and drinks. Hungrily, the three ate.
|
|
"Father said you can play over there." Tira pointed to a small
|
|
table almost in the center of the room.
|
|
"Thank you, Tira." Simona said. After she'd finished her stew, she
|
|
took her lyre, walked to the table, and seated herself.
|
|
Nai worried if Simona would be able to get the crowd's attention
|
|
without intervention from Kal or himself; it was very noisy inside. He
|
|
knew Simona preferred to get the audience's attention without anyone's
|
|
help and most of the time it worked. For a few moments Nai held his
|
|
breath as he watched Simona pick up her lyre and sound a few notes from
|
|
the tune she had played earlier. The noise in the inn subsided and the
|
|
people, mostly sailors, looked to see who was playing. And then she
|
|
began to sing. Simona's voice with its low timbre drew everyone's
|
|
attention. Her song told the story of two lovers and a jealous mage who
|
|
placed the woman under a spell when he realized he couldn't have her. As
|
|
she went on with her story, she described how the man sought to break
|
|
the spell of his beloved and finally succeeded, only to lose her again
|
|
in a quarrel. Nai realized she was telling the story of her visions. He
|
|
knew there was more; Simona had told him and Kal the whole story. Simona
|
|
finished her song and everyone applauded. Nai signaled Kal. Both got up
|
|
and collected Bits from the audience for the performance. Nai took one
|
|
look at Jamis and noticed that he was paying close attention to the
|
|
collection.
|
|
"Play another song!" an older sailor requested.
|
|
"What would you like to hear?" Simona looked in the direction of
|
|
the speaker.
|
|
"Tell us how Duke Dargon lost his arm!"
|
|
"Tell us! Tell us!" several others called out.
|
|
With a smile on her face, Simona began to play again. Nai grinned.
|
|
He knew they'd make more money if they could keep the crowd happy. It
|
|
would also make Jamis happy; the sailors drank quite a lot of ale. Nai
|
|
continued collecting Bits. When Simona told about Dargon's bravery,
|
|
commanding a group of ships against the Beinison fleet and fighting his
|
|
way to the captain of the lead ship, the sailors cheered. When she
|
|
reached the point where the duke killed the captain and saved the town,
|
|
some of the sailors stood up and danced.
|
|
"Quiet down and move!" a handful of sailors yelled. "I can't hear
|
|
the rest of the song!" When the dancing men wouldn't move, a group of
|
|
sailors got up and stormed toward them in an effort to force them to
|
|
quit.
|
|
When knives were drawn, Nai knew things had turned serious. He
|
|
reached to his side and in a deliberate, smooth motion, drew out his
|
|
sword. An eerie, greenish glow oozed from the steel blade. With the
|
|
glow, Nai was forced to remember his wife's death. Using his other hand,
|
|
he brushed aside the forming tears. Standing straight, he bellowed,
|
|
"Enough!"
|
|
His voice rocked the room and rattled tables. The sailors stopped
|
|
in their tracks, noticing the greenish glow for the first time and then
|
|
they turned toward Nai. Sadness radiated outward from Nai and permeated
|
|
the inn. Men breathed deeply and slunk a little lower where they stood.
|
|
Sniffles could be heard from within the room.
|
|
"I was there," a sailor breathed heavily. Nai noticed that it was
|
|
one of the sailors that had screamed at the others to stop.
|
|
"Who is he?" echoed in soft whispers throughout the room.
|
|
"What happened?" Nai asked. He lowered the sword.
|
|
"Lord Dargon," the sailor began, holding back tears, "was aboard
|
|
the ship next to us. He ordered both into the thick of the Beinison
|
|
fleet. When his crew jumped to the Beinison ship, our ship was right in
|
|
line. There we were. All three ships sitting pretty in a row.
|
|
"Another Beinison ship pulled alongside and started firing her
|
|
balistas across her sister ship at us. Then something took Dargon's arm,
|
|
and our ship was hit. Along with a volley of other rounds, his ship
|
|
rolled onto ours. The mast of his ship fell on our captain."
|
|
"We all lost those dear to us in that war," Nai said softly.
|
|
Turning, he looked to his two companions. "Bring the hammer and a mug of
|
|
water."
|
|
"He's going to sing it," Kal said, surprised.
|
|
"Get the hammer. I'll get the mug," Simona said. They retrieved the
|
|
items and made their way toward the fireplace. Nai joined them, still
|
|
holding the sword. He grabbed a stool and set it beside him, placing the
|
|
sword on top. The glow bathed them in green while the fire outlined them
|
|
in red.
|
|
Taking the hammer from Kal, he set it on the floor with the head
|
|
turned sideways. He took out his own hammer hanging from his belt and
|
|
tapped the other hammer. Clang. He nodded to Kal and Kal dipped his hand
|
|
in the mug. Flinging a drop of water from his finger onto the fire, the
|
|
inn heard a sharp hiss.
|
|
"Remember those you love," Nai said as he tapped the hammer on the
|
|
floor. Kal stood ready to fling drops of water upon the fire.
|
|
|
|
Clang. Hiss. Clang clang.
|
|
Clang. Clang clang.
|
|
"Illiena I bless the day you entered my life."
|
|
|
|
"Strong arms bring a heavy hammer down upon glowing red metal," Simona
|
|
sang, trying to paint a picture of what Nai had looked like when he had
|
|
forged the sword.
|
|
|
|
Clang clang. Clang.
|
|
Clang. Hiss. Clang clang.
|
|
"While I forged blades, you stood beside me and tempered with love."
|
|
|
|
"A tear journeys down a rugged, twice-broken nose to fall upon glowing
|
|
red metal."
|
|
|
|
Hiss. Clang. Clang clang.
|
|
Clang. Hiss. Hiss. Clang hiss clang.
|
|
"I bless the days you held me tight and I thank Illiena for the time you
|
|
were with me."
|
|
|
|
"Large hands deftly turn the long rectangular block of metal."
|
|
|
|
Clang. Hiss. Clang hiss clang.
|
|
Hiss. Clang. Hiss. Clang clang.
|
|
"But I miss you every day I rise and I miss you every night I fall."
|
|
|
|
"A muscular, barrel-chest rises and falls sharply with great gasps of
|
|
breath."
|
|
|
|
Hiss. Clang. Hiss. Clang clang.
|
|
Clang. Hiss. Clang clang. Hiss.
|
|
"Oh Illiena, I bless every moment your memories carry me along."
|
|
|
|
"The long block gives under pressure to form hard, sharp edges."
|
|
|
|
Clang. Hiss. Hiss. Clang clang.
|
|
Hiss. Clang. Clang hiss hiss clang.
|
|
"You were the link that bound my armor together and I'm a stronger man
|
|
for the love you gave me."
|
|
|
|
"Tears group together along small streams and run quickly over grit and
|
|
grime."
|
|
|
|
Hiss hiss. Clang. Clang hiss clang.
|
|
Hiss. Clang. Hiss. Clang clang hiss.
|
|
"And I'd give up my life for just another bell of your time."
|
|
|
|
"Cords of muscles bunch and flex in short powerful legs."
|
|
|
|
Clang. Hiss hiss hi-clang clang hiss.
|
|
Hiss hiss clang. Hiss. Clang hiss clang-ss.
|
|
"With your soft arms wrapped around me, you healed wounds that magic
|
|
could not cure."
|
|
|
|
"Knees tremble, hands shake, and eyes brim with tears."
|
|
|
|
Hisssss clang. Hisssss-clang clang-ssss.
|
|
Clang. Hisssss. Hiss. Hisssss. Clang hiss-clang-hiss.
|
|
"Beinison took you from me in a stroke of war and forever left me torn."
|
|
|
|
"Metal flashes under blows of love and pain."
