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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 7
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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 || Issue 2
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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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-- DargonZine Volume 7, Issue 2 08/04/94 Cir 1127 --
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
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-- Archives at fir.cic.net in pub/Zines/DargonZine --
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
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-- Contents --
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
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Laraka III (Part 2) John Doucette Yule 19-22, 1014
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The Evening After Bill Erdley Yule 21, 1014
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Love an Adventure I Orny Liscomb Yuli 2, 1016
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
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1 Campaign for the Laraka III
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Decision at Gateway Keep - Part 2
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by John Doucette
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Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
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19 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
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Goren stared, for the fifth time that afternoon, at the
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blood-stained floor where his brother had lain. Tiny shards of the
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Crystal still gathered in the corners of the room, and the left overs
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from Ne'on's magical mixtures, books, and components remained in the
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shelves. He hadn't taken the time to clean out the room, and couldn't
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spare the manpower on domestic cleaning - with Beinison warriors
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surrounding the keep, Gateway had needs more pressing than aesthetics.
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"Lord Keeper," spoke the man at the door. Goren turned to look at
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him. Lord Morion had traveled hundreds of miles with thousands of men
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to defend the Laraka's basin, only to be overwhelmed by the size of
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the attacking force. No one had planned on a military front forming on
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the western coast of Baranur. The driving force had initiated in the
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north east, and the south; Baranur had been unprepared for the
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campaign Beinison had designed on the Laraka. Thus, Beinison now
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occupied the Laraka from its basin at Shark's Cove, through Port
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Sevlyn, up to about a quarter of a league west of Gateway.
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"Lord Keeper," Morion repeated. There was a look of urgency on
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his face, one which Goren could not understand, in light of the
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situation: Beinison was not going to be entering Gateway any time
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soon, even if Gateway was cut off from the rest of Baranur, and
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Gateway was not in any condition to launch an attack of its own.
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"What is it, Lord Morion?" Goren answered. "Do the men need more
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food? Water? We've got enough to last a few weeks... maybe less. By
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that time, perhaps, Baranur will be taken and we'll be pledging
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ourselves to a new liege."
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The Lord of Pentamorlo flinched, barely keeping his hand from
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flying out on its own to strike the boy who stood in front of him.
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Fealty to a new liege indeed, he mused. "Lord Keeper, I lost well over
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a thousand men, two days ago. And there are over twenty regiments --
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that's twenty thousand men! -- sitting outside our walls. Perhaps you
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don't think so, my lord," he continued, "but there are more pressing
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worries than food and water, just this moment. Ten of them, to be
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specific." Goren looked quizzically at Morion. "Their siege engines
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have arrived."
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Five menes later, standing on the parapets of the inner keep,
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Goren could see the boats docked half a league down the river, just
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beyond the tents of the Beinison officers. Large contraptions of
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steel, wood, and rope were being hauled off the ships, and the area
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was being scouted by the enemy for the best positioning of the engines
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of war.
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"They'll move a few onto the hill," Goren said, indicating the
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hill over which the enemy had emerged yesterday morning.
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"Yes. And there, by the road," replied Morion. There was a small
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knoll just south of Gateway's main gate. "They'll stay far enough out
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of reach of our archers, but those catapults have a good range. Look
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at the sun reflecting off the buckets," Morion pointed. "Steel.
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They're equipped to launch fire."
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"Captain of the guard!" Goren yelled. Within moments, the captain
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was standing in front of him. "Make ready with the bucket. If Beinison
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dumps fire on us, I want to be ready to quench it as quickly as
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possible." When the captain left, he added, "Not that Gateway couldn't
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use a good purge."
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"My Lord Keeper," Morion stepped forward and spoke intently. "I
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understand that as a nobleman you deserve the respect and honor given
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to you by the King's own hand, but so help me, if your depressing
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attitude costs me one man - one man! - I'll throw you right to the
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enemy and let them deal with you as they please."
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"Goren!"
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Approaching them from a short distance was a middle-aged man with
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well-worn armor. The armor was simple, but effective, and interfered
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neither with his movement nor his vision. The armor of a foot
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soldier... or an archer who expected to enter combat. In this case, it
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was Castellan Ridgewater.
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"My lord, the scribe needs an official recount of the King's
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decision to place you as Lord Keeper. I thought you might like a meal
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as well, and instructed her to meet you -"
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"Her?" Goren interrupted.
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"Aye, boy. Your brother... insisted the previous scribe was
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incapable of service. The new one, Lara... well, she dresses like
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something other than a scribe, but I suppose she does her job." Almost
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as an afterthought, he added, "Whatever that may be. She's waiting in
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your father's hall." The look on Marcus' face lead Goren to believe
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the man was entering battle: hard, determined, and gauging. Goren
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guessed the war affected everyone differently.
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"I'll eat in the hall, then, Marcus."
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"Lord Winston, if I may suggest something militarily - " Morion
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interjected before Goren left.
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"What is it, my lord?"
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"The catapults which the enemy is assembling. Can we reach them
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from here?"
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"I don't know. Marcus?"
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Marcus looked at where the engines were being moved. "I'll see
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about it. Perhaps we can scare them away from those points."
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"See to it, then," Goren added and walked down the steps toward
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his father's home.
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When Goren was out of earshot, Marcus lowered his gaze and stared
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Morion in the face. "I wouldn't make trouble with the boy, Lord
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Morion. He's well-liked in these parts, and the people here wouldn't
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take too kindly to his being pushed. Do you understand what I'm
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saying?"
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Morion's jaw set, and his eyes burned intently. "Are you
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threatening me, Castellan? I have several hundred men occupying
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Gateway Keep. If I weren't putting up with lousy decorum, I'd take the
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blasted place myself and lock you up!"
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Castellan Ridgewater didn't blink a lash. "Morion, the boy's got
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a lot on his mind. Don't be bothering him. You may have men here, but
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I've got a full regiment. And we know how to bother back. Now, if you
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have nothing else to say, I'll be gettin' about those catapults."
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"I have PLENTY left-"
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"I didn't think so." Marcus interrupted, and turned away.
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Morion stood staring after him, the veins on his brow coming to
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life. "Haralan," he whispered to the air, "by Nehru's pointy nose, I
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didn't want this damn job."
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Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
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20 Yule, 1014
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"Goren," Marcus looked across the table at his lord. The boy
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still didn't eat more than enough to keep him alive. Marcus' own best
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effort at distracting him, in the form of a scribe named Lara, had
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failed miserably. She didn't even know how to write! And Goren became
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less concerned with his surroundings every day. "The south-east wall,"
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he continued. "There's a problem."
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"What is it?" Morion interjected. Morion did not normally
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interrupt a question aimed at someone else. However, in Goren's case,
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he made the exception. Goren was not dedicated to the task at hand. He
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was not concerned with the welfare of the troops packed within
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Gateway's walls. He did not have the stomach to order men to their
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deaths. Morion did not like Goren Winston, the Lord Keeper of Gateway.
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He liked the castellan even less.
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Castellan Ridgewater looked at Morion and smiled. Not a genuine
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smile, but definitely an attempt to be civil. "They're going to
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crumble," he said. "Mid-day... Maybe later. The catapults have been
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pummelling them for a full day, and they are weakening."
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"Blast," Morion muttered. One day of catapults, and the walls are
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already weakening? What was this keep made of, wood? "Well, then,
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Castellan Ridgewater," Morion began with his own attempt at civility.
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"Let's get some fortifications built up within the walls, in the
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south-eastern section of the keep. That way, when the enemy rushes the
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breach, we'll be better defended."
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"Agreed." The castellan found himself saying. It was an odd
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moment for both of them. They had grown accustomed to being on
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opposite sides of arguments.
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Morion raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Excellent. Then we'll
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have to block off any access to the inner keep from atop those walls,
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as well as any-"
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"Now, don't go givin' me orders, Morion." Marcus' ire was
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instantly fired. "Goren's the one in charge, and I'll take them from
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him."
