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 DargonZine                                     Distributed:  9/24/2000
 Volume 13, Number 9                            Circulation:        753
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Loren Armare 2               Max Khaytsus           Yuli 8, 1014
 Talisman Six 1               Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Firil 25-26, 1011
 Magestorm 4                  Mark A. Murray         Ober 1017

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

 DargonZine 13-9, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 2000 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
 All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
 and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
 without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

                               Editorial
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                           <ornoth@shore.net>

     If you read the Editorial in our last issue, you'll recall that I
wrote about our desire to return to a balance of short stories as well
as more lengthy serialized storylines. Although this issue continues the
same three serials which appeared last time, I think you'll still enjoy
the stories presented here.
     Although Max Khaytsus' "Loren Armare 2" is the second in a
three-part series, each of his episodes is a complete story unto itself.
Dafydd's Talisman saga continues with the dramatic first installment of
a two-part story which will be concluded in our next issue. And we
finally get to the climax of Mark Murray's "Magestorm" story arc in our
final story. Each of these stories is particularly exciting and
interesting, and I think you'll enjoy reading them, whether you have
been following these storylines for some time or are just checking us
out for the first time. Of course, if you're new to DargonZine, you may
also want to go back and check out the previous chapters of these
stories, as well.
     And look for us to resume printing more standalone short stories in
future issues. Our writers have been very busy, cranking out lots of
great reading material, and I'm really excited about bringing it to you
as soon as the issues are ready. We might also have a particular treat
later in the year: an issue with five brand-new stories from six
different writers (a couple of them are co-authored)! So there's plenty
of great fiction in the works. But for now I hope you enjoy the three
great stories that we have for you in this issue.

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

                              Loren Armare
                                Parte 2
                            by Max Khaytsus
                       <khaytsus@cs.colorado.edu>
                              Yuli 8, 1014

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-8

     The instant the very repute of land is mentioned, the people seem
     to bid farewell to virtue, worth and merit, to common sense and
     prudence, and act with the primitive barbarism of tyrants in
     conquest of frontiers tended by their neighbors.

     "Videre Virile" (unfinished)
     Lord Bistra Scire Deriman,
     College Guild of Khronica

     Captain Tybalt Binu squinted in the bright daylight, trying to read
the name of a lone cog fighting its way upriver on the Laraka. It was a
hot summer day not particularly hospitable to waging war, but war was
not a trade that could be scheduled based on weather. Any contact with
the enemy came at an inopportune time. The cog he was watching was,
without a doubt, a Beinison ship. The scouts had noticed it over a bell
earlier, slowly making its way up the Laraka, fighting the strong
current the whole way. Halting the regiment's advance, Binu had
scrambled to higher ground to evaluate the ship and the risk it
presented and decide how to deal with the vessel as it slowly caught up
with his position.
     The fading Beinison lettering on the ship's side identified the
enemy cog. In war there was little time to maintain the paint when men
and supplies had to be ferried back and forth. Binu recognized the
characters as members of the Beinison alphabet, but was unable to put
them together. The few words that he knew came from tales told by his
second-in-command, Hakan Magnus, but those words had come with no
description of letters associated with them.
     The cog, set low in the dark water, hinted that it was loaded with
supplies, no doubt looted from the shops and markets in Port Sevlyn and
Sharks' Cove -- Quinnat's contribution to the Beinison war effort. A
group of sailors stood gathered on deck at the front of the ship, right
above the barely legible name. Tybalt shifted uneasily. Did it make
sense to let the ship go through? Besides the consideration of how
critical the supplies were to both sides, there was also a question
regarding the nature of the ship. Cogs were among the toughest,
sturdiest and most flexible ships in the service of any navy, but they
weren't galleons. And as soon as one disappeared, people would take
notice. It would be hard to hide a cog from passing traffic on a river
such as the Laraka. Yet, waiting for a galleon could cost them the
fortress at Gateway.
     Soft rustling in the brush alerted Binu of company and he shifted
off to the side, to let the others join him. He recognized the
footsteps: Magnus and Bellen. Two others with them. No one spoke.
     "Can you read it, Magnus?"
     Long moments of silence passed while the younger man squinted,
trying to see against the glare of the sun across the water. "Older
script. Southern influence." Another long pause. "_Tolazhur_ Tolah
er-Zhur. Tolah ihn-Pehal er-Zhur!"
     "Are you going to sneeze?" Catalin Bellen chided.
     Tybalt turned back, ignoring the woman's remark. "The Prince of
Lashkir?"
     Magnus nodded. "But I'd expect a prince's name on better walls."
     "I want that ship, Magnus," Tybalt turned back to the river. "Look
how low she is. She's loaded with supplies. We can't let her reach
Gateway."
     "We'll take her, sir," the officer promised.
     Retreating footsteps sounded in the brush behind Tybalt Binu and he
turned back to the cog slowly heading their way. He could now see most
of the deck, exposed below his position, with a ballista secured down
with heavy rope right at the forward tip of the deck and a second one
secured sideways behind it. He frowned at the idea of this ship passing
supplies to the army upstream. There was no way he could permit this to
happen and he was positive that Baron ReVell Dower, leading three more
regiments upriver a half day behind this force, would want nothing less.
In this darkest moment any miniscule amount of help Gateway received
could be paid back with a much-needed victory. Any break in the enemy's
overextended supply line could mean the difference between Baranur's
victory or eventual defeat.

     "Magnus, slow down," Catalin hurried after her companion. "What
does that name mean? Who's the Prince of Lashkir?"
     "Durn, get me some men," Magnus sent one of the attending soldiers
away, pausing to let the woman catch up to him. "Tolah."
     "Yes, who is that?" Her shorter stride did not allow her to bounce
down the side of the hill as easily as Magnus and while her zeal to take
the Beinison ship was just as great, her ability to keep up was somewhat
hampered.
     "Tolah ihn-Pehal er-Zhur -- Tolah, son of Pehal, of the City of
Zhur -- was a Lashkirian warrior in the last century. He was a minor
noble who ascended to princedom by attrition of his family in the war
with Beinison. He held Lashkir against the Beinison army for over five
years before being crushed. With an army of about ten thousand, he
out-maneuvered and out-fought a giant thrice his size before the Fist of
the Emperor itself trapped and killed him in the desert. Some even say
that he never really died, that he's the savior -- the sahwi -- who will
return to free Lashkir from Beinison."
     "Is this real history or just a story?" Catalin asked.
     "He really lived when Beinison conquered Lashkir a hundred years
ago," Magnus answered. "He martyred himself for his country, but I don't
believe in prophets. He was merely a skilled general who fell to our
common enemy. What surprised me is that his name is on that ship."
     "Let's hope his spirit helps us today," Catalin whispered.
     Magnus looked towards the river, hidden somewhere behind the trees.
"We've got more men, but we're storming a fortress. We have to use them
wisely."
     "Let's go down, take a look at the river."
     Followed by a pair of soldiers, Magnus and Catalin made their way
closer to the water, watching the large ship slowly move against the
current and wind. The ship fought the elements at a pace that was barely
as fast as a walking man, her crew shifting and adjusting sails and
forcing the ship to zig and zag through the wind.
     "It's a hard life," Catalin commented, watching the crew battle
what was only a light cooling wind on land.
     "We can make use of their hardship, though. The ship is moving
slowly."
     "Listen, what if I give you a better target?" Catalin asked.
     "How?"
     "Say I take a dozen archers to the other bank and herd the ship to
you?"
     "Must be a quarter league swim," Magnus noted.
     "So we'll leave our armor here."
     Magnus considered. Baron Dower had three full regiments on the
north bank of the Laraka, one of them less than five leagues behind
them, and there were patrols as far as five leagues in either direction,
watching for both stray Beinison troops and ships. There was no danger
in letting archers cross to the other shore, except that they would have
no cover from the Beinison vessel. On open water they could be spotted
in a matter of moments.
     "How will you cross?"
     "Downstream, maybe a quarter league back, then catch back up."
     "Think that'll give us a better chance?"
     "You do."
     Magnus nodded in agreement. "I do that. You get them close enough
for us to board, we've got them."
     Catalin started undoing buckles on her corselet in preparation for
her task. By the time she was done, a hundred soldiers stood around the
two lieutenants, waiting for orders.
     "Archers by that tree," Catalin pointed beyond the circle, letting
her heavy armor drop to the ground.
     Soldiers with bows started separating away from the main group. It
was understood among them without any additional instructions that even
though most of them had bows and knew how to use them, when archers were
ordered to separate from the main body, it was implied that only the
best were needed.
     "Here," Catalin handed her sheathed sword to Magnus. "It's my
father's. I don't care about the armor, but if something happens to this
sword, a fifty year old man will hunt you down through fire and snow and
beat the life right out of you. Straight?"
     "You don't really mean that, do you?" he asked.
     "Which?"
     "The armor."
     "No. I expect you to defend it with your life, but if only two can
come out and your life absolutely has to be one of them, the sword will
be the other. Straight?"
     "Straight," Magnus agreed. "I'll be sure to put it ahead of my
life. Better I fall to honor a sword than to satisfy an old man's
vengeance."
     Catalin headed for the tree where the archers waited. There were
fewer than she expected. "I hoped for more," she commented to the other
lieutenant, but did not stop to send for more men. "Everyone out of your
armor," she ordered. "We're going for a swim."
     The soldiers started undressing to a salvo of cheers and whistles
from their companions.
     "Beat you on the head!" one of the archers yelled back.
     "Even the sergeants get no respect," Magnus laughed.
     Catalin studied the twelve men and two women preparing to cross the
river with her. She knew everyone in the regiment could swim. That was a
requirement. But she worried about the duration of the swim. The water
was cold from the mid-summer mountain run-offs and the current strong
and the distance was a serious stretch on any day. And compounded by a
strong need for concealment, the crossing would be difficult at best.
     "We'll attack immediately, if they spot you," Magnus detected her
concern.
     Catalin nodded, but did not answer. "Sergeant, bows only. Quarter
league downstream."
     "You heard her, slugs. *Run*!" The sergeant's weathered voice
incited the archers into a trot.
     "We'll be back this evening," Catalin cast her farewell and
followed the small squad.
     "Durn," Magnus called to his assistant, "give them an escort, now!"
     A score of fully armored men quickly detached from the group and
followed the archers downstream. The remainder of the men reorganized in
anticipation of further orders.
     "Skoji," Magnus called one of the other sergeants once the archers
and their escorts were out of sight, "set up a full perimeter a league
upstream. We're taking that ship. I want observers a quarter league in
either direction, a couple of men on the hill behind us and some archers
to pick off any strays and offer cover in case of a retreat."
     "We won't be retreating, sir," Skoji said confidently. "They'll be
retreating and without a bridge, the men will have to get their britches
wet."
     "We'll improvise, Skoji. If there is no bridge, we'll build one.
And if Tolah can't come to us, we'll go to him."
     "Aye, sir."
     The men quickly moved upriver, hidden from the Beinison cog by
trees and thick bushes. Dispatching a message to Captain Binu and
another to the remainder of the regiment, Magnus followed his men east.
They had plenty of time to set up their offensive. It would take at
least a bell for Catalin to go downstream, cross the river and come back
up on the other side. The exercise on the whole would be much harder on
the archers.
     Finishing his tasks, Magnus hurried after his men, catching up to
them as Sergeants Skoji and Dyl directed the men into their positions.
He paused, examining the site his men had chosen. It was in a narrowing
of the river where it straightened out from its northwesterly flow and
headed directly west. The rough shores created an obstacle for the
rapidly flowing waters, causing sporadic foaming rapids along the shore
to create additional navigation hazards. It was a good spot where the
cog would have to battle the turn and the flow of the river all at the
same time. Soldiers crawled through the brush, gathering in small
clusters along the shore. In moments there would be no trace of almost
one hundred men as they settled to wait for the approaching enemy.
     "Skoji, concentrate the men just after that bend," Magnus pointed
to a cluster of rocks and mud extending into the river, "and put a
smaller group just on the other side." He broke a twig off a bush and
sketched the shore. "First wave here, then here. The remainder can hold
on to the other side until we need them. Dyl, pass the word. We're going
for a swim, although shorter. Let the men judge for themselves if they
can handle the water in mail and if their mail can handle the rust. I
want you to take the west end of the point, short of those rocks. If the
ship drifts back past them or turns to run, I want you to attack.
Otherwise, hold in reserve in the event that we'll need you on the east
side."
     With a nod of agreement, the sergeant disappeared into the green of
the forest to organize his men.
     Magnus sat back, watching the _Tolazhur_ slowly approach. He was
aware that Catalin's plan could cause severe damage on the deck of the
Beinison ship and force the crew to take the vessel closer to the south
shore, but the problem of having his own people cross into the river
under a possible missile assault from both the ship and his own
regiment's archers was a threat he would have to live with. He intended
to lead the first wave himself, using the cog as a shield from Catalin's
assault and hopefully permitting the attack to be a sufficient
distraction to halt the vessel's progress upriver. The remaining men
would have to depend on his ability to board and immobilize the enemy
ship.

