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         |           |      BITNET Fantasy-Science Fiction Fanzine
      ___|___________|___  X-Edited by 'Orny' Liscomb <CSDAVE@MAINE>

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                                CONTENTS
            X-Editorial                          'Orny' Liscomb
            The Old Man                           Joseph Curwen
           *Cydric and the Sage: Part 4           Carlo N. Samson
           *Noble Favor: Atros 7                  Joseph Curwen

          Date: 012288                               Dist: 510
          An "*" indicates story is part of the Dargon Project
          All original materials  copyrighted by the author(s)
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                              X-Editorial
    Well,  here it  is, '7C4'x  already! And  FSFnet is  beginning its
fourth  year of  publication.  This is,  in fact,  the  40th issue  of
FSFnet.  Apparently it  is a  success, although  I still  find it  odd
that  people think  of  FSFnet as  an established  zine.  I guess,  as
editor,  you lose  some  perspective  as to  how  you  are doing.  But
despite my  pessimism, our readership has  continually increased since
early 1985,  and the quality and  number of submissions has  been very
high. We must  be doing something right...  and I'll do what  I can to
see  that we  continue  to  please the  readership.  If  you have  any
comments  or suggestions,  please don't  hesitate  to drop  me a  mail
file. The  authors have been howling  for some feedback, and  it might
convince them to keep them churning out stories...
    This  issue  not  only  is  notable   in  that  it  is  our  third
anniversary issue,  but that  we have two stories from  Joseph Curwen,
one  of our  best  authors. Unfortunately,  Curwen  has also  recently
graduated, which  will severely  reduce the  number of  submissions we
get from him.  In this issue he  has provided us with  a fantasy short
story and the  next installment of his Atros series.  We also have the
next installment  in Carlo Samson's  Cydric tale.  And the next  issue
will contain the conclusion of John White's 4-part story, "Treasure".
    And  I  suppose I  really  must  talk  about  the SF  short  story
contest  (I've  put it  off  two  paragraphs already).  Unfortunately,
because  I  received  no  entries,   there's  no  winner,  unless  you
consider   myself  a   winner,  as   I   get  to   keep  the   prizes.
Unfortunately,  this  means that  we're  lacking  in SF  stories,  and
could  use some  SF submissions  in the  immediate future.  As always,
anyone interested in submitting items, please feel free to contact me.
And a reminder to all, back issues can be requested  from  the  BITNET
server LISTSERV@TCSVM's TCSSERVE FILELIST.
    Until next time...
                    -'Orny' Liscomb  <CSDAVE@MAINE>

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                            The Old Man
    He was old.  Unbelievably ancient in our eyes. I  shall never know
how long he has  lived in that ruin of a mansion on  the high hill. It
is  said he  existed  in the  Times Before,  and  perhaps even  before
that. The  Old Man predated  our meager oral  history. He bore  an air
of  antiquity about  him  in  all ways:  the  sunken  feral eyes,  the
wrinkled gray skin, the complete   baldness,  and  the   stooping  and
protracted gate.
    We  know these  as signs  of age  only through  the picture  books
that have  survived from the  Times Before.  No one has kept life more
than twenty  summers since those  days. Our  life is hard.  We survive
only  barely. There  is little  food  now. We  are scavengers,  eating
what we can find.  In other times we would be seen  as animals. But if
we are,  we are  proud animals,  knowing that  we are the  masters  of
our  desolation. All  that exists  is ours  to do  with as  we please.
That  is what  makes  us men.  Still, like  the  animals, our  numbers
dwindle with each  passing winter.  Sometimes, not even the strong can
survive.
    But the Old Man  lives on in his High House, as  he always has and
perhaps  always will.  He does  not search  for food  among the  stark
wreckage  of the  ancient stone  cities. He  does not  hunt the  small
quick animals which  grow scarce even quicker than  ourselves. He does
not scratch  the worn soils  to grow  plants under the  withering sun.
He lives  in his High  House. And  he never  wants  for  food.  He has
never  been  seen to  bother  with  so  simply  a thing  as  survival.
Perhaps that is why we fear him and avoid his lands.
    I would  gladly have never met  the Old Man, never  have journeyed
to his estate, and  never have witnessed him as he  is. My people were
content to  leave him  and his  house alone. We  spoke of  him little,
and then  only in whispered warnings  to avoid the High  House. It had
been that way for generations.
    But  for the  first time  in  memory, the  Old Man  left his  High
House.  Only once  has  he  walked down  the  steep  hill, across  his
valley,  along the  broken road,  and into  the wastes  which are  our
home. It had  never occurred to us  that he could do such  a thing. He
had always  stayed to his own  lands. But looking back  I realize that
the Old  Man could  leave the  High House  whenever he  had sufficient
reason  to make  the long  hobble with  his thick  cane. As  I was  to
discover, I was that reason.

    One blistering  afternoon I  was hunting  alone near  the Northern
Caves as  I had  perhaps a  thousand times before  and many  since. As
always the  pickings were scarce.  There was not  so much as  a rodent
to stave  off my hunger, and  insects were never very  filling, though
hunting them  kept my  mind off  the dull  ache of  my stomach.  I was
digging  in a  dry stream  bed  with a  rusted piece  of iron  railing
whose  original function  was now of little concern.  The salty  sweat
streamed  down from  my tangled  hair and  stung my  eyes. I  began to
hope that I might  at least find some moist mud with  which to cool my
heated brow.  After finally deciding that  the bed was dry  and devoid
of life, I  threw down my makeshift shovel in  disgust, lifted my eyes
to the opposite bank, and saw the Old Man for the first time.
    I was  terrified. A horror  of childhood stories stood  before me.
My fright  was so great  that rather than fleeing  I froze, as  I have
seen a  rat do  sometimes when startled.  I did not  know how  long he
had watched me or  how he arrived so silently as  to catch me unaware.
We stared  at each  other for  a long  moment. For  the first  time, I
felt  the awesome  power and  horror which  age could  wield. I  could
only  think that  he had  come to  strike me  dead. How  could such  a
thing as he  exist? He was hairless, shrunken, bent,  gnarled, and yet
his clothes  were finer and cleaner  than any I had  ever seen before.
Surely they were  reliques of the Time Before. I  suddenly knew that I
must run, must  warn the others of the Old  Man's presence. Perhaps we
could find some hiding place and escape his wrath.
    I turned to flee,  but the Old Man stopped me  with a single word.
He spoke  my name.  My mind  screamed! It  was too  late. He  held the
power of my name over me. There could be no hiding, no escape.
    He spoke  again. His  voice was  soft and  soothing. "Boy,  I need
your help."
    My fear melted  from me. Surely I thought, no  campfire ogre could
speak  words such  as  these. But  now,  I realize  that  the Old  Man
stilled my fears, as easily as I might strangle a bird.
    "My eyes  are weak. I  need someone to read  to me. You  will have
as much food  as you wish. Come,"  he said, turning away  to begin the
slow trek back to the High House. Later I realized that this was to be
most the Old Man would ever say to me at one time.
    I  followed of  course, proving  once again  that the  dictates of
our  stomachs can  casually overrule  our  minds. The  Old Man  walked
slowly  uphill toward  his home.  I followed  some distance  behind. I
might have  helped him, but  even then I  sensed his pride.  My people
understand pride.  It sometimes seems at  though it is the  only thing
we have left.
    During the  long trek following the  Old Man, I wondered  what was
to become of me. It was not yet too late to flee  into the wastes, but
strangely I  felt no danger in  this  bogeyman of childhood  tales. My
fear had  been replaced by a  growing sense of wonder  and excitement.
I did not  doubt that the Old  Man could provide the food  that he had
promised. After  all, he was the  Old Man. His  presence  itself was a
violation of all  the laws of nature and reason  which had governed my
short but active existence. There was nothing beyond his capabilities.
    Thinking back,  I realize  that it  was not  so very  strange that
the  Old Man  had chosen  me to  accompany him.  I held  two qualities
which separated  me from all  of my brethren.  I could still  bend the
power of written  words to my task,  though perhaps not as  well as my
sire  who  had taught  me  as  his sire  had  taught  him. And  as  an
outgrowth of this  talent, I held a unusual curiosity  about the Times
Before. Though  this was  not forbidden  knowledge, it  was considered
tainted among  a people who  lived daily  with such grim  reminders of
Man's  failure and  fall. I  had  learned much  of our  history in  my
wanderings, but I  was careful to keep  this to myself out  of fear of
appearing too different from my fellows.