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"Listen, Castellan," Morion suddenly found himself out of the
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surprising agreement with Marcus, and into the familiar heat of
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discussion. "I'm certain Lord Winston will agree with me that these
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precautions need to be taken-"
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"Oh, I'm certain as well, Pentamorlo," Marcus interjected. "But
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let's let him make the order. Advising him would better become you."
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"'Become me?' If these walls were made out of something more
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sturdy than aelo hide-"
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"Did you build these walls? No-"
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"My Lords!" Goren yelled. His headache had not been eased by
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their argument. In fact, Goren thought, his headaches for the past
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three days were primarily due to the two of them being in too close
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quarters with each other. The lord of Pentamorlo and the castellan of
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Gateway stopped, surprised, and looked at Goren.
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"My lords," he continued, "make the plans for the defense of
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Gateway. Morion, see to the construction of the fortifications.
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Marcus, make sure the keep is secure from the expected breach. Most of
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all, I want the two of you to STAY AWAY FROM EACH OTHER."
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Goren got up, looked at the men, and glanced towards the door to
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the hall. "I'm hungry. I've got a lot to deal with, right now. We all
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do. But if I have to listen to the two of you argue one more time,
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I'll tie you together and throw you to the enemy. If you're bickering
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doesn't drive Beinison away from Gateway, nothing else will. Now, go!"
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As Goren sat back down, Morion and Marcus stood. They looked at
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each other, then Goren, and headed towards the door.
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Captain Greerson waited for Marcus by the door to the main hall.
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While he had no qualms about entering the room and reporting to any of
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the men within, he did not want to be the object of anyone's anger.
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Even Lord Winston, who had been reclusive since his return to Gateway,
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could be heard yelling within the hall. Those doors were daunting,
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indeed.
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The wooden doors opened abruptly, allowing Lord Morion to exit
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the hallway quickly and without pleasure. Morion headed east toward
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the inner keep walls. Outside, the low thud of siege engines, followed
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by a heavy crashing sound, paid its toll on Gateway's walls.
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"You have news for me, Captain?" The castellan was standing in
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front of Greerson, now. He was in about as good a mood as Morion.
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"Only a lack of it, Castellan." Greerson looked away. "Your son
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is still missing."
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"But he wasn't with the members of the Hand when you fired on
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them?"
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"No, sir." Greerson replied. "None of them escaped, and your son
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was not among the dead."
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"Then he's got to be somewhere. Check with the other boys he
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trained with, find out who saw him last... Maybe one of them knows
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where he might have gone, or what he's doing."
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"Right away, sir." Greerson turned to go, but was stopped by
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Marcus.
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"Wait a mene, Captain." Marcus took a good look at the man.
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Greerson's eyes were puffy and dark. His skin was pale, and his face
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was gaunt. "You haven't slept in a while, have you?"
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"No, sir. Not since the day before yesterday."
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"Right. I'll get someone else to look about Thomas. You get some
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sleep. When those walls come down, it won't matter where Thomas is...
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we'll need every able man to fight off that Beinison horde. Now get
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some rest."
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As the captain of the guard made his way to his barrack, the
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Castellan thought about his son. Where could he be? What could he be
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doing? All the old barracks of the Black Hand had been cleared out...
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Ne'on's own quarters had been searched, and the dungeons under the
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keep. Most of the boy's belongings were still at the Castellan's
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residence, excepting a suit of chain and a short sword. But Thomas
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trained with a broad sword, like his father...
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Lieutenant Lianna Fellthorne stood atop the makeshift wall where
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she and one-hundred seventy troops under her command waited. She was
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not used to commanding such a large force: Lieutenants typically
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command only one company at a time. Her captain's dead body still lay
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in the fields outside of Gateway, where he had fallen in the rush for
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safety. Six other lieutenants from her regiment lay there as well, not
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lonely among the hundreds of bodies. No one had picked them up. No one
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had buried them. It wasn't likely that they would be buried any time
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soon. Certainly, their burial would not be a ceremonial one.
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One more loud crash fell against the wall she was watching. It
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began to creak and bend. A good hundred feet from the wall, she knew
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she was safe, but she ordered her men away from the area. "Clear away,
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there... it's going soon." At various points of the defensive
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semi-circle within the wall's boundaries, other lieutenants and
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captains were issuing similar orders. The wall would be breached,
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soon, and the hell would start.
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Suddenly, Lord Morion was beside her. "How are they, Lieutenant?"
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"Sir?" she asked.
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"Your troops. Are they stable?"
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"As can be, sir. We're about to be invaded." Three dull thuds
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were heard in the distance. "Down, sir!"
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As they ducked, three large boulders crashed against the wall.
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Stones shattered, metal creaked, and the wall wavered. When they
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lifted their heads, they saw the sight for which both armies had been
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waiting: the wall bent in, bowed, and crumbled amidst a cloud of
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mortar, stone, and dust.
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More thuds. More crashes. Soon, the wall would be so much rubble.
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"Looks like a storm is coming our way, my lord." Lianna had to
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yell to be heard above the din.
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"Not yet," Morion replied. "Maybe not until the morrow."
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"Why do you say that, sir?"
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"They haven't deployed their forces, yet, Lieutenant." Morion
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checked the position of the sun over the western wall. "And it's
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nearing evening. They don't want to fight us in the dark, in our own
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keep. They'll wait 'till morning, when they'll have plenty of light to
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fight by."
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"Then I'll order my men back under cover," she reasoned. "No
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sense in letting stray boulders kill off anyone else."
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Morion nodded to her and made for another section of the
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defensive perimeter. "Not like they haven't taken enough toll already,
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Lieutenant," he muttered to himself.
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20 leagues South of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
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20 Yule, 1014 B.Y.
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"General Verde," Luthias Connall approached where his junior
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officer was standing. Sarah Verde had been up late into the evening
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for the last five days, walking the perimeter and spot- checking the
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watches. She looked as tired as she felt. She's normally an attractive
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woman, Luthias thought to himself. Now she looks ten years and several
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wars older.
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The newly-appointed general turned to her friend and senior
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officer. "Knight Captain," she greeted him formally, "it's very late.
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You should be resting."
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"The same can be said of you, General. This isn't the first night
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you've been up this late."
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"Still early for me, sir. Still used to night watches and early
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morning drills. Never left time for sleep, back in those days. But you
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didn't have those days, did you?"
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Sarah struck a sore spot on Luthias, and was regretful the
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instant she saw the look on his face. He still didn't believe he was
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deserving of the titles which had been bestowed upon him over the last
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two years. He had risen very quickly from a possible barony to higher
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status than he had ever dreamed: Count, General of the Cavalry, and
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now Knight Captain of the Northern Marches. He had never even formally
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served in the Royal Militia, let alone the Royal Army. But he was a
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knight, and knights of exceptional quality were treated with
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exceptional praise. He supposed he must have done something right in
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the last two years.
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"General," he began, but Sarah interrupted him immediately.
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"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean it that way. Just that you
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wouldn't have those memories."
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"Forget it, Sarah. What I was going to say was... well, we're
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going into a major battle tomorrow. I need you to get all the sleep
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you can. So far, we've managed to encounter only two squads of scouts
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from the enemy, and they were easily defeated. Beinison knows
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something's up, they just don't know what. If they've got any
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surprises for us, tomorrow, I need you awake and level headed."
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"I'll be awake, same time as usual, Knight Captain."
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"Don't get all formal on me, Sarah. The sun's been down for
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almost three bells. We're marching on third watch to get to Gateway
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before noon. Get to your tent and get some sleep."
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"Luthias-"
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"Now, General. That's an order."
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As Sarah almost sulked back to her tent, a smaller figure in
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foreign armor came silently up behind Luthias. Reaching his hand out
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slowly, the Bichanese native tapped Luthias lightly on his left
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shoulder.