|
|
|
|
Hisssss hiss clang. Hisssss-clang hi-clang-ssss.
|
|
Clang. Hisssss. Hisssss. Hisssss-clang hiss-clang-hiss.
|
|
"I bless the days you held me tight and I thank Illiena for the time you
|
|
were with me."
|
|
|
|
"Rivers of tears drown dark eyes and cool fiery metal."
|
|
|
|
Hisssss hisssss hiss hisssss clang. Hisssss. Clang hisssss clang.
|
|
Hisssss. Hiss clang. Hisssss. Hissss hissss clang hisssss hiss-clang-ss.
|
|
"But I miss you every day I rise and I miss you every night I fall."
|
|
|
|
"Head bows, hammer falls, and body drops upon a forged sword," Simona
|
|
softly sang and ended her part.
|
|
|
|
"And I'd give up my life for just another bell of your time," Nai
|
|
finished singing, bowing his head.
|
|
|
|
Nai returned the hammer to his belt and wiped the tears from his
|
|
eyes. Looking up, he noticed several sailors wiping their faces. No one
|
|
spoke. He made another round through the inn to collect for the
|
|
performance, but he only received a couple of Bits. Nai watched as the
|
|
sailors left the inn in small groups. Within menes only a few people
|
|
were sitting at the tables. Half of them were asleep or too drunk to get
|
|
up. Nai had a bad feeling when he saw Jamis' expression.
|
|
"You!" he bellowed, closing the distance between them quickly. "You
|
|
were supposed to entertain tonight, not clear out my inn! This will cost
|
|
you half of your earnings tonight to cover my losses."
|
|
"I broke up a fight that could have ruined your inn," Nai argued.
|
|
"I will pay the twenty-five percent we agreed on."
|
|
"She caused the fight with her song about the duke." Jamis pointed
|
|
his finger at Simona. "You will pay half and then get out of here!"
|
|
Nai was about to take a stand when Jahlena posted herself next to
|
|
Jamis. He felt the light touch of a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he
|
|
looked into Simona's face. He knew what she was going to say before she
|
|
opened her mouth.
|
|
"Pay him and let's leave," she said quietly. Nai took out his
|
|
purse, counted out half their earnings, and handed the money over to
|
|
Jamis.
|
|
"Get out," Jamis pointed to the door. Furious, Nai followed his
|
|
companions outside into the darkness of the night.
|
|
"Half the money lost! And no place to sleep tonight," he muttered
|
|
more to himself than attempting to talk to Kal or Simona. Kal must have
|
|
heard him because he let out a short laugh.
|
|
"You gave him half of the money you had, straight?" Kal said,
|
|
sounding amused.
|
|
"Straight," Nai grumbled.
|
|
"I guess Jamis wasn't paying close enough attention or he would
|
|
have demanded half of what I collected as well." Kal grinned. "And I
|
|
think I collected more than you did."
|
|
Nai let out a short laugh and his mood improved considerably.
|
|
"Let's put some distance between us and this inn and find a place to
|
|
sleep."
|
|
"What about Spirit's Haven?" Simona spoke up.
|
|
"It's clear across town!" Kal replied in a tone indicating he
|
|
wasn't in the mood to walk that far.
|
|
"I know that. But I have a feeling I will find some of the answers
|
|
I am seeking there."
|
|
"Then let's go there," Nai decided and led the way.
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
|
|
|
|
A Fine Blade
|
|
by Mike Adams and Victor Cardoso
|
|
<meadams19@earthlink.net> and <viktor@mac.com>
|
|
Seber 17, 1017
|
|
|
|
"Only fools and bards seem to be awake at this bell, Lansing."
|
|
"Your Grace," Lansing Bartol remarked, "I wasn't aware you, too,
|
|
had taken up the song?" He looked to Clifton Dargon expectantly as they
|
|
walked. The duke did not respond.
|
|
The couple traversed the short distance from the heart of Dargon
|
|
Keep to the armory, flagstones echoing the sounds of their feet off the
|
|
broad stone walls. The sun's crown, barely cresting the horizon, shot
|
|
long rays of soft light through the arched windows. Despite attempts to
|
|
maintain a jovial profile, inwardly Bartol's spirits sank. "Perhaps I
|
|
fit both of the duke's descriptions," the bard thought glumly. He began
|
|
to regret his impulsive decision to drag Clifton with him this morning.
|
|
Bartol's friend of two years, Bren kel Tomis, waited in the armory.
|
|
The mercenary had escorted Lansing's niece to her wedding, and since
|
|
then he and Bartol had struck a deep friendship. They enjoyed regular
|
|
morning workouts, sparring in the castle's weapons yard. Kel Tomis had
|
|
once been a herald in the distant land of Mandraka, trained to dispense
|
|
justice with the help of his sword. His presence in Dargon had taught
|
|
Bartol more than one move that could save life and limb.
|
|
The previous night, Lansing had found his duke in one of the black
|
|
fogs that had plagued him since the loss of his left arm, and had
|
|
thought watching a little friendly swordplay might brighten Clifton's
|
|
mood. The aging weapons master, Edlin, had considered it a good plan
|
|
when the bard had run into him that morning.
|
|
"It wouldn't do for our Grace to be so dismal when blessing the
|
|
fleet today," he had agreed, leaning on his cane.
|
|
However, since the knock at his chamber door, the duke had only
|
|
spoken short, grim sentences. Bartol sighed. Perhaps this wasn't a good
|
|
idea after all. He hadn't seen Clifton draw a blade once since his
|
|
injury in the Beinison war, but the lord had been a superior swordsman,
|
|
and his fighting arm was still intact. The gods were the only ones who
|
|
knew why he, if truly disgusted with the idea, had agreed to come.
|
|
Lansing descended a few wide steps into the cobbled court that led
|
|
to the armory's gate. Sea-blue pennants, in honor of the fleet's
|
|
blessing, hung from high timbers outside the massive stone structure.
|
|
The armory was a fortification unto itself, with an inner bailey for
|
|
weapons practice and fierce battlements along its perimeter. Lansing led
|
|
the way through the gates and into the covered section where a young
|
|
apprentice, Matthew, rubbed sleep from his eyes. Here were tables at
|
|
which weary combatants could rest after practice, and several barrels
|
|
contained various sovereign remedies for thirst, depending on the
|
|
thirst's taste. In the middle of the far wall was a large double door,
|
|
thrown open to the inner court, brightening in the morning light.
|
|
"Is kel Tomis in the yard, lad?" Lansing's friendly question came
|
|
out as a growl. Perhaps Dargon's mood was catching.
|
|
Matthew nodded enthusiastically. "Aye, milord," he replied,
|
|
somewhat loudly.
|
|
Lansing shot a strange look at the boy and stepped up to the
|
|
threshold, the duke in tow, when shouting reached their ears.
|
|
"Stupid boy! Get up! When the Beinisons took away the use of your
|
|
leg, did they numb your fingers as well?"
|
|
Lansing frowned. It sounded like Bren's voice.
|
|
"What's going on out there?" Clifton grumbled.
|
|
"I don't know," the bard answered. He walked out into the yard and
|
|
stopped dead cold.
|
|
The ebon-haired kel Tomis, red-skinned, muscled and visibly angry,
|
|
stood above the cowering shape of a boy, sparring sword in hand. The boy
|
|
tried rising to his feet but fell in the attempt. He was obviously
|
|
injured.
|
|
"This is the venerable kel Tomis?" Clifton asked.
|
|
Bartol hastily made his way to the sanded practice yard. "Bren, my
|
|
friend," he called, a sweating smile on his face, "how are you this
|
|
morning?"
|
|
"I am well, Lansing," Bren replied, taking a step back from his
|
|
inferior opponent. "I see you have brought company. Greetings, your
|
|
Grace," he said, bowing slightly.