    As I walked  I set about examining the unique  landscape about me.
Broken  rock roadways  were common  enough in  the wastes,  but as  we
progressed farther  north I began  to notice  a gradual change  in the
landscape which  none of  my people  had ever  discussed. As  the road
rose, the land  grew, if anything, more moist and  fertile. There were
more  scattered brown  weeds  and  with time  I  could  hear a  steady
hollow buzzing  which could only  mean that insects were  growing more
plentiful.  As  we passed  over  a  rock  ridge before  beginning  our
temporary  descent  to  the  valley  below, I  could  see  a  delicate
greenness  of vegetation  which was  all but  forgotten to  my people.
The  unharvested  lushness of  plants  filling  the valley  floor  was
almost a crime  in the eyes of  a member of a starving  tribe. I could
only wonder how was  it that none of my brethren  had ever reported so
rich a find. It seemed fear of the Old Man had  robbed us  of  many  a
meal.
    But if  I was impressed by  the abundant grasses of  the valley, I
was  totally unprepared  for  the  clumps of  trees  which dotted  the
slopes of the steep hill upon which rested  the  High  House. I  could
barely imagine plants  large enough to dwarf a man.  Only later  did I
learn that most of  a tree is inedible to man. As  we continued up the
steep slope,  the Old Man's  progress slowed.  I grew tempted  to help
him once  more, but I  knew even then that  I should never  touch him.
Instead  I took  the time  to  marvel at  the High  House which  stood
perched upon  the highest crest of  the hill, some distance  from even
the nearest clump of  trees. It was a thing of  wood, stone, and glass
several  stories   in  height.  I'd   seen  taller  buildings   in  my
scavenging  trips to  the  dead cities,  but nothing  so  fair as  the
mansion  where the  Old Man  lived, even  with its  peeling paint  and
tattered shingles. It  seemed to be built of triangles  of cream, dark
brown, and  black interspersed  with wide  windows, through  which the
unguessed marvels of  the House's treasures could be  glimpsed. It had
a certain  mysterious way  of engrossing  the eye  so that  the viewer
was left momentarily  entranced by even the shortest  of glances. Even
at the slow  pace of the Old Man,  I was often forced to  run in order
to catch up after such an interlude.
    When we  finally reached the  High House,  the Old man  veered and
circled  around  to  its  backside.  I  followed.  He  lead  me  to  a
clustering of small  buildings which were made of  rough wood. Seeming
to select  one doorway at random,  he pointed and said  "You will stay
here. Do  not enter the  house. Food will  be provided." With  that he
turned and hobbled  slowly off. I stood and watched  him return to the
High House.  After a few  moments I  entered the shack  and discovered
it to  be occupied by  several long handled tools  which I took  to be
for farming.  But these only  took up  space along one  wall. Opposite
them was a low  cot-like bed which seemed to be  attached to the wall.
While I was  trying to imagine what animal could  possess a hide large
enough to drape a bed, I heard my name called from outside.
    I  went to  the  doorway and  looked out  to  receive yet  another
surprise. It had  not been the Old  Man. It was a woman.  A woman much
older than any that  I'd seen before or since, but  unlike the Old Man
she bore no  wrinkles, baldness, or crooked frame. She  was very tall,
very  broad, and  very proud.  There was  a certain  beauty about  her
face  with its  sharp nose,  withered cheeks,  and long  dark tresses.
She  wore  a  tight  single  piece  dress  of  some  stark  blue-black
thinness I'd  never seen  before. Around  her neck  was a  necklace of
tiny  blood red  spheres laid  end  to end.  She  was as  hard and  as
beautiful as a cold starry night.
    "Food is available  in the kitchen through  the servant's entrance
in the back of  the house. But you will never  enter the house without
the permission of  myself or the Master. And you  will never go beyond
the  kitchen outside  of our  company.  Do you  understand this?"  she
asked  not pausing  long  enough to  obtain a  response.  "A bath  and
fresh clothing will  be provided. You will take advantage  of these or
leave  our  service.  Understood?"  She  spoke  with  a  slight  nasal
quality while seeming  to look upon me  as if I were some  sort of pet
that her  child had dragged  home, and she, the  mother, that would be
required to care for it as long as it survived.
    So  began my  service  to  the Master  and  Mistress  of the  High
House. I would  be admitted to the  house twice a day  to eat standing
and  alone. There  were  no  other servants.  It  seemed the  Mistress
managed the  household, though I  never saw her  lift a hand  in doing
its chores.  Though she  was never  cruel to  me, in  time I  began to
dread my Mistress'  voice, even when it announced my  meals. She never
made  any attempt  to hide  her contempt.  It seemed  social amenities
had died long ago in the High House.
    Each morning  I would wake  at sunrise and  enter the one  wing of
house  which was  made entirely  of glass.  This large  room contained
many  colorful plants  which  I could  not identify.  In  time, as  my
hunger  passed, I  began to  appreciate the  plants as  something more
pleasing to  the eye  than to  the stomach.  There were  many delicate
blossoms of  bright hues and  dark green stalks of  towering strength.
I would  wait in my  place on a small  wooden stool surrounded  by the
fragrance of  the rich  damp earth  until the  Master arrived  and sat
beside me  on his broad  wicker throne. Then  he would pull  a ancient
handwritten tome  from the drawer  of a nearby table,  which supported
a pot  of black flowers. Without  speaking the Old Man  would open the
volume to  the page where we  left off the  day before and give  it to
me to continue  reading aloud. After sometime, he would  take the book
from me,  return it to  the drawer, and leave.  After that I  would be
free to  spend my  time as I  liked. I would  roam the  countryside or
hunt for nostalgia's  sake. But as time past, I  spent more time among
the plants thinking and dreaming away my idle hours.
    I know now that  reading that book had some effect  on my mind. At
first,  I  only   spoke  the  words  as  best  I   could  without  any
understanding of  their meaning.  But with  time, my  skills improved,
my  mind sharpened,  and the  words  of the  book began  to seem  more
profound to  my thoughts. Slowly, I  grew to understand that  the tome
was a  journal of unfinished poetry  written ages ago by  the Old Man.
And  the images  of  those fragmented  poems  were utterly  fantastic.
There were scenes  of birth, of war,  of love, of pain,  and of death.
There was much  that I could not comprehend. Lines  that spoke of fast
spinning  spheres of  near infinite  weight, limited  encroachments on
selective being, and  whirling pools of aggrandized  thought. But what
I could  understand seemed the  most wondrous acts of  art imaginable.
Their  only flaw  being their  incompleteness. Often  I would  stumble
onto a  half blank  page and the  Old Man would  break the  silence to
mumble  "I'll finish  that one  some  day." But  I knew  that the  Old
Man's days of creation had long since passed.

    Time  passed and  I  grew lonely.  The Old  Man  and the  Mistress
offered very little  companionship, even to each other.  I'd been bred
to endure  physical hardships alone, but  I could no longer  stand the
long hours of  simple comfort and idleness. Finally, I  drew up enough
courage  to interrupt  our routine  and spill  forth my  loneliness to
the Old Man during  one of our reading sessions. He  was silent for so
long a  time that I  feared that  I had angered  him. But when  he did
reply, he  gave me curt  permission to return  to my people  for seven
days if  I must. In my  joy I filled  the air with blessings  upon him
and upon his  house, but still I  hesitated to touch his  hand. On the
following morning  I left the High  House and cheerfully set  out down
the broken road.
    My  season long  absence would  of  course be  noticed, but  there
would be  no real  concern until  the first frost.  I found  my people
preparing  for winter  in  the  warren where  I  was  born. They  were
surprised  by my  fine clothing  but were  even more  astounded by  my
being  so well  fed.  They  crowded around  me  and  showered me  with
questions  until  I agreed  to  tell  my  entire  tale before  a  full
gathering  of the  people.
    That night I  discovered how much I had changed.  Not only could I
enthrall an audience  more deeply than any known  tribal story teller,
I  saw my  fellows in  a different  light. Those  I had  looked to  in
respect  or fear  in the  past,  I could  not  even begin  to hold  as
equals.  And  the primitive  ways  and  ignorances  of my  own  people
appalled me.  I kept these feelings  to myself, but I  knew they would
require much thought.  After many hours of recounting  the splendors I
had  seen and  the wonders  that  I had  glimpsed, I  wandered off  to
contemplate in solitude.  After some time I knew that  I was no longer
a member  of the  people and  that I  would return  to the  High House
well before my seven days were complete.