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"What?" Luthias jumped around, pulling his fist back ready to
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strike. "Oh, it's you, Michiya. How are things with Kirinagi?"
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"The general wishes to see you return to your tent, Luthias-
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sama. His men are already prepared for the morning's battle, and are
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sleeping to gain strength. General Kirinagi has much appreciation for
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your skill as a warrior, but all men need rest some time."
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"So, now I'm taking orders from Bichanese generals, is it?"
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"And your friends, Luthias-sama."
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Luthias sighed and stared off into the night. Not a fire had been
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lit, and a breakfast as cold as the night's dinner awaited he and his
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men. He thought briefly of Sable, and how on a hot summer's night she
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had burst into his room, naginata in hand, ready to defend his life.
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|
He thought of the past quite frequently, these days. Roisart and their
|
|
father... Clifton's father, the old Duke of Dargon... He silently
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|
prayed to the Stevene that the war would end soon.
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|
Sighing one last time, he put his arm around Michiya and headed
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toward his tent. "We both need sleep for tomorrow, Michiya. Get to
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your tent and rest well. Death waits for no one. Might as well get
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|
plenty of rest before we meet her."
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1 league south of Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
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Sunrise, 21 Yule, 1014
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"Knight Captain!" General of the Cavalry Sarah Verde called to
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|
her commanding officer. They had been travelling for four bells, since
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third watch of the evening before, in order to reach Gateway by
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morning without tiring the horses. Luthias had been right: they were
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all going to need the rest they had gotten the night before.
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Luthias saw what Sarah was pointing out. There was a breach in
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Gateway's walls, and the enemy was already making its way into the
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keep. Fighting was still going on, however. That meant the breach was
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recent. And Beinison wasn't exactly pouring into Gateway, which meant
|
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their was strong resistance within the keep. Fortifications...
|
|
ditches... the light infantry would be the first to attack, saving the
|
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heavy infantry for when the ground was more stable, easier to
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maneuver.
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|
"Form ranks, General." Luthias ordered.
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|
"Already formed, Luthias." Sarah replied.
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|
Luthias looked at his cavalry. Eight regiments strong. Sarah
|
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would lead the first wave of four thousand. Michiya, Kirinagi's force,
|
|
and Luthias would lead the last four regiments in the final wave. As
|
|
he retreated, Sarah would redirect her force, and the process would
|
|
begin again.
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|
Stevene give us strength, he thought. "First wave," he called.
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"Deploy!"
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|
Four thousand horse pounded out the distance between the hilltop
|
|
south of Gateway Keep and the breach in its south-eastern wall. A low
|
|
rumbling sounded through the ground for miles. As the Beinison troops
|
|
slowed their entrance to the keep, the commanding officers looked
|
|
suddenly at the wall of cavalry approaching them. Buglers sounded, men
|
|
scrambled, some small resistance was organized.
|
|
When General Verde was within quarter of a league of the Beinison
|
|
force, she could see the small patches of organized resistance.
|
|
Looking back, the Luthias' cavalry had already begun their approach.
|
|
She raised her sword high, kicked her mount, and yelled. "CHAAAARGE!!"
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The light infantry attacking Lianna's section of the perimeter
|
|
were just beginning to break through the defenses when the rush
|
|
slowed. Several of her comrades lay in bloody heaps about her. More
|
|
Beinison soldiers lay in front and around her. As another approached,
|
|
she parried the attack and thrust low into the man's groin. He fell
|
|
screaming, if not dead. The wetness on her face increased, but it
|
|
wasn't her blood. It wasn't the enemy's blood. As she hacked at the
|
|
enemy around her, she swore. And she cried.
|
|
She was a fisherman's daughter. Her mother sold the morning's
|
|
catch in a market at Port Sevlyn. But that was before the war. She
|
|
knew what had happened to Port Sevlyn: the burning, the slaughter.
|
|
Innocent people were killed for no reason. Fishermen strangled with
|
|
their own lines. Women raped repeatedly before being slowly bled to
|
|
death.
|
|
Another Beinison soldier made for her. Angrily, she lunged at the
|
|
man, knocking his blade aside. Her helm almost fell from her head in
|
|
her desperate attack, but she continued. Her sword found its point in
|
|
the man's neck and he fell, blood sputtering from his throat.
|
|
"Lieutenant," someone called to her. Checking to see no enemy
|
|
approaching her, she turned briefly.
|
|
There was her sergeant, standing in a pool of blood. At his feet
|
|
lay an enemy soldier who had gone around her. And in his stomach, the
|
|
Beinison's sword had found a weak link. "Bury... me... in-"
|
|
She could only stand there as he fell to the ground in his own
|
|
blood. She stopped crying.
|
|
|
|
Michiya swung meticulously at the enemy beside him. His katana's
|
|
sharp blade slicing through the woman's breast plate, he used its
|
|
momentum to come down on the man below him. Grasping now with both
|
|
hands, he lunged at a Beinison soldier who had ridden up beside him.
|
|
Three deaths in three movements, he thought. Some would see this
|
|
as poetic. Graceful. It is but death making its way through a world so
|
|
full of life. He spurred his horse to catch up with Luthias.
|
|
"Luthias-sama," he called. Luthias parried a blade aimed at his
|
|
skull, and brought his mailed fist into the soldier's face. The
|
|
Benosian fell from his horse, nose bleeding, only to be trampled by
|
|
his own mount. The horse knew better than to stand between two armies.
|
|
Luthias looked over at Michiya, and the battle surrounding him.
|
|
Beinison was not having a good time of it. While Baranur was
|
|
definitely taking losses, Beinison had been unprepared for the
|
|
cavalry's attack. They had been hoping to gain Gateway before
|
|
reinforcements could arrive. They were almost successful.
|
|
"Luthias-sama, General Verde is about to make another charge."
|
|
"Right. Find the bugler, Michiya," Luthias called over the din.
|
|
Steel rang against steel everywhere he looked. Horses bucked, riders
|
|
fell, and blood made the ground slippery for the infantry they fought
|
|
against. "I'll be damn glad when this day is over."
|
|
|
|
Morion cut down another Beinison. There was a small squad which
|
|
had made its way behind the eastern line of defenses. If not for
|
|
Luthias' timely arrival, he thought, we'd have been driven out of here
|
|
just past morning. He looked up at the mid- day sun. They had been
|
|
fighting for five bells.
|
|
Another Beinison was crawling up the rear of the defenses, just
|
|
twenty yards from Morion. The soldier wasn't watching the lord of
|
|
Pentamorlo, she had her sights on the colors of Gateway's defense.
|
|
Castellan Ridgewater had his back to the rear line, five archers
|
|
standing with him, firing arrows into the oncoming enemy.
|
|
"Castellan!" Morion yelled, but he couldn't be heard this far
|
|
away. His voice was sore from shouting orders all morning, and the din
|
|
of battle drowned out what volume he could still muster. He smiled. He
|
|
knew there was time before the Beinison could make her way up the
|
|
defenses, and there was another way of gaining Marcus' attention.
|
|
Picking up a small piece of stone, he hurled it at the
|
|
castellan's back. A small ringing sound erupted, and Marcus turned
|
|
around, fuming at the man who had pelted him.
|
|
"We're in the brink of battle, man, and you're picking on me with
|
|
stones?!"
|
|
Morion pointed at the Beinison soldier five feet below Marcus,
|
|
and the Castellan looked down. The Benosian, suddenly realizing that
|
|
she was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, dropped her
|
|
sword.
|
|
"Take your helmet off, man." Marcus yelled at the soldier. The
|
|
frightened woman did so, and Marcus swore. "Nehru's pointy nose. Just
|
|
like a woman to sneak up on you." Raising his bow, he brought the
|
|
wooden portion of it down, hard, on the woman's head. She fell,
|
|
unconscious, to the ground.
|
|
|
|
It was mid-evening when the fighting slowed, then stopped. Both
|
|
sides were tired. Hungry. The cavalry's horses would no longer charge,
|
|
and did little to support their riders. Gateway was in ruins, the
|
|
north wall having been breached at mid-day.