     Almost completely dry after the lengthy swim, Catalin Bellen
directed her troops to set an extended perimeter along the north shore
of the Laraka, two men to a group, spaced over a quarter league of the
northern shoreline of the Laraka. Her goal was to herd the Beinison ship
towards the other shore or at least hamper its progress enough for
Magnus to get his men on board. Her only way of doing that was by
creating the illusion of a large force on her shore and to make every
single arrow count.
     Studying the south shore, she saw no evidence of Magnus or his men,
but had a good guess at their positions. The main body's lookouts
signaled them with metal mirrors, indicating the points along the shore
from which the attack would take place. Without knowing in advance,
there was no way to tell that a force one hundred soldiers strong was
located mere feet away from the waterline. The ship, which she had once
again overtaken, was closing to comfortable bow range and the soldiers
were all set for the attack.
     Catalin herself took up a position shielded by a bush between some
rocks where the forest turned into the narrow dirty beach of the river,
and prepared her own bow. She was a good shot and felt confident that
even if the Beinison ship, Tolah someone or other, was to drift all the
way to the opposite shore, almost a quarter league away, she would still
have a good chance of bringing down anyone stupid enough to expose
themselves to her view.
     The unusual concept of a land-bound army attacking a naval vessel
was not lost on her. Catalin was aware of land-based catapults being
used to attack ships offshore as a defensive measure, preventing them
from approaching, but here, as a purely offensive gesture she suspected
that she might be among the first to wage war from land and onto water,
aggressively using ranged weapons to force a naval vessel into close
combat.
     "All set, ma'am," the sergeant's voice sounded from somewhere
behind Catalin.
     "Just as we planned," she answered without looking back. "Anyone
exposed on deck goes down. Take your time. I want every shot to count
before they get out of range."
     Rustling of branches was the only answer she heard.
     Long moments passed while the cog came before the position of the
archers hidden in the brush. Catalin wondered how long it would take for
the vessel to come in-line with the first team, when she saw a sailor,
working on the ropes a respectable distance above the deck, tumble down.
A few sailors rushed to him. What seemed like an eternity passed as they
gathered around the fallen man, when another in the crowd fell over.
Commotion overtook the deck of the ship.
     Catalin leveled her bow, setting and bracing for the shot. She had
a perfect view of the lookout in the crow's nest, accented by a large
white cloud behind it. She could see what appeared to be an arrow lodged
in the wall of the nest, indicating that one of her men had already
tried to make that shot. As she aimed, she heard the snap of an arrow
being released to her right and another man fell on deck. A patient
moment passed as she adjusted her aim for the light wind. The ship's
course held. Catalin released her arrow. For a moment there was no
indication that she hit, then the man in the crow's nest staggered and
disappeared from sight. Another arrow was released somewhere near her.
She picked up an arrow that was waiting its turn and again took aim.
There were only a handful of men visible on the cog's deck and the most
prominent of them appeared to be the ship's pilot. Catalin took aim. The
man was not moving and as she forced her eyes to see the full distance,
she realized that the Beinison pilot had sunk down to his knees, still
holding on to the wheel, as if tied to the instrument. The other sailors
were taking cover.
     The deck of the ship remained empty for a moment. Another arrow
penetrated the pilot, someone deciding it would be good to make sure he
was dead. Then a pair of heads appeared over the railing on the left
side of the ship. The tip of a bow could be seen near of the heads.
Catalin took careful aim, but several other arrows beat her to the
target, most sticking in the hull of the ship, but perhaps one or two
hitting their targets. The two men disappeared behind the rail. She
laughed to herself. Stupid sailors. Being on water is akin to being a
huge target with no terrain to take advantage of.
     With no timely control over the sails and rudder, the ship slowed
down, no longer following its crisscross pattern though the current and
wind. The only sailor visible on deck was the dead pilot, now attached
to the wheel by at least three arrows, a grim phantom blindly guiding
the vessel into the wind.
     A terrifying crack and splintering disturbed the quiet of the river
as a huge bolt tore through the hull at the front of the ship. The
blindly launched ballista missile passed over the water and beach,
crashing into the trees on shore.
     Catalin's instincts had forced her to duck, although the bolt had
been too high and too far upstream to be a threat to her. She considered
her men upriver. The bolt had probably been too high to hit anyone,
unless they had been in a tree, and she did not expect that to be the
case for archers intending to make their shots. "Is anyone hurt?"
     There was lasting silence, which caused her concern.
     "They're hunting firewood," a voice eventually came back.
     Catalin released her breath. That would have been a stupid way to
die. She waited, then got back up to her knees and looked at the vessel.
_Tolazhur_ free-drifted, caught in the wind and the current as the river
bent to flow northwest. Twirling waters at a jagged outcropping forced
the ship to begin to turn with the flow of the river. A swirl of water
at the jagged shoreline made it totter, shaking the dead pilot loose off
the wheel. Someone else was crawling along the deck to take his place.
The man got to the body, checked it, then pushed the pilot away and,
getting up on his knees, took his place. Several more arrows were
released nearby, all targeting the brave Benosian sailor. The man on
deck froze.