    But it  seemed that my people  had been making plans  of their own
in  my absence.  Perhaps I  had been  too truthful  in telling  of the
richness of  the High House,  because upon  my return I  discovered my
tribe organizing  a raiding party  against the  house of the  Old Man.
My own  appearance was  the only  urging that  so many  empty stomachs
needed. My  acquaintance with the  Old Man  seemed to have  weaken the
awe which  my people  had held  in him for  generations. I  tried with
all  my might  but I  could not  dissuade them  with threat  or guile.
Finally,  to prevent  disaster  I agreed  to guide  them  to the  High
House,  hoping  that  I  could  somehow provide  food  for  my  people
without angering the Old Man or the Mistress.
    They  were hungry,  we left  the  following morning.  I spent  the
long walk  in silence  hoping against hope  to discover  some solution
to my  problems. My people  were too  stubborn and too  resourceful to
be led astray. They  knew the way almost as well  as myself. We walked
through the day and well into the night.
    Long  after midnight,  we  began to  scale the  hill  of the  High
House. I had  asked them to wait  in the lush valley  below, but their
eyes  had caught  the light  of the  riches of  the house  above. They
agreed  to follow  me silently,  but they  would not  be left  behind.
Those  last steps  passed too  swiftly for  me. Only  too soon  did we
arrive at the summit,  and I still possessed no plan.  I paused but it
was all  I could  do to  keep the mob  I led  from rushing  forward. I
asked that  they let me  enter the house alone  to speak with  the Old
Man. After many warnings, they agreed.
    The sun  was rising in the  east, as I stumbled  unhappily forward
and entered the  glass wing of the  house. It was the  only portion of
the house which  I could enter uninvited with a  clear conscience. The
fragrance  of  the  house's riches  was  as  deep  and  as rich  as  I
remembered it.  I had  no plans  for what  I should  do next.  I hoped
that  the Old  Man might  arrive here  soon, but  I had  no reason  to
believe he would follow our routine in my absence.
    While I  sat waiting,  an outward  door opened.  To my  horror, my
people had  reached the  limit of their  short patience.  They entered
quickly and  surged forward to  ransack the indoor garden.  They began
devouring the flowers  and overturning tables. A roar  of triumph rose
from the  first to  find the  treasures of  the hidden  drawers. There
was much gold  and many gems. My people scrambled  and argued over the
pretty  things while  the ancient  books fell  in tatters.  In moments
the room lay in shambles.
    At  that point  a dark  shadow  fell from  the east.  The Old  Man
stood  motionless beyond  the window  before the  light of  the rising
sun. He hobbled  awkwardly forward to press his arms  and face against
the glance, thereby  framing a ludicrous pose. My  fellows fell silent
in fear,  and after a  moment they snatched  what lay before  them and
fled out the door to the west. In an instant I was alone.
    The Old Man  entered the broken garden, slowly  crossed the strewn
wreckage, sat  upon the untouched  wicker throne, and motioned  for me
to take  my place  upon my stool.  I fell down  beside him  and poured
fourth my story  with my head downcast, avoiding his  gaze. I tried to
explain the extreme  hunger, desperation, and ignorance  of my people.
Interspersed with  tears, I pleaded  for mercy  for the crimes  of the
people who  were no longer my  own. After many moments,  I grew silent
and still the  Old Man did not  speak. I waited and waited,  but I was
met only  by silence. Finally,  I lifted my head  to find the  Old Man
slumped forward in sleep.
    Then  for the  only time  in my  life, I  touched the  Old Man.  I
gently nudged  his sleeve. Slowly, he  lifted his head and  gazed upon
me with  his wide,  sad eyes.  After a  moment, recognition  showed in
his  eyes.  He turned,  retrieved  the  tome,  opened it,  and  gently
handed it to  me, motioning that I should read.  With tear filled eyes
I read  the final incomplete  page. It  spoke of age,  of dissolution,
and  of ever  present and  unyielding  decay. My  voice broke  several
times, but  I continued through  to the  last unfinished line.  Then I
lifted my  eyes. The Old Man  nodded, took the book  from me, returned
it to its place, and returned into the depths of the High House.

    I sat  sobbing for a  very long time.  Finally, I rose  and walked
out of the wreckage. The Mistress met me at the door.
    She stood  blocking my  path contemptuously. "What's  wrong child?
Unable to bear the truth?" she pronounced cruelly.
    "How could it have come to this?" I sobbed.
    "It  is the  way of  things, dear.  You are  the poet.  You should
know what this place is."  Hers was an endless font of sarcasm.
    "I am no poet, I only read for the Master."
    "You are as  much a poet as  any who has ever  mouthed his words,"
she sneered. "Think! Who is he and who am I?"
    In that  moment, a wild  thought came to  me. One that I instantly
denied but  one that could  explain much that I  had seen in  the High
House. Could symbol be solidified into form? I grew lost in thought.
    "Yes," she  interrupted, "you have it  now. We are two  sides of a
single coin."
    The  Mistress had  effortlessly pulled  that thought  from my  own
brain! It  seemed my  worst suspicions  had been  confirmed. I  made a
half turn  and dashed passed  the Mistress  being careful not  to even
slightly brush  her. I  fled across  the smooth  lawn, down  the steep
slope of  the hill,  and into  the wastes  which were  my home.  I was
never tempted to look back.

    In the  six intervening  summers since  that time,  not one  of my
people have  returned to the High  House, though we know  that the Old
Man and  the Mistress  still live.  On clear  nights we  can sometimes
see the  bright white  lamps of  the High House.  In these  six years,
I've tried  many times  to forget the  time of my  service to  the Old
Man, but again  and again I am  called to recount the  tale before the
tribal fire. I  see now that there  must be a record of  the story, so
I am training  my son to read  these words. The words will  serve as a
warning  to my  people to  avoid  the High  House and  its broken  and
bitter God: the Universe's Senile Creator and its Cynical Maintainer.
                    -Joseph Curwen  <C418433@UMCVMB>

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                     Cydric and the Sage: Part 4
    THE STORY  SO FAR: The synopsis  for parts 1  & 2 can be  found in
FSFnet VOL09N1.
    In  part 3  (chapters VI-VII),  Cydric wakes  up the  next morning
uninjured from  the skull blast.  As he recovers, Corambis  brings him
a few  books. He  reads about the  Dreamrealms, other  dimensions only
accessible by  magical means; about a  mage called Nephros and  of his
quest for the  Amulet of Hanarn (a device used  by the ancient Mystics
to   open  a   Celestial  Archway   and  physically   travel  to   the
Dreamrealms); and  about Bahz  and the conflicting  stories concerning
his banishment to  the Dreamrealms. Cydric is dubious  about the whole
thing,  but the  Sage tells  him, "There  comes a  time when  one must
stop asking questions and start looking for answers."
    After  breakfast, Cydric  and Corambis  go the  marketplace, where
the  Sage  conducts  his  business  of  casting  peoples'  horoscopes.
Corambis  introduces Cydric  to Thuna,  who also  works as  the Sage's
assistant. After watching  Corambis give a casting,  Cydric leaves but
stops  to talk  to Thuna.  Thuna attempts  to seduce  some information
from him, but  it doesn't work and Cydric hurries  off. After a while,
he returns and  the Sage offers to  take him to lunch.  They head over
to the docks for some of Simon Salamagundi's stew.
    Corambis  sees a  friend  and  stops to  talk,  sending Cydric  on
ahead to get  the stew. A man  bumps into Cydric, causing  him to drop
the  bowls. Cydric  demands repayment  for the  spilled food,  but the
man refuses.  They are about  to fight when a  crossbow-wielding woman
appears  and  forces  the man  to  pay  up.  As  the man  leaves,  she
introduces  herself  as  Kittara  Ponterisso. The  Sage  returns,  and
Kittara slips away into the crowd.
    Cydric and  Corambis go  to Belisandra's  Tavern for  lunch, where
Thuna apologizes  to Cydric  for her  earlier behavior.  Corambis then
asks him why  he has not mentioned anything about  himself, aside from
the  reason for  his  coming  to Dargon.  Cydric  tries  to evade  the
question, but the  Sage manages to drag it out  of him. Cydric reveals
that he is  the son of Khysar  Araesto (the Duke of  Pyridain and King
Haralan's  Royal Treasurer).  He says  that  he had  been planning  to
leave the capital  and travel the land, but his  love for Lysanda (the
King's  niece), prevented  him  from  doing so.  But  when the  vision
started  appearing to  him, he  made up  his mind  to leave.  Corambis
asks why he  did not identify himself as a  noble; Cydric replies that
he has given  up that sort of  life. They then finish  their meal, and
leave the tavern.