|
|
Beinison's forces were battered, but now more organized. The
|
|
original force which was to be deployed at the north wall never had
|
|
the chance. If not for the commanding officer's decision to divide the
|
|
forces, even more Beinison soldiers might have been caught between the
|
|
defenders in Gateway and the cavalry which arrived from the south.
|
|
Things were, for the moment, at an impasse. When Michiya had seen
|
|
that the siege engines were still pummelling Gateway, he commanded a
|
|
squadron of cavalry and destroyed them. Luthias had regained the
|
|
defenses Morion's troops had built four days before, outside of
|
|
Gateway. Beinison had retreated out of Gateway's catapult range, and
|
|
was fortifying its camp. Luthias knew he was lucky, that day. If he
|
|
had arrived a bell later, Gateway might have been taken. If he had
|
|
been earlier, the Beinison army would not have already been committed
|
|
to the task.
|
|
"Sir Luthias," a man -- if such an apparition could be called a
|
|
man -- approached him on horseback. Luthias had watched him from the
|
|
small hill Luthias had claimed as his own. Lord Morion, covered in
|
|
blood, dirt, and sweat, dismounted.
|
|
"Lord Morion," Luthias returned his greeting. "Welcome to... what
|
|
passes, for the time being, as my pavilion."
|
|
"Thank you, Count Connall," Morion replied. "Welcome to...
|
|
whatever you want to call this situation. The lines are drawn, so to
|
|
speak."
|
|
"Yes, they are. But I don't think it will be long."
|
|
Sarah Verde and Ittosai Michiya approached the two leaders.
|
|
"Knight Captain. Lord Morion."
|
|
"Lord Morion," Luthias introduced, "I believe you know General of
|
|
the Cavalry Sarah Verde, and Ittosai Michiya."
|
|
"Indeed I do." Morion replied. "General. Michiya."
|
|
"Luthias-sama," Michiya began. "We -- General Kirinagi, General
|
|
Verde, and myself -- We are wondering what the next plan of action is
|
|
to be. You ordered us to dismount and rest our steeds. The supply
|
|
train is still not arrived from last night's camp. I fear we will have
|
|
little food for the evening's meal, or feed for the horses."
|
|
"I believe we can take care of that in Gateway, Michiya," Morion
|
|
offered. "If I can get that damn castellan to listen to me."
|
|
"The castellan? What about the Lord Keeper?"
|
|
"Useless brat, if you ask me. Hasn't been helpful since he killed
|
|
his brother."
|
|
Luthias scowled at Morion, knowing both what it meant to kill,
|
|
and how it felt to lose a brother. Having to kill his own kin would be
|
|
difficult, even for one who had seen death as much as had Luthias.
|
|
"The boy didn't even fight in the battle," Morion continued. "In
|
|
my opinion, Goren Winston isn't fit to defend a major military
|
|
stronghold like Gateway."
|
|
"That's a pretty strong statement, Lord Morion." Sarah Verde
|
|
shifted her scabbard for comfort. "Perhaps we should all convene in
|
|
Gateway?"
|
|
"A good idea-- What's that?"
|
|
In the distance, a man on horseback was riding from the Beinison
|
|
army toward the hill Luthias occupied. He carried the white flag of
|
|
truce, and rode weaponless. A captain called to Luthias, and Luthias
|
|
waved him on. When the soldier was within twenty yards, he dismounted.
|
|
"Who is the commanding officer?" he requested. He had a thick
|
|
Beinison accent, but spoke Baranurian quite well.
|
|
Luthias stepped forward. "I speak for him."
|
|
The Beinison looked at Luthias and recognized the Baranurian
|
|
insignia's of rank, as well as the knight's chain around his neck. "I
|
|
speak for General Vasquez, of the Beinison army. We claim the right to
|
|
gather our dead from the field of battle before the conflict
|
|
continues. It is late in the day, and much blood has been lost on both
|
|
sides."
|
|
"Tell your general that he may gather his dead as soon as we
|
|
gather ours." Luthias replied. "It is our land, and we would not want
|
|
our dead to be dishonored upon it."
|
|
"The general will accept," the herald responded. "When you leave
|
|
the field, we shall enter it and remove our dead."
|
|
The herald moved to his steed and mounted. He turned his horse in
|
|
a tight circle and sped down the hill to his own encampment.
|
|
Luthias looked at Sarah. "Tell the healers -- Damn! Tell everyone
|
|
to gather the Baranurian dead. Stevene willing, it won't take much
|
|
time. I'd like to be done with this by nightfall."
|
|
|
|
Gateway Keep, Royal Duchy, Baranur
|
|
22 Yule, 1014
|
|
|
|
"Goren!" Castellan Ridgewater called down to the grounds from
|
|
atop the sturdiest of Gateway's remaining walls. "I think you'd better
|
|
see this."
|
|
Goren made his way up the courtyard stairs in the early morning
|
|
light. Morion had gone to Luthias' camp the evening before without
|
|
telling him, leaving some pompous captain in charge of his men. Marcus
|
|
was cursing up a storm all evening because there were Benosians all
|
|
over the field but Morion had sent word not to fire at them. They were
|
|
gathering their dead.
|
|
Marcus had fired one arrow, though. A man was running from body
|
|
to body in the night, bending over each one momentarily, and rushing
|
|
to the next. Marcus' keen eyesight had picked him out, and the man
|
|
slumped over with an arrow in the back. Pilfering from the dead was
|
|
the least honorable thing Marcus could imagine.
|
|
When Goren got to the top of the wall, he looked across the empty
|
|
field. "What's wrong?"
|
|
"What's wrong? Have ye lost your eyesight, boy?"
|
|
Goren just stared blankly at the field. Other than the usual
|
|
signs of any bloody aftermath, he could see nothing.
|
|
"Don't you see the enemy, Goren?"
|
|
Goren did not.
|
|
"Exactly it, boy. They're gone."
|
|
Goren looked again at the field. He looked up the hill to where
|
|
the Beinisons had retreated the previous evening. He looked to where
|
|
Luthias had made camp the previous evening, as well. Nothing.
|
|
"Lord Morion!" Goren called, but he did not need to yell. Morion
|
|
appeared behind him.
|
|
"Lord Morion, what is the meaning of this?" Goren demanded.
|
|
"Well, Lord Keeper, the Beinison army isn't there. Vasquez packed
|
|
up in the middle of the night, just after second watch, and left. He
|
|
was only waiting to gather his dead."
|
|
"And Count Connall?"
|
|
"The Knight Captain, as I found he is now ranked, went after him.
|
|
He's going to chase Vasquez all the way back to Port Sevlyn and make
|
|
sure he stays there. He can't exactly assault seventeen regiments with
|
|
his cavalry, but he'll scare them enough to make sure they run."
|
|
Goren sighed. He looked at Marcus and at Morion. "What was the
|
|
outcome? We won, but at what cost?"
|
|
"The Knight Captain lost one thousand cavalry and two hundred
|
|
fifty horse. About." Morion said.
|
|
"Five hundred of Gateway's garrison died in yesterday's battle,"
|
|
Marcus added.
|
|
"And Eighteen hundred of my own men died, since Beinison came
|
|
over the hill five days ago." Morion finished.
|
|
Goren was dumbfounded. "That's..."
|
|
"Over three thousand dead," Marcus finished for him.
|
|
"And that's not counting the wounded." Morion stated. "But the
|
|
Beinison losses were greater. Between the start of battle and
|
|
yesterday evening, they lost over seven regiments. Over seven thousand
|
|
men."
|
|
"But they still outnumbered us... what... almost two to one?"
|
|
"Goren, we've got cavalry. We've got archers. We've got what's
|
|
left of Gateway's walls. We even have catapults left on a couple of
|
|
them. All they had left was infantry. We're in no shape to attack
|
|
them, and they don't dare attack us."
|
|
"Best thing they could do, Lord Keeper," Morion finished for
|
|
Marcus. "Is get out of here before we were rested enough to launch a
|
|
full attack."
|
|
"And they did." Goren looked out at the field. He saw the blood.
|
|
The mounds of dirt piled up where heroes had defended themselves.
|
|
Holes in the walls where Beinison had broken through Gateway's
|
|
defenses. A few bloody swords and shields, maybe a mace, littered the
|
|
ground. "Ten thousand lives ended here."
|
|
"War isn't pretty, Winston." Morion said. "And there's no such
|
|
thing as heroes."