|
|
Clifton stopped beside the bard. "And to you, Master kel Tomis," he
|
|
replied. "Lansing has told me much about you," the duke looked down with
|
|
a raised eyebrow at the boy sprawled on the floor, "albeit with a few
|
|
exceptions. If I might ask, what exactly are you doing here?"
|
|
Bren wiped a sheen of sweat off his brow. "Trying to make a man out
|
|
of a boy," he replied.
|
|
"By berating him to the point of humiliation?" Clifton countered.
|
|
"He appears hurt."
|
|
"Not so much in his body than his heart, sire," kel Tomis poked the
|
|
boy's chest with the tip of his sword. "He was apprenticed to the armory
|
|
until he could win his freedom as journeyman. I am helping him to that
|
|
end."
|
|
The duke nodded, as if in deep thought. "And you think to help
|
|
someone through the destruction of their self-worth?" he finally asked.
|
|
"A man's self-worth is not built by hiding behind a cane." Bren
|
|
chuckled, lowly. "The boy gave his word to fight until he learned enough
|
|
to be released. His path has been hindered by an injury, but it does not
|
|
undo his oath."
|
|
The morning's light had crept over the wall and cast Clifton's
|
|
features into sharp contrast. The duke looked to Bren and then down at
|
|
the child. "Boy," he called out. "Do you wish to remain in this
|
|
service?"
|
|
"No, sire," the child replied, his face turned aside in shame.
|
|
"Then you are free from its bonds."
|
|
"Your Grace!" Bren objected.
|
|
"Do you doubt my authority, Master kel Tomis?" Clifton's voice rang
|
|
throughout the courtyard, his profile appeared cut from stone. "No one
|
|
shall be a slave in my duchy."
|
|
Bren lowered his sparring sword, point-first into the sand and
|
|
leaned on it. "Your pardon of the boy's oath is admirable and, of
|
|
course, within your right. But you diminish his honor."
|
|
"You will not fight him," Clifton said grimly.
|
|
"I will not pursue it," Bren answered, his dark eyes never leaving
|
|
the duke's. "I come from a foreign land. I do not yet understand your
|
|
ways. But, in my land, if you wished to preserve the boy's reputation,
|
|
then you would appoint a champion. Someone to fight for his freedom."
|
|
Lansing stepped forward, his fists trembling in rage. What in the
|
|
world was Bren trying to do, get himself thrown in the dungeon? "Are you
|
|
disobeying the duke's directive?" he asked.
|
|
Clifton put his hand on Lansing's chest, a faint look of intrigue
|
|
on his face. "No, Lansing, Master kel Tomis has a point. The boy gave an
|
|
oath, and that oath must be fulfilled." He stepped forward and plucked
|
|
the sword from under Bren's hands. "And since I have given the pardon, I
|
|
will bear the burden of the boy's champion."
|
|
Bartol very nearly fell over. "Your G-Grace, don't be mad!" he
|
|
stuttered. Events had suddenly gotten out of control. A trained
|
|
mercenary fighting the crippled duke?
|
|
Clifton didn't even turn to look at his friend. "Lansing, help the
|
|
boy up."
|
|
Bowing first, Bren had turned to retrieve another wooden sword from
|
|
a stock barrel in the yard's corner. Bartol opened his mouth to object,
|
|
but Clifton refused to meet his gaze.
|
|
"Don't forget his cane," the duke murmured.
|
|
Lansing cursed under his breath and helped the crippled boy to his
|
|
feet. A cane lay on the ground, obviously the lad's only defense. The
|
|
bard took that as well, shaking his head at the entire affair. Bren had
|
|
always come off as headstrong, but never cruel and demeaning. The bard
|
|
was still muttering as he and the boy took a place on the side of the
|
|
yard, watching the two combatants.
|
|
Kel Tomis had returned to face the duke while movement in the
|
|
armory ceased. Matthew had come forth from the tavern and on the wall a
|
|
guard had turned to watch the event. The opponents stood a swordslength
|
|
apart. The sun, now fully risen, warmed the air; beyond the high walls
|
|
surrounding them, the muffled sounds of the keep's daily life could be
|
|
heard.
|
|
"The bard has spoken fondly of you, your Grace," Bren said quietly.
|
|
His brown eyes were coal-black in the morning light. "Lansing says you
|
|
were a fine blade, in your day."
|
|
Lansing winced at the back-handed compliment.
|
|
"That was not long ago, Master kel Tomis," Clifton replied.
|
|
A husky rasp was followed by a loud crack, as Dargon's sword swung
|
|
in a vicious backhand slash for Bren's throat, only to be met by the
|
|
other's blade.
|
|
"Well met," Dargon breathed.
|
|
The duke stepped back, he and the mercenary circling each other.
|
|
The air in the practice yard went still. Lansing could see the duke
|
|
gaining control of his emotions, the coolness of his command asserting
|
|
itself. Bartol let out his breath, unaware that he had been holding it.
|
|
He was glad to see his duke's grim determination returning. There hadn't
|
|
been this much passion in Dargon's face for months.
|
|
"A fine blade, indeed," Bren said off-handedly. "But your Grace
|
|
must surely know that it is a new day."
|
|
"A new day," Dargon agreed, his sword at the ready. "But a man who
|
|
recalls yesterday will not make the same mistakes tomorrow."
|
|
The ensuing flurry of motion took Lansing by surprise. Bren lunged
|
|
forward, intercepting the duke's attack. For a moment the two combatants
|
|
stood almost still, blades flashing and clacking through the armory.
|
|
Then they were moving, using the full length of the yard, attacking and
|
|
retreating, the space between them a quivering blur.
|
|
Bren parried a thrust to push the duke's blade aside then lifted
|
|
his sword double-handed; Clifton stepped aside quickly, turning as his
|
|
opponent's balance shifted, but his opportunity was thwarted. Kel Tomis
|
|
swiveled his torso and the two engaged again, back and forth, sand
|
|
taking flight at their feet.
|
|
Suddenly, quiet reigned again. The duke and the ex-herald stood
|
|
still, both breathing heavily. Clifton's blade rested on Bren's chest,
|
|
directly over his heart. For a long moment, neither man moved nor spoke.
|
|
Then, whispered, almost inaudible, Bren's words: "I yield."
|
|
Lansing relaxed where he stood and watched Bren reach for the
|
|
duke's sword, twisting the blade until its flat surface was parallel to
|
|
the ground.
|
|
"However, my lord, I would suggest you keep your blade positioned
|
|
to slide between the ribs, like this," Bren thumped the blade against
|
|
his chest, "else you might have trouble wresting it from my limp, dead,
|
|
body." A ghost of a smile crept across his face.
|
|
Then the two fighters laughed like fools, or more like men who have
|
|
seen darkness and preferred to contemplate the light.
|
|
Lansing ventured to speak, "Clifton, are you well?" He couldn't
|
|
recall the last time he had seen the duke smile so broadly.
|
|
Clifton pulled himself together and responded, "Of course. Can't a
|
|
man take some sword practice around here?" He straightened his attire
|
|
and looked to his opponent. "The matter is settled?"
|
|
Bren nodded, still catching his breath.
|
|
The duke bowed and walked to the side of the yard, handing his
|
|
sparring sword to the apprentice, Matthew. Grabbing Bartol's elbow,
|
|
Clifton pulled him into the doorway of the tavern.
|
|
"You old flingshell, this was a very clever trick of yours."
|
|
Bartol furrowed his brow in confusion. "Your Grace?" he questioned.
|
|
Clifton laughed. "You should inquire for a job in that troupe that
|
|
came to town a few days ago -- the one performing 'Ol's Ride.'" He
|
|
pointed to the boy he had championed. "I've seen that apprentice before,
|
|
and he's using Edlin's cane to boot, something the old weapons master
|
|
would never give away. This was a very clever ruse of yours. And it
|
|
almost had me."