                             VIII. Prelude
    It  was late  afternoon  when  Corambis decided  to  close up  the
booth for the  day. The setting sun  cast a pinkish glow  over the sky
as he  and Cydric  started home.  Most of the  shops they  passed were
starting  to close  as well.  They had  walked for  a few  blocks when
Cydric realized that they weren't on the road back to the Sage's home.
    "Oh,  I know  that,"  Corambis replied  when  Cydric pointed  that
fact out. "I want to do something before we head home."
    A few minutes  later, they arrived in what Cydric  guessed was the
temple district.  He recognized  the symbols  of the  major Baranurian
gods that  were inscribed  over the entrances  to the  various shrines
and houses of worship that lined both sides of the street.
    "Well, which god  do you pay homage to?" Cydric  asked Corambis as
they  passed a  group of  prayer-chanting monks.  Corambis frowned  at
the young man.  "You sound as if  you do not worship  a god yourself,"
he said.
    "There  is no  law  that  says you  have  to,  is there?"  replied
Cydric. "In any case, I personally have no need for religion."
    "I suppose you doubt the existence of the gods, as well?" he said.
    "I just  do not see  why we must worship  them. After all,  we are
the ones who control our destinies, not them."
    The Sage said, "Do  not be so sure, Cydric. And  you would do well
to keep such opinions to yourself, especially around here."
    They  came to  small white-stone  temple.  "This is  the House  of
Cahleyna," said  Corambis. "I shall  pray for  a safe journey  for us.
You  may wait  out  here, if  you  wish." He  turned  and went  inside
without waiting for Cydric to reply.
    The  young man  sat down  on the  steps that  led to  the temple's
entrance. "Why  does he bother?"  thought Cydric. "There seems  not to
be any  benefit in worshipping the  gods." Just then a  shapely blonde
altar-maiden  in a  short  white  tunic came  down  the  steps of  the
temple.  "Blessings  of Cahleyna  be  with  you,"  she smiled  as  she
passed him.
    "But then again..." Cydric murmured as he watched her walk away.
    After  a short  while Corambis  emerged from  the temple.  He said
little as they made their way back to the house.
    "If I have offended you, I would like to apologize," said Cydric.
    "Well,  perhaps it  is I  who should  apologize, for  being rather
short with  you," replied  the Sage.  "I realize you  have a  right to
your own beliefs, or lack thereof. Let us speak no more of it."
    Cydric agreed.
    They  soon arrived  at the  house. The  water clock  in the  study
showed  that it  was  seven  and twenty-past.  After  a light  supper,
Corambis went  upstairs for a  short nap  while Cydric retired  to the
study.  He spent  a while  browsing among  the bookshelves,  but found
himself  unable to  concentrate on  reading anything.  He took  a pipe
from the  rack above the fireplace,  intending to have a  little smoke
to  calm his  nerves.  But after  a  while  he gave  it  up, the  pipe
failing to relax  him. He looked around, found a  charcoal-stick and a
piece of parchment, and started to sketch.
    After about  an hour he began  to feel a little  tired. He settled
in front of  the fireplace, watching the flames dance  and flicker. He
closed his eyes for a moment, then felt a hand on his shoulder.
    "Are you awake?" Corambis asked.
    "Of course  I am," Cydric  replied, eyes  open. "You did  not seem
to sleep for very long, though."
    "Not for very long? It is but half an hour until midnight."
    "Half an  hour?" echoed Cydric.  It had  been a little  after nine
when he finished his sketching. "I must have dozed off."
    Corambis  examined the  parchment on  the table.  "Very nice,"  he
said. Cydric had drawn  a tall stone arch situated in  the middle of a
windswept  desert;  within  the  arch   was  a  lush  forest.  In  the
foreground  stood  a  beautiful   young  lady,  surrounded  by  little
animals. She  gazed at a  cloaked figure  who appeared to  be stepping
through the arch while looking back at her.
    Cydric thanked  him for  the compliment. The  Sage took  the chair
next to him, then said, "Well then, are you ready for this?"
    "I suppose I am, though I don't see how one could prepare for it."
    Corambis nodded.  "There is some  dried fruit in the  kitchen," he
said.  "Perhaps  you  should  pack   it  along--there  may  not  be  a
marketplace where we are going."
    Cydric grinned,  then got up  and headed to the  kitchen, grateful
for something  to do. He  took his time, and  when he returned  it was
nearly ten to midnight.

                         IX. Through and Beyond
    They  waited, and  when the  water clock  in the  corner indicated
twelve exactly Cydric  said, "It is time." He looked  around the room.
"So where is this Celestial Archway?"
    "Hmmm..."  murmured Corambis  as  he drummed  his fingers  against
the arm of his chair.
    "Maybe it  is all an elaborate  joke of some kind,"  Cydric mused.
"Though  why anyone  would want  to  do this  to you  I..." His  voice
trailed off. The  chrysoline ring on the Sage's finger  had started to
glow a bright blue.
    "Hoho, it is time, indeed!" Corambis said, leaping to his feet.
    Cydric  watched  in   fascination  as  a  bubble   of  blue  light
separated  from the  ring,  rose into  the air,  floated  to an  empty
space,  then  burst with  a  dazzling  brilliance. Thousands  of  tiny
multicolored  sparks  cascaded outward  like  a  liquid rainbow,  then
began  coalescing  to  form  a large  top-rounded  rectangular  frame.
Moments later, the  Celestial Archway fully solidified  and floated in
mid-air a few handspans off the floor.
    "By the Seventh Sword!" breathed Cydric.
    The view within  the Archway was cloudy at first,  then it cleared
up  and afforded  Cydric  and  Corambis their  first  look at  another
world. They saw a  vast blue sea bordered by a  beach of black gravel.
A  range   of  low  rocky   hills  stretched  away  to   the  horizon.
Sulfur-yellow clouds  drifted across an  azure sky. There was  no sign
of life.  Cydric walked around  to the other  side of the  Archway and
saw the  same image,  but in reverse.  Intrigued, he  gingerly touched
the surface, and  the scene rippled. "Amazing," he said.  He went back
to the other side where the Sage stood.
    "The moment is upon us, Cydric, are you truly ready?"
    Cydric nodded.  "Forth in  the name of  Cahleyna," said  the Sage.
He checked his  belt pouches, then stepped through  the Archway. There
was  a brief  sparkle  of  light, then  he  was  gone. Cydric  started
forward,  paused, then  hurried  to  the other  side.  Drawing a  deep
breath, he stepped through.

    Cydric felt  a sharp  coldness shiver  through him,  then suddenly
he found  himself standing on the  gravel beach. The Sage  was nowhere
to ben seen.
    "Milord Corambis!" he shouted.
    Something touched his shoulder. He whipped around, startled.
    "Why were you facing that way?" the Sage asked.
    Cydric   relaxed,  relieved   that   it  was   not  some   strange
flesh-eating creature. "I went through on the opposite side," he said.
    "Fascinating! I  must remember  to ask the  Elder about  that when
we see him."
    "So now where  do we go?" Cydric asked, looking  around. The rocky
hills,  which ran  parallel  to the  seashore,  were blackish-gray  in
color  and devoid  of  vegetation.  He scooped  up  a  handful of  the
gravel,  then  tossed it  away  in  disgust.  A  thick coat  of  slime
lingered on his palm.
    Corambis  held up  the hand  which  bore the  chrysoline ring.  He
pointed it in various directions, until the stone began to glow.
    "This way,"  he said,  pointing up  the beach.  He started  off in
the indicated  direction. Cydric wiped  off the  slime on a  corner of
his cloak and followed.
    "Absolutely  fascinating,"  Corambis   marvelled,  taking  in  the
surroundings.  "A whole  other world,  like  our own  and yet  unlike.
Most mages would give nearly anything for an opportunity like this."
    Cydric nodded. "Speaking  of mages, you mentioned  last night that
you had no desire  to become a full mage yourself,  though you do have
some ability."
    "True,"  the Sage  sighed. "But  my ability  is not  like that  of
other wizards and sorcerers you may have met."
    "Why not?"
    "It  is not  something  I  am proud  of,  but  my grandfather  was
expelled  from the  Fellowship in  Corvaira  for breaking  one of  the
Vows. He married a mortal woman."