     _Tolazhur_ moved slowly against the strong current. It was not a
particularly graceful ship, but its job was war, not speed. It moved
along the river, trying to take the current at its best speed,
crisscrossing from one shore to the other. As it neared the rock
outcropping, _Tolazhur_ slowed. The scattered rocks broke the pattern
the vessel kept as it sailed against the current and the wind and the
sails were adjusted to modify the course.
     From his position on shore, Magnus had a perfect view of the man in
the crow's nest, with at least two arrows in him, go tumbling from his
perch high above the ship. He fell into the water, creating a splash,
and just floated. An arrow in his back pointed straight up, the
fletchings a distinct marker of the Arvalian regiment.
     For a moment there was commotion on the deck. Sailors ran around;
some screamed. At least one more body slid across the deck as an arrow
hit it. Someone jumped overboard.
     Magnus tensed. They were not ready for the Beinison sailors to
abandon ship. There was no reaction from any of the men in the brush and
he hoped that would last until they could take the man by surprise.
     As the escaping sailor made his way to shore, all commotion on the
deck of the ship ceased. Magnus was contemplating ordering his men
forward when a loud crack sounded from the vessel. It sounded like a
ballista and Magnus was ready to bet that the target was the other
shore. He drew Catalin's sword and got ready to charge the ship. The
Beinison sailor in the river was now waist deep in the water and was
blindly heading for shore. He hit the sand, took one look back, and
noisily entered the bushes. The brush shook as he moved through it,
then, abruptly, all motion ceased.
     Magnus smiled and headed for the waterline. Others had already
appeared from the brush and a pair of men with grapples hooked the side
of the ship. The silent assault was well on its way.
     A soldier, sword slung over his back, was freeclimbing the rope.
Another was throwing a third line. More and more men were making their
way into the river.
     Magnus paused, watching the ship rock in the water. It was caught
in a more rapid current coming around the bend up ahead and had been
pushed downstream and towards the shore. _Tolazhur_ was slowly turning
in the water and drifting backwards to where Dyl held the reserve men.
     Suppressing the wide grin, Magnus replaced Catalin's sword in the
scabbard on his back and burst into the water, heading for one of the
four lines now hanging over the side of the ship. When he was hip deep
in the water, he broke into a swim, rapidly covering the short distance
to the ship. "Stand down," he warned the man getting ready to climb and
eagerly took his place. The water receded below him as he easily climbed
hand over hand, occasionally using his feet for added traction on the
hull of the ship.
     A body tumbled overboard, nearly knocking Magnus off his rope and
landed in the water like a sack of flour. Magnus secured his grip,
shifted on the hull of the ship and continued his climb, occasionally
glancing up towards the deck. A few more feet and he made it up to the
deck of the cog, where a battle was already raging. As he grabbed hold
of the rail, a large knife came down hard on the rope he held on to and
it went limp in his hand.
     Releasing the severed line, Magnus lunged for the man with the
knife, grappling him by his weapon arm and opposing shoulder. He was now
suspended over the water, supported only by an enemy soldier struggling
to stay on the ship. At this particular moment the risk of falling ten
feet back into the river was delicately balanced by the threat of being
stabbed with the knife. Ultimately, a few bruises and a nose full of
water were infinitely preferable to being stabbed.
     The man Magnus grappled was a large sailor, strong from years of
hard labor at sea. He lifted the Baranurian soldier and smashed him into
the rail. Magnus heard something crack. He wasn't sure if it was the
rail or Catalin's scabbard, but he was fairly certain it was not his
back. He could feel the scabbard's hard edge along his ribs, easily out
of his reach. His own sword dangled off a scabbard on his waist, too low
for him to be able to grab without taking a risk of being stabbed or
thrown. He was glad that he was no longer over the river.
     Releasing the sailor's shoulder, Magnus punched the man in the
face, but retained the grip on his forearm, trying to make sure the
knife stayed right where it was. The large sailor was hardly fazed by
the punch. He kicked at the Baranurian lieutenant and backhanded him
with his freed arm.
     A weaponless combat could go on for a while and Magnus knew that if
he could only pull his sword, taking down a poorly armed sailor would be
trivial. The trick, though, was to get up without being stabbed first.
He twisted, trying to tangle the sailor's legs in his own, preventing
him from kicking again and possibly taking him down. Instead he found
that the sailor had grabbed him by his neck and was lifting him up once
again. Magnus gasped, grabbing hold of the man's wrist, trying to pull
his arm away. He was now trying to hold back a knife with his off hand
and break the choking hold on his throat with the right. He managed to
get his feet firmly on the ground, bringing himself face to face with
his opponent. The sailor was young, but weather worn, indicating he had
been at sea for many years. His face was contorted in anger and pain and
he was pushing Magnus backwards, back over the rail.
     Magnus struggled for breath, realizing that he could not both fight
to break the sailor's grip on his neck and stay on the ship at the same
time. He shifted to better his position, then brought up his foot and
forced it against the man's stomach, firmly wedging himself between the
sailor and the ship's rail. This evened out the fight. Now the sailor
had to decide if he wanted to choke Magnus unconscious or simply fling
him back into the river. Either way, the knife would have to go.
     A few moments passed as the two men wrestled for control, then the
sailor let the knife drop and attempted to reverse Magnus' grip on his
arm. As their positions changed, Magnus was able to fully extend his
leg, kicking the sailor backwards, leaving scratches on his own neck as
the sailor tumbled backwards. Right then Magnus felt a rush of air and a
whistling noise as an arrow flew past his ear. It had missed the sailor
by a mere moment.
     Magnus had no idea where the arrow came from or who it was meant
for. He was hoping that his own archers, on the hill behind him, had
been trying to help. At least that was what he hoped. He did not want to
be saved by archers a quarter league away, trying to get in a lucky
shot, nor assaulted by anyone on the ship who just happened to have a
bow. He dropped down to take cover behind the rail, drawing his sword as
he did so.
     The sailor was quick to get up, once again towering over Magnus.
There was a great height differential and fighting from a squatting
position was far less than what Magnus intended to do. He was at a
disadvantage already, realizing that only he and two other soldiers from
his regiment were on _Tolazhur_. They were also now facing off what must
have been a dozen mad sailors. Magnus lunged forward, coming down hard
on both knees, thrusting his sword up at the sailor who had attacked
him. The blade slid along the man's stomach and catching on his
breastbone penetrated his skin, sinking deep under his ribs. The sailor
gasped and tumbled forward, almost crushing Magnus in his fall, giving
him no chance to retrieve the sword.
     For the moment no one on deck moved. No one wanted to risk getting
hit with an arrow and as Magnus looked about, he realized that a dozen
bodies already lay dead on the deck of the ship. Two were his own men.
The others were Beinison sailors and most had arrows poking out of them.
The deck of the ship ran for what seemed to be fifty feet in either
direction. There were two ladders leading to the higher deck both ahead
and behind him. The Beinison sailors were all around. Magnus didn't like
these odds.
     Magnus observed one Beinison sailor climb out a door below the rear
upper deck and head his way. The man had a sword in hand and his
intentions were easy to guess. As the sailor got close, Magnus drew
Catalin's sword from the scabbard on his back and leapt forward to meet
his opponent. Their swords clashed above them. The sailor was strong,
but not a very good swordsman. Magnus parried, feinted a strike, then
brought the sword around and let it sink into the sailor's ribs,
catching him in the middle of a needless parry. Whether alive or dead,
the sailor dropped, clearly no longer able to fight.
     The fight paused for a few moments with Magnus being the only man
still standing. He turned in place, making eye contact with everyone on
deck. The Beinison sailors were at a disadvantage here. If they waited
long enough, allowing themselves to be pinned down by the archers, the
Baranurian troops would again try to board. Magnus had the time to
waste. No doubt they must have realized it.
     There was a sudden yell and Magnus spun about to catch of glimpse
of one of his men engaged in combat just before being swept off his own
feet by two more sailors. He felt his back impact the ship's rail and
heard the now familiar crack. He had no doubt that what had given way
had been the now empty scabbard, but the sheath was the least of his
concerns.
     Engaged in close combat, there was no real way to use a sword and
that was fairly evident when a gloved hand made contact with his jaw,
momentarily throwing him off balance. The back of his head impacted the
top of the rail and he struggled forward to make sure he wouldn't be
thrown overboard. An opportune target passed in his line of vision and
he thrust out his arm, hoping that a hastily made fist would catch the
head that was passing over him. Even though he could not see it, he felt
a satisfying connection between his fist and what must have been his
assailant's head. The man staggered backwards.
     Before Magnus could regain his feet, he felt a punch to his
midsection and instantly realized that the wind had been knocked out of
him. He stumbled backwards, tumbling down to the deck, up against the
rail. He knew that in spite of the pain and the tightness in his chest,
he hadn't the luxury of rolling about on the deck in agony. As he tried
to get up, the sailor who delivered the lucky punch closed in and
punched him again, leaning over him to do so.
     Magnus heard a loud agonizing yell. He wanted it to be his own
yell, to feel his lungs fill with air, to drain the pain and frustration
of his situation, but he knew that at this particular moment, no sound
he heard could be made by him. The sailor above him staggered and Magnus
used the opportunity to kick the man's feet out from under him and roll
out of the way. As he did so, the sailor dropped to the deck. Magnus
allowed himself the luxury of acknowledging his own pain for a moment.
He pulled up his legs and tried to inhale, but the spasm that went
through his gut still had not relaxed. He was feeling the desperate need
to breathe in now and wondered if anyone had ever suffocated from being
hit in such way. Next to him, the Beinison sailor was struggling to get
up. Magnus now realized that the reason the man screamed was that a
grapple that had been tossed up had come over him and snagged his
shoulder and as it was pulled to be secured, it penetrated the man's
flesh and was now anchored to him.
     At last, Magnus found the strength to take a labored breath and let
it out. The action on deck shifted as two more of his men came on deck
using two lines further down the ship. The Beinison soldier next to him
again screamed out in agony. The line he was attached to tore out of his
shoulder, leaving behind chunks of ripped flesh. He was rendered
helpless for the remainder of the confrontation.
     Drawing in more air, Magnus got up, picking up Catalin's sword as
he did so. The Beinison sailors failed to repel the attack and now it
appeared too late to change the inevitable outcome. More grapple lines
came over the side, catching on the rail. Without a doubt _Tolazhur_ was
not going to remain a Beinison vessel much longer.