|
|
Bartol looked at the boy who had been on the ground. Now that
|
|
Clifton mentioned it, Lansing could swear he had seen the lad just the
|
|
other day, without the injury he currently bore. And the cane he used to
|
|
prop himself up -- it did bear a resemblance to the one Edlin carried.
|
|
"It's good to know I still have friends who have faith in my
|
|
skills, even when I began to doubt myself." The duke touched his shorn
|
|
arm.
|
|
The words stabbed at Bartol's heart. "Clifton --"
|
|
"We have no need to speak of it further," Dargon interrupted. "Tell
|
|
me, that Bren kel Tomis, is he actually employed by the weapons master?"
|
|
"No, sire. Not at all."
|
|
"Well, speak to Edlin about changing that. He's obviously skilled
|
|
in weapons, and has an efficient, if brusque, teaching manner. I'm sure
|
|
we can make use of his talents." Clifton turned to the yard and called
|
|
out: "Master kel Tomis, come, have a drink with us, and tell me more
|
|
about that high line of attack you almost got me with."
|
|
Bren grinned broadly as he approached. "Certainly, my lord," he
|
|
replied, "It starts with a parry of a low thrust ..."
|
|
|
|
It was mid-morning before the duke departed and Lansing sat alone
|
|
with Bren in the armory's makeshift tavern. Sunlight beat heavily on the
|
|
ground outside, throwing the room's features into stark shadows. Bren's
|
|
dark skin looked almost maroon in the light, blending him in with the
|
|
environment.
|
|
Leaning close to the mercenary, Bartol finally broached the topic:
|
|
"You could have let me in on this little charade of yours, you know."
|
|
Bren stared at him in mock seriousness from across the table. His
|
|
stiff features then broke into a wide smile followed by a booming laugh.
|
|
"I wish we could have," he replied, chuckling. "But it was born this
|
|
very morning when Edlin ran into you. The look on your face was
|
|
priceless as I debated honor with his Grace. 'Are you disobeying the
|
|
duke's directive?' " he mimicked.
|
|
Bartol shook his head in disbelief as his friend continued to
|
|
laugh. "You could have been thrown in the dungeons for your impudence."
|
|
"Not with you as *my* champion," Bren replied. His laughter
|
|
subsided and he stretched two powerful arms behind his head. "It's been
|
|
a long road for me from Mandraka, my friend, in leagues ... and other
|
|
things," he sighed. "A dungeon would not have been the lowest point of
|
|
my journey. This was an opportunity, Lansing, and I knew through our
|
|
conversations -- and through conversations with Edlin -- that the duke
|
|
was doubting his worth. The weapons master and I knew he simply needed
|
|
some reminding."
|
|
"As ashamed as I am to say -- and don't you go repeating this to
|
|
*anyone*--" Bartol shot his friend a serious glance, "I think a few of
|
|
us started to doubt him as well. But I have to say, it certainly worked
|
|
to your advantage."
|
|
"How do you mean? I've got at least two bruises to bear, one on my
|
|
reputation and another," Bren winced, "on my side."
|
|
Bartol smiled. So perhaps the ex-herald didn't have an ulterior
|
|
motive. "Well, you may have a few cane-lashings to add to those bruises.
|
|
You're in the employ of the weapons master if you so choose."
|
|
Kel Tomis looked shocked. "Lansing, if you're seeking vengeance for
|
|
my jest ..." He stopped when the bard didn't respond. "Are you serious?"
|
|
he asked.
|
|
"We'll have to get Edlin's blessing, but I don't see that as a
|
|
problem." Lansing reached over and shook Bren's shoulder, "Maybe now, as
|
|
a gainfully employed citizen, that healer Raneela will let you back into
|
|
her bed." The bard stood to take his leave but Bren stayed him with a
|
|
hand on his arm.
|
|
"Lansing," he said quietly. "Thank you."
|
|
Those black eyes, the ones Lansing had always seen behind battle
|
|
and weariness and laughter ... now looked moved. He patted Bren's hand
|
|
and looked around the room. "Don't thank me," he replied. "You're the
|
|
one who got yourself into this mess. Now that you've got the job, work
|
|
on keeping it." With a grin he turned from the table, leaving his friend
|
|
to put his new domain, and life, in order.
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
|
|
|
|
Talisman Seven
|
|
Part 1
|
|
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
|
|
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
|
|
Yuli 1-5, 1013
|
|
|
|
The guest wing of Welspeare Castle had been the scene of bustling
|
|
activity for most of the previous sennight. Each room had been
|
|
diligently cleaned and prepared for the coming visitors. One suite had
|
|
received extra care in an effort to save the chief roomskeeper's pride.
|
|
The small shield beside the door of that suite -- a red oval, surrounded
|
|
by a gold disk, within a brown diamond, on a white field -- marked who
|
|
was assigned to those rooms as well as the futility of the roomskeeper's
|
|
efforts: the disposition of the baron identified by that blazon was well
|
|
known.
|
|
The receiving room of the suite was neatly arranged and elegantly
|
|
appointed. The whitewashed stone of the walls gleamed above the
|
|
well-polished wainscotting. The three deep-set windows on the wall
|
|
opposite the main door were open, letting in a refreshing summer breeze.
|
|
The space to the right of the door was divided into two areas: one for
|
|
relaxing, one for eating. The former was centered around the fireplace
|
|
in the far corner and consisted of high-backed benches set between low
|
|
tables for setting drinks. The latter, in the other corner, contained a
|
|
table covered by a highly-embroidered cloth, surrounded by chairs. A
|
|
silver bowl in the center of the table contained artfully arranged
|
|
flowers, while plates and tableware were stacked neatly along the edge
|
|
by the wall.
|
|
The other side of the room made up the reception area. This was an
|
|
open area marked by dark-colored rugs on the floor. The ornate, stately
|
|
chair in the corner was worthy to be the throne of a duke; here it would
|
|
serve the needs of a lesser rank.
|
|
The roomskeeper's staff had done a thorough job cleaning and
|
|
arranging the room. The wood of the furniture had been polished to a
|
|
high shine, and the rugs had been vigorously beaten in the courtyard
|
|
only that morning. The silver candlesticks on the mantel and tables were
|
|
mirror-like in their finish, and the gilded frames of the hunting-scene
|
|
paintings on the walls likewise gleamed. The knobs on the doors leading
|
|
to the other rooms of the suite glowed with the mellow luster of
|
|
polished brass. The cleaning staff had left so recently that none of the
|
|
dust that had escaped their diligent rags had had time to settle again.
|
|
Even the wood in the bin next to the fireplace seemed to have been
|
|
groomed: cleaned of every stray scrap, and stacked as neatly as a pile
|
|
of lumber.
|
|
The waiting silence was shattered as the main door slammed open
|
|
with a loud crash. Baron Chak Bindrmon strode through it and stopped a
|
|
few paces within the room to scowl at his temporary accommodations. The
|
|
baron was of average height but built thickly, with a barrel chest and
|
|
well-muscled arms beneath his tunic. His hair was starkly white and
|
|
unbound, flowing down past his shoulders and over the cape that still
|
|
swirled around him.
|
|
Half-a-score of servants boiled through the door behind him and
|
|
scattered throughout the room bearing cleaning implements borrowed from
|
|
the castle's staff. They set about industriously cleaning the spotless
|
|
room. There was no chatter, and not a single smile showed among all
|
|
eleven newcomers.
|
|
Baron Bindrmon watched his people sweeping nonexistent dirt from
|
|
the rugs and brushing away nonexistent dust. The frown that pinched his
|
|
narrow features didn't lighten at all as his eyes roved over the elegant
|
|
room. His search didn't find anything out of place or obviously in need
|
|
of fixing, but he didn't halt his people's work either. Instead, he just
|
|
shook his head and gave an exasperated sigh.