    "Why should marriage be forbidden?" Cydric asked.
    "Oh,  marriage  itself  is   not  forbidden;  the  prohibition  is
against  marrying people  who have  no magic  ability. It  dilutes the
bloodline, you see; my father had half the ability of my grandfather."
    "And your father married a mortal woman, as well?"
    "He  did, and  now I  am  merely a  quarter the  mage my  father's
father was."
    They continued on.  Suddenly, Cydric walked into what  felt like a
wall. He  recoiled a few paces  back, then frowned; there  was nothing
in his way. He started forward again, but met the same resistance.
    "What is this?" he said, pushing against the unseen wall.
    "Some kind of magic barrier," Corambis replied, kicking at it.
    "I can see  that, but why is  it here? I thought  the Elder wanted
us to  help him," Cydric said.  He struck the barrier  with the pommel
of his sundagger, with no apparent effect.
    "Perhaps this is his imprisonment," said Corambis.
    "But  then how  did he  get  the skull,  and our  visions, to  us?
Indeed, why did he  not use the Celestial Archway to  escape if he had
it in his possession?"
    "The  answers  obviously  lie   beyond  this  barrier,"  the  Sage
replied. "But how to pass?" He fell silent. Then his face lit up.
    "Pass...  passport! Of  course!" He  held up  his right  hand. The
chrysoline  ring glowed  fiercely.  "If  it can  take  us through  the
Archway, then  it must  also take  us through  this." He  clenched his
fist, then smashed it ring-first into the invisible barrier.
    There  was a  bright  blaze of  light, followed  by  the sound  of
shattering crystal.
    Cydric  uttered  an  oath  of  amazement,  while  Corambis  merely
stared in  wonder. The landscape was  the same, but hovering  over the
beach  in front  of them  was  a huge  mountain of  rock, roughly  the
shape of  an inverted cone. A  multi-towered castle sat at  the top of
the massive floating boulder.
    Cydric  estimated that  the bottom  of the  mountain was  over ten
thousand  cubits off  the ground,  and  that the  distance from  their
position to the top about three times that.
    "How are we supposed to get up there?" asked Cydric. "Do we fly?"
    "That spell  I cannot  perform, at least  not on  anything heavy,"
Corambis chuckled.
    Cydric  noticed a  large silver  object on  the ground  nearby. He
called the Sage's attention to it, and they went over to investigate.
    The object lay  partially buried in the  gravel. Corambis crouched
down and  brushed it  off; it  was a silver  disc, with  strange runes
carved in it's surface.
    The Sage  examined the face of  the disc. "This is  a 'transportal
disc, according  to the inscription. It  is supposed to take  us up to
the Citadel." He paused a few moments, then straightened up.
    "Now then,  we stand on  the disc thus--"  he stepped atop  it and
motioned for  Cydric to  stand next  to him. "Very  good. Now  for the
invocation phrase. 'Cael  atya naqt yi hania atya  suqt, egrer nezuhar
hoa'st uul wes'huituf!'"
    The  land and  sky dissolved  into a  shapeless haze,  then Cydric
felt himself  falling. He braced  himself, then solid  ground returned
under his  feet. His vision cleared,  and he found himself  staring at
the majestic Citadel of Sorrows.

                             X. The Citadel
    "Are you  all right?"  Corambis asked.  Cydric nodded.  They stood
near the edge  of the top of  the hovering mountain, on  a silver disc
identical to the  one on the gravel beach. A  short distance away, the
massive bronze gates of the Citadel stood slightly ajar.
    Cydric looked out  over the rim. The bleak  landscape ran unbroken
for as far as he could see.
    Corambis  offered  a  quiet  prayer  to  his  goddess,  then  they
proceeded  to  the  Citadel  gates.   After  spending  a  few  minutes
marvelling  at the  bas-reliefs  carved into  the  bronze doors,  they
passed through.
    They  entered into  a  large courtyard.  A  marble fountain,  long
overgrown with  weeds, stood in  the center. Small  translucent stones
lay scattered about.
    Corambis moved  over to  the fountain. "Pure  Arkathenian marble,"
he said, examining a broken piece. "The builders spared no expense."
    Cydric picked up one of the stones. "What about these?" he asked.
    Corambis  took  the   stone.  "Not  diamond,  but   some  form  of
crystal,"  he said  after a  few moments  of examination.  "Never seen
it's like before, though."
    Cydric pocketed  the stone.  "Now that  we are  here, where  do we
find this Elder person?"
    Corambis reminded him  of the chrysoline ring. The  blue jewel lit
up  when the  Sage pointed  to  a door  straight ahead  of them.  They
entered, and found  themselves in a grand hallway.  Glowing orbs fixed
to the  ceiling at  regular intervals  provided the  illumination, and
there were several doors along either wall.
    The ring led  them through a door  on the right wall,  up a flight
of  stone steps,  then  into  what appeared  to  be  an armory.  Rusty
weapons  hung  in  racks  along  the walls;  thick  dust  covered  the
shields and other armor that lay on long wooden tables.
    Cydric picked  up a battle axe.  The head fell off  and broke into
small pieces.  The rest of the  items were no better.  After searching
in vain  for anything  usable, the  two men left  through the  door on
the other side of the room.
    They  passed  through a  short  corridor,  then  came to  a  large
gallery.  Torn tapestries  hung  about  the room,  and  the floor  was
decorated with  an odd  mosaic. Corambis attempted  to brush  the dust
from one  of the  few undamaged  tapestries, but  it crumbled  away at
his touch. "Such neglect," he tsked, "is truly appalling."
    Cydric  studied the  floor  mosaic, which  depicted several  large
lizards  cavorting with  a  group  of young  maidens  around a  jungle
pool.  Corambis  chuckled  as  he   surveyed  the  design.  "A  highly
unlikely scene,"  he remarked. "Kaladrongan rock  lizards are anything
but friendly."
    They  left the  gallery, came  to an  intersecting corridor,  took
the left branch,  and proceeded up a flight of  stone steps that began
at the end of the passage.
    "We must be getting close," said Corambis. "The ring is brighter."
    The  steps  wound  around  and  upward. They  finally  came  to  a
landing and  a large oaken  door. The  blue light from  the chrysoline
ring was at its brightest.
    Cydric drew his sundagger as Corambis prepared to open the door.
    "Put your weapon  away," said the Sage. "I am  certain he does not
mean to harm us, after all his trouble to bring us here."
    "I would  like to have it  ready, just the same,"  Cydric replied,
holding the dagger in a throwing grip.
    Corambis pushed  open the door.  A lone  figure sat with  its back
to them in the  middle of the room, bathed in the  light from a single
window.  Books, papers,  and various  other things  lay strewn  about.
The smell of decay filled the still air.
    "Hello?" Corambis said, cautiously entering the room.
    The figure neither spoke nor moved.
    "You are  Elder Bahz, I  presume," he continued, moving  around to
stand in front  of the seated figure. Cydric remained  in the doorway,
his sundagger aimed at the figure's back.
    "I am  Corambis deSaavu,  Sage of Dargon.  We have--"  Suddenly he
broke off and  motioned to Cydric. The young man  quickly moved to the
Sage's side.
    "What is it?" Cydric asked. The Sage pointed to the seated figure.
    Cydric glanced  down and  let out  a gasp  of horror.  Pale yellow
skin  hung off  the  man's face,  as  if melted.  A  thick slimy  film
covered  his deep-set  eyes. Saliva  dripped from  thin cracked  lips,
and a small worm twitched out from a nostril.
    "Is...is that the Elder?" Cydric whispered.
    As if  in response, the man  stirred. His mouth moved,  but only a
dry croak issued forth. Cydric grimaced in revulsion.
    "Can  you understand  me?"  Corambis said,  speaking slowly.  "Are
you Jehron Bahz, Seventh Elder of Quentrellia?"
    The man  spoke again. "I...I am  Bahz," he said in  a soft brittle
voice. "You have come."
    "Yes, we are here," Corambis replied. "Why have you summoned us?"
    The Elder's reply was barely audible. Corambis leaned closer.
    "Help me...,"  Bahz said. He stretched  out his arms and  tried to
rise. Corambis  reached out  support him.  Suddenly, Bahz's  hand shot
out  and  snatched the  chrysoline  ring  off  of the  Sage's  finger.
Letting out a hideous laugh, Bahz pushed away and stood up.