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

                              Talisman Six
                                 Part 1
                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                        <John.White@Drexel.Edu>
                           Firil 25-26, 1011

     There were no ill omens that morning as I rode into the tiny
village of Densur. No grey hawks flying upside down, no bucks heying
around two birch trees, no hedgehogs parading backwards along the
hedgerows. I suppose it is presumptuous of me to expect such obvious
warnings, as the tragedy to come was not so great as to threaten the
very crown of Baranur. Yet I would have liked to have had the time to
prepare myself.
     So I, Bard Nakaz, rode into Densur all unknowing on that morning in
late Firil. The spring had been a warm one, and the mid-morning sun was
warm and comfortable on my back. Word of my arrival had preceded me. The
farmers I had passed on the road had easily picked out the star-and-harp
design on my saddlebags and other tack, and had sent others running
ahead of me with the news. As I entered the small market square at the
edge of Densur there was already a crowd of people gathered to cheer my
arrival.
     I dismounted and had to fend off a handful of youngsters who each
wanted the honor of taking my horse, Riesta, to the only stable in town.
I chose the oldest of them to hand her reins to, asking the lad to wait
a moment while I fetched a small scroll case from one of the saddlebags.
     As I waved the youngster to take Riesta away and get her settled, a
man approached. He was short and balding, wore an apron about his waist
and carried a rag in one hand. He bowed to me like I wore a coronet and
said, "Good bard, my wife is even now preparing the best room our humble
inn can offer, and it will be ready for you in just a moment."
     A racket started up just then, someone indignantly shouting about
being rousted from their bed. I looked over the innkeeper's shoulder as
he made every promise he could think of to me as long as I would consent
to play in his taproom that evening. I saw an angry-looking man dressed
in nightclothes stomping out of a doorway over which swung a painted
sign of a pig with wings. He was yelling angrily about how he had been
expecting to stay abed 'til midday in such a quiet, sleepy village. He
was followed by a willowy woman with long, mouse-brown hair and reddened
hands, who was trying to calm him down.
     The recently-roused man plowed into the crowded market square,
heading straight for the innkeeper. Suddenly, he halted his progress, a
confused look on his face. He looked around at all the people, then
noticed my horse being led away. I saw his eyes widen as he saw the
star-and-harp symbol of a bard embossed on the leather it bore. His
shoulders slumped as his confusion changed to resignation. He turned
around and was led back into the inn by the innkeeper's wife, who was
patting him on the back in consolation.
     I realized as I watched him retreat in defeat that the inn probably
only had a single, separate sleeping room. Densur was so small that I
was lucky it had an inn; I often ended up sharing houses with the
village headman. The innkeeper had decided that my needs preceded those
of whomever had been staying in the inn's room -- most likely a merchant
out gathering spring wares.
     I reassured the innkeeper that I was looking forward to playing and
singing later in his taproom. Then I asked, "And now, could you kindly
direct me to the local crier, so that I can be about the business of my
visit?"
     "Oh, yes, of course, mi'lord bard. Crier Jeffith's shop is just
over there." The innkeeper pointed, and I picked out the small brass
trumpet hanging on a green square next to one of the doors that flanked
the market square. I thanked the man, who was beginning to annoy me
slightly with the way he was fawning over me. I tried to control my
irritation. After all, I would probably bring him more business that
night than he would normally get in all of the months between spring
thaw and Melrin.
     I finally broke away from the man and headed over to the crier's
shop with my small case of scrolls. As a bard, I had several duties that
took me from village to town to city, all across the kingdom. One of
those duties was the carrying of news. Whether from the king to all of
his subjects, or from duke or baron, or from hamlet to hamlet, bards
disseminated news.
     We weren't the only ones. Anyone who traveled took stories with
them from place to place, from person to person. But those were just
gossip: campfire stories embellished or turned inside out to entertain,
or to prove the teller's point. Bards tell the truth. Sometimes not all
of the truth, sometimes only the truth as we know it, but in our
official capacity, we never lie.
     In my scroll case I carried the current news from the crown, as
well as from Duke Othuldane, in whose demesne Densur was located. I had
not yet visited the area's baron, but expected the local crier to have
any news from him.
     The job of a town crier was to be a central point that people could
come to and receive any announcements and news of import. They also
served to keep the records for the area as well as making sure they were
carried to the ducal and kingdom levels. The job required the ability to
read and write, which meant that it could be a difficult post to fill.
It could be counted on that the larger towns and cities had a crier, but
only a few of Baranur's duchies could boast having one in every village
and hamlet as well. Othuldane was one of these, as was the Royal Duchy
of Magnus, of course.
     I knocked on the door of Jeffith's shop and let myself in. The
place was large and remarkably uncluttered. A large table took up most
of the space in the center of the room, with low cabinets of narrow
drawers lining the walls. Hanging above the cabinets were well-executed
drawings of a variety of subjects. One was of a modest house nestled
into a forest clearing. The woodgrain of the front door was as clear as
the bark of the trees. Another showed a young woman sitting on the edge
of the well in the center of the market square. I could see the fibers
of the rope she held, and could tell that she was lowering her bucket
into the well by the set of her hands. The longing on her face as she
went about her work told any viewer that her mind was not on her task.
     All of the drawings were done in black ink, but none lacked detail
because of it; the artist's ability to vary tone and texture with only a
brush was amazing.
     A tall, muscular man straightened up from the other side of the
table as I walked in. A shorter man, but not less muscular, stood to the
side of the table. He saw me first and said quickly, "Sir?"
     The taller man said, "Yes, I see him boy," before striding around
the table and extending a hand toward me. He said, "Greetings, good
bard. I am Crier Jeffith. How may I be of service?"
     Jeffith had an excellent voice, rich and melodic. I wondered if he
sang. His fingers were well ink-stained, and there were smudges all over
his arms, as well as his tunic and leggings. There was even a smear on
his cheek, which only made his round, open face even more engaging.
     I shook his hand firmly and said, "I wish you well, Crier Jeffith.
I am Bard Nakaz, and am pleased to make your acquaintance. I've got the
royal and ducal news for you here. I haven't yet visited the local
baron, and was wondering whether you had any announcements from him, or
from the neighboring villages?"
     "Of course, of course. When I heard you were coming, I got
everything ready for you." Jeffith gestured to me and walked back around
the table. I followed. He continued, "I've got everything piled right
here." He picked up a scroll from among several others on a cabinet top
and unrolled it. After perusing it for a moment, he handed it to me.
     As I took it, I caught sight of the top of the table and the
drawing tacked down there amid ink wells and a cup containing brushes of
several sizes. It had the quality of a sketch, set down hurriedly, or so
the brush strokes seemed to indicate. It was the scene of my arrival in
the market square. I turned and looked through the small window that the
shop possessed, and saw what Jeffith's vantage point had been. The
sketch was excellent, capturing the moving crowd as a blur rather than
recognizable individuals. There were a few people given detail as the
focus of the image: the displaced merchant, the obsequious innkeeper
and, of course, myself.
     Jeffith noticed my interest in his artwork, but instead of being
proud of it, he seemed displeased that I had seen it. He fussed and
fretted, drawing another sheet of parchment carefully over it so as not
to smear any still-wet ink. I wondered why he felt his talents weren't
worth my notice, but tactfully decided not to pursue the matter.
     I opened the scroll he had handed me and was as surprised by its
contents as by the artful sketch I had seen. I said, "Ah, I beg your
pardon Crier Jeffith, but this isn't the local news. It seems to be a
list of some kind. It says 'Portraits' at the top, and there are half a
dozen names ..."
     Jeffith turned red so quickly, I feared for his health. "Boy!" he
shouted. "What did you do with that scroll?"
     The shorter man hurried around the table and fumbled through the
pile of scrolls. He looked at a few, then offered one to me, taking back
the one I held out to him. He scurried back around to the other side of
the table, an odd look on his face. He just stood there, his arms
crossed in front of himself, and I began to understand.
     It could just have been an honest mistake of shifting scrolls. So I
would have believed, had Jeffith not taken the time to look at the first
scroll before handing it to me. The only conclusion I could come to was
that Jeffith, Densur's town crier, could not read. His "boy", this man
who was nearly his own age, was his reader. From the way that man moved
with shortened steps, and the way he held his hands crossed, I got the
impression that he had once been a monk, which would explain his
letters. I wondered whose son or cousin Jeffith was to secure a job he
was incapable of fulfilling on his own.
     I handed the two copies of my own news to the still-red Jeffith and
pretended not to notice when the crier handed them to his apprentice
immediately. I glanced at the scroll the former monk had handed me,
noticing that it consisted of only a few items, the most important one
being the wedding announcement of the son of the local baron, Baron
Frasilk, to Baron Jaleit's daughter, which would occur during Melrin. I
recalled from the maps I had seen that Frasilk and Jaleit were adjacent
to each other, but I didn't know more than that.
     Jeffith cleared his throat, then said, "You will be making today's
announcements, won't you Bard Nakaz? The people are expecting it, as
they always do."
     I replied, "Yes, I'd be happy to. It will give you a break from
your duties, and perhaps allow you the opportunity to create another
work of art."
     I didn't look to see his reaction as I left. Right next to the door
was a little platform reached by three steps, which I promptly climbed.
This was where Jeffith normally made his announcements from, and
everyone crowding into the market square knew what it meant that I was
now standing there. They turned toward me and quieted down in
anticipation.
     As I looked out over a sizable portion of the population of Densur,
I began crying the announcements I had carried from the royal court of
Baranur. I may only be imagining the recollection of a brief glimpse of
a bird flying upside down over the trees in the distance.