|
|
A thin young man with blond hair and a scar on his cheek appeared
|
|
in the doorway. He seemed somewhat out of breath, and he paused for a
|
|
moment to collect himself before saying, "Your Excellency?"
|
|
Bindrmon turned and the young retainer continued, "He's been
|
|
caught, my lord. He's being taken to the place you suggested."
|
|
Chak nodded and said, "Good. Let's go, Talss, and get this over
|
|
with." He strode out of the room. Talss stepped aside to let his baron
|
|
through, then turned and followed him down the hall.
|
|
In the room, none of Baron Bindrmon's servants looked up to watch
|
|
him go. They all continued to work and still, not one uttered a sound.
|
|
|
|
The stables of Welspeare Castle were vast and well organized.
|
|
Duchess Welspeare hosted all of her barons every third year for the
|
|
tax-taking, and there was room enough and more in her stables for the
|
|
horses and pack animals of every one of them and their retinues.
|
|
The duchess' stablemaster ran his stables with an admirable
|
|
efficiency and a huge staff. The stalls and aisles were clean and neat,
|
|
and the food troughs were kept filled with fresh oats and grain. The
|
|
tack shed was scrupulously organized, and abundantly supplied with
|
|
materials and tools for any repairs that might be necessary.
|
|
Baron Bindrmon and Talss strode into the stables and headed right
|
|
for the section reserved for the Bindrmon stock. As in the guest suite,
|
|
the baron's servants were busily forking out the clean, new hay from
|
|
each stall that had been assigned to them and replacing it with equally
|
|
clean and new hay. Every food trough was emptied, cleaned, and refilled
|
|
with new food. The baron's horses were being systematically stripped of
|
|
their tack and given stalls. That gear was not being taken to the tack
|
|
room. Instead, it was being set out on makeshift tables the way that
|
|
Bindrmon's own stablemaster favored. The baron's luggage had been placed
|
|
neatly to one side, ready to be carried to the suite when there were
|
|
hands free for the task.
|
|
As before, not one of the baron's ten people spoke or smiled as
|
|
they worked. The sounds of other baronial contingents elsewhere in the
|
|
stables, as well as the duchess' own staff, echoed around the large,
|
|
airy space, but the only noise in the Bindrmon section was the scrape of
|
|
rakes and the rustle of currycombs.
|
|
Talss had stopped briefly in the stables upon returning from his
|
|
hunting errand. He had informed Chak's stablemaster that the baron would
|
|
be riding out again, before proceeding to deliver his message to
|
|
Bindrmon. Though Thunder, the baron's horse, had been unsaddled and seen
|
|
to first, he was ready once again by the time the Chak arrived.
|
|
As the baron was handed the reins to the big black stallion, a
|
|
young man stepped out of one of the stalls, his rake held nervously
|
|
between his hands, and said, "Please, s-sir?"
|
|
Bindrmon turned and focused on the youth, but didn't say anything.
|
|
The expression on his face was the same as it had been in the guest
|
|
suite, the same as it always was: unreadable.
|
|
The young man looked down, suddenly terrified. He was barely old
|
|
enough to be called a man: twelve or thirteen summers, almost squiring
|
|
age. He still had the rounded face of a child, though his shoulders were
|
|
beginning to gain the breadth of an adult. He had a reserve of courage,
|
|
too, for he looked up again, and said, "Y-your excellency, is he found?
|
|
Is he coming back?"
|
|
Baron Bindrmon stared at the youth for several long moments. Did
|
|
the baron's frown lighten slightly? Did the downward curve of his mouth
|
|
straighten up a tiny bit? Something seemed slightly different about
|
|
Chak's face as he said, "No. No, Jurvin, he hasn't been found. You
|
|
should not count on his coming back. Now, get to work, straight?"
|
|
Jurvin turned and dashed back into the stall, but no rake-scrape
|
|
could be heard. Chak looked toward the stall for another moment, then
|
|
turned and stepped up onto Thunder. With a glance at Talss, who had
|
|
mounted in the meantime and was ready to go, the baron flicked the reins
|
|
and set off.
|
|
|
|
The clearing was about a bell's ride from the outskirts of Fremlow
|
|
City, the location of Welspeare Castle. It had once hosted an inn, but
|
|
the only indication of that was a paved space that had once been the
|
|
inn's courtyard. The well at one edge of the plaza meant that the
|
|
clearing was still used frequently by travelers despite its proximity to
|
|
Fremlow City.
|
|
The five people occupying the clearing weren't thinking of camping
|
|
there, though. Four of them were dressed in drab tunics and trousers,
|
|
and wore the badge of Baron Bindrmon on their sleeves. The fifth was
|
|
wearing the same kind of clothing that was tattered and torn by rough
|
|
handling which had also marked his face and body. His sleeve was little
|
|
more than strips of cloth after the badge marking his allegiance had
|
|
been ripped away. He had been tied to a tree at the edge of the
|
|
clearing. His head hung down against his chest, and his breathing was
|
|
ragged as he waited for the inevitable.
|
|
Baron Bindrmon rode into the clearing atop Thunder with Talss close
|
|
behind. One of the waiting men took the reins of both horses as the
|
|
newcomers dismounted. Chak strode directly to the restrained man as the
|
|
horses were picketed with the rest of the mounts.
|
|
The raggedly-garbed man looked up and met his baron's eyes. There
|
|
was no hope at all on his face as he stared into Chak's frown. His head
|
|
dipped slightly as he responded to the baron's presence in the usual
|
|
way. Then he shook his head, straightened his spine, and resumed his
|
|
stare.
|
|
"Why did you do it, Flitchin?" asked Baron Bindrmon in his deep,
|
|
resonant voice.
|
|
"It was an accident, my lord," replied Flitchin, purposefully
|
|
misunderstanding the question. Talss had joined the others, those who
|
|
had helped him hunt down their fellow stablehand, and they now stood in
|
|
a half-circle behind Chak. Flitchin looked from to face of his friends.
|
|
Aside from a flinch or two as eye met eye, all were as stony-faced as
|
|
the baron.
|
|
"You know what I mean, Flitchin," intoned Chak. "The cinch-strap
|
|
coming loose may or may not have been an accident. The broken chest that
|
|
resulted was an inconvenience that caused us to be late arriving at
|
|
Welspeare Castle. It was your responsibility to see that the pack-mule's
|
|
burden was secure, so it was your responsibility to take the punishment.
|
|
"I ask again, why did you run from your responsibility, Flitchin?"
|
|
"I ..." Flitchin swallowed convulsively and started again. "I, I
|
|
suppose ..." The bound man had begun to hunch over again, his eyes
|
|
drifting to his baron's boots as usual. Suddenly, he straightened again,
|
|
his eyes a little wild in his hopeless face. "I was tired of it, Baron
|
|
Chak. Tired of the 'discipline', tired of the whip, tired of the short
|
|
rations, tired of being treated like a slave! So, I ran. I saw my chance
|
|
and I took it. Better the life of a beggar, eking out a living from the
|
|
scraps of others, should it come to that, than another beating. Does
|
|
that help you, Baron Bindrmon?"
|
|
Chak was silent for a moment, staring into the eyes of his escaped
|
|
servant. Then he said, "Discipline must be maintained. Leniency only
|
|
leads to even more slovenly behavior. This method worked for my father
|
|
and his father before him, and it has always worked for me.
|
|
"You were a good worker, Flitchin. I am sorry, but you forced me
|
|
into this position. I would have been inclined to be lenient with the
|
|
punishment you earned through your carelessness, in view of your past
|
|
service. But by running you have given me no alternative but to deal
|
|
with you as severely as I can. Flight is not permitted; you know that,
|
|
and the rest of my staff must be reminded of it. Good bye, Flitchin."