    "You  fools!" he  exclaimed  gleefully.  Cydric quickly  recovered
from his  surprise and  dashed the sundagger  into the  Elder's heart.
Bahz  only laughed  harder. He  pushed the  chair out  of the  way and
stepped back  a few paces,  pulling out  the sundagger and  casting it
to the  floor. He spoke  a word of  magic, and green  flames enveloped
him. A  moment later  the flames  died and  Bahz was  no more.  In his
place stood a tall man in green garb, dark-haired and quite healthy.
    "Who are you?" the Sage demanded.
    The  man grinned.  "I am  Ishar Nephros,  late of  Quentrellia and
future sovereign of the terrestrial sphere!"
    "Nephros! What is the meaning of this? What happened to Bahz?"
    "That  old  relic?  Dead  for  ages," he  smirked.  "You  and  the
knife-boy over  there acted exactly as  I had hoped. I  could not have
planned it better."
    "You planned all this? For what purpose?"
    "Yes,  explain  what  your  purpose is,"  Cydric  added,  starting
toward the wizard.
    "I  need not  explain anything  to you,  sand flea!"  Nephros shot
back.  He held  up a  fist and  thrust it  outward. Instantly,  Cydric
felt his limbs  stiffen. He tried to move, but  his whole body refused
to act. He began to panic as he realized he was totally immobilized.
    "Cydric!" Corambis  cried. "What  have you--"  His words  were cut
off. Though he  could not turn his  head to see, Cydric  knew that the
green-garbed wizard had paralyzed the Sage as well.
    Nephros came  forward and squeezed  Cydric's arm. "Yes,  you'll do
quite nicely," he  said. "He will indeed be pleased.  Rest now, little
flea; a greater purpose awaits you!"
    Cydric felt  the mage's hand  on his  eyes, and then  his thoughts
faded into darkness.
                    -Carlo N. Samson  <U09862@UICVM>

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                          Noble Favor: Atros 7
    The guard  allowed Atros through  the outer  gates of the  Keep of
Dargon  without challenge.  He was  well known  here in  his guise  as
Raffen  Yeggent,  a young  foreign  noble  and promising  businessman.
Still,  he   entered  the  small   courtyard  with  a  good   deal  of
trepidation. Though  the thick  talc he wore  should hamper  his being
recognized  as the  unidentified  man wanted  in  connection with  the
recent  street  slayings,  the  sight  of the  dark  granite  Hall  of
Justice did little to calm Atros' growing anxieties.
    As it  was early morning,  the only  other occupants of  the small
boxed-in  area were  several guardsmen  out exercising  their arms  in
mock  combats  on  the  straw covered  flagstones.  But  even  without
these, the Keep  was imposing in itself. It rose  high above the outer
walls and  sprawled eastward toward  the steep chasm above  the river.
In spite of the  wishes of each generation of Lords  to leave his mark
on the historic  edifice, it seemed that there was  no longer room for
the  continual  additions which  had  so  expanded  the Keep  in  past
centuries.  Actually, the  whole structure  bore the  title of  "Keep"
only  in  deference to  its  humble  origins,  as  it had  long  since
outgrown this title.
    Atros  crossed the  open  courtyard and  identified  himself to  a
watchman who escorted  him up the wide granite stairs  and through the
ancient portals  of the west wing,  which had served as  the main hall
of  the Keep  until the  time of  Lord Cabot,  the grandfather  of the
current  Duke.  Since Cabot's  renovations,  the  west wing  had  been
relegated to  quarters of  favored guests and  courtiers. The  role of
Atros' friend, Kite,  as unofficial ambassador to the  court of Dargon
kept him  here much of  the time. The  house of Winthrop  had retained
apartments  in  the wing  for  generations,  so Kite's  fiancee  could
remain near  him (suitably chaperoned,  of course) during  their stays
in Dargon.
    After  introducing Atros  to  a housemaid  at  the threshold,  the
watchman returned  to his  duties. To Atros'  inquires about  Kite and
Pecora,   the  maid   reacted  only   with  a   strange  silence   and
unfathomable  expressions.   She  appeared   either  to  be   mute  or
reluctant  to   answer  his  questions.  Perhaps   the  servants  were
instructed not to  speak with guests, as was sometimes  done among the
nobility.  But   Atros  didn't  recall   any  indication  of   such  a
restriction  during his  earlier visits.  In any  case, Atros  decided
that further attempts  to make her speak would be  futile. He followed
her through the  fore hall and into a small  chamber hung with shields
bearing  the  coats of  arms  of  various families.  Atros  recognized
those  of Baranur  and Dargon,  but the  rest were  a mystery  to him.
With a  slight gesture and a  quick curtsy, the maid  silently bid him
to stay  in the ante  chamber and hurried  from the room.  The ringing
of her heels on the stone floor echoed into the distance.
    Atros stood puzzled  for many moments. This was  not the reception
he had  anticipated. Finally,  the stout wooden  door opened.  A tall,
muscular  man, who  still  retained much  of  his youthful  appearance
despite  a  carefully  trimmed  graying beard,  entered.  The  exposed
portion  of  the  man's  face appeared  rough,  angular,  and  somehow
vaguely familiar.
    "Raffen Yeggent?" the  man asked in a deep,  resonant voice. After
pausing  long enough  for Atros  to  complete his  nod, he  continued,
"I'm  Aspen  Talador, Kite's  brother,"  he  stated simply.  This  was
startling as Aspen's build and height were so unlike his brother's.
    "I  don't  understand. I  came  seeking  Kite or  Pecora."  Seeing
Aspen's expression, Atros added "Is something wrong?"
    Aspen cleared  his throat and  said, "Yes,  I'm afraid so.  It's a
delicate  matter.  My brother  left  Dargon  a  week ago.  Pecora  has
refused to  see anyone since.  It seems their engagement  has abruptly
come to an end."
    "That  is surprising."  Atros' honest  concern and  disappointment
tinged  his voice.  "They seemed  meant  for each  other... Kite  just
left her? It doesn't sound like Kite. They argued, I suppose?"
    "No,  not really.  That was  the  strange part.  It happened  very
suddenly."  Aspen   was  obviously  having  trouble   discussing  such
personal matters with a stranger.
    "I  don't mean  to  pry, but  Kite and  Pecora  were friends.  I'm
naturally concerned."
    "Yes,  of course.  Both  Kite and  Pecora spoke  of  you. I  don't
think it would  do any real harm  to inform you. You  know that Pecora
fell ill a few weeks ago?"
    "No, I'm sorry.  I've been out of touch since  the festival ended.
All seemed well then," Atros suggested.
    "Oh,  well  then.  She  was  struck  suddenly  by  a  debilitating
illness  soon   after  the  fairs.   It  seemed  that  her   life  was
threatened. The healers could do nothing."
    "How terrible! I had no idea.  But she has  recovered now?"  Atros
asked.
    "Yes.  Kite journeyed  far  to  the southwest  in  search of  some
mystics rumored  to possess a remedy.  He returned with the  cure, but
it  seems he  had to  pledge himself  in service  to these  mystics in
exchange  for  the remedy.  He  returned  to  the mystics  soon  after
Pecora recovered."
    "Very bizarre. Did he say when he would be able to return?"
    "No, he said very little. I am afraid he may never return."
    Atros was  speechless. One of  the few  bases of stability  in his
life had just been removed.
    "I partially  blame myself. I  was too  busy with the  healers and
running the  estate to take  notice of Kite's  intention to go  on the
quest.  If I  had  accompanied  him,  perhaps  things would  have gone
differently."
    "You  can't  blame  yourself.  Kite was  obviously  distraught  by
Pecora's illness. He probably wasn't thinking very clearly."
    "True, but  I've always felt  responsible for my  younger brother.
And  the Winthrops  and Taladors  have been  close for  generations. I
was Pecora's  friend as well  as Kite's  brother. I should  have found
the time  to go to the  Winthrop holding in person  when Pecora became
ill.  I  should have  seen  Kite's  desperation. I  was  thoughtless."
Aspen  was   obviously  a   man  to  whom   such  matters   as  guilt,
responsibility, and honor were paramount.
    "You've been thinking  of going after Kite and  bringing him back,
haven't you?"
    "Yes, but  I don't know if  it would do  any good. Kite is  a very
honorable man. He  has given his word, I don't  think I could convince
him  to  break  it.  Besides...  my  brother  was  different  when  he
returned from his quest."
    "Different? Different in what way?"