     The Flying Pig's taproom was noisy and crowded that evening, but
there wasn't a sour face in the whole place. The innkeeper was too busy
behind his bar to bother me with attempts to ensure my comfort. His
willowy wife walked by every so often and replaced the empty mug on my
table with a full one, and when I asked for some dinner after my first
round of songs, I got a plate so full of excellent stew that I simply
couldn't eat it all.
     Ale and wine flowed freely, and as the night wore on these spirits
made the townsfolk bold. Some took up their own instruments and bade
fair to entertain their neighbors. Others attempted juggling with the
inn's tin mugs, or tossing knives at a target set up next to the large
hearth at one end of the room. And some, once their courage was
sufficiently stoked, came hesitantly to sit at my solitary table and
seek my counsel.
     The first of these was a young man, good looking, healthy, and very
nervous. He introduced himself as Resh and asked if he could sit for a
moment. I nodded and we sat together in silence for a bit, listening to
a villager with more enthusiasm than talent bellow out a marching tune.
I noticed that Resh winced almost as often as I did; the applause when
it was over may well have been as much for its ending as its
performance.
     There was clearly something on Resh's mind as he sat there across
from me, running his finger up and down his tin mug. He cleared his
throat twice and looked up at me once, but his question never won free
of his shyness. Finally, in sympathy I asked, "Was there something you
wanted to say, Resh?"
     "Well, ah ... I wondered, that is ..." He paused, and took a deep
breath. He set the mug down on the table and clasped both hands around
it. Another deep breath, and he looked up into my face. "It's like this,
sir. I wondered if you could give me a hint of advice. My parents are
farmers and as I'm their only child, I will inherit their land in time
and be a farmer too. As it falls, I'm to be married at Melrin --"
     I interrupted with, "You, too?"
     Resh looked at me oddly, like I was a slow child, but presently
realized that I was a stranger to these parts. "Oh, yes, I didn't ... we
hold all of our marriages around here at Melrin. Always have.
     "Now, where was ... oh, straight. Well, our neighbors have four
children, three boys and a girl, born a handful of years after their
last son. Chare, their daughter, and I have known each other all our
lives. We grew up together almost like relatives. Early on, our parents
agreed that Chare and I would be wed, with a fine dowry coming to us
from her parents, whose farm is very successful. My own parents have
been counting on that dowry for years, borrowing money against it,
making plans for improving what is to be my own inheritance upon their
passing.
     "I like Chare a great deal, but just recently I have been having
... doubts. Last year I traveled with my father and Chare's brothers to
Luemik, the next town down the eastern road. Luemik is larger than
Densur, and has a more widely attended market. We were taking our excess
produce there to sell.
     "I've been to Luemik before, but last year was different. I noticed
how different Luemik was to Densur -- the buildings, the customs, the
people." He blushed a bit, dipping his eyes from mine briefly, and
clarified, "The women. One woman. Her name was Whilla, and she was ...
breathtaking. Exotic, exciting, so different from plain little Chare
from next door. And she liked me. I met her at one of the taverns there,
and she sat at my table for the whole night. We talked and talked, and I
learned things about the world that I had never dreamed of. Whilla was a
merchant's daughter who had been traveling with the caravans for most of
her life. She's been to places I've never imagined, and done things that
made my blood stir.
     "We parted having traded nothing more than kisses and promises. She
told me that she'll be in Luemik this Melrin, and that if I want to
experience the world, I should meet her there." I could see the longing
in his face as he contemplated the lure of what this Whilla offered. I
knew what he would say next, as I had known where his story was leading
almost since he had begun it.
     He continued, "I don't know what to do, sir. I don't want to hurt
Chare or my parents, but I don't know what I might be giving up by not
following where Whilla leads. There is so much out there, so much more
to do than plow fields and reap the harvest. I was hoping you could give
me the benefit of your experience in such matters."
     Resh looked at me expectantly. I could see what he hoped I would
say, what he had come to me, a world-walking bard, to hear. I wondered
how many others he had asked advice of, and how many had given him the
advice I was about to.
     "Resh, the world is a big place, full of wonders uncounted. What
you may not know is that your own fields are just as full of wonders.
Not only that, but that wide, wonderful world is also full of dangers
the like of which you have also not heard.
     "If this brief flirtation of yours last year is even remembered by
your Whilla, and she indeed plans to be in Luemik at Melrin, there is no
guarantee that she has not made the same promises to a score of young
farmhands, and even taken those foolish enough to believe her away from
the only life they've ever known. Like as not, she has also abandoned
every one of those young farmhands in a foreign duchy to fend for
themselves far away from home."
     I reached across the table to free the mangled tin mug from Resh's
gripping hands before he hurt himself on it. "What you are feeling right
now is natural, Resh. You are seeing where your future lies, and you are
making a last bid for freedom from what is best for you. You know Chare,
and you know she would never hurt you, or leave you in a strange land.
She will be a good wife to you, and you will be the best farmer in
Densur with her by your side. Just make the right choice and stay here
this Melrin. Marry Chare, settle down into your rightful future, and
leave fantasies of Whilla where they belong."
     Resh had clasped his hands together once the mug was out of them,
and he hung his head in defeat. I could have told him to seek out
Whilla, or whatever caravan would hire him on. I could have encouraged
his fears of settling down, and told him to take advantage of the
opportunity to run away from them. I might have painted a very enticing
picture of the adventure of traveling from place to place. In short, I
could have told him only what he wanted to hear. But that would not have
been honest or right. So I had told him the clear and plain truth; it
was what he needed to hear.
     I saw acceptance in his eyes as he rose from my table. He said,
"Thank you, Bard Nakaz. I sought different advice from you, but I know
that you are right. I will remember you at Melrin as I stand beside
Chare and set my course for the future I belong to. Fare well."
     I watched the young man stride through the crowd and out the door.
I hoped that he would listen to me as he had not, I was sure, listened
to his father or his friends or even, perhaps, Chare's own brothers. Our
wisdom had surely all been the same; only my station made Resh truly
listen to my words.
     As I sat alone amidst the noise and bustle of the taproom, I found
my thoughts turning to Shorel. She was a fellow bard, as well as a
friend and lover. I imagined her sitting next to me, long brown hair
shining in the light, her expressive brown eyes twinkling with
merriment. I wondered whether Resh would have had the courage to
approach our table with such a lovely woman present. I then wondered
whether Shorel would have bewitched Resh even more than his Whilla had.
     Another villager with more ale in her than talent got up in front
of her friends and neighbors and played a love song on a lute that had
seen better days, but which was at least in tune. After the first verse,
a young man with a plain face and lank, black hair rose from his seat
and joined her, and they sang the song to each other. The emotion in
their eyes and voices drowned out their lack of talent.
     I recalled similar duets with Shorel, and if the love that echoed
between she and I did not quite match the utter devotion being sung at
that moment, there was still a deep bond between us. Over the three
years we had known each other, we had become very close. The last time
we had seen each other had been the previous summer at the College of
Bards in Magnus. I remembered our days together, singing, reading,
laughing. I remembered our nights together, touching, holding, gasping.
I remembered our parting, knowing we would see each other again, wishing
each other safe journey.
     As the last notes of the love song faded under rising applause, I
suddenly wished she really was sitting next to me. Instead, all I had
were my memories to keep me company. They would do; they always had.
     A bit later in the evening, two men approached my table. They were
either not at all shy, or in their cups enough not to care, for they sat
down without asking my leave and began talking at once.
     They were both thin and wiry, with weathered skin and
strong-looking hands. The one on the right, a black-haired man with a
pointed nose and a chin full of hair, said, "Greetings, bard. I'm Ablim,
a farmer from south of Densur. This," he gestured to his companion, a
brown-haired man with bushy eyebrows and a very small moustache, "is
Meack, my neighbor. We've got this problem --"
     Meack spoke up with, "Straight, we've a problem! It's our boundary
stones. It's no one's fault --"
     "No one's, straight," interrupted Ablim. "It was cows as pushed the
fences over, but both of ourn, not his or mine."
     "And we put the fences back up, but the doing moved the stones."
Meack looked at me as if that was enough explanation for anyone to see
the answer, but I didn't even understand the question yet.
     My silence prodded Ablim to continue, "We want to put things back
right. We've been friends forever, and our families before us back even
farther'n the first Othuldane. This is new land, divided from the
neighbor between us when old Dorraw died childless, and we never got
around to building proper boundary pillars, just marking the divide with
some rocks."
     "Rocks as was easy to move. Too easy," chimed in Meack.
     "So, Bard Nakaz, we want you to fix it."
     I looked at Ablim as blankly as I had at the beginning. "How?" was
all I could manage.
     The farmers looked at each other in puzzlement, then back at me.
"Why, can't you just, you know ..." started Ablim.
     Meack finished, "Just remember. The records. It was all written
down and sent away all proper and fit."
     Ablim added, "'Twas before Jeffith was crier. Before we had a
crier, three, four years ago. Bard came, wrote all down, took it to
Othuldane. And now you're here."
     It still took me several menes to come at their meaning, but only
because the only possible conclusion was so ludicrous.
     The most common idea of the function of a bard is entertainer. Our
traveling nature makes it natural to ask us to bear news from place to
place. But there is more to us than that. As we travel, we observe and
record, but not just the great events, those things that end up
comprising the kind of history that the children of nobles are taught in
winter. Everything is noticed and remembered, all of the little events
that make up the fabric of everyday life.
     At times, we are called on to produce more formal documents,
recording momentous events in the lives of citizens of Baranur and
placing our seal on them to guarantee their authenticity: births,
marriages, and deaths, inheritance duties, property changing hands, even
less formal promises that need to be remembered.
     These formal records are incomplete out of necessity, as there are
not enough bards to be everywhere a birth or property-line alteration is
happening. Of late, town criers have been assuming these duties in their
areas of influence. They have the skill of letters and they are more
reliably available locally than a wandering bard. I understand that some
criers even undertake the delivering news between towns. I don't
begrudge this usurping of our duties, for it is a task that needs doing.
     There are public archives at every ducal seat and one in Magnus as
well. Archivists are employed to care for these records and ensure that
they are available when required. Even so, it can sometimes be months
between sending for a document and receiving it. Again, the system of
town criers is beginning to alleviate that difficulty by storing records
at their own level as well.
     Somehow, Meack and Ablim believed that because bards were involved
in making records, they were also somehow able to recall all records
made, without that two month or more wait. I tried to fathom the reason
why, but all I could manage was a recollection of how the ancient
Fretheod skaldrics had kept the history of their empire in their
memories, never writing it down. Once prompted by that memory, I was
also able to recall legends from the early days of Baranur, when our
bards did the same. We no longer were required to develop that skill;
knowledge written down and stored away was never lost to an untimely
death.
     It was obvious that this ancient facility for memorization was
still remembered here, but in a different form. I voiced my guess. "You
think that I have all of the records in Baranur memorized?"
     "You don't?" the two chorused, clearly astonished.
     I had a good memory, more for tunes than for words, but I doubted
if even one of those legendary bards could have memorized every piece of
parchment in Duke Othuldane's cellars alone, much less the vaults of the
entire kingdom.
     I shook my head. "No, I'm afraid that we are no longer trained in
that way. Even if I had ever seen the deeds to your lands, I could not
recall them now. Not that I have, understand."
     The farmers were dismayed. "What shall we do, then?" asked Meack.
     "We could, maybe, send someone to Othuldane ...?" ventured Ablim.
     "Or you could," I said, "between the two of you, just agree on what
you both think your boundary should be and have Jeffith record that and
send it to the duke. That way, no one has to locate your original deeds,
and there will be an official record of your new agreement. Perhaps you
could dig proper pillar holes this time. And perhaps Jeffith could keep
a copy of the deeds to hand in case your cows get rowdy again."
     The smiles on the faces of the two friends were priceless. They
both thanked me profusely, and promised to name a whole generation of
calves after me. They rose, chattering between themselves, and faded
back into the crowd.
     I lifted my mandolin and rose to take my place again before the
hearth, ready to entertain the room as a whole. I reflected as I walked
forward that it was amazing what some people believed bards capable of.
Was it because we traveled? Was it because we could read and write? Or
was it just because of legends, some of which we even promoted ourselves
with our own songs and stories? I was sure I'd never know.