|
|
Baron Bindrmon turned and walked away from the captive, who had
|
|
slumped against his bonds as if his knees had turned to water. The
|
|
half-circle audience broke up, and one went over to fetch the Baron's
|
|
horse. As Chak mounted, he said to his servants, "You know what to do.
|
|
Be quick, but not too merciful, and bury the body back in the woods. I
|
|
expect you to return by nightfall."
|
|
With a final look at the now weeping prisoner, he rode away.
|
|
|
|
The outer gate of Welspeare Castle was not a defensible position,
|
|
and it had never been intended as one. The gate itself was made of
|
|
fancifully wrought iron, and the wall that the gate was set in was no
|
|
higher than a tall man could reach. The trees planted within and without
|
|
the wall overhung it in both directions, and in places climbing vines
|
|
obscured the stonework completely.
|
|
The plaza outside this ceremonial gate often attracted merchants
|
|
eager for noble patronage, something that the guards at the real gate
|
|
piercing the real wall half-a-league within would never permit. Though
|
|
the plaza was well-sized, fitting into a half-circle indentation in the
|
|
outer wall, only a limited number of merchants could effectively display
|
|
their wares within it. It was not a normal market after all, which meant
|
|
that the only useful positions were along the direct route to the gates
|
|
themselves.
|
|
The influx of the duchy's barons for the triennial tax-taking was a
|
|
perfect opportunity for eager sellers to display their wares for new
|
|
eyes. So prestigious was the occasion that only those merchants with
|
|
top-quality wares normally bothered to vie for the limited space
|
|
available. Which did not in any way explain the gypsy in the corner.
|
|
Baron Bindrmon rode back into the plaza before the outer gate
|
|
contemplating a swift return to his own keep. Despite his demeanor, he
|
|
was angry about Flitchin. He knew that he drove his servants hard, but
|
|
he also provided well for them. They had the best food and the best
|
|
quarters he could supply, and they each received a bonus of a Round
|
|
every Melrin. All he wanted in return was unswerving loyalty, and a
|
|
dedication to their duties. Unfortunately, that had been too much for
|
|
Flitchin to give.
|
|
Chak seldom spent much time making decisions. He resolved to set
|
|
his people to packing up again as soon as he reached the stables, and he
|
|
would present his taxes to the duchess' representative in the meantime.
|
|
It was late in the day to set out, but the roads in the north of
|
|
Welspeare were well maintained, and there was an inn only four bells to
|
|
the south. They could reach it safely even traveling in the dark.
|
|
The baron rode through the shouting merchants in the plaza without
|
|
really hearing any of them; his mind was not on making purchases. The
|
|
flash of color in the corner drew his eye, however, and as his path took
|
|
him naturally closer and closer to that corner, he looked the gypsy
|
|
over.
|
|
The man was dressed in the motley colors of one of the Rhydd Pobl,
|
|
the wandering gypsies that could be found almost anywhere in Baranur.
|
|
His clothes were not, however, made of rags and scraps. Instead, they
|
|
had been intentionally cut from diverse types and colors of cloth, in
|
|
the manner of a habit of necessity turning into a statement of fashion.
|
|
The fine cut and trim fit of the gypsy's clothes almost suited him to
|
|
the company of the other jeweled and tailored merchants lining the
|
|
plaza.
|
|
He stood next to the wall, a bright spot of color against the drab
|
|
stone. He had a board in front of him that hung from his neck on a strap
|
|
and seemed to be balanced against his midriff. On the cloth-covered
|
|
board were a collection of carved wooden statuettes, two fine-looking
|
|
daggers shining in the low sun, and a strange piece of broken, sculpted
|
|
stone. The latter drew Chak's attention from the colorful clothes of the
|
|
gypsy and entranced his gaze with the strange interlacing bands on its
|
|
surface, and the raised carvings of two birds and cat along the outer,
|
|
half-circle edge.
|
|
Thunder carried Baron Bindrmon through the gate automatically,
|
|
breaking Chak's eye contact with the fragment of sculpture. Shaking his
|
|
head briefly, he blinked a few times, the afterimage of the carving
|
|
fading from behind his eyes as the memory of the gypsy faded from his
|
|
mind.
|
|
The baron rode into the stables and dismounted, handing the reins
|
|
to the stablemaster. All of his stock had been taken care of and were
|
|
now lodged in their stalls, and the stacked luggage had been cleared
|
|
away as well.
|
|
Chak said, "When the others return, Ricce, send them up to the
|
|
suite. I have some further business for them."
|
|
"As you wish, sir," replied the stablemaster without the slightest
|
|
hint of curiosity in his voice.
|
|
The baron stalked out of the stables, all thoughts of leaving as
|
|
soon as possible having been banished by the glimpse of the strange
|
|
carving. He now had plans to set in motion, and they had to come to
|
|
completion in the next few days. He knew he could trust his servants to
|
|
carry them out.
|
|
|
|
The hallways of the guest wing of Welspeare Castle were as elegant
|
|
as the suites to which they gave access. Regularly spaced, arched niches
|
|
contained statuary or decorative pottery. Oil lanterns were placed on
|
|
either side of these displays. The walls were whitewashed, and hung with
|
|
tapestries every ten strides on alternating sides of the hall. A gray
|
|
carpet patterned like flagstones lined the center of the floor, with
|
|
smaller, brightly colored rugs placed before each niche.
|
|
Two bells after Baron Bindrmon's return, Talss and the four other
|
|
stablehands who had apprehended Flitchin walked nervously through these
|
|
hallways to their baron's suite. The door was open, and they tentatively
|
|
entered. The baron was seated at the large table with the floral
|
|
centerpiece, picking at a plate of cold meats and cheeses while he
|
|
stared at an unrolled parchment next to him.
|
|
Chak looked up at the five men ranged on the other side of the
|
|
table from him. No one else was in the room. He set down the sausage he
|
|
had been chewing on and said, "Baron Durening has arranged a marriage
|
|
for his only daughter, Millicet. The talk is all over the castle. I want
|
|
it stopped."
|
|
Talss spoke the confusion of all five of them with, "Your
|
|
Excellency?"
|
|
"His name is Brerk. He's the second son of Baron Peil Shaddir. They
|
|
made the match over some kind of trade agreement. I want the betrothal
|
|
broken."
|
|
"Your Excellency?" Talss repeated. "Why?" His confusion had only
|
|
deepened.
|
|
"Because, Talss, my son Aldan needs a wife too. Durening borders
|
|
Bindrmon on the east; I think that I can make a much better deal with
|
|
Groon Durening than Peil did. Millicet's dowry will benefit Bindrmon
|
|
greatly. I want it, and you lot are going to facilitate getting it for
|
|
me."
|
|
"Do you mean ... ah ... well, like Flitchin?" Dread filled Talss'
|
|
face.
|
|
"No, no, no. Killing a noble, even a second son, wouldn't be right.
|
|
So, just scare him. Make him back down. Do whatever you have to short of
|
|
killing him. Just make sure that you are not seen. And I don't know you
|
|
if you are caught."
|
|
The five just stood there, uncertain. At first, the baron's frown
|
|
deepened, then it lightened after a moment. "I know that this isn't the
|
|
kind of thing I normally ask of you, men. But it will benefit your
|
|
barony. Do this for Bindrmon, if not for me." He paused, then continued,
|
|
"There's a Round in it for each of you. If you perform very well, it
|
|
might be two."
|
|
The five stablehands looked at each other and, after a moment,
|
|
nodded. Talss said, "We will convince Brerk Shaddir to break off his
|
|
engagement, your excellency. Consider it done."