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
1 The Evening After...
|
|
by Bill Erdley
|
|
(b.c.k.a <berdley@BUCKNELL.EDU>)
|
|
|
|
Three times today I should have died.
|
|
I owe my life to three different men. Well, actually two, since
|
|
the third is dead.
|
|
Tired. I'm tired and I want to sleep. I can't.
|
|
There's no real memory of the battle. There are pictures in my
|
|
head, but they all run together like the blood in the rain.
|
|
I killed my first opponent today.
|
|
He screamed as he fell to the ground. There he sobbed once,
|
|
gasped, and died.
|
|
There is no honor in killing. There is no honor in dying. Honor
|
|
exists for its own sake.
|
|
I try to roll over, but my body refuses. I got my first wounds
|
|
today. Bruises on my legs and sides, a nasty gash across my shoulder,
|
|
and a lump on my head.
|
|
I hurt.
|
|
Three times today I should have died.
|
|
Apart from those who stood, and fell, before me, I remember Sir
|
|
Luthias and Michiya. Like two demonic reapers in the devil's own
|
|
field, they swung and chopped and cut, harvesting a macabre crop of
|
|
souls to be sent back to wherever those souls came from.
|
|
Why can't I fall asleep?
|
|
Sir Luthias saved me by knocking me to the ground while
|
|
simultaneously parrying the swing that would have separated my head
|
|
from my shoulders. The mud was already salty with blood. It splashed
|
|
into my face as I fell, and when I cleared it from my eyes and spat it
|
|
from my mouth, my assailant was dead on the ground and Sir Luthias was
|
|
already on to his next combat.
|
|
My shoulder hurts; the deep, throbbing pain of a joint begging
|
|
for rest.
|
|
I fought beside Sir Luthias.
|
|
They didn't seem to know how to counter one of the tricks that
|
|
Sir Luthias taught me. Again and again I used it. Swing, counter,
|
|
swing, twist, thrust; and my sword would bite a shoulder or a neck.
|
|
Once, my sword caught as a man went down. As I reached for it, another
|
|
man stepped in and swung. I dodged, but I was open for his next
|
|
strike. Michiya, without changing his rhythm, caught my opponent with
|
|
a backhand slash to the head, then continued to fight his own battle.
|
|
The dead man almost landed on me as he fell...
|
|
Never have I heard so much pain. Screaming. Moaning. Sobbing.
|
|
There was a constant sound. It was the sound of the dying. I never
|
|
knew death had a voice.
|
|
During a lull, Sir Luthias complimented my ability and
|
|
"tenacity", a word which he had to explain. I didn't tell him that I
|
|
was afraid; that I fought for my life. He already knew.
|
|
I just want to sleep. I try to roll over again.
|
|
It is the eyes, most of all, that I see when I close my own. The
|
|
sightless, fixed stare of the dead. My mistake was to look into those
|
|
eyes. Just once. I saw death's face.
|
|
There is no honor in killing.
|
|
I was struck in the shoulder by a man that I didn't see. I fell,
|
|
my sword falling from my fingers as my arm screamed out in pain. I
|
|
tried to crawl back from the fighting, but he came at me, a terrible
|
|
smile spreading across his face. A man from the company that I had
|
|
traveled with stepped between us and swung. I rose from the mud and
|
|
tried once again take up my sword. My arm screamed again, so I
|
|
switched hands. The man who saved me fell. His killer moved on to
|
|
another fight, perhaps forgetting me. I looked at my shoulder, and saw
|
|
the blood pouring out. I turned from the fighting to find a healer.
|
|
My head throbs to a slower rhythm now, but it still throbs. It
|
|
throbs with every beat of my heart. It throbs because I still live.
|
|
For that, I am grateful. Still, I wish I could sleep.
|
|
There is no honor in dying.
|
|
I tripped over a body while running back to the line. The
|
|
Beinison man lived, but his pain...
|
|
"Kill me." he cried. "Please, I beg you."
|
|
I shook my head. I showed him the sign for healer, then turned to
|
|
run and find one.
|
|
He cursed me. "I am defeated!" he cried. "To live with defeat is
|
|
worse than death. I will NOT live in dishonor!"
|
|
I fetched the healers, but he was dead when we returned.
|
|
The eyes. Those cursed eyes. How can I sleep when every time I
|
|
close my eyes I see theirs.
|
|
Honor exists for its own sake.
|
|
|
|
The tent flap moved and Sir Luthias entered, followed by Michiya
|
|
and a man in dirty white robes who looks like a healer. Luthias looked
|
|
at me and asked "How are you doing?"
|
|
*I* *Live* I manage to keep my injured arm quiet.
|
|
He nodded. "You will fight again."
|
|
*Fight* *Yes* *Sleep* *No.*
|
|
Again, he nodded. I think that he understood. The healer moved to
|
|
me and handed me a small bottle. "Drink this."
|
|
I did, and almost instantly felt my eyes begin to close, as if
|
|
they were too heavy to hold open.
|
|
*Question* *I* *Dream.*
|
|
Sir Luthias' voice sounded distant and vaguely sorrowful.
|
|
"I hope not."
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
1 Love an Adventure
|
|
Part One
|
|
by David/Orny Liscomb
|
|
(b.c.k.a <jjmhome!wonky!ornoth@transfer.stratus.com>)
|
|
|
|
"And so it came to pass that during the seventh
|
|
year of the reign of King Brad, the County of
|
|
Egilsay was transferred from house Sall to Count
|
|
Justin Petersson, as dowry in his marriage to Lady
|
|
Amigene of Sall. The dowry also included the lady's
|
|
handmaidens, seventeen sheep, and six barrels of
|
|
cider."
|
|
|
|
"Boy, it sure is dusty in here!" thought Dale, wiping his
|
|
watering eyes before turning back to the history his father had told
|
|
him to transcribe. Cavendish, his father and scribe to Duke Clifton
|
|
Dargon, had dreams that his fifteen year-old son would one day be
|
|
accepted into the scribe's guild, but Dale had other ideas.
|
|
He peered out the window of his bedroom, which overlooked the
|
|
lower half of the city of Dargon. Before him lay all the bustle and
|
|
ruckus of a city alive with the business of midsummer. Above and
|
|
between the roofs of the houses he could even see the slow-moving mast
|
|
of a sailing vessel arriving in the harbor from some faraway land.
|
|
Never in his life had Dale been more than a couple hours' walk
|
|
from the city, and he longed to explore all the places he'd read
|
|
about. That was probably the worst part about being a scribe: you
|
|
could read about all kinds of far-off cities and kingdoms, but you
|
|
never got to go anywhere!
|
|
He often went down to the port to watch the ships coming and
|
|
going, but he rarely talked to the crewmen. They were usually very
|
|
serious, and looked kind of dangerous. But he did talk with Simon the
|
|
stew merchant. Everyone knew Simon -- he would often spend a slow
|
|
afternoon telling the children about the adventures he had heard about
|
|
when he was a sailor. But Dale knew that he was Simon's especial
|
|
friend.
|
|
Dale cleaned his quills, grabbed a piece of bread and stepped out
|
|
into the street, heading downhill toward the docks.