     The next morning was clear and lovely, fine weather for leaving
Densur. The innkeeper of the Flying Pig was as excessively complimentary
that morning as he had been fawning the previous morning, standing next
to me outside his establishment with me while I waited for my horse to
be brought.
     Riesta was led into the market square, well rested and fed, curried
expertly, with all of her tack shining. My saddlebags had already been
taken from my room and now rested on her back behind my saddle.
     The innkeeper's wife slipped out of the doorway around her husband
and presented me with a bundle of food for the trail. I thanked her and
stuffed the bundle into a saddlebag. Then I waved to the crowd that had
gathered to see me on my way, noticing without surprise that it was much
smaller than the one that had greeted my arrival. I mounted Riesta,
settled myself into the saddle, and set out southward. I had been
informed that Baron Frasilk's keep was a good day's journey in that
direction.
     I was soon amid a forest, traveling alone with only the wilderness
of the woods to keep me company. I listened to the wind sighing through
the branches, and likened it to the music of the trees. I heard the
birds chirping all around me and the small rustlings of rodents in the
brush at the verge of the road. I uncased my mandolin and started
strumming, letting Riesta be guided by my knees and the clear trail
before us. I harmonized with the wind, I accompanied the birds, I wrote
themes for every rustle or beady set of eyes glimpsed between the
leaves, all while I rode south.
     Every blade of grass is different and every tree is unique. Still,
it would be beyond the powers of even the greatest bard who ever lived
to make every forest journey exciting and different. Dappled sunlight
and cheerful-sounding birds never lose their magic for me, but it is a
magic that must be experienced, not related.
     Thus, let me just say that the morning and early afternoon passed
without undue incident. I made my way south with not a thought on my
mind apart from looking forward to visiting Baron Frasilk's court.
     The sun had not yet reached the halfway mark between its height and
the horizon when I took a brief break. The clearing I stopped in cut
deeply into the trees, and there was a stream at the back of it where I
watered Riesta. About a hundred yards beyond the clearing, the path I
had been following turned at an angle and vanished from view. As Riesta
drank and I shook my legs out, I caught the sound of a galloping horse
coming toward me from around that bend.
     I walked back to the tree-fringed edge of the clearing and looked.
Shortly, a figure came into view around the bend in the path. I
recognized first the star-and-harp decoration on the horse's tack. I
recognized second that it was Shorel, my friend, lover and fellow bard,
who rode the horse. I recognized third that Shorel was fleeing something
as she looked over her shoulder and urged her horse to even greater
speed.
     I prepared to step out into into the road to aid her against what
chased her. I waited only to see what form her pursuit took.
     She had reached a point about halfway between the bend and the
clearing when her pursuers appeared. Two men dressed like guards atop
speeding horses rounded the curve. Both carried crossbows, which they
must have fired as soon as they caught sight of their quarry again.
     I didn't see the bolts strike Shorel. I only saw her rise up in her
stirrups, a look of pain crumpling her face. As she sagged, I saw her
fling something into the woods, a staff of some kind. The momentum of
her swing caused her to lose her balance, and she fell from her horse.
     She lay sprawled in the middle of the path, two crossbow bolts
sticking out of her back, her leg at an unnatural angle, utterly
unmoving. I stared, stunned, right into her open and sightless eyes.
     Where are the omens when you need them?

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

                               Magestorm
                                 Part 4
                           by Mark A. Murray
                         <mashudo@netzero.net>
                               Ober 1017