|
|
They each bowed in turn and left. Baron Bindrmon turned his
|
|
attention back to the scroll before the second one was out the door.
|
|
|
|
Four days later, Chak Bindrmon and Groon Durening were walking
|
|
toward the outer gate of Welspeare Castle shortly after fifth bell. The
|
|
mid-day sun was being intermittently hidden by large, white clouds, and
|
|
the addition of a pleasant breeze made excellent walking weather.
|
|
The official tax-taking ceremony had taken place two days
|
|
previously, and about a third of Welspeare's sixteen barons had already
|
|
departed. Baron Shaddir had left the previous day, after making a public
|
|
announcement breaking the betrothal of his second son to Durening's only
|
|
daughter. Brerk hadn't been present, but his father had communicated his
|
|
regrets for him. Millicet, of course, was heartbroken.
|
|
Chak patted Groon consolingly on the shoulder and said, "I'm sorry
|
|
to hear about how your plans were disrupted. What do you think you'll do
|
|
now?"
|
|
"Oh, thank you, Chak. Yes, it was quite a surprise. I thought that
|
|
everything was arranged, and then ..." Groon shrugged resignedly, and
|
|
continued, "Well, there's nothing I can do about it anyway. Do now? Look
|
|
for another husband for Millicet, I suppose. It is so difficult,
|
|
though." He paused, then went on in a softer voice, sharing his
|
|
confidences. "I should have insisted she marry ten years ago, but she
|
|
kept persuading me to wait. But it's past time. She needs a husband."
|
|
They passed through the outer gate and between the lines of
|
|
merchants on the plaza. Some had departed, feeling that the prime
|
|
selling opportunities had passed now that the baronial delegations were
|
|
leaving, but the colorful gypsy still stood against the wall. Chak
|
|
ignored him as if he wasn't there; Groon was drawn by the half-circle
|
|
sculpture on the man's selling board to stand in front of him. Durening
|
|
reached out as if to touch the metal and glass bands woven across its
|
|
top, but pulled his hand back at the last moment. With a distracted
|
|
frown, he turned away and caught up quickly with his friend, Chak.
|
|
"I was thinking," began Chak, but Durening interrupted as if he
|
|
hadn't even heard Bindrmon's overture. "You have a son, right, Chak?
|
|
Adin, or something? Isn't he of marriageable age?"
|
|
Chak blinked in surprise and said, "Aldan, yes. Very marriageable.
|
|
Very available." When Groon didn't respond, Chak ventured, "Why?" just
|
|
as if he didn't know.
|
|
"Oh, well ... That is, what would you think about a marriage
|
|
between Millicet and Aldan? I know that Millicet is a little old but,
|
|
well, I'm sure that we can come to some sort of arrangement of mutual
|
|
benefit."
|
|
Baron Chak Bindrmon's perpetual frown almost disappeared as he
|
|
said, "Yes, I think that we can. Let's talk about it, shall we?"
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
|
|
|
|
No Pity to Spare
|
|
by Rhonda Gomez
|
|
<Rhondagmz@aol.com>
|
|
Magnus; Naia 1015
|
|
|
|
Dungeons are perpetually dark, but at night the quality of that
|
|
darkness changes, becomes thicker and more substantial somehow. The
|
|
young woman chained to the wall is far too young to be an intimate of
|
|
darkness. Nessa's mind fools her into thinking that she cannot see, even
|
|
though she can. Nessa is a thief, a pickpocket and a street urchin. She
|
|
is seventeen years old and this is not the first time that she has been
|
|
a guest in King Haralan's dungeon.
|
|
When she was ten, her mother died, followed soon after by her
|
|
father, murdered by his own sorrow and cowardice. She remembers the
|
|
exact moment that her father died, can still feel the fear and see the
|
|
pity in his eyes as his fingers traced over the ragged outline of the
|
|
dark, wine-colored stain that mars Nessa's face. "Ah, lass. Why? Why
|
|
were ye cursed so?"
|
|
She turned from him then, sickened by the fear. "Please Da. Don't."
|
|
Nessa's tears lodged in her throat and remained there, choking her with
|
|
self-pity for a long, desperate time. The last thing her father said
|
|
was, "Wear the scarf, lass. If ye'd worn it when the priest came 'round,
|
|
mayhaps we'd have gotten the dole and yer ma wouldn't have wasted away."
|
|
Her father died that same day and Nessa began a journey that led,
|
|
inevitably, to the cold, damp dungeon below Crown Castle. She never did
|
|
cry for her Da.
|
|
Nessa had just been caught picking someone's pocket and within a
|
|
few bells of being tossed into the dungeon, the darkness reaches out for
|
|
her. "Ah, if it isn't my favorite street swine." The guard, who the
|
|
others call Hatchet, clutches crudely at his crotch, "Couldn't stay away
|
|
from me, eh lass?" Hatchet is accustomed to the pliant defenseless of
|
|
prisoners. Nessa knows, all too well, that cruel pinches and slugs of a
|
|
mailed fist will accompany his grunted release. She believes, even
|
|
though she's too young to understand the implications, that it is her
|
|
pain that attracts him: that he is like a bee unable to resist the sweet
|
|
nectar of her suffering. He snatches her hair and jerks her head to one
|
|
side, exposing the dark stain that wraps around her neck and slides
|
|
grotesquely over her right cheek. He fumbles with his breeches and Nessa
|
|
swallows the bile that rises in her throat.
|
|
A mind can be a sharp and deadly weapon against a guard's heavy
|
|
boot parting your thighs, and over the years Nessa has built within her
|
|
heart a secret place. She cannot recall the origins of her forest house,
|
|
nor exactly when it entered her life; she knows only that it has always
|
|
been a part of her. It is her escape; a place of dignity and peace. As
|
|
Nessa turns her face to the wall, she feels the silent strength of her
|
|
mind, and the cold mail of his fist sliding up the inside of her thigh
|
|
becomes the fluid coolness of spring water. The oppressive weight of his
|
|
body becomes the sweet tightness of exertion as she climbs to a hilltop
|
|
glen. When the pain begins, Nessa is well within the confines of her
|
|
sanctuary. When he's finished, the guard's ignorance allows him to
|
|
believe that the look on her face signifies enjoyment and Nessa doesn't
|
|
care what he thinks, she knows he'll return and that her forest house
|
|
will be there to shelter her.
|
|
A doomed man joins her in the dungeon that night, dragged in by
|
|
angry guards. Nessa is bruised and battered; one eye is swollen shut and
|
|
the dungeon's darkness threatens to consume her. But Nessa doesn't need
|
|
to see. She hears the guards as they spit his name out of mouths twisted
|
|
with rage. She feels Mal's agony pouring from his body like sweat. Nessa
|
|
knows the routine and stares blindly into the dark as stiff leather
|
|
cuffs are strapped around his wrists and ankles. He will be bound to the
|
|
wall next to her by short chains, leaving barely enough room to squat on
|
|
the floor; never enough room to lie down to rest, or even enough room to
|
|
lie down to die.
|
|
After the guards leave, Nessa crouches on the floor, listening for
|
|
any hint of him. Silence does not exist inside the darkness of a
|
|
dungeon; there is a constant clamor of cursing guards, rattling chains
|
|
and moaning prisoners surrounding them. She has witnessed too many
|
|
prisoners being tossed into dungeons and even the strongest warrior will
|
|
thrash and call out at the first hint of lost freedom. Mal remains
|
|
silent and still for so long that she begins to think him daft.
|
|
Eventually, she realizes that she doesn't need to hear him either;
|
|
the stench of his defeat is overpowering. From the beginning, the guards
|
|
call him a killer. He doesn't seem like a killer to her; he seems dead.