|
|
|
|
Commercial Street really wasn't much of a street at all. It was
|
|
really just a big open area between the wharves where the ships
|
|
docked, and the warehouses where their cargoes were stored. Low carts,
|
|
drawn by mule and oxen, labored back and forth between the two:
|
|
slow-moving islands amidst a sea of people all moving at different
|
|
speeds in different directions.
|
|
Leftwiched between the warehouses were bars, brothels,
|
|
restaurants, general stores, rug merchants, provisioners,
|
|
confectioners, furriers, clothiers, and metalworkers. And on a warm
|
|
summer day, in front of every building, traveling merchants would set
|
|
up their wares: candles, lamps, hats, leather work, and every
|
|
imaginable type of food and drink. On Commercial Street, the swindler
|
|
hawking overpriced glass jewelry had to compete with soapbox
|
|
philosophers; whores and thieves rubbed elbows with priests and
|
|
children. And although it probably wasn't the safest place in the city
|
|
of Dargon, it certainly was one of the most exciting!
|
|
Just short of reaching Commercial Street, Dale ducked into the
|
|
side entrance of the Harbormaster's Building. His boots echoed loudly
|
|
on the varnished wooden floors as he made his way through the hallways
|
|
to the doors that faced out onto Commercial Street. The Harbormaster's
|
|
Building was the only building that faced the wharves that had steps
|
|
leading up to it, and Dale liked to use this perch to look out over
|
|
the crowd and see what was going on. Maybe someday he would live in
|
|
the second or third story of a building that faced the port, so he
|
|
could watch all the activity from his own room.
|
|
Dale stared out over the port. The unfamiliar ship he had seen
|
|
arriving earlier was tied up at Countryman's Pier, but he couldn't
|
|
make out her name. He scanned the edges of Commercial Street for his
|
|
friend Simon, the stew merchant. It took a couple minutes, but he
|
|
finally saw Simon's monkey, Skeebo. The monk had climbed up on top of
|
|
the small wooden roof of Simon's cart to shoo away a seagull that had
|
|
perched there. Dale left his high ground and plunged into the sea of
|
|
activity at street level, heading toward the place where he had seen
|
|
Simon's cart.
|
|
|
|
Dale pushed through the crowd and finally caught sight of his
|
|
friend, Simon Salamagundi. The stew merchant was talking with a man
|
|
who looked like a sailor, and hadn't noticed his young visitor yet.
|
|
Dale stood unobtrusively nearby and listened to the exchange. Simon
|
|
didn't notice him, but Skeebo did, and quietly leaped down onto his
|
|
shoulder.
|
|
"... not only lost the bet and had to wear a pink scarf around
|
|
town," continued the sailor, "but he lost the rat, as well!" He
|
|
doubled over in uncontrollable mirth, then slapped Simon's back and
|
|
bounded off. Simon shook his head in appreciation, then saw Dale as
|
|
the young man turned to him.
|
|
"Who was that?" the boy nodded in the sailor's wake.
|
|
Simon smiled a little. "He's a cook on-a 'Friendly Lion'. His
|
|
boy's a headstrong lad. Apparently he favors losing bets in foreign
|
|
ports!"
|
|
Dale gestured toward the newly-arrived ship, sitting quiet and
|
|
stately a couple piers down. "Is that the 'Friendly Lion'?"
|
|
"Yessir. She just came in from Westbrook and Dar Althol with
|
|
quite a haul. Books, news, silver. Rice, nuts, barley. And a bard
|
|
named Kinwood. From Althol. Apparently very popular..."
|
|
Dale wondered about the places. He'd grown up hearing about other
|
|
lands -- Westbrook, Winthrop, Tench, Magnus -- places that he'd lived
|
|
with all his life, but had never seen for himself.
|
|
"So..." Seeing that Dale's mind was elsewhere, Simon changed the
|
|
topic of conversation. "What have you been up to, this beautiful
|
|
summer's day?"
|
|
Dale managed a resigned laugh. "Hmph! Dad has me transcribing the
|
|
history of County Egilsay! It's so boring!!! I wish I could visit
|
|
these places, not just read about them!" Dale started to raise his
|
|
voice. "I'm tired of hearing other people talking about their
|
|
adventures -- I want an adventure of my own. Dargon is so boring --
|
|
nothing ever happens here!"
|
|
Simon knocked the young man on the shoulder. "Come on, I've been
|
|
to plenty of interesting places, and out of all those places, I picked
|
|
Dargon to live in. Do you know why?"
|
|
"Because it's boring and calm and you were tired of adventuring?"
|
|
countered Dale.
|
|
"No! Because out of all-a the lands I've seen, Dargon is one of
|
|
the most interesting."
|
|
"If Dargon's so interesting, when was the last time you had an
|
|
adventure?"
|
|
Simon paused a second. "Why, I had an adventure just this
|
|
morning. I was cutting into a loaf of bread that Madame Nilson had
|
|
baked for me, and what should I find inside but a silver coin!
|
|
Apparently it fell outta her bodice and got mixed in when she was
|
|
kneading the dough! Hah!"
|
|
Dale scowled. "Simon -- that's not an adventure! Adventures are
|
|
heroes saving fair maidens or stopping pirates or saving burning
|
|
cities."
|
|
Simon shook his head. "Ah, no. Real people can have real
|
|
adventures, and they don't have to be as dramatic as all-a that.
|
|
There's plenty of adventure right here in Dargon."
|
|
Dale looked down and scuffed his feet. "Not for me. Being locked
|
|
up at home copying scrolls is about as exciting as... as..." Dale
|
|
threw his hands in the air. "Shit! I can't even *think* of anything
|
|
more boring! I wish Dad would let me go sign on as a sailor..."
|
|
"NO!!!" The sudden emotion in Simon's voice startled Dale. His
|
|
friend was usually the most even-keeled person Dale knew. Seeing the
|
|
confusion in his friend's expression, the stewmaker sighed and shook
|
|
his head.
|
|
"Dale, listen to me, straight? When I was you age I felt the same
|
|
way. My mama wanted me to be a artist. She even apprenticed me to a
|
|
sculptor! I thought it was the most boring thing in the world. So I
|
|
ran away and tried to join a trading ship. I talked to the captain,
|
|
and-a you know what he told me?" Dale cocked his head to indicate that
|
|
he didn't know. Despite his renown as a storyteller, Simon had never
|
|
really talked about himself very much.
|
|
"He said 'Boy, I'm not going to take you on, but here's a bit of
|
|
advice for you. You can go all around the world looking for adventure
|
|
and never find it, or you can walk the streets of your home town and
|
|
find adventure around every corner. You know why? Because all
|
|
adventure is, is doing something that you've never done before.'"
|
|
Simon crossed his arms with a satisfied "Hmpf!" as he mimicked the
|
|
captain. Then he leaned toward his young listener conspiratorially.
|
|
"But I thought he was full of wind, so I went to another ship.
|
|
This time, I didn't talk to the captain, but volunteered to help the
|
|
cook. He took me on, and my life of adventure had begun.
|
|
"Or so I thought. It was really the most boring time of my life.
|
|
When we were at sea, all we did was cook. My legs were bored off! When
|
|
we were in port, all we did was drink ourselves to sleep. That's when
|
|
I got to thinking about the old captain's words about looking for
|
|
adventure." Simon's faraway eyes returned to Dale.
|
|
"And that's why I'm telling you now -- adventure is doing
|
|
something you've never done before. It doesn't need to be something
|
|
big. You can find adventure every day, even in Dargon. I do! There's
|
|
no need to go running away from home to find it."
|
|
Dale shook his head. "But Dargon's so *boring*!"
|
|
Simon harumphed. "Well... isn't there anything you've always
|
|
thought you might want to do, that you never did?"
|
|
Dale thought about it. Sure, lots of things, but none of them in
|
|
Dargon! "I dunno. I've never had my fortune told, but that's stupid."
|
|
"Why?"
|
|
Dale shrugged. "I dunno. Dad always said it was a waste of money.
|
|
They're fakes."