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-6

     "Looks like the rest of the caravan is up," Merrif said, standing
up. People were packing up and moving about. Someone opened the door and
the sun could be seen. Everyone blinked and shielded their eyes as the
sun's rays reflected harshly off the snow.
     "A beautiful day," someone called out.
     "How does it look?"
     "It looks bright," the man who opened the door said. "But the road
looks clear. We can leave today."
     "What if I don't want to go?" Lylle asked, quietly. "That wagon is
too bumpy and cold."
     "The horse isn't that much better," Raphael told him. "You're still
cold and you are sore in different places, is all. At least with the
wagon, you have a cushion of blankets to sit upon."
     The sun shone down, reflecting brightly off the night's snow. Men
and women gathered around the wagons to ready them for travel; the
horses were hitched, the wheels and axles were inspected, and the body
of each wagon was searched for broken boards. While the work was started
early enough, it was late in the morning before the caravan pulled away
from the inn.
     "At least the road isn't too rough," Lylle said from the middle
wagon. Raphael and Merrif were riding horses beside him. Niatha, as
usual, was sitting next to Lylle.
     They were all bundled against the early winter weather, but the sun
strove to heat the day and warm all. Near mid-afternoon, the snow
started melting. People were unwrapping scarves and coats. Even the
birds were out flying and chirping.
     "How's the wagon?" Raphael asked. "I'm numb to the saddle, but even
were I not, the day is too fine to let anything ruin it." The reins hung
loosely in his hands.
     "It is a smooth ride, today," Lylle answered.
     "Yes," Merrif agreed, as his mare snorted. "Hmmph. Some of us think
it's a smooth ride. Opinions vary, I guess." He laughed and then bent
forward to rub the mare's neck.
     "I'm not getting crushed," Niatha added. "That's always a good --"
The horses in the first wagon reared and Niatha stopped to see what was
the cause of the commotion. The horses pulling their wagon jumped and
pranced sideways, jerking the wagon about. Raphael's horse snorted and
started to rear, but he pulled the reins in sharply to stop it. Merrif's
mare just stopped, ears perked up and turning about.
     "Illiena!" Merrif yelled, looking at the horses and wagons. "What's
got them riled up?"
     "Wolf!" a man yelled from the first wagon. Immediately after,
whispers and shouts of 'wolf' echoed throughout the caravan. The horses
fidgeted and pranced. Men jumped down from the wagons to grab harnesses
in an attempt to keep the horses from bolting.
     Raphael's attention was focused on controlling his horse, so he
didn't see the black wolf lope up to him. The horse reared, throwing
him. He sailed in the air and landed heavily, emitting a loud huff. The
wolf didn't stop until it stood over Raphael.
     Opening his eyes, Raphael squinted and blinked. Something was in
his eye and he squeezed both of them shut instinctively. "A wolf upon me
and I can't even see it," he thought. Sliding a finger across his eye,
he removed the foreign object and started to sit up when he saw the
shape of the wolf above him.
     "Anam?" Raphael asked, looking up at the wolf. "You near killed
me!" he yelled, recognizing the wolf. He had found Anam as a pup, the
only survivor of his litter. Even his mother had died. It was during a
time when Raphael had been searching for a cure for a curse that had
afflicted Megan. Raphael had been tempted to let the pup die with the
rest, but something about the pup had caused Megan to react. Hoping that
it would help Megan, he brought the pup with them.
     Anam licked his face. "That doesn't change anything," he sputtered,
trying to hold in his delight at seeing Anam. "You made my horse throw
me. Near blinded me with dirt and I could have broken my neck!" Anam
licked his face again.
     "Stevene save us!" a woman cried.
     "Get the crossbow!" a man yelled.
     "No!" Lylle yelled back, jumping down from the wagon. With the wolf
standing still and somewhat away from the wagons, the horses weren't as
nervous. Raphael turned and knelt in front of Anam.
     "I missed you, you big wolf!" he said wrapping his arms around
Anam. Anam moved forward, upsetting his balance, and he fell over onto
his back.
     "It's going to eat him!" a woman shrieked.
     "It won't!" Lylle yelled. "He raised that wolf from a cub."
     "He raised it?" a man asked. Murmurs and whispers scattered
throughout the caravan informing all whom had not heard.
     "Yes," Raphael agreed, getting to his feet. "I found him alone in
the woods, his mother dead from an arrow."
     "It won't attack anyone?" a woman asked.
     "No," Raphael replied. "Although he might lick you to death."
     "Take it away from the wagons!" a man yelled. "The horses are
skittish!"
     "Aye! Take it away!" another called. Raphael walked away from the
wagons and Anam followed him. Several horses stamped and pranced as Anam
moved.
     "The guide!" Niatha yelled, jumping down from the wagon. "That's
the guide!"
     "What?" Merrif asked, watching the wolf.
     "The wolf!" Niatha hissed. "It's the guide! Remember? From my dream
last night."
     "You'll have to send it away," a man said. "Can't have the horses
being spooked all the time."
     "I can't do that," Raphael replied. He was sitting down with Anam
lying on his lap. "This is where I leave the caravan."
     "He's right," Niatha agreed, walking slowly towards Anam. "We all
must leave the caravan." Anam was watching Niatha intently.
     "Niatha?" Merrif asked, his voice slightly higher than normal. "Be
careful." Niatha kept walking towards Anam in slow deliberate steps.
Everything became quiet as the caravan people watched, also. Niatha
reached Anam's stretched out legs and stepped carefully over them. Anam
lifted his head, pulled back a leg, and placed his paw on Niatha. The
weight and force was too much and Anam's paw knocked Niatha over.
     Niatha rolled over and Anam's paw stopped next to him. Niatha
looked up, just in time to see a large tongue wash over him. "Augh!"
Niatha yelped. Anam licked him again.
     "Take the tongue away!" Niatha pleaded after yet another lick from
Anam. He tried to get up and move away, but Anam placed his paw on him
and licked him again.
     "It isn't right!" a woman said. "A wolf and a cat?"
     "Mayhap it thinks it's a cub?" a man asked.
     "Whatever it is, it can't stay near the horses," someone else said.
"Take it away!"
     "Enough, Anam," Raphael laughed. "Leave Niatha alone."
     "Strange," a woman said. "I've never seen a wolf and a cat
together."
     "You've never even seen a wolf," a man laughed. Laughter erupted
among the people.
     "You're a strange group," Jeth, the caravan leader, said. "But if
it's here where we part ways, then take what food you'll need and take
an extra blanket or two. Don't want you freezing out here."
     "We are leaving," Raphael told him. "Thank you for the food and
blankets." Raphael stood, but didn't come closer to the wagons for fear
Anam would follow him. He did look at Lylle. Anam slowly got to his
feet.
     "Straight," Lylle replied, understanding that Raphael wanted him to
gather the food and blankets. Merrif got down from his horse and went to
help Lylle.
     "I hope you're right, Niatha" Merrif muttered under his breath.
"Being out here without the protection of the caravan and other people
is dangerous." Merrif and Lylle packed everything onto the two horses.
     "You can ride my horse, Lylle," Raphael told him. "I'll be walking
with Anam, from a distance at first. I'll be out in front. I hope the
horses get used to him, though. It'll make traveling easier."
     "Ride the horse?" Lylle asked. "I've never done that. What if I
fall off?"
     "You get back on!" Raphael laughed. He pulled his straight cane off
the horse where it was packed.
     "Where to, Niatha?" Merrif asked as the caravan pulled away from
them.
     "I'm not the guide," Niatha replied. "That thing is." Anam walked
in the opposite direction that the caravan was going. Raphael followed
him, using his cane slightly. Merrif got on his horse and waited for
Lylle. Niatha decided not to wait and started after Raphael and Anam.
Lylle grabbed onto the saddle and jumped up. He landed with his belly on
the saddle and the horse stepped sideways. Lylle slipped off the saddle
and landed on his feet. The horse whinnied.
     "I think we've given them enough of a distance," Merrif said. "You
can quit playing around and get on the horse now." A small chuckle
escaped his lips.
     "I'm not playing around!" Lylle retorted. "I've never done this
before." He jumped again, but this time, he swung a leg around as soon
as he landed on the saddle. Even though the horse sidestepped, Lylle
managed to sit in the saddle.
     "We'll take it slow until you get used to riding," Merrif said,
seriously. "It won't take you long. With Illiena's help, you won't have
the time to get used to it before we get to the tower."
     "From the town to the woods, it's to the tower we go," Lylle said,
waving his hand in a grand gesture. Surprisingly, he kept his balance on
the horse. "Is this what they call adventure?"
     "No," Merrif answered. "This is called traveling. Adventure is what
the bards sing about. Adventure is an illusion, a word used to make
songs and tales appear more interesting than they really are." Merrif
urged his mare forward. Lylle's horse followed the mare.
     "Adventure wouldn't be meeting Illiena at the tower?"
     "Nothing is ever what we dream it. I follow Illiena in my heart and
in my life, but no one has ever met a god. I don't hold much to actually
finding her there. But it's what I hope. What I hope and dream."
     "I dream of being somebody some day," Lylle said.
     "Who?"
     "Not who, but somebody. Somebody that everyone knows. Somebody that
has power, that doesn't have to live on the streets, doesn't worry about
starving. Somebody." Lylle had a faraway look in his eyes.
     "Living on the streets is hard," Merrif said.
     "Very hard," Lylle added. "You're less than nobody. People look at
you with contempt and disgust and horror. You have to swallow what
little pride you have so you can beg for food or money. People walk out
of their way to avoid you." His voice was hard and tinged with anger.
His grip on the reins tightened. "They never look you in the eyes. I
don't want to live like that anymore. I want to be somebody."
     "Is that why you're here?" The two horses were plodding along.
     "No. I'm here because Raphael is here. The first time he saw me, he
looked me in the eyes. He treated me as a person. I'm here because we're
looking for Megan. She not only looks me in the eye, but she smiles.
She's happy to see me. She's beautiful. She's --"
     "You love her," Merrif said, interrupting him.
     "Yes," Lylle said quietly.
     "Does he know?" Merrif asked, tilting his head toward Raphael.
     "Not how much. Besides the shadow boys, they're the only two who
cared what happened to me. I'd walk half of 'diar for either of them.
That's why I'm here."
     "We each have our reasons," Merrif said. "What was it you said?" he
asked, changing the subject. "Out of town, through woods to the tower we
go?"
     "Straight!" Lylle said. "To the tower!"

     "Does this hill go on forever?" Merrif groaned, putting another
foot in front of the other. He grabbed onto a tree in front of him and
used it to haul his body farther up the hill. The snow on the ground
didn't help.
     "It stops at the top," Raphael laughed. He gripped his straight
cane in one hand and used the other to catch himself when he slipped on
the snow or ice.
     "Where is Anam?" Lylle huffed. Pulling both horses behind him,
Lylle was having just as much trouble as Merrif climbing the hill. "Do
you think Anam would pull me the rest of the way up?"
     "Only after me," Raphael answered. While he wasn't as out of breath
as the other two, he was breathing hard. "I don't think he's going to
help either of us, though." Raphael pointed up the hill to the left,
"He's over there with Niatha. They're having a grand time of this
hillside." Lylle and Merrif used the distraction as an excuse to stop
and catch their breath. They looked to where Raphael had pointed.
     Anam was chasing Niatha around trees and through bushes. Niatha
hopped over a limb, making a sharp turn as he landed. Anam ran straight
into the limb, brushing it aside as if it was nothing. Closing the
distance rapidly, Anam prepared to pounce. Niatha gave a short hop and
as he landed, he bunched his strong back legs. Pushing upward, Niatha
launched himself high into the air, snapping open his wings.
     Anam lunged, but came up short as Niatha leapt out of range.
Niatha's wings beat hard and fast in an attempt to gain height. Although
he didn't get much higher, his wings held him in the air long enough for
him to reach the closest tree. His wings quit flapping and folded back
out of the way as his four paws reached out and grabbed the tree.
     Anam never slowed from his lunge as he, too, gathered his strength
and jumped. He hit the tree with his front paws and lifted his mouth
toward Niatha. Gravity pulled at him and he slid down the trunk to the
ground. Niatha climbed higher.
     "You missed me!" Niatha taunted. "Catch me now!" Niatha jumped high
off the branch and opened his wings again. He glided out and away from
Anam.
     "Are you sure they're just playing?" Merrif asked, concern for his
friend etched his features.
     "Anam won't hurt him," Raphael reassured. The three of them,
resting on the hillside, watched Anam and Niatha play some more. Anam
finally caught up to Niatha, and the two of them reversed roles. Niatha
chased Anam while Anam tried to get away.
     "Can I get some of their energy?" Merrif asked, starting up the
hill again.
     "The top of the hill isn't that far," Raphael huffed, plodding
ahead with his cane.