|
|
There is an air of hopelessness that surrounds Mal, and Nessa imagines
|
|
that she can see it glowing in the dark.
|
|
Nessa's heart holds little capacity for compassion and she wills
|
|
herself to scorn Mal. She believes he is weak and doesn't fully
|
|
understand why she begins to speak to him, but talking soon becomes a
|
|
habit: whispered words, battered against the inside of their cage. "If
|
|
you lift your head to the north, you can still detect the faint scent of
|
|
winter blanketing the land," she intones and is astonished at the sound
|
|
of her own voice, alive with promise, while inside she feels as dead as
|
|
he. "The sun is waning and the birds are winging home to rest." Mal
|
|
doesn't move, doesn't give any indication that he has heard her at all.
|
|
She closes her eyes and leans back against the weeping wall. "I can
|
|
smell the faint scent of a burning hearth and it draws me away from the
|
|
village and into the forest." She hears him then, as he shuffles as
|
|
close to her as his chains will allow. She's astonished to discover that
|
|
she doesn't mind; he can join her, if it helps.
|
|
She speaks a little louder, making sure that he can follow. "Under
|
|
the trees, darkness cloaks us in a protective layer and we are hidden
|
|
from the gods that rule our lives. The forest is frozen in that peculiar
|
|
unsilence of prey and predator." She hears him breathing next to her,
|
|
"We've entered the forest at the head of a tiny, struggling spring."
|
|
Inside the dungeon, Nessa inhales a deep breath of air rank with the
|
|
scent of human captivity, while inside her head she sees the rise of the
|
|
land as it makes its way past the stream. "The water trickles over
|
|
smooth, liquid rocks and the green scent of life greets us." Nessa hears
|
|
the call of a night raven high above. "Listen. Do you hear it? The
|
|
goddess Cahleyna comes, trailing the moon behind her." As she starts to
|
|
cross the stream, she looks back over her shoulder and he is there,
|
|
shuffling along. The realization that Mal, too, can inhabit her secret
|
|
place jolts her from her reverie and she will never again return to that
|
|
place without the vaguely oppressive knowledge that Mal is her
|
|
companion.
|
|
The next day Mal has a visitor, a priest searching for lost souls.
|
|
At first, he only stares at the priest, but soon Mal begins to talk,
|
|
slowly and then with increasing anguish. His tale is a bitter one, full
|
|
of hateful jealousy and death for the betrayed, as well as the
|
|
betrayers. He explains to the priest how he had been falsely accused of
|
|
burning his village and that, in the end, he had murdered the one truly
|
|
responsible. Mal tells the priest, in a voice devoid of life, that he
|
|
has been condemned to hang. With a wickedness that startles her, Nessa
|
|
finds it amusing that the priest's bag of tricks are ineffective against
|
|
Mal's torment. Mal is too consumed by his own agony to care much for
|
|
redemption and Nessa knows the priest doesn't leave the dungeon that day
|
|
with any redeemed souls.
|
|
In Mal, Nessa sees her own suffering and after the priest leaves,
|
|
she strains her eyes, eager to see if his hatred pours from him like
|
|
smoke, but all she sees is death. She feels an insistent need building
|
|
in the pit of her stomach, an inexplicable urge to flee to her haven.
|
|
She continues weaving the spell that comforts them, "It's morning now
|
|
and the forest is alive. The leaves rustle under our feet and the wind
|
|
blows a cool, welcome breeze along our backs. We're moving to higher
|
|
ground. The trees are huge up here, ancient sentinels guarding the heart
|
|
of the wood. The forest crowds us, moves in closer and becomes thicker.
|
|
Up ahead we see a small clearing. That's our destination." Her voice
|
|
rises in pitch and Mal moves as close to her as his short chains will
|
|
allow. "The glen is no larger than the house that inhabits its space. A
|
|
perfectly-lined stone fence is all that restrains the forest from
|
|
totally overtaking the cottage. Smoke curls from the chimney and a lamp
|
|
burns brightly through a small window beside the door." Nessa feels the
|
|
serenity of the place and she wraps it about her like armor. "Oh, yes.
|
|
By Araminia, it is quiet here."
|
|
In the forest, she rests her hand upon a wooden gate and she feels
|
|
Mal's warm breath along her neck and his hand clutching her arm as he
|
|
urges her forward. He whispers, "Let's go inside".
|
|
Nessa chokes, "No! No, we can't." The cottage recoils from her and
|
|
shatters into tiny, frozen embers. She scrambles onto all fours and
|
|
lunges away from him, stretching her chains to the very end. She has
|
|
never gone inside the forest house. She fancies herself being patient,
|
|
waiting to get the full measure of the place before venturing over its
|
|
threshold. But she is afraid. On the surface her life is difficult
|
|
enough to bear; slipping below that turbulent edge is unthinkable. Nessa
|
|
suspects that the forest house is as empty as her life and the thought
|
|
terrifies her.
|
|
The day of the priest's visit is to be the last day of Mal's life.
|
|
During the night, the bitterness that burns inside of Mal grows until it
|
|
fills the dungeon. Like the relentlessness of a hungry flame, his defeat
|
|
washes over Nessa, forcing her to embrace the desperation of her own
|
|
self-pity.
|
|
It is a terrible thing to relive all the sorrow of a lifetime in
|
|
one instant; when it is watered down by the daily chore of living, it is
|
|
easier to ignore. The years rush through Nessa's head like water rushing
|
|
over a cliff. She hears the taunts of her childhood, "What is that ugly
|
|
stain on yer face girl? Is it the mark of the demon Xothar?" She sees
|
|
the children run from her, and whispers resound inside her head, "Nay
|
|
lass, we've no work for the likes of ye." Huddled on the floor of the
|
|
dungeon, she recalls when the bitterness of self-pity had begun to eat
|
|
away at her heart. She was only a child when she first realized that,
|
|
unlike the other children, she would never evoke more than fear and
|
|
loathing, never love or tenderness. That bitterness had eventually
|
|
devoured her.
|
|
They come for Mal before dawn. He doesn't resist, as do most of the
|
|
dying. As soon as Nessa hears them, her voice begins again, with the
|
|
soft rhythm of all stories. In their secret place, she takes his hand
|
|
and leads him inside the stone wall. "The sun is sinking below the
|
|
surface of the forest and wood smoke trails over the trees." When the
|
|
guards release him and he is no longer bound to the wall, he turns to
|
|
her and she knows, in spite of his agony, that he is ready to accept
|
|
whatever fate the gods have decreed. She continues to talk even as they
|
|
lead him away. "The grasp of winter's cold chill is defeated yet again
|
|
and we can feel the land stir beneath us. The trees stretch their roots
|
|
deep into the soil, their arms high into the sky. There is no one here
|
|
to see us. We are free to do as we please."
|
|
Softly, carried on the air, she hears the roar of the crowd
|
|
outside. She feels the old, familiar tingling along her neck and face
|
|
and recalls how often she has endured the stares of others, fear evident
|
|
in their eyes and disgust stamped on their faces. Back in the forest,
|
|
she has her hand on the door to the cottage. "Yes, let's go inside.
|
|
Look, it is safe and warm." She no longer speaks aloud, but Mal is with
|
|
her still; she feels him there as she pushes on the door. Outside she
|
|
hears the shouted command, and inside she sees the door slowly swinging
|
|
open. Nessa hears a thud as the rope jerks around Mal's neck and the
|
|
door to her forest house swings wide. Her heart thunders up into her
|
|
throat and she hears from inside the cottage, a man's soft, slow voice.
|
|
"There is no greater light than a meager candle burning in the dark and
|
|
nothing more courageous than the strength required to make the long and
|
|
difficult journey from dusk to dawn." Nessa doesn't look back as she
|
|
takes that final step over the threshold and into the forest house.
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
|
|
|