    "He was quiet...  almost distant. These mystics have  some sort of
hold over him.  He still cared a  great deal for Pecora  and people of
the  duchy, but  I sensed  that  he was  almost anxious  to return  to
these 'mystics'," Aspen pronounced the word with visible distaste.
    "Yes, I would very much like to talk with him now."
    "So  would  I,  but  my  responsibilities keep  me  here.  I  must
oversee the  estate and see  to Kite's  obligations at court  as well.
Not that  I'm complaining... I  just feel  a little powerless  in this
whole  matter." Aspen's  fist flexed  subconsciously while  he talked.
Atros  could  tell  that  here  was   a  man  who  was  accustomed  to
authority. Helplessness drove him to distraction.
    It  didn't look  as though  the aid  Atros needed  could be  found
here. Atros  hesitated for  a few moments,  pondering his  next course
of action. He  had no other friends  in Dargon he could  trust, and he
did  feel  some vague  kinship  for  this  man,  due to  their  mutual
concern for Kite.  He really wanted to accompany Aspen  on a quest for
his brother, but  Atros had no time. He must  make his rendezvous with
his enemies soon.
    Atros felt  like an intruder here.  There was nothing he  could do
for this  man, or Pecora for  that matter. Only time  would soften her
loss. Aspen had  politely inferred that she would not  see him now, so
there  was little  point  in  attempting that.  It  was  best that  he
leave, and yet he felt compelled to linger.
    "You  came  for  more  than   just  a  friendly  visit.  Is  there
something you want?" Aspen asked interrupting Atros' thought.
    "Do you just casually read minds?" Atros asked startled.
    "Well,  that's  part  of  being a  landowner.  I  see  petitioners
almost daily.  One learns to  recognize an unasked boon,"  Aspen tried
to  coax Atros  into making  his request,  but Atros  remained silent.
"You  are a  fair  reader of  minds  yourself. You  knew  I wished  to
forsake my responsibilities here and follow Kite."
    "Yes,  I  suppose  we  are  alike.  We've  learned  to  anticipate
other's  thoughts..." Atros  stopped  suddenly,  catching himself.  He
did not  like to  consider Morpheus  by day, but  he was  beginning to
realize how much alike he and Morpheus were.
    "What is  it, Raffen?  If there is  something I can  do for  you I
will try.  Kite spoke very  well of  you and I  can see that  there is
much truth behind his words."
    "I  am in  trouble. I  need someone  I can  trust to  stand at  my
side. I thought  perhaps Kite could help.... but I  can't involve you.
We've only just  met and there is  a great deal of  danger. Perhaps, I
should not have even expected Kite's help," Atros finished weakly.
    "I already knew  that your request would be  dangerous. Though you
carry yourself well,  your wounds are still apparent. They  are not of
the type  that one would come  by in an 'accident'."  An expression of
revelation  crossed Aspen's  features.  "Wait, the  street fight  near
the wharves last night! You were there!"
    At  another  time,  Atros  might  have denied  it,  but  now  over
wrought by  the turmoils  of the  last few hours,  he gave  in easily.
"You are too quick for me. Yes, I was there," he resigned.
    "Now,  you have  no choice,  I am  definitely involved.  There was
blood  spilled, and  what  goes on  in  the streets  of  Dargon is  of
concern to  me." The tiniest of  hints of the potential  anger in this
man showed in his hard brown eyes.
    "I fought only in self defense."
    "There  is no  need  to defend  yourself  to me.  I  know you  are
speaking the truth."
    "You trust me so readily?" Atros asked incredulously.
    "Well,  I will  have to  hear the  whole story,  but I  am a  fair
judge of  character, as was, no,  IS Kite. I  will know if you  lie to
me.  Besides, if  you  intended  to ask  for  my  brother's help,  you
certainly  couldn't have  been  too  far in  the  wrong.  Kite is,  if
anything,  moral to  the point  of  naivety." Aspen  began to  chuckle
then stopped abruptly.
    "I  will have  to hear  the whole  story. Sit  while I  fetch some
wine.  It looks  like we'll  be needing  it. I'll  give orders  to the
staff not  to disturb us... And  don't think about sneaking  out in my
absence. You'll  not be allowed  to leave until I'm  satisfied," Aspen
added stepping out the door.
    Once  again, Aspen  had virtually  read Atros'  thoughts. Slipping
out had  been a definite consideration  at that point. Atros'  fear of
involving  this unknown  man in  his  business was  growing almost  as
quickly  as  the begrudging  respect  he  was  beginning to  feel  for
Aspen.  Still, it  really  looked like  he had  little  choice in  the
matter  now. Somehow  relinquishing the  responsibility for  involving
Aspen seemed  to relieve Atros'  fears. Atros realized that  he should
be  using  this  brief  respite  in the  questioning  to  concoct  and
rehearse a  clever story to  cover himself,  but he feared  that Aspen
might easily  catch him if he  lied. He had pondered  this for several
moments to no avail, when Aspen returned sooner than Atros had hoped.
    Placing  two  pewter goblets  on  the  walnut table,  Aspen  began
pouring.  "I hope  you  will forgive  me.  It is  a  family wine.  The
Taladors have bottled it for generations; it really is quite good."
    "Yes, I know. I've had it often. It does seem underrated."
    "Thank you,  but back to  our discussion.  You were about  to tell
me how  you got involved in  these murders." Aspen stared  directly at
Atros, sizing him up.
    "Well, uh...  it is a long  story, going far back  into my past...
and the past of my family." Atros finished with a smile.
    "Go on."
    "To put  it in simple terms,  it seems I've involved  myself in an
ancient feud between my family and another clan."
    "A  feud... Yes,  I  can  see that.  While  I  don't condone  such
things, I can understand and sympathize somewhat as a fellow noble."
    "Believe me,  my involvement  is involuntary.  I actually  came to
Dargon trying  to escape  the situation.  But it seems  I will  not be
allowed any peace."
    "What was the cause  of the feud and what do  your enemies want of
you?" Aspen inquired pointedly.
    "I do  not know  the cause  of the  feud, yet.  But it  was pretty
obvious that those thugs wanted my death."
    "What of your friends, the girl and the old man."
    "The girl  is safe  for the  moment though  she was  badly wounded
and  is  still   under  treatment  for  her  injuries.   The  old  man
disappeared again.  He comes and  goes as  he likes. I  would hesitate
to call him 'friend' though."
    "Now I  understand the background,  though you've omitted  a great
deal  of  the  names  and  details."  Aspen  paused  to  smile.  "What
happened the other night?"
    "The girl and  I - her name  is Darla - were returning  from a pub
when we  were ambushed by four  hired thugs. I attempted  to hold them
off,  but Darla  was captured.  While  I fought  the other  attackers,
Darla  attempted to  escape  and  received a  bad  head  wound in  the
attempt. I  tried to aid her  but was badly outnumbered.  Then the old
man arrived  and came  to my aid.  It was actually  he who  struck the
fatal blows. We fled, while he covered our escape."
    "You're  telling me  that an  elderly man  killed two  men without
the aid of a weapon?" Aspen inquired with notable skepticism.
    "He appears feeble but is actually almost supernaturally strong."
    "That is  difficult to  believe, though I  will not  question your
statement until I meet this man. Do you know where he might be found?"
    "No, as I have  said he comes and goes as he  pleases. I know only
that he will be following me if he can."
    "What else do you know of this man?" Aspen asked.
    "Very little.  It seems  he is employed  by the more  radical side
of my family to safeguard my life. He does not take orders from me."
    "Oh,  I see.  That explains  his fortuitous  appearance the  other
night. Hhm, you  say you were ambushed. How is  that your enemies knew
your whereabouts that night?"
    "I  do not  know  entirely. I  was investigating  a  lead that  my
enemies  might have  used the  Inn of  the Hungry  Shark as  a meeting
place. Perhaps I was  seen there by one of their agents,  but I do not
think that  would have given them  enough time to prepare  the ambush.
I stayed in the inn for only a few moments," Atros added speculating.
    "Interesting. And did your lead turn up anything useful?"
    "Perhaps. A  group of  men did  meet there  for several  days some
time ago and it is certain that they were up to no good purpose...."
    "There is something important you're omitting," Aspen accused.
    "Well,  yes. I  hesitate  to  involve you  but  with your  courtly
connections  perhaps you  might be  able to  give me  some information
that would be difficult to obtain otherwise."
    "Ask your questions."
    "What do you know of the Court Magician?"