     "I hope this tower is close," Lylle yawned, just waking up. "I'm
cold. The ground is cold. The snow is cold. The air is cold. Dargon
never felt this cold."
     "Come over to the fire and warm yourself," Raphael told him.
Raphael was huddled over a small fire, attempting to build it up. It had
burned out during the night. He fed small twigs onto the embers, blowing
the fire after each one to get them started. Once there was a small
flame, he added larger branches and finally a small log.
     The others were up by the time Raphael was finished. Merrif
unpacked two pots. "I have some Daera roots left for tea," Merrif told
them, digging them out of his pack.
     "I'll gather some snow to melt," Lylle said, grabbing a pot. "Hot
tea sounds good."
     "Remember to pack the snow down tight," Merrif said. "If you don't,
then we won't get much water."
     "I remember!" Lylle called back. "You've told me every time I've
gone to get snow. Just because I didn't do that the first time!"
     "Careful of the rocks. They'll be slick," Raphael warned. The
hillside they were on was covered with boulders of all sizes. Large,
tall pine trees grew in between the rocks. In some places, oak trees
dotted the landscape. The area they had camped on was fairly flat and
most of the way up the hill.
     "How many more hills do we have to climb?" Merrif asked. Lylle
returned with the pot full of snow. Merrif carefully set the pot on top
of the log. The fire hissed and crackled as the snow on the outside of
the pot melted and dropped water into it.
     "As many as Anam decides to climb," Raphael answered. "I hope he's
taking the shortest way there." Merrif dropped the Daera roots into the
water. Lylle stood next to the fire, warming up while Anam was curled up
and asleep. Anam's body was curved around with his tail covering his
face. Niatha was also asleep, lying in the middle of Anam's curled body.
     "Who's going to wake them?" Lylle asked. "And what food is left to
eat?"
     "Biscuits," Merrif replied. "That's all we have left. Plenty of
them, though."
     "We'll have to hunt for some game later today," Raphael said. "How
good is Niatha at hunting?"
     "He's horrible at it," Merrif said, his voice steady and serious. A
grin covered his weathered face as he taunted Niatha. "He's the worst
hunter I've ever seen. Even small mice can elude him." Merrif dipped
some tea out of the pot into a cup and handed it to Lylle. He handed the
next one to Raphael.
     "I heard that," Niatha said. He rolled over and stretched out his
legs, pushing Anam's tail away. Anam felt his tail move from his face
and opened his eyes to see what was happening.
     "Good morning, Anam," Raphael called from the fire. Anam shifted
and pushed his legs out, moving Niatha in the process. Niatha slid along
the ground until Anam was done.
     "Aw," Niatha moaned. "Did you have to make him move? I was warm!"
Anam lifted his head and moved forward to lick Niatha. "Augh," Niatha
groaned. "Now I'm cold and wet."
     "You can't sleep the morning away," Merrif told him. "Especially if
I can't."
     "Is there some of that tea left for me?" Niatha asked, standing up.
He walked stiffly over to the fire.
     "I saved you some," Merrif said. "Here." He placed a cup full of
tea on the ground in front of Niatha. Niatha sniffed the cup and
tentatively licked the top of the liquid.
     "It isn't very hot," Niatha complained. "But it does taste good."
     "Eat and drink," Raphael told them. "I'm going to see if we can get
Anam started earlier today." He walked over to Anam and ruffled the fur
on Anam's back. "Straight, Anam?" Anam answered by rolling over onto his
side. "No, no," Raphael laughed. "Time to get up, not go back to sleep."
     "Time to start packing up, too," Merrif added. "Here's some
biscuits." He placed seven of them on a rock before he turned and
started packing.
     "At least the wind isn't blowing on this side of the hill," Lylle
said as he helped Merrif. Raphael poked and prodded Anam. Anam stood up
and shook his body.
     "Is there any tea left?" Raphael asked. Merrif handed him the pot.
Raphael looked down into it and saw that there was only a small amount
left. Gathering more snow, he filled the pot and waited for the snow to
melt. Taking the water to Anam, he let Anam drink what he wanted.
     "I didn't think Anam would want any," Merrif said.
     "I don't know if he likes the tea, but he's probably thirsty and
this is a good way to cool the pot and get him some water," Raphael
explained.

     "It isn't such a long climb to the top this time," Lylle said as
they walked up the hill. He held the reins of the horses and walked
ahead of them.
     "That's because we climbed most of it yesterday," Merrif said. "I
recall all your complaining then."
     "Save your energy for the next one," Raphael suggested. "Who knows
how many are left?" He was almost at the top.
     "Anam does," Niatha said. "But he isn't talking."
     "Yes," Raphael softly said. He stood at the top, looking down the
other side.
     "What is it?" Lylle asked, rushing up the hill.
     "Illiena!" Merrif moaned. "The tower!" He was standing next to
Raphael.
     "There it is," Lylle said as he finally reached the top. Looking
down the other side, into a small valley, he saw the tower. It wasn't an
impressive thing. There was the tower itself, which stood three stories
high and was built of stone. It looked in good shape and had no vines or
moss growing upon it. There was a main building built of wood that was
attached to it. The area around the tower was cleared of trees and
shrubs.
     "That's it?" Niatha asked. "Doesn't look like much of a home for a
goddess."
     "It was just on the other side of the hill from us," Merrif
whispered, too enraptured with his own dreams to realize that he wasn't
listening to Niatha.
     "It was late when we camped," Raphael said. "We couldn't have made
it."
     "We can make it now," Merrif said, starting down the hill.
     The valley wasn't very far down, which made the trip fairly easy.
There were still large rocks and boulders, so they were careful as they
went. Reaching the edge of the cleared area, they stopped.
     "Soon," Merrif exhaled. "All our traveling, all our dreams, all our
hopes ..."
     "Why are we waiting, then?" Lylle asked, stepping forward. He let
the horses go while Anam ran ahead, toward the door.
     "Yes," Raphael said. "Why?" He started after Anam. Merrif and Lylle
followed. The horses stayed where they were left.
     "Megan?" Raphael called, pushing the door open. He took off his
pack and dropped it on the floor. The room inside was almost bare. There
was a table with four chairs in the middle of the room, but nothing
else. In the opposite wall, there was a door. Anam brushed past by him
and went to the other door. Lylle and Merrif walked into the room as
Raphael reached the door.
     "Megan?" he called opening the door.
     "Raphael?" replied a woman from the other room. "Is it really you?"
Megan stood in the corner, a broom in her hand. Dust slowly settled back
down onto the floor as she looked to the door. "I'm not seeing more
ghosts and visions, am I?"
     "Megan," Raphael whispered as he moved across the room to embrace
her in a strong hug. His cane clattered on the floor as he picked her up
in his arms and held her tightly.
     "It is you!" she cried, wrapping her arms around him. "Don't
squeeze so tight!" she chided him. "You're crushing me." Tears cascaded
down her cheek.
     Anam stood in the middle of the room watching them. Merrif and
Lylle walked in slowly. Looking around, they saw a room with shelves
built on three of the walls. The shelves were filled with books. There
was a bed placed against one wall and a fireplace built into another. On
the opposite wall, a stairway went upwards into the tower. Niatha walked
into the room and the air billowed and spun. Dust was kicked up and
blown about. A figure of light appeared on the stairs and started down
towards them.
     "Illiena?" Merrif asked, taking a step toward the figure.
     "No!" yelled a voice from somewhere upstairs.
     "Yes!" the figure descending the stairs yelled. "We are free!"
     "What?" Merrif asked, shocked and frozen. "You're not Illiena!"
     "You pathetic thing," the figure on the stairs said. "No, I am not
Illiena. I used your dreams to bring you here to set me free!"
     "Nathrod!" yelled another figure of light, descending the stairs
behind the first. "We are free! Don't walk down the same road as
before."
     "Do you believe," Nathrod said, turning to look up the stairs,
"Aechrose, oh, brother of mine, that the Eelail will let us go?"
     "It has been a long time," Aechrose stopped and replied. "They will
never forget, but they may forgive."
     "They won't! I will not be imprisoned again!" Nathrod floated
quickly down the stairs and ran straight into Lylle, disappearing inside
him. A glow of light now surrounded the boy. "Young again," a voice said
from Lylle's body. "I'm leaving. Are you coming with me, brother?"
     "I won't let you go," Aechrose threatened.
     "The Eelail are close! Come, let us flee together!" Lylle pleaded
as he started for the door. Aechrose flew down the stairs and stopped in
front of Merrif.
     "You must let me in," Aechrose pleaded. "I can't do anything to
stop him without a host body. You must let me in."
     "They made me!" Niatha screamed. "I remember now! They created me!"
     "Yes, little one," Lylle answered as he went out the door. "We did
and you are what set us free." Lylle got as far as the other room and
stopped. Dopkalfar warriors were standing in front of the outer doorway.
"You are in my way! I am a god here!" Lylle screamed. "Die!" Flinging
his hands outward, a funnel of wind swept straight for the door, heading
outside, taking Dopkalfar with it. Bodies tumbled and crashed as the
wind ripped them from the room.
     "I can't enter without permission!" Aechrose pleaded. "You must let
me in! We can't let him get out of the tower!"
     More Dopkalfar stood in the doorway to replace the ones blown away.
They held swords and daggers and behind them, there were more waiting to
enter.
     "Let them kill you!" Lylle yelled as he turned and flew up the
stairs of the tower. "I will be free!" Dopkalfar streamed into the room
as the tower shook with Lylle's rage.
     "We can't let him get out of the tower," Aechrose said. "The
Dopkalfar will not be able to stop him alone. I need your help," he
begged.
     Dopkalfar warriors sprinted toward them and the tower shook yet
again.
     "I ... I ..." Merrif stuttered.

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