|
|
Simon smiled in victory. "Sure they are. But they're fun fakes.
|
|
What's the difference between paying a bard to play for you and paying
|
|
a fortune teller to read your future?"
|
|
Dale cocked his head again, this time in thought. "I guess you're
|
|
right."
|
|
Simon smiled. "That's it. Dargon isn't so boring -- there's lots
|
|
of things in this city that you haven't explored! And don't put it off
|
|
-- go see if the fortune tellers are busy. Here." Simon threw a paw
|
|
into his pouch and pulled out a silver coin. "Use it."
|
|
"Oh, okay." Dale smiled, taking the coin. "As long as this didn't
|
|
come from old lady Nilson's bodice..."
|
|
|
|
Dale looked across at the fortune teller's booth. He was feeling
|
|
a little anxious inside, but what Simon had said did make sense, even
|
|
if he couldn't really see the sense in using something as stupid as a
|
|
fortune teller as an example. If adventure was nothing more than doing
|
|
something you'd never done before, it made life kind of different.
|
|
There were lots of things he'd never done, without knowing really why
|
|
he hadn't. The idea that you could wake up in the morning and find an
|
|
adventure just waiting for you certainly held the promise of making
|
|
life a little more interesting.
|
|
Again he looked across at the seer's booth. No one had entered or
|
|
left in some time. He glanced up at the sky, as if entreating the gods
|
|
to have mercy, and stepped across the street.
|
|
Dale poked his head through a curtain and into the booth to see
|
|
an old man in a monk's-style robe lifting a heavy crate.
|
|
"Excuse me..." he began. "Can I help you with that?"
|
|
The old man stopped and straightened up. Then he looked the boy
|
|
over. "Sure, boy. Bring 'er into the back room." Dale took the crate
|
|
by rope handles on the sides and heaved.
|
|
"Marabinga's Girdle, old man! What have you got in this crate?"
|
|
The seer let the oath pass. "A shipment of books from my mentor
|
|
in Magnus. It just arrived this morning on the Friendly Lion!"
|
|
Dale was reminded of his father and thought to himself, "Great.
|
|
Another old man with his nose in a book!"
|
|
The old man held aside the black curtain that led into the back
|
|
room. Dale stepped in, and took in as much of the room as he could in
|
|
the darkness. There were no windows, and the room was barely large
|
|
enough to contain the table and the chairs that sat at opposite sides
|
|
of it. The table was inlaid with a wheel with all kinds of mystic
|
|
symbols. There was a small bookcase opposite the entrance, filled to
|
|
overflowing with both books and all manner of mystic apparatus. The
|
|
room stank of the dirt floor and incense. The walls were decorated
|
|
with all manner of symbols and images, only a small portion of which
|
|
Dale had ever seen before.
|
|
"Just slide the box under the table, toward the bookcase; I'll
|
|
deal with it later," the old man instructed with a vague wave of his
|
|
hand. Then, to Dale as he rose, "Now, presumably you came to me for
|
|
something?"
|
|
Dale looked at the floor. "I'd like to have my fortune read, or
|
|
whatever... Whatever a silver bit will get me."
|
|
The seer seemed satisfied and accepted the coin. "Well, things
|
|
have been pretty quiet today. I could read your cards, that's quick
|
|
and easy. Or we could do a sand casting, which would take more time.
|
|
Or we could try the Table -- I've been having good luck with that
|
|
lately..."
|
|
"That sounds interesting," Dale interrupted. He didn't really
|
|
care, and wasn't interested in hearing another scholar's lecture. He
|
|
got quite enough of that from his father!
|
|
"So be it. Let me get ready. By the way, my name is Zavut. Why
|
|
don't you sit down?" The old man indicated the smaller of the two
|
|
chairs, and inched around the table to the other himself. He reached
|
|
under the table and brought forth a stubby black candle, a cloth, and
|
|
a piece of fur. He began to clean the surface of the table with the
|
|
white cloth. When he was done, Dale could see the symbols in its
|
|
surface much more clearly. It featured a wheel with many spokes, each
|
|
inlaid with a different colored stone. Each spoke's stones were darker
|
|
at the edge of the table, and brilliant at the center, making several
|
|
clearly-defined concentric circles.
|
|
"KARK!" The tone of command in Zavut' voice startled Dale. The
|
|
candle was now burning, and Dale wondered how the seer had done that
|
|
so quickly. Clearly, he was supposed to think it was magic, by the way
|
|
the old man was smirking. Of course, Dale knew better -- he just
|
|
didn't have an explanation right at hand.
|
|
Zavut took up the piece of orange and white fur and very
|
|
carefully rubbed it on the table, following the contours of the wheel.
|
|
Then he also rubbed it on the candle, and repeated the whole
|
|
procedure.
|
|
Zavut then stood up, took up the lit candle, and walked over to
|
|
Dale. "Please stand up." He then pulled the chair aside.
|
|
"This candle is made of beeswax and the blood of a bull. You will
|
|
hold it in your off hand, at shoulder height, and drip wax onto the
|
|
table. Try as hard as you can to keep the wax in the very center of
|
|
the wheel. I will tell you when to begin and when to stop. Do you
|
|
understand?"
|
|
"Yes."
|
|
"Good." The seer handed him the candle and guided Dale's extended
|
|
left arm over the center of the table. "Concentrate on the flame --
|
|
see nothing else." Dale let his vision be drawn into the dancing
|
|
light. He'd thought the candle black, but near the flame it glowed a
|
|
deep, rich red. But the candle soon disappeared from his vision as the
|
|
bright flame swallowed up all less brilliant images. The flame danced
|
|
with the boy's every breath and flickered hypnotically as Zavut
|
|
removed his hands from Dale's arm.
|
|
After a few moments, Dale could feel his arm beginning to wobble
|
|
with fatigue and saw the result in the flickering of the candle. But
|
|
Zavut' voice came from beside him. "Continue to concentrate on the
|
|
flame. You may begin."
|
|
Dale slowly turned his wrist, but he couldn't tell whether any
|
|
wax was dripping from the candle. He saw the flame flicker crazily. He
|
|
noticed that he had turned the candle enough that the flame was
|
|
touching the wax itself. He smelled the pungent odor of burning wax.
|
|
His arm was beginning to ache, and he felt sure that he must have
|
|
covered half of the table by now, when he heard Zavut' voice again.
|
|
"Now, turn the candle back upright, bring it away from the table,
|
|
and blow it out." Dale complied. But after staring at the flame for so
|
|
long, his eyes weren't able to make out anything of the seer's
|
|
chamber. Zavut guided him back into his seat. "Now, you sit and let
|
|
your eyes recover, while I look at this casting and try to interpret
|
|
it."
|
|
Dale sat for a while. He was able to see things on the edges of
|
|
his vision, but he couldn't see anything if he looked at it directly.
|
|
And closing his eyes wasn't any better, because of the dancing spots
|
|
left by the candle's intense light. Dale was annoyed and frustrated.
|
|
And it didn't help that Zavut kept making odd noises. First he'd
|
|
grunt, then he'd hmm, then he'd tsk, then he'd hunh...
|
|
Although Dale's vision gradually cleared, his understanding
|
|
didn't. Droplets of burgundy-colored wax were scattered around the
|
|
table, but mostly in the center. There were a couple very large
|
|
blotches just off-center. Dale tried to figure out what the symbols
|
|
meant for the spokes with the biggest blotches of wax, but they didn't
|
|
seem to have any inherent meaning. At least, none he felt comfortable
|
|
guessing at.
|
|
Zavut sat back with a dissatisfied "Hunph!" Dale gave him a
|
|
quizzical look, but the only response he got was a curt "Be patient."
|
|
The seer continued to contemplate the Table for a moment, then
|
|
addressed his customer.
|
|
"Well, this is an interesting cast, young man! I usually don't
|
|
bother explaining the Table to customers, but I think you might need
|
|
the knowledge in order to fully understand this casting and maybe add
|
|
your own thoughts to the interpretation.