    "Brutsam?" Aspen  paused for  Atros' nod. "A  passing acquaintance
of  an  old  Dargon family.  From  what  I've  been  told he  is  both
competent and perhaps a bit ambitious."
    "Then can you think  of any good reason for him  to go in disguise
to the  Hungry Shark at night  and to meet with  men seemingly engaged
in some shady activities?"
    "No, I  wouldn't think  Brutsam would go  into the  wharf district
at all after  dark. He seems a  bit timid. You're saying  you think he
may be involved with your enemies?"
    "It  certainly appears  so. I  have  the innkeep's  word for  it,"
Atros affirmed.
    "That is rather  provocative information. I will have  to think on
it."  Aspen paused  to drain  his goblet.  "It grows  late and  I grow
hungry. Would  you object if  I arrange to  have dinner served?  I can
promise one of the house's finest repasts."
    "I  could  hardly  refuse  while  you  hold  me  prisoner,"  Atros
accused wryly.
    "Yes, that  is a  bit unfair of  me. You may  leave if  you really
must, but I think I might be able to help you."
    "And why would you do that?" Atros asked abruptly.
    "Call  it guilt  over Kite.  I was  feeling particularly  helpless
before  you  came  and  distracted  me. Or  call  it  kindred  spirits
helping  one  another. With  each  passing  moment  I find  even  more
similarities between myself and you."
    "Yes, frightening, isn't it?" Atros smiled.
    "You will stay for dinner, won't you?" Aspen asked.
    "I do not know. I have appointments to keep."
    "You haven't  told me what  favor you came  to ask of  my brother.
Something dangerous...something to do with your appointments perhaps?"
    "Well, allright.  I'll let you drag  it out from me  over dinner,"
Atros resigned. Giving  Atros the choice to leave had  broken down his
defenses better than hours worth of badgering might have.
    "No,  after dinner.  I have  a feeling  that the  conversation may
not be  the best for  our stomachs. I  will go arrange  matters then."
Aspen left for the second time.
    After a  very long period  of waiting,  Atros was escorted  by the
housemaid to  the old dining  hall of the  west wing. The  dining hall
was  much smaller  than  the  more modern  one  which  had housed  the
celebrations  of the  Dargon Festival  only a  few weeks  ago. It  was
arrayed in  musty tapestries  depicting the wives  of former  Lords of
Dargon,  women who  were now  only known  as adornments.  After a  few
more moments,  Aspen joined them.  They enjoyed a long  leisurely meal
of roast  duck and  small talk about  books, hunting,  and speculation
on trading with Bichu.
    After the  dishes were  cleared, Aspen  began his  assault afresh.
He began "What dangerous favor have you to ask me?"
    "Last  night  my  apartments  were   violated  and  robbed  by  my
enemies. They damaged  and stole much of my  most precious properties.
In their wake,  they left a note  demanding a rendezvous. I  am of the
mind to take  them up on this  offer, but I cannot meet  them alone. I
am an  indifferent swordsman at best.  I had hoped that  Kite, who was
well practiced in the art of combat, might accompany me."
    "Oh, I  see. Yes,  that is  certainly a  dangerous task.  You know
that it will most likely be another ambush?"
    "Yes,  but I  cannot give  up  this opportunity  to uncover  their
identities. It is my only lead besides Brutsam," Atros admitted.
    "Oh, I  was meaning to  bring that up.  Just before dinner  I made
certain inquiries. It seems your Brutsam lead is a false one."
    "You  did  what!?!" Atros  shouted  rising  from his  chair.  "You
should not have acted in my affairs without my permission!"
    "Be  calm. No  harm  has been  done and  much  was gained."  Aspen
remained seated  and calm,  though quick footsteps  could be  heard in
the hall outside the dining hall.
    "How can you know that?! Word of your 'inquiries' will spread."
    "No, Raffen. I  spoke only to a dear and  trusted friend who won't
betray you or  me. I asked him  to keep the matter  confidential and I
am sure he will."
    "How can you be certain?" Atros said returning slowly to his seat.
    "I can trust the word of the Lord of Dargon."
    "You spoke to Lord Dargon?" Atros asked incredulous.
    "This is  his keep and we  are boyhood friends after  all. And you
should  be  grateful  to  hear  that  the  city  guards  will  not  be
searching for a man of your description after tonight."
    "What? Who  knows what  repercussions such  an order  will cause?"
Atros accused his temper growing once more.
    "No, no,  Raffen. There  will be  no order.  Lord Clifton  is more
subtle  than that.  He  will  simply divert  the  men  needed for  the
search elsewhere. It will be quickly forgotten," Aspen said calmly.
    "And Lord  Clifton is  willing to  let the  matter drop  at that?"
Atros inquired in disbelief.
    "He  will let  the  matter  drop only  because  I  have chosen  to
involve  myself personally.  He is  confident in  my ability  to right
things with the minimum of turmoil."
    "So, I  am not hounded  by the guard only  so long as  I cooperate
with you." Atros' features showed his disdain.
    "Precisely.  I thought  it a  very neat  coercion." Aspen  smiled.
"You  are  not  exactly  the  type of  individual  whom  I  can  trust
implicitly -  no offense  intended. It's  just that  you are  much too
smart and  much too guileful.  You think too  much like myself.  It is
difficult for  me to be  certain that  you would return  after leaving
these walls."
    "You would not accept my word!" Atros asked insulted.
    "Yes, I would accept  your word as a noble, but  I notice that you
have been careful not to offer it," Aspen said smoothly.
    "Well  spoken. It  does seem  that  you were  born for  politics,"
Atros admitted.
    "Thank  you, but  I  think  you are  trying  to  distract me.  But
before we  go on, I  would like to relate  what Lord Clifton  has told
me in confidence."
    "Which is?" Atros asked genuinely concerned.
    "That  he is  aware  of  the meetings  between  Brutsam and  these
other men and  that they do not  concern you in the  slightest. He was
rather noncommittal  but it seems  you've stumbled into  something big
which must  be kept confidential at  this time. So you  see, you've as
much reason to trust Lord Clifton as he has to trust you."
    "Interesting.  I'm still  very curious  about the  Brutsam matter,
but I'll let it  drop on the basis of Lord Clifton's  word. You see, I
too have heard that his oath is a good one."
    "Speaking of  oathes, I was about  to commit myself and  my troops
to aiding you in this meeting with your enemies," Aspen stated.
    "Your  'troops'?  I'm  not  looking   for  a  siege,"  Atros  said
sarcastically. "Any use of 'troops' would probably frighten them off."
    "Yes,  of course,  I  was  thinking of  one  man  only. An  expert
crossbowman who might be useful to us."
    "He doesn't happen to  be the same man as the  one behind the aria
over there?" Atros asked pointing.
    "How long have you known?" Aspen seemed surprised.
    "Since  I raised  my voice.  He  shifted his  weight suddenly  and
made a silent ripple in the fabric. Later I noticed the peek holes."
    "Well, Glasker, come  out and let me introduce  you formally." The
curtain parted  at one side  and a tall,  broad man wearing  a leather
jerkin and carrying a stout crossbow entered the room.
    "Glasker is  an old foot soldier  and friend of the  family. He is
capable  and extremely  tight lipped,  and as  an additional  bonus he
has  remarkable  observation  and  memory powers.  Glasker,  how  many
times has Raffen drank from that glass this evening?" Aspen asked.
    After a  moment Glasker  replied, "Twenty-one  sir, but  he lifted
it twenty-five times."
    "Amazing! Did you keep track all night?" Atros asked.
    "No,  I recalled  the  entire  evening from  start  to finish  and
counted," Glasker said slowly.
    "That seems a useful talent," Atros commented.
    "Thank you,  sir." Glasker  turned toward  Aspen, "You  were about
to get to some sort of oath, sir."
    "Yes, thank  you, Glasker.  Raffen, I  and Glasker  will accompany
you  in your  meeting  with these  enemies. Is  that  agreed?" It  was
clear that Atros had little choice.
    "Yes,"  Atros  conceded.  Both  men had  impressed  him  as  being
extremely capable and useful to his needs.
    "Then we  will make plans, do  you have the written  challenge you
mentioned earlier?"
    "Why, yes," Atros  said smiling. "You could have  avoided all this
by searching me."
    "But then I would never have gotten your cooperation," he beamed.
    "Yes,  of course.  Let's get  to work."  Atros retained  his smile
for several  minutes. Perhaps things  weren't quite as dismal  as they
had seemed only a short time before.
                    -Joseph Curwen  <C418433@UMCVMB>

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