|
|
"The most basic concept is that how far the wax falls from the
|
|
center is extremely important." Dale congratulated himself on guessing
|
|
that, while Zavut continued to explain. "In the grossest terms, blobs
|
|
in the middle represent long-term predictions and droplets at the
|
|
edges of the Wheel represent your immediate future. This is because in
|
|
the long term, it's easy to predict that you'll experience a balance
|
|
of just about everything. That's why the middle is so blotchy. The
|
|
center usually doesn't tell us much, so we look at the outermost
|
|
droplets to get an idea about what's going to happen tomorrow or next
|
|
week."
|
|
Dale quickly tossed aside his previous guesses and reassessed the
|
|
wheel. There were only a couple spots at the edge of the table, with
|
|
no apparent meaning or connection.
|
|
"About the only thing the middle tells us about your life as a
|
|
whole is that you'll be well-liked and are of a literary bent." Dale
|
|
immediately suspected that Zavut had recognized him as the scribe's
|
|
son, but Zavut continued, apparently having discarded the comment as
|
|
irrelevant.
|
|
"But there are some very definite things we can see in the coming
|
|
days. Look. These four are the only spots outside the fourth circle --
|
|
that should make matters very clear," he pointed out each one in turn.
|
|
"And although they're in different quadrants, their interpretations
|
|
might be very complementary.
|
|
"See this spot?" Dale looked where Zavut pointed. "This sign
|
|
represents a new approach -- a new way of meeting old challenges."
|
|
Dale was taken aback; this sounded an awful lot like Simon's
|
|
philosophy about adventure. The seer looked up at his customer. "Does
|
|
that make sense to you?" Dale nodded, but remained silent. After a
|
|
moment, the seer went on.
|
|
"And this spot over here is similar." Dale looked at the spot,
|
|
which was right next to a glyph of an ornately-decorated cup. "It
|
|
represents new friends and new relationships.
|
|
"The third spot," continued Zavut, "fell in a sign that is
|
|
interpreted as overindulgence or excess. And the fourth spot, here,
|
|
represents resolution of conflict by a dramatic, permanent change.
|
|
Mind you, I've put these in an order that makes sense to me, but that
|
|
may not be how you experience them..."
|
|
Dale sat back and pondered Zavut' words. The first spot had been
|
|
surprisingly on target, but he had no idea about the next two. What
|
|
were they? New friends, and overindulgence. And then a resolution. It
|
|
didn't sound like the rest of that applied, but the bit about new ways
|
|
of looking at things was right on.
|
|
Dale stood up. "Thank you, seer. When I came here, I had no idea
|
|
what to expect. But your wheel has given me some things to think
|
|
about. Perhaps I'll be back again sometime."
|
|
Zavut stood and parted the curtain for Dale. "Good. People try to
|
|
make something mystical about it, but that's really all that sagacity
|
|
is: giving people something to think about." He patted Dale on the
|
|
shoulder and stopped at the threshold of his booth.
|
|
Dale stood blinking in the afternoon sun. He'd actually enjoyed
|
|
the reading. But he wondered if he could call it an adventure. It
|
|
certainly was something he'd never done before, and it was kind of
|
|
exciting, too. He found that he wanted to tell someone about it. It
|
|
really did feel like a little adventure. Simon's philosophy seemed
|
|
pretty useful, after all.
|
|
Dale was curious as he thought forward to when his next
|
|
opportunity to put Simon's philosophy to work might occur.
|
|
|
|
He stood in the bright sunlight for a moment, wondering where he
|
|
should go next. Across the street, a handful of people stood around
|
|
the booth where Jenzun, the local instrument-maker, sold his wares.
|
|
Jenzun was entertaining the people by demonstrating his skill with the
|
|
dulcimer, and Dale made his way across the street so that he could
|
|
listen. As he approached, he noticed that one of the people who was
|
|
also listening was a young woman he knew named Erica. Dale admired her
|
|
quietly, as he had so many times before: burgundy hair that perfectly
|
|
framed her dark brown eyes and friendly smile. He picked his way
|
|
through the people and stood beside her.
|
|
As Jenzun began a new, lively trotto, he was joined by another
|
|
musician playing one of Jenzun's wooden box drums, and another on the
|
|
rauschpfeiffe. The audience started clapping their hands at the
|
|
appropriate points in the song, and Dale joined in. Noticing the
|
|
sound, Erica turned and saw Dale for the first time. Her eyes, deep
|
|
and mesmerizing, met his, and she smiled warmly.
|
|
Dale smiled, then looked down at his feet in embarrassment. He
|
|
wasn't any good at talking to girls, especially girls that he liked.
|
|
Fortunately, she turned back to the musicians, although that left Dale
|
|
to stand next to her, feeling as if his feet were twice normal size.
|
|
She was expecting him to say something. Dale felt each moment of
|
|
silence pass like an accusation.
|
|
Dale thought back to Simon's words about doing things he'd always
|
|
wanted to do. But this was Erica! This was *important*! But Zavut,
|
|
too, had said something about new friendships. And approaching Erica
|
|
would certainly be something he'd never done before!
|
|
More moments passed as he tried to formulate something to say. He
|
|
suddenly realized that the tune was coming to an end, and that if he
|
|
wanted to talk to her at all, he'd have to do so now.
|
|
"Erica?" As she turned, she was looking downward. Then she raised
|
|
her gaze to meet Dale's, and he felt like he was falling into those
|
|
deep, dark eyes of hers. He was completely in awe of her beauty. But
|
|
he had something he was going to say...
|
|
"Umm... You be interested in coming out to the archery butts or
|
|
anything?"
|
|
Damn! It wasn't very eloquent, but he'd run out of time. And she
|
|
just stood there, looking at him and smiling in a faintly preoccupied
|
|
manner, as if musing about his ineptitude. Then she seemed to come to
|
|
some sort of decision, and took his hand up in hers and patted it.
|
|
"Dale... I'm glad I ran into you today. Later this afternoon, a
|
|
bunch of us are going swimming out at the quarry, and I'd like you to
|
|
come, too."
|
|
The quarry? "But the quarry's off limits, isn't it? It's
|
|
dangerous!"
|
|
Erica's eyes gleamed. She brought her face closer to his and
|
|
whispered to him conspiratorially. "That's just what they say to keep
|
|
the kids away. We've been there dozens of times, and no one has gotten
|
|
hurt. It's really lots of fun!"
|
|
Dale couldn't argue about something he really knew nothing about,
|
|
which gave him pause. How did he know it was dangerous if he'd never
|
|
even been to the quarry? If his father had been wrong about fortune
|
|
tellers, he could be wrong about the quarry, too, right? And Erica
|
|
said it was fun... And the prospect of spending an afternoon with
|
|
Erica was worth the risk. After all, if he went and discovered that it
|
|
really *was* dangerous, he didn't have to do anything he didn't want
|
|
to. And this certainly would qualify as an adventure, by Simon's
|
|
definition. It was something he'd never done, just because his father
|
|
had always said it was wrong. So it was pretty easy to come to a
|
|
decision with Erica looking at him like that!
|
|
"Okay! When?"
|
|
Erica rewarded him with a smile. "Meet me at the quarry at six
|
|
bells? I've got to go pick up some things at home. Straight?"
|
|
"Straight. See you then."
|
|
She flashed him a final smile over her shoulder. "Bye!"
|
|
Dale watched as Erica walked away, then turned and looked at
|
|
Zavut' booth accusingly. "Yes!!!" he exclaimed, and ran off toward his
|
|
home.
|
|
------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
|
1 (C) Copyright August, 1994, DargonZine, Editor Dafydd
|
|
<White@DUVM.BitNet>. All rights revert to the authors. These stories
|
|
may not be reproduced or redistributed (save in the case of
|
|
reproducing the whole 'zine for further distribution) without the
|
|
express permission of the author involved.
|
|
|